The Ashes of London

by Andrew Taylor

  ‘Why aren’t you where I left you?’ he said, almost pettishly.

  ‘I could not tolerate that house any longer, sir. But why are you here? Why are—’

  ‘You were at that house by my command,’ he said harshly. ‘You had no right to leave it. There’s no sin in honest work, only in refusing it.’

  ‘Master Davy is a lecher, sir.’ And a bully, and a hypocrite. ‘He kissed me and touched me where he should touch only his wife.’

  ‘Your wits are wandering, girl. Either that or you are lying.’

  ‘He threatened to whip me if I did not do what he wanted.’

  ‘You’re lying. Master Davy is a friend. He is one of us. I have known him for nigh on twenty years. I entrusted you to his care. He would never betray that trust. He would never do me such a wrong.’

  ‘He did me the wrong, sir,’ she spat. ‘Not you. And I tell you I will not stand for it. Not from any man. Ever.’

  He took a step towards her. ‘You were always headstrong, Catherine.’ His voice was gentler, almost conciliatory. ‘Come. We will talk about this later. Perhaps there is something in what you say, but there’s no time to enquire into it now. The Chapter Clerk’s away, but others may come to the room.’

  ‘How did you know to find me here?’ She paused but all she heard was his breathing. ‘You saw me come? No, not that. You know about the Chapter Clerk.’

  The knowledge that she had been betrayed swept over her. Something shifted in the relationship between her father and herself. Something was broken. No man could be trusted. Not even her father. Not even Master Hakesby.

  ‘Come,’ her father said again. ‘We will talk later.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ She didn’t want to go with him at all. But she didn’t want to stay in this place, either. ‘Can we leave St Paul’s?’

  ‘No. There’s no way out tonight. We must wait for the morning, for Master Davy and his wagon.’

  ‘I won’t go with him.’

  He slapped her face, causing her to stagger and almost fall. ‘You will go where I tell you.’ He steadied her and his voice became gentler again. ‘We shall go up,’ he said. ‘We shall go higher, closer to God. It’s safer there, because once in a while the watchmen come into the church itself. Besides, there is something up there I must show you, and something I must do.’

  Her father wasn’t mad, Cat decided, not if you knew his beliefs and started from those; given that, there was nothing foolish about him or his actions.

  He insisted on returning everything in the chamber to where it had been when she had first come into it. He made her open the shutter and empty the pot and the beer jug out of the window into the darkness of the cloister garth below. The surplices and cassocks went back into the wall cupboard.

  When she had finished, he checked the room, as carefully as he could by the poor light of the lantern. His movements were methodical and unhurried. She waited, shivering in her cloak, for him to finish. Only when he was quite satisfied that she had left no trace of her presence did he take her by the arm and draw her through the doorway.

  The gallery on the other side stretched above the north walk of the cloister. Most of the roof had gone, and one of the stone window frames had collapsed outwards, taking with it some of the wall on either side of it.

  ‘It’s safe enough if you go carefully and stay to the left,’ her father said. ‘Keep hold of my arm.’

  He put the bars across the door and drew her down the gallery to an archway. This led to another chamber that ran down to the corner of the cloister. Here, in the angle where the cathedral’s nave met the south transept, there was a small doorway. The door, blackened by the heat but still intact, was standing open.

  The beam of the lantern played briefly and faintly on the spiral staircase beyond. The steps curled through the thickness of the wall into the darkness above.

  Cat touched her father’s arm. ‘Sir? Must we go here?’ Neither high places nor darkness scared her. But she had a fear of being trapped, of being powerless.

  ‘Be not afraid,’ he commanded. ‘For I am with you.’

  He pushed her ahead of him. She began to climb, stretching her arms so her hands could touch the wall on the left and the central post on the right. He closed the door behind them and followed, his footsteps steady and firm on the stone treads as if he were climbing in broad daylight.

  The light danced around her, throwing her shadow ahead. A current of air rushed down towards them. Here, encased in the stone skeleton of the building, it was much colder even than in the chamber where she had tried to sleep.

  ‘Faster,’ he whispered behind her. ‘Higher.’

  The staircase levelled out into a passage that ran between blank stone walls.

  ‘Quietly now,’ her father murmured behind her. ‘We’re at triforium level. Have no fear – the floor is sound and level. There’s another stair at the end.’

  She felt his hand on her shoulder. He nudged her gently through the archway. She was calmer now, responding to the precision of his knowledge and the authority in his voice. The triforium was the middle storey of a church interior, the arcading above the aisles. She had her bearings now: somewhere to the left must be the central tower.

  At the end was another spiral stair, at the top of which they entered what at first seemed like another passage. Cat had taken only a few steps along it when she realized that this passage was different. The air was fresher and more turbulent. There was suddenly a pallor to the darkness, a sense that it was not quite as deep as it had been. She stopped and stretched out her right hand. She touched the rough stone of the wall. She stretched out her left hand and touched—

  Nothing.

  ‘Keep to the right,’ her father hissed at her shoulder. ‘Don’t look down. Walk.’

  Her legs ached. She felt weak. She took a step forward. Then another. Her left hand brushed something. A pillar. Then nothing again.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Only a few paces.’

  Her knees were somehow dissolving, the solid matter of bone and tendon losing form and density, becoming jelly. The light from the lantern flickered ahead, showing ash and stone and, to the left—

  Nothing.

  ‘Look to the right, at the wall. Walk. In a moment you’ll be at the tower staircase.’

  Again, knowledge steadied her. They were still inside the cathedral, but high above the crossing, with the central tower above them. A narrow passage with the wall on one side and the arches on the other, framing—

  Nothing.

  She was inside the empty heart of the tower. Somewhere far below this dark vacancy – eighty feet below? A hundred? – was the floor of the cathedral.

  Then – a moment later? An hour? – an archway loomed before her. She stumbled through it and collapsed on the lower steps of the staircase beyond.

  ‘Put your faith in me, and the Lord our God, Catherine,’ her father said. ‘I’ve worked in this place since I was a boy. Your grandfather was a mason here too. I won’t let you fall.’

  She felt a rush of love for him, its force taking her by surprise. Then loathing.

  How could you?

  After that it was easier. Her legs still ached. She was still faint with hunger. But she climbed steadily, with him keeping pace behind her. This staircase was rising through the tower itself, she realized, near its south-east corner. There was a slit window at every few turns of the stair.

  Once they were above the level of the choir, she caught glimpses of London below them, of a wasteland of ashes and ruins, speckled with the occasional fire, unimaginably far away. To the south was the broad black stripe of the river, with the boats passing to and fro, their lanterns bobbing on the water. Once she heard a dog barking.

  Sometimes they passed empty doorways. Her father said they had once led to vanished chambers above the vaulting of the tower.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘Almost there.’

  They came to a low doorway, not more than four feet high. It still ha
d a door in it.

  ‘Let me go first,’ he said.

  She stepped back, allowing him to push past her. He took out a key and, holding the lantern to the door, unlocked it and threw the door open.

  There was a rush of air towards them, bringing the smell of the river. She heard a sound, a long, faint moan; a trick of the wind.

  Master Lovett scrambled through the doorway. He turned back. ‘Come,’ he said impatiently. ‘Keep to the right, by the wall.’

  She followed him outside. Above their heads was the sky, heavy and dark, with a handful of stars burning far beyond the clouds. She stood there for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the light. The air was fresh and had a tang of salt. Apart from the buffeting of the wind it was almost silent. From the Tower in the east to the distant lights of Whitehall and Westminster in the west, the noise and bustle had dropped away. Cat had never been so high above London, not within the City itself.

  Another moan. Not the wind. Something nearer.

  ‘I’ve a surprise for you, Catherine,’ her father said. He sounded almost merry. ‘Your Uncle Alderley is waiting to greet you.’

  The moaning was close to her, little more than a hand’s reach from where she was standing, just outside the doorway from the stairs. She recoiled from the sound, jarring her spine against the stone of the parapet. Her hand flailed out, searching for support. It collided with her father’s arm. He gripped her wrist. She heard him exclaim.

  Something small and metallic skittered across the stone ledge they were standing on.

  Then – suddenly – there was silence again, except for the wind, a silence where there should not have been silence. All three of them – Cat, her father and Uncle Alderley – held their breath and waited, without knowing precisely what they were waiting for.

  Waiting, it turned out, for the sound of metal hitting stone two hundred feet below the empty heart of the tower.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  HAKESBY AND I passed through the gateway and walked up Ludgate Hill to St Paul’s. It was gone six o’clock. I had not told him that Alderley had disappeared – it was not my secret to tell, and besides there was no point in risking Master Chiffinch’s anger any more than I already had.

  The cathedral looked like an abandoned fortress. Its walls were still sheer and high, with high fences blocking the gaps that the Fire had caused. Some doorways had been permanently sealed with brick, others with wooden barriers topped with spikes. The place was dark, without a single gleam of light inside the fabric.

  We walked round to Convocation House Yard. I rattled the gate for long enough to set the dog barking. Eventually the watchmen stumbled from their hut and swore at us.

  ‘Damn your impudence,’ Hakesby shouted in a loud, angry voice that took me by surprise. ‘You’ll be whipped and dismissed if you don’t have a care. Don’t you know I’m Master Hakesby? Let me in.’

  There were agitated whispers on the other side of the gate. The dog continued to bark. It then gave a squeal and fell abruptly silent, as if someone had kicked it. The bar was lifted from the gate, and one leaf opened. One of the men held up a lantern. Hakesby stepped forward so the light fell on his face.

  ‘Your worship’s pardon, sir,’ the watchman said, sending a waft of spirits towards us. ‘Pray forgive us. You wouldn’t believe the rogues and beggars we get knocking on the door after dark, you—’

  ‘Be silent. Chain that dog and let us in.’

  The yard was almost in darkness. A light burned in the watchmen’s hut, and another by the inner gate leading to the builders’ enclosure at the side of the cloister.

  ‘We’ve work to do,’ Hakesby said. ‘Give my friend your lantern and keep the dog confined.’

  The watchman handed him the light and knuckled his forehead. ‘How long will your worships be?’

  ‘I don’t know. Be off with you.’

  The two men dragged the dog towards their hut. We crossed the yard to the inner gate. Hakesby took a key from his pocket and unlocked it.

  When we were inside, I said, ‘Better bar it, sir. We don’t want to be disturbed.’

  He hesitated. I saw his eyes gleam. He was looking at me, wondering whether to trust me in this as well as all the rest. I was wondering the same thing about him.

  ‘I won’t get far without you, sir,’ I said. ‘Mistress Noxon knows we left the house together, and so does the maid. Those men must have seen my face, too.’

  ‘Do it.’

  I set down the lantern and slid the bar across, sealing us in. ‘I should tell you that others know I intended to talk to you.’

  Hakesby snorted. ‘Then we may trust each other completely.’

  I could not see his face but the tone of his voice made me suspect that he was smiling. He led the way to the shed. He used another key to unlock that.

  By night, a place changed. I had not realized that the shed was so long and cavernous. In the light of the single lantern, it seemed infinite.

  We walked down the shed to the table where I had seen him working. He pointed to the wooden steps running up the back wall. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his windpipe. ‘She’s just up there. Beyond that door.’

  Hakesby asked me to hold the lantern. The self-assurance he had shown with the watchmen had ebbed away. His hand trembled when he took a key from his pocket and unlocked a chest on the floor. He stooped with obvious difficulty and took out a bunch of keys, some large, some small.

  He climbed the wooden steps slowly, clinging to the rail, with the keys chinking softly in his hand. I followed behind him. He knocked at the door at the top, an oddly decorous action, and called out, ‘It’s me, Jane. Master Hakesby.’

  There was no answer. He glanced back at me, selected a key and unlocked the door. He unlatched it and pushed it open. He hesitated on the threshold. ‘Jane? Jane?’

  Again, there was no response. He took the lantern from me and led the way inside. I heard him muttering under his breath. I followed him in. The air was different here – colder and danker, tainted with the stale smell of burning that still clung to the entire city.

  A sense of dread crept over me. ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘She’s gone.’ Hakesby crossed to a door in the opposite wall and twisted the ring that lifted the latch, but the door wouldn’t move. He took the lantern to the window and examined the fastening of the shutters. ‘But she can’t have left the way we came in. The door and the shed were locked, and so was the yard gate. Then there were the watchmen and the dog in Convocation House Yard. And she didn’t go through the window—’

  ‘So she must have gone through the other door,’ I said with a touch of impatience.

  ‘We must be methodical, Master Marwood, if we wish to avoid mistakes. Yes, she must have gone by the other door.’

  I went over to the second door and twisted the ring that turned the latch. The door didn’t move. ‘Have you a key? Where does it lead?’

  ‘It’s not locked,’ he said in his low, deliberate voice. ‘It’s barred on the other side. It leads to the gallery over the cloister, and then to some stairs into the cathedral itself, near the south door. But the gallery is so ruinous that only a fool would pass through it, even in daytime.’

  ‘Then where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, spreading his hands. In the lantern light, his face was pitted with deep shadows. It looked like a long yellow skull.

  Suddenly the pieces assembled themselves in my head. ‘Lovett’s here, isn’t he?’ I said. ‘He’s in the cathedral. You knew he was there all along, because you let him hide here. Just as you knew that he would come for his daughter. Because you’d told him where to find her. You’ve led me into a trap.’

  ‘Let me tell the truth,’ Hakesby said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. ‘The whole truth. This is not a trap. I swear it.’

  He pushed aside some of the papers on the table and put down the lantern. He sank down on the chair beside it. He pointed to another chair, nearer to
the door to the stairs.

  ‘Pray sit down, Master Marwood.’

  ‘We haven’t time to sit and discuss it, sir.’ But I too lowered my voice. ‘You’ve betrayed me.’

  ‘I’ve not betrayed you. I give you my oath on it. Like you, I want nothing but Mistress Lovett’s safety. And I fear I’ve led her into danger.’

  ‘Then we must act. Now. For her sake.’

  I took the lantern from the table and went round the room, opening the cupboard and the chest, peering into corners and under the furniture. All the time, I was listening for other sounds.

  ‘For her sake, we must think first,’ Hakesby said. ‘Sit down, I pray you, sir. It’s uncomfortable to crane my head to see you.’

  His actions and his words sucked some of the tension from the room. There was nothing aggressive about him. Only a great weariness.

  ‘Talk, then,’ I said. ‘I’m listening. But talk quickly.’

  ‘These accusations you’ve made about Master Lovett,’ he said. ‘The murders, the Whitehall fire. I know nothing of such things. You must believe me. I didn’t even know he was in England until yesterday. He told me he had come back for his daughter’s sake, to take her out of the country with him.’

  I found a chamber pot under the table. It was empty. I said, ‘How long has Lovett been in St Paul’s?’

  ‘This will be his second night. He was here already, you see. But I didn’t bring him.’

  I took up the pot and sniffed. It smelled of urine, which was only to be expected. ‘Then who did?’

  ‘Another man he used to know, in the old days. One of the workmen. There are scores of them in the building during the day.’

  I waited but Hakesby didn’t give me the man’s name. I ran my finger around the inside of the pot. I felt a hint of moisture. ‘Not a mere labourer, then,’ I suggested. ‘Someone with a little authority?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to know. We knew each other in the old days, you understand. He asked me to sign a pass to allow him to bring a wagon in.’ He swallowed again. ‘When there should have been no real need for him to do so. I didn’t ask questions. Better not.’