detailed description about a new and ‘exciting’
mathematical instrument.
‘I would
love
a Gunter’s Quadrant,’ he concluded wistfully, ‘but it is too expensive for the common man. I offered to borrow one for a
few weeks and then write a pamphlet about it – I am well respected in my trade, as you know, and people take my recommendations
seriously – but its maker is adamant: no money, no measuring stick. Will you break into his shop and steal it for me?’
Chaloner was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘He might be suspicious if you suddenly start producing books and publications
demonstrating its use.’
Leybourn nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would have to modifyit, pass it off as my own. Incidentally, have you visited St Paul’s Cathedral recently? You do not need to be a surveyor to
see it is unsound, and I told the King today that he should close it before it falls down and kills someone. Christopher Wren
submitted some brilliant plans for its rebuilding, but the clerics baulk.’
‘I would baulk, too,’ said Chaloner, making a dash for St Margaret’s porch as the rain came down even harder. ‘Wren’s design
is nasty – like an Italian mausoleum.’
‘Rubbish! It is nothing short of brilliant. In fact, if you had any loyalty to your city, you would break into the old cathedral
and set it afire. That would put an end to the clergy’s procrastination.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘First, you encourage me to commit burglary and now arson. Do you want me hanged?’
‘Not unless you leave me some money in your will. Then I can buy myself a Gunter’s Quadrant.’
A verger conducted the visitors to the crypt, where Maylord was not the only dead citizen to have been granted refuge under
its gloomy arches. A total of three bodies lay there, all neatly packed in wooden boxes, their faces decorously covered with
clean white cloths. The verger explained that many houses in Westminster were small, and it was not always possible to have
a corpse at home until a funeral could be arranged. It was all right twenty years ago, he sighed, because then you died one
day and were in the ground the next. But in these enlightened times, ceremonies were grander and required more time to arrange.
A funeral in London was a statement of earthly achievement, and no one wanted to be shoved underground without first showing
off all he had accomplished.
‘Maylord,’ prompted Chaloner.
The verger removed one of the cloths. ‘He used to play the organ here when our regular man was indisposed, and he never charged
us for it. He was a good soul.’
‘Do you know how he died?’ asked Chaloner, gazing at the man who had smiled a lot, even during the dark days of the civil
wars. Laughter lines were scored around Maylord’s eyes and mouth, and Chaloner thought it a terrible pity that the world was
deprived of his gentle humour.
‘Cucumbers,’ replied the verger. ‘Did you not hear? It caused quite a stir.’
‘How do you know it was cucumbers?’
‘They were on a plate in his room, and he was dead on the floor with a piece in his mouth.’ The verger regarded him suspiciously.
‘You said you were a friend, so how come you do not know?’
‘I have been away,’ replied Chaloner truthfully. ‘He wrote two days ago, asking me to visit him.’
‘Then it is a shame you did not come sooner,’ said the verger, rather accusingly. ‘You might have been able to help him. You
know how he was always happy? Well, these last two weeks he was miserable and bad tempered. He snapped at the choirboys for
fidgeting, and he told me to mind my own business when I asked him what was wrong. It was something to do with Court, I imagine.
It is an evil place, and Maylord was the only decent one among the lot of them.’
‘But you do not
know
it was Court business for certain?’ pressed Chaloner. The verger shook his head. ‘Did he have any particular friends he might
have confided
mathematical instrument.
‘I would
love
a Gunter’s Quadrant,’ he concluded wistfully, ‘but it is too expensive for the common man. I offered to borrow one for a
few weeks and then write a pamphlet about it – I am well respected in my trade, as you know, and people take my recommendations
seriously – but its maker is adamant: no money, no measuring stick. Will you break into his shop and steal it for me?’
Chaloner was not entirely sure he was joking. ‘He might be suspicious if you suddenly start producing books and publications
demonstrating its use.’
Leybourn nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would have to modifyit, pass it off as my own. Incidentally, have you visited St Paul’s Cathedral recently? You do not need to be a surveyor to
see it is unsound, and I told the King today that he should close it before it falls down and kills someone. Christopher Wren
submitted some brilliant plans for its rebuilding, but the clerics baulk.’
‘I would baulk, too,’ said Chaloner, making a dash for St Margaret’s porch as the rain came down even harder. ‘Wren’s design
is nasty – like an Italian mausoleum.’
‘Rubbish! It is nothing short of brilliant. In fact, if you had any loyalty to your city, you would break into the old cathedral
and set it afire. That would put an end to the clergy’s procrastination.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘First, you encourage me to commit burglary and now arson. Do you want me hanged?’
‘Not unless you leave me some money in your will. Then I can buy myself a Gunter’s Quadrant.’
A verger conducted the visitors to the crypt, where Maylord was not the only dead citizen to have been granted refuge under
its gloomy arches. A total of three bodies lay there, all neatly packed in wooden boxes, their faces decorously covered with
clean white cloths. The verger explained that many houses in Westminster were small, and it was not always possible to have
a corpse at home until a funeral could be arranged. It was all right twenty years ago, he sighed, because then you died one
day and were in the ground the next. But in these enlightened times, ceremonies were grander and required more time to arrange.
A funeral in London was a statement of earthly achievement, and no one wanted to be shoved underground without first showing
off all he had accomplished.
‘Maylord,’ prompted Chaloner.
The verger removed one of the cloths. ‘He used to play the organ here when our regular man was indisposed, and he never charged
us for it. He was a good soul.’
‘Do you know how he died?’ asked Chaloner, gazing at the man who had smiled a lot, even during the dark days of the civil
wars. Laughter lines were scored around Maylord’s eyes and mouth, and Chaloner thought it a terrible pity that the world was
deprived of his gentle humour.
‘Cucumbers,’ replied the verger. ‘Did you not hear? It caused quite a stir.’
‘How do you know it was cucumbers?’
‘They were on a plate in his room, and he was dead on the floor with a piece in his mouth.’ The verger regarded him suspiciously.
‘You said you were a friend, so how come you do not know?’
‘I have been away,’ replied Chaloner truthfully. ‘He wrote two days ago, asking me to visit him.’
‘Then it is a shame you did not come sooner,’ said the verger, rather accusingly. ‘You might have been able to help him. You
know how he was always happy? Well, these last two weeks he was miserable and bad tempered. He snapped at the choirboys for
fidgeting, and he told me to mind my own business when I asked him what was wrong. It was something to do with Court, I imagine.
It is an evil place, and Maylord was the only decent one among the lot of them.’
‘But you do not
know
it was Court business for certain?’ pressed Chaloner. The verger shook his head. ‘Did he have any particular friends he might
have confided
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