The Sweet Smell of Decay (15 page)

‘You know that they have hung a man for the death of your daughter. A man called Joyce.’

Staring out of the window at empty fields leading to thick woods, he sat slouched. ‘Who was he?’

‘Once a soldier and a landowner. He was struck down on the battlefield. He took an injury so bad that they had to drill holes in his head.’

‘Why do they say he killed Anne?’ The old man steepled his fingers and looked into space.

‘They didn’t.’

‘Then why did they hang him?’ The old man waved a hand impatiently, casting Dowling a quick sideways glance.

‘Because the mob saw him running from the church around the time of the killing, and for Keeling that was enough evidence.’

Mumbling something, he gestured feebly with his right hand, a wrinkled claw that protruded from worn cuffs. I sat on the sill of the window through which he was staring.

‘Why do you think that Keeling took such a personal interest, sir?’

‘He used to be a friend.’

‘No more?’

Slumped in the chair, he hid his face. ‘We lost contact once he moved to London.’

I looked at Dowling, who stood behind Ormonde. He nodded gently. I sighed before telling him what we had discovered. ‘We know that Jane Keeling took her own life ten years ago, on her twentieth birthday, because she was with child. Now another man’s daughter has been killed on
her
twentieth birthday, her eyes mutilated and her teeth removed, indications of revenge.’ I watched his expressionless dull face. ‘Have we intruded upon some private feud?’

As my words sunk in, his eyes widened, his body jerked
in spasm, and a strangled whine escaped his cold blue lips. He stared at me, his tight body twitching, his arm stiff and straight, his hand hovering an inch above his knee. ‘Sit down,’ he whispered at last.

Neither of us moved.

‘Who told you these things?’ The old man raised his head slowly, his shoulders still tight and hunched.

‘Are they true?’

‘You would imply that I fathered the girl’s child?’ The old man stood and stepped towards me.

‘Would you deny it?’ I replied, edging sideways.

‘Deny it? Naturally, I deny it! You accuse me of the most wicked and foul of all deeds! Who told you that Keeling’s daughter was with child? What maul hath unleashed such arrows? All liars shall have their part in the lake, the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.’ He reached me with two long deliberate strides, his hands held out before him like claws.

I stood my ground without raising my hands against him, praying that either he calmed down or that Dowling would step forward to protect me. ‘If you speak the truth then you have nothing to fear.’

Ormonde blinked, ‘I will ask you one more time, you that speak with black tongue and foul breath. From where did you get these iniquities, this false and vile information?’ He let his arms fall to his side. His face was wreathed in hateful disdain.

‘I told you that I would not disclose it.’

‘Then begone, wretch. But think wisely before you choose to stain my reputation with your vile lies. Put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall
I
be afraid?’ Ormonde
laughed, a deep shallow laugh, with no body to it. ‘The Lord is
my
helper, and I shall not fear what
man
shall do unto me, for he is mine enemy.’

I took an instant dislike to all and any that shouted Bible quotes at me.

He clasped his hands in front of his waist, sharp smile beneath now hooded eyes. ‘Keeling will be full of fury when he hears your accusation. It matters not where the rumour starts, if he hears it then he will now assume that it comes from you. Once it is established that in fact she was not with child, then shall he heap piles of coal on your head. In righteousness, therefore, I am safely established. Good day to thee, Mr Lytle.’

He stepped forward, placed a hand on my shoulder, and with a strength that I had not suspected, tried to propel me towards the door. I was not in the mood to be manhandled by decrepit old Baptists and I stood my ground. Once he realised I had no intention of moving he stood licking his lips, neck crooked, a twisted smile on his bitter face. He stood there frozen for a moment before returning silently to his chair. We watched the back of his scaly head again.

‘I was a Baptist,’ he said at last. ‘So was Keeling. The old King used to send men to arrest people like us. I was imprisoned myself for a short time, about twenty years ago. But his Parliament didn’t trust him and after he tried to force money from them to wage war on the Scottish Presbyterians, they killed him. That was the end of it all, I fear, for though those men scoured the Lord’s Book and found some words that they said justified their regicide, it was an evil thing that they did. I said nothing then, for I was too passioned by it all, the possibility that man might be free to indulge the indwelling spirit, that he might find his own salvation at last.’

What that had to do with the smell of bacon I had no idea, but I was loath to interrupt. It was an opportunity to learn more about this strange old man.

‘Cromwell forsook the dream of Godly reformation in the name of compromise. He spoke to me himself, told me that I lacked prudence, that I might think to avoid the fate of the Fifth Monarchists.’

‘What fate?’ I asked.

‘And in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed: and the kingdom shall not be left to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all these kingdoms, and it shall stand for ever.’

‘Daniel 2: 44. King Nebuchadnezzar’s dream,’ Dowling said softly.

‘Aye, butcher, if butcher is what you be. The Fifth Kingdom. There were many, myself one of them, that believed that the death of the King was a sign from God that the new kingdom was to come. In their eyes Cromwell was God’s instrument, he who hath been ordained to make free the path back to Christ. But he betrayed them. He put their leaders into prison. He warned me that my own energies were misdirected, and again I listened. Others did not, I fear, but more than that I fear that they were right, for where now Godly reformation? Where now the new kingdom?’

The old man stood up and walked to the window, from where he looked out onto the dead, frozen countryside. ‘It was all for nothing that they killed a King. And now his son is returned, and what do we suppose he thinks of it all?’ Ormonde turned to regard me with mocking eyes, looked at my clothes, finer than the old frayed black cloth that he wore. ‘He plays games
at Court, sets man against man. Why should this King bear any love for us, his people? For there are many of us that were agin him at one time or another, even if we may regret it now. He put to death only those that signed his father’s death warrant, the rest of us are free to live, as we will. He could not arrest every man that plotted against him, seize their property, remove them from Court, he does not have that influence. Keeling does not proclaim his past, but it is
no secret
.’ He practically shouted the last two words, for no obvious reason. He slumped back into his chair with his hands limp on his lap.

‘You are hopeless,’ said Dowling.

‘Aye. Indeed I would be left in that condition. Now, maybe you would pay me the kindness of leaving me as you find me.’

‘Sir, we came on an errand, one which for us does carry hope.’

Ormonde sat silently with eyes closed, ignoring us. What sort of man was this? Old and tired.

‘A wicked man hardeneth his face,’ Dowling said, breaking his silence.

‘As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more,’ Ormonde replied, without looking up. ‘Please leave now.’

We stood our ground a while longer, but Ormonde remained motionless, ignoring our presence. There was little more that we could do without more proof.

As soon as we stepped out of the room the door crashed behind us and the key was turned in the lock. Most unwelcoming. I thought to develop our understanding better with Mary Ormonde, but the old servant said that she had left the house and would not be back until the morrow. That was rum too, but no rummer than anything else that had occurred that day.

We talked all the way home. Could it be true – that Ormonde had deflowered his friend’s own daughter? Was his violent reaction born out of indignation – or sick fear that his deeds would be publicised? Why had the Lord Chief Justice himself taken such a personal interest in condemning Richard Joyce? There was no love lost between Keeling and Ormonde – that much was now clear – so how could Keeling’s involvement be attributed to a desire to help the Ormonde family? Were his efforts instead directed at covering his own misdemeanour? Was it Keeling that killed Anne Giles? Joyce’s description of the man he saw at Bride’s came to mind – big and bear-like. Hewitt was bear-like – but a very short bear. Keeling was large, yet the idea that the Lord Chief Justice would involve himself in such a wicked affair? And what of Hill in all of this? And Hewitt?

At length, and not without trepidation, Dowling volunteered to talk to some that he knew through the Mayor. He would attempt to probe more into the history between Ormonde and Keeling, that we might develop a better understanding upon which to make our assumptions. When all was said and done, though – we still both believed in our hearts that Hewitt was the beast that murdered Anne Giles, and set ourselves to finding out more about
his
activities.

At Hill’s house the woman that opened the door told me a great lie when she said he wasn’t home; I saw his shoes thrown down upon the floor in the hallway. They were the only shoes I’d ever seen him wear these last five years, so if he wasn’t at home then he was out and about in his stockings. I did not say as much to the servant for if she spoke a lie then it wasn’t hers. I could only assume that Hill was shy of my attentions, so suggested to her that she ask him to meet me at Paul’s in one hour, a busy place where we could talk without being noticed. She readily agreed and was happily closing the door upon me when she realised, late, that she could hardly commit to pass on the message to a master who wasn’t at home. I cut short her pink-cheeked stutterings, smiled my most charming smile, bowed and took my leave.

I went straight to Paul’s. It was my instinct to meet Hill where it was busy. If he had something to do with the disappearance of my father, then I had to regard him as a dangerous enemy, whatever our history.

The cathedral was full. The noise of the printing presses echoed from the eastern vaults, the meat sellers and fruit sellers wandered the nave shouting out the price and quality of their wares. All of London wandered across – east and west – for it was the fastest route between Ludgate and Cheapside. I went out into the churchyard and lingered beneath a great oak tree from where I could see the Cross; the meeting place where Hill would come.

He arrived soon enough, clean, trimmed and fresh. He was looking about him, peering into the grey gloom. He seemed to be alone. There were still folks loitering so I stepped out.

‘It’s a wet day to be yarning out here, Harry, when we could be tucked up warm in the Crowne.’ His breath billowed out into the cold, crisp air like smoke. ‘So. What news, Harry? You went to Epsom?’ He spoke as a man who knew very well that I went to Epsom.

‘Aye.’

‘What did you find?’

‘It would seem that Keeling’s daughter took her own life ten years ago, when secretly carrying a bastard child. She died on her twentieth birthday, the same as Anne Giles.’

‘Are you sure?’ He looked at me with keen eyes.

I knew what he wanted me to say next. ‘Aye. If indeed this affair is about revenge, then the finger points at Keeling. The Lord Chief Justice himself. He is a big man, is he not?’

A change came over William Hill. Whilst before he had stood like he carried the Wisdom of Solomon on his back,
now he seemed to float upwards into the grey sky, the arches of his feet curving gracefully upwards. His face changed too, and for a moment I saw the open, carefree expression of the old William Hill, drinker of fine (and not so fine) wines and ales, witty raconteur. Then he blinked and the smile was gone. Yet still he glowed like a fire at the end of a cold winter’s night. ‘Hold up your head, Harry. Or shall ye have the King’s horse?’ He punched me on the shoulder, unable to contain himself. His eyes sparkled, laughing with a special delight.

‘Why are you so happy to hear of it, William? You are not shocked that I would implicate the Lord Chief Justice?’

He pulled me back towards the dry indoors out of the cold drizzle. ‘What did you say when you discovered it, Lytle? It was clear that something strange and evil was at play. Too strange to guess at, but now that the story is told it rings true like these very bells.’ He leant close. ‘What will you do now?’

‘Dowling is going to talk to the Mayor, attempt to establish if there could be any credibility in it.’

His eyes set to twinkling once more; stars sparkled against the black carpet of his oily eyes. ‘Excellent.’ He patted me on the arm softly and smiled contentedly.

I shook my head. ‘Methinks I am still unable to comprehend that the Lord Chief Justice killed a common girl with his own hands. I still believe Hewitt to be the killer.’

Hill grimaced. ‘Come, Harry.’ He sidled up to me and spoke to me like I was still his younger brother. ‘The reason I am so uppity is that your words ring true. I had heard rumours come from Epsom, which is why I insisted that you go. I was afeared that you would not solve this riddle set to you by Shrewsbury, but by heaven I think you have done it! All this business about Hewitt is nonsense. Merchants don’t go around murdering
people to remedy their woes. If they did then you would not be able to walk the streets without being knocked over by one merchant or another chasing some poor scallywag!’

‘You would think so.’ I fixed my eyes upon his. ‘Yet two men abducted my father three days ago, and he is about as dangerous to any man as a bag of feathers.’

For a moment he looked at me like I held a knife to his balls. Then he recovered and looked at me as if it was all news. He adopted a look of great concern and asked me the story of it but I waved him away. I had seen enough in those big black eyes. ‘You know who took him, William. Tell me where I might find him.’

He blinked and lifted his hands to his chest like he was going to sing me a song. ‘I have heard nothing of it, Harry, but I will ask.’

I sneered. ‘The only reason I can think of that any would have taken him is so that I couldn’t speak to him and find out why he wrote me that letter telling me that Anne Giles was my cuz. One of them men that took him was also there the day he wrote the letter. It’s all very strange when considered alongside Shrewsbury’s strange inclination to put himself out supposedly for the sake of my family.’

Hill’s face reddened. I had offended him. ‘He is your patron, Harry, and – as I have told you – he is a good patron to have.’ He rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, a familiar sign of uncertainty. ‘If you don’t trust me then I suggest you talk to him.’

‘I don’t think he will talk again with me, Hill. As you know.’

‘I think he will be happier once news of what you have found spreads. It will relieve him of some of the concerns he has for his own safety.’

I frowned at him, trying to work out what he assumed. ‘I will not be spreading the news, William. It was all too easy. It sits awkwardly with me. Now the story is there in my head it indeed rings true like cathedral bells. The bells ring so loud that I cannot help but feel that they were hung especially for me to hear.’

Hill shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Mary Ormonde told us that her father and Keeling were once Baptists.’

Hill interrupted me, putting a finger to his lips bidding me to be quiet.

‘So! These are not things to say aloud!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yet
she
did.’

‘She is a country girl, Lytle, innocent in her ways.’

‘Not so innocent, Hill,’ I assured him, ‘for she directed us to her old nanny where next we were told very easily that Jane Keeling took her own life. She then instructed the nanny to direct us to the local surgeon who very easily told us that the girl was with child when she died.’ I shook my head.

‘Why can you not see that such frankness is born of innocence? These simple country people spake the truth because they did not realise the full consequence of their words.’

‘If they are so simple then why should Keeling permit them to live their lives where any might come and discover such a damaging tale? If he is the one that killed Anne Giles and merrily condemned Richard Joyce to an underserved death – then why should he shrink from killing the nanny or the surgeon?’ I shook my head again.

Hill now looked guarded, uncertain of himself. He and I both knew that it was he that had insisted I go to Epsom. If
there had been any bells hung for my benefit, it was he that did the stringing.

‘If I was you, Harry, I would share my doubts with Shrewsbury himself. He is your patron, he will guide you.’

‘He did not seem so anxious to guide me last time we spoke. He seemed more concerned that I tell him nothing and be sure his name was not associated with the affair. Would he welcome me mentioning the possibility of the Lord Chief Justice’s guilt?’

‘Aye, Harry, he would have to. It is not a possibility that he would have you keep from him. Be well advised.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and looked at me seriously. ‘Take my word for it.’

I almost laughed, but managed to sneeze instead. ‘Aye, well thanks for the kind advice, William. I will see you soon.’

I turned and left him standing there like the mangy dog he was. So Hill
was
working for Shrewsbury in this. The two of them were determined that I dig out this old tale from Epsom. But what was at the root of it? That Shrewsbury should wish Keeling to be implicated was understandable – the two men were rivals – but was this a plot built on rock, or a plot built on sand? And what was the significance of the two old men once having been Baptists together? We would have to work out how to untie that knot once we had further counsel back from Dowling’s friends. In the meantime – Matthew Hewitt.

The Royal Exchange is where rich people throw their money away on exotic rubbish. It is also where London’s merchants meet to swap news and do deals. At the heart of the Exchange is a massive courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by an arcade behind rows of thin marble columns. Statues of all the
kings of England from William to Charles I stand on plinths above the portico peering down onto the throng below. There are nearly two hundred shops trading in the arcades, selling perfumes and scents from the Far East, silk from China, sables, jewels, gold lace and so on. A tall, thin tower with an Arabian roof stands above it all, with a giant grasshopper impaled on its peak. Four more grasshoppers sit on the corners of the roof.

This was the stomping ground of Matthew Hewitt, and I was determined to catch him in some nefarious deed. The courtyard was full today, the merchants gathered in small groups, heads bowed, engaged in quiet negotiation and exchange of information. Straining my ears hopefully to see what I could pick up, I walked slowly. Even the statues seemed to be leaning over, stretching their necks to try and hear what was being said below. I watched the short sharp movements of the merchants’ hands, the intensity writ on their faces, the stooped shoulders and low whisperings. The restoration of Charles had done wonders for business. Charles II was following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, pursuing discreetly the building of relations with Catholic Europe in the name of peace, against the wishes of a vociferous Protestant population who were afraid of the Pope and the insidious tendrils of Rome. The war with the Dutch was the subject of the day; a multitude of guessing games surrounded its outcome.

It took me ten minutes to find Matthew Hewitt, short squat body and stumpy legs. He seemed shrunken outside the dark sanctuary of his little sitting room, some of the menace evaporated in the light of day. His legs were bowed, though not deformed, their curving shape accentuated by the high heels he wore in an attempt to increase his stature. His skin was not
just pale, but white like snow, in contrast with the jet black of his hair. Hirsute, but not like Dowling. Dowling’s hairs grew in the right places: on his head, arms and chest. The hairs on this man’s body were more randomly arranged. There was a patch, for example, of thick black bristles growing in a round patch from a lump on his left cheek. They were trimmed short but impossible to hide. He wore a thick, black little beard trimmed neatly into a blunt point and his eyebrows curved upwards, adding to the intensity of his awful black eyes. Long nails, strong and sturdy, a big pig, yet I admired his clothes – silk and very expensive. His movements were more restrained than those of his colleagues, his manner more calm and confident.

For about ten minutes I watched him before he suddenly looked up. His eyes fixed on mine and his face tightened into a grim mask. I held the stare, though my heart pounded, and then he looked away. Returning to his conversation, he stayed where he was. Three of them talked for about twenty minutes before they were joined by two more. This group carried on talking for another half an hour. During that time another man, obviously not a merchant, came and spoke briefly to Hewitt twice. This man was dressed in rough linen clothes, poorly tailored, the stitch designed to hold, not to impress. He was tall, heavy and ponderous. Had I seen him before?

Then I spotted William Hill standing in easy conversation with two others, apparently unaware of my presence. He must have come direct from Paul’s. As Hewitt’s bear-like companion trod heavily nearby, Hill acknowledged him and exchanged a few words. One of Hill’s companions shook hands with both Hill and the big man, and the two of them departed. What the Devil was Hill’s connection to Hewitt? Then suddenly Hewitt took off. He strode purposefully towards the exit, moving
fast without stopping to talk on the way. At the last possible moment I saw his wide shoulders disappear. I sprinted out onto the street but he was already gone. I cursed both him and me as I stood looking around, wondering what to do next. In the end I went home, cursing my incompetence.

The day was grey, my mood was black and my feet felt like I was wearing lead shoes. I took off my periwig, before I reached Sopar Lane, to scratch at my itching scalp, ignoring the disapproving stares of a portly man who used to know my father. Calling for Jane as I entered my little house, I was impatient to get my feet into a bowl of hot water. No one answered. I decided to go and sit down with my shoes off to await her return. I pushed open the door to my small sitting room and went to my favourite carved wooden chair with its soft, inviting cushion. Just before my head exploded I heard a noise just behind me, like the soft clearing of a throat.

It was the pain that woke me up, ferocious, burning like a hot iron rod pressed against my temples and driven into the top of my neck, a raging sickening pain that I felt at the pit of my stomach. I was afraid to move lest it encouraged the pain to stab deeper and I couldn’t move my eyes without making it worse. Breathing slowly and gently, I could feel the pain throb in rhythm with the beating of my heart. The back of my eyes felt like raw, skinned meat rubbing up against stone. My guts churned, ready to empty. Lying still I became gradually aware that my cheek was lying in a pool of freezing cold water. My body was frozen and stiff.