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suspected of writing and distributing religious tracts which
fell foul of the law. It was almost as if he was challenging his companion to
arrest him. Jonathan refused to assist him in his search for martyrdom. Though
the man was profoundly irritating, the constable had a sneaking fondness for
him.
    'Go
home, sir,' he advised softly. 'I have no quarrel with you. In a bleak time
such as this, I look for small mercies. I am pleased that you and your family
came through the fire without undue loss. Your house was largely spared its
ravages. Most of us were not so fortunate.'
    'Indeed
not,' agreed the other with genuine compassion. 'It has been a time of trial.
Thou art a victim, Mr Bale, I know and I am truly sorry. I came past thy house
on Addle Hill today and saw again how little of it is left standing.
    Where
are thy wife and children?'
    'Staying
with my parents in Hoxton.'
    'Safe,
then? That is good to hear.'
    'Thank
you for your concern.'
    'We
are neighbours, Mr Bale. I hoped at one time that we could also be close
friends. But thou hast chosen another path.'
    'It
leads in the same direction as yours.'
    'I
would dispute that, sir.'
    'Then
you must do so alone.'
    'Art
thou afraid to discuss thy spiritual life?'
    'Good
day, Mr Thorpe. I must continue my patrol.'
    A
note of disappointment. 'Thou art not going to arrest me?'
    'Not
when there are so many real criminals to apprehend.'
    Before
the man could reply, Jonathan touched his hat in polite farewell and moved
away. He escaped lightly. Jesus- Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a kind, generous,
sincere man of undoubted intelligence but there were times when he could be the
verbal equivalent of the Great Fire, raging wildly and consuming everything in his
conversational path. Other members of the Society of Friends in Truth waited
patiently upon the Lord but Thorpe was altogether too restless to sit in
silence. It was only a matter of time before his incendiary disposition landed
him behind bars again and Jonathan did not wish to be the man who put him
there.
    He
went north up St Peter's Hill, turned left into Knightrider Street then
immediately right into Sermon Lane. Each step of the way took him past ruined
houses, empty shops and deserted inns. Yet there were curious survivals -
stables which were untouched, a smoke- blackened warehouse with little interior
damage, an occasional brick-built property with a tiled roof which had somehow
kept the fire at bay. Jonathan wondered if there was any significance in the
fact that the home of Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was still standing while his
own had collapsed in a heap. Was there some hidden pattern to the Great Fire?
    Carter
Lane was another scene of carnage, a main thoroughfare which had been largely
reduced to rubble, throwing untold numbers of people out of their homes and
workplaces, and inflicting a gaping wound on the city. Taverns which had once
throbbed with life now lay dead. Civic buildings which had stood like proud
sentinels were no more than empty shells. Dozens of people milled about but
they looked dispirited and lethargic. The customary bustle of Carter Lane had
gone. It was a street of ghosts.
    Jonathan
picked his way through the debris and went on up to St Paul's churchyard. He
was now at the very heart of London, staring in dismay at a cathedral which
pumped out the life-blood of the whole city. St Paul's was at once the
spiritual centre of the community and its main meeting-place, a venue for
buying, selling, preaching, arguing or simply promenading with friends. As the
constable knew only too well, it was also the haunt of criminals of all kinds,
drawn by the prospect of easy pickings from the large crowds who came there,
containing, as they did, such prime targets as gullible countrymen and foreign
sightseers. Souls might be saved in St Paul's Cathedral but small fortunes had
been lost within its portals and outside in its churchyard.
    It
was a depressing sight. Jonathan had ambivalent feelings about the