The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

  Now Chiffinch had sent me from London on what was clearly a trumped-up mission. It would probably take the better part of a month to complete and would bring me considerable discomfort into the bargain.

  The conclusion was obvious. Someone had brought their influence to bear. If not influence, then money. It was said that Chiffinch would do anything if the price were right. As for Williamson, he wanted power: to be Secretary of State in Lord Arlington’s place. To do that he needed allies in high places. Who better than Chiffinch, the man who had the King’s private ear, who ministered to his pleasures and assisted his intrigues?

  There are no friends at Whitehall. Only allies and enemies. Among the great, power ebbs and flows according to their conjunctions and oppositions. And the rest of us are tossed about in the current, helpless to direct our course, let alone navigate our way to safety.

  I walked swiftly down to Charing Cross. In the Strand, however, rather than turning down to the Savoy, where Margaret and Sam were waiting in Infirmary Close, I veered away north towards the piazza of Covent Garden.

  In Henrietta Street I knocked on Hakesby’s door and sent a message up to him. A few moments later I heard several sets of footsteps on the stairs.

  The first to appear was a plainly dressed young man of about my own age with a narrow, freckled face. He cast a curious glance at me.

  ‘Master’s on his way down, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Brennan?’ Hakesby called. ‘Come earlier tomorrow, will you? There is a great deal to do.’

  ‘Yes, master. Good night.’

  The young man disappeared into the gathering dusk. Hakesby reached the hall, his feet dragging as if he hardly had the strength to lift them. Catherine Lovett was by his side.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re fortunate to find us – we were working later than usual.’

  ‘I have to talk to you. Have you time?’

  ‘Very well. Shall we go to the Lamb? What’s it about?’

  ‘I’ll tell you there, sir,’ I said. ‘In private.’

  Catherine Lovett said nothing. I was aware of her eyes on me, and I sensed her disapproval of my recklessness in coming here so openly, and thereby revealing our acquaintance unnecessarily to others.

  My anger briefly spilled on to her. Be damned to her. What Mistress Lovett can’t cure, I told myself, she must endure. Yesterday afternoon, when we had met over Celia Hampney’s body, she had seemed almost friendly. She had instructed me in the language of the flies, the meaning of face patches, and she had teased me for my attachment to her aunt. All that was gone.

  Hakesby walked between us, and we slowed our pace to his. My impatience was such that it spilled out into an absurd irritation with him and his halting gait. To make matters worse, he would not stop talking, rambling on, as old men do, as my father had once done, as if we had all the time in the world.

  ‘We have such a quantity of business at present,’ he was saying as we passed through the piazza. ‘It is pleasing, of course, but I believe I may have to hire a second draughtsman to cope with it. Did you hear that Master Poulton has asked me to look at his Dragon Yard scheme? Interesting, especially if he can carry it through, but it’s proving more complicated than I expected. Sir Philip Limbury’s scheme is impressive, and he’s in a position of strength as the freeholder, so we must study how best to counter the arguments his side will bring out at the Fire Court …’

  ‘No, sir,’ Cat said, gently tugging his arm. ‘This way. And take care not to step into the gutter …’

  ‘And Jane has been absent for most of the day,’ he said, turning his head towards her as if he had only just remembered her presence. ‘Most inconvenient. Mr Poulton asked for her this morning, as a particular favour, and I could hardly say no.’

  I was so surprised I stopped at the corner of the arcade, causing a gentleman behind me to swerve and curse me loudly for a clumsy dog. ‘Why? What did he want?’

  ‘It wasn’t Mr Poulton who wanted me,’ Cat said. ‘It was his housekeeper, Mistress Lee.’

  ‘To help her at the lodgings of Poulton’s niece,’ Hakesby said. ‘That poor lady.’

  That was when I made up my mind to tell them the truth: partly because I wanted to know more about Celia Hampney and how she had lived, but more because I knew I would burst if I left my anger to fester inside me.

  They gave us the same room at the Lamb, and I ordered wine to be brought.

  ‘I have not been entirely open with you about this Fire Court business,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hakesby demanded.

  Cat just looked at me. She showed no surprise. Her face was grave.

  So I told them everything, or almost everything, about my father’s wanderings and what he had said to me about them; about his death and the bloodstains on his person; and about the scrap of paper with the judges’ names and ‘DY’ written on it, which I had found in his pocket.

  ‘So I think Mistress Hampney was killed at Clifford’s Inn,’ I said. ‘And later they brought her body out and left it in the ruins. There’s a private door from the fire-damaged building – it leads to an alley that goes to Fetter Lane. I went there with my servant on Wednesday evening.’ I glanced at Cat. ‘You remember that man who was watching us on Wednesday? The tall thin man by the Half Moon? He caught me in the alley. If Sam hadn’t been there, God knows what would have happened.’

  Hakesby waved his hand, brushing away my words. ‘What is this business? I thought it concerned your father’s death.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ I said. ‘I’ve just come from Whitehall. They are sending me to Scotland on a fool’s errand. It’s to get me out of the way. It’s to stop me asking questions that they don’t want answered. There can be no other reason.’

  ‘The dead woman your father saw,’ Cat said. ‘Was it Celia Hampney?’

  ‘I think it must have been. Though God knows how it was done.’

  Hakesby considered this. Then: ‘So it’s all connected. Does Mr Poulton know?’

  ‘No. And he mustn’t.’

  ‘I tell you plainly, sir, I shall have nothing further to do with the intrigue. It’s the sort of affair that leads to the gallows.’ He began the slow process of standing up. ‘Come,’ Hakesby said to Cat. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I beg you. I understand – but, before you go, would you allow me to hear what Mistress Hakesby found in Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’

  ‘No.’ He was on his feet now, wavering slightly like a tree in a stiff breeze. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your father, of course, but there’s an end to everything else. Come along, Jane.’

  But Cat remained sitting on the bench. ‘There’s no harm in my telling Mr Marwood, sir.’

  ‘No. We are going.’

  ‘He helped me in the past,’ she said. ‘I should help him now. If only in this.’

  ‘You must be quick,’ Hakesby said harshly. ‘I shall allow you a minute or two. No more.’

  It was a surrender, but she was wise enough to allow him to cling to the appearance of victory.

  ‘Yes, master,’ she said, eyes cast down. ‘Thank you.’

  Hakesby sat down again. She turned to me and explained in a brisk voice that Mistress Lee had required a younger person to help her when she went to Celia Hampney’s lodgings in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I heard traces of the old Catherine Lovett, secure in the arrogance that money and position bring:

  ‘There was a most vulgar, greedy woman who called herself Madam Grove and gave herself the airs of a duchess. I wouldn’t have her as my washerwoman.’

  ‘Hush,’ murmured Hakesby. ‘You’re too forward. And be quick about this.’

  ‘The apartments were luxurious but disordered,’ she said. ‘And Mistress Hampney’s maid was worse than insolent. Her name’s Tabitha. She claimed to know nothing about her mistress’s affairs or of any friendships with particular gentlemen. She also said that she’d been sent away on the day before her
mistress disappeared, and told to come back the following evening.’

  ‘By that time her mistress was dead,’ I said.

  Cat nodded. ‘Celia Hampney held a party in her lodgings on the last evening of her life. For gentlemen. I suppose that’s why she sent her maid away, to prevent her gossiping about what she saw. The Grove woman says she knows nothing, and in any case she was in the country all that week. She also said that Mistress Hampney desired to remain a widow, that she did not wish to lose her independence.’

  I was watching Hakesby lifting his glass: it was cupped in his trembling hands and he guided it slowly towards his lips with a palpable effort of will. I said, ‘So nobody knows anything?’

  ‘Or if they do, they’re not saying. Mistress Lee discharged Tabitha on the spot – the girl was asking for it, the way she behaved.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Tabitha didn’t care.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ I asked.

  ‘To her mother’s. That’s what she said. But I don’t know where the mother lives.’

  ‘Very well,’ Hakesby said, setting down the glass and once more trying to rise. ‘Let us leave, Jane. Now.’

  Cat ignored him. ‘Her impudence was strange … It was almost as if she had a protector, someone who made her invulnerable.’

  ‘The Grove woman?’

  She shook her head. ‘There was no love lost there.’

  ‘Do you think Tabitha knew about a lover? Do you think he bribed her?’

  ‘As plain as day,’ Hakesby said impatiently. ‘Of course there was a lover. Jane – come with me. This instant.’

  I had to admit that he was probably right – and indeed everything I had learned this evening supported Williamson’s view of the murder: a lovers’ tryst and a robbery that had gone wrong and led to murder.

  But there had to be more than that. There must be. My father had seen the woman lying dead in Clifford’s Inn, not in the ruins east of Fetter Lane. Gromwell and Chelling had some knowledge that touched on the murder. It was even possible that one or both had been accessories before or after the fact of it. What of Dragon Yard, which linked Celia Hampney and Poulton to the Fire Court?

  And what of my father? My poor dead father.

  Something snapped in my mind.

  I stood up, pushing back my bench so violently that it fell over. ‘Stay here for a moment,’ I said to Hakesby. ‘Finish the bottle. I’m going.’

  Hakesby sank into his chair. ‘Have you considered, sir,’ he said slowly, ‘that sending you away might be a blessing in disguise?’

  The wine I had taken on an empty stomach was loosening my tongue. ‘Why in God’s name?’

  ‘Because sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘Sleeping dogs be damned.’

  ‘By sending you away, they have left you with no choice in the matter.’ His voice was firmer now. ‘Perhaps they have your best interests at heart.’

  ‘They have no one’s interests at heart but their own.’ I had my hand on the latch. I looked back at them. ‘I will not let this go.’

  Hakesby said, ‘Then it must be a matter for you alone. It is not my business.’ He glanced at Cat. ‘Nor hers. It is too dangerous. Remember, it doesn’t concern you, and it concerns us even less.’

  ‘That’s plain-speaking,’ I said, with an edge of anger in my voice, though I knew in my heart that Hakesby was right. ‘I shall pursue this wherever it leads. And be damned to your cowardice.’

  I flung out of the room. Even at the time, I knew I was being unreasonable, but I was so angry with the world I did not care.

  I found the landlord and, with a lordliness I could ill afford, bought a bottle of Malmsey to take away with me and paid the score for what I had ordered already. I stormed down the stairs, half hoping that Hakesby would send Cat to call me back. But he didn’t.

  I emerged into the street. Night had fallen, and Wych Street was only dimly lit. There was a man on the other side of the road. As I appeared, he turned away and began to walk briskly westwards. By chance, he passed a lantern hanging over the doorway to a shop. For a second or two, I glimpsed the lower part of his face. He looked teasingly familiar.

  Cradling the bottle under my cloak, I walked off in the opposite direction. It was only as I was turning up to the Fleet Street gate of Clifford’s Inn that I realized why the face was familiar. For a moment, it had looked a little like the man I had passed in the hall at Henrietta Street: Brennan, Hakesby’s draughtsman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Fleet Street gate was barred. A lantern swung above it, shedding a dim light on the path beneath. My anger vanished. I watched a tall gentleman approach the gate. The porter came out to let him in, and they exchanged a few words. Afterwards the porter barred the gate again. At this hour of the evening, I realized, it might not be easy for me to enter Clifford’s Inn.

  Then a party of revellers blundered by me as I stood in the shadows by St Dunstan-in-the-West. They were half a dozen young lawyers, drunk as lords, innocent as children: they staggered up the path by the church, swearing affectionately at each other and laughing loudly for no reason.

  The last of the party stumbled as he passed me. Suddenly I saw my opportunity. I stepped forward, took his arm and steadied him. He turned his head away from me and vomited politely in the gutter.

  ‘Your servant, sir,’ he said. ‘Truly you are a good – a Good Samaritan.’

  ‘Careful, sir,’ I said. ‘The path is treacherous in this light. Pray lean on me.’

  ‘God bless you. We shall sink a bottle between us, damned if we don’t. We must toast our everlasting friendship.’

  ‘We shall!’ I cried.

  ‘We shall be the Damon and Pythias of Clifford’s Inn. I’ll be Pythias, shall I, because I must pith soon or I shall burst.’

  The joke caught me unawares, and I burst out laughing. So did he. Side by side, the two of us staggered after the rest of the party, roaring with laughter.

  Pythias patted the bottle in my hand. ‘Ah! A man with forethought as well as wit. That is a friend indeed.’ His fingers tightened on my arm. ‘But it is wine, I hope? It is not a chimera? I am not dreaming this?’

  ‘No, sir – it’s Malmsey, as God’s my witness. You need not fear.’

  Our leaders started singing, if that is the word. After a moment, I guessed that the song was probably ‘Come, Come Pretty Wenches, More Nimbler Than Eels’. On this assumption, I joined in. There was some confusion about the different parts and their harmonies, as well as about the precise wording, but what we lacked in musicality we more than compensated for in enthusiasm and volume.

  Our party bunched together as it passed under the archway and into the cramped court between the Fleet Street gate and the hall of Clifford’s Inn. The porter on duty held up his lantern as we went through, but we must have seemed indistinguishable from one another in its feeble light – a wobbling, noisy cluster of dark hats and dark cloaks. Someone tossed him a few coins which sent him scrabbling to retrieve them on his hands and knees. He did not question my presence.

  I disentangled myself from my new best friend and attached him to someone else. This was a success until they reached the hall doorway, where Pythias collided with one of the jambs and slithered to the ground. Two of his other friends tried to help him up.

  Under cover of the excitement, I slipped away to the bottom of the staircase where Chelling lived. A faint light burned over the door, but otherwise the building on this side of the court was entirely in darkness.

  If I didn’t talk to Chelling now, it would be weeks before my next chance, and it might be too late. He knew something. I was sure of it. Perhaps something to do with Gromwell.

  In Fetter Lane, by the Hal—

  The scrap of a letter I had found in his cupboard must surely refer to the Half Moon tavern, with the alley up to the locked door into the ruins. For all its fine words, it could be interpreted as the beginning of an attempt at blackmail.

  The door swung open
at my touch. Air swirled around me, cooler than the air outside. Drawing my cloak around me, I stood at the foot of the stairs and peered into the darkness above.

  The voices in the court outside and the distant clatter of the traffic in Fleet Street ebbed away. Old stone buildings have a special form of silence, cold and dense. Gradually the darkness became less absolute, resolving itself into delicately graduated shades of black. Then the faintest of outlines appeared – the merest suggestion of the archway that led to the landing above.

  As far as I was concerned, my surroundings were largely hypothetical. Faced with a hypothesis, the gentlemen of the Royal Society put it to the test. I could do no better than follow their example. I inched forward until the toe of my right shoe touched the riser of the bottom stair. I climbed the worn stone steps one by one, running the fingertips of my left hand along the cold, damp wall to keep me on course.

  In this way, slowly, by trial and error, I climbed from floor to floor. On the second landing there was an uncurtained window which made my task easier. Some of the shades of black became shades of grey. There was an odd smell in the air, a blend of unexpected ingredients – linseed oil? Sulphur?

  Up and up I went. None of the doors I passed showed a line of light beneath. Chelling, I remembered, had told me that the Inn had found it hard to attract students since the Civil War. And no one would wish to live in this decaying building except from necessity.

  The steps were of stone until the attic storey where Chelling lived. This was a later addition of timber and wattle, reached by a narrow wooden staircase. Up to now my slow footsteps had made little sound, apart from the occasional scrape of leather on stone and the patter of dislodged dust. But now the wood creaked under my weight.