Paul Lawrence - The Sweet Smell of Decay

I leant forward eagerly. ‘And what of Shrewsbury in all of this?’

‘Shrewsbury cannot be said to be anything other than a Royalist, for he has been steadfast and true. Yet he is plagued by tales that he forged some alliance with the Republic to safeguard his land and property. That he doesn’t deny, but he forcefully denies that he made deals with those that slew the King. I am not so reckless to say that the King makes the most of his anxieties, and the multitude of others like him. I will leave others to say so if they will.’

‘Lord Shrewsbury is not listened to, then?’

‘I observe that the King listens and speaks to Shrewsbury as much as he does any man, but no man is secure. Shrewsbury seeks every opportunity to demonstrate his loyalty. I have even heard it said that he led discussions with the Dutch to stage a war that may later become a solid alliance against the French and Spanish. The French and Spanish fight each other lustily, so might come out of it with no navy and empty pockets.’

‘Does he have enemies?’

‘You may be sure of it, but I cannot list for you their names, and doubt that he can neither. Such is life at Court. It is well known that he and Lord Keeling cannot tolerate each other. This is an interesting thing that you ought know of, because this William Ormonde, the father of the dead girl, is a close friend of Keeling’s. They were once neighbours at Epsom.’

‘Then why does Shrewsbury help me ? If Ormonde is Keeling’s friend, then surely Keeling will make special efforts to see the killer brought to justice?’

Hill took a deep breath and had a drink. ‘Your father asked him for help.’

My father. Asking Shrewsbury for help to catch the killer of someone I’d never heard of? I would have to talk to him, but he was away in Cocksmouth.

Watching me like he could read my thoughts, Hill licked his lips. ‘Like I said, Harry, Shrewsbury’s a good patron to have.’ He called for more ale. ‘Tell me more of the murder itself. A knife in the eye and teeth broken, you say? An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. It sounds like a strange and evil act of revenge.’

‘Aye,’ I replied, startled, for this had not occurred to me at all. ‘Though what revenge could a man want on Anne Giles?’

‘She may have been killed as revenge upon another,’ answered Hill without enthusiasm, shifting his genitals into place with his left hand while smoking with his right. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing.’

‘What?’

‘If I was in your place, then I would make speed to Epsom. Now that Ormonde has been informed of his daughter’s death the funeral will be tomorrow or the day after. If you are her cousin then you should be able to gain access.’

‘How do you know so much?’

Hill shrugged, his usual gesture that meant I should mind my own business. Switching his attention to the thin plume of smoke that drifted out of the bowl of his pipe he evaded my efforts to catch his eye, again behaving as if it was I that had sabotaged his affairs. We sat in gloomy silence for a while until he inadvertently poured ale down his nose and nearly choked himself. Then he drenched me in a giant sneeze. Laughing loud despite himself, his mood switched suddenly. He wiped an arm across his mouth and launched into a crazed partisan monologue about the Dutch war. It transpired that he had lost two shipments — of what he would not tell me — one from the Indies and one from Africa. He complained about the superior tactics of the Dutch, and how they beat our navy senseless every time they met. He derided Mings, Sandwich and Barkely in terms that he would not have used outside tavern walls, and generally vented his spleen. Then he downed a pot in one draught as if to draw a curtain upon the subject. It was loud now and the air was hot and full of ale fumes. At the end of the table a group of six men were singing a simple lewd song at the tops of their voices to the sound of a guitar and flagelette. Two of them sat playing their instruments, while the other four stood with their chests inflated, singing with their eyes screwed up in concentration.

‘Come aloft, my little dwarf — have at thee!’ Hill leant over, whisked off my wig and dragged his fingers across my cropped head. I fought him off with a well-aimed punch, then aimed another at his chin. He roared with laughter just before I caught him square, then sat back grinning ruefully, hand on jaw. None called me a dwarf, not even he. I may be short but I am well proportioned and very attractive to women. Lifting his full pot, he drank it down in one great swig before filling it again. More food arrived, and we ate heartily. Hill picked up on a melody that others were developing a short way down the table and began to join in the bawdy songs, singing at the top of his voice and sweating heavily. Leaving him to it I sought out some familiar company who let me touch her and play a little. By eleven the place was a melee of drunken oafs, singing, roaring and staggering stiff-leggedly like frothing horses. Coats got stained, stockings slipped down legs and wigs fell crooked. Hats were danced on and trampled, lace was torn and shoes were scuffed. Hill was in the middle of it singing the loudest as I stumbled out into the silent night.

I had drunk more than I intended, but was not senseless. The moon was brighter now and the streets emptier. I walked carefully past St Mary’s, onto Poultry and stopped at the Great Conduit to douse my face in its cold water. The King’s Head and the Mermaid were both still full. The night air was freezing, the filth was hard and frozen into lumps, the sewers were thick and ran slowly. This was night air, which would kill you by asphyxiation if you stayed out too long. Drink took the edge off the prickly cold but I hurried anyway, knowing that frost’s fingers would quickly find a way through my defences. Banging on my door with my fist I stomped my feet impatiently. Jane would be sitting up waiting for me in her own little bed, knees drawn up to her chin. As I stood waiting for her to come downstairs and open up, I looked back down the street. I fancied I saw a man hanging about under the eaves of a house fifty yards or so away, but the figure quickly turned and disappeared into the Mermaid. Lost or drunk, sucked into the warmth like iron filings to a magnet. I banged my fist on the door again, then looked at my knuckles. They were wet. There was paint on the door — I could just make it out — gleaming wet. I dabbed at the markings with my finger. It was paint all right, red paint. Why would someone paint my door? I stepped back to see if mine was the only door painted.

‘What hour do you call this?’

I jumped, not having noticed the door open. Jane stood there in the doorway hissing at me, standing bent in a thick white nightgown with a shapeless white hat pulled down to the top of her eyes. Her feet were bare, her ankles too, long legs and fleshy hips. Then I heard something, or thought I did, and swung around, again catching a glimpse of movement at the end of the street. A light danced from side to side. It was a Charley and his dog walking slowly. The Charley rang his bell and called out in a thin, reedy voice, ‘Past one o’clock, and a cold, frosty, winter’s night.’ There were shivers in the man’s voice.

‘I call it one,’ I answered her. ‘Some knave has painted a red cross on my door!’ Looking up and down the street again, I checked. Sure enough mine was the only door painted. ‘Was it you?’

Jane looked at the door and dabbed at the paint with her finger. ‘Fie to you! What a foolish question.’ She knelt down. ‘There are words too.’

Crouching next to her I had a closer look. ‘ To the pest-house ,’ I read. Very strange. It was what they used to write on the doors of those infected during the days of the plagues. ‘You haven’t got the plague have you?’