The Sweet Smell of Decay (23 page)

The strange church stood as it always had, quiet and still. I dismounted and wandered through the churchyard past a patch of white-bottle. The door was open – someone was at home other than God. I crossed the threshold slowly, peering into the darkness. No light. No candles. Then a thick arm wrapped itself round my neck, a knife pricked hard at my throat and a low, deep voice whispered into my ear. ‘Harry Lytle.’ The knife dug in just below my Adam’s apple, ‘Shrewsbury’s hound.’

I struggled to breathe. A cloth was clamped down hard over my mouth and nose. I couldn’t move my Adam’s apple without forcing it down onto the razor-sharp blade.

‘Walk.’

I couldn’t walk. The knife was hard against my throat and he was pulling my neck back so hard I couldn’t stand on my own, let alone walk. A trickle of blood dripped down to my
chest. The knife moved swiftly to my ribs, and he grabbed my hair. I fingered my throat. The wound stung, but it wasn’t deep, just a scratch. Steered by the hand that held my hair, I walked forward into the cool interior of the silent church, towards the lectern by the far wall. He marched me towards the front pew, the door to which stood open, and forced me to sit, pulling my hair down with one hand and digging the knife into my waist with the other. I dropped my cane, which clattered to the floor. Then the knife was withdrawn and his face appeared in front of me. Hiding his knife inside his coat he grabbed my wrist. His hands moved like lightning, and before I could think what to do he had bound it to the wooden lattice that decorated the front of the simple pew. Then he grabbed for my other wrist. I whipped it back behind my shoulder until the knife appeared again. His wrists were as thick as most men’s legs. Now I understood how John Giles had been trussed and bound so easily.

At least I could see him now, but the church was poorly lit, and all I could really make out was that he was dressed from head to toe in black. A thick cloak flowed from his chin down to the tops of his big muddy boots. An ordinary hat hid his brow and a scarf covered his mouth. I was in real pain; my wrists were bound so tight that my fingertips were numb, but he just pulled the rope tighter, puffing with satisfied exertion. He sat down next to me on my right. I was forced to lean forwards, held there by the ropes.

‘God bringeth out those that are bound by chains.’ Leaning back, he wrapped his left arm across the back of the pew, while the right hand held the knife. It had a long, thin blade. His eyes burnt, a bright incandescent blue.

Fighting to stay calm I could not stop my arms and legs
from shaking. ‘You killed Anne Giles here. Joyce saw you do it, didn’t he?’

‘Whosoever believeth in him shall have eternal life.’

I pulled gently at the ropes, but my wrists might as well have been set in stone. ‘Am I to die as she did?’

‘No. Thy death will be swift. Then will I take thy body to the river and throw it there. It is time for all of this to end, now that all knoweth that I will be their plagues.’

‘You will be judged after this life if not in it.’ My voice trembled like a woman.

The black-robed figure shook his head. ‘Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace. Anne Giles was innocent, and she shall have her reward in the Kingdom of our Lord. The rest were evil sinners, and I have done God’s work in dispatching them to the eternal flames of Hell.’

‘Richard Joyce was not an evil sinner.’

The blue eyes fixed upon me. ‘That man was dead already. It was God’s mercy that led him here that night. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.’

I pulled harder, without success. ‘It is not your place to walk the streets of London like the Lord God himself, making judgements as to the worth of men.’

Laughing out loud with real mirth he exclaimed, ‘Ah, but I am the Lord Chief Justice. Indeed it is by my judgement that men live or die in this City. It is my job to dispatch you poor wretches. If I say you are guilty then it is in God’s name that you are pronounced guilty. And the fault is yours.’

‘What was Anne Giles guilty of?’

‘She died for another’s sin. I told her how I got her own
husband to steal the key to this church. She wept. Not for herself, but for him, though he did not deserve her tears.’

‘You knew her since she was a baby.’ His blue eyes narrowed. ‘I know who you are, and why you killed Anne Giles.’

‘I just told you who I am.’ The cold blade wormed its way up my right nostril. ‘But it would please me greatly to hear thy account. Speak well, friend, or else I will slit thy nose.’ His voice was black velvet.

‘I will say nothing with your blade up my nose.’

The knife wormed its way higher up my nostril, towards my brain. I felt a lump in my throat and had to cough and splutter, drawing back my head. The knife stayed where it was a while, but then it was slowly withdrawn. I sneezed and wiped my nose hard against my upper arm, desperate to be rid of the foul tickle.

‘Entertain me with thy words of wisdom and insight,’ he mocked me.

I cleared my throat and rubbed my nose again. ‘You are Keeling.’ I looked again into the blue eyes. ‘You killed Anne Giles in fear that William Ormonde would disclose your part in a plot to kill the King. You are a Fifth Monarchist. You knew that Ormonde is too much of a coward to do anything about it, for fear of his own reputation, and for fear of you, I suppose. And he is a wretch. He allowed Joyce to hang for his cowardice, and your sins.’

‘My sins?’ The blue eyes stared at me with such unrelenting intensity that I felt dry-mouthed terror.

‘You killed a sweet, innocent girl for no other reason than to quieten William Ormonde. Why kill her? Why not simply make your intentions clear, it would have been enough?
Methinks that you kill for the pleasure it gives you. Why else did you kill Mottram and Wilson, and then go to the trouble of cutting off their heads?’

I held my breath.

Keeling breathed quietly, saying nothing. ‘Your meddling hath served no purpose other than to please your master. And believe me, Lytle, he doth not deserve it.’

‘It was my duty to try and save Richard Joyce from your justice. He died as a murderer.’

‘Not in God’s eyes.’

‘You had no right to kill him, nor her.’

‘Now the Lord of peace himself gives her peace always, by all means.’

‘God didn’t say that. It was a man that said that.’

‘Art thou ungodly, Lytle? What amazement is this? Or indeed, shouldst we be amazed at all? ’Tis true that thou art a drunkard, a dancing fairy that doth frequent whorehouses, and alehouses. All these unlawful pursuits you indulge in on the Lord’s Day, betimes. The Lord saveth such as be of contrite spirit, Lytle, but if you will not turn from all your sins, then ye shall die, ye shall not live.’ He picked up the knife again.

I looked to the pulpit that Anne Giles had been tied to. ‘Torturing a young woman, poking out her eyes from their sockets. How did that feel, Keeling?’ I asked with sick wonder. ‘So great is your mercy. I don’t believe Richard Joyce’s death troubles you one degree.’

‘Quiet!’ He stuck the knife into my ribs.

‘Ah,’ I snorted, ‘you’re a savage brute.’

He growled. ‘I was born a common man, Lytle, like your father. I laboured hard.’ The knife lashed out suddenly. I jerked my head back, yet he still caught my cheek. I took a
deep, short breath in shock. If I hadn’t seen the blade coming then I would have been cut to the bone. The sweat prickled on my brow and on my back. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open slightly, panting like a terrified cat. He held the knife out, up and wide to his right, hanging majestically in the air. I waited breathlessly, the blood streaming down my cheek and neck.

Smiling a tight, twisted smile, he lowered his knife and tucked it between his legs. ‘One thing more I will tell thee, before thou art dead. I have watched thee keenly, through my eyes and those of others, to see what sort of man you are, what sort of man it was that Shrewsbury sent against me. I still know not why he picked you. It is my place to ensure that justice is done within my jurisdiction, and that is what I do. I administer justice, not the law, for the law and justice are as far apart as my left ear and my right ear. It is justice that decreed Anne Giles must die, to atone for the sins of her father, and it is not ungodly, for I remind you that the innocent often die for the guilty, so that the guilty might be saved. It is a blessing for her that she died as she did and God will reward her for it. And it is justice that Ormonde now bears the grief and the guilt of his daughter’s death, the knowledge that he killed his own daughter, not me, but him. For he would have betrayed me, and in doing so, betrayed the Lord Jesus Christ. Now justice will see him suffer for it, here, and beyond if he does not repent. You must understand the difference between law and justice. John Giles broke many laws, as did the beasts that Hewitt sent after you. They all had learnt how to dance round the law, but they could not dance away from justice. I am Justice.’

‘What is just about my death?’ I asked with warm tears in
my eyes, the cold misery of helpless fear lying heavy on my heart.

‘I am thy salvation, scoundrel! Ye will die because Shrewsbury, who is a devil, hath laid the path for you. But I will save thee. I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean. I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give thee a heart of flesh. For then thou shalt lift up thy face without spot. Repent, Lytle.’

Smiling faintly he seemed to regain his composure. He tested the point of his knife on his thumb, seemingly lost for a moment inside his own reflections. I peered around the inside of the church. This was the view that Anne Giles had seen not so very long ago. And so, I thought, ends the short life of Harry Lytle. I tried to quell the fear that came unwelcome, tried to make peace with the God above that I had supposedly forsaken. My father was a Puritan, John Ray had been a Puritan too, but both of them preached too hard. I needed time to consider for myself. It was too soon to be asked to repent. The church offered no comment. But as I stared at the screen through misty eyes my heart jumped. Movement! Was it Hill, here to fulfil our appointment?

‘Who appoints you justice?’ I asked, seeking time to think and watch.

‘God.’ He held the blade before him.

‘The King, not God! God appoints the King, the King appoints you. Ye must do the King’s bidding!’

‘Thus hath the Lord God shewed unto me. I am a herdsman, a gatherer of sycamore fruit.’ His eyes were bright again and alert. Suddenly he slashed again, this time at the rope that tied me to the pew. ‘The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God is at hand: repent ye, and believe the gospel. It will be hastier
and easier if thee sit back and push out thy ribs as far as they will go. I will slip the blade between thy ribs and into thy heart. Thee will be dead quickly. If thee sit in a ball with thy shoulders tight then I will have to stab you in the gut and you will bleed slowly.’

I looked into those blue eyes and foresaw my death. I pulled a face and did not sit back and push out my ribs. This was his act, not mine. He shook his head sadly. ‘The spirit of truth dwelleth in you, and shall be with you.’

As I looked steadily into his eyes my moment of weakness passed. Leaning back I pulled on the cords that he had chopped. They stretched and strained, the threads on the edge of the ropes breaking away, leaving only two or three inner strands binding me to the pew. Keeling cut at them contemptuously. Sitting back I puffed out my chest. He smiled gently, with cruel eyes, then tossed his long-bladed dagger from hand to hand so it flashed in the dark gloom. I watched his hands without moving my head. He stopped, feinted, then lunged forward, the blade aimed straight at my heart, but I had been waiting for the blow, sitting with my weight on my left thigh. As his arm snaked forward I pushed to my right and twisted inwards. Drawing back my arms, hands still tangled together, I pushed myself forward and punched Keeling hard in the mouth with both fists so that he fell over the back of the pew. He stood up quickly, blood pouring from his lower lip, then stared at me in incredulous fury. Reaching for his knife, he dropped to the floor. Snapping my wrists apart I fell to my right and pushed myself scrabbling towards the right end of the pew. My blood was hot and saucy and I bounced off posts and benches without feeling the impact. I ran to the back of the church, towards the font, rushed to the door and pulled
on the handle, but it was locked. Turning, my field of vision was filled with the figure of Keeling charging at me with knife drawn back ready to strike. I leant back against the door and kicked out hard and high, catching him in the stomach so he doubled up wheezing. This time he didn’t drop the knife. I charged into him sideways, knocked him out of the way and pushed past, then ran down the aisle towards the pulpit, the pulpit that stood over the spot where Anne Giles had died.

‘They being ignorant of God’s righteousness have not submitted themselves unto the righteousness of God!’ Keeling roared furiously from the back of the church, his voice ringing out clearly like a bell, filling every corner of the old building, bouncing from its walls and ringing in my ears.

Kneeling down I slipped off my shoes. I slid them behind the pulpit then ran silently off to the left, heading for the shadows of the speaking pew. Keeling’s long, heavy stride echoed down the central aisle from font to pulpit. I ran on my toes towards the back of the church again, stooping down, hoping that he wouldn’t see me in the murky grey light.

‘Be not curious how the ungodly shall be punished, but ask how the righteous shall be saved, whose world it is, and for whom the world is created,’ Keeling shouted again from the pulpit. I watched him from above the side of a pew, a few feet inside the western wall of the church standing motionless, legs a few inches apart with his back to the pulpit. His head moved very slowly from left to right as he scanned the interior of the silent church. A soft virgin light floated down from the heights of the tall windows set into the eastern wall, reaching down to about chest height before choking in the black darkness that engulfed the floor. I found myself staring not at Keeling, but beyond. Behind
him, ten or twelve paces behind him, was another door, the door to the vestry – where all this started. Thinking for a minute, I then dropped to my hands and knees. There was a door out into the street from the vestry. Crawling quickly back towards the font, my hand landed on something hard and rod-shaped. My cane. I stood up straight in the font’s shadow and projected my voice with all the confidence I could muster.