Free The Ashes of London by Andrew Taylor Page B

not.
    The whip fell again, the steel tips of the thongs raking across the skin. It left the victim shuddering, gasping for breath.
    A spot of blood touched the sleeve of Alderley’s coat. Mundy waited while his master took out a handkerchief and dabbed at it. Then Alderley stepped back and nodded again to the steward.
    The whip fell for the third time.
    ‘It’s an example for the other servants, too,’ Mistress Alderley said, swallowing hard; perhaps she didn’t like this spectacle any more than I did. ‘Afterwards he will go before a magistrate, of course, but Master Alderley says that none is to be found at present, because of the Fire. They’ve all fled.’
    The servant’s back had been reduced to a raw red mess, flecked with white where the bones beneath the skin had been exposed. Alderley held up his hand. Mundy backed away, the whip held over the crook of his arm. The semicircle of watching, murmuring servants retreated, moving away from the steward as if the thing he carried were infectious.
    The flogged man was arching his back and gasping for breath. Alderley bent down and said something in his ear. If it earned a reply, it did not satisfy him, for once again he moved away and signalled to Mundy.
    ‘I wish to God this were not necessary,’ Mistress Alderley said, turning away from the window.
    The whip fell for the fourth time.
    The body bucked and slumped over the trestle, the head drooping down as if its own weight had become intolerable. The cobbles beneath the body glistened with blood.
    It was a body now, I realized, not a man. I felt ashamed and soiled, as if by witnessing what had happened I had somehow condoned it.
    Williamson shifted from one foot to the other. ‘It’s a bad business, madam.’
    ‘Indeed, sir,’ she said softly.
    Mundy came forward and bent to examine the mess of blood, tendon and bone stretched across the trestle. He glanced up at his master and gave a tiny shake of the head. A shudder rippled through the watching servants.
    Alderley gave the steward an order, dabbed his sleeve again and walked across the courtyard without another glance at the body. He paused beneath the oriel window, looked up and bowed. He passed inside, and a moment later his heavy footsteps sounded outside the door of the antechamber.
    He bowed again, without servility, to Master Williamson, acknowledged his wife’s curtsy and, having glanced at me, ignored me altogether.
    ‘I’m grieved that you saw that,’ he said. ‘My apologies.’
    ‘My dear.’ Mistress Alderley did not look into his face. ‘Did the wretch confess at last?’
    ‘Yes,’ Alderley said loudly. ‘At the very end. The damned ingrate – he cheated the gallows. And left my poor son at death’s door.’
    ‘I must go to Edward,’ said Mistress Alderley. ‘Would you give me leave to withdraw, sir?’
    ‘Of course. I shall join you as soon as I may.’
    I rushed to open the door for her. She fluttered from the room with a swift, assessing glance at me by way of thanks.
    ‘My wife has told you our troubles, sir?’ Alderley said to Williamson. ‘Dr Grout is with poor Edward now.’
    Dr Grout could not say for sure whether or not Edward would recover. At all events he would lose the sight of his right eye. There was the risk of infection, too. His right arm was very badly burned. His pain and distress were terrible to witness. But for the grace of God, the fire in his chamber might have spread further and the entire house would have gone up in flames. They could all have been burned to cinders in their own beds.
    Williamson presented his condolences as if they were as cumbersome as a box of stones. His Northern tongue did not slip easily into the flowery speech of the South.
    ‘Now, sir,’ Master Williamson said. ‘I must not delay you at such a time. But one thing cannot wait.’
    I returned to the window, to avoid giving the impression that I was eavesdropping. Blood had pooled around the trestle. The servants had already