P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘I suppose we’ll just have to wait for him to recover again,’ he said. ‘Damn it, Greene, you’re a bloody nuisance.’

Dodd rested his weary frame on the opposite bench, peered around the gloom. It seemed like a nice place, this time, fresh sawdust on the floor and some tallow candles in sconces on the walls to light up the dim places. Even the tables were clean. Barnabus came over with two trays laden with a light second breakfast of bacon, sausage, fried onions, cheese and pease pudding, beer and some bread.

They ate in tactful silence while Carey cracked his joints and rubbed his knuckles every so often. Dodd hoped his hand was really hurting him. At last Barnabus belched softly, wiped his mouth on a napkin and coughed.

‘Well, sir, since you’ve found him, I was wondering if you could excuse me for the rest of the day, like you said, sir?’

Carey shrugged. ‘Well, I shouldn’t think Greene’s going to wake for a while yet, so why not? I can’t give you the whole day, I’ll probably need you later, but you can have the rest of the morning off until dinnertime. Will that do?’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Barnabus and Simon finished their beer and bustled out of the Mermaid. Five minutes after they had gone, Will Shakespeare came hurrying in, looking around him and waved when he saw Dodd and Carey, who had started a game of primero.

‘Sir Robert,’ he gasped nasally. ‘I’ve got a message for you from your father, sir. He says he’s going down to Hampstead with Mr Recorder Fleetwood to investigate the footpads who tried to ambush you there. He said he’d be grateful if you and Sergeant Dodd could join him, identify them perhaps, and I’ve brought two horses for you.’

Carey sighed and put away his cards, which Dodd felt only showed that the man had the luck of the devil since Dodd had a flush.

‘That’s an infernal nuisance,’ he said, looking down at the body of Greene, prone on the bench beside him and snoring a fanfare. ‘What am I going to do with this? I daren’t leave it behind in case it bloody wanders off again.’

Shakespeare blinked at the man on the bench, caught sight of the carroty beard and twitched. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘Well, I could look after him for you, sir.’

Carey smiled. ‘Would you do that? I’d be most grateful.’

‘Certainly I could do it.’

‘If he wakes up and starts causing trouble, don’t mess about. Just call the innkeeper to help, all right?’

Shakespeare went pink at this patronage but he only nodded humbly. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Splendid. Where did you say the horses were?’

‘Hitched outside.’

‘Come on then, Sergeant. You’ll have to beggar me some other time.’

‘Ay, sir.’

Carey led the way through the clutter and crowding of the London streets, through the City wall at Ludgate and up the Old Bailey, across the wide expanse of Smithfield which was full of men practising horsemanship and swordplay, some of whom shouted drunken challenges at Dodd and Carey, up Turnmill Street to the little village of Clerkenwell which seemed to be amazingly full of dazzlingly fine women, and then westwards along country lanes until they joined the Gray’s Inn Road again. There at last Carey put his heels in and went to a canter and Dodd followed, instantly feeling happy to be away from the constant press of humanity. With fresh horses out of Lord Hunsdon’s stables they were there well within the hour, and found Carey’s father, the Recorder of London and a large number of buff-coated men. Hunsdon was leaning on his saddlehorn as Carey and Dodd came up, their horses blowing and panting after the long hill. Carey flourished off his hat in a splendid bow from the saddle taking in his father and the Recorder while Dodd touched his cap.

‘Ah, there you are,’ said Hunsdon. ‘About time. Where have you been? I sent Shakespeare out to find you this morning.’

‘Talking to Susannah.’

‘Hmf. How are the children?’

‘Kate forgot to comb her hair this morning and Eddie lost his third hornbook in a month, otherwise they’re well.’

Hunsdon smiled. ‘Mr Recorder Fleetwood and I have been considering, and we’ve decided not to interview the locals yet. We’re going to start by searching for fresh graves.’

‘Good idea, my lord,’ said Carey. ‘Who have you brought?’

‘Who do you think? Here he is. His paw shouldn’t take any harm from a little light sniffing around, eh boy?’

Jimmy the dog-page was holding Hunsdon’s yellow lymer on a long leash and the dog went sniffing delightedly up to Carey’s horse, who put down his head and snorted in welcome.

‘Hasn’t been fed this morning so he should be fairly sharp.’

‘Oh, poor fellow,’ said Carey sympathetically to the dog, who panted and looked hopeful for a while. ‘Well, let’s see what you can find.’

Watched warily by the Hampstead villagers, they left most of the buff-coated men by the horsepond and went into the Cut so that Bellman could sniff the traces left by the deaths of the footpads. Dodd and Carey both went to look for any other traces and found hoofprints and dragmarks in the dust. Then Dodd took Bellman’s leash and went up the little path that led up to the Hanging Elm and had the dog sniff around its base for a while. As expected, the body was no longer there.

‘Why do you think they bothered to put poor old Michael up on the Elm in the first place?’ asked Hunsdon.

Dodd shrugged. ‘They knew our nags might smell the corpse and hid him in plain view. And to give a reason for them spooking if they smelled the ambush too.’

‘That’s what I thought. Barbarous. All right, Bellman. Find. There’s a good boy. Find.’

Wagging his tail happily the lymer pottered around the Elm, snorting rhythmically through his large blunt yellow nose. He found a trail, followed it enthusiastically and eventually stood barking in triumph by a large sandy bank full of rabbitholes.

‘No, Bellman,’ said Hunsdon patiently, and produced a blue velvet cap from a bag by his saddle, handed it down to Dodd to show the dog. ‘Find.’

It took several tries but eventually the lymer found another trail and went off down into the village, snorting and sniffing as he went. Out the other side, the southern flank of Hampstead Hill was covered with market gardens being worked by more of the villagers, who stopped and leaned on their hoes as Dodd trotted by, pulled by the lymer, followed by the dog-page and then Carey, his father, the Recorder and two of the Recorder’s men. Halfway down, a thick wood began and the lymer bounded into its eaves and stopped in a clearing.

There was an unmistakeable bank of newly disturbed earth where Bellman started digging and barking, so Dodd pulled the dog off in case he ate something he shouldn’t. Lord Hunsdon patted the lymer and praised him extravagantly, then produced a large marrowbone from another bag hanging behind his saddle and gave it to the dog who wagged his tail ecstatically, took the bone and lay down with his paws over it, growling if one of the horses or men came too near his treasure. The Recorder sent up the hill for more men and his attendants began working with their spades. After a while they struck something that thudded.

‘Four bodies,’ announced the Recorder eventually. ‘Sirs, would you care to identify them…?’

It wasn’t difficult and not even very smelly-the bodies had been in the earth for only a day and their bellies were just beginning to swell. Looked at closely, you could tell that Michael’s face had been destroyed by a gun put close to it and fired, though whether that was what had killed him was anybody’s guess. He was stripped down to his shirt, as were the dead footpads.