Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘If they are so simple then why should Keeling permit them to live their lives where any might come and discover such a damaging tale? If he is the one that killed Anne Giles and merrily condemned Richard Joyce to an underserved death — then why should he shrink from killing the nanny or the surgeon?’ I shook my head again.

Hill now looked guarded, uncertain of himself. He and I both knew that it was he that had insisted I go to Epsom. If there had been any bells hung for my benefit, it was he that did the stringing.

‘If I was you, Harry, I would share my doubts with Shrewsbury himself. He is your patron, he will guide you.’

‘He did not seem so anxious to guide me last time we spoke. He seemed more concerned that I tell him nothing and be sure his name was not associated with the affair. Would he welcome me mentioning the possibility of the Lord Chief Justice’s guilt?’

‘Aye, Harry, he would have to. It is not a possibility that he would have you keep from him. Be well advised.’ He laid a hand on my shoulder and looked at me seriously. ‘Take my word for it.’

I almost laughed, but managed to sneeze instead. ‘Aye, well thanks for the kind advice, William. I will see you soon.’

I turned and left him standing there like the mangy dog he was. So Hill was working for Shrewsbury in this. The two of them were determined that I dig out this old tale from Epsom. But what was at the root of it? That Shrewsbury should wish Keeling to be implicated was understandable — the two men were rivals — but was this a plot built on rock, or a plot built on sand? And what was the significance of the two old men once having been Baptists together? We would have to work out how to untie that knot once we had further counsel back from Dowling’s friends. In the meantime — Matthew Hewitt.

The Royal Exchange is where rich people throw their money away on exotic rubbish. It is also where London’s merchants meet to swap news and do deals. At the heart of the Exchange is a massive courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by an arcade behind rows of thin marble columns. Statues of all the kings of England from William to Charles I stand on plinths above the portico peering down onto the throng below. There are nearly two hundred shops trading in the arcades, selling perfumes and scents from the Far East, silk from China, sables, jewels, gold lace and so on. A tall, thin tower with an Arabian roof stands above it all, with a giant grasshopper impaled on its peak. Four more grasshoppers sit on the corners of the roof.

This was the stomping ground of Matthew Hewitt, and I was determined to catch him in some nefarious deed. The courtyard was full today, the merchants gathered in small groups, heads bowed, engaged in quiet negotiation and exchange of information. Straining my ears hopefully to see what I could pick up, I walked slowly. Even the statues seemed to be leaning over, stretching their necks to try and hear what was being said below. I watched the short sharp movements of the merchants’ hands, the intensity writ on their faces, the stooped shoulders and low whisperings. The restoration of Charles had done wonders for business. Charles II was following in the footsteps of his father and grandfather, pursuing discreetly the building of relations with Catholic Europe in the name of peace, against the wishes of a vociferous Protestant population who were afraid of the Pope and the insidious tendrils of Rome. The war with the Dutch was the subject of the day; a multitude of guessing games surrounded its outcome.

It took me ten minutes to find Matthew Hewitt, short squat body and stumpy legs. He seemed shrunken outside the dark sanctuary of his little sitting room, some of the menace evaporated in the light of day. His legs were bowed, though not deformed, their curving shape accentuated by the high heels he wore in an attempt to increase his stature. His skin was not just pale, but white like snow, in contrast with the jet black of his hair. Hirsute, but not like Dowling. Dowling’s hairs grew in the right places: on his head, arms and chest. The hairs on this man’s body were more randomly arranged. There was a patch, for example, of thick black bristles growing in a round patch from a lump on his left cheek. They were trimmed short but impossible to hide. He wore a thick, black little beard trimmed neatly into a blunt point and his eyebrows curved upwards, adding to the intensity of his awful black eyes. Long nails, strong and sturdy, a big pig, yet I admired his clothes — silk and very expensive. His movements were more restrained than those of his colleagues, his manner more calm and confident.

For about ten minutes I watched him before he suddenly looked up. His eyes fixed on mine and his face tightened into a grim mask. I held the stare, though my heart pounded, and then he looked away. Returning to his conversation, he stayed where he was. Three of them talked for about twenty minutes before they were joined by two more. This group carried on talking for another half an hour. During that time another man, obviously not a merchant, came and spoke briefly to Hewitt twice. This man was dressed in rough linen clothes, poorly tailored, the stitch designed to hold, not to impress. He was tall, heavy and ponderous. Had I seen him before?

Then I spotted William Hill standing in easy conversation with two others, apparently unaware of my presence. He must have come direct from Paul’s. As Hewitt’s bear-like companion trod heavily nearby, Hill acknowledged him and exchanged a few words. One of Hill’s companions shook hands with both Hill and the big man, and the two of them departed. What the Devil was Hill’s connection to Hewitt? Then suddenly Hewitt took off. He strode purposefully towards the exit, moving fast without stopping to talk on the way. At the last possible moment I saw his wide shoulders disappear. I sprinted out onto the street but he was already gone. I cursed both him and me as I stood looking around, wondering what to do next. In the end I went home, cursing my incompetence.

The day was grey, my mood was black and my feet felt like I was wearing lead shoes. I took off my periwig, before I reached Sopar Lane, to scratch at my itching scalp, ignoring the disapproving stares of a portly man who used to know my father. Calling for Jane as I entered my little house, I was impatient to get my feet into a bowl of hot water. No one answered. I decided to go and sit down with my shoes off to await her return. I pushed open the door to my small sitting room and went to my favourite carved wooden chair with its soft, inviting cushion. Just before my head exploded I heard a noise just behind me, like the soft clearing of a throat.

It was the pain that woke me up, ferocious, burning like a hot iron rod pressed against my temples and driven into the top of my neck, a raging sickening pain that I felt at the pit of my stomach. I was afraid to move lest it encouraged the pain to stab deeper and I couldn’t move my eyes without making it worse. Breathing slowly and gently, I could feel the pain throb in rhythm with the beating of my heart. The back of my eyes felt like raw, skinned meat rubbing up against stone. My guts churned, ready to empty. Lying still I became gradually aware that my cheek was lying in a pool of freezing cold water. My body was frozen and stiff.

Darkness. I could just make out a small ladder, wide, with only five or six rungs, leading up to a small archway. To either side of it and above me were thick stone arches forming a vaulted ceiling. There were no windows and the air was cold. I was in a cellar. A weak light flickered from a distant flame, dancing, casting little shadows on the wall ahead. The source of it was behind me. Thinking to turn despite the pain, to try and raise myself, I was dissuaded by a loud sneeze.