The Gilded Lily (53 page)

Ibbetson said, ‘The ledgers won’t be in there. The drawers are too small.’

The constable was too engrossed to answer. Walt leaned on the table; he felt as though his legs might give way.

At last the constable turned, and fixed Walt with a grim look. ‘For the last time, where is your son?’

‘Out. On business,’ Walt said.

‘If I’m not mistaken, one of those bracelets in the drawer belongs to Mrs Cecily Rowlands. But I’ll need a second opinion. I believe these goods to be stolen property. The
bracelet has an inscription on the inside from her husband that is most particular, and I must enquire exactly how your son came by it. And just look at all this stuff.’ He gestured round the
room.

‘Just a few bits for the shop,’ Walt said.

Ibbetson said, ‘My God. I’ll bet my brother’s belongings are in here somewhere. Let me see.’ He reached up to take down a crate precariously balanced on top of several
others.

‘Careful,’ Walt said.

‘No, sir, don’t touch anything,’ the constable said. His voice had taken on a new authority. Ibbetson put down the crate. ‘There’s a small fortune in here. I want
it thoroughly checked. Is there a boy available?’

‘No,’ Walt said, hoping to stave off the inevitable. ‘The lads are down at the Frost Fair.’

‘I need a runner to fetch the guard. You are not to leave the premises, and when your son comes home, he must wait for us here. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes. But I’m sure he can explain it all,’ Walt said. The constable was treating him like an old man. It upset him. His thoughts ran round his head like rats in a trap, asking
what all this stuff was, but a small voice inside him was whispering that it already knew.

‘Look at this,’ said Ibbetson. ‘Looks like a notebook of some sort – best take this. Maybe it will have the information we seek.’

‘I thought I said not to touch anything, sir.’ But he held out his hand for the calfskin book, flicked it open for a look, raised his eyebrows. He went very still, sucked in his
breath, then tucked the book deliberately into the pouch at his belt.

The constable’s eyes had turned hard. ‘Let us descend,’ he said. ‘I cannot do more without help. Mr Ibbetson, go find a boy, get someone to send for the king’s
guard. I’ll wait in the office, keep my eye on Mr Whitgift.’

Ibbetson looked disgruntled but manoeuvred his way back to the door, and Walt heard his boot heels clatter down the stairs and the noise of crunching snow as he strode across the yard. Walt
followed the constable’s broad back. ‘Better lock it,’ said the constable tersely.

‘Oh. Oh yes,’ Walt said. It felt strange to lock the door again now he knew what was behind it. And he dreaded to think what might happen when Jay came back. He walked to the office
in silence and slumped into his chair. The fire had sunk to cinders in the office and the room seemed grey and dull.

A few moments later the office door burst open and Ibbetson came in, followed by Nat Tindall, who appeared anxiously at his shoulder.

‘Ah, good day again, Mr Tindall,’ the constable said. Nat looked guiltily at his feet and slid out of view into the yard.

‘The son’s at Allsop’s,’ Ibbetson said, breathless. ‘Trinity Lane. Mr Tindall asked the nightwatch, and he saw him go out. Jay Whitgift told him to send his men
straight there in the box-wagon. And wait till you hear this – the watch said he saw them open up the Gilded Lily and hand two girls into the wagon. He said it was too dark to see their
faces, but he says the wagon’s gone on to Lord Allsop’s.’

‘In that case we’ll apprehend Whitgift there,’ said the constable. ‘I’ll ride and fetch some back-up. Like as not we’ll have need of it. And better have men
to wait down here in case he returns.’

It was all happening too fast for Walt. He couldn’t make sense of it.

‘Tindall.’ The constable put his head out of the door and shouted for him. He shuffled in, looking sheepish. ‘Wait with the old gent until my men arrive. Make sure he stays
where he is.’

‘Old gent’ was it now? Walt caught his friend’s eyes and felt ashamed. He dropped his chin to his chest.

‘I’ll ride on ahead, sir, meet you at Allsop’s,’ Ibbetson said, top-buttoning his riding cloak.

‘Don’t go in, though. Safer to await some protection,’ said the constable.

‘Of course not.’ Ibbetson and the constable hurried out of the door together. From the yard came the sounds of the horses sidestepping as they mounted them, and then the squelch of
hooves receding into the distance.

When the sounds had died away, Walt turned to his friend. ‘Don’t say anything, Nat. I know, I’ve been stupid. Did you know? About all the stuff, I
mean?’

‘No, Walt. You weren’t to know.’

‘Happen there’ll be an explanation.’

Nat merely shook his head.

‘Will they bring him home?’

‘I don’t know. They’ll need to go through the evidence.’

‘They said something about a murder. A young girl.’

Nat dropped his gaze and looked at the floor.

‘His mother would have broken her heart. I’ve never seen anything like it. Constable thinks it’s all stolen.’

‘What do you think?’ Tindall said.

Walt looked up and met his friend’s eyes. ‘He’ll hang,’ he said simply.

Tindall walked slowly home to his lodgings. He had ignored the constable’s orders and refused to play the role of guard. Not with Walt. Walt had looked broken enough when
he left, hollowed into himself, his usual bright eyes dull behind his eyeglasses. Tindall no longer felt able to poach a bed in front of his fire, for he carried his own guilty secret. After
Ibbetson had left that afternoon, and whilst he was supposed to be hunting the goods on his inventory, Tindall had walked over to the constable’s house and told him everything. About what he
had seen the night he had followed Foxall and Lutch, about his suspicions about Miss Johnson in the Gilded Lily, and how the perruquier was looking for a girl that looked like her. About the shady
transactions that took place in the night, and about the red-haired girl who disappeared from the wagon and the floating shape in the Thames.

Tindall dragged his feet through the slush, ignored the drips from the eaves landing on his broad-brimmed hat and trickling down his neck, for he was deep in thought. His friend would never
forgive him when he found out it was Nat who had betrayed his son, and it was no use fooling himself, Walt would guess soon enough who had given them the information.

‘Hackney carriage, sir?’ A cab pulled alongside him, spraying him with sludge from the gutter.

‘No, I bloody don’t. Sling your hook,’ he yelled with venom. Damn fool driver, he said to himself. Then he sighed. He would miss Walt. Nigh on thirty years they’d known
each other, and nary a bad word between them. ‘Curse the bloody boy,’ he said.

Walt had sat in his chair a long while, but now he paced up and down the office. It was cold, but the peat stayed in the basket by the fire, the candles stayed unlit. The yard
was empty and quiet, except for the drip, drip of iced water from the gutters. There were no customers because the stall was still at the Frost Fair, even though Tindall had said it was thawing.
Jay had not returned, and Walt did not know whether they had found him at Allsop’s. He imagined his son’s face, when the king’s guard came, the closed look he always took on when
he was accused of anything. The same look he had at six years old when he denied taking the sixpence from his mother’s purse.

Walt looked across the yard. The dogs were sleeping, curled nose to tail by the railings. The weathercock creaked slowly round in the wind. Every now and then he would hear a soft whump as a
wedge of snow slid off the roof to land on the cobbles outside.

He had tried to persuade Nat to stay, but he had gone home early. He recalled the slight yeasty smell that accompanied Nat everywhere, and how it lingered in his office in the mornings, and how
at first he had thought how odd it was, that even if he forgot to bank the fire, it was always only just sinking to ash when he arrived. He probably thinks I don’t know he sleeps here every
night, he thought. Nat had looked embarrassed just now when he left. Bless his old bones, he’d been insistent he was not going to keep watch over Walt as if he was some highway felon.

Walt eyed the key to Jay’s office where it lay on the blotter. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. He had known all along there was something odd about his son. Something he did
not understand. His mind worked in a way he just could not fathom, for example he never seemed interested in the usual things – he had never brought a girl home, not a single one. And he
spent far too much time in the coffee houses with the fast set.

Walt suggested he take up with Sally, the smith’s daughter, a handsome broad-boned girl, but Jay would always have an excuse ready. Walt had thought it was because Sally was not good
enough for him, and had suggested Miriam Edgware, but he had even turned his nose up at her. All the time he could have been a-courting Jay’d been filling those boxes up above the Lily. What
for? What on earth for? What hurt the most was the fact that he had not known. That his son had a secret life that went on without him, that he had been shut out, made to look a fool.

Walt swung the key from his palm by its tassel, his nose wrinkling as he bit back tears. There was enough stolen plunder there to string Jay up. And there was not a hope of shifting it, even if
he had the men, there was just too much. There was no way he could get rid of it, unless –

Dennis was at his mother’s house when he saw the smoke. It was strange to think she would never come back here, that her bed would always be empty. And there was nobody
upstairs still, not even the constable’s man. The table where Sadie used to sit was already dusty, his fingers left dark smudges where he leaned on it. He supposed he would never see Sadie
again. He pictured the way her hair parted, showing the fine line of her white skin and the nape of her neck, when she bent over his books. There was a great stone weighing on his heart and he
didn’t know if it was for his ma or for her. When Ella had told him she had not seen her either, he ran back home again on the chance she’d go back there, but there was not a sign of
her, and he didn’t know where else to start looking. Then the messenger boy came to tell him his ma had not lasted the night. Already the room felt empty without Ma’s cough.

Of course he’d been expecting it, but it was different when it happened. He didn’t know what to do so he changed into his best dark suit. He supposed he should go back to Epping, but
there was no hurry now. Absentmindedly, he picked up the corner of Ma’s crocheted blanket, but let it drop as he followed the thick grey plume in the sky.

He walked to the window and watched the smoke unfold into the foggy air, one roll upon the next in an ever thickening cloud. He barely noticed it, until Widow Leadbetter from across the way
hammered on his door.

‘Thought you might like to know,’ she said breathlessly, ‘it’s Whitgift’s. It’s afire.’

‘What?’

‘You’d better go. Looters are out already. Come on, lad, shift yourself.’ She held out his coat.

Dennis stared at the smoke. It couldn’t be true. Not Whitgift’s.

‘Word’s out the gates are open. Folk have gone to get their goods – and a bit more besides if they can carry it.’

As he looked, a huge flower of flame shot up into the smoke.

‘Oh my word, Ella!’ Wordlessly he grabbed the coat from her hand and, without thinking, plunged out of the front door. By the time he got there the Gilded Lily was fully alight. The
yard teemed with shadowy figures scurrying into the building and running out with armfuls of goods. The warehouse doors were open, and there was no sign of the nightwatchman, or Jay. Jay’s
chambers were well alight, smoke pouring from all the windows and the roof.

‘Stop!’ yelled Dennis to one man. ‘Where’s Walt Whitgift?’

But the man did not falter, he put his head down and scurried away. Just then a king’s guard arrived with a fire machine. Dennis waited for him to dismount. As he did, several other lads
he recognized from the yard joined him.

The warehouse was now a burning wall of flame behind them, the flames licking up the side of the wooden stalls and creeping along the stacks and bundles of clothes. The heat intensified, red
floating particles drifted into the air, the fire began to blow, a sound like wind rushing through trees.

Dennis ran back into the yard shouting, ‘Ring the bells, we’ll need all the help we can get, it’s dry as a tinderbox in here.’

‘It started in Jay Whitgift’s office,’ said the stable lad breathlessly, ‘but I can’t find the gaffer, or Jay. There’s nobody in charge.’

‘Where’s Miss Johnson?’

‘She’s out, gone with Jay.’

‘Tell them to ring the bells backwards, maybes it’ll bring them home.’

‘And like as not the other half of London on the make,’ said the lad ruefully before running off.

‘It’s no use,’ said the king’s man, ‘we can’t get water whilst the river’s iced over. We’ll have to use the fire hook.’

‘Is there anybody in the buildings?’

‘Lad says they’re all out at the Frost Fair.’

As he spoke the wind blew a flurry of sparks into the sky. The smoke belched thicker from the Gilded Lily’s windows. As the bells of St Martin began to peal a crowd gathered, jostling to
get near the warehouses. Dennis saw a woman run by, her arms piled high with pewter.

‘Wait!’ he cried, but it was hopeless, people poured like ants from inside the doors. More came in from outside and seeing the looting quickly joined the pillagers.

Dennis felt a tug on his arm. ‘I saw the smoke.’ Tindall was breathless, coughing. ‘You can see it from Blackfriars. Where’s Walt?’

‘Don’t know. No one’s seen him.’

‘Oh my lord, where can he be? Dennis, you’ve missed a right to-do.’

‘What’s up?’

‘The law’s on to Jay Whitgift for burglary and murder. They’re sending more men. The constable’s gone haring over to Allsop’s on Trinity Lane with Mr Ibbetson,
chasing after Jay and those poor girls. And now this.’

‘Which girls?’