by Stella Riley
‘Not what, Colonel?’ she asked in a meek tone that he knew wasn’t meek at all.
‘God,’ he muttered, torn between shaking or kissing her and simultaneously realising something. She thought this was a battle of wills but it was more than that; this, whether Lydia knew it or not, was about testing her power over him. And given the delicate stage of their relationship, it would be foolish of him to pretend she didn’t have any.
Dropping a hard, swift kiss on her mouth, he said, ‘All right. I think I may have found a hiding-place we didn’t know existed. But it’s just a guess and I might --’
‘You might be wrong. Yes. I got that bit.’ Her expression was as eager and glowing as that of a child. ‘Equally, you might be right. So tell me.’
He was enjoying the feel of her body against his and, as it always did, the scent of her hair lured him so he leaned a little closer and, the words no more than a warm breath against her ear, whispered, ‘Not … just … yet.’
Despite liking their proximity as much as Eden did, Lydia clung to her argument.
‘No key, then.’
‘Key?’ he murmured absently, nuzzling her hair. ‘What key?’
‘Oh.’ Her knees were starting to go weak so she put her hands against his shoulders and gave him a push. ‘That was a low trick.’
Eden stepped back, grinning. ‘It nearly worked though, didn’t it?’
She shook her head. ‘Tell me more. Where do you think the key fits?’
‘At the lorinery. And that’s enough for now. May I please have it?’
Since she’d already decided that he wasn’t leaving this house alone to test his theory, Lydia decided it was time to give him what he wanted. Crossing to the large carved dresser, she searched in one of the lower cupboards and eventually emerged with the leather box Eden had seen once before.
‘One moment,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I seem to recall … yes.’ He produced the slip of paper lying beneath the large brass object. ‘The only scrap of Stephen’s codes I never decrypted. Let us hope it’s one of the ones I recognise.’
It was and it was very brief. Five minutes later, Eden laughed and looking at Lydia, said, ‘You’re not going to sit quietly by the fire and wait, are you?’
‘Did you honestly expect me to?’
‘No. Truthfully, I don’t think I even hoped for it. So put your hood up and get ready to brave the cold again, Mistress Neville. We’re going to Duck Lane … where we will hopefully find some answers.’
Lydia all but danced over to kiss his cheek. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘What was written on the paper?’
‘Exactly what you said yesterday,’ he replied. ‘Job lived an hundred and forty years--’
‘And died being old and full of days!’ she declaimed with him. ‘Yes!’
* * *
Lanterns still burned in the lorinery against the gathering gloom of the late afternoon. Inside, about half the men were still busy at their benches … the rest, said Mr Potter wryly, were all upstairs keeping watch over Old Job as though they expected it to walk off on its own. Everyone, he added, was refusing to go home until they knew what was afoot.
‘That,’ demurred Eden, ‘isn’t a good idea. There can’t be any talk of this outside.’
‘Won’t be, Colonel,’ said Will Collis flatly. ‘I reckon after everything that’s gone on, we all know about keeping our mouths shut. And there ain’t one man here who’d risk bringing further trouble to Miss Lydia. Not one.’
Eden was happy to take Collis’s word … and those of Buxton and Hayes and a couple of others come to that. It was the remaining fifteen that worried him. However, since Lydia was now half-way up the stairs, he didn’t see what could be done about it. So he sighed and said softly, ‘Mr Potter … you know all these men much better than I. Is Trooper Collis right? Can I rely on everybody’s discretion?’
‘Absolutely, Colonel. No question.’
Upstairs, Lydia was talking animatedly to Nicholas but as soon as Eden appeared, she said, ‘Where do you think it fits? And what will it do?’
‘Patience,’ replied Eden. He gestured for everyone to step back and give him room and then hesitated. He hadn’t intended to turn this into a whole five-act drama; but then he hadn’t intended on doing it before an audience either. So he said, ‘Gentlemen … Mr Potter and Trooper Collis have assured me that none of you will breathe a word of this. I don’t doubt that they are right – but, since it’s a matter of Mistress Neville’s safety, I’d be more comfortable hearing it from you. Like me, you are all fighting men of one sort or another; men who understand the nature and value of a sworn oath. Who will swear an oath of union and secrecy now?’
It seemed to Lydia that something in what he’d said made every man there stand taller. Slowly but without hesitation, she watched every one of them raise a hand. Then Mr Potter said solemnly, ‘Let all who accept the oath say aye.’
‘Aye,’ they said, loudly and firmly.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Eden said simply, ‘Thank you. I’m sure that means as much to Mistress Neville as it does to me. And so … time to find out whether or not I’m clutching at straws.’ He took the big brass key from his pocket, ‘This belonged to Stephen Neville. With it, he kept a scrap of paper bearing the words of Job 42:16-17. I think it fits here.’
And he pushed it into the right-hand cavity.
His audience gasped.
‘As for what it does … well, let’s find out.’ He took a firm grip on the shank of the key and tried to turn it. It didn’t budge. ‘Damn. That serves me right for being dramatic, doesn’t it?’
This provoked some laughter and bits of helpful advice. One man offered to fetch some oil and another told the Colonel to put his back into it. The Colonel, still straining over the immoveable key, muttered something extremely rude which produced even more laughter. Then the oil arrived and Eden yanked the key out in order to lubricate both it and the lock.
‘Right,’ he said, shoving his hair back out of his face. ‘Here goes.’
This time, in response to a good deal of effort and accompanied by a roar of encouragement, the key grudgingly turned in the lock. Eden heard it click home.
Thank you, God. Now please give me something more than spiders.
Bracing himself, he gripped the edges of the frame and pulled. With a groan of protest, one whole section of the cupboard came away from the wall … revealing a shallow recess, lined with shelves.
And on the shelves were just two small brass-bound boxes.
~ * * ~ * * ~
SEVEN
An hour later, Eden, Lydia and Nicholas were half-way back to Cheapside.
Once Old Job had finally given up its secret, the mood inside the lorinery had become almost euphoric and the Colonel had endured a good deal of back-slapping. Aware that, until he knew what was inside those boxes, congratulations were premature, he’d merely smiled and asked if anyone knew how to pick a lock. Luckily, it turned out that Trooper Buxton did. Eden hadn’t wanted to know how and why.
The boxes held numerous folded sheets of paper. With Lydia at his shoulder but refusing to satisfy her curiosity there and then, Eden had gathered them all up and thrust them inside his coat. Then he asked Mr Potter for redundant lorinery correspondence to replace what he’d taken and told Buxton to re-lock the boxes, put them back where they were and return Old Job to its usual state.
Finally, he’d glanced round at the expectant faces and said, ‘I’m not going to read what we’ve found here right now. First, there’s too much of it – and secondly, the sooner it’s away from here, the better for everyone. But I do thank you, gentlemen. If there are answers … and if I find I need further assistance, I’ll know where to look for it.’
Tripping along with her hand on his arm and a dozen questions hovering on her tongue, Lydia said, ‘Why are we going to Cheapside?’
‘Because – even though I don’t yet know what we’ve found – I am not risking it being kept anywhere near you.’
>
‘But you are going to let me read whatever it is, aren’t you?’
‘Is there any way of stopping you?’
She smiled up at him. ‘No.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ grumbled Eden. ‘I don’t know how you’ve won the hearts of those fellows back there – because you frighten the hell out of me.’
‘I do not.’
‘You do. Right now, you’d be sitting snug at home instead of out here in the cold if you hadn’t bullied me into bringing you.’
‘I didn’t bully you,’ objected Lydia, despite being on the edge of laughter.
‘No. I suppose blackmailed is a more apt description.’
‘When the two of you have finished bickering,’ remarked Nicholas, hiding his own smile, ‘what are we hoping to find?’
A name, thought Eden.
‘At the moment, I’m trying not to hope too much for anything – except perhaps that everything inside my coat isn’t in code. If it is, I’ll be slaving over it for a week.’
Since darkness had now fallen and it was beginning to freeze, all three of them were heartily grateful for the roaring fire that greeted them in Cheapside and the hot, spiced wine Mistress Wilkes produced within minutes of their arrival.
Then, without further ado, Eden laid the twin bundles neatly on the table.
‘Since Stephen kept these separate from each other, I suggest we do the same. It would appear that this pile consists of letters and the other, of dated notes.’ Looking round, he said, ‘Lydia … you take the letters. I suspect you’ll find them more interesting. Nick and I will make a start on the other stuff. Mercifully, nothing I’ve seen so far is encrypted.’
Nodding, Lydia took the heap of letters away to the fireside settle while Eden and Nicholas faced each across the table. For a long time there was silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the rustle of paper. Then Nicholas said, ‘Hell!’
‘What?’ asked Lydia.
He stared across at Eden and it was a moment before he answered. Then, ‘Is yours the same as this? Notes and theories about somebody he refers to as Daemon?’
‘Yes – though mostly what I have here are questions about the clients of an organisation he calls the Sabura.’
‘It’s not an organisation,’ said Nicholas grimly.
‘I know. Mr Neville’s choice of name told me that.’
‘Will one of you please explain?’ demanded Lydia.
‘In ancient Rome, the Sabura district was known for housing depravity of every kind. The natural conclusion is that Stephen’s talking about the worst kind of brothel.’
‘Are some worse than others?’
‘Yes,’ replied Eden. ‘Trust me, Lydia … you don’t want details.’
‘Mr Neville did,’ said Nicholas. ‘It appears to have taken him a long time to get them but they’re all listed here. Meticulously.’
‘Does he say where it is?’
‘Not precisely. But there’s a reference to St Olave’s … and something I don’t understand that’s apparently seething.’
Eden looked up. ‘St Olave’s is on Crutched Friars – just around the corner from Seething Lane, just below Tower Hill. If that’s it, we can find it – though I hope it doesn’t become necessary.’
‘Does this man Daemon own it?’ asked Lydia.
‘I think it’s safe to assume so, yes. What are the letters?’
‘The history of a love affair – and all from the same woman. I’ve put them in order. The earliest one is dated March 1620 and the last, May 1649 – though the correspondence isn’t continuous. There are gaps, sometimes of years.’ She looked up, her eyes expressionless. ‘Stephen’s first wife died in childbed in the summer of 1618 and he married me in the autumn of ’48. I suspected there might be someone in his past but not that it might have gone on for nearly thirty years.’
‘Does she sign her name?’
‘No. That would make everything far too simple, wouldn’t it? Besides, she’s married – so she calls herself Persephone. And even I know who that is.’
‘Then read on and hope you find a clue,’ said Eden. ‘All these classical allusions must fall apart somewhere.’
Silence fell again. And the next time, it was Lydia who broke it.
‘Here’s something. It’s August 1621 and she’s expecting a baby.’
Eden laid down the list he was currently perusing.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said dryly. ‘The child is Stephen’s but she’s going to pass it off as her husband’s?’
‘She doesn’t say so – but we can’t discount the possibility.’ She shot him a worried look and then, relieved to see that he merely looked sardonic, turned quickly to the next letter and said, ‘It was a boy, born in February 1622.’
It was Nicholas’s turn to look mildly shocked.
‘Her husband’s heir was sired by Stephen Neville?’
‘Not necessarily. We don’t know he was her first child.’ She scanned the next letter. ‘Two years on, she’s had another son … but there are no clues to this one’s paternity either. The trouble is that sometimes she writes retrospectively which means any dates she gives don’t tell us much.’ She sighed and looked up. ‘I don’t see how this is helping.’
‘It might not be,’ agreed Eden, ‘or it might turn out to be crucial. At this stage, it’s impossible to say – so I suggest we all lay anything we think may be even vaguely significant to one side for consideration later.’
‘You haven’t told us what you’ve got,’ remarked Nicholas absently.
‘A list of clients of the Sabura that Stephen believed Daemon was blackmailing. These gentlemen are only identified by their initials or, in some cases, by their position. Three are MPs which means they had to have been members of the Rump. One is an under-secretary to what I believe may be the Army Council; another works in the victualling office and a third is an alderman. With a little effort, I imagine we could put names to all of them – but it’s likely to be a waste of time. If they’ve been paying someone to keep their dark secrets, they’re hardly going to admit it to us, are they?’
The three of them went back to work. After a while, Nicholas announced that Stephen now suspected Daemon of other unspecified crimes; and a little later, Lydia remarked that Persephone was becoming concerned about the behaviour and character of one of her sons.
‘It’s 1636 and she writes that “At times, young as he is, I glimpse something in him that I do not know how to name but which alarms me. Behind the charm, something quite different seems to look out of his eyes. And yet my husband sees no fault in him and, indeed, indulges him beyond all good sense, to the detriment of the other”.’ Lydia looked up, frowning. ‘Which son is she talking about, do you think?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Nicholas put down the paper he’d been holding. ‘I’m past thinking at all. It’s late, Eden. My concentration is slipping and I’m for bed. We can’t possibly get through all this tonight anyway.’
Eden glanced at the clock. It was a quarter after eleven. He stood up and said quickly, ‘Lydia – I’m so sorry. I ought to have taken you home hours ago.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does. It was damned thoughtless of me.’ He turned, saying, ‘Go to bed, Nick. I won’t need you.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes. I’ll go armed.’ And when Nicholas had bidden them both a sleepy ‘goodnight’ and set off upstairs, he said, ‘Get your cloak and we’ll go now. Unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘The chamber you used the other night should still be made up and it will take no time at all to light a fire there. But if you’d rather go home, we should set off immediately.’
Lydia thought of the cold, dark streets. In particular, she thought of Eden walking back through those streets alone. And finally she thought something else she refused to acknowledge. She said, ‘I think I’d prefer to stay – if that would be all right.’
‘It would be a relief,’
he admitted. ‘I don’t relish the idea of going out again tonight any more than you must do. Help yourself to wine and stay here in the warm. I’m not disturbing Alice at this time of night so I’ll see to the fire myself.’
When he had gone, Lydia sat by the hearth cradling a glass in her hands and staring into the flames, half excited and half nervous. Would he share her bed or wouldn’t he? The fact that there was nothing to stop him doing so suggested that he might; but the fact that he clearly didn’t intend her to spend the night in his own chamber suggested otherwise. The only thing she was certain of was that it wasn’t up to her to offer; it was up to him to ask.
Eden returned and joined her at the fireside.
‘By the time you’ve finished your wine it should be reasonably warm up there. You must be exhausted.’
‘No. Oddly enough, I’m not. I think it’s the excitement of finally finding Stephen’s papers. How did you guess there was a hiding place behind Old Job?’
‘Purely by chance,’ he shrugged. ‘Something I hope you’ve realised – and the main reason we’re not walking to Bishopsgate right now – is that, since we have the papers, Quinn is still on the hunt.’
‘I’d realised it,’ she sighed, ‘but not really thought about it.’
‘Then do so now. From this point on, you follow my rules to the letter. And if you’re tempted to risk your own safety by deviating from them in any way, try to remember that you’ll be risking my neck as well as your own.’
‘I know – and I won’t. I promise.’
‘Good. Now drink your wine and tell me what you make of Persephone.’
‘I think she loved Stephen very much. The terms in which she mourns their long partings and the knowledge that they can never be together are … very moving. And since the relationship out-lasted the love affair by many years, along with the fact that he kept her letters, suggests that Stephen felt the same.’
He nodded. ‘Go on. What about their son?’
‘Well, it was natural that she should send Stephen news of him, wasn’t it? I just wish she wrote more clearly so we knew whether it was his son she had concerns about or the other.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘However, I am beginning to wonder if the presence of the letters isn’t just coincidence.’