Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘Aye,’ Stow whispered, looking round for his wife, ‘it was a lie.’

‘And you were paid money.’

Peering up, aghast, he stared in horror at my stiff face. ‘Aye, I was paid money. I was told that other men would come to check the rumour, and that so long as I denied it then, that nothing more would come to pass. I would deny that I had told it thee.’

‘Who paid you money?’

He looked at me, horrified. ‘I will never say.’

It was no matter, I reckoned I knew the answer anyway. ‘Why did Jane Keeling throw herself into a pond?’

Stow shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Methinks it was an accident, though Beth Johnson insists she writ a note. None other saw it. Anyhow, there were no marks on her, no sign of a struggle nor a blow. That’s the long and the short of it.’

‘You are a fine actor, Mr Stow. You should be at the playhouse.’

‘Thank you,’ Stow mumbled, not looking up.

‘Farewell.’

Alsatia was quiet. Those that had business abroad scurried out of their hovels like cockroaches in search of morsels to eat, infesting the City like vermin. Those that had nothing to do would wait until the freezing dawn gave way to something warmer before surfacing. We reached the narrow alley without being bothered and slipped into its black shadows. I was dressed in Dowling’s butcher clothes I had worn before. Suitable attire for interrogating Hewitt, the mood I was in.

‘Methinks they may be home at this hour,’ Dowling whispered. Thomas and Mary, I supposed he meant.

Inside was empty. The pigs and chickens were gone too.

‘The way of the slothful man is as a hedge of thorns; but the way of the righteous is made plain.’ Dowling suggested happily. Thomas was out working, in other words.

I snorted, ‘What does this man Thomas do to earn his bread?’

‘He labours honestly, but knows not how to store his daily bread once earned.’

‘I suppose he sells stolen pork and chicken meat as part of his righteous way.’ I kicked at the straw and wandered over to the corner, the great trapdoor. There was something on it, moving and rustling. I squinted in the darkness then — Godamercy! Disgusting! — It was a giant rat crouched nibbling at something, unafraid of my approach. I took a broken plank from the debris and threw it at the rat. It ambled off, though only to the nearest black shadow.

The door was closed, but not locked. The lock lay to one side and the chain was broken. There was something on it, whatever it was that the rat had been chewing. It was a piece of meat, a small steak, or an ox’s tongue. It was nailed there with a big iron nail. I poked at it. The rat squeaked. I stepped back suddenly, heart in my head, for it was a man’s tongue, cut off neatly at the root. I took several steps back and stood breathing deep, slow breaths, eyes closed, trying to control the nausea.

Dowling knelt next to it. ‘A man’s tongue.’

We pulled the door open together and descended the steps slowly. Hewitt sat where he’d sat last time I’d seen him, his hands and legs bound, his back against the wall. But now his head hung to one side and his jaw was dropped, mouth agape. Blood stained his chin and neck and soaked the front of his shirt. Half-open eyes, unfocussed, disgusted expression on his face.

‘Hewitt’s tongue.’ Dowling spat on the floor once we had escaped the scene. The rat crept back to the trapdoor.

‘Harry Lytle?’ A rough-hewn voice, with a deep crack in it. Turning, we saw a swarthy-faced man, six foot tall, broad shoulders, with a mop of filthy matted black hair on top of his grizzled greasy head.

‘Who are you?’

‘It’s him.’ What did that mean? Who was he talking to? Three more men pushed into the room from outside. All of them were big, black-haired and unwashed, like great bears, ponderous but dangerous. They were dressed like working men or tradesmen: rough shirts with sleeves rolled up and bare chests.

‘Are you the ones who cut out Hewitt’s tongue?’

‘Not us, mate. You and he did that, not us.’ They all laughed, loud raucous laughter, hard-edged and mocking, cruel and gloating. ‘Make haste, now.’ His smile faded.

Reaching for our faces, two went for me and two for Dowling. One of them pulled my arms hard behind my back, wrenched them with a mighty force and tied them with a rope that bit into my flesh. A cloth was thrust into my mouth and I had to open wide, else he would have broken my teeth. He pushed it so far it made me gag and I had to bite down onto it despite its foul taste. Then a bag was pulled down on my head. It happened so fast and yet these men were so strong that there was no way to avoid it.

Someone seized my upper arm and pulled me forwards. Stumbling, I tried tripping gracefully forward with small delicate strides so I wouldn’t fall, but I fell anyway as I was pulled forwards faster than I could walk. Tripping over what must have been the threshold of the door, someone grabbed at my sleeve just as I went over. The winter wind cut through my trousers — we were outside. As we walked up the hill we were still pushed hard from one side to the other, for the sport of it I supposed. My head crashed against something sharp, right on the fresh wound. Warm blood trickled down the back of my neck. Then we stopped and I felt a great hand grab me by the collar. We must be at the top of the narrow alley, I thought, preparing to advance out into Salisbury Alley. The alley was too narrow for horses, so they must be thinking of walking us up the alley in full view. I was pushed forward again, one man holding my left bicep, another holding my right bicep. Footsteps on either side, and then I was lifted upwards. We stopped again, my shirt almost severing my throat.

‘Who are ye? What’s your business?’ It sounded like the voice of the upright man, though I couldn’t be sure. The bag on my head rendered all sounds muffled.

‘Our business is none of thy business. Stand aside or suffer the consequences.’

The grip on my right arm tightened like a vice.

‘Unless I be much mistaken those is Davy Dowling’s legs I see running beneath that sack. If those be Davy Dowling’s legs, then your business is my business, for he be a friend of mine.’

‘They ain’t Davy Dowling’s legs.’

‘Well, they be Davy Dowling’s old trousers, and Davy Dowling’s old shoes. And those short stumpy legs, well they look like the legs of Davy Dowling’s friend.’

Short and stumpy? My legs were not stumpy. I heard a clatter, what sounded like a wooden truncheon tapping on the floor.

‘Out of my way,’ a voice growled just in front of me.

‘And what makes this all the more interestin’ is that Mary Hutch, what lives just round the corner, says that a group of soldiers, dressed most unlike soldiers, have just taken Davy Dowling and his friend out of her house, ’gainst their will.’ The upright man shouted now, a rallying call to the local neighbourhood.

A low murmuring became a buzzing and a roar. It sounded like we were in the middle of a riot. The air felt hot, and then I was being jostled and pushed. The hands that held my arms disappeared, and all I could hear was shouting and cussing, and the sound of men grunting. I tried pushing forward, but I was pushing against a wall of wriggling, shoving elbows and knees. So I tried to walk sideways, in search of a wall to lean against, determined not to fall onto the floor where I feared I would be crushed. I found my wall and dug my heels into the floor pushing myself against it. Bending my knees I rested most of my weight onto my right foot, which is where most of the buffeting was coming from. Then suddenly — light! The bag on my head was whisked off. I looked into Dowling’s solemn face as he pulled the foul gag from my mouth. Friendly hands untied my wrists. The alley was full of men, sweating and panting, clapping each other on the back and congratulating themselves. Women and children leant out of first-floor windows enjoying the entertainment. The earth floor was dug up and rutted as if a herd of cows had been chased down the alley. Hats and shoes lay discarded and torn.