The Ashes of London (20 page)

My eyes ran down to the foot of the list. The annotations after the names told me the men’s fates. ‘Obit’; these were the lucky ones, who had died. Those who had escaped and were still alive were labelled ‘fugit’; they lived in fear of death at the hand of the King’s agents. Others had been imprisoned or even pardoned. And the rest—

‘The ones crossed out have been executed or otherwise killed,’ Williamson said. ‘Read on.’

I turned the paper over. The list continued on the other side. My eyes snagged on a name near the bottom.

Thomas Lovett – fugit.

‘There’s nothing against Catherine Lovett personally, or Sir Denzil would not have betrothed himself to her.’ Williamson coughed. ‘Her father’s goods and lands were confiscated when he fled abroad, including his house and business in Bow Lane. But I am informed that the young lady is an heiress in her own right, by her mother’s family, so she still has her own fortune.’

‘Pray, sir,’ I asked, ‘why are you telling me this?’

‘Because this business is about more than a murdered servant. More than an insignificant Fifth Monarchy man ending up in the Fleet Ditch. Henry Alderley’s niece is the daughter of a Regicide, who has so far escaped capture. You must tread very carefully, Marwood. We must all tread carefully. Do you understand me?’

I understood many things now. One of them was that Master Williamson was scared. Another was that he was perhaps a kinder man than I had thought him to be.

O
N SUNDAY MORNING
, I took a boat down to the stairs by Charing Cross and dined with the Newcombs at the Savoy. My hostess fed me well, and I took more wine than was altogether wise. No doubt she wanted to ingratiate herself and her husband with me. I liked Master Newcomb well enough, but I was less sure of his wife, a dark, sharp woman with darting eyes. She was charm itself to me but she was curt with her servants and quick to chastise her children.

After dinner, they showed me the two rooms on the first floor of their premises. The apartments were small and overlooked a common way leading to a yard with a pump. But they were clean and they were available now. It would be possible for my father and me to have our own rooms, something I devoutly desired. The sounds of the press in the workshop downstairs might deter many prospective tenants, but they would have a blessed familiarity for the old man. Moreover, I had learned during dinner that Mistress Newcomb had nursed her own father in his last years; she was used to dealing with the vagaries of the aged. As a final advantage, the lodging was retired in situation, yet convenient for both Whitehall and the City.

I took the lodgings on the spot. The Newcombs already knew my father’s history, and so there would be nothing to conceal from them. Perhaps, I thought, as I walked a little unsteadily up to the Strand, the tide is beginning to run in my favour.

I turned east and walked towards the black stump of St Paul’s and the city of ashes.

Cradle Alley was a narrow but straight street that ran east from Coleman Street in the direction of Austin Friars and Broad Street. The western part of it was lined with heaps of ash and rubble, some of which still lay on the roadway, stretching down to the choked kennel in the middle.

I picked my way along the alley, holding my cloak to my nose. I was late. It had taken me longer to get here than I had expected, for the streets were still clogged with debris. I wished now that I had not lingered at the Newcombs’.

Tendrils of smoke from trapped fires mingled with the misty vapour of the rain and the gritty coal smog that had covered so much of London even before the Fire. The ruins gave way to a variety of houses and workshops huddling on either side of Cradle Alley.

The house next to the sign of the three stars was on the left, near the end. The building was narrow and spread itself over four storeys, the upper ones jettied out above the street. There was no trace of a business or trade being carried on there, and no clue to its occupants. But the windows were clean and the plaster on the gable had been whitewashed since the Fire. It looked well cared for, which could not at present be said of most houses that remained in the City.

An old woman, her eyes closed and her face the colour of grubby chalk, was squatting in a doorway on the other side of the road, her hand held out for alms. I dropped a penny into her palm. The eyes opened at once. The fingers closed over the coin and thrust it out of sight beneath her filthy cloak.

‘God bless you, sir,’ she mumbled.

‘Who lives over there? In that tall old house?’

She looked up. One of her eyes was covered with a grey film. ‘That’s Quincy’s, master.’ She held out her hand again, palm upwards. The penny was no longer there.

I gave her another penny. ‘Master Quincy?’

‘Old man’s dead and in his grave. But it’s still Quincy’s.’

‘Who lives there now?’

‘They come and they go.’

The eyelids closed, and I gave up the struggle to extract information from her. I jumped over the kennel to the other side of the lane and knocked on the door of the tall house. It opened almost at once. The porter ushered me into the hall even as I was stating my name and business.

The interior took me by surprise because it did not match the exterior of the house. The hall was spacious and well proportioned. Clocks ticked away the seconds. The flagstones were marble, chequered black and white.

Another manservant appeared, bowed and asked me to follow him. He was a tall man, with a pox-scarred face and the carriage of a soldier; there was nothing servile about him. We went up a wide, shallow staircase to a galleried landing on the first floor. He tapped on a door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it and stood aside for me to enter.

Mistress Alderley was seated by the fire in a tall armchair with a caned back. As I came in, she laid aside a book on the table by her chair. She was more plainly dressed than usual, though her clothes were of the finest quality. To my surprise, there was no sign of her maid or her hostess.

I bowed low. As I raised my head, I made a rapid survey. The room was large, high-ceilinged and surprisingly modern. Opposite the door, two large windows gave a view north over the rooftops to the City wall, punctuated by the stumpy tower of Moorgate.

The apartment was furnished in the French style as a withdrawing room or private parlour. It was as luxurious as the parlour at Barnabas Place but very different in its manner of expressing it. Barnabas Place looked to the past in its furniture and fittings: this room could hardly have been more modern. There were many pictures on the walls, most of them on classical themes and many with goddesses or perhaps nymphs displaying their charms.

Only a heavy leather screen struck an old-fashioned note. It was placed across one corner of the room; the lintel of a second doorway was visible above it. The leather had been painted with a hunting scene, but the reds and greens had darkened with time and smoke into a mottled brown.

Mistress Alderley indicated that I should sit on a settle facing the fire and at right angles to her chair. ‘It is kind of you to come, Master Marwood. You must forgive me for asking you here. And you must be curious about the reason.’

For a moment, neither of us spoke. In repose, her oval face looked almost sullen. The brown eyes were hooded with heavy lids. How old was she? Thirty? Thirty-five?

She gave a sigh, as if something were troubling her, and stirred in her chair. ‘First,’ she said, ‘is there new intelligence about the murders? Now we have two of them, I understand.’ She noticed my puzzled look. ‘Master Williamson told my husband about the second man, when they met at Whitehall yesterday.’

‘I’ve heard nothing more, madam.’

Her long fingers toyed with a tassel on the arm of the chair. ‘My second question is this: may I put a private proposition before you? And, whatever your answer, may I depend on your discretion?’

Did she know, I wondered, that I would find it hard to deny her anything, especially if she asked in that confiding tone?

‘Yes,’ I said.

Mistress Alderley looked searchingly at me. ‘Will you help me find my husband’s niece?’

I stared at her in surprise. ‘But isn’t she in the country? You told me she was staying with friends because of her health.’

‘I told you an untruth. Well? Will you help me?’

I tried to retain at least a little caution. ‘As far as I can, madam. But Master Williamson must—’

‘You need not trouble yourself about Master Williamson. But remember this: he does not know what I wish you to do, or why. And he must not, unless I decide otherwise.’

‘And Master Alderley?’

‘He does not know of this, and at present I wish him to remain in ignorance.’

‘But, madam,’ I said, ‘I must know more of this before I can decide how to proceed.’

Her mouth tightened. But she nodded. ‘Very well.’ Then she smiled, the merest twitch of the lips. ‘First, how did you like the lodgings you saw today?’

‘In the Savoy?’ Yet again she had taken me unawares. ‘Very well, madam. I have taken them.’

‘Your father will find the business of the place reassuring, I dare say,’ she said. ‘As a printer, I mean. And of course you needed to find somewhere quickly. Lodgings are hard to come by since the Fire, especially for men like your father. How fortunate for you.’

‘You – you knew?’

‘Yes. You might even say I played the part of providence.’

I found I was on my feet, full of rage and fear for my father, and for myself. ‘Why, madam?’ I demanded. ‘Why?’

‘Sit down and I shall tell you.’

I sat down again. As I did so, I heard, quite distinctly, a board creaking nearby. The sound came from behind the screen in the corner of the room.

Mistress Alderley cleared her throat, perhaps in an attempt to mask the sound. ‘I made enquiries. And I thought I would do you a service beforehand, so you would understand that you will not be the loser by helping me.’

I understood more than that. She knew who my father was, and how precarious our circumstances were. If she had the power to help us, she also had the power to harm us.

I heard the scrape of a chair behind the screen and then heavy footsteps. I leapt to my feet. A gentleman appeared. He was middle-aged and well-fleshed. His clothes were sober, though his face had the flush of good living and there was nothing of the Puritan of him. There was a wart on his chin.

‘I am Master Chiffinch,’ he said.

I bowed low to him, hoping my fear did not show. One mystery was solved, the identity of the man I had seen visiting Master Williamson. I knew Chiffinch by reputation, if not by face, as did most people who worked at Whitehall. He was the Clerk of the King’s Closet, like his brother before him – the man who controlled the private access to the King.

‘We want you to go to Coldridge,’ he said.

‘Coldridge, sir? But where is he?’

‘It’s a place, not a man.’

I gaped at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It is simple enough. We want to find Catherine Lovett, Mistress Alderley’s niece, and restore her to her friends. It must be done discreetly, for the young lady is about to be married, and we must safeguard her reputation from slander.’

I bowed again.

‘Coldridge is a property in Suffolk,’ Chiffinch continued briskly. ‘Mistress Lovett owns it now, and it’s where she passed some of her childhood. It lies not far from the village of Champney Crucis.’

‘We cannot be sure that she’s there,’ Mistress Alderley said. ‘But she may have fled there as … as a sort of refuge.’

‘A refuge from what?’ I said.

‘She has maidenly doubts about her fitness for the married state, as so many girls do. I need hardly say that this alliance with Sir Denzil is entirely suitable. Her family wish it, and her betrothed could not be kinder or more attentive to her. But it is this childish scruple that must have temporarily disordered her wits.’

‘It is natural that a girl should seek refuge in the place where she was happy as a child,’ Chiffinch interrupted. ‘And you found evidence of it too, did you not, madam?’

‘Master Marwood did, sir, not I.’

‘The paper,’ I said. ‘In Layne’s box: “Coldridge PW”.’

She nodded. ‘In the other servant’s hand. That villain, Jem. You were right about that. Layne must have broken into the box and taken it.’

‘Six guineas with it,’ I reminded her.

‘Blackmail,’ Chiffinch said. ‘Layne probably got wind of her intended escape and tried to extort money for his silence. Mistress Lovett bribed him to keep his mouth shut. But Jem decided to make sure of his silence and lured him to St Paul’s instead. In all the confusion that night it can’t have been difficult to conceal a murder there. All it took was one thrust of a dagger.’

‘But to kill a man for so small a reason—’

Chiffinch waved me to silence. ‘The rogue was possessed by a devil. If we accept that Jem killed Layne, it explains a great deal, I think, including the attack on your stepson. Jem was vicious by nature, and fanatical in his attachment to Mistress Lovett.’

‘Of course my niece knew nothing of it,’ Mistress Alderley said.

I kept silent. Chiffinch regarded me with large, moist eyes. I thought of the ragged little man I had seen flogged to death at Barnabas Place. He had not seemed vicious then, but perhaps no man did when he was under the whip.

‘There you have it, Marwood,’ he said, speaking more slowly than before as if in emphasis. ‘There you have the whole story.’

‘You must go to Coldridge and see if Catherine is there, Master Marwood,’ Mistress Alderley said, looking earnestly at me. ‘The estate has been leased, I believe, but perhaps she is lodging in seclusion with a childhood acquaintance, or an old servant. Tell her I sent you, and all is forgiven. Bring her home. Reason with her, but if necessary compel her. You may hire a woman to attend her on the journey. Master Chiffinch will arrange money and letters of authority for you.’

‘There is a complication,’ Chiffinch said. ‘It is just possible that if you search for her, you may also find her father.’ He stared at me and he must have seen the bewilderment on my face. ‘Thomas Lovett,’ he went on. ‘The Regicide. In which case you are to forget the girl for the moment. You must go at once to the nearest justice and have Lovett seized.’