The King's Evil

'They will not miss a bottle or two of wine,' said the man with an ingratiating smirk, trying to turn his captor into an accomplice. 'Let us each take what we want and nobody will be any the wiser.'

'I will, my friend.'

'Then you have it all, constable.'

'I want none of your stolen goods.'

'It is fine wine and good cheese.'

'The people who bought it are entitled to enjoy it.' Jonathan gave a grim smile. 'That is why you are going to put it back where you found it.'

The man was horrified. 'Put it back?'

'Every last bottle. Every piece of cheese.'

'But it is such a waste.'

'Do as I tell you.'

'There may be gold or valuables down there as well,' said the thief, pointing with his free hand. 'Why not let me dig down to find out? We might both end up as rich men.'

'You will end up in prison, my friend. Trespass is the first charge. Theft, the second. Trying to corrupt a constable, the third. Now, put everything back where you found it before I lose my patience.' He lifted his foot to release the man. 'Hurry up. I will wait.'

Protesting loudly, the man did as he was ordered and replaced the wine and cheese in the pit before filling it with earth then patting it with the flat of his shovel. He stood up to stamp it more firmly into place. His predicament was dire. Caught in the act, he could expect to suffer the full severity of the law. That left him with one last option. Still holding the shovel, he tightened his grip on it and swung it viciously at Jonathan's head. The constable was ready for him. He ducked beneath the tool then countered with a solid punch to the jaw which sent his assailant reeling backwards. As the man fell heavily to the ground, he dropped the shovel and Jonathan kicked it clear. Still dazed, the thief was pulled roughly to his feet and dragged back through the empty house.

The two watchmen who had been stationed outside were elderly men but their combined strength was more than enough to cope with the prisoner now that all the fight had been knocked out of him. Jonathan handed the man over to his colleagues. One of them, Abraham Datchett, a spry character in his sixties, got a firm grip on the malefactor.

'Another thief?' he enquired.

'The worst kind,' said Jonathan. 'He tried to bribe me into silence.'

'More fool him!'

'Take him to the magistrate and see him locked up.'

'We will, Jonathan.'

'I will make a full report when I come off duty.'

'What was he trying to steal?'

'Wine and cheese. Oh, yes,' said Jonathan with a grin. 'And he decided to take my head with him for good measure. But I ducked just in time. Away, with the rogue, Abraham. He deserves no mercy.'

The watchmen hauled their prisoner off between them and the constable continued his rounds. Guarding damaged properties was one of his main tasks. Even derelict houses like this one might yield some booty. It was one of the more depressing effects of the Great Fire. Loss for the many had been offset by excessive gain for the few. Watermen, carriers and others who assisted fleeing householders increased their charges to exorbitant levels for customers who were in no position to refuse to pay. There were at least some shards of legality about this practice though it had no moral justification.

But there was nothing remotely legal about the epidemic of burglary which broke out as bold thieves ransacked houses which had been abandoned in the path of the fire or, as now, climbed into the garden of a derelict property to search for items which might have been buried there. When he had not been manning a fire post, Jonathan Bale had spent the past week pursuing and arresting the vultures who preyed on the misfortunes of others. His worst case had been in Knightrider Street where two thieves, gaining access to the garden of a deserted house, dug strenuously until they found a strongbox under the ground. They were so elated that friendship was instantly forgotten and they fought each other for sole possession of the bounty. By the time Jonathan arrived on the scene, only one man was still alive to be arrested.

Fire, destruction, panic, murder, burglary, trespass, mob violence and shameless profiteering. A desperate week for London. Jonathan watched his city mangled out of all recognition. One of the most startling changes was to the distinctive sound of the capital on a Sunday morning. Instead of the jangling harmonies of a hundred or more bells, calling the populace to worship, there was comparative silence. It was eerie. Most churches had been demolished and some of those that survived had lost their congregations temporarily to the outer suburbs. The few bells which did toll had a forlorn and apologetic note to them.

Jonathan's steps took him in the direction of Paul's Wharf and he was soon stopping to gaze wistfully at the ruins of St Peter's Church, once well attended, now deprived of its bell forever. Those who lay in its little churchyard would be its only parishioners from now on. St Peter's was not the only casualty in the ward. The churches of St Andrew in the Wardrobe, St Mary Magdalene and St Benet Paul's Wharf had also fallen to the flames. The spiritual life of the community had been dealt a series of crippling blows. Jonathan was still looking at the devastation when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

'Do not expect me to mourn its passing, Mr Bale.'

'What is that?' said Jonathan, turning to face the newcomer.

'I am glad that it was levelled to the ground. That is where St Peter's truly belongs. It was a Cavalier church. When the Lord Protector ruled, this was a refuge for the nobility.'

'I know it well, Mr Thorpe.'

'I would gladly have lit the match which set it alight.'

'Then I would just as gladly have arrested you for the crime.'

'Where is the crime in driving out sin?'

Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a short, slim man in his fifties with a cadaverous face out of which two large eyes shone like beacons. He was dressed in the black garb of the Quakers and wore a high-crowned black hat whose wide brim had been singed by fire. His voice had the natural power of an orator and Jonathan had heard it raised in denunciation many times. The constable enjoyed an uneasy relationship with his neighbour, admiring him for his courage but deploring the extremes to which Thorpe sometimes went. Slight and innocuous in repose, the man could be highly volatile when moved by the Holy Spirit.

'Your attire is too eloquent, Mr Thorpe,' he observed.

'I am not ashamed to be seen for what I am.'

'Take care it does not lead to a beating. There are still mad fools abroad who believe that the fire may have been started by Quakers and who take revenge on any of your sect they encounter.'

'Violence holds no fears for me,' said the other bravely. 'Jesus himself endured many blows in defence of his beliefs. I have done the same before and will do so again.'

Jonathan heaved a sigh and glanced back at St Peter's.

'Whatever you say, it was a fine old church. It will be a great loss.'

'Not to me, Mr Bale. I have a long memory.'

'Too long, I fear. It is time to look forward and not back.'

'Yes,' said the other, 'thou wouldst say that. Thou art a parish constable now with duties and responsibilities. Mr Jonathan Bale upholds the laws of this corrupt Parliament. It pains him to recall that he was once as true a Christian as myself.'

'I still am.'

'No, sir. Thou hast betrayed us and betrayed thyself.'

'That is a matter of opinion.'

'Thou art familiar with mine.'

'It has not been kept hidden from me, Mr Thorpe,' said Jonathan with a wry smile. 'I hold fast to the beliefs which I have always held. Where you and I differ is in how they are best expressed.'

'Openly and defiantly.'

'That is the shortest route to the prison cell.'