Free The Sweet Smell of Decay by Paul Lawrence

relatives.
    A large man with a big belly stepped across my path to the inn. He was bald, though a few last remnants of black hair grew wild about his ears. The apron upon which he wrung his hands was dirty and stained, reeking of old beer, wine and sweat. Standing squarely in front of me, he told me that the inn was full, for which I congratulated his good fortune. He wrinkled his nose at me in puzzlement, so I explained to him my purpose.
    Looking me up and down he informed me that it was mostly gentry going – ‘you knows’.
    Straightening my wig I looked down at my clothes. Clean enough, I considered, crumpled maybe. I was wearing dull, black mourning cloth, though my shoes were russet. I didn’t own any black shoes then, and certainly couldn’t afford to buy any just for this one funeral. A decent pair of shoes cost thirty shillings. I asked him (again) with great politeness for access to a pump. Also for the loan of a fresh horse to get me to and from the Ormonde house.
    ‘Aye, though I will have the money first. Touch pot, touch penny. Come in.’ Beneath his apron he wore only a short-sleeved shirt, despite the perishing cold.
    At one end of the large front room was a big roaring fire. Wooden pillars propped up a low ceiling. The floor was made of flagstones, worn and chipped. A long table filled the centre of the room, one end up against the fire where two men sat insilence. A tidy middle-aged woman stood dutiful and smiling next to a barrel of ale. I followed him to the kitchen where he waved a lazy hand at a half-full pail of cloudy water. Things hung suspended in it and its surface glistened with an oily sheen. He waited expectantly.
    ‘Do you know Mr Ormonde?’ I asked, eyeing the water.
    ‘Aye, I know him. Lives on the road to Ashstead. Every man know him.’
    I took off my hat and coat. ‘What is he like?’
    Looking at me suspiciously, he wrinkled his nose again. ‘You going to his house for the funeral and you don’t know him?’
    The water was freezing cold. ‘He is my cousin – my cousin’s father, better said – but I’ve not met him.’
    ‘Not met him?’
    ‘No. What’s he like?’
    ‘He’s tall, thin,’ he stared at my coat, ‘old.’
    I turned, wiping my hands on my thighs. ‘Do you see him often?’
    ‘No. He don’t come in here, squire. This is an inn.’
    ‘Have you seen him walking about the town?’
    ‘He don’t walk about the town, does he? Want ’owt to eat or drink?’
    I looked again at the pail of water. ‘Just a horse.’
    The innkeeper looked at me as if I was mad. ‘We don’t serve horse.’
    He was not joking. What sort of cretins and morons lived out here in the country? Simpletons and whoballs, obviously. I learnt nothing of interest and left, bemused.
     
    Ormonde’s residence was out of town on top of a small hill in its own grounds, walled off from the general population. Today the tall, black, wrought iron gates stood wide open, inviting entry to the wide sweeping driveway, hidden from the fields by a row of poplars on either side. The house was painted white, three storeys high. My borrowed horse trotted up the driveway past seven coaches that stood there waiting. At the door a servant came running up to take the horse from me and to find out who I was and what I wanted. When I told him I was a cousin he hurried off into the house to consult. While I waited I watched the other guests arrive. They were all finely dressed. The men wore long black mourning gowns, black silk sashes across their tunics, black buckles on their shoes and black hats with thin black silk weepers falling down the back. I was the only one there with coloured shoes and the only one wearing a periwig. Though it
was
black.
    After a time a very tall, thin old man emerged, walking stiffly down the low stone steps towards me using a thick cane to support himself on his right side. His face was long and worn, his eyes grey and watery. He regarded me sternly, mouth twitching with