‘I must gain an audience with Lord Keeling, Mr Cummins, that I might put my case. It is very important. The sentry at the gate told me that someone here might escort me.’
‘I see.’ Cummins didn’t look surprised. He pondered for a moment before continuing. ‘You have come to the right office, but I have to tell you that I cannot help.’
‘Why not?’
‘It is not in my authority to do so. Were I to try and escort you to the Great Chamber then I can assure you that we would be denied entry.’ He shook his head sadly, maddeningly calm, a rueful smile on his lips. I felt my cheeks warm and the old impatient rage well up within me once more. Just as I got ready to say something I knew would do no good, in came a fellow who I recognised, a friend with whom I had been drinking several times. Rolling in cheerfully he greeted me heartily, gripping me about the shoulder and talking into my face. His name was Sandby, and he smiled easily, his brown eyes fixed wide in a permanent surprised stare.
‘What news, Harry? I haven’t seen you for days! Weeks! What brings you to our cosy little nook?’
‘I want to see Lord Keeling.’
He looked to Cummins, who was now writing something. ‘Well, you have as much chance of getting to see Keeling as you have of bedding the Lady Castlemayne, Harry, my old friend. You might as well apply for a warrant to exhume the head of Charles’s father.’
Cummins raised his head sharply and shot his colleague a stern glance of unmistakable admonishment.
‘How so?’ I demanded.
‘We have been instructed not to assist you under any circumstances whatsoever. So we will not. Not even if you tell us Anne Giles is still alive and trying to get out the box.’
‘Mr Sandby!’ Cummins snapped, slamming down his quill onto the desk. ‘Will you speak with good manners and respect.’ The pouched cheeks were bright red now.
‘Humbly apologise.’ Sandby bowed his head gravely. Shrugging, he looked down at me. ‘Still, it’s the way of it, Harry.’
‘From whom did this instruction come?’
Sandby looked down at Cummins’ pink scalp. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘From the Lord Chief Justice Keeling, of course,’ Cummins answered unexpectedly, to the obvious surprise of the younger man. Others were staring. ‘Yes, sir,’ Cummins nodded. ‘Rumour has it that Keeling is a friend of the family and is sympathetic to their feelings. They want the issue put to rest with all haste and have asked him to intervene.’
‘Such hasty determination flies in the face of justice for Richard Joyce.’
Tapping his quill on the desk Cummins regarded me with stern countenance. ‘Richard Joyce is condemned.’
‘What might a man do?’ I looked to Sandby. He just shook his head slowly, saying nothing. The expression on Cummins’ face didn’t change, nor did he reply. I looked around at the army of scribes all pretending not to be listening. Nothing here.
‘Aye, well, gentlemen. Thank you for your candour.’ I nodded and turned to leave.
‘Good luck, young man,’ Cummins called out as I left. I turned to check that he didn’t mock me.
‘Thank you,’ I replied. Sandby waved, again without saying anything, a wry smile on his face. I resolved to hunt him out at the taverns to understand more. The Lord Chief Justice was well organised, I considered, as I left the Palace grounds. So. Direct to his house.
Keeling lived in a fine house north of Whitehall, close to the Great Close Tennis Court. It was a three-storey red-brick house built in a square around its own small courtyard. I pulled on a bell and waited, admiring the scenery, the trees and fields that led to St James’s Park. Once I used to go out into the park in search of Fragaria, wild strawberries, a custom I had ceased upon being told by Dr Ray that an excess of strawberries may damage the kidneys. The servant that answered the door wore a haughty expression that I found intensely irritating. When I told him I had come to see Keeling, and confirmed that I had no appointment, he looked at me as if I was a common hawker, face frigid and unmoving. Finally he decided to let me in and graciously gestured that I scale the carved wooden staircase. We crossed the hall under the gaze of James I, or rather his portrait, standing with his hand on his hip, wearing full armour. I was shown into a cold, dark room on the first floor. The servant didn’t light the fire, only a thin candle that cast unusual shadows on the walls of the large room. Then he left, murmuring that I was to wait. I waited many minutes in the freezing cold, walking in circles to keep warm. Finally, the door opened.
‘Mr Lytle. My apologies for keeping you waiting, but I have urgent matters to attend to.’ The man who spoke was dressed in expensive clothes, his velvet jacket had a gold trimming, and he wore a fine long wig. I didn’t know Keeling well, but had seen him often enough to know that this wasn’t him.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, standing up.
He stepped into the middle of the room with his hands behind his back. ‘I am Lord Keeling’s chief aide and his representative in this affair. He cannot talk to you and has delegated the task to me.’
‘Sir,’ I replied, remembering my manners. ‘My name is Harry Lytle and I would present to Lord Keeling some evidence that Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles.’
‘Richard Joyce was charged, tried and found guilty. He will hang tomorrow.’
Stepping forward so that I was within a breath’s distance of the man’s own face, I could see the blood darken in his cheeks. ‘I have testimony that a second man entered the church just before Anne Giles was killed. Richard Joyce did not kill Anne Giles. Yet Lord Keeling held the trial behind closed doors, and I had no opportunity to divulge my knowledge nor to introduce my findings to Lord Keeling. I must have a chance to talk to him.’
‘Mr Lytle, Lord Keeling knows more than you think. He knows what you have discovered, and more besides. What for you is the whole story is but a part of the whole to him. He is guided by the divine spirit who protects him from making false accusation.’
Burying my face in my hands I fought to control my temper and voice. ‘How can Richard Joyce be found guilty under such circumstances? He ran away from the church after the murder was done — that doesn’t make him guilty. The girl’s necklace found in his cell — I can tell you who put it there, I saw it done. Lord Keeling knows well, too, for it was his agents. You plot to hang an innocent man, an act that God will frown on. It is my duty in the eyes of the Lord to put my case to Keeling, to be sure that all facts are known before a final decision is made. Otherwise we will see an unlawful killing, which will only serve to compound the evils already done. How can Lord Keeling be content to do nothing while an innocent man is strung up? You tell me!’ I jabbed my finger in the air, inadvisedly.
‘When you talk to me, Mr Lytle, you are talking to the Lord Chief Justice. I will tell him everything you have told me, but I have already told you that Richard Joyce has been tried in God’s court and found guilty. The Lord Chief Justice knows Joyce to be guilty because he himself judged it. He is the Lord Chief Justice to King Charles, and King Charles is God’s agent on earth. God guides his hand.’ He turned on his heel and marched to the door. ‘There is nothing more to be said. Thank you for your time and good day to you.’
Growling, I stood my ground. ‘Where is Keeling? I want to talk to him myself. He does not know the full circumstances, he cannot.’
‘Mr Lytle,’ the chief aide barked, straight-backed, patience all but gone. ‘Richard Joyce will hang tomorrow. The Lord Chief Justice instructed me to tell you. He also warned me that you are a young man, inexperienced in life and appointed by consequence of political games being conducted by the minor nobility at Court. He will not see you now, nor in the future, and if you do not leave, then you will be escorted out of here all the way to the Tower.’
‘When did Keeling tell you all this?’ I eyed him suspiciously. ‘Today? Did he put all of these words into your mouth? Is he waiting upstairs now to hear the outcome?’