Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

She screamed at me, made me cower with those wild green eyes, made me feel it had been my fault, regarding me as she might a great black roach. ‘Well you will have to find the money for a new table, won’t you — sir ?’

I could but agree.

‘I will arrange for this table to be chopped up and taken away. Today. You have money?’

‘Half as much as I had before,’ I admitted, ‘but I have a new job working for the King as a King’s agent. Dowling recommended me.’

‘You, a King’s agent? God have mercy on us all. Bring on the next republic.’ She took off her coat and hung it on a hook. ‘And I thought Mr Dowling was an able man.’

‘I might remind you that you said Hewitt was as guilty as a quire bird.’

‘So he was, wasn’t he?’ she snapped, then disappeared out of the kitchen with her bag. The house shook as she stomped up the stairs.

I reminded myself that it was my house, screwed my courage to the sticking plate and lit up a pipe. I sucked in the smoke and let it run slowly out of my nose. Harry Lytle — King’s agent. A fine young man worth fifty pounds. All in all, a very pleasing conclusion.

The judge had issued an indictment for the arrest of William Hill, much to my satisfaction. He wasn’t able to do much about Shrewsbury — that noble Lord would find it easy enough to dissociate himself from Hill and Burton, but Dowling assured me that he was finished. Be in Holland by morning. Yes, I had done very well — well done, Harry!

‘Harry?’ Jane entered quietly. Unlike her.

‘Yes?’ I tilted back on my chair with my feet on the table and puffed at my pipe.

‘There is a man at the door called Simon. He has a big knife. He says that since you didn’t pay him what you owed him he is come for retribution.’

Boggins!

I fell off my chair and knocked myself unconscious on the hearth.