The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

‘It come by hand, master,’ he said. ‘Messenger’s waiting for an answer in the kitchen.’ Unable to contain himself, he spat in the empty fireplace. ‘Proud as a cock on his own dunghill.’

  The seal told me who had sent the letter. I unfolded it.

  Call at my lodging before midday. WC

  There was a tap on the door, and Cat entered the room. Without a word, I handed her the letter.

  She glanced at it, and then at me. ‘Will you go?’

  ‘I have to see him sooner or later. And the sooner the better. Tomorrow the Fire Court will meet, and they will settle Dragon Yard, one way or the other.’

  ‘They say Chiffinch has the King’s ear, and can make him do whatever he wants.’

  ‘He has the King’s ear,’ I said. ‘But the King isn’t a fool, and Chiffinch won’t want to tell him what he’s been doing. I saw him with Limbury just before he tried to send me off to Scotland. I think he’s been taking bribes from him.’

  ‘Are you well enough to go anywhere?’ she said. ‘You should see yourself.’

  Sam helped me dress. Despite his rough manner, he was deft and gentle in his movements. He hissed through his teeth as he brushed my coat.

  ‘It’s filthy,’ he said. ‘What were you doing with Mistress Hakesby yesterday? Rolling in the mud?’

  ‘Hold your tongue.’ I saw the leer on his face and I would have thrown something at him if I had had the energy. ‘Fetch a hackney. You’d better come with me to Whitehall.’

  We were on our way in half an hour. The pain was worse – I had taken a second, though smaller, dose of laudanum but it didn’t protect me from the jolting of the hackney. I didn’t like leaving Cat and Margaret alone in Infirmary Close but I needed Sam in case my condition worsened – or in case I was attacked.

  At Whitehall, I left him to wait for me in the Great Court. Chiffinch’s lodgings were close to the Privy Stairs and the King’s private apartments. I found him in his study, making up his accounts. When the servant announced me, he closed the book and beckoned me to stand before him.

  He studied me. ‘A periwig, eh? You are becoming quite the gentleman, Marwood. I suppose you’ll soon be strutting about Whitehall with a sword at your side.’

  ‘I lost most of my own hair in the fire, sir.’

  ‘Ah. At Clifford’s Inn. So I’m to understand that your injuries prevented you from going to Scotland?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’ve failed me, then. And failed the King, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry for it, sir,’ I said. ‘But what could I do? I was in such—’

  ‘What could you do?’ he interrupted, banging the palm of his hand on the desk. ‘You could have done nothing! But you chose, from your own wilfulness, to poke your nose into affairs that don’t concern you. And this is the price you pay.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Enough of your insolence!’ he roared, as if I had said something to contradict him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I don’t understand what you want of me.’

  ‘You understand well enough.’ Chiffinch leaned forward and said in a soft, insinuating voice, ‘Listen to me. I am a reasonable man, Marwood. Here is what we shall do. You will tell me everything you know, everything you have done, everything you suspect, that touches on this affair of the Fire Court and Clifford’s Inn. I want know about the death of that clerk you tried to save, and about the murder of Mistress Hampney. You’ll tell me what Mr Williamson has been doing, too. Yes? And then you will do nothing more in the matter – you will put it entirely from your mind. And, in return, we shall say no more about your derelictions of duty. You will recover from your injuries, you will remain as clerk to the Board of Red Cloth, and all will go on happily as before.’ He hesitated, fixing me with his watery, bloodshot eyes, and went on, ‘And perhaps we may find other emoluments for you, in the fullness of time. One thing leads to another for those who are obliging, and know how to fit in.’

  He waited for me to reply. ‘Well? Well?’

  ‘You are very good, sir,’ I said, fixing my eyes on a spot on the wall six inches above his head.

  He sighed. ‘You have to choose, Marwood.’ His voice had lost its unnatural softness. ‘Either you do as I wish, and take the consequences. Or you don’t do as I wish, and you take the consequences of that. Remember, your clerkship at the Board of Red Cloth is not yours absolutely. You can lose it tomorrow, and all that goes with it.’ He clicked thumb and finger. ‘Like that. In the twinkling of an eye.’

  To lose the clerkship and its perquisites would be bad enough. But there was worse: Mr Chiffinch had been my patron, and at a stroke he would become my enemy.

  ‘You have to choose, Marwood,’ he repeated. ‘So be wise as the serpent.’

  Williamson had told me that I had to choose as well, and it was the same choice: a man cannot serve two masters, so which was mine to be?

  But I would not say the word to Chiffinch, any word.

  In the end, he lost patience. ‘God rot you, you son of a whore,’ he said. ‘Get out of my sight before I have them throw you out.’

  By and large Williamson’s face was not a useful guide to his feelings. Most of the time it was rather less expressive than a block of wood. But I had studied him for almost a year, trying to discover what lay behind the blank expression, the curt words and the many silences. I was almost certain that he was pleased with me.

  I had gone to him at Scotland Yard immediately after I had seen Chiffinch, though I wanted nothing more than to go back to Infirmary Close and take another dose of laudanum. I stood before him in his private room, trembling slightly, and told him what had passed with my other master.

  Williamson seemed unaware of my discomfort. ‘Poor Mr Chiffinch,’ he said. ‘A man could almost feel sorry for him. I know it cannot please you to lose your employment at the Board of Red Cloth, but you will find it’s for the best.’

  It might be for the best as far as Williamson was concerned. It was different for me. No man feels unalloyed pleasure at being forced to resign almost half his income and acquiring a powerful enemy in the process.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he went on, ‘I don’t quite see our way clear yet.’

  ‘But Limbury must be behind the murders, sir.’

  ‘Of course.’ Williamson held up his right hand and counted off the points on the fingers. ‘One, we have the verses in his handwriting, which show he was Mistress Hampney’s lover. Two, the Dragon Yard case at the Fire Court was clearly his reason for courting her. Three, she rejects him – or more probably his wish for her support – and they quarrel. Four, he kills her to keep her quiet; it would not do for his wife to hear about it, for a start – they say he depends on her father’s assistance to live in the manner he does. Perhaps, in her anger, she threatened to expose him. She had friends. She was not some tuppenny drab he could afford to ignore.’

  I stretched out a hand and rested it on the back of the settle by the fireplace. I was afraid I would faint.

  Williamson’s eyes flickered. He said: ‘Then the Fire Court clerk – Chelling, was it? – threatens to expose Limbury’s assignation with Mistress Hampney in Clifford’s Inn, and so he must be killed as well. We might have thought his death an accident, if you had not been there. Limbury knows this, and he persuades Chiffinch to manufacture a reason for you to be sent away. A bribe is usually the only argument that convinces Chiffinch. Then there’s the attempt to burn down your house, which could have killed you all.’ He paused, compressing his lips. ‘And indeed myself, as it happened. It smacked of desperation. Finally, he kills Mistress Hampney’s maid, the one person who knew him as her mistress’s lover, to shut her mouth. Or perhaps he has her killed – it’s all one.’

  ‘There was a dog at the maid’s cottage. It had been stabbed with a sword, I think.’

  ‘Sit down, you fool,’ Williamson said, standing up suddenly and taking my arm. ‘Before you fall down.’

  He helped me to the settle. ‘The trouble is,’ h
e went on, ‘there’s a world of difference between what we know and what we can prove. Chiffinch and Limbury are not common people. We have nothing we could lay before the King – or before a justice, come to that.’

  ‘Dragon Yard comes up before the Fire Court tomorrow,’ I said. ‘If I were there …’

  ‘You can do nothing in your present condition.’

  ‘I will be better tomorrow, if I rest today. I’m sure Sir Philip Limbury will be at Clifford’s Inn. I should like to see him, sir. And to have him see me.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘To test his nerve?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It can’t harm, I suppose, in the want of anything better. If you are well enough. And it would be useful to have a report of what passes when the case is heard.’ Williamson was still standing, and he moved a little to improve his view of the damaged side of my face. ‘And it would show Sir Philip someone suspects what he’s done.’

  ‘There’s also Mr Gromwell,’ I said. ‘The gentleman at Clifford’s Inn, whose room was used for Limbury’s assignation with Mistress Hampney. If he sees my face, it might unsettle him … he might even be persuaded to give evidence against Sir Philip.’

  ‘A long shot,’ Williamson said.

  ‘As you said yourself, sir. For want of anything better.’

  ‘Be with people at all times. Take your servant with you. The cripple. Better than nothing. When’s the case due to be heard?’

  ‘In the morning.’

  ‘Then you’d better come and find me afterwards and tell me what passes. I’ll be at the Middle Temple. Ask at the lodge for Mr Robarts.’

  Williamson sent me away. As I left, he offered to send someone to fetch me a hackney, another uncharacteristic kindness. I told him Sam was waiting and would do what was needed.

  Clinging to the balustrade, I went downstairs, step by painful step. I wished I could sleep for ever. It was not just the pain that made me long for oblivion. My spirits were depressed. Since my father’s death, nothing had gone right for me, and I could not see how matters could ever improve.

  Sam was in the yard below. I saw him glance at me. Only a glance. He did not raise a hand in greeting or move towards me. Instead he turned his head and stared at the archway that led into the court where the Guard House was.

  I followed the direction of his gaze. A tall, thin man was standing there. He looked up for a moment, perhaps catching sight of me, and I saw his face. It seemed to have collapsed in on itself, so that the tip of the nose almost touched the chin.

  It was Sourface, the man I had seen at Clifford’s Inn, guarding the private door to Staircase XIII from the alley beside the Half Moon tavern. I had also seen him in Fetter Lane, watching me when I had been into the ruins to see Mistress Hampney’s body. According to Hakesby’s draughtsman, he had also followed me back to the Savoy after the fire in Chelling’s chambers.

  Sam hobbled away to the gate leading to Whitehall, where the hackneys and the sedan chairs were waiting for hire. I waited a moment and then followed him, pretending to be oblivious of the watcher behind me.

  I passed through the gate. The street was busy – people were always coming and going in Whitehall – but Sam had already brought up a hackney, which was waiting twenty yards away. He helped me up the steps and then scrambled in beside me.

  The driver cracked his whip and we set off at a decorous pace in the direction of Charing Cross. For a moment, Sam put his eye to the crack of light between the blind and the opening it covered. With a grunt, he sat back in the gloom and rested his crutch against the seat.

  ‘He followed us out of the gate,’ he said. ‘He’s looking around. Not sure where we are.’

  ‘Sourface,’ I said. ‘You remember?’

  Sam nodded. ‘He was talking to someone before you came out. A courtier.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘A tall dark gentleman, in black. I asked the guard on the gate if he knew him. His name’s—’

  ‘Limbury,’ I said. ‘Sir Philip Limbury.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Jemima waited all day for Philip to return. She had not seen him since their last bitter encounter in the afternoon of the previous day. He did not come. He did not even send word.

  In the evening, Mary made her ready for bed as usual. She wanted to stay with her mistress – she was as shamelessly devoted as a puppy, and sometimes just as irritating – but Jemima told her to build up the fire and leave her.

  She tried to read. But Mademoiselle de Scudéry failed to hold her attention, and after a few minutes she flung the novel in the corner and gave herself up to the unsatisfactory pleasures of brooding.

  Just after midnight, she heard Philip’s knock on the street door below. This time she did not wait for him to go to his room. Wrapping the bedgown around her, she took up a candle and padded to the door of her chamber. She was waiting in the doorway when he came slowly up the stairs. Richard was beside him, lighting his way.

  ‘Madam,’ Philip said coldly as he reached the landing. ‘Your servant.’

  ‘I wish to speak to you, sir.’

  ‘I’m not in the humour. I’m tired. Tomorrow.’

  ‘It won’t wait. Mr Chiffinch has been here. I have a message from him.’ Philip sighed. ‘Go to my chamber,’ he said to Richard. ‘I won’t be long.’

  He followed Jemima into her bedroom. She sat by the dying fire. He stood on the other side of the chimney piece, looking at her.

  ‘Chiffinch?’ His voice was low. ‘What the devil was he doing here?’

  ‘Where have you been all this time? He said he couldn’t find you at Whitehall.’

  ‘I had business with Gromwell,’ Philip snapped. ‘Chiffinch. Tell me about Chiffinch.’

  ‘He says that you must take me to the country to stay with my father. As soon as you can manage.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to go to Syre.’

  ‘But you must. Chiffinch says you must apply to leave Court for a while.’

  ‘It is impossible. I have my duties at the Bedchamber.’

  ‘You’re to say it is my father’s health that is the reason. Or mine, I suppose. In any case, we must leave London.’

  Philip scowled at her. ‘If Chiffinch wanted to say this to me, he could have written a letter. Is this some nonsense of yours?’

  ‘Ask the servants if you don’t believe me. Chiffinch was here.’

  ‘But what possible purpose would be served by our going away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She watched him closely. ‘But perhaps you do. He told me to say that the reason has to do with the Fire Court. Does that give you a clue?’

  He winced. ‘My case is coming up before the court tomorrow.’

  ‘I know that. So does he.’ She hesitated, and then decided that there was no need to skirt around the matter. ‘I imagine this has to do with the scrawny old whore who was murdered. Whose mistress was she? Yours or Gromwell’s?’

  It happened so fast that she didn’t see it coming. His right hand whipped out from his side. He slapped her cheek so hard that the force of it threw her against the arm of her chair, winding her. Her head snapped over, wrenching her neck. The pain of it was so sudden, and so acute, that she shrieked.

  He turned and left the room without a word.

  It was the first time in their marriage that he had hit her. All that she had wanted was for him to say that he loved her, only her, and that he was true to her. And this was his reply.

  Jemima stood up, picked up her candle and walked unsteadily to the dressing table. She heard movement above her head and Mary’s feet stumbling down the stairs from the attic where the maids slept.

  Jemima sat down before her mirror. She was breathing rapidly, but she could not fill her lungs with enough air. She stared at her face in the glass.

  At the marks on the left cheek and the marks on the right. Her face was all of a piece now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  After the rain, the morning was bright with sun and u
nexpectedly warm under a cloudless sky. Clifford’s Inn looked newly washed, though this was not to its advantage as the hard, unforgiving light revealed the shabbiness of the place, and left it nowhere to hide.

  Cat arrived when the Fire Court was already in session. She climbed the steps to the gallery. She made her way to one end of a bench near the back.

  Marwood had wanted her to stay in the safety of the Savoy, but she had argued forcefully that the Fire Court was such a public place that she would be as safe there as anywhere – and so, for that matter, would he. There was a risk that Gromwell would recognize her, but her cloak shielded her face and it was gloomy at the back of the gallery. Besides, she could use her shorthand to make a record of the proceedings for Mr Williamson. And what if poor Mr Hakesby should have need of her?

  Cat peered over the balustrade and down to the hall below. Hakesby was standing with Poulton, with Brennan nearby. They were looking towards the dais where the three judges were sitting at their table.

  Marwood was further back; he was leaning against the wall with Sam by his side. He was watching Sir Philip Limbury, who was standing close to the dais, flanked by his attorney and the tall figure of Mr Gromwell.

  Cat wrote in her notebook, the shorthand symbols recording what was passing around her. The same three judges as last week – Wyndham, Twisden and Rainsford.

  The first case, which involved a messuage called the Artichoke, three lawyers, an irascible alderman and an aggrieved linen draper, wound its way to a conclusion that was, on the whole, in the latter’s favour. The judges retired for a break. Many people left the hall. The dais remained empty, apart from a servant of the court who was laying out fresh paper on the judges’ table and checking inkwells and shakers of sand.

  There was a great bustle outside, and the sound of raised voices. The noise drew closer. Cat heard feet on the stairs. A man appeared in the doorway, and called back over his shoulder, ‘Plenty of room, mistress. But we can clear it completely if you want.’

  A maid appeared, and looked about her. Ignoring Cat and the other women, she looked out over the hall. Two women were sitting on the bench at the very front of the gallery.