The square of sevens, p.43
The Square of Sevens, page 43
‘She’s got money,’ Roland said. ‘More than Morgan. It’s worth a try.’
Scrambling to my feet, I looked around me. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Blocking the other streets,’ Roland said. ‘But the trouble with this spot is that there’s seven roads in and out. We’re spread too thin. They’ll break through before too long.’
‘Why are the crowd so angry?’ I asked.
‘That constable who got mauled by the bear. His friends spread stories around the taverns. Most of it is lies, but they’ve got the neighbourhood all riled up.’
‘Your fault,’ Gwen said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘At least give me the chance to put things right.’
Gwen and Naomi looked at one another, and then stood back. Distantly, I heard a shrill blast upon a whistle, and the sounds of another commotion on a nearby street.
‘That’s the start of her hour,’ Roland said. ‘What are you waiting for? Go.’
Lifting my skirts, I ran down the street, eventually emerging into a round cobbled space where the seven roads converged. A wooden platform had been erected here, and my heart surged as I saw Tamson. Her head and arms were locked in the pillory’s wooden block, her hair wild and loose, her eyes wide with fear. A few constables stood around the pillory, waiting for the crowd. I span round, seeing that each of the roads was blocked, as Roland had said. The mob seemed to have concentrated their efforts upon one street in particular, where they were locked in a pitched battle with the Cornish Players. I saw Morgan striding about, directing the action. It didn’t look as if they’d be able to hold the crowd back for very much longer.
Tamson looked up and our eyes met. How to convey everything I felt in a glance? I tried nonetheless. She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away.
I gazed wildly around for the sheriff, my eyes coming to a rest upon a gentleman dressed in black, sitting in a chair outside one of the taverns, enjoying a tankard of ale. The ceremonial chain around his neck left little room for doubt.
I hurried up to him. ‘I have a fine gift for you, sir, if you’ll only blow that whistle now.’
‘Popular lass, isn’t she?’ he said. ‘I’ve already told her other friends that I can’t help them. See that there?’ He pointed to a large clock hanging outside the premises of a watchmaker. ‘I’m under strict orders not to let her out even a minute before her time.’
‘I have twenty guineas,’ I said, opening my purse to show him the gold.
I could see the desire in his eyes, but he tore them reluctantly away. ‘That magistrate’s a vindictive fellow. If I cross him, he’ll take my job.’
Hearing shouts behind me, I turned. Three men had succeeded in getting past the Players, and were sprinting towards us. Another man came out of one of the nearby houses, stooping to pick up a loose cobblestone.
I ran to block their path to Tamson, using my arms to shield my head.
‘Silly bitch,’ one of the men cried. ‘Get out the way.’
He threw a cauliflower stalk which struck me on the ear. One of the constables ordered me to move out of the way, or I’d be hurt. The man with the cobblestone hurled it, and it smacked into the wood of the pillory by Tamson’s head. An oyster shell whizzed past my ear, and caught her on the cheek, drawing blood. She cried out in pain and fear.
Two more men ran in to join the others. One hurled a brown paper parcel, which struck the wood above Tamson’s head. It burst, covering her in excrement. The men hooted, pointing and laughing. Another threw a stone, which struck her on the hand.
I glanced up at the clock. Tamson couldn’t take forty-five minutes more of this. Yet the clock gave me an idea. Protecting my head with my arms, I ran for the watchmaker’s door, getting hit by a rancid potato on the way. I burst through the door, and an old man looked up from his counter. I could see a flight of stairs behind him.
‘This is an emergency,’ I cried, ducking beneath the counter. His howls of protest followed me up the stairs. I found myself on a landing with several doors, and I headed for the room at the front, which appeared to be the watchmaker’s parlour. A heavy armchair faced the fire, and I heaved it across the floor to barricade the door. Then I ran to the window and threw it open.
More men were hurling missiles at Tamson, a large group of them now. Blood was dripping from her mouth. I leaned from the window, and found I could just reach the hands of the clock. The watchmaker was rattling the door, trying to get in. I moved the hands forward to two o’clock. Then I ducked back inside, and moved the chair. The door burst open, and the watchmaker stumbled into the room. I dodged past him, and he made a grab for me – there was a tearing of silk, but then I was free. I ran back down the stairs, onto the street.
As I crossed the road, a huge crash echoed around the buildings. Glancing in the direction of the sound, I saw that the mob had overturned the cart. Men were scrambling over it, dozens of them, shouting to their friends, running down the street.
I tugged on the sheriff’s arm. ‘Look at the time.’
He frowned. ‘That can’t be right.’ He took out his pocket watch to show me. ‘She’s not half-done yet.’
‘Those weren’t your orders,’ I reminded him, taking out my purse, and giving him another flash of my gold.
Again, I saw that avaricious glint in his eye. He hesitated a moment longer, then snatched the purse from my hand. Then he gave a long blast on his whistle. A couple of the constables started to protest, and I wondered if they were friends of the man who’d been attacked by the bear, those same men who had been spreading stories in the taverns. The sheriff barked an order, and two of the constables mounted the platform, just as a huge tide of men swept into the space where we stood. Realizing that the constables were unchaining Tamson, they gave a great howl of outrage. The sight of her blood seemed to inflame them all the more, and they made a charge for the pillory. The other constables beat them back with sticks.
The constables on the pillory were having difficulty unlocking the block. Stones and half-bricks rained down on them. The sheriff was looking alarmed, backing towards the door of the tavern. His blasts upon his whistle went ignored.
At last the constables had Tamson free, and they half carried her from the platform, while the mob yelled their fury. I followed them into the tavern, where the sheriff gave curt orders to a pair of men drinking in the taproom, whom I presumed to be his drivers. We hurried through a series of back rooms and out into a yard. A pair of battered black coaches were waiting there, one with bars over the windows. As one driver opened the gate, the other opened the door of the prison-carriage. Two of the constables lifted Tamson inside and before anyone could stop me, I hopped in too. One of the constables started to object, but the mob were hard upon our heels, and nobody wanted to waste any time getting me out.
The door slammed shut, and moments later, the coach lurched off. Through the window behind us, I saw a group of red-faced men burst into the yard. We headed down a narrow alley, and out onto Tower Street, stones and other projectiles bouncing off the carriage roof.
Tamson wiped the blood and excrement from her face, and then pressed along one of her cheekbones, as if checking for a fracture. Seemingly reassured, she spat a rose of blood into the straw that covered the floor of the carriage.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
One of her eyes was swollen. She fixed me with the other. ‘I’ll live.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said hopelessly. ‘I’ll get you out of here. I promise.’
‘And how exactly do you propose to do that?’
‘I’ll have money soon. A lot of it. More than you ever dreamed of.’
‘I never dreamed about money. That was you. Now we’re all paying the price for it.’
‘I didn’t mean for this to happen.’ Tears came to my eyes and I blinked them away. ‘I know that doesn’t count for much. But I will get you out.’
‘You really think this scheme of yours is going to work? That they’re going to believe you’re this countess’s daughter?’
I stared at her in surprise.
‘That man came to see me. Lazarus Darke. He wanted me to testify against you. Said it would get me out of prison.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
She only closed her eyes and leaned her head against the side of the carriage, moving with the sway.
‘It’s not a scheme,’ I said. ‘It’s the truth.’
She didn’t reply at first. ‘Darke has Morgan in his pocket. The others too. They’ll say bad things about you, Red.’
It shouldn’t have come as any surprise. ‘I can’t help that.’
‘Yes, you can,’ she said, suddenly impassioned. ‘Stop all this. It’s madness. You’re going to wind up in prison and believe me, you don’t want that.’
I tried not to dwell upon these dangers. It was what Lazarus Darke wanted. ‘I have my family behind me now. I think I can win.’
She shook her head. ‘I fear for you, Red.’
Emboldened by this evidence that she still cared, I edged closer and took her hand. She applied no pressure of her own, but nor did she pull away. ‘I missed you in Devon,’ I said.
She gave me that look again. ‘What do you want? A parade?’
I shrugged. ‘I just wanted you to know.’
‘Now I do.’
‘Can I show you something?’ I asked, reaching into my pocket to take out the star chart that I’d found with the reports at Leighfindell. The lawyers had taken the reports, but nobody had seemed interested in this. ‘I think my father drew it. It looks like his hand.’
Tamson studied it, frowning in the gloom of the carriage. ‘Is it another birth chart?’
‘I think so. Can you tell me when and where this person was born?’
‘Not without an ephemeris,’ she said.
‘Is there anything you can tell me?’
She studied it again. ‘It is another unusual chart. Sagittarius is in the ascendant, which is a bold, optimistic sign. But Saturn is squatting like a toad in the first house, conjunct to this birth, which is an ill omen. The arrow of Sagittarius represents the future. But here it is impeded by Saturn from the moment of birth. Saturn is often associated with fathers.’
I frowned. ‘In the myths, he devoured his own children.’
Tamson pointed at the chart. ‘There is another ill omen here. Jupiter is in Capricorn, where he is never happy. Jupiter is the planet of luck, and here it is lacking. Mars, the planet of war, is in Cancer, which is the sign of the mother. It suggests parental discord. That is mirrored here in the twelfth house.’ She pointed again. ‘Do you see this conjunction of planets? The Sun, Moon, Mercury and Venus were all clustered in Scorpio at the moment of this person’s birth. Scorpio is the house of birth and carnality and secrets.’
More apt words to describe the De Lacys.
‘The Sun and Moon are precisely conjunct, which means this child was born under the dark of the moon. This life began in shadow, one light obliterating the other. The Sun is a male influence, the Moon female, which again suggests parental strife, or misfortune. The twelfth house is a spiritual place, of death and dreams and rebirth. It is the final house, a place of endings and completion. To have the planets clustered here like this, it is like an explosion of fate. The beginnings and endings are all muddled together here.’ She studied my face. ‘What is it? Do you know whose chart this is?’
I thought about where I’d found it, alongside the letter describing the aftermath of my birth. I thought about my parents’ argument, overheard by the stable boy.
‘I think it is mine.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eight of hearts, influenced by a diamond: a lost article recovered.
IT IS A cold and bitter January, the London air thick with sulphur which leaves an unpleasant taste in the mouth. Much like relations between the De Lacys and their Seabrooke cousins, say the wags. Three months have passed since Lazarus returned from Cornwall, carrying his doubts. He crosses a little courtyard, the flagstones slippery with frost, and passes through a green baize door in one of the surrounding red-brick houses. Beyond is a draughty lobby, and beyond that, a large, high-ceilinged chamber with crests and shields on the wall above the tall black wainscotting. The courtroom is divided into two by a stone triumvirate of arches, like a rood-screen in a church. On one side are the public, who are steadily filing through the door to fill the benches. On the other is a raised semi-circular dais, where sit a dozen gentlemen in scarlet gowns and plump grey wigs. The judge is settled upon an elevated throne behind them, from where he can catch the eye of the proctors seated in the pit below. The registrar, a grinning, impish fellow, occupies an armchair at the end of the proctors’ table, facing the judge. On the public side of the arches, seated at two green baize tables, are the barristers representing De Lacy and Seabrooke. Behind them, occupying the first two rows of the public benches, sit the parties themselves, surrounded by their teams of solicitors and clerks.
The Officer of the Court, a burly fellow in a black gown and gloves, recognizes Lazarus, who has attended every sitting of the court since the Michaelmas term began. The Hilary term is upon them now, and the Officer is in a buoyant mood. He ushers Lazarus through the door with a swing of his silver staff.
‘You’re in for a treat,’ he tells the couple coming in behind Lazarus. ‘This one is a lively case indeed.’
So it has proved. Since the middle of October, the Prerogative Court of Canterbury has been considering the validity of the document known to the newspapers as the Grandchild Codicil. Lazarus and Henry Antrobus have given evidence about how the codicil was found. The publisher, John Gowne, and various learned gentlemen of Robert Antrobus’s acquaintance have given testimony about the document known as The Square of Sevens. And the court has also heard from several gentlemen considered experts in the study of handwriting and the provenance of parchment, who all share an opinion that the codicil is genuine.
Naturally, Julius De Lacy has his own authorities on such matters, who have testified that it is a crude forgery. His counsel, a rangy, slope-headed gentleman named Figg, pointed the judge to George Montfort’s testimony from seventeen years earlier, that he witnessed his master destroy the document in question. In turn, the Seabrooke counsel pointed to the large sum of money in George Montfort’s possession at his death – of which there is a record in probate – an amount unaccounted for by any satisfactory explanation.
Lazarus edges along the benches. The De Lacys do not look at him, but stare fixedly ahead. Julius has been in court most days, and when he is not, Septimus is there in his place. Today, they are all there: Julius, Septimus, Mirabel, Lady Frances, Arabia, Emily, and Montfort’s lad, Archie, who has the height and Viking good looks of his father.
Lazarus takes the vacant seat next to Lady Seabrooke, who gives him a nod. He can read the tension in her taut gaze, in her tight, curled fingers. Leopold gives Lazarus a tentative smile. The journalists scribble away in their books, taking it as a sign. Today the judge is expected to rule upon the validity of the codicil, and the newspapers think he will find in the young Earl of Seabrooke’s favour.
The registrar gives a long and tedious preamble and when he sits, the judge rises. Sir George Lee, a desiccated septuagenarian with a cracked voice and a steely eye, uses obscure words of many syllables to make his ruling. Yet between all the deponents and revocations, the testamentaries and executrixes, it becomes apparent that there will be no surprises today. When Sir George declares that in his opinion, the codicil is genuine, that it is the same document lost at the time of Nicholas De Lacy’s death, a great murmur goes up from the public benches. Figg, for Julius De Lacy, leaps to his feet immediately, begging leave to appeal to the High Court of Delegates, but the judge tells him to sit down, adding that there will be no ruling upon the distribution of the estate today. This prompts another great murmur, and the Seabrooke counsel, a rotund gentleman named William Rich, whose name has been the subject of much satire in the newspapers concerning the avarice of lawyers, objects at once.
Lady Seabrooke’s face is impassive, the journalists puzzled by her lack of elation. She knows what is coming, has known it ever since Red returned to London and took up residence at De Lacy House. First, the girl’s lawyers had applied to the Court of Chancery to strip Henry Antrobus of his guardianship. With Lady Seabrooke’s financial assistance, Henry had contested the application vigorously. He had testified in person to the Lord Chancellor in chambers, weeping as he spoke of her insanity. His mad-doctor had given a long affidavit, speaking of his history of treating patients delusional in the mind, and his conviction that Red is suffering from such a malady. But the De Lacys had their own mad-doctors, who had examined Red in person, and who testified by affidavit that she was perfectly sane. The De Lacys had also produced an accountant, who had looked into the disappearance of Robert Antrobus’s fortune. He was not able to conclusively prove that Henry and the lawyer, Mr Edwards, conspired to steal her money, but the whole business appeared murky to say the least.
Finally, there was Red herself. The Lord Chancellor had questioned her in camera in his chambers, and whatever she said to him there, it seemed to have settled the question. He’d ruled that she was of sound mind and granted the application that she be made a ward of court. He’d also approved her stated desire that she remain in the care of the De Lacys.
This combining of forces was always the worst fear of Lady Seabrooke. Lazarus shares her concerns. It has occasioned him sleepless nights. He has tried several times to get a warning to Red, but she is always surrounded by De Lacy women and footmen. Her letters are undoubtedly being intercepted before they reach her, and Lady Seabrooke refuses to risk the exposure of her spies in the household to pass her a note. She says Red wouldn’t listen anyway, that she’d mistrust their motives. She’s probably right.
‘Before making a distribution of the estate,’ Sir George declares now, ‘I must first consider an application for another bill, a third party who wishes to join the suit.’
