The Ashes of London

by Andrew Taylor

  Even children bear the weight of original sin. We are all sinners. I remembered my father telling me so, all those years ago.

  ‘It’s not a stage, James,’ my father had said. ‘It’s a scaffold for a sinner. We are all sinners, but some are worse than others.’

  He lifted me on to his shoulders. Only the men on horses were higher than I was, I thought, though of course God was higher than everyone. God had my father’s face and his strong, rough-skinned hands, but He lived above us all in Heaven.

  Another soldier came through the doorway onto the stage. He carried a great axe whose blade shone like silver. He set the axe against a wooden rack near the back of the scaffold.

  A sigh rippled through the crowd.

  The stage filled with people. More soldiers. A clergyman. Several private gentlemen. Two burly men dressed all in black with black hoods on their heads that fell to their shoulders. Their faces were entirely obscured.

  I lowered my head and whispered in my father’s ear: ‘Are they dead? The men with no faces?’

  ‘No. They’re alive as you or I.’

  Another gentleman came onto the scaffold. He was smaller than the others but held himself very erect. He was bearded and his face was very white and very sad. For a moment he looked out over the crowd, turning his head from side to side.

  Afterwards, it seemed to me that the man had looked at me for a moment: as if to say, ‘I’ll know you again.’

  But perhaps that was not a true memory but merely the memory of a dream.

  I fell into a sleep as deep as death.

  When I woke, daylight was slicing through the crack between the curtains on the window. But there were neither curtains nor canopy on the bed, only an unobstructed view of the plasterwork of the ceiling. The animals and plants were undamaged.

  I no longer felt feverish, only thirsty and very weary. My right hand was lying on the blanket and I commanded it to move. To my surprise it obeyed. The hand floated in front of my eyes, looking somehow less substantial than usual. I let it fall.

  There were footsteps. I turned my head towards the sound. A manservant hovered over me.

  ‘Water,’ I croaked.

  The servant seemed not to hear me. ‘I’ll fetch his worship,’ he said, and almost ran from the room.

  In a moment, Master Howgego was there, minus his wig, his head bound in a kerchief. He was wearing a thick, quilted gown. ‘Good, you’re awake. How do you feel, sir?’

  I did my best to explain, though my voice sounded strange to me. It creaked like a hinge that has not been used for some time. Howgego ordered the servant to prop me up, and gave me water by his own hand, allowing me only sips.

  ‘Better and better,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘You have retained the water. That was more than you could do yesterday.’

  ‘What day is it, sir?’ I croaked.

  ‘Friday.’

  ‘But I should be in London by now.’

  ‘So you shall be, but not today.’ Howgego peered down at me, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘At first I thought it must have been something you had for supper here. But I ate from every dish that you did, and I have been as fine as a fiddle. Did you have something at the inn, perhaps?’

  I raked my memory. ‘A chicken at dinner. It was very tough. But it was cooked to leather, and there was no bad smell about it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Only a cup of mulled wine when I got back to the inn.’ As I spoke, I remembered that the girl had taken a long time to bring it, and the wine had tasted unexpectedly sour.

  ‘A little wine shouldn’t harm a flea.’ Howgego rubbed his nose. ‘But I wonder.’

  We stared at each other. Mother Grimes had not liked my questions. She must have guessed that I had seen the shirt and perhaps the footprint as well. A witch knew how to poison a man by stealth. She had cursed me. It was possible that she had cast a spell on me. Or, more prosaically and more likely, she had bribed the terrified chambermaid to slip something into the mulled wine.

  ‘The cesspit at the inn overflows into the well in wet weather,’ Howgego said hastily. ‘Perhaps the miasma in the air afflicted you as you slept. That must have been it.’ He sounded relieved. ‘Still – we must look to the future now, and restore you to health.’

  ‘I’ve made a great deal of trouble for you.’ I remembered the jolting box and the sound of hooves. ‘You must have sent your coach for me the other night.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  Master Howgego stayed while his servants rebuilt the fire and fed me a few spoonfuls of broth with his own hand. ‘I must apologize for my inhospitality,’ he said. ‘As you see, you have been sleeping in a naked bed – there was simply no time to hang the curtains. Indeed, I fear the whole chamber is sadly topsy-turvy. We shall set it to rights when you are feeling stronger.’

  Afterwards I dozed for a couple of hours and found when I woke that I was capable of leaving my bed and walking, rather uncertainly, to the window. I sat on the window ledge and looked down at the garden and the remains of the maze, at the park and the dull pewter gleam of the lake, and at the dark green smudge of Baynam’s Wood beyond.

  I was still weak. I was worried about the length of my absence from London. My father could not be trusted by himself, and the Newcombs did not know him as I did.

  In the evening I kept down a small bowl of broth. That night I slept well. The following morning, I made arrangements to leave for Harwich, pass the night there and then travel on to London by easy stages, spending another night on the road. If I were well enough, I should leave Coldridge the next day, which was Sunday. My guide had already left but Master Howgego promised to send one of his own servants with me to the ferry. I believe he would have lent me his coach as well if I had expressed the slightest desire for it.

  I dined with him. He ate early, as country people do, and afterwards his steward called to discuss a troublesome tenant on one of the outlying farms. The afternoon was fine, so I left them together and went outside.

  Leaning on a stick, I walked slowly through the gardens and inspected the gardener’s attempts to destroy the maze, which was proving unexpectedly unwilling to be grubbed up. He said something to me but his accent was so strange that he might have been talking in Greek for all the communication that took place.

  I went on, walking as briskly as I could, for the air was keen. On the far side of the lake was the dense, dark green of Baynam’s Wood. A delicate strand of smoke rose from its depths. In my dream on Saturday night, the wood and Mother Grimes had been tangled up with the Garden of Eden and original sin.

  I crossed the brook that fed the lake by the footbridge and walked into the wood. The silence of it wrapped around me. I was growing tired now, but I forced myself onwards. In the clearing, the cottage door was closed. I went over to the stream. Nothing had been hung out to dry.

  The footprint had been by the woodpile. That was gone too, and in its place was a log.

  I turned, meaning to retreat discreetly. But I found Mother Grimes was not six feet away. She was staring at me.

  I was so surprised that I pulled sharply back, tripped on the log, and almost fell.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘So you are better now, and you will soon leave Master Howgego’s.’

  Her stare unnerved me. To cover my confusion, I took three pennies from my purse and held them out on my palm. Once again, the grubby paw emerged from her cloak like a small nocturnal animal lured into the daylight by the prospect of prey. I felt her fingers on my skin, fluttering like wings. Then the paw disappeared. But the pennies still lay on the palm of my hand.

  ‘Go back where you came from, young master,’ she said, in a low but grating voice. ‘There’s nothing for you here. If you come again, you may not leave.’

  I held her gaze for a moment. Before I looked away, I no longer doubted that by one means or the other she had poisoned me. Probably she had not wanted me dead, not this time, only kept to my bed for a few days. If she had been
sheltering the owner of a shirt, that person had left Coldridge days ago.

  I moistened my lips, forcing myself to continue. ‘I’m searching for someone, mistress.’

  ‘I know you are. And you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Why? Was he – or she – not here?’

  ‘You are wasting your time because you should be searching in your heart for Jesus.’

  ‘Yes, but at present—’

  Mother Grimes hissed, and the sound was broken and jagged, like a snake laughing. ‘As for whatever else you want, you will find it – or them – when you least look for it, whether you search or not.’

  She went into her cottage. She barred the door.

  I waited a moment. It was very quiet in the clearing, as if the wood around it, and all the living things it contained, were holding their breath to see what would happen next.

  I stooped and placed the three pennies in a line on the doorstep. They sparkled in the weak autumn sunshine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I RODE SLOWLY through the bustle and clamour of the Strand towards Charing Cross and the slovenly sprawl of Whitehall beyond. The muscles in my legs were shrieking to high heaven. A grey sky, smudged with smoke from hundreds of chimneys, rose above the brick buildings of the palace. To the west, the trees of the park were beginning to lose their leaves.

  At the gate, the guards were growing used to my face, and they did not have to check their lists every time I passed them. My horse and I parted company at the stables in Scotland Yard, with mutual relief.

  I did not dare go directly in search of Master Chiffinch himself. Instead I looked for Master Williamson. He was not in either of his offices, but I found him at last in the Matted Gallery. He was walking with Sir Denzil Croughton again.

  When he saw me approaching, Williamson gestured to me that I should attend him at a distance. He continued his conversation for another turn up the gallery. At the far end, Sir Denzil sauntered through the doorway leading to the Duke of York’s apartments. Only then did Williamson beckon me towards him.

  ‘You’ve taken your time,’ he said.

  ‘Forgive me, sir. I’ve been ill. But I sent word. Perhaps the letter has not arrived?’

  ‘No. But never mind that now. Have you found the girl? Sir Denzil was talking about her only a moment ago.’

  ‘I found no trace of her.’

  He glanced about him, making sure we were not overheard. ‘And the other?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Master Chiffinch left word he wants to see you,’ Williamson said. ‘I’ll see if he’s at leisure.’

  He walked across the gallery to the two guards at the doors that led to the King’s apartments. He said something to one of them, who summoned a third soldier. There was a whispered conversation. They glanced in my direction.

  Williamson returned to me. ‘Stay where you are. Someone will come for you, though you may have to wait for a while.’ He looked me up and down. ‘You should really take the trouble to dress better when you attend me here. It reflects badly on us.’

  Having vented his irritation, he walked away. I prepared myself for a long delay. But, only ten minutes later, a servant approached and told me to accompany him. He led me out of the Matted Gallery and down the stairs to a doorway in the north-east corner of the Privy Garden. There were two guards here, one of whom opened the door for us; but otherwise they seemed not to see us.

  I followed my guide down a flagged passage, up a flight of stairs, into a gallery overlooking a dank courtyard. We waited here for a moment until a guard motioned us forward. We went down another flight of stairs and through a chamber where four soldiers were playing dice by the fire, and two more were standing guard at yet another doorway. They stood aside to let us pass. We might almost have been invisible.

  We came at last to a shadowy vestibule, square in shape and lit by candles as well as a tall window. A richly carved staircase rose from it, cantilevered against the four walls.

  ‘You are to wait,’ he said, and left me abruptly by a door under the stairs.

  I stood there, feeling foolish, not knowing what to do with myself. I seemed alone, but I could not be sure of it. Indeed, I had a sense that I was watched.

  Another door opened, somewhere above my head. Footsteps clattered down the stairs. For a moment, I thought that two people were approaching. But only one appeared – Master Chiffinch, bringing with him a tang of wine. He nodded to me and went to stand by the window.

  If there was a second person, he lingered out of sight on the stairs. I was reminded of my previous meeting with Master Chiffinch, and the way he had stood behind the screen while Mistress Alderley prepared the ground for him. Whitehall manners, I thought, and then I made the obvious deduction.

  My mouth dried and I began to tremble. It was common knowledge that Master Chiffinch served only one master, the King himself.

  ‘You may speak freely,’ Chiffinch said. ‘Any sign of them? Father or daughter?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So your journey was useless. Why were you so long?’

  ‘I was taken ill.’ Suddenly angry, I raised my head and looked at Chiffinch, who was fiddling with his wart. ‘Besides, I did not say the journey was useless. There is an old woman at Coldridge, the widow of a former bailiff. She lives alone in a cottage in the woods and is reputed to be a witch.’

  He shrugged. ‘Every village has one of those.’

  ‘I swear she was hiding something. And a man had visited her – I saw his footprint and, I think, his shirt drying on a bush.’

  ‘No mystery there.’ His features twisted into a lascivious mask. ‘Age is no barrier.’

  Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I heard a faint, deep chuckle somewhere in the gloom above us.

  I persevered: ‘You would not say that if you saw her, sir. And there was some mystery about it, for she sees no one at her cottage. They are too afraid to approach her, even the man who owns the land she lives on. When I went back a second time, there was no trace of him.’

  ‘Very well. Is that all?’

  ‘After my first meeting with her, I fell ill. I should have been here last Thursday – Friday at the latest – if it had not been for that. I took some mulled wine at the inn, and I think it was poisoned in some way. She meant to keep me in the village, to give this man time to escape.’

  ‘This is speculation,’ Chiffinch said coldly. ‘And far-fetched at that. An attempt to excuse your delay.’

  ‘Let me give you a fact then, sir,’ I snapped.

  ‘Mind your tongue,’ he said.

  ‘I ask your pardon, sir.’ I swallowed my anger, for it would not help to antagonize him more, let alone the possible listener in the shadows. ‘Coldridge – the house and the land – belongs to Mistress Lovett, does it not? It comes to her from her mother’s family, so it has not been confiscated with the rest of Lovett’s wealth. And Sir Denzil Croughton will have it as his dowry when they are wed?’

  He nodded. ‘Mistress Alderley tells me that the estate is at present leased out. The lease expires next year, so there will be no difficulty for Sir Denzil when he takes possession.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be—’

  ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘No, Coldridge is not leased out. The whole estate has been sold, sir – to a Master Howgego. He held the lease before, and now he owns the freehold.’

  ‘That cannot be right. You’ve been misinformed.’

  ‘Then so has Master Howgego. And the entire village. Master Alderley went down to Champney earlier in the year to conclude the sale.’

  ‘That,’ Chiffinch said slowly, ‘is not possible.’

  ‘Master Howgego even owns the books, the furniture, the carpets that belonged to Mistress Lovett’s family. I stayed with him at Coldridge when I was ill. There is no possibility of mistake.’

  ‘Mistress Lovett is not of age. She could not sell Coldridge.’

  ‘Her trustees could.’

  �
��True.’ Chiffinch touched his wart again, delicately, as if for luck. ‘I believe the estate was not entailed in any way. So in theory they would have the power to convert it into some other form.’

  ‘Then that’s what they’ve done, sir. But no one in London appears to know of it.’

  ‘But it could only be done with Mistress Lovett’s knowledge. And for her sole benefit, of course …’ Chiffinch paused. ‘And Sir Denzil would have been told in the normal run of things. After all, he would expect to have the use of it when they are married. Have you spoken to Master Williamson about this?’

  ‘Not about the estate. Or about the bailiff’s widow. Only the bare fact that I found no trace of the Lovetts.’

  ‘Good. Keep it that way.’

  Something had changed between us, a shift in the nature of our relationship. Whatever Master Williamson might think, I had a different master now.

  Chiffinch turned to look out of the window. He scratched the glass with his fingertip. There wasn’t much to see out there – just a long, tiled roof spotted with moss, a smoking chimney and a slice of the river, grey and broad.

  His silence emboldened me. I said, ‘I assume Master Alderley is her trustee?’

  ‘Yes.’ He glanced back. ‘One of them. There are two.’

  ‘Is Master Edward Alderley the other?’

  ‘No.’

  Chiffinch studied my face for a moment. I sensed he was coming to a decision.

  ‘You might as well know, I suppose,’ he said at last. ‘You would not be so foolish as to blab about it. I have seen a copy of the deed. The second trustee is Thomas Lovett.’

  For the rest of the day I went about my duties for Master Williamson like a sleepwalker.

  Thomas Lovett was a traitor, a Regicide, whose possessions were forfeit to the Crown. I did not think it likely that he could legally exercise his duties as a trustee of the estate that his daughter held in her own right. Even if he could, he could only transact business with the collusion of the other trustee, Master Alderley, that eminently respectable goldsmith, whose list of debtors had the names of the King and his brother the Duke at its head.