Inferno

by Jo Macauley

  “Done a few little jobs there to earn a penny or two. Not for a long time, mind, but I still know a lot of the men.”

  “Can you get us in?”

  “Too right I can!”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Beth cried. “If we save Polly, we save the King!”

  * * *

  “Urgh ... you stink!” Ralph said to Beth as they headed east towards the East India Dock area, where trading ships brought in their cargos of tea, spices, silks and other exotic goods.

  “Charming!” said Beth. She had grown so used to the smell from the fish shack that had permeated her clothing that she had forgotten about it. But now Ralph mentioned it, it came back to her anew.

  “It’s not that bad,” said John, quickly leaping to her defence. Beth was touched, but then she noticed him hiding a funny face.

  “’Tis a new perfume, popular with all the London ladies,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Eau de Pilchard.”

  John wrinkled his nose, not disguising it this time. “I think I prefer your usual scent...”

  “Right,” Ralph said, ignoring them. “’Tis a fair old walk. Better get a move on.”

  The route took them through Shadwell, and John wanted to call in and see how his parents were holding up, but Beth and Ralph persuaded him to avoid Bloodbone Alley. There was a good chance that they would ask too many awkward questions about what they were up to.

  When they finally reached the yard, Beth was dismayed by what she saw. It was clearly a huge site, but a high wall surrounded the whole place, and at the entrance there was a jostling mob of labourers seeking work. There didn’t seem to be any way through.

  “How on earth are we going to get in?” John asked.

  “With a bit o’ nerve and the gift of the gab!” Ralph called.

  He led them round the outside of the mass of men pressing towards the main entrance, ignoring the shouts and curses and arguments about who had pushed in and who hadn’t. Beth was already noticing sweaty, tough, unshaven men eyeing them suspiciously.

  “Oi – where d’you think you’re goin’?”

  That was the first angry cry, and it soon became a chorus as others cottoned on to what was happening. They were almost at the entrance now. There were six burly yard employees barking orders and roughly pushing job-seekers about in an effort to maintain order. Beth had to yank herself free from a man in the crowd who had made a grab for her sleeve, then one of the security men confronted Ralph.

  “Get to the back, sonny!”

  “We’re not after work, mate! For a start, he’s just a mate of mine, and she’s a fishwife’s daughter from Billingsgate, as you can tell from the smell of her...”

  Beth bit back a retort and allowed Ralph to continue.

  “And I’m an old friend of Erazmus Clarke, the foreman in Dock Three. I just need a quick word with him and then we’ll be on our way.”

  The man’s guarded expression softened a little. “You know Erazmus?”

  “Little feller. Not much hair. Tends to spit at you when he says anything with an ‘s’ in it. Never ask him what he had for breakfast is my advice, because his favourite is sausages!”

  Beth was impressed by Ralph’s guile. The man was smiling a little now and he had won him over completely.

  “In yer go – but ten minutes only, mind, or I’ll come looking for yer!”

  They were ushered in through the big main gates, happy to be immune from the howling protests of the mob.

  The Blackwall Yard was as big and as full of bustle as a small town. The smell of fresh sawdust and tar hung in the air. People moved between the numerous buildings carrying tools and timber, and the sounds of sawing and hammering echoed from workshops small and large dotted around the site. Several slipways led down to the river, some with half-built ships like skeletons at the top, supported by a complicated framework of timber scaffolding. Ralph led them through the maze of lanes and open spaces with confidence; past a sail-making building that looked as big as St Paul’s, a covered ropewalk that was narrow but just seemed to go on for ever...

  A carpenter with his tool bag slung over his shoulder recognized Ralph as he was passing.

  “Not back here working, you young scamp?” he called out.

  “Nah. Just off to Dock Three for a quick chinwag with Mister Clarke.”

  “Well you won’t find him there. He’s at the Big House seeing Mister Perry.”

  “Cheers, matey.”

  “What’s the Big House?” Beth asked Ralph as he headed them off in a different direction, away from the river.

  “It’s where Francis Perry lives, the man who owns this whole place.”

  The “Big House” was certainly quite grand for a dockyard, Beth thought, but pretty plain compared to the better houses in London. She was wondering how they were going to get past the servants when two men emerged from the front door and shook hands before parting.

  “Erazmus!” Ralph cried.

  Ralph’s old boss seemed pleased to see him – but not so Francis Perry, the yard owner.

  “I thought you were locked up,” he grunted.

  Ralph was undaunted. “That was ages ago, Mister Perry – and I’ve kept me nose clean ever since.”

  Perry eyed him up and down. “Not getting caught isn’t the same as not thieving in the first place. I can’t give you any work here – there’s enough things go missing as it is. Besides, you’ve seen all the men outside. People have come in from miles around since we got that new contract, and—”

  “No, no, Mister Perry. I ain’t looking for work. I’ve just come to ask about a rowing boat.”

  “Eh?”

  “Quite a long one, clinker-built with red lines painted round the tips of the oars and the Blackwall mark on the gunwales. We saw one at Pirates’ Dock not long back with your mark on and we thought we’d pop along and see if, as a friend, you might be able to do us a deal on her to hire. Bit short of a few bob at the moment you see...”

  Beth could tell from Perry’s reaction that Ralph’s description had hit a nerve. He tried to hide it, but a sudden extra alertness had come into his eye and he was suddenly more guarded.

  “It’s not for hire. It’s just something the men use to go here and there on the river – that’ll be why you saw it at Pirates’ Dock. Probably gone to take some trenails. They’re always running out.”

  “Ah, right...” Beth could tell that Ralph didn’t believe him either.

  “Who are your friends, anyway?”

  Perry had hitherto barely noticed Beth and John, but since the mention of the boat he had taken a sudden interest in them, studying their faces closely.

  “Oh,” Ralph replied nonchalantly, “this here is Perriwinkle, a simple-minded lad who I look after. And the girl is his sister Betsey. Sorry for the whiff about her – she works with her mother, who’s a fishwife at Billingsgate.”

  Beth clenched her jaw in irritation but managed to maintain an innocent expression. She saw that John was trying hard to do so as well.

  Perry’s eyebrows furrowed deeply and he appeared about to question Ralph further before thinking better of it. “Hmm. Well I can’t help you with a boat and I’m a very busy man, so perhaps it’s best you go.” With that, he turned his back on them and headed back into the Big House.

  “He wasn’t telling us everything,” said John, as they trudged back the way they’d come.

  “You think I don’t know that?” Ralph said.

  “But he knows something about the boat, and Polly’s life is at stake. We can’t just walk away and forget about it!”

  “I agree he knows something,” said Beth. “Ralph’s done the right thing. If we make him more suspicious than he already is, he’ll only report everything we say back to whoever’s behind it.”

  “But the boat’s our only clue!” John smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand in frustration. Beth knew he was only thinking of his sister, and she wanted to tell him everything would be all right. The proble
m was, she was no surer of that than he was.

  “Wait!”

  It was Erazmus Clarke, hurrying to catch them up. They were outside some sort of big shed from which emanated the sound of timber being sawn in a steady rhythm. He nodded his head and led them round the corner of this building to a quieter spot.

  “Look, ’tis only a boat, so for the life of me I don’t know what all the cloak and dagger stuff is about. I’m telling you this because you’re a good lad at heart, Ralph, and I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Erazmus lowered his voice to a whisper. “A couple of men turned up at the yard yesterday to see Mister Perry about taking a boat like the one you mentioned. Perry asked me to take them to the boat, but there was just something a bit off about them. One said something to the other about needing to hurry up so they could ‘move the package’.”

  John, Ralph and Beth all looked at each other, and Beth knew they were all thinking the same thing. They might have been talking about Polly...

  “They just seemed ... shifty,” Clarke continued. “I recognized one of them and said so, but he seemed even more anxious when I did.”

  “Was he short and swarthy – perhaps with a finger missing from his left hand?” asked Beth.

  “No. It was a fellow I’ve seen here before, as I say. We’ve done some work on the royal barge and he’s been down here dealing with the paperwork a couple of times—”

  “Royal barge?” John echoed.

  “He’s a servant at Somerset House, where Queen Henrietta lived after Charles I was executed. Hewer, his name. Ed Hewer.”

  “Did you overhear anything more these men said? Is there anything else you can tell us?” Ralph pressed him.

  Just then a workman passed the building whose shadow they were standing in and glanced their way. Clarke gave him a casual nod, and the man walked on seemingly uninterested in their little rendezvous.

  “I’ve got to get back to work. All I can say is I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t want to. For God’s sake, be careful!”

  * * *

  “We need to contact Strange,” said John as they left Blackwall Yard. “He ought to know about all this, and he might know what we should do next.”

  “We know what we should do next,” said Ralph, dabbing his sweaty brow. His gold earring flashed in the blazing sun. “Go to Somerset House and find this Ed Hewer feller.”

  “I think John’s right,” Beth said. “A lot’s happened since we last saw Strange, he should be brought up to date. If Hewer is linked to Groby, then Alan Strange may well know about him. I suppose it makes sense to...” Her attention was suddenly drawn to the river. “How come there are so many boats coming this way?”

  Ralph and John followed Beth’s gaze, and all three came to a halt. As they were headed west back towards London, dozens of small craft loaded with people and belongings were coming down river towards them.

  “Well I never,” said Ralph, scratching his head. “It’s like some sort of crazy race the way they’re going at it – but it’s far too hot for that if you ask me.”

  “I don’t think it’s a race,” said John. “This reminds me of a story my grandfather told me.”

  They had stopped near Old Swan Stairs, one of the many landing stages along the banks of the Thames. Boats of all types were jostling to tie up at the few mooring places so that their passengers could disembark with their things. A man from one of the first boats to reach the stairs came struggling up, sagging under the strain of his precarious load. He carried a rolled-up carpet, various items of clothing, a small wooden chest and a large ball of cheese.

  “What’s happening, sir?” Beth asked.

  The sweat-soaked, terrified man just hurried past them as if unaware of their presence.

  John answered for him. “Fire! There was a big fire about thirty years ago and my grandfather saw scenes just like this. I thought he must have been exaggerating – ’til now.”

  Beth sniffed the air. “Goodness. I think I can smell it...”

  Ralph sniffed too. “Well, I can’t. There’s always fires in London with all the houses being made of wood. No need for a panic like this. We must keep moving!”

  Beth looked at John, and they both nodded. “There are plenty of people who can take care of a fire,” she said. “We have a more important matter to attend to.”

  But as soon as they approached the Tower of London there was no longer any doubt about the smell of burning. From the top of Tower Hill they saw a great pall of smoke hanging over the city, its ominous blue-black colour interrupted by the occasional tongue of flame rising high into the air. They could hear voices now too. Beth thought they sounded like a big fairground in the distance – except the cries they could hear were not ones of joviality, but alarm and terror.

  “Wrong way!” a woman shouted to them from a boat, clutching a screaming baby in her arms while her husband rowed for all he was worth. “Don’t go that way – the whole city will soon be ablaze!”

  Ralph hesitated. Even in the harsh sunlight and dazzling blue sky, they could now see an orange glow above the rooftops.

  John didn’t stop. “We must carry on! We must!”

  There was a dry, hot breeze at their backs and it was strengthening. “Come on, Ralph,” Beth urged, “before the wind stokes the fire. Let’s at least see what we can do.”

  They skirted Seething Lane, which was near where John worked at the Navy Board, and found themselves on the outskirts of the City, forcing their way against the tide of people fleeing the flames. They scattered as a man and woman barely clinging to a spooked, wild-eyed horse came bolting down the centre of Eastcheap. Struggling through the growing crowds, Beth became temporarily parted from John and Ralph. Forcing her way through the throng, she finally caught up with them at the corner of Eastcheap and Pudding Lane.

  A sudden gust of wind sent sparks and flaming debris flying across the street from a blazing house. They landed like snowflakes of fire on top of a so-far untouched house, and within seconds fire rippled across the bone-dry roof. Within a couple of minutes, a sheet of flame had closed off Pudding Lane completely. Beth could feel the heat scorching her cheeks, and her nose was assailed by the acrid smell of burning wood, tar and fabrics.

  “There ain’t no way through that lot,” said Ralph. “Looks like one o’ them pictures of Hell.”

  “Not to St Paul’s, maybe,” John agreed. “But Somerset House is on the river. That’s where your man said Hewer worked.”

  “One problem, though. The King’s mother lives there,” Ralph pointed out. “How would we get past the guards?”

  “She doesn’t live there any more,” said Beth. “She left for France last year. There are just a few noblemen and staff left now. Perhaps we can go by water.”

  They took one last look at the bonfire that had once been Pudding Lane, and turned back towards the Thames.

  Chapter Seven - Somerset House

  At Queenhithe Stairs, Ralph spotted a waterman returning from downriver with an empty boat. This landing stage was so close to the fire that most people were rushing past it to get transport further along the river, and there happened to be no one about at that moment.

  “Anyone got any money?” he asked.

  “I have,” said Beth.

  “Me too,” said John.

  They scrambled down the hill just as the waterman was tying up. He was lean, with the knotty, muscular arms of all watermen, but Beth could see from his drooping posture and haggard face that he must already have made numerous trips. She paid him as they all clambered aboard the flat-bottomed lighter, usually used to transport people and goods to and from moored ships. The boatman took up his oars with a weary sigh and began to row east.

  “No, not that way!” John cried.

  “What yer mean, not that way? The fire’s headin’ that way, safety’s that way,” he said, using his thumb to direct them in case they were in any doubt.

  “Bu
t we want Somerset House,” said Beth. “We, uh, we live near there and we must go and help our families.”

  The waterman shrugged and began to pull on the starboard oar to turn the boat about. “Maybe the fire’ll get that far, maybe it won’t; but it’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Suit yerselves.”

  “Somerset House itself wouldn’t burn, would it?” John asked him. Beth could tell he was worried Polly was being held there.

  The waterman shook his head. “Made o’ stone like a lot of them grand places along the riverfront. But what with people hurryin’ and scurryin’ everywhere, won’t be easy to find your folks.”

  “We’ll find who we’re looking for,” Beth assured him. She hoped she was right.

  They finally pulled alongside Somerset House, and the waterman dropped them off opposite the magnificent building. Its pale stone looked strangely serene against the clear summer sky, while just along the river warehouses were burning to the ground.

  Beth led John and Ralph up the slope and into the manicured garden. Through the windows she could see people moving about, but not evidently in a great panic. People this far from the fire probably didn’t realize how serious it was yet. However, they must have been taking precautions, because the main door facing the river was wide open. Servants kept emerging laden with personal belongings, adding to a growing pile by the steps.

  The three crouched down behind a bush and watched for a moment.

  “The next time someone goes back indoors, you two follow them and try to blend in – help with moving things outside,” said Beth. “Get talking to people, see if anyone knows where to find Ed Hewer. I’m going to try to make my way down to the kitchens – cooks are always the first to hear the gossip.”

  “Someone’s bound to realize we don’t belong here,” John said cautiously.

  “I’m sure you can come up with a cover story.”

  They waited for a couple of minutes, then a young maid came out and deposited some neatly folded lace curtains on top of the pile before going back inside.

  “Now!” Beth urged them. Ralph and John sprang from their hiding place and followed the girl into the house. Beth was close on their heels, and once inside she paused to take stock of the layout. Somerset House was like a cathedral inside, easily the biggest and most impressive place she’d ever been in. She was in a spacious hallway, and there were colourful murals on the lofty ceilings. Ahead of her was a magnificent double staircase sweeping up to the next floor, but it was what was behind the stairs that interested Beth: small, insignificant doors on either side. In places like this, the doors used by owners and their guests were designed to make a statement. They were invariably big and imposing. Those solely for the use of servants were smaller with little doorknobs and no fancy carvings – just like the one she could see in the shadow of the staircase.