“How is he?”
“Well enough. I was there with him, until my servant arrived to say that the enemy had taken Oxford. I rushed back as fast as I could. Thank God the rebels had not tampered with my rooms.” Clarke paused, his fat face very grave. “I learnt, however, of a dreadful event that happened here last week. A boy named Illingsworth was murdered. His corpse was found in a corner of the stables. His throat had been severed to the bone. His breeches were about his ankles, and a broom-handle had been stuck up his nether parts.”
Laurence sighed and sat down by the fire. The boy was a little sneak, but he did not deserve that. It must be Tyler’s work, as bestial as the man had sounded in conversation with Poole and Mr. Rose.
“There is more,” Clarke added. “In his fist was a ring with Seward’s initials on it. Seward must have given it to him at some point, though I never saw him wearing it. Perhaps the killer found it in his pocket.”
“Seward is under suspicion, even though he was away at the time?”
“Yes. The College Warden, Nathaniel Brent, has always hated him. Brent is encouraging the boy’s parents in the idea that Seward enjoyed unnatural relations with their son, who may have threatened to expose him and was therefore dispatched on his order.”
“Is there any proof against him, apart from the ring?”
“None but idle rumour, yet the Warden is demanding that he attend the inquest. Brent has sided with Parliament, which reigns here currently in all matters. The inquest is bound to find against Seward, and if he stands trial, the charge of sodomy alone might be sufficient to ensure his execution. My servant went to Asthall to warn him.”
“What a disaster. I hope to God he stays hidden.”
“You are also implicated.” Clarke fixed Laurence with a glare. “Someone has bruited it about College that Seward received several visits from you recently. There might even be suspicion that you were his accomplice in the murder.”
Laurence was tempted to laugh: how much worse could things get? He rose and wandered to the table. Selecting a black knight, he slid it across the board. “Your king will have to move.”
Clarke came to see. “Where to?”
Laurence picked up the white king and set him in a sheltered square. “You can’t abide me, can you,” he said.
“If you want the truth, I can’t. By the look of you I would hazard a guess that you were much the same to Seward as was young Illingsworth – what would it be – fifteen years ago.”
“Which do you find the most distasteful, that I might share Seward’s inclinations or that I involved him in something that threatens his life?”
“That you most certainly have!” snorted Clarke. “And both are connected. I always thought desire led him astray.”
“It’s led me astray, too, but I wasn’t his boy. I like women.”
Clarke lowered his eyes for a moment, then raised them again, accusingly. “You already knew about the murder, didn’t you. You seemed not a bit surprised when I told you.”
Laurence hesitated, unwilling to trust someone who so obviously loathed him. “Yes,” he admitted, and he told Clarke about his visit to the Black Bull, in Aylesbury, and the conversation he had overheard.
“Dear me, Mr. Beaumont,” said Clarke, when he had finished. “Such a pity the regicides escaped you. What did Colonel Hoare have to say to you afterwards?”
“He wasn’t pleased. Nor can he be happy that I gave him the slip, on the march towards Stafford.”
“Was that altogether wise? If he has the Secretary of State’s authority to treat you as he wishes –”
“It was a necessary risk.” A thought occurred to Laurence, and he shivered beneath the blanket. “I’m almost certain that Tyler’s still in Oxford. He killed the boy not just to incriminate Seward but to flush me out, too. I can’t go to your house now, or I might lead Tyler straight there.”
Clarke nodded warily. “What will you do, then?”
“Find him, of course. He spent months trying to catch me abroad. It’s about time for me to catch him.”
Clarke disappeared again into his bedchamber and emerged carrying the Toledo sword, gingerly, as if it might spring up and attack him. “You may want this,” he said, handing it to Laurence. “Seward left it with me, but I haven’t much use for it in my profession. Are your clothes dry yet, sir?”
“Dr. Clarke,” Laurence said, with another sigh, “I regret having to trespass on your hospitality, but I’ve got work to do and I need a place to stay until it’s done. Someone must have seen Tyler at the College. It may not be safe for me to ask, but you could. He’s easily spotted,” Laurence went on, and gave Clarke a brief description of him.
“I shall make inquiries,” Clarke agreed. “And now, sir, before I retire, why don’t we finish this game.” He plodded over to the table and motioned for Laurence to join him. “Black or white? I think black has the advantage.”
“White, thank you,” Laurence said, yawning. “I’d rather lose quickly and get some rest.”
II.
The next day, Clarke departed for breakfast to glean what he could from the other scholars while Laurence investigated the site of the murder. He knew one of the grooms at the stable, who showed him where Illingsworth’s body had been dumped behind a tall bale of hay. “Butchered, he was,” the groom said, with morbid fascination. “We couldn’t scrub out all the bloodstains.” He pointed to some brownish traces splattered across the stone wall.
“Was it you who found him?” Laurence asked.
“Thank God no, sir. It was my friend Laythrop. He was so shaken by it that he quitted the College the same day. He said he won’t come back until they catch the murderer.”
“Have you ever seen a big, tall fellow around here, with a cast in his eye?”
The groom shook his head. “You might ask at the porter’s lodge, sir.”
Laurence took his advice, and discovered from the porter on duty that a man resembling Tyler had visited Merton but a month ago, exactly when Seward’s rooms had been invaded. Unfortunately, that was the last time any of the porters had seen him, yet Laurence knew from experience that there were ways of breaking in and out through the ground-floor windows.
“You be careful, sir,” the porter said ominously. “There’s a lot of gossip circulating about you and Dr. Seward. If I were you I wouldn’t tarry here. The authorities are eager for an arrest.”
Clarke returned to his rooms some hours later, his expression grim. “No one that I spoke to has glimpsed hide nor hair of Tyler,” he told Laurence. “But one thing is certain: you are far from safe at the College, Mr. Beaumont. I suggest you take lodgings in town, if you wish to continue your hunt. I am already sheltering a wanted man at my country house. I cannot shelter you as well.
It is bad enough in Brent’s eyes that I am Seward’s closest friend.”
“I understand,” Laurence said, and he fastened on the sword, collected his pistols, and bade Clarke goodbye.
When he went to fetch his horse at the stable, he found the same groom talking with another College employee, probably a cook, to judge by his grease-stained apron. “Soldiers, eh?” the cook was muttering. “What’d they do for their sins?”
“Thieved from the garrison’s coffers, or so I heard,” the groom replied. “They’ll draw a crowd tomorrow. Everyone likes a hanging, whether they’ll admit it or not.”
Laurence listened as he saddled his horse. A hanging, he thought to himself; precisely the sort of event that Tyler might enjoy.
III.
In the crisp light of dawn, Tyler made his way to the Castle wall where a stage had been erected and a throng of spectators were gathering. Nobody in the crowd seemed to know what the condemned men had done to suffer such a fate; not that Tyler cared. He was only disappointed that one of them went off too easily on a nice clean drop. The other gave more sport, kicking and squirming in the noose to speed his end. When it was over, the hangman cut them down and started selling pieces of the rope to thos
e who believed such trophies might bring them luck.
Tyler bought himself some breakfast at a stall where a woman had set out oatcakes. He was munching away, entertained by the hubbub around him, when he noticed a dark head above the crowd. “Can’t be,” he whispered, a warm, triumphant sensation creeping over him. “But it is!”
Wrapped in a long black cloak, Beaumont was leaning against the wall viewing the scaffold with a bored expression on his face. An instant later, as if magically, his gaze shifted towards Tyler’s own. Their eyes met, and Tyler smiled, predicting panic in return. Beaumont also smiled, which so confused Tyler that he hesitated, and then found his way barred by a knot of housewives armed with capacious baskets. By the time he pushed the women aside, Beaumont had vanished.
Tyler rushed to where he had been and espied him strolling along a side lane by the wall. Panting with anticipation, Tyler drew out his sword as he left the crowd behind. Rounding a corner, he had to slacken his speed: some cavalry soldiers were galloping towards him. He hid the sword beneath his cloak until they were well past, at which point Beaumont was nowhere to be seen.
Swearing, he turned one way, then the other. His hunter’s instinct led him to a small alley littered with refuse that ran between two dilapidated buildings on the opposite side of the Castle. Moving warily to the entrance, sword ready, he plunged in. It was like night after the bright sun, and his boots slipped in the slime underfoot, the smell as foul and ripe as that of the Black Bull’s midden. He would do more than piss on this rat, he told himself. Then he felt his hat fly off, as though a breeze had lifted it, and an even greater darkness descended: cloth, tight over his face and round his neck. A sharp blow behind his knees made them buckle. He dropped his sword as he tried to stop himself from falling, but he went face down in the muck, blind as a newborn kitten. Someone jumped on top of him, and a cord was put around his neck over the cloth, and tightened more securely. And on his right temple came the hard pressure of a pistol’s muzzle.
“Don’t move or you’re dead,” said his attacker.
“There – are troops – around the corner!” Tyler gasped, as the noose cut into his flesh.
“I don’t give a fuck.” Tyler became still as he registered the hatred in Beaumont’s voice. How strange, he thought, that they should now be locked together like mating animals, after all the months he had spent following him. “Who are you working for?” Beaumont asked, loosening the cord a little.
“None of your business.”
“Spit it out while you still can.”
“Kiss my arse. I’m not telling you a thing.”
“Come on, Tyler,” Beaumont said, tightening the noose suddenly, nearly choking him, “who is he?”
Tyler felt the noose slacken again marginally, and he gulped for air. “Some grand nobleman in London. I’m not privy to his name.”
“What about Mr. Rose, where is he now?”
“I don’t know.” Beaumont hit him with the butt of the pistol, grazing his cheek; he had to make a bid for time, while he searched for a means to escape. “He’s gone north,” he blurted out.
“Is he with the King’s forces?”
“Aye.”
“Which regiment?” Beaumont hit him more violently. “Answer me.”
The noose tightened, then slackened once more. “Pr-Prince Rupert’s,” Tyler stuttered. The tension on his neck was agonizing, but he estimated that Beaumont did not weigh much, for all of his height.
“Is he an officer?”
“Aye.”
“What rank?”
“I don’t know.”
“How many others are in with you?”
“One more, maybe,” Tyler admitted, thinking of Poole’s friend, Robinson.
“You liked watching those boys hang, didn’t you,” Beaumont whispered, and the noose sliced deeper again. “Do you want to die as they did, shitting in your breeches?”
“No!”
“Then you’d better talk. Who else is in on your game?”
Tyler prepared himself to act. With his right hand he reached out and grabbed for Beaumont’s left, thrusting up with the whole of his body. He tossed Beaumont off, but could not know where the pistol might have gone. He lashed out with his fists. Beaumont moaned, and Tyler felt him pull away, perhaps to retrieve the pistol, or to aim it. Akin to Samson, sightless and desperate, Tyler clenched his teeth, seized Beaumont’s clothing and rammed his forehead into what he hoped was Beaumont’s nose. He heard a louder moan. Beaumont must have lost the pistol, or he would have fired it by now, Tyler reckoned. Dragging himself to his feet, he ripped at the cloth before his eyes. It gave way only partly, yet enough to let him distinguish Beaumont’s figure on the ground. He rammed the toe of his boot in Beaumont’s groin. Beaumont let out a yelp and curled up protectively. In the next second came a crack and a flash of light, and Tyler felt burning in his right shoulder.
“God damn you,” he roared, and lurched out of the alley. Another ball whizzed past his ear, scalding it; he was in sunlight again, able to see more, careering down the lane. Hearing voices and the returning thud of horses’ hooves, he shouted for help. Beaumont had now emerged, doubled over, and was stumbling in the opposite direction.
“Get him, get him!” Tyler yelled, as the Parliamentary soldiers pounded down the lane. “He went that way! He’s a Royalist spy – get after him!”
They clattered off, leaving him shaken that he should have revealed to Beaumont what little he had. Then he heard a volley of shots. Praying that the troopers had a deadlier aim than Beaumont, he staggered back to his lodgings.
IV.
Only sheer force of will drove Laurence from the alley: his genitals felt mashed to a pulp, he was retching from pain, and his nose streamed blood. He heard horsemen approaching and headed for the river, scrambling on all fours through brambles and stinging nettles. As shots were fired overhead, he stuffed his pistols inside his doublet and slid into the cold water, where he submerged himself, lungs bursting for air. At length, it seemed the troopers had given him up for dead and ridden away. He clambered out, panting, and lay on the muddy bank, shielded by tall reeds, nursing his groin.
He should have strangled Tyler there and then, he thought bitterly, rather than try to extract information from a man twice his size and as strong as an ox. Now all he could hope was that he had wounded Tyler mortally, or at least bought himself a chance to reach Asthall without being pursued.
Although numbed to the core, he waited a while for any sign that the troopers might return. Then, fearing arrest at every step, he threaded his way through back streets and yards to the inn where he had left his horse.
About an hour later he arrived, tired but relieved, at Asthall. He could feel swelling around his eyes, and he was starting to sneeze, his nose leaving bloody streaks on his sleeve as he wiped it. Never mind, he thought; Seward would look after him.
A woman answered the door. She was as round as Clarke, her large red hands covered in flour. “You must be Mr. Beaumont, Dr. Seward’s friend! That’s a terrible bruise on your face. What happened to you, sir?”
“I was in a fight,” he said.
She invited him into the front room, which was as cosily appointed as Clarke’s lodgings at College, the air fragrant with the odour of baking. Seward’s striped cat was stretched out, basking on the flagstones before the fire. All that the scene lacked was Seward.
“Where is he?” asked Laurence.
“He’s not here, sir. He went to Oxford just yesterday.”
“Oh no!” Laurence almost keeled over, and she had to steady him. “Why?” he demanded.
“He didn’t say, but he left you a letter in case you visited in his absence.” She bustled over to the chimneypiece and then returned with a slim, folded piece of paper. “I must get those pasties out of the oven before they burn. You sit down here, sir.”
She guided him to a chair and left him slumped in it, ready to weep like a child. What madness or naïveté had drawn Seward out of
this haven into the clutches of his enemies? He would surely die, if not by Tyler’s hand, then by that of the law as Parliament saw fit to execute it.
Laurence ripped open Seward’s letter; it was in a code they had invented together years ago. “Please,” he said, when the woman reappeared, “I need a quill, and some ink.”
She gave him what he requested, and he began to transcribe the few lines. “The boy’s spirit has been haunting me these past nights,” Seward had written. “I must give it rest, or I shall find none myself. I have looked into my scrying bowl. All will be well, so have no fear. I know the author of the horoscope, but I cannot trust his name to paper, as I shall explain when I next see you. Go to His Majesty and alert him of the danger. Confide in no one else. Then come to join me in Oxford.” At the end was a postscript: “The Cabbalistic code was my invention.”
A surge of anger rose up in Laurence. Seward must have recognised the code as his own when he first set eyes on the letters. Why had he not said so?
V.
Army life did not suit Ingram, from what he had seen of it. Corporals Blunt and Fuller treated him like a schoolboy, and he was heartily tired of listening to yet another anecdote about their glorious campaigns abroad. Although physically tested by the endless drills, he had not yet slept a single night through, and he was unaccustomed to such a complete lack of privacy in everything he did. He could not even move his bowels in peace and quiet.
Radcliff had returned a week earlier, apologetic for his long absence. “Some business at my estate,” he had explained to Ingram.
“Has it been pillaged, as you feared?”
“No, though my steward told me that some of my neighbours have been less fortunate. Oh, and I stopped by Faringdon. Your sister is in fine health, praise God, and your aunt, as ever. They send their best wishes. You should write to Kate,” Radcliff had added. “She is worried about you.”
The Best of Men Page 26