The King's Evil

The Jolly Sailor belied its name that evening. It was half-empty when Jonathan Bale arrived and the atmosphere felt curiously flat. Most patrons were either too drunk to exhibit any jollity or too sober to get drawn into a song. The constable did not mind. During his years as a shipwright, the tavern had been a favourite of his. He felt comfortable among seafaring men, sharing their concerns, understanding their problems and talking their language. His office might have given him a new sense of responsibility but it did not deprive him of his love of the sea or of those who made their living in its capricious bosom.

Jonathan talked easily to six or seven sailors before he chanced upon one who could really help. The man was on his own in a corner.

'You have heard of Sir Ambrose Northcott, then?' said Jonathan.

'Oh, yes,' replied the other before spitting dramatically on the floor. 'I know the rogue only too well.'

'Why is that?'

'Because I sailed aboard his ship.'

'For how long?'

'Almost two years.'

Jonathan smiled. 'Let me fill your tankard for you, my friend.'

'I'll not try to stop you.'

The constable sat opposite him at a rough wooden table and called for more beer. When both their tankards were full, they clinked them before taking a long sip apiece. Appraising his companion, Jonathan realised why the man chose to lurk in a shadowy corner of the tavern. He was a short, solid individual in his forties with huge scarred hands. His face was so ugly that it had a kind of grotesque fascination. Nature had contrived the misshapen features and an occasional brawl accounted for the broken nose and the swollen ear but these were minor distractions from the dozens of large, hideous, red boils which swarmed across his cheeks, chin and forehead like so many enraged wasps.

'Do not look too close, sir,' said the man. 'Take pity on me.'

'Have you always had this condition?'

'It came on me this last year.'

'Is there no cure?'

'I have not found one yet so I am instead trying to cure people of staring at me like a freak.' He bunched a menacing fist. 'The only thing which seems to work is to loosen their teeth with this.'

'I am sorry,' said Jonathan, averting his gaze. 'You mentioned a ship. I had heard that Sir Ambrose owned a vessel.'

'That is right. The Marie Louise.'

'A strange name for an English ship.'

'It was called The Maid of Kent when I sailed in her.'

'Marie Louise does not sound much like a maid of Kent.'

A throaty laugh. 'More like a whore of Calais!'

'When was the name changed?'

'Some time last year, they tell me.'

'And did they say why?'

'No,' replied the man. 'Some whim of Sir Ambrose Northcott's. He was always doing things like that. Making decisions, changing things around. And he was a loathsome passenger to have aboard. Real tyrant, he was. Never stopped harrying the crew. Many's the time I'd have liked to push him overboard.'

'Where did you sail?'

'Anywhere and everywhere. Spain, Portugal, France, Holland, even Norway on occasion. As soon as one cargo was unloaded here, we would set sail to collect another. The Maid of Kent was a trim vessel, I'll say that for her. When we clapped on full sail, she could outrun most of her rivals. Yes,' he sighed nostalgically, 'when Sir Ambrose was not aboard, I had some good times on that ship.'

'And since then?'

'I joined the crew of a coastal vessel, bringing coal down from Newcastle. Miserable work until I was forced out of it.'

'Forced out?'

'This face,' said the man, jabbing a stubby finger at it. 'There's no better way to lose shipmates than to sprout a crop such as I did. They could not bear to look on me lest they catch some disease. When the captain discharged me, I could not find anyone else to take me on. It is just as well, really. The sea spray used to make these boils sting so much I felt that my face was on fire.'

He took a long, noisy sip from his tankard then wiped his lips with the back of his arm. Jonathan coaxed as much detail as he could out of the man about his time on Sir Ambrose Northcott's vessel. He was surprised to hear how often the owner went on the voyages. War did not seem to hinder his business. He traded covertly with countries which were nominally at odds with his own.

'Sir Ambrose sounds like a doughty privateer,' said Jonathan.

'I'd sooner call him a black-hearted bastard.'

The man's reminiscences became harsher as he retailed examples of what he saw as the iniquities of Sir Ambrose Northcott. By the time his companion had finished, Jonathan had been given some valuable insights into the commercial activities of the dead man. He memorised the details so that he could pass them on to Christopher Redmayne. Whatever his doubts about the latter, he had to admit that the architect had dedicated himself to the pursuit of the killer in the most selfless manner. Working with him might not turn out as unpleasant a task as he feared.

A degree of jollity at last entered the Jolly Sailor. Drink was flowing more freely, raucous ditties were being sung, customers were flirting with the landlady and two of them were trying to dance in the middle of the floor. Jonathan decided to leave before the first brawl started but he paid to have the other man's tankard filled first.

'Will you not drink with me?' said the sailor.

'I still have a drop left here, my friend.'

'Then let us have a toast.'

'Gladly.'

'To my future health!' said the man.

'I'll drink to that,' said Jonathan, raising his tankard before emptying it with one long gulp. 'I hope that you soon find the cure for your ailment and get back to sea where you belong.'

'I have one last chance.'

'Last chance?'

'When I take my boils to the finest physician in London.'

'And who might that be?'

'Why,' said the man proudly. 'His Majesty, of course. They say that the King's Touch can cure any disease. Tomorrow, I am to present myself to Mr Knight, His Majesty's surgeon, who lives in Bridges Street at the sign of the Hare in Covent Garden. When he has examined me, I will be given a ticket to join those other sufferers who will receive the King's Touch the next day.'

'I wish you luck, my friend!'

'I put my faith in His Majesty.'

'That is more than I would do,' murmured Jonathan.

'Many men have felt the King's Touch.'

'And many women, too,' said the other under his breath.

'I have heard tell of miracles taking place this way,' he added aloud. 'I pray that you will be cured by one.'

'I have to be,' said the man with an edge of desperation. 'This face of mine is cursed. I'll not endure the pain for much longer. Mind you, I will admit this. There are other poor souls in a worse condition than me. Most of those who will go before His Majesty are stricken with the King's Evil, as they call it. Scrofula. A cruel disease. It can turn a beautiful face into vile ugliness. I have seen men whose skin looked as if they have been flayed alive and some have been so stricken that they went blind.' He drank some more beer, then belched. 'Have you ever seen anyone with the King's Evil?'

'Oh, yes!' said Jonathan ruefully. 'Indeed, I have, my friend. I have seen a whole city afflicted with it.'

'A whole city? What is it called?'

'London.'