She slipped inside and closed the door. A faint and musty smell of burning lingered from the Great Fire more than eight months ago.
This staircase was one of the older parts of Clifford’s Inn. The ground-floor walls were three or four feet thick, pierced on either side of the door with pairs of mullioned windows in frames of dressed stone. These had lost their glass in the heat of the fire. The heavy shutters kept out all but a few cracks of light.
But it wasn’t dark. Daylight filtered down from above, casting a hazy light that shifted and shimmered, as if underwater.
Cat looked up. The fire had gutted most of the interior, destroying floors and the partitions between the chambers. The charred remains of some joists were still there, as well as the brick chimney stack, a relatively modern addition, which was standing to full height.
Less than a third of the roof remained intact, the section surrounding the chimney stack. Sheets of patched canvas, old sails, had been stretched over the remainder of the space. The breeze made the material ripple and flap lethargically, but the makeshift arrangement worked, and the interior was surprisingly dry.
On the floor above, pairs of planks rested on the joists, lashed in place with rope. They made a ledge along the back wall of the building. Cat took a few steps forward, so she could see the entire length of the run.
The planks stretched from one corner to the other. Archways were set in the thickness of the walls, facing each other along the two rows. The one to the right led to a stone staircase, buried in the thickness of the masonry at the north-east corner of the building, which rose in a spiral to floors that no longer existed.
At the north-west corner was a similar archway. It was impossible to see where it led. But the west wall must butt against the back of the new building where Gromwell had his chambers on Staircase XIV.
Cat made her way towards the staircase, her footsteps crunching on the layer of debris covering the flagged floor, a mixture of blackened tiles, plaster dust and ashes. It was only when she reached the arched opening that she realized that it also led somewhere else: to a short flight of steps rising to the right, branching away from the main staircase. There was enough light to make out a short passage ending in a door.
She felt a stab of excitement, followed by a less welcome sense of apprehension. Marwood was right: there was a private route between Fetter Lane and Clifford’s Inn. He had been on the other side of this door last week.
Was this the way the murdered woman had come on the day of her death? Perhaps she had come by hackney to Fetter Lane and someone had met her in the alley and conveyed her here.
Cat climbed the steps. The passage was about three yards long. It was very dark here. She fumbled her way to the end. There was a door set in the east wall of the building, towards Fetter Lane and the Half Moon. It seemed undamaged by the fire. She felt the outlines of heavy bars, as well as the shape of a lock encased in a large wooden box.
As she turned back, she stubbed her toe on something resting against the wall by the door: something rigid that moved under the impact of her foot, making a scraping sound on the flagstones. She crouched. Her fingers touched a piece of wood. She explored it rapidly with her fingers, angling it towards what little light there was. A rectangle of carved wood, perhaps eighteen inches by two feet, with what felt like canvas within it.
A picture in its frame.
She picked it up and took it down the steps and into the watery brightness of the main building. She turned over the frame to bring it the right way up. She found herself looking at a painting of a group of naked women in the countryside. The picture was so absurdly lewd that it made her want to laugh.
Marwood had talked of the room where his father fancied he had seen the murdered woman:… a picture that disgusted him over the mantel …
The dead woman had turned out to be real enough. And now it seemed as if the rest of it had been true as well. In which case—
There was a crack like a gunshot behind her.
Cat bolted back through the archway and into the welcoming gloom of the passage. Trembling, she set down the picture against the wall.
The sound had been the raising of the latch on the door. She heard the door closing. There were footsteps crunching over the dust and ashes and drawing closer. She cursed herself for showing no more sense than a startled rabbit: she had run into a trap. She felt in her pocket for the knife.
For a moment everything hung in the balance. The footsteps were at the bottom of the stairs. Then, slow and deliberate, they began to climb the stairs.
Cat let out her pent-up breath. She tiptoed towards the staircase. The steps climbed higher and higher. She stepped down to the archway. The footsteps were different – hollower, and even slower – the sound of them was louder. It was now or never.
Cat picked up her skirt and ran across the floor. She zigzagged round heaps of rubble. She tripped over a fallen beam and fell. She scrambled to her feet, and as she did so glanced upwards.
Gromwell was looking down at her from the walkway of planks. For a moment he was as still as an artist’s model, his arms flung out in a strangely graceful pose, as if he had been frozen in the middle of a dance. He turned and ran back towards the archway to the stairs.
Cat reached the door. She lifted the latch and pulled. The door did not move. Panic jolted through her. Gromwell had locked the door behind him when he came in. There was no escape.
She glanced back. Gromwell was stumbling through the archway at the bottom of the stairs.
In desperation she tugged at the door again. As she did so, she saw that Gromwell had thrown a bolt across when he came in. She slid it back and lifted the latch.
This time it opened, almost knocking her over. Then, God be praised, she was outside in the May sunshine and running across the courtyard towards the gate to Fetter Lane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In the afternoon, Jemima, Lady Limbury, had one of her fits of restlessness. Usually she preferred to stay at home, seeing no one apart from the members of her own household. But sometimes the house in Pall Mall grew oppressive and she had a craving for different air in her lungs and even a different life for herself.
I am a caged bird, she told herself, revelling in the sorrow of her plight, and I keep the key to my cage close to my heart.
Besides, she had a curiosity to see something. Something in particular.
She ordered the coach to be brought to the door at three o’clock. She summoned Mary, who dressed her mistress in the black, unrevealing gown that she usually wore when she went out for a drive. Despite the warmth of the day, Jemima insisted on her travelling cloak with the hood, as well as her veil.
When Mary ventured to suggest she might find herself uncomfortably hot, Jemima hit her with the back of the hand across her cheek. It was not a hard blow but the diamond she wore on her middle finger grazed Mary’s cheek. Mary gasped and jumped back.
Jemima stared in fascination at the drops of blood oozing on to the surface of Mary’s pale skin. Mary’s eyes – those green eyes, her best feature – looked larger and brighter than ever, because of the tears.
‘Come,’ Jemima said, and beckoned her to approach her chair. ‘Let me see your cheek. Closer, girl, closer.’
Mary bent nearer her mistress. A tear fell on to Jemima’s bare forearm.
‘Closer,’ Jemima whispered. ‘Closer.’
When Mary’s face was only inches away from her, Jemima inclined her own head towards her. She licked the blood on Mary’s cheek.
‘There,’ she said. ‘That’s better.’
A little later they went down to the coach. Richard escorted her outside, and handed her into the vehicle. He said his master had ordered him to attend them on their outing. But Jemima said that she did not require him, that they would take the groom from the stables where the coach was kept. She gave orders that Hal should drive to Hyde Park, and that he was not to stop for anyone.
The coach slowly climbed the hill to Piccadi
lly. The vehicle was new, a gift from Sir George, and it had windows containing glass above the doors rather than the usual openings covered by leather curtains.
The road surface grew rougher as the houses dropped behind. They turned left towards the park. The clatter of the hooves, the rattle of wheels and the cries and shouts of passers-by created a bubble of privacy. Jemima did not order Mary to lower the blinds to cover the windows. She liked to see the world outside, softened by the distortions of the glass and the material of the veil.
‘I don’t want to go to the park,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Tell Hal to turn round.’
‘Shall I tell him to take us home, my lady?’ Mary said, her voice shaky from crying.
‘No.’
Mary rapped on the roof. The coach slowed, and the groom riding behind drew level with the window to receive his mistress’s orders.
‘We shall go to Fetter Lane,’ Jemima said.
Mary’s head jerked round to look at her mistress.
‘Tell them I want to see where the whore was found dead the other day. Tell them to drive as close as they can to the very spot.’
‘Must we?’ Mary whispered.
‘Do it.’
Jemima stared out of the opposite window while Mary relayed the changed orders to the servants. She felt a thrill of excitement at her own daring. She had planned this outing carefully, ever since it had been confirmed that the murdered woman in the ruins was Celia Hampney. She had always intended to go to Fetter Lane, but she had not wished to alert anyone to this until they were well away from the house, in case Philip caught wind of it. He would have tried to stop her.
There was a good deal of traffic in Piccadilly, and it took an age to turn the coach round and set off eastwards. To avoid the crush at Temple Bar, they took the route that led up to Holborn and turned down Fetter Lane from the north. As they neared Fleet Street, Jemima looked out of the left-hand window at the ruins that spread down to the Fleet Ditch and then rose to the blackened City wall, with the gaunt remains of St Paul’s beyond it.
Hal Coachman paused to ask directions from an apprentice, who guided them into a narrow entry on the left. The coach jolted along, straddling the central gutter, at less than a walking pace. When it drew to a standstill, half a dozen beggars appeared around them, all of them no more than children. Jemima stared into the freckled face of a street urchin.
The groom kicked the boy away and bent down to the window. ‘If your ladyship pleases, Hal can’t get any closer.’ He hesitated, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. ‘If her ladyship perhaps cares to walk? It’s only twenty paces or less.’
Jemima sucked in her breath. She didn’t want to leave the coach. But she wanted to see the place where the whore had lain. The exact place where she had made her last bed above ground.
‘Tell them to make the people go away. Mary, give the man some pennies for them.’
The groom bribed the largest of the boys to point out the exact place where the body had been found, and to keep the others away from the coach. Hal made one of the smaller children howl with a flick of the whip on the girl’s bare forearm. When the beggars had learned to keep their distance, the groom escorted Jemima and Mary down a path that led off the lane, swinging a staff in a manner that was sufficiently threatening to deter the other beggars from approaching too closely.
They came to a court surrounded by the remains of small, tightly packed dwellings. The groom pointed to one of the exposed cellars.
‘In there, my lady.’
One of the beggars drew level. ‘She was buried,’ the boy said, glancing nervously at the staff in the groom’s hand. ‘In the rubble there. I saw her. But she wasn’t buried well enough. The foxes and the rats had her.’
Jemima laughed. ‘Give the boy a penny,’ she said. ‘Quickly.’
The groom held out the coin. The boy snatched it from him.
He tried his luck once more. ‘And a bird had pecked out her eye.’
‘And another,’ Jemima said. ‘Then make him go away.’
‘See there,’ the lad said, pointing. ‘That’s her blood.’
For a moment, Jemima stood there, staring into the cellar where they had found Celia. There was a darker mark on a heap of earth in the corner. It might be blood or it might merely be the boy’s attempt to enter into the spirit of the occasion in the hope of a third penny. When Jemima said nothing, the groom cuffed the lad, who retreated to a safe distance.
The court was sheltered. Despite her cloak and her veil, Jemima felt the warmth of the sun. Yes, it had been worth the effort of coming here. The dead didn’t feel the sun. All that was left for them was the cold of the grave and attention of the worms.
Celia Hampney. Who had owned one of the leaseholds on Dragon Yard, which must explain a good deal. Who had been Gromwell’s lover, if Jemima’s husband had spoken the truth. But had Philip spoken the truth? She tried to ignore the possibility but the pain of it stabbed her like a stitch in her side.
‘Tell them we shall go home now,’ she said to Mary. ‘The long way round. By Shoe Lane and up to Holborn.’
She did not speak again until the coach turned into Pall Mall. Then she glanced at Mary. Her maid was weeping silently. Why? What had she to weep about? Servants were so mysterious.
Jemima leaned forward and stroked Mary’s cheek. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she said. ‘You serve me well.’
She knew the value of a kind word in season.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
My mouth was horribly dry and my tongue felt like a scrap of leather left by the heat of the fire. I lay for a moment, uncertain of why I was here or even where here might be. Some time later, and with a modest sense of achievement, I realized that I was in my own bedchamber in the Savoy.
I thought at first that it was early in the morning, for I would not be in bed when it was light outside. Sometime later, however, I realized that the window shutters were open, and the bed curtains were tied back. Nor did the light have the freshness of morning. Also, I could hear sounds that belonged to the other end of the day. Pans clattered below. A man was singing a ballad in the lane outside our lodgings in Infirmary Close. Children were shrieking, and someone was hammering something.
By degrees, I discovered that I was lying on my back, though tilted a little to the right with what felt like a narrow bolster running down the left side of my body. It was a strange and uncomfortable position to be in, though I lacked the energy to do anything about it. The skin on my face felt tight and hot. I touched my left leg with a finger and was rewarded with a stab of pain that briefly penetrated the clouds in my head, but then dissipated swiftly.
I tried to concentrate but my mind refused to cooperate. It drifted like a boat without oars or sails. I found myself thinking of my long-dead mother, remembering the cool touch of her fingers when I lay in bed with a childhood fever.
A new sound forced its way into my consciousness, a knocking below. Why did people have to make so much noise? There were footsteps, and voices raised in argument. Someone was coming up the stairs. The door of my chamber was flung open so violently that it collided with the side of the press.
‘You can’t do this, mistress.’ Margaret’s voice, loud and upset. ‘I’ll have Sam throw you out.’
‘Peace, woman,’ I said. Or rather that is what I intended to say. The words emerged in a soft mumble that even I could hardly hear. I closed my eyes.
‘I’ll do him no harm. Mr Marwood, are you awake?’
I knew the voice. Catherine Lovett’s. My mind filled with a jumble of memories and impressions. Cat. Hakesby’s hellcat. Long ago, she had bitten my hand and given me a wound that had not healed for days. Half woman, half child and wholly formidable: a person of many talents, whom I could not for the life of me understand.
‘It’s no use.’ Margaret sounded resigned. ‘He’s been asleep since yesterday morning. Or having visions. He was talking to his father during the night. As if the old man was there
beside him.’
‘The laudanum?’
‘It’s a blessing.’ The anger had left Margaret’s voice, leaving tiredness and anxiety behind. ‘God knows what we’d have done without it. That and the cerecloths – you were right about those.’
I tried to raise my right hand above the coverlet on which it lay. I made my fingers flutter. Then weariness overtook me.
‘Look,’ Cat said. ‘He’s awake.’
I opened my eyes. The two women were standing beside the bed, so close they were almost touching, and looking down at me. Cat covered her mouth with her hand, as if holding back words that were trying to escape.
‘Master?’ Margaret said, bending over me, her red face crinkled with worry. ‘Master?’
‘Margaret,’ I said. ‘Oh, Margaret, I’ve had such dreams.’
‘I tried to keep her out,’ she said. ‘But she just ran up the stairs.’
I wanted to explain to her that it didn’t matter, that nothing mattered. Instead I touched the left side of my face. Fabric of some sort covered the skin. But even that slight pressure from my fingers was enough to make me wince. That mattered.
‘Help me raise him,’ Margaret said. ‘Might as well make yourself useful while you’re here. But for God’s sake be gentle.’
Cat went round to the other side of the bed. Between them, the two women lifted me in the bed so my head and shoulders were supported by pillows. The process was exquisitely painful. I cried out. My eyes filled with tears.
‘Hush, now,’ Margaret said, as if I were a whimpering child.
She turned aside and filled a mug from a jug on the night table. She held it to my lips. I sucked greedily at the liquid it contained. Small beer dribbled down my chin. But some of it found its way into the parched desert of my mouth and trickled down my throat. I had never tasted anything so wonderful.
The Fire Court Page 19
