Andrew Taylor - The Fire Court - A gripping historical thriller from the bestselling author of The Ashes of London

When he was courting her, Sir Philip Limbury had seemed a creature of impulse, and his love for her had seemed as open and sincere as the sun itself. After their marriage, however, it had not taken her long to learn that he did little or nothing by chance. There was a purpose in almost everything he said and did. Sometimes more than one purpose.

When she was back in her chair by the window, and the chamber door was closed, she called Mary to her. ‘The other matter. There’s nothing? You’re sure?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘The servants will know. They always do. Richard? Hal?’

‘Hal Coachman would blab, madam. Richard, maybe.’

Jemima looked up at Mary. ‘Talk to Richard. See if he will let slip anything about Thursday.’

‘That one gives nothing for nothing, madam. He serves the master and himself. No one else.’

Jemima ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Then make him desire you. See if that will open his toothless mouth. I must know who the woman was.’

Mary stared down at her mistress. ‘Are you sure you want me to …?’

Jemima stared back. ‘Yes.’

After dinner at the Lamb, I went to collect a small debt I was owed by a man I had helped to find a job distributing the London Gazette . He lived in Leadenhall Street, on the opposite side of the road from the market, in the small part of the walled City that had survived the Fire.

When I had the money, I turned to my right and walked west towards what was left of Cornhill. The streets through the ruins were almost entirely clear now, and much of the ground on either side was parcelled out into building sites. In the meantime, in this hiatus of the City’s life, weeds were colonizing the rubble and making wild gardens in lost corners.

At this time of day the ruins were safe enough, clothed with a fragile, provisional normality. After sunset, everything changed among the ruins, and only fools ventured into the burned areas of the city without lights and protection. Now, however, there were workmen labouring among the shattered buildings, preparing for the City’s resurrection. Citizens hurried to and fro, going about their business, as they had in these streets for centuries past and no doubt would for centuries to come. Street-sellers plied their trade, for everyone needed something, and the urge to buy and sell was as tenacious as life itself.

Beggars stood and sat at every corner, straining to clutch the sleeves of passers-by, many claiming to be former householders who had lost everything to the Fire. Here and there, faded notices appealed for the missing. In Poultry I paused to read a weathered slate on which someone had scratched in faded, just legible capitals: MARY COME TO MOORFIELDS WEST SIDE PRAY GOD YOU ARE ALIVE. There was still a scattering of tents and sheds in Moorfields, though far fewer than there had been. Most of the refugees had melted away like snow in spring: a few remained, huddled in smaller, unofficial encampments; others had found lodgings in the houses of families and friends; and many had drifted away in the hope of making new lives in other parts of the kingdom.

I followed the road to Poultry and Cheapside, where some householders had already begun to rebuild their houses in defiance of the regulations and had set up stalls in the ruins of their homes. From the stone carcase of St Paul’s Cathedral I went west through the blackened arch of Ludgate and down to the bridge over the Fleet Ditch. In Fleet Street itself, I paused by the stalls that clung like chicks to a mother hen to the south side of St Dunstan-in-the-West.

At that moment, a wave of grief overwhelmed me. It took me entirely unawares. I stumbled, and steadied myself on the side of one of the bookstalls. My father had died here, only a few feet from where I stood, crushed under the wheels of a wagon. But I felt more than grief, more than guilt. There was also a hard edge of anger that cut into me like a blade.

It was the ant that had tipped the balance. That tiny creature, entombed in white paint, had finally convinced me that there had been sense in my father’s story, the dreamlike account he had given me during our last conversation on the last evening of his life. Everything else had fallen into place: Clifford’s Inn, the lawyers, the brick building by a garden. But it was the ant that proved to me it had not been his waking dream.

If the ant had been real, and those other circumstances, then was it not probable that the rest of it was real too? In other words, that he had followed a woman who resembled my dead mother, at least from behind. And by the same token, did that mean his account of what had lain behind Mr Gromwell’s door was equally real?

To my amazement, I found myself believing that there really had been a luxurious chamber where there was now a scholar’s study. The bright carpet, the sinful picture and the wanton woman on the couch had been as real as this stall beside me, as real as the battered, damp-stained and fire- damaged volumes it offered for sale.

The wanton woman whose blood was probably on his cuff, and on the scrap of paper in my pocket. The dead woman whose eyes he had closed. There was no other conclusion.

‘Sir,’ said a deep voice at the level of my elbow, ‘I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Marwood? I am indeed fortunate.’

I started. Immediately in front of me was a large black hat. Its broad rim tipped backwards, revealing a small nose set in a broad face, red as the evening sun, and two blue, bloodshot eyes looking up at me.

‘Good day, Mr Chelling,’ I said. ‘Forgive me, sir, I was wool-gathering.’

‘You are come from Whitehall, no doubt. Is there … is there perhaps news from the King?’

‘Not yet, sir. In fact, I have not been there this afternoon.’

‘When you do, you will remember our conversation?’ Chelling put down the book he had been examining and took my sleeve. ‘About the Fire Court, and our difficulties with our bills? Not to mention with the authorities at the Inn.’

‘Of course.’ It occurred to me that this could be a fortunate encounter. If I could persuade Chelling to tell me what I needed to find out, it would remove the need for me to ask for Hakesby’s help – and, in return, to make him a loan that would leave me almost penniless. ‘Perhaps you would care to drink the King’s health with me?’ I said. ‘We might step over the way into the Devil.’

‘By all means, sir.’

Chelling bowed, which was not a success as he chanced to put his back foot on an uneven stone, which made him stumble. I caught his arm and steadied him. We crossed the road together with some difficulty, partly because of the traffic and partly because he was tottering along on two-inch heels. At the Devil, we went upstairs to the taproom. I ordered wine and found us a space at the end of a table at the back. The room was noisy – four law students were raising their voices in a ballad at the other end of the table, and two soldiers were arguing with passionate intensity about the disposition of the dragoons at an unnamed battle.

‘Have you known Mr Hakesby long?’ Chelling asked.

‘No, sir. Only since last year – the business at St Paul’s he mentioned.’

‘Of course – you told me earlier. What do you think of this so-called cousin of his, eh? Jane. Who did he say she was?’ Chelling stabbed his finger into my arm. ‘The sly old dog. Keeps him warm at night, I’ll be bound.’

I smiled politely. ‘It was civil of you to help me this morning,’ I said, trying to steer the conversation away from Catherine Lovett. ‘You mentioned this man Gromwell. I—’

‘Gromwell!’ Chelling burst out. ‘Always a maggot in his head about something. I cannot abide a man like that. We’ve all had our disappointments in life, but he bears his less gracefully than some I might mention.’