'My conscience.'
The constable pushed him gently aside and walked away.
'One moment,' called the other. 'What is your name?'
'Jonathan Bale,' he said over his shoulder.
'I am Christopher Redmayne and I am still grateful, however surly you choose to be.' He raised his voice at the departing figure. 'You are a sound officer. I will remember your name, Jonathan Bale.'
'I have already forgotten yours,' said the other to himself.
Chapter Four
When the cost of the fire was finally counted, chilling figures emerged. Four hundred acres within the city wall had been destroyed along with a further sixty-three acres outside it. Eighty-seven churches perished, as did forty- four livery halls and upwards of thirteen thousand houses. Several million pounds' worth of property went up in smoke. Business and domestic life were severely disrupted. Some trades were virtually expunged. Morale sank to a lower ebb even than during the Great Plague when, as many sourly observed, people were at least allowed to die in the privacy of their own homes.
Death itself, however, had been unusually restrained. Apart from the hapless maidservants in Pudding Lane, it claimed only eight other victims during the blaze, though the number of fatalities increased during subsequent weeks as people died from delayed shock or sheer despair at the enormity of their losses. Confidence shattered, hundreds of Londoners vowed never to return to the city itself and either settled in the outer suburbs or sought a new life further afield. Ruined tradesmen had no choice but to go elsewhere. Unjustly persecuted in the aftermath of the fire, foreign inhabitants thought twice about taking up residence once more in such a vengeful community.
Notwithstanding all this, the capital displayed, in general, a spirit of resilience. If the setbacks were to be overcome, an immense collective effort was needed and most people responded at once. Those whose houses or workplaces had been only partially damaged moved back into them as soon as possible to institute repairs. Within a week of the end of the fire, a man in Blackfriars cleared away the ruins of his old house and began to build a new one on the same site. Others elected to follow suit but their plans were immediately frustrated.
On the thirteenth of September 1666, while the smoke was still rising from parts of the city, a Royal Proclamation was issued, prohibiting any hasty building and empowering the authorities to pull down any structures erected before new regulations were put into place. The haphazard growth of the city over the centuries, with its narrow streets, its close-built dwellings, its superfluity of timber- framed properties, its surviving thatch and its inadequate water supply had contributed to its own demise. It might almost have been designed to assist the rapid spread of a fire. Such a disaster, it was insisted, must never happen again. Safety would henceforth be a prime consideration.
Rebuilding commenced in earnest the following spring.
'We must bear the new regulations in mind,' said Henry Redmayne, sipping his coffee. 'No half-timbering is allowed. The house must be built entirely of brick and stone with a tiled roof.'
'I would accept nothing less,' said his companion.
'Nor must the upper storeys jetty out.'
'Such a style would, in any case, offend my taste.'
'It is gone for ever from our midst, Sir Ambrose.'
'Thank Heaven!'
'I could not agree more.'
'That was an incidental blessing of the fire. It cleared away decrepit old houses that had no right to exist and rid us of squalid lanes and alleys where the poorer sort lived in their miserables holes. Yes,' added the other with easy pomposity, 'I did not support every recommendation put before us by the Commission but, by and large, their suggestions were admirable. I was particularly pleased that noxious trades have been banned from the riverside. Those of us who import goods were assailed by the most unbearable stink whenever we went near the wharf.'
'The brewers and dyers were the worst, Sir Ambrose.'
'Then you have not smelled the lime-burners and the soap-makers when they are practising their craft. Add the reek of the salt-makers and you have a stench that stayed in the nostrils for days.'
'Just like the smoke from the Great Fire.'
'Yes, Henry. Exactly like that.'
'How long has it been now? Six months?'
'Over seven.'
'I still sometimes catch a whiff of that smoke.'
'Memory plays strange tricks on us.'
'Indeed, Sir Ambrose. It may torment us in perpetuity.' Henry became solicitous. 'Was the coffee to your liking?'
'Excellent.'
'Let us order another cup.'
The two men were sitting in one of the most fashionable coffee houses in the city, swiftly refurbished now that decisions had finally been made about building regulations. Henry was at his most immaculate in a blue coat with extravagant gold braid and a red and green waistcoat. His new periwig lent him an air of distinction which made him even more a slave to his vanity and he kept appraising himself in an invisible mirror. Seated opposite him was Sir Ambrose Northcott, now almost fifty, a man of middle height and corpulent body who defied his many physical shortcomings with the aid of an expensive French tailor. Fleshy jowls were tinged with crimson and the nose was absurdly small for such a large face yet there were no wrinkles to betray his true age and the eyes had a youthful sparkle.
Northcott was an important man. Having inherited his title and a substantial fortune, he determined to improve himself even more and invested wisely in trade. A Justice of the Peace in his native Kent, he was also a Member of Parliament and took a vocal part in the discussions which touched on the future shape and composition of the capital. Henry Redmayne had cultivated him strenuously for years but he now had a more pressing reason to court him. Northcott wanted a new house built.
Henry made an urgent question sound like a casual enquiry.
'Have you had time to study those drawings, Sir Ambrose?'
'I made time, Henry.'
'What was your impression?'
'A most favourable one.'
'I am pleased to hear it.'
'Your brother has remarkable talent.'
'He does,' said Henry, basking in the praise. 'Christopher is a born artist. He has a most cultured hand. It has ever been so. I once saw him draw a perfect circle with a crayon.'
'Does this talent run in the family?'
'Unhappily, no. And even if it did, I would not waste it on a piece of paper. The only perfect circles I would draw would be those I traced with a fingertip around the nipples of a fair lady.'
Northcott laughed. 'Love has its own architecture.'
'With building regulations that are far more appealing!'
They exchanged a polite snigger. Northcott sat back in his chair.
'Tell me more about this brother of yours,' he said.
'That is precisely why I am here.'
'Is he a coming man?'
Henry needed no more invitation. After ordering fresh coffee, he launched into an eulogy which owed far more to fact than to fiction, glad that he was not obliged to lie too much about his brother. Christopher really did possess creative gifts which set him apart from most of his potential rivals and those gifts were allied to a capacity for hard work and a willingness to learn. As he held forth about his brother, Henry came to see just how rich and varied his education had been and how he merely needed something which would concentrate his mind in order for all that study to bear fruit. Delighted with what he heard, Northcott listened intently but he was far too cautious to be rushed to judgement.
'Your brother is very young to have achieved so much, Henry.'
'He is twice the man I was at his age, Sir Ambrose.'
'Yet somewhat lacking in practical experience of design.'