P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘What’s that, sir?’

‘What? Oh, yes. How odd.’

Little tiny beads of silver were clinging to the padded leather lining of the chest. Dodd prodded one with his finger and it bounced back, rolled down a seam and joined another bead like two raindrops on a windowpane. Carey tore off a little piece of paper from the small notebook he kept in a pouch in his belt, chased and caught a couple of the little beads, then twisted the paper closed and put it in the pouch.

There was nothing else in the room except for a couple of books of sermons, an empty jewel box and some dirty pewter plates which Dodd brought down with them.

Susannah had a bit more colour in her cheeks from the beer.

‘Did you find anything.’

Carey shook his head. ‘I’ll ask Father to send a woman and a boy to you until Edmund turns up again. When he does you can send the boy to tell us. By the way, did you…er…did you check the gaols?’

Susannah nodded vigorously. ‘Of course I did, it was the first thing I thought of. I went to all of them, the Clink, the Fleet, all of them, but nobody had heard of him. Oh, it’s so worrying. What if he’s dead?’

She was dry-washing her hands helplessly, her mouth wrung sideways with anxiety. ‘What shall I do if he’s dead?’

Carey put his arm across her shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘Darling, you know my father won’t let you and the children starve. At least if my idiot brother is dead, you’ll be able to find someone better to marry, won’t you?’

‘But I don’t want anybody better, I want Edmund.’

‘I can’t imagine why, he’s never treated you properly.’

‘Well, you know, he is a bit silly with drinking and card-playing and money-making schemes, but he’s a very good man, he’s a good father, he’s never beaten me once, not even when I’ve called him names, he…he…He’s not so bad, really.’

‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ said Carey firmly, kissing her again. ‘Never has. Now dry your eyes. If the fool isn’t at the bottom of the Thames, I’m going to find him. All right?’

Susannah nodded anxiously, blinking up at Carey.

Dodd felt dispirited as Carey bade goodbye to Kate and tipped her sixpence. If folk as rich as the Careys could have money troubles, what hope was there for him?

***

‘Where now?’ asked Dodd as they stood in Blackfriars’ courtyard.

‘We’re finding Robert Greene,’ said Carey as he struck off eastwards along St Peter and Thames Street. Carey tried Greene’s lodgings first, over a cobbler’s shop, but found a locked door at the top of the narrow ill-smelling stairs and nothing else. Barnabus and Simon were waiting dutifully outside as they’d been ordered to earlier that morning.

Carey went out into the smoke-dimmed sunlight and rubbed his gloved hands. Over the next two hours they quartered London for Robert Greene and it turned out that knowing the places where the poet liked to drink didn’t narrow the field very much since there were so many of them.

After a while Barnabus got restless and asked if he could go off to St Paul’s with Simon to see if he could find a new master. Carey told him sharply he could wait until they’d found Greene, and Barnabus lapsed into a sulk.

‘If he could just wait a month or two, I could guarantee him a place with George Clifford, who’d employ him like a shot,’ Carey said to Dodd.

‘Don’t want to risk no more northern wastelands,’ muttered Barnabus.

‘Clifford?’ asked Dodd, not surprised that Barnabus had no appreciation for decent places. ‘Is that any relation of the Earl of Cumberland, sir?’

‘No, it is the Earl of Cumberland.’

Every so often Carey would do or say something that completely took the wind out of Dodd’s chest. ‘The Earl, sir?’

‘Yes. Old friend of mine, we ran off from Court in 1588 to serve against the Armada, which we did on the old Elizabeth Bonaventure . He saved my life when I managed to catch gaol-fever that nearly did for me.’

‘Sir?’

‘Very embarrassing, you know. I’d risked the Queen’s dis-pleasure in the hopes of killing me a few Spaniards and getting enough loot to pay off the moneylenders. We certainly fought the Spaniards but it was all done with cannonfire and scurrying the ships around the big galleons and of course the fireships at Calais, so I never saw a penny of any treasure. Somewhere around Flamborough Head I lost ten shillings playing dice with the Ship’s Master and the Surgeon, got a blinding headache and then went completely off my head with the fever. Apparently I spotted some likely looking cattle and a chest of gold in the crow’s nest-you know, the look-out place on the top of the mast-climbed up the rigging in a storm and had a damned good battle with some sails. George was the one who led the sailors up to get me and knocked me out cold so they could bring me down. The Spanish ships had turned tail by then and were well on their way to Scotland, so as soon as the ship docked at Tilbury, he strapped me to a litter and sent me back to Philadelphia and Lady Widdrington in Westminster. Nice chap. Very good friend.’

‘Ay, sir.’ Dodd was unwillingly fascinated.

‘He was the one said I should take up Scrope’s offer, said I’d enjoy myself in Carlisle and he was absolutely right.’

Unwillingly, Dodd warmed to the Earl. He wasn’t quite sure how much back rent he owed the Cumberland estate for some of the land he ran cattle on, but he was certain he couldn’t pay it. He supposed it wasn’t the Earl of Cumberland’s fault. Maybe if Carey was his friend, he could put a good word in some time.

He looked around. The aggravating man had disappeared again. Dodd blinked at a tiny hovel with brightly painted red lattices and followed Carey inside.

There was no doubt that London was a drinking man’s heaven. From the big coaching inns, with their great yards where the carriers’ wagons were hitched ready for their long journeys to strange places like Bristol or Exeter, to tiny sheds where widows sold the ale and mead they brewed themselves, it was clear a man need never be thirsty in London. Provided he had money. Even river water cost a penny a quart if you bought it off a water-seller and was as brown as the beer and much less pleasant tasting.

Dodd stuck with beer. Carey’s guts at last seemed to have settled down and his were fine, but he didn’t want to spend another week sitting on the jakes with his bowels exploding and everyone knew it was diluting your humours with too much water that gave it to you.

At last, as the morning drew on, Carey went into yet another tiny boozing ken, peered around in the choking fumes of tobacco smoke, and cried, ‘Ahah!’ He shoved his way over to the corner where a man built like a beer barrel was propped up on a bench, mouth open and snoring, his hat drawn down over his eyes and a beard exactly the colour of carrots rising and falling with his snores.

Carey sat down next to him and grinned happily, just like a sleuthdog next to his quarry. Dodd put his hands on his hips.

‘That’s him,’ he said.

‘It certainly is,’ said Carey. ‘Nobody else in London has a beard exactly that shade.’

‘I should ’ope not,’ said Barnabus, bustling back from the woman next to the barrels with a large jug of ale and some greasy horn cups. ‘Let’s celebrate. Oh, she says his slate’s up to ten shillings and if we want ’im, we’ve got to pay it.’

Carey shook his head in admiration. ‘How the devil did you manage to drink five pounds in two weeks and have a slate?’ he asked the snoring poet, who didn’t answer and probably couldn’t have explained anyway. Dodd thought he looked exactly the way anyone would after drinking five pounds in two weeks, which was to say, unhealthy, red-nosed, stertorous but happy.