Most Secret

by John Dickson Carr

  “Oh, this is wicked!” Dolly burst out.

  “Come, madam—”

  “It is wicked and cruel and unfair, and it’s just my luck too!”

  “Madam, these rings …”

  “Oh, so-and-so your rings!” Tears rose to the brown eyes; Dolly’s mouth trembled. “I would have done so much for him, and now I can’t. Dost know,” she addressed Bygones Abraham, “dost know what I did, or tried to do, ere the New Exchange should close at nine? I went there and bought him a shirt: a silk shirt with frills on it!”

  “Another shirt, is it?” breathed Bygones. “Oh, ecod!”

  “And a cloak with a pink satin lining. And I would have got him a set of clothes, and shoes as well, save that I could not tell the size …!”

  “Madam—” the king began.

  “It had a pink satin lining!” cried Dolly, completely carried away. “The cloak had a pink satin lining. Was ever such ill-fortune in all this world?”

  “God’s fish!” said King Charles the Second “All honest men, madam, will share your misery in the matter of the pink satin lining. Yet you should moderate these transports and your voice. Your presence here tonight is doubtless known. From this fact, coupled with my own failure to be present in the Gallery, divers inferences will be drawn. I do not object to a general belief that I am attempting to captivate you. But I must beg you not to make it appear that I am murdering you in assailing your virtue.”

  “Dolly—” interposed Kinsmere.

  “No, no; go ’way!”

  “Enough of this!” the king said sharply. “You have wits in your head, madam. Have you no notion of what else may be occurring around me? Can you make no helpful suggestion at all?”

  “I w-would know, then, why there are so many soldiers here tonight?”

  “Soldiers? Are there soldiers?”

  Dolly, who had pressed a handkerchief to her nose, merely looked at him through tears.

  “Well!” said the king, drawing a deep breath and again getting up. “Let me be as honest as I am capable of being. We walk amid rogues and knaves; yes, and amid dangers too. There has been no violence here since the days of old Harry the Eighth; and I anticipate none now, yet—”

  There was a sharp plink as something struck an upper pane of the window above the Volary Garden. Bygones Abraham was on his feet, rapier halfway out of its scabbard.

  “Come, man, this is not needful! Put by your sword until we have some use for it. But it may be that I have set something of a trap. And I think the trap is sprung.”

  King Charles went to the window, peered out, and made a gesture. Then, moving well to the left of the window, he set open that very inconspicuous door leading to the long stairway hidden between inner and outer wall. He went out on the little landing of this stairway, leaving the door open, and peered down into gloom. Footfalls on stone steps could be heard mounting at a rapid pace, amid echoes rolling inside the walls.

  The king bent forward and spoke softly.

  “Ensign Westcott?”

  “Your Majesty?”

  Up into sight, though still shadowed, appeared a hard-eyed young officer of Foot Guards, with black periwig and narrow line of moustache like the king’s own. He held a drawn sword in his right hand, and clutched his hat to his head with the other.

  The king made a further gesture, whereat Ensign Westcott bent close and whispered in a rapid mumble.

  “Where? When?”

  Another rapid mumble.

  “God’s fish, is it so? Did you make search of his person?”

  “A little money, Your Majesty, and a key. Nothing else.”

  “Return the money to his pockets. Give me the key.”

  Mumbled questions drove at the curls of the king’s periwig.

  “Do with him, God’s fish? For the moment, at least, let him be held below in the garden. I will give instructions presently. And for this aid much thanks.” Booted footsteps went clattering back down. King Charles returned, closing the door behind him.

  “Yes, the trap is truly sprung. They have taken Rab Butterworth.”

  “Taken Rab Butterworth!” exclaimed Bygones Abraham. “Ecod, sire—!”

  “He would have left us in haste by way of the public water stairs, with the key to my writing desk in his pocket. Save that guards were posted there in case he did. Mr. Butterworth said he was on an errand for me—and lied.”

  A look less than amiable had pinched down the king’s eyelids and deepened the furrows from his nostrils: Holding out a small key in the palm of his hand, he tossed the key into the air and caught it again.

  “I have been much vexed,” he continued, “by a certain flow of information from the state apartments themselves. Should my love letters to Julia or Araminta be thus indecorously unveiled? But could I damn a man without proof? Nay, that were too much! He must damn himself.

  “Enough: I will be less fanciful and come to business. Leagued against us—ask Madam Landis—we have a band of malcontents and their plotter-in-chief. These would most passionately desire to know whether this night I had intent to send a messenger or messengers to France. If honest Butterworth were not so honest, he would listen with all his ears and then make haste to carry away the news. I gave him opportunity to listen, though not hear too much, by sending him on a useless errand to the Gallery. Useless, I do assure you! In the Gallery they have already their instructions. Music and cardplay, as well, are to begin precisely at nine-thirty. And the time now …”

  He strode back towards the writing desk. From the direction of the Great Bedchamber, past a door imperfectly shut, rose the fluid chimes of a wall clock striking the half hour after nine. Another joined it, and then another. Several clocks were striking at once, including Old Tom in the Palace Yard, when the music of a string trio could be heard too. Distant and yet clear in night-stillness, past windows curtained but open, it rose with the strains of “I Pass All My Hours in a Shady Old Grove.”

  “Yes, yes,” the king said rather snappishly, “I wrote the words to that song. Pray don’t commend me again; I wish now I had not. Besides, we have affairs at hand.”

  He unlocked the desk and raised its lid. Taking out two sheets of thick plain foolscap, he lowered the desk lid and put them down.

  “Before I give you precise commands, gentlemen, I confess this matter of the conspirators troubles me not a little. As regards the identity of the plotter-in-chief I am in some doubt. As for the smaller fry, of whom fortunately there are not many, I could hazard more than a guess. Butterworth? Ay: proved! There is a crawling Puritan called Salvation Gaines …”

  “Oh, ecod!” roared Bygones Abraham. “Your Majesty has good cause to be troubled. With Gaines here this night …”

  “The fellow is here? God’s fish, why does none tell me these things? He may come and go without hindrance, true; shall I close my hand until I have hanging evidence? Still, notwithstanding—!”

  “Sire, he is close at hand! He would have lured this lad away on a fool’s pretext. I will take my oath he carries another—”

  Bygones never finished. Sudden commotion erupted in the garden below. It was not loud, and was soon checked. But they heard a gasp, followed by choking or thrashing sounds, an oath, smothered speech, and two lowered but desperate voices speaking articulate words:

  “Where?”

  “Through the arch behind you! Run, but make no noise!”

  There was another sharp ping as a pebble struck an upper pane of the window and then rattled down on the sill. The king whipped round. Kinsmere, who had been looking at Dolly, jumped to his feet with a cold premonition it needed no soothsaying to induce.

  The door to the hidden stairway was now open, and King Charles stood on the landing. Booted footsteps pounded upstairs at a run, yet it seemed minutes before Ensign Westcott appeared out of gloom. This time the king did not trouble to gesture for a whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “By God and His holy angels,” said the pale-faced young officer, “I swear th
is could not have been prevented. And yet he made escape!”

  “Butterworth made escape?”

  “Not so, may it please Your Majesty. Butterworth stood between Thompson and Sergeant Drake, they each holding one of his arms. They did not observe one who crept on them unawares, from the back. See, here’s blood on my own hand; yet I did but touch him when he fell forward!”

  “Who fell forward? What of Butterworth?”

  “He is dead or dying, may it please you. He was stabbed. Through the back of the neck. With a bone-handled knife.”

  * A coach with glass windows, a comparatively recent innovation.

  XIII

  THE TOO-SUGARY MUSIC TINKLED in the distance. A light breath of wind sent golden ripplings along the candle flames.

  “Under favour, Your Majesty, look not so black as a thundercloud! I swear this could not be helped. And yet, if I am to blame …”

  “Nobody blames you, Ensign Westcott But—did you see this assassin who stabbed Butterworth?”

  “Only a glimpse of his back, Your Majesty. He did bolt under the arch and into a passage west through the palace. Thompson was after him at once; Thompson is fleet of foot, and will be like to overtake him.”

  “What was he like, in the glimpse you had of his back?”

  “Middle size; dark clothes; iron-grey periwig, but moved like a younger man. And must have much blood on him.”

  Kinsmere, remembering a man of this description, was about to intervene. But it was not necessary.

  “Ensign, our assassin must be found. Is the sergeant still below?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Bid him convey word to your captain. All guards at ways out of the palace should be warned. Inside, a search must be made for such a man with blood on him. Whether or not he is guilty, there is one person who must be sought, found, and brought to me for questioning. His name is Salvation Gaines. He—”

  “I know the fellow; I have seen him!”

  “Good! Look to it at once. Was the knife left in the victim’s neck? As with Harker? You nodded? Good! Fetch it out and bring it to me. First see that it be well cleansed.”

  “Your Majesty, I swear—”

  “Come, man, you shall incur no blame! Look to your duties; that is all.”

  The ensign clattered downstairs. Sombre, dark of humour, the lines deepening in his face, King Charles returned to his cabinet and faced the other three.

  “God’s fish, what a pass we are come to! I would I had more knowledge in the handling of these matters, and may yet have need to call for Sir Orlando Bridgeman. Howbeit, we must do what we can. Madam Landis, I would not too much distress you with talk of blood or knifings …”

  “Nay, sire, I am not overmuch distressed. And shall I of all people be affrighted at what is against the law?”

  “Or the rest of us either, for that matter? Now, gentlemen, as touches your mission to France.”

  A sardonic smile twisted the king’s mouth. He went to his writing desk and sat down.

  “I will tell you as much as is needful. Pray believe me that I dare tell no more. Time and arrangements have already been altered. They must be altered a little still more. It may require an hour or so to lay hand on this assassin. Once he is taken and questioned, we should learn much of interest. You had better not go until midnight, either of you. That is near enough to Mr. Abraham’s usual time of departure, when he goes downriver to the sloop Saucy Ann. You, Mr. Kinsmere, since you are new to this work …”

  “By your leave, sire: we go to Paris?”

  “To Calais only. The situation stands thus. Near the sloop Saucy Ann are anchored two warships: Royal Standard, fifty-eight guns, and Rupert, fifty guns, but these are not to be employed for several days. Some part of the French court is now in the north, at Dunkirk.”

  “They are at Dunkirk, and therefore we go to Calais?”

  “Even so. You will learn in a moment that the matter is not mysterious. You speak French, of course?”

  “Only stumbling, sire, and after a fashion.”

  “Tush, lad!” interjected another rumbling voice. “With me to aid ye—”

  “Yes, Mr. Abraham, yes! Your linguistic achievements are well known. Yet you travel by different ways, remember.”

  “I said, Sire, that my own speaking of the French language …”

  “Well, well!” the king remarked indulgently. “The lady with whom you will deal, Mr. Kinsmere, is English. She is my young sister, the Princess Henrietta Anne; she is married to a fantastical character, the French king’s brother, whom I could wish to perdition and beyond. So far as the language is concerned, it will suffice if you can manage, ‘An English admirer begs leave to speak with Madame.’”

  “‘An English admirer begs leave to speak with Madame.’”

  “Yes. On the success of your mission depends the issue of whether Madame d’Orleans shall be permitted to visit this country a few days hence. Should it befall according to plan, on Monday of next week our men-o’-war Royal Standard and Rupert will sail for Dunkirk to escort her to Dover. Meanwhile, in a French ship called La Gloire, Madame d’Orleans pays a brief visit to Calais for the express purpose of a meeting with my messengers. Why, you will ask?”

  “But I don’t ask!”

  “God’s fish, why not? Dunkirk and Calais are no great distance apart. My cousin Louis believes a meeting will attract less attention so. He also thinks Calais to be his ‘fortunate town,’ as I have heard him call it. When Madame d’Orleans shall be at Dover, where I propose to meet her next week, the King of France will be throned in state at Calais should we have need to—to confer with him. Eh, the dignity of my cousin Louis! Now, Mr. Kinsmere …”

  “Sire?”

  “At the quarter hour to midnight, then, you and Bygones Abraham will return here and receive what you are to carry. You already have a horse, which will not be needed. Another horse will be provided; it will be saddled and waiting in the Great Court at midnight precisely. At the top of King Street, near my father’s statue, Captain Mather of the Horse Guards Blue will also be waiting. Captain Mather will ride with you east through the City and across London Bridge to Southwark, where he will put you on the road to Dover.

  “From London to Dover is something under eighty miles. Here,” and the king fished through his pockets, “here, writ on a scrap of paper which the late Rab Butterworth has not seen, are the names of three inns between London and Dover. At each of these inns a fresh horse will be provided when you show your ring. Arrived at Dover, you will seek Grand Neptune Wharf and an inn called the Easy Mariners. Here you will find a French shipmaster, Captain Souter, whose English is fluent as Mr. Abraham’s French. Captain Souter will carry you across the Straits, and tell you what to do on the other side. Is all that clear?”

  “Very clear.”

  “Repeat your instructions.”

  Kinsmere did so.

  “That is well; the rest I leave to you. I need not stress the difficulties or dangers in your path. Ride hard, but beware of traps; there are those would stop you at any cost. Nor need I stress—”

  All were wrought to such a pitch that all started when there was a light knock outside the door to the hidden stairway. King Charles rose and opened it, revealing the dogged but still uneasy face of Ensign Westcott.

  “Well, man? Have you found—?”

  “Humbly craving pardon, Your Majesty, but we must be permitted a little time!”

  “Have I pressed you so sharply?”

  “No, Your Majesty, but—! The search goes forward; the palace is a large place; there are those in the Gallery who protest at being questioned or examined. None has been discovered in any fashion blood-stained, but this is only a question of time.”

  “What of Salvation Gaines?”

  “He has not been seen, or made attempt to leave the palace; indeed, with all guards warned, he can’t escape; but this also, if I might urge it upon you, is only a matter of time!”

  “Return to the searc
h, then.”

  “Right willingly, Your Majesty, and at once. However, you did ask for this.”

  Across the palm of his hand he held out a knife with a bone haft; haft and blade had been washed and then scoured with sand. King Charles took the knife as the door closed, and turned it over in his fingers. It was a lightweight knife with a blade some six inches long, very sharp and tapering to a sword point.

  “Body o’ Pilate!” said Bygones Abraham. “If Your Majesty looks to find initials—”

  “No; I but wondered at the nature of the weapon. It is not truly a weapon. Such knives are carried by most scriveners. My clerks use them for cutting quills.”

  “Mr. Scrivener Salvation Gaines. Oh, ecod, do we need more proof than this?”

  “No more proof, but the man himself. And we will have him.”

  With a twitch of repulsion King Charles threw the knife on the desk, where it clattered down beside the thick sheets of writing paper and the two gold-and-sapphire rings.

  “And now, Madam Landis and gentlemen, since I myself have much work which must be finished before midnight, I will beg leave to be excused. You, madam, trouble me not a little. Though I apprehend no great danger to yourself, yet you have learned more of these plotters’ affairs than it is good for any woman to know. I had better send you home in a glass-coach, with running footmen to make sure you suffer no harm.”

  “If I may speak, sire,” interposed Kinsmere, “would it not be possible for Dol—for Madam Landis herself to remain here until midnight?”

  “It would be more than possible. It shall be so arranged.”

  “And if I may speak—?” cried Dolly.

  “Yes, Madam?”

  For all her air of would-be ease, Dolly had flinched and gone pale when the knife was handed over. She still would not look at it, but she would not look at Kinsmere either. She rose from her chair, taking the cloak off its arm. Candlelight lay softly on her brown hair; it warmed the returning colour of face and throat and shoulders. Yet there was something on her mind.