The Sweet Smell of Decay

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘What is Hewitt’s business? A goldsmith you say?’

  Dowling blinked. ‘No. He is a merchant.’

  I considered our options. Our option. ‘We must find out where John Giles fled to.’

  ‘He is at Anthony’s Pig behind the Exchange and has been there an hour.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The Mayor’s men tracked him down. I asked them to.’

  It was at that point I started questioning Dowling’s credentials as a butcher. We hurried to the tavern, anxious to arrive before our quarry fled. It was a strange place for Giles to frequent if he was fleeing Matthew Hewitt, for even if Hewitt himself did not visit that day, others of his acquaintance surely would. So it was with curiosity roused that we entered the tavern early in the afternoon. Lucky for me that I had indeed been here on several occasions before, for strangers were not welcomed. The tavern had a narrow frontage out onto the street, but stretched back the depth of two houses, with private rooms to the rear and cosy booths tucked away in the shadows. In one of those booths we found Giles, on his own, still nervous and agitated. His state did not improve when I sat opposite him. At first he made as if to leave, but stopped once Dowling plugged the gap with his considerable bulk. Eventually he stopped his writhing and sat back, resigned, with his back pressed against the wooden wall of the booth staring out into the tavern.

  ‘Good day, Mr Simpson,’ Dowling growled into his ear.

  What was he talking about? I stared at him with my heart in my stomach. The only Simpson I knew of was the fellow that had stolen the key to Bride’s. Now the butcher didn’t think it worthwhile to keep me informed?

  ‘For who did you steal the key of St Bride’s?’ Dowling wriggled up close. I contemplated kicking him in the shin. He was supposed to be the witless one, not me.

  Giles’s head jerked round, a grisly taut smile on his thin lips. He blinked repeatedly as if he was about to have a fit. Then he started to laugh; at least I think it was supposed to be a laugh. Then he looked at me with pleading eyes, licking his lips in a state of high anxiety. ‘How do you know that?’

  I didn’t.

  ‘It is not widely known, sir, nor will it be so. The rector gave us a description of this fellow John Simpson which I established must be you through conversations with others of the household.’

  When had he done all that?

  ‘Someone deceived you.’

  Though I still felt like kicking Dowling in the arse and lecturing him upon the obligations of tradesmen to respect their social betters, the indignation soon passed. This new revelation was more interesting. Why should Giles steal the key to a church then kill his wife inside of it? A foolish way to kill your own wife I would have thought, and in any case, Giles didn’t really appear to match the description of the man that Joyce had described. It all seemed most unlikely.

  ‘Ha!’ exclaimed John Giles with a loud shrill, but he did not deny it. With his hands to his face he shook his head slowly, muttering to himself in despair, using God’s name – though I could not hear how.

  ‘Was it Matthew Hewitt?’ Dowling whispered.

  ‘God save us!’ Giles exclaimed white-faced, leaning over the table and peering into my eyes. I stopped myself from recoiling as he stared into me as if looking for the bottom of a deep pool of water. ‘How do you know these things? Are you a magician? Are you bewitched?’

  ‘No,’ I replied nervously, ‘we have just been talking to people, trying to establish what happened that night.’

  ‘I did not kill my own wife,’ he said very slowly.

  I assured him that he had no need to convince us of it, though of course that wasn’t true.

  Suddenly he looked suspicious. ‘Who told you it was Hewitt?’ He sat back, more composed, the expression on his face suggesting that he felt he had been tricked.

  I sensed that if we did not press home our advantage then we would quickly be stonewalled permanently. ‘Is it him that you are waiting for?’

  ‘I will not tell you who I am waiting for, nor will he come until you have left,’ Giles answered, deflated but temporarily calm. ‘So you may stay here as long as you will. It is nothing to me.’

  ‘Very well.’ I sat back and signalled to a wench to deliver me an ale. Dowling could hardly object under the circumstances.

  ‘While we wait, Mr Giles, tell us something of your relations at Epsom. You married into wealth. I don’t understand why you live in such poverty.’

  ‘Aye, poverty.’ Giles smiled bitterly. ‘We live in a stable. We kept a cow there for the first year.’

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘Anne would have been eighteen.’ I struggled to recall the legend on the gravestone.

  ‘Aye. Young.’

  ‘Why did you live, then, in such poverty?’

  Giles stared into space as if he had the weight of the temple on his shoulders. Then he shrugged. ‘Her father would not allow her to marry the son of a farm worker. She went against his will. He gave her no dowry.’

  ‘That must have come as a shock to you both.’

  ‘Aye, a shock. We married anyway, at St Ethelburga, but that was not the worse of it.’ He grasped four fingers of one hand with the other and squeezed hard. ‘My father worked on one of Ormonde’s estates. Ormonde made him stand for my actions at the borough sessions.’

  I grimaced sympathetically. ‘Was he pilloried?’

  ‘He was found guilty at the borough sessions, that left the punishment open. The justice was a friend of Ormonde and decided to make an example of him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They hung him by the neck. They said that I had acted in accordance with the Devil and had destroyed any chance Anne had of leading a godly life, so that I condemned her to everlasting torment. If I acted of the Devil, then I was born of the Devil, and all touched by the Devil should perish.’

  ‘An extreme verdict,’ I replied, quietly horrified. Now I could understand why Giles had so little desire to stay at Ormonde’s side in Epsom. But why had he gone there in the first place? He must hate William Ormonde. He must hate the whole borough.

  ‘Aye. He is a black man with a black soul. He sent men here to fetch me to Epsom for the funeral.’

  Neither Dowling nor I said anything for a while, just let time trickle by in silence. Giles sat there calm now, staring away from us out into the tavern with his jaw set rigid.

  ‘You must hate William Ormonde,’ I said at last.

  Giles closed his eyes and sighed. He looked at me again, this time as if I were a simple fool. ‘So you lie. You have decided that I killed my own wife.’

  ‘I didn’t say so.’ Though the thought had crossed my mind for this man seemed close to insanity. To kill his wife would be to kill Ormonde’s daughter and relieve himself of an unexpected financial burden. ‘Though I am not yet convinced that you did not steal the key to Bride’s of your own initiative.’ Looking at him carefully I wished I could see into his soul. ‘You were quick to confirm our idea that it may have been Matthew Hewitt.’

  ‘I confirmed nothing. Believe as you will.’

  ‘If it is believed that you killed your wife, then you will hang.’ I tapped one finger on the table.

  ‘Richard Joyce will hang for the crime, whatever the truth of it.’

  How did Giles know of Joyce, and how was he so sure that the man would hang? What did Giles know?

  Dowling’s eyes narrowed and he cleared his throat. ‘What is the truth of it?’

  ‘I don’t know who killed my wife, nor why.’ I detected a note of resolution in his voice for the first time, and wondered if he was on his own mission to unravel the truth of it.

  ‘You said Matthew Hewitt asked you to steal the key to Bride’s. What reason did he give?’

  ‘I did not say Hewitt asked me to steal the key. You did. You also accused me of stealing it of my own initiative. It is clear to me that you know nothing. You are guessing.’
/>
  ‘Of course I am guessing. That is why we are here. Why will you not help us? Tell us what you know, that we might help.’

  He shook his head again, expression calm and serious. Biting on his right thumb he refused to make eye contact with me. Once more he ignored my questions, just sat perfectly still. My repeated pleadings, that our aim was only to find out who killed his wife, and my attempts to provoke him, suggesting that his silence indicated either guilt or lack of love for his wife, had no effect.

  Our next strategy was to sit in silence with him, to try his patience, counting on his anxiety to talk to whoever he was waiting for, this person who would not come until we left. This did not work either; indeed, I began to suspect that he was relieved that his rendezvous would be delayed.

  ‘If you will not help us, then we must consider speaking to Hewitt ourselves,’ I said, inspired. This succeeded in snapping him out of his apparent slumber. He turned to me with a look of pity on his grey, lined face.

  ‘Do not go near Hewitt. He is a dangerous man. You will find out nothing from him, all you will succeed in doing is attracting his attention. You must wish to remain unknown to Matthew Hewitt.’

  ‘What other option do we have, if you will not speak to us?’

  Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes and he regarded me with renewed fear and dislike. ‘There is nothing I can tell you, but I urge you not to talk to Matthew Hewitt. Leave that to me. He knows me well enough already. I risk nothing by approaching him. You risk more than you understand.’ Leaning forward he whispered, ‘You were a clerk, you worked at the Tower. You are not Anne’s cousin. You know nothing of all this. I cannot understand why anyone would appoint you. You must question the motive of that person, for he is either as innocent as you, or else bears you no love.’

  Dumbfounded, I could think of no useful response for a while, for the observation was unarguable. My father was both innocent and loveless. Giles saw my indecision, and sought to persuade me further. ‘I did not kill my wife, and I do not believe that Matthew Hewitt did either. He is a trader and merchant, you must know that already. I cannot think of any motive he would have to kill her.’

  ‘We heard that you sought to blackmail him, and that he killed your wife as a warning to you and to others that might contemplate a similar action,’ Dowling probed.

  Giles dropped his head to the table and his body went limp. When he raised his head he looked wearier than ever. Red eyes and flaky skin, like a fish. ‘It is an absurd suggestion. Whoever told you such nonsense knows nothing of the workings of the Exchange. None would be so foolish as to attempt to blackmail Matthew Hewitt. To do so would be to invite death.’ The words sounded like his obituary. ‘Now please go.’

  His request was so heartfelt that it would have been churlish to continue sitting there, knowing that he would tell us no more.

  ‘And please don’t tarry in the street, for if you do, you will see none, be assured.’

  Nevertheless we did linger a while. And saw none.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ I asked Dowling as we walked back towards Newgate.

  ‘Hard to say. He is well informed, though. Hard to look beyond this Hewitt.’

  ‘Aye.’

  We spoke no more until we parted company a few minutes later. As I walked home it occurred to me again how unlike any butcher I’d ever met Davy Dowling was. Then I determined to travel to Cocksmouth, though it was the last place in England I wished to go.

  That evening I decided to unburden myself of the whole Anne Giles affair to Jane. She knew of the murder itself – it had been in the newspaper, so she said – though was surprised to hear that Shrewsbury had asked me to investigate it. In fact she said I’d be about as much use as a ‘fat, bloaty toad’. Her recommendations were:

  One – free Joyce from prison immediately. If I didn’t have the brain of an old hog then I would have done it already.

  Two – get Dowling to use the Mayor’s men to find Mary Bedford. If I didn’t have the brain of an old hog then I would have seen to it already.

  Three – John Giles was slippery like a horse’s cock and I’d get no sense out of him so long as he breathed. If I didn’t have the brain of an old hog then I would have realised it already.

  Four – Matthew Hewitt was guilty as a quire bird and if I went anywhere near him then I had a head made of mutton. Let Shrewsbury deal with it. The only reason I hadn’t worked that out for myself was that I had the brain of an old hog.

  All good sound advice, of course. Indeed, as she spoke I wondered why I was not seeing things as clear myself. It occurred to me that it had been a long time since I had really tested my wits. I had concerned myself more with lolling them into a state of gentle stupefaction, with the aid of much ale and wine. This was different. This was important. John Giles, Mary Bedford, and Richard Joyce – all of these people depended on me. It was a sobering thought, or would have been had I been drunk. I decided that night that I had to apply myself to this task with more seriousness than I had so far managed. I considered sharing this new resolution with Jane, but decided against it – I felt sure she would accuse me of being an old hog. But I determined that I did need to sit down and have a serious conversation with the butcher. And Shrewsbury would have to be told about Hewitt.

  Chapter Seven

  Dwarf Fleabane

  In many watery or moist places of the highways.

  At the top of Ave Maria Street among the stalls lingered apprentices, scores of them, hanging around in groups of two or three, doing nothing, just standing talking, peering out at the crowds beneath heavy, thick brows, their expressions that curious mixture of aggression and uncertainty that characterises the young and pale. What were they doing here? The apprentices of London were a sorry lot, paid nothing in money, forbidden by their masters to procreate or frequent alehouses or taverns. They vented their frustrations on the rest of the population, doing their best to ensure that none else got to enjoy themselves either. It was unusual to find them gathering in large groups with such brazen disregard. Such congregation usually meant trouble for someone. Last month a band of them had marched out to Moorfields and kicked down the bawdy houses. They cut off one poor woman’s breasts to make an example of her to the rest. I detested people that could not just let others be what they would be.

  I hurried by, discomforted by narrow-eyed curious stares. Why were they looking at me particularly? Toward the gaol they were crawling like flies on a dead dog, a great teeming mass of them, most still wearing their blue aprons. What were they up to now? Individually the apprentices were nothing to be afraid of – gawky, unhealthy and half grown. Working together as a mob they were to be avoided at all cost, clinging to the devout words and morals of their often insincere masters, seeking a sense of importance and achievement. I kept going, conscious that Joyce was in there.

  ‘Strike!’ A big man, older than the rest, stepped forward and pushed me in the chest with a rounded wooden baton. ‘What business do you have here?’

  ‘What business do you have asking?’ I felt an urge to punch him in the throat.

  To my relief Dowling appeared from nowhere to intervene. A second apprentice stepped forward wearing baggy breeches down to his knees, dirty, torn stockings and a faded, patched purple waistcoat. On top of his straggly blond hair he wore a red square hat. Grinning foolishly, blind drunk, his skin was peeling and one of his eyes was badly infected. He looked over his shoulder to where two of his friends stood, also smiling broadly, also stinking of cheap wine.

  ‘You don’t go any further without me saying so,’ said the big man.

  ‘I have business in the gaol with the head gaoler. There’s a man in here what’s accused of treason. They say he is to be hung, so I want to confirm it, see what is required in the way of rope.’ Dowling pushed his way ahead without waiting for an assessment of his feeble story. I followed, doing my best to look nonchalant, but in truth regretting the fine cut of my clothes. These men made me feel like a fop with th
eir ugly sneers and bad smells.

  Inside the evil odour was even worse than last time, some foulness emanating from a small closet that I had not noticed before. Two men stood peering into it, frowns of concentration writ thick upon their swarthy faces. I craned my neck to see what it was they looked at, then withdrew it just as quick. The bodies of two dead men lay there cut into eight pieces, the pieces stacked on top of each other in a higgledy pile, stood in a pool of sticky blackness.

  ‘They was executed three days ago,’ said one of the men glumly. ‘The family still hasn’t got leave to take away the bits and bury ’em. Meanwhile, it’s stinking out the place. We was thinking about moving ’em downstairs, but wonderin’ which way the air will go, up or down.’

  ‘Where are the heads?’ My own head swam and I felt dizzy.

  ‘Upstairs being boiled with cumin seed. Stops the birds peckin’ at ’em once they’s stuck upon the Nonsuch.’ The gaoler closed the door and led the way forward, sneezing violently several times as if to eject the smell of rotting flesh from his nose.

  He walked down the dim-lit corridor, not stopping to look either side, seemingly headed for the small door at the end that went to the stone hold. Why was Joyce still down there? We had paid these men good money to have Joyce fetched upstairs.

  ‘Aye, so you did, and so we brought him up. But then we had to take him back down.’ The gaoler pulled open the small wooden door and took a torch from the wall.

  ‘Why?’ I demanded, standing in front of him, trying to catch his tired unfocused eyes.

  He sighed, emitting a cloud of fetid rank-smelling breath. ‘You gave us money to bring him up and bring him up we did. Then two officers of the Lord Chief Justice came and told us to take him back down, so we took him back down. After you, if you please. You don’t like it, then you tell them yourself.’ He rubbed at his eyes waiting for us to pass.

  ‘What do you mean, George?’ Dowling asked softly.