The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

  The river was creaming through the arches and the water gave off a steady, rustling roar as it poured down the lower level beyond, several feet down. There were some boatmen who, if you paid enough, would take you through an arch when the tide was in flood and bring you, soaked and shaking, to the calmer waters beyond. Every year, however, the river exacted its tribute of shattered boats and drowned men.

  Sam nudged me. ‘Master,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Over there. Starboard.’

  He was pointing to another boat with two pairs of oars, this one nearer the south bank. There were three passengers, two in the stern and one perched in the bows. I squinted at the little figures, finding it hard to see them clearly because of the sway and glare of the river.

  ‘It’s Limbury,’ Sam muttered. His eyes were keener than mine. ‘With his friend beside him. Don’t know who’s in the bows.’

  I guessed that Limbury and Gromwell were on the same errand as I was, trying to intercept Lady Limbury’s coach. They had made the same calculations as Williamson and I. Wiser than myself, perhaps, they were making for the south end of the bridge.

  It was possible that the Limburys’ coach had already crossed. But Williamson had been right: at this time of day, the lumbering vehicle would not have made good time. Four horses were a hindrance, not an advantage, in the crowded streets of a city. If I were a gambling man I would have put money on the coach still being on the bridge, especially if the traffic hadn’t been moving for a while.

  I came to a swift decision and leaned forward. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said. ‘Take us to Pepper Stairs.’

  ‘Across the river with the tide running like this?’ said the waterman, turning to spit over the side; a streak of silver whipped past my face, missing me by inches.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And a double fare if you hurry.’

  Our oars dug into the water, bringing the bow of the boat round towards the south bank. Pepper Stairs was the nearest landing stage to the bridge on the Surrey side. The rowers pulled hard, fighting the current pushing us downstream. The roar of the water was louder now, as it surged through between the piers of the bridge and plunged down to the lower level downstream.

  Limbury’s boat reached Pepper Stairs. I watched them disembarking and paying the boatmen. I recognized the third man now: Sourface, Limbury’s servant, the man who looked as if he had a lemon in his mouth.

  Sam nudged my arm again in the unmannerly way that he ought not to use to his master. He pointed up at the bridge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The traffic, master. It’s not moving.’

  I followed the line of his finger. It was impossible to see what was going on among the buildings as they were packed so closely together, but in the clear spaces between the three blocks were stationary lines of wagons and coaches, head to tail. Even horsemen and sedan chairs had been brought to a halt.

  ‘The stop’s near the gatehouse,’ Sam said.

  The Great Stone Gate was at the southern end of the bridge, marking the end of the city’s jurisdiction. A clump of buildings was attached to it, a hotchpotch of rooflines, turrets, balconies and windows. The queue of vehicles stretched along the visible sections of the bridge in one direction, from north to south. Traffic travelling in the other direction had been able to leave the bridge, but no more was coming on to it from the Surrey side of the river.

  ‘There are always stops on the bridge,’ the older waterman said with obvious satisfaction. ‘Two or three times a day sometimes. Good for business. It’s an ill wind, eh?’

  Pepper Stairs was packed with people trying to hire a boat to get across. We landed there and left our boatmen holding an impromptu auction for their services.

  The tower of St Mary Overie loomed over us as we followed Pepper Alley round to Borough High Street. A noisy queue of wagons and coaches stretched down the road. The Bear Tavern at Bridge Foot was packed, and its customers had spilled out on to the roadway. Tempers were souring as the queues grew longer and the crowd thickened. It wouldn’t take much for people to start throwing things at each other.

  I caught sight of Limbury and Gromwell, standing at Bridge Foot, the approach to the Great Stone Gate, and staring through the archway that led to the bridge. There was no sign of Sourface. I pulled Sam into the shelter of a stall selling old clothes.

  We waited, watching the archway. Above the gatehouse were the long poles holding the heads of traitors – no more than skulls now, picked clean by time and birds. No new ones had been added for years, but no one had cared to remove the old ones.

  In a moment or two, Sourface came out of the yard of the Bear Tavern and joined his master and Gromwell. They held a quick conference and then passed through the gateway to the bridge beyond.

  I guessed that Limbury had done what I would have done – sent his servant to ask at the Bear’s stables if the Limbury coach had come through. Ostlers noticed everything that went to and fro, especially if it involved horseflesh. A glass coach with four horses was not exactly inconspicuous.

  Sam and I walked up to the gatehouse. One of the traitors’ heads above the battlements was loose on its pole, and the wind was playing with it. The skull nodded at me. I took that as an omen, a dead man’s agreement that I was doing the right thing.

  Beyond the gatehouse was the street running high above the river over the bridge. The traffic kept to the left in both directions. Each carriageway was barely six feet wide. The houses on either side were jettied outwards, so the upper storeys were within an arm’s reach of their neighbours opposite.

  Because there was so little natural light, the street was perpetually gloomy, a fetid, slippery tunnel full of horseshit and disgruntled people. Usually there were sweepers who sluiced the dirt into the river, but they were not in evidence today.

  Among such a press of people and vehicles it was difficult to keep our quarry in sight without drawing attention to ourselves. It was hard enough even to push our way through.

  Only the shopkeepers were cheerful. They were doing a brisk trade, enticing people who had too much time on their hands to spend money while they waited. We passed an alehouse so packed that people could scarcely raise their pots to their lips. Next door to it was a pastry cook’s whose shelves were almost empty.

  A few moments later, we passed out of this block of buildings and into the open air. The wind from the river buffeted me, but I was glad of it after the stench of the street. We hung back, taking shelter behind a portly merchant and his equally portly lady.

  We went into the next block of buildings. The cause of the blockage was here – a wagon and a coach going in opposite directions had locked wheels, and then the horses had panicked. A gang of labourers was now working with axes and saws and ropes, trying to deal with the mess.

  By the time we had negotiated this obstacle, I thought we must have lost Limbury and Gromwell. With relief, I caught sight of Gromwell perhaps sixty yards away. He was standing before a shop talking to a large, middle-aged woman in its doorway. There was no sign of Limbury or Sourface. As I watched, Gromwell followed the woman inside.

  I told Sam to wait and advanced cautiously up the street. As I drew nearer I saw that the shop was a stationer’s and bookseller’s. In front of it was a row of red posts to which were nailed sheets advertising new publications.

  It was a substantial establishment by the standards of the bridge. It occupied the entire ground floor of an ornate house whose upper storeys billowed over the street. Above the door was a sign displaying three Bibles.

  I realized that I had been here before, when I was an apprentice printer. I paused beside the shop as if by chance, as if drawn to examine the pamphlets and sermons displayed on the shelf at the front. There were no ballads or cheap broadsheets among them. This establishment was reaching for a different class of customer. Inside, there were some large, finely bound volumes, as well as folders of engravings.

  Two apprentices were attending to the customers – like everywhere else, the place was
packed – but there was no sign of Sourface or the woman he had been talking to. I sauntered inside and pretended to admire an engraving of my Lady Castlemaine which hung on the wall in a prominent position to tempt the gentlemen.

  No one bothered me. The shop was well lit, with a bay window overlooking the river on the upstream side. Behind the counter was a doorway. Gromwell must have gone through it. Did that suggest he was known here?

  The Widow Vereker had inherited the shop and business at the sign of the Three Bibles from her husband. Their customers came from Whitehall, the Law Courts, and the wealthy families of the City … Fine presswork, I gave her that, and prices to match.

  I heard footsteps on the stairs, and Gromwell’s tall figure filled the doorway. He was smiling. The middle-aged woman followed him.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, sir,’ she was saying, ‘though the apartments are hardly fit for you. But I’ll have them light a fire in there at least.’

  He turned back to her. ‘Madam, you are kindness itself. A veritable good Samaritan. We shan’t trouble you for long, and I promise you won’t be the poorer for it.’

  ‘Oh – I almost forgot.’ The woman was girlishly flustered by his attentions. ‘The key for the outside door – going by the entry at the side of the house will save you the trouble of coming through the shop.’

  He bowed and took the key she held out. Then he turned and strode towards the street door.

  I had no time to escape. I examined Lady Castlemaine more closely, as if immersed like the King in the generous pleasures of her bosom, and prayed that Gromwell wouldn’t look closely at me. He had seen me in my new periwig this morning, but not for long. I stooped closer and closer to my lady.

  Gromwell’s cloak brushed my arm as he left the shop. I let out my breath in a long sigh. I gave him a moment and then followed him outside.

  There was no sign of him. I hesitated, wondering what to do. I cast my eyes up and down the street. When I stepped away from the shop, I felt a tug on my cloak. I turned, alarmed, fearing that Gromwell had noticed me in the shop after all.

  The hem of my cloak had caught on a nail in one of the red posts outside the shop. The nail held in place one of Vereker’s handbills. I glanced down at it, and a name leapt out at me. Thanks to my father’s training, I knew that it was finely printed in a modern variant of Garamond, probably one of the new Dutch typefaces.

  Lucius Gromwell, Esquire,

  Master of Arts in the University of Oxford.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The inside of the coach was hot and airless. Jemima grew increasingly impatient, increasingly worried by the delay.

  ‘How long will this last?’ she burst out. ‘Why can’t Hal find out? Let me see outside.’

  Mary raised the blind. Jemima found herself staring into a shoemaker’s shop. If the coach window had been down, she could have stretched out a hand and touched the hinged shelf at the front of it, on which was displayed an array of samples. Beyond the shelf was the front room, with a shopman bowing low to her.

  ‘Tell the man to approach. Ask him what’s keeping us.’

  Mary lowered the window and put her head out. The shoemaker’s man told her that a wagon and a coach had entangled themselves ahead, blocking the traffic in both directions.

  ‘Could be another half hour, mistress,’ the man said, smiling invitingly and craning his head to gain a better idea of who was in the coach; Jemima shrank back from his gaze. ‘Perhaps your ladyship would care to while away the time by inspecting some of our shoes. I have imported examples of the latest Paris fashions, brought over at great expense—’

  ‘Shut the window,’ Jemima ordered.

  ‘—which are the delight of many ladies of the Court, and—’

  Mary obeyed, cutting off the man in mid-sentence.

  ‘Lower the blind.’

  Then they were in the stuffy gloom of the coach once more. Jemima peered at the strange young woman who had helped her at Clifford’s Inn. The girl was sitting opposite Mary, their skirts touching.

  ‘Who are you?’ Jemima demanded. ‘Who’s your master?’

  ‘Mr Hakesby, madam.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The surveyor employed by Mr Poulton at the Dragon Yard hearing.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jemima remembered the thin old man who had made such a fool of Philip. ‘Why did you come to help me?’

  ‘Because …’ The girl’s voice acquired an edge. ‘Because a man shouldn’t treat a dog so, let alone his wife.’

  Jemima warmed to her, though the words could have been taken as impertinent. She leaned forward and tapped her on the knee. ‘You won’t be the loser for it. I shall see you are rewarded.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’ The girl sounded uninterested in the prospect of a reward, which irritated Jemima slightly.

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  ‘Jane Hakesby.’

  ‘The same surname as your master?’

  ‘He’s my cousin, madam. That’s why he took me in.’

  ‘We don’t know her from Adam, mistress,’ Mary interrupted. ‘She could be a spy.’

  Jemima knew, with the certainty of long and intimate acquaintance, that her maid was furiously jealous of the attention paid to the young stranger. ‘How would you like to come to me instead?’ she said, partly in gratitude and partly because she could not resist the temptation to torment Mary. ‘I’ll pay you more than Mr Hakesby. The work will be more fitting for you. I shall give you prettier clothes, too.’

  Mary sucked in her breath. She twitched her skirt away from the stranger’s.

  The strange girl said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘Thank you, madam. I—’

  At that moment, there was a tapping on the right-hand window.

  ‘What is it?’ Jemima said. ‘The fool will break the glass if he doesn’t have a care.’

  Mary leaned across and lowered the blind.

  Philip’s face was on the other side of the window. He took off his hat when he saw them and ducked his head in a parody of respect.

  ‘Why don’t they stop him?’ Jemima wailed, shrinking back against the side of the coach. ‘What’s Hal doing? Why didn’t he warn us my husband was here?’

  Philip opened the door. His eyes glanced at Mary, then Cat. His eyes widened as he recognized her from the Fire Court.

  Jemima wrapped the shawl around most of her face and neck. ‘Go away, sir. I shall scream if you don’t. I shall send for a constable. Where’s Hal? I demand you send him to me.’

  ‘Directly, madam. When Richard has finished giving him my orders.’

  Jemima felt the ground sliding away beneath her feet. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I couldn’t let my wife go unescorted to the country.’ His voice was casual, as if their meeting here were no more unexpected than their chancing to pass on the stairs in the Pall Mall house. The anger he had shown at Clifford’s Inn seemed to have evaporated. ‘They won’t clear the bridge for a while. But you can’t stay here. I hoped we could hire a private room at the Bear, but they’re all taken. Lucius is asking his stationer if she will let us use her parlour. If not, we may have to walk a little further.’

  ‘Lucius …? I don’t want to see Lucius.’

  ‘You can’t stay in here. It’s so stuffy.’

  ‘I – I am quite comfortable as I am, thank you, sir.’

  ‘No,’ he said, his eyes moving from Jemima to Cat, and then back again. ‘You are not. You must let me be the best judge of where you will be comfortable.’

  For a moment, no one spoke. It was one thing for Jemima to slip away from her husband without telling him that she was going to her father’s house. It was quite another to disobey what was clearly his command in public, and to his face as well. Things might have been different at Syre Place, with her father to throw his weight into the scales. But here – on London Bridge, in front of the servants and God knew how many strangers – his authority overwhelmed her. She guessed that Hal would obey his master if he
had to choose between them.

  ‘Ah – and here’s Lucius coming up.’ Philip turned his head. ‘What luck!’

  Gromwell appeared at the window, lifting his hat and smiling. ‘It couldn’t be better. Madam, your servant. Mistress Vereker’s parlour would not be convenient – her aged mother is there. But there are apartments above that we can use – rather shabby, I’m afraid, but private and overlooking the river. They have lit a fire for us. We can send out for anything we need.’

  ‘Admirable.’ Philip held out his hand to Jemima. ‘Madam. Pray let me hand you down.’ He glanced at Gromwell. ‘We have an unexpected guest. Look.’ He nodded towards Jane Hakesby in her corner.

  Gromwell’s face changed. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Perhaps my wife has taken a fancy to her.’

  There was a flurry of movement. The girl flung herself at the opposite door, trying to open it, her hands desperately scrabbling for purchase on the handle.

  ‘Stop her,’ Gromwell snapped.

  Mary’s arm shot out and hooked itself around the girl’s neck, dragging her back against Jemima’s legs. Gromwell pushed the upper part of his body into the coach and wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the girl’s thin wrist. This brought his face within inches of Jemima’s. She smelled sour wine on his breath and turned her head away.

  ‘Forgive me for incommoding you, madam,’ he said to her. ‘But this girl is a dangerous thief. She tried to stab your husband. We must take her before a magistrate.’

  At this point, the Hakesby girl craned her head and bit Mr Gromwell’s hand until he screamed like a girl.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Natural Curiosities of Gloucestershire.

  The handbill outside Mistress Vereker’s shop extolled the marvels of this forthcoming publication. It would be the first truly comprehensive account of the geography, history, antiquities and natural wonders of the county from the time of the Flood. The splendid, lavishly illustrated folio volumes would adorn any gentleman’s library. The author, from a distinguished family long-settled in the county—