The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Filled with joy, Jemima sat in her private parlour with a silver pencil in her hand. She was alone.

  Flurries of rain tapped on the window pane. The sky was grey, streaked with the darker charcoal plumes of smoking chimneys. It was colder than it had been, and she had ordered a fire to be lit.

  She had not been sure until this morning, though she had suspected it for more than a week. But, after discussing it with Mary, she believed that she could not be mistaken. Her courses were late this month, and the plain fact was that she was never late. The only explanation must be that she was with child.

  She had tried numerous methods guaranteed to lead to conception and done everything the physicians advised. One of the methods must have worked. Had it been the fern roots and steel shavings warmed in wine? Or perhaps the poultice of ram’s dung applied to the belly?

  No matter. She spread the palm of her left hand over her belly. Already she felt life stirring and twitching within her. She was sure of it.

  Beside her was a list of names, arranged in two columns, one for boys and one for girls. Coming to a sudden decision, she scribbled out the girls’ names, digging the pencil deep into the paper to erase even a hint of them remaining.

  It was a boy. It must be a boy. Her father wanted him to be christened George Syre Limbury. She had no objection to the Syre – after all, the boy would sooner or later own Syre Place – but she had never cared for the name George. She had little doubt that she could bend her father to her will. As for Philip, she was confident that he would agree with whatever she wanted. If she gave him a son, he would allow her anything in his power.

  Jemima wrote: Valentine; she laid down her pencil, folded her hands over her belly and sat back to consider the name. She picked up the pencil again and wrote: Christopher.

  She had barely exchanged a word with Philip since their quarrel on Friday. But now she had the means to make all well between them – indeed, to make all better than it had ever been before.

  She rose carefully from her chair. Her closet was on the first floor, next to her bedroom but overlooking Pall Mall at the front of the house, not the garden at the back and the fields beyond. She went on to the landing.

  The house was silent. It was the hour after dinner. The servants were somewhere downstairs, living their mysterious lives and doing whatever servants did when they were not serving their masters. Mary would come if she rang for her. But she did not want Mary. She wanted Philip.

  Somewhere below, a door closed. Footsteps ran lightly down the hall, and then down the stairs to the kitchen. She waited a moment until everything was quiet. Then she slowly descended the stairs, step by step, clinging to the broad bannister rail. She walked down the landing to the door of Philip’s study. She tapped on the door, and entered.

  He was at his desk, with a mass of papers before him – including, she noted, what looked like plans of houses. That wretched Dragon Yard.

  Frowning, he rose and bowed. ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘This is unexpected.’

  He set a chair for her. She found the study an oppressive room, though it overlooked the garden. It was small and square, dark and masculine. The walls were panelled with stained oak. There was a desk by the window and a book press within reach. On the opposite wall stood a tall cabinet richly carved with satyrs’ heads. Only a turkey carpet lent it colour.

  Joy bubbled up inside her. ‘I’m with child.’

  She had meant to lead up to it, to tease his curiosity, to prolong the enjoyment of it. But she could not restrain herself.

  ‘I am with child,’ she repeated. ‘It’s a boy. I know it.’

  And all our troubles will be smoothed away, she thought. God be thanked.

  ‘Again? Haven’t we had enough of this foolery?’

  She covered her ears with her hands, pressing them tightly against the side of her head. But she could not shut away his voice.

  ‘Is this the fourth time you’ve told me this? Or the fifth? I lose count. And always these children of yours melt away like snow in spring. They are but fantasies, madam, the imaginings of a disordered understanding.’

  There was a knock at the front door.

  ‘It’s not true!’ She tore her hands away. ‘How can you say such things? I’ve been unlucky. Why, I think I lost them before because I was cursed. It was the old woman, remember, the one who used to stand on the corner outside the house. She was a witch, Philip – you agreed with me, you know you did. In any case, she’s gone now – Richard sent her away, though I wished she could have been burned – but all is well now.’ She hugged herself. There were voices in the hall, and then footsteps. ‘And I am bearing your son.’

  He did not smile with joy. He did not take her in his arms. Instead he sat down at his desk and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Jemima, my love,’ he said sadly. ‘If this were true, no one would rejoice more than I.’

  There was a tap on the door. Richard entered. He glanced slyly at Jemima, and she guessed he had heard something of what had been said.

  ‘Mr Gromwell, sir,’ he said.

  Gromwell swept into the room in his shabby finery. His face lit up when he saw Jemima. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you adorn this room as an angel adorns paradise.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  As the hackney approached the southern end of Bedford Street, Cat raised the leather curtain above the door. She had taken a risk in coming here. As far as she knew, no one had followed her from the Savoy to the cabstand, but she couldn’t be sure.

  At first she thought Mr Hakesby wasn’t there. Then a rider urged his horse forward, and she saw the old man’s tall, angular figure on the corner. He had propped himself against one of the posts that protected pedestrians from the flow of traffic in the Strand.

  Cat knocked twice on the panel that separated her from the driver. He drew up at the side of the road a few yards beyond the post. She felt a rush of relief as she watched him walk unsteadily towards them, leaning on his stick. Not just relief – affection, too. She had missed him, she realized, and missed the work of the drawing office as well. Infirmary Close was a refuge, but it was also a prison.

  He opened the door. ‘My dear—’

  ‘Tell the driver to go on, sir.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Let him drive up to Holborn.’

  When Hakesby climbed into the hackney, she took his arm and helped him to sit. It gave her a pang to see that he was frailer than ever.

  With a jerk, the coach moved off, pulling into the traffic. Someone swore at them, and their driver swore back. Now the door was closed and the blind was down, the interior was lit only by the cracks of light between the curtains and the frames around them. Barely a yard away, Hakesby’s face was a pale blur, the features smudged into shapelessness beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

  ‘Thank you for coming. I thought perhaps you might not wish to …’

  ‘I’ve been worried,’ he said in a faltering voice that was barely audible above the clopping of hooves and the din of iron-rimmed wheels on the roadway. ‘I don’t understand why you went away. Brennan said he saw you with Mr Poulton the other day, but you ran off. It’s something to do with the Fire Court, isn’t it? It’s Dragon Yard and Mr Marwood’s business, whatever that really is. How I wish I’d—’

  ‘Sir,’ she interrupted. ‘You must not worry yourself about me.’

  ‘It’s been most inconvenient. We have such a press of work at present. Where have you been? You didn’t say in your letter.’

  She ignored the question. ‘I am perfectly safe, and I hope to be with you again soon.’

  ‘I should turn you off,’ he said, suddenly petulant. ‘You are my servant, after all – what right have you to leave me unless I send you away?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir. I wish it were not so.’ She leaned forward. ‘Tell me, have you brought it?’

  ‘And there’s another thing! Why in God’s name do you want this?’ He was working him
self into a passion. ‘A specimen of Sir Philip’s handwriting. I never heard of such a thing. No explanation – no reason – barely even a by-your-leave.’

  The hackney swayed as it rounded a corner, and a wheel scraped against a kerbstone. The jolt threw Hakesby against her.

  ‘That fool of a driver,’ he snapped, his anger diverted. ‘I shall have his licence taken away.’

  Cat helped him back to his seat. ‘No harm is done, sir.’

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ he enquired, his rage evaporating as suddenly as it had come. ‘I’m such a clumsy brute and so much heavier than you.’

  ‘Not in the slightest.’

  There was a pause. Hakesby fumbled in his coat.

  ‘I have it here …’ He held out a folded paper. ‘A letter from Sir Philip – it’s very short … I shall need it back.’

  She took the letter from his shaking fingers and slipped it through her skirt and into the pocket beneath. ‘Thank you, sir. Tell me, has Mr Poulton heard anything from Lincoln?’

  Hakesby shook his head. ‘Not unless something came in these last few hours. There’s so little time – we’ll be before the Fire Court in two days. And I dread hearing from Lincoln in case it’s bad news, and there’s a new will, leaving Mistress Hampney’s leases away from her uncle.’

  ‘Pray don’t be anxious.’ She leaned forward and rapped on the panel. ‘Forgive me – I must leave you now.’

  ‘What? Where are you going?’

  The hackney slowed. Cat took a couple of shillings from her pocket and pressed them into the palm of Hakesby’s hand. It was shaking so much she had to hold it steady and fold the fingers over the coins.

  ‘What’s this? Money? Why are you giving me money?’

  ‘For the fare. Mr Marwood said I must be sure to pay it, as he would not have you out of pocket. I’ll tell the driver to take you back to Henrietta Street.’

  The coach stopped and she opened the door and jumped down. She looked back at his creased, bewildered face.

  ‘I will come back, sir,’ she said. ‘I swear it. Everything will be as it was before.’

  Cat closed the door and told the driver where to go. She waited, watching the hackney rattling up Drury Lane. It was still raining. The roadway was filthy with mud and horse droppings. The sky was dingy and drab. But the coach had been newly cleaned and its yellow cab and red wheels made a splash of colour in the street. It turned left into Long Acre and disappeared from her sight.

  The alley to Infirmary Close was gloomy and slippery with rain. It was empty. If people were spying on the comings and goings at Marwood’s house, Cat saw no sign of them.

  Sam opened the door to her knock. He had a pistol in his belt and an iron-shod staff in his hand. Cat slipped into the house, unfastening her cloak. He slammed the door, drove the bolts home and put the bar across. As he was securing it, Margaret ran red-faced through the hall with a tankard in her hand, throwing Cat a glance and then ignoring her. She thundered up the stairs.

  ‘Is he bad?’ Cat said.

  Sam turned to her. ‘It started soon after you left. He’s moaning away like a baby.’

  ‘Has he had any laudanum?’ Cat asked.

  ‘He won’t. He’s as stubborn as his father. If he wasn’t my master, I’d call him a fool.’

  Cat followed Margaret upstairs and into Marwood’s bedchamber. He was lying on the bed, on his right side. The moaning had subsided to the occasional whimper.

  Margaret looked old and tired. ‘He’ll not let me dress the burns,’ she whispered. ‘When it’s really bad, he acts like one possessed.’

  ‘Has he taken anything at all?’

  ‘He called for beer to quench his thirst, but he’ll not touch it now it’s here.’

  ‘Let me stay with him for a while.’

  Cat went over to the bed. Marwood was lying on his right side with his eyes open. His expression didn’t change when he saw her. His head was bare – even the loose bandage was gone. The skin was livid and shiny. There was no sign that the hair was growing back. For the first time she saw clearly the wreckage of his left ear, reduced to a pink, misshapen thing, unfamiliar and strangely unsettling.

  ‘I saw Mr Hakesby,’ she said.

  Marwood took a deep breath but said nothing. She sensed that he was willing himself to concentrate on what she was saying.

  ‘He gave me a letter from Sir Philip. Where did you put the verses?’

  ‘In the Bible there.’ His voice was faint and hoarse.

  The book was on the night table by the bed, along with the beer and the laudanum. It was a small, shabby volume whose binding was in poor condition. She riffled through the pages until she found the folded sheet of paper.

  ‘Put them side by side,’ he said. ‘The letter and the verses. Oh Christ, have mercy. I am a sinner.’

  ‘You need to take a dose, sir.’

  ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘No, no, no.’

  She carried the verses to the window and laid them on the sill. She took the letter from her pocket, unfolded it and placed it next to them.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Well?’

  The letter was brief, curt and clearly written in haste. It was addressed to Mr Poulton. The contents informed him that Mr Browning of Gray’s Inn was acting for Sir Philip Limbury in the matter of Dragon Yard, and should be allowed full access to the site at any time as the accredited representative of the freeholder.

  ‘The verses are written carefully, and in a fine neat hand,’ Cat said. ‘The letter is a scrawl. But they look as if they were written by the same person.’

  ‘Then we have him. It’s Limbury who was Celia Hampney’s lover. And more than likely worse. Her murderer too, and Tabitha’s. Put both papers back in the Bible. I shall show them to Williamson. I shall – ah, dear God, stop it and—’

  The words lost their shape and faded to a whimper.

  Cat picked up the laudanum. ‘Why won’t you take this?’

  ‘It will make me its slave. And there are bad dreams …’

  ‘Better that than be a slave to your pain.’

  ‘No. When I show Williamson—’

  ‘You’ll show him nothing at all unless you take some of this.’

  ‘I shall not—’

  She stamped her foot, driving him into silence. ‘You shall, sir. Or you will be no use to any of us, least of all yourself.’

  His face was contorted. He was sweating. ‘I – say – I – will – not.’

  ‘And I say you will.’

  ‘Leave me, you witch,’ he shouted, his voice high and jagged. ‘Leave me.’

  ‘If you make me,’ she said, ‘I shall call Sam and Margaret to hold you down while I force it into you. The more you struggle, the more you will suffer.’

  For a moment Marwood said nothing. She stared down at him. He bit his lip. A drop of blood appeared, reminding her of the dog they had seen in Lambeth. Tears filled his eyes and overflowed.

  ‘By God,’ he said. ‘You’re a devil. I believe you would do it and not think twice about it.’

  ‘Take it,’ she said, and picked up the flask.

  The double knock on the door came after the candles had been lit. Cat was sitting upstairs with Marwood, who was now sleeping so deeply it seemed he might never wake. Perhaps, she thought more than once, it might be kinder if he didn’t. Strange to think that before the fire at Clifford’s Inn, she had envied his good fortune.

  The chamber door was open. She heard Sam’s footsteps downstairs, and the click of the door shutter opening, allowing him to inspect who was waiting outside. For a moment she held her breath. Then came the rattle of bolts and the grating sound the bar made when it was removed from its sockets.

  She took up the candle and went on to the landing. Williamson’s harsh voice filled the shadowy space below, demanding to be taken to Marwood. She glanced back at the man on the bed. He was still dead to the world and its pains, his breathing as regular as before. She left him and went downstairs.

  ‘Master’s no
t well,’ Sam was saying. ‘He’s sleeping, sir, and mustn’t be wakened.’

  ‘You’ll let me decide that. Where is he? Upstairs?’

  ‘Sir,’ Cat said, taking the last few stairs at a run. ‘May I speak to you first?’

  Williamson frowned down at her. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jane, sir. You saw me the last time you were here.’

  He ran his eyes over her. There was nothing lascivious in his stare. She might have been a column of figures to be added up or a horse to be assessed for its suitability for a task. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In the parlour. I had fallen in the gutter on my way back from the apothecary’s.’

  ‘Ah. I remember.’ His expression was different now: he was comparing his memory of that filthy, dishevelled creature with the demure, neatly dressed young woman before him. ‘The maid.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Mr Marwood asked me to speak to you if you called.’

  A puddle of rainwater was forming around him. He took off his cloak and tossed it to Sam. ‘About what?’

  The words were curt but his manner had subtly changed. He had adjusted his assumptions about her, if only by a trifle. There were maidservants of all conditions in London, some of whom had been gently bred. There were men who employed their unmarried sisters or cousins to serve them, often for little more than the cost of their board and lodging.

  ‘There are two papers he wished you to see, sir.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In the chamber where he’s asleep. Would you come with me?’

  Sam cleared his throat noisily but said nothing.

  ‘But pray don’t wake him,’ she went on. ‘He has had a large dose of laudanum. He went out today on your business, and now the pain is particularly bad.’

  She led the way upstairs, with Williamson’s heavy steps behind her, and took him into Marwood’s room. Their shadows swooped drunkenly before them, thrown by the candle she had left burning on the chest by the door.

  Cat went to the bed and held up her candle so the light fell on Marwood’s face. He was snoring gently.