The Ashes of London (24 page)

‘No mystery there.’ His features twisted into a lascivious mask. ‘Age is no barrier.’

Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I heard a faint, deep chuckle somewhere in the gloom above us.

I persevered: ‘You would not say that if you saw her, sir. And there was some mystery about it, for she sees no one at her cottage. They are too afraid to approach her, even the man who owns the land she lives on. When I went back a second time, there was no trace of him.’

‘Very well. Is that all?’

‘After my first meeting with her, I fell ill. I should have been here last Thursday – Friday at the latest – if it had not been for that. I took some mulled wine at the inn, and I think it was poisoned in some way. She meant to keep me in the village, to give this man time to escape.’

‘This is speculation,’ Chiffinch said coldly. ‘And far-fetched at that. An attempt to excuse your delay.’

‘Let me give you a fact then, sir,’ I snapped.

‘Mind your tongue,’ he said.

‘I ask your pardon, sir.’ I swallowed my anger, for it would not help to antagonize him more, let alone the possible listener in the shadows. ‘Coldridge – the house and the land – belongs to Mistress Lovett, does it not? It comes to her from her mother’s family, so it has not been confiscated with the rest of Lovett’s wealth. And Sir Denzil Croughton will have it as his dowry when they are wed?’

He nodded. ‘Mistress Alderley tells me that the estate is at present leased out. The lease expires next year, so there will be no difficulty for Sir Denzil when he takes possession.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Don’t be—’

‘No,’ I repeated. ‘No, Coldridge is not leased out. The whole estate has been sold, sir – to a Master Howgego. He held the lease before, and now he owns the freehold.’

‘That cannot be right. You’ve been misinformed.’

‘Then so has Master Howgego. And the entire village. Master Alderley went down to Champney earlier in the year to conclude the sale.’

‘That,’ Chiffinch said slowly, ‘is not possible.’

‘Master Howgego even owns the books, the furniture, the carpets that belonged to Mistress Lovett’s family. I stayed with him at Coldridge when I was ill. There is no possibility of mistake.’

‘Mistress Lovett is not of age. She could not sell Coldridge.’

‘Her trustees could.’

‘True.’ Chiffinch touched his wart again, delicately, as if for luck. ‘I believe the estate was not entailed in any way. So in theory they would have the power to convert it into some other form.’

‘Then that’s what they’ve done, sir. But no one in London appears to know of it.’

‘But it could only be done with Mistress Lovett’s knowledge. And for her sole benefit, of course …’ Chiffinch paused. ‘And Sir Denzil would have been told in the normal run of things. After all, he would expect to have the use of it when they are married. Have you spoken to Master Williamson about this?’

‘Not about the estate. Or about the bailiff’s widow. Only the bare fact that I found no trace of the Lovetts.’

‘Good. Keep it that way.’

Something had changed between us, a shift in the nature of our relationship. Whatever Master Williamson might think, I had a different master now.

Chiffinch turned to look out of the window. He scratched the glass with his fingertip. There wasn’t much to see out there – just a long, tiled roof spotted with moss, a smoking chimney and a slice of the river, grey and broad.

His silence emboldened me. I said, ‘I assume Master Alderley is her trustee?’

‘Yes.’ He glanced back. ‘One of them. There are two.’

‘Is Master Edward Alderley the other?’

‘No.’

Chiffinch studied my face for a moment. I sensed he was coming to a decision.

‘You might as well know, I suppose,’ he said at last. ‘You would not be so foolish as to blab about it. I have seen a copy of the deed. The second trustee is Thomas Lovett.’

For the rest of the day I went about my duties for Master Williamson like a sleepwalker.

Thomas Lovett was a traitor, a Regicide, whose possessions were forfeit to the Crown. I did not think it likely that he could legally exercise his duties as a trustee of the estate that his daughter held in her own right. Even if he could, he could only transact business with the collusion of the other trustee, Master Alderley, that eminently respectable goldsmith, whose list of debtors had the names of the King and his brother the Duke at its head.

The alternative was just as bad: that Master Alderley had by some fraudulent means cancelled the trusteeship of his former brother-in-law.

Whichever of these was true, the fact remained that Sir Denzil appeared to be under the illusion that when he married his betrothed, she would bring him the estate of Coldridge as her dowry.

In sum, Alderley had lied to his niece’s future husband. He might also have committed forgery and embezzlement. He might even be guilty of aiding and abetting a Regicide.

A very different aspect of the matter struck me: how convenient, I thought, if Alderley were found guilty of high treason. His possessions would then be forfeit to the Crown. The debts of the King and his brother would be wiped out at a stroke.

Where did this leave me? I was involved in this business, whether I liked it or not. The King, I thought, must have the power to investigate these matters in public, and with all the instruments at his disposal. But he – or rather his creature, Chiffinch – had chosen not to. Instead they employed me to ferret on their behalf.

It was not safe to know these facts. It was not safe to speculate about them. Most of all, it was not safe to be Master Chiffinch’s ferret.

S
UNDAY MEANT CHURCH
once a day, and sometimes twice if Mistress Noxon felt inclined to be godly. At church, you encountered half the neighbourhood, and anyone might catch a glimpse of your face.

The following Sunday, Mistress Noxon marshalled the servants, inspected their appearance and marched them from Three Cocks Yard to the crumbling church of St Clement Danes in the middle of the Strand. Cat walked beside John, knowing his bulk shielded her entirely from the world, at least on one side, and she had the wall on the other. Margery walked behind with the kitchen boy. Cat couldn’t see Margery, but she knew that she was casting malign looks at her. She imagined them like poisoned arrows, sticking out of her back like the quills of a hedgehog.

Mistress Noxon had her seat in the nave, not far from the pulpit and paid for on an annual basis. But the rest of them from Three Cocks Yard trooped up to the gallery reserved for servants, where they could watch the heads of ladies and gentlemen below and speculate about which of them would fall asleep first during the sermon. Since the Fire, the church’s congregation had become much larger, for the parish was packed with strangers from the burned-out areas. The tower was still used as a depository for some of the refugees’ possessions.

They were a little late, and so Cat was spared the milling around outside beforehand. The balcony was crowded and there was only standing room for the four of them at the back. A pillar obscured their view of the pulpit and the congregation in the nave.

For Cat, this was a blessing. She spent the service with her eyes cast down, distracting herself by thinking about the Vitruvian virtues, namely that a well-made building should be characterized by
firmitas
,
utilitas
,
venustas –
that is, it must be solid, useful, beautiful. ‘Like the nests of birds and bees,’ Aunt Eyre used to say. ‘We should build our own nests according to the same principles.’ Vitruvius would not have approved of this untidy, inconvenient and ill-designed church.

Afterwards, the congregation below left first, as befitted the status of those who paid for their seats – they were lower in the church, but superior in everything else. Cat was one of the last to leave. From habit, she lingered for a moment in the porch to give the crowd outside more time to disperse, pretending to study the latest Bill of Mortality that was displayed there. On her first Sunday at Three Cocks Yard, she had been convinced that one of the number murdered that week must be Edward Alderley: and she had both longed and feared that it might be so.

She heard John’s heavy breathing behind her. He cleared his throat. ‘Would you like to watch the procession on Lord Mayor’s Day?’

She turned reluctantly to him. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought we could go together.’

‘Perhaps there won’t be one. No point in having a procession in an ash heap, is there?’

She turned back to the Bill of Mortality to avoid his beseeching eyes. Beside it was a list of burials in the parish. That was when she saw a name she recognized.

Jeremiah Sneyd.

A dizziness mounted to her brain. Her legs trembled, and she leaned against John for support. He said something to her but the words were bereft of meaning.

‘Mistress, did you know a man named Sneyd?’

Mistress Noxon frowned at Cat. ‘What maggot’s in your head now, girl?’

‘Have you heard his name, I mean? Recently.’

‘No. Should I have?’

They were walking back from church, a little ahead of the other servants, for Mistress Noxon had wanted to upbraid Cat for distracting John from his duties.

‘The name was in the church porch,’ Cat said. ‘On the list of burials. Jeremiah Sneyd.’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I knew a man called Sneyd.’ Cat drew closer, glancing about her to make sure they could not be overheard. She lowered her voice. ‘A comrade of my father’s. He might know where my father is.’

Mistress Noxon snorted. ‘If he did, he can’t tell you now, can he?’

‘But he was married. If his wife’s still living, I could ask her. Perhaps he’s gone abroad again.’

‘What can your father do for you now, even if he is still alive?’ Mistress Noxon whispered. ‘He’s wanted for high treason. He’s a Regicide. You’re better off without him.’

‘I need to see him first, to be sure. I owe him that.’

‘You’re a fool, girl.’

‘Can you find out where this Sneyd lived? He used to be a tailor by trade.’

‘Why should I trouble to do that?’

‘Because you can’t wish me to stay with you for ever.’

Mistress Noxon screwed up her face. ‘That’s one thing you’re right about. The sooner you go from us, the better. You’re born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards.’

She smiled at Cat as she spoke, which took at least some of the sting from her words.

Jeremiah Sneyd had served with Cat’s father throughout the war. He had stayed in the New Model Army for several years longer than Master Lovett, but when he came out the two men had renewed their acquaintance and he used to call at Bow Lane and even dine there. As a child, she remembered watching the two of them pray together – her father tall and thin, and Sneyd small and round.

Cat had observed him carefully, for they had been starved of strangers, and each one became food for speculation. For all his piety, Sneyd was a greedy man, tearing at his bread and meat with the ferocity of a wild beast, and sucking quantities of beer into his large, fleshy mouth.

She should have thought of him before. Sneyd had proved his loyalty in the past, and he had seemed as devoted to the cause of King Jesus as her father himself.

On Monday afternoon, Mistress Noxon waylaid Cat on the way to the necessary house in the yard.

‘Sneyd was working as a jobbing tailor,’ she said, without looking at Cat. ‘I talked to the parish clerk, and his mother used to know them. They lived in the Strand once, but they moved up Cursitor Street way. Ramikin Row, wherever that is.’

‘But he was a Dissenter, a Fifth Monarchist. Why was his funeral at St Clement Danes, not in Bunhill Fields?’

‘Because his widow’s no Dissenter, and St Clement’s was her church before she met him. She thought he’d be closer to God there.’ Mistress Noxon rubbed finger and thumb together. ‘She’ll have made it worth their while or they wouldn’t have agreed. Waste of money, if you ask me. Her wits must be addled.’

‘May I look for Mistress Sneyd?’

‘When I can spare you. But you must understand this: if they arrest you, I know nothing of who you really are. I took you as a maid out of the kindness of my heart when you washed up on my doorstep during the Fire.’

Cat bowed her head. ‘I understand.’

Mistress Noxon flung open the door of the necessary house and marched inside. She turned to face Cat, who was already retreating. ‘There’s one other thing you’d better know,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’ll cure your curiosity. They found Sneyd’s body in the Fleet Ditch the week before last. Someone murdered him.’

After the servants’ dinner on Tuesday, Mistress Noxon told Cat to collect a pair of embroidered gloves that she had ordered from a tailor’s east of Moorfields.

‘You may have to wait an hour or two,’ she said, loudly for the benefit of the other servants. ‘But don’t come back without them, Jane. He promised I should have them today. I need them for this evening.’