The Ashes of London

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Yes, sir. Where Sneyd’s body was found in the Fleet.’

  ‘Another former comrade of Lovett’s.’ He poked me hard in the chest, forcing me to step back. ‘Dear God. I cannot believe you thought this not worth mentioning to me.’

  ‘There seemed little purpose in telling you, sir, as Lovett had already gone. And besides …’

  He poked me again. ‘What?’

  ‘My father,’ I blurted out. ‘I feared you would bring him for questioning, that you’d put the worst construction on his meeting Lovett and see it as a conspiracy between them. I knew it would be the death of him.’

  ‘Ah,’ Chiffinch said softly. ‘So we come near the truth at last.’

  He brought me back to his office. He said nothing on the way. He was a man who knew the power of silence. He did not speak again until his door was closed and he was seated at his table.

  ‘You’re lucky in one thing, Marwood. Witherdine told the same story, in essentials at least.’

  ‘Sir, Witherdine is quite innocent of any wrongdoing,’ I said. ‘Nothing he did was in any way against the King’s interests or contrary to the law. I pray you to release him. Whatever you do to me.’

  He flicked his eyes towards me and then looked away. ‘How I dislike men who make a sacrifice of themselves for others. Let us see what else you have for me first. You saw Mistress Alderley?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We talked of Sir Denzil Croughton’s murder on Primrose Hill. And the behaviour of the mastiff.’

  Chiffinch nodded. ‘Who did not attack the killer.’

  ‘There was one other detail – a grey cloak found near the body. I brought the cloak away with me. I have it at my lodgings still.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s mine, sir.’

  ‘God’s body!’ Chiffinch said. ‘Your cloak? You’ll drive me stark staring mad if you go on like this. Of course it can’t be yours. Unless you were up on that hill yourself. Explain yourself.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes I feel I may be going mad myself, sir. I haven’t seen that cloak for weeks. There’s only one way I can explain all this – the dog’s behaviour and the cloak. Catherine Lovett must have been on Primrose Hill.’

  Then at last I told him everything, beginning with the night that St Paul’s burned down and the boy–woman who had bitten my hand, and ending with the man who wasn’t Hakesby at the coffee house. The one thing I left out was God’s Fiery Furnace. My father was involved enough already. I didn’t want to make it worse.

  There was one way to make sense of at least some of this. Jane, the maidservant who had worked at Three Cocks Yard, must have been Catherine. And, if the man who had collected her from the coffee house wasn’t Hakesby, who else could he have been other than Thomas Lovett?

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHIFFINCH ARRANGED THE release of Sam Witherdine on Monday evening. I took him back to Fleet Street in a coach, and dropped him at the borders of Alsatia. Before we parted, I gave him the gold piece that Edward Alderley had left with me as a bribe on Sunday. I owed Sam much more than that for involving him in this affair.

  I heard no more until Wednesday. During the morning I was on Gazette business in Scotland Yard. At midday, I left in search of dinner – I had a ticket now that allowed me to dine at Whitehall at a place set apart for clerks and higher servants.

  As I came down the stairs from Williamson’s office, a man came out of the anteroom off the hall, where the soldiers were on duty. He was not in uniform or in livery but I knew him at once by his bearing and his pox-ravaged complexion. He was the servant who had showed me up to Mistress Alderley’s chamber in the house at Cradle Alley.

  ‘Master Marwood? You’re to follow me.’

  I didn’t ask questions. We were within earshot of the soldiers and of a couple of clerks in the hall. I followed him outside. He led me out of the court, across the street to a set of lodgings built beside the Horse Guards Yard. I had never visited this part of the palace before. It had an air of seclusion about it.

  Without saying a word, the servant took me through an inner courtyard and up a flight of steps to a small chamber, no more than a closet, overlooking the Park. No one was there. A fire burned in the grate.

  He withdrew, telling me to wait. I stood at the window and stared at the trees and the people strolling up and down the gravelled paths below. I was not in the best of humours – to be frank about it, I was scared. All I wanted was for my father and me to be left alone, and for me to be able to make a living for us.

  The door opened and Mistress Alderley entered. I bowed low. She was by herself. She closed the door behind her.

  ‘Master Marwood. You have not been honest with me.’ She sat down by the fire, leaving me standing, and went straight to the point. ‘Master Chiffinch tells me you knew a great deal about Mistress Lovett that you did not wish to confide in me. That she’s been living as a servant near the Strand, and that her father abducted her on Saturday.’

  ‘There were reasons, madam,’ I said, ‘and also I could not be sure of the identification until Monday – after I had the honour of seeing you last. Did Master Chiffinch also tell you that your stepson and his bullies waylaid me when I left you?’

  She nodded. She did not look alluring today. She looked tired and anxious. I felt an unwanted and inconvenient tenderness for her.

  ‘Your stepson was spying on you. He gave me money to tell him if you sought another meeting with me.’

  She flicked her fingers. ‘Edward thinks gold will solve everything. But he doesn’t matter now. I’ve been commanded to tell you something, and telling you here is safer than anywhere else.’

  Commanded? I did not think she would have used that word if the instruction had come from Chiffinch alone.

  ‘It’s been decided that you should be trusted with the truth, so you may not blunder into it accidentally and make matters worse. You must not tell another living soul.’ She stared at me. ‘I warn you, if you do, both you and your father will be shown no mercy.’

  ‘Yes, madam,’ I said quickly. ‘You have my word.’ What else could I say?

  ‘When you saw the King in his laboratory last week, he talked to you about Thomas Lovett. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes. He said Lovett was worse than a Regicide.’

  For the first time she smiled. ‘Exactly. Do you know why?’

  I shook my head. Then: ‘The King knew I had been with my father in the crowd when the late King was executed. He talked of that.’

  ‘You are quick, Master Marwood, and that makes it a little easier. The King has made it his business to know everyone who was there when his father was murdered, everyone who witnessed it, or as near as it can ever be established. Can you remember that day? You must have been little more than an infant.’

  ‘I remember it all. It was hard to forget.’

  Mistress Alderley said, ‘Master Lovett was named among the Regicides for the part he played in arguing for the King to be tried and executed. He and others of his kind wielded great influence in certain parts of the army. But he did more, and he did it on the day itself. Think back.’

  Worse than a Regicide?

  I remembered the little gentleman on the stage in front of the Banqueting House. How the Majesty of England, who proclaimed that he ruled by the direct decree of God himself, had been reduced to a man in a waistcoat, with a nightcap on his head. I remembered the two executioners, the one with the axe who severed the King’s head from his body with a single blow, and his colleague who held it up to the crowd.

  ‘The executioners,’ she said in a voice so low that I took a step nearer to her. ‘Who were they, Master Marwood?’

  ‘No one knows for sure.’ I was on familiar ground here, because the identity of the executioners had been the subject of speculation for years. ‘They were masked at the time to prevent the Royalists hunting them to death afterwards. They say the one with the axe was Richard Brandon, the common hangman, and that he died of remorse not s
ix months later. Certainly, it was a skilled hand that took off the head so neatly with one blow, and his confession is—’

  She waved her hand, dismissing Brandon. ‘And the second executioner? The one who held up the King’s head and showed it to the crowd?’

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps someone brought in to stiffen Brandon’s resolve.’

  She turned her head away to look at the fire. I listened to the sound of distant hooves in the Park. A drum was beating in the barracks.

  ‘We know who the second man was. Now you do, too.’ Mistress Alderley paused, but I did not speak. ‘The King wants to find him before anyone else does.’ She turned slowly to look at me again. ‘He does not want Lovett killed out of hand, for that would be an easy death. He does not want him charged and brought before a court and then executed at Tyburn; or not yet, at least. First, and most of all, he commands that Lovett be brought privately to him. He wants to look him in the eye, to see the man who held up his father’s head, and see him without a coward’s mask on his face. Then, and only then, he will decide what to do with him.’

  I bowed. Still I did not speak. A terrible foreboding crept over me. I did not want to hear this secret. This was something worse than murder, and its darkness touched all who knew of it. Soon after the Restoration, the worst of the Regicides had been hung, drawn and quartered, a punishment so barbaric that even the common people were at last revolted by the spectacle. How would they punish someone who was worse than a Regicide?

  ‘You may have a part to play, Master Marwood.’

  My head jerked up. ‘Madam, there’s nothing I can do.’

  I heard a shameful tremor in my voice. I was scared for myself, and for my father, and in a way I had not been before. The King and those who wished to please him would stop at nothing to lay their hands on Lovett. I was of no value to them unless I helped in that. But public opinion had changed in the country since the beginning of the King’s reign. There was no longer the same popular appetite to see the blood of Regicides. Quite the contrary: some of those already executed had earned sympathy in many quarters by the quiet heroism with which they met their deaths.

  So there would be no public recognition for those who helped bring the second executioner into the King’s hands. And if the business went awry, as seemed all too likely, the first people to suffer would be those who had failed.

  ‘You are too modest,’ Mistress Alderley said in a low, caressing voice. ‘You have already rendered the King much service.’

  ‘But both the Lovetts have vanished, madam, and this time we have not the slightest clue to their whereabouts. Mistress Lovett knows my face. Her father has never met me and has no reason to trust me. He and my father may have been comrades once, but that’s worth nothing now. Lovett has seen my father. He knows he’s a broken man.’

  ‘But his daughter doesn’t know that, does she? And she could be the key to finding him, just as you could be the key to finding her. As you say, you know what Mistress Lovett looks like, you know where she lodged after she left Barnabas Place, and you’ve even met this Hakesby who seems to have made himself her guardian. Will you talk to him? He may know something.’

  ‘If you wish, but—’

  ‘You’re the son of Lovett’s old comrade, and you did my niece a kindness during the Fire. If you can find her, you can make her trust you. We want you to—’

  There were heavy footsteps outside and a murmuring of voices. Mistress Alderley broke off, holding up her hand. The door opened without a preliminary knock. Master Chiffinch entered the room. He kicked the door shut behind him.

  ‘Your husband’s gone, mistress,’ he said. ‘God send a pox on this whole devil-damned business.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ON MONDAY NIGHT, Cat lay on her back, listening to the concerto of snores from her father and from the Davys, and the faint pattering and rustling of small creatures going about their nocturnal business. Even with the bed curtains drawn, the night air was cold on her cheeks.

  It was easier, she thought, to love her father in an uncomplicated way when he wasn’t there. In memory, and at a distance, he could be simplified and improved – the blemishes cut out, the stains cleaned, the dirt brushed off, the kinks ironed away, the holes patched. In person, on the other hand, he was as awkward and jagged as a lump of rock.

  She heard midnight strike. It was Tuesday already. Today she would make her decision.

  She knew she was fortunate to have the luxury of choice. It was not a luxury she had had before. In the past, others had decided what she did and where she went, and with whom. Her husband had been chosen for her. Her virginity had been snatched from her, not freely given. She had fled from Barnabas Place into the night because Edward had made it impossible for her to stay.

  But this time she had a choice. To stay or to go. Neither had much to recommend it.

  In the morning, she helped serve her father and Master Davy their breakfast. They ate in silence. Master Lovett was dressed as a labourer, as he had been yesterday. But the clothes he had worn at the coffee house, the dark suit and the wool cloak, were no longer hanging in the press in the bedroom; and his hat, his linen and his shoes were gone from the chest.

  The boy was already in the yard, seeing to the harnessing of the horses. The wagon was kept in an open shed behind the cottage. The men had loaded it yesterday, working into the evening by the light of lanterns. The poles were bundled according to size – the putlogs, the ledgers and the standards – and roped together with canvas on top to keep out the weather and deter thieves. Beside the poles were coils of hemp to lash them together. There was also a big box containing the hammers, saws and chisels. Cat thought there might be other things concealed among them, but she wasn’t sure.

  After breakfast, Master Lovett drew Cat into the parlour.

  ‘Remember, you must do as the Davys tell you, and pray for me while I’m gone. Whatever happens, we will not see each other for a long time – perhaps for ever on this side of the grave. But it doesn’t matter. We shall be together later, and for all eternity. Kneel.’

  She knelt at her father’s feet. He blessed her, then raised her and kissed her on the forehead. His beard felt rough and alien on her skin, like the touch of a living animal’s fur. For a moment they stood there, he with his hands resting on her shoulders, she with her arms hanging at her sides. His forehead was as creased and weathered as the skin on an old apple. There was a sore on his cheek. For the first time she noticed how folds of skin drooped over his eyes. He’s growing old, she thought with a pang of sorrow, and one day he will die.

  She followed him into the yard. He climbed up beside Master Davy, who took up the reins and manoeuvred the wagon through the gateway. Neither man looked back.

  ‘You can begin with the scullery floor this morning,’ Mistress Davy said to Cat as the yard boy was closing the gates. ‘You skimped the corners yesterday.’

  Later in the day, Cat was sent to take in the washing as the light was fading. Beyond the yard, with the stable and wagon shed, was a vegetable garden with a pigsty. Beyond that was an orchard, the trees stripped and bare, waiting for winter.

  It was already very cold. There would be a frost tonight. The shirts, nightgowns and stockings were almost as wet as they had been when she and the eldest girl had hung them out. Now the clothes were stiff with cold as well.

  She looked about her as she piled the washing in the basket. At the far end of the orchard, there was a wall topped with shards of glass. In the wall was a gate secured on the inside by a heavy bar and two bolts.

  When the washing was down, she left the basket under the tree and walked over to the door. The bolts were stiff and cold. But she could move them in their sockets. She could also lift the bar. She picked up the basket and returned to the kitchen.

  ‘Hang it to air by the fire,’ Mistress Davy said. ‘No, not there, you foolish girl. On the other side.’ She cocked her head. ‘Is that the wagon? Tell the boy to open the gate before you do anything
else.’

  Master Davy brought the wagon home alone. Now her father was gone, the life of the family contracted. The Davys took their supper in the kitchen. Cat and the children ate vegetable broth with wheaten bread. Master and Mistress Davy worked their way through a stew made of pigeons and chestnuts. Conversation was not permitted at the lower end of the table.

  Afterwards, Cat and the children cleared away, put out the fire and made the kitchen ready for the morning. There were more prayers, and then it was bedtime. The Davys had reclaimed the chamber over the parlour. From now on, Cat was to sleep with the children in the other room.

  She and Master Davy were the last to go up to bed. As Cat was climbing the stair, she heard movement below and looked back. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, holding his candle high and looking up at her. The light fell on his upturned face.

  For a moment, his expression reminded her of someone very different. She had seen her Cousin Edward look at her in just the same way in the parlour at Barnabas Place all those weeks ago, when she had been trussed up in her unnatural finery, in honour of Sir Denzil Croughton coming to dinner.

  Oh God, she thought. Not this as well. She took the knife out of her pocket and kept it under her pillow that night, and she did not sleep much.

  Master Davy waited until the next day, Wednesday. He came home for dinner. She felt his eyes on her when they were at table. Afterwards, when she took out the scraps for the pig, she heard his step behind her. As she leaned forward to empty the bucket into the trough, his arm snaked around her waist. She twisted, trying to tear herself away. His grip tightened. He planted a kiss on her cheek. She turned her face aside.

  ‘Let me go, sir.’ She could not reach her pocket, where the knife was, because of his restraining arm. ‘I shall scream.’

  ‘If you do that, I’ll say I caught you stealing food, and I’m going to whip you for it. You wicked child.’ With his free hand he squeezed her breast. ‘Perhaps I should whip you anyway,’ he whispered. ‘I’m your master here, under God. Remember that.’