The Fire Court: A gripping historical thriller from the bestselling author of The Ashes of London

You parasite, she thought, and smiled and nodded her head while the gentlemen laughed and toasted her. Duty done, they went back to their conversation.

‘I had no idea you would be sitting on the Dragon Yard petition,’ Philip said to Sir Thomas. ‘What a coincidence.’ As Jemima knew to her cost, he had the knack of speaking the clumsiest, crudest lie with such assurance that it became a self-evident truth. ‘It is so truly admirable that you judges sit for love of country, and for the city, and not for gold. You will be a pattern for future generations.’ He raised his glass. ‘A toast. Good health and prosperity to our Fire Court judges.’

They drank solemnly, and Hester came to the door with the guinea fowl, now dressed for table in their sauce. Jemima tasted a morsel and found the dish perfectly cooked, which pleased her, for she had pride in the food served at her table, as in other matters that belonged to her.

‘I sometimes attend these hearings myself, sir,’ Gromwell said. ‘Not that I have a pecuniary interest in them, you understand, but for the sheer quality of the judgements.’

‘You’re a lawyer, sir?’ Sir Thomas asked. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you in court.’

‘I’ve never practised, sir. As a young man, however, I passed many profitable hours in the study of the law, and I believe I retain the ability to appreciate a well-argued case’ – he bowed towards Sir Thomas – ‘and a well-considered verdict.’

The gentlemen ate, and drank, and drank again. The room grew warmer. Sir Thomas was obliged to retire behind the screen to relieve himself. Jemima wanted to laugh at them, at their mockery of good fellowship, but instead she picked at her food and smiled at the compliments which were thrown her way like scraps to the bitch under the table; occasionally, as a well-bred hostess should, she threw in the sort of question designed less to elicit information than to allow the hearer to shine in his answer. But she said nothing to Gromwell.

Later – half an hour? an hour? – the conversation returned to the subject of the Fire Court. ‘It is not a court of law,’ Sir Thomas was saying, apparently to herself, ‘though our judgements have the force of law, and have the ability to override such things that are usually considered sacrosanct. Leases, for example, and contracts relating to property.’

‘And if I understand you correctly, sir,’ Gromwell put in with the air of an eager student, ‘your judgements do not set a precedent, but apply only to the petition under consideration.’

‘Precisely.’ Sir Thomas nodded vigorously and held out his glass for more. ‘You have understood me perfectly, sir.’ He beamed at Gromwell. ‘If I may say so, it is the law’s loss that you decided to apply your energies in other fields of knowledge. Our powers are intended simply to help London return to its former glory as soon as possible, for the good of the City and the Kingdom as a whole.’ He hammered his fist on the table. ‘And indeed the world. For does not our trade encircle the entire globe and enrich all it touches?’

This led to another toast, after which Philip said, smiling, ‘And if all goes well, sir, with the wise help of the judges, we shall do more than restore London. We shall increase its glories for centuries to come.’

‘I suppose Dragon Yard will be a case in point,’ Gromwell said. ‘Eh, Philip? If the decision next week goes in your favour, that is.’

Here we are, Jemima thought, we have come at last to the point of this tedious meal.

Gromwell turned to the judge. ‘I’ve studied the plans. It’s a most noble development, sir, with houses of the first class, laid out and built in a way that will make them proof against future fires. Safe, commodious and an ornament to the City. And also to the benefit of the public and of trade, I understand. It will provide another way to Cheapside, thereby easing the congestion of traffic there.’

Twisden’s face became serious; he looked like a flushed owl. ‘No doubt, sir, no doubt. Though all that would require considerable investment.’

‘We must not weary Sir Thomas with talk of business.’ Philip smiled round the table. ‘Would you care for a hand or two of cards, sir?’

The judge brightened. ‘If her ladyship would not object. And Gromwell too, of course.’

‘I should like it above everything,’ Gromwell said, smiling. ‘What would you say to lanterloo? And perhaps a shilling or two on the outcome?’

‘Why not? It adds a certain spice, does it not?’

‘I think, sir,’ Jemima said, ‘if you would not object, and if Sir Thomas and Mr Gromwell would not think me discourteous, I shall leave you to your play.’

‘Of course they will excuse you, my love,’ Philip said. ‘You are not fully yourself yet, and you must not overtire yourself. We can play with three as well as four. Richard? Send for Mary to help her mistress upstairs.’

A moment or two later, she withdrew. Sir Thomas bowed so deeply he stumbled against a chair and almost fell.

‘All well, my lady?’ Mary said softly as they climbed the stairs.

‘Well enough.’

Jemima was tempted to add ‘for your master’, but held her peace. She would lay good money that Philip would have known beforehand of Twisden’s taste for lanterloo, and that he would have arranged with Gromwell for the judge to win a pound or two from each of them.

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.’

CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_0518143c-05c1-5fff-a4f8-3f97dcc56601)

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?’