Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘What is your name?’ The clerk stood with his back to Hill speaking very loudly and looking at the ceiling.

‘William Hill of Basinghall Street.’ It wasn’t loud enough for the judge who made him repeat himself. The clerk sat down and the Attorney General stood up.

‘Mr Hill.’ The Attorney General stuck his chest out so far that his belly sat almost unnoticed just above his belt.

‘Yes?’ Hill looked up at his inquisitor, and none other.

‘Describe to me your profession, if you will?’

‘I am a merchant.’

‘A merchant of what?’

‘A merchant of goods.’ I recognised his reluctance to divulge any one thing.

The Attorney General licked his lips and smiled with all his teeth. ‘What goods, Mr Hill?’

‘Various goods,’ Hill glowered at him. ‘I inherited my father’s business and I import goods from outside England, and sell them inside England.’

‘A merchant, then?’ The Attorney General spoke as if it was a new revelation. The jury were looking at him as if he were either a little mad or very intelligent. He had their attention in any case.

Hill didn’t bother replying, just looked at the Attorney General resignedly in anticipation of further bothersome questions.

‘In the case that we are here to speak of today, Mr Hill, I believe that you had a particular role, did you not?’ The Attorney General leant forward with his hands on his desk. ‘A role unrelated to that of merchant?’

‘Aye. I was paid by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles.’ That could not be right. I stared at him, keen to catch his eye.

‘Lord Shrewsbury, acting Lord Chief Justice?’ The Attorney General rolled the last three words round his mouth like a large plum. Shrewsbury had already supplanted Keeling? That was quick work! In which case Shrewsbury had appointed this judge and Shrewsbury it was that had arranged this trial so that I could not call my own witnesses, nor seek help to make my case. Godamercy — it was worse than it could be!

‘Aye, the same.’

‘The defendant, Mr Harry Lytle, has also made claim that he was employed by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles. Is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ I replied loudly. The Attorney General froze, dramatically, and turned to face me very, very slowly, with an appalled expression upon his face. Everyone else in the court took his lead, except Hill. The judge breathed noisily through his nose as if he couldn’t force his mouth to open.

‘The defendant will not speak again unless I ask him a question directly. If he speaks again then he will be taken away from this place and the proceedings shall continue without him.’ He looked at me severely. ‘Does the court understand?’

The court murmured its assent. I tried to look suitably chastened.

‘Mr Hill.’ The Attorney General returned to his witness with great fortitude, still struggling to recover from the shock. ‘Mr Lytle has also made claim that he was employed by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles. Is that correct?’

‘No.’ Hill shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Mr Lytle was asked to investigate the death of Anne Giles by his father, who was mistakenly of the belief that Anne Giles was a relation of the family.’

‘A relation of the family?’ The Attorney General looked suitably perplexed. ‘Can it really be so?’

‘Aye, sir. I have a letter to that effect.’

‘May I see the letter?’ the Attorney General asked, one of his clerks hurrying forward to the witness box. Hill fished out a letter from within the folds of his jacket and handed it to the clerk. Well, I didn’t see how this could fly. How could that be my letter?

‘Allow me to read the letter, My Lord.’ The Attorney General bowed to the judge, who nodded his head.

‘Son.’ The Attorney General declared solemnly, pausing for comic effect. Members of the jury sniggered dutifully. I began to despise this preening cockerel.

‘Still here. In this lairy place.’ Cue widespread laughter.

‘Your mother seems happy, tho. Must be the pigs that they breed here coz she likes pigs .’ The clerks were laughing now with mouths wide open and hands to their stomachs, seeing who could make the most noise. The jury were not much more restrained. Even the judge smiled. Looking thoroughly ashamed of himself, looking at the toes of his feet, only Hill was not amused. So it should be. It was clear which way he had chosen to walk.

‘Nothing to gladden a man’s heart in Cocksmouth. Nothing for me to do save help her brother in the shed. Can’t make shoes here. You caring for the shop? Some hope .’ Disapproving groans from the Attorney General’s willing audience. It was almost artistic the way he orchestrated their reactions. I had to acknowledge his expertise.

‘I note you haven’t been to visit. Your mother notes it too.’ More of the same.

‘You have a cuz, name of Anne. Married to a man called John Giles. Don’t think you knew your cuz Anne. Not likely to now coz she dead. Someone killed her. I took the liberty of telling Mr Prynne esq. that you have to leave his employ.’ There were some low groans and mutterings at the mention of Prynne’s name.

‘We’ll be back when your grandmother has died. About time, I say .’ The paid help behind me gasped their horror at such callous words and the jury turned to look at me, eyes burning with affronted loathing. Me? I just sat there fuming. Some villain had taken this letter from my house — which implied prior knowledge of its existence. And where the boggins was my father?

‘Mr Hill,’ cried the Attorney General in a strident tone designed to bring the court to order. ‘Did you succeed in establishing who murdered Anne Giles?’

‘Aye, sir. A man named Richard Joyce killed Anne Giles and was hung for it.’ I looked at Hill. This was a lesson. The face of a man telling a very big lie. This was the same man that had casually dismissed the possibility that Joyce was the killer and had urged me hasten to Epsom.

The Attorney General feigned puzzlement. ‘The accused protested against Joyce’s indictment and said that in fact he did not kill Anne Giles and that there was none that saw him do it. That he was merely seen running from the church of St Bride’s …’ he paused for theatrical effect ‘… in fear.’

Hill said nothing.

‘Who was this man Joyce?’

Hill cleared his throat and wiped his brow. ‘Joyce was an old soldier, a Roundhead. He was injured on the field of battle, an injury that left him unbalanced, indeed mad. He had been trepanned.’ The jurors all wrinkled their noses in revolted synchronicity. ‘He was a man that often showed signs of furious rage. The killing itself was not witnessed, true, but he was seen running the streets of London with blood all over his hands, on his clothes and on his face. Later the girl’s necklace was found about his person. All this was shown at his trial.’

‘A trial conducted by Lord Keeling,’ the Attorney General finished, looking to Hill for confirmation. Hill nodded.

‘How did the accused respond to the conviction of Richard Joyce?’

‘He was unhappy and came to talk to me.’

The Attorney General sat down. ‘Why did he come to talk to you? Did he know that you were conducting the enquiry on behalf of Lord Shrewsbury?’

Hill at last turned to look in my direction. His eyes were rheumy, red-rimmed and bloodshot. He looked very tired. ‘No, he did not. Harry Lytle is an old friend of mine. We went to Cambridge together.’ More gasps from the audience. I sat back, vexed. Not only was the sole witness testifying to my own misguided depravity, but he was doing so from the perspective of ‘old friend’. Old friend, indeed. I narrowed my eyes, bared my teeth and glowered at Hill, who quickly looked away.