‘I-I don’t know,’ he stammered, trying to make sense of things. ‘We were separated … When did Mr Aylesford tell you this?’
‘Why, not half an hour ago! The poor lad was beside himself with grieving. Said he’d come straight from the guild hall, with orders to clear out your room before the city watch could trace you here. Seems the masters are afraid of scandal. They know where the blame will fall, with aristocrats and journeymen among the dead!’
An icy quiver ran down his spine. ‘You let Aylesford into my room?’
‘And why would I not? With you dead and him about the business of the Company?’
‘But I’m not dead!’ Nor, Quare was beginning to think, had Aylesford been about Company business – now or ever.
‘Oh, aye, and God be praised for it. But how was I to know that at the time? Go up, Mr Quare, and surprise him! The poor lad will be overjoyed to see you, I’ll warrant. Quite downhearted, he was.’
‘What, is he still here?’
‘Unless he’s gone out by the window. I— merciful heavens!’
Quare pushed past Mrs Puddinge with a hasty apology, mounting the stairs two at a time, then strode down the empty third-floor landing and flung open the door to his room.
It was as empty as the landing. His trunk was open, his things strewn across the floor. Quare crossed to the open window, which gave onto an alley behind the boarding house, but there was no sign of Aylesford below. Cursing under his breath, he turned back to survey the mess Aylesford had left behind … only to see the man himself step from behind the door, closing it with the heel of his boot.
‘Mr Quare, as I live and breathe,’ said Aylesford wonderingly, sword in hand.
‘Not for long,’ said Quare, shrugging out of Clara‘s cloak and drawing his own sword, ‘unless you supply some answers, and quickly. What are you doing here? What happened last night? Where are Pickens and the others?’
‘You have a lot of questions for a dead man.’
‘You are overconfident, sir. You will not find me an easy mark.’ Quare hoped he sounded more certain of that than he felt. Up until yesterday, he had never drawn his sword in earnest. Now, for the third time in as many days, he was facing an armed foe: first Grimalkin, a fight he had been lucky to win, much less survive; then last night, at the Pig and Rooster, a fight he barely remembered; and now, facing a man he felt sure was not what or who he claimed to be.
Aylesford gave a nervous titter. ‘Why, I left you stabbed through the heart in that harlot’s bed! I made sure of it. Are you a ghost, then? I’m not afraid of you! I’ll send you straight back to hell!’
Yet he did not attack, or even step forward. And, Quare noticed, his sword arm was trembling.
But Quare did not move, either. He was trying to construe the man’s words. He remembered what Clara had told him she had witnessed during the night, only it seemed, at least according to Aylesford, that what she had taken for an act of sodomy had in fact been murder. And yet, despite Aylesford’s apparent confusion and fright in encountering him here, alive, Quare couldn’t credit such an outlandish claim. How could he? Stabbed through the heart? It was preposterous, insane. He had no memory of being stabbed or of any struggle whatsoever. It made no sense. A man did not die and then rise again to walk among the living. But then how to explain Aylesford’s seeming certainty or his evident fear? What kind of game was the man playing? ‘You are no journeyman of the Worshipful Company,’ he said, forcing his mind along more reasonable lines of inquiry.
‘ Je suis de la Corporation des maîtres horlogers ,’ Aylesford answered in Scots-accented French, giving the name of the Parisian clockmakers’ guild, great rival to the Worshipful Company.
‘So, you are a traitor to your country and your king,’ Quare said with contempt.
‘My country is Scotland,’ Aylesford replied. ‘And Bonnie Prince Charlie is my king.’ This affirmation seemed to infuse the man with fresh courage, for now, circling his sword point with lethal intent, he came forward.
Quare advanced to meet him. In his rooftop clash with Grimalkin, Quare had let panic overwhelm him, driving out his training in the art of swordplay. Now he resolved to keep a cooler head.
They came together in the centre of the room, a quick exchange of thrusts and parries, each man feeling out the defences of the other.
‘Did you kill Pickens and the others?’ Quare demanded, drawing back.
Aylesford smiled and circled, looking for an opening. ‘With this very blade. In the confusion of the brawl, a quick thrust through the back, with no one the wiser.’
Quare pushed aside his grief and anger. They could not help him now. ‘But why? What wrong had they done you?’
‘’Twas nothing personal. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw my chance, and I took it. Are we not at war?’
Quare had eaten and drunk with these men, laughed with them, worked beside them. This news of their cowardly murders stabbed him as surely as any sword. But it was hot anger, not blood, that spilled from the wound. He squeezed the grip of his sword as though it were Aylesford’s scrawny neck. ‘They were journeymen, not soldiers.’
‘They were Englishmen,’ Aylesford answered, as if that explained everything.
Quare snarled and struck at him, coming in with a high thrust and then disengaging the tip of his blade as Aylesford moved to parry. He flicked his wrist, bringing the point around in a cutting motion that slashed down the side of his adversary’s sword arm. Blood bloomed against the white of Aylesford’s sleeve. But even as Quare took satisfaction in the touch, Aylesford’s sword point came flashing in towards his face, and his frantic parry was barely in time to slap the steel aside. The man was devilishly fast. He danced back, only then becoming aware of a burning along the shoulder of his sword arm, right through his coat.
‘Behold, a ghost that bleeds,’ said Aylesford with a wolfish smile.
Quare did not dare shift his eyes to take stock of the wound. ‘And what of me?’ he asked, continuing to circle his blade as he moved to Aylesford’s left. ‘Why did you not kill me with the others?’
‘I would have,’ Aylesford said, turning with him, his sword in line, ‘but when I found you, you were facing down five men in defence of that harlot’s honour – which, I feel sure, is more than she ever did. Still, a woman’s a woman for all that, and no honourable man turns his back on a member of the fairer sex in need. Besides, it was a chance to add a fine gaggle of English lordlings to my night’s tally. Then, once we had dispatched them, the arrival of the watch compelled me to postpone our reckoning again. And, I confess, when it became clear that the wench intended to reward our services with her own, I thought to myself, ‘Why not give the poor sod one last happy memory?’ Ah, my gentle heart will be the death of me! But from what the sow told me, you were too pissed to take advantage. She offered me her bed, and once she dropped off, I clamped one hand over your mouth and with the other drove my dagger between your shoulder blades and into your heart. Do you know, your struggles woke her! Yes, and the wench must have thought we were going at it fine and proper, for she smiled at me in the moonlight and giggled and turned her back to give us a bit of privacy. And what is more, the sight of her bare rump stirred me, sir, indeed it did! I left you dead as a doornail and had my way with her twice – God willing, I planted a Scotsman in her belly. Yet here you are, all lively and disputatious, bleeding like a stuck pig. I confess, I am at a loss to account for it.’
‘You’re a madman. And a murderer. There’s your accounting.’
‘I know what I know,’ Aylesford insisted, and lunged.
Quare parried and counter-thrust. Aylesford knocked his blade aside with a snap of his wrist and riposted, and Quare, realizing a beat too late that he had fallen for a feint and was overextended as a consequence, had to scramble back for dear life. Aylesford came on, his sword a silvery blur. Quare, hard pressed, was backed towards one wall. Sweat poured off him, and he couldn’t help but recall Aylesford’s boast of hav
ing fought and won five duels since coming to London; that was one claim he found all too easy to credit. He had no breath left for idle speech, but Aylesford more than made up for the lack. He was one of those fighters who seeks to distract his opponent with words. Quare knew he shouldn’t listen, that he could trust nothing of what he heard, yet the man’s words were as deft as his sword strokes, and more difficult to deflect.
‘Last night, in your cups, you mentioned a clock,’ Aylesford said now, ‘a most wondrous clock. And do you know, it was in quest of just such a timepiece that I was dispatched to London. Here I would find a clock, or so my masters told me, whose secrets, once unravelled, would confer so great an advantage upon whichever side possessed it as to all but guarantee victory upon the battlefield … and beyond. The mechanics of a clock, after all, differ merely in degree, not kind, from those of certain engines of war, and a device that can more accurately measure out minutes and seconds can more rapidly fling shot and more accurately hurl shell. Or perhaps the clock contained a solution to the problem of longitude at long last, conferring supremacy of the seas. Whatever the truth, it was plain that this paragon could not be allowed to remain in English hands. Lord Wichcote had it in his possession until just two nights ago, or so my informants told me – but it had been stolen from him … and by no less a thief than the fabled Grimalkin, come out of retirement expressly for the purpose, apparently! Well, when Grimalkin steals something, it stays stolen. Everyone knows that. It seemed that my mission was a failure before it had scarce begun! So you may imagine my surprise and joy when I chanced upon you last night, sir. A most opportune encounter!’
All the while he spoke, his blade was never still. It darted like a needle, seeming to stitch an invisible net in the air, the strands of which inexorably tightened about Quare, constricting his possible countermoves, like an attack in chess that does not succeed by a lightning strike of checkmate but rather by closing off every avenue of opportunity until only defeat remains, a defeat not so much inflicted as collaborated in. That Aylesford had not drawn blood again seemed less due to Quare’s defensive skills than to a smothering intent which Quare could sense enveloping him but could not comprehend fully enough to escape. It was maddening. He was fighting tactically, Aylesford strategically. He knew it, but the knowledge was no help to him. His wounded shoulder was stiffening up, which was no help, either.
‘From what you let slip,’ Aylesford continued breezily, ‘I realized that the clock must be in the guild hall, in the possession of that aptly named monstrosity, Master Mephistopheles. So, early this morning, with the guild hall in an uproar following news of the tragic deaths of four journeymen in a tavern brawl the night before, I took advantage of the confusion and went in quest of the clock.’
At that, Quare found his tongue again. ‘If you’ve harmed him …’
‘Oh, aye, what then?’ Aylesford mocked. ‘But ’twas not I who harmed him. I could not even find him in that blasted labyrinth! Yet it seems I was not the only one to seek him out. Some Theseus had threaded the maze before me. Or such was the rumour on every man’s lips. Why, even those liveried corpses you employ as servants spoke of little else.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Is it not clear? Master Minotaur is dead. Someone – I know not who; perhaps Grimalkin himself, or a man dispatched by Lord Wichcote to retrieve his property, or a patriot like myself, or a French assassin; or one of the Old Wolf’s cubs; the man had no shortage of enemies who might wish him dead – visited the cripple in the night and slew him.’
‘You lie,’ Quare said, wishing it to be so but afraid in his heart that the man spoke the truth. Aylesford cast death about him the way other men cast a shadow.
‘I merely report what I heard. I do not vouch for its truth. But with that avenue closed to me, I came here, thinking I might find some clue to the location of the clock, or to its nature, in your belongings, before the watch beat me to it. Imagine, then, my surprise, when I found myself interrupted in my search not by some bumbling Charley but by a man I had left for dead scant hours ago! Ah, well, I suppose I shall just have to be more thorough this time.’
And with that, before Quare could reply, or even react, Aylesford’s blade spun through a dazzling series of moves whose result was to disarm him as easily as he might have plucked a wooden sword from the grip of a child. In the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, the tip of Aylesford’s blade hovered at his throat.
‘I do not think you will rise again from this death,’ Aylesford said with a satisfied smile. ‘But the priests do tell us that confession is good for the soul, Mr Quare. So may it prove for you. Tell me all you know of the clock, and I will make your end quick and painless. Perhaps I will even spare your life.’
‘I would be a fool indeed to believe that,’ Quare rasped, his mouth dry with fatigue and fear. ‘And even if I did, I would not tell you anything. Perhaps you should have questioned me more closely last night, while I was too drunk to guard my tongue. You know – before, as you claim, you killed me.’
Aylesford winced. ‘Aye, ’tis poor spycraft, I’ll grant you, to kill a man first and then put the question to him. My masters tell me I am too impulsive, and I do acknowledge the fault. Clearly I should have made more certain of your demise. But I can’t regret it, since I have the chance now to rectify my mistake. So, I’ll ask you but once more before I begin carving – what do you know of this marvellous clock?’
‘Go to the devil.’
‘Let us see if—’
‘Merciful heavens!’
This exclamation was followed by the sound of smashing crockery. Mrs Puddinge stood in the doorway, gazing at them in horrified dismay, her hands clutching the folds of her white apron. A serving tray and the shards of a teapot and cups lay on the floor at her feet. ‘Mr Aylesford! Mr Quare! What is the meaning of this?’
Taking advantage of the distraction, Quare swung his arm to club Aylesford’s sword point out of line. Before he could recover, Quare darted inside his guard, slamming his good shoulder into the other man’s chest to shove him backward. Aylesford reeled, cursing, a panicky look in his blue eyes. For a moment it seemed he would fall, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet and bring his blade back into play. Yet by that time, Quare had retrieved his own blade from where it had fallen.
‘Gentlemen,’ cried Mrs Puddinge shrilly, her face flushed with anger beneath her white cap, ‘put up your swords this instant! I’ll have no bloodshed here! Why, the very idea!’
‘He’s a French spy,’ Quare snarled out.
‘A spy? Lord help us!’ The landlady raised the hem of her apron to her face and peered wide-eyed over the edge of it as though looking on from behind the safety of a brick wall.
‘Get help, Mrs P – I’ll hold him here!’
‘It will take a better man than you to do that,’ Aylesford answered and rushed past the now-shrieking Mrs Puddinge. Quare started after him , but before he had taken two steps, Aylesford had thrown the hysterical woman into his path. She clung to him as fiercely as a drowning cat to a tree limb. In the moments it took him to calm her sufficiently to, as it were, retract her claws, Aylesford made his escape. As Quare moved to follow, she latched on to him again.
‘Don’t leave me, Mr Quare,’ she begged, shaking like a leaf in a storm.
‘I must make certain Aylesford has fled,’ he answered, disengaging himself from her grasp. ‘Stay here, Mrs P. You’ll be perfectly safe, I assure you.’
She nodded, seemingly incapable of further speech.
Quare edged out through the doorway, alert for an ambush. The landing was empty. At this hour, all the lodgers would be about their business in the guild hall and city. He continued down the stairs and then out of the house, still meeting no one. The street outside, and the broad expanse of Cheapside beyond, were more crowded and bustling than they had been when he had entered the house just moments ago. There was no trace of Aylesford. London had swallowed him up, not caring a whit that the man was no frie
nd to it or to England.
Quare sheathed his blade and made his way back to his room, where he found Mrs Puddinge seated on the bed, wringing her hands together. Her tear-stained face rose fearfully as he entered, and she sprang to her feet. ‘What of Mr Aylesford? Is he …’
‘No sign of him, I’m afraid,’ Quare said. ‘But I doubt he’ll be back.’
‘To think that one of my young men should turn out to be a spy,’ she said.
‘What, do you mean that Aylesford was lodging here?’
She nodded, drying her face with the edge of the apron. ‘Since yesterday evening – Mr Mansfield brought him to me. Poor Mr Mansfield!’ And the tears began flowing again. ‘Oh, Mr Quare,’ she said between sobs, ‘do you suppose it was Mr Aylesford who killed him and the others?’
‘I’m afraid it rather looks that way.’ Quare moved to comfort her, patting her heaving shoulders as she wept into her apron. ‘There, there, Mrs P,’ he said. ‘There, there. You must try to get hold of yourself.’
She nodded, drying her red-rimmed eyes. ‘Such sweet young men,’ she said. ‘Not an ounce of harm in any of them.’ She gave him a bashful, half-embarrassed smile that became a look of concern. ‘Why, you’re wounded, Mr Quare! Your shoulder … You must let me see to it at once!’
‘I’m perfectly well,’ he told her.
‘Nonsense,’ she said, already moving to divest him of his coat.
‘There’s no time for that, Mrs P,’ he said, attempting no more successfully than with Aylesford to keep her at bay. ‘I feel sure the watch will learn of my presence at the Pig and Rooster and come looking for me here. I will speak to them, but not until I have spoken to my masters at the guild and warned them of the spy in our midst. And before I do that, I must have a quick look through Mr Aylesford’s things. Will you take me to his room?’
‘Oh, aye. Just as soon as I’ve seen to that shoulder. Do not struggle so, Mr Quare! I know you are pressed for time, but bleeding to death won’t make things go any quicker. Now, sit down on the bed, sir. Sit, I say!’
The Emperor of all Things Page 12
