Shrewsbury suddenly looked weary, like I was the most witless fool on earth. Clearly the notion that an innocent man might suffer an unjust and terrible death did not irk his black, shrivelled soul the way it irked mine. He leant forward over his cane with his eyes fixed on mine so intently that it felt at that moment like we were the only two people in the world. ‘Lytle.’ He spoke slowly, rolling every word in his mouth before spitting it out. ‘I am not connected with this affair. Do you not understand?’
I knew I should say nothing, just nod, yet I did not want to lose his audience without telling him what he had to know. ‘We think that a merchant by the name of Matthew Hewitt is the man that killed Anne Giles.’
He snuffled like he was about to choke and his jaw dropped an inch. He stared at me with even more dislike than he had before. Then he seemed to compose himself, straightening his back and dabbing at his mouth with a kerchief before lifting his cane and stroking its tip against my chest. ‘Don’t waste your time on Richard Joyce. There are hundreds like him in this town and they all end up dead, either on the end of a rope because they have tried in vain to change their lot, or in the river because they haven’t. You are not one of God’s angels, Lytle.’
‘Neither did I venture that I was,’ I answered, my mouth dry.
‘Find out who killed Anne Giles, Lytle, and do so hastily. Do you understand?’ He crashed his cane to the floor in time with the syllables of the last three words, which he shouted. ‘You speak as a weak-minded cowardly fellow, Lytle. Your father would pretend to uphold the honour of your family. You speak like you would have any other man but you perform your filial duties.’ He took a sword of one his guards and held it out like a man who is skilled in the art. He pressed the tip against my throat and twisted it so that I had no option but to lift my chin. I felt the blade press into my windpipe and felt my own warm blood trickle down onto my tunic. Ruined. His eyes were flint. ‘You say nothing of my involvement to any man. You are investigating the death of your cousin. You do not use my name. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
He lowered the sword at last and stood watching me a minute. Then he was gone, and his dark angels with him.
‘Come, Lytle,’ Burton beckoned me, a sly smile about his lips.
Darkness fell as I walked back slowly towards home through the emptying streets. I felt a deadening misery wrapped about my throat, hanging heavy across my chest. Why had Shrewsbury offered to help in the first place if he were so determined that his name not be linked to the investigation? It occurred to me that I had been less careful than I might in talking to others of his involvement. Since Hill’s warning I was pretty sure that I had mentioned Shrewsbury’s name also to William Ormonde and to Jane. William Ormonde had told Mary Ormonde, I knew, since she had mentioned it while I was at Epsom. So it could not be long before someone then mentioned it to Lord Keeling — and then what did fate hold in store for poor old Harry Lytle? It was my father’s fault! He that hid himself away in Cocksmouth and wrote me letters. I had delayed my visit to that place too long. I would go tomorrow.
It was too early to go to bed so I walked down to the riverside, down to the Three Cranes in Vintry. It was a loathsome little dog-hole, but it suited my mood. Taking a mug of poor ale, I settled myself down in a corner. Any that looked at me with curious intent, as if they considered striking up conversation, I glared at. A sorry predicament, indeed.
Woe was me. I downed my third mug dry.
‘Lytle.’ The sound of Hill’s voice in my ear. I looked up in surprise. He crooked a finger and beckoned me out back. I clambered to my feet, cracked my hip against the edge of the thick table and limped after him.
‘Sit down.’ Hill pulled me into a small room, which was empty save for two mugs of fresh ale and a plate of beef on a small table. ‘What have you been doing?’ He sat opposite me and leant forward, hands clasped, eyes fixed on mine. This felt like a business negotiation, the way he spoke so clearly and waited for me to speak with matter-of-fact sobriety.
I licked my lips. ‘Drinking.’
His puffy eyes were red-rimmed and beady. ‘You are making a pest of yourself at Court, Harry. You have been loose-lipped, despite my warnings, and you have antagonised Shrewsbury. He will not see you again, Harry, will not countenance your presence.’
I nodded and picked up the new pot. ‘I am of the same mind. I saw him today.’
‘I know you did.’ How so? ‘The Lord Chief Justice is also aware of you now, though he was not before.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Not good for you, Harry.’
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘and you know the worst of it?’
Hill raised his brows enquiringly.
‘I am not even related to Anne Giles,’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what put the notion into my father’s soft head, but all of this is his doing. Anne Giles is no relation of mine, yet here we all are.’ I belched. It was most unjust.
‘How do you know you are not related?’
‘Everyone tells me so.’ I waved a hand. ‘Ormonde told me it. John Giles told me it. I didn’t need much persuasion, since the only one that says otherwise is my father.’
‘Lytle.’ Hill bowed his head and laid a hand on the table, chest deflated. He had the air of a man that was about to tell me something very important. But then he said nothing.
‘I will go to Cocksmouth tomorrow to find out what this is all about,’ I told him. ‘Richard Joyce sits in prison, blameless, yet Keeling goes to great lengths to condemn him. Mary Bedford and another old woman lie dead because the rector accuses them of witchery. Yet none of them are guilty.’
‘Who is?’ Hill asked softly.
‘Matthew Hewitt.’
Hill’s face turned a curious shade of pink, like a salmon. ‘What makes you think it?’ he asked, lips pursed like it was an effort to stay calm.
‘John Giles is Anne Giles’s husband and it is said that he was blackmailing Matthew Hewitt. We have met him and he is clearly terrified of Hewitt.’
‘Blackmailing him?’
‘Aye, so they say, though we don’t know why.’ I took a bone of beef and tore a chunk of meat off it with my teeth.
Frowning, Hill looked disappointed. ‘Why should a merchant who takes issue with a man decide to kill the man’s wife, in so public a fashion?’
The meat tasted old and rotten. Spitting onto the floor I let the bone drop back onto the plate then finished my ale. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know much, Harry.’
I watched him drink. He didn’t usually drink so daintily. Usually he drank his ale like a horse slobbers at a pail of water.
‘How do you know I saw Shrewsbury today?’
‘No matter.’
‘I saw you with Shrewsbury,’ I remembered. ‘You were sitting with him in his coach at Newgate.’
‘You are mistaken,’ he replied, with a distant calmness that implied he cared not a bushel of peas what I believed. Grimacing he rubbed a finger on the tabletop as if he was thinking hard about what to say. I gave him all the time he required.
He looked up with an open face for the first time that evening. ‘Harry, it is no longer important what reason your father had for writing you the letter and soliciting Shrewsbury’s help. It’s done.’
I started to protest but he held up both hands and glared until I stopped.
‘Joyce will hang, Lytle. The day after tomorrow.’ He sat back and watched me. I said nothing, for I was too surprised. ‘The Lord Chief Justice tried Joyce this afternoon in private.’
‘That is impossible!’
‘Why is it impossible?’ Hill snapped, impatiently.