The Book of Fires

38
A fat solicitor has come. He acts strangely at the door, bowing to me, very polite, as though he has mistaken me for someone else.
“My name is Boxall, madam,” he says, removing his hat and bowing again, so that he has the mildly busy figure of a wood pigeon.
Why has he come? Does he not know that Mr. Blacklock has died? I stare at him.
Mary Spurren stands outside the kitchen, wiping the pastry from her fingers onto her apron. Mr. Boxall glances down the corridor at her, then holds his hat against his chest, as if to make his voice more quiet when he leans forward.
“Could I suggest,” Mr. Boxall asks me, “that we withdraw to somewhere more private? ”
I look at his hat in confusion. Perhaps he means the noise from the street distracts him here. It is a warm day to be wearing such an overcoat, and I see he is sweating at the sides of his head under his wig. Perhaps he needs to sit down. In time I remember the white flour all over the kitchen table. His overcoat is so clean that I must take him to the study.
When he closes the study door behind him, it is such a strange thing to do that for a moment I think that he is going to try to take advantage of me. It is quiet in here. But he stands awkwardly and after all he does not even sit, so I take a chair myself. It is something of a relief to take the weight from my feet. The warm air makes me dizzy and top-heavy, and sometimes my ankles feel as if they cannot take another ounce upon them. I try not to rub at my belly when the child presses on my ribs, altering the way it lies. The good dress gathers in folds about me where I sit before the unlit fire.
“With regret, madam, these melancholy circumstances . . .” he begins vaguely, shaking his head, so that the sweat glistens. “May I offer my condolences.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he interrupts me. “I will be brief,” he says, fumbling inside his case. “I am here to tell you of the contents of Mr. John Blacklock’s last will and testament.” He clears his throat and draws out some spectacles from a little pouch, and smoothes a paper he has opened in front of him. “In short, you are the sole beneficiary, Mrs. Blacklock.”
“No, no, I am not . . .”
“It gives you the full meath of the business.” He sweeps on, heedless of me. “Touching such worldly estates as God hath been pleased to bless me with I do dispose of the same as followeth. I do hereby devise and bequeath unto the said Agnes Blacklock nee Trussel my said wife all my goods, chattels, money, bills, bonds and my personal estate whatsoever of what nature kind or quality soever upon this consideration nevertheless and my mind and will is that my wife Agnes Blacklock shall after my decease out of my real and personal estate pay and discharge all my debts and funeral expenses. Item I give to Mary Catherine Spurren my servant the sum of eight pounds.” He looks up. “I do not need to read on; I can see you are weary. In conclusion I daresay it is no surprise to learn that Blacklock’s Pyrotechny, the house and premises, will belong to yourself, madam.”
“No, no,” I say again. I am embarrassed. “You mistake me! Mrs. Blacklock is dead!”
He mops his damp temples with a white handkerchief. “I am afraid you may have to speak up, madam, my hearing is not as it was once. Keen as a cat’s it was; in my youth I could hear the shriek of a fishwife at Billingsgate from the site of London Stone!” He titters ruefully; the light shines on the pink of his forehead.
“What is the date of the will, Mr. Boxall?” I say loudly, attempting to disentangle the error before us.
He pushes his spectacles back on his nose and consults the document. He reads aloud again. “This twelfth day of May in the year of our Lord God seventeen fifty-three. Mr. Blacklock drew this up with me nigh on three weeks ago, Mrs. Blacklock. Three weeks ago.” He looks down at his papers again. “Indeed, I note it is the day subsequent to the happy occasion of your marriage vows, Mrs. Blacklock.” On seeing my frown he looks again. “Yes, that is correct, the certificate of marriage is here and clearly has it as the eleventh of May.”
“The marriage certificate!” I say, incredulous at the turn this is taking. I refuse to look at the paper he holds out to me. “I do not know how an error of this proportion can have gathered like this!” I say. He cups his open palm to his ear. “I beg your pardon, madam? Are you suggesting that Parson Speke of Fleet Lane did not conjoin you in matrimony on the day described? That would be most irregular.” He smiles in sympathy at me. “May I suggest, respectfully, that your memory has become exhausted under the strain of the circumstance? It is most easily done in a state of grief. A day lost here, a day lost there.” He lowers his voice to the whisper of a man sharing a trade secret. “I assure you that it would not have been written, were it wrong. In ink!”
“But it is impossible!” I say. “Mrs. Blacklock has been dead for four years!” I am in despair. I repeat, more clearly this time, “There has been a mistake! There is something wrong with your document! A mistake!” But he does not hear me, shuffling his papers about in his ledger. What is wrong with the man! I grow impatient that he does not listen to me. “Mr. Boxall!” I say sharply, at which he turns to me.
“Madam, I understand,” he says, smoothly now. “You do not wish to talk of business matters so close on the heels of your great loss, but Mr. Blacklock petitioned me strongly to come directly to his premises and speak with you upon his death.”
“You do not understand,” I begin. “There has been—”
“Oh, madam! But I do. My own wife passed lately away; the loss is like a sore wound in me still. Forgive my intrusion.” He raises his hand before him in deference when I try to speak. “There is a deal of legal matters that we need to work through, but we do not need to discuss this here today. Of this I shall remain quite firm! You have other pressing matters to attend to.” He beams at me apologetically, and looks about him for the door. What is the use? I think.
“Thank you, Mr. Boxall,” I say.
He holds up the marriage certificate one last time and then closes the ledger. “He put the document into my hand himself,” he says. “He was more than insistent that I contact you promptly should misfortune befall him; he impressed upon me its importance; indeed he wrote not once but twice about the matter, as though he thought I might not do so otherwise.” He pauses.
“I am distressing you, madam, forgive me,” he says, on seeing my face. “If you need to talk after the funeral this afternoon, I will be there.”
Mr. Boxall bows and lets himself out. I do not move. My mind is being drummed with thoughts, like a hailstorm in April will batter the blossoms away from the pear tree.

What is it? What is that silence?
There is something wrong in here, and it is only after a while that I remember that Mrs. Blight has stolen the clock, so that I do not know how much of the hour has passed when Mary Spurren comes into the room.
“What in heavens are you doing, sitting down in that chair?” she says. “What of Blacklock’s business did that man want with you? Mr. Blacklock’s business is surely the concern of his solicitor.”
I look at her. “That was Mr. Blacklock’s solicitor,” I say.
Mary Spurren stares uncomprehending. She has flour on her white face.
“I have to go out,” I say.