Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘Stand up, Eliza,’ Mrs Josselin scolded her.

‘He is a brave man,’ Eliza declared, gazing earnestly into my eyes. ‘He is quite tall and very noble. He has long, dark hair and talks all the time about fighting for his King. He yearns only to kill Dutchmen, Frenchmen or Spaniards.’ She pursed her lips, holding back the tears.

‘Aye, then,’ I answered, slipping my hand free and helping her to her feet. ‘At least I will recognise him now.’ A tall lunatic killing anyone who looks foreign.

‘But your promise.’ She snatched back my hand again. ‘You must promise to bring him back, not merely to try.’

‘Come, Eliza.’ Mrs Josselin tugged gently at her sleeve. ‘If he is a worthy man no promise is necessary. If he is not, his promise holds no value.’

The young betrothed allowed herself to be led from the room, still staring, seeking assurance desperately.

I was left alone, black-hearted and dejected. I could barely summon the energy to breathe, I felt so rotten. The young woman, so fearful she might not see her betrothed again. Likely she would not, and I knew it. Josselin’s wife, so suspicious and angry. I glimpsed the desperation hidden behind that proud mask and hated myself for seeing it. Whatever vision she nurtured, it wasn’t the one that appeared in my head; her husband lain sprawled, Arlington’s strange blade protruding from his ribs.

Another woman entered the room, another knitter, though older than the last. A stout woman with a stiff white hat upon her head and a large, black wart nestled upon her cheek. She knitted as she walked, shuffling forwards, head down.

‘What are you knitting?’ I asked.

‘A pall,’ she smiled, placid.

A pall? Did she mean a robe, a cloak, or a coffin shroud? I thought

to enquire further, but couldn’t find the words. A long cold finger crept slowly up my spine. I exclaimed aloud, which sudden noise caused the old woman to jump in the air. I apologised and followed her back to the street.

Dowling emerged from the shadows, shoulders hunched. ‘What did you discover?’

‘Arlington just killed one of the King’s most loyal subjects,’ I replied, glum, ‘and James Josselin is betrothed to a child.’

It was all madness.

I thought of Eliza and Jane. ‘I will tell my betrothed everything before we leave,’ I determined.

Dowling frowned, puzzled. ‘Your betrothed?’

‘My housemaid,’ I corrected myself. ‘Come on. I have things to do before we must leave.’

I leant my shoulder against the shop door and forced it open. A cloud of dust billowed out onto the street, dry and choking. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for many years, a thick layer of grease and dirt holding the light at bay. The air smelt green, like a long-buried coffin. An angular figure lurked in the far corner, head ducked, face invisible in the gloom.

‘Culpepper?’ I called, stepping into the shop. Shelves covered the left wall, tall chests with tiny drawers the other wall. A large mortar and pestle sat upon the desk behind which Culpepper quietly dozed, next to a pile of dirty pots and pans.

I watched him sleeping, a frayed old wig slipped forward upon his brow so I couldn’t see his eyes. I took the opportunity to wander the shop, imagining for a few sweet moments it was mine already, relishing the chance to inspect the place unmolested. Every other time I visited,

Culpepper hovered at my elbow, fussing like an old goose, forbidding me to touch any of the jars and implements. Now I knew why, for several of the jars were cracked and broken, their contents mouldy and shrivelled.

His body rumbled as he snored. Culpepper was past seventy, and newly prone to inopportune remarks since the deaths of his aged wife and ill-tempered son. I wondered if he was capable of passing on his knowledge to me.

His lower lip hung loose from the rest of his mouth, revealing dark, shrivelled gums. Just two teeth protruded from his lower jaw, yellowed and worn. He sat with legs akimbo, tight belly sunk low into his groin. A pungent odour escaped from his clothes. He hadn’t washed in a long time.

Sad how the spirit of a man disappeared beneath a layer of rotting flesh. Culpepper established this shop more than forty years ago, preparing lozenges and pastes from local-grown herbs and treating the poor for free. He condemned his fellow physicians for their greed, incurring the wrath of the Society of Apothecaries because he insisted on selling cheap herbal remedies instead of their more expensive concoctions. Yet he would not be cowed, and so was frequently imprisoned, confined in conditions that slowly ate at his health and good mind. Once famous, now forgotten, a relic in his own museum.

I opened one of the tiny drawers in the great chest. Behind me Culpepper snorted like an old horse and embarked on a long coughing fit. In the drawer lay a dead cockroach on its back.

‘Lytle,’ Culpepper growled. ‘What are you doing here? Today is Friday.’

I closed the drawer and turned to face him. He peered at me through rheumy eyes, breathing hoarse. His wig perched crooked upon his old head.

‘I have to postpone our arrangement,’ I said. ‘I must go away for a few days.’

‘Go away?’ Culpepper jerked his wig straight. ‘Are you reneging on your promise?’

‘No.’ I assured him. ‘Lord Arlington has sent me east, on a mission.’

Culpepper clicked his tongue. ‘I thought you turned your back on that business. Perhaps I should find another who would learn my trade.’

‘I have turned my back,’ I protested. ‘But Arlington is a difficult man to turn your back upon. He has set us one more task and I am not free to refuse.’

‘Hah!’ Culpepper scowled. ‘How many times will he set you one more task you cannot refuse? Either you wish to become an apothecary or you do not.’

‘I am determined,’ I said. ‘Have we not signed a contract? I will honour that contract.’

‘If you live.’ Culpepper’s eyes narrowed. ‘They still have plague in Essex, do they not?’

‘Aye.’ I nodded. ‘Which is why Arlington sends us. We have to fetch a man from Colchester.’

Culpepper stayed sat upon his big chair, one brow raised, the other lowered, regarding me with big bleary eyes, lower lip protruding like he prepared to break wind. ‘Half of Colchester is dead, and the Pest shows no sign of abating.’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Lord Arlington doesn’t like you.’

‘No,’ I agreed.

Culpepper dug a finger in his ear. ‘I give you a week, else our

agreement is void. I have two more offers for this business and will not be cheated. I don’t expect to live much longer.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Though longer than you, perhaps.’

‘Thank you, Nicholas.’ I bowed my head. ‘Rest assured. I am determined to make a success of this business.’

‘Good luck,’ he muttered. ‘The road to Colchester is well guarded.’ He cleared his throat and steadied himself. ‘Wait a moment.’

He supported himself on his desk with one hand and eyed the chest against the wall, breathing deep, preparing himself for the short walk from one side of the room to the other before shuffling off with great intent.

He grasped the tall cabinet as soon as it was in reach, pulling out a little drawer a couple of rows higher than the one that contained the dead insect. He extracted a packet the size of his fist and held it out for me to take.

I poked a finger into the mass of dried leaves, close-packed within. I pinched a few leaves between finger and thumb and stuck them up my nostril. ‘What are they?’

He staggered back to his seat. ‘They will protect you.’