The Sweet Smell of Decay (25 page)

They allowed me to wash, gave me new clothes and removed my manacles for the trial. The clothes did not fit well, were made of rough linen and indeed were not all that clean, but they were a great improvement on those that had begun to stick to my skin down in the putrid environs of the stone hold. I felt like the King of England himself as I walked into the courtroom, my newly shaven head free of lice, my feet and arse mercifully dry.

As we walked down the bright wooden corridor, alive with people going out about their business with energy and commitment, I felt my own soul awaken. It was contagious, and I found myself imagining all kinds of optimistic outcomes. After all, was not my fate in the hands of my closest friend?

My mood changed completely when we entered the
courtroom. There was not a face I recognised. To my left was a crowd of men, gentlemen they looked like, gathered in small groups of two or three talking seriously. When I entered, flanked on either side by my guards, all eyes turned to me and the din transformed itself instantaneously into a low buzz. I saw horrified fascination and disgust, timorous excitement, anger and fear. None of these men were my friends. I was escorted to a seat at the front of the court where again I sat with guards on either side, and waited.

The Attorney General and the judge entered together, which did not seem proper to me. They spoke to each other in rapid serious staccato, talking as fast as they walked. Obviously they knew each other well, but were in serious mood. They looked at me together, at the same time, short, sharp glances, then strode on. The Attorney General settled himself to my right where he was immediately engulfed in a small army of assistants that had been following at a distance. The judge climbed a short staircase, sat down and started a conversation with one of the clerks at court. They talked for many minutes, never once looking in my direction. I wondered if any would notice were I to discreetly depart. I doubted whether I was to be a real player in this drama at all.

At last the court was called to order. Now the judge looked at me, peering at me down his long nose with cold, stern eyes as the indictment was read out for all to hear. An old man with a long, narrow face, his lips seemed to be curled inwards in a sign of universal disapproval. I returned his stare for a while, which he didn’t seem to like, for his cheeks went red, so then I looked the other way, towards the prosecutor, upon reflecting that it would not be a good idea to anger the man unnecessarily. The prosecutor was also staring at me, but with
a broad, contented smile. A stout fellow, but much younger than the judge. Underneath the edges of his periwig I could see strands of straight black hair, ungreyed and oiled. His brows were thick and black, his eyes a very dark brown, deep and impenetrable. He sat back carelessly with his well-rounded stomach sitting up for all the world to gaze on – if they so cared. After watching me for a while his eyes returned to scanning a paper he held in one hand, just in front of his double chin, caring not if I continued to stare at him, nor who looked away first. Indeed he reminded me of a wealthy merchant sitting in the corner of a coffee house reading the daily news-sheet, happily anticipating a large breakfast.

A clerk began to read a long list of names; Henry Busby of Greatwood Street, George Wheatley of Coleman Street, Richard Gildhart of Friday Street and so on. These were the jurors, sitting on their own bench to our left all in a long row. Another thirty or more stood in a crowd to the left of the bench. All were dressed in their finest silks; dark blues and greens mostly, with brilliant white cuffs and scarves. A fine bunch, indeed. Lords for the day. Those that looked at me now tried to do so in a manner that was both stern and munificent. Today was their finest hour, and it was I that could spoil it for them. The others stood impatiently and anxious, keen that they might be called to serve if others were ejected. Today could be their finest hour too, if I were to make it so.

‘Mr Attorney General.’ The judge addressed my learned colleague in a voice that reminded me of dry toast. ‘Do thee challenge any that hath been selected as juror?’

‘My Lord, I do not,’ my learned colleague replied loudly, smiling at the jury as he did so.

‘Doth the accused challenge any that hath been selected as
juror?’ the judge asked without even bothering to look at me. Feeling so small and insignificant as I did, it would have been an effort simply to say ‘nay’ in a very quiet voice, but I stopped myself from it. The judge was such a dreadfully pompous bag of goose bones that I did not feel inclined to make his day easy. I felt sure that his idea of this easy day was a quick guilty verdict; so the sooner I woke him up the better. The judge looked up with weary impatience, sure, no doubt, either that I was too dull to know that it was my place to speak, or that I was too timorous. Turning my attention to the jurors I ignored him.

Of the twelve, five were looking at me. I could not pretend that they were friendly, but at least they were looking at me. The other seven were sitting with their finely sculpted chins held high in the air or were seeking to establish sympathetic eye contact with the judge, or both.

I stood up. ‘Aye, I challenge seven.’ The guards stood up too, flustered, and the judge looked at me with real hatred.

‘Tyburn calls,’ whispered one of the guards into my ear. It was the first thing I had heard him speak.

‘I challenge seven, My Lord.’

All of the jurors were looking at me now, suddenly concerned, afraid that this great day was to be taken from them. It suddenly occurred to me that those I left behind would feel compelled to show that they felt no gratitude to me. No matter, I had chosen my path, so now was the time to walk it.

‘Which?’ the judge snapped.

‘Well, I forget their names, but I can point them out to you.’

‘Do so!’

The guards showed no sign of allowing me to pass, so I extended my arm and pointed carefully at each of the seven.
The first blinked and looked at me disbelievingly. He seemed surprised to learn that I was even in the room. No matter. The seven of them walked off, shoulders slumped. Back to work you leery rascals. Seven more took their place. After watching them for a while, three returned my stare and four of them stood self-consciously straight backed, gazing forwards. Those four went. Those four were replaced. Of those four all went. Of the next four I kept two, and so on. Finally we were left with a new jury all of whom now stared at me.

By now the judge looked ready to chew on his desk. ‘Mr Attorney General,’ he snarled. ‘Do thee challenge any that hath been selected as juror?’

‘I do not, My Lord.’ The Attorney General looked across at me with laughing eyes like I had made his day more interesting.

‘Thanks be!’ exclaimed the judge, turning to me again. ‘Thy plea is self-defence. Be that still the case, or do thee seek to change that besides?’

‘No, My Lord. My plea remains that of self-defence.’

‘Very well, then call the first witness,’ the judge said more calmly, flicking the instruction at his chief clerk as he spoke.

‘Mr William Marmaduke Hill!’ the clerk summoned solemnly.

Marmaduke? It was with some discomfort that I heard the unfamiliar name. If we were such friends then how was it that I didn’t know he had the name of Marmaduke? Looking over my shoulder I saw the benches were full now, of clerks and other anonymous-looking fellows, sitting in groups, some of them with notebooks and quills, others with nothing at all, yet still poised to do something, go somewhere, take a message, run an errand. Then the doors opened and Hill
appeared, escorted by one of the court clerks. Though it was I who was on trial, it was he that walked as if fettered in chains. Shoulders slumped and head rigid, like he was afraid to look about him for fear of being beaten with a stick. He took short, slow strides towards the witness box as if it were his own scaffold. The old brown shoes had been replaced with new, shiny black shoes with a large brass buckle. He coughed a lot and was sweating about his brow even though it was cold. A very fat man, I reflected, who did not look odd in the corner of a dark tavern at night, but in the cold, bright light of the courtroom he looked out of place and uncomfortable. Only once as he stood in the dock alone did his eyes wander curiously about the courtroom. When he saw me sat there opposite, his eyes dropped and so did his head. I fancied he had been hoping I would be absent.

‘What is your name?’ The clerk stood with his back to Hill speaking very loudly and looking at the ceiling.

‘William Hill of Basinghall Street.’ It wasn’t loud enough for the judge who made him repeat himself. The clerk sat down and the Attorney General stood up.

‘Mr Hill.’ The Attorney General stuck his chest out so far that his belly sat almost unnoticed just above his belt.

‘Yes?’ Hill looked up at his inquisitor, and none other.

‘Describe to me your profession, if you will?’

‘I am a merchant.’

‘A merchant of what?’

‘A merchant of goods.’ I recognised his reluctance to divulge any one thing.

The Attorney General licked his lips and smiled with all his teeth. ‘What goods, Mr Hill?’

‘Various goods,’ Hill glowered at him. ‘I inherited my
father’s business and I import goods from outside England, and sell them inside England.’

‘A merchant, then?’ The Attorney General spoke as if it was a new revelation. The jury were looking at him as if he were either a little mad or very intelligent. He had their attention in any case.

Hill didn’t bother replying, just looked at the Attorney General resignedly in anticipation of further bothersome questions.

‘In the case that we are here to speak of today, Mr Hill, I believe that you had a
particular
role, did you not?’ The Attorney General leant forward with his hands on his desk. ‘A role unrelated to that of merchant?’

‘Aye. I was paid by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles.’ That could not be right. I stared at him, keen to catch his eye.

‘Lord Shrewsbury, acting Lord Chief Justice?’ The Attorney General rolled the last three words round his mouth like a large plum. Shrewsbury had already supplanted Keeling? That was quick work! In which case Shrewsbury had appointed this judge and Shrewsbury it was that had arranged this trial so that I could not call my own witnesses, nor seek help to make my case. Godamercy – it was worse than it could be!

‘Aye, the same.’

‘The defendant, Mr Harry Lytle, has also made claim that he was employed by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles. Is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ I replied loudly. The Attorney General froze, dramatically, and turned to face me very, very slowly, with an appalled expression upon his face. Everyone else in the court took his lead, except Hill. The judge breathed noisily through
his nose as if he couldn’t force his mouth to open.

‘The defendant will not speak again unless I ask him a question directly. If he speaks again then he will be taken away from this place and the proceedings shall continue without him.’ He looked at me severely. ‘Does the court understand?’

The court murmured its assent. I tried to look suitably chastened.

‘Mr Hill.’ The Attorney General returned to his witness with great fortitude, still struggling to recover from the shock. ‘Mr Lytle has also made claim that he was employed by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles. Is that correct?’

‘No.’ Hill shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Mr Lytle was asked to investigate the death of Anne Giles by his father, who was mistakenly of the belief that Anne Giles was a relation of the family.’

‘A relation of the family?’ The Attorney General looked suitably perplexed. ‘Can it really be so?’

‘Aye, sir. I have a letter to that effect.’

‘May I see the letter?’ the Attorney General asked, one of his clerks hurrying forward to the witness box. Hill fished out a letter from within the folds of his jacket and handed it to the clerk. Well, I didn’t see how this could fly. How could that be my letter?

‘Allow me to read the letter, My Lord.’ The Attorney General bowed to the judge, who nodded his head.

‘Son.’ The Attorney General declared solemnly, pausing for comic effect. Members of the jury sniggered dutifully. I began to despise this preening cockerel.

‘Still here. In this lairy place.’ Cue widespread laughter.

‘Your mother seems happy, tho. Must be the pigs that they
breed here
coz she likes pigs
.’ The clerks were laughing now with mouths wide open and hands to their stomachs, seeing who could make the most noise. The jury were not much more restrained. Even the judge smiled. Looking thoroughly ashamed of himself, looking at the toes of his feet, only Hill was not amused. So it should be. It was clear which way he had chosen to walk.

‘Nothing to gladden a man’s heart in Cocksmouth. Nothing for me to do save help her brother in the shed. Can’t make shoes here. You caring for the shop?
Some hope
.’ Disapproving groans from the Attorney General’s willing audience. It was almost artistic the way he orchestrated their reactions. I had to acknowledge his expertise.

‘I note you haven’t been to visit. Your mother notes it too.’ More of the same.

‘You have a cuz, name of Anne. Married to a man called John Giles. Don’t think you knew your cuz Anne. Not likely to now coz she dead. Someone killed her. I took the liberty of telling Mr Prynne esq. that you have to leave his employ.’ There were some low groans and mutterings at the mention of Prynne’s name.

‘We’ll be back when your grandmother has died.
About time, I say
.’ The paid help behind me gasped their horror at such callous words and the jury turned to look at me, eyes burning with affronted loathing. Me? I just sat there fuming. Some villain had taken this letter from my house – which implied prior knowledge of its existence. And where the boggins was my father?