‘My life for yours, then.’
‘I was around to watch over you, Lytle. I have met with Shrewsbury every day since this started, telling him what you have been doing, to whom you have been talking. I’ve hightailed it after you from here to Epsom, here to Shoreditch, here to Epsom again, and all about the slums and filthy pits of London. God’s mercy, it hath been most taxing.’
‘What assistance have ye lent me? Even now, you would have stood back and watched me killed.’ I shook my head sorrowfully. ‘You are no friend of mine, you shitty piece of scum.’
‘Aye, well.’ He bowed his head. ‘Soon we will all be dead, and I’ll receive judgement and so will you, and I am sure we will both be saying that we made mistakes and should have done better.’
‘You set me up to die.’
‘For God’s sake, Lytle! That is enough! I am fed up with your whining and complaining. I have been tending you like a wet nurse these last days, watching over you, making sure nothing happens to you. You don’t know what it has been like.’ He stepped forwards and tapped me hard on the forehead with his finger. I had to stop myself from snapping it off. Instead I punched him as hard as I could in the mouth. When he didn’t fall I hit him again, harder. He stumbled back with a hand up to his jaw. I had caught him hard and cut his lip and his gum. His lip was starting to swell already. I smiled.
‘Thanks be to thee,’ he mumbled.
I went to pass him. ‘Keep your thanks to feed your chickens, you piece of filthy scum. I’ll see you later.’
Three men I’d not seen before appeared from nowhere and blocked my passage.
‘What’s this, Hill?’
‘You are under arrest, Lytle. For the killing of Lord Keeling.’ Busying himself with his bleeding mouth, he would not look me in the eye.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sometimes a smooth hairy lump grows on the stalks of this plant. If you cut open this gall, you will find it packed with small white maggots.
That they put me in the same cell as Joyce may have been coincidence, I suppose. They took me to Newgate in a coach, wrists and ankles manacled. These men were sober, serious and very determined. They didn’t beat me or foul-mouth me, or indeed take any notice of me whatever, just made me go where they wanted me to go without any fuss or effort. In the coach one sat either side of me and one opposite. All three of them looked out of the window, eyes alert, practically silent. They spoke only when they had to, in short crisp sentences, very quietly.
We were at Newgate inside twenty minutes. They themselves escorted me through the prison, along the corridor and down the slimy steps into the stone hold, never once uttering a word to any. My protests were ignored, my feelings were of no importance. Once the door was open, they propelled me firmly across the threshold and clapped manacles about my wrists and ankles before closing it behind me. When the sound of their steps had petered out it was silent and utterly dark.
The floor beneath my feet was slimy and thick. It stank of piss and shit as it had done before. Through my shoes I could feel a thickish layer of mud and straw. God knows what lived in it. I leant against the wall as best I could, but the stonework was uneven and scattered with sharp edges. All was silent, save for the occasional rustle and squeak from the rats. Something bit at my ankle. I kicked out, though without much force. The manacles prevented it. No light, no noise, just me, all alone. I felt a sudden panic — what if none came to feed me? What if no one told any that knew me where I was? I stood there for an age, trying to quell the fear. But it was so black and so noiseless, and the rats kept nibbling at my feet. No hope. No life.
Why was I here? Shrewsbury had what he wanted, didn’t he? He wanted to have it over Keeling. Well Keeling was dead — I had killed him. So why was I here? Hadn’t I given him what he wanted? My legs began to ache, first at the knees, then the ankles, and then my thighs. My muscles got stiffer and stiffer as if I had been walking for miles. No way of knowing how quickly time passed, I tried to think of something else. My stomach rumbled, despite the foul air. My tongue was dry. Things kept biting at my ankles if I didn’t move my legs constantly. The manacles started to rub raw against my wrists and feet. My head started to throb and the backs of my eyes began to burn. If there was a Hell, it would be like this. Where the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. Well, my fire would not be quenched either. Sometime soon someone would open that door. In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait.
It was not soon, but someone did eventually come. One of the gaolers strode in holding a torch above his head and gave me a ladle of foul water to sip. He threw a piece of green bread at my feet and then was gone.
At some point there came a time when I could no longer stand. I searched for the driest quarter of the small cell floor and gathered there the driest straw. Then I sat down and waited for the water to soak into the seat of my trousers.
There are lessons to be learnt in the art of being imprisoned. These include:
1) Eat all the food they give you, no matter how foul it is. Else the rats will come and eat it.
2) Choose one corner in which to sit. Take care that it is not the lowest part of the floor. Use the farthest corner to piss in and shit.
3) Regard your body and your mind as two different entities. If you cannot dissociate your brain from the rats and the roaches and all the bugs that walk about your body, then you will go mad.
A man came to see me. He looked like a clerk, like I did a week or so ago. His face betrayed disgust, like I was an animal or a madman. He looked at me like I probably looked at Joyce just a fortnight ago.
‘You have been indicted,’ he told me, as if he expected some reaction. He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket and read it aloud. I don’t recall exactly what he said, but it was basically an indictment for the murder of Lord Keeling. Sitting in my pool of crap and piss I watched him speak. It was a good thing, I reflected, for it meant that I would be going to trial — and soon. Out of this hole.
It had occurred to me before this fellow arrived that I had two choices, should I be indicted. I could talk about what we had discovered at Epsom, with no mention of my doubts concerning the truth of it, nor of course the disinterment — the tale that Shrewsbury clearly wished spoken in other words. Or I could tell the whole truth. This was my dilemma. The more time dragged on, with my wrists and ankles burning like they were doused in lime, the less well disposed I was towards Shrewsbury, and the more I felt inclined to speak plainly. Now that I had been arrested, by Hill of all people, and indicted, now I could not trust Shrewsbury to safeguard my well-being — this was obvious.
I had thought through all of my witnesses. First I would call Dowling, who could testify all that I had seen. The slaughterer that had seen Keeling kill John Giles. As my star witness I would call William Ormonde, who could surely now speak openly, and I would consider calling Mrs Johnson and John Stow. The combined testimony of all these witnesses would surely be enough to acquit me.
‘What is your plea?’ the clerk asked me.
Ah now! This was important. I struggled to pull myself up to my feet. He stepped back uncertainly so that his face sunk back a little into the shadows of the torch held by the gaoler.
‘Might we speak upstairs?’ I enquired politely, bowing slightly, trying my best to put the fellow at ease.
The clerk opened his mouth then shut it again, looking at the gaoler as if for guidance before realising the absurdity of it and becoming flustered. I avoided his eye. ‘Yes.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘That is a very good idea.’
Never has a shithouse smelt so fresh as Newgate once we climbed out of the stone hold. When he saw me in the light I fancy he was able to see that I was unlikely to pounce upon him in some manic frenzy. Optimistic that this fellow would listen to me, I began to feel quite rejuvenated, hopeful that I would be able to put forward my point of view. When he dug into his pocket and purchased a meat pie and a jug of ale for me, then I almost danced for him.