The Ashes of London

by Andrew Taylor

  She wants him to believe what she says, I thought. It’s important to her.

  ‘Why?’ Williamson said. ‘Why would he commit such a crime against man and God? Was the motive robbery?’

  Mistress Alderley was staring out of the window again. ‘He’s an ill-conditioned, awkward fellow, sir, with a head full of wicked notions.’

  ‘Then why’s he in service here?’

  ‘He served a connection of my husband’s first wife, a man who took up arms against the King and committed all manner of evil in the late disturbances. Master Alderley only took him in for charity’s sake, for otherwise he would have starved.’ Again that sideways glance at Williamson’s face. ‘And look what his kindness has brought upon us.’

  I flinched as the first blow of the whip landed on the old man. The victim screamed, and the sound penetrated the glass of the window. His body lifted and twisted. Spots of blood appeared across his back and side. They coalesced into streaks and then into broadening crimson lines.

  Mundy glanced at his master, who nodded. I wished I could look away. But I could not.

  The whip fell again, the steel tips of the thongs raking across the skin. It left the victim shuddering, gasping for breath.

  A spot of blood touched the sleeve of Alderley’s coat. Mundy waited while his master took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it. Then Alderley stepped back and nodded again to the steward.

  The whip fell for the third time.

  ‘It’s an example for the other servants, too,’ Mistress Alderley said, swallowing hard; perhaps she didn’t like this spectacle any more than I did. ‘Afterwards he will go before a magistrate, of course, but Master Alderley says that none is to be found at present, because of the Fire. They’ve all fled.’

  The servant’s back had been reduced to a raw red mess, flecked with white where the bones beneath the skin had been exposed. Alderley held up his hand. Mundy backed away, the whip held over the crook of his arm. The semicircle of watching, murmuring servants retreated, moving away from the steward as if the thing he carried were infectious.

  The flogged man was arching his back and gasping for breath. Alderley bent down and said something in his ear. If it earned a reply, it did not satisfy him, for once again he moved away and signalled to Mundy.

  ‘I wish to God this were not necessary,’ Mistress Alderley said, turning away from the window.

  The whip fell for the fourth time.

  The body bucked and slumped over the trestle, the head drooping down as if its own weight had become intolerable. The cobbles beneath the body glistened with blood.

  It was a body now, I realized, not a man. I felt ashamed and soiled, as if by witnessing what had happened I had somehow condoned it.

  Williamson shifted from one foot to the other. ‘It’s a bad business, madam.’

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ she said softly.

  Mundy came forward and bent to examine the mess of blood, tendon and bone stretched across the trestle. He glanced up at his master and gave a tiny shake of the head. A shudder rippled through the watching servants.

  Alderley gave the steward an order, dabbed his sleeve again and walked across the courtyard without another glance at the body. He paused beneath the oriel window, looked up and bowed. He passed inside, and a moment later his heavy footsteps sounded outside the door of the antechamber.

  He bowed again, without servility, to Master Williamson, acknowledged his wife’s curtsy and, having glanced at me, ignored me altogether.

  ‘I’m grieved that you saw that,’ he said. ‘My apologies.’

  ‘My dear.’ Mistress Alderley did not look into his face. ‘Did the wretch confess at last?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alderley said loudly. ‘At the very end. The damned ingrate – he cheated the gallows. And left my poor son at death’s door.’

  ‘I must go to Edward,’ said Mistress Alderley. ‘Would you give me leave to withdraw, sir?’

  ‘Of course. I shall join you as soon as I may.’

  I rushed to open the door for her. She fluttered from the room with a swift, assessing glance at me by way of thanks.

  ‘My wife has told you our troubles, sir?’ Alderley said to Williamson. ‘Dr Grout is with poor Edward now.’

  Dr Grout could not say for sure whether or not Edward would recover. At all events he would lose the sight of his right eye. There was the risk of infection, too. His right arm was very badly burned. His pain and distress were terrible to witness. But for the grace of God, the fire in his chamber might have spread further and the entire house would have gone up in flames. They could all have been burned to cinders in their own beds.

  Williamson presented his condolences as if they were as cumbersome as a box of stones. His Northern tongue did not slip easily into the flowery speech of the South.

  ‘Now, sir,’ Master Williamson said. ‘I must not delay you at such a time. But one thing cannot wait.’

  I returned to the window, to avoid giving the impression that I was eavesdropping. Blood had pooled around the trestle. The servants had already dragged the old man’s body from the courtyard.

  ‘Is one of your manservants missing?’

  The blood had dried to a rusty red on the cobbles. As I watched, a boy came into the yard with a broom and a bucket. He emptied a silver arc of water over the trestle and the cobbles around it.

  ‘What?’ Alderley said, frowning. ‘How in the world did you hear that, sir? I take it you mean Layne?’

  Below me, a man appeared with four mastiffs on leashes, two to each hand. He paused to say something to the boy. Meanwhile, the dogs lowered their heavy heads and licked the bloody water with enthusiasm.

  ‘Layne?’ Master Williamson abandoned his attempt to approach the subject delicately. ‘I’ve no idea of his name, sir. All I know is that we have found a man wearing your livery in the ruins of St Paul’s. It pains me to tell you that he was murdered.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON MY SECOND visit to Barnabas Place, two days later, I went alone, trudging through warm ashes among the ruins. The heat was still intense.

  There were many other people in this wasteland, some looking for their families or what was left of their homes; others scavenging for valuables. I had heard stories of men who had found artificial mines of metals in this lost city – pools of solidified lead, lumps of iron, even veins of silver and gold. Truly, this was another New World, where a man with few scruples might find riches as well as horrors, privations and sorrows.

  ‘Not here, sir,’ the porter said when he opened the wicket to me. ‘His worship went to Westminster two hours ago.’

  ‘Then Mistress Alderley?’ I said, and I felt a faint and foolish current of excitement pass through me. ‘Is she within?’

  The porter went to enquire. After a few minutes he returned and showed me into the room with the oriel window through which I had seen a man flogged to death.

  Time passed. I had no means of measuring it, but at least half an hour must have passed before I heard the Alderleys’ steward, Master Mundy, ordering that a horse be brought round. A small, richly dressed gentleman crossed the courtyard below, his face concealed by a hat in which were two ostrich feathers; they were dyed purple and bobbed up and down as their owner walked beneath them.

  Shortly afterwards, a manservant appeared and conducted me into the body of the house.

  ‘Who was that below?’ I asked. ‘The gentleman who just left.’

  ‘Sir Denzil Croughton, sir.’ The man added, with a hint of vicarious pride, ‘His worship’s niece is betrothed to him.’

  ‘So he’s a regular visitor, then?’

  ‘She’s away in the country.’ He shot me a glance, and I thought there was an air of caution about him now, as if he had said too much. ‘Sir Denzil calls for news of her, and also to enquire of his worship’s son. This way, sir.’

  The servant led me down flagged passages to a richly furnished parlour overlooking a small garden, and told me to wait. I resigned myself to the loss
of another half hour but it was only a moment before Mistress Alderley glided into the room, with her own maid behind her.

  ‘We met on Thursday,’ Mistress Alderley said. ‘I remember – Master Williamson’s clerk. Your name?’

  I gave her my best bow. ‘Marwood, madam. James Marwood.’

  ‘I don’t know when my husband will be back. But perhaps I can help you.’

  She sank into a chair and waved to me to sit opposite her. Such remarkable condescension, I thought: was she always like this or was it a show for me?

  The maid settled with a pile of mending at the other end of the room. She glanced briefly at me and her face twisted as if she had a mouthful of vinegar.

  ‘First, madam, Master Williamson commanded me to ask how Master Edward Alderley does.’

  ‘A little better, thank you. He still lives. Dr Grout is with him now. He says we must thank God the knife did not penetrate the brain.’

  I dipped my head in mute gratitude for this mercy. ‘You are as yet no wiser about the reason for the attack?’

  ‘Our old servant was unhinged, a malcontent with his head full of blasphemous notions. Such madmen are two a penny after the late war. We must try to forget Jem, sir, for we can never understand him.’ She paused and added in a lower voice, ‘We were most grateful for Master Williamson’s kindness in the matter. It was Providence indeed that sent you both to us on that day.’

  I admired her delicate way of putting it. Though Alderley had been quite within his rights to beat a servant, particularly on such gross provocation, it was a little unfortunate that the guilty man had actually died under the lash. At least Williamson, a witness of unimpeachable veracity and with useful friends, had been there at the time. He had smoothed away much of the awkwardness with the authorities, pointing out that the culprit had probably died from his illness and old age rather than the beating, and also making the point that his death had been a kindness to the villain himself, for it had saved him from the rigours of imprisonment, a trial and public execution.

  ‘There was also the other servant who died, madam. At St Paul’s.’

  ‘Layne?’ She spoke faster and more loudly now, as though this was a subject she preferred to talk about. ‘Yes – what a terrible thing, sir.’ Her voice acquired a touch of emotion that would not have been out of place in a playhouse. ‘Alas! Poor Layne! There was a man who fully repaid our trust. My husband and I were most distressed by his death.’

  After the coroner’s inquest, Layne would go quietly to his grave. Alderley had offered to pay for the burial, Williamson had told me, and the thing would be done decently.

  ‘I suppose it was for the sake of the few pence in his purse?’ Mistress Alderley leaned forward. ‘Have you news of the murderer? Has someone laid information?’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam. Not that I have heard. The times are so out of joint that nothing is as it should be. But Master Williamson understands your indignation, and he wondered if he might serve you in any way.’

  ‘How very kind of him.’ Her eyes narrowed, for perhaps she knew that no one offered something for nothing. ‘But surely nothing can be done? Unless a witness comes forward, how could we lay the rogue who killed Layne by the heels?’

  ‘You may be right.’

  ‘I wonder if it could have been the lunatic.’ She noticed my puzzled expression. ‘Jem, the man who attacked my stepson. After all, he attempted murder inside this house, so perhaps he had already committed one outside it.’

  ‘It is a most ingenious suggestion, madam.’ It was a convenient explanation too, and one that would resolve the business without troubling the Alderleys too much. ‘Tell me, pray, who is Layne’s next of kin?’

  ‘A brother, I believe. He’s in the West Indies, serving as an able seaman on one of the King’s ships. Why?’

  ‘Are Layne’s belongings still here? His box?’

  ‘Yes. My husband has taken charge of it until the brother comes home.’

  ‘Master Williamson wondered whether I might inspect the contents in case there is something to suggest the identity of the assailant. It’s just possible, you see, that the murder was not something that happened by chance.’

  ‘I believe Master Mundy – our steward, you know – has already gone through the box and made a list of what was in it. Would that do?’

  ‘It would be better if I saw it myself – no doubt Master Mundy was listing the contents rather than considering their possible significance.’

  ‘Neatly said, sir.’ She gave me another of those subtly unsettling smiles. ‘You should be a lawyer. But perhaps you are?’

  In another life, I might have been. I shrugged the flattery aside with a smile, though I was warmed by it, for flattery rarely came my way. ‘What of the other man’s box?’

  ‘Jem’s? I think we have it still. I would have burned it but Master Alderley would have none of it. My husband is a stickler for following the due processes of law. There is a niece or a cousin in Oxford, I believe, and he has instructed Master Mundy to write to her.’

  ‘In that case, perhaps I might see Jem’s box as well.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Master Mundy shall be your guide.’

  She was looking at me as she spoke, and I was looking at her. Suddenly the words dried up. A silence settled between us, as uncomfortable as it was unwanted. I stirred, and the chair beneath me creaked twice. The sound was deafening in the silence.

  Mistress Alderley looked away, in the direction of her maid, who still sat with her head bowed, sewing industriously. ‘Ann? Take Master Marwood to Master Mundy. Tell Master Mundy to give our visitor every assistance in his power.’

  Master Mundy, a grave man aware of his own importance, led me down to the servants’ part of the house. It was strange to think that, two days earlier, this sober and upright gentleman had beaten an old man to death with a cat o’ nine tails.

  ‘Was there not a printer in the City named Marwood in the old days?’ Mundy said as they were descending the stairs. ‘A Republican, I think – a Fifth Monarchist?’

  ‘Perhaps, sir. I cannot say.’

  ‘I believe he was imprisoned when the King came into his own again. No connection of yours, then?’

  ‘No, sir. I come from Chelsea.’

  I had grown used to deflecting such questions, for Marwood was not a common name. I had Mundy’s measure now. He had the manner of a gentleman but now he worked as a rich man’s steward. There were many such in London – men who had lost their estates and who now clung all the more tenaciously to the airs of their former stations.

  I followed the steward to a locked room near the kitchens of Barnabas Place. Here, on slatted shelves, were kept the trunks and boxes of the servants. Mundy indicated two of them on the bottom shelf. They were crudely made from deal boards nailed together, with the corners strengthened with thin strips of metal. Each was about two feet wide, and eighteen inches high and deep.

  He left me to lift them onto the table that stood under the small window at the end of the room.

  ‘I cannot understand why you need to inspect them,’ he said. ‘It is quite unnecessary. I have made full inventories.’

  ‘I must follow my orders, sir. I am commanded to search them, and I must do as I’m bid.’

  A crude letter L had been burned with a poker into the wood beneath the lock of the nearer box. Mundy turned the key in the lock, lifted the lid and stood back.

  I examined what was inside. A servant’s box was his private life enclosed in a small space; everything else – his time, his labour, his clothes, his loyalties – belonged to his master; but the box was his. Apart from a few clothes, Layne had possessed a winter cloak, a pair of gilt buckles, a horn mug, a knife with a blade ground almost entirely away, a pipe, a pouch containing a few shreds of dry tobacco and an astrological almanac, printed octavo.

  I picked it up and glanced at the title page. ‘Was he a Dissenter?’ I asked.

  Mundy drew himself up. ‘Sir, all members of this household
attend the Established Church and follow its forms and usages.’

  ‘How long had he worked for Master Alderley?’

  ‘Two or three years. Mistress Alderley hired him when her husband was in France.’

  ‘And you were satisfied with him?’

  ‘By and large, yes. He was clean and sober in his habits. I would not have suffered him to stay if he had been otherwise.’

  ‘Was he liked in the household?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Mundy shrugged, indicating that such matters were far beneath his exalted sphere. ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘What was he doing abroad on the Tuesday?’

  ‘He went out after dinner. The master sent him to Whitehall with a ring he’d had reset for Sir Denzil Croughton.’

  I looked up from the book. ‘The gentleman who is betrothed to Master Alderley’s niece?’

  ‘The ring was a gift from Mistress Lovett to Sir Denzil, a token of their betrothal. In fact I warned Mistress Alderley it might be unwise to trust a servant with such a valuable jewel.’

  ‘So when Layne didn’t return that evening, you thought he might have run off with it?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mundy drew himself up, pursing his lips. ‘A not unreasonable supposition, you must agree.’ His voice was solemn, nasal and monotonous: a voice to drive his listeners either asleep or distracted. ‘But in fact Layne had given it into Sir Denzil’s own hands. Sir Denzil was wearing it when he dined here on Wednesday. And I saw it again on his finger not an hour ago, when he called on Mistress Alderley.’

  ‘So Layne must have reached Whitehall?’

  ‘Yes. It was the last time he was seen.’

  Until, I thought, his body was found amid the ruins of Bishop Kempe’s chantry chapel in the nave of St Paul’s.

  ‘It must have been the Catholics,’ Mundy burst out. ‘They need no reason to murder honest Protestants.’

  He unlocked the other box, Jem’s. This one too had its owner’s initials burned beneath the lock. I had been a printer’s apprentice once so I knew enough to appreciate well-proportioned letters. These ones were neatly squared and equipped with serifs.