Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

I don’t know if it was a long journey or not, for I have never returned to the hut of Simon with the big knife, but it seemed to take no time at all. Soon we were sat together on the horse, peering into the darkness over the wall of the church into the graveyard.

‘No time for pretty thoughts nor womanly misgivings. It would take me half the night to dig that grave — I fancy it will take you half a week.’

The dwarf poacher slid off the horse sideways, freed the shovel, pick and oil lamp from their bindings, then stood waiting for me to tie the horse. I led it off the main thoroughfare and tied it to a tree that was enveloped in black shadow. The poacher marched off into the graveyard assuming that I would trail him. We walked deep amongst the stones, the night sky cloudless and blue, and a light wind the only noise. I recognised nothing from my previous visit.

‘This one,’ my partner whispered, pointing with a crooked finger after he threw the shovel and pick to the ground. ‘I will make sure you that none disturb you, but you had better dig quickly, for your arms are thick as twigs. The day will come sooner than you think. I will get this lit.’

He disappeared into the night with the lamp, leaving me alone. Soon all I could hear was the gentle dancing of the wind, the sound of leaves rustling. It was mild and calm, not a night to be digging up corpses. I ran my fingers through the grooves of the stone letters of the gravestone. The luxury of a minute or two of tranquillity. When the poacher returned with the oil lamp lit, he stood with a hand on one hip with a look of disgust evident, though I could see only one side of his face in the lamplight. Taking off my coat I laid it on the stone, picked up the shovel and started to cut the turf into large squares for peeling off the soil beneath. He made no move to help, just stood watching for a few minutes before grunting in apparent satisfaction and disappearing once more into the night.

The soil was soft, the autumn having been wet and mild. This gave me enormous encouragement and I dug with great gusto, forgetting for a while what I would do when I struck wood. That was until again I was struck by self-doubt. What if the poacher still planned to betray me, had decided that to deliver me in the act of gravedigging would be more rewarding? What would happen to me if I was caught here, now? They would hang me by the neck — Keeling would see to it. I dug even faster, out of fear now, reflecting on the stupidity and foolhardiness of my even being there. I contemplated throwing the shovel to one side and running as fast as I could. I stopped digging for a moment, listened to the silence, waited for my body to recover, the pounding in my ears to slow. Was the poacher still out there? Picking up the oil lamp I stepped out tentatively into the darkness.

‘Where you goin’?’ a low voice growled into my left ear. A small scream escaped my lips and my bowels came to within a sneeze of emptying themselves into my drawers. Gritting my teeth I growled, hating the poacher for frightening me so badly.

‘I wanted to be sure you were still about. I couldn’t hear you, nor see you.’

‘Nor will you.’ The poacher wandered towards my hole. ‘That’s half a hole, best dig the rest.’ He turned his back on me again and disappeared.

It was still night when my shovel hit the lid of the coffin. The contact was solid, the wood still strong. Clearing the lid right the way across the bottom of the hole, I discovered in the process that my hole was too narrow on all sides. Tired and sweating, my muscles ached and my fingers were raw and swollen. Then the lid was clear enough. I reached out of the hole for the pickaxe, readied myself, then said a little prayer before swinging it.

The corpse was dry and shrunken, skin drawn tight like tree bark, brown, ridged and hard. Yellow teeth stood bared, exposed by the withering of the lips. The eyes were gone, dried and shrunken like two small peas. An awful sight, but no worse than I had imagined. The smell was as a dead fox or dog, no worse than that. The face had no expression on it, it was just a dried-out shell.

Reaching for the oil lamp I stood it as far away from the hole in the wood as I could. The body was still clothed, but the cloth was thin and easy to tear. It resembled nothing more nothing less than a giant seedpod. I could not take the pick to her, the thought made me ill. Nor the shovel. I stood straight and took lungfuls of clean air. My hands were shaking and my stomach cramped. Jumping out of the hole, on impulse, I was suddenly fearful. Where was the poacher? Simon with the big knife? Calling out his name softly, I waited. Turning slowly, listening for a sign of his approach, I called again.

‘You finished?’ He emerged from the gloom.

‘I need your knife.’

I will not relate the detail of what followed. It was disgusting and unpleasant. Sufficient to tell that the corpse opened like a dried fruit and was hollow inside with no sign that a smaller corpse had ever lain there.

Once I had filled the hole, replaced the turf and taken my leave of Simon with the knife, I headed directly to the house of John Stow. My goal was achieved before the sun showed its face and I would be away from Epsom before dawn, but I wasn’t leaving without hearing what Stow had to say. My trousers were seeped in mud from ankle to thigh, my skin was raw and cut, I could feel the sweat and mud encasing my face like a thin mask. No matter. If I scared him to death, then he would deserve it. I tied my horse to the same great oak tree. The cottage was silent, the windows dark, and the chimney lifeless. I walked up the little path and tried the door. It was locked, so I knocked, hard, and kept knocking until I heard movement within. The same small woman as before opened the door to me, slowly. Her face paled and her eyes rolled and there was a loud thud as she landed on the floor. Pushing the door firmly open, I stepped over her body still sat upright, and headed straight for the staircase, following the weak flickerings of candlelight. Stood over his bed I looked down on the small, round, bald patch in the middle of his thin brown hair. He was still fast asleep, faced away from me.

‘Mr Stow,’ I announced myself loudly. Mrs Stow appeared again, peering round the door, wide-eyed and shivering. A brave woman, I considered, and I held out an outstretched palm in an attempt to reassure her. ‘Wake up, Mr Stow!’ I poked him in the ribs with a stiff forefinger. Rolling round to face me, slowly with eyes still closed, scrunched and squinting, he made a disgusting grunting snuffling noise — like a little pig.

‘Methinks you were not expecting me to visit you, else I would not have found you here.’

Stow’s breathing stopped entirely and his eyes opened slowly.

‘Methinks that someone told you I would inform them of what you had told me, and that I would not bother you again.’ I crouched down that I might see Stow better in the moonlight. The hairs in his nose were still and unmoving. ‘Methinks they gave you money.’

Stow pulled himself up in the bed, his eyes wide and unblinking, scanning my filthy face and soiled clothes.

‘What say ye?’

Nothing.

‘I told Ormonde this story, that Keeling’s daughter was with child when she died.’ I stared into Stow’s face, watching to see if he told truth or lie. His little mouth fell open, his brows climbed so that they touched the fringe of his mousy hair.

He licked his lips. ‘That was a secret that I told you.’

‘I fancy it wasn’t a secret, Mr Stow, I fancy that it was a lie. No matter for the moment, because I did not tell Ormonde that it was you that told me. I have not told that to anyone yet. I was keen to do so, yesterday, but now methinks I will not allow it to be told further afield until I have checked the truth of it with Lord Keeling himself. In that case I will be bound to share with him the source of the intelligence,’ I smiled, ‘unless you confess to me yourself that it was a lie, in which case it will be forgotten.’