Dark Matter

We found Mister Twistleton rattling his chains and wheedling charity behind an iron barricade. His naked shoulders already bore the unmistakable weals of a nurse-warder’s whip, and what wits he still possessed were much agitated by the noise and clamour of his new surroundings. And yet he recognised me immediately, and kissed my hand in a way that caused me to apprehend he believed we had come to fetch him back to the relative safety of the Tower.

“How are your eyes, Mister Ellis?” he asked me straightaway.

“Much recovered, Mister Twistleton, thank you.”

“I am sorry I gouged them. Only I don’t much like being looked at. I feel people’s eyes on me, as some men feel the heat of the sun. When I attacked you, I mistook you for this other gentleman, who I think is Doctor Newton.”

“I am he, Mister Twistleton,” Newton said kindly, and held the poor man’s hand. “But pray, why did you wish to gouge my eyes?”

“My own eyes are not so good. But your eyes, Doctor, are the hottest eyes I have ever felt. It was like God himself staring into my soul. An’t please your honour, I’m sorry for thinking it, as now I perceive that your eyes are not as unforgiving as once I had thought.”

“Is it forgiveness that you seek? If so, I give it to you freely.”

“I’m beyond all forgiveness, sir. I did a terrible thing. But I am justly punished, for as you can see, I am quite out of my wits. Even my legs will not obey my mind, for I find I can walk very little.”

“What was this terrible thing you did?” I enquired.

Mister Twistleton shook his head. “I can’t remember, sir, for I have made myself mad to forget it. But it was something awful, sir. For I never stop hearing the screaming.”

“Mister Twistleton,” said Newton, “was it you who killed Mister Mercer?”

“Danny Mercer is dead? No sir. Not I.”

“Or perhaps Mister Kennedy? Did you lock him in the Lion Tower?”

“Not me, sir. I’m a good Protestant. I bear no man any ill will, sir. Not even Roman Catholics. Not even the French King, Lewis, who would murder me if he could.”

“Why would he murder you?”

“To make me a good Catholic, of course.”

“Do you know a secret?” asked Newton.

“Yes sir. But I have sworn an oath never to reveal it to anyone. Yet I would tell you, sir. If I could remember what it was that I must never reveal. “The poor wretch smiled. “But I think it might touch upon weapons. For I was the Armourer, I think.”

“Was it to do with alchemy perhaps?”

“Alchemy?” Mister Twistleton looked puzzled. “No, sir. The only metal I have ever drawn from a fire were the musket balls I made myself. And I have seen very little real gold in my life.”

Newton unfolded a copy of the encrypted message that we had discovered on the wall of the Sally Port stairs beside Daniel Mercer’s body. “Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” said the poor lunatic. “It means a great deal to me, sir. Thank you. Here, wait a minute, I have a message for you, I think.” And having searched the pockets of his breeches, he produced a much-folded and dog-eared letter and handed it to Newton, who examined it for a moment, and then let me see that it contained a similarly confounded alphabet of letters as the previous messages that we had discovered. It might even have been the very same letter Mister Twistleton had been reading when I had seen him in The Stone Kitchen.

“But what is the meaning?” enquired Newton.

“The meaning?” repeated Mister Twistleton. “Blood, of course. Blood is behind everything. Once you understand that, you understand all that has happened. That’s the secret. You ought to know that, sir.”

“Is there yet more blood to be shed?”

“More? Why, sir, they haven’t hardly started, sir.” Mister Twistleton laughed. “Not by my chalk. There’s lots of killing to come. Lots of blood. Well, it’s like this, see? It depends on whether there be peace or war.” He tapped his nose. “More than that I can’t say, because I don’t know. Nobody knows when such a thing comes about. Maybe soon. Maybe not. Maybe never at all. Who can say? But you will help, sir. You will help get us started. You may not know it yet. But you will.”

“Mister Twistleton,” Newton said gently, “do you know the meaning of the phrase pace belloque?”

He shook his head. “No sir. Is that a secret, too?”

I shook my aching head wearily, and withdrew my hand from the madman’s increasingly tight grasp. “This is madness indeed.”

“Madness, yes,” said Mister Twistleton. “We will make everyone in London mad. And then who will cure it?”