‘You are a fool.’ Hill gave up on his coat and held his fingernails to his nose. He pulled a face and shook his head in disgust. ‘I saw you at the Exchange.’
I said nothing in reply.
He spoke to me as if I were a snotty urchin. ‘It was an idiot thing to do, Harry, stand there watching Hewitt like he was some low criminal. I told you to leave him alone!’
‘Was it he who sent Mottram and Wilson to kill me?’
I watched his face closely. Casting a quick glance over his left shoulder like he did when he lied, he shook his head. ‘I don’t know. God have mercy, Lytle, you are lucky to be alive! Wilson is an evil little man.’
‘You know who sent them.’
Hill snorted. ‘You wander into the Exchange like a Court fool, you rush round London making loose accusation, and you march into Matthew Hewitt’s house and accuse him of murder!’ He leant forward and stabbed a finger at my chest, angry now. ‘Yes, I know you went to see Hewitt, Harry, and I still cannot believe how you could have been such a witless Whoball!’ His face was red, his voice thick and angry.
I didn’t answer. He was posturing. I considered whether or not to ask him about Pargetter. Not yet. ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘who did kill Anne Giles?’
His eyes dropped again, shrouded with sly cunning. ‘Keeling killed Anne Giles, as you have already discovered for yourself. How else would you hear it?’
Lying, stinking rat. ‘I think Hewitt killed Anne Giles, to intimidate John Giles. Then he killed John Giles. He sent Mottram and Wilson to kill me, since I was the only one in London that did not believe Richard Joyce did it.’
Hill shook his head and sighed.
Nodding his head and whistling cheerfully, the menagerie keeper approached. He picked up the first bucket and walked to Old Crowley’s cage, a mangy old lion with broken teeth and blackened gums. The keeper threw a slab of the meat at Crowley’s splayed feet.
‘What is your relationship with Shrewsbury?’ I demanded, once the menagerie keeper was out of earshot. Hill stood stooped; hands plunged in pockets, looking very miserable.
‘I have no relationship with him.’
‘You know things, though.’
‘Aye, I know things. I know lots of things, but I have no privileged relationship with Shrewsbury. He loves me not and never will. I know him well enough to know that behind that wide, friendly smile is the soul of a wolf. I’ve told you that before.’
‘I don’t recall you saying that,’ I answered slowly. ‘I remember you telling me how lucky I was to have a friend like him. What an excellent patron he was.’
He pulled a face. ‘Aye, well he’s close to the King, which means he is a good person to know. There’s many would say you were very lucky to have a patron of such lofty standing.’
‘You said his position at Court was precarious.’
‘I never said his position at Court was precarious, Harry. I am not stupid. I know him only by reputation and have some insight as to the comings and goings at Whitehall. This is how our King would have it. He plants seeds, gets others to cultivate them, then finds insects that like to eat these plants, and others who like to eat insects. Keeps everyone on their toes.’
‘Tell me what you would do if you were I.’
He looked up into my eyes and spoke passionately. ‘Go talk to Shrewsbury. Tell him what you found at Epsom.’
‘And Pargetter?’
‘Forget him, Harry! He has nothing to do with this! How many times must I tell you!’
‘So Pargetter is Hewitt?’
Hill stepped back and regarded me curiously. The veil slid slowly back over his face, eyes wondering what had just happened.
‘I have to leave now, Hill. I’ll find you later.’ I could barely contain my excitement and didn’t want him to see it. Pargetter was Hewitt, which left no doubt that it was him that plotted to kill me. Time for the great plan.
Chapter Eighteen
Crocus
It seems remarkable that the crocus which they say is made of such feeble and tenuous parts not only stains urine with its colour but also excrement of the belly.
I banged my fist on Hewitt’s heavy front door. The rains had started to fall again, big black drops falling down my neck. I pounded on the thick wood, determined to be heard above the noise of the wind. The same window opened as before. The same old, scabby, grey head stretched out, the same hooded left eye wandered up and down my body. It withdrew. The great bolt slid and the door opened.
‘You should use the bell,’ the head sneered at me, the mouth crooked and turned down at the ends. ‘He said you would come.’ He turned to close the door.
‘Then he is a genius.’ I grabbed him by both ears and wrapped an arm around his head, covering his mouth. He coughed and spluttered, eyes wide open. Dowling and two of his colleagues entered quickly from the street and closed the big door. I held the old servant while Dowling bound his mouth. Shiny eyes stared at me through Dowling’s fingers, black and pupil-less, narrow wells of putrescence.
The corridor was dark, lit only by one candle sat on a small round table twenty yards ahead. We walked as quiet as we could on the polished floorboards, aware of the dark faces watching us from the massive portraits that hung high on the dark wainscoted walls. The candle and table stood at the foot of the small staircase that led up to Hewitt’s parlour. I put a hand on the banister and withdrew it quickly. Something sharp. It was the spiky tooth of a grinning serpent, monstrous and twisted, carved into the wooden rail. Composing myself, I turned to the others and signalled silently that they should remain, hidden in cold, black shadows. I climbed the stairs. They creaked. I knocked on the door and entered, closing the door behind me swiftly.
‘You are lucky to find me in, I’ve just returned.’ Hewitt stood by the fire looking at me. ‘It is raining now, I see.’
I walked towards the heat of the fire. Steam started to rise from my clothes.
‘Your manservant told me you were expecting me.’
‘I thought you may come again,’ Hewitt said slowly, ‘one last time.’
‘What did you think I’d come for?’
Chuckling, he scratched his head vigorously. Flames from the fire wriggled and danced. He spoke quickly, rubbing his right thumb on his left palm. ‘You think I killed John Giles. You think I sent Mottram and Wilson to kill you. You may even think I killed Anne Giles.’
‘Did you?’
‘Opportunity is whoredom’s bawd.’
‘What kind of answer is that?’
‘The only one you will get from me. I told you last time you came that this is not your affair. I gave you clear warning. Instead you came to the Exchange to observe me, to spy on me.’
‘Did you send Mottram and Wilson to kill me?’
‘It is as good to be in the dark as without light.’
I snorted. Pompous indulgence. ‘Who was John Giles blackmailing if not you?’
‘I could write you a list, but I will not.’ Hewitt spoke with quiet amusement in his voice. He poured himself a glass of wine without offering one to me. He sat, sighing as he fell back into the soft leather upholstery.
‘You are a devil.’
‘Speak to me like that again and I will have your throat cut,’ Hewitt answered lazily. I couldn’t think of a suitable riposte. He sipped unhurriedly at his wine. ‘I take no pleasure in Anne Giles’s death, much less that it was you appointed to investigate it, but I’m no different to any of the others that work the Exchange. Look at me, Lytle.’
I looked.
‘What do you see?’
‘Your face.’ Like the skin of a dead animal hung out to dry.
‘Every face at the Exchange is the same as this face, Lytle. Do you understand?’ He let me look upon him a moment longer before sitting back.
I realised, startled, that he was surely talking about William Hill. Why? I shook my head, confused. ‘How does that excuse you from telling me what I would know?’
‘I don’t need an excus
e.’
‘Was it you that sent Mottram and Wilson to kill me?’
‘If it had been me, would I tell you?’ He was playing with me.
‘You’re hung one way or the other.’
‘Enough!’ He snarled, jerking forward, his white face scowling, black eyes fixed on mine.
I walked towards the door.
‘Goodbye.’ Hewitt sat back again, fingers arched, contemplative. ‘Don’t come back.’
I opened the door to Dowling and his colleagues, who bounded up the stairs, boots crashing thunder on the wooden boards. Hewitt leapt to his feet, crouched, legs spread. His head jerked to look at me, outraged and incredulous. I tried to avoid his gaze.
‘I think you killed Anne Giles and John Giles, and tried to kill me. So I am going to take you somewhere where you may be persuaded to make your confession.’
‘You would do what?’ Hewitt almost laughed. ‘By whose authority?’
‘By my authority.’
‘Lytle. You … are … mad.’ He paused to scrutinise my nervous expression. ‘Quite mad.’
I signalled to Dowling. He and the others bound Hewitt with rope. Hewitt made a couple of token movements to resist but was still overcome with astonishment. Only when Dowling wrapped a cloth around his mouth did his eyes flash. He tried to kick out, but it was too late. He stopped quickly, unwilling to make a fool of himself. The three of them carried Hewitt down the narrow stairs and I followed close behind. All of us were uneasy now, unsure of ourselves, and the cold, murderous, furious sparks flying from the cold flints of Hewitt’s eyes did nothing to comfort us. We left the house quickly, as fast as we could, and hauled Hewitt into the back of a coach we had left parked by the front door.
I think I said somewhere earlier in this narrative that I had never been into Alsatia and never would. That was my view at the time, which I had shared with Dowling. He responded by telling me that it wasn’t so bad, that he knew a couple of fellows that lived inside its boundaries. This remark had surfaced in my mind the night I had formulated the great plan. So now we would take Hewitt there and keep him at a place known by one of Dowling’s fellows.
Alsatia was a swarming, stinking nest of rats. Every house was split into twenty or more tenements, each tenement housing up to ten men each. There lived debtors, cheats, liars, forgers, thieves and murderers, living in cellars, in kitchens, first-floor rooms and garrets. There lived rufflers, who made their living pretending to be old, maimed soldiers, begging from royalist commanders who they claimed to have served. Strowling morts pretending to be widows. Fraters who collected money for hospitals, keeping the money for themselves. Polliards and clapperdogeons, who used children to extort money from wealthy passers-by. Tom O’Bedlams, thieves that feigned madness. Anglers that earned their name fishing through open windows with a rod and hook. It was a dangerous place policed by gangs of ten or more, burly thugs armed with poles and knives that stood for the only law that applied there. Worse than The Exchange. Just.
We stopped on Fleet Street at the mouth to Shoe Lane. I watched nervously the characters that wandered in and out the tops of the narrow alleys that led down into Alsatia, dirty rogues, walking slowly and without haste, masters of their territory. The streets were narrow, doors were public thoroughfares, and the noise from within tumbled out loud and crude. The area swarmed. Houses so overfilled and overpopulated that the sewage formed a thick river that covered the width of the street. This was the dirtiest and unhealthiest district in the whole of London.
Dowling strode over, having been stuck in conversation with the driver of the coach. The coach rumbled forward gently and came to a stop at the top of Salisbury Alley.
‘We all four go together, Harry, it’s safer that way.’ Dowling took my jacket in his hand and shook his head sorrowfully, gazing at my oldest and least fashionable clothes. Still they might as well have been the King’s robes. Snatching my jacket out of his hand I pushed him forward, I had no appetite for discussing it. We paused at the top of the alley and looked down. Walls closed in on either side of the running sewer. Faces stared out from doorways and windows.
‘Right, let’s take him.’ Dowling and one of the others hauled Hewitt out onto the street and pushed him forward. Someone had put an old linen bag over his head. We walked with purpose following Dowling into the maze. I didn’t try and avoid the eyes of the dirty flea-bitten wretches that stared at me with greedy malice, but I didn’t hold their gaze long either. I tried to look unworried and disinterested, as if I was on my way home after a day at work. Dowling led us onwards, marching forward, keen not to linger. My boots sank into the filth with every step I took and I felt the shit seep through the leather and into my stockings and soak up my hose. Every face in every window, every body on every street corner, turned to watch us walk by. Conversations died, laughter stopped, arguments were postponed. Suspicious faces, frowning countenances, beetled brows, low murmurings. People here had all day to do nothing very much.
A trio of particularly ugly and vicious-looking young men kicked their heels as we walked by, then slowly followed. One of them carried a long truncheon, two feet long and made of hard, dark wood. This was the upright man, the leader of the pack. There was no stepping off these dank and humid lanes, for the doorways led straight into people’s living spaces, and the alleys were blocked with piles of rotting rubbish. Eyes watched us out of every door and window. The old and young hung out of every upper-floor window. There was nowhere to stop or rest, no coaches to hail, no wharf or boats. The lanes wound on, lined with eyes, watching and waiting. I thought we were about to die.
‘Have at thee, Dowling. What have you there?’ The upright man drew alongside Dowling and poked Hewitt with his stick. My chest relaxed and fell, my breathing resumed. I felt like dancing. Then he grinned at me, an unpleasant display of thin, sharp, brown teeth. His brow was greasy, his eyes dull and cruel. He lifted his truncheon and held it out to one side, its end resting gently on the floor.
‘Nothing that would interest you, my friend.’ Dowling smiled lazily. Friend? The upright man laughed and slapped Dowling on the back. A loud buzz rumbled forth from all around, tumbling down towards the river, a thick cloud of disappointment. The mob had wanted a fight. Heads dropped, faces sneered, and the rabble went back to their chattering and bickering. The upright man didn’t care. He was the pack leader, free to please or displease.
‘This way.’ Dowling headed towards what looked like no more than a crack in the wall, but it was a tall, narrow alley, dark and wet. The upright man stopped and watched us squeeze down it. He turned, leered, and was gone. What next?
The alley was quiet. Now the only noise was the abrupt sound of little running feet, rats emerging into the cover of darkness, interrupted by the occasional scream and groan or drunken laugh escaping from behind walls and unseen closed doors. We slid slowly down the slope, until Dowling stopped. Pushing open a door to his left, he led us into a gloomy room with crumbling walls. The floor was covered with wet straw mixed with the excrement of the two chickens and the pig that scrambled out of our way. The chickens were scrawny, all skin and bones, but the pig was plump and well fed. Stolen. Holes peppered the walls and the air was foul. An old woman sat on a chair with her head bowed. She looked up as we entered, licking her lips and rubbing her hands. Struggling to her feet, back bent and twisted, she gasped as she steadied herself. Shuffling forward with tiny crabby steps, feet not leaving the floor, she put out her hand.
‘Davy. What you bring us today?’
‘Thomas said that I might use your basement for a while. I have something I need to keep in there.’ Dowling took a coin from his pocket, that I had given him, and pressed it into the old woman’s hand. ‘I have paid him some already, and will pay him more by the day, so long as my goods stay unharmed and untouched.’ He had ‘paid him some already’ with my money, too.
‘That your goods, is it?’ The old woman answered eagerly, stepping quickly over to look closely at Hewitt. She pulled at
the silk of his jacket and ran her fingers up the cloth of his trousers. ‘Precious, are they?’
‘Aye, precious and dangerous, Mary. This is one that you’d best leave be. I don’t want to find him gone, nor untied, nor stripped of his clothes. He would kill you without fear nor hesitation.’ Dowling gently pushed her hand away.
The old woman laughed in a hoarse whisper. ‘Have some sack. Best sack in Alsatia.’ She turned and hurried back into the shadows. ‘Only a penny a bottle.’ I would have paid a guinea if I thought it would help, but Dowling swore and spat on the floor, and told her a halfpenny or nothing. The old woman laughed quietly to herself and came back with a basket full of dirty-looking bottles that she lined up on a table. Opening four of them, she poured their contents into filthy cups. I wiped at the rim of the cup with my thumb and forefinger, determined not to examine too closely what might be floating in it. The sack was strong and acidic, twice as strong as it ought to be. My stomach and throat burnt.
‘So what you be in Alsatia for, my little flower?’ The old woman held out the bottle to refill my cup. Dowling’s friends laughed along at her joke.
I held my cup in front of my nose and tried to ease myself gently away. ‘This is fine sack.’
She followed me as I stepped backwards, clinging like a leech. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
Dowling took the bottle off the old woman. ‘He’s got the same interest as me, Mary. I’ll pay thee well if you keep this bundle safe. But you think to market it yourself for whatever you can get, then mark my words all you’ll get is your throat cut.’
‘All’s rug here, Davy.’ The woman stood up close to me, studying my face. I nearly choked on the smell of rotting meat that blew out of her diseased mouth, struggling to keep the look of disgust off my face. Dowling tapped her on the shoulder and waved a hand, urging her to fill up the others’ cups. She looked sadly at the table, covered in empty bottles, whereupon Dowling pressed upon her some more pennies. Sighing happily, she pulled out another two bottles from the basket, then returned to me.
The Sweet Smell of Decay Page 19
