A Plague on Mr Pepys Read online

  A Plague on Mr Pepys

  DEBORAH SWIFT

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2017

  Octavo House

  West Bute Street

  Cardiff CF10 5LJ

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Copyright © Deborah Swift 2018

  The right of Deborah Swift to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.

  ISBN 9781786154972

  eISBN 9781786154163

  Printed by in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  ~ PART ONE ~

  Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement’s.

  You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin’s.

  When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey.

  When I grow rich, Say the bells of Shoreditch.

  Pray when will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.

  I am sure I don’t know, Says the great bell of Bow.

  Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

  And here comes a chopper to chop off your head

  Chip chop, chip chop, the last man’s dead.

  Traditional Nursery Rhyme

  Chapter 1

  London, March 1663

  Bess Bagwell clung to the seat as a wash of freezing river water sluiced over the side of the wherry. She had to shift fast, to avoid a drenching. And the river was full of the usual detritus: a bloated dead rat, and the scum from the tallow factory upstream. Shuddering, she brushed the spray of droplets off her skirts, and cursed the passing coal carrier as it ploughed past them, and onwards towards the ragged, dockside scribble of Ratcliff.

  Ratcliff. It wasn’t a place a body stayed in for long. Not if you had a choice. Up the Thames estuary they sailed: the Huguenots, the Jews, the runaway slaves; the dispossessed of all nations. They landed in Ratcliff in drifts, each new wave bringing the stink of poverty to add to the stench of brine and fish.

  But Bess was determined to be out of it. Her friend Meg had told her there was a house for sale over the river, so she thought she’d take a look. Flaggon Row, Meg had said. Bess took out the hand-drawn map and studied it, the sharp evening breeze cold on the back of her neck, until the jerk of the wherry and another slop of water over the bow told her they’d arrived.

  Bess followed the main street past the King’s shipyard, the source of Deptford’s wealth, her finger tracing the map. Impressed, she lingered in Deptford village, which was swept and tidy, with broad streets; nothing like Ratcliff with its pitch-roofed lodging houses, ramshackle taverns, brothels and opium dens. No beggars clogging up the passageways, either. She pulled up and re-traced her steps. Being short, she’d nearly missed the sign of the leather bottle for Flaggon Row, which swung above her head.

  She turned up the street and scanned the houses. Solid, brick-built affairs for grand merchants. A board nailed to one of them drew her eye.

  For Purchase. This must be it.

  Lit up in the slanting sunlight, the house was a modest two-storey brick-and-wood dwelling, gabled in the Dutch style, with a steep shingle roof. It was separate from the rest of the row, and as soon as she saw it, she knew it was the one. Even the windows winked, attracting her attention. And they were real diamond panes of leaded glass – not just oiled linen, or cheap stretched-out rabbit skin.

  She stopped to take it in. Practical as well as pretty – in its own earth yard with a vegetable plot alongside and hog sty and chicken run behind. Not that she’d keep pigs, smelly animals. Perhaps a herb garden instead; that would be more befitting a lady. Of course downstairs was shuttered, but through the narrow gaps she could see that the former parlour had been turned into a cobbler’s shop. A carved wooden shoe still hung over the door.

  But that would have to go. Her husband would have his own sign. ‘William Bagwell, Carpenter. Sign of the Saw.’ Especially now he had a fine new commission. He’d be itching to get hold of a hunk of good oak and start. A set of chairs for Mr Hertford, the judge. Six! With scrolled backs and turned legs. And carved fruit too, if Will had his way. He could fashion them right here, in this workshop.

  Touch wood. She put a hand out to the green-painted plank door that opened directly onto the dirt highway, before standing back to look up at the set of wooden steps that led up the outside of the building to a jettied balcony and a neat front door.

  Two planks had been nailed roughly across the stairs to stop people going up.

  A hasty glance over her shoulder to check nobody was in residence, and Bess hitched her skirts up to her knees and clambered over and up the stairs.

  The door had a brass keyhole with a shield-shaped cover that slid over it. An escutcheon.

  She said it out loud, ‘escutcheon’. Even the word meant quality.

  Bess nudged it with her fingertip and it slid smoothly aside. The very sight of it gave her a shiver of pleasure. No barring their front door with a drop-bar again. Imagine, slipping your key into that lock like the gentry!

  She walked around the balcony to peer in through the windows. There had once been four chambers, but now one was a parlour with a scrubbed slate hearthstone and proper brick chimney, and another was a cookhouse and scullery with a sluice pipe leading straight out over the Thames. Two bedchambers fronted the road.

  How fine it would be, to perch above her husband’s workshop, with the wherries and barges, and all the trades of London drifting past her window. Close enough to the city to be good for trade, but far away from the smoke and trouble. Far away from the slave-hunters and the whore-houses.

  Far away from her mother.

  Somehow being up high, above the ground on this jetty, the wind blowing through her curly hair, made her feel like a queen in a castle.

  It was perfect.

  It was in Deptford, though, and she knew how Will would feel about that.

  Lodgings, they’d always had until now. It would be a big step. Will would try to hedge out of it, like he always did, by not making a decision. But somehow, there must be a way. She had never wanted anything so much. Glancing at the board, she wrote down the name of the seller on a piece of paper. Then she kissed it, a big smacking kiss, as if somehow her lips might seal it as hers.

  ‘I beg your pardon, mistress.’ The voice was strident, and there was no ‘beg’ about it. Bess turned.

  ‘It’s private property.’ A large, square woman in a wide-brimmed hat was bearing down on her, accompanied by a well-dressed serving girl. ‘Private,’ the woman repeated, wagging a finger.

  ‘I know that,’ Bess said. ‘We’ll be moving in soon. I’m Mrs Bagwell.’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman folded her arms. ‘I didn’t realise it had been let.’ It was an accusation.

  ‘Sold. Yes.’ Bess smiled sweetly. ‘Just yesterday, Mrs…?’

  ‘Mrs Fenwick. That’s my house diagonally opposite – Strand House.’ She pointed to the biggest house in the street. ‘ My husband is head draughtsman at the shipyard.’

  ‘How very nice to meet you, Mrs Fenwick. We’ll be neighbours then.’

  Mrs Fenwick looked her up and down, eyes assessing the rough broadcloth of her skirt, her old-fashioned stays and well-mended shoes. Bess drew back her shoulders and stood straight, keeping her smile fixed
in place.

  Mrs Fenwick sniffed. ‘I’ll call, if I may, once you are established.’

  ‘Please do,’ Bess said. ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’

  Mrs Fenwick’s mouth tried to smile, something it was obviously unused to doing, and then she strode away, the servant scurrying after her like a dog. Bess watched her go, ruminating. Best to cultivate a woman like Mrs Fenwick; it would be good for Will’s business. If I can bear it, she thought.

  *

  ‘Here’s the address,’ Bess said, pressing the paper down on the table in front of her husband. She patted him on the shoulder, which released a puff of dust. Will was a fine figure of a man – tall and blond, with arms muscled from lifting timber, and the fine-boned hands of a craftsman, but his clothes were always full of sawdust and wood-shavings.

  He turned and smiled, with an expression that said he was ready to humour her.

  ‘It’s on the other side of the Thames, close to one of the shipyards. Big houses all round. A nice neighbourhood. Quiet.’

  ‘Where?’ Will asked, standing to pick up the paper, and stooping from habit because their attic room was so low.

  ‘Deptford.’ She held her breath.

  ‘Deptford?’ he said, throwing it back down. ‘We’re not living in Deptford.’

  ‘Oh, Will, it has to stop sometime. He won’t even know we’re there.’

  ‘You don’t know my father, he gets to know everyone’s business.’

  ‘That’s no reason. That terrible brimstone preacher lives just round the corner, and we manage well enough to avoid him.’

  ‘Ho, ho.’

  ‘ We need never see your father. The Deptford yard is enormous. More than a mile end to end. Just think, you could work there fitting out ships, and you’d never set eyes on him.’ She tugged at his sleeve. ‘The workshop’s so fine – you should see the workbench. More than eight foot long, and it runs right under the window. You can nearly see the whole shipyard from there.’ She paused; she knew his weak spot well. ‘And the house will be perfect for your new commission. You won’t have to hire a work place again.’

  ‘It’s more than we can afford, love, to buy a house.’

  ‘You’ll get better commissions though, once people see Hertford’s chairs. You should see it! There’s room for your lathes and there’s already a wall with hooks for hanging tools. Just come and look, Will. That’s all.’

  Will sighed. ‘Suppose looking won’t hurt.’

  *

  In the panelled chambers of Thavie’s Inn, Holborn, Will Bagwell lifted the quill and dipped it in the ink. His heart was pounding beneath the buttons of his doublet. The paper before him was thick vellum, as if to emphasise the serious nature of the agreement. Ten years of his wages in a good year. An enormous loan. He wanted to read it again, for it was a lot of writing to take in, in a language that took some fathoming. But they were all waiting.

  Behind him, he could hear Bess breathing, feel the heat of her hand on his shoulder. He tapped the nib on the edge of the bottle to shake off the excess droplets of ink; Bess’s hand tightened. He swallowed. Just shy of sixty pounds. If he signed this, there would be no going back.

  He hesitated, and looked up. Opposite him, the turtle-faced goldsmith, Kite, nodded and narrowed his eyes in a tight smile of encouragement. The notary, an official from the Inn of Chancery in a blindingly white cravat, was impatient, shifting from foot to foot. No doubt he’d seen such an agreement many times.

  A deep breath. Will felt the nib touch the paper and suddenly, there it was – his signature flowing across the page. He had no sooner lifted the pen from the document than it was swiped out from under his gaze, and Kite the money-lender was scribbling his name under Will’s. Immediately, a serving boy came with a stub of smoking sealing wax, and even before Kite had time to press the metal die into the red puddle on the paper, the notary was adding his witness signature.

  It was over in a few seconds and Will’s damp palm was gripped momentarily in Kite’s wrinkled one, before the duplicate loan agreement and the house deeds were thrust into his hand for him to sign.

  ‘My man Bastable will collect the repayments on the last day of each month,’ Kite said.

  Will felt dazed. He wanted to turn back time, give the agreement back. But they were all smiling, Bess most of all. Her face lit up the room. She had her fine house now, and he couldn’t let her down, could he? But all he could think of was the feeling of his empty purse, like a lung with the breath squeezed out of it.

  *

  Bess paused in her unpacking. ‘Come and look, Will!’ she said, pointing out of the window. ‘We’ve the best view in Deptford!’ She beckoned him over and pointed downstream. ‘We can see the buildings of the Royal Dockyard from here.’

  Will stepped over the crates and bags, and slipped his arm around her waist. ‘Aye, it is a fine view across over the marshes. I can’t believe I’m back here. I spent my childhood staring at those lime kilns at Mill Hill. And look at those barges, eh? Who’d have thought it?’

  They stood a moment, each with their own memories, watching the log-jam of traffic go by on the Thames. In the spring sunshine the city in the distance was a panorama of shimmering grey spires. Bess sighed. The East End need no longer exist. The memory of Ratcliff was dark and cold; slimy cobbles and the reek of sewers and a bristle of masts stabbing the sky. She pushed it from her mind. It seemed a million miles away from this lofty house above its own carpentry shop.

  ‘Thank you, Will,’ Bess said, reaching up to wrap an arm around his neck. ‘ Maybe your father will warm to us, now we’re near neighbours.’

  ‘Don’t count on it. I’m the black sheep, as far as he’s concerned because I don’t want to be a sawman. And he’ll think I’m putting myself above him too; he always fancied a big house like this.’

  ‘I know it’s a stretch for us, but once you’ve got yourself into those yards and you’re building a fine ship, it’ll get easier. Has there been no word from the Guild yet?’

  ‘No. But I suppose these things take time to process. They have to consider each application and follow up the references.’

  Bess frowned. They’d had his papers long enough. Will should be leaning on them a little. But she couldn’t be cross for long. ‘A new start, that’s what it is. Mr Hertford was right, you were wasted in that boatyard in Stepney. Will you start his chairs straight away?’

  ‘Sooner the better. No point being idle. And the new apprentice starts tomorrow, so I can get him started, down below.’

  ‘Jacob, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Jacob. Seems willing enough. He’ll live at home, though, so we won’t need to provide bed and board.’

  ‘Still, an apprentice. My, we’re moving up in the world.’ She moved a box of cutlery onto the table, but paused with her hand resting on the back of the bench. ‘And how about a set of new chairs for us too, instead of these old benches?’

  Will sighed. ‘Maybe when Hertford’s are done, or I get work in the yards. We can’t afford the wood this month, what with the expense of moving.’

  ‘It’s a fine house though, and it makes our things look shabby.’

  He evaded her eyes. ‘I’ll go below, unpack my tools, shall I, love?’

  When he’d gone, she looked around with satisfaction. There was room for Lucy, their live-in serving girl, in the little room next to Will’s workshop, just behind the still-room. Lucy could have a separate bedchamber now, instead of a truckle in their room. And in time, she thought, a cook could be installed in the spare chamber at the back.

  She’d need to persuade Will, of course. But she knew she could mould him. She’d always been able to make him do her bidding. Will didn’t like fuss, and as long as he had a place for his precious wood, he’d agree with her just to keep the peace. In ten years’ time, with luck and a following wind, this house would be theirs, and Will a master carpenter in the yards, and she’d have servants galore. Children too. Then they’d be safe, and no-one would be able to put
them out on the streets ever again.

  Chapter 2

  They’d been in the house two weeks, and Bess was almost done with hanging out the linens to dry, when she saw the familiar scrawny silhouette of her mother just approaching on the other side of the road. There was no mistaking her mother’s razor-sharp profile, the squared shoulders, and tightly tied steeple hat, sticking up like a black signpost.

  Bess shoved the washing back in the basket and, hitching it onto her hip, ran up the outside stairs. From behind the window she eyed her mother’s progress. Her mother had stopped a moment to stare over the wall at a grain barge trying to force its way through a gap between two flat-bottomed barks.

  Nosy crow. Since she’d moved, her mother was always seeking an excuse to call and offer advice. Why, Bess couldn’t imagine, as she’d made such a pig’s swill of her own life.

  Bess turned the brass key in the front door with a satisfying click.

  At the sound of the lock, Bess’s maid of all work, Lucy, paused to look up from threading her darning needle, with the end of the thread still protruding from her mouth like a mouse’s tail.

  Bess didn’t answer her unspoken question, but shut up the shutters, and put her finger to her lips.

  Lucy frowned, squinting her dark eyes at the lack of light, and finally having smoothed the end of the thread with spit, she drew the thread through the needle. Bess moved the stockings she was mending to the opposite side of the table. A pale, rippling sun crept in from the window that overhung the river.

  A few moments passed as they sewed in the gloom, until a sound like a whip-crack made Bess yelp and prick her finger.

  She was here already. For who else knocked like that – as if the knock should bring folks back from the dead?

  Lucy leapt up, ready to answer the door.

  ‘Leave it,’ Bess whispered, shaking her head.

  Lucy’s eyes widened.

  Bess shook her head again. The door handle wobbled and the door rattled in the frame.

  The two of them stayed still, frozen in space a moment, but then the knock shook the door again.