I suppose.
‘I promised Mary and Thomas ten shillings,’ he looked to my pocket.
‘Make it a guinea,’ I replied wearily.
We made our way quickly back up to the top of Salisbury Alley, moving fast, without talking to one another, keen to put as much distance as possible between us and the horrors that were taking place behind us. Hewitt’s murder was all the more confusing. If he was the murderer, then who had motive to kill him? Someone that could command soldiers — but to what end? If he was not the murderer then why kill him? As a convenience? But Joyce was already hung — why go to the trouble of killing Hewitt besides? Before we parted company I suggested that Dowling take advantage of his connections with the Mayor to go search Hewitt’s house now that he was dead. Perhaps there would be a letter there, or a diary, or best of all a confession signed by all involved. I would find Hill and attempt to get some sense from him as to what this latest development signified.
Hill was not at home and nor were his shoes. I was tired and could think of little else to do, so went to the Crowne leaving message that I would wait for Hill there. Perhaps not the safest place to be, given that we had quite possibly precipitated the death of a powerful merchant, but it served good ale.
As I sat and supped and watched ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, it all seemed absurd. Hewitt now a victim, apparently not the man that killed Anne Giles, nor the man that butchered her husband. Why then had he behaved so strangely? Why had he sent men to kill me? It made no sense. With Hewitt dead and Hill’s Epsom story exposed as the fraud it so clearly was, this left us then with only one other account — Prynne’s bizarre theory of Fifth Monarchists, treason and plot — for which there was no evidence whatsoever. In the meantime someone else would have us dead, someone who could command soldiers to do his deeds. And my father was still missing. All very odd and no mistake.
I watched a large fellow scratch at his balls and pass comment to a friend that I could not hear. It was clearly funny, since both of them laughed with great gusto. Strange to think that we all lived in the same world, yet they felt safe and happy and I was alone and in great danger. All I needed was a change of face, so that none would recognise me.
‘Mr Lytle?’ Hill’s maidservant appeared next to me, flustered and ill at ease, eyeing warily the men that cast her sly glances. She handed me a note and was gone. The note was from Hill, of course, though I didn’t recognise the writing.
Meet me at Bride’s at ten. News of your father.
It was fifteen minutes before. I left the mug unfinished and hurried out.
Chapter Twenty-Two
An antipathy seems to exist between this tree and the oak with the result that one does not tolerate the other.
The strange church stood as it always had, quiet and still. I dismounted and wandered through the churchyard past a patch of white-bottle. The door was open — someone was at home other than God. I crossed the threshold slowly, peering into the darkness. No light. No candles. Then a thick arm wrapped itself round my neck, a knife pricked hard at my throat and a low, deep voice whispered into my ear. ‘Harry Lytle.’ The knife dug in just below my Adam’s apple, ‘Shrewsbury’s hound.’
I struggled to breathe. A cloth was clamped down hard over my mouth and nose. I couldn’t move my Adam’s apple without forcing it down onto the razor-sharp blade.
‘Walk.’
I couldn’t walk. The knife was hard against my throat and he was pulling my neck back so hard I couldn’t stand on my own, let alone walk. A trickle of blood dripped down to my chest. The knife moved swiftly to my ribs, and he grabbed my hair. I fingered my throat. The wound stung, but it wasn’t deep, just a scratch. Steered by the hand that held my hair, I walked forward into the cool interior of the silent church, towards the lectern by the far wall. He marched me towards the front pew, the door to which stood open, and forced me to sit, pulling my hair down with one hand and digging the knife into my waist with the other. I dropped my cane, which clattered to the floor. Then the knife was withdrawn and his face appeared in front of me. Hiding his knife inside his coat he grabbed my wrist. His hands moved like lightning, and before I could think what to do he had bound it to the wooden lattice that decorated the front of the simple pew. Then he grabbed for my other wrist. I whipped it back behind my shoulder until the knife appeared again. His wrists were as thick as most men’s legs. Now I understood how John Giles had been trussed and bound so easily.
At least I could see him now, but the church was poorly lit, and all I could really make out was that he was dressed from head to toe in black. A thick cloak flowed from his chin down to the tops of his big muddy boots. An ordinary hat hid his brow and a scarf covered his mouth. I was in real pain; my wrists were bound so tight that my fingertips were numb, but he just pulled the rope tighter, puffing with satisfied exertion. He sat down next to me on my right. I was forced to lean forwards, held there by the ropes.
‘God bringeth out those that are bound by chains.’ Leaning back, he wrapped his left arm across the back of the pew, while the right hand held the knife. It had a long, thin blade. His eyes burnt, a bright incandescent blue.
Fighting to stay calm I could not stop my arms and legs from shaking. ‘You killed Anne Giles here. Joyce saw you do it, didn’t he?’
‘Whosoever believeth in him shall have eternal life.’
I pulled gently at the ropes, but my wrists might as well have been set in stone. ‘Am I to die as she did?’
‘No. Thy death will be swift. Then will I take thy body to the river and throw it there. It is time for all of this to end, now that all knoweth that I will be their plagues.’
‘You will be judged after this life if not in it.’ My voice trembled like a woman.
The black-robed figure shook his head. ‘Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace. Anne Giles was innocent, and she shall have her reward in the Kingdom of our Lord. The rest were evil sinners, and I have done God’s work in dispatching them to the eternal flames of Hell.’
‘Richard Joyce was not an evil sinner.’
The blue eyes fixed upon me. ‘That man was dead already. It was God’s mercy that led him here that night. Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake; for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.’
I pulled harder, without success. ‘It is not your place to walk the streets of London like the Lord God himself, making judgements as to the worth of men.’
Laughing out loud with real mirth he exclaimed, ‘Ah, but I am the Lord Chief Justice. Indeed it is by my judgement that men live or die in this City. It is my job to dispatch you poor wretches. If I say you are guilty then it is in God’s name that you are pronounced guilty. And the fault is yours.’
‘What was Anne Giles guilty of?’
‘She died for another’s sin. I told her how I got her own husband to steal the key to this church. She wept. Not for herself, but for him, though he did not deserve her tears.’
‘You knew her since she was a baby.’ His blue eyes narrowed. ‘I know who you are, and why you killed Anne Giles.’
‘I just told you who I am.’ The cold blade wormed its way up my right nostril. ‘But it would please me greatly to hear thy account. Speak well, friend, or else I will slit thy nose.’ His voice was black velvet.
‘I will say nothing with your blade up my nose.’
The knife wormed its way higher up my nostril, towards my brain. I felt a lump in my throat and had to cough and splutter, drawing back my head. The knife stayed where it was a while, but then it was slowly withdrawn. I sneezed and wiped my nose hard against my upper arm, desperate to be rid of the foul tickle.