The Fire Court: A gripping historical thriller from the bestselling author of The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor
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?’
‘Not yet, sir. In fact, I have not been there this afternoon.’
‘When you do, you will remember our conversation?’ Chelling put down the book he had been examining and took my sleeve. ‘About the Fire Court, and our difficulties with our bills? Not to mention with the authorities at the Inn.’
‘Of course.’ It occurred to me that this could be a fortunate encounter. If I could persuade Chelling to tell me what I needed to find out, it would remove the need for me to ask for Hakesby’s help – and, in return, to make him a loan that would leave me almost penniless. ‘Perhaps you would care to drink the King’s health with me?’ I said. ‘We might step over the way into the Devil.’
‘By all means, sir.’
Chelling bowed, which was not a success as he chanced to put his back foot on an uneven stone, which made him stumble. I caught his arm and steadied him. We crossed the road together with some difficulty, partly because of the traffic and partly because he was tottering along on two-inch heels. At the Devil, we went upstairs to the taproom. I ordered wine and found us a space at the end of a table at the back. The room was noisy – four law students were raising their voices in a ballad at the other end of the table, and two soldiers were arguing with passionate intensity about the disposition of the dragoons at an unnamed battle.
‘Have you known Mr Hakesby long?’ Chelling asked.
‘No, sir. Only since last year – the business at St Paul’s he mentioned.’
‘Of course – you told me earlier. What do you think of this so-called cousin of his, eh? Jane. Who did he say she was?’ Chelling stabbed his finger into my arm. ‘The sly old dog. Keeps him warm at night, I’ll be bound.’
I smiled politely. ‘It was civil of you to help me this morning,’ I said, trying to steer the conversation away from Catherine Lovett. ‘You mentioned this man Gromwell. I—’
‘Gromwell!’ Chelling burst out. ‘Always a maggot in his head about something. I cannot abide a man like that. We’ve all had our disappointments in life, but he bears his less gracefully than some I might mention.’
‘Have you known him long?’
‘Too long, sir. Far too long. I don’t want to be unchristian about any man, but I fear he gives himself airs, though with little justification. After all, we are both members. We are equals.’
‘Members …?’
‘Of Clifford’s Inn, sir.’ He paused as if to give time for me to digest the importance of this. ‘I was bred for the law, you see, though at present I assist them at the Fire Court. But I have lived in Clifford’s Inn for nigh on thirty years. Why, the Principal was good enough to say to me the other day that the place would be very much altered without me. But of course Gromwell is a Rule now, and by God he makes the most of it and carries himself very high with everyone. This business of the Fire Court is the perfect example. It’s not as if Staircase Thirteen is of any use to anyone else at – ah! Is that the wine?’
‘Staircase …?’
Chelling was watching the waiter. ‘Staircase Thirteen,’ he said absently. ‘I told you about it earlier. It’s not completely ruinous. The ground floor is perfectly weathertight, and the use of it would make it so much easier to store the Fire Court’s furniture and supplies and so on. As it is, we have to empty the hall when the court is not in session, so the Inn may have the use of it again. And that means – Dear Christ!’
The waiter was clumsy. The bottle tipped too far, and drops of wine spattered on the table.
‘Blockhead!’ Chelling snapped. ‘Numbskull!’
‘Beg pardon, masters, beg pardon.’ The waiter began to wipe the table.
‘Should we not drink His Majesty’s health at once, sir?’ Chelling said, seizing the bottle. ‘Loyalty to the throne demands no less. Allow me, sir.’
He poured the wine – hastily but without spilling a drop. We drank the King’s health, and then that of the other members of the royal family.
I set down my glass when we had drenched the monarchy in wine. ‘Are there many other gentlemen who are Rules?’
Chelling smiled, comfortably superior. ‘Clearly you were not bred to the legal profession,’ he said with a touch of pity. ‘In this Inn, there are twelve Rules under the Principal. Sometimes we call them the Ancients. They form the council that administers the affairs of the Society according to our statutes, as laid down by our honoured Founder.’
‘But your members are all lawyers, I take it – like those of the Temple, for example, or Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘The case is not quite identical, sir. We enjoy a different status. We are an Inn of Chancery, whereas such places as the Temple and Lincoln’s Inn are Inns of Court. In times past, our members were attorneys and solicitors who followed the Courts of the King’s Bench or Common Pleas. Or they were young gentlemen from the universities or from our grammar schools, who came here to gain a grounding in the law before moving to one of the Inns of Court. And it is the Rules who decide who shall enter our fellowship, and who shall be admitted to a set of chambers within the Inn. We—’
‘So Mr Gromwell is a lawyer?’ I cut in.
Chelling puffed out his cheeks. ‘I should hardly call him a lawyer.’ He paused to drink more wine. ‘One can hardly call him anything that’s worth the name. True, as a young man, he was admitted to the Society, so he may have some scraps of legal knowledge, but that’s all … He’s a man of fits and starts and idle fancies. He tried the law, and failed in that. He calls himself an antiquary, which means he