Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

I turned to John Parsons. Did I see pride in those shiny green eyes? He smiled at me again . At that moment I felt a greater anger than I had ever felt before in my whole life. My hands started to tremble, so did my whole body, and that smile was the trigger that persuaded me to do what my instinct told me to. I punched him in the throat as hard as I could. He collapsed on the floor, choking, one hand spread in a pool of Mary Bedford’s blood. I kicked him on the forehead, kicking high into the air and pulling a muscle at the back of my leg as a result. Then I knelt down, seized him by the ears and rubbed his face in the blood, grinding it into the floor. I wiped one of his cheeks across the floor, then the other, determined that he would never lose the smell of it, the mark of it that showed what an evil coward he was. These parasites were famous for never doing the deed themselves. Picking up his stick, I beat him about the body with it. Then I stamped on his wretched hat and stood there panting, my heart pounding, for the first time questioning whether what I was doing was right. He rolled over slowly, the mask obliterated in the cloying blood, his expression now one of pure contempt.

Once he had slowly got to his feet he stood stooped like an evil little flibbertigibbet. Snarling at me he slowly regarded the surroundings, his clothes, his hat, the dead bodies. He walked slowly over to where his stick lay and picked it up, then stood motionless, staring at me. I stared back. Then he left, without a word, headed back to Hell. I remained there a few moments longer, my wits frozen, then ran after him, determined to seize him and have him incarcerated. My hesitance was my ruin. When I emerged from the house he had gone.

I never did set eyes on him again, which I do not regret. At nights I rest unburdened, certain that his soul rots in Hell. Quite what state my own soul was in upon leaving him there that day, I cannot say. I felt overwhelmed by events and totally out of control of the situation. In truth, I had never felt such black despair. Cocksmouth was too far to travel and the prospect of exchanging conversation with my father too depressing. I would have to talk to Shrewsbury.

I arrived at Westminster to look for Shrewsbury with a wide, blue silk sash across my tunic, washed, scrubbed and doused with lavender oil. I reeked like a bawdy house. Not inappropriate for Westminster Hall. The place was lined with stalls selling books, clothes, hats and the like, but more business was done selling the other, if you know what I mean. National disgrace, I say, though they say that the French are a lot worse. The French don’t have time for running the country; they’re so busy dropping their drawers. I tipped my hat at Mrs Martin the linen draper. I knew her well, as did many others in London. She pointed at my sash and placed a hand on her brow as if about to swoon. I smiled politely and turned away. Betty Howlett caught my eye, waved and then blushed when she realised her mother was watching. I made a mental note to follow that up later. She lived out at White Cock Alley amongst the dockers and lightermen. I sneezed — too much lavender oil.

I headed towards the Court of the Chancery, for this is where Shrewsbury spent much of his time I knew, but that day was a busy day and sentries barred passage. I managed to make eye contact with one of them, enough that he listened to my request and took the shilling that I gave him to deliver my message to Shrewsbury. Then it was a matter of waiting which I did for more than an hour.

‘Lytle.’ A quiet voice spake into my ear, little more than a whisper. ‘You seek Lord Shrewsbury?’

It was Robert Burton, one of Shrewsbury’s chief aides. He stood at my shoulder, a smaller man than me even, with shaven head and large red ears looking at me with his bright little eyes. His glance let you know that he was a lot more intelligent than you could ever hope to be.

‘Be at the crypt of St Mary-le-Bow at five. Do not be late and be on your own.’ He turned smartly on his heel and was gone before the words had registered.

St Mary-le-Bow was a strange rendezvous. I knew the outside of it very well, for it sat right next door to the Mermaid tavern, on Cheapside. By the time I arrived my tunic was covered in a thin layer of soot and I smelt more like an old shoe than a field of flowers. Never mind.

The bells were ringing loud and bright, but still I felt a clutching reluctance to cross the threshold of the heavy, squat little building. The front door was open, but all was quiet inside with only a few people in view. When I poked my head inside I saw why? there stood Robert Burton, just inside, and next to him a big man with a long sword at his waist. I stopped outside. Perhaps I would forgo this appointment after all. Burton must have seen the fear in me for he bid me enter in a voice that left little opportunity to decline.

The inside of Mary-le-Bow is richly decorated, full of memorials to those who have money to waste, but its polished facade hides a bloody history. Here it was that the friends of Ralph Crepin murdered Lawrence Ducket and hung his body from a window, trying to make it look like suicide. Crepin had been attacked by Ducket in a quarrel over a woman called Alice, yet it was his friends, not he, that took it upon themselves to kill Ducket, for which grim misdemeanour Crepin was hanged. Beaten senseless and then hung for it! Poor old Alice got burnt to death and she knew nothing of any of it.

I followed Burton down the middle of the sunlit centre aisle towards the dark hole that marked the descent towards the crypt. Burton walked at my left shoulder, his eyes watching me like a cat watches a mouse. At the doorway he waved a hand that indicated I was to go first. I had no choice and once I took the first step then I was trapped, for Burton walked behind me blocking the staircase. I walked down those stone steps slowly, feeling a sudden chill at my neck as the air became quickly colder.

This was where the Court of the Arches met. A small place to hold court, I reflected, once we were down. The vault was narrow and the stone arches thick and heavy. The floor was laid with ancient tombstones, shiny and worn. It was dark, lit only by a half-dozen thin candles. Three men sat at the other end of the vault, silent and still. I looked over my shoulder. Burton returned my gaze expressionlessly. He stood in front of the door that led upstairs, blocking my retreat.

The central figure stood up and walked slowly towards me. The other two followed a pace behind at his flanks. As he came closer his black shadow was slowly illuminated and his sharp, bright eyes glistened like paternoster beads. He stopped four yards in front of me and leant forwards, his gloved hands grasping the end of a thick, black lacquered cane. ‘Sit down!’

One of his companions strode forward with a chair and placed it firmly where I was to sit. Shrewsbury stayed standing, towering over me like a black demon. His companions both drew their swords and stood one either side of me. Godamercy!

He crashed his cane against the floor of the crypt. Two swords climbed slowly up towards my throat. ‘Did I not tell thee that I was not connected with this affair?’

I looked up into his terrible face, remorseless eyes and burning crimson nose. His breath stank of rancid meat. ‘Aye, sir, but I have news.’

‘What news?’

‘I think I know who killed Anne Giles.’

Shrewsbury lowered his head so that I could see the yellow of his rodent eyes. ‘Why deliver that news to me ?’ he demanded.

I spoke in a low whisper. ‘Sir, you said that the murder falls under the jurisdiction of the Lord Chief Justice Keeling and that if you were to be seen interfering in his jurisdiction, then it would be a great embarrassment to you.’