Where he was shunted about from clerk to clerk, each one more officious than the last, before sitting briefly with Sir Robert and being sent to Sir Hugh. The part of the palace near the Scotland Yard that houses the King’s Works has changed little since King Henry’s time, except that the rooms have been partitioned to accommodate the additional secretaries and copyists made necessary by the Fire. It is a warren of tiny nests, each one filled with a scribbling clerk. As he leans his head back against the wall he can hear them scratching and scrabbling like mice. The rooms are dismal and cold, with wood-paneled walls and leaded-glass windows placed very high up. In clement weather the windows do little to dispel the gloom, and on cloudy days such as this one they admit almost no light at all. Even though each has a shilling’s worth of tapers on his desk, to a man the clerks sit with crooked backs, squinting at barely legible documents only inches away.
The close air and the tallow smoke make him drowsy. When the clerk finally grants him an audience with the comptroller, he feels slightly dazed, like a grateful supplicant ushered into the light. Sir Hugh has beaten back the darkness of his chambers by placing candles all about: it’s as bright as a chapel.
“Mr. Ravenscroft, pleased to make your acquaintance,” he says with a vigorous handshake and a smile. The comptroller is hale and hearty, about fifty, with a sanguine complexion and a jovial, informal air, but like all successful courtiers he wears expensive rags and a scent stronger and more complex than simple lavender water. Ravenscroft suspects that Sir Hugh’s warm welcome has little to do with his unassuming self and much to do with the comptroller’s wish to supplant Christopher Wren as surveyor-general. It did not go over well with the older architect when the king appointed the young Mr. Wren above him.
“This is my under-clerk, Mr. Urquhart, and my cousin Sir Richard Davies,” says Sir Hugh. Mr. Urquhart is a man of about thirty with a round face and a reticent manner. Sir Richard is an old, vainglorious fellow covered in lace and brocade, with shoes so tall he teeters on them. His periwig is shaded a youthful dark brunette, even though his face and neck are more wrinkled than a basset hound’s. “Sir Richard has come to us for help with plans for his new house on Pall Mall.”
“Adjacent to the residences of Sir Philbert Whigby and the Duke of Albemarle,” Sir Richard says, chin rising with conceit.
“It is my pleasure to make both your acquaintances, I’m sure”—actually, Ravenscroft is not sure of this particular pleasure at all—“but I had rather thought that this would be a private sitting, Sir Hugh.” He indicates the roll of papers under his arm. He has not presented his designs to the Society yet; anyone could embezzle his plan and call it his own.
“Of course, Mr. Ravenscroft.” Sir Hugh explains for the others. “Sir Robert tells me that Mr. Ravenscroft has a unique new scheme for the Fleet. As a philosopher and a member of the Royal Society, he is ever watchful that his ideas do not fall into a competitor’s hands.”
“I have heard of this Society,” says Sir Richard, his powdered jowls and turkey’s neck wobbling. “You’re one of those fellows who weighs air, and enjoys dropping things from very great heights.” He chuckles and looks to the two others as if he has just said something clever.
“That is the opinion of those who are ignorant,” Ravenscroft curtly informs him. “Experimental philosophy involves the careful study of nature, for the purpose of comprehending its true laws and processes. Only in this fashion is it possible to discover the truth. Those who trivialize our work are generally found to have no understanding of it.”
Sir Richard’s jaw drops. Sir Hugh quickly steps in to heal the breach. “Mr. Ravenscroft, I can assure you that we have the utmost respect for your pursuit of philosophy, and that no one here will appropriate for themselves that which is not theirs. Sir Richard meant nothing by his banter,” he says with a pointed look at his cousin. “Now, if you would be so kind as to begin your discourse.” Sir Hugh and Sir Richard recline in the chamber’s two upholstered chairs, and Mr. Urquhart perches on a stool next to a secretary’s desk in the corner.
Ravenscroft sets up his easel and attaches his diagrams, unrolling the first of the series and pinning it flat. “Gentlemen, you see before you my rendering of the Fleet Ditch, one of the most unwholesome scars on the face of London. Its very name conjures up pestilence and filth; yet the king has decreed that it be made into a navigable canal. To date, even our finest architects and planners”—he respectfully does not name Mr. Wren—“have not been able to make progress. I have devised a means for clearing the Fleet of its waste and sewage, which will enable the king’s desire to be made manifest.” He unfurls his second drawing.
At first, as he begins to describe his system of filters, pumps, and barges, he can see that Sir Hugh and the others take little interest in his designs. But he is more than usually articulate this day. His plan for the Fleet is nothing less than a prophetic vision, and elucidations cascade from his tongue with elegance and conviction. After a while he notices with no small degree of satisfaction that his audience is eagerly listening. Even Sir Richard seems to be caught up in his fervor.
“And how would these filters, as you call them, be made secure in the riverbed?” Sir Hugh asks.
Ravenscroft flips through the drawings on his easel. He moves one of the candlesticks closer so they will be able to see the details more easily. The air in the comptroller’s chamber is very warm, he thinks, as he tugs at his too-tight cravat and brushes the long locks of his wig away from his shoulders. He turns back to Sir Hugh and points to the relevant area of the diagram. “The filters would be secured in much the same manner as the footings of a bridge, but with additional support extending from the sides, into the riverbank. See here, at Figure D, the cantilever posts are fortified by iron—” He hears a strange crackling noise behind him, a sound like paper being crumpled into a ball. He turns round to look but there is nothing to be seen, only an odd smell of sulfur in the air. His three-person audience utters a collective gasp. Perplexed, he faces them once more, to find an expression of alarm and amusement on Sir Hugh’s face, astonishment on the two others.
“Your wig!” Sir Hugh shouts. “It’s on fire!”
Ravenscroft’s initial reaction is sheer panic, his next self-preservation. He snatches the flaming, smoking hairpiece from his head and throws it on the floor, then tears off his coat and flails at the wig as one might flog a disobedient dog. By this time, now that it’s apparent that he’s not in any real danger, Sir Hugh, Sir Richard, and even the subdued Mr. Urquhart are hooting with laughter. They double over, unable to speak, making sounds that are better suited to a barnyard than a Whitehall chamber. Ravenscroft extinguishes the fire and waits silently, face reddening, his wispy, pathetic tufts of gray hair only partially concealing his naked scalp. The three men catch their breath, and for a moment it appears that his humiliation is at an end. Then Sir Hugh looks at him once more and roars. The two others quickly follow his lead.
At long last, Sir Hugh wipes tears from his eyes and rises from his chair. “Good show, Mr. Ravenscroft. I do not believe I have ever laughed so hard without so much as one drop of drink.”
“But what do you think of my plan for the Fleet?”
“I believe Mr. Wren has it well in hand already. Surely you do not need to trouble yourself.”
Trouble? “But it is no trouble. Indeed, it is what I most desire. It could be the pinnacle of my life’s work. My destiny, if you will.”
“The Fleet Ditch? Your destiny?” Sir Hugh’s face appears to be locked in an odd grimace, as if he is holding back another flood of mirthful tears.
Ravenscroft searches the architect’s face for some evidence of his empathy, if not for himself then for his intended plan, but he finds none. Could it be that Sir Hugh has completely missed the point of his discourse? Surely the comptroller is not going to reject a rebuilding scheme so worthy of implementation. Ravenscroft cannot resist one last attempt. “Do you not think the king will be interested in my invention?�
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“I cannot say, Mr. Ravenscroft. But perhaps,” Sir Hugh says as he turns to the two others, his eyes shining, “you should inquire if he is in need of a new jester. I’ve heard that Mr. Killigrew no longer suits.”
The three men hoot and haw and hold their sides. Ravenscroft pulls on his battered coat, places his stinking wig back upon his head, and rolls up his drawings. “Good day, gentlemen,” he says as he departs, but they do not hear him, they are too busy laughing.
It is over, he decides. All of it. The trials and the experiments and the days and months and years of conscientious study. If he can accomplish no more than being made sport of by ignorant asses, he wants nothing more to do with philosophy. He trudges through the palace with his chin on his chest, taking little notice of where he goes or what he passes. After he walks through the main gate and out onto Whitehall Street he stops, overcome with fatigue and bewilderment. Where is he and where is he going? Home, he supposes, but why? What point is there in continuing to tread upon the path of his life? It has only led him here, to his mortification and disgrace.
Not far from the gate he eases himself down to the ground, propping his back against the palace’s exterior stone wall, not caring that his best coat and breeches will be stained with mud. His mind is occupied with something much more important than his attire: what to do with the remainder of his life. Perhaps it’s time for something new. He could take a wife; but even in the depths of his despair Ravenscroft is cognizant of how little chance he has of a wife taking him. He could spend the rest of his days traveling in foreign countries. Or drinking in taverns. Better yet, he could spend the rest of his days drinking in foreign taverns. Or he could simply throw himself in the Fleet and be done with it.
“Am I addressing Mr. Ravenscroft?”
He looks up to see one of the King’s Guards staring down at him. “What do you want?” he asks crossly.
“I am instructed to bring you back to court, sir.”
Ravenscroft snorts. “Surely you jest.”
“Not at all, sir.” The guard is so young that he hasn’t got a beard. A flicker of worry passes over his countenance: he hadn’t expected any difficulty.
“I won’t go.” Sir Hugh can find another philosopher to humiliate.
The guard nervously shifts his weight from foot to foot. “But you must.”
“Says who?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only know of my orders. You must come with me, or—or I’ll have to summon my captain.”
Damn, he would swear that he saw the boy’s chin quivering. “Odd’s Fish, you aren’t going to start blubbering, are you?” Ravenscroft stands up and makes a halfhearted attempt to brush himself off. He realizes the instant his hand sweeps across his backside that he has sat in something more elemental than mud, probably horse manure. He sniffs his hand—definitely horse manure—then wipes it on the front of his breeches. Well, Sir Hugh would have to take him as he is.
“Get a grip, son,” he says to the sniveling guard, then motions for him to lead on. He follows the boy back through the gate, back through the crowds in the palace courtyard, back through the covered gallery, then along the stone gallery, past the questioning eyes of envious courtiers, who watch as Ravenscroft is whisked past the curtains at the end of the hall. The guard leads him through a luxurious bedchamber and into a small room full of clocks. There are scores of them, too many to take in all at once, timepieces mounted on the walls, displayed in glass cabinets, or simply set out on top of tables. They make a fantastic noise, each one ticking, tocking, chiming, or clicking: a room full of mechanical birds and insects.
In the center of this cacophony stands King Charles himself. He is a magnificent figure, so tall that Ravenscroft comes up no higher than the middle of his chest. He is the most extravagantly dressed person the philosopher has ever seen, sporting a glossy black wig that reaches to his waist, a jacket of lush scarlet brocade embroidered with gold, cascades of lace at his throat and wrists. His scarlet velvet shoes are adorned with gold bows; gold garters studded with jewels encircle the white silk stockings that sheath his well-defined legs. Strangely, though, the king does not appear foppish at all, but assuredly regal.
Ravenscroft falls to one knee. As he crouches down, he catches a whiff of his own fug: scorched wool, burnt hair, horse shit. How can his luck be so poor, that he should appear in this filthy undone state before the king? Panicking, he drops everything he carries under his arm; the easel clatters on the floor and the drawings roll away from him as if possessed by a spirit. The king approaches, holding out his hand. Ravenscroft has never kissed the hand of a monarch before and is momentarily flummoxed: should he place his lips on the back of the hand or on the fingers? The royal fingers sport two capacious gold rings, one set with sapphires and one set with rubies. The back of the hand is lightly covered by a growth of black hairs. Before he can decide the hand is withdrawn. The king clears his throat and steps back a few paces. From the royal sleeve a scented handkerchief is extracted and briefly held to the royal, obviously affronted, nose.
“Mr. Ravenscroft,” the king begins, in a voice sonorous and rich. “Perhaps you will be so good as to show me what you have just shown Sir Hugh.” He points across the room. “From over there, if you will.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
HE HAS NEVER been squeamish, but Edward Strathern does not like to be stared at by the cadavers he dissects. It makes the process much too personal and intimate, as if the body could suddenly become animate again. He cannot explain why something he knows to be impossible should trouble him, but this queasy fear seems to be securely lodged in the human psyche. Doesn’t everyone prefer the eyes of a corpse closed? Once the spirit is gone, one imagines that only something evil could make it return.
He places his fingertip on one of Sir Henry’s open eyelids, but it won’t budge. Even when a person dies with their eyes closed, rigor mortis can tense the muscles of the eye socket and force the eyelids open again. Unfortunately neither the watchman nor the guards who handled Sir Henry’s body thought to close his lids and put coins on them to keep them shut. If Edward exerts too much pressure now he’ll tear the skin, and he has been instructed to make Sir Henry more presentable for his surviving relations, not less. It won’t be easy: at present he is not looking well.
“Rigor of the facial muscles is well established,” he says loudly for the benefit of Mr. Billings, the ancient amanuensis the college has provided for him. He sits perched at a small escritoire set up on the operatory floor, laboriously penning a wavering script with a palsied hand. The anatomy theater at the College of Physicians is modeled after the one at the University of Leyden but, being new, has incorporated some welcome innovations: a skylight directly above the operating floor and a dissection table on wheels so that cadavers can be easily rolled in and out. Otherwise, Strathern could almost forget whether he is in London or Leyden, the interiors are so similar, with spectator galleries on each side and low-hanging chandeliers that provide additional light. This will be his first postmortem performed in relative peace and silence, without a group of students crowding him and peering over his shoulder. His only other companion this day is his assistant, a newly licensed young doctor named Gordon Hamish, who stands on the opposite side of the dissection table upon which lies Sir Henry’s brutalized but still clothed body. Like Edward, he does not wear a wig—it gets too much in the way—and Hamish’s thatch of red-gold hair appears like a halo when seen against the candlelight. His pale, light-lashed eyes are the only feature visible on his face, as his cravat covers his nose and mouth. Hamish is new to dissections and not yet accustomed to the smell of cadavers. Strathern does not find this corpse particularly noisome, as Sir Henry has not been dead long and the cold night air has slowed the process of putrefaction. Despite the young doctor’s sensitivity, Strathern considers himself fortunate in his choice of aide: Hamish’s quick mind and eagerness to learn compensate for his lack of experience. Not to mention that none of the other physician
s at the College wanted the position.
“There is a deep cut through the trachea which has produced some blood but which does not appear to have severed any arteries,” Edward says, continuing his external examination. Sir Henry’s cravat saved him from worse injury. His waistcoat, however, did nothing to protect him. The silk vest is ripped in a half dozen places and soaked with blood. “There are a number of wounds to the chest and abdomen.” He unbuttons what’s left of the waistcoat and opens it, revealing the torn and bloodied shirt beneath. Dr. Hamish hands him a pair of scissors, and he splits the shirt up the middle. Five deep gashes, one in the lower left breast that Strathern suspects pierced the heart, and a diagonal laceration to the abdomen of at least seven inches crisscross the torso in a ghastly pattern of dried, rust-colored blood, purple hematomata, gray integument.
Hamish mumbles through his cravat.
Strathern frowns. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Hamish tugs his scarf down. “It looks like someone went mad,” he says, breathing carefully through his mouth. “It isn’t necessary to cut someone up like this just to kill him, is it?”
The Devlin Diary Page 22