Newton’s Fire

THIRTY-ONE
I

There was an organ gallery and walkway at the rear of the Triforium that enabled passage from one side of the cathedral to the other without first returning back downstairs. Nearly a hundred feet above the cathedral floor, it offered a magnificent view along the main aisle to the altar; which was no doubt why a TV gantry was being assembled as they crossed, and why two women were scrubbing the floor while another waxed the black-and-gold balcony rail.

‘Our poor Dean has been having nightmares,’ confided Trevor. ‘He thinks the whole world will be watching tomorrow night, and snickering at our stonework.’

‘It must be stressful,’ said Rachel, ‘putting on an event like this.’

They reached the far side. Architects’ plans hung along the wall. Trevor led them to the fourth, a bird’s eye view of the cathedral. ‘See these,’ he said, pointing out a number of circles. ‘They’re open areas designed to echo the main dome. Three on either flank with a spine of them running down the centre. There’s your Tree of Life.’

‘There are more than five circles on the centre line,’ pointed out Luke.

‘You asked me what my correspondent would say,’ retorted Trevor. ‘This is it. Like I said, his theory is bunk.’

‘How would he explain the discrepancy?’ asked Rachel.

Trevor sighed. ‘Wren had less control over his plans than people imagine. The Dean and the King forced him into countless alterations. Everything changed but the dome itself. It features in all his designs.’

Rachel frowned. ‘Wren did multiple designs of St Paul’s? I didn’t realize.’

‘Oh, yes. What we’re in today is actually his fifth design, depending on how you count them; and far from his favourite.’ He led them across the corridor, unlocked a door, ushered them into a large room dominated by a vast model of a cathedral. ‘This is the Warrant Design,’ said Trevor. ‘It cost Wren a small fortune to have it made. The Commission turned it down flat.’

‘And this was Wren’s favourite?’

‘No. He preferred it to what we’ve got, but his favourite was more radical still. You know, of course, that churches and cathedrals are traditionally laid out like a Latin cross, to commemorate the crucifixion. Wren decided to base his design on the Greek Cross instead, effectively an octagon with every other side indented.’ He led them to a yew-wood map case, pulled out the wide shallow drawers in turn, checking the labels on the acid-free folders inside until finally he drew one out. He set it on top, untied its red string bow.

‘Are these Wren’s originals?’ asked Luke.

‘Good heavens, no. You don’t honestly imagine I’d trust street people near his originals, do you? But they are early. And they are important. So no touching.’ He opened up the folder, pulled out a sheet, laid it on top. ‘Here we go. An indented octagon, as I said.’

‘I love it,’ said Rachel.

‘The King did too. But not the Dean. It wasn’t enough for it to look good, you see. It had to work too. A church needs a focal point for services and sermons. The focal point of an octagon is its centre. But that means having your congregation seated all around you, leaving many unable to see properly, or even hear. You could, of course, put the altar against a wall, but that would rather negate the purpose of the design. And then there were the acoustics! My Lord! Don’t get me started on the acoustics!’

Luke nodded. ‘Strange that he should even have suggested it.’

‘Yes. Well. Paris was the great centre of architectural fashion at the time. Wren had his head turned by the buzz there about a Bourbon chapel planned for St-Denis. That never got built either. Such designs work best on paper. And the technical challenges would have been enormous. To accommodate the same number of people, the dome would have needed to be even bigger that it is now. And it weighs nearly seventy thousand tons as it is. Seventy thousand tons! And even that almost proved too much.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The piers and pillars started to crack and burst from the weight. They got so bad that Wren had to dig up the crypt floor and anchor them to each other with huge iron chains.’

‘Wren dug up the crypt?’ asked Luke, glancing at Rachel. ‘When?’

‘They began noticing the cracks in the 1690s, I believe. But Wren spent years in denial. He couldn’t bear to acknowledge that he’d made a mistake. Besides, the obvious solution was these iron anchors I mentioned, yet Wren had mocked other architects for such tricks. Pride’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? But by around 1705, I think, it got so bad he had no choice. It’s still a taboo subject among Wren fans. He or his disciples even spread rumours that he’d had the iron anchors cut through, just to prove that they weren’t really necessary.’

‘What bit of the crypt is beneath the dome?’ asked Luke.

‘Nelson’s tomb,’ said Trevor, returning the folder of plans to its place. ‘They lowered his coffin through a hole in the main floor during the service. A fine looking thing, though frankly far too black for my taste. I know death isn’t the cheeriest of events, but I’d still fancy something lighter myself. A good pine, if you’ll forgive the pun. Though why should you?’ he added gloomily. ‘It’s an awful pun.’

‘I’ve made worse,’ said Luke.

‘Very kind of you to say so, but I’m not altogether sure that’s possible.’

‘Nelson didn’t die for another hundred years after 1705,’ pointed out Rachel. ‘What was in the crypt until then?’

‘Nothing much, as far as I know, other than Wren’s own tomb. It only became the place to be buried after Nelson. Then everyone wanted in.’

‘And Nelson’s coffin?’ asked Luke. ‘Is it beneath or above the floor?’

‘Above,’ said Trevor. ‘But why do you ask?’

‘No reason,’ said Luke.