by Stuart Clark
Her eyes dropped back to her work. ‘You cannot pretend for ever that I’m not your Grace.’
Dangerous feelings bubbled inside him.
She pulled at a length of the fabric, splitting it down the seam. He recognised the dark folds as a pair of his breeches.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ He tried to grab the garment.
Lifting it out of his reach, she said, ‘Gentlemen are wearing their breeches tighter these days, to allow for jackets being longer.’
‘I don’t have any long jackets.’
‘Not yet.’
Hooke snorted. ‘London is not the place you remember. Didn’t the news of Sir Edmund Godfrey’s murder reach the Isle of Wight?’
Grace shook her head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘He was Justice of the Peace for Westminster until they found him on Primrose Hill, five days after he went missing, face down in a ditch, run through with his own sword.’
She looked unimpressed. ‘There are always murders in London.’
‘Not like this. You see, the wound hadn’t bled. Sir Edmund must have been long dead when the sword was driven through his ribs. The doctors took the body and discovered a bruise around his neck.’ With relish, he reached under his chin to grip his own neck. ‘He’d been garrotted with a silk scarf. Later, the killers rearranged his neckcloth to hide the bruise, took his body to the ditch and skewered him to the ground.’
Grace stopped sewing. ‘Why?’
‘They say he’d taken an affidavit from Titus Oates . . . ’
‘Ah, now him I have heard of.’
‘Don’t interrupt. Oates said he had word about a Catholic plot to assassinate the King and return England to the Papists. He named more than five hundred people spread through the court, parliament, the regional manor houses – all of them secret Jesuits, just waiting for the Pope’s order to begin the killings. You see, it wasn’t just going to be the King; other prominent men were on the assassination list, too. Sir Edmund was murdered because he knew too much.’
Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I hardly think we’ll be in mortal danger going to a tailor to buy you a new jacket. I could do the final alterations like I used to. Besides, you go out all the time, it’s only me who’s stuck in here.’
Hooke huffed again. ‘What do I care for fashion at my age?’
‘You’re not as old as you think.’
‘I’m forty-four, that’s old enough.’
‘Exactly, you’re not as old as you think.’ She returned to her work.
Hooke stared at her. He managed a rather half-hearted ‘Just stay in your room’ before closing the door.
There was a chorus of polite greetings as the gentlemen straggled into Hooke’s apartment, sank into the mismatched chairs that pinned the rugs to the floor and complained in unison of the cold weather. In years gone by the pre-meeting conversation had been about inventions and hypotheses; Hooke’s fingers would tingle with the possibilities on offer and he would work late into the night, sometimes through to the next morning, in his fervour to manufacture the experiments needed to prove some point or other.
Springs, pulleys, balances: he knew how to make them all, relished making them as he imagined a master painter must enjoy being at the easel. These days, however, there were just the usual grumblings about the weather and the question of whether the Society’s President would appear. Sir Joseph Williamson had been conspicuously absent these past weeks, no doubt consumed with his duties as Secretary of State, but still, an absentee President was not a good omen for any society.
Hooke’s gaze was drawn to the grey metal cylinder on the hearthstones. Muted sounds of bubbling came from within its belly. In construction, the cylinder was not unlike an alchemist’s furnace. At the base was a roaring firebox that heated an upper chamber. That morning, instead of chemicals, the contraption’s owner had loaded it with a trivet and a dozen prepared pigeons. As the man had been fixing down the lid by turning a large screw assembly, he had stopped suddenly. ‘Idiot!’ he scolded himself in a heavy French accent, pulling out a muslin packet of herbs and a bulb of garlic. He wafted them beneath his hooked nose. ‘I nearly forgot these.’
‘You do know this is only a demonstration, Monsieur Papin; an experiment,’ said Hooke.
Papin’s brow creased. ‘Of course, but how can you cook a pigeon without garlic?’
Now the contraption shuddered and rumbled, filling the room with an admittedly delectable smell. Papin squatted in front of it, feeding more wood into the firebox. As the roar of the flames increased, so did the shaking of the metal body.
‘Is that thing all right?’ Hooke asked.
‘Of course. Without the pressure, the bones will not be soft enough to chew. We will all eat well tonight, I think,’ Papin said, flashing a grin. ‘In the name of science, of course.’
Hooke returned to his secretary’s ledger to record the names of the arriving Fellows.
The towering figure of Christopher Wren walked in, resplendent in a chestnut jacket trimmed with golden braid. Hooke noticed that the low waistline emphasised Wren’s slim torso.
‘Kit, I’ve been waiting for you. Gracechurch Street is at least two feet narrower than on my plans . . . ’
‘And good evening to you too, Robert,’ said Wren genially. ‘We changed the plans in committee – needed the extra space in the adjacent streets. Sorry, I thought you had been informed.’
‘No, I was not . . . ’
There was a commotion at the doorway. A wiry man with bulging eyes and a misaligned grey wig leaned on the doorframe, gasping from exertion.
‘Mr Fisher, whatever is the matter?’ asked Wren.
Hooke grabbed an armchair and swung it into position.
Fisher collapsed into the chair, the stiff fibres of his attire ballooning around him. ‘I was followed on my way here tonight, I swear,’ he said in a thin, frightened voice. ‘A pair of men kept to the shadows behind me, speeding up and slowing down when I did. They were biding their time, I tell you. Lucky I was heading here and no further – they’d have had me for sure if I’d turned off the main street.’
The other Fellows crowded around him. A stout gentleman pulled out a short truncheon with a leather wrist-strap. ‘I’ve taken to carrying this.’
‘Mercy, Mr Banbury,’ said Wren. ‘What do you intend to do with that?’
‘Defend myself. Any of those Catholic devils come near me . . . ’ He slapped the weapon into his other gloved hand with a satisfying thwack.
‘Come, do you really think there’s evidence for these Catholic murder gangs?’ asked Wren. ‘It seems little more than rumours to me, all started by Oates.’
‘The King must think there’s something going on; he’s housed Oates at Whitehall, presumably to protect him,’ said Banbury.
‘None of it makes sense to me,’ said Wren.
‘The papists are capable of anything,’ said Papin, clapping his open hand to his chest. ‘Why do you think I’m in England? We Huguenots are being driven from our mother country.’
‘Well, I’m convinced. Especially after tonight. The danger’s real,’ wheezed Fisher.
Hooke fetched wine and the Fellows went back to their chairs. It became clear that their President was going to miss this meeting, too.
‘I think we’d best start, Monsieur Papin. Don’t you?’ Hooke asked, lifting his quill to take minutes.
Papin bowed his head, regarded the Fellows and opened his arms with such vigour that he set his extravagant cuffs rippling. ‘Distinguished Fellows of the Royal Society, it gives me the greatest of all pleasures to present you with my invention, the steam digester . . .’
‘An invention based on my air-pump,’ Hooke chipped in.
‘Quite so,’ said Papin. ‘Where was I? Never again will the poor struggle to extract nourishment even from bones.’
There was an almighty ripping sound and the room filled with steam. Hooke instinctively closed his eyes as something hot spattered his face. When he open
ed them again, a boiling mist was rolling across the ceiling. The Fellows, many having jumped to their feet, were looking from one to another in varying degrees of shock. Fisher’s wig – which had never been a good fit – was even more askew, and Wren’s beautiful jacket was covered in pulverised pigeon.
Papin was on his knees, staring at the ruptured steam digester, covered from head to foot in dripping gravy.
‘Tell me, Monsieur Papin, is this how they serve dinner in France these days?’ grinned Banbury, licking his jelly-smothered fingers. ‘I confess it is good, though.’
‘I think we need to talk about fitting a steam valve, don’t you, Monsieur Papin?’ said Hooke, wiping his face.
Later, after the Fellows had drifted homewards, with Banbury insisting on escorting a tremulous Fisher, Grace appeared from her room. Her hair was bound up with strips of muslin, and she was clad in only a linen nightgown, apparently immune to the cool of the gathering evening. Hooke was on his knees, still cleaning bits of exploded pigeon from the rugs and floorboards. He tried to ignore the shadow of her figure underneath the fabric as she drew close. His buckled spine felt tighter than ever.
‘Let me help you,’ she said, crouching beside him.
She took the cloth from him, her nightdress gaping as she leaned forwards.
‘For pity’s sake, go and put something on.’ Hooke struggled to his feet and slung one arm across the mantelpiece as if it were an old friend offering support. Blood thumped in his temples.
‘Do you want something to eat? There’s some cheese,’ she said.
‘No, I do not. The last meal you cooked kept me awake all night.’
‘You never did sleep well.’
‘My head fairly spun on the pillow.’
‘There was only ever one remedy for your insomnia,’ she said.
Hooke froze. He made to glare at her but found he could not meet her gaze. Instead he turned for the door, desperate to escape.
5
Cambridge
Huddled outside the weathered city walls and covered only in scrubby plants, the plague pits welcomed Newton home to Cambridge. Although fifteen years had passed since they had been filled, the mass graves still made him recoil. Inside the city gates was little better.
Whatever goodness may once have been found in the city’s streets had fled as far as Newton could see, washed away on the sea of alcohol that flowed from the taverns and inns. The places to drink outnumbered all the other shops put together. Scabby children ran through the streets while drunken parents lolled against barrels and wasted the day. Market traders shouted their prices and foisted the poorest vegetables on those too intoxicated to see straight. Everywhere there was decay, and Newton shuddered even though his fascination kept him glued to the scenes.
They’re damned, he thought, every single one of them.
From the carriage window Newton caught sight of the array of chimneys outlining Trinity College. Next, the four towers marking the corners of the gatehouse appeared. The magnificent sandy building rose from the squalid surroundings just as Newton towered over the beggars when he strode through the streets.
He rapped on the carriage roof, and the driver pulled the horses to a stop even though they were well short of the coaching inn. Newton wasted no time in disembarking and set off along the cobbles to where he could already see the college’s unlikely herald waiting. Lurking in the shadow of the garden wall was a boy, dressed in sackcloth, with a shrivelled right arm. Newton guessed he was perhaps five or six. This seemed to be his patch. The steward would shoo him away periodically, but soon enough the urchin would be back. The boy nodded at Newton, who lifted his head to look at the college’s gothic gates.
Choosing the smaller of the two wooden entrances, Newton still had to push with all his weight to make it open.
‘Welcome back, Mr Newton,’ said the chubby steward, offering the register for him to sign. ‘Back for long, sir?’
‘I sincerely hope so.’
Newton hastened to the quadrangle and paused to take a breath before slipping the latch of his door. ‘Wickens?’ he called.
The room was still.
‘John Wickens, come out from wherever you’re hiding – I’m home.’
There were neat piles of papers and books on the desk. The bookshelves were dust-free; the beds were freshly made. Newton’s collection of prisms was perched on the top of the bookcase. The order made him uncomfortable, as if he had walked into someone else’s room. He pushed a small pile of papers, sending them sprawling across the table, then he stepped through the hole that he and Wickens had made in the wall to provide access to the wooden shed where they performed their experiments.
All was neat in there too; the crucibles were stacked inside each other and looked as if someone had scrubbed them. The tin furnace sat in the centre of the room, lifeless and cold. The glass flasks were lined up in rows, and the alembics, with their pointed glass snouts, stood to attention in ranks.
It was too tidy. More than tidy, it was immaculate. Newton fought the urge to smash a piece of glassware. Returning to the main room, he saw his favourite cushion had been plumped and perfectly positioned in his chair, like a cat basking in a sunny spot. He ran his fingers across the scarlet velvet so gently they left no impression.
On the table was a small collection of accumulated letters. Newton leafed through them, grimacing from time to time. Unless he was terribly mistaken, one was covered with Robert Hooke’s handwriting.
The latch sounded. He dropped the letters and turned to the door.
‘Isaac!’ John Wickens was a slight man with delicate features and a smile every bit as mischievous as Newton remembered. The dark waves of his long hair curled into the hollow of his neck.
Newton embraced him. That was when he realised something was wrong. Wickens was tense, his usual ease gone from his body. Newton stepped back and waved his hand at the room. ‘Did you stop working in my absence?’
‘I have completed the notes for everything you did before you left. The notes are . . . ’ He stopped when he saw the toppled pile of papers. ‘Well, you seem to have found them already. Everything is up to date.’
‘Excellent. I have new ideas. We must start at once.’ Newton shrugged off his jacket.
Wickens turned away. ‘I cannot help you.’
‘Why ever not? We’re close; I know it. I have new stirring patterns in mind. I think that seventeen clockwise rotations of the spatula, followed by a single turn widdershins–’
‘I’m leaving the college.’
Newton stared at his companion. ‘This is very inconvenient. Whom are you visiting? When will you be back?’ Newton saw that Wickens’s eyes were glistening.
‘You don’t understand, Isaac. There’s a rectorship available at Stoke Edith in Monmouth. I want to get married. Start a family.’
Newton cupped one hand within the other and began to run his thumb across the ragged nails. ‘When did this . . . this strange desire take hold of you?’
‘It has always been in me to have children. I’ve made no secret of it.’
‘Yes, but we’ve chummed for twenty years now. You haven’t mentioned it recently. It’s a whim.’
‘It’s no whim, Isaac.’ Wickens turned to face him. ‘Time’s passing. You and I, we’ve had an extended springtime. I don’t want to find myself suddenly in the grip of autumn.’
Newton’s jaw began to tighten. ‘Monmouth is far away.’
‘I will always write.’
‘Save your ink. I’ll have no interest in hearing from you.’
‘How can you mean that?’ Wickens moved closer.
‘Leave me, Wickens. You try my patience with your sentimentality.’ Newton turned his back and held his breath, digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands.
There was a whisper of movement, then the creak of the door opening and the bang of it slamming shut. Newton continued to hold his breath.
6
London
It was th
e fifth of November, and London was in flames. Orange tongues twisted into the night from bonfires built on street crossings and patches of green. Cinders drifted upwards into the chilly air like freed souls racing to heaven. The people were supposedly commemorating God’s deliverance of James I from the Catholic plot to blow up Parliament back in 1605, but to Edmond Halley something darker was permeating the revelry.
He tried to dismiss the thought as prejudice. He had been just ten years old when the Great Fire of London had raged across the city – a tragedy sparked by Catholic incendiaries, according to some. Despite the thirteen years since, unpleasant memories were still easily kindled. Halley recalled being bundled into the night, unsure yet excited by the atmosphere. He had been entrusted with a bundle of clothing and relied upon to walk alone while his mother carried his younger sister and gripped his little brother’s hand. His father had led the way, laden with a chest of hastily packed possessions.
Swept along in a tide of people, Halley’s nervousness had resolved into a sense of duty. Although there were noises all around – the occasional shout or sob, the barking of a dog or the whinny of a horse – he snatched only momentary glances in their direction. Mostly he concentrated on marching in step behind the broad expanse of his father’s back, determined to keep up.
When the family squeezed past an empty cart being pushed towards them, into the city, its owner made a brusque offer to carry them to safety. Halley’s father shook his head. A panic-stricken man carrying a frail old woman rushed in to ask the price.
‘Twenty pounds to Moorfields.’
Two hundred times the normal price! thought the boy.
Above them there was a roar of thunder and orange sunbursts as first one roof then another caught fire. Cries of alarm went up as the flames took hold.
‘Let’s hurry up. No time to dawdle today.’ Halley’s father winked at him over his shoulder, and Halley found himself smiling back, insulated from the panic.
