by Graham Brack
‘One of them? Is it a big society?’
Charlotte mulled over my question for a while. ‘I think there are fourteen of us, but who knows what the old goat has been up to lately? He is remarkably energetic.’
I was shocked. It is telling that my first thought was to wonder if William knew about this, because I was very sure he would disapprove. ‘You are remarkably open, madame,’ I said.
‘Not really. Everyone knows. I didn’t see why you should be left out.’ She reached forward and adjusted my collar, which must have become disarranged. Her fingers lingered on it as she smoothed out a crease. ‘My father wants you to enjoy your time in England.’
‘Oh, I am,’ I rushed to assure her, probably unconvincingly. One of us has been murdered and I’ve got less than ten days to find out why and by whom, I thought, but decided not to say it for fear of being thought an ungracious guest.
‘Well, if there’s anything you want…’ Charlotte whispered breathily.
‘I’ll be sure to tell the maid,’ I completed her sentence.
Charlotte wagged her finger. ‘Naughty boy!’ she said. ‘You’ll get the pox.’ She looked round the room. ‘Which one is she, anyway?’
Meg was filling pitchers of ale in the buttery, but I pointed her out as she set them on the tables.
‘She must be new,’ said Charlotte. ‘I don’t know her.’ She smiled at me sweetly. ‘You’re probably all right, then. If she’s new, she won’t be as poxed as the others.’
Charlotte stood and glided away, pausing only to trail the ends of her fingers over my shoulders and give me a little tinkly wave and a smile. I was probably staring at her a little too long, because I did not notice anyone approaching until another hand landed on my shoulder.
‘You’re in there,’ announced Vlisser.
‘How do you mean, mijnheer?’
‘She’s yours, young man, anytime you like.’
‘She’s a married woman,’ I observed.
‘So was her mother when the King laid with her. It doesn’t count for much here.’
‘It does with me,’ I replied with some heat.
If the truth be told, I was rather cross with myself. I was a Catholic priest. I had taken a vow of celibacy. I could hardly tell everyone that marriage is an honourable estate and then lie with a married woman. All this weighed against any intimacy with Mrs Paston.
And yet that smile, and the distinct “non-flatness” of her, had almost unnerved me. My resolution had been wavering. No wonder I was mad with myself.
‘The women here are very forward,’ Vlisser observed.
‘They certainly are,’ I agreed. ‘Do you know, on the very first day my maid offered me … well, never mind what she offered me. Let us just say they were personal services.’
‘Oh?’ said Vlisser. ‘Which one was she?’ He craned his neck to look round the room.
‘The one in the brown dress.’
‘Most of them have brown dresses.’
‘With a white apron.’
‘They all have white aprons. Some cleaner than others, admittedly, but they all started white.’
I had never really looked at a maid before. They are just anonymous figures in an interior. Of course, they are individual human beings, but while they are working they do not register with us.
I was reminded of my mother wiping her hands on her apron. There were always two or three clean ones in the press ready for use. She used to say that it didn’t take much to wash an apron, whereas a woollen dress was very difficult to clean. Meg wore an old-fashioned collar about her shoulders, almost large enough to be called a shawl, and tied with laces at the front. Compared with the ladies of the court, she was a picture of modesty.
‘How have your enquiries progressed, Master?’ Vlisser asked me.
‘I begin to see a little light,’ I told him truthfully. I had no idea whether it was a distant bright light, or a feeble light close by that would soon be snuffed out, but it was better than total darkness.
Charles sent for me in what he called “the late evening” and the rest of us termed “the middle of the night”. I hurriedly donned my clothes again and followed the servant to the King’s private suite.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, and pulled my arms upwards, stroking my sleeves for concealed weapons. ‘Orders,’ he explained.
Charles was lying on his bed, wearing his nightshirt and slippers. A young lady was asleep beside him, wearing neither of these things.
Charles followed my gaze and smiled. ‘Ah, you haven’t met the Duchess of Portsmouth, have you? It’s probably best if I introduce you formally another time, don’t you think?’
‘If Your Majesty pleases.’
‘I thought we might have a little chat,’ the King explained, easing himself off the bed and heading for a flask of wine on a side table.
I may have appeared rather confused, because my grasp of English was not secure and I thought he had said “a little cat”.
Charles pushed a goblet in my hand and indicated a chair where I might sit. ‘No ceremony, Mercurius, no ceremony! This is man to man stuff. I’m not your monarch.’
‘No, Your Majesty.’
‘How have your labours succeeded today?’
I noted that the possibility that I had not succeeded at all had been resolutely excluded as an option. ‘I believe I see a possibility, but I need to speak to the man Morley.’
Charles swirled his wine round his goblet. ‘Is that absolutely necessary?’ he asked.
‘I believe so.’
Charles turned this over in his mind for a few seconds, then strode to the door, opened it, and commanded one of the guards to send for Lord Arlington. There was quite a delay, presumably while His Lordship dressed, but eventually he appeared in the doorway looking more than a little dishevelled and missing the patch on his nose.
‘Arlington, I want you to arrange for Mercurius to interview Morley.’
Arlington appeared shocked. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty, but is that wise?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Well, the man is a spy. His work will be compromised if his appearance is known.’
‘Then sit him behind a screen or something of the sort. God’s wounds, must I think of everything myself?’ Charles exploded. ‘I wonder sometimes why I bother with ministers.’
The lady on the bed stirred at the sudden noise and opened her eyes. If I had expected her to shriek with horror at the discovery of two strange men in the room, I was sadly wrong. The Duchess simply turned over, had a leisurely scratch and went back to sleep.
Arlington accepted the inevitable. ‘Very good, Your Majesty.’
‘Excellent. Well, off you trot. Some of us have things to do.’
He did not specify what those things were. He didn’t have to.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Morning came, and I experienced once more the daily disappointment of realising that this was not all a horrible dream.
All I wanted was a quiet life. I yearned to sit once more in the university library or, even better, take a book from the library and enjoy it in Jan Steen’s inn on the Langebrug. I was even beginning to feel nostalgic for Albrecht’s cooking. Admittedly that feeling only lasted a few seconds before I came to my senses.
It was not just we Dutch who wanted to be home. Our English hosts had cut back on the hospitality, allegedly out of respect for Wevers but more likely because the banquets were expensive. The prospect of going home in a little over a week was comforting for everyone. Except me.
I could not think how I could conclude a successful investigation given the handicaps of being a foreigner in a strange city. I had an idea — two, actually — which might turn out to be correct, but I was unsure how I could ever prove my suspicions to be right. It was then that I had a stroke of luck; or, if you prefer, Providence lent me a hand.
Van Langenburg, Preuveneers and I were walking in the gardens when we were greeted by a man walking towards us, and in our lang
uage too.
He introduced himself as Samuel Biscop, Minister of the Dutch Church in London. You may imagine how astonished I was to hear that there even was a Dutch church in this God-forsaken city, let alone that it had apparently been there over a hundred years. At one time there had been thousands of Dutch people in London, but the benevolent rule of William had lately encouraged many to return home. Even so, the congregation was very substantial, and when Biscop had heard of our arrival, he had looked for an opportunity to welcome some of his countrymen.
I cannot tell you what a pleasure it was to converse in Dutch once more after trying to get my tongue around the barbaric English language. Biscop was equally pleased to meet another Protestant minister — no, I didn’t tell him my little secret — and over a pleasant half hour we compared our impressions of the English.
I made the mistake of asking Biscop what he thought of the state of English morals. In retrospect that was a stupid thing to say to a Calvinist minister, especially one whose constant concern it was to maintain the separate Dutch nature of his flock, and mijnheer Biscop discoursed at some length on the matter, apparently without the need to breathe between sentences. However, I cannot deny that his revelations were enlightening, because I now knew who was reputed to be sleeping with whom, and if I had possessed a large enough sheet of paper I might have been able to set down the many relationships in some kind of spider’s web of sin. The King alone had a bevy of mistresses that the most depraved Sultan in the East would have envied for his harem.
Van Langenburg excused himself to keep an appointment with the King, although I doubt that was true because it was not even eleven o’clock, and Preuveneers did not choose to walk outside the walls of the Palace gardens given what had happened to him before, so Biscop and I strolled alone down Whitehall and I took the opportunity to glean some local knowledge from him.
I explained the awful fate that had befallen Wevers, causing me to reflect that it was surprising that Wevers should meet his contact in a busy place like the Savoy rather than in the sober surroundings of the Dutch Church.
‘Perhaps he did not know of our presence here,’ Biscop suggested.
‘He said he had not been to London before, yet he seems to have known of the Savoy,’ I responded.
‘He could see the Savoy from the river. Our church is in Austin Friars, in the east of the city and not easily found,’ explained Biscop. ‘More to the point, it is above two miles from here. He could hardly go there and back without being missed, since he would be gone above an hour and a half.’
‘I wonder whom he was meeting? Presumably an Englishman, since I cannot imagine the English would employ a foreigner and allow him access to any of their secrets.’
‘True, but there are many who consider themselves Dutch but grew up here, as I did myself. We can pass as English if we want to. One would suppose that whoever arranged the rendezvous between mijnheer Wevers and the other gentleman believed that they would have a common language. Did Wevers speak English?’
I thought hard. ‘I don’t think he did,’ I said at length. ‘He had to ask Bouwman to translate when he spoke to the sergeant who was attempting to arrest Preuveneers.’
‘Well, then,’ said Biscop, ‘that must narrow the field. Although there are many Englishmen who learned Dutch during the King’s exile.’
Now we begin to get somewhere, I thought. It was obvious once it was pointed out to me. Who would the King trust after so long away, if not the people who had stood by him during his exile? And the spy who was so much use to us would have to have been trusted by the English, or he could not have passed on much of value.
Biscop kindly invited me to his church on the coming Sunday, and I engaged myself to be there if at all possible, and so we parted, he to return to his duties and I to go down on my knees before Almighty God and thank Him for sending such a civilising influence amongst the English.
A servant brought me a message from Lord Arlington suggesting that I have an early meal so that I could meet Morley at two o’clock, when I would be sent for. I cannot say that I was particularly hungry; in fact, I rarely am. That is one of the blessings of working in a place that employs Albrecht as master of the kitchen. However, I made my way to the dining-hall and had part of a game pie and an apple washed down with some beer.
At the appointed time another servant appeared, and I was led through the various corridors and walkways and through a formal garden to another mystifying collection of rooms that turned out to include Lord Arlington’s office — and, next door, the King’s private laboratory.
Arlington was waiting for me in the laboratory. ‘You will, I am sure, understand that certain steps have to be taken,’ he said.
Not knowing what he meant I said nothing, which served to make him appear even more nervous.
‘I must ask you to wait here for a minute after I leave you,’ he explained. ‘Mr Morley is in the adjoining room behind a screen. If you will put your questions to him, I will convey his answer.’
‘He will not speak for himself, then?’
‘It is better this way. We must take every measure we can to maintain his secret identity. I’m sure you understand.’
I certainly understood that Arlington was being as difficult as he might, though I had no idea why. But two can play at that game.
I nodded my acquiescence, and Arlington thanked me before passing through the door. His servant stood resolutely in front of it just in case I was not a man of my word.
In due time the servant stood aside and let me pass through to Arlington’s office. A large black lacquered screen in the Chinese style was placed in front of the window with Arlington standing at one end and a bulky servant, with his back turned to Morley, at the other. There was a chair in front of the screen where I was invited to sit. In view of the setup, I was tempted to begin by asking “How long is it since your last Confession, my son?”
One of the other lecturers at Leiden has a favourite technique for testing the candidates at viva examinations. He likes to begin by asking the most difficult or unwelcome question first. I have never liked the practice, because a candidate who struggles at that point will not show at their best, but it seemed appropriate here.
‘How have you enjoyed your days in the dungeon, Mr Morley?’
It was clear that Morley had no idea what I was talking about. Despite Charles’ order to Arlington to lock him away, it had not been done. I knew that, of course; anyone who has spent two days in a dungeon will not lose the stench of it in a day.
‘If you cannot answer that question, Mr Morley, I have others. Please tell me what happened when you followed mijnheer Wevers on the night he died. How did you know where to find him?’
There was some whispering behind the screen, following which Arlington spoke.
‘Mr Morley says that he was informed that the party was going to walk to St Martin-in-the-Fields and there to go their two separate ways, so he waited there in the shadows. Having been furnished with a description of Mr Wevers, he knew whom to follow.’
If it were true, then it was unlikely that Morley had anything to do with the incident with the silversmith, but I was not convinced that he was telling the truth.
‘And then, Mr Morley, you somehow lost your mark within only a minute or two of beginning to track him. How did that happen?’
I could hear a disapproving snort as if Morley’s professionalism was in question, but he whispered again to Arlington.
‘Mr Morley tells me that Wevers crossed the street to a nearby inn where he stepped inside. After a few moments Morley followed, but could not see Wevers therein. He walked around the inn but realised that Wevers was not there.’
‘This was the inn to the left or right as you look out from the church?’
‘To the left, I am informed.’
‘And there were no other exits?’
‘There was one at the rear, Mr Morley says, but barrels had been stacked behind it so that nobody could sneak in unobser
ved. Nobody could have left that way.’
‘I see.’
Actually I did not. It was true that the back door might have been barricaded, though when I poked my head around the door there was no obstruction. What took some believing was that Morley had not seen at once that Wevers was not there. The inn was very small.
‘So,’ I continued, ‘what did you do when you realised you had failed in your mission?’ I was being deliberately provocative to see if he would come out to throttle me and reveal himself.
‘Mr Morley says that he retraced his steps and ran to the corner. He could not see Wevers in any direction. After a few moments of indecision, he walked down the road towards the river.’
‘Walked, not ran?’
‘He did not wish to draw attention to himself.’
That rang true, but Arlington gave the answer without waiting for Morley to speak.
‘And did he see Wevers’ body in the alleyway?’
There was some whispering again.
‘He did not look,’ Arlington told me.
Now I was very suspicious. What spy would walk past a dark alley and not look, if only for his own safety?
‘Were there any closed carriages in sight?’
More low speech followed, and this time Arlington obviously asked a question of his own in order to elucidate the facts more clearly.
‘Mr Morley says that there were several hay-carts and at least two carriages, one coming up the road and one heading down. It is, he thinks, possible that Wevers had entered the carriage going downhill, which would explain why he could not be seen.’
‘And in which direction did the carriage go when it reached the river bank?’
‘Mr Morley says that it turned to the left, towards the Savoy.’
‘Did he follow?’
There was an animated discussion during which I could almost hear Morley’s words myself.
‘Mr Morley says that he attempted to do so, but the carriage was too swift. By the time he reached the bottom of the hill it was near a furlong ahead, and he did not choose to make a spectacle of himself in public by running.’