Inferno

Chapter 99

Hetty woke. In a wash of terror it all came back – but in the dull daylight the situation had changed. The leaping flames of the night had given way to a drab bleakness, a desolation of ruins and scattered debris almost unrecognisable as the street she knew. From all directions sullen columns of discoloured smoke rose over the dull red of fires still alight, and the street was full of shuffling figures, some with pathetic bundles and trailing children.

There had been light rain during the night, which had laid the dust somewhat but had left her dress wet and clinging, grimed and spattered with blood from her fingers. She shivered and pulled it tighter as reality hammered in: under this sprawling mass of rubble were the dear Lady Cecilia and her husband, Lord Farndon.

It rocked her sanity and brought on an empty, dry sobbing at her sheer helplessness in the face of what had happened so quickly. All that was mortal of the ones she cared about most was there and only she could do something about it.

She looked up at the passers-by, dully plodding on to who knew where – but they were Danish. Why should they help their enemy?

She gulped and looked about. Was there no one she could turn to?

Yes. Mr Jago was in their Amalienborg quarters. Imperturb able and impassive, he would know what to do. She had to get to him.

She and Cecilia had left for Frederiksborg Castle through the West Gate. Therefore she would walk east into the morning sun until she reached somewhere she recognised, her goal the big square of the Amalienborg complex.

‘Don’t just stand there – give me a hand!’ Jago grunted to Golding, one of the servants, as he peered out of the window. ‘That’s Miss Hetty out there.’

The door had been well barricaded with a sofa and chairs and took some time to open.

He hauled her in. ‘Miss Hetty, what’ve you been up to, walkin’ the streets like that?’

‘Oh, Mr Jago! It’s terrible, terrible.’ A wave of emotion seized her, leaving her weeping and trembling and clinging tight to him.

‘Why, here’s a to-do,’ muttered Jago, clearly embarrassed. He led her to a chair and sat her down. ‘Now you tells me all about it.’

She took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then recounted what had happened.

‘We’ve got to rescue them, Mr Jago! Get them out of there!’

‘After what you said, if ’n they’re still alive,’ he reflected darkly.

She cried in anguish. ‘Please help, I beg you. Pleeeease!’

‘There’s a war on. I don’t rightly know …’

‘But we have to do something – anything!’

‘Don’t take on so, Miss Hetty,’ he snapped. ‘He’s my master as well, an’ it doesn’t help, you pipin’ your eye like that.’ He began pacing around the room. ‘Could be there’s a way. Look, I know you’s had a time of it, but can y’ see your way clear to takin’ us to ’em?’

‘Of course!’ she replied instantly.

‘First things first. We finds a few tools to carry, then I’ve got a job for that kitchen boy as has the English.’

A furtive search around the lower floor produced only some gardening implements but Jago seemed happy with the haul.

The kitchen boy agreed to be their translator, for a ready sum.

‘Now you be on y’r best behaviour, young lad, ’cos we’s on a special mission, and if you promises not to tell a living soul, I’ll let you in on it.’

Outside it was quiet and no one seemed inclined to question a group of men, a ragged woman and a boy as they trudged along.

‘There’s no guns, Mr Jago,’ Hetty said.

‘Course not. They gets going at night.’

‘No, it’s not that – there’s not even the others.’

The irregular thumps and rumble of artillery exchanges at the ramparts had stopped completely. Not even distant bursts of musketry.

‘They’ve given in, surrendered.’

‘Never. See? All the flags are still up.’

As they reached the corner Jago bent down as if to tie a bootlace and glanced back. To his satisfaction he noted a sudden scurrying of figures diving out of sight. ‘Well, let’s be on our way.’

When they reached the scene Jago paused, as if considering what to do.

‘Mr Jago, there’s only the few of us. Where are the others to help?’ Hetty pleaded.

He gave a tight smile. ‘They’ll come – magic it’ll be, you’ll see.’

He strode forward and pointed at the rubble, then set to with his mattock.

It was a signal: from their hiding places scores of men raced out and, roughly shouldering him aside, went at it with a will, heaving off slabs of brick, tossing aside fragments and reducing the pile.

Passing men joined in the mad scrabble.

Hetty stared open-mouthed. ‘M-Mr Jago, how did you …?’

She turned to Golding, standing back and leaning on his rake. ‘Do you know how he did it?’

The young man tipped his hat in admiration. ‘Ha! Cautioned young Andreas not to tell a soul, but he’d heard the mansion where the Crown Jewels was hidden just fell down an’ we were on our way to help ourselves. They has to keep out o’ sight until we shows ’em which place it is, then they goes at it for ’emselves, like good ’uns. Mr Jago knew he’d snitch, the scamp.’

The rubble was fast disappearing revealing a once splendid ground floor in a shattered state, bowed down under the tons of debris, but now rapidly clearing. A shout brought Jago and Hetty running – a section of the floor had given way, exposing a dark void.

Jago used his fists to work his way to the front and peered in.

There was movement. A glint of something. He eased down to lie prone at the edge of the pit. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw Nicholas Laughton, sixth Earl of Farndon in a wine cellar, sitting beside the countess and swigging extravagantly from a bottle of excellent white wine.

‘So early, m’ lord?’

‘As it has served us for water these past days, Jago. Do be a good fellow and help us out, will you?’