‘Just looking, sir,’ I said, from the steps.
He pulled his scarf down, trying to smile. Before when he’d smiled it had set his eyes twinkling, now it was like the dwindling, cooling ashes of the fire, trying but unable to generate any warmth, as strained and tired as his voice when he spoke. ‘I think perhaps I know what you’re looking for, Master Haytham.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘The way home?’
I thought about it and realized he was right. The trouble was, I had lived the first ten years of my life being shepherded around by parents and the nursemaids. Though I knew that Queen Anne’s Square was near, and even within walking distance, I had no idea how to get there.
‘And were you planning on a visit?’ he asked.
I shrugged, but the truth of it was that, yes, I had pictured myself in the shell of my old home. In the games room there. I’d pictured myself retrieving …
‘Your sword?’
I nodded.
‘It’s too dangerous to go in the house, I’m afraid. Would you like to take a trip over there anyway? You can see it, at least. Come inside, it’s as cold as a greyhound’s nostril out there.’
And I saw no reason not to, especially when he produced a hat and a cape from within the depths of the carriage.
When we pulled up at the house some moments later it didn’t look at all as I had imagined it. No, it was far, far worse. As though a giant God-like fist had pounded into it from above, smashing through the roof and the floors beneath, gouging a huge, ragged hole into the house. It wasn’t so much a house now as a cutaway of one.
Through broken windows we could see into the entrance hall and up – through smashed floors to the hallway three flights up, all of them blackened with soot. I could see furniture that I recognized, blackened and charred, burnt portraits hanging lopsided on the walls.
‘I’m sorry – it really is too dangerous to go inside, Master Haytham,’ said Mr Birch.
After a moment he led me back into the carriage, tapped the ceiling twice with his cane, and we pulled away.
‘However,’ said Mr Birch, ‘I took the liberty of retrieving your sword yesterday,’ and reaching beneath his seat he produced the box. It, too, was dusty with soot, but when he pulled it to his lap and opened the lid, the sword lay inside, as gleaming as it had been the day Father gave it to me.
‘Thank you, Mr Birch’ was all I could say, as he closed the box and placed it on the seat between us.
‘It’s a handsome sword, Haytham. I’ve no doubt you’ll treasure it.’
‘I will, sir.’
‘And when, I wonder, will it first taste blood?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
There was a pause. Mr Birch clasped his cane between his knees.
‘The night of the attack, you killed a man,’ he said, turning his head to look out of the window. We passed houses that were only just visible, floating through a haze of smoke and freezing air. It was still early. The streets were quiet. ‘How did that feel, Haytham?’
‘I was protecting Mother,’ I said.
‘That was the only possible option, Haytham,’ he agreed, nodding, ‘and you did the right thing. Don’t for a moment think otherwise. But it being the only option doesn’t change the fact that it’s no small matter to kill a man. For anybody. Not for your father. Not for me. But especially not for a boy of such tender years.’
‘I felt no sadness at what I did. I just acted.’
‘And have you thought about it since?’
‘No, sir. I’ve thought only of Father, and Mother.’
‘And Jenny …?’ said Mr Birch.
‘Oh. Yes, sir.’
There was a pause, and when he next spoke his voice was flat and solemn. ‘We need to find her, Haytham,’ he said.
I kept quiet.
‘I intend to leave for Europe where we believe she is being held.’
‘How do you know she is in Europe, sir?’
‘Haytham, I am a member of an influential and important organization. A kind of club, or society. One of the many advantages to membership is that we have eyes and ears everywhere.’
‘What is it called, sir?’ I asked.
‘The Templars, Master Haytham. I am a Templar knight.’
‘A knight?’ I said, looking at him sharply.
He gave a short laugh. ‘Perhaps not exactly the kind of knight you’re thinking of, Haytham, a relic of the Middle Ages, but our ideals remain the same. Just as our forebears set out to spread peace across the Holy Land centuries ago, so we are the unseen power that helps to maintain peace and order in our time.’ He waved his hand at the window, where the streets were busier now. ‘All of this, Haytham, it requires structure and discipline, and structure and discipline require an example to follow. The Knights Templar are that example.’
My head span. ‘And where do you meet? What do you do? Do you have armour?’
‘Later, Haytham. Later, I’ll tell you more.’
‘Was Father a member, though? Was he a knight?’ My heart leapt. ‘Was he training me to become one?’
‘No, Master Haytham, he was not, and I’m afraid that as far as I’m aware he was merely training you in swordsmanship in order that … well, the fact that your mother lives proves the worth of your lessons. No, my relationship with your father was not built on my membership of the Order. I’m pleased to say that I was employed by him for my skill at property management rather than any hidden connections. Nevertheless, he knew that I was a knight. After all, the Templars have powerful and wealthy connections, and these could sometimes be of use in our business. Your father may not have been a member, but he was shrewd enough to see the worth of the connections: a friendly word, the passing on of useful information’ – he took a deep breath – ‘one of which was the tip-off about the attack at Queen Anne’s Square. I told him, of course. I asked him why it might be that he had been targeted, but he scoffed at the very idea – disingenuously, perhaps. We clashed over it, Haytham. Voices were raised, but I only wish now I’d been even more insistent.’
‘Was that the argument I heard?’ I asked.
He looked sideways at me. ‘So you did hear, did you? Not eavesdropping, I hope?’
The tone in his voice made me more than thankful I hadn’t been. ‘No, Mr Birch, sir, I heard raised voices, and that was all.’
He looked hard at me. Satisfied I was telling the truth, he faced forward. ‘Your father was as stubborn as he was inscrutable.’
‘But he didn’t ignore the warning, sir. He employed the soldiers, after all.’
Mr Birch sighed. ‘Your father didn’t take the threat seriously, and would have done nothing. When he wouldn’t listen to me, I took the step of informing your mother. It was at her insistence that he employed the soldiers. I wish now I had substituted the men for men taken from our ranks. They would not have been so easily overwhelmed. All I can do now is try to find his daughter for him and punish those responsible. To do that I need to know why – what was the purpose of the attack? Tell me, what do you know of him before he settled in London, Master Haytham?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ I replied.
He gave a dry chuckle. ‘Well, that makes two of us. More than two of us, in fact. Your mother knows next to nothing also.’
‘And Jenny, sir?’
‘Ah, the equally inscrutable Jenny. As frustrating as she was beautiful, as inscrutable as she was adorable.’
‘ “Was”, sir?’
‘A turn of phrase, Master Haytham – I hope with all my heart at least. I remain hopeful that Jenny is safe in the hands of her captors, of use to them only if she is alive.’
‘You think she has been taken for a ransom?’
‘Your father was very rich. Your family might well have been targeted for your wealth, and your father’s death unplanned. It’s certainly possible. We have men looking into that possibility now. Equally, the mission may have been to assassinate your father, and we have men looking into th
at possibility also – well, me, because of course I knew him well, and would know if he had any enemies: enemies with the wherewithal to stage such an attack, I mean, rather than disgruntled tenants – and I came up with not a single possibility, which leads me to believe that the object may have been to settle a grudge. If so then it’s a long-standing grudge, something that relates to his time before London. Jenny, being the only one who knew him before London, may have had answers, but whatever she knew she has taken into the hands of her captors. Either way, Haytham, we need to locate her.’
There was something about the way he said ‘we’.
‘As I say, it is thought she will have been taken somewhere in Europe, so Europe is where we will conduct our search for her. And by “we’, I mean you and me, Haytham.’
I started. ‘Sir?’ I said, hardly able to believe my ears.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘You shall be coming with me.’
‘Mother needs me, sir. I can’t leave her here.’
Mr Birch looked at me again, in his eyes neither kindliness not malice. ‘Haytham,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid the decision is not yours to make.’
‘It is for Mother to make,’ I insisted.
‘Well, quite.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
He sighed. ‘I mean, have you spoken to your mother since the night of the attack?’
‘She’s been too distressed to see anyone but Miss Davy or Emily. She’s stayed in her room, and Miss Davy says I’m to be summoned when she can see me.’
‘When you do see her, you will find her changed.’
‘Sir?’
‘On the night of the attack, Tessa saw her husband die and her little boy kill a man. These things will have had a profound effect on her, Haytham; she may not be the person you remember.’
‘All the more reason she needs me.’
‘Maybe what she needs is to get well, Haytham – possibly with as few reminders of that terrible night around her as possible.’
‘I understand, sir,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry if that comes as a shock, Haytham.’ He frowned. ‘And I may well be wrong, of course, but I’ve been dealing with your father’s business affairs since his death, and we’ve been making arrangements with your mother, I’ve had the opportunity of seeing her first-hand, and I don’t think I’m wrong. Not this time.’
iii
Mother called for me shortly before the funeral.
When Betty, who had been full of red-faced apologies for what she called ‘her little lie-in’, told me, my first thought was that she had changed her mind about me going to Europe with Mr Birch, but I was wrong. Darting along to her room, I knocked and only just heard her tell me to come in – her voice so weak and reedy now, not at all how it used to be, when it was soft but commanding. Inside, she was sitting by the window, and Miss Davy was fussing at the curtains; even though it was daytime it was hardly bright outside but, nevertheless, Mother was waving her hand in front of her, as if she were being bothered by an angry bird, rather than just some greying rays of winter sunlight. At last Miss Davy finished to Mother’s satisfaction and with a weary smile indicated me to a seat.
Mother turned her head towards me, very slowly, looked at me and forced a smile. The attack had exacted a terrible toll on her. It was as though all the life had been leeched out of her; as though she had lost the light she always had, whether she was smiling or cross or, as Father always said, wearing her heart on her sleeve. Now the smile slowly slid from her lips, which settled back into a blank frown, as though she’d tried but no longer had the strength to keep up any pretence.
‘You know I’m not going to the funeral, Haytham?’ she said blankly.
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Haytham, I really am, but I’m not strong enough.’
She never usually called me Haytham. She called me ‘darling’.
‘Yes, Mother,’ I said, knowing that she was – she was strong enough. ‘Your Mother has more pluck than any man I’ve ever met, Haytham,’ Father used to say.
They had met shortly after they moved to London, and she had pursued him – ‘like a lioness in pursuit of her prey’, Father had joked, ‘a sight as blood-curdling as it was awe-inspiring’, and earned himself a clout for that particular joke, the kind of joke you thought might have had an element of truth to it.
She didn’t like to talk about her family. ‘Well to do’ was all I knew. And Jenny had hinted once that they had disowned her because of her association with Father. Why, of course, I never found out. On the odd occasion I’d pestered Mother about Father’s life before London, she’d smiled mysteriously. He’d tell me when he was ready. Sitting in her room, I realized that at least part of the grief I felt was the pain of knowing that I’d never hear whatever it was Father was planning to tell me on my birthday. Although it’s just a tiny part of the grief, I should make clear – insignificant compared to the grief of losing Father and the pain of seeing Mother like this. So … reduced. So lacking in that pluck Father spoke of.
Perhaps it had turned out that the source of her strength was him. Perhaps the carnage of that terrible evening had simply been too much for her to take. They say it happens to soldiers. They get ‘soldier’s heart’ and become shadows of their former selves. The bloodshed changes them somehow. Was that the case with Mother? I wondered.
‘I’m sorry, Haytham,’ she added.
‘It’s all right, Mother.’
‘No – I mean, you are to go to Europe with Mr Birch.’
‘But I’m needed here, with you. To look after you.’
She gave an airy laugh: ‘Mama’s little soldier, uh?’, and fixed me with a strange, searching look. I knew exactly where her mind was going. Back to what had happened on the stairs. She was seeing me thrust a blade into the eye socket of the masked attacker.
And then she tore her eyes away, leaving me feeling almost breathless with the raw emotion of her gaze.
‘I have Miss Davy and Emily to look after me, Haytham. When the repairs are made to Queen Anne’s Square we’ll be able to move back and I can employ more staff. No, it is me who should be looking after you, and I have appointed Mr Birch the family comptroller and your guardian, so that you can be looked after properly. It’s what your father would have wanted.’
She looked at the curtain quizzically, as if she was trying to recall why it was drawn. ‘I understand Mr Birch was going to speak to you about leaving for Europe straight away.’
‘He did, yes, but –’
‘Good.’ She regarded me. Again, there was something discomfiting about the look; she was no longer the mother I knew, I realized. Or was I no longer the son she knew?
‘It’s for the best, Haytham.’
‘But, Mother …’
She looked at me, then away again quickly.
‘You’re going, and that’s the end of it,’ she said firmly, her stare returning to the curtains. My eyes went to Miss Davy as though looking for assistance, but I found none; in return she gave me a sympathetic smile, a raise of the eyebrows, an expression that said, ‘I’m sorry, Haytham, there’s nothing I can do, her mind is made up,’ and there was silence in the room, no sound apart from the clip-clopping of hooves from outside, from a world that carried on oblivious to the fact that mine was being taken apart.
‘You are dismissed, Haytham,’ Mother said, with a wave of her hand.
Before – before the attack, I mean – she had never used to ‘summon’ me. Or ‘dismiss’ me. Before, she had never let me leave her side without at least a kiss on the cheek, and she’d told me she loved me, at least once a day.
As I stood, it occurred to me that she hadn’t said anything about what had happened on the stairs that night. She had never thanked me for saving her life. At the door I paused and turned to look at her, and wondered whether she wished the outcome had been different.
iv
Mr Birch accompanied me to the funeral, a small, informal service
at the same chapel we had used for Edith, with almost the same number in attendance: the household, Old Mr Fayling, and a few members of staff from Father’s work, whom Mr Birch spoke to afterwards. He introduced me to one of them, Mr Simpkin, a man I judged to be in his mid-thirties, who I was told would be handling the family’s affairs. He bowed a little and gave me a look I’m coming to recognize as a mix of awkwardness and sympathy, each struggling to find adequate expression.
‘I will be dealing with your mother while you are in Europe, Master Haytham,’ he assured me.
It hit me that I really was going; that I had no choice, no say whatsoever in the matter. Well, I do have a choice, I suppose – I could run away. Not that running away seems like any kind of choice.
We took carriages home. Trooping into the house, I caught sight of Betty, who looked at me and gave me a weak smile. The news about me was spreading, so it seemed. When I asked her what she planned to do, she told me that Mr Digweed had found her alternative employment. When she looked at me her eyes shone with tears, and when she left the room I sat at my desk to write my journal with a heavy heart.
11 December 1735
i
We depart for Europe tomorrow morning. It strikes me how few preparations are needed. It is as though the fire had already severed all my ties with my old life. What few things I had left were only enough to fill two trunks, which were taken away this morning. Today I am to write letters, and also to see Mr Birch in order to tell him about something that occurred last night, after I’d gone to bed.
I was almost asleep when I heard a soft knocking at the door, sat up and said, ‘Come in,’ fully expecting it to be Betty.
It wasn’t. I saw the figure of a girl, who stepped quickly into the room and shut the door behind her. She raised a candle so I could see her face and the finger she held to her lips. It was Emily, blonde-haired Emily, the chambermaid.
‘Master Haytham,’ she said, ‘I have something I need to tell you, which has been preying on my mind, sir.’
‘Of course,’ I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray the fact that I felt suddenly very young and vulnerable.
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