Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

‘So he came to you as an old friend.’ The Attorney General waved a hand in my direction. ‘What did you advise him as an old friend?’

‘I advised him to go to Epsom to make peace with the Ormonde family.’ Not entirely untrue, I supposed.

‘What did he do instead?’ The Attorney General stood up again suddenly with arms outstretched, succeeding in focussing the jury’s attention on Hill.

‘He was certain that Anne Giles had been killed by Matthew Hewitt of Basinghall Street. He believed that John Giles had been blackmailing Matthew Hewitt and that Hewitt murdered his wife as a warning to him.’

‘Could that have been the case?’

‘No, sir. It is inconceivable that a man as esteemed as Matthew Hewitt would kill Anne Giles, especially if you consider the manner in which she was killed. It is clear that Anne Giles was killed in a mad frenzy by Richard Joyce.’

‘But Hewitt was a bit of a scoundrel?’ The Attorney General winked. Oh aye, a bit of a ruffian and a scallywag. Again I had to congratulate the Attorney General for the way he was leading his jury. Meantime they sat there all self-important.

‘He may have been,’ Hill nodded, ‘but no more than that. The Exchange is a place where hard words are often spoken and agreements sealed by a handshake. I think that Harry Lytle mistook what he saw there. I have a better understanding, since it is my trade.’

‘Mistook what he saw there, you say.’ The Attorney General grasped his chin between forefinger and thumb. ‘How did this ignorance manifest itself, I wonder?’

‘He came down to the Exchange and followed Matthew Hewitt about the place. It was inconvenient for Hewitt since it prohibited him going about his business as he would.’

‘How do you know that the accused went to the Exchange and followed him about the place?’

‘I was there and saw it.’

There was one of the jurors that I was beginning to loathe with a passion. He kept looking over at me, shaking his head and tutting audibly.

‘I see.’ The Attorney General shuffled some papers in silence. The jurors’ heads slowly stretched outwards in his direction, necks craned, as if to try and read those papers. ‘John Giles died soon after, did he not?’

‘Aye, he did.’ Hill’s eyes started to dart and flicker and he started shuffling again.

‘How did he die?’

‘He hung himself by the neck,’ Hill replied.

‘Godamercy,’ I muttered to myself. I turned to the guard on my left and whispered into his ear. ‘That is the biggest lie he has spoken today!’

The court quietened and I found myself being stared at once more. The guard inched himself away from me, looking embarrassed. I could feel the judge’s stern gaze upon me though I chose not to meet his stare. The prosecutor shook his head slowly and smiled sympathetically at me. I waited for the judge to speak, but it was the prosecutor that broke the silence.

‘The accused would have us believe, I understand, that John Giles was thrown off London Bridge with a rope tied about his arms and legs by a villain?’ He turned to Hill.

‘Not possible,’ Hill shook his head, ‘and besides, I saw the rope marks around his neck.’

‘Why did he take his own life?’

‘Hard to say, sir, though there were rumours that he was at odds with Matthew Hewitt. Also the accused spent time with John Giles speaking of Matthew Hewitt, and may have put the fear of God into him.’

So! I was no longer even Harry Lytle. Even Hill was now referring to me as ‘the accused’. Would I were able to put the fear of God into a man like I saw it in John Giles — then I would put it into William Hill! May his soul rot in Hell and be devoured by maggots.

‘Did the accused come to speak with you again?’ The Attorney General raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Perchance?’

‘Aye, he came to see me. We met at the menagerie since he said he did not feel safe elsewhere.’

‘Did not feel safe?’ the Attorney General frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ Hill replied, ‘though I fear the strain of it all was greatly bothering him. Besides, he told me that John Giles was murdered and renewed his vow to bring Hewitt to justice.’ This was not right either, not that it would make any difference. I was sure that I had made no mention of John Giles’s death to Hill.

The Attorney General stood with his legs together, one leg crooked, his arms folded and one finger pointed upwards. A man in contemplative repose. The jury leant forward eagerly. ‘So, Mr Hill. You quickly discharged your duties in establishing who killed Anne Giles, but you also discovered that your best friend was engaged in the same pursuit at the bidding of a — shall we say — eccentric patriarch.’ He paused and looked to the judge as if for Godly inspiration. ‘Your friend, who is a clerk and is of a — shall we say — lowly background, comes to a different conclusion, based on — shall we say — scatterbrained suppositions, and begins to lose his sense of reason. Is that a fair summation?’

I glared at Hill. I didn’t mind the ‘eccentric patriarch’ nor the ‘lowly background’ — it would be hard to refute either assertion, despite the conceit and pomposity in which the words were dressed, but ‘scatterbrained suppositions’? His black eyes glistened, then he sighed, and looked like a man who wished he could go back a year and live his time again. ‘Aye, fair.’

‘Matthew Hewitt was murdered too, was he not?’ The Attorney General suddenly looked very serious, and why not? The death of a couple of commoners is hardly worth writing home about, but Hewitt was almost a gentleman.

‘He was.’

‘What knowledge do you have of that killing?’

‘I saw it happen,’ Hill replied very quietly. The Attorney General shook his head sharply, as if he had a flea in his ear, and feigned amazement. Could the jury not see that this performance had clearly been rehearsed many times? This was the best play in town. The juror whose posturings were fraying at my nerves looked at me as if I were the Devil himself. I shrugged and stared him out until he looked away. Inside, though, I was looking forward to Hill’s reply as much as any in court. Was it possible that he had been there in Alsatia? Was he implicated in Hewitt’s death himself?

‘Tell us,’ the Attorney General said quietly before sitting again and leaving the stage to Hill.

‘Hewitt was at the time imprisoned in a cellar in Alsatia,’ Hill explained.

‘A cellar in Alsatia?’ The Attorney General struggled to his feet again. ‘Imprisoned by whom?’

‘By the accused,’ Hill answered.

‘The accused imprisoned Matthew Hewitt in a cellar in Alsatia?’ The Attorney General left his position and wandered across the front of the bench until he stood opposite me. He stood with his legs astride and his hands on his hips and glared. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded.

He seemed to be speaking to me. ‘I thought that I was not permitted to speak?’ I replied, trying to see the judge.

‘The accused has been asked a question by the Attorney General. He must answer the question directly,’ I heard the judge snarl.

‘Hewitt was-’ I started.

‘Did you imprison Matthew Hewitt in a cellar in Alsatia? State “aye” or “nay”,’ the Attorney General interrupted me, speaking with such passion that he left spittle on his chin.

‘Aye.’

The Attorney General relaxed. He clasped his hands in front of his plums and bowed his head like he was the Lord Jesus Christ, before raising his chin and regarding me like I was one of the two robbers. ‘Pray continue!’ He returned to his station.

‘Well,’ Hill stuttered. ‘By this time I was concerned. The accused was a friend of mine and I heard word that he had abducted Hewitt in order to extract confession from him.’