by Jake Lynch
‘I’ll set up an office in here for the day, so if any of you get any information at all, please bring it here straight away.’
As the men dispersed, Robshaw bustled over to where Luke was standing.
‘Where’ve you been?’ the Chief Officer asked curtly.
‘Sleepless night, sir.’
‘Well, we all have those – but there’s work to be done, man! You’re liaison, you know that.’
Robshaw’s role on these occasions was as a progress-chaser: roaming the streets and stopping the search teams as he met them, asking what they’d seen and heard, then getting them to report in to Luke if there was anything that might be significant. But he seemed more than usually agitated.
‘’Tis that there writing,’ he said.
‘You’re not making sense, Robshaw. What writing?’
‘In that wallet, what Settle dropped at The Unicorn.’
‘Ah – I see. And?’
‘Well, I knew I’d seen it somewhere before, like, and I was awake half the night trying to remember where.’
He had Luke’s interest now, all right.
‘And did you remember?’
‘Aye – d’you mind that case we had the year before last, of the estate manager for Sir Thomas Spencer?’
‘Yes – the forestalling case. Go on.’ Spencer was a baronet with a splendid manor house at Yarnton, to the north of Oxford, and a generous swathe of valuable farmland that was, however, encumbered by inherited debt. His estate manager, a Paul Woolston, had been accused of ‘forestalling’: hoarding wheat and planning to release it on to the market later at an inflated price. Sir Thomas himself was suspected of masterminding the scheme; being, it was supposed, hungry for revenues to service his debts.
‘Well, there was them two fellers what came up from London to write about it for the mercuries,’ Robshaw went on. The affair had aroused keen political interest as one that might lead to Sir Thomas’s downfall in public life and resignation from the House of Commons, where he stood out as a staunch supporter of the Crown.
‘That’s right. But the judge didn’t like that, did he? Got us to remove them from the court.’
‘Aye, and to confisticate their notebooks.’
‘Confiscate, you mean.’
‘Whatever. Anyhow, that’s what they was writing, them there squiggles, same as Settle!’ he finished triumphantly.
‘Well that is interesting, Robshaw, well done. Anything else you remember?’
‘Tacky graphy. That’s what they called it. Tacky graphy.’
‘Ah – tachygraphy. I’ve heard of it, of course. I don’t know how to read it, but I can think of two men who probably can.’
‘Who’s that, then, sir?’
‘The Bobs.’
‘What – them clerks at the Bodleian?’ Robshaw sounded doubtful.
‘Yes, indeed. They’re in charge of making transcripts of parliamentary debates, they’d deal with tachygraphy all the time. I’ll take the wallet over there a bit later and have them take a look – thank you. Now, you’d best join in the search.’
‘Yessir!’
Chapter 49
More Trouble on the Way
No sooner had Robshaw left to take up his roving brief for the day than Sandys received a deputation of Captain Sutherland, aide-de-camp to Colonel Russell, commander of the Royal Foot Guards, and – walking behind the officer and wearing his trademark sardonic half-smile – the intelligence-gatherer for the Lord Chancellor, whom Luke now knew as ‘Tom’.
‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Sutherland began in characteristic clipped tones. ‘You’re to report to Christ Church this afternoon to represent the City at a command performance for His Majesty.’
As Luke made to demur – didn’t these people realise he had a major operation on his hands? – the captain cut in.
‘Colonel’s orders. It’s been agreed with the Mayor.’ The tone was neutral, but Luke knew there was no way out of it.
‘What does he want me there for?’
‘Security, man! Can’t take any risks – if the mob start to gather outside, we’ll need some local knowledge on hand.’
‘Very well. What is it this time, then – another drama?’
The officer drew a folded sheet of paper from inside his tunic and held it somewhat disdainfully up to the light.
‘Says here, this one’s a “dramatic opera”. Theodosius, by a chap called Henry Purcell. Can’t say I’ve heard of him.’ He replaced the paper in his pocket. ‘So, I’ll come and call for you later.’
Luke nodded.
Tom watched in evident amusement as the captain turned abruptly on his heel, tucked his cane under his arm and stalked off out of the Guildhall with a stiff military gait.
‘Have to hand it to the Guards – they do a jolly impressive march-past,’ he said. ‘So – any progress with your murder?’
‘Could be. We’re looking for the pamphleteer of the Green Ribbon Club, Elkanah Settle, and a big fellow, a blackamoor, who was with him. We reckon they must’ve killed the innkeeper, Unsworth, to stop him telling us something that would have pointed to them as the men who killed Harbord as well.’
‘I see,’ the other replied. ‘I wondered if the two could be connected.’
‘So it looks as if they got wind of Harbord’s treachery, as you were saying.’
Tom nodded silently to himself.
‘Very well. Good luck with finding them. Meanwhile, there’s something else you should know.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Were there to be yet more political twists and turns in the background?
‘You have a troublemaker on the way. Chap called Stephen College, due to arrive in Oxford this evening, according to my source.’
‘We’ve got plenty of troublemakers in town already, from what I’ve seen.’
‘Not like this one. College is known as “The Protestant Joiner”. Carpenter by trade, at least originally. These days he’s a kind of all-purpose political agitator. Got a new cause with the Popish Plot. Writes songs, pamphlets, makes rabble-rousing speeches, that sort of thing. Goes about in full plate armour, like a medieval knight.’ Luke’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘I know – but seeing is believing, as they say. He’s quite a sight.’
‘What does he want in Oxford, then?’
‘Well… Put it like this. Parliament opens on Monday, so this weekend is when the build-up to Parliament reaches a crescendo. If the Green Ribbons are going to try something, some kind of stunt, say, that’s when they’ll do it. And it could be connected with College.’
‘Could be?’
‘That’s all I know at the moment. Of course, they’re natural allies. I’ve got sources trying to find out more. If I get wind of anything that could affect the peace in Oxford, I’ll let you know.’
‘Thank you.’ And, with that, the spy quietly slipped out.
*
Luke sat and pinched his lower lip, luxuriating in a rare opportunity for uninterrupted thought as the cavernous council chamber was suddenly empty. He was somewhat surprised at himself: he had intended to tell Tom about Settle’s document wallet when he next showed up. Now the chance had come and gone, he had a nagging sense that he had failed in his duty by not doing so. Why hadn’t he, then? Luke pulled absent-mindedly at a button of his jacket. If he was being honest: he needed the wallet as bait in the trap for Settle, because Settle probably had Cate. Once she was safe, that would be the time to render evidence of possible treason to the appropriate authorities. He stood, and began pacing around the perimeter of the capacious chamber. At the window, he paused and looked down on the street below. Within a couple of minutes, he had spotted two men he considered friends, and several others he knew by name. Wasn’t this where his duty lay – to his own community and his own heart?
Moreover, the pamphleteer would likely prove a cunning and resourceful enemy. He was of a type Luke had rarely met: of no account physically, yet when he had spoken out from the back of The Unicorn and Jacob’s W
ell, men had fallen silent to listen to him. The constables had already, that week, rescued one young woman from harm’s way; but Gregory, though a thoroughly bad lot in Luke’s opinion, at least wore his ill nature straightforwardly in his scowl and his impulsive rages. Settle, in contrast, was a subtle, calculating creature, whose intervention, at his and Robshaw’s second encounter with the Green Ribbons, struck just the right note of innuendo to get under their skin. As long as only the two of them knew about the wallet and its contents, Luke had something that could potentially be held over him; something that might be needed to get Settle to cooperate.
Chapter 50
‘Come back with the blades,
once ’tis dark’
Settle at that moment was pacing up and down the confined space within the walled-in oubliette at the end of New Inn Yard, as Francis watched imperturbably and Cate looked down to avoid eye contact. Suddenly, there came a series of knocks at the door, in a rhythm she recognised as belonging to a popular patriotic song:
Here’s a health unto His Majesty,
With a fa la la la la la la,
Confusion to his enemies,
With a fa la la la la la la.
And he who would not drink his health,
We wish him neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang himself.
With a fal lal la la la la la la la la,
With a fal lal la la la la la.
Before the tattoo reached the last syllable of ‘enemies’, however, Settle had strode over to the door and started to turn the key in the lock. After he opened it, a hurried, whispered conversation followed, as she strained to hear.
‘You’re sure no one saw you?’
‘Nay – take this, quickly, then we can get back. ’Tis a hue and cry: there’s men out everywhere.’
‘Tell Hawkins to come with the blades, once ’tis dark.’
‘Aye, will do.’ Whereupon the door shut and the key turned once more. Settle opened the box of provisions – for such it was – and set it down on the floorboards between his and Francis’s chairs.
‘Help yourself,’ he growled to his henchman.
‘What about her?’ Francis inclined his head in Cate’s direction.
‘No point wasting good food and drink,’ the pamphleteer sneered. Cate was not surprised. Anyway, it was not all that long since the caraway cake, and she still had one left in the basket: she could take a quick bite later, if necessary, while Settle was not looking.
Her mind turned to the whispered exchange at the doorway. Blades? Had she heard aright? And the reference to darkness: they obviously planned to stay in here for another night. Surely it would occur to one of the constables, or a volunteer in the hue and cry, to take a closer look at the bushes and ivy at the end of New Inn Yard? With a bit more luck, the men who’d brought the supplies would have been spotted. Perhaps ‘Hawkins’, whoever he was, would be careless, and give them away – although it would be dark by then, so less likely.
It occurred to her suddenly that her abduction was part of a plot involving the active participation of a considerable number of co-conspirators. The men apparently engaged in a noisy quarrel, who had distracted her at the crucial moment on Fish Street, were almost certainly in on it too. The realisation served only to sharpen her forebodings about what they could possibly have in store for her. What if she were to cry out for help? Her captors had made it abundantly clear that such a step would be met with violence – but how could that worsen the plight she was in already? Should she risk it? She might be lucky, and someone within earshot might raise the alarm: but then, on the other hand, she might not; and, every time she considered it, that possibility was, in the end, more than she could bear.
Chapter 51
Calling on the Professor
The search yielded early dividends with a snippet of information that seemed to support Luke’s assumptions about what had happened the previous night. Robshaw’s unmistakable heavy tread at the door of the Guildhall chamber pulled him out of the brown study into which he had lapsed over the matter of the wallet.
‘Settle and his mate have gone missing,’ the deputy announced excitedly. ‘Ron Cox was told, by a landlady over in St Ebbe’s – they never came back last night to their lodgings.’
‘Ah, thank you, Robshaw. Well that confirms what we already thought: when they left The Unicorn, they went into hiding.’
‘Perhaps they left town?’
‘Unlikely. No one saw them from the city walls. No, they must be somewhere here.’
‘And we got the black feller’s name an’ all – Jack Francis.’
‘Right, thanks. Must have picked that up in England.’ Thinking of Joan, he guessed: ‘Perhaps descended from a freed slave, off a ship.’
‘Jack Francis’ – the name meant nothing, not to Luke at any rate. When – if – he saw Tom again, he could ask about him. The ‘black feller’ was a different proposition than Settle himself, for sure. Looked like he might be ex-military. Maybe he could ask Ed to come along – perhaps even with one of his fellow officers – when the moment came to apprehend the pair? If the show of force was sufficient to leave no doubt that any attempt at resistance was futile, it could save a lot of trouble. Yes: he would call in at Christ Church later and see his brother. For that to work, though, they had to catch the scoundrels. Where could they be?
‘You take over here for a while, then,’ he said to Robshaw.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have to see Sir Thomas Millington, at All Souls. He’s off to London any day now, I don’t want to miss him. Anyway, it means you can sit in here for the rest of the day.’
‘Very well – as long as I can nip over the road first, for coffee.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Or maybe a jug of ale. And a cake.’
An uneventful interval having elapsed, he duly returned from the New Inn with his half-eaten snack, and Luke set off along Blue Boar Street before turning left up Magpie Lane.
‘That you, Luke? How’s it going then?’ Elizabeth called down as he crossed the threshold.
‘Too soon to tell,’ he replied. ‘Plenty of men out, though.’ His wife descended the staircase somewhat unsteadily, mopping at the corner of her mouth with a handkerchief.
‘Have you been at the canary again, dear? ’Tis early for that, indeed.’
‘Well, I’ve got no company here, till Celia comes this afternoon. What with you being out on constable duty all the time.’ Luke’s and Robshaw’s wives, having met once at a civic function, had become firm friends, and met regularly to pore over their embroidery and take coffee. For now, though, she had evidently been indulging her appetite for stronger liquor.
‘You’ve got those eyeglasses for her?’ Luke had purchased a pair of spectacles some time back, and was impressed with the difference they made in his ability to discern the fine details of a picture frame; so he had arranged for the two ladies to receive a pair each as well, to help them follow their stitching.
‘Aye, thank you, husband,’ she assented, and – seeing that he was busy – left him to it.
Luke went through to his workshop, quickly ascertained that the varnish on his frame was dry, then wrapped a length of muslin around the picture and tied it in place with string. He let himself out of the house, and began whistling a jaunty air as he turned right towards the High Street. He pulled himself up short at the incongruity, with Cate still missing – only to resume as, he reasoned, he deserved half an hour away from his troubles and his duty, to enjoy a moment he had long anticipated with pleasure.
He rashly nipped in front of an eastbound carriage on the way across the High, waving an apology at the driver as one of the horses shied, and stepped briskly up through the portico of All Souls. It was like entering a haven from the hustle and bustle outside. Greeting the porter, Luke paused to admire the carved stone ceiling of the lodge, with its symmetrically arranged intricate bosses, before entering the quadrangle and knocking on the first
door to the right. The duck-egg blue half-moon of the college sundial – commissioned from Christopher Wren during his Fellowship, a quarter of a century earlier – glinted down from its perch, high on the wall of the medieval chapel. Presently, the door was opened by a young man who ushered Luke inside.
‘Luke, dear boy. Greetings. You’ve just caught me.’ Millington’s good-natured voice rang out from the far side of the room. How typical of the man that, through his rise to greatness, he had never forsaken old friends, or given himself airs and graces. He wore his eminence lightly.
‘Thank you, Babbington,’ the Sedleian Professor addressed the young man, ‘you can finish packing those boxes, then you’d better get back to writing up results, eh?’ Seeing Luke’s quizzical look, he explained: ‘An undergraduate – taking a course in botany this term. Looks after me, God bless him, in between his studies: there’s a task, d’you know?’
Sure enough, Millington’s rooms were in some degree of chaos. Books had been taken down from his shelves and were piled up on several surfaces, as he prepared to remove himself for a season in London. But it was a stack of painted wooden panels, leaning against one wall, that caught Luke’s attention. The topmost showed a figure that belonged, no doubt, in some biblical scene, only depicted in a state of undress that was, to say the least, unusual in devotional art. Millington followed his eye.
‘Ah, you’ve found poor Fuller’s panels.’
He walked over and showed Luke some of the others, which were in a similar style.