The King's Evil

by Andrew Taylor

  I said nothing. Edward Alderley’s father had committed a far worse crime than steal other people’s money, though few people other than the King and myself were aware of that. I had done the King good service at the time of Henry Alderley’s death, which was when I had also had dealings with Lady Quincy. I kept my mouth shut afterwards, which was why he trusted me now.

  Chiffinch looked up, and I saw the flash of malice in his eyes. ‘Did Lady Quincy get a good look at you, Marwood? Did she see what’s happened to you since she last saw you?’ He turned his head and spat into the empty fireplace. ‘It must have come as quite a shock. You’re not such a pretty boy now, are you?’

  CHAPTER THREE

  LATE ON FRIDAY afternoon, the rain dashed against the big windows of the Drawing Office at the sign of the Rose in Henrietta Street. It had grown steadily heavier all day, whipped up by a stiff, westerly wind. If it grew much darker they would need to light the candles.

  Apart from the rain, the only sounds were the scratching of Mr Hakesby’s pen and the occasional creak of a floorboard, when Brennan, the draughtsman, shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was working on the detailed elevations for the Dragon Yard development by Cheapside, which was the main commission that Mr Hakesby had in hand at present.

  Catherine Lovett was standing at a slope placed at right angles to one of the windows. Her neck and shoulders ached. She had spent the last half-hour working on another job. She was inking in the quantities and materials in a panel at one side of the plan for one of the new warehouses by the docks.

  The careful, mechanical lettering was dull work, and the warehouse was a plain, uninteresting building, but Cat was thinking of something quite different – the garden pavilion project at Clarendon House, where she and Mr Hakesby had been working this morning. Mr Milcote had visited them to discuss the basement partition. Milcote was acting for his lordship in the matter, and she could not help thinking that their lives would be much more pleasant if all their clients were as agreeable and straightforward as that gentleman.

  She rubbed her eyes and stretched. As she was dipping the pen in the ink, there was a tap at the door. She laid the pen aside and went to answer the knock. That was another of her more tiresome duties, along with keeping the fire going, sweeping and scrubbing the floor, filling inkwells and sharpening pens.

  Cat found the porter’s boy on the landing, holding out a letter. It was addressed to Mr Hakesby in an untidy scrawl. She took it over to him. He was sitting huddled over the fire, though it was not a cold day, with a board resting over the arms of his chair so he had a surface for writing and drawing, when his hands were steady enough.

  Hakesby broke the seal and unfolded the letter. It trembled in his liver-spotted hands. There was another letter inside. He frowned and gave it to her. Her name – or rather the name she used in Henrietta Street, Mistress Jane Hakesby – was written on it in the same hand as the outer enclosure.

  ‘What is this?’ Hakesby said, his voice petulant. ‘There’s nothing for me here. Do you know anything of this?’

  Brennan looked up. He had sharp hearing and sharp wits.

  ‘No, sir,’ she said in a low voice.

  She concealed her irritation with Hakesby, for he was increasingly peremptory with her now that he had a double reason to expect her obedience. She opened the letter and scanned its contents.

  I must see you. I shall be in the New Exchange tomorrow afternoon, at about six o’clock. Look for me at Mr Kneller’s, the lace merchant in the upper gallery. Destroy this.

  The note was unsigned and undated. But there was only one person who could have written it. She dropped the paper into the glowing heart of the fire.

  ‘Jane!’ snapped Mr Hakesby. ‘Take it out at once. Who’s it from? Let me see.’

  It was too late. The flames licked the corner of the paper and then danced along one side. The letter blackened. For an instant, Cat saw one word – ‘destroy’ – but then the paper crumpled and fluttered and settled among the embers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, as chance would have it, I was kept later than I had expected at Whitehall. There was a crisis in the office. Much to Chiffinch’s irritation, I spent the majority of my time working under Mr Williamson, the Undersecretary to Lord Arlington, the Secretary of State for the South and one of the King’s most powerful ministers. Mr Williamson’s responsibilities included the publication of the London Gazette, the government’s newspaper. Under his direction, I shouldered much of the day-to-day burden of editing the material, seeing it through the press and ensuring it reached its readers.

  In London, the Gazette’s distribution relied heavily on a group of women who carried the newspapers to the taverns and coffee houses of the city, and also delivered them to the carriers who took them the length and breadth of the kingdom. Over the last few weeks there had been problems of late delivery or even no delivery at all. These were probably due to the usual causes of death, disease, drunkenness and simple unreliability. There was also the fact that we paid the women a pittance, which was often weeks in arrears. But Lord Arlington wasn’t interested in the reasons. He blamed Williamson for the failure, and Williamson blamed me.

  When at last I was able to leave the office, I took a boat from the public stairs at Whitehall – fortunately the tide was on the ebb – and went by water to Charing Cross. The sun was low in the sky, slanting through a gap in the clouds.

  Outside the New Exchange, the Strand was packed with waiting coaches and sedan chairs, reducing the flow of traffic in both directions to fitful trickles. Aggrieved drivers struggled towards the City or upriver to Whitehall or past the Royal Mews towards Hyde Park. Those on foot were making better speed.

  The clocks were already striking six as I entered the building. Since the lamentable fire last year, which had destroyed the shops of Cheapside, the old Royal Exchange in the City and so much else, the New Exchange was busier than ever. The world came here to buy and sell. Everything the heart could desire, the proud boast went, could be found under one roof. You could purchase all the luxuries of the globe without having to get your feet muddy, your clothes wet, or your ears assaulted by the vulgar cries of the street.

  I forced myself to slow down – people sauntered in the New Exchange: to hurry was to draw attention. The shops were arranged in long lines that faced each other on two floors. I made my way to the stairs. The upper galleries were even busier than those on the ground floor.

  Mr Kneller’s shop was larger than most and equipped with a wide mullioned window, the better to allow customers to inspect the wares for sale. Much of his stock was imported from France and the Low Countries.

  I hesitated on the threshold. The last of the sunlight slanted through the panes in broad stripes that brought to life the silks and lace in its path. The shop was thronged with people, men and women; the air was heavy with perfume, and filled with the murmur of voices and the rustle of skirts. The proprietor’s wife, a pretty woman of about thirty, was showing a delicate spray of lace to a richly dressed gentleman with a face like a horse. The gentleman was more interested in her than in her lace. For an instant her eyes flickered towards me and then returned to her customer.

  ‘You like the look of her, don’t you?’

  My head jerked to the left. Cat was at my elbow, looking up at me. She wore a light cloak and a hat that shaded most of her face.

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said, instantly defensive. ‘I was looking for you.’

  ‘You’re a liar, sir,’ she said. ‘Like all men.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CAT ALLOWED MARWOOD to lead her to a quieter corner, partly shielded from the rest of the shop by the projecting counter on which the apprentices were laying out the larger pieces of lace. She had last seen him three or four months ago. She glanced surreptitiously at him, and found he was doing the same to her.

  He looked more prosperous than before, and somehow older. He was wearing a new periwig, finer and more luxuriant than
his old one. His face was plumper – the last time she had seen him, pain and laudanum had sharpened his features.

  It was important to be natural: they were a man and a woman idling away an hour in the New Exchange, enjoying the pleasures of shopping. She took up a piece of lace. ‘Is this Bohemian work, I wonder?’

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ he muttered. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘Yes. And while you do, we need to look as if we are here to look at lace.’

  She glanced up at Marwood’s face, tilting her head to have a better view of the left side of his neck. To her surprise, he gave her a sardonic but not unfriendly look.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘How do you find me?’

  ‘Better. As far as I can see, that is. Your wig and your collar hide the worst of it.’

  He shrugged, dismissing his disfigurement, dismissing the memory of what the fire had done to him. He said softly: ‘Your aunt talked to me about you.’

  Cat’s eyes widened. She raised her voice. ‘Come to the window, sir, and let me see this piece properly.’

  They stood in the embrasure. The lace spilled over her arm like a frosted spider’s web. She held it to the glass and pretended to examine it.

  ‘Lady Quincy?’ she said. ‘What does she want, after all this time? I’m surprised she still has an interest in me. She did nothing for me when she was married to my uncle, and when we lived under the same roof, nothing when I most needed help.’

  ‘She wants to help you now.’

  ‘I’m sure she told you that, sir.’ Cat felt irritation rising like bile inside her. ‘But then you would believe anything she says. You always had a – what shall we call it? A tenderness for her.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said coldly. He bent down, bringing his lips closer to her ear. ‘Your cousin Edward Alderley called on her,’ he said slowly. ‘He told her that he has discovered where you are hiding. He plans to have you brought to the gallows.’

  ‘Perhaps my cousin was lying,’ she said. Marwood was growing angry, she thought, which pleased her. ‘Edward never let truth get in his way.’

  ‘You can’t take that chance. She believed he was telling the truth. There’s still a warrant out for your arrest on a charge of treason, on the grounds that you aided and abetted your father, a Regicide. It’s never been withdrawn.’

  ‘But what could I do?’ she said. ‘He was my father, whatever he had done. Besides, I had as little to do with him as I could.’

  ‘Alderley also told Lady Quincy that he has powerful friends, and they will help him destroy you.’

  ‘I thought no one would give Edward the time of day after my uncle’s disgrace.’

  ‘It appears you were wrong,’ he said. ‘Lady Quincy believed him, and she wanted to warn you, from the goodness of her heart.’

  ‘Goodness? From my Aunt Quincy?’

  ‘You should leave Henrietta Street. At least for a time. It’s not safe.’

  She flared up: ‘Why should I run away from Edward? I’ve had enough running.’

  Marwood glanced at the nearest apprentice, who had heard this. He moved nearer to Cat, turning and shielding her. ‘For your safety.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something.’ She touched his sleeve. ‘Do you know what my cousin did to me?’

  ‘Yes, of course – he helped his father cheat you of your fortune, and he attacked you and—’

  ‘He raped me.’

  ‘What?’ Marwood stared aghast at her. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What’s there to understand? In his father’s house, he came to my bedchamber by night. He took me by force. Is that plain enough for you, sir?’ She lowered her voice. ‘That’s why I took out his eye and ran away from Barnabas Place. I thought I had killed him when I stabbed him. I wish to God I had.’

  The apprentice advanced and gave a little cough. ‘Sir – mistress – may I show you some more pieces? We have some particularly delicate work newly brought from Antwerp.’

  ‘Not now,’ Marwood said.

  ‘Sir, I can promise you—’

  ‘Leave us,’ Cat said, raising her voice. ‘Go.’

  The sounds of the shop died away. Half the customers were staring openly at them. So was the shopkeeper’s pretty wife.

  ‘Later,’ Marwood said to the apprentice.

  He took Cat’s arm and marched her out of the shop. So much for their attempts to be inconspicuous, Cat thought. She said nothing as he led her to the stairs and down to the ground floor. The movement made the curls of his periwig swing away from his face. For an instant she glimpsed what remained of his left ear.

  When they reached the street, Marwood turned abruptly towards her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me what that damned knave did to you?’ he said.

  ‘Why should I have done? What’s it to you?’

  He tightened his lips but said nothing. The last of the sun had gone. Grey clouds blanketed the city.

  ‘One day,’ Cat went on, in a dull voice as if mentioning a future event of no importance to her, ‘one day, I shall kill my cousin.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish. What would that achieve except bring you to the gallows, which is exactly what he wants?’

  ‘You forget yourself. You have no right to tell me what I may or may not do.’

  Marwood looked away from her. ‘In any event, we must assume, for your own safety, that Alderley has found you again. That means you must leave Mr Hakesby, leave Henrietta Street. Even better, leave London for a while.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You must.’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s too much work to do. Mr Hakesby depends on me. I have a meeting with one of our clients in less than an hour. I must go. Besides—’

  ‘If it’s a question of money, I can help. I’ve brought five pounds with me.’

  That was generous, and the offer touched her.

  ‘You don’t understand, sir,’ she said, in a gentler voice. ‘If I need money, I shall ask Mr Hakesby. I’m betrothed to him. He will soon be my husband.’

  After a good week at the Drawing Office, measured by the entries that Cat made into Mr Hakesby’s accounts, they had fallen into the habit of supping together on Saturday evening. Hakesby was careful with money but not ungenerous. There was plenty of work at present, as half of London had turned into a building site after the Fire.

  Hakesby was a creature of habit, which was why he always entertained Cat and Brennan in a private room at the Lamb in Wych Street. The tavern was a shabby place, but the people of the house knew him: they valued his custom and treated his habitual ague, however bad it was, as nothing out of the way. Usually these were cheerful occasions when even Mr Hakesby allowed himself to take a glass or two of wine, though it tended to make his symptoms worse.

  A few months ago, Cat would not have believed it possible that she would spend an evening in Brennan’s company. At the start of their acquaintance, she had disliked intensely both the fact that Brennan had dared to court her affections and the manner in which he had approached this impossible task. But she had dealt with that, and so had he, and she had come to respect his skill as a draughtsman, his reliability and his kindness to Mr Hakesby.

  Brennan had come to Henrietta Street armed with a glowing letter of recommendation from Dr Wren, and time had justified the praise. Hakesby paid him a regular wage now, rather than using him as a piece worker. Someone, she suspected, was looking after him, perhaps the motherly young woman who worked in the pastry cook’s in Bedford Street.

  On this evening, they supped later than usual, at nearer nine o’clock than eight. It was not a cold evening, but Cat was chilled to the bone. It was hard to concentrate on what the men were saying. The thought of her cousin Edward kept forcing itself into her mind. She wondered if she could ever be happy again.

  At first, Hakesby and Brennan failed to notice her silence. Both of them were elated, partly from wine and partly because Hakesby had received an unexpected stage payment for t
he Clarendon House commission, which had allowed him to pay Brennan a bonus. Despite his political troubles, Lord Clarendon remained an influential client, the sort who led where others followed. Hakesby had been concerned about the work on the pavilion, as her ladyship, who had taken such a particular interest in it, had recently died. There was also the fact that his lordship was not only in disgrace at court but rumoured to be short of money. Nevertheless, the payment had been made. They probably had Mr Milcote to thank for that.

  As the meal went on, however, Cat noticed that Hakesby was shooting worried glances at her. He was growing more and more dependent on her, she knew, and that could only increase as his ague worsened. Their marriage was fixed for the end of October; next month, they would start to call the bans. The marriage was to be a private affair in the new-built church in Covent Garden.

  ‘The building is a pure Inigo Jones design,’ Hakesby had said with satisfaction. ‘Not one of those crumbling medieval hotchpotches the Papists built.’

  After supper, as they were going downstairs to the street, he touched Cat’s arm and said quietly, ‘Are you well? Are you sickening?’

  ‘No, sir. It is nothing, a woman’s matter.’

  Hakesby shied away from her, turning to take Brennan’s arm. In the street, he said he would not take a chair back to his lodgings; he felt perfectly capable of walking. Brennan and Cat exchanged glances, silently accepting the necessity of accompanying him. The three of them walked slowly towards Three Cocks Yard off the Strand, where Hakesby lodged on the first floor of one of the new houses. Brennan took him into the yard and up to the house, while Cat herself lingered in the Strand.