The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 37

"I would glady forgo all thanks and rewards if I could simply take a nap."

"You can nap in the carriage, Dr. Waterhouse," said a woman's voice. Hoa.r.s.e, as if she'd been screaming a lot recently.

Daniel and Johann both looked over to see Eliza in the pantry's doorway. She looked a good deal calmer.

"My lady," Daniel said, and sighed, "from any other woman I should interpret this as a jest or non sequitur, non sequitur, but from you I fear-" but from you I fear-"

"It is well known that you stayed behind in Hanover, being too ill for arduous travel-"

"Thank you for reminding me, my lady, my infirmity had quite slipped my mind."

"It is expected that you will take the slow way back, attended by a nurse. I give you your nurse." Eliza came all the way into the room now. She was followed by a young woman dressed in a severe habit, her head swaddled in a length of white linen that had been wrapped around so as to conceal all of her hair, and a good bit of her face-hardly a la mode a la mode, but not particularly unusual in a time and place when nearly everyone sooner or later got smallpox, and some emerged in good health but almost impossible to look at. "This is Gertrude von Klotze, a petty n.o.blewoman of Braunschweig, who after suffering and surviving a grave illness, has dedicated the remainder of her life to succouring others in need."

"A n.o.ble woman indeed. It is my very great pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle," said Daniel, adroitly looking past the fact that this woman was, in fact, Princess Caroline.

"Fraulein von Klotze shall accompany you all the way to London."

"And how shall sweet Gertrude get back back?" Johann demanded-having taken a few moments to recover from the abrupt transfiguration of his lover into a masked nurse. He made a step toward Caroline, but she sent him back with a dart of the eyes. "Surely her family will miss her!"

"Perhaps she won't have have to come back, as her family may be moving to London soon to come back, as her family may be moving to London soon anyway anyway," Eliza said. "Gertrude shall lodge at Leicester House until we make rendezvous with her later."

"I did not know that I was-we were-going to London!" Johann answered.

"We are," Eliza said calmly, "but not before a detour to the chateau at Schlo Ubersetzenseehafenstadtbergwald."

"Eeyuh, that that place? Are you joking? What'll we do there, hunt bats?" place? Are you joking? What'll we do there, hunt bats?"

"Some minutes ago, you may have heard a woman screaming in this wing of the palace."

"Indeed, my ears are still ringing."

"That was Princess Caroline."

"Are you certain? For during the time this screaming reached my ears I observed movements of your lips, Mother, curiously synchronized-"

"Your wit is tedious. 'Twas the Princess. Her grief over the death of Sophie is even deeper than was realized. Her braveness earlier today a mere affectation, masking a profound derangement of the nerves. Not long ago, she simply dissolved. She has been given tincture of opium and is under strict seclusion in her bedchamber. Before the sun is up, she shall be taken out in a sedan chair and loaded into my carriage. You, son, and I shall convey her to the Schlo I have mentioned-one of the most remote and desolate out-croppings in Christendom. There, her royal highness shall spend several weeks in seclusion, tended only by a few trusted trusted servants, turning away all visitors." servants, turning away all visitors."

"Especially ones carrying poisoned daggers-?"

"Rumors of a.s.sa.s.sins in the garden are absurd," Eliza said, "They are chimaeras, figments of her royal highness's fevered brain. Even if they did exist, they would face grave difficulties gaining entrance to the place to which we are taking her, which, as you know if you have been studying your family history, was built on a rock in a lake by a rich Baron so concerned for his personal security that he believed that even the birds of the air were wind-up toys invented by has.h.i.+s.h.i.+n has.h.i.+s.h.i.+n to fly in his windows and put anthrax into his beer." to fly in his windows and put anthrax into his beer."

"Oh, was he the chap who invented beer-mugs with lids on them?" Daniel wondered aloud.

But Eliza was in no mood. "I should like it very much, Dr. Waterhouse, if you were to fall down and suffer a medical crisis."

"I am here to serve, my lady," Daniel returned gallantly, and began looking round the pantry for a comfortable place to hit the floor.

"Might I spend a moment with 'Gertrude' first?" Johann inquired. "There is much, er, advice I would give her concerning London and-"

"There is no time," Eliza said, "and your advice is of little value, as 'Gertrude' does not expect to partic.i.p.ate in any Eliza said, "and your advice is of little value, as 'Gertrude' does not expect to partic.i.p.ate in any sword-fights sword-fights." And Eliza drew breath as if to expound upon this theme at greater length. But Daniel's withered hand suddenly lay gentle on her arm. She faltered. "Gertrude" and Johann had locked their eyes together across the room. Eliza could have detonated a barrel of gunpowder and they would not have heard it.

"Let's to London, then," Daniel said.

Between Black Mary's Hole and Sir John Oldcastle's, North of London DAWN, 18 JUNE 1714.

Enlisting Soldiers without Authority. An ingrossed Bill from the Lords, int.i.tuled, An Act, to prevent the listing of her Majesty's Subjects to serve as Soldiers, without her Majesty's License, was read a Second time. An ingrossed Bill from the Lords, int.i.tuled, An Act, to prevent the listing of her Majesty's Subjects to serve as Soldiers, without her Majesty's License, was read a Second time.Resolved, That the Bill be committed. That the Bill be committed.Resolved, That the Bill be committed to a Committee of the whole House. That the Bill be committed to a Committee of the whole House.Resolved, That this House will, To-morrow Morning, resolve itself into a Committee of the whole House, upon the said Bill. That this House will, To-morrow Morning, resolve itself into a Committee of the whole House, upon the said Bill.-Journals of the House of Commons, JOVIS, 1 1 DIE JULII; DIE JULII; ANNO 13 ANNAE REGINAE, 1714 ANNO 13 ANNAE REGINAE, 1714 IT WAS SAID THAT Mahomet had banned bells in the Mahomet had banned bells in the masjid masjid, not because they were, in and of themselves, repugnant to Allah, but simply because the Franks were so fond of them, and used them so much, that merely to hear one tolling was to be put forcibly in mind of the profanities of the infidels. If that were true, why a devout Mussulman with the misfortune to be encamped on the fields north of Clerkenwell would have suffered the rudest of all possible awakenings on this Friday: the damp, dark, chill, sewage-scented fog that served, hereabouts, in stead of an atmosphere, was alive with the sounds of church-bells. And none of your merry pealing carillons ringing diverse changes, but the slow stomach-walloping bongs of great solitary bells, gravid with doom.

The tolling conveyed several meanings. First that the day had begun-a fact that most Londoners could only have determined with careful use of ephemeris and chronometer, as it was still dark. Second, that London was still there. The buildings, despite appearances, had not drifted away from one another in the night-time, like s.h.i.+ps of a fog-bound fleet. Though invisible, they were still where they had been the evening previous, and a c.o.c.kney with a good ear might even find his way round town by them, triangulating from the distinct voices of St. Mary-le-Bow, St. Thomas Apostle, St. Mildred, and Bennet Fink as mariners plotted courses by the lights of Ras Alhague, Caput Medusae, and Cynosura.

Heard from these fields, the sounds of the bells came not only from the south, but from east and west as well, simply because London was that big and Clerkenwell that close to it. Once he had scrambled out of his tent, stuffed Egyptian cotton into his ears, and struck his camp, the offended sojourner would therefore head north to get away from the infernal bonging. But in this he would be balked at every bridge and crossroads. For all of the traffic-mostly pedestrians-was south-bound.

Many had slept rough on these fields and greens the night before, and when the bells had begun to ring, they had arisen and begun to shuffle through the fog, like a whole battle-field of dead soldiers resurrected and ordered to march upon their respective parish-churches. All of them moved southwards, toward High Holbourn. For the tolling of so many melancholic bells had a third meaning: this was Hanging-Day. It happened eight times a year.

The people tromping southwards through the fog were common at best. Honest folk among them tended to move in packs, keeping purses stuffed deep inside their cloaks, and supporting themselves on walking-sticks that were strangely oversized. For there was a stiff proportion of Vagabonds and worse in this throng. They all hoped to make it to Holbourn before broad daylight, so that they could claim places in the front of the crowd, affording them clear views of the condemned journeying to Tyburn Cross. Failing that they might withdraw to side-streets, and execute great westward flanking maneuvers, converging finally on the vast open parks and fields surrounding the Treble Tree.

To a foreign visitor-or even to a good many Englishmen-there would be so much in these sights that was odd, and so much about the atmosphere that was gloomy, eldritch, and macabre, that he might easily over-look one or two peculiar phaenomena. But the sort of person who attended Hanging-Marches eight times a year would note an anomalous gathering near an elbow in the road between Sir John Oldcastle's (a compound of stately buildings and trees, about to be enveloped by Clerkenwell) and Black Mary's Hole (a tiny alienated settlement on the banks of the upper Fleet).

Stopped by the roadside, harnessed to a team of four horses who were all in their feedbags, was a coach. The driver, with his whip, and two footmen, with cudgels, prowled around it, discouraging Vagabond-boys from coming up to ingratiate themselves with the beasts. A stone's throw away, in a field strewn with human t.u.r.ds and other evidence of last night's hanging-jamboree, an old man bestrode a horse. Too much horse. It was feeding selectively on whatever grew in the field, and wandering wherever it pleased to find the choicest herbs. The rider, who was wrapped in a cloak, arms crossed over his torso for warmth, occasionally unfolded himself, grasped the reins, and compelled his mount to repent of its latest wanderings. It was a big gray gelding, obviously military, with simple tack.

The old man on the gray gelding was accompanied by four other hors.e.m.e.n. Of these, two rode mounts similar to the first, but they kept theirs under better control. These men were big and young, dressed in very plain common garments such as yeomen might wear to venture forth on a long cross-country errand.

Even through dimness and fog, everything about the other two riders-save one detail that shall be attended to in a moment-marked them as youths of a privileged cla.s.s. They had small-swords (actually not all that useful on horseback). Their horses were to the gray geldings as faeries were to fishwives. In short, either one could have ridden direct to St. James's Park and gone for a genteel trot up and down Rotten Row and not drawn a second glance from the toffs and fops who frequented that place.

But first they'd have had to don wigs. Bewigged, they'd have blended in perfectly. Dis-covered, they looked more at home in the wilds of North America. For each of these young swells had carefully shaved all of his hair-all, that is, save in a longitudinal stripe, three fingers wide, running from the hairline to the nape. This had been allowed to grow to a length of several inches and then stiffened with some mysterious tonsorial compound so that it stood straight out from the head. Washed, flattened, and tucked under a periwig it would disappear, but thus deployed it looked (to the Cla.s.sically educated) like the crest on an ancient helmet, or (to readers of Romances) like the battle-coif of the Mohawks.

Now, a wagon had been working its way across the torrent of Hanging-watchers. It was laden with barrels of the type used to transport ale. It seemed to be coming from the general direction of east London, and executing a movement around the northern frontier of the city to strike at Tyburn Cross around mid-morning: an excellent plan. Progress was impeded by a throng of would-be revelers who followed the wagon like sea-gulls swarming a herring-boat. But the brewer had a formidable van-guard of cudgel-men and a rear-guard of dogs, so he kept firm control of his inventory and made respectable speed. His route happened to bring him past the elbow in the road where the coach, and the five riders, were unaccountably loitering. There he stopped the wagon. Several Vagabonds rushed it. They were driven back, not only by the brewer's dogs and club-men, but also by the four younger riders, who had wordlessly joined forces with them.

The brewer and an a.s.sistant-by looks, his son-deployed a plank from the back of the wagon, making of it a ramp extending to the ground. Down this they rolled a large barrel. It seemed unusually light-loaded, for they did not much exert themselves. But the contents must have been delicate, for they took their time. While his boy stowed the plank, the brewer set the barrel upright on the ground and gave it an affectionate triple thump. When he returned to his bench at the head of the wagon, he was startled to discover a single golden guinea resting in the place where he was about to sit.

"Thank you, guv'nor," the brewer said to the old man on the gray horse. "But I couldn't possibly." And he tossed the coin back. The target was too blind to see it coming through the fog, but stopped it with his chest. It tumbled down into his lap. He trapped it under his hand.

"If it was some other bloke in there," the brewer explained, "I'd take your money, guv. But this one's on the house."

"You are a credit to your profession, sir," returned the old man, "as if it needed needed any. When next I visit the Liberty of the Tower, I shall buy a round for the house-nay, for the whole garrison." any. When next I visit the Liberty of the Tower, I shall buy a round for the house-nay, for the whole garrison."

Even large objects vanished soon in this miasma, and that was true of the beer-wagon. The four riders now devoted a minute or two to cantering back and forth driving away inquisitive Vagabonds. Then all converged on the barrel. The two Mohawks stood guard while the two common blokes dismounted and went to work on the barrel-carefully-with hatchets. Presently they tipped it over on the gra.s.s. One held the barrel. The other bent down, reached into the open end, got a grip on the payload, and dragged it out. It was a human form. From his general looks, no one would have been surprised to learn that he was dead. If so, he had expired recently, for he was still floppy. After a minute, though, he began to stir. In three minutes he was sitting on the barrel, drinking brandy, glaring at the two Mohawks, and conversing with his two rescuers. He called these by their Christian names and they called him Sergeant.

"Sergeant Shaftoe," said the old man, "I do pity the Grim Reaper on the day that he shall finally come for you in earnest. I fear you'll use him so roughly that he shall have to go on holiday for a fortnight."

"And what would be the harm in that?" croaked Sergeant Shaftoe. His voice was very raw, as if he had been shouting or screaming quite a bit in recent days. His wrists were adorned with bracelets of festering scabs.

"Oh, think of the havoc it would play with Her Majesty's annuities! Think of the carnage at Lloyd's Coffee-house!"

Sergeant Shaftoe let it be seen that he did not think much of the other's wit. "You'd be Comstock," he said, after a suitably uncomfortable silence had pa.s.sed.

"I would draw nigh and shake your hand-"

" 'Tis all right, my hand does not work just now."

"-but I do not trust myself on this animal."

Shaftoe shook off a brief urge to smile. "Not to your liking, is he?"

"Oh, as an a.r.s.e-warmer, he has done splendid service. But G.o.d help us all if I should essay to ride ride him." him."

"I s'pose it's you I have to thank for my liberty, then," Shaftoe remarked.

"From the fact that you are here, and alive, I collect that all went off as planned?"

"En route from the dungeon dungeon to the to the cooperage cooperage were some misadventures. Without those, it would have been as routine as removal of horse-dung. The Regiment is under new, not very competent direction." were some misadventures. Without those, it would have been as routine as removal of horse-dung. The Regiment is under new, not very competent direction."

"What of the Queen's Messengers?"

"All they do is stand in a Mobb around the Pyx day and night."

Comstock permitted himself a dry chuckle. "You are a man of many words but few specifics. You'd do well in Parliament."

Shaftoe shrugged. "I'm old. Your hirelings, who broke me out of the Tower, they are young lads, and were moved greatly by each little happening. Ask them to relate the story to you, and you shall hear a yarn far longer and more diverting than any I would tell."

"And less strictly true true, I suspect," said Comstock.

"What's it to be now, guv'nor?" Shaftoe asked, and decided to try standing up. This he accomplished with a rolling tocsin of cracks and pops.

"Sergeant Shaftoe, 'twere absurd for me to go to the trouble of making you a free man, only to take away your liberty in the next instant by telling you what to do."

"My mistake, guv'nor. I am accustomed by long habit to being in a chain of command."

"Then, if it would be of any comfort to you, know that your longtime superior, Colonel Barnes, is now my guest. Oh, not here in London! He is at my seat, Ravenscar, on the North York Moors, above the sea."

Shaftoe looked to the two dragoons who had pulled him out of the barrel. They confirmed it with nods.

"Am I to gather that Colonel Barnes is not alone there?" Shaftoe asked.

"I daresay the best part of your regiment is drinking up my wine-cellar."

One of the dragoons could be heard supplementing Comstock's account, muttering about "three companies." Sergeant Shaftoe was not the sort who would admit to being startled or impressed by anything; anything; but at least he did not look bored or contemptuous-a signal achievement for Roger Comstock. but at least he did not look bored or contemptuous-a signal achievement for Roger Comstock.

"I know all about your Whig a.s.sociation," Shaftoe said. He had advanced now to walking, and tottered a few steps in Comstock's direction. "I have heard the rumors about all the money you have raised from the merchants of the City. And as to your efforts to recruit soldiers away from Her Majesty's regiments, and sign them up in your private army: I recruited them first first, and trained them, so do not think that a single one has escaped my attention."

"I shouldn't dare to, Sergeant Shaftoe."

"I am too young to've witnessed the Civil War with these eyes, but as a lad I heard tales of it from ones who managed to survive. And I have seen all of the improvements improvements that War made in Ireland and Belgium and other places. I could not be less inclined to take part in such an action on English soil." that War made in Ireland and Belgium and other places. I could not be less inclined to take part in such an action on English soil."

"Then don't."

"Pardon?"

"Don't take part, Sergeant Shaftoe. Oh, by all means go to Ravenscar-" and here Comstock launched into the procedure of dismounting from his horse-so evidently fraught with perils for man and beast alike that the sergeant stepped forward to intervene. "Take this steed-yes-there-oh, no! I beg your pardon-thank you-that was most painful-I am in your debt-may I please have my teeth back-there! Whew! I say, take this steed, Sergeant Shaftoe, which is as glad to be rid of rid of me, as me, as ridden by ridden by you-ha-these two fine dragoons who, as I believe, are known to you, shall accompany you all the way to Ravenscar. Go there, drink Colonel Barnes's health, recuperate, trout-fish, as you like. There is not going to be another Civil War, Sergeant Shaftoe, if I have aught to say about it-which, as it happens, I do." you-ha-these two fine dragoons who, as I believe, are known to you, shall accompany you all the way to Ravenscar. Go there, drink Colonel Barnes's health, recuperate, trout-fish, as you like. There is not going to be another Civil War, Sergeant Shaftoe, if I have aught to say about it-which, as it happens, I do."

"What if you are wrong?"

"Then you are welcome, nay, encouraged to retire from military service."

"And in what way does this benefit you?"

"Always an important question to ask. I am presently engaged in a sort of duel with the Viscount Bolingbroke-the same chap you have to thank for your recent travails in Tower-dungeons. In a duel, it is customary for each partic.i.p.ant to have a second: a friend to stand behind him to back him up. The second rarely has to do do anything. You may think of the Whig a.s.sociation's battalions as anything. You may think of the Whig a.s.sociation's battalions as my my second. As for Bolingbroke, he has always had the Queen's Messengers, and now, too, he has much of your old Regiment in his pocket. Most of the other regiments are too cowed to stand against him. It is important that second. As for Bolingbroke, he has always had the Queen's Messengers, and now, too, he has much of your old Regiment in his pocket. Most of the other regiments are too cowed to stand against him. It is important that I I not be cowed, Sergeant Shaftoe. Having an army in Ravenscar gives me a warm feeling." not be cowed, Sergeant Shaftoe. Having an army in Ravenscar gives me a warm feeling."

"But what's the end of it? Mr. Charles White was asking of me a lot of odd questions concerning the Pyx, and the Mint, and my ex-brother. He is planning something-"

"Oh, he planned planned it ages ago. Presently he is it ages ago. Presently he is doing doing it. It is it. It is I I who am who am planning planning something." something."

"A war?"

"Much nastier: a Parliamentary inquiry. Today I have punched Bolingbroke in the nose by causing his favorite witness-you-to vanish from the Tower. Tomorrow at Westminster I shall hit him over the head with a sledgehammer. He'll be frightfully angry with me. I shall fear his anger the less if I know, and if he knows, that you and others like you are drilling on the North York Moors." Ravenscar now forcibly put the horse's reins into Shaftoe's stiff and swollen hand.

"What in G.o.d's name are you going to do to him?" asked Shaftoe.

"Let us say I have told all of my friends to sell South Sea Company stock short."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"It means that grim days lie ahead for that Company. We shall be here all day if I try to explain all-go! Be off! The Hanging-March shall cover your movements, but only for so long! Mount up!"

Shaftoe did. Then he sat grimacing for a few moments as various parts of his body registered their protests. The two dragoons converged on either side of his horse and set to work lengthening the stirrups.

A dozen Barkers emerged from the fog, singing a hymn-bound for Tyburn to protest something. The two Mohawks rode out to herd them off in another direction. One of the Barkers was pus.h.i.+ng a wheelbarrow that, because it was heavy-laden with libels, kept getting stuck in the muck.

"I wish I could be there to see it-whatever you're doing to Bolingbroke, that is, guv'nor," said Sergeant Shaftoe, sounding as close to wistful as a man of his character could.

"No," Ravenscar a.s.sured him, "no, you don't. Believe you me, the great happenings of Parliament are better to hear about than to suffer through. But make no mistake, it shall shall be a great event. After I have let the World know what be a great event. After I have let the World know what I I know concerning Bolingbroke, and what he has been doing with the Asiento money, we'll hear no more about a Trial of the Pyx, at least for a little while." Roger took a step back and slapped the horse's croup. It began to trudge forward. The two dragoons, who had mounted up, fell in behind. Roger shouted after them: "And I daresay I'll get my Longitude Act pa.s.sed as a soupcon!" know concerning Bolingbroke, and what he has been doing with the Asiento money, we'll hear no more about a Trial of the Pyx, at least for a little while." Roger took a step back and slapped the horse's croup. It began to trudge forward. The two dragoons, who had mounted up, fell in behind. Roger shouted after them: "And I daresay I'll get my Longitude Act pa.s.sed as a soupcon!"

Clerkenwell Court 19 JUNE 1714.

Ordered, That the Directors of the That the Directors of the South Sea South Sea Company do lay before this House an Account of all Proceedings in the said Company relating to the Company do lay before this House an Account of all Proceedings in the said Company relating to the a.s.siento a.s.siento trade; together with all Orders, Directions, Letters or Informations which the Directors, or any Committee of Directors, have received concerning the same. trade; together with all Orders, Directions, Letters or Informations which the Directors, or any Committee of Directors, have received concerning the same.-Journals of the House of Commons, VENERIS, 18 18 DIE JUNII DIE JUNII; ANNO 13 ANNAE REGINAE, 1714 A QUARTER OF A MILE QUARTER OF A MILE south of the dogleg in the road where Roger Comstock had met Bob Shaftoe, the frontier of London could be discerned by the Wise in the Ways of Real Estate. The most infallible sign of which was that, here, the track leading to Black Mary's Hole had been improved with a name, south of the dogleg in the road where Roger Comstock had met Bob Shaftoe, the frontier of London could be discerned by the Wise in the Ways of Real Estate. The most infallible sign of which was that, here, the track leading to Black Mary's Hole had been improved with a name, Coppice Row Coppice Row, devised to conjure forth, from the fevered brains of would-be buyers, phant'sies of a cozy and bucolic character, be they never so removed from Truth. Along Coppice Row, buildings were going up, or had gone up so recently that they were still redolent of the horse-hair mixed into their damp plaster. On the left side of the road, as one departed from London, the sprawl had been baffled for the time being by the stand of trees, and root-ball of ancient property-rights, surrounding Sir John Oldcastle's. On the right were a few indifferent buildings, all made of red brick still warm from the kilns. These had shop-arcades facing the street, and flats above. The largest of these buildings commanded a frontage of some hundred feet, sliced into a dozen shop-fronts of various widths. Most were quite narrow, and most still wanted tenants.

One of them had been rented by a clock-maker. Or so it might be guessed from the new-made sign that had been hung out over the street on a clever wrought-iron cantilever. This sign had been constructed around the carca.s.s of an ancient clock that looked to have been salvaged from a bell-tower in some Continental town-perhaps a Belgian hotel de ville hotel de ville laid low by a mortar-bomb during the late war. At any rate it had been very old even before whatever sequence of fiery disasters, salvagings, soakings in brine, and rough trans-s.h.i.+pments had brought it to Clerkenwell. With its bent, gap-toothed gears and its scabrous corrosions it served better as an Emblem, than as a Keeper, of Time. All by itself it might have served as a conversation-piece, like a Roman ruin. But to it had been added a muscular figure, put together of wood and plaster, and styled after a G.o.d, who was with one hand supporting the clock and with the other reaching up to adjust its hour-hand. All this to advertise a shop so small that its proprietor could stand in the middle of it and touch both side-walls with his fingertips. laid low by a mortar-bomb during the late war. At any rate it had been very old even before whatever sequence of fiery disasters, salvagings, soakings in brine, and rough trans-s.h.i.+pments had brought it to Clerkenwell. With its bent, gap-toothed gears and its scabrous corrosions it served better as an Emblem, than as a Keeper, of Time. All by itself it might have served as a conversation-piece, like a Roman ruin. But to it had been added a muscular figure, put together of wood and plaster, and styled after a G.o.d, who was with one hand supporting the clock and with the other reaching up to adjust its hour-hand. All this to advertise a shop so small that its proprietor could stand in the middle of it and touch both side-walls with his fingertips.

Clerkenwell Court-as this edifice was styled-was not badly badly situated, for it was along a way that holiday-makers might traverse en route to the tea-gardens and Spaws of Lambs Conduit Fields. And it was not too distant from Gray's Inn and diverse Squares round which wealthy persons had built their town-houses. But it was not especially situated, for it was along a way that holiday-makers might traverse en route to the tea-gardens and Spaws of Lambs Conduit Fields. And it was not too distant from Gray's Inn and diverse Squares round which wealthy persons had built their town-houses. But it was not especially well well situated, either, for the place was difficult to reach without pa.s.sing through one or more infamous Dens of Iniquity, Nests of Vipers, Pits of Degradation, &c., viz. Hockley-in-the-Hole and Smithfield. situated, either, for the place was difficult to reach without pa.s.sing through one or more infamous Dens of Iniquity, Nests of Vipers, Pits of Degradation, &c., viz. Hockley-in-the-Hole and Smithfield.

None of which had prevented one n.o.ble Lady from making the trip out in her carriage early of a Sat.u.r.day morn. She was well escorted, with a driver, two footmen, and a dog on the outside of the coach, and, on the inside, a young armigerous gentleman and a female attendant. Accompanied by the latter two, she pa.s.sed through the door below the outlandish clock-sign and pulled on a bell-rope. A distant jingling was audible off beyond the back wall of the shop. She pulled again, and again. Presently a door in the back was opened. Through it the visitors glimpsed, not the expected store-room, but an expansive, crowded, noisy, complicated Yard. Then the whole aperture of the doorway was blocked by the form of a great hulking dark bloke, coming towards them. He entered the shop, stopped, and looked straight over their heads and out the shop's front window to the carriage waiting there along Coppice Row. A moment sufficed to read the coat of arms on the door. Then he pivoted out of the way and extended an arm toward the back door. "Enter," he rumbled. Then, in case this had not been a sufficiently florid, courtly greeting, he added, "Welcome."

Johann von Hacklheber-that being the sole visitor who was male and visibly armed-had stepped in front of the two women when the big dark man had appeared. His left or dagger hand was looking a bit twitchy. This detail did not escape the perception of their host, who flung his great hands up in the air as proof that he was not armed, or as a gesture of exasperation, or both. Then he turned his back on them and vanished the way he had come.

A minute later, his place was taken by Daniel Waterhouse.