The Sweet Smell of Decay (26 page)

‘Mr Hill,’ cried the Attorney General in a strident tone designed to bring the court to order. ‘Did you succeed in establishing who murdered Anne Giles?’

‘Aye, sir. A man named Richard Joyce killed Anne Giles and was hung for it.’ I looked at Hill. This was a lesson. The face of a man telling a very big lie. This was the same man that had casually dismissed the possibility that Joyce was the killer and had urged me hasten to Epsom.

The Attorney General feigned puzzlement. ‘The accused protested against Joyce’s indictment and said that in fact he did not kill Anne Giles and that there was none that saw him do it. That he was merely seen running from the church of St Bride’s …’ he paused for theatrical effect ‘… in fear.’

Hill said nothing.

‘Who was this man Joyce?’

Hill cleared his throat and wiped his brow. ‘Joyce was an old soldier, a Roundhead. He was injured on the field of battle, an injury that left him unbalanced, indeed mad. He had been trepanned.’ The jurors all wrinkled their noses in revolted synchronicity. ‘He was a man that often showed signs of furious rage. The killing itself was not witnessed, true, but he was seen running the streets of London with blood all over his hands, on his clothes and on his face. Later the girl’s necklace was found about his person. All this was shown at his trial.’

‘A trial conducted by Lord Keeling,’ the Attorney General finished, looking to Hill for confirmation. Hill nodded.

‘How did the accused respond to the conviction of Richard Joyce?’

‘He was unhappy and came to talk to me.’

The Attorney General sat down. ‘Why did he come to talk to you? Did he know that you were conducting the enquiry on behalf of Lord Shrewsbury?’

Hill at last turned to look in my direction. His eyes were
rheumy, red-rimmed and bloodshot. He looked very tired. ‘No, he did not. Harry Lytle is an old friend of mine. We went to Cambridge together.’ More gasps from the audience. I sat back, vexed. Not only was the sole witness testifying to my own misguided depravity, but he was doing so from the perspective of ‘old friend’. Old friend, indeed. I narrowed my eyes, bared my teeth and glowered at Hill, who quickly looked away.

‘So he came to you as an old friend.’ The Attorney General waved a hand in my direction. ‘What did you advise him as an old friend?’

‘I advised him to go to Epsom to make peace with the Ormonde family.’ Not entirely untrue, I supposed.

‘What did he do instead?’ The Attorney General stood up again suddenly with arms outstretched, succeeding in focussing the jury’s attention on Hill.

‘He was certain that Anne Giles had been killed by Matthew Hewitt of Basinghall Street. He believed that John Giles had been blackmailing Matthew Hewitt and that Hewitt murdered his wife as a warning to him.’

‘Could that have been the case?’

‘No, sir. It is inconceivable that a man as esteemed as Matthew Hewitt would kill Anne Giles, especially if you consider the manner in which she was killed. It is clear that Anne Giles was killed in a mad frenzy by Richard Joyce.’

‘But Hewitt was a bit of a scoundrel?’ The Attorney General winked. Oh aye, a bit of a ruffian and a scallywag. Again I had to congratulate the Attorney General for the way he was leading his jury. Meantime they sat there all self-important.

‘He may have been,’ Hill nodded, ‘but no more than that. The Exchange is a place where hard words are often spoken
and agreements sealed by a handshake. I think that Harry Lytle mistook what he saw there. I have a better understanding, since it is my trade.’

‘Mistook what he saw there, you say.’ The Attorney General grasped his chin between forefinger and thumb. ‘How did this ignorance manifest itself, I wonder?’

‘He came down to the Exchange and followed Matthew Hewitt about the place. It was inconvenient for Hewitt since it prohibited him going about his business as he would.’

‘How do you know that the accused went to the Exchange and followed him about the place?’

‘I was there and saw it.’

There was one of the jurors that I was beginning to loathe with a passion. He kept looking over at me, shaking his head and tutting audibly.

‘I see.’ The Attorney General shuffled some papers in silence. The jurors’ heads slowly stretched outwards in his direction, necks craned, as if to try and read those papers. ‘John Giles died soon after, did he not?’

‘Aye, he did.’ Hill’s eyes started to dart and flicker and he started shuffling again.

‘How did he die?’

‘He hung himself by the neck,’ Hill replied.

‘Godamercy,’ I muttered to myself. I turned to the guard on my left and whispered into his ear. ‘That is the biggest lie he has spoken today!’

The court quietened and I found myself being stared at once more. The guard inched himself away from me, looking embarrassed. I could feel the judge’s stern gaze upon me though I chose not to meet his stare. The prosecutor shook his head slowly and smiled sympathetically at me. I waited for
the judge to speak, but it was the prosecutor that broke the silence.

‘The accused would have us believe, I understand, that John Giles was thrown off London Bridge with a rope tied about his arms and legs by a villain?’ He turned to Hill.

‘Not possible,’ Hill shook his head, ‘and besides, I saw the rope marks around his neck.’

‘Why did he take his own life?’

‘Hard to say, sir, though there were rumours that he was at odds with Matthew Hewitt. Also the accused spent time with John Giles speaking of Matthew Hewitt, and may have put the fear of God into him.’

So! I was no longer even Harry Lytle. Even Hill was now referring to me as ‘the accused’. Would I were able to put the fear of God into a man like I saw it in John Giles – then I would put it into William Hill! May his soul rot in Hell and be devoured by maggots.

‘Did the accused come to speak with you again?’ The Attorney General raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Perchance?’

‘Aye, he came to see me. We met at the menagerie since he said he did not feel safe elsewhere.’

‘Did not feel safe?’ the Attorney General frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hill replied, ‘though I fear the strain of it all was greatly bothering him. Besides, he told me that John Giles was murdered and renewed his vow to bring Hewitt to justice.’ This was not right either, not that it would make any difference. I was sure that I had made no mention of John Giles’s death to Hill.

The Attorney General stood with his legs together, one leg crooked, his arms folded and one finger pointed upwards. A
man in contemplative repose. The jury leant forward eagerly. ‘So, Mr Hill. You quickly discharged your duties in establishing who killed Anne Giles, but you also discovered that your best friend was engaged in the same pursuit at the bidding of a – shall we say –
eccentric
patriarch.’ He paused and looked to the judge as if for Godly inspiration. ‘Your friend, who is a clerk and is of a – shall we say –
lowly
background, comes to a different conclusion, based on – shall we say –
scatterbrained
suppositions, and begins to lose his sense of reason. Is that a fair summation?’

I glared at Hill. I didn’t mind the ‘eccentric patriarch’ nor the ‘lowly background’ – it would be hard to refute either assertion, despite the conceit and pomposity in which the words were dressed, but ‘scatterbrained suppositions’? His black eyes glistened, then he sighed, and looked like a man who wished he could go back a year and live his time again. ‘Aye, fair.’

‘Matthew Hewitt was murdered too, was he not?’ The Attorney General suddenly looked very serious, and why not? The death of a couple of commoners is hardly worth writing home about, but Hewitt was almost a gentleman.

‘He was.’

‘What knowledge do you have of that killing?’

‘I saw it happen,’ Hill replied very quietly. The Attorney General shook his head sharply, as if he had a flea in his ear, and feigned amazement. Could the jury not see that this performance had clearly been rehearsed many times? This was the best play in town. The juror whose posturings were fraying at my nerves looked at me as if I were the Devil himself. I shrugged and stared him out until he looked away. Inside, though, I was looking forward to Hill’s reply as much as any
in court. Was it possible that he
had
been there in Alsatia? Was he implicated in Hewitt’s death himself?

‘Tell us,’ the Attorney General said quietly before sitting again and leaving the stage to Hill.

‘Hewitt was at the time imprisoned in a cellar in Alsatia,’ Hill explained.

‘A cellar in Alsatia?’ The Attorney General struggled to his feet again. ‘Imprisoned by whom?’

‘By the accused,’ Hill answered.

‘The accused imprisoned Matthew Hewitt in a cellar in Alsatia?’ The Attorney General left his position and wandered across the front of the bench until he stood opposite me. He stood with his legs astride and his hands on his hips and glared. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded.

He seemed to be speaking to me. ‘I thought that I was not permitted to speak?’ I replied, trying to see the judge.

‘The accused has been asked a question by the Attorney General. He must answer the question directly,’ I heard the judge snarl.

‘Hewitt was—’ I started.

‘Did you imprison Matthew Hewitt in a cellar in Alsatia? State “aye” or “nay”,’ the Attorney General interrupted me, speaking with such passion that he left spittle on his chin.

‘Aye.’

The Attorney General relaxed. He clasped his hands in front of his plums and bowed his head like he was the Lord Jesus Christ, before raising his chin and regarding me like I was one of the two robbers. ‘Pray continue!’ He returned to his station.

‘Well,’ Hill stuttered. ‘By this time I was concerned. The accused was a friend of mine and I heard word that he had
abducted Hewitt in order to extract confession from him.’

‘Confession to what crime?’

‘Confession that he had killed both Anne Ormonde and John Giles.’

‘Ah yes!’ the Attorney General proclaimed, ensuring that the jury did not become confused, ‘because he was at odds with John Giles over some affair at the Exchange.’

‘Indeed,’ Hill continued, ‘and so I followed him into Alsatia that I might find where he had Hewitt kept, and seek to persuade him to liberate him.’

‘Very noble of you,’ the Attorney General remarked reverentially. The first time in my life I had heard anyone refer to Hill as noble. Him too, I supposed, judging by the pink patches that appeared on his cheeks. Godamercy – he was blushing! With shame, I hoped.

‘Aye well, not so noble I suppose.’

‘What happened?’

‘I followed him deep into the tenements there. He went to a house that was derelict.’

Now what was happening? I suddenly realised that he had made no reference to Davy Dowling in any of this. And he was deliberately omitting Thomas and Mary besides, two acquaintances of Dowling’s. I didn’t
mind
him leaving Dowling out of this tale, indeed it was a blessing, but I wondered what was his motive? By leaving Dowling out of his account he effectively isolated me in the telling of it, but I was not permitted to call witnesses. By leaving Dowling out of it he lost a chance to condemn the butcher alongside me, leaving him free to tell what tales he may. Why would he do that? Why would Shrewsbury wish it so? Unless Dowling had betrayed me too? That was difficult to credit. Yet I felt momentarily
shocked and my already downtrodden soul lost another drop of spirit.

‘Derelict, you say?’

‘Aye, not habitable. There were some animals there that I suppose were kept by folks that lived close by. Also there was a cellar, and it was there that the accused had imprisoned Hewitt.’

‘You saw it?’

‘I saw the accused go into this ruin. He had a key with him that he used to unlock a chain that lay on the floor. He then pulled the cellar door up open, which was when I realised what it was. He descended down some steps and then came up with Hewitt who was bound in ropes and in a very sorry state.’

‘A very sorry state?’

‘Aye, I reckon he had been down there for at least two days.’ Aye – and so he had. Hill described the scene too well.

‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, the accused asked him questions about the murders. He was seeking for Matthew Hewitt to confess to the crimes. When Hewitt did not, then the accused became enraged. He kicked Hewitt while he was on the floor, still bound with the ropes. Eventually he kicked him so hard that he started to bleed from the mouth.’

‘Did the accused then administer aid?’

‘No, sir. I fancy that he lost his senses at that point and kicked Hewitt all the harder.’

‘What a brute,’ whispered the Attorney General. Now I had all the jurors staring at me again and the judge besides. What nonsense. I sat dejected waiting for Hill to resume his silly tale.

‘Aye, well once he had seemingly killed Hewitt he took a
knife from his pocket and cut the man’s tongue out.’ I gasped myself at this atrocity – the atrocity that Hill should lay the ownership of that barbaric act at my door. The rest of the court started shouting curses at me because they believed it. It took the clerks some minutes to restore order while I sat there embarrassed and fuming. Hill looked at me again, this time openly and boldly. So – he had finally sold his soul and cared not who knew it.

Puffing up his chest and straightening his jacket he declared in loud voice, ‘Then he nailed it onto the trapdoor and walked out in a tremendous fury!’

I wondered from where I had got hammer and nail in this derelict hovel, but did not of course have the opportunity to ask. It was several minutes before the clerks could persuade the assembled throng to at least stop shouting and wailing. The judge sat impassive throughout, eyes fixed on my miserable self. When he cleared his throat all were quiet. ‘Doth the accused understand the testimony that hath been spake thus far?’ He leant forward and eyed me like his lunch.

‘I
understand
it,’ I replied, attempting to establish that did not mean that I agreed it was true without incurring the judge’s wrath.

‘Very well. Proceed!’

‘Mr Hill,’ the Attorney General said in a whisper, so that all had to hush in order to hear him speak, ‘what did the accused do next? Was this not enough?’