Читать книгу The King’s Evil - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 19

THE OFFICIAL NAME of the road was Portugal Street, in honour of our Queen, Catherine of Braganza, but everyone persisted in calling it Piccadilly. It was an old route west to Hyde Park and then towards Reading. Long ago, some of the land nearby had been owned by a man who had grown rich in the manufacture of those large old collars of cutwork lace named piccadills, and somehow the name had been transferred to the road. In recent years, the mansions of the rich had sprouted like monstrous mushrooms among the fields. The greatest of them all was Clarendon House.

It was a vast building of raw, unweathered stone surrounded by high walls and tall railings. It faced Piccadilly, looking south down the hill to St James’s Palace, which seemed diminished and even a little squalid in comparison with its magnificent new neighbour. I had heard Mr Williamson say that the King was not pleased that the house of a subject should so outshine his own palaces.

Most Londoners hated it, too. Here was Lord Clarendon in the splendour of his new house, while thousands of them had lost their own houses in the Fire. People called it Dunkirk House, for they said that the former Chancellor had profited hugely and corruptly from the government’s sale of that town, one of Cromwell’s conquests, to the French king.

Though it was broad daylight, the main gates were barred. The gateposts were still blackened in places. During the riots in June, the mob had lit bonfires here and burned the trees that used to line the street outside. They would have burned the house itself if they could.

The mob blamed him for all our ills, past and present, including the Queen’s failure to give the King an heir. They believed Clarendon had purposely found a barren wife for him so that his own grandchildren by the Duke of York would one day inherit the throne. They blamed him for our crushing defeat at the hands of the Dutch navy in the Battle of the Medway. They blamed him for everything. According to popular belief, no form of corruption was too large or too small for Lord Clarendon. It was even said that he had stolen the stone intended for rebuilding St Paul’s after the Fire and used it for his mansion.

It was a house in mourning – not for Alderley, of course, but for Lady Clarendon. Her funeral hatchment hung over the gateway. Two manservants, both carrying arms, waited inside the gates under a temporary shelter. I presented my credentials and asked to be taken to Mr Milcote. His name was enough to allow me into the forecourt. One of the servants escorted me to a side door in the west side of the house and brought me to an antechamber draped with black. It was so large you could have fitted the whole of Infirmary Close into it, from kitchen to attic. I was left to wait under the suspicious eye of a porter while yet another servant went to find Mr Milcote.

I heard his rapid footsteps before I saw him. He appeared in a doorway leading to a flight of stairs.

‘Mr Marwood – your servant, sir.’

We exchanged bows. He was a tall, quietly dressed man in his thirties. His periwig was fair, and his complexion suggested that the natural colour of his hair was not far removed from the wig’s. He too was in mourning.

‘I hope they haven’t kept you waiting. We have not been able to be as hospitable here as my lord would have liked, unfortunately.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Recent events, you understand.’

I nodded. There was an openness about Milcote that I liked at once, and also a sort of delicacy too, a sense of what was fitting for a situation. I said quietly, ‘I’m come on the King’s business.’

He glanced at the waiting servants, took my arm and led me outside. ‘You mustn’t think me rude but it will be better if we talk outside.’ He looked up at the grey sky. ‘At least the rain is slackening.’

We walked down the flagged path. The side of the house rose above us, austerely regular, blocking much of the light. We came to a gate of wrought iron, which Milcote unlocked to let us pass, and entered the garden at the back of the house.

‘I assume you have come about our … our recent discovery?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘My lord has much to occupy himself,’ he went on. If he had noticed the scars that the fire had left on the side of my face and my neck, he was too well bred to show it. ‘He may not be able to see you today.’

‘He knows I’m here?’

‘Oh yes. The Duke sent word that someone would come.’

We paused at the corner of the house, looking out over the garden. It was on the same scale as the house – at least five or six acres, and surrounded by high walls. The paths had been laid out, and many shrubs had been planted. But there was an unfinished quality to it all: some areas were covered in old canvas sails, much patched and faded; and the paths were rutted and muddy. Oblivious to the weather, teams of gardeners were at work. Against the far wall were two pavilions, which were only partly built. One of them lacked a roof. Between them, a gap in the wall was blocked by a heavy wooden palisade.

‘It will be the greatest garden in London when it’s finished,’ Milcote said. ‘The designs are Mr Evelyn’s. It’s a pity that this … this accident should happen here.’

‘Where, exactly?’

He pointed to the left-hand pavilion, the one with a roof. ‘Shall we go there directly?’

Milcote guided me to a path running parallel to the side wall. Halfway down, he paused to command a gardener to keep himself and his fellows away from this part of the garden. I glanced back at the front of the house. I saw a white blur at the first-floor window nearest to the south-west corner. Someone was watching us, his face distorted and ghostly behind the glass. We walked on.

‘I’ve sent the builders away,’ Milcote said.

‘They arrived after the body was found?’

‘Yes. They could have continued on the other pavilion, but I thought it wiser that we should have as few strangers here as possible while we deal with this.’

‘Then who knows about it?’

‘Besides me, I believe only the servant who found the body, one Matthew Gorse, and Lord Clarendon himself.’

‘But the rest of the household must be curious?’

‘I put it about that we had discovered the roof to be unsafe, and nothing could be done there until new tiles arrived.’ Milcote frowned. ‘And I sent a message to the builders telling them not to come today. But we can’t keep everyone in ignorance for long.’

The pavilion was of two storeys above a basement, with a balustrade masking the roof. Though the wall facing the garden was of stone, dressed similarly to the stone of the mansion, the wall to the side was of crumbling, dirty red bricks, which looked out of place in this setting. Near the ground was a small mullioned window set in a stone frame and protected by iron bars.

Milcote climbed a shallow flight of steps and unlocked the double door. I turned to see if the face was still visible at the window.

‘We are not overlooked?’ Milcote said.

‘I think someone was watching us from the house.’

For an instant alarm flared in his eyes, but he suppressed it. ‘A window? Which one?’

‘At the end to the right, on the first floor.’

‘My lord’s private apartments are there.’ He smiled, adding with obvious affection, ‘He may be old, but he likes to know what’s what.’

He pushed open one leaf of the door just wide enough to let us pass. I found myself in a room with brick walls, to which islands of old plaster still clung. It was lit by two tall windows, one facing the mansion and the other, at right angles to it, facing the other pavilion at the opposite corner of the garden. The flagged floor was uneven and stained with age. In one corner was a pile of planks and newly cut stones. The air was very cold.

‘The body’s downstairs in the kitchen,’ Milcote said, closing the door behind us and throwing the bolt across. ‘Through there.’

In the wall to the left, a door led to a lobby containing a staircase with worn treads.

I glanced up. ‘Where does it go to?’

‘The main apartment. After that, to the viewing platform.’

I followed Milcote down to the basement. It was the same size as the room above, and much gloomier, for the two barred windows were small and set high in the wall. It had a large fireplace with two ovens beside it. There was no furniture of any sort apart from a wooden contraption tucked into a corner, with a pile of scaffolding poles beside it. It was almost as high as the barrel-vaulted ceiling.

‘There,’ Milcote said, pointing at the floor in front of the empty fireplace where a long shape lay like a vast boar hound across the brick-lined hearth. It was draped with a horse blanket.

I took a step towards it but he caught my arm to stop me.

‘Have a care. The well is there.’

Ahead of me, a yard or so in front of the wooden contraption, was a wooden disc about five or six feet in diameter. It was countersunk into the floor, which was why I hadn’t noticed it before.

‘I wouldn’t trust my weight on the cover,’ Milcote said. ‘Just in case.’

I skirted the well and knelt by the body. I pulled back the blanket. My stomach heaved. I had seen too many dead bodies in the last few years. During the Plague they had been piled in the streets. But I’d never grown used to them.

This was Edward Alderley: there was no doubt about it. His single eye stared up at me. The face was almost grey. The features were heavier than I remembered. His mouth was open, showing blackened teeth. He had lost his wig, and the dome of his skull was speckled with stubble. There were drops of moisture on his skin.

I drew back the blanket to the waist and then down to the knees. A drawn sword was lying on the floor beside the body. The tip of the blade winked in the light from the lantern. The sheath, which hung from the belt by two thin chains, had entangled itself with the legs. The leather was black from the water.

Death had made Alderley look ridiculous, as death is apt to do. Frowning, I touched his collar and then his coat.

‘He’s soaking wet.’

‘Didn’t they tell you?’ Milcote said. ‘The poor man fell in the well and was drowned.’

I glanced at the cover. ‘But how? The cover’s on.’

‘It wasn’t over the well this morning. It was leaning against the wall.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘It must have been after Saturday afternoon. That was when work stopped. So between then and first thing this morning when the servant came to unlock the pavilion.’

‘Perhaps he was here on Saturday with the builders,’ I suggested. ‘And they locked him in by accident.’

‘It’s possible.’ Milcote shrugged. ‘But unlikely. The surveyor in charge of the works is a sober man, very thorough. He was on site on Saturday – I saw him myself.’ He hesitated. ‘Between ourselves, there’s some doubt as to whether the work will continue. Mr Hakesby is understandably concerned, as he’s already retained the builders.’

I swallowed. ‘Did you say – Hakesby?’

‘Yes. The surveyor-architect. An experienced man, highly recommended.’ Milcote looked curiously at me, and I knew my face must have betrayed the shock I felt. ‘I’ll question him, of course, but I’m sure he would have ensured the well was covered up when he left, and the building secure. He has his own key.’

‘Yes,’ I began, ‘or I will talk to him myself.’ I tried to mask my confusion with a change of subject. ‘Who identified Alderley?’

‘I did. I was a little acquainted with the gentleman, and he’s visited Clarendon House in the past.’ Milcote hesitated. ‘But I had no idea he was here, or how he got into the pavilion.’

I was about to ask how he knew Alderley when there was a hammering above our heads. Both of us swung round as if surprised in a guilty act. The sound bounced off the walls, filling the empty spaces between them with dull echoes.

Milcote swore under his breath. He took the stairs, two at a time. I followed. He unbolted the door. I glimpsed a manservant through the crack.

‘It’s my lord, master. He wants to see you in his closet. And the other gentleman.’

The old man sat by the window wrapped in a quilted bedgown. His bandaged legs rested on a padded stool. Clarendon was a martyr to the gout, Milcote had told me on the way up here, so much so that even the staircases in the house had been designed with exceptionally shallow treads to make them as easy as possible for him to climb.

A brisk fire burned in the grate, and the room was uncomfortably warm. After the grandeur of the stairs and the outer rooms, I had not expected this closet to be small. It was full of colours and objects – paintings, sculptures, rugs, pieces of china, curiosities and books – always books, more and more books.

My warrant from the King lay on Clarendon’s lap. He had insisted on examining it himself, even holding it up to the light from the window, as if the very paper it was written on held secrets of its own.

‘Marwood,’ he said. He looked half as old as time, but his voice was clear and hard. ‘Marwood. Was there once a printer of that name? Dead now, I think.’

‘Yes, my lord. My father.’

Clarendon’s memory was legendary, as was his command of detail. His small eyes studied me, but to my relief he did not pursue the subject. ‘You’re from Whitehall, yes?’

‘I work for Mr Williamson on the Gazette.’

‘The Gazette?’ His face grew suspicious. ‘Does that mean that Lord Arlington has a finger in the pie, as he usually does?’

‘No, my lord.’ I heard a creak as Milcote shifted his weight beside me.

‘Did you see the King? Or the Duke?’

‘No – Mr Chiffinch gave me the warrant and sent me here.’

Lord Clarendon sniffed. ‘Does Chiffinch often give you errands, eh?’

‘Sometimes – I’m also clerk to the Board of Red Cloth, and he’s one of the commissioners.’

‘We know what that means,’ Clarendon said tartly. ‘The Board does nothing for the salaries it receives. Its commissioners oblige the King in less official ways. And therefore so does its clerk.’ He turned to Milcote. ‘Well, George. We must cooperate, of course, which means we must give Mr Marwood all the assistance in our power. Was Alderley murdered?’

Milcote shrugged. ‘We haven’t examined the body yet, my lord, but it’s hard to see how he could have fallen into the well of his own accord. If it was dark, he might have stumbled into it. But what was he doing there in the first place?’

‘How did you know him?’ Clarendon paused and glanced at Milcote; I had the sense that a silent message had passed between them.

Milcote cleared his throat. ‘I had some acquaintance with him years ago, my lord – in the years of his prosperity.’

‘Before his father’s downfall, you mean. A more treacherous rogue never existed.’

‘Whatever his father was, Edward Alderley was kind to me then.’ Milcote cleared his throat again. ‘When I met him a few months ago, his condition was sadly altered. I believe he had tried to improve what was left of his fortunes at the tables.’

‘A gambler.’ Clarendon’s voice was harsh. ‘The most stupid of all mankind.’

‘He was trying to change his ways. He wanted to improve his condition by wiser means – he asked for my help.’

‘So, like the fool you are, you lent him money, I suppose?’

‘Yes, my lord – a little – enough to pay his most pressing debts.’

‘You’re too soft-hearted, George. You’ve seen the last of that.’

Not just soft-hearted, I thought, but gullible enough to be taken in by a rogue like Edward Alderley.

‘He told me he was searching for some respectable form of employment,’ Milcote went on. ‘I promised to look around for him. I would have asked you, but I knew you would have no time for him.’

‘So you are not altogether a fool.’ Clarendon didn’t return the smile but there was a touch of warmth in his voice. ‘And what was he doing here? And in the pavilion?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘My lord,’ I said, growing a little impatient. ‘I understand that the only other person who knows of this man’s death is the servant who unlocked the pavilion this morning and found the body.’

Clarendon looked sharply at me. He did not take kindly to those who spoke before they were spoken to. ‘First things first. Have I your word that you will be discreet? I can’t afford a scandal at this time.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘If the news gets out, I shall know who to blame.’ He looked steadily at me. ‘You would not like to be my enemy.’

I refused to allow him to intimidate me. I had the King’s warrant. ‘May I have your permission to speak to the servant?’

‘Of course.’ Clarendon glanced at Milcote. ‘Who was it?’

‘Gorse, my lord.’

‘I don’t know him. Have him brought to me.’

‘Unfortunately he’s not here.’ Milcote lowered his voice. ‘The mourning rings.’

‘You may know,’ Clarendon said to me in a flat voice purged of emotion, ‘my wife died last month.’

‘Gorse is delivering mourning rings for my lady today,’ Milcote explained. ‘Mainly to former dependants and acquaintances. So he will be here and there all over London. He should be back after dinner. But I don’t know when.’

‘Is he trustworthy?’ Clarendon said.

‘I believe so, my lord – I knew him in his old place, and suggested him to the steward.’

‘I want this riddle solved,’ Clarendon said, still looking at me. ‘Do you understand? For my sake as well as the King’s. You may make what enquiries you need to in my house, but Milcote must accompany you at all times, inside and out.’

I nodded. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

‘My late wife was fond of that pavilion,’ he went on, his voice softening. ‘It was an old banqueting hall – she remembered it fondly from her youth. I wanted to tear it down and build it anew to match everything else. But she pleaded with me, and in the end I agreed to preserve at least part of it, though I insisted on its being remodelled to match the rest of my house and garden.’ He paused, staring at me. ‘Are you married, Mr Marwood?’

I shook my head.

‘No? If you ever are, you will find that it is a matter of perpetual compromise.’ His voice trailed away, and he turned his head to look out of the window.

‘Alderley’s body was found in the well, my lord,’ I said. ‘Was that part of the old building?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at me again, and his eyes were brighter than before. ‘Lady Clarendon was particularly attached to its water. She said it was always cold, even on the hottest day, and that the spring that feeds it is unusually pure. Indeed, she believed it to be the purest in London.’ His voice changed, and I knew without knowing how that he was furiously angry. ‘This body has sullied my wife’s well, Marwood. It has polluted the spring. Tell the King that I want this made clean for her sake.’