The King's Evil

'Unhand her, you ruffian!' he ordered.

'Stay out of this, sir,' said Jonathan, still wrestling with his quarry.

'Let her go or you'll answer to me.'

The young man accompanied his threat with such a strong push that he knocked the constable off balance and forced him to release his hold on the woman. To the astonishment of all who were watching, she hitched up her skirts and, showing signs neither of age nor disability, ran off at speed towards Paternoster Row. The artist was utterly baffled.

'What's this?' he asked.

'You have just helped a clever criminal to escape, sir,' said the angry constable. 'I was trying to make an arrest.'

'Why?'

'Because I saw him robbing you.'

'Him? I took her for a poor old woman.'

'That is what you were meant to do, sir. But that poor old woman is younger than you. His real name is Tom Fogge and he is as cunning a pickpocket as you will have the misfortune to encounter.'

'A pickpocket?'

'Yes, sir,' said the other. 'While you thought he was admiring your drawing, Tom Fogge was helping himself to your purse.' The young man's hand went immediately to his pocket. 'You will not find it, sir, for I have it here in my hand.' He held it up for inspection. 'I managed to get it from him before you interrupted us. Had you been less rash, I might have recovered all the other things which he probably stole.'

The young man took a step back, spread both arms and shrugged.

'What can I say, constable? I was foolhardy.'

'That is the kindest word to apply.'

'Choose one of your own.'

'It is the Sabbath, sir. I will not profane it.'

The young man tensed and seemed about to issue a rebuke but the moment quickly passed. Instead, he burst out laughing at himself. He also scrutinised the constable's big, oval face with its prominent nose and its square jaw. Two warts on the left cheek and a livid scar across the forehead turned a pleasant appearance into an ugly one but there was real character in the face. Dark eyes still smouldered.

'I owe you an apology,' said the young man.

'Take your purse back,' said the other, handing it over.

'And you deserve my gratitude as well. Who did you say he was?'

'Tom Fogge.'

'Does he always dress as an old woman?'

'No, sir,' explained Jonathan. 'That would make it too easy for us to pick him out. Tom uses many disguises. I did not recognise him until I saw him brush against you like that. He has a swift hand.'

'Not swift enough to elude you.'

'Foins and foists belong in prison.'

'Foins and what?'

'Pickpockets. St Paul's is one of their favourite places of business.'

'Not any more,' said the artist, turning to gaze at it. 'It is a mere shadow of what it once was. I was trying to capture it on paper before it is knocked down to make way for a new cathedral. It was once one of the largest churches in Christendom and had the tallest spire in the whole world until it was struck by lightning. Even in this parlous state, it has a rare magnificence.'

'All I can see are ruins, sir.'

'That is because you do not have the eye of an artist. Come,' he said, crooking a finger. 'Let me show you.' He led the constable across to the stone tomb on which a sheaf of papers lay. 'Here,' he continued, picking one up to offer to him. 'Does this not have real splendour?'

Jonathan took the drawing and marvelled at it. Though it was executed with charcoal, it had extraordinary precision and verisimilitude. Every detail had been included and, as he looked up at the cathedral once more, Jonathan could find no discrepancy. The one difference between reality and art lay in the spirit which animated the drawing. What the artist had somehow done was to transform a scene of unrelieved desolation into one of strange beauty. His drawing was a celebration of architectural grandeur.

'Well?' said the young man.

'It is good, sir,' conceded the other. 'Very good.'

'Inspiring?'

'To some degree.'

'You like it, then?'

'I find it ... interesting, sir,' said Jonathan, unable to tear his gaze away from the drawing. 'You have captured everything there is to see yet added something else besides. What it is, I do not yet know but I will find it soon. Yes,' he murmured. 'It is a fine piece of work.'

'Keep it.'

'Keep it?' repeated Jonathan in surprise.

'As a reward for recovering my stolen purse. It is the least that I can offer you. I can see that you are taken with it. Have it.'

'But it is yours, sir.'

'It is only one of several that I have,' said the young man, indicating the sheaf of papers. 'Do you see? I have two other drawings from this angle and three from the west side of the cathedral. Besides, I have tired of drawing what stands before me and have moved on to what ought to take its place. Look at this.'

He picked up the drawing which lay on the board and held it out for the constable to study it. Jonathan was frankly astounded. He had never seen anything so overwhelming in size and so stunning in conception. Where the old cathedral had a spireless tower, the new one was surmounted by a massive dome buttressed by paired columns. The facade featured a succession of pilastered columns and a portico which thrust out to lend additional sculptural impact. In place of the present churchyard was a vast piazza, enclosed by colonnades which reached out from the .main building like giant arms of marble.

Jonathan glanced at the ruins then back at the drawing.

'Is that what you could see when you looked up?'

'In my mind's eye.'

'It is ...'

'Amazing?' said the artist, fishing for compliments. 'Resplendent, ambitious, uplifting? Be honest, my friend.'

'It is like nothing I have ever seen.'

'That is because you have never been to Rome and imbibed the wonders of the Classical tradition. This is not so much a new design of St Paul's Cathedral as an English version of St Peter's in Rome.' He saw the scowl on the other's face. 'You disapprove?'

'Not of the drawing, sir. Only of its origin.'

'Too Catholic for your taste?'

'I prefer the cathedral we have just lost.'

'Yet that was built when England was of the Old Religion. Roman Catholic genius went into its design and building. True art should have no denomination,' said the young man, laying the drawing down. 'We should be free to borrow from all countries, whatever spiritual dimension they may have. I need to do far more work on the new St Paul's. You keep that drawing of the old one.'

'No, sir,' said Jonathan firmly.

'Why not?'

'I do not deserve it.'

'That is for me to judge. I may have the eye of an artist but you have the much more practical eye of a constable. While I was gazing into the future, you saw a pickpocket taking my purse. Hold on to the drawing in lieu of my thanks.'

'I do not wish to keep it, sir.'

'You are refusing the gift?'

'Yes, sir,' said Jonathan, handing it back to him. 'Excuse me.'

'Wait! You must not do this. It is a form of insult.'

'Then you brought it upon yourself.'

'Anybody else would have been delighted with such a drawing.'

'Give it to one of them.'

He tried to move away but the young man barred his way.

'Are you still angry with me because I stopped you from arresting that pickpocket? Is that what we have here? Pique and annoyance?'

'I could have done without your interference.'

'You had my apology. What more do you want?'

'Nothing, sir. I have duties to carry out.'

'What is to stop you taking my drawing with you?'