Thistle with a bending head
All the plants that grow freely with us have a nodding head, which feature easily distinguishes it from others and it has no need of further description.
They allowed me to wash, gave me new clothes and removed my manacles for the trial. The clothes did not fit well, were made of rough linen and indeed were not all that clean, but they were a great improvement on those that had begun to stick to my skin down in the putrid environs of the stone hold. I felt like the King of England himself as I walked into the courtroom, my newly shaven head free of lice, my feet and arse mercifully dry.
As we walked down the bright wooden corridor, alive with people going out about their business with energy and commitment, I felt my own soul awaken. It was contagious, and I found myself imagining all kinds of optimistic outcomes. After all, was not my fate in the hands of my closest friend?
My mood changed completely when we entered the courtroom. There was not a face I recognised. To my left was a crowd of men, gentlemen they looked like, gathered in small groups of two or three talking seriously. When I entered, flanked on either side by my guards, all eyes turned to me and the din transformed itself instantaneously into a low buzz. I saw horrified fascination and disgust, timorous excitement, anger and fear. None of these men were my friends. I was escorted to a seat at the front of the court where again I sat with guards on either side, and waited.
The Attorney General and the judge entered together, which did not seem proper to me. They spoke to each other in rapid serious staccato, talking as fast as they walked. Obviously they knew each other well, but were in serious mood. They looked at me together, at the same time, short, sharp glances, then strode on. The Attorney General settled himself to my right where he was immediately engulfed in a small army of assistants that had been following at a distance. The judge climbed a short staircase, sat down and started a conversation with one of the clerks at court. They talked for many minutes, never once looking in my direction. I wondered if any would notice were I to discreetly depart. I doubted whether I was to be a real player in this drama at all.
At last the court was called to order. Now the judge looked at me, peering at me down his long nose with cold, stern eyes as the indictment was read out for all to hear. An old man with a long, narrow face, his lips seemed to be curled inwards in a sign of universal disapproval. I returned his stare for a while, which he didn’t seem to like, for his cheeks went red, so then I looked the other way, towards the prosecutor, upon reflecting that it would not be a good idea to anger the man unnecessarily. The prosecutor was also staring at me, but with a broad, contented smile. A stout fellow, but much younger than the judge. Underneath the edges of his periwig I could see strands of straight black hair, ungreyed and oiled. His brows were thick and black, his eyes a very dark brown, deep and impenetrable. He sat back carelessly with his well-rounded stomach sitting up for all the world to gaze on – if they so cared. After watching me for a while his eyes returned to scanning a paper he held in one hand, just in front of his double chin, caring not if I continued to stare at him, nor who looked away first. Indeed he reminded me of a wealthy merchant sitting in the corner of a coffee house reading the daily news-sheet, happily anticipating a large breakfast.
A clerk began to read a long list of names; Henry Busby of Greatwood Street, George Wheatley of Coleman Street, Richard Gildhart of Friday Street and so on. These were the jurors, sitting on their own bench to our left all in a long row. Another thirty or more stood in a crowd to the left of the bench. All were dressed in their finest silks; dark blues and greens mostly, with brilliant white cuffs and scarves. A fine bunch, indeed. Lords for the day. Those that looked at me now tried to do so in a manner that was both stern and munificent. Today was their finest hour, and it was I that could spoil it for them. The others stood impatiently and anxious, keen that they might be called to serve if others were ejected. Today could be their finest hour too, if I were to make it so.
‘Mr Attorney General.’ The judge addressed my learned colleague in a voice that reminded me of dry toast. ‘Do thee challenge any that hath been selected as juror?’
‘My Lord, I do not,’ my learned colleague replied loudly, smiling at the jury as he did so.
‘Doth the accused challenge any that hath been selected as juror?’ the judge asked without even bothering to look at me. Feeling so small and insignificant as I did, it would have been an effort simply to say ‘nay’ in a very quiet voice, but I stopped myself from it. The judge was such a dreadfully pompous bag of goose bones that I did not feel inclined to make his day easy. I felt sure that his idea of this easy day was a quick guilty verdict; so the sooner I woke him up the better. The judge looked up with weary impatience, sure, no doubt, either that I was too dull to know that it was my place to speak, or that I was too timorous. Turning my attention to the jurors I ignored him.
Of the twelve, five were looking at me. I could not pretend that they were friendly, but at least they were looking at me. The other seven were sitting with their finely sculpted chins held high in the air or were seeking to establish sympathetic eye contact with the judge, or both.
I stood up. ‘Aye, I challenge seven.’ The guards stood up too, flustered, and the judge looked at me with real hatred.
‘Tyburn calls,’ whispered one of the guards into my ear. It was the first thing I had heard him speak.
‘I challenge seven, My Lord.’
All of the jurors were looking at me now, suddenly concerned, afraid that this great day was to be taken from them. It suddenly occurred to me that those I left behind would feel compelled to show that they felt no gratitude to me. No matter, I had chosen my path, so now was the time to walk it.
‘Which?’ the judge snapped.
‘Well, I forget their names, but I can point them out to you.’
‘Do so!’
The guards showed no sign of allowing me to pass, so I extended my arm and pointed carefully at each of the seven. The first blinked and looked at me disbelievingly. He seemed surprised to learn that I was even in the room. No matter. The seven of them walked off, shoulders slumped. Back to work you leery rascals. Seven more took their place. After watching them for a while, three returned my stare and four of them stood self-consciously straight backed, gazing forwards. Those four went. Those four were replaced. Of those four all went. Of the next four I kept two, and so on. Finally we were left with a new jury all of whom now stared at me.
By now the judge looked ready to chew on his desk. ‘Mr Attorney General,’ he snarled. ‘Do thee challenge any that hath been selected as juror?’
‘I do not, My Lord.’ The Attorney General looked across at me with laughing eyes like I had made his day more interesting.
‘Thanks be!’ exclaimed the judge, turning to me again. ‘Thy plea is self-defence. Be that still the case, or do thee seek to change that besides?’
‘No, My Lord. My plea remains that of self-defence.’
‘Very well, then call the first witness,’ the judge said more calmly, flicking the instruction at his chief clerk as he spoke.
‘Mr William Marmaduke Hill!’ the clerk summoned solemnly.
Marmaduke? It was with some discomfort that I heard the unfamiliar name. If we were such friends then how was it that I didn’t know he had the name of Marmaduke? Looking over my shoulder I saw the benches were full now, of clerks and other anonymous-looking fellows, sitting in groups, some of them with notebooks and quills, others with nothing at all, yet still poised to do something, go somewhere, take a message, run an errand. Then the doors opened and Hill appeared, escorted by one of the court clerks. Though it was I who was on trial, it was he that walked as if fettered in chains. Shoulders slumped and head rigid, like he was afraid to look about him for fear of being beaten with a stick. He took short, slow strides towards the witness box as if it were his own scaffold. The old brown shoes had been replaced with new, shiny black shoes with a large brass buckle. He coughed a lot and was sweating about his brow even though it was cold. A very fat man, I reflected, who did not look odd in the corner of a dark tavern at night, but in the cold, bright light of the courtroom he looked out of place and uncomfortable. Only once as he stood in the dock alone did his eyes wander curiously about the courtroom. When he saw me sat there opposite, his eyes dropped and so did his head. I fancied he had been hoping I would be absent.
‘What is your name?’ The clerk stood with his back to Hill speaking very loudly and looking at the ceiling.
‘William Hill of Basinghall Street.’ It wasn’t loud enough for the judge who made him repeat himself. The clerk sat down and the Attorney General stood up.
‘Mr Hill.’ The Attorney General stuck his chest out so far that his belly sat almost unnoticed just above his belt.
‘Yes?’ Hill looked up at his inquisitor, and none other.
‘Describe to me your profession, if you will?’
‘I am a merchant.’
‘A merchant of what?’
‘A merchant of goods.’ I recognised his reluctance to divulge any one thing.
The Attorney General licked his lips and smiled with all his teeth. ‘What goods, Mr Hill?’
‘Various goods,’ Hill glowered at him. ‘I inherited my father’s business and I import goods from outside England, and sell them inside England.’
‘A merchant, then?’ The Attorney General spoke as if it was a new revelation. The jury were looking at him as if he were either a little mad or very intelligent. He had their attention in any case.
Hill didn’t bother replying, just looked at the Attorney General resignedly in anticipation of further bothersome questions.
‘In the case that we are here to speak of today, Mr Hill, I believe that you had a particular role, did you not?’ The Attorney General leant forward with his hands on his desk. ‘A role unrelated to that of merchant?’
‘Aye. I was paid by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles.’ That could not be right. I stared at him, keen to catch his eye.
‘Lord Shrewsbury, acting Lord Chief Justice?’ The Attorney General rolled the last three words round his mouth like a large plum. Shrewsbury had already supplanted Keeling? That was quick work! In which case Shrewsbury had appointed this judge and Shrewsbury it was that had arranged this trial so that I could not call my own witnesses, nor seek help to make my case. Godamercy – it was worse than it could be!
‘Aye, the same.’
‘The defendant, Mr Harry Lytle, has also made claim that he was employed by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles. Is that correct?’
‘Yes,’ I replied loudly. The Attorney General froze, dramatically, and turned to face me very, very slowly, with an appalled expression upon his face. Everyone else in the court took his lead, except Hill. The judge breathed noisily through his nose as if he couldn’t force his mouth to open.
‘The defendant will not speak again unless I ask him a question directly. If he speaks again then he will be taken away from this place and the proceedings shall continue without him.’ He looked at me severely. ‘Does the court understand?’
The court murmured its assent. I tried to look suitably chastened.
‘Mr Hill.’ The Attorney General returned to his witness with great fortitude, still struggling to recover from the shock. ‘Mr Lytle has also made claim that he was employed by Lord Shrewsbury to investigate the death of Anne Giles. Is that correct?’
‘No.’ Hill shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Mr Lytle was asked to investigate the death of Anne Giles by his father, who was mistakenly of the belief that Anne Giles was a relation of the family.’
‘A relation of the family?’ The Attorney General looked suitably perplexed. ‘Can it really be so?’
‘Aye, sir. I have a letter to that effect.’
‘May I see the letter?’ the Attorney General asked, one of his clerks hurrying forward to the witness box. Hill fished out a letter from within the folds of his jacket and handed it to the clerk. Well, I didn’t see how this could fly. How could that be my letter?
‘Allow me to read the letter, My Lord.’ The Attorney General bowed to the judge, who nodded his head.
‘Son.’ The Attorney General declared solemnly, pausing for comic effect. Members of the jury sniggered dutifully. I began to despise this preening cockerel.
‘Still here. In this lairy place.’ Cue widespread laughter.
‘Your mother seems happy, tho. Must be the pigs that they breed here coz she likes pigs.’ The clerks were laughing now with mouths wide open and hands to their stomachs, seeing who could make the most noise. The jury were not much more restrained. Even the judge smiled. Looking thoroughly ashamed of himself, looking at the toes of his feet, only Hill was not amused. So it should be. It was clear which way he had chosen to walk.
‘Nothing to gladden a man’s heart in Cocksmouth. Nothing for me to do save help her brother in the shed. Can’t make shoes here. You caring for the shop? Some hope.’ Disapproving groans from the Attorney General’s willing audience. It was almost artistic the way he orchestrated their reactions. I had to acknowledge his expertise.
‘I note you haven’t been to visit. Your mother notes it too.’ More of the same.
‘You have a cuz, name of Anne. Married to a man called John Giles. Don’t think you knew your cuz Anne. Not likely to now coz she dead. Someone killed her. I took the liberty of telling Mr Prynne esq. that you have to leave his employ.’ There were some low groans and mutterings at the mention of Prynne’s name.
‘We’ll be back when your grandmother has died. About time, I say.’ The paid help behind me gasped their horror at such callous words and the jury turned to look at me, eyes burning with affronted loathing. Me? I just sat there fuming. Some villain had taken this letter from my house – which implied prior knowledge of its existence. And where the boggins was my father?
‘Mr Hill,’ cried the Attorney General in a strident tone designed to bring the court to order. ‘Did you succeed in establishing who murdered Anne Giles?’
‘Aye, sir. A man named Richard Joyce killed Anne Giles and was hung for it.’ I looked at Hill. This was a lesson. The face of a man telling a very big lie. This was the same man that had casually dismissed the possibility that Joyce was the killer and had urged me hasten to Epsom.
The Attorney General feigned puzzlement. ‘The accused protested against Joyce’s indictment and said that in fact he did not kill Anne Giles and that there was none that saw him do it. That he was merely seen running from the church of St Bride’s …’ he paused for theatrical effect ‘… in fear.’
Hill said nothing.
‘Who was this man Joyce?’
Hill cleared his throat and wiped his brow. ‘Joyce was an old soldier, a Roundhead. He was injured on the field of battle, an injury that left him unbalanced, indeed mad. He had been trepanned.’ The jurors all wrinkled their noses in revolted synchronicity. ‘He was a man that often showed signs of furious rage. The killing itself was not witnessed, true, but he was seen running the streets of London with blood all over his hands, on his clothes and on his face. Later the girl’s necklace was found about his person. All this was shown at his trial.’
‘A trial conducted by Lord Keeling,’ the Attorney General finished, looking to Hill for confirmation. Hill nodded.
‘How did the accused respond to the conviction of Richard Joyce?’
‘He was unhappy and came to talk to me.’
The Attorney General sat down. ‘Why did he come to talk to you? Did he know that you were conducting the enquiry on behalf of Lord Shrewsbury?’
Hill at last turned to look in my direction. His eyes were rheumy, red-rimmed and bloodshot. He looked very tired. ‘No, he did not. Harry Lytle is an old friend of mine. We went to Cambridge together.’ More gasps from the audience. I sat back, vexed. Not only was the sole witness testifying to my own misguided depravity, but he was doing so from the perspective of ‘old friend’. Old friend, indeed. I narrowed my eyes, bared my teeth and glowered at Hill, who quickly looked away.
‘So he came to you as an old friend.’ The Attorney General waved a hand in my direction. ‘What did you advise him as an old friend?’
‘I advised him to go to Epsom to make peace with the Ormonde family.’ Not entirely untrue, I supposed.
‘What did he do instead?’ The Attorney General stood up again suddenly with arms outstretched, succeeding in focussing the jury’s attention on Hill.
‘He was certain that Anne Giles had been killed by Matthew Hewitt of Basinghall Street. He believed that John Giles had been blackmailing Matthew Hewitt and that Hewitt murdered his wife as a warning to him.’
‘Could that have been the case?’
‘No, sir. It is inconceivable that a man as esteemed as Matthew Hewitt would kill Anne Giles, especially if you consider the manner in which she was killed. It is clear that Anne Giles was killed in a mad frenzy by Richard Joyce.’
‘But Hewitt was a bit of a scoundrel?’ The Attorney General winked. Oh aye, a bit of a ruffian and a scallywag. Again I had to congratulate the Attorney General for the way he was leading his jury. Meantime they sat there all self-important.
‘He may have been,’ Hill nodded, ‘but no more than that. The Exchange is a place where hard words are often spoken and agreements sealed by a handshake. I think that Harry Lytle mistook what he saw there. I have a better understanding, since it is my trade.’
‘Mistook what he saw there, you say.’ The Attorney General grasped his chin between forefinger and thumb. ‘How did this ignorance manifest itself, I wonder?’
‘He came down to the Exchange and followed Matthew Hewitt about the place. It was inconvenient for Hewitt since it prohibited him going about his business as he would.’
‘How do you know that the accused went to the Exchange and followed him about the place?’
‘I was there and saw it.’
There was one of the jurors that I was beginning to loathe with a passion. He kept looking over at me, shaking his head and tutting audibly.
‘I see.’ The Attorney General shuffled some papers in silence. The jurors’ heads slowly stretched outwards in his direction, necks craned, as if to try and read those papers. ‘John Giles died soon after, did he not?’
‘Aye, he did.’ Hill’s eyes started to dart and flicker and he started shuffling again.
‘How did he die?’
‘He hung himself by the neck,’ Hill replied.
‘Godamercy,’ I muttered to myself. I turned to the guard on my left and whispered into his ear. ‘That is the biggest lie he has spoken today!’
The court quietened and I found myself being stared at once more. The guard inched himself away from me, looking embarrassed. I could feel the judge’s stern gaze upon me though I chose not to meet his stare. The prosecutor shook his head slowly and smiled sympathetically at me. I waited for the judge to speak, but it was the prosecutor that broke the silence.
‘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.
‘Aye, well once he had seemingly killed Hewitt he took a knife from his pocket and cut the man’s tongue out.’ I gasped myself at this atrocity – the atrocity that Hill should lay the ownership of that barbaric act at my door. The rest of the court started shouting curses at me because they believed it. It took the clerks some minutes to restore order while I sat there embarrassed and fuming. Hill looked at me again, this time openly and boldly. So – he had finally sold his soul and cared not who knew it.
Puffing up his chest and straightening his jacket he declared in loud voice, ‘Then he nailed it onto the trapdoor and walked out in a tremendous fury!’
I wondered from where I had got hammer and nail in this derelict hovel, but did not of course have the opportunity to ask. It was several minutes before the clerks could persuade the assembled throng to at least stop shouting and wailing. The judge sat impassive throughout, eyes fixed on my miserable self. When he cleared his throat all were quiet. ‘Doth the accused understand the testimony that hath been spake thus far?’ He leant forward and eyed me like his lunch.
‘I understand it,’ I replied, attempting to establish that did not mean that I agreed it was true without incurring the judge’s wrath.
‘Very well. Proceed!’
‘Mr Hill,’ the Attorney General said in a whisper, so that all had to hush in order to hear him speak, ‘what did the accused do next? Was this not enough?’
‘No, sir. For he then went to Epsom.’
‘Why did he do that?’
A better question would have been – when did he do that? Hill had the timings all wrong.
‘I think it was because I advised him, if you will recall.’
‘Ah yes! You had suggested to him earlier that he go to Epsom to make peace with the family of Anne Ormonde.’
‘Aye, sir, well now he did go. I don’t know why he decided to go at this particular time, but I think it may have been to deliver his account of the death of Anne Ormonde and the motives behind it.’
‘I see. That is logical.’
Very logical now that the order of events had been so neatly amended.
‘Aye, well, whatever the reason he went, he was not permitted audience. Neither William Ormonde nor any of his family was willing to speak to him. He was not of their family, of course, and they were in mourning.’
‘Understandable. So he came home again.’
‘No, sir.’
‘No?’
‘No. He went to see a woman called Elizabeth Johnson.’
‘Who is Elizabeth Johnson?’
‘She is an old woman who used to be nanny to Anne Ormonde, and Jane Keeling besides.’
‘Jane Keeling is the daughter of Lord Keeling?’
‘Aye sir, she was. She died of a fever ten years ago.’
‘I see. And why did the accused go to see Elizabeth Johnson?’
‘I don’t know what led him to her house, but once he made acquaintance then I fear that he allowed himself to be led astray once more.’ Hill paused, confident now. The Attorney General saw it, and let him have his moment. ‘She is a very old woman and is known at Epsom for being weak in the head. The accused would not know this, since he does not come from Epsom.’
‘Aye, naturally. Well, she told the accused a tall tale that Jane Keeling took her own life because she was with child, and that the child was fathered by William Ormonde.’
‘How so?’ The Attorney General cut short the hysteria that threatened to engulf the court once more, his whole body proclaiming the absurdity of the idea.
‘Aye, sir – an absurd notion, but the woman is very old and, it is said, is prone to fabricating such stories. Those that know her humour her in this, because she is old and has given many years of service to some great families at Epsom.’
‘Indeed.’ The Attorney General bowed his head. At least they weren’t going to accuse her of being a witch.
‘Aye, well at this the accused became convinced that he had been misled. He became sure that it was Keeling himself that had killed Anne Ormonde, and John Giles besides, as revenge upon William Ormonde.’
‘Ludicrous.’ The Attorney General shook his head doubtfully. ‘That an old woman might peddle strange tales is one thing, that the accused should credit such tales is another. Are you sure it was so?’
‘Yes, sir. I am sure.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, what he did next was proof of it.’ Hill looked at me again. Black bottomless pits. Here we go. The coup de grâce. Keeling had asked me to puff out my chest that the sword would glide easily through my ribs. I had escaped then, but I saw no way out now. Hill kept his eyes on mine as he told the tale of how I had disinterred the body of Jane Keeling. The court exploded in a frenzy of collective rage. There were only two souls that stayed calm while the storm raged above our heads – the only two that knew the truth of it – myself and Hill. Hill, my old friend and confidant, stood six paces from me, weaving with his tongue the web that would entrap me, watching me with steady black eyes while he did it. Seemed to me that moment lasted many minutes. It was a reckoning of sorts. Slowly the din subsided and the court was silent again, the audience awaiting the final act.
‘What then, Mr Hill?’
‘He left Epsom and returned to London in haste to find Keeling and confront him.’
‘How so, Mr Hill? If he disinterred the body of Jane Keeling then surely he must have been dissuaded from the foul notion he had heard from the lips of Elizabeth Johnson?’
Hill shrugged. ‘The body was ten years old. There is no telling what he thought he had found.’ Very neat.
‘So he flew to London?’
‘Aye, I think that someone at Keeling’s residence was unwise enough to inform him that Keeling was at the church of St Bride’s, praying for the soul of Anne Ormonde.’
‘God have mercy.’ The Attorney General put an arm across his chest and looked to the floor with his eyes closed.
‘The Lord preserveth the faithful,’ replied Hill, adopting the same pose. God have mercy indeed. On Hill’s worm-ridden, crumbly black soul.
‘What happened at the church?’
‘I arrived late,’ Hill shook his head mournfully. ‘I found them in the vestry. Just as I entered I witnessed the accused thrust a knife into Keeling’s heart. He died in my arms.’
‘In my house have I found their wickedness, saith the Lord,’ the Attorney General whispered.
And so fell the curtain on a wondrous performance. Of course the audience did not stand and applaud rapturously, they didn’t shout for more and refuse to cease until the players lined up before them to take a bow. But the effect was the same. The jurors began talking to each other, telling each other what wickedness lurked within the hearts of men, asking themselves if they could truly believe that one man could be capable of such sins, assuring each other that they had a God-given duty to make sure that these sins were punished in public, that the people should see what happens when man gives way to the demons that betimes may cling to his back. When Hill descended from the dock, helped by two clerks, the Attorney General stepped forward and put an arm around his shoulders and uttered sympathetic words. Me? I just sat there, a man condemned.
‘The jury will now retire to consider their verdict,’ announced the judge, in slow sombre tone. ‘They will consider that there are three possible verdicts.’
The jury ceased their pratings and listened to their instructions.
‘Acquittal is not a possible verdict, for the accused hath pleaded self-defence.’ The jurors nodded wisely.
‘To deliver a verdict of self-defence the jury must be of the opinion that Lord Keeling set about the accused with murderous intent. In this case it hath been established that the accused sought out Lord Keeling whilst of unsound mind and with the blood of Matthew Hewitt already on his hands. A verdict of self-defence would not be a wise verdict under such circumstance.’ The jurors all faithfully shook their heads.
‘A verdict of provocation doth imply that the accused was motivated to kill Lord Keeling because of the sins of Lord Keeling against his person. In this case there is no evidence that the Lord Chief Justice was guilty of any such actions.’ The jurors smiled as if the notion was absurd.
‘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.’