The Fire Court: A gripping historical thriller from the bestselling author of The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor
its maintenance. I regret to say that he’s no friend to the Fire Court.’
‘But you are paying something for the use of the hall, I suppose?’
‘Of course we are – and for these chambers – but he thinks we do not pay enough for the privilege. He ignores entirely the pro bono aspect of the matter.’ Chelling pointed out of the window. ‘The other day I asked if we could use the fire-damaged staircase over there for storage. It would ease our lives considerably, and cost him absolutely nothing. It’s no use to anyone else at present. But he refused point-blank.’
Marwood bowed again. ‘I’m sorry to hear it, sir.’
Chelling returned the bow, and almost toppled over. ‘If only the King were aware …’
By this time, Hakesby had managed to stand up. She came forward to offer her arm – he was often unsteady when he had been sitting down – but Marwood was before her. The three of them said goodbye to Mr Chelling and went slowly downstairs.
‘Poor man,’ Hakesby murmured. ‘Clinging to his duties at the Fire Court as a drowning man clings to a straw. Chelling has many excellent qualities, but he’s been unfortunate all his life, partly because of his stature.’
They emerged into the sunlight. Marwood looked at Jane Hakesby and, she knew, saw Catherine Lovett.
She stared back at him, hoping he would leave them.
Hakesby turned towards them. ‘Will you dine with us, sir?’
The Lamb was in Wych Street, just to the north of the Strand and set back in a court. It was an aged building with blurred, blackened carvings along the bressumers supporting the upper storeys. It lay conveniently between Mr Hakesby’s drawing office at the sign of the Rose in Henrietta Street and the house where he lodged in Three Cocks Yard. Shops lined the ground floor, and the tavern was above.
The landlord conducted them to a small chamber, poorly lit by a mullioned window overlooking a yard. Hakesby ordered their dinner, with wine and biscuits to be brought while they waited. Jane Hakesby worried about the cost.
Marwood slipped on to a bench that faced away from the light. She set down her basket and sat opposite, beside Mr Hakesby who took the only chair. She examined him covertly. His face was pale, the skin stretched tight over the high cheekbones and smudged with tiredness beneath the eyes.
He had agreed to come with them, but without much enthusiasm. It was as if it didn’t really matter what he did. He ate a biscuit, and then another, which brought some of the colour back to his face.
He caught her looking at him. ‘How do you do, mistress?’ He left the briefest of pauses and added with a slight emphasis, ‘Hakesby.’
The ‘mistress’ pleased her, however foolish of her that was. ‘I do very well, thank you, sir.’
He turned to Hakesby. ‘I don’t wish to cause trouble. You don’t mind being seen with me?’
‘We’ve heard nothing to alarm us, sir,’ Hakesby murmured. ‘About the other matter.’ They were quite alone but he shifted uneasily and leaned closer. ‘I have no idea if Mr Alderley is still looking for Catherine Lovett.’
The men exchanged glances. The Alderleys were her cousins. She hated her cousin Edward more than anyone in the world.
‘I’ve heard nothing either,’ Marwood said. ‘Nothing of any moment.’
‘Catherine Lovett has become Jane Hakesby,’ Hakesby said. ‘Why, I almost believe it myself. She makes herself useful at the drawing office.’
‘I am still myself, sir,’ she said sharply. ‘And I am here beside you. I do not forget who I am and what is owed me. Nor do I forget who has harmed me.’ She glared impartially at them. ‘In this company at least, I am Catherine Lovett.’
Hakesby shied away. ‘Pray don’t upset yourself.’
She saw the alarm in his face. ‘You mustn’t mind me, sir. When I was a child, they called me Cat. I have claws.’
Marwood said, ‘Are you content?’
‘I am a maidservant, sir. I assist Mr Hakesby in his business. I live a quiet life. What more could I possibly want?’ She heard the bitterness in her voice and abruptly changed the subject. ‘Who are you in mourning for?’
Marwood seemed to huddle into his black cloak like a tortoise retiring into his shell. Hakesby cleared his throat, filling the silence. Her abrupt, unwomanly behaviour made him uneasy. He had grown used to it in private, but he did not like it when she spoke so directly to others.
‘My father. On Friday.’ Marwood finished his second glass of wine. ‘He was run over by a wagon in Fleet Street.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it, sir,’ Hakesby said.
‘I mustn’t bore you with my troubles. Tell me about the Court where these three judges sit. Why would they be listed together?’
‘Because the Fire Court usually consists of three judges to hear each case,’ Hakesby said, a little stiffly because Marwood had rebuffed his attempt at sympathy. ‘Perhaps there was a particular case that came before these three. Or there will be.’
‘Three judges for a trial?’
‘Not a trial, sir. The Court exists to resolve disputes arising from the Fire. Parliament and the City are anxious that rebuilding should begin as soon as possible, and that the costs should be shared fairly among all the concerned parties. In many cases the tenants and so forth are still liable to pay rent for properties that no longer exist. Not only that, the terms of their leases make them responsible for the rebuilding. Often, of course, they lack the means to do so because they lost everything in the Fire. So Parliament set up the Fire Court, and gave it exceptional powers to settle such disputes and set its own precedents.’
‘There must be a list of forthcoming cases,’ Marwood said. ‘If I knew which ones were coming up before those three …’
Hakesby said: ‘It depends which judges are available.’
‘Mr Chelling would know,’ Cat said. ‘As far as anyone does.’
‘Yes, but the selection is not usually made public until the last moment. To prevent annoyance to the judges. They don’t want to be pestered.’
Marwood hesitated. ‘I’d rather not trouble Mr Chelling again.’
Hakesby smiled. ‘He has a loose tongue. And your … your connections impressed him mightily. He will try to make use of you if he can. He will tell the world you’re his friend.’
‘But if you were to make the enquiries, sir,’ Cat said to Hakesby, ‘and in a fashion that suggested the matter had to do with something quite different, one of your own clients …’
‘Would you, sir?’ Marwood said, his face sharp and hungry.
Hakesby hesitated. ‘I am pressed for business at present, and I—’
‘He means, sir,’ Cat interrupted, impatient with this unnecessary playacting, ‘would you do something for us in return?’
‘Jane!’ Hakesby said. ‘This is not polite.’
‘I don’t care much about being polite, sir.’
‘What do you want?’ Marwood said, returning bluntness for bluntness.
‘Would you lend Mr Hakesby some money?’
‘Jane!’
Cat and Marwood stared at each other. Perhaps, she thought, she had made him angry by asking him a favour at such a time. But he looked prosperous enough. And there was no room for sentiment.