The Sweet Smell of Decay

by Paul Lawrence

  A low murmuring became a buzzing and a roar. It sounded like we were in the middle of a riot. The air felt hot, and then I was being jostled and pushed. The hands that held my arms disappeared, and all I could hear was shouting and cussing, and the sound of men grunting. I tried pushing forward, but I was pushing against a wall of wriggling, shoving elbows and knees. So I tried to walk sideways, in search of a wall to lean against, determined not to fall onto the floor where I feared I would be crushed. I found my wall and dug my heels into the floor pushing myself against it. Bending my knees I rested most of my weight onto my right foot, which is where most of the buffeting was coming from. Then suddenly – light! The bag on my head was whisked off. I looked into Dowling’s solemn face as he pulled the foul gag from my mouth. Friendly hands untied my wrists. The alley was full of men, sweating and panting, clapping each other on the back and congratulating themselves. Women and children leant out of first-floor windows enjoying the entertainment. The earth floor was dug up and rutted as if a herd of cows had been chased down the alley. Hats and shoes lay discarded and torn.

  The upright man appeared next to Dowling, his sharp teeth glistening, his brown eyes alive and darting. He had a long cut down one cheek, but didn’t seem to know it. Picking up his truncheon he laid it across his shoulders with arms resting on it, like he was tied to a cross. I wiped the dust off my face and looked up the alley to see what was happening. A pile of men sat on three of our assailants, pinning them to the floor. They were covered in dirt, and stared out from beneath the human pyramid with scared faces.

  ‘What’ll they do to them?’ I demanded, ridding my hands and wrists of the last of the rope.

  ‘Same as we’ll do to him.’ The upright man pointed back the other way. Four men were holding the last soldier, while two more tied his chest and stomach to a massive cartwheel. Wriggling and squirming, he kicked and screamed out at the top of his voice, but none would hear outside of Alsatia, for the excited celebrations of the crowd drowned out his frantic protests.

  ‘And what’s that?’ I asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

  ‘We’ll cut off his arms and then we’ll cut off his legs, then we’ll wheel him down the hill into the river.’ The upright man leered.

  And this was civilisation.

  ‘I’ll thank you for saving our lives,’ Dowling said quietly to the upright man, fingering his jaw.

  ‘It be a pleasure, Davy Dowling, I know that ye’ll return the favour one day.’ The upright man swung his truncheon through the air and turned to supervise the execution of the first soldier. A man appeared with a short, squat little axe. Its blade was chipped and blunt.

  The faces of those that still lay squashed stared out in terror. Yet there was no possibility that the crowd would be deprived of its entertainment. ‘Can we go?’ I pulled on Dowling’s sleeve.

  ‘Aye. There’s nothing to be done here.’ Dowling replied in a hoarse whisper. He pulled me back into the alley. ‘God will not cast away a perfect man; neither will he help evildoers.’

  I suppose.

  ‘I promised Mary and Thomas ten shillings,’ he looked to my pocket.

  ‘Make it a guinea,’ I replied wearily.

  We made our way quickly back up to the top of Salisbury Alley, moving fast, without talking to one another, keen to put as much distance as possible between us and the horrors that were taking place behind us. Hewitt’s murder was all the more confusing. If he was the murderer, then who had motive to kill him? Someone that could command soldiers – but to what end? If he was not the murderer then why kill him? As a convenience? But Joyce was already hung – why go to the trouble of killing Hewitt besides? Before we parted company I suggested that Dowling take advantage of his connections with the Mayor to go search Hewitt’s house now that he was dead. Perhaps there would be a letter there, or a diary, or best of all a confession signed by all involved. I would find Hill and attempt to get some sense from him as to what this latest development signified.

  Hill was not at home and nor were his shoes. I was tired and could think of little else to do, so went to the Crowne leaving message that I would wait for Hill there. Perhaps not the safest place to be, given that we had quite possibly precipitated the death of a powerful merchant, but it served good ale.

  As I sat and supped and watched ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, it all seemed absurd. Hewitt now a victim, apparently not the man that killed Anne Giles, nor the man that butchered her husband. Why then had he behaved so strangely? Why had he sent men to kill me? It made no sense. With Hewitt dead and Hill’s Epsom story exposed as the fraud it so clearly was, this left us then with only one other account – Prynne’s bizarre theory of Fifth Monarchists, treason and plot – for which there was no evidence whatsoever. In the meantime someone else would have us dead, someone who could command soldiers to do his deeds. And my father was still missing. All very odd and no mistake.

  I watched a large fellow scratch at his balls and pass comment to a friend that I could not hear. It was clearly funny, since both of them laughed with great gusto. Strange to think that we all lived in the same world, yet they felt safe and happy and I was alone and in great danger. All I needed was a change of face, so that none would recognise me.

  ‘Mr Lytle?’ Hill’s maidservant appeared next to me, flustered and ill at ease, eyeing warily the men that cast her sly glances. She handed me a note and was gone. The note was from Hill, of course, though I didn’t recognise the writing.

  Meet me at Bride’s at ten. News of your father.

  It was fifteen minutes before. I left the mug unfinished and hurried out.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Wallnut-tree

  An antipathy seems to exist between this tree and the oak with the result that one does not tolerate the other.

  The strange church stood as it always had, quiet and still. I dismounted and wandered through the churchyard past a patch of white-bottle. The door was open – someone was at home other than God. I crossed the threshold slowly, peering into the darkness. No light. No candles. Then a thick arm wrapped itself round my neck, a knife pricked hard at my throat and a low, deep voice whispered into my ear. ‘Harry Lytle.’ The knife dug in just below my Adam’s apple, ‘Shrewsbury’s hound.’

  I struggled to breathe. A cloth was clamped down hard over my mouth and nose. I couldn’t move my Adam’s apple without forcing it down onto the razor-sharp blade.

  ‘Walk.’

  I couldn’t walk. The knife was hard against my throat and he was pulling my neck back so hard I couldn’t stand on my own, let alone walk. A trickle of blood dripped down to my chest. The knife moved swiftly to my ribs, and he grabbed my hair. I fingered my throat. The wound stung, but it wasn’t deep, just a scratch. Steered by the hand that held my hair, I walked forward into the cool interior of the silent church, towards the lectern by the far wall. He marched me towards the front pew, the door to which stood open, and forced me to sit, pulling my hair down with one hand and digging the knife into my waist with the other. I dropped my cane, which clattered to the floor. Then the knife was withdrawn and his face appeared in front of me. Hiding his knife inside his coat he grabbed my wrist. His hands moved like lightning, and before I could think what to do he had bound it to the wooden lattice that decorated the front of the simple pew. Then he grabbed for my other wrist. I whipped it back behind my shoulder until the knife appeared again. His wrists were as thick as most men’s legs. Now I understood how John Giles had been trussed and bound so easily.

  At least I could see him now, but the church was poorly lit, and all I could really make out was that he was dressed from head to toe in black. A thick cloak flowed from his chin down to the tops of his big muddy boots. An ordinary hat hid his brow and a scarf covered his mouth. I was in real pain; my wrists were bound so tight that my fingertips were numb, but he just pulled the rope tighter, puffing with satisfied exertion. He sat down next to me on my right. I was forced to lean forwards, held
there by the ropes.

  ‘God bringeth out those that are bound by chains.’ Leaning back, he wrapped his left arm across the back of the pew, while the right hand held the knife. It had a long, thin blade. His eyes burnt, a bright incandescent blue.

  Fighting to stay calm I could not stop my arms and legs from shaking. ‘You killed Anne Giles here. Joyce saw you do it, didn’t he?’

  ‘Whosoever believeth in him shall have eternal life.’

  I pulled gently at the ropes, but my wrists might as well have been set in stone. ‘Am I to die as she did?’

  ‘No. Thy death will be swift. Then will I take thy body to the river and throw it there. It is time for all of this to end, now that all knoweth that I will be their plagues.’

  ‘You will be judged after this life if not in it.’ My voice trembled like a woman.

  The black-robed figure shook his head. ‘Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace. Anne Giles was innocent, and she shall have her reward in the Kingdom of our Lord. The rest were evil sinners, and I have done God’s work in dispatching them to the eternal flames of Hell.’

  ‘Richard Joyce was not an evil sinner.’

  The blue eyes fixed upon me. ‘That man was dead already. It was God’s mercy that led him here that night. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.’

  I pulled harder, without success. ‘It is not your place to walk the streets of London like the Lord God himself, making judgements as to the worth of men.’

  Laughing out loud with real mirth he exclaimed, ‘Ah, but I am the Lord Chief Justice. Indeed it is by my judgement that men live or die in this City. It is my job to dispatch you poor wretches. If I say you are guilty then it is in God’s name that you are pronounced guilty. And the fault is yours.’

  ‘What was Anne Giles guilty of?’

  ‘She died for another’s sin. I told her how I got her own husband to steal the key to this church. She wept. Not for herself, but for him, though he did not deserve her tears.’

  ‘You knew her since she was a baby.’ His blue eyes narrowed. ‘I know who you are, and why you killed Anne Giles.’

  ‘I just told you who I am.’ The cold blade wormed its way up my right nostril. ‘But it would please me greatly to hear thy account. Speak well, friend, or else I will slit thy nose.’ His voice was black velvet.

  ‘I will say nothing with your blade up my nose.’

  The knife wormed its way higher up my nostril, towards my brain. I felt a lump in my throat and had to cough and splutter, drawing back my head. The knife stayed where it was a while, but then it was slowly withdrawn. I sneezed and wiped my nose hard against my upper arm, desperate to be rid of the foul tickle.

  ‘Entertain me with thy words of wisdom and insight,’ he mocked me.

  I cleared my throat and rubbed my nose again. ‘You are Keeling.’ I looked again into the blue eyes. ‘You killed Anne Giles in fear that William Ormonde would disclose your part in a plot to kill the King. You are a Fifth Monarchist. You knew that Ormonde is too much of a coward to do anything about it, for fear of his own reputation, and for fear of you, I suppose. And he is a wretch. He allowed Joyce to hang for his cowardice, and your sins.’

  ‘My sins?’ The blue eyes stared at me with such unrelenting intensity that I felt dry-mouthed terror.

  ‘You killed a sweet, innocent girl for no other reason than to quieten William Ormonde. Why kill her? Why not simply make your intentions clear, it would have been enough? Methinks that you kill for the pleasure it gives you. Why else did you kill Mottram and Wilson, and then go to the trouble of cutting off their heads?’

  I held my breath.

  Keeling breathed quietly, saying nothing. ‘Your meddling hath served no purpose other than to please your master. And believe me, Lytle, he doth not deserve it.’

  ‘It was my duty to try and save Richard Joyce from your justice. He died as a murderer.’

  ‘Not in God’s eyes.’

  ‘You had no right to kill him, nor her.’

  ‘Now the Lord of peace himself gives her peace always, by all means.’

  ‘God didn’t say that. It was a man that said that.’

  ‘Art thou ungodly, Lytle? What amazement is this? Or indeed, shouldst we be amazed at all? ’Tis true that thou art a drunkard, a dancing fairy that doth frequent whorehouses, and alehouses. All these unlawful pursuits you indulge in on the Lord’s Day, betimes. The Lord saveth such as be of contrite spirit, Lytle, but if you will not turn from all your sins, then ye shall die, ye shall not live.’ He picked up the knife again.

  I looked to the pulpit that Anne Giles had been tied to. ‘Torturing a young woman, poking out her eyes from their sockets. How did that feel, Keeling?’ I asked with sick wonder. ‘So great is your mercy. I don’t believe Richard Joyce’s death troubles you one degree.’

  ‘Quiet!’ He stuck the knife into my ribs.

  ‘Ah,’ I snorted, ‘you’re a savage brute.’

  He growled. ‘I was born a common man, Lytle, like your father. I laboured hard.’ The knife lashed out suddenly. I jerked my head back, yet he still caught my cheek. I took a deep, short breath in shock. If I hadn’t seen the blade coming then I would have been cut to the bone. The sweat prickled on my brow and on my back. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open slightly, panting like a terrified cat. He held the knife out, up and wide to his right, hanging majestically in the air. I waited breathlessly, the blood streaming down my cheek and neck.

  Smiling a tight, twisted smile, he lowered his knife and tucked it between his legs. ‘One thing more I will tell thee, before thou art dead. I have watched thee keenly, through my eyes and those of others, to see what sort of man you are, what sort of man it was that Shrewsbury sent against me. I still know not why he picked you. It is my place to ensure that justice is done within my jurisdiction, and that is what I do. I administer justice, not the law, for the law and justice are as far apart as my left ear and my right ear. It is justice that decreed Anne Giles must die, to atone for the sins of her father, and it is not ungodly, for I remind you that the innocent often die for the guilty, so that the guilty might be saved. It is a blessing for her that she died as she did and God will reward her for it. And it is justice that Ormonde now bears the grief and the guilt of his daughter’s death, the knowledge that he killed his own daughter, not me, but him. For he would have betrayed me, and in doing so, betrayed the Lord Jesus Christ. Now justice will see him suffer for it, here, and beyond if he does not repent. You must understand the difference between law and justice. John Giles broke many laws, as did the beasts that Hewitt sent after you. They all had learnt how to dance round the law, but they could not dance away from justice. I am Justice.’

  ‘What is just about my death?’ I asked with warm tears in my eyes, the cold misery of helpless fear lying heavy on my heart.

  ‘I am thy salvation, scoundrel! Ye will die because Shrewsbury, who is a devil, hath laid the path for you. But I will save thee. I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and ye shall be clean. I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give thee a heart of flesh. For then thou shalt lift up thy face without spot. Repent, Lytle.’

  Smiling faintly he seemed to regain his composure. He tested the point of his knife on his thumb, seemingly lost for a moment inside his own reflections. I peered around the inside of the church. This was the view that Anne Giles had seen not so very long ago. And so, I thought, ends the short life of Harry Lytle. I tried to quell the fear that came unwelcome, tried to make peace with the God above that I had supposedly forsaken. My father was a Puritan, John Ray had been a Puritan too, but both of them preached too hard. I needed time to consider for myself. It was too soon to be asked to repent. The church offered no comment. But as I stared at the screen through misty eyes my heart jumped. Movement! Was it Hill, here to fulfil our appointment?

  ‘Who appoints you justice?’ I asked, seeking t
ime to think and watch.

  ‘God.’ He held the blade before him.

  ‘The King, not God! God appoints the King, the King appoints you. Ye must do the King’s bidding!’

  ‘Thus hath the Lord God shewed unto me. I am a herdsman, a gatherer of sycamore fruit.’ His eyes were bright again and alert. Suddenly he slashed again, this time at the rope that tied me to the pew. ‘The time is fulfilled, and the Kingdom of God is at hand: repent ye, and believe the gospel. It will be hastier and easier if thee sit back and push out thy ribs as far as they will go. I will slip the blade between thy ribs and into thy heart. Thee will be dead quickly. If thee sit in a ball with thy shoulders tight then I will have to stab you in the gut and you will bleed slowly.’

  I looked into those blue eyes and foresaw my death. I pulled a face and did not sit back and push out my ribs. This was his act, not mine. He shook his head sadly. ‘The spirit of truth dwelleth in you, and shall be with you.’

  As I looked steadily into his eyes my moment of weakness passed. Leaning back I pulled on the cords that he had chopped. They stretched and strained, the threads on the edge of the ropes breaking away, leaving only two or three inner strands binding me to the pew. Keeling cut at them contemptuously. Sitting back I puffed out my chest. He smiled gently, with cruel eyes, then tossed his long-bladed dagger from hand to hand so it flashed in the dark gloom. I watched his hands without moving my head. He stopped, feinted, then lunged forward, the blade aimed straight at my heart, but I had been waiting for the blow, sitting with my weight on my left thigh. As his arm snaked forward I pushed to my right and twisted inwards. Drawing back my arms, hands still tangled together, I pushed myself forward and punched Keeling hard in the mouth with both fists so that he fell over the back of the pew. He stood up quickly, blood pouring from his lower lip, then stared at me in incredulous fury. Reaching for his knife, he dropped to the floor. Snapping my wrists apart I fell to my right and pushed myself scrabbling towards the right end of the pew. My blood was hot and saucy and I bounced off posts and benches without feeling the impact. I ran to the back of the church, towards the font, rushed to the door and pulled on the handle, but it was locked. Turning, my field of vision was filled with the figure of Keeling charging at me with knife drawn back ready to strike. I leant back against the door and kicked out hard and high, catching him in the stomach so he doubled up wheezing. This time he didn’t drop the knife. I charged into him sideways, knocked him out of the way and pushed past, then ran down the aisle towards the pulpit, the pulpit that stood over the spot where Anne Giles had died.