“Well, now, how many years has it been, sir? Six or more – and you’re as kind on the eye as you ever was, no grey hair yet and no gentleman’s paunch. Would you take a sip of wine and a bite of supper?”
“Yes, thanks. In fact, I was hoping I might stay here for a while.”
“Of course you shall, sir, as an honoured guest.”
“How are your ladies?”
“In fine fettle, the lazy creatures. They’ve gone early to bed, since it’s a quiet night.”
“And Mr. Meyboom, is he still in the garret upstairs?”
“No, he left just after my return. He’d come into some money, he said, and could afford to move away from the river. Said the damp air was bad for his chest. Try a spell in the Fleet, I told him – that could finish anyone off.”
She sat down and shared some wine with Laurence at table, and as he ate, he thought of his conversation with Ingram about Blackman Street.
When he asked if she had ever received a client of Sir Bernard Radcliff’s description, she replied in the affirmative. “Hasn’t graced us for over a year, though.”
“He got married.”
“That don’t stop most men from darkening my door. And have you a wife, sir?” Laurence shook his head, and pushed back his empty plate. “Not even a lover? You must have at least one! Might she be fond of jewellery, Mr. Beaumont? I’ve some trinkets for sale, if you …” Mistress Edwards hesitated, with the peculiar delicacy of a high-class bawd, and he understood at once. She was forced to sell off her own property, just to make ends meet.
“I’d like to see them,” he said.
Simeon had taught him about gems and their cut, and he found it easy to select Mistress Edwards’ best necklace, for which he gave her more than her price.
That night he shared Cordelia’s bed; she was already fast asleep and did not wake when he got in beside her. In the morning, even before opening his eyes, he was aware of a pleasant sensation passing through him; and as he drew back the covers and saw what she was doing, he let her continue. He had been full of frustrated passion for Isabella ever since bringing her to Merton, but after that one kiss she had not encouraged him, and he had refrained from anything more than a few friendly visits to her sickbed. Now he could not argue with the part of his body that Cordelia had coaxed to action. Nonetheless, the experience was like eating with a bad head cold: he did not enjoy it as much as usual.
Over breakfast, he told Mistress Edwards how the women had assisted the Royalist cause on his previous visit, and how they might help him again. Later that day, her maid Sarah dropped by Sir Edmund Waller’s house with the gift of a dried-quince cake to be delivered directly to him alone. Falkland’s correspondence had been baked inside. Sarah returned bearing a note from Waller asking for her to be sent again in two days’ time, so that he could reciprocate with a special offering from his own cook. Meanwhile, Jane headed north across the Thames and westwards, to call upon the law offices of Joshua Poole in Fleet Street. Mr. Poole was away, his clerk told her, and had not said when he would be back. Claiming she was a distant relative of Mrs. Poole’s just arrived from the country, Jane obtained an address off Holborn Hill where she went to look around, and in the evening, she was able to give Laurence a description of both Poole’s offices and his house.
On the following day, Cordelia took a turn about Fleet Street and came home with news. “He’s there. I had it from a girl who was sweeping the steps next door. And I saw him through his window – a sad little man with beady eyes.”
All well and good, Laurence thought, but how to approach him? Poole’s offices gave onto a busy public courtyard; no arrest could be made in broad daylight without attracting the attention of a Parliamentary patrol. His house seemed a more likely prospect: it stood at the end of a row of other dwellings and had only one door to the street; to the back of the house were gardens and then a field. The main obstacle was Poole’s ferocious guard dog, which had menaced Jane at the garden gate.
“You ask my servant Barlow to go round instead, sir,” Mistress Edwards suggested. “He was a great sneaksman in his youth – prides hisself on it, and still has his fingers in a bit of that trade, I suspect. But he’s been with me four years and did time with me in the Fleet. You can depend on him for your life.”
The lugubrious Barlow averred that he knew everything there was to know about housebreaking, and disappeared for an entire day to scout out the neighbourhood of Holborn Hill. Jane visited Waller and came back with a partridge that must have hung too long, for it reeked, as did what had been stuffed up it: a sealed document for Falkland. The next day Laurence gave Barlow funds to buy a couple of good horses, and at dusk, he primed his pistols and said goodbye to Mistress Edwards and her ladies.
No moon or stars were visible as he and Barlow walked the horses north through small streets and alleys, and over London Bridge. Barlow must have been acquainted with every nightwatchman’s beat, for they were not stopped. When they reached Holborn Hill, they waited an hour or so, their horses tethered, in the fields behind Poole’s house. Once every light inside was extinguished, Barlow crept to the front to keep watch, armed with a cudgel, while Laurence pushed through the garden fence and gained the back entrance.
Immediately he heard growling. He had come equipped with a hambone that he now tossed over the garden gate, and the animal fell upon it, gnawing greedily as Laurence stole past, up the path to the house. Following Barlow’s precise directions, he jimmied open a window on the ground floor and squeezed inside, then moved towards the stairs beneath which the potboy apparently slept in a cupboard. “He won’t wake, sir – the young ’uns never do,” Barlow had said. “They’re too worn out from their labours. It’s the old who sleep lightly, I’ve found.”
The potboy did not wake. Laurence had three more occupants with whom to contend: Poole, his wife, and the maidservant. “She’s Poole’s daughter’s niece by marriage,” Barlow had informed him. “That’s why she has a chamber to herself, off his.”
“What don’t you know about them?” Laurence had exclaimed; the Secretary of State could use a man such as this.
At the top of the stairs Laurence found the door to Poole’s chamber ajar. He entered quietly, wishing that Barlow could have told him on which side of the bed Poole slept. But the sound of masculine snoring was sufficient indication. He drew aside the bed curtains with the nose of his pistol, and stuck it against Poole’s temple.
“Mr. Poole,” he whispered. Poole stirred, then blinked at him in alarm. “Don’t wake your wife,” he hissed. “Get out of bed, find yourself some clothes, and come downstairs with me. I won’t hurt you if you do as I say.” Poole slid from his wife’s side and fumbled for his garments and shoes. Then he and Laurence descended the stairs and went out into the garden.
“How did you get past my dog?” he asked, a stunned expression on his face, as he dressed.
“I gave it a bone. Poole, I have to take you to Oxford. The Secretary of State wants to talk to you. If you’re frank with him, you’ll be safe from any charges,” Laurence said encouragingly, although Falkland had made no such promise.
“Please, sir, spare me from arrest,” Poole begged. “My poor wife is not strong! She needs me!”
“I’m sorry, it’s not my decision.”
As Laurence guided him through the gate towards the horses, which were invisible in the darkness, he began talking in a rapid whisper. “Sir, I’ll tell you whatever I can, if you will only let me be! I saw Sir Bernard Radcliff at Longstanton four days ago. He told me you have his letters. He also told me about the regicide. All along he intended to prevent it! He is now looking for you, to explain this. And the Earl of Pembroke is after you both. He heard about that trial and is bent on questioning you.”
“Does Pembroke know what happened to his correspondence with Radcliff?”
“No. Indeed, he cannot even be aware that Sir Bernard kept any of –” Poole stopped, as a whistle pierced the air: Barlow’s signal. From up ahead,
as though in answer, came a soft whinny and a stamping of hooves.
“We have to move,” Laurence said. “Take the near horse.” But as he lowered his pistol to untether both mounts, Poole swung out most unexpectedly and struck him below the ribs, winding him. More impressive yet, Poole managed to clamber into the saddle and urge the horse on, knocking Laurence over as it bolted in the direction of the fields.
“Stop or I’ll fire!” Laurence shouted after him, putting up his pistol again, though he could not see a thing.
Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. “Where’s the lawyer?” Barlow asked, helping him up.
“He gave me the slip. He went that way, on one of the horses.”
“No chance of catching him now. Make haste, sir, there are watchmen on the street.”
Barlow seemed to possess a feline instinct in the night. He located the other horse’s bridle easily, mounted, and had extended a hand to help Laurence swing up behind him when a series of sounds ahead of them made them freeze: first the loud neigh of a panicked beast, next a man’s cry, and lastly a dull thud.
“He may have been thrown,” Laurence said. “Let’s go and find out.”
They went forward into blackness, but the horse found them, looming out of the dark like some nightmare apparition. Barlow grabbed its bridle and nudged Laurence’s elbow. “There’s the lawyer – he’s on the ground, sir.”
Poole was slumped at the base of a tree. Laurence squatted down to touch what felt like a leg. “Poole, are you hurt?” He searched upwards and this time felt a warm stickiness on Poole’s scalp. Then as he lifted him up, Poole’s head tilted back at an unnaturally acute angle. “God damn it,” Laurence swore, and to Barlow, “He’s dead.”
“In that case, let’s you and I ride north and split up once we get close to the new fortifications. You can pass through a gap near Shoreditch.”
They mounted and spurred the horses on, Laurence again tailing Barlow, as grateful for his cool efficiency as his astounding powers of vision.
At the appointed place, they reined in. “Barlow, you have to tell me,” Laurence said, “how can you see so well in the dark?”
“Practice, sir. Just blindfold yourself and walk around for a bit. You’ll soon have the hang of it. My father taught me. Since I was five years old, I been getting inside houses to open up the door for him. A darkman’s budge, we call it.”
“I wish I had your skills.”
“Well, thank you, sir,” Barlow said modestly, “but you ain’t never had to be a thief.”
“You’re wrong there – and I hope we can work together again.”
He gave Barlow a little extra for all the trouble and galloped away, disheartened; in one part of his mission, he had signally failed.
III.
“So did you nab the lawyer?” Seward inquired, after inviting Laurence into his rooms. “Is he with Falkland now?”
“No, I’m afraid he’s somewhere else altogether,” replied Laurence, taking off his cloak; and he described Poole’s accident. “And as for the uprising, I think it’s doomed from the outset. I brought Falkland a letter from Waller, written in the simplest of codes. What a fool, to put down every detail. I had to transcribe it for Falkland, and he pretended there was nothing to worry about.”
“And what is the plan?” asked Seward, as Laurence sat down with a sigh.
“Waller estimates that a third of London will support the uprising, and four-fifths in the suburbs, though where he got his numbers from I’ve no idea. Then there are Royalists within London’s Trained Bands. On the night they’re assigned guard of Parliament’s fortifications, they’ll seize the magazine of arms and powder, and secure all major military positions. Certain prominent Members of Parliament will be taken hostage. His Majesty intends to dispatch a force of three thousand – horse and foot – to enter the city once the gates are thrown open. No one person knows the names of more than three associates involved. Waller says he has the support of Lord Conway and the Earl of Portland, in the House of Lords.”
“That is the extent of it?”
“Not quite. Falkland told me I’ll be travelling with a third companion, apart from my Lady d’Aubigny and Lady Sophia Murray, a Mr. Alexander Hampden.”
“Any relation to the Parliamentary commander of the same name?”
“He’s John Hampden’s cousin.”
Seward shook his head dismally. “And he can be trusted?”
“His Majesty trusts him, which has to be enough for me. Hampden is going to London to request an answer from Parliament to the King’s demand of last April for the immediate surrender of his ships and forts.” Laurence rose and grabbed his cloak. “I’m losing patience with Falkland. He should let me go after Radcliff and leave this venture to those who are already up to their necks in it.”
“Instead he’s thrusting you back into the lion’s den. When must you depart?”
“The day after tomorrow,” Laurence said, as he wandered over to Seward’s bedchamber and took a glance around.
“If you are hunting for Mistress Savage,” said Seward, “I sent her to Clarke’s house at Asthall. I could not bend College rules indefinitely by keeping her here. She won’t be out of town long. Lord Digby is finding her accommodation.”
“Have they patched up their quarrel?”
“Yes, and a very judicious move of hers it was, too. No one else will look after her as he can.”
“That scheming arsehole only looks after himself. I want to see her before I leave for London.”
“No, Beaumont!” Seward exclaimed. “You cannot be distracted when you are about to undertake a vital assignment for the Secretary of State! My dear fellow, has your infatuation with Mistress Savage blinded you to reality?”
“Excuse me?” Laurence said, raising his eyebrows.
“You understand me perfectly well – as does she. In truth, for a woman, she is remarkably rational on the subject. Though she says she is indebted to you for your late exploit as her knight errant –”
“I must say, Seward, I do resent your discussing any of this with her when I’m not present to contribute to the conversation,” Laurence interrupted acidly. “As for what I did, she did far more for me, intervening with Lady d’Aubigny and putting up with Milne, which could be why she quarrelled with Digby. He can’t have liked her abasing herself with that pig. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she even helped with the testimonial from Prince Rupert and Wilmot.” He stopped, on seeing Seward’s face. “So you knew! Why in God’s name didn’t you say anything?”
“She insisted on my silence. How old are you, Beaumont, thirty or thirteen? If you continue with her, she will have no advantage of it. She is used goods, as she is well aware.”
“How dare you speak of her like that!”
Seward moved forward and seized him by the sleeve. “Will you stop and listen to my advice?”
“Not about her,” said Laurence, and he walked out, slamming the door behind him.
It was a clear afternoon, hot for mid-May, and his horse fairly flew over the distance between Oxford and Asthall. Along the way, he boiled with anger at Seward; at the same time, however, he could not be sure how Isabella would receive him. What if her embrace outside Seward’s window had been merely an impulsive gesture of thanks for taking her away from Milne? She had been almost delirious at the time, and might not even remember that kiss.
When he rode up to Clarke’s house, she emerged from the kitchen garden that bordered it as though he had conjured her up just by thinking of her. Her hair was loose, newly washed and still wet, draped over her shoulders, and she wore an apron and gloves stained with fresh mud.
As he dismounted, she dropped him a curtsey. “Mr. Beaumont, you have caught me again when I am at my most unkempt. I was planting vegetables, a novel experience for me.”
Her tone and mode of address chilled him; the same as at the Blue Boar, he thought to himself. “Are you better?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.” She turne
d away, to the garden; the housekeeper was now approaching them, which gave him hope that propriety rather than indifference was inspiring her cool behaviour this time.
“Good day, madam,” he said, to the housekeeper.
“Mr. Beaumont, we did not expect you,” she said. “My Lord Digby was to send for Mistress Savage. His coach is due tomorrow.” Isabella nodded in confirmation. “Let me wash my hands and I’ll get you a draught of ale, sir,” the woman added. “My boy can tend to your horse.”
“No, thank you, I’ll do it,” Laurence insisted, darting a look at Isabella.
“As you wish, then. You may curry and water him in the barn, and put him out to graze in the far meadow. We’re still safe from horse thieves in these parts. Mistress Savage, you will want to go up and dress your hair for the gentleman.”
“I am not in the least concerned to impress Mr. Beaumont,” Isabella said, removing her soiled gloves and handing them to the housekeeper. “But I should speak with him.” She walked apart from Laurence to the barn, and as he unsaddled his horse she inquired, in the same formal tone, “How was your journey to London?”
“Not much of a success,” he said, starting to brush down the animal’s damp coat.
“Was it to do with the Commission of Array?”
“Partly.”
She asked no more questions, pacing about until he finished his tasks. Then she accompanied him as he led the horse into the meadow and set it free. “I am most grateful to Dr. Seward for sheltering me at the College, and now here,” she remarked, at length.
“Isabella –” he began, but she talked over him.
“Nonetheless, I shall be glad to return to Oxford. After sponsoring your game of cards with Captain Milne, Digby has paid him yet more money to desist from harrying me. And through considerable luck, Digby also found me a small house off the Woodstock Road, since I am not about to move back to my old lodgings. Do you know, it’s over a month and that wound to his leg has still not healed. He has the most incompetent physician –”
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