King’s men,’ I assured him, expressionless, ‘and the King is God’s agent on earth. We are sent here to investigate this murder.’
He leered. ‘It is the act of the Lord God himself.’
An interesting theory, though hard to prove. Dowling looked over his shoulder. I caught his eye and jerked a thumb forward. He shoved hard, leaning into the wall of bodies afore us, pulling men aside by the collar. At the tavern door half a dozen apprentices exchanged insults with a gang of burly watchmen, pug-faced and ugly, itching to crack heads.
‘John Cummins,’ I called, recognising a short man amongst the watchers, flat-headed, with a scar upon his forehead.
‘Harry!’ He slid through the pack and stuck out his hand, wide grin slapped across his face. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks. What you doin’ here?’
‘We’ve come to see the body.’ I waved a hand at Dowling. ‘We work for Lord Arlington.’
Cummins looked Dowling up and down. ‘Him? He looks like a butcher.’
‘He is a butcher and he works for the King too. We need to pass through, John.’ Apprentices surrounded us, listening to our conversation with dull expressions.
Cummins stepped backwards into his colleagues, creating a corridor through which we gratefully passed. His smile vanished when two apprentices attempted to follow. He punched one in the stomach, the other fled.
Behind the front door George Monck watched down upon us with fierce intent from within a thick, gold frame, silver armour draped in blue velvet. In the background a naval scene, the return of Charles to England, I supposed. It was Monck who financed Charles to return to England in 1660, then famously held audience at this very tavern, drinking sack and doing his business.
I knew The Bull Head well, knew what a maze it was forthe drunk and disoriented. The door to the left stood ajar. Four men sat about a round table playing at cards, mugs afront of them, legs laid out loose.
‘What cheer?’ I pronounced.
‘All is cheerful,’ replied one of them, face screwed up in concentration. ‘So long as you don’t drink the wine.’
The other three laughed as if it was the funniest joke in London. They all stank like they hadn’t washed for a year, the acrid odour tempered by the thick cloud of tobacco smoke.
‘Have you not drunk enough?’ Dowling declared, disgusted.
‘We can’t get out,’ protested one, laying a card upside down. ‘They are all out there shouting of the evils of drink.’ He belched.
‘Where is Benson?’ I asked. The landlord and lessee.
The man jerked a thumb then played a card. ‘Back there with the barrel.’ He shivered and shook his hands.
We left them to it and made our way deeper into the building through a passage bright with candles. More paintings of Monck, some of Charles II, lots of ships and battle scenes. We emerged into the main room where Monck had held court all those years ago. Long tables stretched the length of the room, mostly empty. Three men stood about a giant cask of wine in the corner.
‘Benson,’ I called out. ‘What’s the story?’
A tall fellow with grey hair turned calm brown eyes upon me. ‘Good day to you, Harry Lytle.’
‘This is David Dowling.’ I pointed at Dowling again. It felt strange dragging the pious butcher round taverns.
Benson stepped forth to shake Dowling’s hand before standing back to fold his arms. ‘Haven’t had the barrel but two days. Tap stopped flowing this morning so I stuck a hookup the tap and poked it against something solid. Took the lid off and found the body.’
The top of the cask had been opened with an axe. A mop of black hair broke the surface and a pair of man’s knees. The body was pushed in tight with thighs up against its chest; a big body. Dowling reached down and lifted the head up straight. Large nose, thick brow and heavy, square jaw.
Dowling peered into the half-open eyes. ‘Recognise him?’
‘No,’ I answered, feeling sick. I looked to
He leered. ‘It is the act of the Lord God himself.’
An interesting theory, though hard to prove. Dowling looked over his shoulder. I caught his eye and jerked a thumb forward. He shoved hard, leaning into the wall of bodies afore us, pulling men aside by the collar. At the tavern door half a dozen apprentices exchanged insults with a gang of burly watchmen, pug-faced and ugly, itching to crack heads.
‘John Cummins,’ I called, recognising a short man amongst the watchers, flat-headed, with a scar upon his forehead.
‘Harry!’ He slid through the pack and stuck out his hand, wide grin slapped across his face. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks. What you doin’ here?’
‘We’ve come to see the body.’ I waved a hand at Dowling. ‘We work for Lord Arlington.’
Cummins looked Dowling up and down. ‘Him? He looks like a butcher.’
‘He is a butcher and he works for the King too. We need to pass through, John.’ Apprentices surrounded us, listening to our conversation with dull expressions.
Cummins stepped backwards into his colleagues, creating a corridor through which we gratefully passed. His smile vanished when two apprentices attempted to follow. He punched one in the stomach, the other fled.
Behind the front door George Monck watched down upon us with fierce intent from within a thick, gold frame, silver armour draped in blue velvet. In the background a naval scene, the return of Charles to England, I supposed. It was Monck who financed Charles to return to England in 1660, then famously held audience at this very tavern, drinking sack and doing his business.
I knew The Bull Head well, knew what a maze it was forthe drunk and disoriented. The door to the left stood ajar. Four men sat about a round table playing at cards, mugs afront of them, legs laid out loose.
‘What cheer?’ I pronounced.
‘All is cheerful,’ replied one of them, face screwed up in concentration. ‘So long as you don’t drink the wine.’
The other three laughed as if it was the funniest joke in London. They all stank like they hadn’t washed for a year, the acrid odour tempered by the thick cloud of tobacco smoke.
‘Have you not drunk enough?’ Dowling declared, disgusted.
‘We can’t get out,’ protested one, laying a card upside down. ‘They are all out there shouting of the evils of drink.’ He belched.
‘Where is Benson?’ I asked. The landlord and lessee.
The man jerked a thumb then played a card. ‘Back there with the barrel.’ He shivered and shook his hands.
We left them to it and made our way deeper into the building through a passage bright with candles. More paintings of Monck, some of Charles II, lots of ships and battle scenes. We emerged into the main room where Monck had held court all those years ago. Long tables stretched the length of the room, mostly empty. Three men stood about a giant cask of wine in the corner.
‘Benson,’ I called out. ‘What’s the story?’
A tall fellow with grey hair turned calm brown eyes upon me. ‘Good day to you, Harry Lytle.’
‘This is David Dowling.’ I pointed at Dowling again. It felt strange dragging the pious butcher round taverns.
Benson stepped forth to shake Dowling’s hand before standing back to fold his arms. ‘Haven’t had the barrel but two days. Tap stopped flowing this morning so I stuck a hookup the tap and poked it against something solid. Took the lid off and found the body.’
The top of the cask had been opened with an axe. A mop of black hair broke the surface and a pair of man’s knees. The body was pushed in tight with thighs up against its chest; a big body. Dowling reached down and lifted the head up straight. Large nose, thick brow and heavy, square jaw.
Dowling peered into the half-open eyes. ‘Recognise him?’
‘No,’ I answered, feeling sick. I looked to
Similar Books
