The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

  The porter dropped the keys on the table and glanced at me for guidance. ‘On the bed, master?’

  I nodded.

  The servant unlatched the inner door, and the pair of them manhandled Chelling into a chamber little larger than a cupboard. They dropped him on the unmade bed. His legs dangled over the side. One shoe fell with a clatter on to the floor. His round face was turned up to the ceiling, and his hair made a grey and ragged halo on the dirty pillow. His mouth was open. The lips were as pink and as delicate as a rosebud on a compost heap.

  ‘Friend of his, sir?’ the porter asked. ‘Ain’t seen you before, I think.’

  ‘Yes.’ I paused, and then, as the man was looking expectantly at me, added: ‘Mr Gromwell will vouch for me. My name’s Marwood.’

  The porter nodded, giving the impression that he had done everything and more that duty required him to do. ‘Will that be all, then?’

  I felt for my purse. ‘Thank you, yes.’

  I gave the men sixpence apiece. I went back into the study and listened to their footsteps on the stairs. Snoring came from the bedroom, gradually building in volume. I glanced around the cramped chamber. It was very warm up here, directly under the roof. The windows were closed and the air was fetid. There were few books in sight. An unwashed mug and platter of pewter stood on the table.

  Chelling had fallen on hard times. Perhaps Gromwell was not the only man at Clifford’s Inn who survived on the kindness of friends. Everywhere I looked, there seemed to be unanswered questions, large and small. After the efforts I had made, the time I had spent, the money I had paid, all I had to show was a cloud of uncertainties.

  Suddenly I was angry, and anger drove me to act. I could at least make the most of my opportunities while I was here. There was a cupboard set into an alcove by the chimney breast. It was locked, but one of Chelling’s keys soon dealt with that. When I opened its door, the hinges squealed for want of grease.

  The smell of old leather and musty paper greeted me. The cupboard was shelved. In the bottom section were rows of books in a variety of bindings. The upper section held clothing, much of it frayed and well-worn. On the very top shelf, a leather flask rested on a pile of loose papers an inch thick, with writing materials beside them.

  I uncorked the flask and sniffed its contents. The tang of spirituous liquor rose up from it, with a hint of something else, perhaps juniper. So Chelling had a taste for Dutch gin as well as for wine. As for the papers, they were notes, by the look of them, and written in a surprisingly fine hand, the letters well formed and delicately inscribed. I glanced at the top sheets. They were written in Latin. Every other word seemed to be an abbreviation.

  I leafed further down the pile and found a page that was written in English. It was an unfinished letter, though its contents made no more sense than the others.

  Sir,

  It grieves me beyond Measure that my Conscience requires me to communicate this Distressing Information to you, not merely for the Good of our Fellowship and its Reputation in the World, but also to warn you of the Dangers of a too Generous and too Trusting Spirit. In Fetter Lane, by the Hal—

  The last three words were smudged, suggesting the writer had pushed the letter into the pile of papers without troubling to blot it.

  A door closed on one of the floors below me. I cocked my head. Someone was climbing the stairs. The footsteps drew steadily closer. I picked up the papers, returned them to the cupboard and put the flask on top. The hinges shrieked as I shut the door.

  The steps were on the landing now. There was no time to relock the cupboard. The door of Chelling’s study was still ajar. There was a tap on it. The door swung open.

  Lucius Gromwell entered the room, stooping because the lintel was so low. Once inside he straightened up. The crown of his hat brushed the ceiling at its highest point. He was dressed in a fine suit of yellow broadcloth, though the effect was somewhat spoiled by a large red stain on the chest and a hint of grubbiness about his shirt. His face was flushed with wine.

  He frowned. ‘I know you … You’re the man who came to my chambers this morning with a cock and bull story about your father. What are you doing here?’

  I nodded towards the open door of the bedroom. The snores were louder than ever. ‘Mr Chelling was unwell,’ I said. ‘I had him carried to his bed.’

  ‘But who are you?’ Gromwell demanded. ‘What right have you—’

  ‘Hush, sir, he’s only just fallen asleep. It would be unkind to wake him.’

  ‘So you’re a physician, are you? And he your patient? A likely story.’

  ‘No. A friend.’

  Gromwell laughed. ‘Chelling doesn’t have friends. If you know him at all, you would know that.’

  The words were offensive in themselves, but the man’s manner was worse. This morning he had been at least superficially polite to me. Now, he radiated hostility.

  Gromwell crossed the room and pushed the bedroom door fully open. He stared down at Chelling, his face twisting with distaste. He turned back to face me. He gestured to the outer door. ‘After you, sir.’

  I held his gaze, wondering why Gromwell had taken the trouble to come to call on a man he neither liked nor respected.

  ‘You must leave,’ Gromwell said. ‘At once. I have authority in this place. Do not oblige me to exercise it.’

  He left me no choice. I bowed and left the room. On the stairs, I paused to listen.

  The building above was silent. Gromwell was still in Chelling’s chambers. I heard, faint but unmistakable, the shriek of the cupboard door’s hinges.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A knock at the door. Hakesby looked up sharply, and a sheaf of papers slid from his lap to the floor.

  It was Wednesday, early in the afternoon: the sky was overcast, and so was the mood in the drawing office. The stationer’s apprentice had delivered an unexpected bill a few hours earlier.

  The boy downstairs had brought up a letter. Hakesby tore it open and scanned the contents. He passed it to Cat. ‘Marwood cannot complain that we do not keep our side of the bargain.’

  The letter was from Chelling, in answer to an enquiry that Hakesby had sent to Clifford’s Inn the previous evening. The next Fire Court case that was due to be heard before Judges Twisden, Wyndham and Rainsford was a week today, on 15 May. According to Chelling’s notes, the case concerned a property known as Dragon Yard, which occupied a site about halfway between Cheapside and what was left of the Guildhall. The petitioner was Sir Philip Limbury, the freeholder, and there were four defendants, whom Chelling had not named.

  ‘DY,’ she said quietly. ‘Marwood asked about that. Dragon Yard.’

  Hakesby nodded. ‘That confirms it. Limbury? The name’s familiar.’

  ‘Sir Philip Limbury, sir?’ Cat said, her memory providing an unwanted glimpse of her cousin Edward with one of his friends, a tall dark man. ‘The courtier?’

  ‘Very likely,’ Hakesby said. ‘Dragon Yard’s a substantial plot, if I remember right. I wonder what he plans to do with it. We should look into it.’

  His voice had sharpened, and he sounded younger. Hakesby had a nose for an opportunity, if not a head for balancing his accounts, and he was never slow to recognize an opening that might possibly lead to a commission.

  Brennan put down his pen. ‘It’s off Cheapside. I could step over there, sir, if you wish. See what’s what.’

  Cat held her breath.

  ‘I think I shall go myself,’ Hakesby said. ‘No harm, after all, the air will do me good. Summon a hackney, Jane.’

  ‘Would you like me to attend you, sir?’ Brennan asked. ‘In case you need to take a measurement or dictate a note?’

  For a moment the decision hung in the balance. Cat’s nails dug into the palm of her hand. Why couldn’t Mr Hakesby see what Brennan was about? The draughtsman was trying to ease himself into Hakesby’s good offices, to make himself indispensable.

  She was learning cunning. ‘In that case, master, should I finish Brennan�
��s work? It’s the north elevation of the warehouse on Thames Street.’

  Hakesby frowned at her. ‘That would never do. It is a fair copy, and the difference between your two hands would be obvious. Besides, you don’t have the experience.’

  She lowered her head submissively.

  ‘No,’ he went on. ‘Brennan had better stay here. I suppose you must come with me instead.’

  ‘Dragon Yard, master? That’s Dragon Yard.’

  The beer-seller leaned over the side of his stall and pointed across Cheapside at a jagged line of ruins, marked out by a row of white posts with lengthening shadows on their eastern side. It was early evening, but two labourers were still working at one end of the site, shovelling rubble on to a barrow.

  Hakesby slid a shilling on to the plank that served as a counter. ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘It used to be the Poultons – see, that’s the old gentleman there.’ The beer-seller nodded at a tall man wrapped in a cloak who was examining a blackened chimney stack at one end of the ruins. ‘Lucky devil.’

  ‘He doesn’t look lucky,’ Hakesby said.

  The beer-seller leaned politely to his left and spat on the ground. ‘Don’t judge a book by its cover, master. Clothier. Rich as they come.’

  Cat glanced in his direction. Poulton was a gaunt figure, stooping as if he had grown that way after a lifetime spent passing through low doorways. For a clothier, he was plainly, even shabbily dressed.

  ‘Poulton – of course. I know him by reputation,’ Hakesby said. ‘He’s a friend of Robert Hooke’s. Indeed, I believe I may have met him once in Mr Hooke’s company … You say he used to be the owner?’

  ‘I suppose he still is, of what’s left. But there’s a gentleman from Whitehall who has the freehold. It’s a sorry business, isn’t it? Mr Poulton’s been there nigh on forty years, over there: see, where he is now – that’s where the big house was. And his brother’s family was in the house next door, and some cousins behind. A garden too, and a livery stable next to the paddock beyond. All gone now.’ The man’s eyes flickered towards Cat and back to Hakesby. He added the unconvincing piety, ‘God has punished us all, high and low, for the sins of the City and the wickedness of the court.’

  ‘What will they build there?’

  ‘Houses for rich folk, that’s for sure. Ask Mr Poulton if you want to know more. But I warn you, he’ll bite your head off if you don’t have a care. Or you could ask his niece if you can find her.’ The beer-seller grinned. ‘She’s a widow. A merry one.’

  Hakesby drained his beer. He seemed more vigorous than he had for days, if not weeks. Their expedition had acted as a tonic on him.

  He took Cat’s arm, and they crossed the flow of traffic on Cheapside. ‘It’s a big site,’ he said as they reached the safety of the other side. ‘Probably an inn at one time.’ He led the way into what had once been a lane between two buildings.

  ‘You! You there!’

  Mr Poulton was brandishing his stick at them.

  Hakesby let go of Cat’s arm and picked his way towards the old man, navigating a zigzag course between a large heap of rubble and rows of blackened posts that might once have been a range of outbuildings.

  ‘This is private property,’ Poulton said. ‘There is no right of way. I don’t permit trespassers.’

  Hakesby bowed. ‘Of course not. Mr Poulton, I believe? My name is Hakesby. I think we met at my Lord Brouncker’s two or three years ago.’

  Instead of a wig and hat, Poulton wore a tight-fitting black cap which emphasized the shape of his skull. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. ‘Perhaps we did. I don’t recall it.’ The words were abrupt but his tone was less aggressive. ‘And what can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘I’m a surveyor and a master draughtsman. I design buildings and oversee their construction. I’m a colleague of Dr Wren, who will speak for me, and of course Mr Hooke will too, and my Lord Brouncker. This is clearly a substantial site, and I wondered if my services might be of use to you.’

  ‘I wish to God I knew.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir – I don’t understand your uncertainty.’

  ‘Nor do I, sir, nor do I.’ Poulton’s bitterness forced its way to the surface. ‘I tell you, sir, it’s barbaric, unchristian. My family has lived here since my father’s time. We’ve built our houses here, and managed our businesses, and brought up our families. My lease has five years to run, and I expected to renew it when it fell due. And on reasonable terms, too, for our losses from the Fire have been enough to melt a heart of stone. But the freeholder will have none of it: if he has his way, he will cast us all into the street.’

  ‘Surely he must compensate you?’ Hakesby said.

  ‘He has made an offer. The amount was an insult, and he must have known it.’

  ‘But you have a legal recourse, sir. The Fire Court is sitting. I have spoken for several clients there in the last month or so. The judges are not unreasonable, and their priority is to see the City rebuilt as soon as possible – and to give every man his due.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ Poulton sat down suddenly on a fragment of wall. ‘Forgive me. I see you know what you’re talking about.’

  Uninvited, Hakesby sat down beside him. ‘These questions are not easy to settle, sir. There are so many sources of disagreement. But all parties must agree that the rebuilding should go ahead as soon as possible. It would be wise to negotiate a compromise.’

  ‘Sir Philip is not interested in compromise.’ Poulton scowled. ‘Nor am I, for that matter.’ He raised his voice and shouted at the two labourers: ‘I don’t pay you to rest on your spades, you idle knaves. Dig!’

  ‘Sir Philip is your freeholder, I assume?’

  Poulton nodded. ‘Unfortunately. He wants to build a street of new houses, eight, perhaps, or even ten. Three storeys high.’

  Hakesby shook his head. ‘That can’t be right. Technically, that street over there would be classed as a yard or a lane. So new houses should have no more than two storeys, according to the Rebuilding Act. And they will insist on the regulations for a development of this type, I’m sure of that. They don’t want another fire in the heart of the City.’

  ‘That’s the wicked part of it. Limbury wants to cut a street through the middle. To slice Dragon Yard in two. They say the Court of Aldermen likes the idea – another way into Cheapside from the north, thirty feet wide, and at no cost to them.’

  ‘The first two storeys at ten feet high, the third at nine,’ Hakesby murmured. ‘Each house built of brick and fitted out for, say, three hundred pounds.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Two thousand, four hundred pounds to build eight houses. Plus fees and so on. A pretty little speculation. And perhaps more could be squeezed on to the site, if it were better laid out, particularly at the Cheapside end. A wide frontage – ample room for shops.’

  ‘Sir Philip Limbury is an idle spendthrift,’ Poulton said. ‘Like so many of these Whitehall parasites. I cannot imagine how he would bear the cost of it all. Unless his wife’s father helps him. But I hear there’s no love lost there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be hard for him to sell new leases,’ Hakesby said. ‘Or he could borrow on the security of them, even before the building starts. If done well, the scheme could attract much interest. Say thirty-year leases, with deposits of a hundred and fifty pounds apiece at the start of them, plus an annual rent of sixty or even seventy. In two or three years’ time, Sir Philip would cover his costs and start to make a handsome profit. And he and his heirs would retain the freehold.’

  Cat, keeping her eyes lowered, murmured: ‘And the existing tenancies, master?’

  Poulton frowned at her.

  Hakesby grunted. ‘Always the difficulty.’ He turned back to Poulton. ‘You’re not the only tenant, I think you said.’

  ‘That’s part of the problem.’ Poulton’s head drooped lower. ‘There are two main tenancies, sir, including mine, and a number of subtenancies. The main leases were granted around twenty-five years ago. A
s I said, they’ve only about five years to run. I hold the larger, and my niece the other, so effectively it is mine, unless she remarries. But the other two leases have been subleased over the years to people who have only the slightest connection to the family, and some who have none at all. They are a different matter. Some of them lost everything in the Fire, and they can’t afford the cost of rebuilding. And I fear they will be easy prey for a man like Sir Philip. But I hope we shall have a fair hearing from the judges, my niece and I.’

  ‘You plan to rebuild yourself?’

  ‘Of course. And so will my niece. I shall have her sign the necessary papers …’ A flicker of emotion passed swiftly over his face. ‘When I next see her. Limbury will find that a man must get up very early if he wishes to get the better of me.’ He pointed with his stick. ‘My house stood here, with my niece’s on the other side of the lane. The lane itself is over my land. So between us we can sink his entire scheme. Even if he redevelops the north part of the site, he can’t put his road to Cheapside through if he doesn’t have our land. He may have friends at Court but I have friends among the Aldermen.’

  ‘What about your subtenants?’ Cat said, as if to herself.

  ‘They can be bought,’ Poulton said, looking at Hakesby as if it were he who had spoken. ‘Everyone can be bought. Limbury knows that, and so do I.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I was early for the meeting with Hakesby and Catherine Lovett. I had frittered away the day, partly because I had drunk deep the previous evening after my encounter with Theophilus Chelling, which meant that I had slept long and heavily, though with confused dreams of flames, falling buildings and despairing searches for something I never found.

  I should have gone into the office, but somehow I could not bring myself to walk the familiar road to Whitehall. I risked Williamson’s anger – he had given me the indulgence of Monday and Tuesday away from the office, in order to bury my father and settle his affairs. I had taken today without his leave, without even sending word that I was ill. At present his disapproval seemed unimportant. Grief turns everything topsy-turvy.