She didn’t need to finish. The austerity of her clothing was clearly born of necessity, not choice. Her dress was of a serviceable brown wool, over a smock of linen that might once have been white but was now dulled to a pale yellow. Both were worn, and both had clearly been mended more than once. Her tucker was clean, but unadorned by lace or pendant of any sort. Only at her cuffs was a small run of lace, a luxury that served not to show up the shabbiness of the rest, but to promise an elegance that might one day be hers. But for all her grace, and whatever learning her brother must have acquired in order to be capable of producing a newsletter, they were clearly as poor as church mice.
Without thinking, Thomas said, ‘I could teach you.’
‘What?’
‘I could teach you,’ he repeated. It had startled him almost as much as it had her when first he’d said it, but now it seemed a thing profoundly possible. ‘How to draw, more accurately. I did have lessons, and I even remember some of them.’
Hartlib brought his hands together. ‘Excellent! Most excellent! Learning is a commodity that will only grow when shared.’ He clapped Thomas on the back. ‘Well done, Sir Thomas. Well done. I only wish more thought like you. Now if you will excuse me, I must get down to Tradescant and tell him about that unicorn’s horn.’
And then the German pedagogue was gone, and Thomas was left looking at the striking young woman and, for the first time in his life, not having an idea what to say.
‘Did you mean it?’ she said at last.
‘Mean what?’
‘That you would show me how to draw?’
Thomas took a step towards her. ‘Oh, yes,’ and he reached out gently to take the pencil she still held in her hand.
Just then, a low, authoritative voice came from behind Thomas’s shoulder. ‘Maria?’
‘Oh!’ She looked relieved. ‘John. This gentleman was just helping me with my drawing.’
The man, tall, with long dark curls and a sallow complexion, gave Thomas a look that did not imply approval. ‘Sir.’
Thomas made a bow. The man merely nodded. ‘Maria, I think it is time for us to go.’
And a moment later, with a murmured assurance that she would be back the following week, she was gone.
Thomas was still standing there, looking after her, when Clémence appeared in the doorway. She looked back towards the stairs. ‘I saw Samuel Hartlib as I was coming up through the orchard. He was in here?’
Thomas nodded. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No. But you must be careful who you mix with. Hartlib is a Republican. The government sometimes uses him to convey messages to his contacts in Europe.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘But he had contacts all over Europe even before the war. It’s hardly the same thing as being . . .’
‘Being what?’ asked Clémence.
‘One of Thurloe’s spies,’ Thomas said, keeping his voice steady.
‘That’s just the trouble,’ she said. ‘I do not know what one of Thurloe’s spies would look like.’
Nine
A New Partnership
Seeker stretched out on the truckle bed in his chamber at Whitehall. He hadn’t seen his own lodging on Knight Ryder Street in three days, and he didn’t expect to any time soon. The small room he kept there was no longer the sanctuary to him that for several years it had been. Not since Maria Ellingworth. The memory of her so inhabited the place that sometimes he almost thought he felt her breathe beside him, but whenever he opened his eyes she was not there. Even the dog felt the emptiness of the place now, which had not been there before she had first come in to it. In recent months it had become his habit to go instead on up past St Paul’s to Broad Street and the Black Fox. He would sit and talk with his daughter there, or don his old carpenter’s coat and hat and take her out of London, to show her all the special places in the liberties and villages beyond. And then there were the times with Dorcas, sometimes moments just, when he could glimpse a different kind of life, a life that might one day be possible, if the demands of the state upon his time and loyalties ever lessened.
Tonight though, such a day seemed very far off, and to think of it was to dabble in fantasy. The concerns of the here and now were what pressed upon his mind as he tried to rest. Two days of widespread searches, of thorough questioning of everyone who might have encountered Fish and his fellow-conspirators in Hammersmith, or at his former lodging in the tailor’s house in King Street, had failed to result in the capture of the men who had plotted to murder Cromwell. If the last few years in the Protector’s service had taught Seeker anything, it was that those who were not caught in such acts would keep trying again until they were.
All the while, though, the matter of Joseph Grindle, and of the whereabouts of the bear that had mauled him to death, wove itself in and out of his thoughts. His promise to Samuel that he would find out what had happened to his friend weighed too heavily on him to allow him to sleep. But how was he to penetrate the clandestine world of animal baiting, whilst at the same time pursuing those who sought to kill Cromwell? The dog, curled up by the embers of the dying fire, was untroubled by such concerns. And it was the dog that gave him the idea.
Seeker had not undressed, not removed his boots even. He planted his feet on the floor and rubbed his eyes. The dog looked up. Seeker stretched his arms wide and rolled his shoulders. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘Time to get to work.’
Less than half an hour later, they were walking up Middle Temple Lane towards Chancery, the dog loping happily behind Seeker, occasionally disappearing through a gateway to re-emerge from another a good bit further up the street. ‘Revisiting old haunts, eh?’ said Seeker. The animal knew its way around the city in darkness better than he did himself. As they crossed over Fleet Street, Seeker could see the corner of the wall of Clifford’s Inn, jutting into the lane ahead, hanging on to the edges of the law in the shadows of Lincoln’s Inn and Gray’s, and almost crowded out by all the other Inns of Chancery. There was tenacity in that wall, a stubbornness that Seeker found himself admiring. He called the dog to heel and approached the porter’s box by the front gate. The porter, who was finishing off a late supper, stood up and wiped his mouth when he saw Seeker and the hound approach.
‘Captain! We’ve not seen you here a good long while. Is it Mr Ellingworth you’re after?’
‘Not unless there’s something you know that I don’t, Bennet,’ replied Seeker.
‘What? Oh, no, Mr Ellingworth has been conducting himself very properly, with his new news-sheet as they tell me, and Mr Wildman hasn’t been here at all of late.’
John Wildman had been a Levelling lawyer more radical than Elias Ellingworth himself, often on the wrong side of the authorities, and one over whom Ellingworth had found himself in trouble several times, for having colluded in the dissemination of his writings and having helped conceal his whereabouts. What the porter Bennet couldn’t know, and what Elias Ellingworth almost certainly didn’t know, was that during his last incarceration in the Tower, John Wildman had been turned by Thurloe, and now reported directly to his new master on whatever radical plots and manoeuvres he might come upon. The reason he had not been seen around his old London haunts of late was that he was too busy writing letters to Thurloe from the Netherlands, where his old Leveller comrades happily plotted against Cromwell. Seeker had been astonished when he’d heard the news that he was now in the pay of the intelligence service – if Wildman could be turned, anybody could.
‘Well, you be sure to let me know if he does come sloping in here,’ said Seeker. ‘But no, it’s one of your new inmates I’m looking for. Lawrence Ingolby.’
The porter looked surprised. ‘Him that arrived a few days ago?’ But then he nodded to himself. ‘I thought he looked trouble.’
‘Oh, never worry, Bennet, he’s easily enough handled, if you keep him in his place.’
The man was unconvinced. ‘I�
�ve seen the likes of him before. That one’s no intention of staying in his place.’
Seeker laughed out loud at that. ‘You’d best take me to him, then.’
Clifford’s Inn was a place of twists and turns and nooks and crannies. Seeker had been here often enough before – usually looking for Ellingworth – but he could never quite be certain of his way around. It wouldn’t have surprised him to turn a corner and come upon the cobwebbed form of some ancient lawyer, his quill still in his hand and his existence long forgotten, but Bennet had been there so long he had an unerring sense for where one of his charges would be found, at any hour of the day or night, and within five minutes Seeker was looking down at Lawrence Ingolby.
‘Aw, what?’ said the young man. ‘I’m at my supper.’
Ingolby was sitting at the end of a long refectory table in the hammer-beamed dining hall of the inn, where a dozen or so men of varying ages, in robes of varying degrees of repair, were finishing off an evening meal of bread, wine and cheese. Above them, from flaking gilt frames on the walls, a few of the more notable amongst their predecessors regarded them with a degree of pessimism. A disgruntled servant moved up and down a parallel table, clearing from it the debris of already departed diners. Ingolby’s dining companions either made a point of concentrating on the food in front of them, or shifting uneasily further down the benches, away from him and his unwelcome visitor. Lawrence heaved a great sigh and put down the hunk of bread he’d been at work upon. ‘I hope it’s not going to be like this every time I sit down to a bite to eat.’
‘So do I,’ said Seeker. ‘Now shift yourself.’
As they were rounding a corner on the way to the small library the porter had cleared for Seeker’s use, they all but collided with Elias Ellingworth, Maria’s brother. The lawyer was about to start on an apology when he looked up and saw who it was he had almost bumped in to. His demeanour changed completely. ‘What now, Seeker?’
‘Nothing to do with you. Not this time, at least, so you can just carry on to wherever you were going . . .’
But Ellingworth had spied Lawrence behind Seeker’s shoulder. His head moved from Lawrence back to Seeker like a dog about to argue over a bone. ‘You don’t tell me you’re here for him? He’s only been in London five minutes.’
‘Aye, and for some folk five minutes is quite long enough to land right in the middle of it.’
Seeker’s tone could leave neither Lawrence nor Elias in any doubt that ‘it’ meant trouble.
Lawrence’s shoulders sagged. ‘Come on, Seeker. I’ve hardly shaken the Yorkshire mud out of my boots. And I’ve not been near the Black Fox in two days, I swear it.’
‘I should think not. But this has nothing to do with the Black Fox, nor with Elias Ellingworth here, so get yourself in there and wait for me.’
Elias looked beyond Seeker to Lawrence again. ‘Do you wish me to come in with you?’ he asked.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ said Seeker as Lawrence looked as if he were considering it.
Lawrence gave up considering it. ‘It’s all right. Me and the captain here are old friends.’ Another sigh and he passed them both and went in through the library door.
Ellingworth stepped further away from the door and leaned towards Seeker. ‘He is seriously a threat to the state?’
Seeker grimaced. ‘Heaven help us if Lawrence Ingolby ever decides to take on the Protectorate. Too clever by half. But no, and he’s not in trouble either, before you start.’ It had been clear to Seeker that Ellingworth had been about to. He looked at the lawyer who had caused him so much work over the past few years. When Elias had been an all-out opponent of the Protectorate, Seeker had known what to make of him. Now that Elias was at least making a show of toeing the line, he was considerably less sure, for all that he was Maria’s brother. He decided to take a chance on him. ‘Keep an eye out for him all the same. And if ever you hear of a “Fish” or a “Boyes” come looking for him, send word to Whitehall.’
‘To you?’ asked Ellingworth.
‘To any in the Secretariat. There might not be time to find me.’
Elias studied Seeker carefully. ‘What would these men want with him, that time should be so pressing?’
Seeker lowered his voice.‘ If they come looking for him, it’ll be because they’re planning to kill him. That’s all you need to know.’ He allowed Ellingworth to absorb the information. ‘Understand?’
‘All too well,’ said Ellingworth.
‘Good. And there’s something you can do for me.’
Elias’s face set. ‘I’m not spying for you, Seeker.’
‘Heaven forbid we’re ever that desperate. No, I need you to take him,’ he jerked a thumb towards the door of the room Lawrence had just gone into, ‘down to the Turk’s Head coffee house in New Palace Yard tomorrow night. Understood?’
Elias nodded.
‘Good,’ said Seeker. ‘Be on your way, then.’ But as Ellingworth turned to do just that, Seeker put out a hand to stop him again. ‘Are you back living here now then?’
‘No. I’m still at Dove Court.’
‘With . . .’
‘With my sister.’
‘And . . .’ Seeker coughed and looked away. ‘All is well with her?’
‘It is,’ said Ellingworth, his manner a deal less defensive than it was wont to be with Seeker, but there was no encouragement in his tone either.
‘Good,’ Seeker said. ‘That’s good. Right.’ There was nothing more to be said and he turned away and went into the library.
Lawrence was standing by the fire, examining the bust of a Roman law-giver of whom Seeker had never heard. He put the bust back down on the mantelshelf. ‘If this is about Manon, I haven’t—’
‘It’s not,’ said Seeker. ‘Sit down.’
Warily, Lawrence lowered himself into one of the chairs by the fire. ‘So what is it about?’
‘Hammersmith. The men you saw at the inn. I need their exact descriptions – height, eye colour, the way they walked, everything.’
‘What’s so special about them? You were off like a hare out of a trap when I mentioned their names the other day.’
‘What is special,’ said Seeker, ‘is that they’re contracted assassins, and whilst you were no doubt slumbering the night away in the finest feather bed that inn has to offer . . .’
Ingolby was about to protest, but Seeker stopped him.
‘They were a few yards through the wall, rigging up a frame to train seven guns on the Lord Protector.’
Lawrence’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What? Cromwell was sleeping next door to me?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Seeker. ‘They were planning to attack the next time he was being driven along the street below. Which didn’t happen, on account of you telling me where they were.’
The expression on Lawrence’s face changed completely now, and his colour was ashen. ‘Just because I was telling Manon, to make her laugh . . .’
‘That’s right,’ said Seeker. ‘A city crawling with paid informants and intelligencers, and we have to rely on you. Something’s gone far wrong somewhere.’
‘It must have done.’ Lawrence was shaken by the revelation of his unwitting responsibility. ‘Right then. Well, I only saw the two of them.’
‘Two’ll do for now,’ said Seeker.
‘The one I spoke to – Mr Boyes. Now, he was an educated man – you could tell by the way he spoke. Tinge of a foreign accent, too.’
‘What kind of foreign?’
Ingolby pursed his lips. ‘German? Dutch maybe? Put me in mind of some of the traders that we did business with in York, and most of them were from around the Baltic.’
‘All right,’ said Seeker. ‘What else?’
‘Well, he was an older man – sixties maybe?’ But then he screwed up his face, dissatisfied. ‘No, though. His hair was grey and grizzled enough,
his beard too. He was pale and – he’d lived, if you know what I mean, but his eyes were clear. Refined kind of face. Might have been sixty, might have been younger than you.’
‘Did you see his hands?’ said Seeker.
Lawrence thought again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Long grey gloves. Kidskin, good quality. Long fingers though, he had.’
‘Rings?’
Lawrence shook his head.
And so the questioning and the description went on, the good grey suit, the long, horseman’s boots. Boyes had been seated the entire time of their conversation, but Lawrence had formed the impression that he was a tall man. The other, Fish, had made less of an impression. Average height, forties, short light brown hair, balding and greying, cropped beard, stocky, tan boots, clothing unremarkable. Might have been a soldier once. Who hadn’t?
‘But you would know them if you saw them again?’
‘I’d reckon so, yes.’
Seeker started to put on his own hat and gloves. ‘If you should see them about anywhere, have the porter here get a message to me.’
‘All right. Is that it then? Can I go back to my supper?’
‘No. Come on, out to the gardens. There’s something I want to show you.’
Lawrence looked like he might complain, but settled for a petulant ‘hmph’, and got up to follow Seeker out into the passageway and then through a side door that gave directly into the gardens. It was murky outside, the shapes of trees and shrubs indistinct, and only one or two of the lamps set to light the paths between the lawns had been lit. ‘What the . . .?’ Lawrence jumped back, hands thrust out in front of him, as a large shape came bounding at them out of the darkness.
Seeker laughed. ‘London’s turned you soft already, Ingolby. Thought you knew dogs?’ and he put a hand out to tousle the head of the hound who’d found them.
Lawrence let out a breath of relief and moved forward, to kneel down in front of the dog. ‘Well, you’re a beauty, aren’t you? Where did you spring from?’
‘He bunks down with me, most of the time,’ said Seeker. ‘Huh, he obviously trusts you.’ The animal had pushed its head forward to nuzzle under Lawrence’s hand.
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