The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 4

So much for mail from persons he actually knew. He worked his way deeper into the basket. Metallic clanking and sc.r.a.ping noises issued from its depths as he stirred through it. There were a few letters from Londoners who, starting as of a month ago, had become his fellows on the Court of Directors of the Proprietors of the Engine for Raising Water by Fire. There were two from chaps whose names he did not recognize at all, but who had orderly minds-or so he guessed from their handwriting. These two were the only letters he actually bothered to open and read, simply because they were the only ones whose contents were not wholly predictable. As it turned out, both were from men who had come up with inventions for determining longitude, and sought Daniel's help in bringing their ideas before the Royal Society. Daniel threw them away.

There were no letters from his wife, or from little G.o.dfrey, which was in no way surprising, given the season of the year and the rough weather. Groping to the very bottom of the basket, he sc.r.a.ped his hand on something jagged, and jerked back. He was not too old to die of teta.n.u.s. His fingers emerged sooty, rather than b.l.o.o.d.y. Pulling all the mail out of the basket and then tilting it towards the window he observed several twisted and blackened shreds of wood and of metal in the bottom. The largest bit was a miniature cask, no more than gallon-sized, such as might be used to transport distilled spirits. One end of it was intact-badly damaged to be sure, but still recognizable as having once been a keg. The staves were bound together by an iron band at the end, and spread out, like lines of longitude from the pole, until they reached the equator. But none of them continued very far into the opposite hemisphere. Some were snapped off clean, some bent outwards, some smashed into splintery brooms. That end of the keg, and its metal band, were gone entirely, though they might be accounted for by some of the loose fragments in the bottom of the basket. Other things were in there, too: gears, springs, levers of wrought bra.s.s.

Part of Daniel wanted to overturn this basket on a well-illuminated table and piece the device back together. But instead he buried it again under his unread mail. He had spent a fortnight immobilized by melancholy, and tormented by unreasonable fears. Today his humours had gone back into balance. The Daniel Waterhouse who had cowered in that bed for two weeks was a different chap from the one who was standing by the door, dressed and periwigged. But they could easily change places if he dwelled too long on the dark relics in that basket. They had grown cold, waiting for his attention; let them grow colder still.

THE R ROYAL S SOCIETY'S HEADQUARTERS comprised two separate houses and a tiny courtyard separating them. During the fund-raising effort, some had gone so far as to style it a "compound." One of the houses was the northern terminus of Crane Court. Above its ground floor it had two addtional full storeys, plus a garret in the roof s.p.a.ce. This garret, which was where Daniel had been lodged, had two small dormer windows facing the Crane Court side, which would have afforded a clear view all the way down to Fleet Street, and even to the Thames, had they not been partially blocked by a low parapet-wall that had been added to the front of the house to make it seem a few feet higher than it really was. So from his bed, Daniel's view had been of a sort of lead-lined ditch formed where the steeply sloping roof plunged down to die in the base of the parapet: a bathing-place for birds when it rained, and a raceway for rodents in all weathers. For a few hours in the afternoon the sun would traverse the rectangle of sky that showed above the parapet, if the weather happened to be clear. If Daniel stood up and approached the window he could see over the lip of the parapet, where moss, soot, and birds.h.i.t vied for hegemony, down into Crane Court, and scan the jumble of rooftops all around. A view of the dome of St. Paul's was denied him unless he opened the window, thrust his head out, and craned it to the left. Then it was startlingly close. Yet it seemed inapproachable because of the wide creva.s.se of Fleet Ditch, which broke the city in twain half-way between. If he turned one hundred eighty degrees and looked west, he was confronted by a church that was much closer, and infinitely older: the Rolls Chapel, which appeared to be sinking or collapsing into a s.p.a.cious church-yard just across Fetter Lane. This medieval pile, which had been used by Chancery as a records dump for many centuries, had turned black with coal-smoke during Daniel's lifetime. A bow-shot to the south of it, fronting on Fleet Street, was the Church of St. Dunstan-in-the- comprised two separate houses and a tiny courtyard separating them. During the fund-raising effort, some had gone so far as to style it a "compound." One of the houses was the northern terminus of Crane Court. Above its ground floor it had two addtional full storeys, plus a garret in the roof s.p.a.ce. This garret, which was where Daniel had been lodged, had two small dormer windows facing the Crane Court side, which would have afforded a clear view all the way down to Fleet Street, and even to the Thames, had they not been partially blocked by a low parapet-wall that had been added to the front of the house to make it seem a few feet higher than it really was. So from his bed, Daniel's view had been of a sort of lead-lined ditch formed where the steeply sloping roof plunged down to die in the base of the parapet: a bathing-place for birds when it rained, and a raceway for rodents in all weathers. For a few hours in the afternoon the sun would traverse the rectangle of sky that showed above the parapet, if the weather happened to be clear. If Daniel stood up and approached the window he could see over the lip of the parapet, where moss, soot, and birds.h.i.t vied for hegemony, down into Crane Court, and scan the jumble of rooftops all around. A view of the dome of St. Paul's was denied him unless he opened the window, thrust his head out, and craned it to the left. Then it was startlingly close. Yet it seemed inapproachable because of the wide creva.s.se of Fleet Ditch, which broke the city in twain half-way between. If he turned one hundred eighty degrees and looked west, he was confronted by a church that was much closer, and infinitely older: the Rolls Chapel, which appeared to be sinking or collapsing into a s.p.a.cious church-yard just across Fetter Lane. This medieval pile, which had been used by Chancery as a records dump for many centuries, had turned black with coal-smoke during Daniel's lifetime. A bow-shot to the south of it, fronting on Fleet Street, was the Church of St. Dunstan-in-the- West, a Wren production, duly turning black.

Much less strenuous for an old stiff-necked man was simply to gaze southward down the length of Crane Court and hope to glimpse a bit of open water between the buildings that filled most of the s.p.a.ce between Fleet Street and the river. This view, every time he spied it, made Daniel feel as if he had, by some error in navigation, been taken to some city as strange as Manila or Isfahan. For the London in which he had grown up had been a congeries of estates, parks, and compounds, thrown up over centuries by builders who shared a common dream of what a bit of English landscape ought to look like: it should be a generous expanse of open ground with a house planted in it. Or, in a pinch, a house and wall built around the perimeter of a not-so-generous patch of ground. At any rate, there had been, in Daniel's London, views of sky and of water, and little parks and farmlets scattered everywhere, not by royal decree but by some sort of mute, subliminal consensus. In particular, the stretch of riverbank Daniel could see from this garret had been a chain of estates, great houses, palaces, courts, temples, and churches put up by whatever powerful knights or monks had got there first and defended them longest. During Daniel's lifetime, every one of these, with the exceptions of the Temple (directly across from the outlet of Crane Court) and Somerset House (far off to his right, towards where Whitehall Palace had stood, before it had burned down), had been demolished. Some had been fuel for the Fire and others had fallen victim to the hardly less destructive energies of Real Estate Developers. Which was to say that with the exception of the large open green of the Temple, every inch of that ground now seemed to be covered by Street or Building.

Turning his back on the window and opening his bedchamber door brought him back to London straightaway-not the London of average Londoners, but the circa-1660, Natural-Philosophic London of John Wilkins and Robert Hooke. For the remainder of the attic was packed to the rafters with material that Daniel recognized and identified under the broad heading of, Science c.r.a.pp Science c.r.a.pp. All had been brought over from the Royal Society's creche at Gresham's College.

Gresham's College had been precisely the sort of structure that had no place in modern-day London: a compound, rather than a house, built around a court that was s.p.a.cious enough to house hundreds of Londoners if razed and jammed with town-houses. Gresham's had been Tudor wattle-and-daub, a style that encouraged builders to make it up as they went along, and generally suffered them to get away with it. Whatever it might have looked like in Sir Thomas Gresham's mind's eye, when he had come back from Antwerp, famous from mending Gloriana's coinage, and rich from speculating in it, by the time Daniel had got there it seemed to have been made not by human architects but by wasps.

At any rate it had been huge: ten times the size of the two Crane Court houses combined. They had not had the whole thing to themselves, but they'd had a lot of it.

Also they'd had Hooke and Wren, who'd built London up from cinders. If there was a cellar, closet, attic, or shed anywhere in London that was sitting vacant, Wren would know of it, and Hooke would have the temerity to use it for something.

What it all amounted to was this: up to about the turn of the century, the Royal Society had been able to store things by the acre. There had been no need to cull out, to throw away, or even to organize. But during the first decade of the century they'd lost Gresham's and they'd lost Hooke. Their storage s.p.a.ce had shrunk by a factor of ten, at the least. Which might have been a very favorable turn if the sorting out and throwing away had been done by someone who was qualified-who had been around from the beginning-and who had had the time to do a good job of it. To put it plainly, Newton, Wren, or Waterhouse. But Sir Isaac had been busy with the Mint, with prosecuting a war against Flamsteed, and with making the second edition of Principia Principia Leibniz-proof. Sir Christopher Wren, during the same days, had been finishing St. Paul's and building the Duke of Marlborough's London house, just next door to St. James's Palace: two significant jobs for an architect. Daniel had been in Ma.s.sachusetts trying to build a Logic Mill. Leibniz-proof. Sir Christopher Wren, during the same days, had been finishing St. Paul's and building the Duke of Marlborough's London house, just next door to St. James's Palace: two significant jobs for an architect. Daniel had been in Ma.s.sachusetts trying to build a Logic Mill.

Who then had performed the sorting-out? One of Newton's acolytes. And he had probably done it in a hurry. If Daniel had been fully aware of this four years ago, when it had been happening, he'd have been in a panic. Now he could only look on the contents of this attic in the same spirit in which he had looked at the remains of Drake's house on the morning after the Fire.

Most of the Science c.r.a.pp was still packed in the crates, barrels, bundles, and bales in which it had been carted hither. Each of these containers was an impediment to the casual investigator. Daniel spied a crate, not far below the rafters, with its lid slightly askew. The only thing atop it was a gla.s.s bell jar covering a dessicated owl. Daniel set the bird to one side, drew out the crate, and pulled off the lid. It was the old Archbishop of York's beetle collection, lovingly packed in straw.

This, and the owl, told all. It was as he had feared. Birds and bugs, top to bottom, front to back. All salvaged, not because they had innate value, but because they'd been given to the Royal Society by important people. They'd been kept here just as a young couple keeps the ugly wedding present from the rich aunt.

He heard someone stifling a sneeze. Straightening up carefully, so as not to burst any of the juicy bits in his spinal column, he looked down the stairs and caught the eye of Henry Arlanc. Henry looked nervous, and studiously mournful, like a vicar at a wake, who did not know the deceased, but who is aware that the living have suffered a grievous loss and are likely to be in a foul mood. "I have endeavoured, Dr. Waterhouse, to preserve all that was brought here, in the condition it was brought."

"No solicitor could have worded it more carefully," Daniel muttered under his breath.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Daniel stepped over to the top of the staircase, and steadied himself with a hand on the wall, for this was halfway between a ladder and a stair, and it made him dizzy.

"You have done well...you are absolved," Daniel said. "The owl was free of dust."

"Thank you, Dr. Waterhouse."

Daniel sat down at the top of the stairs, resting his feet on the first step down. Between his knees he now enjoyed a clear and direct view of Henry's face. Up here in the attic it was gloomy, but the walls and doors of the storey below were all painted white or close to it. The doors had been left open to release the light coming in the windows, and so Henry was bathed in pitiless and revealing illumination, like a specimen on a microscope stage. He was regarding Daniel uneasily.

"How long have you served here, Henry?"

"Since you moved in, sir."

Daniel was a bit confused until he realized you you meant meant The Royal Society The Royal Society.

"I like to say, that I came with the property," Henry continued.

"When we we moved here from Gresham's College, there must have been a good deal of...rubbish. At Gresham's, I mean." moved here from Gresham's College, there must have been a good deal of...rubbish. At Gresham's, I mean."

Henry looked inexpressibly relieved. "Oh yes, sir, more than you could ever imagine."

"Cart-loads, then, was it?"

"Yes, sir, dozens of cart-loads hauled away," Henry affirmed, in the pride of a job well done.

"Hauled away where, precisely?"

Henry faltered. "I-I would not know that, Dr. Waterhouse, there are salvage-men who pick through rubbish looking for objects of value, and sell them to tinkers..."

"I understand, Henry. What is more, I agree that neither you, nor any other man, can be asked to know whither rubbish has gone, after the rubbish-cart has disappeared from view. But I have a different question for you along the same lines, on which you must concentrate as intently as you can."

"I shall strain to do so, Dr. Waterhouse."

"At the time that Gresham's was being cleared out, and the rubbish rubbish being carted away, and the being carted away, and the treasures treasures brought safely here-I say, at that time, was any rubbish taken away, or treasures produced, from brought safely here-I say, at that time, was any rubbish taken away, or treasures produced, from other locations other locations?"

"Other locations, Dr. Waterhouse?"

"Hooke. Mr. Robert Hooke. He might have squirrelled things away at Bedlam, or in the additions to the Marquis of Ravenscar's house, or the College of Physicians-"

"Why those places, sir?"

"He built them. Or St. Paul's, or the Fire Monument-he had a hand in those as well. He might have left things in those buildings; and just as the nuts, hidden in out-of-the-way places by a squirrel, are oft forgotten, and discovered later by others-"

"I do not recollect anything coming from Bedlam, or any other place besides Gresham's College," Henry said flatly.

Henry looked curiously red in the face. He had been simple enough to fall into the trap that Daniel had set by speaking of rubbish. But he was sharp enough to see it in hindsight. His response was to become angry rather than fearful. Daniel sensed immediately that to have this man angry at him was undesirable. He explained, in softer tones, "It is only that the Royal Society is so pre-eminent among the scientific academies of the world, that what is rubbish to us, would be esteemed treasure to some who are accounted savants in backward places; and as a gesture of friendship towards such countries, we could send them odds and ends for which we have no further use."

"I take your meaning now, sir," said Henry, the flush fading from his cheeks.

"Better for one of Mr. Hooke's old clocks to be studied by a student in Muscovy, than for some Shadwell tinker to make the gears into jewelry."

"Indeed, sir."

"I have been asked by a colleague on the Continent to keep an eye out for any such items. It is probably too late for the dozens of cart-loads. Perhaps not for what might have been stowed by Hooke in other buildings to which he had keys."

"Sir Christopher Wren was an old friend of Mr. Hooke's."

"That he was," said Daniel, "though I wonder how you know it, since Hooke died seven years before you had any connection to the Royal Society."

Again Henry's face flushed. " 'Tis common knowledge. Sir Christopher is here all the time-why, he stopped in just this morning-and often speaks of Hooke with a kind of affection."

Henry got a wry distracted look which proved he was speaking truth. G.o.d and the angels might speak of Hooke with outright and unalloyed affection; but a kind of a kind of affection was the best that could be achieved by Wren, or any other mortal. affection was the best that could be achieved by Wren, or any other mortal.

"I should simply refer my inquiries to Sir Christopher, then."

"He has stated more than once that he would enjoy renewing your acquaintance, sir, whenever..."

Henry trailed off and made a furtive glance at the doorway to the garret, near the top of the stairs.

"Whenever I came to my senses. Consider me healed, Henry. And if you are seized by an urge to throw anything away, do make me aware of it, so that I can pluck out any items that would pa.s.s for wonders in Muscovy."

Daniel went out for a walk: a most imprudent act.

Henry Arlanc had let it be known that if Daniel ever summoned the will to leave, for an hour or a day, he, Henry Arlanc, could arrange a sedan chair or a carriage. This was nothing more than simple common sense. The streets of London were a good bit more dangerous now than when Daniel had last walked them, and Daniel much more vulnerable. But on a morning like this, with the streets so crowded with well-to-do persons on the move, murderers and footpads were less likely to be encountered than pickpockets. And these would reap only the meagrest of harvests from Daniel.

An odd notion had come in to Daniel's mind: perhaps the intended victim of the Infernal Device had been, not Daniel or Mr. Threader, but Henry Arlanc.

Now in his years of toil for the Royal Society, Daniel had become a stern judge of odd notions. There were abundant reasons to discard this one straightaway. Its most obvious defect was simply that Daniel had not the faintest idea why anyone would want to blow up the Royal Society's porter. Moreover, the fog that had descended over Daniel's mind since the explosion had made him susceptible to hypotheses of an extremely dark and frightening cast, and this seemed like one of those.

But the Natural Philosopher in him had to admit that it was at least theoretically theoretically possible. And until it had been ruled out, Daniel liked to preserve, from Arlanc, some independence-he did not wish to get in the habit of relying on the Huguenot every time he stirred from Crane Court-and some privacy. 'Twas neither necessary nor desirable for Arlanc to know everything about his movements around London. possible. And until it had been ruled out, Daniel liked to preserve, from Arlanc, some independence-he did not wish to get in the habit of relying on the Huguenot every time he stirred from Crane Court-and some privacy. 'Twas neither necessary nor desirable for Arlanc to know everything about his movements around London.

His knees were still recovering from too long spent in bed, but they had become unlimbered by the time he reached the end of Crane Court and flung himself on the mercy of Fleet Street. He turned to the right, therefore moving in the general direction of Charing Cross, and worked his way cautiously upstream, prudently facing on-coming traffic, and with his right hand dabbing at the fronts of houses and shops in case he should be forced to save himself by diving into a door-way. Soon he had left St. Dunstan-in-the-West behind. The Inner and Middle Temple would be to his left, on the opposite side of Fleet, lurking behind a screen of newer buildings. These were largely occupied by pubs and coffee-houses that were continual targets of arch but confusing references, and cruel but murky satire, in newspapers.

Soon he had pa.s.sed through Temple Bar. The way-now called the Strand-forked into a main channel on the left and an inferior one to the right, creating a long central island with a couple of churches in it. Daniel took the narrower way-really a series of disjoint street-fragments crudely plumbed together-and grew convinced that he was lost. The buildings were held apart by splints of air, too narrow to deserve the name "alley," that jogged crazily to the right and left, and did not run in straight lines even when they could have. The fire had stopped short of this part of the city, probably because the Rolls and the Temple, with their generous lawns, had acted as fire-breaks. Hooke, in his capacity as City Surveyor, had not been empowered to bring it out of the Dark Ages. These ancient rights-of-way were as sacred, or at least as una.s.sailable, as the precepts of the Common Law. Somewhere among them was an old, therefore low-ceilinged room that had been acquired by a printer, Mr. Christopher Cat, and made into a thing called the Kit-Cat Clubb.

I have spoken to Mr. Cat about you, Roger had let Daniel know, in a note slipped under his door. Roger had let Daniel know, in a note slipped under his door. When you venture out, stop by our Clubb for refreshment. When you venture out, stop by our Clubb for refreshment. There had been a sketchy map, which Daniel now withdrew from his pocket, and tried to interpret. It was useless. But presently he was able to find his way to the Kit-Cat Clubb simply by following the carriages of Whig M.P.s. There had been a sketchy map, which Daniel now withdrew from his pocket, and tried to interpret. It was useless. But presently he was able to find his way to the Kit-Cat Clubb simply by following the carriages of Whig M.P.s.

The building had clearly been thrown up in an epoch of English history short on food and building materials, because Daniel, who was of average height, could barely stand up without being bludgeoned by a joist. Accordingly, the paintings that Mr. Cat had commissioned to adorn the walls were all bizarrely wide and short. This ruled out portraits, unless they were portraits of very large groups as seen from tremendous distances. Of these, the largest and most prominently displayed was of the distinguished membership of the Kit-Cat Clubb. Roger was front and center in his best wig, which was captured as a horseshoe-shaped swipe of an overloaded paint-brush.

"LET'S DO SOMETHING about Longitude!" about Longitude!"

He was the same Roger in a much older body. Only his teeth looked young, because they were; they could not have been carved more than a few months ago. He had deteriorated in every way save the Mental and the Dental. He made up for it with clothing.

Daniel blew on his chocolate for a few moments, trying to get it to cool without forming a wrinkled hide on the top. He could not hear himself think for all the Whigs in wigs shouting at each other. "The Queen opened Parliament only two hours ago," he reminded Roger, "or so I've been told, and she forgot, entirely, entirely, to mention the trifling detail of who would succeed her, after her demise. And you wish to have a chat about Longitude." to mention the trifling detail of who would succeed her, after her demise. And you wish to have a chat about Longitude."

The Marquis of Ravenscar rolled his eyes. " 'Twas settled aeons ago. Sophie or Caroline will succeed her-"

"You mean, Sophie or George Louis."

"Don't be a fool. Ladies run Europe. The War of the Spanish Succession was all women. In Versailles, Madame de Maintenon. In Madrid, her best friend, the Princesse des Ursins, Camarera Mayor Camarera Mayor of the Bourbon Court of Spain. She runs the place. Those two on the one side, fought it out against Queen Anne and Sophie on the other." of the Bourbon Court of Spain. She runs the place. Those two on the one side, fought it out against Queen Anne and Sophie on the other."

"I thought Queen Anne and Sophie hated each other."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Touche, Roger."

"Now if you insist on being pedantic, yes, George Louis is next in the queue after Sophie. Do you know what he did with his wife?"

"Something horrible, I heard."

"Locked her up in a Schlo for the rest of her life, for bed-swerving."

"So clearly he he has the upper hand, at least-" has the upper hand, at least-"

" 'Tis the exception that proves the rule, Daniel. By taking such a measure, he confesses his helplessness to the world. She made him a cuckold. Cuckolds cannot be unmade."

"Still, she's she's locked in a Schlo, and he locked in a Schlo, and he isn't. isn't."

"He is locked up in the Schlo of his own mind, which, by all accounts, has walls so thick, as to leave very little room within. The leading lady of England will be the Princess of Wales-raised personally by Sophie and by the late lamented, by all accounts dazzling, Queen of Prussia; and tutored by your friend. your friend." This Roger stressed ominously.

"Er, getting back to the actual topic of conversation, don't you think your time were better spent making sure the Hanoverians actually do succeed to the throne? Longitude can wait."

Roger waved his hand as if trying for the eleventh time to knock a particular horse-fly out of the air. "G.o.d d.a.m.n it, Daniel do you really think we are so f.e.c.kless, as not to have thought of that?"

"I beg your pardon."

"We're not letting the Pretender in! You were there at his so-called birth-you saw the sleight-of- hand involving the warming-pan-surely a man of your discrimination was not so easily deceived!"

"To me it looked like a babe's head coming out of the Queen's v.a.g.i.n.a."

"And you call yourself a man of science!"

"Roger, if you would set aside this quaint notion that countries must be ruled by kings who are the sons of other other kings, then it would not matter whether the Pretender entered St. James's Palace through a v.a.g.i.n.a, or a warming-pan; either way, to h.e.l.l with him." kings, then it would not matter whether the Pretender entered St. James's Palace through a v.a.g.i.n.a, or a warming-pan; either way, to h.e.l.l with him."

"Are you suggesting I become a Republican?"

"I'm suggesting you already are one."

"Hmmph...from there, 'tis only a short step to Puritanism."

"Puritanism has its advantages...we are not so much under the thumb of ladies."

"Only because you hang hang all of the interesting ones!" all of the interesting ones!"

"I am told you have a mistress of a distinguished family..."

"As do you-the chief difference being, I get to sleep with mine."

"They say she is extraordinarily clever."

"Yours, or mine?"

"Both of them, Roger, but I was referring to yours."

Roger did an odd thing then, namely, raised up his gla.s.s and turned it this way and that, until it had caught the light from the window the right way. It had been scratched up with a diamond. Several lines of script ran across it, which he now read, in a ghastly chaunt that was either bad reading or bad singing.

At Barton's feet the G.o.d of Love His Arrows and his Quiver lays, His Arrows and his Quiver lays, Forgets he has a Throne above, Forgets he has a Throne above, And with this lovely Creature stays. And with this lovely Creature stays. Not Venus's Beauties are more bright, Not Venus's Beauties are more bright, But each appear so like the other, But each appear so like the other, The Cupid has mistook the Right, The Cupid has mistook the Right, And takes the Nymph to be his Mother. And takes the Nymph to be his Mother.

By the time he had lurched and wheezed to the end, several nearby clubbers had picked up the melody-if it could be so called-and begun to sing along. At the end, they all rewarded themselves by Consumption of Alcohol.