Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘You still say they were spies?’ Dowling said, low.

Josselin pointed at each of the bodies in turn. ‘Greenleafe, Meshman, Ansty, Allen,’ he recited. ‘I know them, though I did not wish for this.’

I scanned the five contorted faces. Was it possible? Certainly it was the kind of scheme Arlington would relish, but would four spies allow themselves to be so easily snared?

The ground shook to our left. Framed by the outline of the church, the figure of Marshall Howe, striding slowly in our direction.

‘Have you talked to him?’ I asked Josselin.

Josselin shook his head and climbed to his feet, wiping his cheeks with his palms, succeeding only in smearing them with dirt.

Howe stared blankly at Josselin, frowning slightly as if he couldn’t understand why no one patted him on the head.

‘Howe,’ Josselin said, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Did you hang these men?’

The big man nodded, slowly, frown deepening.

‘You did a thorough job,’ Josselin turned away. ‘For which I shall be commended.’

Howe continued to look puzzled.

Josselin sighed. ‘I need to go for a walk. Cut down the bodies, Howe, and take down this gallows.’

He turned to me. ‘You stay here with him. Make sure it is done. I will be back soon.’

With which he marched off into the descending darkness, red skies casting a funereal aspect upon the scene afore us. Marshall Howe

folded his arms and gazed stern, growling beneath his breath as if he blamed us for his master’s foul mood. We sat ourselves down upon the softest grass we could find, away from the gallows, and settled down to another night in paradise. If we didn’t leave tomorrow I would lose my shop.

Night fell and the forest quietened. Here upon the green we huddled at the heart of the village. More sounds of pain and distress could be heard, faint but unmistakable. I tried to rid myself of the notion it was the corpses bewailing their fate. It was hard to think of sleeping. Each time the wind picked up, the ropes creaked, swinging in harmony with the cooling breeze. Howe disappeared to find his tools.

I thought of Jane, her soft warm body. Tears pricked my eyes and I sought to shake the memory from my head for fear I would ne’er find her again.

Sleep came when I focussed upon Dowling’s breathing, imagined myself rising and falling in time with his gentle snoring. I told myself I would be walking out of Shyam tomorrow morning, come what may. I dreamt of a river, briskly flowing. It picked up my boat and

swept it back to London in a long straight line. I stared ahead, trying not to look aside at the men and women running down to the banks, flinging themselves into the water to be rid of the burning fevers. But I couldn’t avoid John Hancock, black hair pressed down about his gaping, white face, eyes fixed upon my boat. He slid into the water and swum towards me, faster and faster. Then he disappeared beneath the surface and reappeared at the bow. He gripped the front of the boat and heaved it downwards, trying to sink me. The boat rocked wildly as I prised off his fingers.

‘Wake up, Harry.’ Dowling shook me hard. ‘Wake up!’

I opened my eyes to see his huge face hanging close above mine like he thought to kiss me. I suppressed a scream of terror and pushed him aside, trying to collect my scattered thoughts. Marshall Howe lay flat upon the ground facing the sky, chest heaving in steady rhythm.

‘He’s asleep, Harry,’ Dowling whispered. ‘He took down the corpses.’

I looked to the scaffold. Five short ropes tied to the beam, but no bodies.

‘Where did he put them?’ I asked, thick-headed.

‘I don’t know,’ Dowling whispered. ‘But Josselin has not come back.’

I eased myself to my feet, one eye on Marshall Howe, and peered into the blue darkness. No one else around. ‘We should try the church.’

We trod quiet as we could towards the churchyard. I pointed to the rectory. ‘A candle in the window. Perhaps the Reverend has seen something.’

Apart from the candle, the building stood silent and dark, a square shadow crouching with malintent. I stood at the gate, unwilling to approach closer. We didn’t even know if he buried his wife yet.

Dowling sniffed the air with vague unease. He nudged me aside and pushed the gate too hard, so it swung against the short stone wall with a sharp crash. I cursed him silently and squeezed my hands so tight I could barely open them again.

The roses appeared black in the gloom, as if the flowers were strange receptacles, night harbingers of plague. Dowling sneezed, which violent noise sent fear stabbing through my heart. He eased open the front door and poked his head through into the darkness.

‘Mompesson?’ he whispered, so hoarse he made himself cough.

I felt like pushing him inside and closing the door behind, so loud and unnatural he sounded in the balmy night. He received no reply and stepped inside, still crouched. I waited in the night air, senses attuned to the sound of footsteps. I heard clear his passage about the house, heavy boots marking his passage from room to room.

‘Not at home,’ he announced, upon finally emerging. ‘Nor his wife.’ He cleared his throat, placed his paws upon his shaggy hips and regarded the surrounds with grey perplexity.

‘Unless he heard you coming from the other side of Shyam and is hiding under the bed,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘I looked under the bed and in the cupboards too.’

A fleeting picture of Mompesson flickered across my mind, stood upright in a cupboard with his dead wife held tight to his chest. Never had I felt so attuned to the world about me. ‘The church,’ I suggested.

We headed towards the ring of linden trees marking the boundary of the churchyard. A path cut through the shadow, dark and winding, offering every opportunity for ambush, but all we encountered was the wind, rustling the tops of the bushes.

The squat square tower stood stark against the blue night sky,

the height of twelve men. Afront of it a tall stone cross with strange etchings. Gravestones shone ghostly luminous in the moonlight, the walls beyond casting sinister shadows about the periphery.

‘Look there.’ Dowling pointed at a dark oblong, not ten paces from the cross.

It was a long hole, freshly dug. ‘It can only be for Catherine Mompesson if none others are permitted burial.’ I walked close enough to gaze within. ‘It’s empty.’

‘She lies somewhere,’ Dowling grunted, before heading towards the chancel door. It was unlocked.

Inside was dark, as we expected, but not ahead. Candles flickered, drawing us forward like reluctant pilgrims. Also a noise, a muffled sound of anguished muttering, mournful and angry. My every instinct bid me leave, yet my head told me we neared a secret, one we needed to understand.

The chancel was clearly built new, for the stone was bright and plain and smooth. Ahead of us a grand arch, and beyond that the nave. I stepped stealthily ahead of Dowling, bidding him be silent with a sharp chopping of my hand. He seemed to understand, for his heavy breathing quieted and he trod softer than I thought possible.

I stopped at the edge of darkness, unable to suppress a gasp of horror. The groaning came from a figure lain prone upon the floor, on its belly, feet towards us and head away, making such dark and awful noises that it didn’t hear my unwitting exclamation. It was Mompesson. Most dreadful though was the nature of the congregation.

Catherine Mompesson sat on the front pew, leaning slightly to one side, head lolling on her left shoulder, white dress soiled with dark stains about her bodice and the ends of her flowing skirts. Though her eyes were closed her mouth was not, jaw dropped upon her chest