‘We found her there that night with her brown dress blooming upon the surface of the pool like a dead lily. We found her with torches. A crowd of us went, after Beth Johnson told us she was missing. When we fished her out she was white and pale, but her face was peaceful.’ He wrung his hands in unhappy memory. ‘There was no sign that she died unwillingly.’
‘She died on her birthday. A strange day to kill yourself,’ I remarked.
‘Not if the melancholia has a hold. The days on which others expect you to be happiest can be the hardest. She was very depressed while she was here, Mrs Johnson will have told you. There were no marks on her, no sign of a struggle nor a blow. She most certainly jumped of her own accord. That’s the long and the short of it,’ he asserted, his mouth set, lower jaw protruded and lips drawn tight.
I was certain that he was holding something back. Why had he gone so pale upon the mention of Jane Keeling’s name? ‘Mr Stow. If you lie to me, then you lie to the King. That’s treason.’
His lip trembled, but he returned my stare with dislike and stubbornness. He said nothing.
‘So you would not cooperate with the King.’
‘That’s not true! I have told you everything you wanted to know!’
‘Methinks not, Mr Stow. Once I leave, then your options will be much reduced. For if I discover that you have lied to me, then I will have you arrested for treason.’ His eyes goggled and all of his face, except his nose, went white.
‘She was with child,’ he whispered.
‘Who was the father?’ I replied, astonished.
‘I don’t know.’ Stow let out a deep breath and sat drooped, looking at the floor. He looked like a man condemned to hang.
An appalling thought struck me suddenly. I turned quickly to Dowling who similarly looked like someone had inserted a large carrot up his rectum. We were so keen to talk to each other that we had to go. Stow watched us leave out the corner of his eye with an expression of unutterable relief.
‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth spells revenge,’ I whispered to Dowling as we reached the lane.
‘Aye, the same thought occurred to me. Was Anne Giles killed because Jane Keeling was killed?’
We marched quickly. ‘Jane Keeling died with child.’
‘Yet she was simple.’
‘So someone took advantage of her.’
‘And Anne Giles was killed as revenge.’
One daughter for another? A devilish thought; yet it had occurred to us both independently. This would imply that William Ormonde had fathered Keeling’s child, had used her as his own. I looked at Dowling. He looked shocked, hardly able to meet my eye, just looked to the floor with his mouth grim set, breathing noisily through his nose.
‘Are we mad?’ I asked him. For this was a mad place. Perhaps it had affected us.
‘There is a wicked man that hangeth down his head sadly, but inwardly he is full of deceit.’
That did remind me of Ormonde. ‘We must confront him.’
‘Aye,’ Dowling muttered, picking up the pace.
‘Mr Ormonde is not receiving guests, sir.’ The old servant came to meet us again. Better than being ‘not at home’. ‘My master spends his days alone.’
‘Aye, then I expect he will relish the opportunity to converse.’ I nodded and headed off towards the house. We would have walked through walls had we needed to. The servant blinked and trotted after me. I stopped in the hallway. The servant bustled up behind, rubbing his gloved hands together unhappily. ‘My master stays in his study all day.’
‘With so little to do outside his study I am not surprised.’ I set off briskly down the corridor. Pulling at my jacket he kept urging me to stop and wait, but I paid him no heed, reaching the study door in front of him. I knocked loudly. There was silence. I knocked again. This time the door opened after the sound of key turning in lock. Ormonde stood there in the doorway, face red and ruddy, eyes narrow and shiny, grey hair dishevelled and wild. He leant forward from the waist with his hands on his hips. His legs stood firm, but his trunk trembled.
‘Good morning, Mr Ormonde. We are come from London today.’ I put a hand against the door and pushed it gently open. A desk stood in the corner of the room, its chair tucked neatly underneath it, its surface free of objects or documents of any kind. I wondered what he did in here, behind locked doors.
‘I trust you did not make a special trip for I am not in the mood for talking.’ He turned and shuffled back into the room, then sat down in a heavy wooden chair facing away from us so that all we could see was the back of his head. He wore the same coat that he had worn at the funeral, black and old and fraying.
‘You know that they have hung a man for the death of your daughter. A man called Joyce.’
Staring out of the window at empty fields leading to thick woods, he sat slouched. ‘Who was he?’
‘Once a soldier and a landowner. He was struck down on the battlefield. He took an injury so bad that they had to drill holes in his head.’
‘Why do they say he killed Anne?’ The old man steepled his fingers and looked into space.
‘They didn’t.’
‘Then why did they hang him?’ The old man waved a hand impatiently, casting Dowling a quick sideways glance.
‘Because the mob saw him running from the church around the time of the killing, and for Keeling that was enough evidence.’
Mumbling something, he gestured feebly with his right hand, a wrinkled claw that protruded from worn cuffs. I sat on the sill of the window through which he was staring.
‘Why do you think that Keeling took such a personal interest, sir?’
‘He used to be a friend.’
‘No more?’
Slumped in the chair, he hid his face. ‘We lost contact once he moved to London.’
I looked at Dowling, who stood behind Ormonde. He nodded gently. I sighed before telling him what we had discovered. ‘We know that Jane Keeling took her own life ten years ago, on her twentieth birthday, because she was with child. Now another man’s daughter has been killed on her twentieth birthday, her eyes mutilated and her teeth removed, indications of revenge.’ I watched his expressionless dull face. ‘Have we intruded upon some private feud?’
As my words sunk in, his eyes widened, his body jerked in spasm, and a strangled whine escaped his cold blue lips. He stared at me, his tight body twitching, his arm stiff and straight, his hand hovering an inch above his knee. ‘Sit down,’ he whispered at last.
Neither of us moved.
‘Who told you these things?’ The old man raised his head slowly, his shoulders still tight and hunched.
‘Are they true?’
‘You would imply that I fathered the girl’s child?’ The old man stood and stepped towards me.
‘Would you deny it?’ I replied, edging sideways.
‘Deny it? Naturally, I deny it! You accuse me of the most wicked and foul of all deeds! Who told you that Keeling’s daughter was with child? What maul hath unleashed such arrows? All liars shall have their part in the lake, the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone.’ He reached me with two long deliberate strides, his hands held out before him like claws.
I stood my ground without raising my hands against him, praying that either he calmed down or that Dowling would step forward to protect me. ‘If you speak the truth then you have nothing to fear.’
Ormonde blinked, ‘I will ask you one more time, you that speak with black tongue and foul breath. From where did you get these iniquities, this false and vile information?’ He let his arms fall to his side. His face was wreathed in hateful disdain.
‘I told you that I would not disclose it.’
‘Then begone, wretch. But think wisely before you choose to stain my reputation with your vile lies. Put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’ Ormonde laughed, a deep shallow laugh, with no body to it. ‘The Lord is my helper, and I shall not fea
r what man shall do unto me, for he is mine enemy.’
I took an instant dislike to all and any that shouted Bible quotes at me.
He clasped his hands in front of his waist, sharp smile beneath now hooded eyes. ‘Keeling will be full of fury when he hears your accusation. It matters not where the rumour starts, if he hears it then he will now assume that it comes from you. Once it is established that in fact she was not with child, then shall he heap piles of coal on your head. In righteousness, therefore, I am safely established. Good day to thee, Mr Lytle.’
He stepped forward, placed a hand on my shoulder, and with a strength that I had not suspected, tried to propel me towards the door. I was not in the mood to be manhandled by decrepit old Baptists and I stood my ground. Once he realised I had no intention of moving he stood licking his lips, neck crooked, a twisted smile on his bitter face. He stood there frozen for a moment before returning silently to his chair. We watched the back of his scaly head again.
‘I was a Baptist,’ he said at last. ‘So was Keeling. The old King used to send men to arrest people like us. I was imprisoned myself for a short time, about twenty years ago. But his Parliament didn’t trust him and after he tried to force money from them to wage war on the Scottish Presbyterians, they killed him. That was the end of it all, I fear, for though those men scoured the Lord’s Book and found some words that they said justified their regicide, it was an evil thing that they did. I said nothing then, for I was too passioned by it all, the possibility that man might be free to indulge the indwelling spirit, that he might find his own salvation at last.’
What that had to do with the smell of bacon I had no idea, but I was loath to interrupt. It was an opportunity to learn more about this strange old man.
‘Cromwell forsook the dream of Godly reformation in the name of compromise. He spoke to me himself, told me that I lacked prudence, that I might think to avoid the fate of the Fifth Monarchists.’
‘What fate?’ I asked.
‘And in the days of these kings shall the God of heaven set up a kingdom, which shall never be destroyed: and the kingdom shall not be left to other people, but it shall break in pieces and consume all these kingdoms, and it shall stand for ever.’
‘Daniel 2: 44. King Nebuchadnezzar’s dream,’ Dowling said softly.
‘Aye, butcher, if butcher is what you be. The Fifth Kingdom. There were many, myself one of them, that believed that the death of the King was a sign from God that the new kingdom was to come. In their eyes Cromwell was God’s instrument, he who hath been ordained to make free the path back to Christ. But he betrayed them. He put their leaders into prison. He warned me that my own energies were misdirected, and again I listened. Others did not, I fear, but more than that I fear that they were right, for where now Godly reformation? Where now the new kingdom?’
The old man stood up and walked to the window, from where he looked out onto the dead, frozen countryside. ‘It was all for nothing that they killed a King. And now his son is returned, and what do we suppose he thinks of it all?’ Ormonde turned to regard me with mocking eyes, looked at my clothes, finer than the old frayed black cloth that he wore. ‘He plays games at Court, sets man against man. Why should this King bear any love for us, his people? For there are many of us that were agin him at one time or another, even if we may regret it now. He put to death only those that signed his father’s death warrant, the rest of us are free to live, as we will. He could not arrest every man that plotted against him, seize their property, remove them from Court, he does not have that influence. Keeling does not proclaim his past, but it is no secret.’ He practically shouted the last two words, for no obvious reason. He slumped back into his chair with his hands limp on his lap.
‘You are hopeless,’ said Dowling.
‘Aye. Indeed I would be left in that condition. Now, maybe you would pay me the kindness of leaving me as you find me.’
‘Sir, we came on an errand, one which for us does carry hope.’
Ormonde sat silently with eyes closed, ignoring us. What sort of man was this? Old and tired.
‘A wicked man hardeneth his face,’ Dowling said, breaking his silence.
‘As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more,’ Ormonde replied, without looking up. ‘Please leave now.’
We stood our ground a while longer, but Ormonde remained motionless, ignoring our presence. There was little more that we could do without more proof.
As soon as we stepped out of the room the door crashed behind us and the key was turned in the lock. Most unwelcoming. I thought to develop our understanding better with Mary Ormonde, but the old servant said that she had left the house and would not be back until the morrow. That was rum too, but no rummer than anything else that had occurred that day.
We talked all the way home. Could it be true – that Ormonde had deflowered his friend’s own daughter? Was his violent reaction born out of indignation – or sick fear that his deeds would be publicised? Why had the Lord Chief Justice himself taken such a personal interest in condemning Richard Joyce? There was no love lost between Keeling and Ormonde – that much was now clear – so how could Keeling’s involvement be attributed to a desire to help the Ormonde family? Were his efforts instead directed at covering his own misdemeanour? Was it Keeling that killed Anne Giles? Joyce’s description of the man he saw at Bride’s came to mind – big and bear-like. Hewitt was bear-like – but a very short bear. Keeling was large, yet the idea that the Lord Chief Justice would involve himself in such a wicked affair? And what of Hill in all of this? And Hewitt?
At length, and not without trepidation, Dowling volunteered to talk to some that he knew through the Mayor. He would attempt to probe more into the history between Ormonde and Keeling, that we might develop a better understanding upon which to make our assumptions. When all was said and done, though – we still both believed in our hearts that Hewitt was the beast that murdered Anne Giles, and set ourselves to finding out more about his activities.
Chapter Fourteen
Male fern
This plant was hung up in bundles in the Forum Julii on which flies gathered in the evening; they were easily caught when a sack was thrown over each bundle.
At Hill’s house the woman that opened the door told me a great lie when she said he wasn’t home; I saw his shoes thrown down upon the floor in the hallway. They were the only shoes I’d ever seen him wear these last five years, so if he wasn’t at home then he was out and about in his stockings. I did not say as much to the servant for if she spoke a lie then it wasn’t hers. I could only assume that Hill was shy of my attentions, so suggested to her that she ask him to meet me at Paul’s in one hour, a busy place where we could talk without being noticed. She readily agreed and was happily closing the door upon me when she realised, late, that she could hardly commit to pass on the message to a master who wasn’t at home. I cut short her pink-cheeked stutterings, smiled my most charming smile, bowed and took my leave.
I went straight to Paul’s. It was my instinct to meet Hill where it was busy. If he had something to do with the disappearance of my father, then I had to regard him as a dangerous enemy, whatever our history.
The cathedral was full. The noise of the printing presses echoed from the eastern vaults, the meat sellers and fruit sellers wandered the nave shouting out the price and quality of their wares. All of London wandered across – east and west – for it was the fastest route between Ludgate and Cheapside. I went out into the churchyard and lingered beneath a great oak tree from where I could see the Cross; the meeting place where Hill would come.
He arrived soon enough, clean, trimmed and fresh. He was looking about him, peering into the grey gloom. He seemed to be alone. There were still folks loitering so I stepped out.
‘It’s a wet day to be yarning out here, Harry, when we could be tucked up warm in the Crowne.’ His breath billowed out into the cold, crisp air like smoke. ‘So. What news, Harry? You went to Epsom?’ He spoke as a man who knew very well
that I went to Epsom.
‘Aye.’
‘What did you find?’
‘It would seem that Keeling’s daughter took her own life ten years ago, when secretly carrying a bastard child. She died on her twentieth birthday, the same as Anne Giles.’
‘Are you sure?’ He looked at me with keen eyes.
I knew what he wanted me to say next. ‘Aye. If indeed this affair is about revenge, then the finger points at Keeling. The Lord Chief Justice himself. He is a big man, is he not?’
A change came over William Hill. Whilst before he had stood like he carried the Wisdom of Solomon on his back, now he seemed to float upwards into the grey sky, the arches of his feet curving gracefully upwards. His face changed too, and for a moment I saw the open, carefree expression of the old William Hill, drinker of fine (and not so fine) wines and ales, witty raconteur. Then he blinked and the smile was gone. Yet still he glowed like a fire at the end of a cold winter’s night. ‘Hold up your head, Harry. Or shall ye have the King’s horse?’ He punched me on the shoulder, unable to contain himself. His eyes sparkled, laughing with a special delight.
‘Why are you so happy to hear of it, William? You are not shocked that I would implicate the Lord Chief Justice?’
He pulled me back towards the dry indoors out of the cold drizzle. ‘What did you say when you discovered it, Lytle? It was clear that something strange and evil was at play. Too strange to guess at, but now that the story is told it rings true like these very bells.’ He leant close. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Dowling is going to talk to the Mayor, attempt to establish if there could be any credibility in it.’
His eyes set to twinkling once more; stars sparkled against the black carpet of his oily eyes. ‘Excellent.’ He patted me on the arm softly and smiled contentedly.
The Sweet Smell of Decay Page 15
