‘You said Matthew Hewitt asked you to steal the key to Bride’s. What reason did he give?’
‘I did not say Hewitt asked me to steal the key. You did. You also accused me of stealing it of my own initiative. It is clear to me that you know nothing. You are guessing.’
‘Of course I am guessing. That is why we are here. Why will you not help us? Tell us what you know, that we might help.’
He shook his head again, expression calm and serious. Biting on his right thumb he refused to make eye contact with me. Once more he ignored my questions, just sat perfectly still. My repeated pleadings, that our aim was only to find out who killed his wife, and my attempts to provoke him, suggesting that his silence indicated either guilt or lack of love for his wife, had no effect.
Our next strategy was to sit in silence with him, to try his patience, counting on his anxiety to talk to whoever he was waiting for, this person who would not come until we left. This did not work either; indeed, I began to suspect that he was relieved that his rendezvous would be delayed.
‘If you will not help us, then we must consider speaking to Hewitt ourselves,’ I said, inspired. This succeeded in snapping him out of his apparent slumber. He turned to me with a look of pity on his grey, lined face.
‘Do not go near Hewitt. He is a dangerous man. You will find out nothing from him, all you will succeed in doing is attracting his attention. You must wish to remain unknown to Matthew Hewitt.’
‘What other option do we have, if you will not speak to us?’
Tears appeared at the corners of his eyes and he regarded me with renewed fear and dislike. ‘There is nothing I can tell you, but I urge you not to talk to Matthew Hewitt. Leave that to me. He knows me well enough already. I risk nothing by approaching him. You risk more than you understand.’ Leaning forward he whispered, ‘You were a clerk, you worked at the Tower. You are not Anne’s cousin. You know nothing of all this. I cannot understand why anyone would appoint you. You must question the motive of that person, for he is either as innocent as you, or else bears you no love.’
Dumbfounded, I could think of no useful response for a while, for the observation was unarguable. My father was both innocent and loveless. Giles saw my indecision, and sought to persuade me further. ‘I did not kill my wife, and I do not believe that Matthew Hewitt did either. He is a trader and merchant, you must know that already. I cannot think of any motive he would have to kill her.’
‘We heard that you sought to blackmail him, and that he killed your wife as a warning to you and to others that might contemplate a similar action,’ Dowling probed.
Giles dropped his head to the table and his body went limp. When he raised his head he looked wearier than ever. Red eyes and flaky skin, like a fish. ‘It is an absurd suggestion. Whoever told you such nonsense knows nothing of the workings of the Exchange. None would be so foolish as to attempt to blackmail Matthew Hewitt. To do so would be to invite death.’ The words sounded like his obituary. ‘Now please go.’
His request was so heartfelt that it would have been churlish to continue sitting there, knowing that he would tell us no more.
‘And please don’t tarry in the street, for if you do, you will see none, be assured.’
Nevertheless we did linger a while. And saw none.
‘What do you make of that?’ I asked Dowling as we walked back towards Newgate.
‘Hard to say. He is well informed, though. Hard to look beyond this Hewitt.’
‘Aye.’
We spoke no more until we parted company a few minutes later. As I walked home it occurred to me again how unlike any butcher I’d ever met Davy Dowling was. Then I determined to travel to Cocksmouth, though it was the last place in England I wished to go.
That evening I decided to unburden myself of the whole Anne Giles affair to Jane. She knew of the murder itself — it had been in the newspaper, so she said — though was surprised to hear that Shrewsbury had asked me to investigate it. In fact she said I’d be about as much use as a ‘fat, bloaty toad’. Her recommendations were:
One — free Joyce from prison immediately. If I didn’t have the brain of an old hog then I would have done it already.
Two — get Dowling to use the Mayor’s men to find Mary Bedford. If I didn’t have the brain of an old hog then I would have seen to it already.
Three — John Giles was slippery like a horse’s cock and I’d get no sense out of him so long as he breathed. If I didn’t have the brain of an old hog then I would have realised it already.
Four — Matthew Hewitt was guilty as a quire bird and if I went anywhere near him then I had a head made of mutton. Let Shrewsbury deal with it. The only reason I hadn’t worked that out for myself was that I had the brain of an old hog.
All good sound advice, of course. Indeed, as she spoke I wondered why I was not seeing things as clear myself. It occurred to me that it had been a long time since I had really tested my wits. I had concerned myself more with lolling them into a state of gentle stupefaction, with the aid of much ale and wine. This was different. This was important. John Giles, Mary Bedford, and Richard Joyce — all of these people depended on me. It was a sobering thought, or would have been had I been drunk. I decided that night that I had to apply myself to this task with more seriousness than I had so far managed. I considered sharing this new resolution with Jane, but decided against it — I felt sure she would accuse me of being an old hog. But I determined that I did need to sit down and have a serious conversation with the butcher. And Shrewsbury would have to be told about Hewitt.
Chapter Seven
In many watery or moist places of the highways.
At the top of Ave Maria Street among the stalls lingered apprentices, scores of them, hanging around in groups of two or three, doing nothing, just standing talking, peering out at the crowds beneath heavy, thick brows, their expressions that curious mixture of aggression and uncertainty that characterises the young and pale. What were they doing here? The apprentices of London were a sorry lot, paid nothing in money, forbidden by their masters to procreate or frequent alehouses or taverns. They vented their frustrations on the rest of the population, doing their best to ensure that none else got to enjoy themselves either. It was unusual to find them gathering in large groups with such brazen disregard. Such congregation usually meant trouble for someone. Last month a band of them had marched out to Moorfields and kicked down the bawdy houses. They cut off one poor woman’s breasts to make an example of her to the rest. I detested people that could not just let others be what they would be.
I hurried by, discomforted by narrow-eyed curious stares. Why were they looking at me particularly? Toward the gaol they were crawling like flies on a dead dog, a great teeming mass of them, most still wearing their blue aprons. What were they up to now? Individually the apprentices were nothing to be afraid of — gawky, unhealthy and half grown. Working together as a mob they were to be avoided at all cost, clinging to the devout words and morals of their often insincere masters, seeking a sense of importance and achievement. I kept going, conscious that Joyce was in there.
‘Strike!’ A big man, older than the rest, stepped forward and pushed me in the chest with a rounded wooden baton. ‘What business do you have here?’
‘What business do you have asking?’ I felt an urge to punch him in the throat.
To my relief Dowling appeared from nowhere to intervene. A second apprentice stepped forward wearing baggy breeches down to his knees, dirty, torn stockings and a faded, patched purple waistcoat. On top of his straggly blond hair he wore a red square hat. Grinning foolishly, blind drunk, his skin was peeling and one of his eyes was badly infected. He looked over his shoulder to where two of his friends stood, also smiling broadly, also stinking of cheap wine.