Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘I fought at Stamford, Gainsborough and Winceby. And Marston Moor. It was at Marston Moor I was wounded.’ He leant forward and pointed to the back of his head. There was a bare patch of skin about the size of a man’s hand with no hair growing on it. The skin was ridged and red like the surface of an angry sea at dusk. ‘I should have died at Marston Moor.’ He hawked and spat into the sawdust. ‘It was summer, though ye wouldn’t know it for all the rain that fell. The rye fields were like bogs, the water filled our shoes and sat next to our skin. We stood on the left of Marston Field with Manchester’s footmen to the right of us, and the Scots on horses behind. We stood there shivering for hours, thinking of putting up camp, when the heavens opened up again, buckets of black water pouring on our heads. We were sure that all would stand down until the next day. Then late in the evening while there was still light, the Protector led us in a charge. Cavaliers met us halfway, but we went through them like blades. Then they had us from the flank but we beat them away besides, then went back and rescued Fairfax. It was a great victory for us. Near seven thousand of them were fallen, so it is said, less than three hundred of us. But numbers don’t tell all.’

‘What else, sir?’

‘My horse was shot away with a bullet, and it fell onto me. They took me off the field and carried me back home. They made two holes in my head, but it didn’t do no good.’ He sighed. ‘I was ill for a very long time, and good for nothing when I did recover.’

‘You live here in London now?’

‘My estate was delivered unto my cousin that vowed to care for me, so they say. But he died soon after and his wife sold it. The parish wouldn’t keep me, so I came here.’

‘What do you do?’

‘There’s a poor house where I shelter if I have to.’ He spoke in a staccato. Despite his calm demeanour I think he was trying not to weep. I found myself wondering how often he had the opportunity to talk to people nowadays, before it suddenly occurred to me that this had nothing at all to do with the murder.

‘You were seen running from Bride’s, Joyce. Yet you say you didn’t kill my cousin?’

‘Will you give me money if I tell you what happened?’ he asked, chewing at the bread. I blinked and looked at Dowling. He looked to the heavens. It was hard to credit.

‘Joyce.’ I made sure I had his attention. ‘They will hang you for her murder, cut you down, then slice open your belly and burn your guts in front of your face. You may wish you had died at Marston Moor, but there are far better ways to die than what lies in wait for you.’

Joyce nodded with blanched face. Pulling himself upright and leaning forward, he suddenly appeared anxious to speak. ‘I was stood by myself, outside the Playhouse. A good enough place to beggar.’ The last word he said sadly. ‘It was very cold. I had some coins from those that went in. Now I was waiting for them all to come out. While I was waiting I saw this woman on her own walking towards the Playhouse. I made my way over the street towards her. She looked like the sort that would give me something. She wasn’t a lady, but she wasn’t a whore, nor a trader neither. Anyway, as I got closer to her she stopped. Not because of me, she hadn’t noticed me, but I think she was looking for someone, like she had come to meet someone. I took care not to frighten her. Anyway — she gave me a coin. I went back over the street. Then I saw it was a sixpence she gave me, not a penny. She was kind. So I looked back to see if she was still there.’

‘Was she?’

‘Aye. Staring up Drury Lane. Anyway, then the crowds started coming out. Everyone dived in, the pedlars and hawkers. There was some pushing and likewise as folks fought for sedans and coaches. Soon enough they was all gone, but she was still there, still looking down Drury Lane. Then this man came out the theatre, a big man. He had about him a thick black cloak down to the ground. I couldn’t see his face — it was hidden beneath the brim of his hat and he had some sort of scarf over his chin. He came up to her from behind, made her jump. She recovered, though, and put a hand on his sleeve like she knew him. He pulled down the scarf so he could talk to her, but I still couldn’t see his face — the light was poor. They talked for a bit, and she seemed to get anxious, worried. He was holding her arm and she didn’t seem to like it. So then they moved off, towards Drury Lane. She walked with her head bowed, fussing with the knot of her headscarf. They turned right at Drury Lane towards the City and I followed them to Bridget’s. They went inside.’

‘Did you follow?’

‘In time. I stayed where I was for a while. When they didn’t come out I thought I’d go and have a look, make sure she was alright. The door was open so I went in. Inside it was dark and cold. I crouched at the back. I could just see them sitting down at the front. They was talking it looked like, though all I could hear was her weeping. He was doing most of the talking, judging by the way his head went up and down. Then I sneezed, didn’t I?’

‘He heard you?’

‘I didn’t wait to see. I dropped down on my hands and knees and lay down on the floor. I was frightened, God’s truth. I lay there for ages. I thought about going out, but there was distance between the pew where I was lying and the door and I thought he might be there waiting. I made myself look up eventually, but it had got even darker then and I couldn’t see nothing. I could still hear the woman sobbing, but that was all. Couldn’t see the back of the church neither, only a black hole behind the font. I thought about staying there all night, but it was too cold. I stood up straight and made a dash for the door. Ran right into him, didn’t I? Should have heard me shout!’ He paused with his hand on his heart and his mouth wide open as if he were reliving the moment.

‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, all I could see was the shape of him and that hat. I thought he’d make a grab for me, but he didn’t. He just stood back and opened the door, held it open for me. Couldn’t believe my luck — din’t stop running ’til London Bridge!’

‘Folks say you had blood dripping from your hands.’

Crossing his arms Joyce sat back again. ‘Folks say all sorts of things. That’s all I can tell you. Believe it or not. I don’t hold out much hope for myself, so you can stop looking at me like I’m an idiot fool from Bedlam.’

It was a fanciful story, yet much to my dismay I recognised it as truth. Dowling too, judging by the look on his face. Joyce looked up at us both sadly. I regretted my harsh words, my selfish joy upon first hearing he was captured. I mumbled a useless farewell and wandered out. Dowling offered him some biblical platitude and was quickly at my side. We looked at each other — nothing to say.

On the way out we stopped to talk with the gaolers. The one that Dowling had punched sat sullen, staring out from beneath his single black eyebrow with beady little eyes. Dowling attempted to repair the damage by handing over the vast sum of ten shillings in exchange for fire, food, water and a new set of clothes. My ten shillings. Yet we didn’t hold out much hope that he wouldn’t be back down in the stone hold soon as we’d gone.

Once we were ten paces down the road I took off my coat and held it cautiously to my nose. It stank.

‘It is little different to the alehouses you usually frequent.’ Dowling watched me in grim amusement. ‘Small damp rooms full of sinners, bathing in the foul odours of all that is sinful.’

I glared at him with teeth clamped hard upon my green tongue. Righteousness dripped from the corners of his curt smile. I kept my mouth shut and concentrated on forgiving him.