The Jade Boy (17 page)

When Jem returned to Ludlow House later that evening he tried to sneak up the back stairs to the attic, but Sarah caught him just as he was turning into the passage leading to his room.

“I don’t know what’s got into you,” she said. “I believed you were ill so I made excuses for you. But now I find that you’ve been gadding about for hours on end, going Lord knows where. If I find that you are bringing shame on me, Jem, I’ll… I’ll…”

“What will you do?” Jem was tired and he spoke angrily and thoughtlessly. “I sometimes wonder why you speak so much of shame, mother. It’s not me who has anything to hide.”

Sarah blushed and turned away. Then she spun round again and slapped him across the face. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again! Do you understand, Jem. Never again.”

He brought a hand to his stinging cheek. Sarah had never struck him before. The blow hadn’t been that painful, but the realisation that his careless words had wounded her hurt him a great deal.
The pair of them stood in silence for a moment, then Sarah turned and walked away.

“Mother… I…” Jem called out, but Sarah didn’t look back.

She didn’t speak to him again for several days after that. Jem felt as if he’d lost his only ally in Ludlow House, and Wormald, who sensed the rift between them, lost no opportunity to make the boy’s life even more miserable than it was already. As Jem scraped out the servants’ stinking,
flyblown
middens one sticky afternoon, he gloomily wondered what horrible task the steward might set for him next. He had heard that there were a couple of maggot-riddled sides of pork in the cellar meat locker that would need seeing to. Even though they were salted, the hot weather had made them go bad. Jem shuddered at the thought of handling the slimy, stinking meat. Wormald was clearly saving up all the worst chores for him.

Over the next week, more mysterious boxes from Paris arrived at Ludlow House – all of them were large, all of them were heavy and, as before, all of them were locked away inside the great gallery.

Then, on Sunday, the duke informed the kitchens and the servants that they were to prepare a lavish
feast for some special guests. The event would take place in two days’ time and no expense was to be spared.

After producing a list of the wines, tarts, meats and puddings that he required, the duke disappeared alone into the great gallery for hours. Sounds of thumping and banging – and occasional hammering – could be heard from behind the doors, as if heavy objects were being moved about.

Over the next two days, there never seemed to be a chance for Jem to put his plan into action. Wormald kept finding evermore disgusting tasks for him to do and anyway, Bellingdon was always locked inside the gallery with the boxes.

Usually so conscious of his elegant dress and cleanliness, the duke – when he appeared at all – looked hot and dishevelled. His magnificent, tightly curled golden wig hung in lank, sweaty rats’ tails down his back. He worked non-stop alone in the gallery, and then, on the morning of the feast, the servants awoke to find the hallway filled with splintered wood and broken boxes.

The Duke of Bellingdon had clearly finished his unpacking.

The feast was to be laid out in the antechamber leading to the great gallery. Four places were set at the table and the duke gave orders that everything should be ready for noon. The household had risen early. Throughout the morning, elaborate cold dishes were prepared and Pig Face sweated even more than usual over a side of beef that was turning slowly on a spit set across the largest hearth in the kitchen.

Jem was called to carry the silver service up from the locked vaults beneath the kitchens. As he passed a row of glistening raspberry tarts lined up on a dresser in the antechamber, his stomach rumbled, but not with hunger, with anxiety. He had told Ann that he knew a way to get into the locked room, but now he felt sick at the thought that the time had come to put his plan into action.

Wormald was already in the chamber, busy arranging each polished item in the place settings with the precision of a watchmaker. The dining table stood opposite a pair of locked doors that led directly into the great gallery.

Following the duke’s instructions, no one, not even Wormald, had entered that room since the day when the first boxes arrived from Paris. After lecturing the servants, the steward had taken the
gallery key from the great metal ring at his waist and handed it to the duke himself. But, as Jem knew, one other person possessed a copy of every key to every door in Ludlow House…

His mother.

Jem left the goblets on the dresser, then hurried to the kitchen and filled a pitcher of water. He carried it to the duchess’s bedchamber, where he knew the women were together. The duchess hadn’t been seen by anyone but Sarah for days. He knocked twice.

“Enter.”

His mother looked up from the book in her lap. The curtains were drawn and the only light came from a small candle burning on the table beside her. The air was foul. The smell immediately reminded Jem of Cazalon, but here, the stench was almost overpowering. His mother looked pale and strained. “What is it?” she said.

“I– I have brought you both some fresh water. And I– I wanted to apologise,” Jem stammered, feeling guilty as the lie popped out of his mouth. True, he did want to apologise, but that wasn’t why he was here.

Sarah’s expression softened. “I am sorry too, Jem. You’re a good lad, but there are some things I…”

She broke off as a soft moaning noise came from the heavily curtained bed. The duchess was stirring. Sarah took the pitcher from Jem and poured a glass of water. She placed the pitcher by the candle and took the glass over to the bed, pushing back the hangings a little to offer the drink.

“It is the mirror, Sarah.”

Jem heard the duchess speak, but he couldn’t see her. The woman’s voice was hoarse and breathless. “The mirror cannot be right, it must be cracked. The medicine should make me younger… It is not working, I must have more. Make him bring me more.”

“Hush,” Sarah soothed, and just for a second Jem caught sight of the duchess’s hand as she reached for the glass. He blinked and looked again but it was gone. Was it the poor light, or had he really seen something that looked like a scaly claw?

“Jem!” His mother’s voice was sharp. “Fill this again.”

She handed him the glass and he went over to the table where the pitcher stood. Just as he had hoped, Sarah’s ring of keys stood next to the pitcher. Quietly and carefully he picked up the ring and slipped it into his pocket.

“The water, please, Jem.”

He filled the glass and moved towards the bed. Sarah prevented him from coming too close. She smiled sadly. “Thank you. That was a thoughtful thing to do. I think you should go now. The duchess is tired.”

Jem nodded and turned to leave.

“Jemmy,” his mother’s voice was pleading. “Don’t tell anyone how sick she is, please.”

He nodded but didn’t turn back, stepping swiftly and gratefully out of the horrible, clammy room.

As he raced down the back stairs his heart was pounding. He would worry about getting the ring of keys back to Sarah later, but for now he was more concerned about finding the right key for the gallery and getting into the locked room without being seen. Wormald was fiddling with the last touches to the elaborate table decorations when he returned to the antechamber. Two maids and a footman were plumping cushions and arranging the hangings. The buffet table groaned with food and the room looked magnificent.

The steward surveyed the table, nodded to himself and clapped his hands.

“Out!” he called. The bustling stopped and
Wormald ushered them all from the room, closing the door behind him. There was less than a quarter of an hour to go before the guests arrived.

As they returned to the servants’ quarters, Jem stopped dead. “Sir! Mr Wormald,” he called out.

The stringy man turned to look at him. “What do you want?”

“I’ve left a tray on the floor, sir, by the table. I brought up the goblets on it and forgot to collect it.”

The grey tufts on the steward’s head quivered and his eyes glinted. Wormald smiled unpleasantly. “Then you had better go and collect it.”

“Sorry, sir. I’ll go now.”

“And to teach you to be more careful in future, you will not be permitted to dine on the leftovers with the rest of the servants this evening.”

Jem nodded sullenly and retraced his steps to the now-empty antechamber. As he crossed the entry hall, the hand of the golden clock showed that it was now perilously close to noon. He closed the antechamber doors behind him, took out Sarah’s ring of keys and crossed to the doors of the great gallery. Bending to the lock, his hands shook as he tried a succession of the keys on the large metal ring. Just as he heard a great booming knock on Ludlow
House’s great front doors, a little clicking sound told him that, at last, he had the right one. Turning the handle gently, Jem pushed open the door and crept into the locked room.

He was astonished at what he saw.

The great panelled gallery was filled with model buildings, each constructed from dark shining wood. In all, there were about twenty of them ranged from one end of the room to the other. Elegant town houses, mansions, sweeping terraces, stable blocks, palaces and ornamented archways – the models were exquisitely made and precise in every detail. The air was golden with motes of dust and the room smelled of wood and varnish.

At the far end stood a model that was much larger than the others, almost as tall as Jem himself. Intrigued, Jem walked towards it, uncertain what it could be.

The dark wood building was shaped like a
five-pointed
star and was set on a raised platform with steps leading up to it. On every side the star was flanked by rows of severe columns that were topped by carved decorations that reminded Jem of ferns. The fronds fanned out to support a flat roof at the centre of which stood a huge dome made from black glass.

The models reminded him of the ones he had seen on top of the chests at Malfurneaux Place. With its columns and steps, this one looked a little like a Greek temple, but at the same time, it was not like anything he had ever seen in any of the duke’s books. The sound of conversation came from the closed doors to the antechamber behind him. The duke’s guests had obviously assembled. Thinking quickly, Jem tiptoed over to the door, counting along the ring of keys to find the right one as he went and locked the door softly again from his own side. It gave a tiny click, but no one seemed to notice the sound.

The duke was giving final instructions to Wormald. “We are not to be disturbed. On no account is anyone to enter this room. Do you understand? Leave us now.”

Jem heard the sound of a door closing. There was a pause before the duke began again. “Gentlemen, you are all welcome to my house on this most auspicious of days.”

“Well, if everything goes to plan, this won’t be your house for much longer, George.”

The braying voice belonged to the Marquis of Kilheron, and his comment provoked much amusement in the room beyond.

Kilheron continued excitedly, “Indeed, sirs, I believe we shall all soon be living like princes. George, I cannot wait a moment longer, let us see the new London.”

Jem looked again at the strange model with its black polished points, shadowy colonnades and opaque glass dome, and shuddered. He’d suddenly remembered the conversation they’d overhead from the chimney. What had Cazalon said when the young marquis questioned the plans? “We shall be the masters here, free to create whatever we like; to build to the limits of our imagination and beyond.”

Now Jem realised what these models were. They were buildings for the new London. They showed the city that Cazalon, Bellingdon and the other conspirators intended to construct when they had burned the old one to the ground.

“Patience,” replied the duke. “Before I reveal the bones of our city, there are matters to be settled.”

There was a thumping noise as if someone had slammed their fist on the table, then Alderman Pinchbeck spoke. “Well, I don’t know about you, my lords, but I’m not handing over a penny until I’ve seen what I’m buying.”

Heavy footsteps came towards the doors leading into the gallery. The handles turned and the locked doors shook. Jem sprang back.

“Come now, Your Grace, let the dog see the rabbit.” Alderman Pinchbeck bellowed.

The doors shook again.

Terrified, Jem looked about for a hiding place. As he was desperately scanning the room he heard the duke’s voice. “Very well, Alderman. I understand your concern, but I assure you that you will not be disappointed.”

Jem fled to the far end of the gallery, intending to crouch behind the huge model on the raised platform. But as he slipped into the space behind the furthest points of the star he noticed a small gap in the wood. The model was so large that it had been assembled from different sections and each point was separate. Jem pushed gently on one of the column-lined sides and the gap widened enough to allow him to squeeze inside.

He shifted forward into the hollow at the centre of the model until he was standing, slightly stooped, just beneath the dark glass dome. The air inside was thick with the smell of varnish and tiny flecks of sawdust settled on his head and shoulders.

It was not a moment too soon. The double doors were thrown back and the duke’s party entered the room. Although the glass was completely black from the outside looking in, Jem’s view through the dome was clear as day. Through the glass, he saw Alderman Pinchbeck’s corpulent body first, followed by Lord Avebury, Kilheron and finally the Duke of Bellingdon himself.

Today Bellingdon was dressed more magnificently than ever before. His golden wig tumbled over a red embroidered frock coat, a ruffle of bright white lace foamed at his neck and his pointed shoes were tied with loops of crimson ribbon. Jem was reminded of a cockerel.

For a moment there was an awed silence. Then all the visitors broke into spontaneous applause.

“Bravo!” shouted Kilheron. “They are magnificent. Which is mine?”

The duke took Kilheron’s arm and led him over to a model of a fine mansion with long windows and a sweeping double stairway leading to a central door.

“Marvellous. It fair takes my breath away,” said the marquis, stroking the wooden roof.

There was a coughing noise and the duke turned to Pinchbeck, who was scanning the room greedily.
“Alderman, your house is over there.”

The duke pointed at a particularly grand model that was as tall as it was broad. “And this is the great archway that will lead to Pinchbeck Park,” he continued, walking over to a highly decorated archway, designed, no doubt, to straddle a road. “The Pinchbeck Triumph will stand more than seventy feet high,” the duke added.

Through the glass, Jem could see the Alderman’s beady eyes widen in surprise and pleasure. Pinchbeck rubbed his hands together.

“Well, that looks most satisfactory. Most satisfactory indeed,” he said.

The duke continued his tour of the models and soon he was standing just a few feet away from Jem’s hiding place. “And this is Cazalon’s new cathedral, gentlemen. What do you make of it?”

Cazalon’s cathedral? Of course! Jem realised with a start what his hiding place was.

Lord Avebury stalked towards the model. Jem was sure that he could not be seen through the glass, but he ducked lower, just in case. His breathing became fast and shallow and his heart began to thump so loudly that he was certain the men gathering around the model could hear it.

Avebury’s eyes narrowed as he took in the odd shape, the columns, the steps and the dome. At last he spoke.

“It is an abomination!”

The duke sidled up to him. “But do you not think it is interesting, Avebury? A building like this will be the talk of every capital in Europe. Cazalon has employed the finest architects on our behalf. That is why he has been in Paris these last weeks. He has commissioned these models to show us the new London. They are mere shadows of the real city we will build. And this magnificent construction will be our new cathedral.”

Avebury’s flat, slablike face was grim. “It is ungodly,” he replied. “I knew the man was fascinated by the pagan temples of the past, but I did not think he would make one for himself. Cazalon once told me that he believes St Paul’s to have been built over a Roman temple. And now I see he means to build that ancient heathen monstrosity anew.”

The room was silent as the other men watched this exchange.

After a moment, Bellingdon clasped Avebury’s right arm. “We are all engaged in the work of the Lord, Richard,” he said. “When we cleanse the city
with flames we will serve the righteous and sweep the sinful away with the ashes. This is holy work.”

“And work that will delight and glorify our king,” interrupted Kilheron. “Remember, Avebury, we will surely be rewarded on earth as well as in heaven.”

The duke continued softly, “Why not allow Cazalon this folly, this artistic extravagance, when he has asked for so little? Even now he is in France raising the monies for our scheme, so that when London burns we will be ready. He has been tireless in his quest to help us build our great new capital – and this,” the duke tapped the model, “is all he asks in return.”

Avebury grunted. “And that’s another thing that worries me, George. Why would a Frenchman want to help us?”

Bellingdon laughed uneasily. “French, you say? No, that’s not right. Cazalon has spent a great deal of time in France, true, but he has estates and ancient titles here in England – and land in the Indies and the Americas, too. He is a man of the world, Richard. One of a new breed – and we are fortunate to be his friends. Now, come and look at your house over here. It has a fountain.”

Bellingdon placed an arm around Avebury’s 
shoulders and guided him over to one of the most imposing models in the room. The duke pointed out its various features and after a short while, Avebury seemed almost happy.

Kilheron and Pinchbeck stayed close to the model where Jem was hiding.

“And what do you think of it, Alderman?” asked Kilheron quietly.

Pinchbeck puffed out his cheeks. “Avebury is right, it is an abomination. But that’s a small price to pay when there’s money to be made.”

“And titles to be bought?” There was note of scorn in Kilheron’s voice, but the Alderman had turned away and was already lumbering back up the room towards the duke and Avebury.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting this then?” Pinchbeck called to Bellingdon and produced a leather pouch from the folds of his coat. “All in gold, as requested.”

The duke smiled as all his visitors produced similar fat pouches that chinked with coins. “I believe you will find that your investment today pays rich dividends,” he said. “When old London is burned to a crisp, the king will be grateful and generous to those who are ready to help him.”

His words were met by nods and grunts of approval.

Inside the model, Jem shuddered. These greedy conspirators thought only of themselves, they didn’t care at all about the thousands of people in the city.

Would his own father be burned to a crisp before Jem had even found him?

“Now, to the plan,” said the duke, and he collected several rolls of paper from a desk. “Do you all have enough men to set the fires?” he asked, handing a roll to each conspirator.

Kilheron sniggered. “It was easy to find the right fellows for the task. London is full of ruffians and cutpurses. Poor rogues will do anything for ready coin.”

Pinchbeck didn’t sound so happy. “I’ve done as you asked, but to my mind this is all getting very expensive. I like to strike a deal as much as the next merchant, but so much outlay without immediate return – well, that’s a risk. And maybe a poor one?”

The duke’s reply was cold and formal. “You speak like a mere Alderman, sir. You’ll find it’s been a small price to pay when you and future generations of Pinchbecks add a title to their name. We must all make sacrifices – I am prepared for my own house to burn.”

Jem froze. What about his mother and little Sim, and all the other inhabitants of Ludlow House? He’d never imagined that the duke meant to harm his own property and his own people. These men were discussing the destruction of everything he knew as easily as if they were bartering for a pig.

“Now, gentlemen,” the duke spoke again. “If you would unroll the papers I have just given you and place them together on the floor here, we shall discuss the instructions I have received from our friend in Paris.”

The men unfurled the rolls and placed them on the rug. The duke pushed the papers together so that they formed one large sheet, then stood back. “My dear fellow!” Kilheron exclaimed, “A plan of the whole city! And we each seem to have a different section.”

“Good, Matthew – you are quite right.” The duke looked down. “The count has split the City of London into four equal parts. Each of us is to be responsible for a quarter. The ruffians we have employed will set fires at each point throughout the city marked with a red cross, so – here, here, here and… here.”

The duke pointed at the map and the conspirators bent closer.

“I shall take the north,” Bellingdon continued, “Avebury, you will take the south, Alderman Pinchbeck the east, and Kilheron, you have the west.”

Avebury looked up. “And what’s that star at the centre?”

The duke chuckled, but it was a nervous sound. “That, dear friend, is Count Cazalon’s concern. He has stipulated that he and he alone is to be responsible for the streets around St Paul’s Cathedral. You will find those places clearly marked on your own maps. That is Cazalon’s territory. Are we agreed?”

The men were quiet for a moment, then Pinchbeck muttered, “Well, if that’s what he wants. Though, I must say, it all seems very odd.”

The duke was sharp. “However strange you think it, Alderman, you will find that Cazalon has been most careful in devising this scheme. Your men are to be ready on the first day of September. Fires are to be lit at midnight across the city in these places.”

He pointed at the maps on the carpet. “I have a copy kept somewhere safe so that I can coordinate the plan. But from here on in, it is up to you, and your men, to make sure that everything – every house, every tavern, every merchant’s shop – is destroyed. They are to be burned from the face of the earth.
Now, take up your maps gentlemen.”

Inside the model, Jem rubbed his eyes as a speck of sawdust settled on his lashes. The first of September was just days away! How could they possibly be stopped in time?

Kilheron piped up. “Why, that is an excellent date, George. How clever to choose the first day of September! We shall all be safe at court with our families and far from the old city, enjoying the king’s end-of-summer revels. It is most ingenious.”

The duke smiled. “I believe the count chose the date specifically for the convenience of his friends. If you have… concerns in the city, you have a week to make the relevant arrangements, which should be sufficient. And if our henchmen do all that we pay them for, we will not only be safe from the flames but safe from suspicion.”