The Sweet Smell of Decay E-Book

Paul Lawrence

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Harry Lytle Chronicles
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 502

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

London 1664. Harry Lytle has just discovered he has a young cousin, Anne Giles. But he's had the pleasure of meeting her for the first time as a corpse. Harry sets out to track down Anne's killer, but he must follow a trail of blood, conspiracy and corruption that takes him to the dark and murky corners of Restoration London.

Leseprobe

The Sweet Smell of Decay

The Chronicles of Harry Lytle

PAUL LAWRENCE

For Ruth, Charlotte, Callum, Cameron and Ashleigh

Contents

Title PageDedicationChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorBy Paul LawrenceCopyright

Chapter One

Muscus ex cranio humano

The mosse on a dead man’s skull.

As I gazed upon her face a small black beetle emerged from the ruins of her right eye. It stood uncertainly upon the crest of her cheekbone as if suddenly reluctant to step out further. Though I looked upon the beetle as if it was something unutterably revolting, still I felt like we two had something in common. The butcher reached over, picked it up gently between his thumb and stubby forefinger then crushed it. I could hardly protest. He wiped its remains upon his shirt.

He smiled at me like we were two brothers engaged in holy conspiracy then poured fluid into the two ravaged sockets out of a small wooden cup before setting to clean out the holes with a piece of soiled linen, humming quietly as he worked. The smell was sweet and rich, like an ancient suet pudding. Great lumps of congealed sticky flesh he extracted with the cloth, which he wiped upon his trouser leg. Swallowing gently, I stood back, giddy for a moment, and breathed in some of the icy, wet air that hung about us like a damp mist. All I could think of was that when we were done here we would not be leaving all of the body behind. Some of it would be walking out with us, stuck upon the butcher’s arse. The cold in the room was a mercy. Walking about the table I positioned myself beside the butcher’s left shoulder so that I could see all, yet not too close.

Her face was white, so white that it must have been her complexion before death also. Pale orange freckles were still visible upon her nose and cheeks, though the rest of her face was now covered with a thin layer of green mould, which hid all subtleties of skin tone. What looked like moss had started to grow about the edges of the thin rope that was still tied across her mouth, biting into its corners so that she seemed to smile. It was not a happy smile, more like the smile of one that has swallowed a fly thinking it was a currant, yet would feign that it was a currant to those watching suspiciously.

Despite the awful empty eyes and her frantic grin, still I could tell that she had been beautiful – this cousin of mine. The butcher looked round at me as if checking my whereabouts, seemingly concerned with my welfare. Then he took a short-bladed knife from inside his coat and carefully cut the cord at the middle of her lips. He had to peel the rope away from the skin where it had become embedded by the bloating flesh. It came away with a sound that reminded me of walking through thick mud. Behind it her teeth were crooked, some still standing as they had before, others wrenched from their roots pointing backwards towards her throat. Tiny wriggling worms played about exposed roots.

‘He pulled it tight with all his strength,’ the butcher murmured. His face was ripe and weathered, thick-pored skin unblemished by pox. A big, friendly face. The way he spoke was strange – it sounded like Scots. Tall and broad, he had thick arms and he wore thick canvas trousers and a rough, stained linen shirt. His nails were cut very short, the ends of his fingers a dull red. Flakes of old dried blood sat in his cuticles and in the lines of his knuckles. Silver hair grew straight and strong upwards out of his head as if determined to escape the bloody grime that coated his scalp. He was a walking graveyard.

Staring into the girl’s mouth, he cautiously prised her jaws open wide with two giant forefingers. He was having to squint in the poor grey light that seeped into the vestry from inside the church, so I took a candle from the single shelf and held it that he might see better. Grunting, he stuck his knife into her mouth at which point I looked away. The room was bare save for a wooden crucifix on the wall, a cupboard, an array of wooden candlestick holders on the shelf and the table upon which lay the body of Anne Giles. What was I doing here in this cursed place?

The butcher stood up gradually and rubbed his back with his palms. Then he exhaled slowly and returned to his work. Lifting up her head with one hand, he carefully unwound the cord from her mouth, then dropped it into a cloth bag that he pulled from within his jacket.

‘We will burn it,’ he explained.

And your clothes with it, I thought to myself, but said nothing.

He took another length of cloth, moistened it, and cleaned up the rest of her face. The edges of the skin where the rope had bitten marked the edges of a jagged, deep ravine now sculpted across her face permanently, at least until the beetles came back and ate the rest of it later.

‘There she lies,’ said the butcher, wiping his hands on a new piece of cloth in a poor effort to clean them. There she lay indeed, her small, thin body shrouded in a thick cloth dress the colour of which I couldn’t tell in the small, dark room in which we three were grouped together. Her long red hair lay in waves across her shoulders and over her breasts but her face was mutilated almost beyond recognition.

‘You are sure that she be your cousin?’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I have never met my cousin, indeed never knew she was my cousin.’

‘Oh.’ The butcher looked at me strangely.

I shrugged. Though she was supposed to be my cousin, I had never met her before and so felt no kinship. It was a grim experience to behold her in her current state, but in truth she looked no worse than the severed heads that blew in the breeze over Nonsuch House. The sooner we could get out of this room the better. The air was foul and I was worried that it would seep into my lungs and infect my humour.

Though he had a kindly face and a generous disposition, the way that the butcher looked at me was vexing. Something of his manner made me feel like I was being judged in all that I said. It wasn’t a feeling I much liked. He stared at me now as if I should tell him what to do next.

‘What do you conclude from your inspections?’ I asked him.

‘That some wicked villain cut both her eyes out with a short, wide blade and then tied a cord tight round her mouth so hard that her teeth broke.’

That much was obvious. Standing above me with his hands on his hips, it seemed that he was waiting for me to ask him another question. We stood in uncomfortable silence.

‘The body has been lying there for three days,’ he said at last.

‘Three days? They left the body in here three days?’

‘Aye, news got about quickly as to the nature of her death. The congregation will not return until they understand the meaning of it.’

‘And so what has happened in three days?’

The butcher watched me like he was suspicious. ‘Little. The King had to be consulted and agents appointed.’

And then they appointed the butcher? This was too strange. And who was it that went all the way to Cocksmouth to tell my father? Odd fish, indeed.

I peered about the small, unventilated room. Thick stone walls were damp to the touch and condensation fell from the ceiling in small drops. Little wonder that the body had started to go green so quick. ‘Has no one told the relatives that she lies here?’

He looked at me as if I were a simple buffoon. ‘You are the relative.’

‘Of course.’ I kept forgetting.

Fixing me with his big brown eyes he seemed determined to extract from me some explanation as to what was going on. You are looking at the wrong man, I thought, but felt no inclination to enlighten him just yet. My brow had started to prickle and my stomach was doing those things that it does just before you vomit. I grasped for the handle of the door that led outside, but the door was locked, so I turned and fled down the aisle of the church, out into the weak winter sunshine. Taking another breath, relieved that I had managed to get this far without unloading, I headed out as far as I could get into the more remote corners of the churchyard before I had to stop and discharge. The relief, when it came, was blessed.

The ground where I squatted was soft. Birds flitted from bush to grave looking for worms. They seemed interested in the pile that I had deposited. Wild teasel grew close to the hedge. Rainwater that gathers at the base of the plant’s leaves acquires the power to remove warts from a man’s hands. I stroked its wet leaves with my fingertips. ‘Seek peace, and pursue it,’ I said to myself, in an attempt to quell all that was disassembled in my mind and body.

‘An abundance of peace, so long as the moon endureth.’ I jumped up and around and found myself staring once more into the face of the butcher. How did such a big lump manage to stay so quiet? Standing with his arms folded, a calm smile upon his lips and eyebrows raised, he eyed the vomit on the ground.

‘Feel free to examine it.’ I stood up and brushed my jacket with my hands, checking that it stayed clean.

He grunted. ‘What do you suggest we do now?’ he asked.

Go to the nearest inn and have a breakfast of cleansing ale and a piece of beef pie is what I felt like doing, but I kept the thought to myself.

‘I suggest we take a look around the church,’ he answered himself.

‘Good idea. I’ll wait here.’ The cold, clean air was good for me.

‘No, sir. This is your game. If you have no appetite for it, then I will go back to my butcher’s shop and cut up cows.’ He stuck his thumbs into a broad, black leather belt and then stuck out his big lump of a chin. Godamercy – the temperament of a small child!

So we went for a walk through the cowquake and got very wet. We revealed nothing out in the graveyard – he poked about in the leaves a lot with his toe and we wasted an hour of our lives. Then he led us back into the dark, foul church where we walked slowly down the centre aisle, me casting a lazy eye down each pew as we went, he walking down each and every one. Though I walked as slow as I could I still reached the ancient pulpit first. Its surface was scratched, worn and unpolished and the base of it was stained black. Someone had been scrubbing at it. Although I gazed at it a while I couldn’t see anything much to note and my head began to cloud over with boredom and weariness. I sighed and sat myself down in the front pew. It was very quiet. All to be heard was a slow drip coming from some dark, green corner and the sound of the butcher poking around. At last he reached the pulpit, which seemed to fascinate him. He kept rubbing his forefinger up and down the grain of the wood.

‘What have you found?’ I asked when I could stand the tedium no longer.

‘Into Hell, where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘The air in here is wicked and foul.’ On that we could agree.

He dropped his heavy frame onto the pew next to me then laid his legs out before him straight. Musing with his thumb and forefinger on either side of his nose, he at last answered the question properly. ‘I would venture that the man that did this planned it well. He killed her where you are sitting. There is a bloodstain just behind your left shoulder. New it is, you can tell by the colour and the texture of the wood.’

I looked slowly over my shoulder, with dreadful visions of blood dripping from the wood like the tears of an angel, praying silently that the red stain did not curse my jacket. I need not have worried, for all that was to be seen was a small circle that seemed a little darker than the rest. Who was to say it wasn’t a pattern of the grain? But then I wasn’t a butcher. ‘You’d know about blood,’ I muttered.

‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘I would say that she was hauled from here to the pulpit and tied to it. It was while she was bound to the pulpit that the man took her eyes out. You’ll have seen the big bloodstain on the floor where the wound dripped. No sign of it anywhere else. The rest of the church is clean.’

‘How did she die, then?’ I asked with foreboding.

‘She bled to death.’ He looked again to the pulpit. ‘Someone has been hard at work with a brush and pail.’

I felt ill again.

‘That’s the way it appears to me.’ Standing up, he turned to face me, looking down. ‘See, there are no marks on the door of the church.’

I stood up too, uncomfortable with him looming over me. You never knew what might fall off his head. ‘Why should there be?’

‘It means the murderer had a key to the door, else the door frame would have to be broken.’

‘How so?’

Waggling a finger, he explained. ‘No one leaves their doors unlocked these days, certainly not in these parts, and this killing was carefully planned. So the murderer had a key.’

‘Maybe they were just passing, in a carriage, and the man saw the door open.’

‘Call me cut if you would.’ Bending down he picked something up off the floor. A dead mouse.

I stepped away and folded my hands behind my back. ‘To take a person’s eyes out is surely madness. Why should madness not strike a man suddenly?’

‘The madness you are talking of is born of fury. The madness that happened here was cold and planned. Beside, it is too much to credit that the door was left unlocked, here near to Alsatia, off the road from Fleet Ditch. Too unlikely. The rector would never have left it so. The man had a key, which signifies that he was scheming ahead.’ He headed out back into the wintry graveyard. Out on the porch he stretched back his arm and threw the dead rodent into the bushes, then he wiped his hand on his backside. I made a mental note never to buy meat at his shop. Then he placed the same grisly hand upon my shoulder! My body went rigid.

‘Now, sir. Would you be so kind as to tell me what brings you here?’

A fair question. My father’s letter sat snug next to my chest, my ears still burnt from the shrill lecture I had received from Prynne and my courage was still recovering from the threats made to me by Shrewsbury and his henchmen. These were things I knew I would need to share with someone were I to make sense of them, but I didn’t at that time think that I wished to share them with him.

‘All I can tell ye is that Anne Giles is supposed to be my cousin, yet I only discovered it this morning. Before that I had never heard of her. Now I am asked by my father to find out who killed her.’

He looked down at me like he was my uncle, knowing that I didn’t lie; yet knowing also that there was more truth to be told. Given that my uncle had been a foolish man (that had been kicked to death by a cow) this did not endear me to him any the more.

‘And your name is really Harry Lytle?’

Also I did not want to talk about my name. I had spent most of my life listening to witty comments that compared my name to my lack of stature. ‘Aye.’

He mused, like he was weighing me up like an order of meat. Then he smiled a cheery grin and proffered the same dreaded hand. ‘David Dowling.’

I took his hand briefly. It was cold and clammy. I quickly let it drop, wondering whose blood I now carried upon me. I didn’t know what to say to him next – I think I was hoping that he would just tell me who had done it.

‘You speak well for yourself,’ for a butcher. ‘How do you come to know the Mayor?’

‘I served as constable, elected five years in a row. Not here, that wasn’t. That was when we lived out in the village. Stealing, vagrancy and drunkenness mostly. I helped out our local alderman a few times since coming to London. That’s how the Mayor knows of me.’

‘Most men would avoid such appointments.’ Men like me.

He puckered his lips like a woman, he showed no inclination to say more. ‘Aye, sir. That they would.’

‘I am supposed to find out who killed Anne Giles. A job best done swiftly, I think. Are you accomplished at such tasks?’

Dowling smiled again, though this time I thought I saw something prickly in his eye. ‘I don’t know, sir. I have never tried it.’

I grunted. So much for having the thing finished by Friday. ‘You must be able, else the Mayor would not have spoken for you.’

‘If not pleased, then put your hand in your pocket and please yourself.’

I sighed. ‘What did you do for this alderman that he thinks so highly of you?’

‘Some thievery and nonsuch. He had a friend he was fain to see left alone.’ When he stretched and yawned I saw that most of his back teeth were missing. He offered no more and I wasn’t interested enough to press him.

‘We should go talk to the rector,’ I suggested.

‘Yes, sir. Your cousin’s husband, besides. He lives in Bishopsgate. First thing tomorrow, if you don’t mind; I’ve still got work to do before the day ends.’ He turned on his heel, left the churchyard and headed back towards Fleet Street. Seemed I had offended him, which was no great shame. I couldn’t stand folks that exuded their anxieties like they felt it was your duty to share them. Serenity was my objective in life.

A gust of wind blew through the grass and played with my ankles. I looked down at my sodden boots and then around the deserted cemetery. Some stinking horehound was growing up a flint wall. Though my heart bid me follow the butcher back into the City and head for the nearest alehouse, my feet started to walk back towards the church. It was a strange sensation being carried by my body to a place I never wished to visit again, but my feet kept walking all the way back down the aisle, past the battered pulpit and through into the vestry. I pushed the door open with a fearful heart, half expecting the body to have hidden itself somewhere, else be sitting up waiting to converse. But no; it lay as it had, wretched and torn. I looked once more into its face, trying to divine some family resemblance, but seeing none. Perplexing. I fished into my pocket and brought out the letter that I had received that morn to read aloud. I decided to share its contents with the corpse.

Son,

Still here. In this lairy place. Your mother seems happy tho. Must be the pigs that they breed here cozshe likes pigs. Nothing here to gladden a man’s heart in Cocksmouth. Nothing for me to do save help her brother in the shed. Can’t make shoes here. You caring for the shop? Some hope. I note you haven’t been to visit. Your mother notes it too. You have a cuz, name of Anne. Married to a man called John Giles. Don’t think you knew your cuz Anne. Not likely to now coz she dead. Someone killed her. I took the liberty of telling William Prynne esq. that you have to leave his employ. We’ll be back when your grandmother is died. About time, I say.

Your father.

It still made no sense. It was improbable that there were two men working for Prynne that had fathers in Cocksmouth, so the author was presumably my beloved parent (male). In which case it was one of God’s most wondrous miracles since he had never written to me before in his whole life nor indeed had hardly spoken to me since I had learnt the art of speech myself. I didn’t even know he could write.

‘So who are you, Anne Giles? And how is it that I never knew you before?’ I asked the body. It made no reply. I thought I knew all my cousins intimately. Thieves and cutpurses most of ’em – on my mother’s side anyway – thou and thee-ers on my father’s side – drier than old biscuits. None of them was called Anne.

Chapter Two

Mushromes of severall sorts

Any kind of fungus is always evil and when eaten, although its effect may not be felt immediately, after some time it has a bad effect on the inner working of the bowels.

The holy house was thin and tall. It leant crooked over the street like a very old man about to fall over, held up only by the efforts of its sturdier neighbours. Evil looking heads stared down from corbels on every corner of the grim facade onto the busy street life below.

Dowling waited for me with a sour face. He muttered at me and I mumbled back. We stepped through the buzzing throng without meaningful conversation and stood upon the threshold. A note was pinned to the door that said: ‘we walk by faith, not by sight’.

‘Corinthians.’ Dowling winked at me like it was a great secret. Why was he winking at me? I knew it was Corinthians. One of those sayings that rectors and other holy folk pronounce with great solemnity, yet is empty of all practical meaning. Try walking down Cheapside with your eyes closed – faith or no faith you’ll end up betwixt the hooves of a horse with every bone of your body broken.

A servant showed us into the hall. He was more hideous than the corbels. The floor was laid with yellow and green Flemish tiles, suggesting a mercantile interest, and the walls were covered with wooden flower motifs and thick carved rings. Expensive. The servant bowed and led us up a polished staircase to a lovely old wooden door. It had its own knocker in the shape of a lamb’s head. Running my fingers over its rough bronze surface, I suddenly noticed that the servant was waiting to use it. Embarrassed, I stepped to one side and he opened it. Beyond it was dark.

‘Enter please,’ the servant leered, showing no signs of crossing the threshold himself. I obeyed, if only to escape the sensation that he sought to devour my kidneys. The door closed behind us.

Darkness was relieved only by feeble tendrils of weak winter light that wriggled through small holes in the drawn curtains, and the glow of a small fire burning in the grate. Walking slowly towards the window I was careful not to bump into anything. The curtains were made of thick red velvet, luscious and gorgeous to touch. Worn thin in places, the pattern of light betrayed their age. Squinting into the warm gloom at the paintings and tapestries that hung from the wall opposite I could see that they were old and black, years of dirt hiding all but the brightest shades. Stern faces peered down at me with disapproving yellow eyes. Contorted figures stared at the ceiling – mostly representations of Christ. The air was thick with heavy scent, musty and clinging. The other walls were covered with books, leather-bound and thick. Not many people could afford to buy books, but the rector had hundreds. Slowly my eyes got used to the absence of light. So it was that I finally noticed a figure behind a great desk at the far end of the room sat in the shadows by himself.

‘Good morning,’ the man greeted us softly in a rich plummy voice. After standing up slowly, he adopted an elegant pose. ‘I was engaged in serious contemplation.’

Dark, curly hair sat above black, bushy eyebrows like a mop. Stubble covered his lip and ran down his olive cheeks. He looked quite young, surprisingly, not much older than me. He wore a stiff black coat despite the warmth of the room and a collar that forced him to hold up his chin. The desk was made of thick carved oak and was covered with reams of paper, scattered goose-quills and stacks of books, carefully placed I reckoned.

Sighing as if he was in great pain, he put the back of one hand against his forehead. ‘How gratifying that you should take such an interest in the desecration of my church. The people of this parish talk of little else. I fear that they will not cease their prating until the whole wicked affair is resolved. Until that time, law or no law, they will not venture past its doors. They will stay at home or else go to other parishes to do their worshipping.’

Stifling a yawn I neglected to tell him that I held no interest whatsoever in his predicament. ‘Aye, it was my cousin that was killed.’

He looked at me sharply with one beady, calculating black eye, then, lowering the hand, he proceeded to walk over to a shelf where he pulled down one of his books, the spine of which he stared at blankly. ‘There are dozens in London, some in this parish I know, waiting for a church appointment. They would see me in the gutter and not give a damn. They would call it providence, the will of God.’

If that was truly the case then I should feel much better disposed towards God, for I didn’t like this fellow much, walking his study like it was a theatre stage.

‘Aye, the will of God,’ Dowling repeated solemnly. I looked at him in surprise. His face was blank and wore no expression that I could read.

‘Providence.’ The rector turned, suddenly animated. ‘There exist three possible reasons why the foul deed took place at Bride’s. You should know this; it may help you in your investigation. The three reasons are providence, popery and maleficium. We will deal with each in turn. Providence we shall dismiss first.’

This man reminded me of the odious intellectuals I escaped from at Cambridge. Never consider the obvious, for it means you can’t quote the Holy Book.

‘Why does it have to be any of the three? Why not chance?’

The rector looked at me as if I was a fool. It was a feeling I was used to in my life so it had no influence on me. ‘There is no such thing as chance, sir. The woman was not bound to the pulpit of my church and struck down by satanic agents by chance. She was killed for a reason, and she was killed at Bride’s.’

I resisted the urge to growl. ‘Whoever killed her had to kill her somewhere. Bride’s is as good a place as any.’

Laughing like Betty Howlett, he made a noise that was loud and shrill. I exchanged glances with Dowling – it was not a sound you expected to come from the rector’s big lips. ‘Sir.’ He spread his palms and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘A church is not as good a place as any to commit a murder. Were a man to kill in so abominable a fashion with no clear intention as to where he would do the deed, then providence or maleficium should intervene, else he would do it somewhere more appropriate. He would commit the foul deed in a place quiet and desolate, where the deed was unlikely to be discovered. Would you not say so?’ To my annoyance he turned to Dowling.

‘Aye.’ Dowling nodded slowly, lower lip protruding in serious contemplation. I considered poking him in the ribs. Why was he encouraging this bumble-turd?

‘So. Then we must consider why the deed was done at Bride’s. As I said, there are three possible causes. First, providence. Providence is God’s will.’ He nodded at me as if I did not know the meaning of the word ‘providence’. ‘You will accept that I do not favour the theory of providence, for it implies that God has no regard for the good fortune of one of his own.’

‘You, you mean?’ If I was God, then this was precisely the kind of fellow I would like to strike down with a thunderbolt or two.

‘Yes, sir. I mean me. If it was God’s will, then it was God’s will that it happen at one of his own houses, in this case the house that I look after on his behalf. Were it providence, then it is difficult to consider why he should want to desecrate one of his own houses were it not to comment upon the keeper of that house.’

‘Or the people in it?’ I looked sideways to see what Dowling was thinking. His face was bright and innocent and he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

‘Yes sir, or the people in it. And it is indeed true that we have some of the worst vagabonds and ne’er-do-wells of London in this parish. There are those who come to my church every prayer time, always late, and proceed to chat and gossip with their neighbours, or even fall asleep. I have had to have serious words with some young men of this parish, who I know for certain come here to meet young ladies and proposition them. Those are the ones that come. The ones that don’t come go bowling or drinking. We have most of the City’s whores living in Fleet Alley and most of its criminals in Alsatia. This is clear, but it does not make the theory of providence any easier. For if the death of the woman is providence, then it suggests that the parish is beyond redemption and the efforts of its minister hopeless.’ The rector leant forwards with his hands upon the desk.

Indeed I imagined that his efforts probably were hopeless. About as hopeless as a dog with no balls.

‘This is, however, a credible theory, and one which the people of this parish will be considering even now. England is God’s chosen land and yet the efforts of its children are lewd, wicked even, in honouring God for that privilege. My flock are amongst the lewdest, and look forward to the day when they may return to the wine and the dancing and the bawdy houses. They seek the easy route to salvation, and would have me provide it for them.’

‘So we may dismiss the theory that Anne Giles was killed at Bride’s because it was God’s will,’ Dowling summarised before I could argue with the man’s conceited logic. The summary was for my benefit, I realised, that I waste no further time upon an argument that we both knew to be ludicrous in any case.

‘Granted,’ the rector nodded, as if the logic was ours. ‘So now we will dismiss popery, the work of the Catholics.’ He placed his forefingers at the top of his nose. ‘This is not so clear, for I have heard of such things before. In this case, though, I cannot see any reason why Catholics should have chosen my church.’ The rector looked to Dowling again, eyebrows arched and palms spread wide. Clearly he did not want to debate it with me, which was just as well, for I had little tolerance for those that blamed the Catholics for everything that went wrong in their lives.

‘I don’t see why Catholics should select your church, good sir, unless you have particular argument with them. Even if you did, then I would not credit even the Catholics with the devilry that took Anne Giles.’

Well spoken, butcher – I commended him silently.

‘The Catholic Church is led by the Antichrist, and I am not so certain that the nature of the deed excludes popery, but as you say – why choose Bride’s? Which leaves maleficium. Maleficium, as you know, is that power to do harm by use of supernatural powers.’ He was looking at me again.

Enough of this nonsense. ‘How many keys are there to Bride’s?’ I demanded. The rector didn’t answer, just looked at me with his mouth slightly open.

‘Good sir, the man that killed Anne Giles entered your church with a key – betimes you left the door unlocked,’ Dowling explained gently.

The rector shook his head vigorously. ‘Impossible.’

‘Unless you left the door open, how else may we explain the fact that there is no damage to the door?’

‘Well, I don’t know, I hadn’t thought about it. As you say, it is very strange. This is an interesting piece of information that would further support a theory of maleficium. That someone managed to enter the church even though the door was locked points to witchery and sorcery.’

Godamercy – the man was ingenious. ‘How many keys are there?’ I asked again, unable to suppress from my tone the impatience that gnawed at my guts. Looking down, the rector slowly pulled open a drawer of the heavy chiselled desk. He poked about it with a long elegant forefinger before slowly closing it. ‘There are two keys,’ he said at last, ‘and one is missing from my desk. I don’t know who took it.’ He didn’t even have the grace to look sheepish.

‘The man who took that key was likely the man that killed Anne Giles, else gave it to the man that killed Anne Giles,’ Dowling rightly identified the need to spell out the obvious.

‘Yes, sir. That is a credible theory, but do not rule out maleficium. It should be easy for a witch to take the key and spirit it away without even having to enter the house. Or perhaps persuade one of my servants to take it against their will and outside their waking memory.’ The rector looked into space, apparently deep in thought.

‘It seems to me, sir, that the theory of maleficium is most attractive to you only because it permits you to be done with the notion that it was providence,’ Dowling remarked. I regarded the butcher with a new admiration. Now we were getting closer to the point.

‘Not so,’ the rector blinked. ‘You forget that the murder was bloody and very wicked. The woman was not by any account a wicked person, yet the deed itself was wicked. The curse of the Lord is in the house of the wicked, not the house of the Lord himself. And all of this reminds me of something that happened not so long ago.’

‘What was that, good sir?’

‘There is an old woman that until lately came to prayer without fail. She didn’t sing the psalms, nor even did she appear to pray. Always she would sit at the back and watch, never said anything, never spoke. In the two years I have been here I have not heard her proclaim any word. Then recently she applied for the pensions list. Well, she was widowed many years ago and nothing had changed of her circumstances. She continued to earn money from the selling of meats, I certainly saw her doing so on several occasions. It seemed to me that she merely desired to stop working, and sought a pension to support her idleness. On that basis I turned her down.’ He looked away with pink cheeks.

‘And what was her response, sir?’

‘She made no response. She stopped coming to church,’ he answered severely. ‘I’ve seen her since, selling meat on the street. Why, then, did she stop coming to church? Only on the basis that she was refused a pension? After so many years? That indicates to me that although she said nothing upon being refused her pension, still she was maddened. Perhaps she cursed me. Maybe she has been cursed herself and can no longer stand to be in God’s house.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t like your sermons,’ said I before I could stop myself.

‘Exactly!’ exclaimed the rector, thankfully missing the point. ‘It is well known that she has a teat on her upper body from which she may give sustenance to whatever wicked spirits there are that may dwell in these parts, which God knows are likely very many. Never was she able to recite the Lord’s Prayer nor the Creed, not word for word.’

Witch-hunting was an old sport. An accusation would be followed by torture until a confession was obtained. Then the rector would be free to stage a public exorcism, a cleansing of his church and parish with him as blessed cleanser, and the poor wretch hung by the neck, burnt alive or drowned. I looked to Dowling for help. He sat expressionless and impassive.

‘Sir, I know you by your noble reputation,’ Dowling said cautiously. ‘I know you as a learned man and a wise man. I am much surprised to hear you talk of witchery. It is my understanding that the learned give little to notions of witchery and maleficium. These are the superstitions of the poor and uneducated, and the Presbyterian Scots.’

‘I think you are telling me your own views, sir,’ replied the rector firmly, ‘but they are not the views of the secular courts, one of whose tasks it is to ensure the prosecution of black magic and maleficium. God himself spake through Moses; “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.” Until two years ago this church was ministered by an Independent, I know not what he preached to these people, for none will relate it to me, so I must presume that it was heresy. Where there is the stink of heresy one cannot rule out that witchery has grown from the seed so planted. Give up witches, give up the Bible.’

‘I am a humble man,’ I said untruthfully, ‘but in my turn I also divine that you disfavour providence because of its consequences. How can you be sure that the slayer did not take the key from your desk?’

‘I cannot. That is my sadness, sir. Now that you bring it to my attention the theory of providence becomes strong again. I simply cast my net wide so that I might catch the right fish.’ The fisher of men ran his talons through the tight black curls upon his head.

‘The Devil needs no witches to do his deeds. He is able to do his own deeds.’ Dowling looked cross.

The rector nodded thoughtfully. ‘You may not dismiss maleficium so easily. The Devil uses witches because he uses witches. The issue of need is not at issue here. If you are investigating this murder, then you must consider witchery. Indeed, even if the key were stolen, it is just as likely to be maleficium as providence. You must agree!’

‘Very well,’ Dowling replied, before I could debate the point further, ‘but what of the key?’

The rector looked at us both with a slightly guilty expression. ‘You should know that I lost a servant three days ago, a poor, mean, dishonest young man who I would be rid of anyway. He departed without a word. Strange that he should leave about the same time the key is taken from my desk.’

God save my pickled soul! This was too much to bear! ‘It isn’t strange at all,’ I said slowly through gritted teeth. ‘Perhaps now we can dispense with all this talk of popery and witches. What’s his name and where does he live?’

The rector observed me thoughtfully before picking up his quill and writing. ‘His name is Simpson and he lives in a tenement near to St Martin’s. If any one of my servants took that key – it was he.’ He wrote some more. ‘And here is the name and abode of the woman that I suspect of witchery. If you do not pursue her then I will find others that will.’

‘Sir,’ I spoke carefully, ‘we visited your church yesterday, and examined it indoors and outdoors. We saw no evidence of witchery, no markings, no herbs or smells or concoctions. You should pay heed afore you accuse an old woman of witchery. Should you send one of your parish to the secular court only because you did not aid them when they demanded it, and they in turn went wanting, then we should take a personal interest and make full use of the Mayor’s influences. In this age, as you said yourself, there are many folks not to be intimidated by the word of the Church.’

The rector’s big eyes glistened. ‘Yea,’ he muttered, ‘but then you know little of witchery. Perhaps I should not raise the issue with you at all, but seek an audience with the Lord Chief Justice.’

Dowling coughed. ‘There is no need for that, good sir. We will find the woman. You in turn, sir, I think should be less hasty. You may be a great man. Certainly it would be a pity to be a small man with such a great head.’ Dowling gestured to all of the books. Indeed it was true – he did have an extremely large head.

The rector’s cheeks turned bright red and he clasped his fingers together just below his nose. ‘I read you and take you, Mr Dowling. Maybe I was not so much in need of your wise words as you would think. Meantime I hope you will indeed proceed hastily, for the sake of my parish, and I will do what I need to do, and I will thank you not to tell me how to go about my job.’

‘Aye sir, thank you, sir. We should take our leave now,’ Dowling exclaimed abruptly before seizing me by the arm and pulling me roughly. Though I was much offended I let myself be led. The rector waved a hand, dismissively. We hurried out the house and back onto Fleet Street.

‘You would remove one of my arms?’ I demanded, straightening my coat sleeve and checking that he had neither stretched the cloth nor left a print on it.

‘I know that man by reputation. Clergy can be dangerous, and the time was right to leave.’ He patted me on the shoulder like a puppy and looked up at the sky. ‘We must find this witch!’ he called, striding out ahead.

If you have the sense that you were born with, then you will have understood by now that neither Dowling nor I believed for a moment that a witch killed Anne Giles. I am intelligent and educated and the butcher can read and write. But it says in Exodus, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’. So if there are no such things as witches, then why does the Bible say so? The answer of course is that the Bible is both extremely long and very badly written; such that you can find in its pages whatever message you seek. This is not an argument worth pursuing in public, however, unless you are inclined to lose your liberty, selected pieces of your body or even your life. So we went to find the woman, whose name was Mary Bedford, on Fleet Street, to save her the role of rector’s scapegoat. This was a gallant deed that made me feel unusually worthy.

We walked the streets towards the west, for the City had choked up already, such that walking was the quickest mode of transport available. Dowling strode down the middle of the road by himself, oblivious to the evil broth that splashed about his legs, body and ears, while I trod the higher ground with those that knew the difference between man and dog. So it was that he crossed the bridge at Fleet Ditch before me, the filthy stream that served the slums of Alsatia and Bridewell.

Tiny, dark, airless alleys branched off Fleet Street like dead twigs, every one of them a choking rotten tributary of streaming slops that crept slowly down to the river. Most of the ramshackle buildings were built of wooden planks nailed to posts, covered with pitch and roofed with rough tiles. The only warmth in those hovels was generated from the bodies of those that lived there, nested together many to a room, like rats in a nest. The stink was the foulest stink in the whole of England, a poisonous cloud fed by the soap makers, dye houses, slaughterhouses and tanneries. The curing pits of the tanneries nestled alongside the outside of the city walls and were full of dog shit, a key ingredient in the tanning process.

The house that Mary Bedford lived in was tiny and unsteady, tucked in at the top of one of the foul alleyways just behind the much grander half-timbered houses of Fleet Street. It was closed up and the door was shut.

Dowling looked at me and shrugged, his mind back at his shop I reckoned, but given the rector’s ramblings about witchery we were committed to make greater efforts to find her, fearful of what might become of her were others to discover her whereabouts first.

The first house we tried was a large family house on Fleet Street. We didn’t hold out much hope of getting sense from the master of the house, for what man of standing would admit to noticing a poor wretch of a woman that sold meats on the street? But we hoped to find out something from the servants. The one that opened the door stared at us uncomprehending and unspeaking, even after we had explained our objective three times, ever slower and clearer. Finally he shook his head in bewilderment and wandered off into the house to find someone else. An imbecile. London was full of them – they came in from the villages, like Dowling. A short time later he returned, accompanied by a middle-aged woman wearing a coarse brown dress and white apron, with a white hood tied around her head. Her face was ruddy and rough, her expression impatient and puzzled. Another imbecile. She listened to Dowling’s questions, mouth agape and hands on her hips. Then she closed the doors in our faces. Washing day, as Dowling pointed out brightly.

We moved on to the next house and another street full after that.

‘Good morning to you.’ A grizzled face looked out through a ground floor window, a man maybe forty years old with a thick welt on his nose and one eye missing. Dowling recited his introduction for perhaps the twentieth time while I stood with my hands in my pockets. It was past lunchtime and my stomach wailed pitifully. The man leant on the sill with his arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek, apparently in the mood for a conversation.

‘Aye, I know Mary Bedford, Old Mary. Known her since she was a child.’

‘Have you seen her today?’ I demanded, astounded.

‘Not today. But she’ll be around.’

‘Around where?’

‘Somewhere.’

‘You know why she doesn’t go to church any more?’ Dowling probed.

The man nodded. ‘Same reason I don’t go no more. She asked to be put on the pensions list after she couldn’t stand her giddiness no more, but the new man told her she was lazy. She was ashamed. I had to tell her not to pay no heed, but she’s afeared to go back. Meantime she has to sell meats or else starve. If she’s not been home, then likely she’s lying on her face in a gutter somewhere. She’s too ill to be out working.’

‘Where does she sell?’

‘She won’t be far away, doesn’t like to wander. Shy of strangers too.’ His eyes were suspicious. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘We want to make sure she’s safe,’ I replied. The man shook his head and emitted a sorrowful cackle before closing the window. Dowling tutted sorrowfully, sighed and walked off.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked the back of his head.

He turned to regard me solemnly. ‘The notion that a man wearing your fine clothes is likely to have an interest in the fate of one such as Mary Bedford is not to be believed.’ One of his big dirty hands landed on one of my finely clothed shoulders. He was right, of course. I tried not to look too disappointed, hopeful that he would relieve me of his filthy great paw.

The next house to yield an answer was dark and unlit. All the windows were closed and there was a smell like liniment, sharp and acidic, with perhaps a hint of alcohol and fruit. The man that lived there was no less unattractive than the one we had just left, though he did have two eyes. His pupils were locked up tight like pinholes and the whites were covered with scabrous yellow patches. His nose was red and his eyes flowed. He twisted a piece of cloth between his fingers, which was clearly what he used to clean his nose. Poisonous green gases seeped from twixt his lips. He also knew ‘Old Mary’, but less intimately.

‘There’s some say she’s a witch,’ he told us through weeping eyes, in between sneezes. ‘She suckles the Devil, so it is said.’

‘Who says so?’ Dowling asked gently.

‘Folks,’ was the only reply we got, and nothing else of any use.

By seven o’clock that night we were practically in Whitefriars. Some people spoke to us but we learnt nothing new. Confirmation of her poor circumstances, more loose speculation as to whether or not she might be a witch. This was nothing very interesting, since all old women living by themselves elicited images of witchery in many folk’s minds. As darkness fell we made our final house call. A woman pushed open the top half of a door and stood there simpering. Her face, body and limbs were shrunken and wrinkled like an old, dry apricot. She smiled sweetly and broadly and her eyes shone bright. We’d spoken to a few like this, this endless afternoon.

‘Ye-es?’ The old lady smiled so broadly that her eyes threatened to pop right out. It was a frightening sight. A tiny spittle of saliva trickled down her chin that she did not seem to notice. Dowling started to describe Mary Bedford using information that we had gleaned from others that day.

‘Ye-es. Mary.’ Smiling and staring into Dowling’s eyes she nodded slowly. He didn’t seem to mind. Probably used to it, being a Scot.

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Mary is my frie-nd.’ She continued to smile and waved her head from side to side like a snake, paying us scant attention. She seemed more interested in the darkening sky above our heads. Then she suddenly announced, ‘She is a witch!’ She said it quietly, melodically, as if she was talking about the weather, as if she did not understand the import of her words, which I suppose she didn’t. At that Dowling relaxed, as if he had seen it coming all along. When I quizzed him afterwards he told me that in his unfortunate experience living in the country, witches were always accused in pairs, never alone. Whilst I had never heard it said before, it explained Dowling’s persistence that afternoon, and his excitement in finding this woman, for she was, he told me, ‘the sort’.

What followed then was deeply disturbing. She told us tales of the two of them suckling children with their old dry breasts. How they would change their forms at night and visit children that mocked them during the day in the form of great toads. They had the power to cause children to die if they were too wicked in their ways, she claimed. We shouldn’t worry too much about Mary Bedford, she assured us, since being denied her pension she had subjected herself to spells that enabled her to walk freely again. She talked of how they were able to play with men’s senses, remove and bestow at will hearing, sight and the use of limbs. And the more that she spoke, the more miserable I became. Not because of the words themselves, for I had no doubt that the woman was speaking nonsense. No, this was not my source of dread. What disturbed me was that I had heard these tales before, that they were in fact very well known. Two years before, two old women, Rose Cullender and Amy Denny, had been tried by the Lord Chief Justice himself, and were found guilty of witchery. The tales that this old woman was relating to us were clearly lifted from the account of their trial, which was printed and widely distributed and read. This old woman was clearly bucket-headed and weak minded, but her state of mind would be held as proof, not as grounds for dismissal. And so long as she was disposed to stand at her door and talk such nonsense to strangers such as us, both her life and the life of Mary Bedford were in very great danger should the rector take steps to pursue his theory. The Lord Chief Justice Keeling himself had tried the Lowestoft witches in his previous role as Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.

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.