‘The accused would have us believe, I understand, that John Giles was thrown off London Bridge with a rope tied about his arms and legs by a villain?’ He turned to Hill.
‘Not possible,’ Hill shook his head, ‘and besides, I saw the rope marks around his neck.’
‘Why did he take his own life?’
‘Hard to say, sir, though there were rumours that he was at odds with Matthew Hewitt. Also the accused spent time with John Giles speaking of Matthew Hewitt, and may have put the fear of God into him.’
So! I was no longer even Harry Lytle. Even Hill was now referring to me as ‘the accused’. Would I were able to put the fear of God into a man like I saw it in John Giles — then I would put it into William Hill! May his soul rot in Hell and be devoured by maggots.
‘Did the accused come to speak with you again?’ The Attorney General raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Perchance?’
‘Aye, he came to see me. We met at the menagerie since he said he did not feel safe elsewhere.’
‘Did not feel safe?’ the Attorney General frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hill replied, ‘though I fear the strain of it all was greatly bothering him. Besides, he told me that John Giles was murdered and renewed his vow to bring Hewitt to justice.’ This was not right either, not that it would make any difference. I was sure that I had made no mention of John Giles’s death to Hill.
The Attorney General stood with his legs together, one leg crooked, his arms folded and one finger pointed upwards. A man in contemplative repose. The jury leant forward eagerly. ‘So, Mr Hill. You quickly discharged your duties in establishing who killed Anne Giles, but you also discovered that your best friend was engaged in the same pursuit at the bidding of a — shall we say — eccentric patriarch.’ He paused and looked to the judge as if for Godly inspiration. ‘Your friend, who is a clerk and is of a — shall we say — lowly background, comes to a different conclusion, based on — shall we say — scatterbrained suppositions, and begins to lose his sense of reason. Is that a fair summation?’
I glared at Hill. I didn’t mind the ‘eccentric patriarch’ nor the ‘lowly background’ — it would be hard to refute either assertion, despite the conceit and pomposity in which the words were dressed, but ‘scatterbrained suppositions’? His black eyes glistened, then he sighed, and looked like a man who wished he could go back a year and live his time again. ‘Aye, fair.’
‘Matthew Hewitt was murdered too, was he not?’ The Attorney General suddenly looked very serious, and why not? The death of a couple of commoners is hardly worth writing home about, but Hewitt was almost a gentleman.
‘He was.’
‘What knowledge do you have of that killing?’
‘I saw it happen,’ Hill replied very quietly. The Attorney General shook his head sharply, as if he had a flea in his ear, and feigned amazement. Could the jury not see that this performance had clearly been rehearsed many times? This was the best play in town. The juror whose posturings were fraying at my nerves looked at me as if I were the Devil himself. I shrugged and stared him out until he looked away. Inside, though, I was looking forward to Hill’s reply as much as any in court. Was it possible that he had been there in Alsatia? Was he implicated in Hewitt’s death himself?
‘Tell us,’ the Attorney General said quietly before sitting again and leaving the stage to Hill.
‘Hewitt was at the time imprisoned in a cellar in Alsatia,’ Hill explained.
‘A cellar in Alsatia?’ The Attorney General struggled to his feet again. ‘Imprisoned by whom?’
‘By the accused,’ Hill answered.
‘The accused imprisoned Matthew Hewitt in a cellar in Alsatia?’ The Attorney General left his position and wandered across the front of the bench until he stood opposite me. He stood with his legs astride and his hands on his hips and glared. ‘Is this true?’ he demanded.
He seemed to be speaking to me. ‘I thought that I was not permitted to speak?’ I replied, trying to see the judge.
‘The accused has been asked a question by the Attorney General. He must answer the question directly,’ I heard the judge snarl.
‘Hewitt was-’ I started.
‘Did you imprison Matthew Hewitt in a cellar in Alsatia? State “aye” or “nay”,’ the Attorney General interrupted me, speaking with such passion that he left spittle on his chin.
‘Aye.’
The Attorney General relaxed. He clasped his hands in front of his plums and bowed his head like he was the Lord Jesus Christ, before raising his chin and regarding me like I was one of the two robbers. ‘Pray continue!’ He returned to his station.
‘Well,’ Hill stuttered. ‘By this time I was concerned. The accused was a friend of mine and I heard word that he had abducted Hewitt in order to extract confession from him.’
‘Confession to what crime?’
‘Confession that he had killed both Anne Ormonde and John Giles.’
‘Ah yes!’ the Attorney General proclaimed, ensuring that the jury did not become confused, ‘because he was at odds with John Giles over some affair at the Exchange.’
‘Indeed,’ Hill continued, ‘and so I followed him into Alsatia that I might find where he had Hewitt kept, and seek to persuade him to liberate him.’
‘Very noble of you,’ the Attorney General remarked reverentially. The first time in my life I had heard anyone refer to Hill as noble. Him too, I supposed, judging by the pink patches that appeared on his cheeks. Godamercy — he was blushing! With shame, I hoped.
‘Aye well, not so noble I suppose.’
‘What happened?’
‘I followed him deep into the tenements there. He went to a house that was derelict.’
Now what was happening? I suddenly realised that he had made no reference to Davy Dowling in any of this. And he was deliberately omitting Thomas and Mary besides, two acquaintances of Dowling’s. I didn’t mind him leaving Dowling out of this tale, indeed it was a blessing, but I wondered what was his motive? By leaving Dowling out of his account he effectively isolated me in the telling of it, but I was not permitted to call witnesses. By leaving Dowling out of it he lost a chance to condemn the butcher alongside me, leaving him free to tell what tales he may. Why would he do that? Why would Shrewsbury wish it so? Unless Dowling had betrayed me too? That was difficult to credit. Yet I felt momentarily shocked and my already downtrodden soul lost another drop of spirit.
‘Derelict, you say?’
‘Aye, not habitable. There were some animals there that I suppose were kept by folks that lived close by. Also there was a cellar, and it was there that the accused had imprisoned Hewitt.’
‘You saw it?’
‘I saw the accused go into this ruin. He had a key with him that he used to unlock a chain that lay on the floor. He then pulled the cellar door up open, which was when I realised what it was. He descended down some steps and then came up with Hewitt who was bound in ropes and in a very sorry state.’
‘A very sorry state?’
‘Aye, I reckon he had been down there for at least two days.’ Aye — and so he had. Hill described the scene too well.
‘Then what happened?’
‘Well, the accused asked him questions about the murders. He was seeking for Matthew Hewitt to confess to the crimes. When Hewitt did not, then the accused became enraged. He kicked Hewitt while he was on the floor, still bound with the ropes. Eventually he kicked him so hard that he started to bleed from the mouth.’
‘Did the accused then administer aid?’
‘No, sir. I fancy that he lost his senses at that point and kicked Hewitt all the harder.’
‘What a brute,’ whispered the Attorney General. Now I had all the jurors staring at me again and the judge besides. What nonsense. I sat dejected waiting for Hill to resume his silly tale.