The Fire Court: A gripping historical thriller from the bestselling author of The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ Yard. Shops lined the ground floor, and the tavern was above.

      The landlord conducted them to a small chamber, poorly lit by a mullioned window overlooking a yard. Hakesby ordered their dinner, with wine and biscuits to be brought while they waited. Jane Hakesby worried about the cost.

      Marwood slipped on to a bench that faced away from the light. She set down her basket and sat opposite, beside Mr Hakesby who took the only chair. She examined him covertly. His face was pale, the skin stretched tight over the high cheekbones and smudged with tiredness beneath the eyes.

      He had agreed to come with them, but without much enthusiasm. It was as if it didn’t really matter what he did. He ate a biscuit, and then another, which brought some of the colour back to his face.

      He caught her looking at him. ‘How do you do, mistress?’ He left the briefest of pauses and added with a slight emphasis, ‘Hakesby.’

      The ‘mistress’ pleased her, however foolish of her that was. ‘I do very well, thank you, sir.’

      He turned to Hakesby. ‘I don’t wish to cause trouble. You don’t mind being seen with me?’

      ‘We’ve heard nothing to alarm us, sir,’ Hakesby murmured. ‘About the other matter.’ They were quite alone but he shifted uneasily and leaned closer. ‘I have no idea if Mr Alderley is still looking for Catherine Lovett.’

      The men exchanged glances. The Alderleys were her cousins. She hated her cousin Edward more than anyone in the world.

      ‘I’ve heard nothing either,’ Marwood said. ‘Nothing of any moment.’

      ‘Catherine Lovett has become Jane Hakesby,’ Hakesby said. ‘Why, I almost believe it myself. She makes herself useful at the drawing office.’

      ‘I am still myself, sir,’ she said sharply. ‘And I am here beside you. I do not forget who I am and what is owed me. Nor do I forget who has harmed me.’ She glared impartially at them. ‘In this company at least, I am Catherine Lovett.’

      Hakesby shied away. ‘Pray don’t upset yourself.’

      She saw the alarm in his face. ‘You mustn’t mind me, sir. When I was a child, they called me Cat. I have claws.’

      Marwood said, ‘Are you content?’

      ‘I am a maidservant, sir. I assist Mr Hakesby in his business. I live a quiet life. What more could I possibly want?’ She heard the bitterness in her voice and abruptly changed the subject. ‘Who are you in mourning for?’

      Marwood seemed to huddle into his black cloak like a tortoise retiring into his shell. Hakesby cleared his throat, filling the silence. Her abrupt, unwomanly behaviour made him uneasy. He had grown used to it in private, but he did not like it when she spoke so directly to others.

      ‘My father. On Friday.’ Marwood finished his second glass of wine. ‘He was run over by a wagon in Fleet Street.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear it, sir,’ Hakesby said.

      ‘I mustn’t bore you with my troubles. Tell me about the Court where these three judges sit. Why would they be listed together?’

      ‘Because the Fire Court usually consists of three judges to hear each case,’ Hakesby said, a little stiffly because Marwood had rebuffed his attempt at sympathy. ‘Perhaps there was a particular case that came before these three. Or there will be.’

      ‘Three judges for a trial?’

      ‘Not a trial, sir. The Court exists to resolve disputes arising from the Fire. Parliament and the City are anxious that rebuilding should begin as soon as possible, and that the costs should be shared fairly among all the concerned parties. In many cases the tenants and so forth are still liable to pay rent for properties that no longer exist. Not only that, the terms of their leases make them responsible for the rebuilding. Often, of course, they lack the means to do so because they lost everything in the Fire. So Parliament set up the Fire Court, and gave it exceptional powers to settle such disputes and set its own precedents.’

      ‘There must be a list of forthcoming cases,’ Marwood said. ‘If I knew which ones were coming up before those three …’

      Hakesby said: ‘It depends which judges are available.’

      ‘Mr Chelling would know,’ Cat said. ‘As far as anyone does.’

      ‘Yes, but the selection is not usually made public until the last moment. To prevent annoyance to the judges. They don’t want to be pestered.’

      Marwood hesitated. ‘I’d rather not trouble Mr Chelling again.’

      Hakesby smiled. ‘He has a loose tongue. And your … your connections impressed him mightily. He will try to make use of you if he can. He will tell the world you’re his friend.’

      ‘But if you were to make the enquiries, sir,’ Cat said to Hakesby, ‘and in a fashion that suggested the matter had to do with something quite different, one of your own clients …’

      ‘Would you, sir?’ Marwood said, his face sharp and hungry.

      Hakesby hesitated. ‘I am pressed for business at present, and I—’

      ‘He means, sir,’ Cat interrupted, impatient with this unnecessary playacting, ‘would you do something for us in return?’

      ‘Jane!’ Hakesby said. ‘This is not polite.’

      ‘I don’t care much about being polite, sir.’

      ‘What do you want?’ Marwood said, returning bluntness for bluntness.

      ‘Would you lend Mr Hakesby some money?’

      ‘Jane!’

      Cat and Marwood stared at each other. Perhaps, she thought, she had made him angry by asking him a favour at such a time. But he looked prosperous enough. And there was no room for sentiment. Didn’t one good turn deserve another? This was a matter of business, after all, an exchange of services.

      ‘Well,’ Mr Hakesby said uncertainly. ‘Taken all in all, I can’t deny that a loan would be most welcome.’

      After dinner, Hakesby and Cat took a hackney back to Henrietta Street.

      To be Jane Hakesby in Henrietta Street was Cat’s refuge, for the Government did not care for her. The reputation of her dead father and her dead uncle clung to her like a bad smell, and her living cousin wished her harm.

      But Mr Hakesby’s drawing office was more than a refuge: it was a place where, if she were fortunate, she could pursue the one occupation she preferred above all others: like the great Roman architect Vitruvius, she dreamed of designing buildings that would be solid, beautiful and useful, ‘like the nests of birds and bees’.

      The hackney meant more expense, Cat thought, but it could not be helped. They did not speak during the journey until the end, when Hakesby turned to Cat.

      ‘I wish you had not asked Marwood for money. And so bluntly.’

      ‘Do we have a choice, sir?’

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