by Paul Walker
‘Well, Harry knew and I think Mistress Hilliard may have heard the name Hutchison mentioned.’
‘What of your associates in trade for other families?’
‘There would have been no cause to discuss this, as it has no concern for our normal business.’
‘Did you disclose the name to Master Wensum when he called?’
‘Yes, I believe I did, but he is in the employ of Sir George and would have a keen interest in the instrument’s safe delivery.’
Gregory takes our horses and I accompany Hicks to his business chamber. I say that I would have him seek another craftsman to manufacture the instrument. It must be done quickly and I will pay the extra coin for haste.
I add, ‘Be discreet in your enquiries, Hicks, and tell no-one when a man is chosen. His name must be known only to you and me.’
‘Very well, Doctor Constable, I will begin my search this afternoon.’
‘Please also find two reliable watchmen to guard our new craftsman’s property. They will bear arms, but I do not want drunk or ill-tempered men who will use them too quickly. Do not tell them the purpose of their watch and this also must be done discreetly without the craftsman’s knowledge.’
He takes my instructions without comment, but his expression suggests I am too cautious with these arrangements and too extravagant with my coin.
*
Mother and John are both reading in the parlour. The atmosphere is one of quiet contemplation and I presume that they are resting from their lively exchanges earlier in the day. I do not mention the awful events at Spytalfields. Instead, I inform them that we had much to discuss about the wool trade and that we made enquiries about the possible construction of a navigation aid for ships. Half-truths will have to suffice at this time.
My mind is full of thoughts of intrigue and I itch to retire to my library and create a new set of fine drawings from my drafts. But it is clear that Mother wishes me to remain and converse for a while. She tells me that Mistress Hilliard has gone to the Morton household, under escort of Gregory and Harry, to deliver certain small comforts for Jane that were left in her chamber. There is a knock at the door and Mistress Hilliard enters. She begs my indulgence as she has a message. In truth, I am happy for an excuse to leave the parlour and I take Mistress Hilliard to the library.
‘Did you find Mistress Dee in good spirits?’
She is unusually talkative and says that the two young ladies were in good health, and happy in each other’s company. She apologises for her delayed return and explains that Rosamund took her aside and introduced her to the still and drying room. She is full of eagerness to talk about the wide array of herbs and medicinal plants at Leadenhall and wishes that we could learn from their experience and expand our herbal preparations.
She says, ‘I was offered a dried plum that effected such an improvement on the lady Amy. Despite its foul appearance it had a very pleasing taste. Rosamund also gave me a salve of beeswax and cloves to aid my sore hips.’
‘I am very happy you have a liking for Rosamund and that your visit afforded fascination and benefit. I agree that we should strive to improve our medicines by learning from the ladies at Leadenhall. You said that you had a message…’
‘My pardon, sir, I had forgotten. Master Wensum requested that I invite you for supper at six o’clock this next Wednesday. He apologises for the lateness of the hour of invitation. Sir George, Master Wensum and others wish to discuss, what he called, their “great adventure”.’
Twenty
Hicks has found a candidate for the manufacture of the instrument. He is a Frenchman by the name of Chap who has a small house and workshop on Long Lane by the Fleet. I have completed my fine drawings and ride with Hicks to meet this man. When I ask Hicks more about him he is somewhat apologetic at describing his trade as a toymaker. He answers my raised eyes by saying that he has a strong reputation for well-crafted wooden and mechanical toys. He is also known to manufacture small items of furniture, such as gaming tables.
Long Lane becomes narrower and more noxious as we near the Fleet. The buildings overhang so that they almost touch and we dismount to have a safer passage. The mud and filth on the lane sucks in our boots and it is an unpleasant last few steps to the door of the Chap house. The building is small, but well-tended compared to its neighbours with a fresh coat of whitewash and tar on the frontage. Our knock is answered by a neat woman of middle years dressed in black, save for white apron and bonnet. I assume this will be Goodwife Chap. We are led through two dark, small, low-beamed rooms where I am forced to bow my head, through to a workshop at the rear. Thankfully, the workshop is more spacious and has good light. Two men are standing at a table peering at a paper laid flat by stones in each corner. Both are dressed in rough woollen shirts with leather aprons. One has almost no head hair and thick beard, while the other is a youth of no more than thirteen years. Hicks makes our introductions.
The older man says, ‘Good day and God’s peace to you gentlemen. I am Chap and this is my son Peter.’ His voice has an unmistakeable French lilt, but his English is good.
I say, ‘Thank you Master Chap. I understand that you are from France. Chap is an unusual name for a Frenchman, is it not?’
‘Yes, sir, our French name is Chappuzeau and it is shortened to make our family trade more acceptable in England.’
‘You are Huguenot?’
‘Yes, we escaped persecution and murder by the Catholic League seven years past. I had another son who did not elude the killing and fire of the mob. To my eternal shame he lies unburied, while his spirit roams the streets of Lyon.’
‘I am sorry for your family distress, Master Chap. You have settled well in England?’
‘We are grateful for safe harbour in this Christian land, sir. I cannot deny that we have suffered through suspicion of our foreign origin, but there has been improvement in trade and our general tolerance over the years.’
‘Good, you know that your trade as a craftsman is the reason for our visit?’
‘Yes, I am intrigued. I was told only that it is for a measuring instrument fashioned from wood and metal.’
I take out my drawings and hand them to Chap. He unrolls the first carefully and places it on top of the existing one, replacing the corner stones. Father and son peer closely at the sketch, then Chap begs his son to fetch paper and quill and to write a series of numbers. He does the same with my second drawing. He takes the paper from his son and, with scratching of head and pursing of lips, writes more before he places quill on the table and folds his arms.
‘It can be done. I see it is for a ship’s master to take readings from the stars.’
‘Yes, it is, Master Chap. It must be well-crafted to allow for precision in measurement.’
‘I will not allow inferior creations to leave my workshop, Doctor Constable.’ It is an effort for him to hold the indignation in his voice. ‘Would it be your pleasure to inspect examples of our work?’
We are led over to a corner where he shows a wooden figure of a man-at-arms made for the young son of a wine merchant. It is ingeniously fitted with small metal joints at neck, elbows, waist and knees; all move smoothly and without minor obstruction. Chap tells me with pride that his son is responsible for the painted decoration. A wooden sword slides from its side and clicks into place in a small holder in the right hand containing sprung metal. Next, he shows me a miniature set of drawers made for a lady’s jewels and other valuables. There is a locking mechanism which serves to remind me of the ebony box at Barn Elms. It is subtle and finely-worked with a smooth key turn and satisfying click. I have seen enough.
‘This is very good work, Master Chap. If you are content that you can manufacture my instrument in quick time, then the commission is yours.’
Hicks nudges me and mutters that we must consider the price before making a commitment.
Chap says, ‘My fee will depend upon the urgency of your need. I have other work here that is promised.’
‘I would have it after
four days, on the Monday of next week.’
He shakes his head, reaches for his paper and scrawls more figures and calculations. ‘In that case my fee will be one pound and six shillings.’ Hicks breathes deeply and shuffles his feet. Chap adds, ‘If you can wait for two weeks then my fee will be sixteen shillings and four pence.’
Prudence demands that I leave these negotiations to Hicks, but I need the instrument quickly and I am confident that Chap will make a piece to impress Sir George and Captain Hawkins.
‘I will accept your price for delivery next Monday. Will two crowns be sufficient for a first payment?’ He bows his head in agreement and I hand over the coins. ‘There is a strict condition to this commission, Master Chap. You must not disclose the nature of the object or my name in connection this work to anyone outside this room. The business of sea trade contains many jealousies for obtaining advantage in the speed and accurate navigation of ships.’
*
A steady drizzle has set in when I reach the Morton house and am pleased to release damp cloak and hat into the arms of a servant for drying by a fire. I am ushered into a receiving room where Darby Wensum stands waiting. He bids me welcome and offers a cup of claret, which I accept. We stand talking of inconsequential things for a few minutes, then he apologises for the absence of Captain General Hawkins who has been detained and will not meet with us this night.
I say, ‘Is Sir George in good health?’
‘Yes, he is well, but has endured an eventful day and dozes before our supper. I trust that he will be with us in short time.’
Our polite conversation is extended for too many minutes and the silence between our exchanges lengthens, creating an uncomfortable air. Finally, Wensum leaves to investigate whether Sir George is ready to join us. He is gone for over half an hour. I begin to feel there is a strangeness about my presence here, when a servant enters and announces that supper is ready to be served.
Wensum is seated next to Sir George who is sat with his chin resting heavily on his chest and is clearly asleep. We are being served oysters and a bowl is set for Sir George who does not stir save for a bubbling of his lips and low whistling as he breathes. We are done with the oysters and started on an eel pie before Wensum begs forgiveness on behalf of Sir George as he fears that his business has been more tiring than he had thought.
He says, ‘Nevertheless, we should discuss your progress with the navigation instrument and I will forward your news to our principals.’
‘Perhaps we should wait for Sir George to wake. I believe his favourite dish is gammon and he may rouse at the odour of this food.’
‘We could wait too long and if he does not stir shortly I should arrange for transport to the comfort of his bed.’
This is indeed a strange supper, first with the absence of Hawkins and now the deep sleep of Sir George who does not hear our talk, or the rattling of pewter plates and silver serving dishes. It crosses my mind that Rosamund or Helen may have prescribed a sleeping draught.
Wensum says, ‘I am surprised that you have not brought your instrument this night. Does it take so long to fashion an exemplar?’
‘A rough model may be made in a day or two, but exact and dainty work takes more time. I would have a well-crafted piece to present to Sir George and Captain Hawkins.’
‘Do you have an estimate of when it will be ready? You will know that Sir George will be disappointed by an undue delay.’
I mumble an apology and say that I cannot give a date, but will make every effort to submit it for examination as quickly as possible. Wensum bows his head in understanding and puts aside the subject in order to arrange for Sir George’s retirement to his bedchamber. I am in favour of curtailing our supper, but Wensum is determined that we finish the dishes prepared. I pick my way through a pigeon pie, broiled chicken, a gammon and sweet jellies, enduring Wensum’s detailed telling of the preparations for the venture, which I have heard before.
At last, our supper is over and I beg for my outer clothes and horse to return home. Wensum returns to our room with my cloak and hat. He apologises that he has no men available to escort my journey home as they have been called for work at one of Sir George’s storehouses on the North Quay.
It is a short ride home and the streets are quiet for the most part, with the cold air keeping souls cozied in their houses or huddled over their cups in the inns. I am passing the dark form of St Gabriel in Fen Church when I spy two figures about one hundred yards ahead run quickly into a side alley. I put a hand on my dagger, pull my cloak back and ‘click’ at Cassius to walk on. I peer closely at the alley as we draw closer, but there is no further movement. There is a shuffling noise to my other side and before I can turn hands grab at my thigh and arm… I am unhorsed… My head… a booming sound as my head hits something solid. Hands… grab my hair, my coat. I kick my feet. I hit something soft. There is a yelp of pain. My arm… twisted… my dagger… I must free my dagger. I smell the sweat and foul breath of a man near my face. He curses and… I am hit… my neck… a clash of steel. My world dissolves and I am lost… falling…falling.
Twenty-One
The silence is grey. I hear a faint drumming or swishing; a peculiar noise, which is within me. Am I dead? I feel pain. My head throbs and my neck… my arm… hand. I am broken – but alive. The sound inside me is my breathing. How alive? I lift my right hand and touch my cheek; my throat; my forehead. A whisper; a croak; a humming from my throat. It is me, trying to speak. Where am I? Alone, in an enclosed grey space, laid flat. My head and body ache as I try to rise. No… I sink back and… I must sleep.
There is light and… a voice. I am dreaming. My shoulder moves, roughly. A man calls my name. I know this man. It is… My eyes open and I flinch as Captain Askham’s face is close to mine.
‘Where am I?’
‘You were attacked, but you are saved.’
That much I know, but how was I saved and how did I get here? Where is this place? I do not recognise the chamber. Askham grabs my arm and helps me to sit. I shake my head, then stop quickly as a pain punches sharply in a space behind my eyes. I am on a hard wooden bed with no bolsters or linens, clothed only in hose and shirt. My other clothes and shoes are on a rough stone floor. My legs are uninjured and my right arm moves with freedom. My left arm will not move… Ah, my breath catches. It is my left wrist that is swollen and hangs oddly. There is dried blood on the sleeve of my shirt and I see that this has spread to my chest. I repeat my last question.
‘You are in Sir Francis’s house in Seething Lane. I am ordered to take you to him.’
‘Sir Francis is returned from France?’
‘Yes, two nights past.’
He takes my arm and I stand. My legs bear me, if a little unsteadily. My vision is blurred and I close my eyes. I open them and stagger as the room swims. Askham clutches me and I breathe deeply to regain my balance. I step gently, then with more purpose and we walk slowly towards the door. The door opens and two guards stiffen as we exit. We tread down a narrow passage, up a flight of stairs and then to a lighter area with a wider passage and polished wooden floor. Askham knocks on a door, opens it and gestures for me to enter. Walsingham is slouched in a chair behind a table with a thin dagger in his hand. He appears to be trimming his fingernails.
‘Doctor Constable, you are in a poor state.’
‘Ah, yes, forgive my appearance, Miser Secretary. I was attacked.’
‘Indeed. Your wounds have not been dressed, but you have been examined. Your wrist is damaged and your head will be sore, but I am told that you have no mortal injury.’
My senses are not fully recovered, but I detect a coldness in his manner. Why have I not been treated with more care and comfort? A bare room; hard bed; wounds undressed; no refreshment offered. Something is amiss; a wrongness in the air.
‘How was I saved?’
‘You were followed. It is fortunate for you that the Captain was close by with another man.’
‘Why was I followed?’
>
He ignores my question and asks one in return. ‘Why have you visited the house of Sir George Morton?’
‘I… I heard of his great venture with Captain General Hawkins and… it stirred my interest in the art of ship navigation again.’
‘It is somewhat coincidental that your interest was revived a day or two after your consideration of the chart and coded message at Barn Elms.’
‘That is all it is; a coincidence.’
‘Is it also a matter of accident that Doctor Dee’s library was burned shortly after your first visit for many years?’
‘I do not think that was ill-fortune. I believe it was planned because word had reached the conspirators about the search for Millen. Doctor Foxe and Captain Askham agree with me on this.’
He is silent for a while and continues to trim his fingernails.
He says, ‘Why do you think you were brought to me at Whitehall that night? Was it because I suspected some hidden talent in you for solving ciphers? Your expertise in astrology, perhaps? Or was it a chance plucking of a name out of thin air?’
‘You stated that it was my association with Doctor Dee.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. When you arrived that night you will have seen the corrupted bodies of three men freshly killed for their treason. One of those men cried out your name through the agony of cracking limbs.’
‘Godfrey Baskin. I knew him a little, but many years past. Why would he utter my name?’
‘Why indeed, Doctor Constable?’
‘I… I can only think that he was being questioned about his knowledge of astrologers. Then… then you connected him with the natal chart in the box and suspected me.’
‘Very good, Doctor Constable. You have clear insights despite your sore head.’
‘But you must know that I am not one of the conspirators. I solved the cipher. I gave the names of Kelley and Millen…’
‘Ah, the cipher; a quick solution for an amateur. And both of those men known to you.’