by Adrian Speed
I pushed my way towards the gatehouse and grabbed hold of Jacob’s reins, pulling the horse back down to the ground. It tried to buck again but with my weight holding it down it seemed to calm.
“Make way!” I yelled at the people fleeing through the gate and pushed forward, leading the horse. It was a crush but with the mass of the horse behind me and an insistent elbow I pulled Jacob through the centre archway and into the city.
“Why are you doing this?” Jacob called down.
“Because I want to help John!” I shouted back. I felt a prickle as shame stood my hair on end. I couldn’t help him. He had to die, here, now, in the fire. But I did... I did want to help him.
“You were the one that convinced me to leave him!” Jacob snarled, and kicked my hand away from the reins. I let go and staggered back and before I could catch the reins again Jacob had pushed the horse forward towards the flames.
There were fewer people fleeing on this side of the gate. We were so close to the flames now everyone had either fled or was working to fight the flames. Men with billhooks hauled on wooden houses, pulling them to the ground, while runners with buckets of water ran from party to party to douse the rubble to try and keep it from catching.
I ignored them and sped after Jacob down Bishopsgate Street towards the river. The sky above was nothing but smoke, and lit a hellish red from the flames beneath. I could feel the heat of the fire even though it had to be streets away. The air was thick with flakes of ash glowing white, then red, then grey.
I chased Jacob to the fork with Threadneedle Street and as I turned the corner I gazed into the inferno. It burned hotter than any bonfire, blazed bright as the sun, and Jacob’s horse reared as he almost drove it straight into the flames. The Arnold Wineshop in Birchin Lane must have been entirely consumed. I gulped and staggered back from the blaze. There were over a hundred metres between me and it, and yet I could feel the wind rushing past me towards the blaze. It was almost like it was sucking me in. The way the flames curled around the houses, a corridor of flame leading into a white-hot inferno, I felt like I was being sucked into the mouth of Satan himself.
Jacob’s horse bolted out of control over the firebreak of torn houses, its eyes wild and uncontrollable. The motion jolted me out of my hypnosis with the flames and I gave chase. The firebreak was steaming hot as I scrambled over the rubble. The two of us burst into Old Broad Street to the surprise of the men tearing down the firebreak, and Jacob steered his horse away from the fire and towards London Wall. I followed him, past row after row of empty houses, sprinting as fast I could. As the horse turned to follow the wall, I could barely manoevre and I skidded on the manure-slick cobbles until I slammed into the wall.
I ignored the cries for help from those building the firebreak; I ignored the cold fear in my stomach begging me to flee the city, and I chased after Jacob. Even if John died, I couldn’t let Jacob kill himself in the attempt to save his brother. If Jacob died then there was no-one to take over the family business, no-one to create the future Arnolds for the next eight hundred years.
As I ran I cursed my future self. That was the only explanation for Jacob’s behaviour, his fury towards me. I was going to do something very stupid and cause the whole mess I was in now. Or was it because of this mess that I’d go and do something very stupid and send Jacob away? A flash of pain in my head suggested I should stop thinking about that particular paradox.
We followed the wall for almost half a mile before Jacob seemed to have control of his horse again. With a sudden jerk he turned the horse down towards Cheapside, towards the fire. I cursed and struggled to follow. Was he going to try and circle around the fire back towards his home? That was madness. Even if the fire passed, the ash would be as hot as lava.
Jacob thundered his horse towards St Paul’s. The gothic tower stood proud of the city with flames all around it like its future counterpart standing proud over the Blitz. As we got closer the wind caught the flames in a gust, and with a burst of light, flames started to run up the scaffolding around the cathedral. Ash poles and oak planks were perfect kindling and in seconds the flames had run across the entire surface of the cathedral. A great wail went up from the city and a crowd rushed towards us as people fled the dying cathedral.
Jacob and I couldn’t fight our way through that crowd, it was all we could do to hold our ground and stop ourselves being swept away in it. I pressed myself against the doorframe of some abandoned house and watched as hundreds, thousands of people flowed past me as a wave. In minutes they had vanished again.
I stumbled out into the street and looked up at the cathedral again. The roof was glowing. Like chocolate in the sun the lead collapsed in a torrent of molten metal leaving the roof timbers hanging like the cathedral’s burning ribs. Jacob and I got closer but there was a crack-pop and his horse reared, this time throwing him to the ground with a thunk. It galloped past me screaming in a way I struggle to forget and disappeared into distant streets.
Another crack-pop made me look up. The gargoyles of St Paul’s were shattering, sending their shrapnel hundreds of yards around, the pebbles landing on the cobbles like rain.
Jacob had got to his feet and put one foot forward towards the flames, steeling himself to try to push through the flames. I ran to him and held him back. He tried to shrug me off, but I could feel his courage fading.
“There’s no way to get to him,” I said. “You can’t push through that. You’ll be burned to a crisp.”
“I thought he was safe.” Jacob’s eyes began to water and not just from the smoke. “I thought you were keeping him safe.”
“I... I thought so too,” I said. “We... we got separated...” I hoped that was true. “I thought he’d find his way to you.” Which I knew was a lie.
Jacob turned his head towards me, eyes over-laden with tears. All the anger I’d ever known in Jacob had turned to grief. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. With a lurch he buried his head in my chest and silent sobs leaked out.
I couldn’t be more grateful for the ridiculously puffy, padded sixteenth-century coat hiding my figure as he rubbed his head against me and struggled to compose himself. When I felt I could, I pushed him away from me and pulled him upright.
“We have to go,” I said, putting as much authority into my voice as I could. “The fire is moving. Come on.”
“I’m going to have to take over the business,” Jacob said in a daze.
“Come on,” I said and pulled at his arm. He took a few steps like a zombie.
“It was supposed to be the Arnold Brothers,” Jacob said. “Never one Arnold alone. I told John that. I told him for years.”
“Maybe he got out,” I said and heaved on him again. Jacob didn’t believe me, but he needed to hear something comforting. “Maybe he’s lying in some field in Shoreditch worried about us.”
“Who’ll look after Lizzie?” Jacob threatened to break into tears again. “She’s got no-one left. And their poor... their poor...” Jacob’s words trailed off as more tears leaked out. He pulled away from me and covered his face with his hands.
“Jacob Arnold!” I wrenched his hands down from his face and turned him to face the crumbling St Paul’s. “Unless you want to join John in the next life, We Need! To Move! Now!”
The flames of St Paul’s dried his tears and the conflagration congregation sobered him in seconds. He took a step backwards towards the London Wall. I grabbed on his arm, pulled him away from the fire and ran. We ran, and ran, and didn’t stop running until we reached the fields around Bethnal Green.
Jacob collapsed wheezing into the fields. I left him staring up at the smoke-strewn stars and staggered back to the time machine, every muscle in my body screaming that it needed to lie down and rest.
“Stop! Tarry... tarry a moment...” Jacob had crawled after me towards the copse. I turned and tried to block his view of the time machine with my body. “Where.... where are you going?”
“Without John...” I wh
eezed. “There’s no reason to stay in London.” More lies spilled out of my mouth. “I’ll take my sister and go north to Scotland, to be with my family.”
“You would quit me now?!” Jacob couldn’t have sounded in more pain if I had stabbed him. His weight gave out from under his arms and he crumpled into the undergrowth.
“Goodbye, Jacob,” I said, and stumbled into the waiting time machine, checked the boiler was still up to pressure and hauled on the time travel lever. The world blurred until the copse had become a cellar.
I was back in Covent Garden and I knew Jacob wasn’t a killer. Satisfied it was safe, my body refused to obey any further orders, lowered itself to the ground, and fell asleep.
Chapter XVIII
I woke up in the thin, rope-sprung bed in Covent Garden. Opening my eyes made my face sting where Jacob had tried to knock my teeth out. I felt like I’d just run a marathon. Every muscle complained as I moved. With a grunt of effort I pulled myself upright on the bed. I’d been stripped down to loose cotton undergarments, and the puffy silk jacket lay folded on a chair near the fire. My ridiculous hat sat on top of it, with its smooth sleek felt looking freshly brushed.
There was a firm knock at the door and Sir Reginald pushed it open. He smiled to see me awake and carried over a tray with a bowl of thick porridge.
“Ah, I am glad to see you awake. You’ve been asleep almost twelve hours straight,” Sir Reginald said, setting the tray down in front of me. “I wasn’t sure if you take it savoury or sweet, so I brought both bacon and marmalade.” Two little pots sat next to the bowl, one of gloopy orange paste and the other full of thick fried cubes of bacon.
“I think I’ll have it sweet,” I said, raising a spoon to the marmalade. “But you can leave the bacon.” I guarded the pot so Sir Reginald couldn’t take it. “Thank you for putting me to bed.”
“Well, after our last conversation on the topic I felt you would hardly want to remain in the cellar.” Sir Reginald stood back to let me eat and sat down on a small stool near the edge of the room. His hands fiddled with each other while he watched me eat and I could tell he was missing his hat. Normally in a situation like this he’d be rolling the hat brim around and around.
Ravenous, I didn’t speak. My mouth had more important things to deal with, like shoving porridge into it. Eventually Sir Reginald broke the silence.
“Your clothes are clean and brushed, and I’ve got kettles on the boil downstairs if you want to take a bath,” Sir Reginald said as he toyed with the cufflinks of his shirt. “I’m afraid I took a damp flannel to your face to make sure your bruise was clean, but the rest of you is no doubt still covered in smuts.”
“Er… thank you,” I said. I raised my hand to my cheek and prodded it gently. The bruise started just over my cheekbone and ran down to my jawbone. Without a mirror I didn’t know how bad it looked, but it was hot and tender.
“I can get a subdermal sonic to break up the bruise if you’d like,” Sir Reginald said. His voice was unnecessarily jovial, yet strained and empty. Around me at least, Sir Reginald struggled to be a good actor. “It’s just a hop to the twenty-third century.”
“I can cope with a bruise for a few days,” I said between mouthfuls of porridge.
“Ah, yes, I am sure you can.” Sir Reginald stopped fiddling and brought his hands together. He dropped out of his jovial tone. “So. You were unable to resist the allure of the fire?”
“I would hardly call that inferno alluring,” I said, pausing with the spoon halfway to my mouth. “Jacob didn’t give me much choice.”
“So you did confront him?”
“I.. I didn’t have a lot of choice. I wasn’t expecting all that… chaos. All those people. I… I guess I sort of expected to just come across Jacob and John. I wasn’t expecting half of London.”
“You should have seen the river,” Sir Reginald said with a mirthless smile. “You couldn’t see the water for all the boats loaded with people’s livelihoods.”
“Jacob isn’t the killer, Sir Reginald,” I said, letting my spoon settle back into the rest of the porridge. “He… he…” I struggled to find the right words. I didn’t want to let Sir Reginald know my future self was involved somehow. “When he realised John was still in the city he fled back to brave the flames and rescue him. He was weeping when he realised he couldn’t save him.”
“I thought as much,” Sir Reginald said. “Brothers that hate each other as much as that love each other too much for murder.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I muttered and folded my arms. “Now we know for sure Jacob didn’t kill John and I didn’t screw up the timeline by interacting with the fire.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, you haven’t noticed anything or you would have told me.”
“Would I?” Sir Reginald rested his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist.
Does he mean he wouldn’t notice, or he wouldn’t tell me? I cursed internally. I wasn’t getting anything out of his grey eyes. Sir Reginald had an uncanny ability to let his eyes go blank, so when you looked at him all you saw staring back was yourself.
“What were the contents of John’s will?” I asked.
“That everything goes to Jacob,” came the reply.
“Then nothing changed,” I said. “Nothing that matters anyway.”
A whisper of a smile spread across Sir Reginald’s lips. “So who else has it in for our dear John Arnold?”
“The nicest man in London? No-one.” I rested my head in my hands. “Even the other merchants wouldn’t have a worse word to say about him than that he drives a hard bargain.”
“Well then let us think.” Sir Reginald inclined his chin slightly. “If our chief suspect is innocent, who would be the next target of our inquest?” He waited for a moment to see if I would speak and then continued. “The person who fingered him as the suspect, Elizabeth Arnold.”
“Elizabeth was in Deptford during the fire.”
“Was she?” Sir Reginald’s grey eyes flashed. I could check, I thought. All it would take was a flash across in the time machine.
“Would she have the strength to break a skull like the skeleton found?” I asked.
“Good question,” Sir Reginald nodded. “One that needs answering.” He stood up. “Gather your strength; when you are ready we must go to investigate the only individual close enough to Jacob, John and Elizabeth to give us clear answers, and the only person we have yet to introduce ourselves to.”
“Who?”
“Jacob’s wife, of course. Joan Hyde.”
*****
Fortified by bacon and porridge and thoroughly scrubbed, I joined Sir Reginald at the time machine. He stood at the controls with his arms spread wide to set the coordinates like a conductor before a performance. Why had he suddenly taken back control?
“According to Marlin Arnold’s research on Jacob he purchased a property in Piccadilly in November 1666, and borrowed heavily to do so. I think this would be the optimum time to visit Joan Arnold, née Hyde.” Sir Reginald set the coordinates as he did so, not giving me a chance to disagree. “She will be flushed with the pride of their new home and amenable to a visit by a knight of the realm.” He spared a glance at me then locked the coordinates with one of the great levers. “By your leave.” He rested his fingers on the time travel lever. For the first time it didn’t sound like a question.
“Let’s go,” I said warily.
Once we’d landed in October Sir Reginald and I made our way up to the street and Sir Reginald hailed a carriage. It shook wildly as he and I climbed into it. The seats were hard and uncomfortable. With a crack of the whip the horses started to move and the carriage shook like a bucking horse, bouncing over cobblestones.
“Boneshaker it may be,” Sir Reginald said with a smile, “but it’s faster than walking.”
The carriage had a lattice window and I peered out at the city as we passed. It seemed more subdued that it had been during the plague. Here and there I saw
glimpses through the streets at the chaos of the burnt city. Ash and rubble piled high in the streets. Men and boys worked to clear it into carts while surveyors cast plumb lines and checked charts to set out ropes along the roadways and plots. John was lying somewhere in that great ash heap. Buried and forgotten.
Our carriage turned away from the fire-stricken part of the city soon after and headed into the large, ornate houses on the way out of London towards Paddington. The top of a palace was beginning to take shape above the height of the houses. Dark blue tiles like the Parisians favoured were being tacked into place all along its roof joists.
“Clarendon House,” Sir Reginald said, following my line of sight. “Edward Hyde, the Lord Chancellor’s new abode.”
“That’s where Marble Arch is back home,” I said.
“Near enough.”
“So what happened to it? Did it get hit by a German bomb or something?”
“Oh it will be gone long before the Luftwaffe arrive,” Sir Reginald laughed. “It will be gone within twenty years and Lord Clarendon and his family will enjoy it for less than a tenth of that.”
“What? Why?”
“What always causes the downfall of powerful men?” Sir Reginald shrugged. “Politics.” He raised his cane and rapped it on the roof of the coach. “That’ll do driver.” He shouted out and the carriage came to a halt. “Out we get, make for the red door, just along there.”
I stepped out of the coach while Sir Reginald paid the driver. The buildings all along were tall townhouses. Some of them were in white and black timber frames that bowed as they climbed to four or five stories high. Others were in brick, carefully arranged into dynamic patterns. One or two were in dressed stone. They were the ones I felt most comfortable with. I could almost be standing next to them in modern London, even if none of them survived in Piccadilly.
The house with the red door Sir Reginald pointed out was one of the stone ones. It was five stories high and furnished with false pillars and porticos that gave it an Italian flair. It was a thousand times grander than the two-story shop that John had kept near the Exchange. I wondered how much of a euphemism Sir Reginald had used when he’d said Jacob “borrowed heavily.”