Fire Read Free

what now, Pitman? What would our master have us do? Play the role of damned spy? Observe, report? Arrest? I am not a constable, sir. Unlike you.’
    ‘I fear, as does Sir Joseph, that the affair might be more pressing than that. Do you know what today is?’
    ‘The sixth of April.’
    ‘And what does that signify?’
    ‘Just tell me, man, before I lose the will to live.’
    ‘Very well.’ Pitman glanced across the room, to the man now scratching hard under his expensive wig. ‘In ’61, Major General Harrison was executed. You may have heard of him.’
    ‘He was a regicide, was he not? Signed the death warrant of our late king, Charles I?’
    ‘He did. And suffered the fate of a traitor for it. He was hung, drawn and quartered. Yet ’tis said that, despite the horrors visited upon his old body, the general never stopped singing hymns. Right up to the moment when they were extracting his guts with hot tongs…’
    Coke raised a hand. ‘I beg your favour – you can spare me the details.’
    Pitman smiled. ‘I always forget what a weak stomach you have, Captain. Odd for a military man. Well,’ he continued, ‘that was five years ago to this very day.’
    Coke lifted his head. ‘You do not mean –’
    ‘I do.’ Pitman nodded. ‘Sir Joseph believes they will attempt their revenge on the anniversary of Harrison’s…martyrdom, as they would have it.’
    Coke frowned. ‘Easily countered. His Majesty may spend the day cavorting with one of his many mistresses in hisapartments at Whitehall with a troop of cavalry to guard each door.’
    ‘He may, but he will not. For he has an appointment.’
    ‘Where?’
    Instead of answering, Pitman bent and plucked something from the floor, and laid it on the table before Coke. It was the playbill he had but lately been perusing. Announcing a performance to be given of the
Tragedy of Hamlet
– in less than one hour’s time. ‘Betterton is His Majesty’s favourite player. He never misses his first assay of a role,’ Pitman added.
    Coke barely heard him. He rose.
    ‘Calmly, man. Where do you go?’ Pitman said.
    ‘To the playhouse. Sarah’s there. And if these fanatics are there as well –’
    He half turned – and Pitman reached and seized his arm. ‘They are not, man. They are here. And our best chance to intercept them is –’
    He was interrupted, not by Coke’s argument but by the main doors beside them banging open, and by the shout given by the man in a long, black cloak who entered. ‘The judges are returning!’ he yelled. ‘The courts are in session. All persons with business before their Worships to come forthwith.’
    Where there had been quiet, now there was noise, as lawyers, plaintiffs, defendants, all rose, drained tankards and loudly made their last points. Where there had been space, it was now filled as men flooded the area before the Seven Stars’ trestle. Coke and Pitman turned, seeking through the sudden mob. But as the smoke cleared through doors flung wide onto the street, and as the lawyers streamed out, they saw that the man they’d been watching so assiduously had gone.
    ‘The back door, swiftly!’
    There were still enough customers to hinder them and despite his size it took near half a minute for Pitman to push through, Coke in his wake. The back door gave onto a dank alley. But its only occupants were five men adding to its reek by pissing against its walls. The man they sought was not one of them.
    ‘The playhouse!’
    Coke set off at a good pace, Pitman level with him. ‘Tell me,’ he said, as they dodged between the yellow puddles, ‘how did you single out this fellow amongst all the others? Did you take my advice?’
    ‘In a way. I used this.’ He tapped his nose.
    ‘Ah good! Your sixth sense.’
    ‘No. I used
this.
’ He tapped again. ‘The man reeked.’
    ‘Not uncommon in London. Marry, my Bettina says that if I do not take my fortnightly bath –’
    ‘You mistake me. This was a particular kind of smell. Such