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.’
ON MY SECOND visit to Barnabas Place, two days later, I went alone, trudging through warm ashes among the ruins. The heat was still intense.
There were many other people in this wasteland, some looking for their families or what was left of their homes; others scavenging for valuables. I had heard stories of men who had found artificial mines of metals in this lost city – pools of solidified lead, lumps of iron, even veins of silver and gold. Truly, this was another New World, where a man with few scruples might find riches as well as horrors, privations and sorrows.
‘Not here, sir,’ the porter said when he opened the wicket to me. ‘His worship went to Westminster two hours ago.’
‘Then Mistress Alderley?’ I said, and I felt a faint and foolish current of excitement pass through me. ‘Is she within?’
The porter went to enquire. After a few minutes he returned and showed me into the room with the oriel window through which I had seen a man flogged to death.
Time passed. I had no means of measuring it, but at least half an hour must have passed before I heard the Alderleys’ steward, Master Mundy, ordering that a horse be brought round. A small, richly dressed gentleman crossed the courtyard below, his face concealed by a hat in which were two ostrich feathers; they were dyed purple and bobbed up and down as their owner walked beneath them.
Shortly afterwards, a manservant appeared and conducted me into the body of the house.
‘Who was that below?’ I asked. ‘The gentleman who just left.’
‘Sir Denzil Croughton, sir.’ The man added, with a hint of vicarious pride, ‘His worship’s niece is betrothed to him.’
‘So he’s a regular visitor, then?’
‘She’s away in the country.’ He shot me a glance, and I thought there was an air of caution about him now, as if he had said too much. ‘Sir Denzil calls for news of her, and also to enquire of his worship’s son. This way, sir.’
The servant led me down flagged passages to a richly furnished parlour overlooking a small garden, and told me to wait. I resigned myself to the loss of another half hour but it was only a moment before Mistress Alderley glided into the room, with her own maid behind her.
‘We met on Thursday,’ Mistress Alderley said. ‘I remember – Master Williamson’s clerk. Your name?’
I gave her my best bow. ‘Marwood, madam. James Marwood.’
‘I don’t know when my husband will be back. But perhaps I can help you.’
She sank into a chair and waved to me to sit opposite her. Such remarkable condescension, I thought: was she always like this or was it a show for me?
The maid settled with a pile of mending at the other end of the room. She glanced briefly at me and her face twisted as if she had a mouthful of vinegar.
‘First, madam, Master Williamson commanded me to ask how Master Edward Alderley does.’
‘A little better, thank you. He still lives. Dr Grout is with him now. He says we must thank God the knife did not penetrate the brain.’
I dipped my head in mute gratitude for this mercy. ‘You are as yet no wiser about the reason for the attack?’
‘Our old servant was unhinged, a malcontent with his head full of blasphemous notions. Such madmen are two a penny after the late war. We must try to forget Jem, sir, for we can never understand him.’ She paused and added in a lower voice, ‘We were most grateful for Master Williamson’s kindness in the matter. It was Providence indeed that sent you both to us on that day.’
I admired her delicate way of putting it. Though Alderley had been quite within his rights to beat a servant, particularly on such gross provocation, it was a little unfortunate that the guilty man had actually died under the lash. At least Williamson, a witness of unimpeachable veracity and with useful friends, had been there at the time. He had smoothed away much of the awkwardness with the authorities, pointing out that the culprit had probably died from his illness and old age rather than the beating, and also making the point that his death had been a kindness to the villain himself,
