Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘John Giles worked for you and stole some money of yours, or something of the sort. Then his wife was murdered.’

Hewitt sat motionless. I sat motionless too, watching his shadowed face. The only sound in the room was the crackle of timber in the grate. The candle burnt down its wick. As the fire slowly died, it rose suddenly, swiftly and briefly, spitting out its last light into the gloom, enough time for me to see the expression on his face. It was rough and grey like the face of a mountain, hairs sprouted from his chest like weeds. The eyes frightened me to my naked nerves. They were round black pebbles, shiny and alight, fixed on mine, questioning and calculating.

‘Mr Lytle.’ There was a touch of amusement in Hewitt’s voice. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Who killed Anne Giles?’

‘You will have to find that out for yourself, Mr Lytle, for I’m not going to tell you. But to succeed you will have to use rather more brain than I think God blessed you with. Besides which I cannot think of one single reason what you could gain by so finding out.’

‘To save an innocent man from the noose.’

‘You will not save Joyce. Joyce will be hung and there is nothing that you can do to stop it.’

I frowned, and grunted. ‘Is John Giles blackmailing you?’

Hewitt closed his eyes.

‘Why did you ask Giles to steal the key to Bride’s? He told me that you did.’

‘He did not tell you that. You told him that. You also suggested that he stole it of his own initiative.’ I was dumbfounded, for he was repeating to me almost exactly the same words that Giles had spoke to us. Had he been spying on us? Had he interrogated Giles after we had met with him? He could not have signalled it thus more clearly. I could think of nothing else to say. I looked around the room, at the leather-bound books that lined the walls. Hewitt still sat with his eyes closed.

I cleared my throat and stood up. I hesitated, uncertain and miserable, before deciding to leave. This had been a mistake. I thought about thanking Hewitt for his time, but didn’t. I walked to the door slowly and stretched out my arm to open it.

‘Be careful, Lytle.’ Hewitt’s voice, as I placed my hand upon the handle. ‘You are so far out of your league, it should make you shudder.’ He smiled gently and tapped his forehead in casual dismissal before closing his eyes again in anticipation of my departure. I stared at his fat, complacent face and was suddenly filled with hatred. I will have you, Matthew Hewitt, and I will see those beady, little eyes wide with fright before I am finished. But not today. I left.

Dowling said nothing when I told him what had happened. To his credit he spared me the avuncular smile and the hand on the shoulder; he just nodded to himself and hummed. Even though he spared me and though it was stormy, I decided to walk home rather than ride. But I managed no more than twenty steps before I sensed his hulking shape lurking beside me.

‘I had to try,’ I grunted.

‘Aye, but I fear our task is even more perilous now.’

‘When you stand upon the scaffold with a noose around your neck it is no great concern to learn you have consumption,’ I answered. ‘I think I have to talk directly to Keeling.’ It sounded mad as I said it, particularly given the response I had elicited from Hewitt.

Dowling said nothing.

‘What other remedy do we have if it is true that Keeling has personally marked him for the noose?’

‘Thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds.’ Dowling clapped me about the shoulder, grasped my hand, and then let it go. He shook his head slowly in a gesture, the meaning of which I couldn’t fathom, then bid me farewell.

Faithfulness? Did he not recognise desperation when he saw it?

I went to Whitehall next morn, though I had no appointment, hoping to talk my way through the sentries. I couldn’t hope to gain entrance directly into the King’s quarters, so I entered through the Court Gate instead. A guard grunted at me and wrinkled his nose in enquiry, but waved me through when I claimed to have an appointment.

I marched through the gallery and out onto the cobbles of the Great Court, overshadowed on one side by the Great Hall with its massive sloping roof, and on the other by the Banqueting House. The Court was busy, lords and dignitaries milling about in small groups. I strode across the Court, in my own finest silks, crossed the covered way and emerged onto Pebble Court. The Great Chamber was to my left. A guard blocked my passage, this one more awake. As I approached he stepped forward. Again, I assured him I had an appointment. He wanted to know with whom.

‘With Lord Keeling?’ He edged sideways to cover the entrance. ‘I reckon your appointment is off, sir. Lord Chief Justice ain’t here.’

‘I see. Then I would consult with someone in his office.’

‘What about?’ The guard let the pike in his hand fall forward, in line with my chest.

‘I don’t care to discuss my business with you.’ Trying to assume the arrogant air of an important nobleman, I heard uncertainty in the upward lilt of my voice.

Standing his ground, the guard pointed back the way I had come. ‘You is only getting through here if you comes with one of the Lord Chief Justice’s clerks from his offices over at Scotland Yard. You turn round, go back the way you come, cross the Great Court and go through into Scotland Yard. Understand? If you get lost, ask for the cider house. The Justice’s offices are close by.’

Giving the guard what I hoped was a withering look, I turned and walked back. What was the world coming to? Employing sentries that didn’t drink themselves stupid? Scotland Yard was where the offices of the Lord Steward were located, and the Office of Works. Scotland Yard was functional, a mishmash of ordinary buildings, narrow corridors and tiny offices. I knew where the cider house was but it took a while longer to find the offices of the Lord Chief Justice. Eventually I found a narrow building consisting of three floors of small dusty rooms, packed tight with desks and clerks. It reminded me of the Records Office, a memory that encouraged me to pursue my mission with renewed vigour, that I would not need to linger long.

Walking through the offices, I met with no challenge until a deep bright voice sang out confidently from behind me, asking me my business. The man that addressed me had a bald patch in the middle of his head. What hair he had was swept back and tamed with grease. He was older than me, in his forties at least, and had that bright unmoving half smile of a man who likes to know exactly how many hairs there are in a horse’s tail. Approaching the desk I introduced myself.

‘And my name is Cummins. What do you need?’ Each oiled hair lay in a straight line, precisely aligned with its neighbour. His breath smelt of herbs and he was impeccably trimmed.

‘Good morning, Mr Cummins, I have heard of you. You are well known about the Palace.’ I attempted to flatter him.

‘Thanking thee, Mr Lytle, but I doubt it.’ He lifted his chin slightly, disapproving. ‘I have heard of you, though, I think. You work at the Records Office at the Tower. My colleague, Mr John Wellington, works with you. I hear that you have left the service now?’

I blinked. Who the boggins was John Wellington? Ignoring his sceptical questioning and wrinkled nose, I told myself I was important. ‘Aye, indeed. You are well informed, sir. I am charged with finding out whosoever it was that killed Anne Giles at Bride’s church a week ago.’

‘Aye, sir, a sad event. I have heard much of that killing. It was brutal, I think. I also heard that they caught the scoundrel that did it and tried him. He is to be hung tomorrow, methinks? You are to be praised at finding him so fast, Mr Lytle. I take my hat off to you.’ His cheeks gathered into little pouches.