The King's Evil (6 page)

Jonathan
picked his way through the debris and went on up to St Paul's churchyard. He
was now at the very heart of London, staring in dismay at a cathedral which
pumped out the life-blood of the whole city. St Paul's was at once the
spiritual centre of the community and its main meeting-place, a venue for
buying, selling, preaching, arguing or simply promenading with friends. As the
constable knew only too well, it was also the haunt of criminals of all kinds,
drawn by the prospect of easy pickings from the large crowds who came there,
containing, as they did, such prime targets as gullible countrymen and foreign
sightseers. Souls might be saved in St Paul's Cathedral but small fortunes had
been lost within its portals and outside in its churchyard.

It
was a depressing sight. Jonathan had ambivalent feelings about the great
edifice but he felt shocked to see it in such a deplorable state. The roof had
burned and left the whole building exposed in the most undignified manner.
What made the fire more damaging was the fact that hundreds of Londoners had
used the cathedral as their place of refuge, carrying their goods to what they
deemed to be a place of safety and filling the nave with furniture, clothing,
curtains, carpets, paintings and other combustible material, unwittingly
providing the fuel for a huge bonfire, its heat so intense that it had melted the
bells which hung in the tower. The sight of St Paul's in ruins and still
smoking provided the most vivid demonstration

of
the true extent of the catastrophe.

Hundreds
of people had congregated around the building. Some came to pray, others to
stare, others to walk disconsolately among the gravestones. The person who
caught Jonathan's attention belonged to none of these groups. Sitting alone on
a stone tomb, he was poring over a sheet of paper supported on a wooden board,
sketching with a piece of charcoal and glancing up from time to time at the
grim scene before him. The young man, handsome and well-groomed, was dressed
almost to the point of elegance and looked incongruous among the shuffling
citizens around him. While they were drab and demoralised, the artist seemed
to be bristling with excitement. Jonathan's curiosity was aroused.

He
was still watching as an old woman slowly approached the man. Dressed in rags,
she hobbled along with the aid of a wooden crutch. Straggly hair poked out from
beneath the tattered scarf which covered most of her head. Coming up behind the
artist, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was drawing then inched
closer until she pressed up against him. The woman backed away at once and
cringed in apology, expecting at least a reprimand, if not a curse or even a
blow. But the young man gave her a smile and beckoned her forward to take a
proper look at his work, showing it off with evident pride. After studying it
for a minute or so, the woman nodded in approval, gave him a wave of thanks and
hobbled off. The artist tossed her a sympathetic glance before returning to his
task.

Jonathan
Bale showed her far less indulgence. When she drew level with him, he launched
himself forward to grab her by the shoulders. A fierce struggle ensured.
Dropping the crutch, the woman fought hard to break free and screamed in anger.
The constable was just managing to subdue her when the artist came running
over.

'Unhand
her, you ruffian!' he ordered.

'Stay
out of this, sir,' said Jonathan, still wrestling with his quarry.

'Let
her go or you'll answer to me.'

The
young man accompanied his threat with such a strong push that he knocked the
constable off balance and forced him to release his hold on the woman. To the
astonishment of all who were watching, she hitched up her skirts and, showing
signs neither of age nor disability, ran off at speed towards Paternoster Row.
The artist was utterly baffled.

'What's
this?' he asked.

'You
have just helped a clever criminal to escape, sir,' said the angry constable.
'I was trying to make an arrest.'

'Why?'

'Because
I saw him robbing you.'

'Him?
I took her for a poor old woman.'

'That
is what you were meant to do, sir. But that poor old woman is younger than you.
His real name is Tom Fogge and he is as cunning a pickpocket as you will have
the misfortune to encounter.'

'A
pickpocket?'

'Yes,
sir,' said the other. 'While you thought he was admiring your drawing, Tom
Fogge was helping himself to your purse.' The young man's hand went immediately
to his pocket. 'You will not find it, sir, for I have it here in my hand.' He
held it up for inspection. 'I managed to get it from him before you interrupted
us. Had you been less rash, I might have recovered all the other things which
he probably stole.'

The
young man took a step back, spread both arms and shrugged.

'What
can I say, constable? I was foolhardy.'

'That
is the kindest word to apply.'

'Choose
one of your own.'

'It
is the Sabbath, sir. I will not profane it.'

The
young man tensed and seemed about to issue a rebuke but the moment quickly
passed. Instead, he burst out laughing at himself. He also scrutinised the
constable's big, oval face with its prominent nose and its square jaw. Two
warts on the left cheek and a livid scar across the forehead turned a pleasant appearance
into an ugly one but there was real character in the face. Dark eyes still
smouldered.

'I
owe you an apology,' said the young man.

'Take
your purse back,' said the other, handing it over.

'And
you deserve my gratitude as well. Who did you say he was?'

'Tom
Fogge.'

'Does
he always dress as an old woman?'

'No,
sir,' explained Jonathan. 'That would make it too easy for us to pick him out.
Tom uses many disguises. I did not recognise him until I saw him brush against
you like that. He has a swift hand.'

'Not
swift enough to elude you.'

'Foins
and foists belong in prison.'

'Foins
and what?'

'Pickpockets.
St Paul's is one of their favourite places of business.'

'Not
any more,' said the artist, turning to gaze at it. 'It is a mere shadow of what
it once was. I was trying to capture it on paper before it is knocked down to
make way for a new cathedral. It was once one of the largest churches in
Christendom and had the tallest spire in the whole world until it was struck by
lightning. Even in this parlous state, it has a rare magnificence.'

'All
I can see are ruins, sir.'

'That
is because you do not have the eye of an artist. Come,' he said, crooking a
finger. 'Let me show you.' He led the constable across to the stone tomb on
which a sheaf of papers lay. 'Here,' he continued, picking one up to offer to
him. 'Does this not have real splendour?'

Jonathan
took the drawing and marvelled at it. Though it was executed with charcoal, it
had extraordinary precision and verisimilitude. Every detail had been included
and, as he looked up at the cathedral once more, Jonathan could find no
discrepancy. The one difference between reality and art lay in the spirit which
animated the drawing. What the artist had somehow done was to transform a scene
of unrelieved desolation into one of strange beauty. His drawing was a
celebration of architectural grandeur.

'Well?'
said the young man.

'It
is good, sir,' conceded the other. 'Very good.'

'Inspiring?'

'To
some degree.'

'You
like it, then?'

'I
find
it ...
interesting, sir,' said Jonathan, unable to tear his gaze away from the
drawing. 'You have captured everything there is to see yet added something else
besides. What it is, I do not yet know but I will find it soon. Yes,' he
murmured. 'It is a fine piece of work.'

'Keep
it.'

'Keep
it?' repeated Jonathan in surprise.

'As
a reward for recovering my stolen purse. It is the least that I can offer you.
I can see that you are taken with it. Have it.'

'But
it is yours, sir.'

'It
is only one of several that I have,' said the young man, indicating the sheaf
of papers. 'Do you see? I have two other drawings from this angle and three
from the west side of the cathedral. Besides, I have tired of drawing what
stands before me and have moved on to what ought to take its place. Look at
this.'

He
picked up the drawing which lay on the board and held it out for the constable
to study it. Jonathan was frankly astounded. He had never seen anything so overwhelming
in size and so stunning in conception. Where the old cathedral had a spireless
tower, the new one was surmounted by a massive dome buttressed by paired
columns. The facade featured a succession of pilastered columns and a portico
which thrust out to lend additional sculptural impact. In place of the present
churchyard was a vast piazza, enclosed by colonnades which reached out from
the .main building like giant arms of marble.

Jonathan
glanced at the ruins then back at the drawing.

'Is
that
what you could see when you looked up?'

'In
my mind's eye.'

'It
is ...'

'Amazing?'
said the artist, fishing for compliments. 'Resplendent, ambitious, uplifting?
Be honest, my friend.'

'It
is like nothing I have ever seen.'

'That
is because you have never been to Rome and imbibed the wonders of the Classical
tradition. This is not so much a new design of St Paul's Cathedral as an
English version of St Peter's in Rome.' He saw the scowl on the other's face.
'You disapprove?'

'Not
of the drawing, sir. Only of its origin.'

'Too
Catholic for your taste?'

'I
prefer the cathedral we have just lost.'

'Yet
that was built when England was of the Old Religion. Roman Catholic genius went
into its design and building. True art should have no denomination,' said the
young man, laying the drawing down. 'We should be free to borrow from all
countries, whatever spiritual dimension they may have. I need to do far more
work on the new St Paul's. You keep that drawing of the old one.'

'No,
sir,' said Jonathan firmly.

'Why
not?'

'I
do not deserve it.'

'That
is for me to judge. I may have the eye of an artist but you have the much more
practical eye of a constable. While I was gazing into the future, you saw a
pickpocket taking my purse. Hold on to the drawing in lieu of my thanks.'

'I
do not wish to keep it, sir.'

'You
are refusing the gift?'

'Yes,
sir,' said Jonathan, handing it back to him. 'Excuse me.'

'Wait!
You must not do this. It is a form of insult.'

'Then
you brought it upon yourself.'

'Anybody
else would have been delighted with such a drawing.'

'Give
it to one of them.'

He
tried to move away but the young man barred his way.

'Are
you still angry with me because I stopped you from arresting that pickpocket?
Is that what we have here? Pique and annoyance?'

'I
could have done without your interference.'

'You
had my apology. What more do you want?'

'Nothing,
sir. I have duties to carry out.'

'What
is to stop you taking my drawing with you?'

'My
conscience.'

The
constable pushed him gently aside and walked away.

'One
moment,' called the other. 'What is your name?'

'Jonathan
Bale,' he said over his shoulder.

'I
am Christopher Redmayne and I am still grateful, however surly you choose to
be.' He raised his voice at the departing figure. 'You are a sound officer. I
will remember your name, Jonathan Bale.'

'I
have already forgotten yours,' said the other to himself.

When
the cost of the fire was finally counted, chilling figures emerged. Four
hundred acres within the city wall had been destroyed along with a further
sixty-three acres outside it. Eighty-seven churches perished, as did forty-
four livery halls and upwards of thirteen thousand houses. Several million
pounds' worth of property went up in smoke. Business and domestic life were
severely disrupted. Some trades were virtually expunged. Morale sank to a lower
ebb even than during the Great Plague when, as many sourly observed, people
were at least allowed to die in the privacy of their own homes.

Death
itself, however, had been unusually restrained. Apart from the hapless
maidservants in Pudding Lane, it claimed only eight other victims during the
blaze, though the number of fatalities increased during subsequent weeks as
people died from delayed shock or sheer despair at the enormity of their
losses. Confidence shattered, hundreds of Londoners vowed never to return to
the city itself and either settled in the outer suburbs or sought a new life
further afield. Ruined tradesmen had no choice but to go elsewhere. Unjustly
persecuted in the aftermath of the fire, foreign inhabitants thought twice
about taking up residence once more in such a vengeful community.