The Sweet Smell of Decay (13 page)

No politics here on the Southbank. This was where the poor people lived. No politics because there was no money. This was where the leatherworkers and feltmongers lived, free of the powers and sanctions of the livery companies based north of the river. This was where the breweries were based, the brothels, the worst of the alehouses, and most of London’s beggars. The City dignitaries would not allow them to cross the Bridge into the City. It was also the place, I suddenly realised, reading the billings plastered here and there, where Harry Hunks was fighting in about twenty minutes’ time.

I hurried towards the bear-ring at Paris Gardens. The
crowds milled around, ordinary folk in working clothes, men mostly, debating the prospects of the dogs against blind Harry. I paid my dues and found a seat. The acrid smell of stale sweat filled the air. There were two or three hundred people crammed into the ring, all crowded round the small arena. A single solid pole stood up in the middle of it. Chained to the pole was a big brown bear, his fur matted and dirty, moulded with his own excrement. Peering forth through streaming eyes, small and caked with hard lumps of dried pus, he waved his nose in the air, seeing what he could through smell and sound, his eyes useless. This was blind Harry Hunks, hero of the Southbank.

Two men jumped out into the arena, one struggling to hold a rope attached to the collar of a huge grey wolfhound, big as a man, its mouth and nose strapped in a leather muzzle. The dog strained forward, eyes and nose and every sinew pointed at the prowling bear. Saliva dripped from its muzzle and it growled in violent greedy anticipation. The two men looked much the same. A small fellow with barrel chest strode out into the ring and began introducing the afternoon entertainment, loud and bellowing, striving to rouse the crowd into a state of excitement. At last the time came and the crowd quietened, expectant. The two men crouched and took off the muzzle and the dog sprang forward, launching itself at the bear’s neck. But blind Harry could smell the dog, could hear the dog, and had been waiting for this moment just as avidly as the crowd. With perfect timing the bear rose up onto its haunches and casually swiped a great paw with talons extended. The wolfhound caught the blow across its jaw and ended up in the dirt on its head, tumbling over and against the palings. It rose to its feet unsteady and dizzy, shaking its head, surprised and confused. Blind Harry resumed his prowling, facing away, but fully
aware of the dog’s whereabouts, its uncertainty and reluctance to continue. Blind Harry roared, and the crowd sat back satisfied, their fears that this giant dog might hurt blind Harry allayed. The dog trotted forward, growling again, but more timorous now, hovering out of blind Harry’s range, snapping, dashing forward and backward, looking for an opportunity. But blind Harry was ready every time, a seasoned veteran, too clever by half.

‘I love old Harry Hunks, don’t you, my lover?’ A woman leant across me and put a hand on the top of my thigh. She looked at me with bright, lively, brown eyes, round and wide, laughing, enticing. She allowed her hand to drift across my groin, resting momentarily upon my crotch before withdrawing once more to my thigh, then away.

‘Aye.’ I nodded.

‘Let me take you to the Leaguer, lover. We’re all clean at the Leaguer, can take away all that anger I see in your face.’ She smiled, lips parted, her teeth white and clean. She looked at me with an excitement of her own, the anticipation of a done deal.

‘Aye. Why not.’ I stood and let her lead me by the hand.

It was a little while later that it again occurred to me that I had been displaying less wit than a Kynchen cove and less fortitude than Agnes Hobson. I had to take to heart the lesson of blind Harry Hunks, and I had to begin by visiting my father.

‘He’s gone.’ My mother stared into space out of her one good eye. She always stared into space, for she was afraid of people, afraid that they would pick her words to pieces and make her feel foolish.

‘What do you mean – gone?’ I stood opposite her, ducking and weaving, trying to place my face in her eyeline. Her hand wandered up to her eyepatch – whereupon I stepped back hastily and let her look where she wished. It was a strategy she used that if any got too close, then her hand would go to the eyepatch and lift it. You did not want to see what lay under the eyepatch.

‘He went away the day before yesterday.’ Her hand stopped in mid-air and slowly sank back to her lap.

‘Aye, he did,’ her brother Robert called from the table. I
turned to face him, though it was an even more disgusting sight than my mother’s ravaged eye. He sat at the table with his stomach hanging naked out of his torn shirt. Grease dripped from his chin and pieces of half-chewed pork flew across the room towards where he spoke. At the moment he was speaking to me.

I sidled around the room to position myself behind a giant pig carcass. The head sat in a dish on the table in front of Robert’s right elbow. Its lazy eyes followed me about the room as I walked. ‘Where did he go?’

‘Don’t know,’ Robert wiped his sleeve across his mouth, then sneezed. I will not describe one of Robert’s sneezes in detail, nor the consequences of it. This place was a disgusting and dirty hovel, populated by imbeciles and Whoballs. It was the country. My mother slowly turned her head towards me, her good eye momentarily making contact with mine before slipping away again to regard the earthy floor. I remembered who had done that to her eye and how. It was a recollection that still froze my thoughts.

‘He went with two men.’ Robert wiped a palm across his hair so that strands of it stood on end.

My disgust for this place was suddenly forgotten. In the context of events to date, his words made the hairs on my neck prickle. ‘What two men?’

Robert picked up a rib and stabbed it at me. He was offering me it to eat. I declined. Shrugging, he started to chew at it himself, making sure he had a mouth full of meat before replying.

‘One was the same man what came a week or so ago and helped him write that letter. The second man I have never seen before.’ Sticking out his bottom lip and furrowing his brow,
he looked to my mother. ‘I think they were friends of his from London, wasn’t they?’

‘I don’t know.’ My mother shook her head slowly. ‘He didn’t say nothing to me.’

‘What were their names?’

‘Din’t say.’

I regarded them both with critical eye. My mother sat calm with her hands on her lap, peering at something on the ceiling. Robert drew a pork rib across the edge of his front teeth in an attempt to clean it of every speck of meat that still clung to it. Neither was worried in the least – yet he had left the day before yesterday?

‘Tell me what they looked like.’

‘They were dressed like city folk, Harry!’ Robert screwed up his face and talked to me like I was the idiot. ‘They was dressed like you.’

‘Where did they go?’

‘Don’t know. He din’t tell us, did he?’ Robert belched and noticed his stomach was uncovered. He fiddled with the edges of his shirt then cast an eye in my mother’s direction. I hoped she washed it before she attempted to mend it.

‘You have no idea where he went?’

‘He’ll be back,’ Robert declared confidently.

‘None round here know where he went?’

‘You could ask.’

I could stand it no longer. I found that I had stopped breathing, holding my breath that I would not say something that I would later feel ashamed of. I looked to my mother.

‘One of the men came here and wrote a letter. Tell me about that.’

Upon seeing that I spoke to my mother Robert stretched
his arms wide, swivelled his beady eyes about his head a few times, then stood up with a mighty grunt. He shuffled out the door in the direction of his shed and was gone.

We were left there, my mother and I, in sad silence. I let the question sit, knowing that she would answer it once she was sure that the words she planned were the best she could think of. I sat myself on the other side of the room with my hands between my knees and looked away.

Finally she spoke. ‘They wrote it in here, at the table.’

I looked at the table.

‘He told me to leave them alone,’ she said quietly, nodding her head in the direction of the back room. ‘I went in there.’

I looked towards the back room. My grandmother lay in there with her eyes closed, breathing quietly.

That was it. My mother said no more.

I asked everyone in Cocksmouth if they had seen my father, or could tell me in what direction he had gone with the two men. All that I established was that they had headed south, on the main road to London. I stopped at Byddle and Haremear, the next two villages along the road, but learnt nothing new. Since my face was not known in those parts it was optimistic to expect that I would be told anything – if indeed there was anything to tell.

Fact was – my father was missing.

It took us three hours to get to Epsom – the roads were frozen into hard ridges. I was bounced up and down between roof and seat like a rubber ball. After much experimentation I found a comfortable position with one arm wrapped around the frame of the coach window and one leg held out straight across the seat. Dowling sat opposite me with his baggy, blue cloth cap pulled down over his ears, eyelids drooping, trying hard to stay awake. His guts must have been full of iron shot. My teeth started to rattle.

He was a good man to have on your side, I reflected, even though he was so filthy smelly. When I’d told him what I found at Cocksmouth he had fussed over me like a big, fluffy white
hen – assuring me that he would talk to the Mayor, that he would be successful in commandeering enough men to scour the roads between here and Cocksmouth. It was some comfort insofar as I knew it was all that could be done. But they would not find him. Someone had taken him.

We hit a ridge so hard that my legs left the seat and my head hit the roof with such force that I saw lights twinkling before me. I cursed so loudly that Dowling opened one eye and frowned at me disapprovingly. Hill! The knock had juggled my brains and Hill’s face appeared before me. I had told Hill that I was going to Cocksmouth before I was locked up in the Tower. Hill, my great friend, who was now snug in Shrewsbury’s pocket. I felt an urge to stop and persuade the driver to turn round, go back to London so that I could find Hill, make him talk to me. I sat staring out of the window, not looking at the terrible dreary scenery we passed. No. He had urged me to go to Epsom. It was the only advice he had. If he wanted us to go to Epsom, then we would go. Let’s see what he had in store for us. Though I felt like the man that takes an hour to step out onto the ice, only to crash through it and drown.

When we arrived I climbed out of the coach onto Ormonde’s driveway with legs of jelly and something trying to drill its way out through my forehead. Dowling stepped out sleepily and took a deep lungful of cold, clean air before smiling happily. The only sound was that of crows complaining in the distant woods. It was an angry, lonely noise that cast a morbid tone upon the frosted fields and the silent, square white house with its big, black empty windows. I noticed a patch of catmint nestled in the grass close to the front door.
If you set it, the cats will eat it; if you sow it, the cats can’t know it.

Another old servant wandered out of the front door to meet
us. The world was full of doddery old servants it seemed. With great enthusiasm Dowling stepped forward to greet him. They had a laugh and a joke about something. It gave me time to empty the contents of my stomach discreetly behind the coach. Our coachman shook his head and regarded me with offended eyes, like it was some comment upon his wretched driving. I spat the last of it and immediately the air tasted fresher and my soul breathed easier.

Dowling appeared at my shoulder. ‘He says that William Ormonde is not at home, but that he will ask if we may talk with Mary Ormonde.’

The servant stood waiting for us, blinking anxiously. Once he saw us walking towards him, he turned and trotted back towards the house, hurrying to be first across the threshold. Inside it was much colder and darker than I remembered it. Tapestries hung on the walls I had not noticed the last time, old and frayed, colours faded. Water dripped somewhere, its slow rhythm the only sound to be heard.

Dowling took off his hat and stuck it in his pocket. ‘A man might hear a mouse sneeze.’

‘We don’t receive many visitors. Just Mr Ormonde and his daughter.’ The servant coughed breathlessly and bowed again. He led us past a square, wooden staircase with dark polished surface down a dingy corridor. At the end of it was a large room with good light soaking through long windows. Mary Ormonde stood amidst a collection of old embroidered chairs. The room smelt damp and I could almost feel the water clinging to my skin, pervading my clothes. I imagined the chairs to be wet to the touch.

‘Please sit,’ Mary Ormonde gestured. She still wore mourning clothes, a dark dress that fitted snug about her
hips. Her eyes were still bright green, and still stared straight into my soul. Smiling at me gently, she stood calm like an old friend. ‘An
unexpected
visit,’ she said.

‘Aye.’ I sat down on one of the chairs. It seemed to be dry.

Her scent drifted up my nose and I immediately started to think about renewing intimate acquaintance. She sat with hands folded neatly on her lovely lap. ‘What happened to your head?’

‘I was hit on the head in the process of seeking who it was killed your sister.’

She nodded and looked at us both enquiringly, as if to ask why we had come back when all was been and done. ‘The man Joyce.’

Dowling spoke with a low sombre tone. ‘We think that the Lord Chief Justice has hung an innocent man.’

‘An innocent man?’ She pursed her lips and sounded very disappointed. Like someone’s dog had died. Then she resumed her previous pose and looked at us both with that enquiring gaze again. No sign of remorse. Then she lifted a finger into the air and pursed her beautiful lips again. Those lips transfixed me, luscious and ripe. ‘If this man Joyce did not kill my sister, then why was he hung for it?’

‘There lies a question, madam.’

‘Indeed. Lord Keeling himself tried Joyce, I understand.’

We both nodded.

‘My father has known Lord Keeling all his life, you know. They grew up together. Lord Keeling lived in Epsom when he was a little boy.’

There are moments in your life when the same object you have been looking at for months or years suddenly appears different. Breasts are a good example. A baby boy would never suckle on a breast in quite the same way if he had the same
perspective on it that he later develops. This is nature and the way that it is intended, of course. It would be no good at all otherwise, else all the little boy babies would never stop drinking milk and would grow up to be very fat. This was one of those moments. William Hill had sent us here for a reason, and Mary Ormonde was going to tell us what that was.

‘You know Lord Keeling, then?’

She looked surprised – sort of. ‘My father does. They were great friends. He shares many of my father’s principles.’

‘What principles?’

Leaning forward, she looked at us both conspiratorially. It was a strange pose to adopt with two strangers to talk about your father. I felt a bit awkward, Dowling too, by the look of it. ‘My father was a Baptist. Lord Keeling was also a Baptist while he lived at Epsom.’

Dowling gave a little gasp. I had never heard Dowling gasp before, but it was a good time to gasp. Baptists were radicals – dissenters. Though Cromwell tolerated Baptists – barely – now their views were outlawed. That the Lord Chief Justice was once a Baptist was barely credible. Why was Mary Ormonde telling us such things – especially about her own father? Her green eyes watched us carefully, watched us absorb her words.

‘It was a long time ago, gentlemen.’ She shook her head and watched us some more. Once she was satisfied, she continued. ‘Keeling moved to London many years ago. He took his family with him, Jane included. Jane was his daughter. She was good friends with Anne, even though she was ten years older. Anne was upset when they went. They lived in the big house in town. Now a family called Latham lives there. Good people.’

‘None of Keeling’s family remain?’

‘No. Only Mrs Johnson. She’s was Janie’s nanny, as well
as ours. She lives by herself now since her husband died. She was left with a roof over her head, so she will not marry again unless she wishes it.’

‘She knew Keeling well?’

‘She was
employed
by him when they were here. When they went to London she stayed behind. Jane lodged with her when she came to visit. That was before she died.’

I was confused. ‘Who died?’

‘Jane Keeling.’

I determined to stay calm. So Anne Giles is murdered and Keeling holds his own trial behind closed doors to see that the man accused of it is condemned. And his own daughter died here a long time ago. This was surely significant.

‘What did Jane Keeling die of?’

‘A fever – so they said.’

‘So they said?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘I would really rather not talk about it, Harry. You might talk to Mrs Johnson who was the nanny.’

I tried to avoid Dowling’s eye that was looking at me in puzzlement once she used my name. ‘Where might we find her?’

‘I’ll point you in the right direction once you are ready to leave, Harry.’ I wished she would stop doing that. ‘What else would you like to know?’

Dowling spoke up. ‘Tell us about your sister.’

‘Anne.’ Mary Ormonde spoke the word affectionately, ‘She was three years younger than me. People said that we were very much alike.’

‘Did you see her often once she was married?’

‘I didn’t see her at all. Father forbade me to visit her. She did not come back to Epsom, and I could not go to London without my father’s blessing. I have not seen her this past two years, not since a week after her eighteenth birthday. She went with John to his local church to marry without telling any. St Ethelburga near Bishopsgate.’ She sat straight, her back rigid as a pole. ‘Our family has been at Epsom for many generations. The manner of Anne’s leaving of it cast shame onto my father.’

‘Worse for John Giles’s father, was it not?’

She shook her head regretfully. ‘It was of no comfort to my father, I assure you. He is a devout man, but not heartless. The people of the parish assumed that it was his wish that the man be hung, so hung he was. From that time they have behaved with great restraint towards us. I think that they are afraid of us.’

‘What was life like for you as children?’ Dowling changed the subject.

‘Our mother was taken when I was ten. She died in childbirth, as did the infant. There were three besides Anne and I, that all died young. You might have seen their stones at Anne’s funeral. Father is a devout man and instructed us in God’s word himself. He also encouraged us to read and write, and employed a tutor to teach us the Classics, Hebrew, Latin and Greek. We played together, and with Mrs Johnson, Beth, who cared for us after Mother died.’

‘How did your sister meet John Giles?’

‘He came from London to visit his father, who worked for a tenant of my father’s. One day we ventured into the fields to eat our lunch, Anne, Beth and I. John just appeared. He had the cheek and charm of the Devil himself, and looks to match. He carried bottles of beer in his pack and made us have a sip.
Then he showed us how to dance. Beth would not permit it, so he danced with her instead.’

‘Did Beth not tell your father?’

She smiled. ‘We begged her not to, it was so exciting, you see. And how could she explain that she danced with him?’

‘She was charmed as well, was she?’

‘No,’ she laughed, ‘not Mrs Johnson. I think she thought it was good for us, two young ladies. The days could be very dull you know.’

‘An unfortunate judgement, perhaps.’

‘What passed between John Giles and Anne was none of Mrs Johnson’s doing.’ She raised a finger in admonishment. ‘The credit for that belongs to my father, God knows, and he has paid dearly for it ever since.’

Dowling leant forward with hands clasped. ‘How so?’

‘Had he not forbidden Anne from seeing John, then she would never have eloped. John was exciting and charming, but Anne was not simple. Her attentions would have been diverted to another soon enough, some devout young man from the town. But father forbade her to see him, and Anne was stubborn. She got that from him. Then father made up his mind not to give John the dowry. What he should have done was to give John a job, keep him at Epsom, keep Anne safe and sound. But he did neither, so Anne came to be married to John, and lived in a pigsty at Bishopsgate, while he went off at all hours of the day and night doing whatever he could to make a penny.’

‘How did they manage to court each other with you and Beth in tow?’

‘We didn’t realise they were courting. They seemed very fond of each other, and we would leave them sitting and
talking sometimes, but we never went far away. Only after they declared their betrothal was I sensible to Anne’s feelings.’

Haw, haw, quoth Bagshaw – a likely story.

‘I liked him, Mr Lytle, liked him very much and so did Beth. He was a nice man, hardly a man even. He was bold and dashing and full of notions as to what he would make of his life. He wasn’t deceiving her; he really did have those ambitions for himself. He was not fain to work on a farm like his father, he was resolute to have his own business in London, acquire some money of his own and grow it, become wealthy.’

Idle, in other words. ‘What happened when they announced their plans to marry?’

‘When John called at the house, father didn’t recognise him, he didn’t know his youngest daughter was being courted. He picked up a cane and threatened to beat John with it. Then he summoned two of the servants and commanded them to carry John out of the grounds, where I know that they thrashed him. Father carried on shouting at Anne, you could hear it in all parts of the house. He forbade Anne to see John, said that she was a lady and he was a rogue and a vagabond. But Anne stood up to him. She wouldn’t hear his argument. The louder and more frantic father became, the quieter and harder Anne became. By his own actions he ensured that what he feared most came to pass.’

‘And then they eloped?’

‘Indeed.’ She nodded again and sat expectantly, but my poor brain was addled, still trying to appreciate the significance of Jane Keeling’s death, and Dowling seemed lost in his own thoughts.

She watched us for a while, a small smile upon her lips. Then she stood and walked out of the room, obliging us to
follow. ‘You can always come back, gentlemen. Now let me show you how to get to Mrs Johnson’s cottage.’ I positioned myself behind her so I could watch her swing those fleshy hips.