Today, we have an excerpt from Seething Lane, the latest novel by London historian Jack Jewers, and the second book in the author’s Samuel Pepys mysteries. (The acclaimed first book, The Lost Diary of Samuel Pepys, is out now.) Samuel Pepys was famous for his diaries, which offer an unfiltered look into his life and times, not to mention his unvarnished thoughts of people he met and events of the day. Jewers has drawn inspiration from this when conceiving of and writing his historical crime series, casting Pepys in the role of detective.
Due to be published by Moonflower Books next week, September 3rd, here’s the synopsis:
January 1670. London is enduring its worst winter in decades.
But for Samuel Pepys, the darkest days are yet to come.
When a strange young man turns up at his office on Seething Lane asking for help, Samuel Pepys is too distracted to take him seriously. Nell Gwyn is about to make her scandalous return to the stage and he wouldn’t miss it for all the world.
But in the cold of a winter’s dawn, tragedy strikes. Called upon to investigate the brutal murder of a libertine aristocrat, Pepys discovers that the dead man is connected to his mysterious visitor in the most shocking way possible.
A trail of secrets leads Pepys from the backstreets of London to the glamorous world of the theatre, where nothing is quite as it seems. But whatever the dangers, he may find that the deadliest threat lies closer to home…
Reimagining one of Britain’s greatest historical figures through a 21st century lens, Seething Lane sees the return of infamous diarist Samuel Pepys, complete with his trademark audacious wit, keen eye for observation and gripping historical adventure.
*
January 8th
I
It was a freezing midwinter day and the snow blanketed White Hall like a shroud.
I had been at the palace all morning, attending to the probate of my lord, the late Duke of Albemarle. The tedious meeting, in which I played only a minor part, ran so long I began to fear that I would be late. As it happened, the committee broke up with just enough time for me to get to Covent Garden by noon. The roads being what they are at the moment, I decided it would be quickest to go on foot, but as I stepped out of the building onto Horse Guards Yard I let out a little sigh of dismay. This was poor weather indeed for a long walk, but I had no choice.
I had an appointment to keep.
I have been somewhat remiss in keeping this diary for the last few weeks, but suffice it to say, London is in the grip of the worst winter I can remember in years. When first the snows came, shortly before Christmas, there was at least a novelty to it – the white rooftops and children playing on sleds; spiced possets and hot honey cakes next to a roaring fire. For a few days, the Thames even froze over and there was a frost fair. Oh Lord, what a pretty sight that was, the stalls draped with coloured lanterns of red and green, gypsy fiddlers playing their jigs, and young lovers skating arm in arm on the ice. But it did not take long for winter to outstay its welcome, and now I think I would trade my soul for a pair of warm feet.
‘Bit of weather again, I see, Mr Pepys?’ A familiar voice stopped me in my tracks.
‘Sir Ralph,’ I called to the rotund man standing at the edge of the park opposite. ‘Keeping warm I hope?’
‘Can you spare a few coins for a drink, sir?’ he replied, hopefully. I had little time to spare, but an encounter with Sir Ralph Marbury always brings light to my day, so I crossed the road to meet him. Sir Ralph first appeared outside the main gates to the palace a month or two ago, and has been back almost daily since, begging for change. He claims to have been an officer in Cromwell’s army. He certainly looks the part, dressed in a tattered old uniform with a drooping hat. However, I am not sure that I believe him – any more than I believe he is really a knight. What is beyond doubt, though, is that he is a vagabond. I fear that he has not been treated with much in the way of kindness. Rarely does he seem to have more than a handful of pennies to show for his trouble. Perhaps it is his unkempt and filthy Roundhead uniform, or perhaps just the mean spirit of our age, but I have seen him insulted, sworn at, spat upon and even kicked by some of the less tolerant men who live and work within the palace grounds.
‘You must be frozen, Sir Ralph,’ I said.
‘Oh, you know me, Mr Pepys. I can’t stand to complain. Besides, I have a little more padding than you.’ He patted his belly.
‘I swear, Sir Ralph, you are the only man I know who does not feel the cold.’
‘The problem with you young people is that you’re all soft. Now, if you’d been at the Battle of Alton in ’43, you’d know what cold felt like, I can tell you.’
I had to smile. At the age of nearly thirty-seven, it has been a long time since anybody described me as young. In truth, I do not know how this garrulous old man stays alive, leading an itinerant life in these dreadful conditions. He swears that he has no roof of his own, but I cannot believe he really sleeps in the open, or he would surely freeze to death. Perhaps a friendly innkeeper lets him bed down next to the embers of his fire – who knows?
I removed my glove and fished into my purse. Even the metal of the coins felt like chips of ice on my fingers. I handed over a sixpence but his hand remained outstretched, a hopeful expression on his scarlet-cheeked face. I gave him another, and another, then put my purse away, trying not to feel too cozened.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, appreciatively. I sighed and my breath all but froze in the air. ‘I must be going. I am late already.’
‘What is it today then, Mr Clerk of the Acts? What acts of chivalrous manhood occupy your afternoon?’
‘Would you believe I have an appointment with a fire-and-brimstone preacher?’
He grimaced. ‘I had my fill of Bible-thumpers in the war. As far as I’m concerned, the lot of them can go nine times to hell.’
‘I shall keep that in mind. Take care, Sir Ralph.’
‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer a cup of ale at the Silver Cross?’
He always ends our encounters with an invitation like this. Of course, I knew that he didn’t seriously expect me to say yes.
‘Another time, perhaps.’
‘Good day to you then, Mr Pepys.’ He bowed. ‘I’ll drink to your health and mine – if the Devil doesn’t take us first.’
II
Halfway through the sermon, I found myself wishing I’d taken that drink with Sir Ralph after all. The thought of a warm inn and a cup of ale was preferable to the small room above Fox’s Coffee House in Covent Garden, in which I found myself squeezed onto a hard wooden bench along with two dozen penitents with nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon but receive the word of a vengeful God.
Before us stood Inigo Wrath – radical preacher, nonconformist, and quite possibly an enemy of the state. ‘“And I saw a beast rise out of the sea,’” he bellowed in his strong Lancastrian accent. ‘“Having seven heads and ten horns. And upon his horns were ten crowns. And upon his heads the name of blasphemy…”’
I stifled a yawn. It was not that Wrath’s delivery lacked theatricality, but this was the eighth time I had heard him preach the Book of Revelation in half as many weeks. There are only so many times one can hear about lakes of fire and Death on a pale horse before it starts to get a little stale.
Perhaps I should recall something of what led me to this position. It has been more than half a year since I was summoned by the king and asked to join the Order of the Royal Oak – His Majesty’s group of secret operatives, working outside the law to protect the Crown from enemies at home and abroad. Members of the Order are even forbidden to discuss its business with those outside, on pain of death.
I had expected the life of a king’s man to be filled with adventure, but I have been sorely disappointed. The reality has been far more mundane – a message here, a discreet interrogation there. I certainly did not anticipate being sent to keep watch on a renegade preacher – especially one who, for all his talk of fire and brimstone, hardly attracts a large crowd.
A known dissenter in matters of religion, Wrath rails against the sins and evils of the modern world. My task has been to keep an eye on him, while also befriending him and gaining his trust. This I have accomplished quite well – but never once have I heard him speak anything like treason. So why, then, does he attract the attentions of the king?
The sermon went on until a nearby church bell struck two, at which point the crowd of maybe a dozen people began to wrap themselves in their heavy clothes and shuffle unwillingly out into the cold. Wrath’s deep voice cut across the dim little room.
‘Mr Pepys. Stay awhile. I would talk with you.’
We sat down by the modest fire that was the room’s main source of light as well as heat, so encased with ice was the tiny window overlooking Brydges Street. We were alone now. The crackling of the flames mingled with the noise and traffic of Covent Garden outside. I did my best imitation of piety, sitting with my hands folded in my lap and my eyes downcast. Every inch the penitent, or so I fancied.
Wrath lit a pipe, sucking the blue smoke with a contented nod. ‘How did you find the sermon today, Mr Pepys?’
‘Fine indeed, Mr Wrath,’ I replied. ‘Your zeal gives me hope.’
‘I thank you, brother. We live in wicked times but there is hope as long as good folk such as you choose to seek the righteous path.’ He took a puff on his pipe. ‘You’ve been coming to my sermons for several weeks now.’
‘That is right, sir.’
‘And you continue to find them instructive?’
‘Very much.’
‘I am glad. But what of the matter we spoke of before? Your marital difficulties?’
The persona I have adopted for my meetings with Wrath – that of a lost soul, in search of spiritual guidance – is nothing more than a disguise. But that does not mean I have dissembled in all things. In fact, I have rather welcomed the chance to unburden my troubles onto him. The interest Wrath takes in my life appears to be genuine and, despite his firebrand ways, I find him easy to talk to.
*
Jack Jewers’s Seething Lane is due to be published by Moonflower Books, on September 3rd.
Civilian Reader 