The Medieval Murderers - Hill of Bones

‘Professor Ma… Malapropos…’ screeched the duchess, taking Malinferno’s arm in a vicelike grip. She obviously could not even remember his name, but was determined to get full value from his celebrated, albeit bogus, erudition. ‘You must talk to my dear friend the Honourable Sir Ralph St Germans about the Pyramids and suchlike. He’s the Member of Parliament for… err…’ She flapped her hand to denote some remote rotten borough that was represented by this august Member. ‘He is fearfully keen on this Egyptian thing, and is acquiring all sorts of impedimenta from… well, from Egyptia, I suppose.’

She steered him towards an egregiously overweight, and obviously inebriated gentleman, who was using the edge of Malinferno’s erstwhile mortuary slab to steady his wavering bulk. The small items from the mummy that were the professor’s illicit bonus were burning a hole in Malinferno’s pocket. But there was nothing to be done but whisk a bumper of red wine from a passing tray, and sing for his supper. He toasted the noble Member of Parliament, and enquired after his collection of artefacts, hoping the man wasn’t expert enough on Egyptology to unmask him as a charlatan. Fortunately, St Germans chose that moment to pass out from an excess of alcohol, slumping heavily across the table and landing on Doll’s generous bosom.

It had only been a week earlier that Malinferno had lifted his head reluctantly from that very bosom and sighed.

‘I have to get out of London, Doll. What if I am found out? I will be hanged along with the others.’

The reason for his fears had to do with Malinferno’s soft spot for the plight of the masses, coming as he did himself from humble beginnings. After old King George had died in January of that year – 1820 – the rumblings of the radicals got louder as the situation of the working poor got worse. Joe – he hated his proper name of Giuseppe – often took himself off to the Marylebone Union Reading Society, and filled his head with radical idealism. Doll was more down to earth, and didn’t think much could be done other than looking after number one. They rowed about it off and on.

‘We, who are able to look after ourselves, must help the poor.’

Joe’s pronouncement astonished Doll, bearing in mind they were themselves down to their last few coppers. And the meal on the table in Joe’s shabby lodgings in Creechurch Lane, London, was no more than an umble pie of offal, washed down with beer. She opened her arms to encompass their meagre feast.

‘Joe, we are the poor, as things stand. I shall have to troll the streets if we are to pay your landlady the rent for even last month.’

Malinferno’s face was set in a mask of defiance. He had first met Doll Pocket in Madam de Trou’s bawdy house in Petticoat Lane. He had been astonished by both her quick mind, and her obviously pulchritudinous assets. Instead of exploiting those assets as intended, he had spent the night teaching her all he knew about Egyptology. She had absorbed it like a sponge. They had forgotten all about the reason why he had paid the madam in good gold coin. And now that they were good friends, he didn’t want Doll to return to her former trade.

‘No. If the worst comes to the worst, you can become an actress. I know Mr Saunders, the manager of the New Theatre in Tottenham Street. He will find you a position.’

Doll pulled a face. ‘An actress? Why should I want to do that? They have the same reputation as a whore, and earn less than half the money.’

‘At least that is the lesser of two evils.’ Malinferno hesitated a moment. He was trying somehow to get round to telling her the truth about the rent. Finally, he decided he had better just come out and say it. ‘And it’s not one month we owe but three.’

Doll pushed her rickety chair away from the table, and put her hands on her hips in a pose of outrage.

‘But I gave you the money for the other month. It was the last of my savings.’

‘I know. But Arthur wanted some funds and I-’

‘You gave it all to Arthur Thistlewood?’

By now, Doll was stomping up and down their tiny room, causing the chipped crockery on the table to rattle. Malinferno steadied the table and grinned.

‘You know, you would make a wonderful actress. They are putting on The Taming of the Shrew at the Theatre Royal.’

Doll growled, and grabbed one of the plates from off the table. She only stopped herself from throwing it at Joe, when he yelled a warning.

‘Careful, Doll, we’ve got only two plates left. If that one goes, we will have to share our repasts like two dogs fighting over the same bowl.’

She contented herself with another growl, and sat back on her chair abruptly. It creaked ominously under her. She waved her hand at Malinferno dismissively.

‘Go and plot treason with Thistlewood. That’s all you are good for, you and the Spendthrift Philanderers.’

‘Spencean Philanthropists,’ Malinferno corrected her. ‘We follow the ideas of Thomas Spence. Anyway, it’s no good me going to the meeting house today. They are meeting up somewhere else, but I am not in on the secret of what’s afoot.’

Doll snorted with derision. ‘You are not all that important to them, then. Now they have your money. Where are they meeting, anyway?’

Malinferno tossed his head, as though his not being in on the secret meeting mattered not at all to him.

‘Somewhere near Grosvenor Square. Cato Street, I think he said.’

Later, when the news came out of the murderous conspiracy led by Thistlewood, Malinferno was glad he had been excluded. After the conspirators were arrested in a pitched battle in the Cato Street hayloft, it emerged that the Spencean Philanthropists had plotted to kill every single cabinet minister at a dinner hosted by Lord Harrowby. Malinferno, pale and shaken, had refused to leave his lodgings in Creechurch Lane for days. He spent his time peering cautiously out of the dusty window on the first floor, imagining every passer-by was a Bow Street runner come to arrest him for treason. Doll scoffed at his worries, but Joe would not be reassured.

‘George Edwards was an agent provocateur acting for the government, and I spoke to him at a meeting once. He might remember me.’

‘Joe, it’s been weeks since the others were arrested. Has anyone mentioned your name? No.’

Malinferno fingered his damp linen collar nervously. ‘Even so, they say Thistlewood and the others will be hanged.’

He shrank back from the window, where he had been standing, and slumped down on the lumpy bed he shared with Doll. She sighed, and went off to the chop house to fetch in some food, as she had done since the Cato Street Conspiracy had been exposed.

When in April the verdict was reached on those who had refused to turn king’s evidence, Brunt, Davidson, Ings, Thistlewood and Tidd – all known to Malinferno – were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered. And though their sentences were later commuted to merely hanging, a deed that took place in May, Malinferno decided it was time to sneak away from London for a while. He wondered if his friend Bromhead had anything for him to do that would remove him from the febrile atmosphere of the capital.

‘Actually, Giuseppe, I do, as it happens.’

Augustus Bromhead was a strange cove to look at. He was very short of stature, standing at less than five feet tall, but his head was that of a much bigger man. It topped his tiny body like the bulbous head of a tadpole, an effect that was emphasised by the unruly thatch of grey hair and goatee beard he favoured. But he was a giant of a man when it came to intellect and knowledge in his chosen field. Bromhead was an antiquarian of repute, and what he didn’t know about King Arthur and all things pertaining to the glorious history of the British Isles was not worth knowing.