The Sweet Smell of Decay by Paul Lawrence Read Free Book Online Page A

father of the dead girl, is a close friend of Keeling’s. They were once neighbours at Epsom.’
    ‘Then why does Shrewsbury help
me
? If Ormonde is Keeling’s friend, then surely Keeling will make special efforts to see the killer brought to justice?’
    Hill took a deep breath and had a drink. ‘Your father asked him for help.’
    My father. Asking Shrewsbury for help to catch the killer of someone I’d never heard of? I would have to talk to him, but he was away in Cocksmouth.
    Watching me like he could read my thoughts, Hill licked his lips. ‘Like I said, Harry, Shrewsbury’s a good patron to have.’ He called for more ale. ‘Tell me more of the murder itself. A knife in the eye and teeth broken, you say? An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. It sounds like a strange and evil act of revenge.’
    ‘Aye,’ I replied, startled, for this had not occurred to me at all. ‘Though what revenge could a man want on Anne Giles?’
    ‘She may have been killed as revenge upon another,’ answered Hill without enthusiasm, shifting his genitals into place with his left hand while smoking with his right. ‘I’ll tell you something for nothing.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘If I was in your place, then I would make speed to Epsom. Now that Ormonde has been informed of his daughter’s death the funeral will be tomorrow or the day after. If you are her cousin then you should be able to gain access.’
    ‘How do you know so much?’
    Hill shrugged, his usual gesture that meant I should mind my own business. Switching his attention to the thin plume of smoke that drifted out of the bowl of his pipe he evaded my efforts to catch his eye, again behaving as if it was I that had sabotaged his affairs. We sat in gloomy silence for a while until he inadvertently poured ale down his nose and nearly choked himself. Then he drenched me in a giant sneeze. Laughing loud despite himself, his mood switched suddenly. He wiped an arm across his mouth and launched into a crazed partisan monologue about the Dutch war. It transpired that he had lost two shipments – of what he would not tell me – one from the Indies and one from Africa. He complained about the superior tactics of the Dutch, and how they beat our navy senseless every time they met. He derided Mings, Sandwich and Barkely in terms that he would not have used outside tavern walls, and generally vented his spleen. Then he downed a pot in one draught as if to draw a curtain upon the subject. It was loud now and the air was hot and full of ale fumes. At the end of the table a group of six men were singing a simple lewdsong at the tops of their voices to the sound of a guitar and flagelette. Two of them sat playing their instruments, while the other four stood with their chests inflated, singing with their eyes screwed up in concentration.
    ‘Come aloft, my little dwarf – have at thee!’ Hill leant over, whisked off my wig and dragged his fingers across my cropped head. I fought him off with a well-aimed punch, then aimed another at his chin. He roared with laughter just before I caught him square, then sat back grinning ruefully, hand on jaw. None called me a dwarf, not even he. I may be short but I am well proportioned and very attractive to women. Lifting his full pot, he drank it down in one great swig before filling it again. More food arrived, and we ate heartily. Hill picked up on a melody that others were developing a short way down the table and began to join in the bawdy songs, singing at the top of his voice and sweating heavily. Leaving him to it I sought out some familiar company who let me touch her and play a little. By eleven the place was a melee of drunken oafs, singing, roaring and staggering stiff-leggedly like frothing horses. Coats got stained, stockings slipped down legs and wigs fell crooked. Hats were danced on and trampled, lace was torn and shoes were scuffed. Hill was in the middle of it singing the loudest as I stumbled out into the silent night.
    I had