The Sweet Smell of Decay (29 page)

‘Just mine and Mr Lytle’s I fear,’ Dowling grimaced, ‘for
none from that part of London would ever come here to testify.’

The judge muttered unhappily.

‘Though I fancy we may be able to find the bones of the soldiers that killed Hewitt if I be permitted to search for them.’

‘I see.’ The judge still looked most bemused. ‘And then I suppose that Lord Keeling pursued Mr Lytle to Bride’s to kill him, and the accused was forced to defend himself. Hence the plea.’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘Mr Dowling, what evidence do you have of that? Mr Hill says he saw the accused plunge a knife into Keeling’s ribs.’

‘Sir, I have testimony from several of the soldiers that escorted Mr Hill to St Bride’s and from those that prepared the body for burial. The only knife discovered at the scene remained clenched in Lord Keeling’s fist. They had to drop a stone on his fingers to free it. Between his ribs he had half a walking cane.’

The judge eyed the Attorney General with open contempt, yet refrained from asking him his opinion another time. The Attorney General appeared to be beyond caring.

‘How do you explain that the accused desecrated the grave of Jane Keeling?’ the judge asked at last. ‘I may safely assume that whatever fantastic story you are about to tell me is well documented?’

‘Certainly, My Lord.’ Dowling scratched his head, rubbed his cheeks with his palms and stretched. ‘First I must tell you that he informed me in advance that he was going to desecrate the grave. I did not approve, but neither did I stop him.’

‘True,’ I said aloud, without meaning to. ‘That he advised me not to do it.’

‘Then why did you?’ the judge asked me directly.

I blinked, and then slowly stood. None pulled me back down. Dowling smiled back encouragingly. The Attorney General looked at me out of the corner of his eye, but looked away again just as quickly.

‘Sir, we were convinced that Matthew Hewitt had killed both Anne and John Giles. Yet Hill kept insisting that I go to Epsom. When I did go to Epsom, then I was directed by Mary Ormonde to visit Beth Johnson.’

‘The same Elizabeth Johnson?’ the judge asked.

‘I suppose,’ I affirmed, ‘and she did not tell me that Jane Keeling was with child, as Hill claimed, but she did say that she took her own life and she had a letter affirming it.’

‘Did you see this letter?’

‘No, sir. But she directed me to the house of Dr John Stow, who told me that she had been with child. From that I presumed Keeling had killed Anne Giles out of revenge, and when I related my idea to William Hill then he assured me that I was correct and that he had heard rumours to that effect besides.’

‘So why did you desecrate a grave, Mr Lytle?’ the judge demanded, incredulous.

‘Because I did not believe the story. It was so easy to discover, and Hill had insisted so absolutely that I go to Epsom, that I doubted the veracity of it. Yet what if it were true?’

The judge shook his head and waggled his finger at me as if I were a naughty boy caught stealing apples. ‘Mr Lytle, it will not do. I appreciate that you were in a predicament, but desecrating a grave is ungodly and wicked.’

I contemplated asking him what he would have done in my place, but decided against it.

Dowling cleared his throat, seeking permission to intervene. ‘My Lord, it’s true. I went to Epsom not two days ago and spoke to this John Stow. He tells me that he was paid by one Robert Burton to tell his tale to Mr Lytle. He was assured that he would be visited only once, and then should deny all knowledge of the story.’

‘This would be the same Robert Burton that you suggest was employed by the Earl of Shrewsbury?’ The judge read back over notes that he had been scribing.

‘Aye, My Lord.’

‘And so you found that she was without child, Mr Lytle?’

‘Aye, sir.’

The judge sat back and pursed his lips. With his face so set he read back through his papers for ten or fifteen minutes. As he did so he made little noises with his mouth, as if all were becoming clear to him. Then he shuffled the papers into a pile, rested forwards onto his arms and regarded the Attorney General. ‘Sir, you are the prosecutor. What do you make of it?’

The Attorney General looked surprised. ‘My Lord, I think I would need to see this testimony referred to before venturing an opinion.’

‘Very wise,’ the judge nodded. ‘Let us go and review it together. The papers please.’ He gestured to Dowling with his head then stood, descended the steps and left the courtroom with the Attorney General trailing him disconsolately.

The rest of us were to wait. The jurors all looked vaguely worried, yet excited at the same time, not sure what had been going on, yet confident it was important. A few of them craned their necks in the direction that the judge had disappeared, wondering perhaps why they too hadn’t been invited to see this vital evidence. Dowling sat down in the witness box, so
that all the rest of us could see was the top of his head. There was to be no talking, a rule that a couple of the clerks enforced by stalking the courtroom like carnivorous herons, hissing loudly at any that dared whisper.

I was feeling much more optimistic. Dowling had answered the judge’s questions so well that the case looked as white now as it had done black just the day before yesterday. Yet I was not so simple as to think that the truth would be the only factor that decided my fate. Foremost in my mind was seeking to understand why the judge had taken the Attorney General away. Certainly the Attorney General did not seem to be a happy man, yet could the private meeting have been called in the way of working out how to surmount the obstacle that Dowling’s testimony presented? Why should this judge be any different to the previous in terms of his objectives? Such were the thoughts going through my brain during the one hour or more that we sat in silence, waiting. Dowling’s head slowly disappeared and we were treated to the sound of a Scotsman snoring.

When they came back in I looked straight for the expression on the face of the Attorney General. If he bounced in full of new-found energy then I was in trouble. But he did not. Returning to his seat and sitting down he looked as he had before, only wearier. The judge didn’t bother climbing back up his perch but instead crooked fingers at me and at Dowling. I stood and was escorted by my two guards to the bench.

The judge looked different close up. Though his whiskers were very neatly trimmed you could see that they were white. The lines on his face were sort of velvety, suggesting to me that he was extremely advanced in years. Yet I imagined that there was nothing soft about his mind, for his eyes were calm
and piercing. He gave the impression that he asked questions merely to confirm what he could already read on your face. Waving a hand in the direction of my shackles, he indicated with a frown to one of the guards that they should be removed. ‘Mr Lytle and Mr Dowling, will you come with me, please?’

‘Sit down,’ he commanded once we had reached his room. It was a small, oak-panelled room with a wooden bench across one wall and several large upholstered chairs scattered about the place. They were fine old chairs, but worn, with the leather fraying and holes beginning to develop like an old man’s liver spots.

The judge crossed his legs and placed his hands in a neat pile upon his lap. ‘Mr Dowling, please tell me what is going on.’

‘My Lord, I think you now have all the facts at your disposal.’

‘Mr Dowling, if I am to believe what I have heard today, then I can only conclude that the Earl of Shrewsbury engaged Mr Lytle here to establish a ludicrous plot that he himself had seeded.’

‘Indeed.’

‘In order to discredit Lord Keeling.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Why then, Mr Dowling, should the Earl of Shrewsbury have invented such a ludicrous story when all he had to do was to expose the fact that Lord Keeling was a Fifth Monarchist and had conspired to kill the King?’

‘He had no evidence, My Lord. Nor could he hope to persuade William Ormonde or Matthew Hewitt to testify.’ I repeated Prynne’s argument as it was spelt out to me.

‘Logical,’ Dowling nodded. ‘Shrewsbury was in no
position to make accusations. Had he sent agents to seek out the evidence, then he may quickly have alerted Keeling to his activities and, God knows, no man would want to incur Keeling’s wrath. Keeling would have had him killed.’

‘So he made up this bizarre story.’

‘My Lord, it was very clever. Not only did he appoint Harry, but also he arranged for Harry to have an assistant from the Mayor’s office. This ensured that when Harry uncovered the story it would quickly be recounted to the Mayor without the Earl having to become involved. Indeed, I did take our findings to the Mayor to consult. Sooner or later rumours would have spread. Then Keeling would have been faced with the prospect of having to explain his poor relations with Ormonde, without reference to the real cause. It would have put Lord Keeling in a difficult position, almost certainly all that would have been required to tilt the scales against him.’

‘I don’t know if it was very clever or very foolish.’ The judge shook his head doubtfully. ‘You are sure of this?’

‘Aye, My Lord, and it was cleverer than you think. Shrewsbury knew Keeling well. If such a rumour had spread, then you can be sure that Keeling would have pursued Harry to the ends of the earth to have his vengeance. His part in the affair would thus be lost for ever.’

‘Which is nearly what happened, I am led to believe.’ The judge nodded at me, even looked me in the eye. He still looked unsure. He removed his periwig, revealing very short-cropped white bristles, and scratched himself. ‘How well do you know this man?’ He waved a hand in my direction while looking at Dowling.

‘We had not met before this affair, and so have not known each other long,’ Dowling turned to grin broadly, ‘but I feel
I know him well enough now. He has plenty of blood in his body and not a little phlegm. He is rarely choleric and quick to rouse himself from melancholy.’

‘Indeed?’ The judge considered me. ‘And is he honest?’

‘Aye, My Lord, more honest than he knows. I can see why Shrewsbury picked him for the task. Shrewsbury’s only error, I think, was to discredit his intelligence.’

‘Aye,’ the judge nodded grimly, ‘one of the man’s worst faults. He is so busy scheming and plotting that he oft forgets that others are not wholly incapable themselves.’ He pulled his wig back on his head. ‘Ah well, time for a verdict.’

‘Sir!’ I leapt up.

The judge turned to me sombrely.

‘Davy!’ I clenched my fists and struggled to unfreeze my brain. ‘You said that part of Shrewsbury’s plan was that all record of my involvement in the case was to be lost with my demise.’

Now they both stood looking at me, the judge curiously, Davy like I had just realised something he had known for some time. He nodded.

‘So what has Shrewsbury done with my father? He could tell of the letter!’

Dowling put an arm about my shoulder and squeezed me gently. ‘We still haven’t found him, Harry, but we’re still looking.’

They found my father a week later lying on his back in a watery hollow deep in Byddle Wood. He had been knifed in the guts and struck on the back of the head so hard that pieces of his skull were missing. They found the men that did it too, one of them Robert Burton. Both were tried and hung inside two days. I didn’t go to watch it, but went to Newgate to see the cruel face of my tormentor. When I saw him he was pale and lost, still not come to terms with his fate. He wouldn’t talk to me nor meet my eye, just sat in the corner of his cell with his wrists and ankles manacled, contemplating his poor fortune. Not so intelligent, after all. Shrewsbury was nowhere to be found, naturally – on his way to Holland no doubt.

Soon after it was all over I found myself pushing open the little wooden gate that marked the entry into the graveyard of All Hallows. Negotiating a route through the stones, I headed
off the path into the long, wet grass towards the shade of a strangely shaped oak tree, its roots thick and twisted, its lowest branches reaching down to the ground where a child might climb upon it. Its canopy spread far and wide, offering shade to the fifty or more dead souls that lay there. To the far side, north and east, a small plot had been cleared anew and two short, square stones stood there, glistening in the morning sun. On one was carved the name of my father, on the other the name of Richard Joyce. An unlikely pair.

Death comes to all, I know. My father was very put out when they executed Charles I and gave short thrift to those that sought permission for regicide in the Holy Book. Me myself, I don’t really see what the Holy Book has to do with anything. The King’s head was so big they couldn’t get him out of the stables – that was his problem. Death comes to us all in one form or another, sooner or later.

When I was small we came here often as a family. This had been my tree. We stopped coming as my father’s preferences had become more and more extreme. It was like he had stopped thinking for himself and let others define a strict doctrine by which he would live his life. I laid a hand upon the top of my father’s stone. Just a chunk of granite underneath which lay a pile of bones. Yet it gave me some consolation.

I could not help but wonder whether I might have done things differently. I had spent so much time wishing that the whole affair would be finished early and cursing my father for involving me in it. And I had put off going to Cocksmouth until it was too late. And Joyce. I reckon he was probably a good man, a man that deserved better. God knows he wasn’t the only man in London that had met with a poor fate, but he had surely not deserved to end up with his head stuck on a
pole for all to mock at, with the birds feeding on his eyes and sharpening their claws on his scalp. It was me that asked that they take down his head and restore it to the rest of his body. What remained of it. They had done it inside a day. That he died bravely and now lay with some dignity – that gave me some consolation too.

‘Good afternoon, Harry Lytle,’ a voice piped clearly in my ear, making me jump so violently that I could not help but fart. I looked up into a familiar, old face.

‘You remember me, then?’ I stood up and straightened my clothes. I felt like an overdressed child.

‘Of course.’ He looked down at the stone then back at me. ‘Why did you ask that they bury them here, and under this tree?’

I turned away from him and towards the stones. ‘This is the only church I know and I knew you would sanction it.’ Which was the truth; I did not spend much time considering it. ‘The tree is the best place to be in this graveyard, the rest of it is lonely and forsaken.’

‘Not by me,’ the rector protested, appearing to be offended, though I knew he was not.

‘Aye, true, but you are too old to visit every grave often.’

The rector laughed. What was I doing here talking to a man of God, I asked myself. When was the last time I gained solace from one of these strange creatures? I regarded closely his lined forehead, his closely cropped white hair. He was just a man.

‘This was not your father’s church recently,’ he gently pointed out.

‘Aye, but it was his church for longest, and I had no appetite to bury him elsewhere.’

The rector grunted. ‘Everyone has been talking about you, Harry. You behaved with great courage and fortitude. You
performed great deeds in the eyes of the Lord.’

‘You think so?’

‘You do not?’

I shrugged. It seemed to me it had little enough to do with the Lord. An affair of men.

‘I invite you to come to this church more often, Harry,’ the rector said softly. ‘In accordance with the King’s law, thou knowst.’ He grinned.

‘Would you have me fined?’

He waved a hand. ‘I would have you come of your own free will, Harry. You might come when ye visit your father and Richard Joyce.’

‘They are both dead,’ I reminded him.

The rector grimaced and clicked his tongue. He regarded me out the corner of his eye like I was sent to test him. ‘You have a clean soul, Harry, though perhaps you do not believe it yourself.’

It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. I sighed and bid him walk with me back to the street. I had learnt how evil some men could be. It wasn’t ‘News from Ipswich’ but it was news to me. Hypocrisy and conceit I had lived with all my life, cold-hearted murderous intent was new. I had known of its existence, but not made its acquaintance.

The rector stopped at the gate. ‘This is a place you might come to share those thoughts, Harry.’

‘Aye.’ I stopped too and shook his hand. Perhaps. Perhaps not.