Margaret nodded. ‘My mother used something like it.’
‘Tell Sam what you need. What about rosewater? Honey?’
‘I have both. We have houseleek as well. But he needs something for the pain.’
Cat said to Sam, ‘See what the apothecary can offer. Your master needs opium, perhaps henbane as well. The apothecary will know.’
‘Listen …’ Mr Hakesby drew Cat aside. ‘Is this wise?’ he said softly. ‘We don’t wish our presence here to become known. It may be dangerous to us – and to Marwood, for that matter. And as for the money …’
Cat stared up at him, without speaking. For a few seconds, they fought a silent battle. She would not back down. Even then, she knew the battle’s outcome concerned more than whether or not to help Marwood. It was about herself and Mr Hakesby.
After a moment Hakesby lowered his eyes and felt for his purse. ‘Very well,’ he said uncertainly. ‘But pray God send a happy outcome. And how we pay Brennan, I—’
Cat said: ‘There won’t be a happy outcome to anything if we don’t get the salve and the cerecloths soon.’
‘The pain!’ Marwood cried suddenly from the bed, his voice unrecognizable. ‘For Jesus’ sake, I beg you. Something for the pain.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FOUR DAYS LATER: WEDNESDAY, 15 MAY
The case under consideration relates …
Cat watched the shorthand symbols marching in a stately fashion across her page in the manner prescribed by Mr Shelton in his Tachygraphy. The woman next to her on the gallery was trying to read what Cat was writing, craning her head while humming loudly and discordantly, in an attempt to suggest that her mind was on other things.
… to the extensive freehold known as Dragon Yard, situated immediately to the north of Cheapside between Lawrence Lane to the west and Ironmongers’ Lane to the east …
Cat angled the pad towards the woman, who jerked her head away. A red stain spread up the woman’s neck and across her face. There was a pleasure in shorthand, Cat thought, independent of its usefulness for making a rapid record: the symbols had their own beauty, and so had the secrecy of them: it offered a private language, for private thoughts, for private people.
… and in the possession of Sir Philip Limbury …
She could see Sir Philip himself in the body of the court, standing with his man of business beside the dais where the three judges sat at their round table, with their clerks behind them and the ushers against the walls, one on each side.
Theophilus Chelling would have been on the dais too, if he had been alive, taking notes and fussing with his papers. But Chelling was dead, and his chambers were reduced to charred timbers and shattered roof tiles. According to Hakesby, the authorities who controlled Clifford’s Inn, the Rules, were not unhappy to have a reason to rebuild his staircase as well as Staircase XIII, damaged in the Great Fire. Also, Hakesby had said to her before the hearing, perhaps they were glad to see the back of Chelling too.
Limbury was whispering to the man of business, an attorney named Browning. Professional representatives were the exception rather than the rule at the Fire Court hearings – most people argued their own cases as best they could, not least because of the expense. But the major freeholders with many properties, such as the Dean and Chapter of St Paul’s and the Livery Companies, employed lawyers or surveyors to do the work. Dragon Yard was a large, complicated site, a patchwork of freeholds, leaseholds, covenants and rights of way, so expert advice was sensible.
Besides, a gentleman like Sir Philip Limbury, a Groom of the Bedchamber, could hardly be expected to represent himself in such a matter. His presence here was unusual in itself, and had attracted some curious glances, both in the hall below and from the women in the gallery.
Limbury was dressed in black, in a sombre but magnificent suit of velvet. Beside him, Browning was small and dumpy, apparently insignificant. According to Mr Hakesby, it wouldn’t be wise to underestimate Browning. He had his fingers in many pies – and he also represented the London interests of Sir Philip’s father-in-law, Sir George Syre, a man reputed to have a very long purse.
‘And who speaks for the defendants?’ asked Sir Wadham Wyndham, who was chairing the proceedings.
Mr Hakesby shuffled towards the dais. ‘I do, my lord. At the behest of Mr Roger Poulton, who is one of the principal leaseholders.’
‘But Mr Poulton is not the only defendant. Do you speak for the others?’
‘Yes and no, my lord. There are many interests involved. It is a complicated matter to reconcile them all, which is why Mr Poulton begs the Court to defer the hearing for two weeks.’
Sir Philip stooped to Browning’s level and murmured something in his ear. Browning approached the dais, bobbing up and down as if his irritation would not permit him to remain still.
‘My lord, surely this is unreasonable? It is in no one’s interest to delay the matter, let alone the City of London’s. Here we have a well-thought-out scheme, providing a clear benefit to—’
Wyndham held up the palm of his hand. ‘Enough, sir. You’ll have your turn to speak in a moment.’ He turned back to Hakesby. ‘Sir, as you know, delay is the last thing that this court wants – we are here to speed things up, not slow them down. Why should we consider your request?’
‘Because Mr Poulton and his family have an interest in Dragon Yard that stretches over three generations, as well as a smaller, adjacent freehold which he offers to merge with Dragon Yard. Their existing leaseholds still have years to run. And, on his behalf, I have drawn up plans for the site which will result in more houses than Sir Philip’s development, without any loss of size, quality or amenities, and which will also allow better access to Cheapside. It is the City’s preferred option – I have discussed the matter at length with one of their own surveyors, Mr Hooke, and I have a letter from him that—’
‘But this is not to the point, my lord,’ Mr Browning broke in. ‘The truth of the matter is that the leaseholders cannot agree among themselves. Whereas Sir Philip is—’
‘My lord, the reason for my client’s request benefits Sir Philip as well. Indeed, a short delay may simplify the entire case in a way that will be in everyone’s interest.’
Sir Thomas Twisden, sitting on Wyndham’s left, leaned across the table and murmured something to his colleague. Wyndham nodded, and turned to the third judge, Sir Richard Rainsford, who shook his head.
Cat wrote in shorthand: They can’t agree among themselves?
‘After Sir Philip and Mr Poulton, my lord,’ Hakesby went on, inexorable as death itself, ‘the main interest in the Dragon Yard site is held by leaseholds in possession of the estate of Mr Poulton’s niece, the late Mistress Celia Hampney.’
This led to a buzz of conversation below, that grew so loud that Hakesby was forced to stop. The clerk called for silence. The judges conferred among themselves. But it was not until Wyndham himself rapped his gavel on the table and threatened to clear the court that silence spread through the hall.
Wyndham beckoned Hakesby to approach the dais. ‘Mistress Hampney, you say? You mean the lady who was murdered in the ruins last week?’
‘Yes, my lord. After her death, her uncle instituted a search for her will, for she had an absolute right to convey her wealth as she wished, apart from the jointure she received on her marriage to her late husband. There is indeed a will, but it’s an old one that was made at the time of her marriage. Under its terms, Mr Poulton would be her principal heir, since her husband had predeceased her and there were no surviving children of the marriage. But now, Mr Poulton learned only yesterday, there is the possibility of a later will. If that is true, and if the will is valid, its provisions may alter the circumstances of the case.’
As Hakesby was speaking, a tall man pushed his way through the crowd and joined Limbury and Browning near the dais. He glanced up at the gallery, surveying who was here. He had strongly marked features set in a thin, handsome face. Limbury turned as he approached and muttere
d something, accompanying the words with a slashing movement of his right hand. The newcomer nodded.
Gromwell? she wrote.
Sir Thomas Twisden was whispering something in Wyndham’s ear, and gesturing towards Limbury. Cat wrote: Twisden doesn’t want to defer.
Wyndham raised his head. ‘I’m not minded to grant this request, Mr Hakesby, unless you can make a better case for the delay.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Browning said. ‘Then may we proceed to outline our proposals?’
Hakesby drew himself up to his full height. Cat knew he was drawing on diminishing reserves of strength; he would pay later for this prodigal outburst of energy, and so in a different way would she. ‘My lord, before we continue, may I beg you to read the letter my client has received from the agent employed by the Hampney family? It may materially affect your decision.’
Wyndham nodded wearily and beckoned an usher. ‘Hand it up, sir.’
An usher stepped down into the body of the hall, took the letter from Mr Poulton, and carried it to the judges. Wyndham unfolded it and scanned the contents. He made no comment but passed it first to Rainsford and then to Twisden, who shrugged and returned it to Wyndham.
The hall was full of whispers and shuffling feet. The Dragon Yard case was unusual, something to feed the gossips that hung around the Fire Court. The judges conferred in low voices. Again, Cat thought, if the language of their bodies was any guide, Twisden was not in agreement with Wyndham and Rainsford. At one point, Twisden looked and glanced down the hall in the direction of Sir Philip, Browning and the man who was probably Gromwell.
At last, Wyndham rapped on the table, and the hall fell silent. ‘The late Mistress Hampney’s leases lie on the Cheapside boundary, and are therefore most important to the development of the entire Dragon Yard site. It appears that, two months before her death she visited Lincolnshire, where she had a lifetime interest in a house and farm under the terms of her jointure. While she was there, according to this letter, she signed a new will, drawn up for her by a local attorney. It is in Lincoln, with various deeds and other documents relating to the marriage settlement that need the signatures of her heirs. The contents of the new will are unknown. So it is necessary for it to be brought down from Lincoln and inspected by this court before we can assess with any certainty who has an interest in Dragon Yard, and indeed the precise nature of these interests.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Mr Hakesby said. ‘My client is—’
‘I have not finished,’ Wyndham said, frowning at the interruption. ‘But we cannot allow this to hold up the work of the court indefinitely. Therefore we shall set a term on this: the will and any other relevant documents must be presented to us within seven days. I shall give you an order of the court for your client to send to Lincoln, requiring that the will be brought before us. At the end of that period, using the extraordinary powers vested in us, we shall determine the case in the light of whatever information is available.’ He rapped the table with his gavel. ‘It’s time for dinner. The court will reconvene tomorrow.’
Cat found Hakesby outside the hall, leaning against a wall in the court between the hall and garden. His face was the colour of chalk. Despite his exhaustion, he was in a good humour.
‘I didn’t think we would do it,’ he said. ‘By God, it was close. If Rainsford or Wyndham had agreed with Twisden, it would have been all over in a moment. Limbury’s plans are more advanced than ours, and everyone’s wary of his Court influence, even if they pretend it doesn’t matter here.’
‘Do you think Twisden knows him?’ Cat asked.
Hakesby’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Limbury? Why?’
‘I thought I saw something between them.’
‘Perhaps. Usually Twisden’s a follower – he agrees with the other judges.’
A smell of roast meat drifted past them. A procession of waiters crossed the courtyard, carrying the judges’ dinner up to their chamber.
‘There was another man with Limbury as well as Browning,’ Cat said. ‘A tall man. He came in late.’
‘That was Gromwell,’ Hakesby said. ‘Limbury’s creature.’ ‘Is that the Half Moon?’ Cat said, pointing at a group of roofs which were just visible beyond the buildings of Clifford’s Inn.
Hakesby looked puzzled at the abrupt change of subject. ‘The tavern? Yes, it must be. Why do you ask?’
Before Cat could reply, Mr Poulton joined them, rubbing his bony hands together. ‘A week. It’s not long, but you did well, Mr Hakesby. I’ll send a man to Lincoln immediately.’
‘Will there be time?’
‘God willing. At least the roads are drier now. But of course we don’t know what we shall find at the end of it.’
‘The contents of the new will?’ Hakesby said.
‘Nothing would surprise me, the way Celia was since she went to live at Mistress Grove’s. She was as predictable as a butterfly. But in any event it is better to know than not to know. Will you dine with me? We must plan for both best and worst.’
‘With pleasure.’ Hakesby glanced at Cat. ‘You should go back to Henrietta Street.’
‘But not alone,’ Poulton put in. ‘What if the monster who killed Celia is about?’
‘It’s only a step from here, sir,’ Cat said.
Hakesby coughed and said he thought it scarcely likely that Cat would be attacked in broad day.
Poulton pulled out his purse. ‘I insist you take a hackney.’
He was obstinate as well as their client, so Cat took the money he offered her without argument.
‘Come, Hakesby. Let us go across the way to the Devil. It’s as near as anywhere, and I can get a coach in Fleet Street afterwards.’
Cat said to Hakesby, ‘If you’ll allow it, I’ll correct my shorthand record before I go, while it’s fresh in the memory.’
He nodded, his mind on Poulton and Dragon Yard. Cat stood in the sunshine and watched the two men moving towards the hall door on their way to the Fleet Street gate. It was true that it would be wise to check her shorthand as soon as possible. But her main reason for lingering in Clifford’s Inn had more to do with the fact that Brennan was at Henrietta Street, and she had no desire to be alone with him in the drawing office.
The courtyard was now empty. The Fire Court was no longer in session. As for the remaining inhabitants of Clifford’s Inn, it was time for dinner. The air in this sheltered place was as warm as summer. It was very quiet, as if the world were holding its breath.
On the other side of the courtyard was the green shade of the garden. It would harm no one if she sat on one of the benches for twenty minutes while she read back her shorthand. In normal circumstances, the use of the garden was probably restricted to members of the Inn, but now the Fire Court was here, the circumstances were no longer normal. If anyone objected, she would plead ignorance of the regulations. But at present there seemed no one about to object.
The garden was surrounded by railings, but the gate leading into it was unlocked. Once inside, Cat followed a gravel path that made a circuit of the enclosure. No one else was here. She found a bench in the sunshine, which was sheltered by a hedge of yew. There was a narrow gap in the hedge, which gave her a view of part of the new building, with what was left of Staircase XIII beyond, and then the gate leading to the approach to Clifford’s Inn from Fetter Lane.
Yawning, Cat read through her notes, pausing every few lines to make a correction or insert a clarification. She had already made the unhappy discovery that it was far easier to write shorthand than to read it back. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she let the notebook fall to her lap.
As her body quietened, her thoughts ranged free and latched themselves on to Marwood. She wondered how he was doing. She had called at Infirmary Close on Monday afternoon, but had not seen him. Fiercely protective of her master, Margaret had told her he was sleeping like the dead. Perhaps she should visit him this evening. If he was awake and in a lucid state of mind, he would want to hear what had happened this morning at the heari
ng.
Everything came back to the Fire Court, she thought, and Clifford’s Inn. Gromwell lived here, and he was Limbury’s ally and he had been Chelling’s enemy. Chelling had lived here too, and he had been a clerk to the Fire Court. Limbury had a case before the Fire Court. Gromwell’s chamber was where Marwood’s father believed he had seen a dead woman reclining in sinful luxury. Celia Hampney was the woman, and Dragon Yard linked her with Limbury and Poulton – and then back to the Fire Court and Clifford’s Inn.
The thoughts danced erratically in her mind, chaotic as a cloud of flies, buzzing and wheeling and ducking and diving. But even flies, she thought sleepily, must obey the regulations of their kind, must follow mysterious patterns of their own.
The sound of footsteps tugged her back to full consciousness. Someone was crossing the courtyard behind her. She glanced to her right and saw Gromwell striding along with his hands behind his back and his nose in the air.
She expected him to enter Staircase XIV in the new building, where his chambers were. Instead, he made for the fire-blackened door to Staircase XIII. He took a key from his pocket and looked over his shoulder, first to the left and then to the right.
In the silence, the scrape and click of the key in the lock were clearly audible in the garden. But just as Gromwell was about to open the door, there was an interruption.
‘Sir! Sir!’ Hurrying footsteps crossed the courtyard. ‘Thank God you’re not at dinner – there’s a difficulty between Mr Jones and Mr Barker. They’re like to come to blows if they’re not stopped. And the Principal is looking for you too.’
It was one of the Inn’s servants, a wrinkled man with a shock of white hair below his hat. Gromwell snatched the key from the lock and stormed across the court towards the hall door. The servant scurried after him.
Cat acted on impulse. She stood up and made her way to the garden gate. When Gromwell and the servant had gone, she walked quickly to the door leading to Staircase XIII. She lifted the latch. The door opened.
It was as easy, and as foolish, as that. Gromwell might return at any time. But it was such a golden opportunity – not just his absence and the temporarily unlocked door, but also the fact that it was the dinner hour and the open spaces of Clifford’s Inn were as empty as they were ever likely to be in the hours of daylight.
The Fire Court Page 18