‘A dead bird,’ said she calmly. ‘It must have nested at the top of the chimney. Poor thing.’ She climbed off me, rearranged her skirts and left the room without further ado.
On my way home I reflected that Hill had been wise to commend me to travel to Epsom, though what light it had shone upon the great mystery was not evident to me at the time.
Chapter Six
Throughout its life this plant only bears spiny leaves at the extremities of its branches.
Three chickens strutted amongst the piles of rubbish that layered the tide of thick mud that covered the tiny courtyard in which we stood. A pig waded through the open sewer that disappeared down the tiny alley through which we ourselves had walked, snuffling and sniffing with its dirty wet nose. Big blue flies coasted lazily about the seas of dead rotting vegetation and old bones. I saw the swish of a scaly tail by a hole in the far wall. This was not the part of Bishopsgate where the rich merchants lived, this was the square where John Giles was said to reside. On the near side of the square was the house we were looking for. The front door was split, the top half already open.
I hadn’t shared with Dowling all of my adventures in Epsom, of course, but I did describe the man that looked like a stoat and my theory that he might be John Giles. Rather than bow before my keen observational skills, Dowling asked me why I hadn’t thought to introduce myself. Such a question did not merit a reply — his wife was being buried — hardly a time for new acquaintances. Today, though, I wanted this man to tell us who killed his wife. I was uneasy that all we had for suspects were a Roundhead with a hole in it and a decrepit old woman, both of whom were in danger unless we unearthed the real murderer. Also I was doing all of this for no payment and needed it finished with, that I might get a job. I was already more than three pounds out of pocket.
I stuck my head through the door and peered in. The room was bare save for two wooden chairs and what looked like another coffin lying on a rickety table. Rush mats covered the dirt floor. There was a doorway at the rear. Through it, as I watched, a short, thin man slid into view. Save for the expression on his face and the greasiness of his skin he was quite handsome, yet he resembled a petty villain with sly, dark eyes that slid about their sockets like beads of black soap. When he saw me he stopped in his tracks, fingers extended like short, sharp claws, before hurrying back to whence he’d come. It was indeed the man I had seen at Epsom, though he showed no sign of recognising me. I looked to Dowling, who shrugged.
‘Good sir, my name is David Dowling and this here is Harry Lytle, appointed by our good Mayor to find the man that killed your wife. If we don’t find him, then God Almighty will,’ Dowling shouted before letting himself into the house.
A voice cried out from behind the thin board partition, ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Sir, painful though it be for you, we would ask some questions, so that we may be hasty.’
‘Begone, and let me be hanged!’
‘Sir, we would talk with you quietly. Your neighbours are gathering.’ Indeed, I observed, three women and a man had joined the chickens out front and stood watching curiously. The man was old and frail, his back was crooked and his eyes rheumy. His breathing was strained and noisy. Holding out a shaking palm he mouthed unintelligibly. The women were a bit younger, though well past their best. They stood next to each other in a line, one dominant to the fore, and the other two at her flanks. The middle one looked at me suspiciously, her mean eyes and sour mouth topping and tailing an ugly large misshapen nose. She wore a scarf and shawl, long dress and jacket, hat and apron, and lots of padding beneath it all.
Giles ventured out from his retreat, and upon seeing that we spoke truthfully he hurried to the door, slamming it closed. As we watched, the top door slowly opened again and the large-nosed woman’s head poked through, eyes scanning the room beadily.
‘Go away!’ screamed Giles at the head, which slowly withdrew. I stepped over and closed the door softly.
Standing before us wringing his hands, Giles eyed us nervously. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ he said in a low pleading whisper.
‘Cursed is he that perverts the judgement of the widow, but the wicked flee even when no man pursueth. Time runneth where no man may follow.’ Dowling removed his hat. Giles frowned, as confused as I. ‘It is our task to find the man who killed your wife, sir.’
‘And my cousin,’ I added.
‘My wife is dead,’ Giles replied, face sullen and angry, ‘and she is not your cousin.’
‘How do you know?’ I demanded, for he seemed very certain.
‘She is not your cousin,’ he repeated, shaking his head with his eyes screwed up like he had a great pain in the head.
‘Who killed her?’
‘I don’t know who killed her or I wouldn’t be here, would I?’ Giles glared. He twisted away, twitching and rubbing his hands constantly.
I wasn’t sure how the one determined the other. While I was thinking, Dowling butted in. ‘Where were you the night she was murdered, Mr Giles?’
‘I was out working.’ Giles waved a hand then sat down. Crouched, ready to spring. ‘I work for important people.’
A bumblebee in a cow turd thinks itself a king. ‘Important, you say? They might be able to help you.’
‘Aye, important people, people can help me if I need it, so I ain’t afraid of you.’ Giles smirked, but beads of sweat filled the cleft between his nose and upper lip.
‘Who do you think killed her, sir?’
‘I told you, I don’t know! Go away and let me alone!’ He spluttered loudly, punching the air with his fists.
‘What be all the screeching?’ I startled as the front door flew open, crashing against the board wall. The voice was strident, piercing and rough. Its owner was the woman with the large nose. ‘You be letting me in, John boy. What’s all the shouting for?’
Giles glared at her a moment before approaching the door more meekly than before. He closed it more gently, but so that she remained inside the room. Stout and in her forties, every pore on her face was blackened. Reaching out she took John Giles’s chin roughly between her thumb and forefinger then pulled his face round and stared into it, eyes scrunched up and lips pursed. ‘What are you shouting about, John boy?’
John Giles wailed in strangled misery before taking her hand in his and throwing it away. Then he put his own hand to his face, shielding it in embarrassment. ‘Go away!’
‘What’s the news?’ The woman turned away from him and came up to me with stooped gait and crooked back. Brown, black and yellow teeth lined up like coloured pegs in her mouth, rooted in shrivelled gums. Reaching to my dark-green jacket she started to finger the cloth. What was this fascination with my clothes that all people with dirty hands seemed to have?
‘We labour at the Mayor’s behest. We seek the killer of Anne Giles,’ Dowling answered her.
She pulled lightly at a bright button on my jacket. With her other hand she fingered the simple lace. Her nails were cracked and broken. ‘My John has fine clothes like yours,’ she said, and indeed he did. It had not occurred to me before, but he was wearing a very fine cloth shirt and silk burgundy jacket even though they were stained and unwashed many weeks. His shoes were cobbled by a master craftsman. Very smart, quite fashionable, and extremely expensive for someone living in a weatherboard house in a slum like this. Where did the money come from?