The Sweet Smell of Decay

by Paul Lawrence

  I shook my head. ‘Methinks I am still unable to comprehend that the Lord Chief Justice killed a common girl with his own hands. I still believe Hewitt to be the killer.’

  Hill grimaced. ‘Come, Harry.’ He sidled up to me and spoke to me like I was still his younger brother. ‘The reason I am so uppity is that your words ring true. I had heard rumours come from Epsom, which is why I insisted that you go. I was afeared that you would not solve this riddle set to you by Shrewsbury, but by heaven I think you have done it! All this business about Hewitt is nonsense. Merchants don’t go around murdering people to remedy their woes. If they did then you would not be able to walk the streets without being knocked over by one merchant or another chasing some poor scallywag!’

  ‘You would think so.’ I fixed my eyes upon his. ‘Yet two men abducted my father three days ago, and he is about as dangerous to any man as a bag of feathers.’

  For a moment he looked at me like I held a knife to his balls. Then he recovered and looked at me as if it was all news. He adopted a look of great concern and asked me the story of it but I waved him away. I had seen enough in those big black eyes. ‘You know who took him, William. Tell me where I might find him.’

  He blinked and lifted his hands to his chest like he was going to sing me a song. ‘I have heard nothing of it, Harry, but I will ask.’

  I sneered. ‘The only reason I can think of that any would have taken him is so that I couldn’t speak to him and find out why he wrote me that letter telling me that Anne Giles was my cuz. One of them men that took him was also there the day he wrote the letter. It’s all very strange when considered alongside Shrewsbury’s strange inclination to put himself out supposedly for the sake of my family.’

  Hill’s face reddened. I had offended him. ‘He is your patron, Harry, and – as I have told you – he is a good patron to have.’ He rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, a familiar sign of uncertainty. ‘If you don’t trust me then I suggest you talk to him.’

  ‘I don’t think he will talk again with me, Hill. As you know.’

  ‘I think he will be happier once news of what you have found spreads. It will relieve him of some of the concerns he has for his own safety.’

  I frowned at him, trying to work out what he assumed. ‘I will not be spreading the news, William. It was all too easy. It sits awkwardly with me. Now the story is there in my head it indeed rings true like cathedral bells. The bells ring so loud that I cannot help but feel that they were hung especially for me to hear.’

  Hill shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Mary Ormonde told us that her father and Keeling were once Baptists.’

  Hill interrupted me, putting a finger to his lips bidding me to be quiet.

  ‘So! These are not things to say aloud!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yet she did.’

  ‘She is a country girl, Lytle, innocent in her ways.’

  ‘Not so innocent, Hill,’ I assured him, ‘for she directed us to her old nanny where next we were told very easily that Jane Keeling took her own life. She then instructed the nanny to direct us to the local surgeon who very easily told us that the girl was with child when she died.’ I shook my head.

  ‘Why can you not see that such frankness is born of innocence? These simple country people spake the truth because they did not realise the full consequence of their words.’

  ‘If they are so simple then why should Keeling permit them to live their lives where any might come and discover such a damaging tale? If he is the one that killed Anne Giles and merrily condemned Richard Joyce to an underserved death – then why should he shrink from killing the nanny or the surgeon?’ I shook my head again.

  Hill now looked guarded, uncertain of himself. He and I both knew that it was he that had insisted I go to Epsom. If there had been any bells hung for my benefit, it was he that did the stringing.

  ‘If I was you, Harry, I would share my doubts with Shrewsbury himself. He is your patron, he will guide you.’

  ‘He did not seem so anxious to guide me last time we spoke. He seemed more concerned that I tell him nothing and be sure his name was not associated with the affair. Would he welcome me mentioning the possibility of the Lord Chief Justice’s guilt?’

  ‘Aye, Harry, he would have to. It is not a possibility that he would have you keep from him. Be well advised.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and looked at me seriously. ‘Take my word for it.’

  I almost laughed, but managed to sneeze instead. ‘Aye, well thanks for the kind advice, William. I will see you soon.’

  I turned and left him standing there like the mangy dog he was. So Hill was working for Shrewsbury in this. The two of them were determined that I dig out this old tale from Epsom. But what was at the root of it? That Shrewsbury should wish Keeling to be implicated was understandable – the two men were rivals – but was this a plot built on rock, or a plot built on sand? And what was the significance of the two old men once having been Baptists together? We would have to work out how to untie that knot once we had further counsel back from Dowling’s friends. In the meantime – Matthew Hewitt.

  The Royal Exchange is where rich people throw their money away on exotic rubbish. It is also where London’s merchants meet to swap news and do deals. At the heart of the Exchange is a massive courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by an arcade behind rows of thin marble columns. Statues of all the kings of England from William to Charles I stand on plinths above the portico peering down onto the throng below. There are nearly two hundred shops trading in the arcades, selling perfumes and scents from the Far East, silk from China, sables, jewels, gold lace and so on. A tall, thin tower with an Arabian roof stands above it all, with a giant grasshopper impaled on its peak. Four more grasshoppers sit on the corners of the roof.

  This was the stomping ground of Matthew Hewitt, and I was determined to catch him in some nefarious deed. The courtyard was full today, the merchants gathered in small groups, heads bowed, engaged in quiet negotiation and exchange of information. Straining my ears hopefully to see what I could pick up, I walked slowly. Even the statues seemed to be leaning over, stretching their necks to try and hear what was being said below. I watched the short sharp movements of the merchants’ hands, the intensity writ on their faces, the stooped shoulders and low whisperings. The restoration of Charles had done wonders for business. Charles II was following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, pursuing discreetly the building of relations with Catholic Europe in the name of peace, against the wishes of a vociferous Protestant population who were afraid of the Pope and the insidious tendrils of Rome. The war with the Dutch was the subject of the day; a multitude of guessing games surrounded its outcome.

  It took me ten minutes to find Matthew Hewitt, short squat body and stumpy legs. He seemed shrunken outside the dark sanctuary of his little sitting room, some of the menace evaporated in the light of day. His legs were bowed, though not deformed, their curving shape accentuated by the high heels he wore in an attempt to increase his stature. His skin was not just pale, but white like snow, in contrast with the jet black of his hair. Hirsute, but not like Dowling. Dowling’s hairs grew in the right places: on his head, arms and chest. The hairs on this man’s body were more randomly arranged. There was a patch, for example, of thick black bristles growing in a round patch from a lump on his left cheek. They were trimmed short but impossible to hide. He wore a thick, black little beard trimmed neatly into a blunt point and his eyebrows curved upwards, adding to the intensity of his awful black eyes. Long nails, strong and sturdy, a big pig, yet I admired his clothes – silk and very expensive. His movements were more restrained than those of his colleagues, his manner more calm and confident.

  For about ten minutes I watched him before he suddenly looked up. His eyes fixed on mine and his face tightened into a grim mask. I held the stare, though my heart pounded, and then he looked away. Returning to his conversation, he stayed where he was. Three of them talked for about twenty minutes before th
ey were joined by two more. This group carried on talking for another half an hour. During that time another man, obviously not a merchant, came and spoke briefly to Hewitt twice. This man was dressed in rough linen clothes, poorly tailored, the stitch designed to hold, not to impress. He was tall, heavy and ponderous. Had I seen him before?

  Then I spotted William Hill standing in easy conversation with two others, apparently unaware of my presence. He must have come direct from Paul’s. As Hewitt’s bear-like companion trod heavily nearby, Hill acknowledged him and exchanged a few words. One of Hill’s companions shook hands with both Hill and the big man, and the two of them departed. What the Devil was Hill’s connection to Hewitt? Then suddenly Hewitt took off. He strode purposefully towards the exit, moving fast without stopping to talk on the way. At the last possible moment I saw his wide shoulders disappear. I sprinted out onto the street but he was already gone. I cursed both him and me as I stood looking around, wondering what to do next. In the end I went home, cursing my incompetence.

  The day was grey, my mood was black and my feet felt like I was wearing lead shoes. I took off my periwig, before I reached Sopar Lane, to scratch at my itching scalp, ignoring the disapproving stares of a portly man who used to know my father. Calling for Jane as I entered my little house, I was impatient to get my feet into a bowl of hot water. No one answered. I decided to go and sit down with my shoes off to await her return. I pushed open the door to my small sitting room and went to my favourite carved wooden chair with its soft, inviting cushion. Just before my head exploded I heard a noise just behind me, like the soft clearing of a throat.

  It was the pain that woke me up, ferocious, burning like a hot iron rod pressed against my temples and driven into the top of my neck, a raging sickening pain that I felt at the pit of my stomach. I was afraid to move lest it encouraged the pain to stab deeper and I couldn’t move my eyes without making it worse. Breathing slowly and gently, I could feel the pain throb in rhythm with the beating of my heart. The back of my eyes felt like raw, skinned meat rubbing up against stone. My guts churned, ready to empty. Lying still I became gradually aware that my cheek was lying in a pool of freezing cold water. My body was frozen and stiff.

  Darkness. I could just make out a small ladder, wide, with only five or six rungs, leading up to a small archway. To either side of it and above me were thick stone arches forming a vaulted ceiling. There were no windows and the air was cold. I was in a cellar. A weak light flickered from a distant flame, dancing, casting little shadows on the wall ahead. The source of it was behind me. Thinking to turn despite the pain, to try and raise myself, I was dissuaded by a loud sneeze.

  ‘Dusty down here,’ said a coarse, strangulated voice, flat and nervous. I visualised the owner as a youngish man, just turning into middle age, fat round the face and waist.

  ‘Aye, but dry,’ said another. This voice was younger, but spoke without hesitation. The voice of a brutal man, thin and lithe, not unlike John Giles in appearance, perhaps.

  ‘Must be dark by now.’

  ‘Likely it is, but we don’t leave until two of the morning.’

  ‘It’s dark enough now,’ First Voice insisted.

  ‘We take him out of town at two, like we said,’ Second Voice snapped impatiently, on the verge of anger.

  ‘My old lady will be very suspicious – my being out so late without ale on my breath.’

  ‘Aye, well we’ll have a pot or two after we’ve done.’

  ‘I don’t see why we can’t take him out now. It’s pitch-black and no one about. It’s just a short way down to the wharf.’

  ‘We said we’d take him out at two, so we’ll take him out at two.’

  First Voice started to hum, then stopped. ‘We got him here safe enough, all the way from Bread Street without being seen, in the middle of the day.’

  Second Voice didn’t reply.

  ‘Fact I don’t see why we has to take him out at all. Why can’t we kill him here, be done with it?’

  ‘The man wants him strung up, so we string him up. You fain to argue about it, then you should have argued when you had the chance. Nay quoth Stringer, when his neck was in the halter.’

  ‘At least we could kill him first?’

  ‘We do as we’re told. No more to be said.’

  ‘He’s probably dead, anyway. You hit him mighty hard.’

  ‘He’s not dead. You have made fair speech, now rest.’

  First Voice didn’t reply. The pain was almost unbearable. I could feel with my fingers, though they were frozen, immersed in the same cold puddle in which my face lay. My stomach still threatened to unload. I could feel a gash on the back of my head, throbbing. I was on my side, curled in a foetal position. Fortunately I wasn’t lying on either of my arms. My right arm was lying on a rough and lumpen surface, my hand was dangling limp in the water. I rubbed my arm gently against that surface. It felt like rope.

  ‘Is the rope thick enough?’ First Voice spoke, breaking the silence. I froze and held my breath.

  ‘The rope is thick enough.’

  ‘How thick is the pole?’

  ‘Thick enough. I looked at it yesterday. It’s been repaired recently, the wood is new and the fitting is sound. It will hold him.’

  I was in no fit state to take on these two men. It would take me an age to sit, let alone stand up. My stomach had quietened. I didn’t breathe. The blood pounded at the back of my head, the front of my head, the back of my eyes and in my ears.

  ‘Has he paid you yet?’ First Voice asked.

  ‘We get paid when we done the job. Why do you challenge me, Mottram? Were you not there?’

  ‘I know, I know,’

  ‘Ye think he won’t pay us?’

  ‘No, course he will. Just asking, weren’t I?’

  There was another long period of silence.

  ‘What should we do if there’s people around?’

  ‘We have discussed this many times.’ Second Voice sounded like he was talking through clenched teeth.

  ‘Methinks we didn’t talk it through well enough. He told a story as if it were simple, but now I am less certain.’

  ‘We’ll do the job as we said we would.’

  I began to flex my muscles, one by one, slowly and systematically. By flexing my biceps my lower arm began to feel better. I flexed my thighs very slowly in order to avoid attracting attention. I tensed my calf muscles at the same time as my toes. I made no movements with my neck – the slightest movement resulted in searing pain around the wound on my head.

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘Half past one.’

  ‘Did he say leave here at two, or leave the wharf at two?’

  ‘He didn’t specify.’

  ‘If we get started now, then, we’ll likely be ready to leave the wharf at about two, wouldn’t you say?’

  Second Voice sighed. There was a cracking noise and a shuffling like the sound of a man getting to his feet. ‘The candle is nearly dead, anyway. You pick him up and let’s be on our way.’

  ‘That’s more like it!’

  I lay still and listened to Mottram’s heavy steps. Big hands grabbed my armpits. Gritting my teeth I stopped myself crying out as he slung me over his shoulder, the back of my head rubbing against his elbow. The pain was twice as bad with my head hanging, the throbbing intensified. His coat was damp. He carried me up a short spiral staircase. As we emerged into a dark room at the top, I looked out of one eye. There was a big table laid out in the middle of the room, thick, with a row of knives hung up on one wall. The room smelt of rotting meat. At the end of the table next to the front door was a barrow. I was swung about and thrown into it, with my legs hanging over one side, and the back of my head landing with a thump on the bottom of it. I thought I was dying. I passed out again.

  ‘It’s yonder, just beyond your left shoulder,’ Second Voice called out. Those were the words that woke me. A cold wind blew up my trouser legs. There was something on my face that smelt of fish, weighing d
own on it. I felt rough prickles against my face. More rope.

  ‘Hey!’ Mottram said slowly.

  ‘What?’ Second Voice snarled.

  ‘I think I just saw him move.’ My heart seized.

  ‘How can you see him move when he’s bouncing up and down in the bottom of the barrow?’ Second Voice sounded fed up. Listen to him!

  The wind blew harder and colder and I heard the sound of water lapping against the river wall.

  ‘There she is.’ Second Voice was ahead now. Mottram must be pushing the barrow.

  ‘I hope you don’t expect me to row us all the way to Westminster by myself,’ Mottram grumbled.

  ‘Come and help me get her untied.’ There was a thump, the sound of a man stepping down into a boat. The barrow was dropped, again sending fresh waves of pain and nausea from my head to my stomach. It had to be now.

  I pushed myself slowly and steadily upwards, my feet slipping to the ground, the rope rolling off my face and falling onto the flagstones.

  ‘Hey!’ Mottram’s voice shouted. I stood up straight and turned. A big, heavy man was holding a rope in one hand standing at the top of the wharf above the river. Mottram. The man I had seen at the Exchange. The rope led downwards. ‘He’s got up!’

  ‘Stop him, then!’ Second Voice cried out from beyond. There was the sound of feet scrambling on stone steps.

  I turned and ran. I saw and recognised the spires of Mary Somerset, Mary Magdalene and Nicholas Cole. Beyond them the big square bulk of Old St Paul’s. This was Broken Wharf. Running up the hill as fast as I could I struggled to find strength in my stiff, tired legs.

  ‘You’re too damned slow!’ Second Voice shouted angrily at Mottram. It was him I was afraid of, not Mottram.

  Looking over my shoulder I saw my demons in profile. Mottram was tall and stout and would not catch me, but the other man was shorter, more athletic – and close behind. I tried to run faster. My eyes burnt, my lungs were raw and waves of nausea rippled up from my guts, but I kept going thanks to the grace of … Second Voice was catching up, I could hear his steps behind. Fish! Where to go? Where to go? No idea! I darted left into a black alley and sprinted forward, careless of what might lie before me. Slipping twice on the cobbles I slid forward on the sole of one shoe, but righted myself both times. Left, right, left. Not once did I choose a blind alley. I chose the narrowest passages and darkest yards. I emerged out onto a main street. Knightrider Street! West! St Paul’s Bakery! Looking behind, I saw the shadow of Second Voice emerge, turn, spot me and give chase again. But he was farther behind now, forty or fifty yards, and he was alone. I reached the corner of the bakery and headed straight for the wooden row of shops that was there, a hundred yards long. The shops were all alike, with window shutters made of Eastland board. I pulled at the first set of shutters. They were locked tight shut, and the second, and the third, but the lock on the fourth set was looser. I pulled it open with three mighty pulls and leapt through the gap, pushing against the window behind with my body. I landed in a heap on the wooden floor with glass chips all about me. Ignoring the pain of the shards that embedded themselves in my hands, I jumped to my feet. I pulled the shutters closed and held them, leaning backwards with all my weight in case Second Voice tried to pull on them. Breathing hard, my body complaining and threatening to retch I listened hard, but could hear nothing above the noise of the blood pounding in my ears.