‘Good afternoon, Harry Lytle,’ a voice piped clearly in my ear, making me jump so violently that I could not help but fart. I looked up into a familiar, old face.
‘You remember me, then?’ I stood up and straightened my clothes. I felt like an overdressed child.
‘Of course.’ He looked down at the stone then back at me. ‘Why did you ask that they bury them here, and under this tree?’
I turned away from him and towards the stones. ‘This is the only church I know and I knew you would sanction it.’ Which was the truth; I did not spend much time considering it. ‘The tree is the best place to be in this graveyard, the rest of it is lonely and forsaken.’
‘Not by me,’ the rector protested, appearing to be offended, though I knew he was not.
‘Aye, true, but you are too old to visit every grave often.’
The rector laughed. What was I doing here talking to a man of God, I asked myself. When was the last time I gained solace from one of these strange creatures? I regarded closely his lined forehead, his closely cropped white hair. He was just a man.
‘This was not your father’s church recently,’ he gently pointed out.
‘Aye, but it was his church for longest, and I had no appetite to bury him elsewhere.’
The rector grunted. ‘Everyone has been talking about you, Harry. You behaved with great courage and fortitude. You performed great deeds in the eyes of the Lord.’
‘You think so?’
‘You do not?’
I shrugged. It seemed to me it had little enough to do with the Lord. An affair of men.
‘I invite you to come to this church more often, Harry,’ the rector said softly. ‘In accordance with the King’s law, thou knowst.’ He grinned.
‘Would you have me fined?’
He waved a hand. ‘I would have you come of your own free will, Harry. You might come when ye visit your father and Richard Joyce.’
‘They are both dead,’ I reminded him.
The rector grimaced and clicked his tongue. He regarded me out the corner of his eye like I was sent to test him. ‘You have a clean soul, Harry, though perhaps you do not believe it yourself.’
It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. I sighed and bid him walk with me back to the street. I had learnt how evil some men could be. It wasn’t ‘News from Ipswich’ but it was news to me. Hypocrisy and conceit I had lived with all my life, cold-hearted murderous intent was new. I had known of its existence, but not made its acquaintance.
The rector stopped at the gate. ‘This is a place you might come to share those thoughts, Harry.’
‘Aye.’ I stopped too and shook his hand. Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It never has real thorns except on the flower heads; the tiny thorns on the apices of the leaves are almost innocuous.
The air was particularly bad in the kitchen. I had thrown open all the windows before I left, but it hadn’t made much difference. I had thought to scrub and mop things, but I didn’t really know how, so I just sat there a while and relaxed, enjoying the feeling of the day washing past me. The door flew open and crashed against the wall.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Jane stormed into the kitchen with her coat on and carrying a small bag, breathing in the air and pulling a face.
‘I’m sitting here minding my own business. What are you doing?’ I did my best to ignore her.
‘You’re sitting there on your fat arse feeling pleased with yourself is what you’re doing. What the devil is that God-awful stink? The whole house smells like the butcher’s armpit, but this room smells like his crotch.’ She rushed to her cupboard full of cleaning materials, mops, beazoms and polish.
‘There’s a reason for that.’ I leant back and watched her.
‘Aye, no doubt. And what might that be?’ Her muffled voice echoed from inside the closet.
I mulled it over a while, wondered whether I was cruel enough to tell her about the heads. Aye, I decided, I was.
She screamed at me, made me cower with those wild green eyes, made me feel it had been my fault, regarding me as she might a great black roach. ‘Well you will have to find the money for a new table, won’t you — sir?’
I could but agree.
‘I will arrange for this table to be chopped up and taken away. Today. You have money?’
‘Half as much as I had before,’ I admitted, ‘but I have a new job working for the King as a King’s agent. Dowling recommended me.’
‘You, a King’s agent? God have mercy on us all. Bring on the next republic.’ She took off her coat and hung it on a hook. ‘And I thought Mr Dowling was an able man.’
‘I might remind you that you said Hewitt was as guilty as a quire bird.’
‘So he was, wasn’t he?’ she snapped, then disappeared out of the kitchen with her bag. The house shook as she stomped up the stairs.
I reminded myself that it was my house, screwed my courage to the sticking plate and lit up a pipe. I sucked in the smoke and let it run slowly out of my nose. Harry Lytle — King’s agent. A fine young man worth fifty pounds. All in all, a very pleasing conclusion.
The judge had issued an indictment for the arrest of William Hill, much to my satisfaction. He wasn’t able to do much about Shrewsbury — that noble Lord would find it easy enough to dissociate himself from Hill and Burton, but Dowling assured me that he was finished. Be in Holland by morning. Yes, I had done very well — well done, Harry!
‘Harry?’ Jane entered quietly. Unlike her.
‘Yes?’ I tilted back on my chair with my feet on the table and puffed at my pipe.
‘There is a man at the door called Simon. He has a big knife. He says that since you didn’t pay him what you owed him he is come for retribution.’
Boggins!
I fell off my chair and knocked myself unconscious on the hearth.