Blood On the Stone

by Jake Lynch

  ‘Yes, we’re just settling in to our new office…’

  ‘…but it’s rather small. If we didn’t know better we’d say this was some kind of…’

  ‘Cleaners’ cupboard!’ Bob Tim and Bob Sim cried in unison.

  ‘Well, I daresay it was the best that could be done in the circumstances,’ Luke said. ‘Now, if you’d be good enough to let me have that file on Harbord…’

  ‘Yes, we’ve found it, sir,’ Bob Tim said perkily.

  ‘Ah, good.’ Luke waited, but nothing happened.

  ‘There’s just one problem.’

  ‘A problem, sir,’ Bob Sim concurred. ‘When they moved us in here, the files were all brought up by the Bodleian porters.’

  ‘Great, big, tall men sir,’ Bob Tim added helpfully. ‘And the member files, sir – are up there…’

  ‘…on that shelf.’ Bob Sim once more completed the sentence.

  Only now he had picked his way into the room did Luke notice that the Bobs were standing on either end of a long wooden box marked Committees, T-Z, 1679. As they stepped down to point out the high shelf, they revealed themselves to be not only attired in identical grey suits, but also both around the five-foot mark in height. All eyes turned to the strapping Robshaw, who pulled a chair over to the wall beneath the shelf, mounted it with a grunt and – under the Bobs’ direction – located and took down the file on William Harbord MP.

  ‘Educated at Leiden, it says here,’ Luke remarked as he started to read.

  ‘The University of Leiden, sir, yes,’ Bob Tim confirmed.

  ‘In Holland, sir,’ his colleague added. The Bobs, Luke realised, were not going to let him peruse the file in peace, but instead stood vigilant, heads slightly tilted like mistle-thrushes sighting a worm, ready to enlighten him on any point of parliamentary procedure. The further he read, the longer the list grew of men whom Harbord had attacked or antagonised.

  ‘Served on the committee to impeach Danby, I see.’

  ‘Lord Danby, yes sir.’

  ‘In ’79, sir,’ the Bobs chorused. Luke turned the next page.

  ‘Danby was Treasurer, wasn’t he? It says here that he was trying to get MPs to approve public spending for a standing army…’

  ‘Ah, but what did he want it for, sir?’ Bob Tim interrupted.

  ‘There were those letters, sir,’ Bob Sim continued, reaching out to turn the page again. ‘Letters sent in secret but then read out loud to the House…’

  ‘…proving he was trying to make a peace deal with Louis, on the King’s orders,’ Bob Tim completed the story.

  ‘So if his army was not intended for war with France, what was it for?’ Luke wondered.

  ‘Why, sir, to do away with Parliament altogether, and enforce absolute rule from the Palace,’ Bob Sim explained. ‘Or, so ’twas said.’

  ‘Of course, Danby didn’t help himself, sir,’ Bob Tim chimed in. ‘Didn’t believe in the Popish Plot.’

  ‘Many don’t, you know sir, in private – but Danby never bothered to hide it,’ Bob Sim added.

  ‘In the Tower of London now, sir,’ Bob Tim informed them, dolefully.

  Then, Luke saw as he read further in the file, Harbord was named as the source of allegations in Parliament that Samuel Pepys, an MP and senior Admiralty clerk, had conspired to sell naval secrets to the French. He remembered the episode as one that occasioned some disquiet in the Sandys household, since Pepys was in charge of the department where their son-in-law, Roger, was employed. They’d been relieved when it appeared to blow over.

  ‘Well, our man certainly seems to have made plenty of enemies,’ he said at last, closing the file and handing it back.

  Chapter 13

  A Rabble is Roused

  Taking their leave of the Bobs – ‘Do come back, sirs… If you need any more help, sirs’ – Sandys and Robshaw made their way down Queen’s Lane. This brought them out on the unofficial ‘Tory end’ of the High Street. In search of another perspective on Harbord and his manoeuvrings, they entered Tillyard’s coffeehouse on the corner. Ignoring the traditional greeting of ‘What news?’ as they stood in the doorway, Luke peered through the tobacco smoke for any familiar faces, alighting on a company of apparently well-to-do characters seated around a table at the far side. ‘Excuse me, sir – is it Richard Jones?’ he asked, as they approached.

  The man seated by the window was dressed and bewigged in Cavalier fashion, and wore an expression that somehow combined elements of both smirk and sneer.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he drawled. ‘Do we know each other?’

  ‘Slightly, sir. Luke Sandys – we met when attending demonstrations by Robert Boyle, when he was in Oxford. Pressure of gas and air.’

  ‘So we did!’ Jones replied. ‘Student days,’ he explained briefly to his companions.

  ‘You were engaged to Boyle’s sister, I seem to recall?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s Lady Ranelagh now, of course, since I came into the title.’

  ‘Oh! I beg your pardon, my Lord.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, dear boy. So – how may I be of service?’

  ‘It’s about William Harbord, my Lord. He was killed last night outside a tavern opposite Christ Church, where the Royal party is staying.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that. Can’t say I see him as a great loss to Parliament. And it comes to be your business how, exactly?’

  ‘We’re investigating the murder, my Lord – we’re constables of the Oxford Bailiffs.’

  ‘How madly interesting for you. And you want to know if I can think of anyone from our side of politics who might have – how shall I put it? – eased Harbord from this vale of tears?’

  ‘Quite so, my Lord.’

  While Robshaw took a seat on a neighbouring table with some of his cronies, taking a mug of ale and the chance of a pull on his pipe, Luke drew up a chair to join Lord Ranelagh’s party.

  ‘What brings you to Oxford, my Lord, may I ask?’

  ‘I rode down with the King, from Windsor. My estate lies over that way.’

  ‘I thought you were something in Ireland now?’

  ‘Why yes, you could say I am something,’ he replied, amused. ‘Treasurer in His Majesty’s government, to be precise. Trying to bring some semblance of civilisation to that benighted place.’

  ‘And the Parliament here?’ Luke wondered. The peer’s eyes grew cold, and his hand shifted to the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve come to Oxford to see fair play.’

  ‘How so?’ At this, one of his cronies, who was listening to the conversation, joined in.

  ‘What we have here, sir, is an attempt to impose rule by the mob. It must not stand. It will not stand!’ The others around the table murmured agreement.

  Luke sensed that, beneath their show of nonchalance, these men had been badly rattled by the dispute between Crown and Parliament.

  ‘The mob can be turned on anyone, these days, sir,’ one of them was saying. ‘Look at what happened to poor Pepys.’

  ‘Samuel Pepys is a good man,’ Ranelagh said, leaning in. ‘But he’s spent the past two years in Parliament fending off unfounded allegations from Harbord and his gang, that he sold secrets to the French, when in fact his only “crime” has been to impose some order on the Admiralty.’

  ‘No easy task,’ his companion chipped in. ‘No wonder he didn’t stand again for election.’

  ‘Ah, so Pepys is not in Oxford,’ Luke thought aloud. ‘What about the other men Harbord targeted? Lord Danby is not here either, I think… could one of his friends have sought revenge?’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Ranelagh returned crisply. ‘Danby never had many friends.’

  ‘None at all now he’s in the Tower,’ the other speaker added.

  *

  As the constables left Queen’s Lane and strode westward towards the Guildhall, progress slowed and the crowd palpably thickened.

  ‘’Tis our “friend” from the Green Ribbon Club,’ Robshaw said, as the unmistaka
ble tones of political speech-making made themselves audible.

  ‘Good people of Oxford! Well you know the cruelties of Popery. Well you remember brave Bishop Latimer, and valiant Bishop Ridley. Traduced, and wronged! Bound and incarcerated, in the Bocardo, the very prison at the north gate of your fine city!’

  Sure enough, Edward Norton MP stood out above the mass of faces, from his vantage point atop a portable set of wooden steps, and set about the task of whipping up the crowd to fever pitch.

  ‘They stood for the one true faith! They stood against heresy, infamy and treason!’ At each ringing phrase, the cheers grew louder. ‘And you remember Archbishop Cranmer. They tortured him. They made him sign away his faith, and his honour.’ There were groans at this reminder of the most famous of the Oxford Martyrs, burned at the stake under ‘Bloody Mary’, Queen Mary Tudor who had reigned over a century earlier, England’s last Roman Catholic sovereign.

  ‘But they could never break his spirit. He came back at the last to the true Church, and plunged his hand into the flames – the unworthy hand that wrote his false confessions!’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Robshaw said. ‘Don’t do no good getting folks all het up.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Luke said. ‘And I’m afraid I know what’s coming next.’

  Sure enough, Norton now switched tack to bring his narrative up to date.

  ‘And today, we have another martyr. Another martyr in the righteous struggle against Popery. William Harbord – a true man of the people. A Member of Parliament, here to take up that struggle for King and country. Martyred here in Oxford, on your very doorstep!’

  ‘’Twas The Unicorn’s doorstep, jackanapes,’ Robshaw growled. But Norton was out of earshot, and his audience was rapt.

  ‘Martyred – yea, murdered, last night, while good folk were safe in their beds! And some of our men of government still want to put the Crown of England back on the head of a Popish King.’

  Now the shouts of anger were accompanied by weapons being brought out, and waved above their heads by the mob – sticks and staves, a pitchfork or two, but also the flash of an occasional edged blade.

  ‘Right, that’s enough,’ Luke said. He and Robshaw drew their staves, and began to push their way through the press to where Norton was standing.

  ‘Even a Mahometan would be preferable on the throne of England!’ he was proclaiming. ‘We know the bands of nature, morality and honour have been sacred even unto Heathens, but never to Papists!’

  ‘I think that’s a suitable climax to your speech,’ Luke shouted, while Robshaw positioned himself in front of the portable steps. The blackamoor from The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well was now revealed as a tall, imposing figure, whose well-cut coat in a plum colour hugged his broad shoulders and tapering upper body. He made as though to defend the speaker, but several other constables had now appeared from behind; evidently alarmed, as Sandys and Robshaw had been, at the turn events had taken. Even Norton seemed somewhat startled at the animated response to his words, and decided to finish while he was ahead. He stepped down.

  ‘I’d be obliged, sir, if you would take your men back to The Unicorn, and wait there till this all calms down,’ Luke yelled, above the tumult.

  ‘I will be heard, sir,’ Norton shot back querulously. ‘I have a right to be heard. Never interfere with our liberties.’

  ‘I respect your liberties, sir, but I hope you also wish to help us in keeping the King’s peace here.’

  At this, Norton faltered.

  ‘Very well sir, we shall do as you ask. Come along, gentlemen.’ To Luke’s relief, the meeting began to break up and the Green Ribbons headed back towards Fish Street, apparently satisfied with their day’s work.

  ‘You was too soft on him,’ Robshaw said. ‘Never mind helping us keep the peace, you should’ve had him up for breach of the peace.’

  Luke leant on his stave and let out a deep breath. ‘Modus vivendi, Robshaw. Modus vivendi.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Master Sandys.’

  Chapter 14

  The Colonel in his Cups

  Behind the opposite side of the High Street from where Luke and Robshaw were interviewing Lord Ranelagh, Captain Edwin Sandys was at that moment presenting himself to the Porter’s Lodge at Merton College.

  ‘Here to see the Colonel.’

  ‘The Colonel?’

  ‘Yes – the Earl of Oxford,’ he said, realising his commanding officer might not now be in regimental colours. The porter on duty suddenly craned forward from behind the desk to peer at him from beneath a pair of bushy grey eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t I recognise you, young sir? From the time that there table got brought in, for the Warden?’

  As young fellows, Ed and Luke had joined their father in a major logistical exercise. The Warden of Merton, Thomas Clayton, had ordered a dining table, which he insisted should be fashioned from a single piece of oak. When it came to be delivered, however, it proved too big to be taken up the stairs to his dining hall. So, the brothers helped as old Samuel Sandys rigged up an ingenious arrangement with poles, some rope, and a block and tackle, to bring it in over the balcony instead.

  ‘You might very well,’ Ed smiled. ‘Is he here now, then, Master Clayton? I would pay my respects.’

  ‘Don’t want to be doing that, sir,’ the old man shook his head. ‘He ain’t a respectable gentleman. Anyhow, he’s away on his estate, down in Wiltshire. Loaned out his apartments to the Court.’ Even as a youth, Ed now recalled, he had been dimly aware of Clayton’s reputation for debauchery, with particular emphasis on what his father always called ‘the devil’s nectar’.

  ‘That there table has seen some terrible things, sir, I can tell thee,’ the old man continued. ‘Number of wine bottles coming through that dining room, when Master Clayton was in residence, why, ’twould make your hair stand on end.’

  Finally managing to disentangle himself from the reminiscences at the porter’s lodge, Ed found the famous oaken board in service once again. A group of courtiers had evidently repaired to the lodgings to carry on the party after the official banquet at the Guildhall to welcome His Majesty to the city. Ed clenched his teeth at the strong aroma of drink and tobacco smoke as he picked his way among card tables and empty bottles to the corner where the Colonel – Aubrey de Vere, 20th Earl of Oxford – sat among his political cronies.

  ‘Sandys! Good man, good man. Have a drink.’

  ‘Sir, I felt it right to alert you; a Member of Parliament’s been murdered, here in Oxford, last night – shortly after we arrived.’

  ‘May God preserve his soul,’ the Earl pronounced distinctly. ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘Not really, Colonel, a man of Whiggish sympathies – William Harbord of Thetford, in Norfolk. Could be trouble – he was with the Green Ribbon Club.’

  ‘Hmph – Shaftesbury’s bastards,’ the Colonel grunted, his eyes narrowing. ‘Banging on about this wretched Popish Plot.’

  ‘Knavish Plot, more like,’ one of his companions snorted.

  ‘A plot by knaves, sir, to harry and persecute their betters,’ another chimed in. ‘Some men will only be satisfied when the whole House sinks to their own level of mediocrity.’

  Ed’s arrival had now caught the attention of the assembled company. A louche character, dressed in Cavalier fashion, draped his lace-cuffed hand over the back of a chair next to the Colonel and leered at Sandys.

  ‘And who’s this f-fine young f-fellow?’ he slurred.

  ‘William Harbord,’ another chimed in.

  ‘No sir, that’s the man who’s been killed,’ Ed replied.

  ‘It’s the end of Harbord! No more Harbord,’ the first courtier teased, affecting a melodramatic tone.

  ‘You’ll have to shteer the shhhh-ip of shhh-tate hard-a-port, de Vere,’ another brayed.

  ‘Why so, my Lord?’ asked a heavily made-up young woman, in coquettish, faux-naïf style, from her place next to him on a plush satin sofa. The foppish-looking speaker waited till all eyes were on hi
m.

  ‘Becaush there’sh no more hard-a-shtarboard!’ he finished triumphantly – at which the entire company burst into uproarious laughter at the weak joke, amid cries of ‘more ale!’ and ‘pass the canary!’

  Surmising that he was unlikely to derive much sense from his commanding officer while in his cups, Captain Sandys withdrew.

  ‘Thank you, dear boy,’ was the Colonel’s only further comment on the situation – but at least he’d been informed, and would no doubt, when sober, feed the information into his shrewdly calculating strategic mind. The Blues were not directly responsible for the King’s security: their job had been to get him safely to Oxford, whereupon the onus had passed to the red-coated Foot Guards. But Ed had gauged enough of his brother’s concern over the potential of Harbord’s death to cause trouble in the city to leave Merton College with a nagging conviction that he had not heard the last of the matter.

  Chapter 15

  At The Mitre

  As Luke watched the mob gradually disperse on the High, Robshaw suddenly turned and said, with a meaningful look at his master:

  ‘I’m in need of vittles.’

  ‘Very well,’ he replied. It was now well past noon, after all, and, as The Mitre was the nearest inn, he glanced towards its welcoming portals and said: ‘Shall we?’ Was it fancy or did Robshaw study him momentarily before replying, and was there a faint quizzical echo in his voice, when he did? Even he could not indefinitely fail to notice Luke’s preference for this one tavern, and wonder at the reason for it.

  ‘As you wish,’ the deputy said, simply.

  They took a confidential corner table, overlooking Turl Street – the same table, in fact, where he’d met Cate for coffee earlier. Once again, it was the licensee himself who took their order.

  ‘Two bowls of the ordinary please, Jim.’

  ‘Very good, Master Sandys.’

  ‘And a jug of ale,’ Robshaw added; to which Luke assented with a slight nod.

  ‘Doesn’t seem to me that we’ve got very far,’ he mused, as the pair took sips of the beer. ‘Harbord had a call from a man who might have given him some kind of letter… and they might have had a row.’