by Philip Kerr
“Then surely it is your Christian duty to help me back to Christ,” said I.
“It is not for me to show you the error of your thinking. That is not what is lacking in you, sir. Faith cannot be taught, Mister Ellis, like an alphabet. You must do that for yourself. I will not. I cannot.”
That same night, alone in my room at Newton’s house in Jermyn Street, my earlier conversation with Miss Barton, combined with a sense of apprehension that another attempt on Newton’s life might be made, made me restless, and finding it impossible to sleep, I resolved to go out and take the air of Hyde Park.
I had started down the stairs when I thought I heard a man’s voice in the kitchen. Newton was already abed, and Mister Woston had lodgings elsewhere. Returning to my room for a pistol, I went downstairs to investigate, and about halfway down I heard the man’s voice again. It was not a man saying anything that I heard, so much as a man groaning in his sleep.
Outside the parlour door I paused to cock my pistol, certain now that there was an intruder. And turning the handle, I advanced boldly into the room, with my pistol extended before me.
The sight I beheld was more terrible to me than any murderer could ever have been. In the candlelight which revealed her complete nakedness, Miss Barton knelt in front of Lord Halifax, who did serve her from behind like any common bawd. She stifled a scream as she saw me in the doorway. And seeing the pistol in my hand, Lord Halifax withdrew himself from inside her body, held his arms up in front of his head, and whimpered most piteously while Miss Barton tried to cover her naked parts with a tablecloth. And I stood there, saying nothing, but breathing like an angry bull. I almost put the pistol to my own head and pulled the trigger, such was the pain and disappointment that I felt. But after a moment or two I put up my gun and, begging their pardon for having put them in fear of their lives, explained that I thought I had heard an intruder, and then excused myself from their presence. Neither he nor she said a word; and yet by their situation all was suddenly plain to me. Newton had been right: his niece was in love; but not with me. It was Lord Halifax she loved.
I could not remain in that house. And not for the first time I walked from Jermyn Street to the Tower in a state of abject misery, hardly caring if anyone killed me. In truth, I would have welcomed death. For the injustice of it was only too painful to me. How could the she who had lectured me on a good Christian life give herself to another man within only a month or two of giving herself, more or less, to me? Of course the difference was plain; he was Lord Halifax and I was plain, poor Christopher Ellis. Better to be an earl’s mistress than a poor man’s wife.
After that terrible evening, Miss Barton was only infrequently at Jermyn Street when I called, and more often at milord Halifax’s house, in Bushey Park, so that she and I were almost never alone in each other’s company again.
Even now, thirty years later, it pains me to write about it. But this is small beer beside the main part of my story, which must yet be concluded; and I must relate how our spies and those of the Government kept close watch on Oates and the rest of the conspirators so that in early November, when it was given out that the King would return on November the fourteenth, the government was able to act in a most subtile way.
The very few copies of Mister Defoe’s pamphlet, with its supposed prophecy of Nostradamus, that had got into circulation had still managed to raise a great public stir among Londoners, and there was much talk of conspiracy against the King; and therefore it was plain that a move against any shade of Protestantism, no matter how extreme or malign, would have been a source of real provocation to the mob. And so the Government was obliged secretly to bring down a regiment of soldiers from out of the north of England that it could trust. This being done, one night close to the return of the King from Flanders, finally we did act against the conspirators.
One evening, early in November, Newton and I were playing drafts at his home in Jermyn Street, when he received an urgent letter from Lord Halifax. As soon as he read it, Newton was all purpose.
“Come on, Ellis, get your hat and cloak, the time has come to arrest these traitors. A search for Jacobites has been undertaken,” he explained. “Arrests are already being made. According to milord Halifax’s letter, the Tower has been put under a curfew, with many men arrested both inside and outside its walls. We have been detailed to arrest that vile creature Oates.”
“Sir,” I said, arming myself to the teeth, as they say, “will you not take a weapon yourself?”
“If I did, I think I would have more to fear from myself than any rogue we might meet tonight,” he said, declining my offer of a pistol.
We drove to Axe Yard, near St. James’s Park, and along the way we saw London given the aspect of a city in a state of siege. Trained bands of men marched up and down the streets. The guards had been changed at Whitehall and Somerset House, with cannon placed around the former. The Temple gates were shut, the great thoroughfares barricaded, so that I did begin to worry that Mister Oates, hearing and seeing the commotion, would escape us.
“Do not concern yourself about that,” said Newton. “He has been watched closely by Lord Halifax’s men these past few weeks, and it only remains for us to have the honour of bringing the principal conspirator into custody.”
“But will the mob permit the arrest of so many Protestants?” I asked.
“It has been put about that all those arrested are Papists,” explained Newton, “being either disaffected Englishmen or French spies, although the truth is that these are the same French Huguenots or Green Ribboners that have plotted to massacre London’s Roman Catholics.”
Which, I confess, did seem to me to be a most dishonest and Machiavellian way of governing a country.
Outside Mister Oates’s house, I removed one of my pistols from its holster and cocked it, before knocking loudly upon the door. By now I was an old hand at making an arrest, and had dispatched Halifax’s men to the back of the house, in case Oates still thought to give us the slip.
“In the name of the King, open up,” I called out, all the time pressing Newton back with my free hand in case any shots came forth. Finally, the door not being opened, Newton ordered the Treasury men to break in the door; and this being done, with a great deal of noise that did bring all the inhabitants of Axe Yard out of their houses, I entered the little house, followed, at a safe distance, by Newton and the rest. But the house was empty.
“I fear our bird has flown,” I said, coming downstairs, having inspected the upper part of the house. “These fools have bungled it. Either that or they have been bribed.”
Newton was examining the bowl of an old clay pipe most closely. “I wonder,” he murmured, scooping the contents onto a fingernail, and tasting these.
“Bungled it,” I repeated loudly, for the benefit of the Treasury men who were in the house. “For they would not dare to take a bribe.”
“Not flown, I’ll hazard,” remarked Newton finally. “Merely gone out.” He pointed to a handsome silver snuff-box that lay upon a table. “I do not think he would have left that behind if he intended not to come back.”
“Then we may wait for him here,” said I.
Newton shook his head. “All London is in a commotion,” he said. “He will soon guess that something has gone awry with his plans. He may yet hear something that makes him bolt. No, we would do well to pursue him before he returns here.”
“But how?” said I. “We know not where he has gone. Unless it be to Westminster Hall.”
Newton shook his head. “It is long past nightfall. The shops will be shut by now. No, I have a mind he has gone somewhere else.”
“Of course,” I said. “The Swan with Two Necks, in Tuttle Street. Or perhaps the Baptist church in Wapping.”
“It may be that we shall find him there,” allowed Newton. “Or it may be that we shall find him somewhere else.”
“I confess I am at a loss where else we may look,” I said.
“This pipe is still warm,” said Newt
on, handing it to me.
“Why, so it is,” I said. “Then he cannot be long gone.”
“Exactly so. But notice, more particularly, the thick black encrustation of the pipe bowl. That is not tobacco.”
“It is like dried treacle,” said I, examining the pipe bowl. “Is it charcoal?”
“No, not charcoal, either. Do you recall how when we saw Mister Oates, his fingers were quite blackened? And how a curious odour did adhere to his person?”
“Yes, it was most particular. For I did think I had smelt that smell somewhere else.”
“In Southwark,” said Newton. “At the place where you went when you did follow poor Major Mornay.”
“Yes,” said I. “How did you know?”
“This is opium,” said Newton, touching the bowl of the clay pipe. “Paracelsus, and more recently an English apothecary, Thomas Sydenham, have learned to use opium in sherry wine for its medicinal properties. Here it is known as laudanum. The Dutch, however, have introduced the practice of smoking it; and in Turkey, where the practice has taken hold, it is called Mash Allah, which means “the work of God.”
“They were Dutch, the people who did keep that disreputable house in Southwark.”
“That much you did tell me yourself at the time. Opium is most efficacious in the relief of pain, which is a mercy of God, of course, but when smoked it is also a most consumptive habit. A man, or a woman, might bear a beating more easily, having smoked opium.”
“I see what you mean, sir.”
“All of which makes me suppose that were not Mister Oates to be found at The Swan with Two Necks, in Tuttle Street, we would do well to look for him in Southwark. Did once you not lose Mister Oates while you were following him in Southwark, before you knew who it was that you followed?”
“Yes sir,” said I. “And now that I come to think of it, it was not very far from that stew where Mornay went.”
“It would also explain why Mornay did not recognise you immediately. He was probably stupefied with opium. You yourself remarked upon the fact that you thought he was drunk.”
“I too would have been drunk if I had remained in that place. For the fumes were most intoxicating.”
“Can you remember the place?”
“I think so.”
“Good. We’ll call in at The Swan and then, if he’s not there, we’ll head down to the river and get a barge across.”
We took the Treasury men with us, although they must have wished they were elsewhere, such was the disdain with which Newton treated them after their letting Oates walk out of the house in Axe Yard right under their noses. Of that blackguard there was no sign at The Swan with Two Necks in Tuttle Street; and we were soon across the river and in Southwark where, as before, a fog was settling on the low roofs and jagged chimney stacks. There were few lights in the darkness to illuminate our way, and once or twice we slipped in the mud of the marshes so that we were thoroughly wet and mired by the time I had guided us, as best as I remembered, to the Dutchman’s house.
Newton sent two of the Treasury men round to the back of the house, in case Oates should try to slip away, and warned them that if he did escape, they would pay dearly for it. Then, producing my pistols once more, I knocked loudly, in the name of the King.
At last the door was opened, and by the same bawd I recognised from before. And seeing my pistols, she called out some name—I still know not what it was—at which point a gigantic hound came scrambling out of another room, barking furiously all the while, which quite took me by surprise; and the animal would surely have torn out my own throat, or Doctor Newton’s, had I not fired both pistols at its boxlike head and killed it. I was still trembling like a leaf as we entered the place, which was reeking of opium—for so I knew it now. Posting two more men at the front door, we searched upstairs and found several small cubicles, and in each of them, lying on a filthy bed, a man or a woman smoking a pipe full of that Mash Allah, that work of God, of which Newton had spoken earlier. Much to my relief, almost the first person I found was the so-called nun who had been whipped for the pleasure of the men in that room downstairs; she was alive, although so stupefied by the pipe she was smoking that hers hardly passed for life, and it was clear that she submitted to her degradation for the pleasures and oblivion of the pipe she now nursed in her blackened fingers.
Oates himself lay in the cubicle next to hers, wreathed in an evil spirit of white opium smoke. Seeing us, and hearing our warrant, he climbed slowly to his feet; but if we had expected the man to show fear and denial—and in truth we had grown used to fear and denial from the men and women we arrested—we were wrong, for Oates was all languor, submitting to the manacles I clasped around his wrists without demur.
“But we have met before, have we not?” said Oates, as we marched him outside. “I did believe that you were Lord Ashley, and you were his servant.”
It was at this point that one of the Treasury men spoke to us.
“Where to now, Doctor Newton?” he asked.
“The Whit,” said Newton.
Oates’s near motionless eyes lit up like coals. “I am honoured,” he said, inclining his head in Newton’s general direction, “to be arrested by the great Doctor Newton.” Oates smiled his smile, like a great sleepy snake, methought, which did prompt my curiosity as we made our way back to the river.
When at last we were in a boat, and on our way across the river, I could restrain my curiosity no longer. “You seem, Mister Oates, most sanguine about your arrest, the collapse of your plot,” said I, “and the prospect of your imprisonment.”
“Milord,” he said, grinning, “for I know not what else to call you, the Whit and I are old acquaintances. But I think that I shall not be there for very long, this time, Protestant feeling being right now so strong against Roman Catholics in this country.”
“We shall see,” murmured Newton.
“Might I ask, were we betrayed?”
“Only by your own carelessness,” said Newton.
“How so?”
“I deciphered your letters.”
Oates looked disbelieving. “If that is so, Doctor, then I would simply ask you to name the keyword that we used.”
“Willingly. It was ‘blood.’”
Oates whistled. “Then it is true what they say, that you are the cleverest man that ever was.”
“I deciphered it, yes,” said Newton. “But I would still know more of how it was devised.”
Oates waited for a moment as surprise gave way to recollection.
“The original cipher was devised by a French diplomat, Blaise de Vigenère, in 1570. He was secretary to King Charles IX until it was discovered that he was a Huguenot, upon which he left the court and devoted himself to his ciphers. His work was taken up by Monsieur Descartes.”
“Do you mean René Descartes, the philosopher?” said Newton.
“I do, sir. He lived in Poitiers as a student when Poitiers was still Huguenot. Which was where I came across it. When I was in a French seminary.”
“But Mister Descartes was a Roman Catholic, was he not?”
“Mister Descartes’s family was Roman Catholic, but Descartes had many close family connections with the Huguenots and was all his life a great friend to our Protestant religion. It was Mister Descartes who refined De Vigenère’s code and made it impregnable until this day when you solved it, Doctor.”
“Then my triumph is complete,” said Newton. “For I would have defeated Monsieur Descartes above all men.”
“No doubt you shall be well rewarded for your endeavour. By Lord Halifax.”
“To know that it was the mind of Descartes I struggled to overcome is reward in itself,” said Newton.
“Oh, come, sir,” said Oates. “‘Tis well known that you are much preferred by Lord Halifax. It is already whispered that when Mister Neale leaves the Mint, you will be the next Master.”
“A false rumour, sir,” replied Newton. “There, at least, you have the advantage of me, lies and fal
se rumours being your own stock in trade.”
“But does it not gall you, sir? To know that the reason for your preferment is not your fluxions and gravitation, no, nor even your excellent mind? Does it not sit badly with you, sir? To know the real reason you thrive?”
Newton stayed silent.
“Even in this poor light, I see the truth of it plain upon your face,” continued Oates.
“Be silent, sir,” commanded Newton.
“I don’t say I blame you, sir. I would probably do it myself.”
“Be silent, sir,” insisted Newton.
“What man in our situation would not trade the virtue of a pretty niece, to the advantage of his own career? ’Tis given out that Lord Halifax is much taken with the girl. That he has made her his mistress and his whore. Lord Lucas had it from Lord Harley, who had it from Halifax himself. She is seventeen, is she not? Now that’s a fine time for a girl. Her cunny is not too young. Nor too old. It’s like a tomato when there is still a little bit of green in it. Sweet and firm. A girl of quality, too, so that her cunny is a clean one. For there’s many a bawd that plays at being a virgin. But the real thing is something else. And who else could afford such pleasures as that but a rich man like Lord Halifax? For the price he has paid is your preferment, Doctor.”
“That is a damned lie, sir.” And so saying, Newton struck Oates, slapping him hard on the face, which was the first time and last time I ever saw such a thing.
Oates bowed his head. “If you say so, sir, I shall believe you, even if all London does not.”
After that we all stayed silent.
I, most of all.
Yet it was already my opinion that Miss Barton was become Lord Halifax’s whore for no other reason than she wanted to be.
Thus was a great disaster in the realm most narrowly averted. Although in the face of my own disaster I must confess I hardly cared. But what was worse, so little was done afterward to punish the principal ringleaders of these seditious men that a man might have thought there were some in the Government who were in league with those who had promoted this mischief. And which did explain why Oates had seemed so calm in the face of this disaster to his plans. At least that was what Newton thought when we discussed the matter afterward; and he said it was often thus, that the common people were held to account for themselves while their betters went scot-free.