The Scar-Crow Men

Pennebrygg with weary eyes.

‘How much longer must I sit here waiting for the plague to tug at my elbow?’ Carpenter balanced his throwing knife on the tip of his index finger.

‘Must I listen to your complaints all night, you mewling, idle-headed pumpion?’ the Earl protested. ‘Does the mouse throw itself upon the trap the moment the cheese has been set? These things demand patience.’

‘That’s easy for you to say, you yeasty puttock. You have nowhere better to be.’

‘The woman,’ the pale man said with a faint sneer.

‘Yes, the woman. Alice and I are to meet and walk and talk and act like normal people for once, just for an evening, so we can pretend the world is not about to fall around our ears. Is that too much to ask?’

‘Of course not,’ Launceston replied archly. ‘Take a wherry to Bankside. Watch a play. Dance at the Bull. Skip through the fields and pick wild flowers together.’

Carpenter cursed.

The Earl searched the dark around the market for any sign of movement. Though the stink of animal dung was still ripe in the warmth, the carts had long since departed, and the market-sellers had packed up the remnants of their corn and meal. In that busiest part of London, the few quiet hours were passing.

‘What if the devil-masked killer does not come tonight?’ Carpenter continued to grumble. ‘Do we nail Pennebrygg’s nose to the post tomorrow for a scuffle in Christ Church? And his other ear the day after, and so on until he looks like a pincushion?’

‘If need be.’

‘The killer may not come.’

‘All of London now knows Pennebrygg is suffering here. A religious man will certainly have heard of the outrage perpetrated in the cathedral.’

‘The murderer may have changed his plans. He might suspect a trap. He might not come for days, or weeks.’ Carpenter slipped his knife back into its sheath. ‘Meanwhile, we waste our time.’

Sighing, Launceston turned to his companion and levelled his unblinking gaze. ‘The killer understands the movements of the heavens, like Dee, and works by the waxing and waning of that silver light,’ he said, pointing at the moon peeking out from behind a solitary cloud. His tone had the weary patience of an elderly teacher addressing a child. ‘Consider: Clement and Makepiece disappeared, presumed murdered, before the end of May. Gavell was slaughtered on the cusp of June, Shipwash in July. We are not overrun by white-skinned night-gaunts so the last of our defences still hold. No other murder has been committed, and now we have passed Lammastide. The apples have been bobbed, the horses garlanded and the harvests of August begun. The killer will come, before the moon is full.’

Carpenter looked from the sky to the Earl, and then down to the cobbles, shrugging. ‘He might not,’ he mumbled.

For another hour, the two spies watched.

Carpenter saw the movement first. A shadow separated from the inky dark beneath the overhanging first floor of the grand house across the street, darting along the edge of the Great Conduit that supplied water to the city’s homes. Launceston drew his dagger. Pressing himself against the wall, the scarred man held his breath and watched the moonlit area around the post where Pennebrygg was slumped. No one could reach the spy without being seen.

The figure crept to the edge of the cobbled square, the stark interplay of light and shadow gradually revealing a grotesque form, horned and angel-winged, floating in the dark. He moved so silently that Pennebrygg was not aware of his arrival.

As Carpenter stared, he realized that he was looking at a masked man wearing voluminous black robes and a cloak. A knife glinted.

‘Ready?’ Launceston asked.

Carpenter grew rigid. He saw another movement, this time on the other side of the square. A swirl of a cloak, a flourish of ivory skirts.

Alice.

The spy felt the blood drain from him. She had come looking for him, he was sure, and she was troubled. Her face was etched with concern, her movements insistent as she looked around the square.

Ice-cold, Carpenter’s breath grew hard in his chest. He looked from his love to the devil-masked man, who had seen the new arrival and had come to a halt on the edge of the shadows. The knife caught the light as it turned. Was the murderer thinking to attack Alice, kill her and then continue with his sickening ritual? Was he waiting until she had departed?

Carpenter shuddered. What should he do?

‘The fool,’ Launceston spat. He turned from the woman to his companion and glared. ‘See what you have done.’

The Unseelie Court’s agent had stepped back into the dark. With his heart thundering, the scarred man tried to pierce the gloom around the circle of moonlight.

Casting half a glance at the muttering Pennebrygg, Alice stepped into the square and called softly, ‘John?’

Carpenter made to step forward. The Earl flashed out an arm to hold his companion back. ‘This may be our only chance,’ he hissed. ‘Would you sacrifice all England for your love?’

I would sacrifice all England and more, the scar-faced man thought.

Barely had the notion crossed his mind, when he glimpsed the flutter of angelic wings behind the woman’s left shoulder. The fearful spy began to move forward as the murderer stalked towards Alice, his cruel blade ready to plunge into her back. Thrusting Launceston aside, Carpenter hurled himself out into the open, his rapier drawn.

His love began to smile when she saw him.

‘Run!’ Carpenter bellowed. He saw the woman’s features grow taut, and feared he was too late.

Instinctively, Alice darted to one side. The knife skimmed her shoulder under her cloak. With a shriek, she half turned to see the monstrous devil-mask looming over her, then she pulled up her spreading skirts and ran.

The spy was flooded with relief, but only for a moment. Through the holes in the red mask, black eyes locked upon his. Carpenter saw understanding. Sickened, he knew exactly what was running through the cut-throat’s mind as the devilish figure spun round and set off after his disappearing love.

I am his enemy, the one thing that may stop his plot.

He knows I love Alice.

He is going to kill her to punish me.

To destroy me.

Carpenter felt terror turn his thoughts to mulch. There was only the thunder of blood in his head and the sight of that billowing black cloak fading into the night as the killer closed on his woman. Distantly, he was aware of Launceston at his shoulder as he raced across the cobbles.

‘Run, John. I am with you,’ he heard as if through a veil.

As the two spies sped into the ankle-deep dung of Newgate Street, the moon slipped behind a cloud and the only light came from candles gleaming through bedchamber windows. Carpenter glimpsed the shadowy outline of three rogues lurking in an alley and then alighted on a doxy sitting on the step of a timber-framed house.

Before the man could question her, the woman gave a gap-toothed grin and pointed along the street. ‘That way, lovey,’ she laughed. Following her filthy finger, the scarred man saw a flurry of white disappear into an alley beside the Three Tuns inn, with the fluttering wings close behind.

Carpenter plunged into the pitch-black alley, dimly aware of fiddle music, laughter and raucous voices leaking from the tavern. In the yard at the back of the three-storey building, golden candlelight flooded out of an open door. Bursting into the sweaty, crowded back room of the inn, the scar-faced man noted men arguing over spilled ale, others shaking their fist or shouting, and two scowling women helping another to her feet.

Launceston pointed to a narrow set of wooden stairs. ‘Up there.’

Frightened by the drawn rapiers, the angry customers threw themselves out of the way as the two spies barged through to the foot of the stairs. Carpenter took the steps two at a time, trying not to think what he would find.

Candlelight revealed a wooden landing with doxies framed in the doorways of three bedchambers. A cursing, red-faced man lurched out of one room, pulling up his breeches.