The Sweet Smell of Decay (28 page)

The tall man in the brown leather apron stood above us, waiting. The heat, the smell of sweat, vomit and ale, the obscenities and blasphemies that I could hear, despite trying not to listen, pressed down on me. North was ahead of me, yet the spell of our companionship was broken. I could see the fear in his eyes, the tears on his cheeks. I felt my own bladder weaken, felt the crap in my bowels begin to churn. It was too noisy to exchange words of comfort. We were in the pit of Hell, burning in the flames of man’s hatred. Words were no use here.

‘Hold fast!’ a voice shouted from somewhere up in front, from somewhere past the horses.

‘Hold fast!’ it shouted again, this time louder. It sounded like someone was in trouble. I waited for a scream. The guards slowed, mumbling and impatient, pikes held aloft.

‘Hold fast!’ A body appeared in front between the scaffold and us. ‘I have a document signed by King Charles himself! Harry Lytle is to be trialled anew!’

Trialled anew? Trialled anew? Trialled anew! God have mercy on my soul! I felt like singing, yet would the guards oblige? I felt a sudden fear that they would dismiss this man with his document signed by King Charles and insist on carrying out their task. Could they read? I stood with my feet dug firmly into the mud, determined not to take a single further step towards the gallows while the chief of the guards took the paper and read it, then ran his fingers across the seal. He read slowly, I watched his eyes move from side to side, letter by letter, word by word. He mouthed the words as he read them, his face a picture of anxious puzzlement. Then he
turned to his colleagues and shrugged. My chest was squeezed so tight it felt like I was being crushed beneath a great stone.

‘Back to Newgate for this one.’ The guard pointed at me. ‘Onward-ho for the other.’

Back to Newgate! My very own Garden of Eden! I looked for Roger North up ahead. I caught a quick glimpse of his face, mouth wide open and tongue lolling, his eyes frantically scanning the sky for some angel of salvation. He walked with his shoulders slumped forwards and his trousers were soiled. He had shat his trousers and was panting like a dog.

I never saw Roger North alive again. Though his head sat above Nonsuch for about six months.

I was back in the same courtroom the very next day. This time none came to see me at all before the day started, so I resigned myself to another session of ritual public humiliation. I wondered what witnesses would be called today? They might as well collect the heads of Giles, Hewitt and Keeling, attach them to the end of sticks and have Shrewsbury perform a puppet show. Yet I was not entirely pessimistic. There must be some reason for initiating the rigmarole one more time.

I resolved beforetimes not to mess about with the jury unless there sat a genuine lunatic. On second thoughts perhaps I would be better off with a jury selected from Bedlam. That was a thought indeed!

I asked one of the guards who were to be the judge and prosecutor as we travelled. The judge, I was told, was one
Nicholas Earl of Newcastle, a scholarly sort of fellow by reputation. The prosecutor on the other hand, was none other than the Attorney General, the same that had told me that I should be dead by now. He should be glad to see me then.

We resumed our old familiar seats. I couldn’t tell this set of the jurors from the last, so ignored them. They would do as they were told, no doubt, so there was little point in concerning myself. I was more interested in observing the Attorney General. He came in on his own in advance of the judge and settled himself quickly. I received a brief glance, but no more. Gone were the flummery and flammery, the posturing and theatre. Sitting with his arms folded, he looked like a man denied his favourite pudding.

The judge entered by himself, a slight man. He walked quickly with short little strides, head lowered, muttering to himself. After he jumped the steps up to his little wooden throne he peered about him short-sightedly until he spotted me. He glanced me up and down, blinked and was satisfied.

The same clerk as before read out the names of the jurors.

‘Mr Attorney General,’ the judge spoke very fast, ‘do you wish to challenge any of the jurors?’

‘My Lord, I do not.’

‘And you?’ he looked at me.

‘My Lord, I do not.’

‘Very well. Last time you pleaded self-defence. Does that remain your plea?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’

‘Good. Then let’s begin. First witness.’ He paused to read a parchment on his desk. ‘And only witness. David Dowling.’

Dowling? I turned to see him escorted towards the witness box. He regarded me calmly and gave me a big wink. The Attorney General saw it and glared.

‘What is your name?’ The clerk adopted the same ceremonial position and manner as he had before.

‘His name is Dowling, as I have already made clear. Please be seated.’ The judge waved a hand irritably, sending the poor man scurrying for cover away from the eyes of his junior colleagues. ‘Mr Dowling, I will be asking you some questions. From time to time I will permit the Attorney General to ask you some questions of his own. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, My Lord.’ Dowling was looking quite splendid today I thought, having forsaken his usual sorry attire in favour of a fine suit. It wasn’t expensive or particularly finely tailored, but was well cut and very stylish. It really quite became him.

‘Dowling, your profession?’

‘These days I am a butcher.’ Dowling turned to face the judge and gave a deferential little bow.

‘Butcher? You don’t look much like a butcher.’ The judge squinted. Wait until someone told him that he could read and write and bore the saddle off a donkey with Bible talk.

‘It is not my usual occupation, My Lord.’

‘Well, what’s your usual occupation? Come on now, Mr Dowling, we don’t have time for games.’ The judge cast an eye in the Attorney General’s direction as he spoke.

‘My usual occupation is agent for King Charles II. I am employed by His Majesty to look after his interests about London.’ He turned and smiled broadly at me.

Well, as I am a sinner, which I certainly am, Dowling was the Bishop’s sister’s son! This was something! And I thought he was only fit for ruffians! This could only be a poke in the eye with a burnt stick. The Attorney General sat slouched in his chair, sullen but not surprised. You are on a different field today, my friend!

‘What is your role in this sorry affair?’ the judge asked.

‘I was asked by His Majesty to assist Mr Lytle in his quest to discover who killed Anne Giles. His Majesty was interested in the affair and knew that the Earl of Shrewsbury had chosen to support Mr Lytle in his efforts. He was intrigued to understand better the Earl of Shrewsbury’s motivations. So he ensured that I was nominated to assist Mr Lytle, whose appointment he did not entirely fathom.’

‘Lytle was appointed by whom?’ The judge tapped a finger on his desk.

‘Mr Lytle was not officially appointed by any. He was informed by his father that Anne Ormonde was related and his father asked the Earl of Shrewsbury for his assistance which he agreed to bestow. That is the official story.’

‘I see,’ the judge mused, ‘this is at odds with the testimony given by Mr William Hill, who testified that he was the only agent employed by Shrewsbury.’

‘That may be true, My Lord. The Earl of Shrewsbury did not employ Mr Lytle. That is, he did not pay him any money for his labours. He merely agreed to support Mr Lytle in his efforts. Though I have to make it known to Your Honour that Mr Lytle’s father was only under the impression that they were related because he was told so by one Robert Burton.’

Burton?

‘Who is Robert Burton?’

‘He is another employee of the Earl of Shrewsbury. He has made written testament of it and delivered it to His Majesty.’

That made sense, at last. The silly old fool had his tail twisted by Shrewsbury. Well – he wasn’t the only one.

‘I see. Mr Attorney General – did you know of this?’

‘No, My Lord, I did not,’ replied my learned colleague
quietly. He didn’t look very surprised, though.

‘Very well, let us proceed. The death of Anne Giles.’ He looked around the court again as if to make sure that everyone was listening. ‘Anne Giles was killed by Richard Joyce. Richard Joyce was tried for it and condemned. This is a matter of public record, is it not?’

‘My Lord, it is a matter of public record,’ Dowling bowed his big, grey head. The judge seemed to like his soft Scots accent. It was certainly a soothing noise he made when he spoke. The jury looked like they might go to sleep. ‘However, I think we might reconsider the findings of the court in the light of subsequent events.’

‘Why should we do that?’

‘To explain that fully, My Lord, I must give you my account of those subsequent events. For now I would note only that Joyce himself spoke to us lucidly and categorically denied that he murdered Anne Giles. Furthermore he described the man that did kill Anne Giles as being a big man wearing a thick black cloak, a hat and a scarf.’

‘That is not much of a description,’ snorted the judge.

‘No, My Lord. It is not much of a description, but it is the exact same description that we were given by a slaughterer that saw John Giles thrown off London Bridge.’

‘The court was told that John Giles killed himself by throwing himself from London Bridge. William Hill testified that he saw the marks about the man’s neck.’

Dowling shook his head. ‘No, My Lord. They were my men that recovered John Giles’s body from the river and I can assure the court that there were no marks about his neck. His arms and legs were bound and he was thrown from the Bridge so that he died a most painful death. I have
the boatman that found him and several of my own men that will testify it.’

‘I see. Mr Attorney General – what say you of this?’ The judge looked at the Attorney General with a sceptical eye.

The Attorney General stood up. ‘This testimony is at odds with the testimony of Mr William Hill.’ He sat down again. This was going well!

‘Aye, well I know who I believe.’ The judge looked at Dowling with respect. ‘So who did kill Anne Giles and John Giles, Mr Dowling?’

‘Lord Keeling,’ Dowling replied brightly. The judge pulled a face as if to express severe disappointment with a favoured son. ‘Sir, that is too much to credit.’ The court seemed to agree, for everyone started to talk in low, quiet tones and shake their heads. The Attorney General joined in theatrically, tutting loudly and laughing contemptuously. The judge silenced them all with one sweep of his arm.

‘My Lord, this is not a simple affair. I beg your indulgence.’ Dowling bowed, completely unworried, it seemed.

‘Proceed,’ the judge declared, with apparent reservations.

‘It was clear to us that Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles and it was clear that he did not kill John Giles – since Joyce was executed before John Giles died. Our attentions turned at that time to Matthew Hewitt.’

‘Why Matthew Hewitt? This is the fellow that Lytle says was being blackmailed by John Giles?’

‘Aye, though it wasn’t any detailed account of what the disagreement was between them that alerted us to it. We spoke to John Giles and he was deeply afraid of Matthew Hewitt and what he might do to him.’

‘William Hill would have us believe that such rumours
were nonsense.’ The judge still looked sceptical. The Attorney General muttered and snorted.

‘Aye, but there is a piece of evidence which we did not have at the time, which explains the nature of the disagreement. It was not an ordinary disagreement.’ Dowling looked at me and winked again. I didn’t wink back. I hoped he knew what he was doing.

‘Enlighten us.’ The judge put his chin in his hand, looking curious.

‘After Hewitt was killed I went to his house with some of my men, on Mr Lytle’s instruction.’

‘On what authority?’ the Attorney General stood up and barked.

‘Mr Attorney General, kindly be quiet unless I ask you to speak,’ the judge shouted, furious. The Attorney General sat down angrily and buried his head in his shoulders. ‘Now, Mr Dowling. Upon whose authority?’

‘My apologies, My Lord. I spoke in error. It was Mr Lytle’s
suggestion
. We entered the house on the authority of His Majesty.’

‘There.’ The judge waved a hand at the Attorney General. ‘Are you satisfied?’

The Attorney General slumped back in his seat.

‘We were looking for some evidence that explained why Matthew Hewitt should have been so distressed by our attentions that he sent two men to kill Mr Lytle.’

The court responded with a series of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. This was the first revelation that did not result in everyone looking at me as if I were Satan’s bag carrier.

‘And why, pray, did Matthew Hewitt send two men to kill Mr Lytle?’

‘We found letters at Hewitt’s house, various documents. Of
no great importance of themselves. However, they indicated that Matthew Hewitt had changed his name a few years previously.’

‘Changed his name from what?’ The judge demanded, incredulous. The Attorney General stopped picking at his fingernails and raised his head in interest too.

‘Venner,’ replied Dowling.

Venner! So Matthew Hewitt was Matthew Venner? A relation. Dowling was implying that Hewitt was associated with the Thomas Venner revolt! Then Hewitt was a Fifth Monarchist too, and therein lay his relationship with Keeling. This explained how it was that Keeling had told me that Hewitt had unleashed his dogs upon me. The two of them were connected!

‘You have lost me, Mr Dowling.’ The judge shook his head in confusion. ‘You are looking at me as if you have presented me with a barrel of cream, and I have no idea why.’

‘Lord Keeling was a Baptist, as was William Ormonde. Lord Keeling remained fanatical even after the Restoration whilst Ormonde did not. Keeling backed Venner’s Revolt and Ormonde threatened to expose him. Keeling killed Ormonde’s daughter so that he would remain quiet – for Ormonde has two daughters. However, John Giles had learnt of Hewitt’s involvement, probably through his wife, and was blackmailing him. Keeling killed John Giles to protect Hewitt. Hewitt sent two men to kill Mr Lytle, because he threatened to expose the whole affair anyway.’

The court fell silent. Everyone looked at the judge, who looked confused. We sat like this for at least a minute. The judge cast an eye about the court, anxious not to be seen to make a fool of himself. ‘You mean Venner sent two men to kill Mr Lytle?’

‘Aye, sir,’ Dowling nodded. ‘His manservant has ’fessed all.’

‘And I suppose William Ormonde will testify accordingly?’

‘Yes, My Lord. Now that Keeling is dead William Ormonde is able to speak without fear.’

The judge still looked bemused. He turned to the Attorney General as if he genuinely sought his views. ‘Mr Attorney General, do you know
anything
about this at all?’

The Attorney General stood up with a weary expression on his face, wondering perhaps if he still had a career. ‘My Lord, all I can say is that this testimony is at odds with the testimony of Mr William Hill. I have no knowledge of all that Mr Dowling sets before us and, indeed, were he not in the employ of His Majesty then I would find his testimony incredible.’ He sat down and flicked his quill to one side.

‘I agree, sir. Mr Dowling, I will need to see all of this testimony you refer to.’

‘Of course, My Lord. I have it with me today.’

‘Very well, pray continue.’

‘The men that Hewitt sent to kill Mr Lytle failed. Unfortunate for Hewitt I think, for once Mr Lytle had taken him prisoner, Keeling must have feared that he would talk.’

‘Mr William Hill testifies that he witnessed the accused kill Matthew Hewitt then sever his tongue with a knife and nail it to a …’ he rifled through some papers ‘… trapdoor.’

Dowling arched his eyebrows and sighed deeply. ‘Mr Hill lies, My Lord. Soldiers killed Matthew Hewitt, soldiers sent by Keeling. These same soldiers attempted to abduct us both besides, until we were rescued by men I know that live in Alsatia.’

‘Whose testimony do you have to substantiate that?’