Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

The upright man appeared next to Dowling, his sharp teeth glistening, his brown eyes alive and darting. He had a long cut down one cheek, but didn’t seem to know it. Picking up his truncheon he laid it across his shoulders with arms resting on it, like he was tied to a cross. I wiped the dust off my face and looked up the alley to see what was happening. A pile of men sat on three of our assailants, pinning them to the floor. They were covered in dirt, and stared out from beneath the human pyramid with scared faces.

‘What’ll they do to them?’ I demanded, ridding my hands and wrists of the last of the rope.

‘Same as we’ll do to him.’ The upright man pointed back the other way. Four men were holding the last soldier, while two more tied his chest and stomach to a massive cartwheel. Wriggling and squirming, he kicked and screamed out at the top of his voice, but none would hear outside of Alsatia, for the excited celebrations of the crowd drowned out his frantic protests.

‘And what’s that?’ I asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

‘We’ll cut off his arms and then we’ll cut off his legs, then we’ll wheel him down the hill into the river.’ The upright man leered.

And this was civilisation.

‘I’ll thank you for saving our lives,’ Dowling said quietly to the upright man, fingering his jaw.

‘It be a pleasure, Davy Dowling, I know that ye’ll return the favour one day.’ The upright man swung his truncheon through the air and turned to supervise the execution of the first soldier. A man appeared with a short, squat little axe. Its blade was chipped and blunt.

The faces of those that still lay squashed stared out in terror. Yet there was no possibility that the crowd would be deprived of its entertainment. ‘Can we go?’ I pulled on Dowling’s sleeve.

‘Aye. There’s nothing to be done here.’ Dowling replied in a hoarse whisper. He pulled me back into the alley. ‘God will not cast away a perfect man; neither will he help evildoers.’

I suppose.

‘I promised Mary and Thomas ten shillings,’ he looked to my pocket.

‘Make it a guinea,’ I replied wearily.

We made our way quickly back up to the top of Salisbury Alley, moving fast, without talking to one another, keen to put as much distance as possible between us and the horrors that were taking place behind us. Hewitt’s murder was all the more confusing. If he was the murderer, then who had motive to kill him ? Someone that could command soldiers — but to what end? If he was not the murderer then why kill him? As a convenience? But Joyce was already hung — why go to the trouble of killing Hewitt besides? Before we parted company I suggested that Dowling take advantage of his connections with the Mayor to go search Hewitt’s house now that he was dead. Perhaps there would be a letter there, or a diary, or best of all a confession signed by all involved. I would find Hill and attempt to get some sense from him as to what this latest development signified.

Hill was not at home and nor were his shoes. I was tired and could think of little else to do, so went to the Crowne leaving message that I would wait for Hill there. Perhaps not the safest place to be, given that we had quite possibly precipitated the death of a powerful merchant, but it served good ale.

As I sat and supped and watched ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, it all seemed absurd. Hewitt now a victim, apparently not the man that killed Anne Giles, nor the man that butchered her husband. Why then had he behaved so strangely? Why had he sent men to kill me? It made no sense. With Hewitt dead and Hill’s Epsom story exposed as the fraud it so clearly was, this left us then with only one other account — Prynne’s bizarre theory of Fifth Monarchists, treason and plot — for which there was no evidence whatsoever. In the meantime someone else would have us dead, someone who could command soldiers to do his deeds. And my father was still missing. All very odd and no mistake.

I watched a large fellow scratch at his balls and pass comment to a friend that I could not hear. It was clearly funny, since both of them laughed with great gusto. Strange to think that we all lived in the same world, yet they felt safe and happy and I was alone and in great danger. All I needed was a change of face, so that none would recognise me.

‘Mr Lytle?’ Hill’s maidservant appeared next to me, flustered and ill at ease, eyeing warily the men that cast her sly glances. She handed me a note and was gone. The note was from Hill, of course, though I didn’t recognise the writing.

Meet me at Bride’s at ten. News of your father.

It was fifteen minutes before. I left the mug unfinished and hurried out.

The strange church stood as it always had, quiet and still. I dismounted and wandered through the churchyard past a patch of white-bottle. The door was open — someone was at home other than God. I crossed the threshold slowly, peering into the darkness. No light. No candles. Then a thick arm wrapped itself round my neck, a knife pricked hard at my throat and a low, deep voice whispered into my ear. ‘Harry Lytle.’ The knife dug in just below my Adam’s apple, ‘Shrewsbury’s hound.’

I struggled to breathe. A cloth was clamped down hard over my mouth and nose. I couldn’t move my Adam’s apple without forcing it down onto the razor-sharp blade.

‘Walk.’

I couldn’t walk. The knife was hard against my throat and he was pulling my neck back so hard I couldn’t stand on my own, let alone walk. A trickle of blood dripped down to my chest. The knife moved swiftly to my ribs, and he grabbed my hair. I fingered my throat. The wound stung, but it wasn’t deep, just a scratch. Steered by the hand that held my hair, I walked forward into the cool interior of the silent church, towards the lectern by the far wall. He marched me towards the front pew, the door to which stood open, and forced me to sit, pulling my hair down with one hand and digging the knife into my waist with the other. I dropped my cane, which clattered to the floor. Then the knife was withdrawn and his face appeared in front of me. Hiding his knife inside his coat he grabbed my wrist. His hands moved like lightning, and before I could think what to do he had bound it to the wooden lattice that decorated the front of the simple pew. Then he grabbed for my other wrist. I whipped it back behind my shoulder until the knife appeared again. His wrists were as thick as most men’s legs. Now I understood how John Giles had been trussed and bound so easily.

At least I could see him now, but the church was poorly lit, and all I could really make out was that he was dressed from head to toe in black. A thick cloak flowed from his chin down to the tops of his big muddy boots. An ordinary hat hid his brow and a scarf covered his mouth. I was in real pain; my wrists were bound so tight that my fingertips were numb, but he just pulled the rope tighter, puffing with satisfied exertion. He sat down next to me on my right. I was forced to lean forwards, held there by the ropes.

‘God bringeth out those that are bound by chains.’ Leaning back, he wrapped his left arm across the back of the pew, while the right hand held the knife. It had a long, thin blade. His eyes burnt, a bright incandescent blue.

Fighting to stay calm I could not stop my arms and legs from shaking. ‘You killed Anne Giles here. Joyce saw you do it, didn’t he?’

‘Whosoever believeth in him shall have eternal life.’

I pulled gently at the ropes, but my wrists might as well have been set in stone. ‘Am I to die as she did?’