‘Move back,’ the maid said to them. ‘Both of you. My lady needs this.’ She glanced at the rest of the women. ‘You can stay where you are. But keep your distance.’
The women she had displaced muttered angrily. But the manservant came to stand beside the maid. He was a burly, silent man, one of the porters at Clifford’s Inn. His presence was enough to reinforce the maid’s orders. A boy appeared with an armful of cushions and shawls, which he arranged according to the maid’s directions on the bench at the front.
While he was doing this, the judges returned to the dais, and the hall rapidly filled up again. This time there were more people than before.
A lady was ushered on to the gallery. She was heavily veiled, and wore a wide hat and a fine travelling cloak. Her arrival made a considerable commotion. The maid escorted her mistress to the bench at the front with as much care as if she were as frangible as glass.
Limbury’s lady? Cat scribbled, the pencil travelling rapidly across the paper, less for Williamson than for herself. Come to gloat with her cartload of monkeys?
The judges had sat down, but one of them, seeing the lady’s arrival, rose to his feet and bowed. The veiled lady inclined her head in reply.
Sir Thomas Twisden bows to her. Limbury looks up, then Gromwell, but both look away, and they mutter together.
Marwood had seen what was going on, too. But Poulton and Hakesby were still deep in conversation.
The clerk called the court to order, and Judge Wyndham reopened the Dragon Yard hearing by ordering those concerned to approach the dais.
Poor Mr Hakesby is so unsteady. Why doesn’t Poulton or Brennan offer him their arm?
Browning, Limbury’s lawyer, brushed Hakesby’s shoulder as he passed, which made the old man clutch at Poulton’s sleeve. Poulton, his face pale and haggard, glanced at Hakesby’s hand as if he could not understand what it was doing there, or even what it was.
Limbury and Twisden seem to nod to each other.
‘This matter should not detain us long,’ Wyndham said. ‘We have already heard the main points of the case, and the arguments on both sides. The Court wants to strike a balance between the interested parties. On the one hand, the freeholder, Sir Philip Limbury, wishes to cancel the outstanding leases on the site and rebuild over the entire ground on a new design. He offers compensation to the leaseholders. A minority of the leaseholders would accept the compensation. But many of the other leaseholders, notably Mr Poulton, desire to rebuild themselves and renegotiate the leases for longer terms and at lower rents, to take account of their investment in the property, which would be substantial. Both schemes have merits and can be put into action almost immediately.’
He paused, which gave Cat time to scribble A fair summary, though Hakesby’s scheme is more extensive and—
‘The decision now rests on a single point,’ the judge continued. ‘First we need to establish who now owns the leases formerly possessed by the late Mistress Hampney. They are long leases, which cover a substantial part of the Dragon Yard site along Cheapside. The support of their new owner will shift the balance of our verdict to one side or the other, though of course we shall consult the interests of all parties in our settlement. The question turns on whether the lady transferred ownership of the leases before her death or altered the terms of the will she made at the time of her wedding to the late Mr Hampney. If neither of these is the case, then the old will applies. When we have established this, we shall be able to make our decision. Who speaks for Mr Poulton?’
‘I do, my lord.’ Hakesby shuffled closer to the judges’ table, forcing Gromwell to step aside. He straightened himself and faced them. It’s not possible. He looks taller, broader and younger. ‘Mr Hakesby, sir, the surveyor.’
‘I know who you are, sir. Continue.’
‘My lords, my client Mr Poulton has caused his late niece’s papers to be searched at her London lodgings.’ Hakesby’s voice was firmer than usual, and clear enough to be heard even in the gallery. ‘There is no sign of a new will, or any mention of her Dragon Yard leaseholds. He has sent to Lincoln, as the court ordered last week, and I have here the letter from the attorney with whom she dealt about her late husband’s estate. If you remember, it was suggested that Mistress Hampney might have taken the opportunity to make another will while she was there. No evidence has come to light that she made a more recent will. Nor was there any evidence that she transferred ownership or control of her Dragon Yard leaseholds.’
‘You can’t prove that,’ Gromwell shouted.
‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ Wyndham snapped, ‘or I’ll have you ejected from the court.’
‘I have an affidavit from the attorney here confirming what I have told you,’ Hakesby went on.
‘Hand it up.’
An usher stepped forward to take the letter from Brennan.
‘As you will see, my lord, the attorney writes that he asked Mistress Hampney if she would like him to draw up a new will for her, taking account of her husband’s death and any other testamentary changes she might want, but she said there was no need for the expense and trouble of a new will as the old one would do perfectly well.’
‘When will it be proved?’
Hakesby looked at Poulton, who gave him a sheaf of papers. ‘As soon as possible – but I have here letters from two lawyers who deal mainly in probate giving as their opinion that the will is straightforward in its terms, and that on the face of it there is no reason to believe it could be successfully contested. So the fact of the matter, my lord, is that my client, Mr Poulton, has every reason to believe he controls the head leases for most of Dragon Yard. And – as we heard last week – many of those with an interest in the subleases will be glad to support him. As you know, he also owns an adjacent freehold, so his plans cover a larger area than Sir Philip’s.’
Poulton turns his head – he’s smiling, though he looks like death … he stares at Limbury.
Without waiting for an order, Brennan handed the letters to the usher, who carried them to the judges.
Wyndham reads the letters one by one and passes them to the others. Twisden writes something on a piece of paper and slides it to Wyndham. They put their heads together and whisper. Why are they so slow?
On the gallery, the porter was blocking the door to the stairs, preventing others from coming up. The maid and the boy were standing to one side. As for the lady herself—
Sitting bolt upright in the middle of the bench at the front. As if she’s sitting under a preacher in church, and daren’t move an inch in case God strikes her dead. All alone. The maid keeps glancing at the rest of us.
Judge Wyndham signalled to his clerk, who called the court to order. Silence settled over the body of the hall.
‘We are in agreement –’ his eyes flicked towards Twisden and then back to the hall ‘– that, for the good of the City and in the best interests of the majority of those concerned in this case, Dragon Yard should be rebuilt according to Mr Poulton’s plans, and at his cost, with newly drawn-up leaseholds of forty-two years, with rents to be fixed at—’
‘By God, my lord, this will not do,’ Limbury burst out.
Wyndham looked coolly at him. ‘Sir Philip,’ he said with cold courtesy, ‘you may of course appeal, but not at this moment or in this way. As Mr Browning will tell you, you must set down your grounds for appeal in writing within seven days, as required by Section X of the Rebuilding Act. But I must warn you that we do not look kindly on appeals, any more than we look kindly on interruptions. They delay the work of the court. Costs may well be awarded against the appellants.’
Hakesby swayed on his feet. This time Poulton noticed, and gestured to Brennan, who at last came forward to help his master.
Browning tugged Limbury’s sleeve and whispered something in his ear.
Wyndham glanced at his notes and opened his mouth to continue, but—
—the veiled lady rises to her feet so sharply that she knocks over the bench behind. The noise makes eve
ryone stare up at her. And she stares down at them, as if she’s in a box at the theatre. She starts to laugh—
Once more, the usher called for silence. The lady stopped laughing. Her maid and the boy restored the bench to its position behind her. She gave no sign of noticing. She was standing almost motionless. Sitting behind her, Cat thought the border of the veil was trembling.
Judge Wyndham read out the terms of the verdict, itemizing the costs of the new leases, in an uninflected voice that made dull listening unless you were directly affected.
Cat continued her shorthand record, but she stopped when a movement distracted her. The lady had raised her right hand. The maid hurried to her mistress’s side. There was an exchange of whispers. The maid gestured to the porter.
The lady drew her cloak around her. She walked in a slow and stately fashion towards the door to the stairs, with the maid attending her. The boy gathered up her belongings from the bench.
Though the party did not make a great deal of noise, their departure aroused considerable interest in the hall below. Even Wyndham hesitated in his reading, his eyes rising to the gallery, though his face remained expressionless. Preceded by her maid, the lady began to descend the stairs.
Limbury turned abruptly and pushed his way through the crowd towards the door to the passage. Gromwell murmured something to Browning and then followed Limbury.
The judge resumed his reading. The porter and the boy left the gallery. Cat heard raised voices below. She closed her notebook and slipped on to the stairs.
‘Well, madam,’ Limbury was saying below, ‘you’ve made a spectacle of yourself before the world. I hope you’re satisfied.’
‘Take your hands off me.’
‘You are my wife. I shall lay my hands where I please.’
Cat went down the stairs. She hesitated in the archway at the bottom. Apart from herself, the Limburys and their servants were alone in the passage. Sir Philip had grasped his wife by the wrist; he towered over her, his back to Cat. Gromwell stood between them and the maid and the boy. The porter had vanished.
‘You make a fool of me at your peril,’ Limbury went on, his voice low but hard.
‘You do that yourself, without any help from me.’ Lady Limbury’s veil trembled. ‘You and that whore.’ She waved her free hand at the servants. ‘Take me to the coach.’
The maid started forward. Gromwell blocked her path. The maid caught sight of Cat standing in the archway, and her eyes widened. Gromwell caught the movement and glanced in the same direction.
In the split second that followed, Cat registered the fact that there was a bandage wrapped around the palm of Gromwell’s right hand.
Recognition spread over his face when he saw her. ‘By God! It’s the little thief—’
He broke off and plunged towards her. Lady Limbury’s maid took advantage of the distraction and ran to her mistress. Cat darted past Lady Limbury to escape from Gromwell. She slipped her free hand into her pocket. Her fingers closed around the handle of the knife. She ripped the blade from its sheath.
‘Philip,’ Gromwell said urgently. ‘It’s that wench I caught prying the other day.’
But Limbury was still talking to his wife. ‘I’ve had enough. Enough of your clinging ways, your play-acting, your lies, your schemes’ – his voice rose slightly – ‘and most of all your damned ugliness.’
He let go of her suddenly. She slumped against the wall, her head drooping. Limbury snatched at the veil and tugged. The veil fluttered to the ground, along with the hat that had helped to hold it in place. His wife crouched, covering the side of her face with her hands.
‘You’ll hide no more.’ Limbury pulled her hands away. ‘Let the world see what you are.’
Cat was not aware of making a decision. Had she thought rationally, she would have run away from Gromwell, who was making his way towards her. But she was in a place beyond calculation, beyond thought even, where only action existed. Which was why, quite of its own volition, her right hand shot forward and lunged with the knife towards Sir Philip’s thigh. The blade slipped through the black velvet of his wide breeches. The tip met the resistance of skin. Cat pressed harder.
It was little more than a pinprick, not even half an inch deep. Limbury screamed with pain. He released his wife and swung to face Cat, one hand dropping to his sword, the other to the wound in his leg.
Cat backed away. Lady Limbury ran to her maid. The door to the hall opened. Marwood was on the threshold. Behind him was the crowded hall.
For an instant, no one spoke or moved in the passage.
‘Mr Gromwell!’ Marwood said. ‘How do you do?’
He moved smoothly between Cat and Gromwell. ‘You remember me, sir, I hope? We met the other day when I knocked on your door to ask if my father had called on you.’
Sam followed his master through the door. ‘Your pardon, sir. Not in your way, am I? Since the damned Dutch took off my foot, I’ve been as clumsy as a baby.’
The Fire Court session had finished. Others were now pressing to leave the hall. Cat swerved round Gromwell and escaped into the narrow court.
The lady and her maid had already left. They were almost at the Fleet Street gate, with the boy trotting after them, burdened with his mistress’s cushions and rugs. They passed through the archway with Cat hard at their heels.
Lady Limbury looked back. She had her gloved hands clamped to the side of her face. The hands were too small to cover all that was marred. A claret-coloured birthmark stretched from the hairline to the neck, covering most of the right-hand side of the face. The left-hand side was untouched, the face of a plain, unremarkable woman with small eyes and a long, thin nose.
In Fleet Street, a coach-and-four was drawn up near the bookstalls by the church, half blocking the narrow roadway before Temple Bar. It had a gentleman’s coat of arms painted on the door and a large coachman on the box, with a whip in his hand.
Lady Limbury climbed into the coach. She sat down facing the horses, presenting her left cheek to the world. She looked past the maid to Cat, who was standing irresolute on the pavement. ‘You’d better come with us for now. God knows what they’ll do to you if they catch you.’
The maid sat down beside her mistress. Cat scrambled inside and sat opposite them. Lady Limbury draped an Indian shawl over her head, masking most of her face. The maid looked blankly at Cat. The boy closed the door.
The whip cracked, and with a jerk the coach moved off. The blinds were down over the glass windows. None of the three women spoke. Around them was the raucous, familiar din of London.
In the distance, a man was shouting, but the sound grew steadily fainter as the coach picked up speed. They were travelling east into the ruins of the City.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘Where is she?’ Mr Hakesby said. ‘Brennan says he saw her on the gallery.’ He clutched Brennan’s arm. ‘You’re sure it was her?’
‘Sure as the coat on my back.’
‘She went towards Fleet Street, sir,’ I said. ‘She was in a hurry. I doubt you’ll catch her now.’
‘Why would she run away? She must have seen me, and heard me speak.’
Mr Poulton came out of the hall behind them. He was smiling and looked ten years younger. ‘Have you found your cousin yet, Hakesby?’
‘No, sir. Mr Marwood saw her.’
Their words washed over me like water. Perhaps it was the opium, but I felt entirely removed from what was going on. I was more than happy to stay where I was, doing nothing except lean against the wall of the passage, while Poulton and Hakesby talked. The hall was now empty apart from a solitary clerk clearing the papers and writing materials from the judges’ table.
Gromwell and Limbury had gone. I had sent Sam to talk to the porter on the Fleet Street gate.
‘It is most satisfactory,’ Poulton was saying. ‘Hakesby, you argued my case as well as any lawyer. And to be granted such long leases, and on such generous terms! There’s nothing to prevent us starting tomorrow. Y
ou’ll need ready money, of course, when you start in earnest. I shall arrange it in the morning.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘I can’t wait to tell Mistress Lee.’
I noticed that the three of them – Poulton, Hakesby and Brennan – were looking strangely at me. ‘What is it?’ I said.
Mr Hakesby coughed. ‘Your wig, sir, I – ah …’
I raised my hand. In the recent excitement, the left side of the periwig had been pushed back over the shoulder, exposing some of the fire-scarred tissue beneath. I rearranged it. ‘Forgive me, sir,’ Hakesby said. ‘I – I had forgot. Poor Chelling – and you.’
‘There’s a difference,’ I said sourly. ‘Chelling’s dead. I’m alive.’
‘Yes, but I did not realize that—’ He broke off. ‘You poor fellow.’
Poulton asked Hakesby a question about the drainage at Dragon Yard, perhaps as a kindly attempt to distract the conversation from my injuries.
I should be grateful to be alive, I reminded myself, unlike poor Chelling. A man who was prodigal with gossip. My unruly memory turned a somersault, and I remembered a crumb of information he had let fall while he was drinking himself into a stupor that day in the Devil.
‘Marwood?’ Hakesby said. ‘Marwood?’
A crumb? Memory turned another somersault. No. Two.
I heard the tapping of Sam’s crutch before I saw him. ‘What news?’ I said, turning away from Hakesby and lowering my voice.
‘The porter’s lad followed them into Fleet Street, in case he could earn something from them,’ he murmured. ‘But he was out of luck. Mistress Hakesby went off in a glass coach with the lady.’
‘Which way?’
‘East. Into the City. Shall I find us a hackney, master?’
‘No. I want you to find someone first.’
‘It was laden,’ Sam said. ‘The coach, I mean. And four horses. The lad said it looked like they were going on a journey.’
She was a snaggletoothed woman with a freckled face and a fringe of greasy curls escaping from under her cap. She could have been any age from twenty-five to fifty-five. She rose from a curtsy, smoothing a patched brown skirt with grubby hands, and casting a longing glance at the pot of beer on the table.
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