Fire, page 16
Hubert looks up, mildly interested, as Lowman unlocks the door and lets me in. When you are a prisoner you get little choice as to your visitors, but there are few other diversions.
‘Will you need me, Mr Grey?’ Lowman asks, jangling his keys. He seems disappointed to learn that his low cunning will not be required today, and departs, not troubling to close the door after him. He trusts me not to run off with his prisoner.
‘Look,’ I say. ‘This may be the last time I can see you, Mr Hubert. If there is anything more you can tell me, I need to know now.’
He nods. ‘I have told you everything.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘You realise that you can—indeed almost certainly will—hang if you continue to say that you started the fire and killed Mr Peidloe?’
He smiles. ‘Not if I tell the truth.’
‘No, Mr Hubert, it doesn’t work like that. If you insist you set fire to the City, you will hang; and the others, your masters, are going to escape scot-free.’
He shakes his head.
‘Do you want to die, Mr Hubert?’ I ask.
He considers carefully. ‘We all have to die,’ he says. ‘It is not a matter over which we have any choice. You too will die, I think.’
‘I shall not die as painfully as you will.’
He shrugs again. ‘You do not know that.’
That may be true. However bad a death Hubert has at the hands of the hangman, mine may yet be worse.
‘But you don’t need to die now,’ I say. ‘I don’t think that you started the fire. I don’t think that you have killed anyone. I think you are being … persuaded to tell me things that never happened. If you tell me the truth—the real truth, not the lies you are being fed—I can help you.’
He looks at me with his milky blue eyes. ‘I have already promised I shall tell the truth,’ he says, as if explaining something any idiot could understand. ‘I killed Monsieur Peidloe hard by St Paul’s.’
‘That’s what you keep saying. Who told you to use those words? Was it Mr Smith?’
‘I have promised to tell the truth.’
‘Very well. You say you shot Mr Peidloe in the back. How did that happen? Tell me exactly.’
‘He said he would not pay me. I shot him.’
‘So, why did he turn his back to you?’
Hubert closes his eyes for a moment, then shakes his head.
‘Perhaps they didn’t tell you what to say in answer to that question?’ I ask.
‘I shot him in the back, hard by St Paul’s.’
I want to slap his face and keep slapping it until I get an answer that isn’t something he’s learned by rote.
‘Where did you get the gun?’ I ask
‘It was my father’s. I brought it over with me from France with sufficient powder and shot.’
‘With sufficient powder and shot?’ I ask. ‘Are you sure those are the right words?’
He frowns again, as if worried that he has got this wrong. ‘I brought it over from France,’ he says slowly, ‘with sufficient powder and shot. Yes, that is correct.’
‘What did you do with the gun? Where is it now?’
‘I do not know the answer to that question.’
‘You mean they didn’t tell you what to say. They’ve abandoned you, Mr Hubert. You are going to have to make up your own lies from now on.’
‘I do not know the answer to that question,’ he repeats determinedly.
‘Did you leave the gun there, where you shot him?’
Again he screws up his eyes. ‘No, he took it.’
‘He took it. Who took it? You said it was just you and Peidloe there.’
‘Yes, that is right.’
‘Well, Peidloe couldn’t have taken it as he was dead. There was another man there with you, wasn’t there?’
‘No.’
I think of the man I saw with the gun, shorter than Hubert, his half-covered face in the shadows and his red birthmark invisible to me. ‘It was Smith, wasn’t it? He was with you that night.’
‘I do not know the answer to that question.’
‘Did Smith give you the gun? Or did he shoot Peidloe himself? That’s it, isn’t it? Smith killed him and told you to say you had. Why are you doing this?’
‘It was my father’s gun. I brought it over with me from France with sufficient powder and shot. I shot Monsieur Peidloe hard by St Paul’s. I set the City ablaze.’
I walk across the room to where he is sitting, then I bring the back of my hand down sharply across his face. He looks up at me, surprised but unafraid. I might as well strike my cooking pot to make it boil faster. Fortunately my cooking pot does not face the same dangers that Robert Hubert does.
‘Listen,’ I say quietly, my face very close to his. ‘I know that somebody is telling you what answers to give me. And they are the wrong answers. These people, whoever they are, are not your friends. They didn’t tell you about the map or the hidden letters. They just left you to sweat when I asked you about them. You are going to hang and they won’t care, because I think it will suit them very well if you do hang. I know a lot of powerful people, Mr Hubert. Some think you are guilty and some think you are innocent, but none of them will stir a finger to save you. I am all you have. So, who is the leader of this plot? Is it Sir Thomas Clifford?’
Hubert shakes his head.
‘Is it Lord Arlington?’
‘I do not know the answer to that question.’
‘Is it Joseph Williamson?’
‘I do not know the answer to that question.’
I pause, not knowing if I want the answer to my final question.
‘Is it Sir Felix Clifford?’
He shakes his head.
‘Then, Mr Hubert, for the love of God, just tell me who it is.’
‘I do not know the answer to that question.’
This time Hubert doesn’t even look up when I strike him with the full force of my hand. He stares at the clean rushes on the stone floor.
‘You should not have done that,’ he says. ‘I am pleased I will not have to see you again.’
‘How was he today?’ Lowman asks.
‘Much as usual,’ I say, rubbing my hand. ‘You haven’t seen Mr Smith again?’
‘Hubert asks for him all the time, but he hasn’t been here. A lot of people who have been burnt out of their houses are heading off into the country to stay with friends or family. Maybe that’s where he’s gone. After the fire … some people have just vanished.’
‘Yes, maybe he has,’ I say. Whoever is masterminding the plot, I have little doubt that Smith is as expendable as Hubert.
I walk back through Southwark in a pensive mood. My promise that I would break Hubert has proved a vain one. My army of questions has charged his redoubt and been thrown back. But I am sure of one thing that I did not know before—Hubert was not alone that night, and I think it was Smith that I saw crouching over the body. But that small fact may not help anyone. I doubt that I shall get a further opportunity to question Hubert. It can only be a matter of time before Arlington notifies the gaoler that I am not to be admitted or the gaoler tells Arlington that I have assaulted his prisoner.
I am fortunate that, when I reach the stairs, a boat is waiting there, empty of passengers. The boatman waves at me. He is a tall man in a close-fitting cap, under which he seems to be bald. His face is weather-beaten. He has suffered an injury somewhere, and wears a patch where his left eye should be. He fixes me with his remaining one.
‘Mr Grey?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Lord Arlington sends his compliments. He asked me to look out for you, sir, and take you to him as soon as I could find you.’
Arlington is worryingly well informed. He has discovered my illicit trip to Southwark almost before I knew I was going there. If I fail to obey this summons, there will no doubt be another that is less polite. I’d wanted to report back to Ashley first, but he’ll understand why I cannot refuse this invitation from my paymaster.
‘Very well,’ I say.
I board the boat and the man pushes out into the stream. We are a little above London Bridge and the tide is running swiftly towards the sea, making a great roar as it sweeps through the arches. At first I think we will head upstream, close to the bank where the flow is slackest, then cross to the safety of the far side and Whitehall Stairs; but the man heads straight out into the fastest current, bringing the boat round in mid-stream so that we are suddenly facing the bridge and starting to drift towards it.
‘We can’t stop here,’ I say, ‘or we’ll be swept under the arches and down river.’
‘That’s exactly where we’re going, sir. Under the bridge. My instructions are to take you to the Tower by the fastest route.’
CHAPTER
17
We are starting to move more quickly now, picking up speed all the time. Sitting in the stern, facing the boatman, I can see the bridge over his shoulder, the jumble of houses, the stone arches and the great wooden starlings that stretch out into the river, protecting the piers. The boatman does not need to take another stroke in order for us to reach our destination—the tide will do that—but he will need all his skill in steering to ensure that we pass cleanly through an arch rather than fetch up against the starlings or the stonework and overturn. The arches were always narrow and are made more hazardous still by the debris that has been floating here since the fire. The boatman smiles, head tilted on one side.
‘You seem nervous, sir? You’ll have shot the arches before?’ he asks.
I think of the crowd of apprentices we saw clinging to the sides of their boat.
‘The bridge is for wise men to pass over and fools to pass under,’ I say.
‘That is indeed the old saying, but unfortunately your destination lies on the far side and my instructions are to waste no time.’
‘I’d have got a boat from that side of the bridge, had I known where we were bound,’ I say. ‘Why did Arlington ask you to wait there?’
‘Because that’s where he told me you’d be. I thought you wouldn’t be afraid, sir. A little trip under the bridge. You surprise me.’
I find I too have an overwhelming desire to grip the sides of the boat. Well, there will be plenty of time to do that when we reach the bridge. I am perplexed that Arlington, in most ways a cautious man, has given these instructions. Why does he need me so urgently? And, if he needs me at all, why risk drowning me before I can get to him?
‘Just row,’ I say. ‘And watch where you’re going.’
‘Perhaps you’re not a good swimmer, sir?’ the waterman asks, still leaning on his oars. ‘Might that be the reason for your concern?’
‘That too is none of your business,’ I say.
He smiles again, as if having a joke at my expense. It is clear he thinks that I am a coward and fear drowning. He also thinks I can’t swim. Then let him. I have no intention of giving him any information that he doesn’t need. I swim well enough, though I would not care to have to reach the bank that way in this filthy, fast-moving water. And, if I go in, at the very least he’s coming with me. So, let’s hope he can swim too.
‘You need to steer to the right,’ I say. ‘Keep to the centre of the main arch. We may just get through unscathed.’
He shakes his head. ‘I know this river better than you, sir. You leave me to decide which arch is the right one.’
He looks over his shoulder and pulls hard with his left-hand blade. We are now being swept towards not the centre arch but a narrower one much closer to the bank. As we pass under the bridge we shall drop about six feet in a tumultuous rush of billowing white water. I have in fact done it before, but never sober. Based on my previous experiences, I think the time has finally come to grip the sides of the boat very firmly indeed and hope that he is as adept as he believes. The great structure rushes towards us. Then we are in deep, cold shadow, with the roar of the water echoing off the slime-green sides of the arch.
It is at this moment that my waterman decides to abandon his oars. He has, it would seem, more important things to do. With my eyes still adjusting to the light, all I see is him reaching under his seat and producing some kind of club. I raise my hands just a little too late. The blow glances off my arm and strikes the side of my head. I fall forward, clinging desperately to his leather jerkin and throwing him back onto his seat. He is still struggling to rise as the boat shoots out on the far side into the bright sunlight. Just for a moment, we seem to hang at the top of the waterfall. Then the bow tips forwards and so do we. The boat is sucked down into the vortex. I cannot stop myself rising helplessly into the air as the craft falls and falls and falls. I lose my grip on my assailant. Then I am under the cold, swirling, green water, kicking hard to get to the surface again.
As my head emerges, I see the boatman already striking out for the bank, believing his work is done. But our transport is only a few feet away, now overturned but still floating. My head is throbbing and my arm feels useless but I kick out again with my legs and my good hand makes contact with the hull. I can no longer see my assailant and he can no longer see me. That is satisfactory from every point of view. I do not wish for a further struggle in the water that I will certainly lose. With me clutching its slippery side, the boat and I drift some way together before I see another vessel approaching. The man rowing it waves and calls for me to hang on. That was always my plan. A hand reaches down to me and I am pulled, with gallons of water streaming from my clothes, into the awaiting skiff.
‘We saw you come through the arch, sir. Did you lose your oars as you entered it? It’s easily done if you brush against the starlings as the stream carries you through. That’s a nasty knock you’ve taken as you fell from the boat. Was it just you in the boat?’
‘Yes,’ I say. It seems the simplest answer.
‘It’s not an advisable thing to do, sir—coming under the bridge when the tide is flowing so strong—not unless you know the river. I’ve been a waterman for twenty years, and I never shoot the bridge when the tide is running unless I have to. You can always scull through later at slack water without danger, if that’s what you need to do. We’ll tow your boat to the shore, but with no oars, this is as far as you’ll be going today, sir.’
The boatman leaves me—I still dripping, he half a Guinea better off—and I wring out my clothes bit by bit on the dark brown, rubbish-covered mudflats below the Tower. I have lost my hat, but I have at least saved my sword, my purse, and indeed my life. I have no reason to believe that Arlington is really waiting for me at the Tower, but if he is I have no plans to see him as I am, muddy and stinking of Thames water. I wouldn’t wish to be accused of treason without the advantage of clean linen.
I leave the boat where it is and trudge the short distance across the glistening ooze to the nearest moss-covered stairs, then up them, muddy footprint by muddy footprint. Once firmly on cobblestones again, I take a route that prudently skirts the burnt City, back to Lincoln’s Inn. I shall not trouble you with Will’s comments on my return, other than to say that for the second time this week he disposes of one of my suits of clothes with much shaking of his head.
‘Arlington tried to have you killed?’ asks Aminta.
‘That is what I believe. His boatman thought I could not swim.’
‘So he gave you that blow to the head to make sure you wouldn’t?’
‘With the blow to my head and my arm, I would have drowned if the overturned boat had not been so close. I’m sure his instructions were that I was not to reach the Tower alive.’
‘Well, at least your arm is only bruised, and the wound to your head is nothing compared to the scar you already have. You’ve been very lucky twice now.’
‘Buried alive, almost stabbed to death and almost drowned? Yes, you could call that good fortune, I suppose.’
‘I had lost my count. Thrice fortunate. Would you recognise the boatman again?’
‘I think so. Tall. Bald. One eye. If he is a London waterman, then it should be possible to find him and question him. He doubtless thinks I’m dead so he won’t be expecting me to reappear.’
‘The dead rarely do.’
Aminta and I look at each other. She finally voices the words that had occurred to us both the other night. ‘So, John, do you think that this is how your career will end: drowned in the Thames or buried in a cesspit after an inglorious scuffle, with your family none the wiser?’
‘Only if I continue to work for Arlington,’ I say, ‘and, if he wants me dead as much as it would seem, that seems unlikely at present.’
Lord Ashley opens his eyes in surprise when he sees me. My immersion in the river has not improved my appearance, it would seem, and the bruise on my head has acquired some interesting colour over night. I briefly explain why I may not be looking my best.
‘And this waterman was sent by Arlington?’
‘So the man said. It must have been somebody who knew I would be in Southwark. Not many people have the army of spies that Arlington possesses.’
‘Precisely. And Arlington also had the knowledge and the resources to trap you and Lady Pole in the cellar. I think Arlington is pulling Smith’s strings, and Hubert’s and maybe Peidloe’s too. It explains why Arlington has kept Hubert and Graunt safely locked away, but charged neither of them with any offence. And detained Sir Felix so that he can disclose nothing of what he knows. The nature of the plot that Arlington has been hiding starts to reveal itself, does it not? A confederacy of Frenchmen and English Catholics, intent on burning down the City: Arlington at the best knows about it and protects them; at the worst he is the poisonous spider at the very centre of the web. It would certainly explain why he has been so anxious to deny any plot—and why he has gulled the King into saying this publicly. It might also explain Hubert’s conviction that no harm can come to him, no matter what he says to us. My Lord Arlington will look after him, so long as he draws all suspicion away from the guilty men.’
