We both nodded.
‘My father has known Lord Keeling all his life, you know. They grew up together. Lord Keeling lived in Epsom when he was a little boy.’
There are moments in your life when the same object you have been looking at for months or years suddenly appears different. Breasts are a good example. A baby boy would never suckle on a breast in quite the same way if he had the same perspective on it that he later develops. This is nature and the way that it is intended, of course. It would be no good at all otherwise, else all the little boy babies would never stop drinking milk and would grow up to be very fat. This was one of those moments. William Hill had sent us here for a reason, and Mary Ormonde was going to tell us what that was.
‘You know Lord Keeling, then?’
She looked surprised – sort of. ‘My father does. They were great friends. He shares many of my father’s principles.’
‘What principles?’
Leaning forward, she looked at us both conspiratorially. It was a strange pose to adopt with two strangers to talk about your father. I felt a bit awkward, Dowling too, by the look of it. ‘My father was a Baptist. Lord Keeling was also a Baptist while he lived at Epsom.’
Dowling gave a little gasp. I had never heard Dowling gasp before, but it was a good time to gasp. Baptists were radicals – dissenters. Though Cromwell tolerated Baptists – barely – now their views were outlawed. That the Lord Chief Justice was once a Baptist was barely credible. Why was Mary Ormonde telling us such things – especially about her own father? Her green eyes watched us carefully, watched us absorb her words.
‘It was a long time ago, gentlemen.’ She shook her head and watched us some more. Once she was satisfied, she continued. ‘Keeling moved to London many years ago. He took his family with him, Jane included. Jane was his daughter. She was good friends with Anne, even though she was ten years older. Anne was upset when they went. They lived in the big house in town. Now a family called Latham lives there. Good people.’
‘None of Keeling’s family remain?’
‘No. Only Mrs Johnson. She’s was Janie’s nanny, as well as ours. She lives by herself now since her husband died. She was left with a roof over her head, so she will not marry again unless she wishes it.’
‘She knew Keeling well?’
‘She was employed by him when they were here. When they went to London she stayed behind. Jane lodged with her when she came to visit. That was before she died.’
I was confused. ‘Who died?’
‘Jane Keeling.’
I determined to stay calm. So Anne Giles is murdered and Keeling holds his own trial behind closed doors to see that the man accused of it is condemned. And his own daughter died here a long time ago. This was surely significant.
‘What did Jane Keeling die of?’
‘A fever – so they said.’
‘So they said?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘I would really rather not talk about it, Harry. You might talk to Mrs Johnson who was the nanny.’
I tried to avoid Dowling’s eye that was looking at me in puzzlement once she used my name. ‘Where might we find her?’
‘I’ll point you in the right direction once you are ready to leave, Harry.’ I wished she would stop doing that. ‘What else would you like to know?’
Dowling spoke up. ‘Tell us about your sister.’
‘Anne.’ Mary Ormonde spoke the word affectionately, ‘She was three years younger than me. People said that we were very much alike.’
‘Did you see her often once she was married?’
‘I didn’t see her at all. Father forbade me to visit her. She did not come back to Epsom, and I could not go to London without my father’s blessing. I have not seen her this past two years, not since a week after her eighteenth birthday. She went with John to his local church to marry without telling any. St Ethelburga near Bishopsgate.’ She sat straight, her back rigid as a pole. ‘Our family has been at Epsom for many generations. The manner of Anne’s leaving of it cast shame onto my father.’
‘Worse for John Giles’s father, was it not?’
She shook her head regretfully. ‘It was of no comfort to my father, I assure you. He is a devout man, but not heartless. The people of the parish assumed that it was his wish that the man be hung, so hung he was. From that time they have behaved with great restraint towards us. I think that they are afraid of us.’
‘What was life like for you as children?’ Dowling changed the subject.
‘Our mother was taken when I was ten. She died in childbirth, as did the infant. There were three besides Anne and I, that all died young. You might have seen their stones at Anne’s funeral. Father is a devout man and instructed us in God’s word himself. He also encouraged us to read and write, and employed a tutor to teach us the Classics, Hebrew, Latin and Greek. We played together, and with Mrs Johnson, Beth, who cared for us after Mother died.’
‘How did your sister meet John Giles?’
‘He came from London to visit his father, who worked for a tenant of my father’s. One day we ventured into the fields to eat our lunch, Anne, Beth and I. John just appeared. He had the cheek and charm of the Devil himself, and looks to match. He carried bottles of beer in his pack and made us have a sip. Then he showed us how to dance. Beth would not permit it, so he danced with her instead.’
‘Did Beth not tell your father?’
She smiled. ‘We begged her not to, it was so exciting, you see. And how could she explain that she danced with him?’
‘She was charmed as well, was she?’
‘No,’ she laughed, ‘not Mrs Johnson. I think she thought it was good for us, two young ladies. The days could be very dull you know.’
‘An unfortunate judgement, perhaps.’
‘What passed between John Giles and Anne was none of Mrs Johnson’s doing.’ She raised a finger in admonishment. ‘The credit for that belongs to my father, God knows, and he has paid dearly for it ever since.’
Dowling leant forward with hands clasped. ‘How so?’
‘Had he not forbidden Anne from seeing John, then she would never have eloped. John was exciting and charming, but Anne was not simple. Her attentions would have been diverted to another soon enough, some devout young man from the town. But father forbade her to see him, and Anne was stubborn. She got that from him. Then father made up his mind not to give John the dowry. What he should have done was to give John a job, keep him at Epsom, keep Anne safe and sound. But he did neither, so Anne came to be married to John, and lived in a pigsty at Bishopsgate, while he went off at all hours of the day and night doing whatever he could to make a penny.’
‘How did they manage to court each other with you and Beth in tow?’
‘We didn’t realise they were courting. They seemed very fond of each other, and we would leave them sitting and talking sometimes, but we never went far away. Only after they declared their betrothal was I sensible to Anne’s feelings.’
Haw, haw, quoth Bagshaw – a likely story.
‘I liked him, Mr Lytle, liked him very much and so did Beth. He was a nice man, hardly a man even. He was bold and dashing and full of notions as to what he would make of his life. He wasn’t deceiving her; he really did have those ambitions for himself. He was not fain to work on a farm like his father, he was resolute to have his own business in London, acquire some money of his own and grow it, become wealthy.’
Idle, in other words. ‘What happened when they announced their plans to marry?’
‘When John called at the house, father didn’t recognise him, he didn’t know his youngest daughter was being courted. He picked up a cane and threatened to beat John with it. Then he summoned two of the servants and commanded them to carry John out of the grounds, where I know that they thrashed him. Father carried on shouting at Anne, you could hear it in all parts of the house. He forbade Anne to see John, said that she was a lady and he was a rogue and a vagabond. But Ann
e stood up to him. She wouldn’t hear his argument. The louder and more frantic father became, the quieter and harder Anne became. By his own actions he ensured that what he feared most came to pass.’
‘And then they eloped?’
‘Indeed.’ She nodded again and sat expectantly, but my poor brain was addled, still trying to appreciate the significance of Jane Keeling’s death, and Dowling seemed lost in his own thoughts.
She watched us for a while, a small smile upon her lips. Then she stood and walked out of the room, obliging us to follow. ‘You can always come back, gentlemen. Now let me show you how to get to Mrs Johnson’s cottage.’ I positioned myself behind her so I could watch her swing those fleshy hips.
‘A strange woman,’ Dowling reflected once we left her behind.
‘An odd fish,’ I agreed.
‘She was very familiar with you,’ he noted, clearly troubled.
I shrugged. ‘Aye, well, when I was here last time she took me to a quiet room, hitched up her skirts and gave me her strawberry.’
Dowling stopped stock-still in the driveway with his mouth wide open. I fancied there’d be no sympathetic mitt on my shoulder for the rest of the day. He resumed walking, though lagged behind. I heard his steps on the stones.
‘It was you that said I should get to know people easily and make myself open to them.’
‘Harry! It is no laughing matter!’
‘No. But she is an odd fish and no mistake. You said so yourself.’
Dowling recited some phrases from the Good Book as he attempted to soothe his affronted soul. It was quite entertaining. By the time we reached Mrs Johnson’s house he had at least stopped twittering and fiddling with the edge of his coat.
Mrs Johnson was a small woman with white hair. Her clothes were old and neat, maintained meticulously with needle and thread. She flashed a happy smile when we explained who had sent us. Her parlour was clean and polished and furnished with bright, shiny furniture and dazzling white linen. Bustling about her table and four chairs, circling, she fretted over which chairs to pull out for us to sit on and then brought out bread and butter for us to eat.
‘Tell me about London, Mr Lytle,’ she demanded, sitting perched on the end of her chair, knees clasped together and hands folded on her lap. ‘Is it busy there?’
‘Yes, Mrs Johnson, very busy.’
‘Is it dirty?’
‘Aye, truth is, it is dirty.’ Filthy.
‘They have ladies there who take money for carnal vulgarity and lewdness?’
‘Aye, they do,’ I replied seriously, which was one of its great attractions.
‘If you are not careful, men strike you down and take your money. They have places where you can go and see animals tear each other to pieces. There are men there that drink too much every night. They hang people.’
All true of course, but it was not Londoners that put John Giles’s father to death. ‘Aye, quite often. London is a busy city and all manner of things take place there.’
‘Is it a depraved place?’ Mrs Johnson beamed with shiny metal eyes.
‘There is much that’s depraved.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Johnson stared at me as if she was trying to catch sight of something flitting about behind my eyes. I think that she sought to goad me into argument. It did not concern me that funny old women from the country did not share my love of London.
Dowling cleared his throat. ‘You’ve lived here all your life?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘but you didn’t come here to talk about me, although it is very sweet of you to ask. Now ask your questions, because I’m sure you have more interesting things to do than sit in a parlour with a little old lady.’
I let Dowling talk. One old woman to another. ‘We would like to know more about the children. Anne, Mary and Jane. You looked after Jane when she was a girl?’
‘What a question.’ She gave me a mock suspicious look. ‘Why do you want to know about three little girls? They were like any other little girls. They played little girls’ games and talked little girls’ talk.’
‘What was Jane like?’ I asked.
She cocked her head like a sparrow. ‘She was very tall and very pale, thin, with hair like a raven. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black. Sometimes you could imagine that she understood every word you said, saw every thought you had, like an angel almost. It was easy to forget she was simple. She died a long time ago.’
‘Of a fever?’
She smiled wistfully and held her hands together a little anxiously. ‘No,’ she shook her head slowly, ‘though it is the official record. She died by her own hand. She walked off into the marshes and jumped into a pool. She couldn’t swim and so she drowned.’
‘Why did she take her own life?’
‘She became morose. I don’t know why. She was always bright and lively, always laughing. She had a lovely laugh, Mr Lytle, like a little bell. Then she changed.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘Things happen and nature is unpredictable. They say that a noisy boy grows up to be a noisy man but it’s not always true. Nature is less predictable than that. Janie had a little fire that burnt bright in her little heart, but it was as if, as her heart grew bigger, the flame did not. She was a simple soul.’ She stared into space and I let her mind wander a while. ‘It was ten years ago. She died at twenty. She was foul to everyone when she came back the last time, even to Annie, and she did love little Annie.’
‘Madam, how long did Keeling live in Epsom?’
‘Until Jane was fifteen, some fourteen or fifteen years ago. Then they moved to London. I wouldn’t go, but he let her come and stay with me sometimes. She liked that. But not the last time. Her spirit was sick. Some days she seemed happy, but it was a wild happiness, not real.’
‘Were you there when she died?’
‘She was staying here, yes. She told me she was going for a walk, and so she did, about four o’clock in the afternoon. She went to the marshes where there is nothing to see and where she knew it was dangerous. She jumped into a pool. They pulled her out next morning.’
‘How do you know she jumped?’
‘The surgeon that looked at her couldn’t find a mark on her, and besides, she left me a note.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It said “Goodbye”.’ She tapped her fingers on the table. ‘She never left me a note before, she didn’t write notes.’
‘Who was the surgeon?’
‘John Stow. He lives at the other end of town. Turn left up the road and walk on a quarter of a mile or so. If you get lost then just ask anyone where he lives, everyone knows it. But you cannot miss it, he has a plate on the wall with his name on it.’
She began to arrange some flowers that lay on a side table. Humming a little tune, she left us to ourselves. After one last look around the parlour we announced our departure. Without looking up she made an affectionate, quiet farewell.
We set off to see this man Stow, me reflecting that beneath it all, Mrs Johnson was pleased to see us go.
Stow’s house was not far from the town pond, around which was a cluster of small houses and shops. The door was answered by a small woman, dressed plainly, with a billowing white cap holding her hair. We walked out into the garden and found John Stow sitting in a chair. The small garden was full of little apple trees. He was lying back with his nose up in the air and his mouth wide open, snoring majestically. Next to the chair stood an empty jug that smelt of ale, and a plate of cream. A tight, round, little pot belly sat like a ball above his short little legs. His arms hung limp. It was a cold and frosty day.
‘He likes his air,’ the woman told me, loudly.
‘He’s taking a big chance sitting out here on a day like this.’ A good way to catch a cold fever.
‘Oh no,’ the woman shouted, ‘he says it blows the dampness off his chest. He’s always trying to get me to join him, but I can’t sleep when he snores like that and my chest is dry.’ She leant over and grasped his nose betwee
n the fingers of her right hand. He continued to snore muffled snores for a short time before he woke, coughing and spluttering.
‘I’ve told you before not to wake me like that, woman.’ He coughed and spluttered some more before hawking phlegm onto the grass, clambering to his feet and grunting in surprise. The woman, his wife I supposed, went back to the house singing. What did she have to be so happy about?
‘Who are you, sir?’ He stumbled forward, his legs and head still slumbering. I offered my hand, which was taken limply before being dropped. ‘Ah,’ he squinted at me and eyed me carefully from toe to head, ‘and what is wrong with you? I am a surgeon, not a physic.’
‘Nothing. We’ve come to ask you some questions about a matter that happened here ten years ago.’
‘Was I in this affair?’
‘Indeed. Ten years ago a girl wandered out into the marshes. Her name was Jane Keeling.’
He immediately paled and his fleshy face went lumpen. ‘Ah,’ he licked his lips, ‘I remember.’
‘The King depends on it.’ This was a big lie, but I reckoned he was a mooning Royalist. Dowling stared at me like I was the Devil himself, but I paid no heed.
‘I have already told him that everything he has asked me to accomplish depends upon your willingness to help him,’ I said officiously. I imagined that I was Keeling’s obnoxious aide. ‘Tell me what happened.’
He looked at me with pleading eyes. ‘There is little to tell. She took her own life, there was no doubt. She wrote a letter to her nanny with whom she was staying, then she walked out to the marshes and jumped into a bog and drowned. She couldn’t swim.’
‘How do you know she jumped in? How do you know that she wasn’t taken to the marsh and thrown into the bog?’
‘She couldn’t have. She left a note with the nanny, I told you. She was seen walking on her own, and she didn’t have a mark on her. She must have jumped in by herself.’ He made a visible effort to keep his hands still, finally sitting on them.
I walked over to the apple tree into whose branches Stow was staring, and leant against it. ‘We’ve spoken to Mrs Johnson, Dr Stow. The note said “Goodbye”, it did not say “Goodbye – I am going to jump in a bog”. That she was seen walking to the marshes on her own doesn’t mean that she didn’t meet somebody. If she couldn’t swim, then all it would have taken is a little push and she would have fallen in and drowned quickly, without marks. How can I convince the King that your verdict was correct, Mr Stow?’
The Sweet Smell of Decay Page 14
