Taverns which had once throbbed with life now lay dead. Civic buildings which had stood like proud sentinels were no more than empty shells. Dozens of people milled about but they looked dispirited and lethargic. The customary bustle of Carter Lane had gone. It was a street of ghosts.
Jonathan picked his way through the debris and went on up to St Paul's churchyard. He was now at the very heart of London, staring in dismay at a cathedral which pumped out the life-blood of the whole city. St Paul's was at once the spiritual centre of the community and its main meeting-place, a venue for buying, selling, preaching, arguing or simply promenading with friends. As the constable knew only too well, it was also the haunt of criminals of all kinds, drawn by the prospect of easy pickings from the large crowds who came there, containing, as they did, such prime targets as gullible countrymen and foreign sightseers. Souls might be saved in St Paul's Cathedral but small fortunes had been lost within its portals and outside in its churchyard.
It was a depressing sight. Jonathan had ambivalent feelings about the great edifice but he felt shocked to see it in such a deplorable state. The roof had burned and left the whole building exposed in the most undignified manner. What made the fire more damaging was the fact that hundreds of Londoners had used the cathedral as their place of refuge, carrying their goods to what they deemed to be a place of safety and filling the nave with furniture, clothing, curtains, carpets, paintings and other combustible material, unwittingly providing the fuel for a huge bonfire, its heat so intense that it had melted the bells which hung in the tower. The sight of St Paul's in ruins and still smoking provided the most vivid demonstration
of the true extent of the catastrophe.
Hundreds of people had congregated around the building. Some came to pray, others to stare, others to walk disconsolately among the gravestones. The person who caught Jonathan's attention belonged to none of these groups. Sitting alone on a stone tomb, he was poring over a sheet of paper supported on a wooden board, sketching with a piece of charcoal and glancing up from time to time at the grim scene before him. The young man, handsome and well-groomed, was dressed almost to the point of elegance and looked incongruous among the shuffling citizens around him. While they were drab and demoralised, the artist seemed to be bristling with excitement. Jonathan's curiosity was aroused.
He was still watching as an old woman slowly approached the man. Dressed in rags, she hobbled along with the aid of a wooden crutch. Straggly hair poked out from beneath the tattered scarf which covered most of her head. Coming up behind the artist, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was drawing then inched closer until she pressed up against him. The woman backed away at once and cringed in apology, expecting at least a reprimand, if not a curse or even a blow. But the young man gave her a smile and beckoned her forward to take a proper look at his work, showing it off with evident pride. After studying it for a minute or so, the woman nodded in approval, gave him a wave of thanks and hobbled off. The artist tossed her a sympathetic glance before returning to his task.
Jonathan Bale showed her far less indulgence. When she drew level with him, he launched himself forward to grab her by the shoulders. A fierce struggle ensured. Dropping the crutch, the woman fought hard to break free and screamed in anger. The constable was just managing to subdue her when the artist came running over.
'Unhand her, you ruffian!' he ordered.
'Stay out of this, sir,' said Jonathan, still wrestling with his quarry.
'Let her go or you'll answer to me.'
The young man accompanied his threat with such a strong push that he knocked the constable off balance and forced him to release his hold on the woman. To the astonishment of all who were watching, she hitched up her skirts and, showing signs neither of age nor disability, ran off at speed towards Paternoster Row. The artist was utterly baffled.
'What's this?' he asked.
'You have just helped a clever criminal to escape, sir,' said the angry constable. 'I was trying to make an arrest.'
'Why?'
'Because I saw him robbing you.'
'Him? I took her for a poor old woman.'
'That is what you were meant to do, sir. But that poor old woman is younger than you. His real name is Tom Fogge and he is as cunning a pickpocket as you will have the misfortune to encounter.'
'A pickpocket?'
'Yes, sir,' said the other. 'While you thought he was admiring your drawing, Tom Fogge was helping himself to your purse.' The young man's hand went immediately to his pocket. 'You will not find it, sir, for I have it here in my hand.' He held it up for inspection. 'I managed to get it from him before you interrupted us. Had you been less rash, I might have recovered all the other things which he probably stole.'
The young man took a step back, spread both arms and shrugged.
'What can I say, constable? I was foolhardy.'
'That is the kindest word to apply.'
'Choose one of your own.'
'It is the Sabbath, sir. I will not profane it.'
The young man tensed and seemed about to issue a rebuke but the moment quickly passed. Instead, he burst out laughing at himself. He also scrutinised the constable's big, oval face with its prominent nose and its square jaw. Two warts on the left cheek and a livid scar across the forehead turned a pleasant appearance into an ugly one but there was real character in the face. Dark eyes still smouldered.
'I owe you an apology,' said the young man.
'Take your purse back,' said the other, handing it over.
'And you deserve my gratitude as well. Who did you say he was?'
'Tom Fogge.'
'Does he always dress as an old woman?'
'No, sir,' explained Jonathan. 'That would make it too easy for us to pick him out. Tom uses many disguises. I did not recognise him until I saw him brush against you like that. He has a swift hand.'
'Not swift enough to elude you.'
'Foins and foists belong in prison.'
'Foins and what?'
'Pickpockets. St Paul's is one of their favourite places of business.'
'Not any more,' said the artist, turning to gaze at it. 'It is a mere shadow of what it once was. I was trying to capture it on paper before it is knocked down to make way for a new cathedral. It was once one of the largest churches in Christendom and had the tallest spire in the whole world until it was struck by lightning. Even in this parlous state, it has a rare magnificence.'
'All I can see are ruins, sir.'
'That is because you do not have the eye of an artist. Come,' he said, crooking a finger. 'Let me show you.' He led the constable across to the stone tomb on which a sheaf of papers lay. 'Here,' he continued, picking one up to offer to him. 'Does this not have real splendour?'
Jonathan took the drawing and marvelled at it. Though it was executed with charcoal, it had extraordinary precision and verisimilitude. Every detail had been included and, as he looked up at the cathedral once more, Jonathan could find no discrepancy. The one difference between reality and art lay in the spirit which animated the drawing. What the artist had somehow done was to transform a scene of unrelieved desolation into one of strange beauty. His drawing was a celebration of architectural grandeur.
'Well?' said the young man.
'It is good, sir,' conceded the other. 'Very good.'
'Inspiring?'
'To some degree.'
'You like it, then?'
'I find it ... interesting, sir,' said Jonathan, unable to tear his gaze away from the drawing. 'You have captured everything there is to see yet added something else besides. What it is, I do not yet know but I will find it soon. Yes,' he murmured. 'It is a fine piece of work.'
'Keep it.'
'Keep it?' repeated Jonathan in surprise.
