The Fire Court: A gripping historical thriller from the bestselling author of The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor

      The servant unlatched the inner door, and the pair of them manhandled Chelling into a chamber little larger than a cupboard. They dropped him on the unmade bed. His legs dangled over the side. One shoe fell with a clatter on to the floor. His round face was turned up to the ceiling, and his hair made a grey and ragged halo on the dirty pillow. His mouth was open. The lips were as pink and as delicate as a rosebud on a compost heap.

      ‘Friend of his, sir?’ the porter asked. ‘Ain’t seen you before, I think.’

      ‘Yes.’ I paused, and then, as the man was looking expectantly at me, added: ‘Mr Gromwell will vouch for me. My name’s Marwood.’

      The porter nodded, giving the impression that he had done everything and more that duty required him to do. ‘Will that be all, then?’

      I felt for my purse. ‘Thank you, yes.’

      I gave the men sixpence apiece. I went back into the study and listened to their footsteps on the stairs. Snoring came from the bedroom, gradually building in volume. I glanced around the cramped chamber. It was very warm up here, directly under the roof. The windows were closed and the air was fetid. There were few books in sight. An unwashed mug and platter of pewter stood on the table.

      Chelling had fallen on hard times. Perhaps Gromwell was not the only man at Clifford’s Inn who survived on the kindness of friends. Everywhere I looked, there seemed to be unanswered questions, large and small. After the efforts I had made, the time I had spent, the money I had paid, all I had to show was a cloud of uncertainties.

      Suddenly I was angry, and anger drove me to act. I could at least make the most of my opportunities while I was here. There was a cupboard set into an alcove by the chimney breast. It was locked, but one of Chelling’s keys soon dealt with that. When I opened its door, the hinges squealed for want of grease.

      The smell of old leather and musty paper greeted me. The cupboard was shelved. In the bottom section were rows of books in a variety of bindings. The upper section held clothing, much of it frayed and well-worn. On the very top shelf, a leather flask rested on a pile of loose papers an inch thick, with writing materials beside them.

      I uncorked the flask and sniffed its contents. The tang of spirituous liquor rose up from it, with a hint of something else, perhaps juniper. So Chelling had a taste for Dutch gin as well as for wine. As for the papers, they were notes, by the look of them, and written in a surprisingly fine hand, the letters well formed and delicately inscribed. I glanced at the top sheets. They were written in Latin. Every other word seemed to be an abbreviation.

      I leafed further down the pile and found a page that was written in English. It was an unfinished letter, though its contents made no more sense than the others.