The King's Evil

Chapter Four

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.

Notwithstanding all this, the capital displayed, in general, a spirit of resilience. If the setbacks were to be overcome, an immense collective effort was needed and most people responded at once. Those whose houses or workplaces had been only partially damaged moved back into them as soon as possible to institute repairs. Within a week of the end of the fire, a man in Blackfriars cleared away the ruins of his old house and began to build a new one on the same site. Others elected to follow suit but their plans were immediately frustrated.

On the thirteenth of September 1666, while the smoke was still rising from parts of the city, a Royal Proclamation was issued, prohibiting any hasty building and empowering the authorities to pull down any structures erected before new regulations were put into place. The haphazard growth of the city over the centuries, with its narrow streets, its close-built dwellings, its superfluity of timber- framed properties, its surviving thatch and its inadequate water supply had contributed to its own demise. It might almost have been designed to assist the rapid spread of a fire. Such a disaster, it was insisted, must never happen again. Safety would henceforth be a prime consideration.

Rebuilding commenced in earnest the following spring.

'We must bear the new regulations in mind,' said Henry Redmayne, sipping his coffee. 'No half-timbering is allowed. The house must be built entirely of brick and stone with a tiled roof.'

'I would accept nothing less,' said his companion.

'Nor must the upper storeys jetty out.'

'Such a style would, in any case, offend my taste.'

'It is gone for ever from our midst, Sir Ambrose.'

'Thank Heaven!'

'I could not agree more.'

'That was an incidental blessing of the fire. It cleared away decrepit old houses that had no right to exist and rid us of squalid lanes and alleys where the poorer sort lived in their miserables holes. Yes,' added the other with easy pomposity, 'I did not support every recommendation put before us by the Commission but, by and large, their suggestions were admirable. I was particularly pleased that noxious trades have been banned from the riverside. Those of us who import goods were assailed by the most unbearable stink whenever we went near the wharf.'

'The brewers and dyers were the worst, Sir Ambrose.'

'Then you have not smelled the lime-burners and the soap-makers when they are practising their craft. Add the reek of the salt-makers and you have a stench that stayed in the nostrils for days.'

'Just like the smoke from the Great Fire.'

'Yes, Henry. Exactly like that.'

'How long has it been now? Six months?'

'Over seven.'

'I still sometimes catch a whiff of that smoke.'

'Memory plays strange tricks on us.'

'Indeed, Sir Ambrose. It may torment us in perpetuity.' Henry became solicitous. 'Was the coffee to your liking?'

'Excellent.'

'Let us order another cup.'

The two men were sitting in one of the most fashionable coffee houses in the city, swiftly refurbished now that decisions had finally been made about building regulations. Henry was at his most immaculate in a blue coat with extravagant gold braid and a red and green waistcoat. His new periwig lent him an air of distinction which made him even more a slave to his vanity and he kept appraising himself in an invisible mirror. Seated opposite him was Sir Ambrose Northcott, now almost fifty, a man of middle height and corpulent body who defied his many physical shortcomings with the aid of an expensive French tailor. Fleshy jowls were tinged with crimson and the nose was absurdly small for such a large face yet there were no wrinkles to betray his true age and the eyes had a youthful sparkle.

Northcott was an important man. Having inherited his title and a substantial fortune, he determined to improve himself even more and invested wisely in trade. A Justice of the Peace in his native Kent, he was also a Member of Parliament and took a vocal part in the discussions which touched on the future shape and composition of the capital. Henry Redmayne had cultivated him strenuously for years but he now had a more pressing reason to court him. Northcott wanted a new house built.

Henry made an urgent question sound like a casual enquiry.

'Have you had time to study those drawings, Sir Ambrose?'

'I made time, Henry.'

'What was your impression?'

'A most favourable one.'

'I am pleased to hear it.'

'Your brother has remarkable talent.'

'He does,' said Henry, basking in the praise. 'Christopher is a born artist. He has a most cultured hand. It has ever been so. I once saw him draw a perfect circle with a crayon.'

'Does this talent run in the family?'

'Unhappily, no. And even if it did, I would not waste it on a piece of paper. The only perfect circles I would draw would be those I traced with a fingertip around the nipples of a fair lady.'

Northcott laughed. 'Love has its own architecture.'

'With building regulations that are far more appealing!'

They exchanged a polite snigger. Northcott sat back in his chair.

'Tell me more about this brother of yours,' he said.

'That is precisely why I am here.'

'Is he a coming man?'

Henry needed no more invitation. After ordering fresh coffee, he launched into an eulogy which owed far more to fact than to fiction, glad that he was not obliged to lie too much about his brother. Christopher really did possess creative gifts which set him apart from most of his potential rivals and those gifts were allied to a capacity for hard work and a willingness to learn. As he held forth about his brother, Henry came to see just how rich and varied his education had been and how he merely needed something which would concentrate his mind in order for all that study to bear fruit. Delighted with what he heard, Northcott listened intently but he was far too cautious to be rushed to judgement.

'Your brother is very young to have achieved so much, Henry.'

'He is twice the man I was at his age, Sir Ambrose.'

'Yet somewhat lacking in practical experience of design.'

'What could be more practical than the drawings of his that I showed you? A reputable builder could turn any of them into a reality.'

'Some builders still prefer to design their own work.'

'Those days are fast disappearing,' said Henry expansively. 'An architect is indispensable if you wish for the highest standards. Master-builders had their value but they are in decline. Well, Sir Ambrose,' he continued, risking a familiar pat on the man's shoulder, 'can you imagine Christopher Wren working as a mason on St Paul's Cathedral or Hugh May mixing lime mortar for one of those exquisite houses he designs? It is unthinkable. Such men belong to a new and honourable elite - the profession of architect. I am proud to number my brother in their ranks.'

Cups of coffee arrived and Northcott pondered while he tasted his. A large amount of money would be expended on his London abode and a degree of emotional capital would be invested in it as well. It was vital to select the right person to design it.

'What of his character?' he asked.

'His character?'

'Yes, Henry. You have told me much about his history and his ambition. But what manner of man is Christopher Redmayne?'

'Dedicated to his work.'

'That might make him narrow-minded and possessive.'

'Far from it!'

'Is he amenable?'

'Completely, Sir Ambrose.'

'He can take orders? Accept criticism?'

'Christopher is yours to command.'

'What of his discretion?' said the other, lowering his voice. 'I do not want some wagging tongue to voice my business abroad. I require a man who does what he is paid for without asking any unnecessary questions. I need a politic man, willing but prudent. Conscientious and close. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am looking for total obedience.'

'You have just described my brother to perfection!'

'We shall see,' said Northcott with a contemplative nod. 'We shall see. If this paragon really does exist, then I will seriously consider him.'

'Thank you, Sir Ambrose.'

'Arrange a meeting.'

'You will not regret this, I do assure you.'

'Let me see the fellow for myself.'

'How soon?'

'At the earliest possible opportunity.'

Henry's smile broadened and he made an eloquent gesture.

'What a pleasing coincidence!' he said without a trace of irony. 'As luck would have it, I believe that Christopher may be in the next room. You can have the pleasure of meeting him immediately.'

When the servant rose shortly after dawn, he came downstairs with a taper to find his master slumped across the table, the candle beside him burned to extinction. Jacob let out a wheeze of disapproval. He put a hand on Christopher's shoulder to shake him gently awake.

'Go to bed, sir,' he whispered. 'Let me help you upstairs.'

'What's that?' said the other drowsily.

'You need some proper rest, sir.'

'Where am I?'

'You fell asleep over your work. Go to bed.'

'No, no.' Christopher rubbed his eyes and shook himself awake. 'I have too much to do, Jacob. Far too much.'

'You have been saying that for weeks, sir. This is the third time in a row that you have stayed up all night to struggle with your drawings.'

'There is no struggle involved. It is a labour of love.' 'Show more love to yourself and less to your work,' advised the old man. 'Flesh and blood can only withstand so much, sir. You need sleep.'

'What I need is food and drink. A hearty breakfast will revive me in no time at all. Then I will be able to finish this last drawing.'

'Let it wait, sir.'

'There can be no delay, Jacob. Sir Ambrose expects the completed set today and he will get them. Everything is riding on this commission. It could be the start of a whole new career for me. That would mean money, Jacob. You would get your wages on time for a change. There is a lot at stake here. And whatever happens, I must not let my brother down. Henry went to great lengths to secure this opportunity for me. I must take full advantage of it.'

'Even if it means slaving away night and day?'

'Architecture is a cruel master.'

Jacob nodded. 'I will prepare your breakfast, sir.'

'One moment,' said Christopher, raising a palm to detain him. 'Open those shutters to let in some light then come and see what I was doing while you were slumbering upstairs. I have not been idle.'

'That is my complaint,' muttered the other.

He opened the shutters, lit a fresh candle with his taper then carried it back to the table. Christopher proudly spread out his drawings.

'Here we are,' he said, beaming at his work. 'What do you think?'

'My opinion is worthless, sir.'

'Not to me, Jacob.'

'I know nothing about designing a house.'

'Just tell me if you would like to live in this one.'

He stood back so that his servant could have a clear view. The old man ran a watery eye over each drawing, moving from one to the other with increasing admiration. He scratched his head in awe. The one over which he lingered most was a drawing of the front elevation of the house. It was a handsome abode with a regular facade, neat rectilinear outlines and square-headed doors and windows. Six stone steps, into which an iron handrail had been set, led up to a portico which comprised elegant pillars with a flat entablature and low pediment. The house bore little resemblance to the Tudor dwellings which proliferated in the city of Jacob's youth and was entirely free from the Gothic extravagances which adorned so many public buildings before the Great Fire.

Jacob was especially impressed with the sash windows, a Dutch invention now taken up with enthusiasm in England. There were eighteen in all, including two which served the attic rooms. The old man wondered how many more windows the house contained and which unfortunate servant would be given the task of keeping them all clean.

'It is pretty, sir,' he said respectfully. 'Very, very pretty.'

'Thank you, Jacob.'

'Anyone would be privileged to live in such a place,'

'I hope that Sir Ambrose Northcott shares your high opinion.'

'If he does not, he must be blind. One question, if I may, sir,' he said, pointing to the first of the drawings. 'Why are the cellars so large?'

'That was the express wish of my client.'

'What does he wish to keep down there?'

'Whatever he wishes, Jacob. Mine is not to question the use to which he puts the cellars. All I know is that Sir Ambrose was most particular about their extent and design. This elaborate vaulting will test the skill of the bricklayers but it is vital in order to support the weight of the house itself. I regard the cellars as a minor triumph. The pity of it is that very few people will ever get to admire the work I put into them.'

'I admire it, sir.'

'That is praise enough for me.'

'The whole house is fit for a king.'

'Sir Ambrose would be flattered by such a thought.'

'The only thing is ...' He broke off as he peered at the front elevation again. 'I mean no disrespect, sir.'

'Go on.'

'The only thing is, sir, it looks a bit, well... foreign.'

'That is the French influence.'

'Ah.'

'Specifically ordered.' He grinned. 'Like my breakfast.'

'I will get it for you at once, sir,' said Jacob, heading for the kitchen. 'No man can work on an empty stomach. Though I still think that you should take a nap to get your strength back.'

Christopher did not hear him. He was already immersed in his work again, studying each of the drawings with a searching eye to make sure that every detail was correct and that it contributed properly to the overall symmetry of the house. He did not need his brother to tell him how important the commission was. Apart from putting much-needed revenue into his purse, it was a chance for Christopher Redmayne to establish himself as an architect. In a highly visible profession, success was its own best advertisement. If the house for Sir Ambrose Northcott caught the eye and won general esteem, other commissions would assuredly follow and Christopher would be able to play his part in the exciting work of rebuilding a great city.

Close to the ruins of Baynard's Castle, it was a prime site. The new regulations forbade the building of houses along the riverbank itself so the dwelling was set well back from it. Enclosed by a high stone wall, the long garden ran almost down to the Thames and the rear windows of the house afforded an uninterrupted view both of the river and of the one remaining turret of the castle. Sir Ambrose Northcott was thrilled with this prospect, combining, as it did, reality with romance, the busy world of commerce floating past on the water with the noble profile of a derelict fortress. When darkness fell, the lone turret would be silhouetted against the moonlit sky. It would make an evocative neighbour.

When work first began on the site, he visited it every day.

'What progress have you made, Mr Littlejohn?' he asked.

'Small steps forward, Sir Ambrose,' said the other. 'Small but significant steps forward.'

'When will the cellars be completed?'

'According to schedule.'

'Good. I will hold you to that, Mr Littlejohn.'

'You will not find me wanting. May I say what an honour it is to work on such a project, Sir Ambrose?'

'Then do not allow any slacking among your men.'

'There is no danger of that.'

'The house must be ready on time.'

'I have never failed a client yet.'

Samuel Littlejohn was a sturdy fellow of middle years with a rubicund face and a jovial manner. He positively exuded bonhomie. A successful builder even before the fire, he was now in greater demand than ever and Northcott had to include many financial inducements in his contract in order to secure him. Littlejohn not only had a reputation for building sound houses to the exact specifications of his clients, he invariably did so within the stipulated period of time. He was a wealthy man who dressed well but, if occasion demanded, he was not averse to taking off his coat and soiling his hands by helping his employees. He could teach the best of them how to lay bricks and his carpentry was a source of envy. Samuel Littlejohn enjoyed every aspect of his work.

'You have chosen your architect well,' he said approvingly.

'That is what I believe,' returned Northcott. 'I thought about it long and hard before I reached my decision. Because of his youth, I had grave doubts at first but they are fast vanishing.'

'Mr Redmayne understands building.'

'He came with the highest recommendation.'

'It was justified.'

'I am glad that you and he have such an affinity, Mr Littlejohn.'

'It makes all the difference, Sir Ambrose. When an

architect and builder do not work happily together, it shows in the finished structure. The opposite is also true,' he added with a chuckle. 'Bricks and mortar glow. Stonework gleams. Windows seem to glitter. When your house is built by men who are in accord, it will have a broad smile on its face.'

'So will I, if it is ready on the date agreed.'

'You have my word, Sir Ambrose.'

'That is good enough for me, Mr Littlejohn.'

The builder was diverted by the arrival of a boat-load of timber and he excused himself to supervise the unloading. Northcott surveyed the site with a deep satisfaction then walked slowly around its perimeter. He could almost see the finished house rising before his eyes. The omens were good. Everything was proceeding exactly as he wished. He strolled across to the trestle table on which Christopher Redmayne had spread out his drawings so that the builders could work from them. Like his employer, the architect was on site every day.

'Do you foresee any problems, Christopher?' asked Northcott.

'Not at the moment, Sir Ambrose,' said the other, looking up. 'We seem to have it all under control. Mr Littlejohn's men work hard.'

'I look to him to keep them at it.'

'He will most certainly do so. You could not have engaged a more experienced builder. In the short time we have been acquainted, I have learned a great deal from him. He has my admiration.'

'You have certainly earned his.'

'Then I am profoundly flattered.' He glanced towards the river. 'You have selected an excellent site here, Sir Ambrose, and the fact that you have a private jetty is a huge bonus. Materials which would otherwise have to be delivered to some busy wharf upstream can be brought to the very bottom of your garden.'

'It was a feature which attracted me to the property.'

'An appealing situation for a merchant.'

'Trade is only a small part of my life,' said Northcott with a frown. 'I could never be described as a mere merchant.'

'Quite so,' agreed Christopher, anxious not to offend him. 'You have many other arrows to your bow, Sir Ambrose, I know. There must be few men of consequence in London with a quiver as full as yours.'

'Very few.'

'Your talents are so copious. Henry is astounded by your vigour.'

A sly smile. 'Your brother has his occasional bursts of energy.'

'But nothing like your staying-power, Sir Ambrose. He is in awe of you, believe me. Henry has his gifts but he could not do half the things which you contrive to do.'

Northcott was mollified. Christopher had a winning politeness and a readiness to please his employer. Northcott was growing to like him. For his part, Christopher was still too grateful to his companion to have any reservations about his character. Northcott could be peremptory at times and downright rude if there was the slightest questioning of his decisions but the architect took all that in his stride, constantly aware that he who pays the piper calls the tune. Christopher was more than content to play it for him and, in Samuel Littlejohn, he had an ideal musical ally. The two of them worked together in perfect harmony.

'This will be my last visit for a little while,' said Northcott.

'Oh? I am sorry to hear that.'

'I will be away on business for a fortnight or more. When I come back, I hope to see that substantial progress has been made.'

'We will not disappoint you, Sir Ambrose.'

'During my absence, Mr Creech will be in charge of my affairs.'

'Mr Creech?'

'Solomon Creech is my lawyer,' explained the other.

'All monies due to you or to Mr Littlejohn will be released through him. I have also asked him to keep a close eye on developments here so you will very soon be making his acquaintance.'

'I look forward to that. Away for a fortnight, you say?'

'At least.'

'Will you be returning home to Kent?'

'That is my business,' said the other with a note of reprimand.

'Of course, Sir Ambrose,' said Christopher. 'It is not my place to pry into your affairs. I merely wished to know if there was some means of getting in touch with you in the event of a contingency arising here.'

'Speak to my lawyer.'

'Will Mr Creech have ready access to you?'

'He is empowered to act on my behalf.'

'Then nothing more need be added on the subject.'

'Nothing at all, Christopher.'

His remark was buttressed by a mild glare. Christopher accepted the rebuke with good grace and sought to win back Northcott's approval. He drew his employer's attention to the drawings and the two of them were soon bent over the trestle table, discussing every detail of the house. Their mutual enthusiasm for the project quickly repaired the minor rift between them and they conversed for almost an hour. By the time they finished, Northcott's good humour had returned and he even felt able to pat his architect on the back.

'It will be one of the finest houses in London,' he said.

'You must take the credit for that, Sir Ambrose.'

'I had the sense to choose the right architect and the right builder.'

'You also purchased the best possible site,' Christopher reminded him with a sweep of his arm. 'It is so appealing in every way, I am surprised that its previous owner was ready to part with it.'

'When his home went up in the blaze, he lost heart.'

'Could he not build a replica in its place?'

'He lacked the funds to do so,' said the other, 'and, though he will argue his case in the fire court, he can look for very little compensation from that quarter. I seized opportunity by the forelock and made him an offer which he was unable to refuse.'

'I am heartily glad that you did so, Sir Ambrose.'

'So am I - now that we have agreed on the design. Everything is as I would wish. But I must away,' said Northcott, suddenly conscious of the time. 'I have important appointments today and I must call on my lawyer to give him his instructions. He will shortly be in touch with you.'

He waved a farewell then went off for a final word with Littlejohn. Christopher pored over his drawings once more, untroubled by the many compromises he had been forced to make between artistic impulse and the demands of his client. Given a free hand, he would have opted for a slightly plainer style and resisted all of the French flourishes which had been incorporated but it was still a piece of work of which he was quite inordinately proud and it would gain him considerable attention when it finally took its place in the new landscape.

Christopher was still revelling in his good fortune when he became aware that he was being watched. It was not an intrusive surveillance. Indeed, it seemed to wash gently over him like a benign wave and caused him to look up. The young woman was no more than a dozen yards away, her gaze fixed on him, her teeth showing in an open- mouthed smile of admiration. She was slim, comely and elegant in a dress composed of several shades of blue yet there was a slight nervousness in her manner which vitiated her poise. Christopher put her at no more than eighteen or nineteen and he wondered why she was loitering alone in such a place. She held his gaze for a full minute before modestly lowering her lids. His curiosity stirred and conducted an approving scrutiny.

Samuel Littlejohn ambled slowly over to the architect.

'You have made a conquest, I think,' he noted.

'How?'

'Margaret was so enamoured of your design for the house that she insisted she be given the chance to meet you.'

'Margaret? You know the young lady?'

'Extremely well,' said the other with a grin. 'She is my daughter.'

'And a beautiful one at that, Mr Littlejohn.'

His courteous observation drew an immediate response. Margaret Littlejohn met his eyes once more and stared into them with an intensity which bordered on yearning. Christopher was taken aback. The last thing he expected to do amid piles of building materials was to excite the interest of an attractive young woman. A pleasing sensation surged through him and produced an involuntary smile of his own. It was a thrilling moment but it soon passed.

Without quite knowing why, he suddenly sensed danger.