nothing of the carpenter’s bill and the tallow-chandler’s, and the cost of charcoal – I assure you, sir, the expense is considerable.’
Hakesby nodded. ‘Indeed, it is quite beyond belief, sir.’
‘It’s not as if we waste money here. All of us recognize the need to be prudent. The judges give their time without charge, for the good of the country. But we must have ready money, sir – you would grant me that, I think? With the best will in the world, the court cannot run itself on air.’
Chelling paused to draw breath. Before he could speak, Hakesby plunged in.
‘Mr Marwood and I had dealings with each other over St Paul’s just after the Fire. I was working with Dr Wren, assessing the damage to the fabric, while my Lord Arlington sent Marwood there to gather information from us.’ When he had a mind to it, Hakesby was almost as unstoppable as Mr Chelling himself. ‘I met him as I was coming out of court just now. He has a question about the judges, and I said I know just the man to ask. So here we are, sir, here we are.’
‘Whitehall, eh?’ Chelling said, turning back to Marwood. ‘Under my Lord Arlington?’
Marwood bowed. ‘Yes, sir. I’m clerk to his under-secretary, Mr Williamson. I’m also the clerk of the Board of Red Cloth, when it meets.’
‘Red Cloth? I don’t think I know it.’
‘It’s in the Groom of the Stool’s department, sir. The King’s Bedchamber.’
Mr Chelling cocked his head, and his manner became markedly more deferential. ‘How interesting, sir. The King’s Bedchamber? A word in the right ear would work wonders for us here. It’s not just money, you see. I meet obstructions at every turn from the governors of this Inn. That’s even worse.’
Marwood bowed again, implying his willingness to help without actually committing himself. There was a hint of the courtier about him now, Jane Hakesby thought, or at least of a man privy to Government secrets. She did not much care for it. He moved his head slightly and the light fell on his face. He no longer looked like a courtier. He looked ill.
She wondered who was dead. Had there been a mother? A father? She could not remember – she had probably never known. For a man who had changed her life, she knew remarkably little about James Marwood. Only that without him she might well be dead or in prison.
‘Mr Marwood has a question for you, sir,’ Hakesby said.
Marwood nodded. ‘It’s a trifling matter. I came across three names – Twisden, Wyndham and Rainsford. I understand there is a Sir Wadham Wyndham, who is one of the Fire Court judges, and—’
‘Ah, sir, the judges.’ Chelling rapped the table beside him for emphasis. ‘Mr Hakesby has brought you to the right man. I know Sir Wadham well. Indeed, I’m acquainted with all the judges. We have a score or so of them. They use the set of chambers below these, the ones on the first floor, which are larger than ours. We have given them a remarkably airy sitting room, though I say it myself who had it prepared for them, and also a retiring room and a closet. Only the other day, the Lord Chief Justice was kind enough to say to me how commodious the chambers were, and how convenient for the Fire Court.’
‘And do the judges include—’
‘Oh yes – Sir Wadham is one, as I said, and so is Sir Thomas Twisden. Sir Thomas has been most assiduous in his attendance. A most distinguished man. I remember—’
‘And Rainsford?’ Marwood put in.
‘Why yes, Sir Richard, but—’
‘Forgive me, sir, one last question. Do any of the other judges have the initials DY?’
Chelling frowned, and considered. ‘I cannot recall. Wait, I have a list here.’ He shuffled the documents on his table and produced a paper which he studied for a moment. ‘No – no one.’ He looked up, and his small, bloodshot eyes stared directly at Marwood. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I regret, sir, I am not at liberty to say.’
Chelling winked. ‘Say no more, sir. Whitehall business, perhaps, but I ask no questions. Discretion is our watchword.’
Marwood bowed. ‘Thank you for your help, sir. I mustn’t keep you any longer.’
‘You must let me know if there is any other way I can oblige you.’ Chelling tried to smile but his face refused to cooperate fully. ‘And if the opportunity arises, I hope you will not forget us.’
‘You may be sure of it, sir.’
‘If the King but knew of our difficulties, especially with our governors who—’
‘Mr Gromwell, is it?’ Hakesby interrupted, beginning to rise to his feet. ‘Is he still putting obstacles in your way?’
‘Gromwell, sir?’ Marwood said. ‘The name is familiar.’
‘Then I pity you, sir.’ Chelling waved his hand, as if consigning Gromwell to a place of outer darkness. ‘It would be better for the world if he were entirely unknown.’
‘Why? What has he done?’
‘He is one of our Rules – that is to say, the members who are elected to govern the affairs of Clifford’s Inn. He is particularly charged with overseeing the fabric of the place, and 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.
