Williamson stared at him for a long moment. He nodded at the periwig on its stand at the foot of the bed. ‘Has he worn that?’
‘Yes, sir. When he went out today. With the wig and a hat on his head, you hardly notice the burns … most of the time, at least.’
He grunted. ‘That’s something, I suppose. Where are these papers?’
She took up the Bible on the night table, and removed the poem. She passed it to Williamson, who angled them to the light of the candle.
‘What’s this? Verses? Why did he want me to see this?’
‘He found them in the possession of a woman called Tabitha, who was living in Lambeth.’
‘He told you this?’ Surprise battled with outrage in his voice.
‘In case he could not talk to you if you called.’
‘Very well. Who is this Tabitha?’
‘Mistress Hampney’s maid. But now she is dead.’
‘How?’
‘She hanged herself in her own cottage. Or someone did it for her.’
Williamson peered at the paper in his hand. ‘Who wrote this?’ he said sharply. ‘Who is this “L”?’
‘I don’t know.’ Cat turned the pages of the Bible and took out the letter that Hakesby had given her. ‘He commanded me to show you this as well.’
Williamson read the letter, muttered something under his breath and then read it again. ‘Addressed to Mr Hakesby, I see. The name’s familiar.’
‘He is the surveyor acting for Poulton.’
‘How did your master get this?’
‘I can’t say.’
He took up the verses and compared them to the letter. ‘By God, I believe they’re in the same hand.’ His eyes went back to the figure on the bed, still snoring. ‘I must talk to him.’
‘No, sir.’
He stared down at her. ‘What did you say?’
‘Pray don’t wake him. He needs this sleep more than anything.’
Williamson shook his head and took a step towards the bed. He laid a hand on Marwood’s shoulder.
‘Stop,’ Cat said, more loudly than she had intended.
He swung back, his eyebrows shooting up.
‘If you wake him, you’ll get no sense from him. You’ll distress him to no purpose.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I’ve helped nurse him these last few days. I know the pattern of it.’
Williamson shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He folded the two papers and slipped them in his pocket. ‘When he wakes, tell him I came, and that I wish to see him as soon as possible. If he’s too ill to come to Whitehall, then send word to my office.’
She bowed her head.
‘Can you write?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then, if he cannot come himself, or write to me, you must write on his behalf. Or at least give me a report on how he does.’
He gestured to her to light him downstairs.
Sam was waiting for them in the hall. As he was unbarring the door, Williamson turned back to her. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Jane, sir.’
‘And your surname?’
‘Hakesby, sir.’
‘Like the surveyor?’
‘I am his cousin, sir. He took me in when my father died. He sent me here to help with nursing Mr Marwood.’
Williamson clicked his fingers. ‘Curious. Are they intimate friends?’
‘I can’t say, sir.’
To her relief, he did not probe further. He said goodnight and left the house.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ Sam muttered piously as he barred the door.
Cat went back upstairs. On the landing outside Marwood’s room, there was a small, unshuttered window. Shielding her candle with the palm of her hand, she looked down into the alley below. A light burned on the corner at the end. She was in time to see Williamson marching slowly towards it, his outline wavering and indeterminate because of the lack of light and the distortion of the glass.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
‘Bring me the box,’ Jemima said. ‘The one in the chest.’
Without a word, Mary curtsied and went away. The chest had a drawer with a false back, and it was behind this that the box was kept. It was a pretty thing made of ebony inlaid with silver.
At this hour, approaching midnight, the house was quiet. The other servants were in the kitchen or in bed, apart from Richard, who was attending his master at Whitehall; or so he said.
Jemima unlocked the box with a key she kept in her pocket. Among the litter inside were more keys, held together on a ring.
Mary did not need to be told what to do. She picked up a candle, opened the door for her mistress and followed her down the stairs, along the hall and into the study. Once inside, Mary closed the door behind them and stood with her back to it.
‘Light another candle,’ Jemima said. ‘I don’t want to be poking about in the gloom. Put it on the desk and then hold a light for me over here.’
Jemima had commissioned the cabinet with satyrs’ heads for Philip, as a wedding present. Most of the woods used for the inlays and the veneers had come from the East Indies. It was probably the most expensive piece of furniture in the entire house – it had cost even more than her own bed.
She unlocked and opened its outer doors. Inside were three drawers above a cupboard. The top drawer had its own lock, but Jemima had a key for it too – that was the advantage of commissioning the cabinet-maker and the locksmith yourself.
The majority of the contents were familiar from earlier inspections. There was a small bag of gold and a few trinkets that had survived the shipwreck of the Limburys’ fortunes during the Commonwealth when Philip had been abroad with the King and the court in exile. Beside these was a bundle of documents relating to the Pall Mall house, and another bundle dealing with the Dragon Yard property and the Fire Court case.
Underneath them all was a folder of letters and notes, most of them about Philip’s debts and his attempts to pay them. Until the last few weeks, Jemima would have said that gambling, not women, was his weakness. Now she was not so sure.
All this was familiar, though at a quick glance the debts amounted to almost twice as much as they had before, despite the earrings she had given him to sell. One of the new bills was for thirty pounds owed to a printer, the Widow Vereker at the sign of the Three Bibles on London Bridge. That puzzled her for a moment – her husband was not a man who cared for the printed word, by and large – until she remembered Gromwell’s book of Gloucestershire antiquities. Whatever the favour that Gromwell had done Philip, it was an important one, and he desired to keep his side of the bargain.
Another thing was new since her last inspection: a letter at the very bottom of the drawer. Or rather two letters, for the outer one had another folded inside it.
She carried them over to the desk. The first letter had a broken seal (an anonymous smudge of wax with nothing imprinted on it) and Philip’s name on the outside, but no address. She took it to the desk and examined it by the light of the candle. It contained a few words scrawled in pencil. It was unsigned.
This under my door by night. I will call on you at supper.
Jemima unfolded the second letter. It was much longer, and written in a fine, clerkly hand.
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 Half Moon tavern, an alley leads to our Inn, to the Remains of Staircase XIII. I have had the Misfortune to learn that it is possible to pass between the two, and that it has been the means of conducting an Intrigue that will bring Shame upon our Fellowship.
Pray advise me. Should I lay the Matter before the Principal and Rules at their next Meeting? Or would it be more prudent for us to deal with it privately, to preserve the good Repute of the Inn?
/>
T.C.
Was this the letter that Mary had told her about the week before last? The one the boy had brought, which had thrown Philip into a rage? Underneath the fine words there was an unmistakable hint of a threat. The letter must have been sent to Gromwell – who else did Philip know at Clifford’s Inn – who had indeed called at Pall Mall that evening and taken Philip away from her. She did not know who ‘T.C.’ might be, though he was obviously a member of the Inn as well.
… the means of conducting an Intrigue …
Jemima knew what the intrigue was, if nothing else. No wonder Philip had flown into such a passion. A bubble of pain burst inside her, and she cried out.
‘Madam,’ Mary said. ‘Oh madam.’
Jemima glanced at her. For a moment, she wondered whether to show her the letter – Mary could read quite well, though writing was another matter. Then she read it again, thinking about its implications, and decided not to.
The letter had been delivered to the house on Thursday evening, eleven days ago. On Friday night – or rather in the darkest hour before dawn on Saturday morning – Philip had returned to the house and gone to his bedchamber; she had gone to him there and found him distraught; she had never seen him so distressed; and she had comforted him. Her heart melted within her bosom at the sweet memory of it. She found consolation there, at least: in his time of trouble, he had not turned her away.
A triple knock echoed through the house.
Both Jemima and Mary gasped. It could not be Philip at the street door – he had his own knock, which the porter knew as his master’s. This was a stranger’s knock. An uninvited caller at this hour was unheard of.
The knock would bring the servants into the hall. They could hardly help noticing that their mistress was in the study. There was no reason why she should not be here. On the other hand, there was no reason why she should.
Jemima folded the letters. She glided back to the cabinet. Already there were footsteps outside, and the sound of voices. She put the letters back in the drawer, locked it, closed the cabinet doors and locked them.
‘What do we do, mistress?’ whispered Mary.
Jemima dropped her keys in her pocket. ‘Do?’ She did not lower her voice. ‘Why, we shall go back upstairs. Snuff that candle and open the door.’
Mary obeyed. She replaced the study candlestick on the mantle shelf and lighted Jemima into the hall. Hester glanced at them, and so did Hal Coachman, who was standing in the shadows near the stairs to the kitchen. He was not supposed to come up into the house, but it was a sensible precaution when there was an unexpected caller at this time of the evening. Besides, according to Mary, he lusted after Hester, though Jemima found this hard to believe. Still, you could never tell with servants.
‘Who is it?’ Jemima said.
‘The porter says it’s a gentleman called Mr Chiffinch, mistress.’
‘Let him in.’
Jemima had never met Mr Chiffinch, but she knew that Philip counted him as a friend. Hester bobbed an awkward curtsy to her mistress while the door was opening. Hal edged further into the shadows. They must already have seen the candlelight around the study door.
Cold air rushed into the house. The bulky figure of a man came into the hall, brushing raindrops from his cloak.
‘Damn me,’ he said. ‘God rot this weather. Where’s your master, girl?’
‘He’s out, sir.’
‘Where the devil is he?’
Jemima advanced down the hall with Mary a step or two behind with the candle. ‘My husband isn’t at home,’ she said. ‘May I help you?’
The man turned to her, removing his hat, which sent a gout of water to the floor. His eyes ran swiftly over her, taking in the fur-trimmed gown and the maid at her elbow. He bowed. ‘Madam, your pardon for disturbing you. My name is Chiffinch. William Chiffinch.’
‘My husband has talked of you, sir. He’s at Whitehall. He may be there still.’
‘I couldn’t find him there.’
‘Then he’s probably supping with friends. Will you leave a message?’
Chiffinch hesitated. ‘I wonder, madam, if I might have a word in your private ear?’
‘Of course, sir. In my closet, I think.’
He declined refreshment. Jemima went upstairs, with Mary padding almost silently behind her, and Chiffinch last of all, his steps heavy and deliberate. In the closet, she sent Mary away and sat down, waving Chiffinch to the sofa. His face was shiny with moisture, though it was hard to know whether it was rain or perspiration.
He did not sit. ‘Forgive me if I go straight to the point – I’m pressed for time. Your ladyship knows who I am, I think?’
She inclined her head. ‘Indeed, sir.’ All the world knew of Mr Chiffinch, the Keeper of the King’s Private Closet. All the world that mattered.
‘I’ve the honour to serve the King in his private affairs, which means that I cannot always explain the reasons for my words and actions as frankly as I should wish to do. But, believe me, madam, I’m here to do your husband a kindness. Tell him that I strongly advise him to beg leave of His Majesty to withdraw from Court for a month or so. My advice would be for him to take you down to Syre Court as soon as you can contrive it – after all, what could be more natural than for you than to pay a visit to your father? His health would furnish you with an excuse.’
She registered the fact that he knew so much about her family’s circumstances. She said, ‘I must give my husband some reason, sir, surely? He would be most reluctant to leave London just at present. He has a case before the Fire Court, for example—’
‘My lady, hear me out,’ Chiffinch said. His voice remained soft but he spoke with more deliberation than before, which gave his words an edge. ‘You may tell Sir Philip this: that the reason has to do with the Fire Court. He’ll understand me.’
Jemima shivered.
‘Forgive me, madam,’ Chiffinch said. ‘I’ve kept you talking in a room without a fire. Let me ring for your maid. I’ll leave you in peace now.’ He took a step towards her and loomed over her. His voice dropped. ‘Be sure to tell your husband what I’ve said as soon as he comes in. Tell him I will do what I can, but you two must go down to the country as soon as possible. Otherwise I can’t answer for the consequences.’
He left the room without another word. She listened to his tread on the stairs. Then Mary was with her, urging her to retire to her bedchamber, where there was a fire.
Jemima allowed herself to be taken to her bedroom. But she would not get into bed, though it had already been warmed for her.
‘Light more candles,’ she said. ‘Build up the fire and bring me a posset. I shall wait up for your master.’
Mary left her alone. Jemima hugged her belly. Was it larger than before? So it came back to the Fire Court. Chiffinch’s warning must have to do with Clifford’s Inn and Philip’s intrigue, with the letters in the cabinet and the murder of the widow Hampney. The ugly whore was dead. But even now she had power to haunt them.
Jemima hugged herself, hugged her son. Now though, Mr Chiffinch had changed the rules of the game. If she played the cards she had in her hand with skill, she could have everything she wanted. At Syre Court, with her father standing by, Philip would be entirely hers and for ever. She would make him love her once more. And—
My son, she thought, my son. I do all this for you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Laudanum. A solution of alcohol infused with the juice of the poppy, to which the apothecary adds the ingredients that his skill and his judgement suggest.
To know what composes a thing is not to know the nature of that thing.
A body is a prison, within which the spirit dashes itself against bars of bone and walls of flesh until death unlocks the door and sets the spirit free.
Even in prison, a man may have visions that make him an emperor of time and space.
These thoughts, and others of a like nature, marched through my mind in a stately procession organized according t
o some logic of its own. I knew each of them was of profound importance. But when I tried to contemplate a thought, the next arrived and shouldered its predecessor out of the way.
Indeed, my mind was a lively place, busy but orderly in its organization and its transactions – not unlike, it occurred to me, a hive of bees. The metaphor pleased me, and I seemed to see the outer forms of my thoughts take the appearance of bees.
While this was going on, a part of me was aware that I was lying on my left side in my own bed in my chamber in Infirmary Close. My eyes were shut, not that it mattered because I appeared to be able to see perfectly well with them closed. My body was immobile. I thought it possible that this condition would be permanent. The prospect did not trouble me unduly. I noticed without surprise that I was not in pain. Or, if I was, the pain was somewhere remote from me.
While I had been thinking of this, the bees had begun to misbehave. Their yellow had become red and they were forming patterns, which I discovered were letters of the alphabet. In another moment they were combining into words. Four words to be precise, written in scarlet letters and repeated over and over again.
The mark of Cain. The mark of Cain. The mark of Cain.
‘I think he’s awake,’ Margaret said. ‘God be thanked.’
‘His eyes are open. But that don’t mean a thing.’
‘Aren’t they blue, Sam? I never noticed how blue they were.’
‘His eyes are the same as they always were, you foolish woman. It’s the opium. Makes the pupils smaller. I’ve seen it a hundred times.’
I tried to say, ‘Of course I’m awake.’
My father was sitting beside me now. He was smiling.
On Tuesday morning, Sam brought me the letter. I was downstairs, though in my bedgown.
By this time the effect of the medicine had passed its peak. I had emerged strangely refreshed from the trance-like state which had paralysed me a few hours earlier. I was alert and capable of movement. I felt some discomfort, though the laudanum masked the worst of it. The pain was a sleeping tiger, its claws unsheathed and resting on my skin, but not as yet digging deep into it.
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