The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

  The clack of a latch made me look up. There was a door at the far end of the building, beyond the shop’s frontage. As it opened I glimpsed a passage on the other side. Gromwell appeared, turning to lock the door behind him, which meant that he had his back to me. So that was how he had vanished so quickly when he left the shop.

  He set off up the street, his sword swinging by his side. I stared after him. He was going in the direction of the City, towards the Limburys’ coach probably, snarled up in the traffic. The handbill had given me an unexpected glimpse of a Gromwell I didn’t know. I knew enough of antiquarians and their activities to know that such pursuits required dedication and scholarship – and, if they were to produce a book as handsome as the handbill promised – a good deal of money from someone. Was this strange obsession what had driven Gromwell to help Limbury in the first place? Underwriting the costs of a book like this would need several hundred pounds.

  I walked back to Sam, who was where I had left him, loitering some fifty yards away.

  ‘It looks like the coach is up ahead somewhere. Limbury’s probably already there, and Gromwell’s just gone up to join him. He went into the stationer’s there, at the sign of the Three Bibles. I think they’re going to let him use one of their chambers upstairs.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That’s the question.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We wait for the answer.’

  In truth there was nothing else we could do. If I was to do what Williamson wished, I needed to talk to Lady Limbury when she was by herself. Sooner or later, I hoped, the chance would come, but it wouldn’t while Gromwell and Limbury were here. If they went back to Pall Mall with Lady Limbury, I would have to give up. But if they let her travel on, or left her here, there might be an opportunity to reach her.

  We didn’t have long to wait – no more than ten or twelve minutes. Sam touched my arm. Further up the street, a knot of people was forcing a passage. They were tightly bunched together, despite the obstacles in their way. Two men of the party were wearing swords.

  I recognized most of them. The small figure of Lady Limbury, her face almost entirely covered by a shawl, was hanging on the arm of her husband, Sir Philip. Supporting her on the other side was the maid who had attended her at the Fire Court.

  Behind them was Lucius Gromwell with his arm locked around a small woman whose head and shoulders were covered by a blanket. She was flanked on her other side by Sourface, who was gripping her arm. Her wrists were roped together in front of her.

  The woman was kicking impotently at the men on either side, though it was obvious she could not see them because of the blanket over her head. She had lost one of her shoes.

  The crowd parted before them but one man, braver than the rest, asked what the prisoner had done.

  Gromwell scowled at him, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. ‘A thief caught in the very act of her crime.’

  The man backed away, raising his hands as if to say that he meant no harm by the question.

  I didn’t need to see the woman’s face to know who she was. Oh God, I thought, this is all I need.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  When they pulled the blanket away, the light blinded her. A figure loomed over her, its outline wavering as if the light were eating away at its darkness.

  The blanket had been thick and stuffy, smelling of horses. Cat sucked in lungfuls of air. Water roared continuously, and the very air seemed to vibrate with its restless force.

  ‘Tell Mary to find me something to bandage my hand.’ It was Gromwell’s voice, harsh and assured, speaking to someone she couldn’t see. ‘The hellcat bit me.’

  Cat’s eyes were adjusting rapidly to the light. She was in a tiny room with a big window criss-crossed with bars. She was huddled on the floor in front of a box. Her arms were bound tightly, the cord biting into the skin just above the wrists. There was a draught coming from somewhere and also the smell of the river: salt and sewage, mud and seaweed.

  Gromwell was standing in the doorway, scowling at her and nursing his left hand. His right hand already had a bandage on it.

  Gradually her breathing subsided to its normal rate. Her wrists were painful from the rope, and she knew there would soon be bruises on her arms and on her right cheek. He had hit her as he was dragging her from the coach.

  To be fair, though, she thought he would probably have hit her anyway, even if she hadn’t bitten him. This, she reminded herself, was the man who had almost certainly killed two women already, Celia Hampney and her maid, Tabitha, as well as Mr Chelling. She wished she had been able to bite him harder.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  She moistened her lips. ‘Jane Hakesby, sir.’

  He snorted. ‘Kin to Mr Hakesby, by any chance?’

  ‘His cousin, sir.’

  Gromwell leaned against the jamb of the door. His hat brushed the lintel. ‘That’s frankness, at least.’

  Cat said nothing. He wasn’t to know it was in fact a lie, and that she was really Catherine Lovett, daughter of the notorious Regicide. That was a small mercy.

  ‘But it doesn’t explain anything,’ Gromwell went on. ‘I can believe that Hakesby sent you to spy on us, but it can’t be the whole story. The way you went for me. Look at that.’

  He held up his left hand: her teeth had made two punctures; the wounds were rimmed with dried blood. She had bitten James Marwood once, in the heat of the moment, and drawn blood; but that had been different. Even at the time she had regretted the necessity for it.

  ‘You broke into property belonging to Clifford’s Inn and you ran off when challenged. You attacked me and drew blood. You attacked Sir Philip Limbury outside the Fire Court – dear God, you stabbed him with a naked blade, and for no shadow of a reason. What’s a justice going to make of all that? It’ll be the gallows for you, my girl. Unless they show mercy and send you to Bedlam instead. But you wouldn’t survive there long. Not on the common ward.’

  There was a relish in his voice that made her shiver, however hard she tried not to show fear. The Bethlehem Hospital was in Bishopsgate, and viewing the miserable and often violent antics of the lunatics was a popular spectacle to the public and a lucrative source of income to the keepers. If you weren’t insane when you were committed there, it wouldn’t be long before you were.

  ‘I was afraid, sir. I didn’t know what I did in my fear. But I’m heartily sorry for it.’

  ‘You take me for a fool?’ He took her chin in his hand, squeezed it and raised it, forcing her to look at him. ‘What is between you and Marwood?’

  ‘I … I don’t know him, sir.’

  The timbers of the building creaked loudly, as if proclaiming the fact she was lying. She glanced over her shoulder. It wasn’t a chest behind her. It was a bench with a hole cut in it. A privy.

  ‘Of course you know him,’ Gromwell said. ‘You were acting together outside the Fire Court this morning. You were seen talking to each other a fortnight ago. Let me remind you. It was in the ruins, where they found a woman’s body. You’re working for him, aren’t you? So is your cousin, I imagine, so far as he can, the state he’s in. You’re living in Marwood’s house, aren’t you? Is he your lover?’

  Cat said nothing. He squeezed her chin more tightly. She tried to jerk it away. But he was too strong. The building groaned, and this time Cat felt it move slightly, as if twitching in its sleep.

  Gromwell released her and stepped back into the doorway. ‘Pray be careful. I’d avoid sudden movements if I were you.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Why?’

  ‘This privy projects over the water, so the waste falls directly into the river.’ He spoke with exaggerated patience, as though explaining something to a slow-witted child. ‘But the house is old, and the timbers supporting the closet have rotted.’ He smiled at her. ‘I’m standing in the main house. I’m quite safe, in case you were concerned. But the people of the house don’t use this privy now, because it’s too dange
rous.’

  She wondered if he was speaking the truth or merely trying to terrify her more. Directly below her was the river. At this moment the tide was ebbing rapidly under the arches, pouring downstream with violent, noisy urgency. Suppose Gromwell spoke the truth: even if she wasn’t battered to death in the torrent under the bridge, she couldn’t swim.

  She heard footsteps in an adjacent room and the soft, slushy voice of Sourface: ‘Sir? My master would speak with you.’

  Gromwell stepped aside. ‘What do you think of our prisoner?’

  Sourface appeared at his shoulder. ‘Skinny little thing, sir.’

  ‘Could she please you? Do you think she’s pretty?’

  The servant smiled. ‘Well enough, sir. If she was willing.’

  ‘And if she wasn’t?’

  ‘Well enough again. Even if she weren’t.’

  Gromwell laughed. ‘Stolen apples taste sweeter.’ He turned back to Cat. ‘I’ll be back soon. Think over what I said. Tell me the truth, and you will find I can be kind. Richard will stay with you while I’m gone.’

  ‘Shall I put a gag on her?’

  ‘In a moment. I haven’t finished questioning her. If you stand in the doorway, she can’t go anywhere, except to you. And if she screams, well – who is there to hear on this side of the house except us?’

  Gromwell left. Cat heard his footsteps on bare boards. Sourface came to stand in his place.

  In the distance was the sound of voices, including a woman’s. Lady Limbury’s, presumably, or perhaps her maid’s. Sir Philip must be there too.

  She heard heavy breathing a yard or two away from her, and a rustling, creaking sound.

  They must be on an upper storey of one of the higher buildings of the bridge. On the way here, they had pushed and pulled her up several flights of stairs. Unable to see, she had tripped and fallen twice. At the top of the stairs, they had walked across bare boards. How far? Ten yards? More than one room perhaps – the sound had changed. Then they had pushed her into the privy and on to her knees.

  ‘Look at me,’ Sourface whispered. ‘You crafty slut.’

  She squinted through her lashes. He was staring at her and rubbing himself, not so much for the pleasure of the thing itself as for the pleasure of seeing Cat’s face as he did it.

  She shut out the sight of him and fought harder to distract herself. Sourface was Limbury’s servant. He had not been at the Fire Court this morning. Perhaps he had been at the Limburys’ house, instead, and he had seen enough to realize that his mistress intended to leave for her father’s house.

  The rhythmical rustling in the doorway continued, just audible above the roar of the water beneath. Sourface must have warned his master about his mistress’s plans, so Limbury and Gromwell could reach the coach in time, before it crossed the bridge.

  ‘Oh, you doxy!’ The whisper was soft as slurry. ‘Oh, you dirty doxy.’

  The truth was, there was no one who could help her now. No one knew she was here. Even if Marwood learned that she had boarded the coach with Lady Limbury, he would think that either she was still there, with the lady in the coach, and therefore relatively safe, or she had left, in which case he would expect her to return to the Savoy, or possibly to Henrietta Street.

  If Cat wanted help, the only person who could provide it was herself.

  ‘Look at me,’ Sourface said. ‘Look at me.’

  Instead she spat in the direction of his whisper.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  How dared they leave her like this, without even a servant to attend her, and amid such squalor?

  Philip and Gromwell were whispering on the landing beyond the door to the stairs. Jemima had called for Mary, but no one had come. She was angry, miserable and afraid, all at the same time. Only pride stopped her from weeping.

  At last the door opened and Philip came back. She heard Gromwell’s heavy footsteps going downstairs.

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ Jemima demanded.

  ‘I told you,’ Philip said calmly as if this were a conversation over their dinner table at Pall Mall. ‘To rest and refresh yourself.’

  ‘But it’s so strange here. So dirty and old-fashioned.’ She found it hard to breathe suddenly. Did they mean to murder her? ‘Why am I here?’

  He turned away and stared out of the window at the river. ‘We must look after you, madam,’ he said. ‘You were distraught – exhausted – this morning. You didn’t know what you were doing or saying. And then rushing off to your father’s without any warning. Perhaps you’re feverish?’

  Jemima was scared – not so much of Philip, who was after all her husband and had an interest in her survival, but of Lucius Gromwell. She had always underestimated him, she realized, mocking his shabby finery and his elaborate manners, and disliking him purely because Philip liked him. But Gromwell was formidable, despite his handicaps. It was he who had brought them here, and he who seemed to be in command.

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘Your – your friend.’ She could not bear to say the man’s name.

  ‘He went back to deal with Hal and the coach. He won’t be long.’

  The air was dank and chilly. She glanced about her. They had brought her to a long, narrow chamber, almost a gallery, on the top floor of the building. There was another, smaller room beyond it, though the door to it was now closed. They had put the girl somewhere in there, with first Gromwell, then Richard to watch over her.

  The walls were panelled in dark wood, splintered and cracked, and on the river side grey with mould. Plaster had flaked from the sagging ceiling, which was moulded with an old-fashioned pattern of roses and straps, and stained with the smoke of candles; damp was spreading from one corner. There was a tall, carved chimney piece, but the fireplace beneath was choked with a heap of soot and ash that had spilled out from the hearth. The only furniture consisted of three stools, a crudely built cupboard and the high-backed settle on which she sat.

  ‘I’m cold,’ she said pettishly.

  Philip nodded towards the door of the second room. ‘The chimney’s clear in there – they’ve lit the fire, but we’ll let it draw. It’s smoking a little.’

  ‘I don’t want to see them. Richard or Gromwell.’

  ‘Then you shan’t. Or only in passing.’

  ‘I want to go to Syre,’ she said, trying to inject an imperious note into her voice. ‘I want to see my father. Have them bring up the coach.’

  ‘That’s quite impossible at present.’ He spoke patiently, as if to a child. ‘You know that. Nothing’s moving on the bridge. We shall go down there later if you wish, if the King will give me permission for a leave of absence from my duties. Perhaps at the end of the week.’

  ‘Why’s Mary so long? I need her.’

  ‘She’ll be back presently. I’ve sent her to buy food and wine. The shops on the bridge are picked clean, so she may be a while. In any case, I must talk to you first.’

  Philip sat down beside her on the settle and lifted her hand from her lap. She let it lie in his, as unresponsive as a dead fish. She turned her head and stared through the window at the river, allowing her eyes to be drawn across the water towards the blackened stump of St Paul’s tower.

  ‘You must forgive me, my sweet,’ he said, his voice low and gentle. ‘I spoke to you most unkindly outside the Fire Court. I was in such a passion I didn’t know what I was saying. I shall never forgive myself.’

  ‘You were cruel, sir,’ she said, feeling the itch of tears about her eyes. ‘You insulted me before the servants, before strangers. You—’

  ‘My love, it was that damned unjust verdict. Poulton must have bribed the judges. It overturned my reason – it let loose a devil inside me – my anger made such lies pour out of me.’ Suddenly he raised her hand to his lips. ‘Be my priest,’ he said. ‘I’ve confessed my sins to you, terrible though they are. I beg you, give me my absolution.’

  His words were a caress. But she could not speak the words of forgiveness. He sensed her soften
ing, however, and he covered her hand with kisses. She tried to delay her capitulation.

  ‘What about that girl?’ she said. ‘What have you done with her?’

  ‘She’s quite unharmed. She’s in a closet beyond the bedchamber where the fire is. Richard’s keeping an eye on her.’

  ‘He must be kind. She helped me.’ She paused and then added pointedly, ‘When others were unkind.’

  Philip squeezed her hand. ‘Your goodness does you credit. But I’m afraid the girl’s a spy. She’s Hakesby’s cousin, which means she’s in Poulton’s pay.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t care. She was kind.’

  ‘She didn’t help you from the goodness of her heart – it was from calculation.’

  ‘I don’t believe it, Philip. Even if it’s true, you mustn’t harm her.’

  ‘We’ll see. Lucius will get the truth out of her.’

  ‘Lucius,’ she said, seizing on another reason for complaint. ‘Why is it always him?’

  Philip’s grip relaxed, and he pulled back from her as if to see her face more clearly. ‘He’s a brave fellow. Fortune hasn’t dealt kindly with him, but you wouldn’t want a better friend when matters go awry.’

  ‘A better pander, you mean,’ she snapped. Pain flared up in her belly at the very thought of it. ‘He pimps for you, Philip, and you call it friendship. Why, he even lent you his chamber in Clifford’s Inn so you could meet your lover there.’ She spat out the last words. She stood up, brushing away his hand. She backed across the room from him, holding up her hands as if to push him back. ‘Your lover,’ she repeated. ‘You foul thing. Stay away from me.’

  Philip was smiling, as if she had made the most excellent jest in the world. ‘I told you, Jemima. Celia Hampney? That awful woman wasn’t my lover. She was Lucius’s.’

  Her mouth opened, but no words came.