The King's Evil E-Book

Edward Marston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Restoration
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 465

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

A PERILOUS INVESTIGATION IN THE HEART OF LONDON RAVAGED BY THE GREAT FIRE September 1666. Meeting in the ashes of a devastated London, Christopher Redmayne, an architect with Cavalier instincts, and Jonathan Bale, a Puritan constable, are hardly kindred spirits. Redmayne dedicates himself to rebuilding the city that Bale believes was destroyed by its own inner corruption. The two men are thrown together when they catch thieves who are stealing from the house that Redmayne has designed for Sir Ambrose Northcott. The foul murder of Sir Ambrose joins them again, albeit reluctantly, in a complex and dangerous investigation that takes them through the brothels and gaming houses of Restoration London, right to the heart of the King's court.

Leseprobe

The King’s Evil

EDWARD MARSTON

To Louis Silverstein andMonty Montee of Phoenix, Arizona.Good friends and bibliophiles supreme.

‘O! lay that hand upon me Adored Caesar! and my faith is such, I shall be heal’d, if that my KING but touch. The Evill is not yours: my sorrow sings, Mine is the Evill, but the cure, the KINGS.’

ROBERT HERRICK

‘I was yesterday in many meetings of the principal Cittizens, whose houses are laid in ashes, who in stead of complaining, discoursed almost of nothing, but of a survey of London, and a dessein for rebuilding.’

HENRY OLDENBURG’S LETTER TO ROBERT BOYLE, 10TH SEPTEMBER 1666

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphMapsPROLOGUECHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENThe Restoration seriesThe Railway Detective seriesThe Captain Rawson seriesAbout the AuthorAvailable from ALLISON & BUSBYCopyright

PROLOGUE

September, 1666

The month of September had scarcely begun when a new disaster struck an already beleaguered city. London had been savaged without mercy by the Great Plague, frozen to the marrow by a cold winter then blistered in a hot, dry, unrelenting summer which bred drought, discontent and fresh outbreaks of virulent disease. Even the oldest inhabitants of the capital could not recall a more intense period of suffering but they consoled themselves – between weary curses at a malign Fate – with the thought that they had now endured misery enough and that their situation could only improve.

Then came the fire.

It brought Jonathan Bale awake in the middle of the night. He sat bolt upright for a few seconds then clambered unwillingly out of bed.

‘What ails you?’ asked his wife, stirring in the dark.

‘Nothing, Sarah,’ he said.

‘Then why have you got up?’

‘Go back to sleep. I did not mean to wake you.’

‘Are you unwell, Jonathan?’

‘No,’ he said, putting a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘I am in good health ‒ thank God ‒ though it is as much your doing as the Almighty’s. I am blessed in a wife who cooks and cares for me so wondrously well. You have earned your rest, Sarah. Take it. Sleep on.’

‘How can I when you are so disturbed?’

‘I am not disturbed.’

‘Then why did you wake up with such a start?’

‘I must have had a bad dream.’

‘You never have dreams of any kind,’ she said, sitting up in bed and stifling a yawn. ‘I am the dreamer in the family. Every night is filled with them. But not you. Your mind seems to have no fancies. Now tell me what is going on.’

‘Nothing that need upset you,’ he soothed.

‘Tell me.’

‘In the morning, perhaps. Not now.’

‘Stop trying to fob me off.’

‘Sarah—’

‘And I’ll not be Sarah’d into silence,’ she warned with a tired smile. ‘I have not been married to you all these years without learning your ways and your moods. You are a man who sleeps soundly in his bed. Much too soundly at times for I have had to rouse you more than once of a morning. Only something very unusual could have made you wake up of a sudden like that. What was it?’

‘I do not know,’ he said with a shrug, ‘and that is the truth of it, Sarah. I simply do not know.’

Jonathan Bale was a big, solid, serious man whose frame seemed to fill the small bedchamber. Now in his late thirties, he still retained the muscles which he had developed during his years as a shipwright and, despite the excellence of his wife’s cooking, there was not a superfluous ounce of fat on his body. The same could not be said of Sarah. Motherhood had rounded her hips and filled out her thighs, buttocks and breasts. A good appetite helped to complete the transformation of a slim, attractive young woman into a plump but still comely matron. Jonathan had marked no change in her. To his loving eye, she was still the same Sarah Teague whom he had met and married nine years earlier.

He sat on the bed and slipped a comforting arm around her.

‘There is no point in the two of us losing sleep,’ he said.

‘Neither of us need lose it. Come back to bed.’

‘No, Sarah. Not yet. You lie down again.’

‘Not until you tell me what this is all about.’

‘I have told you. I honestly do not know.’

‘When you came awake, you let out a little yell.’

‘Did I?’

‘What provoked it?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Was it fear? Pain? Foreboding?’

‘I wish I knew,’ he sighed. ‘It was almost as if someone shook me awake. There was a sense of alarm. I felt that I was being summoned.’

‘You are not on duty now, Jonathan.’

‘A constable is always on duty.’

‘Even in the middle of the night?’

‘If he is called, Sarah.’

‘But what on earth has called you?’

‘That is what I intend to find out.’

He kissed her gently on the forehead then eased her back down on the pillow before crossing to the window. Opening the shutters, he looked out into the unrelieved blackness of Addle Hill. Familiar smells assaulted his nostrils and the open sewer which ran down the lane was especially pungent on a warm night. Dogs roamed and foraged, cats fought a distant battle over territory. Footsteps dragged laboriously as a drunken reveller tried to stagger home. But there was nothing to be seen beyond the vague outlines of the buildings opposite. All was exactly as he would have expected to find it at such an hour yet Jonathan Bale remained quietly perturbed. Instinct told him that something was amiss. It troubled him that he could not detect what it was. He stayed at the window until his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness and allowed him to take a fuller inventory of the lane. He could even pick out the inn sign of the White Swan now and the massive bulk of Baynard’s Castle emerged from the gloom like a cliff face.

But nothing untoward came into view. The city was peaceful.

Sarah was torn between fatigue and impatience.

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said, closing the shutters. ‘I was mistaken.’

‘Good.’

‘It must have been a dream, after all.’

‘Just come back to bed.’

‘I will.’ He climbed in beside her and pulled the bedsheet over him. ‘I am sorry that I woke you,’ he said, giving her an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Good night, Sarah.’

‘Good night.’

Nestling into him, she was asleep within minutes but her husband remained wide awake. He had an overwhelming sense of being needed to fight some undisclosed emergency. It made him fretful. London, his birthplace and home, the sovereign city which he loved so much and helped to patrol so conscientiously, was in grave danger yet he was unable to go to its aid. His frustration steadily grew until he had to fight to contain it. London was imperilled. While his wife surrendered once more to the sweetness of her dreams, Jonathan Bale’s fevered mind was restlessly pacing the streets of the capital in search of the latest terror.

CHAPTER ONE

The fire was cunning. It was no more than a dying ember in a Pudding Lane bakehouse when Thomas Farriner, the proprietor, checked his oven and the five other hearths on the premises before retiring to bed at midnight on that first Saturday of the month. Having deceived the practised eye of the baker, the fire rekindled itself with glee and crept stealthily around the ground floor of the house until it had wrapped every stick of furniture in its hot embrace. By the time the occupants caught their first whiff of smoke, it was far too late. Leaping from their beds, they found their descent cut off by a burning staircase so they were forced to escape through an upstairs window and along the gutter to a neighbouring house. Not all of them made the rooftop journey. Frightened at the prospect of a hazardous climb, the maidservant chose to remain in her room and was slowly roasted to death.

The fire tasted flesh. There was no holding it now.

Enlisting the aid of a sharp northeast wind, it sent a shower of sparks across Pudding Lane and into the coach-yard of the Star Inn, setting alight the heaps of hay and straw piled against the wooden galleries. Word was immediately sent to the Lord Mayor. Sir Thomas Bludworth, roused from his slumbers at his home in Maiden Lane, rode irritably to the scene to survey the fire. It caused him no undue tremors. What he saw was nothing more than a typical local blaze which would soon spend itself and leave only limited damage behind. It did not justify any official action from him.

‘Pish!’ he said with contempt. ‘A woman might piss it out.’

And he returned swiftly to his bed with a clear conscience.

But the contents of every chamber pot in England could not have doused the fire now. It mocked the Sabbath with the flames of Hell and turned a day of rest into a continuous ordeal. Wafted by the rising wind, the fire was carried irresistibly across the cobbles of Pudding Lane and down towards the timber sheds and stalls of Fish Street Hill. The littered alleys which led from Thames Street to the river were soon ablaze and the stacks of wood and coal on the wharves made a suicide pact with the bales of goods in the warehouses and with the barrels of tallow oil and spirits in the cellars, flinging themselves onto the flames and turning a troublesome fire into a raging inferno. Houses, tenements, shops, inns, stables and even churches were alight. When the indifferent Lord Mayor was hauled once more from his complacent bed, dozens of buildings had already been destroyed and the fire was spreading relentlessly.

Billingsgate Ward was in a state of utter chaos. The narrow streets and alleys made it a most difficult part of the city in which to fight a fire. Householders were in a complete quandary, not knowing whether to flee with whatever they could carry or try to beat back the flames. The noise was indescribable. The few fire engines which were rushed to the scene proved hopelessly inadequate and the leather buckets of water which were thrown on the blaze produced no more than hisses of derision. Heat and smoke drove the firefighters back with brutal unconcern. They had lost the battle at its very outset. Roaring in triumph, the fire revelled in its invincibility. No part of the city was safe now.

When the alarm was raised, Jonathan Bale was three-quarters of a mile away in Baynard’s Castle Ward but he heard it clearly. Bells were rung, drums were beaten and pandemonium was carried freely on the wind. He jumped out of his bed and rushed to the window, flinging back the shutters to look up at a sky which was brightly illumined by the false dawn of a fire. This was the crisis which had brought him so rudely awake earlier on. He groped for his clothes.

‘What is it?’ murmured his wife, still half asleep.

‘A fire,’ he said.

‘Where?’

‘On the other side of the city. I must help to fight it.’

‘But it is not in your parish.’

‘I am needed, Sarah.’

‘Let someone else take care of it.’

‘I have to go.’

‘Now?’

‘At once.’

‘Why?’

It was a rhetorical question. Jonathan Bale’s sense of duty knew no boundaries. Wherever and whenever an emergency arose, he would lend his assistance without a second thought. Other constables stayed strictly within the bounds of their own parish and few ventured outside their respective wards but Jonathan was different. Imbued with ideals of civic responsibility, he treated the whole of London as his territory. If the city was under threat in any way, he would race to its defence.

When he was dressed, he gave his wife a hurried kiss before letting himself out of the house. Long strides took him around the first corner into Thames Street and he headed eastward. The bending thoroughfare with its tall buildings on both sides obscured the fire from him at first but its glare guided his footsteps. Distant panic gradually increased in volume. Still in night attire, a few people were stumbling out of their houses to ask what was going on. They showed curiosity rather than apprehension, secure in the knowledge that the fire was much too far away to affect them or their property. The further he went, the more people he encountered and Jonathan was soon having to pick his way through a small crowd.

The sky was now lit as if by a noonday sun. He was over halfway there when he heard the full-throated roar of the fire. Eager to reach the scene, Jonathan broke into a trot and dodged the anxious citizens who now poured out of their homes in disarray as they sensed an impending catastrophe. Thames Street was turning into a cauldron of fear and confusion. Men shouted, women screamed, children cried and animals expressed their own alarm. The noise was deafening and an acrid smell grew fouler with each second. Jonathan ran on through the commotion. He was soon having to buffet a path with his broad shoulders. Fire was an ever-present menace in London and, in his time, he had seen many but none of them compared in scale and ferocity with the blaze which now confronted him.

When he rounded a bend, he saw a sheet of yellow flame advancing slowly towards him, eating its way along Thames Street with a voracious appetite and swallowing everything down to the riverfront. Smoke billowed in the swirling wind. A series of violent explosions went off as the fire found new stocks of combustible material in yards, cellars and warehouses. Jonathan came to an abrupt halt and stared in horror at the grotesque firework display. Expecting a degree of danger, he was instead looking into the jaws of death. This crisis was potentially more threatening than the Great Plague and far more immediate.

The fire was still some distance away but its warm fingers were already bestowing lascivious caresses on his face. Jonathan gritted his teeth and moved on. Thames Street was in turmoil. The panic-stricken families who tumbled out of their houses were met by the first fleeing victims of the fire. Carts, coaches and packhorses bore the most precious possessions of those whose homes were already doomed. People unable to afford transport of any kind simply carried what they could in their arms. Jonathan saw a man bent double under the weight of a heavy sack and an old lady staggering along with a spinning wheel. Two small children dragged their meagre belongings over the cobbles in a tattered bedsheet. Three men lugged a stout oak table.

When he got closer to the blaze, Jonathan saw the most stark evidence yet of its power. Even the rats were leaving, darting out of their hiding places in wild profusion and joining the general exodus. Three of them scampered uncaringly over the constable’s shoes. Cats and dogs bade clamorous farewells as they scuttled away but not all animals were fortunate enough to escape. Crazed horses kicked and neighed in burning stables. A donkey brayed for mercy in the heart of the fire. A goat was trapped in a blazing garden and searched feverishly for an exit. Geese honked in a locked shed. Chickens clucked their noisy requiems. Pigeons too slow to leave their perches found their wings singed as soon as they took to the air and they plummeted to instant death. Creatures who lived in thatch, crevice or timber were extinguished with callous delight. No living thing was spared.

Jonathan paused to assess where he could be most useful. The fire engines were defunct and it was left to chains of men, passing buckets of water along, to continue the fight. Heat was now so fierce that they were pushed further and further back. When water was hurled, it did not even reach the flames in some cases. Braving the pain, Jonathan took his turn at the head of a chain, snatching a leather bucket from the man behind him and flinging its contents at the blazing doorway of a house. His bucket was exchanged for a full one and he emptied that at the same target. It was all to no avail. Whipped up by the wind, the fire was spreading with increased fury. It was clear that buckets of water would never contain the blaze, still less quell it. There was an additional problem. The dry summer had left water levels very low and there was an unsteady flow from the conduits. Buckets took longer than usual to fill and Jonathan was soon having to wait minutes for a fresh supply of water to be passed along to him. The fire raged on inexorably.

The building suddenly crumbled to the ground in front of them and forced them to jump back. The man beside Jonathan – a tall, thin, wiry individual with rolling eyes – flung up his arms in despair.

‘It is hopeless!’ he wailed.

‘The fire must be checked,’ said Jonathan. ‘They must pull down a row of houses in its path and create a firebreak.’

‘The Lord Mayor has forbidden it.’

‘Why?’

‘He fears the cost involved in rebuilding.’

‘Would he rather lose the entire city?’

‘Sir Thomas would not give the order.’

‘Somebody must,’ insisted Jonathan. ‘Where did the fire start?’

‘Who knows?’ said the man. ‘I was fast asleep when the alarm was raised. By the time I got here, Fish Street Hill was ablaze and the houses at the northern end of the bridge were alight. In the past half-hour, we have been driven back a hundred yards or more. We are powerless.’

‘Fire posts must be set up at once.’

‘Tell that to the Lord Mayor.’

‘More water!’

‘What is the point?’

‘We must fight on!’ urged Jonathan, exhorting the others in the chain. ‘More water there! Keep the buckets coming! We must not give in. Something may yet be saved.’

It was a forlorn hope. Though he tossed gallons of water at the fire, he made no discernible impact. It blazed up defiantly in front of him and encroached on both sides. Hysteria mounted. Many people fled west along the crowded thoroughfare but most scurried towards the river with their belongings, hoping to put the broad back of the Thames between themselves and certain extinction, only to find the myriad boats and lighters already filled with frightened refugees. Quick to take advantage of the situation, watermen doubled and trebled their prices before rowing their passengers to the uncertain safety of Bankside. When they scrambled ashore with their money, their furniture, their musical instruments and anything else they had salvaged, they looked back at a fire which seemed to engulf the whole of the riverfront from London Bridge to Dowgate and beyond. Flames danced madly on the water as the Thames mirrored the calamity.

Jonathan Bale struggled on against impossible odds for well over an hour. His hair was singed, his face was running with perspiration and holes had been burnt in his coat by flying sparks. His whole body ached and smarted but he would not give up. Only when the water supply ceased did he have any respite. He looked down the long line of exhausted bodies between him and the conduit.

‘More water!’ he ordered, panting from his exertions.

‘There is none!’ called a voice at the far end. ‘It has dried up.’

‘How?’

‘Someone must have cut into the pipe further up to fill buckets of their own. There is barely a trickle down here.’

‘We have done all we can, my friend,’ gasped the man next to Jonathan. ‘We must look to our own salvation.’

‘There is too much to do here. That is why I came.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘On Addle Hill.’

‘Near Baynard’s Castle?’

‘Yes.’

The man was surprised. ‘You came all this way to help?’

‘I was needed.’

‘You and a thousand like you are needed, my friend, but there would still not be enough of us to put out this fire. I’ll home to Cornhill. I have done my share here. It is time to worry about my own house. Do likewise.’

‘The fire will never reach Addle Hill,’ said Jonathan.

‘Do not be so sure,’ warned the other. ‘If this wind holds, the blaze will spread all the way to the Palace of Westminster to burn the royal breeches. And so it should,’ he added with bitter reproach, ‘for the King is the true cause of this fire.’

‘That is treasonable talk.’

‘It is the plain truth.’

‘Fires are caused by folly and neglect.’

‘The King’s folly and the King’s neglect.’

‘I will not listen to such nonsense.’

‘Then look around you,’ urged the man, waving an arm. ‘See for yourself. This is no ordinary fire. It is a judgement on us. King Charles and his vile Court have corrupted the whole of London. The fire has been sent to purge the city. We must all suffer for his sins.’ He gave Jonathan a nudge. ‘Go home, my friend. Return to Addle Hill. Protect your family. Save yourself while you still may. Nothing can stop this blaze now.’

The man staggered off. Jonathan watched him go and reflected on what he had said. His position as a constable obliged him to reprimand the fellow but he had considerable sympathy with the view expressed. England was ruled once more by a Stuart king. A monarchy which Jonathan had been pleased to see ended was now emphatically restored. As a result, London was indeed a wicked city and nobody was better placed to see the extent of its depravity than someone who patrolled the streets in the office of constable. Jonathan was a God-fearing man who always sought guidance from above and he was bound to wonder if the conflagration really was a sign of divine anger. There were Biblical precedents of cities being punished for their corruption.

The problem was that the innocent would suffer along with the guilty. Jonathan thought about his wife and children, still asleep, quite unaware that their blameless lives might be under threat. Their safety came first. He had to get back to them. The fire now raged totally out of control and buildings were crashing to the ground all around him. Smoke stung his eyes and caught in his throat. Scorching heat pushed him back like a giant hand.

Chaos reached a new pitch and he was heavily jostled in the ensuing tumult. Brushing some sparks from the sleeve of his coat, Jonathan pushed his way through the seething mass of bodies and trotted back down Thames Street in a futile attempt to outrun disaster.

CHAPTER TWO

Christopher Redmayne could not believe what he saw. On the journey from Oxford, they encountered a number of people who had fled from London but their tales of woe smacked too much of wild exaggeration to be taken seriously. The evidence of their own eyes robbed Christopher and his companions of their scepticism. They were still miles away when they caught their first glimpse of the rising smoke which sullied the clear blue sky and hung over the city like a pall. The travellers reined in their horses to stare open-mouthed at the phenomenon ahead of them. It was truly incredible. London was destroyed. The most vibrant city in Europe had been burnt to the ground.

As they considered the dreadful implications, everyone was struck dumb. It was minutes before an anguished voice shattered the silence.

‘Dear God!’ exclaimed Christopher. ‘How did this happen?’

He had joined the others for security on the journey but he now spurned all thoughts of safety. Kicking his horse into life, he rode off at a steady canter to cover the remaining distance alone. Anxieties crowded in on him. What of his own house? Had that perished in the blaze? Were his possessions burnt to a cinder? His precious drawings lost? Was Jacob, his servant, still alive? Did the fire reach his brother’s house? Where was Henry Redmayne? And what of Christopher’s friends? His neighbours? His parish church? What happened to all those magnificent buildings he so admired and from which he drew his inspiration?

How much of his London survived?

As he rode towards the smoking ruin, his mind was also ablaze.

The consequences of the Great Fire were soon all too apparent. Desultory groups of refugees trudged past him to uncertain destinations. The outer reaches of the city seemed to have been colonised by gipsies for there was hardly a spare patch of land which did not have its tents or its makeshift huts. Some families had no shelter whatsoever and simply sat by the roadside amid their vestigial belongings. Fires had been lit to cook food. Water was drawn from every stream or pond. A sense of fatigue pervaded the whole scene. Less than a week earlier, these same people all had homes, occupations and the promise of a future. Now they were nomads, exiled citizens of a capital which no longer existed.

When he reached St Giles’s Fields, he saw what looked like the population of a small town, huddled together in sheer bewilderment, torn between protest and resignation, trying to make sense of a tragedy which had struck them so unexpectedly and wondering how they could fend for themselves without a place of work. Clergy moved assiduously among them but their words of comfort went largely unheard by people who were trapped in their private griefs. A thousand different stories of pain and suffering were scattered across the grass. Christopher was deeply moved by the sight of so much undeserved sorrow.

His attention turned to the city itself and he shuddered. Buildings, spires and pinnacles which usually rose above the walls to delight his eye were now wreathed in smoke and all he could make out of the dominating majesty of St Paul’s Cathedral was the empty shell of its tower. Christopher tore his gaze away from the devastation and goaded a last burst of speed from his mount as he went along High Holborn. He steeled himself in readiness. It was more than possible that he, too, had been dispossessed. Holborn itself seemed largely undamaged but he could not answer for Fetter Lane until he swung into it. The scene which met him caused Christopher to bring his horse to a sharp halt.

He gaped in dismay. The left hand side of the lane had been gutted by fire at the far end and smoke still curled from the debris. Several of his neighbours were now homeless. Sympathy welled up in him but it was tempered with relief that his own house had somehow escaped. Situated near the Holborn end of the lane, it was marginally outside the circle of damnation: He offered up a silent prayer of thanks then nudged his horse forward.

Christopher was soon admitted to his home by his servant.

‘Bless you, sir!’ said Jacob, eyes watering with pleasure.

‘You’ve come back at last. I am so glad to see you.’

‘And I am so grateful to see you, Jacob.’

‘We were spared, sir. God, in His benevolence, took pity on us.’

‘I have not observed much sign of benevolence out there,’ said Christopher, stepping into the house and closing the door behind him. ‘Nor much indication of pity. Every step of the way was lined with poor wretches who have lost the roof over their heads.’

‘Sad times!’ sighed the old man. ‘Sad and sorry times!’

‘Tell me all.’

Christopher led the way into the parlour and cast a glance around it to reassure himself that it was completely intact. Only when he saw that his portfolio of drawings was unharmed did he begin to relax. He doffed his hat and turned back to face Jacob. The old man was much more than a servant to him. Honest, reliable and eternally willing, Jacob was a rock in the shifting sands of his master’s career and Christopher had developed such an affection for him that he even endured his flights of garrulity without complaint. At a full six feet, he towered over the podgy little servant and had a perfect view of his bald pate. Jacob peered up at him from beneath bushy eyebrows.

‘It has been a nightmare, sir,’ he said.

‘When did the fire start?’ asked Christopher.

‘Early on Sunday morning.’

‘And how long did it rage?’

‘Four days.’ Jacob sucked in air through his few remaining teeth. ‘Four long, terrible days. It would still be burning now if the wind had not dropped on Wednesday. Rain fell and slowed the blaze down. They were able to fight it properly for the first time. Rows of houses were blown up with dynamite to make fire breaks. That stopped it spreading.’ He jabbed a gnarled finger towards the window. ‘Yet here we are on Saturday and the city is still smoking. They say it will be weeks before the last embers are put out. All is lost, sir.’

‘All?’

‘St Paul’s is gone and over eighty churches with it. There is talk of at least ten thousand houses brought down, probably many more. They are still counting them. The Guildhall went up in flames, so did the Royal Exchange and I doubt if there is a livery hall still standing.’

‘What of the Tower?’

‘That survived – thank Heaven! It had the wind at its back and the fire never reached it, though much of Tower Street Ward was afflicted. It has been an ordeal for all of us, sir,’ said Jacob with a sudden shiver. ‘I feared mightily for the safety of this very house for the blaze was moving west with a vengeance on Tuesday. A fire post was set up at the bottom of Fetter Lane but our parish constables with a hundred men and thirty foot-soldiers to help them could not stop some of the houses being burnt down.’

‘So I saw.’

‘We have been blessed, sir. We escaped.’

Tears trickled down the old man’s face and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Christopher held him in a token embrace then led him across to a stool and lowered him onto it. Jacob was patently harrowed by the experience. The hollowed cheeks and the deathly pallor showed that he had enjoyed very little sleep and there was still a glint of terror in his eyes. Christopher felt guilty that he had not been there to share the ordeal with his servant and help him through it. There was much more to tell and he listened patiently while Jacob unfolded his tale at exhaustive length. As the old man unburdened himself, he was shaking visibly and his whole body twitched at the conclusion of his narrative. Christopher left a long, considered pause before addressing himself to his own concerns.

‘What news of my brother, Henry?’ he said.

‘He has sent word, sir.’

‘Was his own house affected?’

‘No, sir,’ said Jacob, rising to his feet. ‘The fire stopped well short of Bedford Street. Covent Garden was untouched. Your brother wants you to call on him as soon as you may. He is most insistent.’

‘Henry always is.’

‘Messages have come every day.’

‘I need to get my breath back before I go running to my brother,’ said Christopher, dropping into a chair. ‘I have been in the saddle for hours on end. Do we have any drink in the house, Jacob?’

‘Yes, sir. The last of that wine is still in the cellar.’

‘Fetch a bottle. And bring two glasses.’

‘Two, sir?’

‘I think you need sustenance as much as I do. Besides, we have something to celebrate. The house is still standing. That is a small miracle. Bring the wine, Jacob. We will raise a glass together.’

‘If you say so, sir.’

The servant’s face recovered some of its ruddy glow and his eyes glistened. It was a rare privilege to be allowed ‒ however briefly ‒ to step across the line which separated master from man and Jacob appreciated it. A smile touched his lips for the first time in a week.

‘Hurry along,’ said Christopher with a flick of his hand. ‘I need a restorative drink if I am to face Henry. Conversations with my brother can be wearing at the best of times.’

There was never any danger of Henry Redmayne indulging his servants. He treated them with a lofty disdain, reasoning that they were fortunate enough simply to be in the employ of so august a gentleman and that they deserved no further encouragement lest it give them ideas above their station. Accordingly, the barber who shaved him expected no word of approval, still less any hint of gratitude. Achievement lay in performing his duty without eliciting too many grumbles from his testy customer. His razor moved swiftly but carefully. The sallow face of Henry Redmayne was not one over which he cared to linger. When his work was done, he held up a small mirror while a detailed facial examination was carried out. Henry kept him waiting a long time before giving a dismissive nod.

As soon as the barber quit the room, the manservant entered to help his master to dress. It was a silent ritual in front of a large gilt-framed mirror. Henry preened himself at every stage, lavishing particular attention on his petticoat breeches and his new long multi-coloured waistcoat. When he put on his embroidered coat, he stroked it lovingly with both hands then shifted his stance to look at it from several angles before giving a grunt of satisfaction.

It was only then that the manservant dared to speak.

‘Your brother has arrived, sir.’

‘How long has he been here?’

‘A little while,’ said the other tactfully.

‘Tell him I will be down in a moment.’

The man nodded and withdrew. He knew better than to interrupt his master while the latter was being shaved or dressed. The visitor had been understanding. He had already waited for almost half an hour. Henry added five more minutes to the delay before he pirouetted in front of the mirror for the last time. When he descended to the parlour, he found his younger brother reclining in a chair and gazing intently at a painting of a naval battle. Christopher was still in his dusty travelling clothes. Henry strode across to him and struck a pose.

‘So?’ he said with a note of reproach. ‘You have come at last. We can always rely on your absence when you are most needed.’

Christopher stood up. ‘I had work to do in Oxford.’

‘Have you finally discovered the concept of work?’

‘Do not be so cynical, Henry. We cannot all have a sinecure at the Navy Office, as you do. Besides,’ he added, running an admiring eye over his brother’s fashionable attire, ‘I had a more personal reason for being in Oxford. Father was visiting the city to attend a convocation there.’

‘How is the old gentleman?’

‘In excellent health.’

‘That means he is still preaching interminable sermons.’

‘He spoke much about you, Henry.’

‘Fondly, I hope?’

‘Alas, no,’ said Christopher. ‘With some asperity. Reports have reached him that you live a dissolute life in London, quite unbecoming to the elder son of the Dean of Gloucester. The fact that you have reached the age of thirty without the companionship of a wife is also of deep concern to him. In Father’s mind, that serves to reinforce the truth of the rumours. He demanded to know if you were indeed the seasoned voluptuary of report.’

Henry winced. ‘What did you tell him?’

‘What he wanted to hear. That you lead a Christian life which keeps you completely away from the snares of lust and drunkenness. I assured him that you are regular in your devotions and often express regrets that you yourself have not taken the cloth. In short,’ said Christopher with an amiable grin, ‘I lied outrageously on your behalf.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘Only up to a point.’

‘Oh dear!’ said Henry with a sigh. ‘In that case, I will soon receive one of his stern letters, chastising me for my sins and urging repentance. How does he gather all this intelligence about me? Can a man not enjoy the pleasures of the capital without their echoes reaching the cloisters of Gloucester? I will need to be more discreet.’

‘Or more restrained.’

‘That is out of the question.’

They shared a laugh. It was difficult to believe that they were brothers. Both were tall, slim and well-favoured but the resemblance ended there. Henry’s long face was already showing signs of dissipation and the moustache which he took such trouble to cultivate somehow added a sinister quality. Christopher, by contrast, had a more open countenance and a clearer complexion. While he exuded health, his brother looked as if he was well acquainted with disease, especially the kind which might be contracted in a bedchamber. Handsome and clean-shaven, Christopher had dark brown hair with a reddish hue which hung in natural curls. His brother’s hair, lighter in colour and straighter in texture, was thinning so dramatically that he had ordered a periwig.

‘I am relieved to find you safe and sound,’ said Christopher with unfeigned sincerity. ‘When I heard news of the fire, I feared that it might have reached this far.’

‘Happily, no. It did not progress beyond Temple Bar. But that does not mean I came through the ordeal unscathed,’ Henry emphasised, keen to portray himself as a victim. ‘For I did not. I shared the misery of many friends who lost their homes and suffered agonies of apprehension on account of my own property. As for the city itself, it was like being locked in Bedlam.’

‘What started the fire?’

‘That was the problem, Christopher. Nobody knew and so they drew their own conclusions. The blaze was so fierce and so widespread that it seemed to have been started deliberately. Mobs soon formed, believing that London had been torched by Catholics. Passions ran high and the wilder spirits took the law into their own hands. We had open riot.’

‘Is there any proof of a Popish Plot?’

‘The mobs thought so,’ said Henry ruefully. ‘They beat confessions out of any Catholic they could find. Innocent foreigners were attacked at random. Frenchmen, Italians and the like who were unwise enough to venture into the streets were set on without mercy. The fortunate ones got away with cuts, bruises and broken bones. I have no sympathy for the Old Religion ‒ remember to tell that to our father ‒ but I do not wish its practitioners to be torn to shreds by an enraged mob. I abhor violence of any kind. It was shameful to behold.’

‘Were any arrests made?’

‘Dozens. But since most of the prisons were burnt down, there was nowhere to keep the miscreants. It has been a gruesome week.’

‘Who, then, did start the fire?’

‘Investigations still continue but the finger points to a careless baker in Pudding Lane. That is certainly where the blaze began.’

Christopher gulped. ‘A vast city razed by the folly of one man.’

‘The fellow denies it hotly but he looks like the culprit.’

‘Who will buy bread from him after this?’

‘Ship’s biscuits. That is what he made. Hard tack. I should know,’ observed Henry, straightening his back with self-importance. ‘His output helps to victual our fleet. His damnable name has probably passed before my eyes a dozen times at the Navy Office. But enough of the fire,’ he said, crossing to rest an elbow on the marble mantelpiece and display himself to full effect. ‘It has wreaked its havoc and been brought under control. What we must look to now are the rich pickings it may offer.’

Christopher was puzzled. ‘What rich pickings? The city has been reduced to a state of abject poverty.’

‘Use your imagination, brother.’

‘To what end?’

‘Future prospects. One city may have vanished but another one must rise in its place. The opportunities for a talented architect are unlimited. Scores of them will be needed to act as midwives if the new London is to be brought into being.’

‘That thought did cross my mind,’ admitted the other.

‘Seize on it, Christopher. It is the chance you have wanted.’

‘I never wanted such wholesale destruction.’

‘Nor more did I,’ said Henry smoothly, ‘but I am alert to the openings it suddenly provides. I know you think me heartless and given over entirely to a life of vice but I do honour my promises. When Father enjoined me to take you under my wing in London, I vowed that I would. I am sure that you will be gracious enough to concede that I have kept that vow.’

‘You have,’ said Christopher. ‘I made much of the point to Father. It was the one honest thing I could say in your favour.’

‘Did he have no strictures for you?’

‘Indeed he did, Henry. He taxed me with my inability to settle in a career and he was not at all impressed when I argued that I had made my mark in several. As I reminded him, I studied law at Cambridge then became embroiled in anatomy before trying my hand, with some success, at writing poetry. Astronomy was my next love and I prospered in its study until the blandishments of philosophy seduced me away. I spent a whole year among fine minds. I tell you, Henry, there is nothing which thrills the blood so much as a lively debate with fellow philosophers.’

‘I would take serious issue with you over that,’ said his brother, arching a lecherous eyebrow. ‘When I wish to thrill the blood, I do not require the presence of a fine mind. A voluptuous body alone suffices. But come to your latest enthusiasm, brother.’

‘It is much more than that.’

‘That is what I hoped.’

‘Architecture is my obsession.’

‘For how many weeks is it likely to last?’

‘Indefinitely,’ said Christopher with polite vehemence. ‘I have found my true métier at last. Architecture embraces all the other disciplines. It combines the severity of the law with the fascination of anatomy, the joy of poetry, the mystery of astronomy and the intellectual stimulus of philosophy. When you add the iron logic of mathematics, you have a profession which outstrips all others. An architect is at once an artist and a scientist. What could be nobler?’

‘Nobility can wait,’ said Henry, strolling across to him. ‘All that I am concerned with is securing a regular income for you. I have seen your drawings and was much impressed. They are brilliant. And I know that you have applied yourself diligently to this new interest.’

‘Oh, it is not new, Henry. The seeds were sewn long ago in Rome when I chanced to meet Signor Bernini. He designed the Piazza of St Peter’s and much else besides. Albeit a Catholic – I have not dared to breathe his name to Father – Bernini opened my eyes to the beauty of architecture. I have been putting my ideas down on paper ever since.’

‘To good effect. You are clearly very gifted.’

‘It is one of the reasons I went to Oxford,’ continued the other as the glow of idealism lit up his features. ‘To watch the progress of the Sheldonian Theatre. It is an extraordinary building. Wren is a genius. His design is breathtaking.’

‘I am glad you mentioned your namesake. Christopher Wren is indeed a genius. The Great Fire will be the making of him.’

‘In what way?’

‘He has been invited to prepare a plan for the rebuilding of the city,’ explained Henry knowledgeably. ‘Wren is not the only one, mark you. I happen to know that John Evelyn will be submitting his own scheme, as will others. I have also caught wind of a notion put forward by a certain Captain Valentine Knight, involving the building of a wide canal from the River Fleet to Billingsgate. Ha!’ he sneered with a gesture of disgust. ‘Have you ever heard such nonsense?’

‘You are amazingly well informed, Henry.’

‘I consort with the right company.’

‘Which of these many plans will be adopted?’

‘That is the one thing I cannot tell you. They will have to be assessed in due course. But my guess is that Wren will emerge as the leading figure. Pattern yourself on him.’

‘That is my intention.’

‘Carpe diem, Christopher. Commit yourself. Study in earnest. It will be months before any rebuilding is allowed and that gives you time to hone your skills. Be ready to help the phoenix rise from the ashes.’

‘Nothing would please me more!’

‘I will do my share,’ volunteered Henry. ‘It is astonishing what information trickles into my ears. When new houses are in demand, I will assuredly learn who wishes to commission some of them. My advice may even be sought in certain cases. How convenient it would be if I could recommend, as an architect, my own brother.’

Christopher was touched. ‘Would you do that for me, Henry?’ he said, unused to such filial assistance. ‘I would be eternally grateful.’

‘You can repay me by harping on my generosity when you next write to Father. Play the architect in your correspondence. Design a Henry Redmayne who is more appealing to a Dean of Gloucester.’

‘That is a feat beyond even my talent,’ said his brother with a chuckle. ‘But I will do my best. As for your offer, I embrace it warmly. I will serve a speedy apprenticeship and be ready when the call comes.’

‘Then there is no more to be said.’

They exchanged a warm handshake then Henry drifted to the mirror to make a few adjustments to his apparel. Christopher came up behind him with a knowing smile.

‘You are going out this evening, I see.’

‘I’ll not let a fire deprive me of my pleasures.’

‘But all your haunts have been destroyed, surely?’

‘Some escaped,’ said Henry suavely, brushing a fleck of dust from his sleeve. ‘Besides, I am bidden this evening to an establishment in Farringdon Without. That ward was unmolested by the fire. Many who fled from the city have taken up residence there.’ He turned to face Christopher and gave a quizzical smirk. ‘I suppose that it is no use my inviting you to accompany me?’

‘No, Henry.’

‘A visit to a house of resort might educate you.’

‘Love which has to be bought has no value for me.’

‘It is the only kind a man can truly rely on, Christopher.’

‘Enjoy it in my stead.’

‘Are you not even tempted?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ said Christopher with a grin. ‘I have a far more important place to visit this evening.’

‘Where is that?’

‘The city of London. If I am to help rebuild it, I must first see the full extent of the damage. That is where I will be while the light holds. You seek out the delights of the flesh, Henry,’ he said, guiding his brother out of the room. ‘I must go forth to meet my destiny.’

CHAPTER THREE

The man moved swiftly. Making sure that he was unobserved, he pushed aside the charred remnants of the front door and stepped into the house. A timber-framed property with a thatched roof, it had been completely gutted by the fire and nothing survived in any of the rooms to tempt a thief. The man was not concerned with the interior of the dwelling. His interest was in the garden. He clambered through to it. Plants and bushes had been burnt away and the little orchard was now no more than a collection of blackened stumps, surrounded by countless shrivelled apples and pears. That did not deter him. The man set about scouring the whole garden, searching the lawn then kicking away piles of ash so that he could examine the scorched flowerbeds. He soon found what he was after – a patch where the earth had recently been disturbed then stamped back into position. A hiding place.

From beneath his coat, he produced a small shovel. Kneeling down, he began to dig quickly but carefully, eager to secure his prize but not wishing to damage it by too vigorous a use of his implement. When he made contact with something solid, he abandoned the shovel and used both hands to scrape the earth away. A first bottle of wine came into view, then a second, then two more, each with the owner’s crest upon them. It had to be expensive wine to be worth burying. He dug on until he unearthed a further three dozen bottles of Canary wine, six of brandy and an array of cheeses wrapped up in muslin then stuffed into a wooden box. It was a good haul. What he could not eat or drink himself, he could sell for a tidy profit. He made a mental note to save the Parmesan cheese for his own use.

The man was not finished yet. A property as substantial as this one argued an owner of some wealth. If he vacated the house at speed, he might not have been able to carry away all that he wished. Wine and cheese had been left behind. There was a chance that gold or valuables might also have been buried in the garden to await his return. The man sensed that there were richer rewards still at the bottom of the pit. He reached for his shovel once more. As his hand closed around the handle, however, a large shoe descended on his wrist and pinned it to the ground. It belonged to a brawny constable who loomed over him.

‘Have they not suffered enough?’ said Jonathan Bale solemnly. ‘Their home has already been destroyed by fire. Must they also have their last few possessions stolen by a common thief?’

‘They will not miss a bottle or two of wine,’ said the man with an ingratiating smirk, trying to turn his captor into an accomplice. ‘Let us each take what we want and nobody will be any the wiser.’

‘I will, my friend.’

‘Then you have it all, Constable.’

‘I want none of your stolen goods.’

‘It is fine wine and good cheese.’

‘The people who bought it are entitled to enjoy it.’ Jonathan gave a grim smile. ‘That is why you are going to put it back where you found it.’

The man was horrified. ‘Put it back?’

‘Every last bottle. Every piece of cheese.’

‘But it is such a waste.’

‘Do as I tell you.’

‘There may be gold or valuables down there as well,’ said the thief, pointing with his free hand. ‘Why not let me dig down to find out? We might both end up as rich men.’

‘You will end up in prison, my friend. Trespass is the first charge. Theft, the second. Trying to corrupt a constable, the third. Now, put everything back where you found it before I lose my patience.’ He lifted his foot to release the man. ‘Hurry up. I will wait.’

Protesting loudly, the man did as he was ordered and replaced the wine and cheese in the pit before filling it with earth then patting it with the flat of his shovel. He stood up to stamp it more firmly into place. His predicament was dire. Caught in the act, he could expect to suffer the full severity of the law. That left him with one last option. Still holding the shovel, he tightened his grip on it and swung it viciously at Jonathan’s head. The constable was ready for him. He ducked beneath the tool then countered with a solid punch to the jaw which sent his assailant reeling backwards. As the man fell heavily to the ground, he dropped the shovel and Jonathan kicked it clear. Still dazed, the thief was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged back through the empty house.

The two watchmen who had been stationed outside were elderly men but their combined strength was more than enough to cope with the prisoner now that all the fight had been knocked out of him. Jonathan handed the man over to his colleagues. One of them, Abraham Datchett, a spry character in his sixties, got a firm grip on the malefactor.

‘Another thief?’ he enquired.

‘The worst kind,’ said Jonathan. ‘He tried to bribe me into silence.’

‘More fool him!’

‘Take him to the magistrate and see him locked up.’

‘We will, Jonathan.’

‘I will make a full report when I come off duty.’

‘What was he trying to steal?’

‘Wine and cheese. Oh, yes,’ said Jonathan with a grin, ‘and he decided to take my head with him for good measure. But I ducked just in time. Away with the rogue, Abraham. He deserves no mercy.’

The watchmen hauled their prisoner off between them and the constable continued his rounds. Guarding damaged properties was one of his main tasks. Even derelict houses like this one might yield some booty. It was one of the more depressing effects of the Great Fire. Loss for the many had been offset by excessive gain for the few. Watermen, carriers and others who assisted fleeing householders increased their charges to exorbitant levels for customers who were in no position to refuse to pay. There were at least some shards of legality about this practice though it had no moral justification.

But there was nothing remotely legal about the epidemic of burglary which broke out as bold thieves ransacked houses which had been abandoned in the path of the fire or, as now, climbed into the garden of a derelict property to search for items which might have been buried there. When he had not been manning a fire post, Jonathan Bale had spent the past week pursuing and arresting the vultures who preyed on the misfortunes of others. His worst case had been in Knightrider Street where two thieves, gaining access to the garden of a deserted house, dug strenuously until they found a strongbox under the ground. They were so elated that friendship was instantly forgotten and they fought each other for sole possession of the bounty. By the time Jonathan arrived on the scene, only one man was still alive to be arrested.

Fire, destruction, panic, murder, burglary, trespass, mob violence and shameless profiteering. A desperate week for London. Jonathan watched his city mangled out of all recognition. One of the most startling changes was to the distinctive sound of the capital on a Sunday morning. Instead of the jangling harmonies of a hundred or more bells, calling the populace to worship, there was comparative silence. It was eerie. Most churches had been demolished and some of those that survived had lost their congregations temporarily to the outer suburbs. The few bells which did toll had a forlorn and apologetic note to them.