‘Yes,’ I said, with intentional vagueness, ‘I must see Mr Hakesby. And as soon as possible.’
But I had other things to do first. There was no reason to mention that to Mr Milcote.
It was still raining. I decided to take a coach.
I walked along Piccadilly in search of a hackney, trying to avoid the spray from passing vehicles and horses. Perhaps it was because of the rain but I couldn’t find a coach for hire at the nearest stand. I went on, pulling my hat down and huddling into my cloak.
William Chiffinch had sent me to meet Lady Quincy. And it was also he who had sent me here. But he was the King’s creature in all he did, for there lay his best chance of advancing his own interest. Was the King behind both these commissions? Did that mean they were somehow connected?
Opposite the Royal Mews, liveried servants were opening the great gates of Wallingford House, where the Duke of Buckingham lived when he was in town. I stopped to watch. Outriders appeared, followed by an enormous coach, which was decorated with golden lions and peacocks and drawn by six matching horses. Afterwards came four running footmen, who held on to the straps behind the coach and splashed through the puddles, careless of the filth thrown up on their clothes.
Now that he had been freed from the Tower, the Duke had no intention of hiding his presence in London. The coach drew up outside the front door, which opened immediately. The Duke himself appeared at the head of the steps. He was a tall, florid gentleman in a blond periwig and a plumed hat. He was dressed in a silver coat and blue breeches, with the matching blue of the Garter ribbon across his chest, and the Garter star itself gleaming over his heart. He waved at the small crowd that had gathered, tossed them a handful of silver and climbed into the coach.
The crowd cheered him as he drove off towards Whitehall. I walked on in the direction of the hackney stand by Charing Cross.
The contrast between the Duke and Lord Clarendon could not have been more clearly illustrated – the one a hero to the common people of London, the other a villain. It seemed that even the King was throwing his weight behind Buckingham. But if His Majesty had decided to throw Clarendon to the wolves, to Buckingham and his enemies in Parliament, why had he sent me on a mission that seemed designed to protect Clarendon’s reputation? Was it the Duke of York’s influence? Or did he have some other, deeper motive?
THE COACHMAN DROPPED me by Holborn Bridge. ‘Phugh!’ he said, covering his nose with his sleeve. ‘Smells like a whore’s armpit.’
Fallow Street ran north–south on the east side of the bridge over the Fleet River. The river was choked with rubbish. There was a tannery nearby, and nothing made a neighbourhood stink worse than tanning leather.
The street was straight and narrow. The southern end had been destroyed by the Fire. The ruins had been cleared, but nothing had been rebuilt yet. People were living there, nevertheless, in makeshift shelters that looked as if a puff of wind would bring them down.
The southern end of the roadway had recently been partly blocked by the collapse of a long wall that had once marked the outer boundary of a building destroyed by the Fire. Someone on foot could work their way along, but the street was impassable to wheeled traffic.
I paid off the coachman and picked my way up the street. It was busy enough at the undamaged northern end. I found the carpenter’s shop by the sound of sawing and hammering that came from it. Since the Fire, there had been a great demand for carpenters and a chronic shortage of suitable timber.
The shutters were open. The master and his apprentice were erecting the frame of a simple bedstead, helped rather than hindered by a small boy of about ten or twelve, who was probably the carpenter’s son. The joints wouldn’t fit together properly – hence the hammering and the sawing and the palpable air of frustration.
I stood outside, sheltering from the rain and blocking some of their light, until the carpenter paused in his work and glanced up. His shoulders were hunched forward, and he had a big, narrow face and a very small forehead. He looked like a Barbary ape.
‘What is it?’ he said curtly. He belatedly assessed my clothes and my air of respectability, and added, ‘Sir.’
‘I’m looking for Mr Alderley’s lodgings,’ I said.
He pointed at the ceiling. ‘Up there. But he’s away.’
‘I know that. I have a key.’
The carpenter shrugged.
‘I also have a warrant that permits me to go inside.’ This was not strictly true. ‘You may have a sight of it.’
The carpenter came into the doorway and examined the paper I showed him.
‘That is the King’s signature,’ I said, pointing. ‘And that is his private seal.’
He squinted at the warrant and said, in a slightly uncertain voice: ‘It doesn’t say you can come into my house, does it?’
I lowered my voice, because there was nothing to be gained from shaming the man in front of his inferiors, and said, ‘It’s not your house. It’s Mr Alderley’s. I can come back with a magistrate and a couple of constables if you’d prefer, and I’ll also see you in court for obstructing the King’s justice. Or you can save yourself some trouble and show me where Alderley’s door is.’
He licked his lips. ‘Did you say you’ve got a key?’
‘Of course.’ I showed him the keyring with Alderley’s two keys. ‘And the warrant allows me to use it.’
‘All right. Hal – look sharp, take the gentleman round to Mr Alderley’s door.’
‘One moment. What’s your name?’
‘Thomas Bearwood.’
‘When did you last see Mr Alderley?’
‘I don’t know. Last week sometime? The wife might know.’ The small boy came out to join us, wiping the snot from his nostrils with the back of his sleeve. His father cuffed him. ‘I said look sharp.’
The boy let out a howl as a matter of form, though he seemed unharmed. He led me to a passage at the side of the shop that led to the main house. Behind us, the sawing resumed. Without a word, the lad indicated a door with his hand.
I pushed the larger key into the lock and twisted. The wards turned. The boy stared up at me, and I knew he was trying to get a better look at the scarring that the fire had left on my face. He caught my eye and ran off the way he had come. I glanced up and down the passage. No one was in sight. I opened the door and went inside.
There was a tiny lobby with a flight of stairs going up from it.
I shut and bolted the door. I climbed the stairs. They were steep and narrow and let out a creak at every step. At the top was a landing, with three closed doors. The air smelled powerfully of stale urine, which was unremarkable in a house so close to a tannery.
The nearest door led to a chamber almost entirely filled by a finely carved bedstead. The curtains were drawn back and the bed was unmade. Beyond it was a closet full of clothing, either hanging from pegs on the wall or spilling from a large press. I saw at a glance that these were a rich man’s clothes, a man who liked lace and ribbons and satin. Some showed signs of wear and dirt. But others