The man who did answer was no wizard. He looked more like a surprised clerk.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, suspiciously. This place must get some strange visitors, she thought to herself, and wondered as to its current owner.
‘My apologies for disturbing you,’ she said. ‘I have come here from Wapping.’
‘Indeed?’
‘This is, I think – or rather, this was – the house of John Dee.’
‘Yes. It was.’
His manner had not warmed. She thought carefully about what to say next. She decided on an excess of the truth.
‘Sir, my husband is a constable in Wapping. He is investigating the deaths of a family there, and he discovered certain volumes pertaining to Dr Dee beside their bodies. He does not know I am here, but while he has been investigating these matters, I have been doing some investigating of my own. I have come here today as a result of my researches into Dr Dee. I know not quite why, but I have learned in my studies that it often serves the purpose to have visible display of what one is researching. Just seeing this house has given me some new understanding. To see inside it would, I think, help me even more so.’
He smiled, and she could see her decision to tell the truth had been the correct one.
‘Madam, I see all sorts of individuals at this door. Most of them are mad or liars or both. You seem to be neither. Won’t you come in?’
And he stepped back and away, and opened the door of Dr Dee’s house. Taking hold of Rat’s silent but warm hand, she stepped inside.
CONSTABLE HORTON RETURNS TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY
It had been almost two years since his only visit to this place: 32 Soho Square. On that occasion, he had met with Robert Brown, Sir Joseph Banks’s Scottish librarian. He had still never met Banks, though the man’s name had been stamped on to a number of recent cases like the faded hallmark on an old gold ring. Or like the smell of bitter almonds, perhaps.
Sir Joseph’s residence occupied one entire corner of Soho Square. It was a watchful place, its giant windows seeming like open eyes. A place to see and be seen in. A house for a well-connected man.
Horton was, frustratingly, not alone. Markland had insisted on accompanying him. They had gone into the River Police Office directly upon Horton’s reading the letter. Given Wapping’s dealings with Sir Joseph Banks in the past, Horton felt it essential that his magistrate be informed of the new development. His mind buzzed with possibilities. How could Abigail possibly be with Sir Joseph Banks, the President of the Royal Society, one of the most prestigious and powerful men in England? And, more to the current point, was Rat with her? A moment of comedy then, despite himself – the street urchin discussing taxonomy with the great natural philosopher in a Westminster library. Stranger things have happened, he thought – and, truly, stranger things had.
Harriott had of course demanded to come with him, but on suddenly standing from his chair the magistrate had experienced an alarming attack of breathlessness and dizziness, accompanied by what must have been terrible pain, for his aspect became pale and shocked and he collapsed back into his chair as if downed by a musket ball. Inevitably, Markland had offered to come instead, and Harriott had been forced to agree. Despite his attack and the deathly pallor which had descended on his face like fog, Harriott had still managed an apologetic glance towards Horton as he and Markland left the room.
In the carriage to Soho Square, Markland had been conciliatory towards Horton, overflowing with praise for the constable’s previous work and mellifluously forgetful of his previous threats to both Horton and his magistrate. Horton decided to at least try and make some use of their unwelcome time together, even though his thoughts were so much on his wife.
‘I wonder if you have ever heard of the position of assistant treasurer, sir?’
‘At the Company?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, I don’t involve myself in matters such as these, constable. I made my investment and, truth be told, all it’s brought me is misery. The Company is not what it was.’
‘Do the names Suttle or Jenkins or Fox mean anything to you?’
‘In relation to the Company?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘An officer has recently been despatched to St Helena as an assistant treasurer, sir. By the name of Burroughs. Would he be of the same family as Alderman Burroughs?’
Markland now looked worried.
‘Now, constable, I have no conception of where this line of thinking ends up, but you should be careful with it.’
‘Do you know Captain Burroughs?’ Horton insisted.
Markland frowned.
‘No. No, I do not. And Burroughs is hardly an uncommon name.’
‘No, indeed. But the coincidence is striking. What can you tell me of the alderman?’
Markland, having been keen to talk at the start of the journey, was now as close-mouthed as a pickpocket being interrogated in a watch-house.
‘He is a gold and silver broker.’
‘And he lives in the City?’
‘There, and at a place outside Sevenoaks in Kent.’
‘A large house?’
‘Very nearly a castle. Tremendously wealthy man, is Robert Burroughs.’
‘You have visited this castle?’
‘Aye, I have,’ the magistrate said, and looked relieved as the carriage came to a halt. ‘We’re here.’
They stepped out and stood in front of number 32.
‘Odd place,’ Markland said. ‘Like two or three houses conjoined.’
They were shown through the front door, and upstairs to the same room in which Horton had previously met Robert Brown. The librarian was not there, but Abigail was. So was Rat, who sat on a stool next to her like a protective dog, and glared at Markland lest he come too close.
‘Husband,’ Abigail said, rising and coming to him. She noticed Markland, but initially ignored him – rather magnificently, Horton thought. ‘You must have been concerned.’ She held out two hands to him.
His relief made his hands shake as he took hers, and she looked at them with some concern and he wanted to kiss her, but Markland’s presence was awkward.
‘You are no prisoner, wife,’ he said. ‘But nonetheless – where in heaven’s name did you go, to end up here?’
This to Rat as much as Abigail, and it was Rat who answered.
‘Wasn’t my idea, constable! Wasn’t at all! Mrs Abigail said she wanted to take a trip to get some air, and I said we shouldn’t, said you’d be angry, but . . .’
‘Silence, whelp,’ said Markland. ‘Who are you to address your betters so? What are you doing here?’
Rat looked like he had been slapped. Horton instinctively wished Markland ill. Abigail looked at the magistrate as if he had just let down his breeches.
‘He works for me,’ Horton told Markland, no longer able to keep the dislike out of his voice. ‘He is charged with accompanying my wife to preserve her safety.’
‘A misbegotten little runt like this? Really, Horton, all you had to do was ask for one of my constables.’
Horton, who would always choose a misbegotten little runt like Rat over any of Markland’s constables, told Rat that he should head back to Wapping now, and wait for their return. Rat looked at Markland as if he might bite him, turned and made something of a bow towards Abigail (a gesture theatrically appropriate to his surroundings, as it must have seemed to Rat), and made his dignified way out.
‘Now, Mrs Horton,’ said Markland, bumptiously taking charge of the situation. ‘Would you care to enlighten us as to your presence here?’
‘She came here because I invited her,’ said Sir Joseph Banks as he entered the room.
Sir Joseph arrived in the library on an extraordinary device, a wheeled chair which was all iron and leather, pushed by a servant who seemed unconscious of the bizarre picture he and Banks made. Horton had never seen such a thing as this chair, but he could see why it was needed. Banks was both enormous and d
ecrepit, his bulging stomach bisected by a blue sash, one enormous golden star on his breast. His face was pale and puffy, but still possessed of the energy of an unquenchable will. Banks reminded Horton very strongly of John Harriott.
Markland wasted no time engaging with the politics of the situation.
‘Sir Joseph, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’
‘And who are you, sir?’
‘Edward Markland, Sir Joseph. Senior magistrate at the Shadwell Police Office.’
‘So you are Horton,’ said Banks, turning deliberately away from Markland. Horton suddenly felt like a moth must feel under the glass of a naturalist: examined, categorised, measured. ‘I know a good deal about you, sir.’ It was not a happy thought. It reminded him of Lamb’s excitement at meeting him.
Banks turned his enormous head to Markland.
‘Do you make a habit, sir, of accompanying men to appointments, when you have yourself not been invited?’
Markland blinked and blushed.
‘Sir, I have been cooperating with Constable Horton here on our latest investigation. You may consider me his superior.’
‘Harriott is still ill?’ This to Horton.
‘He had recovered, Sir Joseph,’ said Horton. ‘But he was taken ill again today. He wanted to come with me.’
‘And I would have been delighted to see him. A fine man.’ He glared at Markland, pointedly. ‘Sit, gentlemen, please. I, as you can see, am already doing so.’
Banks looked over at Abigail, and his face softened.
‘I have been talking to your wife, Horton. She is a remarkable woman.’
Abigail blushed and looked down. Horton marvelled at her – she seemed positively enthralled, like a fishwife invited for tea with a duchess.
‘She has caused something of a stir today, which is why you are here. My dear, perhaps you would explain to your husband.’
Horton noted that Banks had effectively assumed that Markland was no longer present. The magistrate sat on the edge of his chair, his hat on his knees, smiling fixedly. One might almost have felt sorry for him.
‘Husband, I went to Mortlake today.’
It was a very good start to a story, Horton thought.
‘You did?’
‘Aye. I took Rat with me, in case of incident. We took a boat from the stairs. Upon reaching Mortlake, we made our way to Dr Dee’s old house.’
‘It still stands?’ Horton said to Banks, who grunted an affirmative.
‘It is an odd place, hard upon the river,’ continued Abigail. ‘I knocked upon the door, and a man answered. He was guarded in his welcome. The house receives a good many visitors. Dr Dee has quite a reputation among a certain type of person.’
‘What type of person?’
Abigail looked at Sir Joseph, who nodded kindly, giving permission to continue. It was a silent exchange which perplexed Horton – as if his wife and Sir Joseph shared a new secret language. Which, he supposed, they did – a language of botany and astronomy and classification and theory. Science, Abigail called it.
‘Credulous souls, the man said. Believers in spirits and spells and astrologers. I explained I was no such person. That I placed my faith in matters I could see with my own eyes.’
It was, Horton thought, a moderately dangerous thing to say in front of Edward Markland. It smacked of religious scepticism.
‘The man said he was pleased to welcome one such as I, and he invited me in.’
‘He invited you in?’
Abigail blushed. ‘With Rat, yes, he did. I nearly refused, but the tale of Dr Dee has arrested my interest, and I wished to see inside. He showed me around the house, and he gave me tea. I told him who I was and who you were, and how we came across Dr Dee’s story. At the end of my visit, and after we had spoken a little more of the discoveries you made at poor Johnson’s house, he asked if I would come to tell Sir Joseph what I had told him. I agreed.’
‘It seems an odd thing to agree to.’
This from Markland, whom Banks ignored magnificently, but Abigail could not.
‘Well, sir, you know nothing of my personal interests. They tend towards the natural philosophical. To be given the chance to meet one such as Sir Joseph . . . well, sir, I did not hesitate to say yes.’
Banks smiled at her, like he would smile at a particularly brilliant daughter.
‘A remarkable wife, sir,’ Banks said to Horton. ‘I congratulate you. I will continue the story, if I may. Mrs Horton came here with the owner of Dee’s house, a fellow by the name of Temple. He is an associate of mine. Not quite an employee or a colleague, and not a Fellow of the Society of which I am President. But he keeps me informed as to the comings and goings at the residence of Dr Dee.’
‘Why?’
Horton’s single word was rudely expressed and took Banks aback momentarily. He was not used to being addressed in such a way.
‘The Royal Society is at the service of the King, the Regent and the country, constable,’ he said, as if Horton were a small lecture hall. ‘We are the repository of all scientific knowledge collected in these islands. Dr Dee, who preceded our Society by almost a century, was one of the foremost scientific thinkers of his time. As such, he is of constant interest to us.’
‘And for this reason, you called us here?’
‘I wished to ascertain, constable, whether your investigations would feature anything regarding Dr Dee or his writings. I wished to offer my help.’
And, thought Horton, you wished to warn us. We are close to Royal Society ground, and that ground may be dangerous. There was something else here, something that had not yet been spoken of.
‘Sir Joseph, can I say I do not believe the recent sad events on the Ratcliffe Highway have anything at all to do with this doctor you speak of,’ said Markland, smoothly and happily, back in the conversation. ‘I fear the constable’s wife may have wasted your time.’
Abigail blushed, and for that alone Horton hated Markland. Banks continued to ignore him.
‘Is that the case, constable?’ he said.
‘I do believe so,’ said Horton, carefully.
‘Well, then. I thank you all for coming here.’
He rang a bell and the servant who pushed him in entered.
‘My dear, it was a pleasure to meet you. Please feel free to visit my library whenever you so choose.’
Abigail’s delight at that filled the room, and Horton could see she had to prevent herself hugging the old bull in the wheeled chair. He rather thought the old bull would not have particularly minded.
‘Constable, good day,’ Banks said to Horton, and the servant wheeled him from the room. He said nothing to Markland.
As they left the house, a servant ran out into the street and handed Horton a note. He opened it and read.
‘Tell Harriott I will attend him and thyself tonight in Wapping. Say nothing to that Shadwell idiot. Sir Jos—’
He folded the paper and handed it to Abigail.
‘ To reiterate his invitation to make use of his library,’ he said to Markland, who grinned.
‘I do believe the old goat has designs on your wife,’ he said, oddly happy again after his difficult afternoon.
It had turned into a good night for secrets: the heavy warm air of the day was settling itself onto Wapping, the pressure almost palpable, squeezing in the shouts and laughter and shrieks of an ordinary East End twilight. Horton left Abigail and Rat in the apartment, checked the doors were locked, spoke to Cripps and another lad out in the street and warned them to be particularly watchful. He didn’t know the source of this odd skittishness. The heavy air, perhaps, and the lingering ever-present danger to Abigail.
As he stepped out into Wapping Street, he looked to his right and to his left. Was that street woman watching him? Had that dock worker come out in suspiciously clean clothes? Was that shop clerk looking away somewhat too purposefully?
Yes. He decided that the man – he might have been a shop clerk or an office clerk – was doing ju
st that. He caught a flash of face, that was all, and now the clerk was strolling away towards Wapping Pier Head and St Katharine’s. Did he recognise him? Was it perhaps the clerk who had been sitting at Johnson’s desk when he’d visited East India House? Horton took a step or two to follow, and for a while his plans for the evening took him in the same direction as the clerk. The River Police Office was in the same direction as the man was heading. Outside the Office, Horton stopped and waited and watched.
The clerk continued to walk away from him, never looking back, if indeed he was ever in Wapping with malicious intent. He watched the man’s back disappear into the crowds. The late spring sun sent shafts of light along the river and the brick walls of the Dock and its associated buildings, but they brought no illumination. Only confusion and that deep, enduring anxiety.
Three old men were waiting for him upstairs in the Office. Three ancient minds perusing imminent death, stocked with memories fraying at the edges. John Harriott, looking even older, was in his chair behind his desk, a slab of the river visible behind his head. Sir Joseph Banks was in his wheeled chair behind the fire, and Horton found himself wondering how Banks would have got up the stairs. Was he winched from outside?
And in the chair on the other side of the fire, an unexpected face, but one who had always been there whenever Horton’s strange life intersected with the Royal Society: Aaron Graham, the senior magistrate from Bow Street, dressed as was his habit in some finery. It had been a year since Horton had last seen him, and though the clothes were just as expensive, the skin beneath them was terribly diminished.
Graham was the only one to stand when Horton stepped into the room, and tottered over to him like Beau Brummel’s skeleton.
‘Constable,’ he said, and Horton was touched by the old man’s unaffected pleasure. ‘A delight to see you again.’
‘Mr Graham. Mr Harriott. Sir Joseph.’
‘Sit down, Horton,’ said Banks, comfortable in charge even though they were in another man’s office. Harriott said nothing. A chair had been left for Horton. He sat in it, and looked at the three men: Graham and Sir Joseph lit by an oil lamp, Harriott by the dying light from the river.
The Detective and the Devil Page 14
