Читать книгу The Ashes of London - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 19

BARNABAS PLACE WAS not far from Holborn Bridge, where my Lord Craven’s men had brought the Fire to heel yesterday. The streets around it were mean, but the house itself was ancient and of considerable size. It also appeared to be built largely of stone, which must be a great comfort (Master Williamson remarked) in these inflammatory times.

I rapped on the great gate with the hilt of my dagger. Williamson stared about him, his mouth twisting with distaste. Refugees had swollen the crowd of beggars and supplicants that usually gathered at a rich man’s gate.

I knocked again. This time a shutter slid back and a porter asked me what we wanted.

‘Master Williamson is here on the King’s business. Tell Master Alderley he is here.’

The porter let us in, shaking his staff at two women, one with a baby wrapped in a shawl, who tried to slip in after us to beg for alms or find shelter. He showed us up a short flight of steps and into an anteroom.

All this was to be expected, but for some reason the porter was not at his ease. His eyes were restless, and he could not wait to leave us alone. After he left the room, we saw him whispering to another servant, and then both men turning to look towards the room where we were.

Moments passed. I stood by an oriel window overlooking a small courtyard. Williamson paced up and down, occasionally pausing to make a pencilled note in his memorandum book. It was strangely quiet after the hubbub of the streets. The thick walls of Barnabas Place made it both a sanctuary and a prison.

‘Why in God’s name is Alderley keeping us waiting?’ Williamson burst out, his Northern accent particularly marked.

‘Something’s going on, sir. Look.’

While I had been at the window, nearly a score of servants had gathered in the yard; they waited, uncharacteristically idle for the time of day, moving restlessly to and fro, and holding short, murmured conversations with each other. There was a furtiveness about their behaviour, and a strange air of uncertainty.

At that moment the door of the anteroom opened and a young lady entered. Williamson and I uncovered and bowed.

‘Mistress Alderley,’ Williamson said. ‘How do you do?’

She curtsied. ‘Master Williamson. I hope I find you in good health?’

Her dark eyes flicked towards me, and I felt an inconvenient jolt of attraction towards her.

‘Sir, my husband begs your indulgence, but he is delayed,’ she went on without waiting for a reply. ‘He will come as soon as he can, I promise. A matter of minutes.’

‘But he’s here?’

She was older than I had first thought, a shapely woman with fine eyes. Her charms were not moving at the same rate as the calendar. She looked tired.

‘Yes, sir, he is,’ she said. ‘And you must pardon the delay. We have had such—’

She was interrupted by another knock at the gate. Murmuring excuses, she slipped from the room in a rustle of silks.

We heard her voice outside, raised in command, and that of the porter and of a stranger. A little later a man clad in black crossed the courtyard under convoy of the porter. They went almost at a run, scattering the servants as they passed.

‘I know that man,’ Williamson said, joining me at the window. ‘It’s Dr Grout, isn’t it?’

‘A physician, sir?’

‘Of course. What did you think I meant? A doctor of theology? He treated my Lady Castlemaine when she had the French pox. She swears by him.’

Mistress Alderley returned. ‘Forgive me, sirs – we are at sixes and sevens.’

‘Someone’s ill?’ There was a hint of panic in Williamson’s voice, for stone walls were not a barrier to all evils, only to some of them. ‘Not the plague, I hope? Not here?’

‘Not that, sir, God be thanked.’ A muscle twitched beneath her left eye. ‘Something worse. My stepson, Edward, was attacked last night. In this very house. In his own bed.’

Williamson sat down suddenly.

‘God’s body, madam. Will he live?’

‘It’s in the hands of God, sir, and Dr Grout’s. Poor Edward was stabbed in the eye. He has burns as well – his bed curtains were set on fire. He lies between life and death.’

‘Have you caught the man who did it?’

‘We believe so.’ Mistress Alderley sat down opposite him and gestured with a hand heavy with rings at the window to the courtyard. ‘It was an old servant, a malcontent. He was roaming the house last night at the time of the attack. My husband will soon have the truth out of him.’

‘Madam,’ Williamson began. ‘There is something Master Alderley must know about another—’

He broke off. There was a commotion in the courtyard below. Two burly servants were manoeuvring an old man out of a narrow doorway sunk below the ground. The captive’s hands were tied in front of him. His face was bloody. His hair lay loose on his shoulders. He wore a shirt and breeches. His feet were bare.

‘He set fire to the house, too,’ Mistress Alderley said. ‘We could have burned to death in our beds.’

The servants pulled the old man up the steps and dragged him across the cobbles to a ring set in the opposite wall. They strapped his wrists to the ring. The younger servant tugged at the buckle to make sure it was secure.

His colleague brought out a trestle, placed it between the old man and the wall, and forced him to his knees. He seized the shirt at the neck and ripped it apart, exposing the victim’s thin, curving back. The vertebrae stood out like a bony saw.

Williamson and Mistress Alderley joined me at the window. No one spoke.

Another man approached the little group in the yard. He wore a dark suit of good quality and looked like a discreetly prosperous merchant. He carried a whip in his hand, from which hung nine tails, each tipped with steel.

‘Who’s this, madam?’ Williamson said.

‘Master Mundy, sir. The steward.’

Both Williamson and Mistress Alderley had automatically lowered their voices.

There was a hush in the yard. Apart from Mundy, no one moved. He took the bound man by his hair and twisted his head so he might see the whip with its dangling tips of steel, so that he might understand that this would be no ordinary whipping.

Mundy released the old man’s head. He stood back and waited.

The seconds stretched out and seemed to grow into minutes. I found I was holding my breath. At last a figure emerged from the shadow of an archway on the far side of the yard. With the exception of the man stretched over the trestle, the servants straightened their bodies and turned towards him.

He was middle aged, tall and spare, dressed with a sober magnificence. He walked to the trestle and stood by it.

The scene in the courtyard now had a theatrical quality – even a religious one, as if some quasi-sacred ritual, sanctified by law and custom, was about to be enacted. Master Alderley was entirely within his rights to take a whip, even a cat o’ nine tails, to a refractory servant, particularly one under suspicion of a grave offence. Was he not master in his own home, where his word was law, just as the King was master in England, and God was the master of all?

But something chilled me in the sight of Alderley on one side of the trestle and Mundy swinging the whip in the other. Their victim, tied like a pig before slaughter, was small, ragged and grey.

Alderley’s lips were moving. The window was closed. His words were inaudible in the anteroom above the courtyard.

The steward bowed to his master. In a flurry of movement, he swung the whip high and brought it down on the wall just above the ring to which the victim was tied. Mortar sprayed from the masonry in tiny puffs of dust. The steel tips did not touch him. But the old man bucked against his bonds and tried to rear up.

Williamson watched, his face rapt. ‘You’re sure he assaulted his master’s son?’

‘It’s a certainty, sir.’ Mistress Alderley glanced at him. ‘Besides, if it had been a stranger, the mastiffs would have had him.’

It was not her words that gave me pause. It was something in her voice and in that swift, sideways glance at Williamson’s face.

She wants him to believe what she says, I thought. It’s important to her.

‘Why?’ Williamson said. ‘Why would he commit such a crime against man and God? Was the motive robbery?’

Mistress Alderley was staring out of the window again. ‘He’s an ill-conditioned, awkward fellow, sir, with a head full of wicked notions.’

‘Then why’s he in service here?’

‘He served a connection of my husband’s first wife, a man who took up arms against the King and committed all manner of evil in the late disturbances. Master Alderley only took him in for charity’s sake, for otherwise he would have starved.’ Again that sideways glance at Williamson’s face. ‘And look what his kindness has brought upon us.’

I flinched as the first blow of the whip landed on the old man. The victim screamed, and the sound penetrated the glass of the window. His body lifted and twisted. Spots of blood appeared across his back and side. They coalesced into streaks and then into broadening crimson lines.

Mundy glanced at his master, who nodded. I wished I could look away. But I could not.

The whip fell again, the steel tips of the thongs raking across the skin. It left the victim shuddering, gasping for breath.

A spot of blood touched the sleeve of Alderley’s coat. Mundy waited while his master took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it. Then Alderley stepped back and nodded again to the steward.

The whip fell for the third time.

‘It’s an example for the other servants, too,’ Mistress Alderley said, swallowing hard; perhaps she didn’t like this spectacle any more than I did. ‘Afterwards he will go before a magistrate, of course, but Master Alderley says that none is to be found at present, because of the Fire. They’ve all fled.’

The servant’s back had been reduced to a raw red mess, flecked with white where the bones beneath the skin had been exposed. Alderley held up his hand. Mundy backed away, the whip held over the crook of his arm. The semicircle of watching, murmuring servants retreated, moving away from the steward as if the thing he carried were infectious.

The flogged man was arching his back and gasping for breath. Alderley bent down and said something in his ear. If it earned a reply, it did not satisfy him, for once again he moved away and signalled to Mundy.

‘I wish to God this were not necessary,’ Mistress Alderley said, turning away from the window.

The whip fell for the fourth time.

The body bucked and slumped over the trestle, the head drooping down as if its own weight had become intolerable. The cobbles beneath the body glistened with blood.

It was a body now, I realized, not a man. I felt ashamed and soiled, as if by witnessing what had happened I had somehow condoned it.

Williamson shifted from one foot to the other. ‘It’s a bad business, madam.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ she said softly.

Mundy came forward and bent to examine the mess of blood, tendon and bone stretched across the trestle. He glanced up at his master and gave a tiny shake of the head. A shudder rippled through the watching servants.

Alderley gave the steward an order, dabbed his sleeve again and walked across the courtyard without another glance at the body. He paused beneath the oriel window, looked up and bowed. He passed inside, and a moment later his heavy footsteps sounded outside the door of the antechamber.

He bowed again, without servility, to Master Williamson, acknowledged his wife’s curtsy and, having glanced at me, ignored me altogether.

‘I’m grieved that you saw that,’ he said. ‘My apologies.’

‘My dear.’ Mistress Alderley did not look into his face. ‘Did the wretch confess at last?’

‘Yes,’ Alderley said loudly. ‘At the very end. The damned ingrate – he cheated the gallows. And left my poor son at death’s door.’

‘I must go to Edward,’ said Mistress Alderley. ‘Would you give me leave to withdraw, sir?’

‘Of course. I shall join you as soon as I may.’

I rushed to open the door for her. She fluttered from the room with a swift, assessing glance at me by way of thanks.

‘My wife has told you our troubles, sir?’ Alderley said to Williamson. ‘Dr Grout is with poor Edward now.’

Dr Grout could not say for sure whether or not Edward would recover. At all events he would lose the sight of his right eye. There was the risk of infection, too. His right arm was very badly burned. His pain and distress were terrible to witness. But for the grace of God, the fire in his chamber might have spread further and the entire house would have gone up in flames. They could all have been burned to cinders in their own beds.

Williamson presented his condolences as if they were as cumbersome as a box of stones. His Northern tongue did not slip easily into the flowery speech of the South.

‘Now, sir,’ Master Williamson said. ‘I must not delay you at such a time. But one thing cannot wait.’

I returned to the window, to avoid giving the impression that I was eavesdropping. Blood had pooled around the trestle. The servants had already dragged the old man’s body from the courtyard.

‘Is one of your manservants missing?’

The blood had dried to a rusty red on the cobbles. As I watched, a boy came into the yard with a broom and a bucket. He emptied a silver arc of water over the trestle and the cobbles around it.

‘What?’ Alderley said, frowning. ‘How in the world did you hear that, sir? I take it you mean Layne?’

Below me, a man appeared with four mastiffs on leashes, two to each hand. He paused to say something to the boy. Meanwhile, the dogs lowered their heavy heads and licked the bloody water with enthusiasm.

‘Layne?’ Master Williamson abandoned his attempt to approach the subject delicately. ‘I’ve no idea of his name, sir. All I know is that we have found a man wearing your livery in the ruins of St Paul’s. It pains me to tell you that he was murdered.’