I sighed. ‘What did you do for this alderman that he thinks so highly of you?’
‘Some thievery and nonsuch. He had a friend he was fain to see left alone.’ When he stretched and yawned I saw that most of his back teeth were missing. He offered no more and I wasn’t interested enough to press him.
‘We should go talk to the rector,’ I suggested.
‘Yes, sir. Your cousin’s husband, besides. He lives in Bishopsgate. First thing tomorrow, if you don’t mind; I’ve still got work to do before the day ends.’ He turned on his heel, left the churchyard and headed back towards Fleet Street. Seemed I had offended him, which was no great shame. I couldn’t stand folks that exuded their anxieties like they felt it was your duty to share them. Serenity was my objective in life.
A gust of wind blew through the grass and played with my ankles. I looked down at my sodden boots and then around the deserted cemetery. Some stinking horehound was growing up a flint wall. Though my heart bid me follow the butcher back into the City and head for the nearest alehouse, my feet started to walk back towards the church. It was a strange sensation being carried by my body to a place I never wished to visit again, but my feet kept walking all the way back down the aisle, past the battered pulpit and through into the vestry. I pushed the door open with a fearful heart, half expecting the body to have hidden itself somewhere, else be sitting up waiting to converse. But no; it lay as it had, wretched and torn. I looked once more into its face, trying to divine some family resemblance, but seeing none. Perplexing. I fished into my pocket and brought out the letter that I had received that morn to read aloud. I decided to share its contents with the corpse.
Son,
Still here. In this lairy place. Your mother seems happy tho. Must be the pigs that they breed here coz she likes pigs. Nothing here to gladden a man’s heart in Cocksmouth. Nothing for me to do save help her brother in the shed. Can’t make shoes here. You caring for the shop? Some hope. I note you haven’t been to visit. Your mother notes it too. You have a cuz, name of Anne. Married to a man called John Giles. Don’t think you knew your cuz Anne. Not likely to now coz she dead. Someone killed her. I took the liberty of telling William Prynne esq. that you have to leave his employ. We’ll be back when your grandmother is died. About time, I say.
Your father.
It still made no sense. It was improbable that there were two men working for Prynne that had fathers in Cocksmouth, so the author was presumably my beloved parent (male). In which case it was one of God’s most wondrous miracles since he had never written to me before in his whole life nor indeed had hardly spoken to me since I had learnt the art of speech myself. I didn’t even know he could write.
‘So who are you, Anne Giles? And how is it that I never knew you before?’ I asked the body. It made no reply. I thought I knew all my cousins intimately. Thieves and cutpurses most of ’em — on my mother’s side anyway — thou and thee-ers on my father’s side — drier than old biscuits. None of them was called Anne.
Chapter Two
Any kind of fungus is always evil and when eaten, although its effect may not be felt immediately, after some time it has a bad effect on the inner working of the bowels.
The holy house was thin and tall. It leant crooked over the street like a very old man about to fall over, held up only by the efforts of its sturdier neighbours. Evil looking heads stared down from corbels on every corner of the grim facade onto the busy street life below.
Dowling waited for me with a sour face. He muttered at me and I mumbled back. We stepped through the buzzing throng without meaningful conversation and stood upon the threshold. A note was pinned to the door that said: ‘we walk by faith, not by sight’.
‘Corinthians.’ Dowling winked at me like it was a great secret. Why was he winking at me? I knew it was Corinthians. One of those sayings that rectors and other holy folk pronounce with great solemnity, yet is empty of all practical meaning. Try walking down Cheapside with your eyes closed — faith or no faith you’ll end up betwixt the hooves of a horse with every bone of your body broken.
A servant showed us into the hall. He was more hideous than the corbels. The floor was laid with yellow and green Flemish tiles, suggesting a mercantile interest, and the walls were covered with wooden flower motifs and thick carved rings. Expensive. The servant bowed and led us up a polished staircase to a lovely old wooden door. It had its own knocker in the shape of a lamb’s head. Running my fingers over its rough bronze surface, I suddenly noticed that the servant was waiting to use it. Embarrassed, I stepped to one side and he opened it. Beyond it was dark.
‘Enter please,’ the servant leered, showing no signs of crossing the threshold himself. I obeyed, if only to escape the sensation that he sought to devour my kidneys. The door closed behind us.
Darkness was relieved only by feeble tendrils of weak winter light that wriggled through small holes in the drawn curtains, and the glow of a small fire burning in the grate. Walking slowly towards the window I was careful not to bump into anything. The curtains were made of thick red velvet, luscious and gorgeous to touch. Worn thin in places, the pattern of light betrayed their age. Squinting into the warm gloom at the paintings and tapestries that hung from the wall opposite I could see that they were old and black, years of dirt hiding all but the brightest shades. Stern faces peered down at me with disapproving yellow eyes. Contorted figures stared at the ceiling — mostly representations of Christ. The air was thick with heavy scent, musty and clinging. The other walls were covered with books, leather-bound and thick. Not many people could afford to buy books, but the rector had hundreds. Slowly my eyes got used to the absence of light. So it was that I finally noticed a figure behind a great desk at the far end of the room sat in the shadows by himself.
‘Good morning,’ the man greeted us softly in a rich plummy voice. After standing up slowly, he adopted an elegant pose. ‘I was engaged in serious contemplation.’
Dark, curly hair sat above black, bushy eyebrows like a mop. Stubble covered his lip and ran down his olive cheeks. He looked quite young, surprisingly, not much older than me. He wore a stiff black coat despite the warmth of the room and a collar that forced him to hold up his chin. The desk was made of thick carved oak and was covered with reams of paper, scattered goose-quills and stacks of books, carefully placed I reckoned.
Sighing as if he was in great pain, he put the back of one hand against his forehead. ‘How gratifying that you should take such an interest in the desecration of my church. The people of this parish talk of little else. I fear that they will not cease their prating until the whole wicked affair is resolved. Until that time, law or no law, they will not venture past its doors. They will stay at home or else go to other parishes to do their worshipping.’
Stifling a yawn I neglected to tell him that I held no interest whatsoever in his predicament. ‘Aye, it was my cousin that was killed.’
He looked at me sharply with one beady, calculating black eye, then, lowering the hand, he proceeded to walk over to a shelf where he pulled down one of his books, the spine of which he stared at blankly. ‘There are dozens in London, some in this parish I know, waiting for a church appointment. They would see me in the gutter and not give a damn. They would call it providence, the will of God.’
If that was truly the case then I should feel much better disposed towards God, for I didn’t like this fellow much, walking his study like it was a theatre stage.