The Sweet Smell of Decay (4 page)

At the end of it Dowling pressed five coins into her hands and pleaded with her that she say no more of witchery. She nodded her head, and smiled happily, but neither of us believed that the money would change her behaviour. We left Fleet Street that evening, with troubled minds and troubled hearts, though not before Dowling asked me to reimburse him the five coins.

As the weak winter light slowly faded and a bloody red sheen slid forward over the cobbles and stones, we finally hurried to the address that we had for John Simpson. But all
we gained was a vague description of an ordinary-looking man. Simpson himself had left the premises and taken what belongings he had with him. We would have to find him too, but not that night. I headed home exhausted and anxious.

Jane waited for me in the hall, simmering and full of tension. Waving her hands at me and making signs, she shepherded me towards the door of my front room. Then she put her lips to my ear and hissed, ‘Get him out!’

I looked into her eyes, but saw no fear, so I pushed the door slowly open and entered the room. A strange little man stood looking about him at every article of furniture and detail. His manner matched his strange appearance, ponderous yet threatening, like a mangy dog that would soonest flee yet still sink its teeth into your throat should you block its passage. Even with his funny hat on, tall with a wide brim in the style that the Puritans used to wear some twenty years before, the man did not quite match even me in stature. Yet his legs were long like a rooster. Shiny black leather boots reached nearly up to his knees, and were so loose from his leg that I found myself wondering what would happen were I to pour water into them. The top of his head was covered with tightly curled hair; the bottom of it sprouted a pointy little beard. With one hand he carried a stick that was taller than he, a thick, twisted branch of wood, gnarled and black. Finally he looked me in the eye. Once he had it, he would not let it go, just stood there looking glum, staring.

‘You have not found Mary Bedford.’

What business was it of his? ‘Who are you?’

Blinking and frowning, he muttered something to himself, before looking at me with sad eyes and turned-down mouth.
A look of pity. I should have been angry, but instead felt intimidated. He cleared his throat and licked his lips. ‘I am John Parsons. I was told that you are trying to find out who killed Anne Giles. Seems I was told false. I beg your pardon.’ He made as if to leave.

‘I
am
trying to find out who killed Anne Giles. What’s your business?’ As I spoke it suddenly occurred to me who the man might be. His old-fashioned Puritan dress, his mercenary aspect – all reminded me of the pictures I had seen and stories I had read of Matthew Hopkins and John Sterne. ‘You are a witchfinder,’ I exclaimed, horrified, making no attempt to disguise my contempt.

He had the temerity to smile modestly and bow his head. ‘If I don’t find her in one day, then you have my word that I will press no claim upon you for money. But I will find her.’

Matthew Hopkins died young, just twenty-five-years old. He came from Ipswich where he was a lawyer, a man of no reputation nor social standing. Yet before he died he managed to torture and kill more than two hundred poor folks, most of them women. He was a parasite that had fed upon the fears of the poor ignorants that lived in the countryside and the small towns. This man reminded me of him. He gave off a stinking malodour of the same horrible zealousness. A calm certainty exuded from his tiny body, my sharp words fell against him like leaves falling from a tree. My instinct was to be rid of him, but then what would he do? Men like him demanded money for their services, yet it wasn’t money that drove them. They were conceited and proud, over sure of their own worth and righteousness. If I turned him away, I knew that he would market his services about the parish until he found one that would pay. So I tried to be clever. ‘How much money do you want?’

His steady gaze made me feel like he could read my mind and was challenging me to rebuke him. ‘We can agree the sum after I have apprehended the woman and tested her.’

‘Tested her? You mean watching, searching or swimming?’ I tried to hide the rising fear and loathing that this man was eliciting in my soul. Hopkins had forced his victims to sit on a stool in the middle of a room for days and nights on end. Witnesses would be told to watch for familiars sneaking out into the open to suck blood from the witch’s hidden extra nipple. Every witch had familiars. He would keep them seated on the stool until they were exhausted, driven half mad by lack of sleep. Then he would extract his confession. Or he would search them, strip them naked and search every part of their body, looking for the hidden nipple and for witch marks. Or he would bind their hands and feet and throw them into a river or pond. Men would push them down to the pond to see whether or not they would rise to the surface. If they rose they were dragged out and hung. If they sank, then they were innocent, but dead.

‘I will make that judgement based on what I see.’

I was angry enough now to return his black stare without trepidation. ‘I will pay you well, Mr Parsons,’ at which he nodded calmly and let his gaze drop, ‘if you follow my instructions, and proceed as I instruct you.’

Looking up he seemed surprised, as if to ask what could I possibly know about his gory trade. He snorted.

‘You will find her, and you may apprehend her, but you will do nothing else until talking to me. You will not test her, nor indeed do anything to her whatsoever, until I have visited and we have agreed what next to do, together. Is that acceptable to you, Mr Parsons?’

The witchfinder looked at me for a moment as if I was the weakest and least resolute man in the whole of England. Then he smirked, nodded, and confirmed that he was prepared to do my will. I should have felt satisfied, but as I watched him leave I felt my cold skin prickle. God help us.

‘Who was that?’ Jane glared at me from beneath the red tangle on top of her head.

I grunted. Not having a wife of my own, I had managed to acquire a bit of wealth. Indeed I was worth a hundred pounds, money that I kept in a small brown casket that was buried beneath the floor of the cellar. Those hundred pounds were the fruit of my efforts over five long years spent toiling every waking hour over at the Tower. Once I had saved a hundred pounds I had decided that it was enough. As long as I had money for food, wine and tobacco, that was funds sufficient. It was at that point I had employed Jane.

She had been a quiet girl when I first offered her employ. She’d worked for a lot of different households and came to me without any references whatsoever, but she did have this astounding wild red hair that I found instantly fascinating. For the first couple of days she did everything I told her to without comment, but on the third day, I think it was, she threw a cooking pot at my head for no reason at all and started shouting – all kinds of blasphemies – some of which I’d not heard before. After that we got on much better. She doesn’t often do what I tell her to, but knows better than I what needs doing. Deep down I know that she wants to lie with me, but I think she’s concerned that she may spoil our master and servant relationship. She keeps telling me that I ought find a wife, but not with any sincerity.

It was after she had been with me for three months that
she introduced me to her brother. He was a thin fellow that walked with a permanently stooped back like he was in constant fear of being struck. He had six children, one of whom was always ill and had once been close to death. A month after that she introduced me to her sister whose husband had only one leg and so was unable to work. Then there was the uncle with the swollen head. The consequence of all these meetings was that I found myself having committed some small sums to all their livelihoods. It was not so much money, and still I could afford to do all that I wanted and keep untouched my hundred pounds. It was also enough to stop her prating, for each time she told me what a fool I was for not marrying, I reminded her that it would likely mean my no longer being able to afford to support her and hers. It stopped the nagging but did nothing for her temper, for she deeply resented her obligation, I think.

So all the money I earn I spend and all I spend is covered by what I earn, which is a balance that keeps my soul sweet and heart content. And if I ever do decide to marry then it will be to a wealthy woman anyhow, for liberty carries a high price.

She made me some dinner that I ate in silence. I prayed that I had been wise in my treatment of Parsons, but I didn’t feel wise – I felt confused and lost. Were I to adopt the common view, then my new dead cousin was the victim of maleficium and Mary Bedford was the culprit. Whatever the truth of the matter – that wasn’t it. This was a complex challenge for which I would need a good night’s sleep. Later.

Hurrying through the wintry dusk, drawn forwards by a soft, warm light, I relished the safe haven of the Crowne. It is difficult for me to describe the sense of solace I find inside the walls of such great taverns. As I pass over the threshold it is as if all my troubles are taken away and hung on a peg. By the time I come to collect them again my soul is brighter and my heart sings a merry song. Also some of the warmest and softest women in London are to be found at the Crowne.

I had already arranged to meet William Hill there for no other motive than to drink and be merry. Yet this night I crossed the threshold with a fresh motive, for Hill possessed a sharp wit and I savoured the prospect of sharing my preoccupation with him, that he might hold forth his staff and put everything to right. He knew other people’s secrets.

Hill had been a pensioner at Cambridge at the same time that I was a sizar – I had waited on the wealthier students
to earn
my
passage. Now he was a merchant, like his father before him. He had left the year before me to travel Europe at his father’s expense. I assume that the object of the trip was to build his own networks of colleagues and acquaintances, for that is how it seems to work in his line of business. He was still a good friend, of sorts, though the nature of his trade meant that there were always things that he did and people that he knew that he would tell me nothing of. Were I in a similar position then perhaps our relationship would have been more balanced. As it was there was nothing hidden in the yellowed parchments of the Tower that I would withhold from Hill other than from fear of boring him to death. So sometimes I wearied of his tales, the inevitable expression of regret that he could tell me no more. I think I was a little envious, but he was fun to be with, a bowl of sauce wrapped up in a thick layer of goose fat. While others walked wearily from pillar to post, Hill bounced.

Tonight, though, he sat in a corner by himself huddled over a mug of ale, a plate of bones at his elbow, miserable. He looked up at me and grunted as I approached, blinking with red eyes, his mouth curled in a surly snarl. Not the horny dog I knew so well. I asked what ailed him but he just muttered at me. I didn’t know whether to stay or go for I had never seen him cloaked in such a foul black mood before, but he kicked a chair aside for me to sit in. Before obliging I called for another jug of ale and two pipes. Taking one of the pipes he leant back and acknowledged me with a forced grin. I thought better of asking him again what troubled him, assuming it must be some deal gone wrong. Perhaps he had lost a cargo, or had a shipment impounded at the docks, or some such disaster. He pulled at the pipe then watched the exhaled smoke drift away into the yellow fog.

‘What’s news at the Tower?’

‘I no longer work at the Tower.’ Putting down my mug and taking my time I recounted the events of the day. I told him how Prynne had gleefully informed me that my father had already been in touch with him to request that I be permitted to resign. Before I could recant the request he had berated me for being ‘effeminate, whorish and abominable’ then commended me for my noble resolution that he hoped would be my salvation. My interview with Shrewsbury had been little better. He had bid me attend him at Whitehall, then took me for a ride in his yellow coach, berating me my wasteful life. It was he that told me where my cousin’s body lay, he that told me with great pompous majesty that he had deigned to support my efforts – again at my father’s request – to the extent that he had arranged for someone from the Mayor’s office to lend the butcher. Yet he also placed a sword at my throat and made me vow to tell no man of his involvement.

Hill listened with the face of a huge bull, big black eyes locked onto mine. As I spoke his brow slowly lowered and his jaw tightened, his china pipe waggling between his teeth. A little muscle twitched, just where his jaw met his neck. ‘A vow that you have already broken at least once today, then?’

A fair point, I reflected, though spoken strangely. His tone was unusually guarded this evening. I had been half hoping that he would pull a face, flick the stem of his pipe in my direction and announce contemptuously that everyone in London knew who had killed Anne Giles. ‘It’s only you I’ve told.’

Hill shook his head slowly. ‘Shrewsbury is a good patron to have, Lytle. You are fortunate to have a friend like him. If your loose lips land him in trouble with the Lord Chief Justice, then he will cut off your balls and sew them into your cheeks.’

‘Aye,’ I nodded. My mouth felt uncomfortably dry, so I wet it. He kept staring at me with his black beady eyes. ‘What do you know of Shrewsbury?’ I asked him.

‘He’s your patron, not mine.’

‘It was my father that knew him. He used to come into the shop and smoke his tobacco during Cromwell’s reign. He gave me my post at the Tower in exchange for my father’s kindnesses, I suppose. Which was strange enough.’ I shook my head. ‘Why should he concern himself with my father’s affairs now that he is rich and famous?’

Shrugging and looking away at last, Hill blew out his cheeks so his head looked like that of a pig. ‘Shrewsbury sits on the Privy Council, Harry. He was loyal to Charles Stuart and diverted funds to his war on Scotland, and he helped Monck, indeed was a member of the Sealed Knot, those that planned the Restoration while Cromwell was still Lord Protector. Shrewsbury was one of those that went to Holland to bring Charles back.’

‘Then I don’t understand why he gives off such an air of things politick. I barely understand what he says half the time. If he’s so close to the King, I would expect him to be sitting pretty at the Palace, wouldn’t you?’ I spoke quietly, despite the covering din.

Hill shifted his chair awkwardly so that his mouth was close to my ear. ‘Aye, well you are artless of the workings of the Court. There is room for the whole of London in all the secret passages that worm their way between the Palace walls. Some of them are not so secret neither. I myself have been down the one between the King’s quarters and Lord Arlington’s rooms. The whole of London knows about the passage from the King’s bedroom to the quarters of the maids
of honour, it is a sign of the way things are down at Whitehall. Once you find a secret passage then it is no longer a secret, it loses its worth, but when a spy is found he can be replaced, and Whitehall swarms with them. I would wager that Charles sets up his games just to keep the Court busy.’

‘The King shows no gratitude to those that put him where he is?’

He turned away to drink from his mug. ‘I didn’t say that. The King is mindful of the fate that became his father. Parliament cut off his head because they said he was waging war upon his own people and soliciting support from France. Charles knows what happens when a king lifts his chin too high. Many complain that we wage war with the Dutch when Holland resists popery with such resolve, and say he is plotting with the Spanish, who are the natural harbingers of the papists. Others say that the war with Holland is a wall of smoke that causes the French and Spanish to be lax. None really know his intentions, for he confides in none, or rather confides in all, but confides particularly with each. He knows that the mood of the people may not be counted on to be steadfast, so he pleases them and their natural inclination to dance, play music and drink, whilst befuddling the Court with puffs of smoke and tastes of honey.’

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.