The Sweet Smell of Decay (11 page)

‘Forget Joyce. You won’t save him.’

I couldn’t forget Joyce. ‘Tell me what would you do if you were I.’

‘You asked me that before, Harry.’ Hill looked up into my eyes and spoke passionately, ‘You must go to Epsom. The answer lies there.’

‘I did go to Epsom, for the funeral. I found nothing.’

‘Then you didn’t look hard enough.’ He leant forwards again and tapped a forefinger on the table. ‘Go to Epsom, Harry.’

I stared back at him, as miserable as ever.

‘Go to Epsom.’ Hill raised himself and stood over me, his giant girth casting a shadow over the whole table. ‘Tomorrow.’ He left.

Charcoal grey clouds paraded over the smoke and the fog, heavy and threatening. Basinghall Street was quiet. Smoke rose weakly from the chimney of Hewitt’s house before being swept away by the strong wind that battered the rooftops. It was said that Hewitt lived here on his own, just him and one servant.

The same wind blew through the coach, a chilly place for me to gather my nerves. Dowling and two of his friends sat silently back on their seats, pressed into the shadows, watching me. Dowling had refused to speak to me for the last hour. He had wanted to involve the Mayor, but the Mayor declined. Since he had no other useful suggestion to make, he was angry, yet still he refused to countenance a direct approach. I reckon he was angrier with himself than he was with me.

I had hurried out of the Three Cranes as soon as Hill left and sent message to Dowling. Hill’s opinion counted for
nought − I wasn’t going to allow Joyce to die for another’s sins. Dowling and I were both of one mind – Hewitt was guilty. So we would have to prove it. For my part I had resolved that having lost Mary Bedford I wasn’t going to lose Joyce too. Dowling agreed, yet had no remedy other than mine. So he was sulking. He refused to meet my eye as I climbed down out of the coach.

The front door was heavy, carved of an exotic dark wood with strange scenes upon it. Not from the Bible, but from some other religion. I rubbed a finger against the black wood before knocking. My knuckles seemed to make no sound, neither did my fist. In the chill wind I waited, conscious of the three butchers watching me from the coach. The chimney was smoking − there
had
to be someone at home. Sidling around to the left I attempted to peer in through a first-floor window. The room was black, only shadows of furniture were visible. Then a flicker of candlelight betrayed some presence within. I heard shuffling inside and stood back. A window opened, the one into which I had been staring. An old man’s head stretched out, the head scabby and grey. The left eye was hooded, but it scanned me just as beadily as its neighbour. A skinny neck, long and scrawny, supported a wizened head that twisted itself to face me with an awkward sneer. The man was very old and his nose was big and hooked, like the beak of a bird of prey.

‘I am here to see Matthew Hewitt.’ I lifted my chin, hearing myself talk too fast.

‘Who are you?’

‘Harry Lytle. I am appointed by the Mayor to investigate the death of Anne Giles. I must talk to Matthew Hewitt.’

Head and neck slowly untwisted themselves and then
withdrew. The window was closed and the street was quiet again. It was fully ten minutes before anything more happened. Beginning to think that I had been ignored, I started to simmer in indignant rage, but then I heard the noise of a great bolt being shifted. The door swung slowly open. The head was there, underneath it a body, sinewy and nibbled. His clothes were faded, old and misshapen, but recognisable as those of a servant. The hallway behind was furnished sparsely, but the ornaments that there were, were exotic and rare. Gilt leather panels covered the walls, embossed with gold leaf. Above the panels running around the top of the walls were more strange scenes in plaster, tall, thin characters with their arms as long as their bodies standing in awkward pose wearing elaborate headdresses and skirts and with ornaments on their arms.

I waited for the shrivelled old servant to heave the door closed again and slide back the well-greased bolts, three of them, fashioned out of a heavy metal, twisted and dull. When the servant had finished he gave me a warped stare before leading me deep into the bowels of the house; dark unlit corridors, windows covered with thick screens. Here and there an ornament gleamed and sparkled, gold and silver, cups and candlesticks, shiny shapes reaching out of the gloom like stars. Faces stared down at me from old dusty paintings, men with stern gazes and old fleshy faces, disapproving and contemptuous, lonely and forgotten. I wondered at the value of these items, but was discouraged from exploring their feel or weight by the shuffling old man who wouldn’t permit me to linger more than a pace behind. We came to a small flight of wooden stairs to the rear of the house that led straight up to a door. Beneath it was a thin crack of light. The old man didn’t climb the stairs but stood at their foot to make sure that
I went up all the way and knocked on the door. I rapped twice and entered.

A small fire and a single candle lit the windowless chamber. The candle stood in a simple silver candlestick on a small circular table in the middle of the room. Two chairs sat next to the fire. In one of these chairs sat a man. His face was in shadow, lit only occasionally by the flicker of the flames. He neither stood up nor made any sound. I walked closer and scrutinised the blank face. His skin was drawn and pockmarked. Long lines ran from his temples down to his chin like knife cuts. Little hairs grew out of his face in small clumps. I took the empty chair, which was pushed well forward so that I would be well lit.

‘I am Matthew Hewitt.’ His voice was surprisingly soft. ‘You would ask me questions about the murder of Anne Giles.’

‘Yes.’ My voice sounded strange, muffled, no echo.

‘Then do so.’ Hewitt’s eyes were occasionally caught by the light of the fire. They were still and unmoving.

I leant forward and took the poker from by the fireplace. I poked it. There was no new wood. ‘Anne Giles was killed at St Bride’s, the night of—’

‘I know all about her death, Mr Lytle, just as I know that the murderer will soon be hung.’

‘Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles.’

‘I think Lord Keeling would be less than pleased to hear you say so,’ Hewitt answered thoughtfully, his tone cold.

I felt a pang of fear in my guts and recalled John Giles’s warning. ‘I am sure you are right. But the fact remains that Joyce did not kill Anne Giles.’

Hewitt said nothing.

‘You know John Giles, don’t you?’ I asked.

Hewitt was quiet for some time before replying. ‘That’s my business, Mr Lytle. I have no great desire to discuss my business with you, and no need to either. We both know that you have neither authority nor influence in this affair.’

‘John Giles worked for you and stole some money of yours, or something of the sort. Then his wife was murdered.’

Hewitt sat motionless. I sat motionless too, watching his shadowed face. The only sound in the room was the crackle of timber in the grate. The candle burnt down its wick. As the fire slowly died, it rose suddenly, swiftly and briefly, spitting out its last light into the gloom, enough time for me to see the expression on his face. It was rough and grey like the face of a mountain, hairs sprouted from his chest like weeds. The eyes frightened me to my naked nerves. They were round black pebbles, shiny and alight, fixed on mine, questioning and calculating.

‘Mr Lytle.’ There was a touch of amusement in Hewitt’s voice. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who killed Anne Giles?’

‘You will have to find that out for yourself, Mr Lytle, for I’m not going to tell you. But to succeed you will have to use rather more brain than I think God blessed you with. Besides which I cannot think of one single reason what you could gain by so finding out.’

‘To save an innocent man from the noose.’

‘You will not save Joyce. Joyce will be hung and there is nothing that you can do to stop it.’

I frowned, and grunted. ‘Is John Giles blackmailing you?’

Hewitt closed his eyes.

‘Why did you ask Giles to steal the key to Bride’s? He told me that you did.’

‘He did not tell you that. You told him that. You also suggested that he stole it of his own initiative.’ I was dumbfounded, for he was repeating to me almost exactly the same words that Giles had spoke to us. Had he been spying on us? Had he interrogated Giles after we had met with him? He could not have signalled it thus more clearly. I could think of nothing else to say. I looked around the room, at the leather-bound books that lined the walls. Hewitt still sat with his eyes closed.

I cleared my throat and stood up. I hesitated, uncertain and miserable, before deciding to leave. This had been a mistake. I thought about thanking Hewitt for his time, but didn’t. I walked to the door slowly and stretched out my arm to open it.

‘Be careful, Lytle.’ Hewitt’s voice, as I placed my hand upon the handle. ‘You are so far out of your league, it should make you shudder.’ He smiled gently and tapped his forehead in casual dismissal before closing his eyes again in anticipation of my departure. I stared at his fat, complacent face and was suddenly filled with hatred. I will have you, Matthew Hewitt, and I will see those beady, little eyes wide with fright before I am finished. But not today. I left.

Dowling said nothing when I told him what had happened. To his credit he spared me the avuncular smile and the hand on the shoulder; he just nodded to himself and hummed. Even though he spared me and though it was stormy, I decided to walk home rather than ride. But I managed no more than twenty steps before I sensed his hulking shape lurking beside me.

‘I had to try,’ I grunted.

‘Aye, but I fear our task is even more perilous now.’

‘When you stand upon the scaffold with a noose around your neck it is no great concern to learn you have consumption,’ I answered. ‘I think I have to talk directly to Keeling.’ It sounded mad as I said it, particularly given the response I had elicited from Hewitt.

Dowling said nothing.

‘What other remedy do we have if it is true that Keeling has personally marked him for the noose?’

‘Thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds.’ Dowling clapped me about the shoulder, grasped my hand, and then let it go. He shook his head slowly in a gesture, the meaning of which I couldn’t fathom, then bid me farewell.

Faithfulness? Did he not recognise desperation when he saw it?

I went to Whitehall next morn, though I had no appointment, hoping to talk my way through the sentries. I couldn’t hope to gain entrance directly into the King’s quarters, so I entered through the Court Gate instead. A guard grunted at me and wrinkled his nose in enquiry, but waved me through when I claimed to have an appointment.

I marched through the gallery and out onto the cobbles of the Great Court, overshadowed on one side by the Great Hall with its massive sloping roof, and on the other by the Banqueting House. The Court was busy, lords and dignitaries milling about in small groups. I strode across the Court, in my own finest silks, crossed the covered way and emerged onto Pebble Court. The Great Chamber was to my left. A guard blocked my passage, this one more awake. As I approached he stepped forward. Again, I assured him I had an appointment. He wanted to know with whom.

‘With Lord Keeling?’ He edged sideways to cover the entrance. ‘I reckon your appointment is off, sir. Lord Chief Justice ain’t here.’

‘I see. Then I would consult with someone in his office.’

‘What about?’ The guard let the pike in his hand fall forward, in line with my chest.

‘I don’t care to discuss my business with you.’ Trying to assume the arrogant air of an important nobleman, I heard uncertainty in the upward lilt of my voice.

Standing his ground, the guard pointed back the way I had come. ‘You is only getting through here if you comes with one of the Lord Chief Justice’s clerks from his offices over at Scotland Yard. You turn round, go back the way you come, cross the Great Court and go through into Scotland Yard. Understand? If you get lost, ask for the cider house. The Justice’s offices are close by.’

Giving the guard what I hoped was a withering look, I turned and walked back. What was the world coming to? Employing sentries that didn’t drink themselves stupid? Scotland Yard was where the offices of the Lord Steward were located, and the Office of Works. Scotland Yard was functional, a mishmash of ordinary buildings, narrow corridors and tiny offices. I knew where the cider house was but it took a while longer to find the offices of the Lord Chief Justice. Eventually I found a narrow building consisting of three floors of small dusty rooms, packed tight with desks and clerks. It reminded me of the Records Office, a memory that encouraged me to pursue my mission with renewed vigour, that I would not need to linger long.

Walking through the offices, I met with no challenge until a deep bright voice sang out confidently from behind me, asking
me my business. The man that addressed me had a bald patch in the middle of his head. What hair he had was swept back and tamed with grease. He was older than me, in his forties at least, and had that bright unmoving half smile of a man who likes to know exactly how many hairs there are in a horse’s tail. Approaching the desk I introduced myself.

‘And my name is Cummins. What do you need?’ Each oiled hair lay in a straight line, precisely aligned with its neighbour. His breath smelt of herbs and he was impeccably trimmed.

‘Good morning, Mr Cummins, I have heard of you. You are well known about the Palace.’ I attempted to flatter him.

‘Thanking thee, Mr Lytle, but I doubt it.’ He lifted his chin slightly, disapproving. ‘I have heard of you, though, I think. You work at the Records Office at the Tower. My colleague, Mr John Wellington, works with you. I hear that you have left the service now?’

I blinked. Who the boggins was John Wellington? Ignoring his sceptical questioning and wrinkled nose, I told myself I was important. ‘Aye, indeed. You are well informed, sir. I am charged with finding out whosoever it was that killed Anne Giles at Bride’s church a week ago.’

‘Aye, sir, a sad event. I have heard much of that killing. It was brutal, I think. I also heard that they caught the scoundrel that did it and tried him. He is to be hung tomorrow, methinks? You are to be praised at finding him so fast, Mr Lytle. I take my hat off to you.’ His cheeks gathered into little pouches.

‘Thank you, Mr Cummins, but it was not I that caught Richard Joyce, the man of whom you speak. He was caught by the mob. I venture that he holds testament to the killing, but his was not the deed. I must demonstrate the truth of it before
tomorrow, else he will be put to death unjustly, which would be a great tragedy and wrongdoing.’

Looking less happy, Cummins addressed me like he was my mother. ‘The Lord Chief Justice himself conducted the trial.’

‘Aye, Mr Cummins, in all of his wisdom, no doubt, but I sincerely believe that he made an error, and that it is my duty to help him correct it.’

‘Well,’ Cummins shook his head slowly, ‘it sounds like a tangled business, I’m sure. How might
I
be of service to you, Mr Lytle?’

‘I must gain an audience with Lord Keeling, Mr Cummins, that I might put my case. It is very important. The sentry at the gate told me that someone here might escort me.’

‘I see.’ Cummins didn’t look surprised. He pondered for a moment before continuing. ‘You have come to the right office, but I have to tell you that I cannot help.’

‘Why not?’

‘It is not in my authority to do so. Were I to try and escort you to the Great Chamber then I can assure you that we would be denied entry.’ He shook his head sadly, maddeningly calm, a rueful smile on his lips. I felt my cheeks warm and the old impatient rage well up within me once more. Just as I got ready to say something I knew would do no good, in came a fellow who I recognised, a friend with whom I had been drinking several times. Rolling in cheerfully he greeted me heartily, gripping me about the shoulder and talking into my face. His name was Sandby, and he smiled easily, his brown eyes fixed wide in a permanent surprised stare.

‘What news, Harry? I haven’t seen you for days! Weeks! What brings you to our cosy little nook?’

‘I want to see Lord Keeling.’

He looked to Cummins, who was now writing something. ‘Well, you have as much chance of getting to see Keeling as you have of bedding the Lady Castlemayne, Harry, my old friend. You might as well apply for a warrant to exhume the head of Charles’s father.’

Cummins raised his head sharply and shot his colleague a stern glance of unmistakable admonishment.

‘How so?’ I demanded.

‘We have been instructed not to assist you under any circumstances whatsoever. So we will not. Not even if you tell us Anne Giles is still alive and trying to get out the box.’

‘Mr Sandby!’ Cummins snapped, slamming down his quill onto the desk. ‘Will you speak with good manners and respect.’ The pouched cheeks were bright red now.

‘Humbly apologise.’ Sandby bowed his head gravely. Shrugging, he looked down at me. ‘Still, it’s the way of it, Harry.’

‘From whom did this instruction come?’

Sandby looked down at Cummins’ pink scalp. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘From the Lord Chief Justice Keeling, of course,’ Cummins answered unexpectedly, to the obvious surprise of the younger man. Others were staring. ‘Yes, sir,’ Cummins nodded. ‘Rumour has it that Keeling is a friend of the family and is sympathetic to their feelings. They want the issue put to rest with all haste and have asked him to intervene.’

‘Such hasty determination flies in the face of justice for Richard Joyce.’

Tapping his quill on the desk Cummins regarded me with stern countenance. ‘Richard Joyce is condemned.’

‘What might a man do?’ I looked to Sandby. He just shook his head slowly, saying nothing. The expression on Cummins’ face didn’t change, nor did he reply. I looked around at the army of scribes all pretending not to be listening. Nothing here.

‘Aye, well, gentlemen. Thank you for your candour.’ I nodded and turned to leave.

‘Good luck, young man,’ Cummins called out as I left. I turned to check that he didn’t mock me.

‘Thank you,’ I replied. Sandby waved, again without saying anything, a wry smile on his face. I resolved to hunt him out at the taverns to understand more. The Lord Chief Justice was well organised, I considered, as I left the Palace grounds. So. Direct to his house.

Keeling lived in a fine house north of Whitehall, close to the Great Close Tennis Court. It was a three-storey red-brick house built in a square around its own small courtyard. I pulled on a bell and waited, admiring the scenery, the trees and fields that led to St James’s Park. Once I used to go out into the park in search of
Fragaria
, wild strawberries, a custom I had ceased upon being told by Dr Ray that an excess of strawberries may damage the kidneys. The servant that answered the door wore a haughty expression that I found intensely irritating. When I told him I had come to see Keeling, and confirmed that I had no appointment, he looked at me as if I was a common hawker, face frigid and unmoving. Finally he decided to let me in and graciously gestured that I scale the carved wooden staircase. We crossed the hall under the gaze of James I, or rather his portrait, standing with his hand on his hip, wearing full armour. I was shown into a cold, dark room on the first
floor. The servant didn’t light the fire, only a thin candle that cast unusual shadows on the walls of the large room. Then he left, murmuring that I was to wait. I waited many minutes in the freezing cold, walking in circles to keep warm. Finally, the door opened.

‘Mr Lytle. My apologies for keeping you waiting, but I have urgent matters to attend to.’ The man who spoke was dressed in expensive clothes, his velvet jacket had a gold trimming, and he wore a fine long wig. I didn’t know Keeling well, but had seen him often enough to know that this wasn’t him.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, standing up.

He stepped into the middle of the room with his hands behind his back. ‘I am Lord Keeling’s chief aide and his representative in this affair. He cannot talk to you and has delegated the task to me.’

‘Sir,’ I replied, remembering my manners. ‘My name is Harry Lytle and I would present to Lord Keeling some evidence that Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles.’

‘Richard Joyce was charged, tried and found guilty. He will hang tomorrow.’

Stepping forward so that I was within a breath’s distance of the man’s own face, I could see the blood darken in his cheeks. ‘I have testimony that a second man entered the church just before Anne Giles was killed. Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles. Yet Lord Keeling held the trial behind closed doors, and I had no opportunity to divulge my knowledge nor to introduce my findings to Lord Keeling. I must have a chance to talk to him.’

‘Mr Lytle, Lord Keeling knows more than you think. He knows what you have discovered, and more besides. What for you is the whole story is but a part of the whole to him. He
is guided by the divine spirit who protects him from making false accusation.’

Burying my face in my hands I fought to control my temper and voice. ‘How can Richard Joyce be found guilty under such circumstances? He ran away from the church after the murder was done – that doesn’t make him guilty. The girl’s necklace found in his cell – I can tell you who put it there, I saw it done. Lord Keeling knows well, too, for it was his agents. You plot to hang an innocent man, an act that God will frown on. It is my duty in the eyes of the Lord to put my case to Keeling, to be sure that all facts are known before a final decision is made. Otherwise we will see an unlawful killing, which will only serve to compound the evils already done. How can Lord Keeling be content to do nothing while an innocent man is strung up? You tell me!’ I jabbed my finger in the air, inadvisedly.

‘When you talk to me, Mr Lytle, you are talking to the Lord Chief Justice. I
will
tell him everything you have told me, but I have already told you that Richard Joyce has been tried in God’s court and found guilty. The Lord Chief Justice knows Joyce to be guilty because he himself judged it. He is the Lord Chief Justice to King Charles, and King Charles is God’s agent on earth. God guides his hand.’ He turned on his heel and marched to the door. ‘There is nothing more to be said. Thank you for your time and good day to you.’

Growling, I stood my ground. ‘Where is Keeling? I want to talk to him myself. He does not know the full circumstances, he cannot.’

‘Mr Lytle,’ the chief aide barked, straight-backed, patience all but gone. ‘Richard Joyce will hang tomorrow. The Lord Chief Justice instructed me to tell you. He also warned me that you are a young man, inexperienced in life and appointed by
consequence of political games being conducted by the minor nobility at Court. He will not see you now, nor in the future, and if you do not leave, then you will be escorted out of here all the way to the Tower.’

‘When did Keeling tell you all this?’ I eyed him suspiciously. ‘Today? Did he put all of these words into your mouth? Is he waiting upstairs now to hear the outcome?’

‘I told you where he is. He is at the Palace.’ There was poison in his voice.

‘You must postpone the hanging until I have had the chance to talk to him.’

‘The hanging will proceed even if you get down on your knees and confess to the murder of Anne Giles yourself.’ Contempt flickered across his face.

That was it! I was fed up of being spoken to like a fool. I was going to check for myself. Striding past the chief aide, I pushed him to one side and headed towards the staircase, but even as I stomped upstairs two of the King’s Guards appeared above me to block my path. They descended with intent and picked me up by the elbows so that I could walk only on my toes. I kicked out at one of them and caught him on the top of the thigh, then I wriggled free of the other and turned to the chief aide who had followed me up the stairs and punched him as hard as I could in the side of the face. He went down on his knees and I was buried underneath the two guards who set about me with their fists. Lying there being pummelled, it occurred to me that I could have handled the situation better.

‘You will go to the Tower until after tomorrow is finished.’ The chief aide stood up with his hand to his cheek, and his wig crooked. ‘Thank God, Mr Lytle, that I don’t charge you with
common
assault.’ The words sounded strangely rehearsed and
he disappeared quickly up the stairs and out of sight.