The King's Evil

Chapter Three

The man moved swiftly. Making sure that he was unobserved, he pushed aside the charred remnants of the front door and stepped into the house. A timber-framed property with a thatched roof, it had been completely gutted by the fire and nothing survived in any of the rooms to tempt a thief. The man was not concerned with the interior of the dwelling. His interest was in the garden. He clambered through to it. Plants and bushes had been burned away and the little orchard was now no more than a collection of blackened stumps, surrounded by countless shrivelled apples and pears. That did not deter him. The man set about scouring the whole garden, searching the lawn then kicking away piles of ash so that he could examine the scorched flowerbeds. He soon found what he was after - a patch where the earth had recently been disturbed then stamped back into position. A hiding place.

From beneath his coat, he produced a small shovel. Kneeling down, he began to dig quickly but carefully, eager to secure his prize but not wishing to damage it by too vigorous a use of his implement. When he made contact with something solid, he abandoned the shovel and used both hands to scrape the earth away. A first bottle of wine came into view, then a second, then two more, each with the owner's crest upon them. It had to be expensive wine to be worth burying. He dug on until he unearthed a further three dozen bottles of Canary wine, six of brandy and an array of cheeses wrapped up in muslin then stuffed into a wooden box. It was a good haul. What he could not eat or drink himself, he could sell for a tidy profit. He made a mental note to save the Parmesan cheese for his own use.

The man was not finished yet. A property as substantial as this one argued an owner of some wealth. If he vacated the house at speed, he might not have been able to carry away all that he wished. Wine and cheese had been left behind. There was a chance that gold or valuables might also have been buried in the garden to await his return. The man sensed that there were richer rewards still at the bottom of the pit. He reached for his shovel once more. As his hand closed around the handle, however, a large shoe descended on his wrist and pinned it to the ground. It belonged to a brawny constable who loomed over him.

'Have they not suffered enough?' said Jonathan Bale solemnly. 'Their home has already been destroyed by fire. Must they also have their last few possessions stolen by a common thief?'

'They will not miss a bottle or two of wine,' said the man with an ingratiating smirk, trying to turn his captor into an accomplice. 'Let us each take what we want and nobody will be any the wiser.'

'I will, my friend.'

'Then you have it all, constable.'

'I want none of your stolen goods.'

'It is fine wine and good cheese.'

'The people who bought it are entitled to enjoy it.' Jonathan gave a grim smile. 'That is why you are going to put it back where you found it.'

The man was horrified. 'Put it back?'

'Every last bottle. Every piece of cheese.'

'But it is such a waste.'

'Do as I tell you.'

'There may be gold or valuables down there as well,' said the thief, pointing with his free hand. 'Why not let me dig down to find out? We might both end up as rich men.'

'You will end up in prison, my friend. Trespass is the first charge. Theft, the second. Trying to corrupt a constable, the third. Now, put everything back where you found it before I lose my patience.' He lifted his foot to release the man. 'Hurry up. I will wait.'

Protesting loudly, the man did as he was ordered and replaced the wine and cheese in the pit before filling it with earth then patting it with the flat of his shovel. He stood up to stamp it more firmly into place. His predicament was dire. Caught in the act, he could expect to suffer the full severity of the law. That left him with one last option. Still holding the shovel, he tightened his grip on it and swung it viciously at Jonathan's head. The constable was ready for him. He ducked beneath the tool then countered with a solid punch to the jaw which sent his assailant reeling backwards. As the man fell heavily to the ground, he dropped the shovel and Jonathan kicked it clear. Still dazed, the thief was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged back through the empty house.

The two watchmen who had been stationed outside were elderly men but their combined strength was more than enough to cope with the prisoner now that all the fight had been knocked out of him. Jonathan handed the man over to his colleagues. One of them, Abraham Datchett, a spry character in his sixties, got a firm grip on the malefactor.

'Another thief?' he enquired.

'The worst kind,' said Jonathan. 'He tried to bribe me into silence.'

'More fool him!'

'Take him to the magistrate and see him locked up.'

'We will, Jonathan.'

'I will make a full report when I come off duty.'

'What was he trying to steal?'

'Wine and cheese. Oh, yes,' said Jonathan with a grin. 'And he decided to take my head with him for good measure. But I ducked just in time. Away, with the rogue, Abraham. He deserves no mercy.'

The watchmen hauled their prisoner off between them and the constable continued his rounds. Guarding damaged properties was one of his main tasks. Even derelict houses like this one might yield some booty. It was one of the more depressing effects of the Great Fire. Loss for the many had been offset by excessive gain for the few. Watermen, carriers and others who assisted fleeing householders increased their charges to exorbitant levels for customers who were in no position to refuse to pay. There were at least some shards of legality about this practice though it had no moral justification.

But there was nothing remotely legal about the epidemic of burglary which broke out as bold thieves ransacked houses which had been abandoned in the path of the fire or, as now, climbed into the garden of a derelict property to search for items which might have been buried there. When he had not been manning a fire post, Jonathan Bale had spent the past week pursuing and arresting the vultures who preyed on the misfortunes of others. His worst case had been in Knightrider Street where two thieves, gaining access to the garden of a deserted house, dug strenuously until they found a strongbox under the ground. They were so elated that friendship was instantly forgotten and they fought each other for sole possession of the bounty. By the time Jonathan arrived on the scene, only one man was still alive to be arrested.

Fire, destruction, panic, murder, burglary, trespass, mob violence and shameless profiteering. A desperate week for London. Jonathan watched his city mangled out of all recognition. One of the most startling changes was to the distinctive sound of the capital on a Sunday morning. Instead of the jangling harmonies of a hundred or more bells, calling the populace to worship, there was comparative silence. It was eerie. Most churches had been demolished and some of those that survived had lost their congregations temporarily to the outer suburbs. The few bells which did toll had a forlorn and apologetic note to them.

Jonathan's steps took him in the direction of Paul's Wharf and he was soon stopping to gaze wistfully at the ruins of St Peter's Church, once well attended, now deprived of its bell forever. Those who lay in its little churchyard would be its only parishioners from now on. St Peter's was not the only casualty in the ward. The churches of St Andrew in the Wardrobe, St Mary Magdalene and St Benet Paul's Wharf had also fallen to the flames. The spiritual life of the community had been dealt a series of crippling blows. Jonathan was still looking at the devastation when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

'Do not expect me to mourn its passing, Mr Bale.'

'What is that?' said Jonathan, turning to face the newcomer.

'I am glad that it was levelled to the ground. That is where St Peter's truly belongs. It was a Cavalier church. When the Lord Protector ruled, this was a refuge for the nobility.'

'I know it well, Mr Thorpe.'

'I would gladly have lit the match which set it alight.'

'Then I would just as gladly have arrested you for the crime.'

'Where is the crime in driving out sin?'

Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a short, slim man in his fifties with a cadaverous face out of which two large eyes shone like beacons. He was dressed in the black garb of the Quakers and wore a high-crowned black hat whose wide brim had been singed by fire. His voice had the natural power of an orator and Jonathan had heard it raised in denunciation many times. The constable enjoyed an uneasy relationship with his neighbour, admiring him for his courage but deploring the extremes to which Thorpe sometimes went. Slight and innocuous in repose, the man could be highly volatile when moved by the Holy Spirit.

'Your attire is too eloquent, Mr Thorpe,' he observed.

'I am not ashamed to be seen for what I am.'

'Take care it does not lead to a beating. There are still mad fools abroad who believe that the fire may have been started by Quakers and who take revenge on any of your sect they encounter.'

'Violence holds no fears for me,' said the other bravely. 'Jesus himself endured many blows in defence of his beliefs. I have done the same before and will do so again.'

Jonathan heaved a sigh and glanced back at St Peter's.

'Whatever you say, it was a fine old church. It will be a great loss.'

'Not to me, Mr Bale. I have a long memory.'

'Too long, I fear. It is time to look forward and not back.'

'Yes,' said the other, 'thou wouldst say that. Thou art a parish constable now with duties and responsibilities. Mr Jonathan Bale upholds the laws of this corrupt Parliament. It pains him to recall that he was once as true a Christian as myself.'

'I still am.'

'No, sir. Thou hast betrayed us and betrayed thyself.'

'That is a matter of opinion.'

'Thou art familiar with mine.'

'It has not been kept hidden from me, Mr Thorpe,' said Jonathan with a wry smile. 'I hold fast to the beliefs which I have always held. Where you and I differ is in how they are best expressed.'

'Openly and defiantly.'

'That is the shortest route to the prison cell.'

'Why should we suffer punishment that others escaped?' said Thorpe, a bony finger raised in anger. 'Think back, Mr Bale. When this country was ruled by Parliament under the leadership of Lord Protector Cromwell, a due severity was introduced into church services. Not that we could accept the new liturgy ourselves,' he stressed. 'We wait in the grace and the truth that comes by Jesus. We need no liturgy and no priest to act as an intermediary between us and our God. And we were ready to suffer for those beliefs. But what of the congregation of St Peter's?' he demanded. 'Did they obey the law? No, Mr Bale. This church continued the hateful practice of dispensing the sacraments.

So many members of the nobility flocked here that they hung the galleries with turkey carpets for the accommodation of those titled sinners. The Lord Protector should have torn the place down.'

'He was not given to defiling consecrated ground,' said Jonathan. 'But I am surprised to hear you speaking with some respect of him. If we must look to the past, let me remind you that the same Lord Protector treated the Society of Friends with great harshness. Hundreds were imprisoned at his command. You were one of them.'

'I wore my ordeal as a badge of honour.'

'What of your wife and children, Mr Thorpe? I venture to suggest that they might have preferred to have you at home with them instead of languishing in a cell with your badge of honour.'

'My family and I are all of one mind.'

Jonathan bit back his rejoinder. There was no point in arguing with a man like Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe. He was a combative Christian who thrived on debate. Mocking the established religion was a serious offence, committed by a headstrong man who refused to swear the appropriate oaths and who declined to pay tithes for the maintenance of the Church he despised. A printer by trade, Thorpe was also suspected of writing and distributing religious tracts which fell foul of the law. It was almost as if he was challenging his companion to arrest him. Jonathan refused to assist him in his search for martyrdom. Though the man was profoundly irritating, the constable had a sneaking fondness for him.

'Go home, sir,' he advised softly. 'I have no quarrel with you. In a bleak time such as this, I look for small mercies. I am pleased that you and your family came through the fire without undue loss. Your house was largely spared its ravages. Most of us were not so fortunate.'

'Indeed not,' agreed the other with genuine compassion. 'It has been a time of trial. Thou art a victim, Mr Bale, I know and I am truly sorry. I came past thy house on Addle Hill today and saw again how little of it is left standing.

Where are thy wife and children?'

'Staying with my parents in Hoxton.'

'Safe, then? That is good to hear.'

'Thank you for your concern.'

'We are neighbours, Mr Bale. I hoped at one time that we could also be close friends. But thou hast chosen another path.'

'It leads in the same direction as yours.'

'I would dispute that, sir.'

'Then you must do so alone.'

'Art thou afraid to discuss thy spiritual life?'

'Good day, Mr Thorpe. I must continue my patrol.'

A note of disappointment. 'Thou art not going to arrest me?'

'Not when there are so many real criminals to apprehend.'

Before the man could reply, Jonathan touched his hat in polite farewell and moved away. He escaped lightly. Jesus- Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a kind, generous, sincere man of undoubted intelligence but there were times when he could be the verbal equivalent of the Great Fire, raging wildly and consuming everything in his conversational path. Other members of the Society of Friends in Truth waited patiently upon the Lord but Thorpe was altogether too restless to sit in silence. It was only a matter of time before his incendiary disposition landed him behind bars again and Jonathan did not wish to be the man who put him there.

He went north up St Peter's Hill, turned left into Knightrider Street then immediately right into Sermon Lane. Each step of the way took him past ruined houses, empty shops and deserted inns. Yet there were curious survivals - stables which were untouched, a smoke- blackened warehouse with little interior damage, an occasional brick-built property with a tiled roof which had somehow kept the fire at bay. Jonathan wondered if there was any significance in the fact that the home of Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was still standing while his own had collapsed in a heap. Was there some hidden pattern to the Great Fire?

Carter Lane was another scene of carnage, a main thoroughfare which had been largely reduced to rubble, throwing untold numbers of people out of their homes and workplaces, and inflicting a gaping wound on the city. Taverns which had once throbbed with life now lay dead. Civic buildings which had stood like proud sentinels were no more than empty shells. Dozens of people milled about but they looked dispirited and lethargic. The customary bustle of Carter Lane had gone. It was a street of ghosts.

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.