‘We are left with a verdict of guilty. The indictment was for the wicked murder of Lord Keeling.’ The judge looked up at the jury. ‘In this case, though it is not usual, I am willing that you consider the other crimes that this man may have committed, namely the murder of Matthew Hewitt and the desecration of the grave of Jane Keeling. You will retire until you are all of one mind, without food nor water.’
They trailed out in a line, following one another across the bench to a door at the back of the court. Some of them looked at me as they passed, others would not. What I saw in their faces left me without hope.
‘Up you get.’ One of my guards lifted me gently by the elbow. I was led back across the court in the opposite direction, out towards the holding cells.
To my pleasant surprise they didn’t put the manacles back on my wrists and ankles. No doubt they didn’t think it worth the effort given that mine would be a short wait. One of the guards stopped on his way out, turned swiftly, and put in my hand a piece of paper, surreptitiously. Then he was gone and the door was locked.
Everyone stood.
‘Harry Lytle. Thou art condemned for the murder of Thomas, Lord Keeling. Thou art condemned for the murder of Matthew Solomon Hewitt. Thou art condemned for the wrongful desecration of the grave of Jane Bridget Keeling.’
Not surprising.
‘Ye will be taken from Newgate prison, tomorrow, to Tyburn. At that place thee will be hung by the neck then cut down before thee have expired. Thine entrails will be drawn from your body and burnt before thee. Thy body will be cut into four pieces and thy head will be posted for all to see so that thy death shall be a warning unto others. May God have-’
‘Excuse me,’ I said very clearly, that all would hear. Then I read out the words on the piece of paper given to me by the guard. ‘I appeal to the King for a pardon.’
The judge looked at me as if I was mad and the Attorney General looked at me as if I was hiding some intelligent plan. Then the judge pulled a face as if to say, do as you will, and finished — ‘May God have mercy on thy soul.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The colour of the flower is generally purple, less often a reddish colour.
The manacles went back on as soon as we stepped out of the courtroom and back we went to Newgate. In the coach I wondered who it was had written the note, and why? I knew that any man might ask the King for a pardon, but I had not thought to do so since there seemed so little remedy. It was clear to me now that whilst I had been an instrument of Shrewsbury’s, part of the grand scheme of things to clear Keeling from his path, that I was always to have been sacrificed at the end of it. I suppose that is why someone had persuaded my father to write a letter. I suppose that is why Hill had been appointed as my guardian — a face that I would trust — to act as a conduit that Shrewsbury might easily wipe his hands clean. I was another Richard Joyce, a little fellow that none would miss. I say this without any self-pity — for I have no desire to be a big fellow that all would miss. My partaking of this journey had reinforced my view that there was little good in the world, and that which did exist was pale, unformed and wriggling next to the doughty forces of the two selfs — self-preservation and self-advancement. So goodbye to Harry Lytle, I supposed. Yet the question remained — who had written me that note, and why?
At Newgate they led me not to the stone hold, but to a single cell on the ground floor. There was a barred window high up the wall casting a soft light onto a dry straw-covered floor. It was bare and almost clean. There was a table and on it was a plate of meat and a flagon of ale. This was something! Who had paid for that, besides?
Sitting at the table I ate and drank as best I could. It was not so difficult for I was getting used to the restrictions, and the sores on my wrists and ankles had begun to rub rough. So this was to be where I spent my last night? Unless my appeal was granted and I was to receive the King’s pardon. Would he not at least cast an eye over an affair that included the killing of his Chief Justice? But what if he did — the evidence had been so artfully caressed that to any man’s eye it would appear that I was guilty, surely? Unless Shrewsbury’s deviations were not yet fully unwound. Perhaps it was in his interest that I be condemned, yet then pardoned; that I might not be killed, yet still be restricted in the tales that I could tell. For had not the trial confirmed the official view of events and provided neat endings for all loose ends? If Shrewsbury had one ounce of a heart beating behind those bony ribs perhaps this was a way of expressing it. Perhaps it was a promise extracted by Hill in exchange for his damned testimony. I began to calculate the minutes and hours that it would take a man to ride to the King’s Palace and then back again to Newgate. It wasn’t a long journey. What did they do if the King was indisposed or not at the Palace? I didn’t know, though I harboured a fear that in such cases the execution was never stayed. These were the thoughts that trooped in circles about my mind as I lay there in lonely contemplation as the light of the day waned and reddened.
Until just before dusk.
‘You has a visitor.’ The gaoler opened the door and stood there unsteadily.
I don’t know who I was expecting, but it wasn’t the Attorney General. He walked in briskly, eyeing my cell as if it were too grand for the likes of me.
‘Good evening, Mr Lytle,’ he declared, pulling the door closed behind him. ‘Please stay seated, I will stand.’ Dark curls tickled his forehead and his head was bare, no periwig now, concerned, no doubt, that it did not become lice infested.
I stood anyway. ‘Have you brought the result of my appeal?’
‘Hah!’ he snapped. ‘The road to Whitehall is long and winding. If you harbour hopes that a man may ride that way and back before your execution, then you are a fool. Is it not already plain to you that you are to die tomorrow?’
It was like a stab to the heart. He looked at me with curling lip, and the hint of a sneer, the face of a man that believes he has done a job well and will brook no argument with any man that would argue otherwise.
‘Why, then, have you come?’
He smiled at me with his shining teeth and fixed me with a stare that willed me to see the world through the same eyes. ‘To tell you that your appeal will not succeed. I would not have you wasting your time indulging in idle fantasy that you will live more than another twelve hours. I am sure that you have many reparations to make with the Lord your God.’
‘That is very good of you. You must be very busy.’
He showed no signs of moving. ‘Indeed I am. It would make my journey worthwhile were you to show me the paper that you read from.’
So that was it. He wanted to know who had prompted me to appeal in the first place. He must be worried to come all the way here just to ask me it. Poor fellow. I fetched the paper from my pocket where it sat screwed up. Unfolding it, I read it once more, and held it out to this awful man. One arm snaked out, whereupon I placed the paper in my mouth and swallowed it whole.
His face froze, then relaxed. ‘No matter, Lytle. I will retrieve it from your guts tomorrow morning. Farewell.’ Turning on his heel, he was gone.
I really didn’t see why he had to be so mean-spirited. But that was his affair. I had my own affair to worry about.
Next morning it was raining and windy. I knew this to be so because it was a drop of rain that woke me, landing on my nose. It could not have made its way through the high barred window without some help from the wind. I was quite pleased, all things considered. A rainy day meant smaller crowds and that all concerned would want to hurry things along so that they may spend as little time possible outside getting wet.