The Sweet Smell of Decay (10 page)

John Parsons was waiting for me outside my home. He stood in the street with a sick smirk upon his wretched face, attracting curious glances. People walked round him. When he saw me he leered. I approached reluctantly. What possible good could this satisfaction signify? He didn’t wait for me to speak – I had nothing to say to him in any case. He bid me escort him to a low house in Mincing Lane. It wasn’t far away and I followed him in silence. When we arrived I could not believe what he showed me there.

The hovel he took us to consisted of rough-hewn planks of wood standing precariously against the sturdier wall of a two-storey house. Parsons stood in front of the open front door with his hands clasped before him. He took off his hat and urged me to enter. The front room was small and damp. Rat droppings peppered the bare boards. A door stood ajar behind. Parsons didn’t speak.

‘Is she in there?’ I asked, pointing at the room behind.

‘Of course.’ Parsons smiled. Seriously I began to wonder if I had ventured into a world of demons, for he had an air of unworldly evil about him that made me fearful. He said
nothing else, just stood there. Suddenly I was sure that this man had done something unspeakable, that he had reneged upon his commitment. There was a thin line of sweat upon his brow and his eyes betrayed a manic intensity that burnt from his soul.

‘I assume you kept our pact,’ I said levelly, sure that he had not.

‘In a manner. I did not test her myself, but it was my judgement that she be tested without delay, else her familiars would have had time to plot her release. I arranged for another to test her, which he did.’

No noise came from behind the door. As I approached it, I could smell the same sweet sticky odour that lingered about Dowling, only whilst on Dowling it was faint, buried beneath the smell of pig grease and other Newgate smells, here it was pure, fresh and overpowering. A loud buzzing of flies.

The first thing I did upon entering the room was to empty the contents of my stomach on the floor. I will not dwell upon what I found, for I don’t wish my account to become unpalatable to all but a perverted few. So I will stick to the essentials. I think I half expected to find Mary Bedford dead or mutilated, so this was perhaps not a shock. What appalled me was the state I found her in, and the fact she was not alone. There was another woman in the room; barely recognisable as the woman that Dowling and I had spoken to near Whitefriars, the simple harmless soul that had told us second-hand tales of witchery. They lay side by side stripped of all their clothes. They had not been drowned, nor had they been watched, for their interrogator clearly had not sufficient patience. This, I suppose, must be called searching, but whosoever had done this had searched them with tools the like of which I could not
imagine. Every orifice was stretched and torn, leaking pools of blood. Short, sharp cuts and long rounded channels; I will not relate what I saw in greater detail than that. But someone had used implements made of iron or some other metal, to penetrate deep into their bodies; in search of what … I still have no idea. They were both dead. Mercifully.

I turned to John Parsons. Did I see pride in those shiny green eyes? He smiled at me
again
. At that moment I felt a greater anger than I had ever felt before in my whole life. My hands started to tremble, so did my whole body, and that smile was the trigger that persuaded me to do what my instinct told me to. I punched him in the throat as hard as I could. He collapsed on the floor, choking, one hand spread in a pool of Mary Bedford’s blood. I kicked him on the forehead, kicking high into the air and pulling a muscle at the back of my leg as a result. Then I knelt down, seized him by the ears and rubbed his face in the blood, grinding it into the floor. I wiped one of his cheeks across the floor, then the other, determined that he would never lose the smell of it, the mark of it that showed what an evil coward he was. These parasites were famous for never doing the deed themselves. Picking up his stick, I beat him about the body with it. Then I stamped on his wretched hat and stood there panting, my heart pounding, for the first time questioning whether what I was doing was right. He rolled over slowly, the mask obliterated in the cloying blood, his expression now one of pure contempt.

Once he had slowly got to his feet he stood stooped like an evil little flibbertigibbet. Snarling at me he slowly regarded the surroundings, his clothes, his hat, the dead bodies. He walked slowly over to where his stick lay and picked it up, then stood motionless, staring at me. I stared back. Then he left, without
a word, headed back to Hell. I remained there a few moments longer, my wits frozen, then ran after him, determined to seize him and have him incarcerated. My hesitance was my ruin. When I emerged from the house he had gone.

I never did set eyes on him again, which I do not regret. At nights I rest unburdened, certain that his soul rots in Hell. Quite what state my own soul was in upon leaving him there that day, I cannot say. I felt overwhelmed by events and totally out of control of the situation. In truth, I had never felt such black despair. Cocksmouth was too far to travel and the prospect of exchanging conversation with my father too depressing. I would have to talk to Shrewsbury.

I arrived at Westminster to look for Shrewsbury with a wide, blue silk sash across my tunic, washed, scrubbed and doused with lavender oil. I reeked like a bawdy house. Not inappropriate for Westminster Hall. The place was lined with stalls selling books, clothes, hats and the like, but more business was done selling the other, if you know what I mean. National disgrace, I say, though they say that the French are a lot worse. The French don’t have time for running the country; they’re so busy dropping their drawers. I tipped my hat at Mrs Martin the linen draper. I knew her well, as did many others in London. She pointed at my sash and placed a hand on her brow as if about to swoon. I smiled politely and turned away. Betty Howlett caught my eye, waved and then blushed when she realised her mother was watching. I made a mental note to follow that up later. She lived out at White Cock Alley amongst
the dockers and lightermen. I sneezed – too much lavender oil.

I headed towards the Court of the Chancery, for this is where Shrewsbury spent much of his time I knew, but that day was a busy day and sentries barred passage. I managed to make eye contact with one of them, enough that he listened to my request and took the shilling that I gave him to deliver my message to Shrewsbury. Then it was a matter of waiting which I did for more than an hour.

‘Lytle.’ A quiet voice spake into my ear, little more than a whisper. ‘You seek Lord Shrewsbury?’

It was Robert Burton, one of Shrewsbury’s chief aides. He stood at my shoulder, a smaller man than me even, with shaven head and large red ears looking at me with his bright little eyes. His glance let you know that he was a lot more intelligent than you could ever hope to be.

‘Be at the crypt of St Mary-le-Bow at five. Do not be late and be on your own.’ He turned smartly on his heel and was gone before the words had registered.

St Mary-le-Bow was a strange rendezvous. I knew the outside of it very well, for it sat right next door to the Mermaid tavern, on Cheapside. By the time I arrived my tunic was covered in a thin layer of soot and I smelt more like an old shoe than a field of flowers. Never mind.

The bells were ringing loud and bright, but still I felt a clutching reluctance to cross the threshold of the heavy, squat little building. The front door was open, but all was quiet inside with only a few people in view. When I poked my head inside I saw why − there stood Robert Burton, just inside, and next to him a big man with a long sword at his waist. I stopped outside. Perhaps I would forgo this appointment after
all. Burton must have seen the fear in me for he bid me enter in a voice that left little opportunity to decline.

The inside of Mary-le-Bow is richly decorated, full of memorials to those who have money to waste, but its polished facade hides a bloody history. Here it was that the friends of Ralph Crepin murdered Lawrence Ducket and hung his body from a window, trying to make it look like suicide. Crepin had been attacked by Ducket in a quarrel over a woman called Alice, yet it was his friends, not he, that took it upon themselves to kill Ducket, for which grim misdemeanour Crepin was hanged. Beaten senseless and then hung for it! Poor old Alice got burnt to death and she knew nothing of any of it.

I followed Burton down the middle of the sunlit centre aisle towards the dark hole that marked the descent towards the crypt. Burton walked at my left shoulder, his eyes watching me like a cat watches a mouse. At the doorway he waved a hand that indicated I was to go first. I had no choice and once I took the first step then I was trapped, for Burton walked behind me blocking the staircase. I walked down those stone steps slowly, feeling a sudden chill at my neck as the air became quickly colder.

This was where the Court of the Arches met. A small place to hold court, I reflected, once we were down. The vault was narrow and the stone arches thick and heavy. The floor was laid with ancient tombstones, shiny and worn. It was dark, lit only by a half-dozen thin candles. Three men sat at the other end of the vault, silent and still. I looked over my shoulder. Burton returned my gaze expressionlessly. He stood in front of the door that led upstairs, blocking my retreat.

The central figure stood up and walked slowly towards me. The other two followed a pace behind at his flanks. As he
came closer his black shadow was slowly illuminated and his sharp, bright eyes glistened like paternoster beads. He stopped four yards in front of me and leant forwards, his gloved hands grasping the end of a thick, black lacquered cane. ‘Sit down!’

One of his companions strode forward with a chair and placed it firmly where I was to sit. Shrewsbury stayed standing, towering over me like a black demon. His companions both drew their swords and stood one either side of me. Godamercy!

He crashed his cane against the floor of the crypt. Two swords climbed slowly up towards my throat. ‘Did I not tell thee that I was not connected with this affair?’

I looked up into his terrible face, remorseless eyes and burning crimson nose. His breath stank of rancid meat. ‘Aye, sir, but I have news.’

‘What news?’

‘I think I know who killed Anne Giles.’

Shrewsbury lowered his head so that I could see the yellow of his rodent eyes. ‘Why deliver that news to
me
?’ he demanded.

I spoke in a low whisper. ‘Sir, you said that the murder falls under the jurisdiction of the Lord Chief Justice Keeling and that if you were to be seen interfering in his jurisdiction, then it would be a great embarrassment to you.’

‘Indeed!’

‘Yet you said also, sir, that he would not be interested in who killed her. Yet he is a friend of William Ormonde, so it is said, and has made great efforts to apprehend a man called Richard Joyce.’

Shrewsbury’s expression did not change. He looked at me as if I had told him it was about to rain.

‘Dowling and I found agents of the Lord Chief Justice in the
stone hold planting evidence that was taken from Anne Giles’s body while she lay at Bride’s. He would see Joyce condemned even though it is clear he is
innocent
. I thought that you may after all decide to speak with Lord Keeling since he has shown such keen interest in the murder, and since he is so set upon putting to death the wrong man.’

Shrewsbury suddenly looked weary, like I was the most witless fool on earth. Clearly the notion that an innocent man might suffer an unjust and terrible death did not irk his black, shrivelled soul the way it irked mine. He leant forward over his cane with his eyes fixed on mine so intently that it felt at that moment like we were the only two people in the world. ‘Lytle.’ He spoke slowly, rolling every word in his mouth before spitting it out. ‘I am not connected with this affair. Do you not understand?’

I knew I should say nothing, just nod, yet I did not want to lose his audience without telling him what he had to know. ‘We think that a merchant by the name of Matthew Hewitt is the man that killed Anne Giles.’

He snuffled like he was about to choke and his jaw dropped an inch. He stared at me with even more dislike than he had before. Then he seemed to compose himself, straightening his back and dabbing at his mouth with a kerchief before lifting his cane and stroking its tip against my chest. ‘Don’t waste your time on Richard Joyce. There are hundreds like him in this town and they all end up dead, either on the end of a rope because they have tried in vain to change their lot, or in the river because they haven’t. You are not one of God’s angels, Lytle.’

‘Neither did I venture that I was,’ I answered, my mouth dry.

‘Find out who killed Anne Giles, Lytle, and do so hastily.
Do you understand?’ He crashed his cane to the floor in time with the syllables of the last three words, which he shouted. ‘You speak as a weak-minded cowardly fellow, Lytle. Your father would pretend to uphold the honour of your family. You speak like you would have any other man but you perform your filial duties.’ He took a sword of one his guards and held it out like a man who is skilled in the art. He pressed the tip against my throat and twisted it so that I had no option but to lift my chin. I felt the blade press into my windpipe and felt my own warm blood trickle down onto my tunic. Ruined. His eyes were flint. ‘You say nothing of my involvement to any man. You are investigating the death of your cousin. You do not use my name. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

He lowered the sword at last and stood watching me a minute. Then he was gone, and his dark angels with him.

‘Come, Lytle,’ Burton beckoned me, a sly smile about his lips.

Darkness fell as I walked back slowly towards home through the emptying streets. I felt a deadening misery wrapped about my throat, hanging heavy across my chest. Why had Shrewsbury offered to help in the first place if he were so determined that his name not be linked to the investigation? It occurred to me that I had been less careful than I might in talking to others of his involvement. Since Hill’s warning I was pretty sure that I had mentioned Shrewsbury’s name also to William Ormonde and to Jane. William Ormonde had told Mary Ormonde, I knew, since she had mentioned it while I was at Epsom. So it could not be long before someone then mentioned it to Lord
Keeling – and then what did fate hold in store for poor old Harry Lytle? It was my father’s fault! He that hid himself away in Cocksmouth and wrote me letters. I had delayed my visit to that place too long. I would go tomorrow.

It was too early to go to bed so I walked down to the riverside, down to the Three Cranes in Vintry. It was a loathsome little dog-hole, but it suited my mood. Taking a mug of poor ale, I settled myself down in a corner. Any that looked at me with curious intent, as if they considered striking up conversation, I glared at. A sorry predicament, indeed.

Woe was me. I downed my third mug dry.

‘Lytle.’ The sound of Hill’s voice in my ear. I looked up in surprise. He crooked a finger and beckoned me out back. I clambered to my feet, cracked my hip against the edge of the thick table and limped after him.

‘Sit down.’ Hill pulled me into a small room, which was empty save for two mugs of fresh ale and a plate of beef on a small table. ‘What have you been doing?’ He sat opposite me and leant forward, hands clasped, eyes fixed on mine. This felt like a business negotiation, the way he spoke so clearly and waited for me to speak with matter-of-fact sobriety.

I licked my lips. ‘Drinking.’

His puffy eyes were red-rimmed and beady. ‘You are making a pest of yourself at Court, Harry. You have been loose-lipped, despite my warnings, and you have antagonised Shrewsbury. He will not see you again, Harry, will not countenance your presence.’

I nodded and picked up the new pot. ‘I am of the same mind. I saw him today.’

‘I know you did.’ How so? ‘The Lord Chief Justice is also
aware of you now, though he was not before.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Not good for you, Harry.’

‘No,’ I agreed, ‘and you know the worst of it?’

Hill raised his brows enquiringly.

‘I am not even related to Anne Giles,’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what put the notion into my father’s soft head, but all of this is his doing. Anne Giles is no relation of mine, yet here we all are.’ I belched. It was most unjust.

‘How do you know you are not related?’

‘Everyone tells me so.’ I waved a hand. ‘Ormonde told me it. John Giles told me it. I didn’t need much persuasion, since the only one that says otherwise is my father.’

‘Lytle.’ Hill bowed his head and laid a hand on the table, chest deflated. He had the air of a man that was about to tell me something very important. But then he said nothing.

‘I will go to Cocksmouth tomorrow to find out what this is all about,’ I told him. ‘Richard Joyce sits in prison, blameless, yet Keeling goes to great lengths to condemn him. Mary Bedford and another old woman lie dead because the rector accuses them of witchery. Yet none of them are guilty.’

‘Who is?’ Hill asked softly.

‘Matthew Hewitt.’

Hill’s face turned a curious shade of pink, like a salmon. ‘What makes you think it?’ he asked, lips pursed like it was an effort to stay calm.

‘John Giles is Anne Giles’s husband and it is said that he was blackmailing Matthew Hewitt. We have met him and he is clearly terrified of Hewitt.’

‘Blackmailing him?’

‘Aye, so they say, though we don’t know why.’ I took a bone of beef and tore a chunk of meat off it with my teeth.

Frowning, Hill looked disappointed. ‘Why should a merchant who takes issue with a man decide to kill the man’s wife, in so public a fashion?’

The meat tasted old and rotten. Spitting onto the floor I let the bone drop back onto the plate then finished my ale. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know much, Harry.’

I watched him drink. He didn’t usually drink so daintily. Usually he drank his ale like a horse slobbers at a pail of water.

‘How do you know I saw Shrewsbury today?’

‘No matter.’

‘I saw you with Shrewsbury,’ I remembered. ‘You were sitting with him in his coach at Newgate.’

‘You are mistaken,’ he replied, with a distant calmness that implied he cared not a bushel of peas what I believed. Grimacing he rubbed a finger on the tabletop as if he was thinking hard about what to say. I gave him all the time he required.

He looked up with an open face for the first time that evening. ‘Harry, it is no longer important what reason your father had for writing you the letter and soliciting Shrewsbury’s help. It’s done.’

I started to protest but he held up both hands and glared until I stopped.

‘Joyce will hang, Lytle. The day after tomorrow.’ He sat back and watched me. I said nothing, for I was too surprised. ‘The Lord Chief Justice tried Joyce this afternoon in private.’

‘That is impossible!’

‘Why is it impossible?’ Hill snapped, impatiently.

We both knew that it wasn’t impossible, so I sat there like an odd fish, staring at him with my mouth gaping. I croaked
out the beginnings of some protest before considering how pointless it would be to protest to Hill.