city have taken up residence there.' He turned to face Christopher and gave a quizzical smirk. 'I suppose that it is no use my inviting you to accompany me?'
'No, Henry.'
'A visit to a house of resort might educate you.'
'Love which has to be bought has no value for me.'
'It is the only kind a man can truly rely on, Christopher.'
'Enjoy it in my stead.'
'Are you not even tempted?'
'Not in the slightest,' said Christopher with a grin. 'I have a far more important place to visit this evening.'
'Where is that?'
'The city of London. If I am to help rebuild it, I must first see the full extent of the damage. That is where I will be while the light holds. You seek out the delights of the flesh, Henry,' he said, guiding his brother out of the room. 'I must go forth to meet my destiny.'
Chapter Three
The man moved swiftly. Making sure that he was unobserved, he pushed aside the charred remnants of the front door and stepped into the house. A timber-framed property with a thatched roof, it had been completely gutted by the fire and nothing survived in any of the rooms to tempt a thief. The man was not concerned with the interior of the dwelling. His interest was in the garden. He clambered through to it. Plants and bushes had been burned away and the little orchard was now no more than a collection of blackened stumps, surrounded by countless shrivelled apples and pears. That did not deter him. The man set about scouring the whole garden, searching the lawn then kicking away piles of ash so that he could examine the scorched flowerbeds. He soon found what he was after - a patch where the earth had recently been disturbed then stamped back into position. A hiding place.
From beneath his coat, he produced a small shovel. Kneeling down, he began to dig quickly but carefully, eager to secure his prize but not wishing to damage it by too vigorous a use of his implement. When he made contact with something solid, he abandoned the shovel and used both hands to scrape the earth away. A first bottle of wine came into view, then a second, then two more, each with the owner's crest upon them. It had to be expensive wine to be worth burying. He dug on until he unearthed a further three dozen bottles of Canary wine, six of brandy and an array of cheeses wrapped up in muslin then stuffed into a wooden box. It was a good haul. What he could not eat or drink himself, he could sell for a tidy profit. He made a mental note to save the Parmesan cheese for his own use.
The man was not finished yet. A property as substantial as this one argued an owner of some wealth. If he vacated the house at speed, he might not have been able to carry away all that he wished. Wine and cheese had been left behind. There was a chance that gold or valuables might also have been buried in the garden to await his return. The man sensed that there were richer rewards still at the bottom of the pit. He reached for his shovel once more. As his hand closed around the handle, however, a large shoe descended on his wrist and pinned it to the ground. It belonged to a brawny constable who loomed over him.
'Have they not suffered enough?' said Jonathan Bale solemnly. 'Their home has already been destroyed by fire. Must they also have their last few possessions stolen by a common thief?'
'They will not miss a bottle or two of wine,' said the man with an ingratiating smirk, trying to turn his captor into an accomplice. 'Let us each take what we want and nobody will be any the wiser.'
'I will, my friend.'
'Then you have it all, constable.'
'I want none of your stolen goods.'
'It is fine wine and good cheese.'
'The people who bought it are entitled to enjoy it.' Jonathan gave a grim smile. 'That is why you are going to put it back where you found it.'
The man was horrified. 'Put it back?'
'Every last bottle. Every piece of cheese.'
'But it is such a waste.'
'Do as I tell you.'
'There may be gold or valuables down there as well,' said the thief, pointing with his free hand. 'Why not let me dig down to find out? We might both end up as rich men.'
'You will end up in prison, my friend. Trespass is the first charge. Theft, the second. Trying to corrupt a constable, the third. Now, put everything back where you found it before I lose my patience.' He lifted his foot to release the man. 'Hurry up. I will wait.'
Protesting loudly, the man did as he was ordered and replaced the wine and cheese in the pit before filling it with earth then patting it with the flat of his shovel. He stood up to stamp it more firmly into place. His predicament was dire. Caught in the act, he could expect to suffer the full severity of the law. That left him with one last option. Still holding the shovel, he tightened his grip on it and swung it viciously at Jonathan's head. The constable was ready for him. He ducked beneath the tool then countered with a solid punch to the jaw which sent his assailant reeling backwards. As the man fell heavily to the ground, he dropped the shovel and Jonathan kicked it clear. Still dazed, the thief was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged back through the empty house.
The two watchmen who had been stationed outside were elderly men but their combined strength was more than enough to cope with the prisoner now that all the fight had been knocked out of him. Jonathan handed the man over to his colleagues. One of them, Abraham Datchett, a spry character in his sixties, got a firm grip on the malefactor.
'Another thief?' he enquired.
'The worst kind,' said Jonathan. 'He tried to bribe me into silence.'
'More fool him!'
'Take him to the magistrate and see him locked up.'
'We will, Jonathan.'
'I will make a full report when I come off duty.'
'What was he trying to steal?'
'Wine and cheese. Oh, yes,' said Jonathan with a grin. 'And he decided to take my head with him for good measure. But I ducked just in time. Away, with the rogue, Abraham. He deserves no mercy.'
The watchmen hauled their prisoner off between them and the constable continued his rounds. Guarding damaged properties was one of his main tasks. Even derelict houses like this one might yield some booty. It was one of the more depressing effects of the Great Fire. Loss for the many had been offset by excessive gain for the few. Watermen, carriers and others who assisted fleeing householders increased their charges to exorbitant levels for customers who were in no position to refuse to pay. There were at least some shards of legality about this practice though it had no moral justification.
But there was nothing remotely legal about the epidemic of burglary which broke out as bold thieves ransacked houses which had been abandoned in the path of the fire or, as now, climbed into the garden of a derelict property to search for items which might have been buried there. When he had not been manning a fire post, Jonathan Bale had spent the past week pursuing and arresting the vultures who preyed on the misfortunes of others. His worst case had been in Knightrider Street where two thieves, gaining access to the garden of a deserted house, dug strenuously until they found a strongbox under the ground. They were so elated that friendship was instantly forgotten and they fought each other for sole possession of the bounty. By the time Jonathan arrived on the scene, only one man was still alive to be arrested.
Fire, destruction, panic, murder, burglary, trespass, mob violence and shameless profiteering. A desperate week for London. Jonathan watched his city mangled out of all recognition. One of the most startling changes was to the distinctive sound of the capital on a Sunday morning. Instead of the jangling harmonies of a hundred or more bells, calling the populace to worship, there was comparative silence. It was eerie. Most churches had been
