Read Online 4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery by P. F. Chisholm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: P. F. Chisholm
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against the opposite wall and raining blows down on him so he had no chance to pull any fancy moves.
Something grabbed his leg and bit his calf and Dodd glared down to see that the larger man had crawled over, still sobbing, and had caught him. He stamped down with his other boot to get the teeth off and went after the one with the rapier again. Unfortunately the bastard southerner was running away, so Dodd shook his foot free again and gave chase.
Barnabus appeared in the mouth of the alley and thoughtfully tripped the man up. Dodd was onto him, kicked the dropped rapier away, hauled him up by a fistful of doublet and slammed him against the wall.
‘Careful, mate,’ said Barnabus confidentially over his shoulder from where he was robbing the man on the ground. ‘Don’t kill ’im; Sir Robert’s right about juries round here.’
Dodd was snarling at his prize. ‘If ye ken who I am, ye’d ken that Wee Colin Elliot’s dad killed mine, ye soft wet southern fart. Wis it robbery ye were after, eh? Eh?!’
The man’s eyes were swivelling in his head and he was gobbling. Dodd slammed him again. ‘By Christ, did ye think I wear ma sword for a fucking decoration, ye long slimy toad’s pizzle, who the hell d’ye think…’
‘Well, ’e wasn’t to know, was he?’ said Barnabus reasonably. ‘He just thought you was some farmer up for the law-term, what with yer homespun suit and funny talk. Poor bugger, look at ’im, he’s gone to pieces.’
Dodd realised to his disgust that the man was actually crying now, and dropped him in a convenient pile of dung. Barnabus rolled him expertly, tutted and led the way out of the alley back to Ave Maria Lane, with a quick glance either side at the turning for further ambushes. Dodd, whose blood was up, rather hoped there would be someone, but put his sword away again when Barnabus hissed at him.
Feeling witty, Dodd paused, went back, found the rapier and broke it in two with his boot. Barnabus shook his head at the waste.
‘Nasty foreign weapon,’ Dodd explained. ‘When d’ye think they’ll come after us wi’ their kin?’
Barnabus laughed. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Not the way you think. Though I’d keep a weather eye out for coney-catchers—they’ll want your purse one way or the other, believe me.’
‘What’s a coney-catcher, for God’s sake?’
Barnabus rolled his eyes at this display of ignorance. ‘Someone what wants to help you rob yourself, someone what fools you and draws you in with your own greed and fear. It’s philosophical, really. They say nobody can coney-catch an honest man. Mind you, I shouldn’t think there’s ever been one come to London before.’
Dodd grunted, suspicious of compliments, however back-handed. Not that it mattered. With luck, once the Lord Chamberlain and Vice had satisfied themselves that Carey wasn’t working for Spanish spies nor likely to become King James’s new catamite, the lot of them could go north again.
A scurrying down by the entrance to the crypt caught his eye. There were black rats on the steps, crawling over and under each other brazenly in daylight. Two rat corpses lay close by, swollen out of shape by death.
‘Good God, look at that,’ he said in horror. ‘Look at the size o’ them.’
Barnabus glanced over and shrugged. ‘Oh yes,’ he said off-handedly. ‘They say the biggest rats in the world prance up and down Paul’s aisle.’
‘Ah hadnae thought they meant real rats.’
‘Well both, it’s one of them witty comments, innit. You coming in again?’
Suddenly he felt choked by all the buildings rising up around him, hemmed in and trapped. Your eyes were always coming up short against a wall, and he was trammelled and crowded with people, the stink would fell an ox. And he had always hated rats.
He stopped at the side door of the church, unable to bear the thought of entering the high solemnity of the place with its faded paintings too high up to be whitewashed and the human trash
Something grabbed his leg and bit his calf and Dodd glared down to see that the larger man had crawled over, still sobbing, and had caught him. He stamped down with his other boot to get the teeth off and went after the one with the rapier again. Unfortunately the bastard southerner was running away, so Dodd shook his foot free again and gave chase.
Barnabus appeared in the mouth of the alley and thoughtfully tripped the man up. Dodd was onto him, kicked the dropped rapier away, hauled him up by a fistful of doublet and slammed him against the wall.
‘Careful, mate,’ said Barnabus confidentially over his shoulder from where he was robbing the man on the ground. ‘Don’t kill ’im; Sir Robert’s right about juries round here.’
Dodd was snarling at his prize. ‘If ye ken who I am, ye’d ken that Wee Colin Elliot’s dad killed mine, ye soft wet southern fart. Wis it robbery ye were after, eh? Eh?!’
The man’s eyes were swivelling in his head and he was gobbling. Dodd slammed him again. ‘By Christ, did ye think I wear ma sword for a fucking decoration, ye long slimy toad’s pizzle, who the hell d’ye think…’
‘Well, ’e wasn’t to know, was he?’ said Barnabus reasonably. ‘He just thought you was some farmer up for the law-term, what with yer homespun suit and funny talk. Poor bugger, look at ’im, he’s gone to pieces.’
Dodd realised to his disgust that the man was actually crying now, and dropped him in a convenient pile of dung. Barnabus rolled him expertly, tutted and led the way out of the alley back to Ave Maria Lane, with a quick glance either side at the turning for further ambushes. Dodd, whose blood was up, rather hoped there would be someone, but put his sword away again when Barnabus hissed at him.
Feeling witty, Dodd paused, went back, found the rapier and broke it in two with his boot. Barnabus shook his head at the waste.
‘Nasty foreign weapon,’ Dodd explained. ‘When d’ye think they’ll come after us wi’ their kin?’
Barnabus laughed. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Not the way you think. Though I’d keep a weather eye out for coney-catchers—they’ll want your purse one way or the other, believe me.’
‘What’s a coney-catcher, for God’s sake?’
Barnabus rolled his eyes at this display of ignorance. ‘Someone what wants to help you rob yourself, someone what fools you and draws you in with your own greed and fear. It’s philosophical, really. They say nobody can coney-catch an honest man. Mind you, I shouldn’t think there’s ever been one come to London before.’
Dodd grunted, suspicious of compliments, however back-handed. Not that it mattered. With luck, once the Lord Chamberlain and Vice had satisfied themselves that Carey wasn’t working for Spanish spies nor likely to become King James’s new catamite, the lot of them could go north again.
A scurrying down by the entrance to the crypt caught his eye. There were black rats on the steps, crawling over and under each other brazenly in daylight. Two rat corpses lay close by, swollen out of shape by death.
‘Good God, look at that,’ he said in horror. ‘Look at the size o’ them.’
Barnabus glanced over and shrugged. ‘Oh yes,’ he said off-handedly. ‘They say the biggest rats in the world prance up and down Paul’s aisle.’
‘Ah hadnae thought they meant real rats.’
‘Well both, it’s one of them witty comments, innit. You coming in again?’
Suddenly he felt choked by all the buildings rising up around him, hemmed in and trapped. Your eyes were always coming up short against a wall, and he was trammelled and crowded with people, the stink would fell an ox. And he had always hated rats.
He stopped at the side door of the church, unable to bear the thought of entering the high solemnity of the place with its faded paintings too high up to be whitewashed and the human trash
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