The judge looked different close up. Though his whiskers were very neatly trimmed you could see that they were white. The lines on his face were sort of velvety, suggesting to me that he was extremely advanced in years. Yet I imagined that there was nothing soft about his mind, for his eyes were calm and piercing. He gave the impression that he asked questions merely to confirm what he could already read on your face. Waving a hand in the direction of my shackles, he indicated with a frown to one of the guards that they should be removed. ‘Mr Lytle and Mr Dowling, will you come with me, please?’
‘Sit down,’ he commanded once we had reached his room. It was a small, oak-panelled room with a wooden bench across one wall and several large upholstered chairs scattered about the place. They were fine old chairs, but worn, with the leather fraying and holes beginning to develop like an old man’s liver spots.
The judge crossed his legs and placed his hands in a neat pile upon his lap. ‘Mr Dowling, please tell me what is going on.’
‘My Lord, I think you now have all the facts at your disposal.’
‘Mr Dowling, if I am to believe what I have heard today, then I can only conclude that the Earl of Shrewsbury engaged Mr Lytle here to establish a ludicrous plot that he himself had seeded.’
‘Indeed.’
‘In order to discredit Lord Keeling.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Why then, Mr Dowling, should the Earl of Shrewsbury have invented such a ludicrous story when all he had to do was to expose the fact that Lord Keeling was a Fifth Monarchist and had conspired to kill the King?’
‘He had no evidence, My Lord. Nor could he hope to persuade William Ormonde or Matthew Hewitt to testify.’ I repeated Prynne’s argument as it was spelt out to me.
‘Logical,’ Dowling nodded. ‘Shrewsbury was in no position to make accusations. Had he sent agents to seek out the evidence, then he may quickly have alerted Keeling to his activities and, God knows, no man would want to incur Keeling’s wrath. Keeling would have had him killed.’
‘So he made up this bizarre story.’
‘My Lord, it was very clever. Not only did he appoint Harry, but also he arranged for Harry to have an assistant from the Mayor’s office. This ensured that when Harry uncovered the story it would quickly be recounted to the Mayor without the Earl having to become involved. Indeed, I did take our findings to the Mayor to consult. Sooner or later rumours would have spread. Then Keeling would have been faced with the prospect of having to explain his poor relations with Ormonde, without reference to the real cause. It would have put Lord Keeling in a difficult position, almost certainly all that would have been required to tilt the scales against him.’
‘I don’t know if it was very clever or very foolish.’ The judge shook his head doubtfully. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘Aye, My Lord, and it was cleverer than you think. Shrewsbury knew Keeling well. If such a rumour had spread, then you can be sure that Keeling would have pursued Harry to the ends of the earth to have his vengeance. His part in the affair would thus be lost for ever.’
‘Which is nearly what happened, I am led to believe.’ The judge nodded at me, even looked me in the eye. He still looked unsure. He removed his periwig, revealing very short-cropped white bristles, and scratched himself. ‘How well do you know this man?’ He waved a hand in my direction while looking at Dowling.
‘We had not met before this affair, and so have not known each other long,’ Dowling turned to grin broadly, ‘but I feel I know him well enough now. He has plenty of blood in his body and not a little phlegm. He is rarely choleric and quick to rouse himself from melancholy.’
‘Indeed?’ The judge considered me. ‘And is he honest?’
‘Aye, My Lord, more honest than he knows. I can see why Shrewsbury picked him for the task. Shrewsbury’s only error, I think, was to discredit his intelligence.’
‘Aye,’ the judge nodded grimly, ‘one of the man’s worst faults. He is so busy scheming and plotting that he oft forgets that others are not wholly incapable themselves.’ He pulled his wig back on his head. ‘Ah well, time for a verdict.’
‘Sir!’ I leapt up.
The judge turned to me sombrely.
‘Davy!’ I clenched my fists and struggled to unfreeze my brain. ‘You said that part of Shrewsbury’s plan was that all record of my involvement in the case was to be lost with my demise.’
Now they both stood looking at me, the judge curiously, Davy like I had just realised something he had known for some time. He nodded.
‘So what has Shrewsbury done with my father? He could tell of the letter!’
Dowling put an arm about my shoulder and squeezed me gently. ‘We still haven’t found him, Harry, but we’re still looking.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It is tall or short according to the nature of the soil.
They found my father a week later lying on his back in a watery hollow deep in Byddle Wood. He had been knifed in the guts and struck on the back of the head so hard that pieces of his skull were missing. They found the men that did it too, one of them Robert Burton. Both were tried and hung inside two days. I didn’t go to watch it, but went to Newgate to see the cruel face of my tormentor. When I saw him he was pale and lost, still not come to terms with his fate. He wouldn’t talk to me nor meet my eye, just sat in the corner of his cell with his wrists and ankles manacled, contemplating his poor fortune. Not so intelligent, after all. Shrewsbury was nowhere to be found, naturally — on his way to Holland no doubt.
Soon after it was all over I found myself pushing open the little wooden gate that marked the entry into the graveyard of All Hallows. Negotiating a route through the stones, I headed off the path into the long, wet grass towards the shade of a strangely shaped oak tree, its roots thick and twisted, its lowest branches reaching down to the ground where a child might climb upon it. Its canopy spread far and wide, offering shade to the fifty or more dead souls that lay there. To the far side, north and east, a small plot had been cleared anew and two short, square stones stood there, glistening in the morning sun. On one was carved the name of my father, on the other the name of Richard Joyce. An unlikely pair.
Death comes to all, I know. My father was very put out when they executed Charles I and gave short thrift to those that sought permission for regicide in the Holy Book. Me myself, I don’t really see what the Holy Book has to do with anything. The King’s head was so big they couldn’t get him out of the stables — that was his problem. Death comes to us all in one form or another, sooner or later.
When I was small we came here often as a family. This had been my tree. We stopped coming as my father’s preferences had become more and more extreme. It was like he had stopped thinking for himself and let others define a strict doctrine by which he would live his life. I laid a hand upon the top of my father’s stone. Just a chunk of granite underneath which lay a pile of bones. Yet it gave me some consolation.
I could not help but wonder whether I might have done things differently. I had spent so much time wishing that the whole affair would be finished early and cursing my father for involving me in it. And I had put off going to Cocksmouth until it was too late. And Joyce. I reckon he was probably a good man, a man that deserved better. God knows he wasn’t the only man in London that had met with a poor fate, but he had surely not deserved to end up with his head stuck on a pole for all to mock at, with the birds feeding on his eyes and sharpening their claws on his scalp. It was me that asked that they take down his head and restore it to the rest of his body. What remained of it. They had done it inside a day. That he died bravely and now lay with some dignity — that gave me some consolation too.