text: The Persistence of Poison by Kent Silverhill - Book - Read Online
  Publisher: Mirke BooksReleased: Jul 15, 2018ISBN: 9780995607040Format: book
  The Persistence of Poison - Kent Silverhill
  A KNIFE TWANGED into the planks next to Vester's head.
  To his annoyance he couldn't stop himself ducking.
  What was the point of reacting when it was too late? He fumed at the useless waste of energy. Nevertheless his eyes were drawn to the blade. It shimmered in the moonlight.
  That was London for you. The stinking streets seethed with villainous, ill-bred scullions.
  All he'd done was walk through one of the capital's less than salubrious areas and some ruffian had thrown a knife at him, more than likely because of what he wore.
  A person's clothing showed their wealth. A wealthy person was a target.
  His mother and father had never learnt much. He'd been twelve when he and his parents had been thrown out of their single roomed lodging into the street for debt. His father had vanished soon after and his mother died six months later unable to cope with trying to feed herself and her son through begging.
  Life was hard and the gang of homeless boys he'd fallen in with spent most of the little they had on drink, wallowing in self pity. They still did. Those that were yet alive.
  He, on the other hand, had made sure he'd saved every farthing he'd begged or stolen until he had enough to buy better clothing. That was what had lifted him out of the gutter.
  Once he was better dressed it became easier to get close to his prey. They were less suspicious of a respectable looking young man than a scruffy ragamuffin. His takings as a thief had never been so good. He cut the pursestrings of London's well heeled and even stole from his fellows to raise himself a little faster. His newfound wealth provided the means to learn to read and write. Literacy was a great enabler and lifted him higher on the ladder. His belly may have suffered at the expense of his social standing but it had been worth it.
  He crouched low, making himself a smaller target, his eyes hunting for the knife thrower.
  Here he was at twenty six years of age doing his best to establish himself in a profession that earned him respect.
  King George had not long been on the throne, God rot him, and Whigs had replaced the Tory government.
  Whigs! Low class farmers with more hair than wits, the maggot-suckers.
  It was their fault the streets were infested with layabouts, belswaggers and other lowlife.
  He ran in a half crouch a few paces to the shadow of the next building. It was directly opposite the alley from where the knife had come.
  He stopped and listened. In the background were the noises of a city at night: the rumble of carriages, the thud of hooves, the barking of dogs and the murmur of voices.
  The street itself was empty and silent apart from the woman he was following - an alleged witch called Kate Niven - who was getting further away with every second.
  She couldn't have thrown it. She was in the wrong place and she didn't even know he was shadowing her.
  As a self-employed witch-finder, he should have thought about wearing a less noticeably expensive outfit. Black knee-length coat, black waistcoat, black breeches, black stockings and black shoes marked him out as a someone worthy of robbing. It was not the most discreet attire to wear in these parts.
  A cloud passed in front of the moon. The darkness deepened. Light footsteps scurried from the alley.
  Vester reached inside his coat and slipped a set of iron shackles from a hidden pocket. Witches didn't like iron and neither, he was bound, did knife-throwing assailants.
  Moonlight shone through a gap in the clouds. A shabbily dressed man was pulling the knife from the boards.
  In one fluid movement, Vester leapt and swung the shackles at the man's head. They connected with a meaty thunk and the man dropped. He lay still, blood dripping from his greasy hair.
  Vester turned his attention back to the witch. She would be tired after a long day at work and wouldn't have gone far.
  Vester had to find something unusual about Kate Niven, something a prosecutor could exploit.
  The accusation she was a witch had come from her landlord. He claimed to have suffered chills and shivering after she cursed him.
  Getting her arrested for witchcraft was a way of evicting her so he could rent her house to someone with more money. His allegation against her was obviously a sham but Vester had taken on the case. The landlord, though lacking in charm, was wealthy.
  Kate Niven worked as a washerwoman at a large house in Westminster. He'd followed her when she left for the day. It would have made his life so much easier if she'd led him to a Satanist temple or a coven of witches but she had merely walked along the streets, probably just heading home. It had been uneventful until some footpad had thrown a knife at him.
  He hurried to catch up and was just in time to see her going into a public house.
  Perhaps this place would be useful. He went through the door a few seconds behind her. The room was filled with the sour smell of ale and rang with raucous drunken laughter. Keeping his head low, he headed for the edge of the room. On the way he grabbed an empty tankard from a table, found a vacant spot where he could see the woman he was following and stood discreetly against the wall. He held the tankard like it was full and copied the slouch of other men who stood nearby.
  Kate Niven sat down at a table opposite an old woman.
  Of the two of them, the old woman looked more like a witch. For a moment he considered changing his target. The old woman would be easier to convict. People had gone to the gallows because of how they looked. But there would be no profit in arresting her. Kate Niven was worth a lot more in fees than an unknown, grubby hag.
  The old woman held Kate Niven's hand palm up as the two engaged in conversation. He raised an eyebrow. So, the hag was a fortune teller. While having one's fortune told wasn't a crime, a good prosecutor could make the fact that she'd seen a fortune-teller count against Niven in court.
  Niven got up and went to sit with a group on the other side of the room. Vester waited a few seconds then slipped through the crowd to the old woman's table and laid a farthing in front of her.
  'What do you know about the woman with whom you were speaking?' he said.
  She looked up with a wary expression at the tall, hawk-faced stranger before her, then her mouth dropped open revealing a few blackened teeth like the ruins of a tiny stone circle. Her eyes widened.
  Vester was startled. She looked at him as though she knew him. He wasn't famous yet… Or was he? Were people beginning to fear him? But it wasn't fear on the hag's face. More like surprise.
  'Yer goin' on a journey,' she said.
  'Yes, yes.' That was a standard opening line for a fortune teller. 'I'm not interested. Tell me about her.' He nodded towards the table where Niven sat.
  'Far, far away,' said the hag.
  She reached out, grabbed Vester's coat and pulled him closer before he could flinch away.
  Her face was inches away from his. Her breath smelt like a dead man's armpit. He was off-balance and couldn't pull away. He tried to shift his weight but his foot slipped on the greasy floor and he ended up with the tip of his nose touching hers.
  'Not of this world… I see strange creatures. Devils! Demons!' Her wild eyes were inches from his. 'From 'ell!' she added in case there was any doubt.
  She coughed and spittle leapt from her lips, splashing across his cheeks and into his mouth.
  He put his hands on the table and pushed himself upright, tearing her hand from his coat.
  Damned clay-brained crone! He staggered back and wiped his face with his sleeve. The hag was staring at him, her face aghast.
  A few people close by were taking an interest in the scene. Curious faces turned towards him but most people in the room hadn't seemed to notice. It probably wasn't the first time the hag had acted strangely.
  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door opening. It was Kate Niven leaving the pub. He whirled around and followed his quarry.
  She was several yards ahead down the street. He stayed back, keeping a constant distance, rubbing his face and spitting to rid himself of the old woman's foulness.
  Following Kate Niven into the pub hadn't been a resounding success. She had done nothing he could use to make a case against her. In fact she seemed perfectly normal. She dressed like most other women of low station in an ankle-length skirt and apron. Her hair was tied back and covered with a scarf. She was clean and neat if a little threadbare but that was only to be expected for someone of her-
  She worked as a washerwoman but her own clothing wasn't stained.
  He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. It would be a simple matter to persuade the court she used witchcraft to clean her employers' clothing. They would believe she must use spells because her own outfit was unsoiled.
  Best not to get her employer to testify. More than likely the real reason for her clean clothing was that her employer issued her with an apron.
  He thought more about it as he kept pace behind her.
  It was flawless. She would protest her innocence but he would point out that that was a sure sign of her guilt.
  Only a guilty person pretends to be innocent.
  It would require blackmailing the judge but that shouldn't be a problem. He hadn't come across a member of the bar yet who didn't have some dirty secret they would rather stayed out of public scrutiny. A bit of research into the judge's background would no doubt reveal something suitable.
  Blackmail is so much cheaper than bribery. And so much more satisfying.
  The street joined a busier thoroughfare. Everyone here was on foot. There wasn't a carriage or cart to be seen and the buildings shoved together on either side of the street were grey and worn, only just short of dilapidated.
  Kate Niven stopped at a small, grubby house, inserted a key in the door and let herself in.
  Vester stopped under the overhanging first floor of the house on the opposite side of the street. It was late and likely the woman would go to bed and not come out again tonight.
  Vester scratched his ear. He had enough evidence. There was no point in staying.
  On the way back to his quarters he planned his report in his mind.
  The landlord peered into his purse, holding the drawstring in one hand while his other hand fondled the bag like it was his scrotum.
  'Three pounds?' He spoke in the tone of a man being asked to sell his children. 'Outrageous! It takes half a year to earn that in rent from the blasted woman!'
  'We agreed the price when you engaged my services,' said Vester.
  'You said you'd secure her conviction.'
  'Which is all but achieved. My testimony at her trial will do exactly that.'
  'Her confession is being extracted as we speak.' Vester narrowed his eyes. 'With that and my testimony she's as good as hanged.'