The Sweet Smell of Decay

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘Aye. Staring up Drury Lane. Anyway, then the crowds started coming out. Everyone dived in, the pedlars and hawkers. There was some pushing and likewise as folks fought for sedans and coaches. Soon enough they was all gone, but she was still there, still looking down Drury Lane. Then this man came out the theatre, a big man. He had about him a thick black cloak down to the ground. I couldn’t see his face – it was hidden beneath the brim of his hat and he had some sort of scarf over his chin. He came up to her from behind, made her jump. She recovered, though, and put a hand on his sleeve like she knew him. He pulled down the scarf so he could talk to her, but I still couldn’t see his face – the light was poor. They talked for a bit, and she seemed to get anxious, worried. He was holding her arm and she didn’t seem to like it. So then they moved off, towards Drury Lane. She walked with her head bowed, fussing with the knot of her headscarf. They turned right at Drury Lane towards the City and I followed them to Bridget’s. They went inside.’

  ‘Did you follow?’

  ‘In time. I stayed where I was for a while. When they didn’t come out I thought I’d go and have a look, make sure she was alright. The door was open so I went in. Inside it was dark and cold. I crouched at the back. I could just see them sitting down at the front. They was talking it looked like, though all I could hear was her weeping. He was doing most of the talking, judging by the way his head went up and down. Then I sneezed, didn’t I?’

  ‘He heard you?’

  ‘I didn’t wait to see. I dropped down on my hands and knees and lay down on the floor. I was frightened, God’s truth. I lay there for ages. I thought about going out, but there was distance between the pew where I was lying and the door and I thought he might be there waiting. I made myself look up eventually, but it had got even darker then and I couldn’t see nothing. I could still hear the woman sobbing, but that was all. Couldn’t see the back of the church neither, only a black hole behind the font. I thought about staying there all night, but it was too cold. I stood up straight and made a dash for the door. Ran right into him, didn’t I? Should have heard me shout!’ He paused with his hand on his heart and his mouth wide open as if he were reliving the moment.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Well, all I could see was the shape of him and that hat. I thought he’d make a grab for me, but he didn’t. He just stood back and opened the door, held it open for me. Couldn’t believe my luck – din’t stop running ’til London Bridge!’

  ‘Folks say you had blood dripping from your hands.’

  Crossing his arms Joyce sat back again. ‘Folks say all sorts of things. That’s all I can tell you. Believe it or not. I don’t hold out much hope for myself, so you can stop looking at me like I’m an idiot fool from Bedlam.’

  It was a fanciful story, yet much to my dismay I recognised it as truth. Dowling too, judging by the look on his face. Joyce looked up at us both sadly. I regretted my harsh words, my selfish joy upon first hearing he was captured. I mumbled a useless farewell and wandered out. Dowling offered him some biblical platitude and was quickly at my side. We looked at each other – nothing to say.

  On the way out we stopped to talk with the gaolers. The one that Dowling had punched sat sullen, staring out from beneath his single black eyebrow with beady little eyes. Dowling attempted to repair the damage by handing over the vast sum of ten shillings in exchange for fire, food, water and a new set of clothes. My ten shillings. Yet we didn’t hold out much hope that he wouldn’t be back down in the stone hold soon as we’d gone.

  Once we were ten paces down the road I took off my coat and held it cautiously to my nose. It stank.

  ‘It is little different to the alehouses you usually frequent.’ Dowling watched me in grim amusement. ‘Small damp rooms full of sinners, bathing in the foul odours of all that is sinful.’

  I glared at him with teeth clamped hard upon my green tongue. Righteousness dripped from the corners of his curt smile. I kept my mouth shut and concentrated on forgiving him.

  Heading back towards Cheapside in a foul temper, this affair was beginning to worm beneath my skin. If Joyce didn’t do it – and my heart said he didn’t – then who did? Looked like I’d have to go to Epsom after all. Then Cocksmouth. Dowling could stay behind and play with his chops.

  Chapter Five

  Dioscoridis his Milk-tare

  The short pod of this plant contains the seed which is similar to the shape of a heart that is drawn in love letters!

  No one had invited me to Anne Giles’s funeral, of course, but since she was my cousin I supposed that none would overly object to my appearance, and if she wasn’t my cousin, an assertion which still didn’t feel snug with me, then I could pretend to be simple in the head. I had met plenty of folks whose behaviours I could mimic to that effect these last couple of days.

  It was a long and unpleasant journey and cost two pounds for the privilege. The coach lurched and rocked over frozen ruts and I felt very ill – in need of some Epsom waters! Some men would drive all the way from London to Epsom Common, drink a pot or two from the well and then run off into the bushes to pass a stool. I reckon you can achieve the same effect by drinking two mugs of ale from any tavern on the Southbank. Much quicker, twice as reliable and save you the hell of the journey.

  When at last we got to Epsom we stopped at the King’s Head, a large inn sat in the middle of the high street. Little though I craved being welcomed to the Ormonde bosom, still I felt obliged to have a wash and sprinkle on some more of that lavender oil before showing my face. It was also an opportunity to ask a few questions of the locals about my newly unearthed relatives.

  A large man with a big belly stepped across my path to the inn. He was bald, though a few last remnants of black hair grew wild about his ears. The apron upon which he wrung his hands was dirty and stained, reeking of old beer, wine and sweat. Standing squarely in front of me, he told me that the inn was full, for which I congratulated his good fortune. He wrinkled his nose at me in puzzlement, so I explained to him my purpose.

  Looking me up and down he informed me that it was mostly gentry going – ‘you knows’.

  Straightening my wig I looked down at my clothes. Clean enough, I considered, crumpled maybe. I was wearing dull, black mourning cloth, though my shoes were russet. I didn’t own any black shoes then, and certainly couldn’t afford to buy any just for this one funeral. A decent pair of shoes cost thirty shillings. I asked him (again) with great politeness for access to a pump. Also for the loan of a fresh horse to get me to and from the Ormonde house.

  ‘Aye, though I will have the money first. Touch pot, touch penny. Come in.’ Beneath his apron he wore only a short-sleeved shirt, despite the perishing cold.

  At one end of the large front room was a big roaring fire. Wooden pillars propped up a low ceiling. The floor was made of flagstones, worn and chipped. A long table filled the centre of the room, one end up against the fire where two men sat in silence. A tidy middle-aged woman stood dutiful and smiling next to a barrel of ale. I followed him to the kitchen where he waved a lazy hand at a half-full pail of cloudy water. Things hung suspended in it and its surface glistened with an oily sheen. He waited expectantly.

  ‘Do you know Mr Ormonde?’ I asked, eyeing the water.

  ‘Aye, I know him. Lives on the road to Ashstead. Every man know him.’

  I took off my hat and coat. ‘What is he like?’

  Looking at me suspiciously, he wrinkled his nose again. ‘You going to his house for the funeral and you don’t know him?’

  The water was freezing cold. ‘He is my cousin – my cousin’s father, better said – but I’ve not met him.’

  ‘Not met him?’

  ‘No. What’s he like?’

  ‘He’s tall, thin,’ he stared at my coat, ‘old.’

  I turned, wiping my hands on my thighs. ‘Do you see him often?’

  ‘No. He don’t come in here, squire. This is an inn.’

  ‘Ha
ve you seen him walking about the town?’

  ‘He don’t walk about the town, does he? Want ’owt to eat or drink?’

  I looked again at the pail of water. ‘Just a horse.’

  The innkeeper looked at me as if I was mad. ‘We don’t serve horse.’

  He was not joking. What sort of cretins and morons lived out here in the country? Simpletons and whoballs, obviously. I learnt nothing of interest and left, bemused.

  Ormonde’s residence was out of town on top of a small hill in its own grounds, walled off from the general population. Today the tall, black, wrought iron gates stood wide open, inviting entry to the wide sweeping driveway, hidden from the fields by a row of poplars on either side. The house was painted white, three storeys high. My borrowed horse trotted up the driveway past seven coaches that stood there waiting. At the door a servant came running up to take the horse from me and to find out who I was and what I wanted. When I told him I was a cousin he hurried off into the house to consult. While I waited I watched the other guests arrive. They were all finely dressed. The men wore long black mourning gowns, black silk sashes across their tunics, black buckles on their shoes and black hats with thin black silk weepers falling down the back. I was the only one there with coloured shoes and the only one wearing a periwig. Though it was black.

  After a time a very tall, thin old man emerged, walking stiffly down the low stone steps towards me using a thick cane to support himself on his right side. His face was long and worn, his eyes grey and watery. He regarded me sternly, mouth twitching with impatient irritation. From his lips came a low grumbling noise, though whether it was for my benefit or whether it was a noise he made all the time, I could not yet determine.

  Towering over me with both hands on the top of his cane, legs akimbo with a terribly severe expression on his face, he looked like he was trying to pass an Epsom stool. ‘You say you are a cousin?’ he said in a low, thick slur. ‘I think not.’

  I smiled brightly. ‘You may be right, sir. It was my father said that we were related, and the Lord Shrewsbury. I have no evidence of mine own to support it.’

  At the mention of Shrewsbury’s name his eyes widened and he began to breathe noisily through his nose. The mumbling stopped. His eyes fell and he began a long slow shuffle as he manoeuvred himself to face back towards the house. He hobbled back up the steps. I followed, not knowing whether I was to be admitted or not. A servant came up to me and stared at my brown shoes. After some consideration he offered me gloves and a hatband. I took them, though I didn’t have a hat.

  Inside it was quickly evident that the men were downstairs and the women were upstairs. The servant led me to the drawing room, from which all the furniture had been taken, except a line of red leather upholstered chairs standing around the edge. A big window, standing the full height of the room, allowed the winter light to bring a glow to the polished floor. A coffin stood in the middle of the room on a dark oak table. I went over to pay my respects, wondering if the casket was open, as was the custom – just in case the deceased should change its mind. I guessed not and indeed the box was nailed down. Nice box, though, unblemished elm, sanded, smoothed and lovingly polished. A dozen men sat around the border of the room, all wearing black broadcloth, all wearing the same design new gold ring with black enamelling, and all staring at me. I was the only one bereft of such a ring. Putting my gloves on quickly I walked over to the panelled fireplace. I pretended to admire the tapestries that hung on either side of it and accepted a cup of wine, although I didn’t really want it. None spoke. Prynne would have had a ball.

  At last a bell rang. The men stood up as one and headed for the hallway and the women descended from upstairs in small groups of two or three. They all flocked like black sheep too, all dressed in the same black woollen gowns. I reckon a lot of people must die in Epsom, for everyone seems to know exactly what to do and wear. London is not so formal. As I walked out the door, a servant handed me a sprig of rosemary to throw into the grave.

  Four special coaches stood waiting outside, all of them decked out in the family crest. For the chief mourners and family, I presumed. William Ormonde climbed into the front coach together with a very unhealthy-looking young man and two women, both veiled. One of the women had a very shapely behind beneath quite a tight black dress. The coaches pulled off towards the town with the rest of us following on foot.

  Outside the very small church the mourners filed in slowly. It was a tiny church and at the last moment I decided that I had no stomach for sitting so intimately with such an ugly and bitter congregation, so I made up my mind to wait outside – the gathering afterwards would be bad enough. I needed to gather my wits, so I sat on a wall and enjoyed the fresh, cold air and the hoarse cawing of crows from the treetops of Minnes’ wood. When my behind got sore I went for a walk in the cemetery in search of the grave, a freshly dug hole. It was easy to find, in a small clearing beneath a giant oak tree surrounded by sanicle and periwinkle. Sanicle keeps away the surgeon, according to the French, whilst periwinkle stops nosebleeds when chewed. Neither of much practical use now for Anne Giles. The gravestone was small and arched, finely polished and chiselled.

  Anne Ormonde

  Born January 18th 1644

  Died January 18th 1664

  Thee didst hide thy face, and I was troubled.

  Now shalt thou lift thy face unto God.

  Composed by William Ormonde, no doubt; I was pretty sure it wasn’t from the Bible. Interesting that the husband’s name was ignored. Was the unhealthy-looking man with Ormonde her husband? Anne Giles died on the same day that she was born, her twentieth birthday.

  Half an hour later the chief mourners emerged, and led a small procession up the shallow hill. I positioned myself that I might watch the woman with the shapely behind from the rear. The mourners took their positions around the grave and the local priest began to read from the Book of Common Prayer.

  ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery,’ the priest read. This really is the gloomiest nonsense and I cannot abide it. What is the purpose in complaining how short a time we have to live on the one hand, then moaning that even though it is short it is also miserable? If it be so miserable then best that it is short – for those that are miserable. I am not myself miserable but will enjoy what life I do have and thank my blessings for it. Not waste my time decrying how short it is, for if I did that – then I would be truly miserable. Nonetheless some people were moved enough to cry, others even wailed, apparently in great distress. As the gratified minister read on, the coffin was lowered into the ground. Ormonde stood straight and still with his head slightly lowered. The woman whose behind made me want to whimper wept quietly. The unhealthy man that I now decided looked like a stoat, stood by himself, eyes fixed upon the coffin.

  The priest paused to give the mourners time to take a hand of earth. Most did, and made their own farewells quietly while the priest proceeded through the rest of the service. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the stoat take advantage of the movement of people to step swiftly away. Once he was apart then he broke into a trot and ran quickly into the woods. I caught his eye for a second before he vanished. Though I felt some sympathy with his desire to be elsewhere, still it was an odd way to behave.

  ‘The love of God be with us all for evermore. Amen.’

  Amen indeed.

  ‘Mr Lytle!’

  Turning, startled, I found myself face to face with the woman with the behind. My heart skipped merrily and tripped through the fields singing songs of love. She lifted her veil and brushed back a hair from her forehead. Her nose was small and upturned at its tip; the end of it faintly freckled. Her mouth was wide and curved with full lips. Her hair was long and brown with a red sheen. Her eyes were green and looked straight into my soul. It was the face of the dead woman. My yard collapsed like a softly boiled mushroom.

  ‘My father told me about you and how you would help us.’ She spoke so softly that I found myself
leaning forwards, stretching my neck like a chicken. I straightened quickly.

  When did I offer help to her father? ‘You are Anne Giles’s sister?’

  She bowed her head. ‘Mary.’

  Though I expressed my sympathies, clumsily probably, for etiquette is not a particular strength of mine, I saw in her face that whatever she sought, it wasn’t kind words.

  ‘Mr Lytle, I pray that you will enjoy of our hospitality?’

  Bowing awkwardly I contemplated with anxiety the prospect of going back inside that house with this group of wailing ranters. It was easier to do with an invitation, though, and I don’t suppose any would stop me leaving if I felt so disposed. I accepted her invitation.

  ‘Then I will see you at the house.’ She smiled at me with lovely white teeth then hurried away to her coach. Ormonde sat in it waiting, peering out through the little window like a malevolent rabbit.

  At the house she squeezed my hand as I entered in the line and gave me a look with those green eyes that I found difficult to interpret – under the circumstances. If we hadn’t been exchanging pleasantries at her sister’s funeral then I would have been encouraged to tickle her chin. Her father nodded at me suspiciously and made the mumbling noise. It stopped once I had passed.

  Once inside I did honestly try to make conversation with a couple of the more composed visitors, but my attempts fell flat. They looked me up and down as if I was a naked bearded woman. My mood brightened when I saw oysters, biscuits and mulled claret. I ate, then ate some more. There was nothing else for me to do in the absence of any that would talk to me.