We both knew that it wasn’t impossible, so I sat there like an odd fish, staring at him with my mouth gaping. I croaked out the beginnings of some protest before considering how pointless it would be to protest to Hill.
‘Forget Joyce. You won’t save him.’
I couldn’t forget Joyce. ‘Tell me what would you do if you were I.’
‘You asked me that before, Harry.’ Hill looked up into my eyes and spoke passionately, ‘You must go to Epsom. The answer lies there.’
‘I did go to Epsom, for the funeral. I found nothing.’
‘Then you didn’t look hard enough.’ He leant forwards again and tapped a forefinger on the table. ‘Go to Epsom, Harry.’
I stared back at him, as miserable as ever.
‘Go to Epsom.’ Hill raised himself and stood over me, his giant girth casting a shadow over the whole table. ‘Tomorrow.’ He left.
Chapter Nine
Because it occurs where toads are found.
Charcoal grey clouds paraded over the smoke and the fog, heavy and threatening. Basinghall Street was quiet. Smoke rose weakly from the chimney of Hewitt’s house before being swept away by the strong wind that battered the rooftops. It was said that Hewitt lived here on his own, just him and one servant.
The same wind blew through the coach, a chilly place for me to gather my nerves. Dowling and two of his friends sat silently back on their seats, pressed into the shadows, watching me. Dowling had refused to speak to me for the last hour. He had wanted to involve the Mayor, but the Mayor declined. Since he had no other useful suggestion to make, he was angry, yet still he refused to countenance a direct approach. I reckon he was angrier with himself than he was with me.
I had hurried out of the Three Cranes as soon as Hill left and sent message to Dowling. Hill’s opinion counted for nought? I wasn’t going to allow Joyce to die for another’s sins. Dowling and I were both of one mind — Hewitt was guilty. So we would have to prove it. For my part I had resolved that having lost Mary Bedford I wasn’t going to lose Joyce too. Dowling agreed, yet had no remedy other than mine. So he was sulking. He refused to meet my eye as I climbed down out of the coach.
The front door was heavy, carved of an exotic dark wood with strange scenes upon it. Not from the Bible, but from some other religion. I rubbed a finger against the black wood before knocking. My knuckles seemed to make no sound, neither did my fist. In the chill wind I waited, conscious of the three butchers watching me from the coach. The chimney was smoking? there had to be someone at home. Sidling around to the left I attempted to peer in through a first-floor window. The room was black, only shadows of furniture were visible. Then a flicker of candlelight betrayed some presence within. I heard shuffling inside and stood back. A window opened, the one into which I had been staring. An old man’s head stretched out, the head scabby and grey. The left eye was hooded, but it scanned me just as beadily as its neighbour. A skinny neck, long and scrawny, supported a wizened head that twisted itself to face me with an awkward sneer. The man was very old and his nose was big and hooked, like the beak of a bird of prey.
‘I am here to see Matthew Hewitt.’ I lifted my chin, hearing myself talk too fast.
‘Who are you?’
‘Harry Lytle. I am appointed by the Mayor to investigate the death of Anne Giles. I must talk to Matthew Hewitt.’
Head and neck slowly untwisted themselves and then withdrew. The window was closed and the street was quiet again. It was fully ten minutes before anything more happened. Beginning to think that I had been ignored, I started to simmer in indignant rage, but then I heard the noise of a great bolt being shifted. The door swung slowly open. The head was there, underneath it a body, sinewy and nibbled. His clothes were faded, old and misshapen, but recognisable as those of a servant. The hallway behind was furnished sparsely, but the ornaments that there were, were exotic and rare. Gilt leather panels covered the walls, embossed with gold leaf. Above the panels running around the top of the walls were more strange scenes in plaster, tall, thin characters with their arms as long as their bodies standing in awkward pose wearing elaborate headdresses and skirts and with ornaments on their arms.
I waited for the shrivelled old servant to heave the door closed again and slide back the well-greased bolts, three of them, fashioned out of a heavy metal, twisted and dull. When the servant had finished he gave me a warped stare before leading me deep into the bowels of the house; dark unlit corridors, windows covered with thick screens. Here and there an ornament gleamed and sparkled, gold and silver, cups and candlesticks, shiny shapes reaching out of the gloom like stars. Faces stared down at me from old dusty paintings, men with stern gazes and old fleshy faces, disapproving and contemptuous, lonely and forgotten. I wondered at the value of these items, but was discouraged from exploring their feel or weight by the shuffling old man who wouldn’t permit me to linger more than a pace behind. We came to a small flight of wooden stairs to the rear of the house that led straight up to a door. Beneath it was a thin crack of light. The old man didn’t climb the stairs but stood at their foot to make sure that I went up all the way and knocked on the door. I rapped twice and entered.
A small fire and a single candle lit the windowless chamber. The candle stood in a simple silver candlestick on a small circular table in the middle of the room. Two chairs sat next to the fire. In one of these chairs sat a man. His face was in shadow, lit only occasionally by the flicker of the flames. He neither stood up nor made any sound. I walked closer and scrutinised the blank face. His skin was drawn and pockmarked. Long lines ran from his temples down to his chin like knife cuts. Little hairs grew out of his face in small clumps. I took the empty chair, which was pushed well forward so that I would be well lit.
‘I am Matthew Hewitt.’ His voice was surprisingly soft. ‘You would ask me questions about the murder of Anne Giles.’
‘Yes.’ My voice sounded strange, muffled, no echo.
‘Then do so.’ Hewitt’s eyes were occasionally caught by the light of the fire. They were still and unmoving.
I leant forward and took the poker from by the fireplace. I poked it. There was no new wood. ‘Anne Giles was killed at St Bride’s, the night of-’
‘I know all about her death, Mr Lytle, just as I know that the murderer will soon be hung.’
‘Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles.’
‘I think Lord Keeling would be less than pleased to hear you say so,’ Hewitt answered thoughtfully, his tone cold.
I felt a pang of fear in my guts and recalled John Giles’s warning. ‘I am sure you are right. But the fact remains that Joyce did not kill Anne Giles.’
Hewitt said nothing.
‘You know John Giles, don’t you?’ I asked.
Hewitt was quiet for some time before replying. ‘That’s my business, Mr Lytle. I have no great desire to discuss my business with you, and no need to either. We both know that you have neither authority nor influence in this affair.’
‘John Giles worked for you and stole some money of yours, or something of the sort. Then his wife was murdered.’
Hewitt sat motionless. I sat motionless too, watching his shadowed face. The only sound in the room was the crackle of timber in the grate. The candle burnt down its wick. As the fire slowly died, it rose suddenly, swiftly and briefly, spitting out its last light into the gloom, enough time for me to see the expression on his face. It was rough and grey like the face of a mountain, hairs sprouted from his chest like weeds. The eyes frightened me to my naked nerves. They were round black pebbles, shiny and alight, fixed on mine, questioning and calculating.
‘Mr Lytle.’ There was a touch of amusement in Hewitt’s voice. ‘What do you want to know?’