The King's Evil Read online

  'I am relieved to find you safe and sound,' said Christopher with unfeigned sincerity. 'When I heard news of the fire, I feared that it might have reached this far.'

  'Happily, no. It did not progress beyond Temple Bar. But that does not mean I came through the ordeal unscathed,' Henry emphasised, keen to portray himself as a victim. 'For I did not. I shared the misery of many friends who lost their homes and suffered agonies of apprehension on account of my own property. As for the city itself, it was like being locked in Bedlam.'

  'What started the fire?'

  'That was the problem, Christopher. Nobody knew and so they drew their own conclusions. The blaze was so fierce and so widespread that it seemed to have been started deliberately. Mobs soon formed, believing that London had been torched by Catholics. Passions ran high and the wilder spirits took the law into their own hands. We had open riot.'

  'Is there any proof of a Popish Plot?'

  'The mobs thought so,' said Henry ruefully. 'They beat confessions out of any Catholic they could find. Innocent foreigners were attacked at random. Frenchmen, Italians and the like who were unwise enough to venture into the streets were set on without mercy. The fortunate ones got away with cuts, bruises and broken bones. I have no sympathy for the Old Religion - remember to tell that to our father - but I do not wish its practitioners to be torn to shreds by an enraged mob. I abhor violence of any kind. It was shameful to behold.'

  'Were any arrests made?'

  'Dozens. But since most of the prisons were burned down, there was nowhere to keep the miscreants. It has been a gruesome week.'

  'Who, then, did start the fire?'

  'Investigations still continue but the finger points to a careless baker in Pudding Lane. That is certainly where the blaze began.'

  Christopher gulped. 'A vast city razed by the folly of one man?'

  'The fellow denies it hotly but he looks like the culprit.'

  'Who will buy bread from him after this?'

  'Ship's biscuits. That is what he made. Hard tack. I should know,' observed Henry, straightening his back with self-importance. 'His output helps to victual our fleet. His damnable name has probably passed before my eyes a dozen times at the Navy Office. But enough of the fire,' he said, crossing to rest an elbow on the marble mantelpiece and display himself to full effect. 'It has wreaked its havoc and been brought under control. What we must look to now are the rich pickings it may offer.'

  Christopher was puzzled. 'What rich pickings? The city has been reduced to a state of abject poverty.'

  'Use your imagination, brother.'

  'To what end?'

  'Future prospects. One city may have vanished but another one must rise in its place. The opportunities for a talented architect are unlimited. Scores of them will be needed to act as midwives if the new London is to be brought into being.'

  'That thought did cross my mind,' admitted the other.

  'Seize on it, Christopher. It is the chance you have wanted.'

  'I never wanted such wholesale destruction.'

  'Nor more did I,' said Henry smoothly, 'but I am alert to the openings it suddenly provides. I know you think me heartless and given over entirely to a life of vice but I do honour my promises. When Father enjoined me to take you under my wing in London, I vowed that I would. I am sure that you will be gracious enough to concede that I have kept that vow.'

  'You have,' said Christopher. 'I made much of the point to Father. It was the one honest thing I could say in your favour.'

  'Did he have no strictures for you?'

  'Indeed he did, Henry. He taxed me with my inability to settle in a career and he was not at all impressed when I argued that I had made my mark in several. As I reminded him, I studied law at Cambridge then became embroiled in anatomy before trying my hand, with some success, at writing poetry. Astronomy was my next love and I prospered in its study until the blandishments of philosophy seduced me away. I spent a whole year among fine minds. I tell you, Henry, there is nothing which thrills the blood so much as a lively debate with fellow-philosophers.'

  'I would take serious issue with you over that,' said his brother, arching a lecherous eyebrow. 'When I wish to thrill the blood, I do not require the presence of a fine mind. A voluptuous body alone suffices. But come to your latest enthusiasm, brother.'

  'It is much more than that.'

  'That is what I hoped.'

  'Architecture is my obsession.'

  'For how many weeks is it likely to last?'

  'Indefinitely,' said Christopher with polite vehemence. 'I have found my true metier at last. Architecture embraces all the other disciplines. It combines the severity of the law with the fascination of anatomy, the joy of poetry, the mystery of astronomy and the intellectual stimulus of philosophy. When you add the iron logic of mathematics, you have a profession which outstrips all others. An architect is at once an artist and a scientist. What could be nobler?'

  'Nobility can wait,' said Henry, strolling across to him. 'All that I am concerned with is securing a regular income for you. I have seen your drawings and was much impressed. They are brilliant. And I know that you have applied yourself diligently to this new interest.'

  'Oh, it is not new, Henry. The seeds were sewn long ago in Rome when I chanced to meet Signor Bernini. He designed the Piazza of St Peter's and much else besides. Albeit a Catholic - I have not dared to breathe his name to Father - Bernini opened my eyes to the beauty of architecture. I have been putting my ideas down on paper ever since.'

  'To good effect. You are clearly very gifted.'

  'It is one of the reasons I went to Oxford,' continued the other as the glow of idealism lit up his features. 'To watch the progress of the Sheldonian Theatre. It is an extraordinary building. Wren is a genius. His design is breathtaking.'

  'I am glad you mentioned your namesake. Christopher Wren is indeed a genius. The Great Fire will be the making of him.'

  'In what way?'

  'He has been invited to prepare a plan for the rebuilding of the city,' explained Henry knowledgeably. 'Wren is not the only one, mark you. I happen to know that John Evelyn will be submitting his own scheme, as will others. I have also caught wind of a notion put forward by a certain Captain Valentine Knight, involving the building of a wide canal from the River Fleet to Billingsgate. Ha!' he sneered with a gesture of disgust. 'Have you ever heard such nonsense?'

  'You are amazingly well informed, Henry.'

  'I consort with the right company.'

  'Which of these many plans will be adopted?'

  'That is the one thing I cannot tell you. They will have to be assessed in due course. But my guess is that Wren will emerge as the leading figure. Pattern yourself on him.'

  'That is my intention.'

  'Carpe diem, Christopher. Commit yourself. Study in earnest. It will be months before any rebuilding is allowed and that gives you time to hone your skills. Be ready to help the phoenix rise from the ashes.'

  'Nothing would please me more!'

  'I will do my share,' volunteered Henry. 'It is astonishing what information trickles into my ears. When new houses are in demand, I will assuredly learn who wishes to commission some of them. My advice may even be sought in certain cases. How convenient it would be if I could recommend, as an architect, my own brother.'

  Christopher was touched. 'Would you do that for me, Henry?' he said, unused to such filial assistance. 'I would be eternally grateful.'

  'You can repay me by harping on my generosity when you next write to Father. Play the architect in your correspondence. Design a Henry Redmayne who is more appealing to a Dean of Gloucester.'

  'That is a feat beyond even my talent,' said his brother with a chuckle. 'But I will do my best. As for your offer, I embrace it warmly. I will serve a speedy apprenticeship and be ready when the call comes.'

  'Then there is no more to be said.'

  They exchanged a warm handshake then Henry drifted to the mirror to make a few adjustments to his apparel. Chris
topher came up behind him with a knowing smile.

  'You are going out this evening, I see.'

  'I'll not let a fire deprive me of my pleasures.'

  'But all your haunts have been destroyed, surely?'

  'Some escaped,' said Henry suavely, brushing a fleck of dust from his sleeve. 'Besides, I am bidden this evening to an establishment in Faringdon Without. That ward was unmolested by the fire. Many who fled from the city have taken up residence there.' He turned to face Christopher and gave a quizzical smirk. 'I suppose that it is no use my inviting you to accompany me?'

  'No, Henry.'

  'A visit to a house of resort might educate you.'

  'Love which has to be bought has no value for me.'

  'It is the only kind a man can truly rely on, Christopher.'

  'Enjoy it in my stead.'

  'Are you not even tempted?'

  'Not in the slightest,' said Christopher with a grin. 'I have a far more important place to visit this evening.'

  'Where is that?'

  'The city of London. If I am to help rebuild it, I must first see the full extent of the damage. That is where I will be while the light holds. You seek out the delights of the flesh, Henry,' he said, guiding his brother out of the room. 'I must go forth to meet my destiny.'

  Chapter Three

  The man moved swiftly. Making sure that he was unobserved, he pushed aside the charred remnants of the front door and stepped into the house. A timber-framed property with a thatched roof, it had been completely gutted by the fire and nothing survived in any of the rooms to tempt a thief. The man was not concerned with the interior of the dwelling. His interest was in the garden. He clambered through to it. Plants and bushes had been burned away and the little orchard was now no more than a collection of blackened stumps, surrounded by countless shrivelled apples and pears. That did not deter him. The man set about scouring the whole garden, searching the lawn then kicking away piles of ash so that he could examine the scorched flowerbeds. He soon found what he was after - a patch where the earth had recently been disturbed then stamped back into position. A hiding place.

  From beneath his coat, he produced a small shovel. Kneeling down, he began to dig quickly but carefully, eager to secure his prize but not wishing to damage it by too vigorous a use of his implement. When he made contact with something solid, he abandoned the shovel and used both hands to scrape the earth away. A first bottle of wine came into view, then a second, then two more, each with the owner's crest upon them. It had to be expensive wine to be worth burying. He dug on until he unearthed a further three dozen bottles of Canary wine, six of brandy and an array of cheeses wrapped up in muslin then stuffed into a wooden box. It was a good haul. What he could not eat or drink himself, he could sell for a tidy profit. He made a mental note to save the Parmesan cheese for his own use.

  The man was not finished yet. A property as substantial as this one argued an owner of some wealth. If he vacated the house at speed, he might not have been able to carry away all that he wished. Wine and cheese had been left behind. There was a chance that gold or valuables might also have been buried in the garden to await his return. The man sensed that there were richer rewards still at the bottom of the pit. He reached for his shovel once more. As his hand closed around the handle, however, a large shoe descended on his wrist and pinned it to the ground. It belonged to a brawny constable who loomed over him.

  'Have they not suffered enough?' said Jonathan Bale solemnly. 'Their home has already been destroyed by fire. Must they also have their last few possessions stolen by a common thief?'

  'They will not miss a bottle or two of wine,' said the man with an ingratiating smirk, trying to turn his captor into an accomplice. 'Let us each take what we want and nobody will be any the wiser.'

  'I will, my friend.'

  'Then you have it all, constable.'

  'I want none of your stolen goods.'

  'It is fine wine and good cheese.'

  'The people who bought it are entitled to enjoy it.' Jonathan gave a grim smile. 'That is why you are going to put it back where you found it.'

  The man was horrified. 'Put it back?'

  'Every last bottle. Every piece of cheese.'

  'But it is such a waste.'

  'Do as I tell you.'

  'There may be gold or valuables down there as well,' said the thief, pointing with his free hand. 'Why not let me dig down to find out? We might both end up as rich men.'

  'You will end up in prison, my friend. Trespass is the first charge. Theft, the second. Trying to corrupt a constable, the third. Now, put everything back where you found it before I lose my patience.' He lifted his foot to release the man. 'Hurry up. I will wait.'

  Protesting loudly, the man did as he was ordered and replaced the wine and cheese in the pit before filling it with earth then patting it with the flat of his shovel. He stood up to stamp it more firmly into place. His predicament was dire. Caught in the act, he could expect to suffer the full severity of the law. That left him with one last option. Still holding the shovel, he tightened his grip on it and swung it viciously at Jonathan's head. The constable was ready for him. He ducked beneath the tool then countered with a solid punch to the jaw which sent his assailant reeling backwards. As the man fell heavily to the ground, he dropped the shovel and Jonathan kicked it clear. Still dazed, the thief was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged back through the empty house.

  The two watchmen who had been stationed outside were elderly men but their combined strength was more than enough to cope with the prisoner now that all the fight had been knocked out of him. Jonathan handed the man over to his colleagues. One of them, Abraham Datchett, a spry character in his sixties, got a firm grip on the malefactor.

  'Another thief?' he enquired.

  'The worst kind,' said Jonathan. 'He tried to bribe me into silence.'

  'More fool him!'

  'Take him to the magistrate and see him locked up.'

  'We will, Jonathan.'

  'I will make a full report when I come off duty.'

  'What was he trying to steal?'

  'Wine and cheese. Oh, yes,' said Jonathan with a grin. 'And he decided to take my head with him for good measure. But I ducked just in time. Away, with the rogue, Abraham. He deserves no mercy.'

  The watchmen hauled their prisoner off between them and the constable continued his rounds. Guarding damaged properties was one of his main tasks. Even derelict houses like this one might yield some booty. It was one of the more depressing effects of the Great Fire. Loss for the many had been offset by excessive gain for the few. Watermen, carriers and others who assisted fleeing householders increased their charges to exorbitant levels for customers who were in no position to refuse to pay. There were at least some shards of legality about this practice though it had no moral justification.

  But there was nothing remotely legal about the epidemic of burglary which broke out as bold thieves ransacked houses which had been abandoned in the path of the fire or, as now, climbed into the garden of a derelict property to search for items which might have been buried there. When he had not been manning a fire post, Jonathan Bale had spent the past week pursuing and arresting the vultures who preyed on the misfortunes of others. His worst case had been in Knightrider Street where two thieves, gaining access to the garden of a deserted house, dug strenuously until they found a strongbox under the ground. They were so elated that friendship was instantly forgotten and they fought each other for sole possession of the bounty. By the time Jonathan arrived on the scene, only one man was still alive to be arrested.

  Fire, destruction, panic, murder, burglary, trespass, mob violence and shameless profiteering. A desperate week for London. Jonathan watched his city mangled out of all recognition. One of the most startling changes was to the distinctive sound of the capital on a Sunday morning. Instead of the jangling harmonies of a hundred or more bells, calling the populace to worship, there was comparative silence. It was eerie. Most churches ha
d been demolished and some of those that survived had lost their congregations temporarily to the outer suburbs. The few bells which did toll had a forlorn and apologetic note to them.

  Jonathan's steps took him in the direction of Paul's Wharf and he was soon stopping to gaze wistfully at the ruins of St Peter's Church, once well attended, now deprived of its bell forever. Those who lay in its little churchyard would be its only parishioners from now on. St Peter's was not the only casualty in the ward. The churches of St Andrew in the Wardrobe, St Mary Magdalene and St Benet Paul's Wharf had also fallen to the flames. The spiritual life of the community had been dealt a series of crippling blows. Jonathan was still looking at the devastation when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

  'Do not expect me to mourn its passing, Mr Bale.'

  'What is that?' said Jonathan, turning to face the newcomer.

  'I am glad that it was levelled to the ground. That is where St Peter's truly belongs. It was a Cavalier church. When the Lord Protector ruled, this was a refuge for the nobility.'

  'I know it well, Mr Thorpe.'

  'I would gladly have lit the match which set it alight.'

  'Then I would just as gladly have arrested you for the crime.'

  'Where is the crime in driving out sin?'

  Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a short, slim man in his fifties with a cadaverous face out of which two large eyes shone like beacons. He was dressed in the black garb of the Quakers and wore a high-crowned black hat whose wide brim had been singed by fire. His voice had the natural power of an orator and Jonathan had heard it raised in denunciation many times. The constable enjoyed an uneasy relationship with his neighbour, admiring him for his courage but deploring the extremes to which Thorpe sometimes went. Slight and innocuous in repose, the man could be highly volatile when moved by the Holy Spirit.