The Sweet Smell of Decay (14 page)

‘A strange woman,’ Dowling reflected once we left her behind.

‘An odd fish,’ I agreed.

‘She was very familiar with you,’ he noted, clearly troubled.

I shrugged. ‘Aye, well, when I was here last time she took me to a quiet room, hitched up her skirts and gave me her strawberry.’

Dowling stopped stock-still in the driveway with his mouth wide open. I fancied there’d be no sympathetic mitt on my shoulder for the rest of the day. He resumed walking, though lagged behind. I heard his steps on the stones.

‘It was you that said I should get to know people easily and make myself open to them.’

‘Harry! It is no laughing matter!’

‘No. But she is an odd fish and no mistake. You said so yourself.’

Dowling recited some phrases from the Good Book as he attempted to soothe his affronted soul. It was quite entertaining. By the time we reached Mrs Johnson’s house he had at least stopped twittering and fiddling with the edge of his coat.

Mrs Johnson was a small woman with white hair. Her clothes were old and neat, maintained meticulously with needle and thread. She flashed a happy smile when we explained who had sent us. Her parlour was clean and polished and furnished with bright, shiny furniture and dazzling white linen. Bustling about her table and four chairs,
circling, she fretted over which chairs to pull out for us to sit on and then brought out bread and butter for us to eat.

‘Tell me about London, Mr Lytle,’ she demanded, sitting perched on the end of her chair, knees clasped together and hands folded on her lap. ‘Is it busy there?’

‘Yes, Mrs Johnson, very busy.’

‘Is it dirty?’

‘Aye, truth is, it is dirty.’ Filthy.

‘They have ladies there who take money for carnal vulgarity and lewdness?’

‘Aye, they do,’ I replied seriously, which was one of its great attractions.

‘If you are not careful, men strike you down and take your money. They have places where you can go and see animals tear each other to pieces. There are men there that drink too much every night. They hang people.’

All true of course, but it was not Londoners that put John Giles’s father to death. ‘Aye, quite often. London is a busy city and all manner of things take place there.’

‘Is it a depraved place?’ Mrs Johnson beamed with shiny metal eyes.

‘There is much that’s depraved.’

‘Good.’ Mrs Johnson stared at me as if she was trying to catch sight of something flitting about behind my eyes. I think that she sought to goad me into argument. It did not concern
me
that funny old women from the country did not share my love of London.

Dowling cleared his throat. ‘You’ve lived here all your life?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but you didn’t come here to talk about me, although it is very sweet of you to ask. Now ask your questions, because I’m sure you have more interesting things
to do than sit in a parlour with a little old lady.’

I let Dowling talk. One old woman to another. ‘We would like to know more about the children. Anne, Mary and Jane. You looked after Jane when she was a girl?’

‘What a question.’ She gave me a mock suspicious look. ‘Why do you want to know about three little girls? They were like any other little girls. They played little girls’ games and talked little girls’ talk.’

‘What was Jane like?’ I asked.

She cocked her head like a sparrow. ‘She was very tall and very pale, thin, with hair like a raven. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black. Sometimes you could imagine that she understood every word you said, saw every thought you had, like an angel almost. It was easy to forget she was simple. She died a long time ago.’

‘Of a fever?’

She smiled wistfully and held her hands together a little anxiously. ‘No,’ she shook her head slowly, ‘though it is the official record. She died by her own hand. She walked off into the marshes and jumped into a pool. She couldn’t swim and so she drowned.’

‘Why did she take her own life?’

‘She became morose. I don’t know why. She was always bright and lively, always laughing. She had a lovely laugh, Mr Lytle, like a little bell. Then she changed.’

‘I wonder why?’

‘Things happen and nature is unpredictable. They say that a noisy boy grows up to be a noisy man but it’s not always true. Nature is less predictable than that. Janie had a little fire that burnt bright in her little heart, but it was as if, as her heart grew bigger, the flame did not. She was a simple soul.’ She
stared into space and I let her mind wander a while. ‘It was ten years ago. She died at twenty. She was foul to everyone when she came back the last time, even to Annie, and she did love little Annie.’

‘Madam, how long did Keeling live in Epsom?’

‘Until Jane was fifteen, some fourteen or fifteen years ago. Then they moved to London. I wouldn’t go, but he let her come and stay with me sometimes. She liked that. But not the last time. Her spirit was sick. Some days she seemed happy, but it was a wild happiness, not real.’

‘Were you there when she died?’

‘She was staying here, yes. She told me she was going for a walk, and so she did, about four o’clock in the afternoon. She went to the marshes where there is nothing to see and where she knew it was dangerous. She jumped into a pool. They pulled her out next morning.’

‘How do you know she jumped?’

‘The surgeon that looked at her couldn’t find a mark on her, and besides, she left me a note.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It said “Goodbye”.’ She tapped her fingers on the table. ‘She never left me a note before, she didn’t write notes.’

‘Who was the surgeon?’

‘John Stow. He lives at the other end of town. Turn left up the road and walk on a quarter of a mile or so. If you get lost then just ask anyone where he lives, everyone knows it. But you cannot miss it, he has a plate on the wall with his name on it.’

She began to arrange some flowers that lay on a side table. Humming a little tune, she left us to ourselves. After one last look around the parlour we announced our departure.
Without looking up she made an affectionate, quiet farewell.

We set off to see this man Stow, me reflecting that beneath it all, Mrs Johnson was pleased to see us go.

Stow’s house was not far from the town pond, around which was a cluster of small houses and shops. The door was answered by a small woman, dressed plainly, with a billowing white cap holding her hair. We walked out into the garden and found John Stow sitting in a chair. The small garden was full of little apple trees. He was lying back with his nose up in the air and his mouth wide open, snoring majestically. Next to the chair stood an empty jug that smelt of ale, and a plate of cream. A tight, round, little pot belly sat like a ball above his short little legs. His arms hung limp. It was a cold and frosty day.

‘He likes his air,’ the woman told me, loudly.

‘He’s taking a big chance sitting out here on a day like this.’ A good way to catch a cold fever.

‘Oh no,’ the woman shouted, ‘he says it blows the dampness off his chest. He’s always trying to get me to join him, but I can’t sleep when he snores like that and my chest is dry.’ She leant over and grasped his nose between the fingers of her right hand. He continued to snore muffled snores for a short time before he woke, coughing and spluttering.

‘I’ve told you before not to wake me like that, woman.’ He coughed and spluttered some more before hawking phlegm onto the grass, clambering to his feet and grunting in surprise. The woman, his wife I supposed, went back to the house singing. What did she have to be so happy about?

‘Who are you, sir?’ He stumbled forward, his legs and head still slumbering. I offered my hand, which was taken limply before being dropped. ‘Ah,’ he squinted at me and eyed me
carefully from toe to head, ‘and what is wrong with you? I am a surgeon, not a physic.’

‘Nothing. We’ve come to ask you some questions about a matter that happened here ten years ago.’

‘Was I in this affair?’

‘Indeed. Ten years ago a girl wandered out into the marshes. Her name was Jane Keeling.’

He immediately paled and his fleshy face went lumpen. ‘Ah,’ he licked his lips, ‘I remember.’

‘The King depends on it.’ This was a big lie, but I reckoned he was a mooning Royalist. Dowling stared at me like I was the Devil himself, but I paid no heed.

‘I have already told him that everything he has asked me to accomplish depends upon your willingness to help him,’ I said officiously. I imagined that I was Keeling’s obnoxious aide. ‘Tell me what happened.’

He looked at me with pleading eyes. ‘There is little to tell. She took her own life, there was no doubt. She wrote a letter to her nanny with whom she was staying, then she walked out to the marshes and jumped into a bog and drowned. She couldn’t swim.’

‘How do you know she jumped in? How do you know that she wasn’t taken to the marsh and thrown into the bog?’

‘She couldn’t have. She left a note with the nanny, I told you. She was seen walking on her own, and she didn’t have a mark on her. She must have jumped in by herself.’ He made a visible effort to keep his hands still, finally sitting on them.

I walked over to the apple tree into whose branches Stow was staring, and leant against it. ‘We’ve spoken to Mrs Johnson, Dr Stow. The note said “Goodbye”, it did not say “Goodbye – I am going to jump in a bog”. That she was seen walking to the marshes on her own doesn’t mean that
she didn’t meet somebody. If she couldn’t swim, then all it would have taken is a little push and she would have fallen in and drowned quickly, without marks. How can I convince the King that your verdict was correct, Mr Stow?’

‘We found her there that night with her brown dress blooming upon the surface of the pool like a dead lily. We found her with torches. A crowd of us went, after Beth Johnson told us she was missing. When we fished her out she was white and pale, but her face was peaceful.’ He wrung his hands in unhappy memory. ‘There was no sign that she died unwillingly.’

‘She died on her birthday. A strange day to kill yourself,’ I remarked.

‘Not if the melancholia has a hold. The days on which others expect you to be happiest can be the hardest. She was very depressed while she was here, Mrs Johnson will have told you. There were no marks on her, no sign of a struggle nor a blow. She most certainly jumped of her own accord. That’s the long and the short of it,’ he asserted, his mouth set, lower jaw protruded and lips drawn tight.

I was certain that he was holding something back. Why had he gone so pale upon the mention of Jane Keeling’s name? ‘Mr Stow. If you lie to me, then you lie to the King. That’s treason.’

His lip trembled, but he returned my stare with dislike and stubbornness. He said nothing.

‘So you would not cooperate with the King.’

‘That’s not true! I have told you everything you wanted to know!’

‘Methinks not, Mr Stow. Once I leave, then your options will be much reduced. For if I discover that you have lied to me, then I will have you arrested for treason.’ His eyes goggled and all of his face, except his nose, went white.

‘She was with child,’ he whispered.

‘Who was the father?’ I replied, astonished.

‘I don’t know.’ Stow let out a deep breath and sat drooped, looking at the floor. He looked like a man condemned to hang.

An appalling thought struck me suddenly. I turned quickly to Dowling who similarly looked like someone had inserted a large carrot up his rectum. We were so keen to talk to each other that we had to go. Stow watched us leave out the corner of his eye with an expression of unutterable relief.

‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth spells revenge,’ I whispered to Dowling as we reached the lane.

‘Aye, the same thought occurred to me. Was Anne Giles killed because Jane Keeling was killed?’

We marched quickly. ‘Jane Keeling died with child.’

‘Yet she was simple.’

‘So someone took advantage of her.’

‘And Anne Giles was killed as revenge.’

One daughter for another? A devilish thought; yet it had occurred to us both independently. This would imply that William Ormonde had fathered Keeling’s child, had used her as his own. I looked at Dowling. He looked shocked, hardly able to meet my eye, just looked to the floor with his mouth grim set, breathing noisily through his nose.

‘Are we mad?’ I asked him. For this was a mad place. Perhaps it had affected us.

‘There is a wicked man that hangeth down his head sadly, but inwardly he is full of deceit.’

That
did
remind me of Ormonde. ‘We must confront him.’

‘Aye,’ Dowling muttered, picking up the pace.

‘Mr Ormonde is not receiving guests, sir.’ The old servant came to meet us again. Better than being ‘not at home’. ‘My master spends his days alone.’

‘Aye, then I expect he will relish the opportunity to converse.’ I nodded and headed off towards the house. We would have walked through walls had we needed to. The servant blinked and trotted after me. I stopped in the hallway. The servant bustled up behind, rubbing his gloved hands together unhappily. ‘My master stays in his study all day.’

‘With so little to do outside his study I am not surprised.’ I set off briskly down the corridor. Pulling at my jacket he kept urging me to stop and wait, but I paid him no heed, reaching the study door in front of him. I knocked loudly. There was silence. I knocked again. This time the door opened after the sound of key turning in lock. Ormonde stood there in the doorway, face red and ruddy, eyes narrow and shiny, grey hair dishevelled and wild. He leant forward from the waist with his hands on his hips. His legs stood firm, but his trunk trembled.

‘Good morning, Mr Ormonde. We are come from London today.’ I put a hand against the door and pushed it gently open. A desk stood in the corner of the room, its chair tucked neatly underneath it, its surface free of objects or documents of any kind. I wondered what he did in here, behind locked doors.

‘I trust you did not make a special trip for I am not in the mood for talking.’ He turned and shuffled back into the room, then sat down in a heavy wooden chair facing away from us so that all we could see was the back of his head. He wore the same coat that he had worn at the funeral, black and old and fraying.