The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

‘I admit I had a hand in the business. If anyone acted the pander, I fear I did. I was trying to do Lucius a favour, and myself one at the same time. He’s always known how to play the lover, even when we were lads. I asked him to try his luck with the Hampney woman. I lent him some money so he could make his chamber fit for an assignation. Why not? She looked like a half-starved horse but she was a rich widow, and she wanted amusement. If Lucius married her, he would restore his fortunes at a stroke. I hoped that he could at least persuade her to support me over Dragon Yard, even if she wouldn’t wed him. It would have made all the difference. You heard what they were saying at the Fire Court today.’

  ‘I – I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it’s no more than the truth.’ He leaned back, still smiling. ‘So he scraped an acquaintance with her—’

  ‘Did you ever meet that whore yourself?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why should I? Besides …’ He stood up and approached her. He stopped within arm’s length but made no attempt to touch her. ‘How could I even look at another woman when I have you?’

  His brown eyes were like a dog’s, melting with devotion.

  ‘Lucius won her affections easily enough,’ he went on. ‘But it turned out she didn’t want a husband. She wanted a man to amuse her, to take her to bed. And when she began to think that he was only making up to her because of Dragon Yard and her money, that angered her. It was no more than the truth, of course, but she should have known that no one’s motives are wholly pure.’

  ‘And then,’ Jemima said, ‘and then …’

  He wasn’t smiling now. ‘Then someone stabbed her to death.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  God was merciful, in a small way at least. Limbury called Sourface away to fetch more fuel for the fire.

  ‘We’re in the next chamber,’ Limbury said to Cat. ‘Remember that. No one will hear you if you call, no one but us. You have nowhere to go.’ His lips twisted. ‘I’d try not to move, if I were you, in case you end up in the river without meaning to.’

  She stared up at him but said nothing. He shut her in. She heard the click of the latch, and then the scrape of a wedge driven in to secure it.

  Her wrists were burning from the tightness of the rope that bound them. She tried in vain to move her arms. The rope had passed over her right-hand sleeve. She bent her head and tugged at the material with her teeth. In less than a minute she worked it free from the rope.

  The pressure on her wrists instantly slackened. Only a little, but it gave her hope. It also meant that she could move her wrists slightly, one against the other. She tried in vain to reach the pocket hanging at her waist beneath her skirt. They had not searched her, so she still had her knife. But she could not reach it, however much her fingers strained towards it.

  There were footsteps in the room next door over the rushing of the water. She tensed. In a moment there was a bang that made the floor shudder, as if someone had thrown down a heavy weight. Then came the familiar scrape of a poker riddling ashes from a grate.

  Behind her, on the seat of the privy, there was a flap of wood that had once covered the hole. Its hinges had rusted, and the flap was now detached and lay on the bench. The rusting halves of its hinges were fixed on the planking of the seat.

  Cat knelt in front of the privy, with the water rushing below her, and rested her bound wrists on the jagged stump of the hinge on the left. She rubbed the rope to and fro, to and fro, over the rough edge of the metal.

  The friction made heat, and the heat burned her chafed skin. Tiredness made her clumsy. The rusty iron dug into the soft skin above her inner wrist. She caught her breath, forced back a cry of pain and continued to work the rope to and fro over the hinge.

  A strand parted. Spots of blood appeared on the seat of the privy. Then another strand separated. Her shoulders and arms ached but she dared not rest. Her throat was so dry she could no longer swallow.

  A third strand broke, and the rope gave for the first time, slackening its hold.

  She sat back on her heels, panting. Sourface might be back at any moment or – even worse, perhaps – Limbury or Gromwell. The sounds from the neighbouring room had faded away. All she could hear was the endless surge of the water below.

  She set to work once more. Her muscles had stiffened already. She had been sweating hard, too, and the brief rest had given the moisture a chance to cool on her skin. She transferred her wrists to the remains of the second hinge, which was smaller than the first but unblunted by her rubbing of the rope.

  Five minutes later she was free. She stared with something approaching disbelief at her two wrists. She raised her arms above her head and stretched. She swept the rope from the seat and into the hole. It writhed as it fell to the foaming water and disappeared under the surface.

  Cat’s knees shrieked with pain as she leaned against the seat of the privy and pushed herself into a standing position. She flexed her fingers. Both her forearms were smeared with blood.

  She took out her knife. The familiar feel of it in her hand comforted her. She went to the door and listened. She heard nothing moving, though now – mingling with the noises of the river – there were muffled sounds that might have been voices. But not, she thought, from the room next door.

  There were only two ways to leave the privy: through the window and into the river, or through the door and into a building full of enemies. As gently as she could, she tried the latch. It wouldn’t move. She stopped to listen. Then she pushed the door outward. It shifted a little in the frame.

  Cat took out her knife and poked experimentally at the jamb of the door, close to the latch. The tip dug itself into the wood, which was softer than it looked, perhaps rotting from the damp.

  She didn’t want to risk snapping the knife blade by using it as a lever. Instead, she picked up the flap of wood from the privy and worked it into the gap between the door and the jamb.

  She leaned her weight against the flap and pushed as hard as she could. The door creaked and moved slowly away from her. The jamb splintered. Suddenly the door gave altogether. There was the sound of something falling to the floor. The door swung outwards.

  ‘What was that?’ a man’s voice said.

  She was in a square chamber hung with tapestries that sagged from their original fixings and in places trailed along the floor. They were so filthy and faded that their design was almost entirely gone. The room was empty, apart from a plain bedstead without either curtains or bedding. A newly lit fire blazed in the grate, throwing flames up the back of the chimney. The door opposite the privy was ajar.

  ‘You make me the unhappiest woman in the world,’ Lady Limbury wailed, her voice high and edged with hysteria. ‘I’m your wife, sir. Promise me you’ll never see that man again.’

  Footsteps crossed the room beyond. Sir Philip Limbury paused in the doorway. He saw Cat. The logs settled in the grate, dislodging one of them, which rolled from the fire basket into the hearth.

  ‘You cunning little bitch,’ he said to Cat, his hand dropping to the hilt of the sword.

  ‘What is it?’ Lady Limbury called. ‘What’s happening?’

  He ripped the blade from the scabbard and advanced slowly into the room, with the tip of the sword dancing in front of him at the level of her eyes. Cat’s knife was useless against a sword. She darted to the fireplace and took up the poker.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, girl. Put that down.’ The blade swung briefly towards the privy. ‘Get back in there.’

  There was movement behind him and the dishevelled figure of Lady Limbury appeared in the doorway. Her birthmark was uncovered, glowing a deep, angry red.

  ‘Drop your sword, sir,’ she cried. ‘I told you, you mustn’t hurt that poor girl. I command you.’

  Cat backed into the corner of the room.

  ‘Put down the poker,’ Limbury said to her, ignoring his wife. ‘And that knife. Or I’ll spit you like a pigeon.’

  Lady Limbury screamed with frustration. She darted in
to the room, seized the tongs and took up the burning log from the hearth. ‘Listen to me, sir.’ She waved the log at him, and acrid smoke curled around them both. ‘You shall listen to me, just this once. I will not be ignored!’

  Limbury swung the sword towards his wife. She shied away, her face contorting with fear. The blade swept the tongs aside. She lost her grip on them and they fell to the floor. The log rolled towards the wall.

  He waved the sword towards the privy. ‘In there,’ he said to Cat. ‘N—’

  He broke off as his wife flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, so for a second or two he was bearing her full weight. Her feet kicked at his legs. Her body hung over his sword arm. She was howling at him.

  Cat leapt forward and lunged, driving the tip of the poker towards Limbury’s eye. It missed by a fraction of an inch and jarred against the bony socket. He shouted and staggered back, half-carrying, half-dragging his wife with him. But he did not fall, and he kept hold of his sword. Cat threw herself between him and the wall, keeping Lady Limbury between them. He tried to block her but his wife impeded his movements so much that all he managed was a sideways stagger that nearly overbalanced him.

  Cat stopped abruptly, knees flexed, poker in one hand and knife in the other. Gromwell was standing in the doorway to the room beyond. Behind her, Lady Limbury coughed. Then so did her husband.

  The air was full of smoke. Her eyes stinging, Cat retreated towards the privy. The log from the tongs had skittered across the floor to the foot of the wall. Still smouldering, it had come to rest against the bottom of one of the tapestries. They were as dry as tinder. The flames were streaking up the material with astonishing speed, bringing the tapestries briefly and glowingly alive in the moment of their destruction.

  For an instant, only the flames and the thickening smoke moved. Then Limbury dropped his sword, tugged apart his wife’s arms and dropped her on the floor.

  She fell awkwardly, missed her footing and sprawled on her back, her arms waving, where she lay helpless as an upturned turtle. She cried out. Her hands clutched her belly.

  The flames were spreading around the walls. ‘Stamp it out,’ Limbury called. ‘Stamp out the flames.’

  ‘Too late for that.’ Covering his mouth and nose with his cloak, Gromwell lugged out his sword. He beckoned to Limbury. ‘Quick – pull her out.’

  Limbury scooped up his own sword and dragged his wife towards the further door. Gromwell waited by the doorway, sword in hand, his eyes on Cat.

  ‘What about the girl?’ Limbury gasped, coughing.

  Gromwell stood aside to let them pass. He said – as much to Cat as to Limbury, ‘Let her take her chances.’

  Then he too left the room. He slammed the door. Cat heard the sound of a bolt driven home on the other side.

  There was now so much smoke that the opposite door was invisible. Her ears were full of the familiar, dreadful crackling roar of the fire. Flames tore up the chimney; they danced along the old, dry wood of the bedstead; sparks rained on the mattress.

  Cat ran back to the privy, pulling the door closed after her, though it would not latch. At least it was a barrier: it might grant her a few minutes’ grace from the fire and the smoke.

  Below her, the river roared between the piers of the bridge, pouring downstream towards the sea. She was caught between two roaring lions, the fire and the water, seeking whom they might devour.

  The smoke leaked into the privy. She slashed the poker at the window repeatedly, poking out lozenges of glass and breaking down the lattice of lead. Air swept into the little room. A draught, she thought, suddenly realizing her mistake: a draught fans a fire.

  The privy creaked on its supporting timbers. The floor shifted beneath her feet.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The laudanum dulled the edge of the pain, but I wasn’t comfortable standing still. Movement was a distraction. Sometimes I walked fifty yards or so away in one direction or the other, always keeping the stationer’s building in sight. I didn’t stand out – other people were doing much the same, moving aimlessly to and fro, trying to alleviate the tedium of waiting until the blockage was cleared.

  I sent Sam into the alehouse we had passed earlier to see if he could pick up any information about the stationer’s house and its layout. With hindsight, that was a mistake: it was a long shot at best, and giving Sam leave to go into an alehouse was asking for trouble.

  But I was growing desperate. Everything had changed. I did not care about having a quiet word with Lady Limbury on Williamson’s behalf. Gathering evidence against the murderer of the Widow Hampney, her maidservant and Chelling no longer seemed as urgent as it had. The only thing that mattered was Cat.

  Somewhere in that house she was a prisoner, trussed like a turkey for the oven. It was my fault that she was there. I had to do something but I didn’t know what. If I banged on the door beside the shop until somebody came, how would that help? Limbury and Gromwell were in the house as the lawful guests of Mistress Vereker.

  I would need a magistrate’s warrant to search the place for Cat. It would take hours even to apply for one, and there was no guarantee of success. A magistrate would demand to see strong evidence before he risked alienating a senior courtier like Limbury. As for Williamson, the last thing he would want was to draw publicity to himself. Why should he care about a young woman of no importance?

  Early on, Sourface and Lady Limbury’s maidservant came out. She had a basket over her arm. They set off up the road towards the Great Stone Gate. I would have tried to talk to the maid if she had been alone.

  I watched them until they were blocked from my view by a hackney coach. Shortly afterwards, Sourface came back alone, carrying a wicker scuttle full of coals. I cursed myself for sending Sam away – I could have sent him after the maid.

  Sourface let himself in the house. After a while, I went into the baker’s shop over the road. A woman came to serve me, wiping floury hands on her apron. I had missed dinner so I knew I must be hungry, though I didn’t feel it. The laudanum played the devil with my appetite. Besides, there wasn’t much to buy. The rush of unexpected customers had bought most of the stock.

  I asked for a roll and she offered me a misshapen thing, slightly charred at one end. ‘All I got left, master. Take it or leave it.’

  I said I would take it, despite its flaws. As she took my money, I said, ‘Where does that door lead?’ I pointed over the road. ‘The one beside the stationer’s shop. I think I saw a friend going in.’

  ‘Widow Vereker’s lodgings,’ she said, handing me the roll. ‘Her husband’s aunt used to live up there. Dead now.’

  The roll was so hard and heavy that it might have been fired from a cannon. The crust was as hard as plate armour. ‘Who lives there now?’

  ‘No one.’ The woman’s eyes looked past me. ‘Look,’ she said.

  Both of us stared out into the road. The traffic was moving at last, albeit slowly. Someone applauded. A donkey plodded by, drawing a cart laden with someone’s furniture.

  ‘Shame,’ the woman said. She shrugged. ‘It was good while it lasted.’

  I went outside. I waited, pressed against the wall of the baker’s. Ten minutes later, the Limburys’ coach rumbled along the road. The coachman was up on the box, and there was a boy beside him.

  The coach stopped outside the stationer’s. I tensed my muscles, ready to do something, though I had no idea what. There were angry shouts from the drivers behind, infuriated by yet another stop. The coachman pointed with his whip at the door of the lodgings. The boy jumped down. The coachman shook the horses’ reins and the coach lumbered on.

  The boy hammered on the door with the heel of his hand. No one answered. He looked around him for help, his face desperate. When he found none, he ran after the coach.

  I lost track of time. Traffic moved sluggishly along the bridge in both directions. The pain was getting worse. I discovered that I was gripping the roll in my hand so tightly that my fingertips had mad
e holes in the crust.

  A throaty voice murmured in my ear, ‘There you are, master. Thought I’d lost you for ever.’

  Sam was at my shoulder, grinning at me.

  I swung round. ‘Where the devil have you been? You’ve been gone an age.’

  ‘What could I do, master?’ Sam put on an injured expression that didn’t suit him. ‘You get nothing for nothing, so I had to have a drink. But I learned something about the place.’ He jerked a thumb at the sign of the Three Bibles. ‘The tapster said the lease is running out and the building’s falling apart. The word is that Mistress Vereker’s moving off the bridge.’

  ‘What use is that to me?’ I snapped, taking my irritation out on him.

  ‘I don’t know. You said to find out anything I could about the place, so I did.’ Sam stared over the roadway at the building opposite, running his eyes up the ornate but decaying façade. ‘Mind you, anyone with a pair of eyes in their head can see it needs repairing.’

  ‘You know I needed you here. You deserve a—’

  ‘Master,’ he interrupted. ‘Look up there.’

  He pointed at the top of the building. Smoke was drifting into the air above it. Not a disciplined thread from a chimney, but a dark and riotous cloud, growing larger and denser even as we watched. I heard, faintly, far above the street noises and the muted roar of the river, the sound of broken glass.

  Others had seen the smoke too, including the baker’s wife, who was standing in the doorway of the shop.

  ‘Fire!’ she screamed. ‘Fire!’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Jemima lost one of her shoes on the stairs. Philip wouldn’t let her stop for it. He held her arm – almost wrenching it from its socket – and dragged her down flight after flight. In his other hand was his naked sword.

  She lacked the strength even to cry out. She had a pain within her.

  Richard was running ahead and Gromwell’s footsteps thundered after theirs.

  Gromwell. If this was hell, there was the devil himself. Why in God’s name didn’t Philip protect her?