Hearts of Darkness by Paul Lawrence Read Free Book Online Page B

that proud mask and hated myself for seeing it. Whatever vision she nurtured, it wasn’t the one that appeared in my head; her husband lain sprawled, Arlington’s strange blade protruding from his ribs.
    Another woman entered the room, another knitter, though older than the last. A stout woman with a stiff white hat upon her head and a large, black wart nestled upon her cheek. She knitted as she walked, shuffling forwards, head down.
    ‘What are you knitting?’ I asked.
    ‘A pall,’ she smiled, placid.
    A pall? Did she mean a robe, a cloak, or a coffin shroud? I thoughtto enquire further, but couldn’t find the words. A long cold finger crept slowly up my spine. I exclaimed aloud, which sudden noise caused the old woman to jump in the air. I apologised and followed her back to the street.
    Dowling emerged from the shadows, shoulders hunched. ‘What did you discover?’
    ‘Arlington just killed one of the King’s most loyal subjects,’ I replied, glum, ‘and James Josselin is betrothed to a child.’
    It was all madness.
    I thought of Eliza and Jane. ‘I will tell
my
betrothed everything before we leave,’ I determined.
    Dowling frowned, puzzled. ‘Your betrothed?’
    ‘My housemaid,’ I corrected myself. ‘Come on. I have things to do before we must leave.’

Chapter Six
    It points out elderly men, or one man old.
    I leant my shoulder against the shop door and forced it open. A cloud of dust billowed out onto the street, dry and choking. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for many years, a thick layer of grease and dirt holding the light at bay. The air smelt green, like a long-buried coffin. An angular figure lurked in the far corner, head ducked, face invisible in the gloom.
    ‘Culpepper?’ I called, stepping into the shop. Shelves covered the left wall, tall chests with tiny drawers the other wall. A large mortar and pestle sat upon the desk behind which Culpepper quietly dozed, next to a pile of dirty pots and pans.
    I watched him sleeping, a frayed old wig slipped forward upon his brow so I couldn’t see his eyes. I took the opportunity to wander the shop, imagining for a few sweet moments it was mine already, relishing the chance to inspect the place unmolested. Every other time I visited,Culpepper hovered at my elbow, fussing like an old goose, forbidding me to touch any of the jars and implements. Now I knew why, for several of the jars were cracked and broken, their contents mouldy and shrivelled.
    His body rumbled as he snored. Culpepper was past seventy, and newly prone to inopportune remarks since the deaths of his aged wife and ill-tempered son. I wondered if he was capable of passing on his knowledge to me.
    His lower lip hung loose from the rest of his mouth, revealing dark, shrivelled gums. Just two teeth protruded from his lower jaw, yellowed and worn. He sat with legs akimbo, tight belly sunk low into his groin. A pungent odour escaped from his clothes. He hadn’t washed in a long time.
    Sad how the spirit of a man disappeared beneath a layer of rotting flesh. Culpepper established this shop more than forty years ago, preparing lozenges and pastes from local-grown herbs and treating the poor for free. He condemned his fellow physicians for their greed, incurring the wrath of the Society of Apothecaries because he insisted on selling cheap herbal remedies instead of their more expensive concoctions. Yet he would not be cowed, and so was frequently imprisoned, confined in conditions that slowly ate at his health and good mind. Once famous, now forgotten, a relic in his own museum.
    I opened one of the tiny drawers in the great chest. Behind me Culpepper snorted like an old horse and embarked on a long coughing fit. In the drawer lay a dead cockroach on its back.
    ‘Lytle,’ Culpepper growled. ‘What are you doing here? Today is Friday.’
    I closed the drawer and turned to face him. He peered at methrough rheumy eyes, breathing hoarse. His wig perched crooked upon his old head.
    ‘I