by L. C. Tyler
It is, however, a convenient fiction and one that she would do well to continue, if only for the benefit of her second husband. Since my stepfather is the local magistrate moreover, and would thus have the unfortunate duty of prosecuting his own wife for bigamy, it would certainly be kinder to him that my mother should harbour no lingering doubts about my father’s death. Hence her unblushing references, whenever she remembers, to ‘your late father’ and her occasional but very sincere prayers that he should rest in peace. She is understandably vague about which battle he died at – Naseby and Marston Moor have both been proposed at different times. But she has said nothing to my stepfather about the possibility, however remote, of his living quite comfortably with a young woman of easy virtue in the Low Countries.
At least, she has said nothing in my presence. If it amused my mother to tell my stepfather in private, however … It is perfectly possible that at two or three o’clock in the morning, when a man is most off his guard, she may have chosen to raise it as a topic of conversation. A man without his breeches is a feeble opponent for most women and especially for a woman like my mother. She may well have reasoned that, should he choose to take no immediate action (and my stepfather never takes immediate action on any matter), then he would quickly become an accessory rather than a prosecutor. Indeed, now I think of it, it is very likely that she has done precisely that. Of course, she also possesses information about his own treasonous correspondence with friends of Charles Stuart. That too might weigh with him if he considered denouncing her. The ability to have each other hanged may be the secret of a happy and peaceful marriage.
But I am certain that my mother has told my stepfather no more about her past dealings with Mr S. K. than he needs to know. She has, she says, broken her connections with Mr S. K. – broken them utterly. It would not do for a lady in her position to know him. What puzzles me therefore is why my mother believes that I (who, uniquely in my family, engage in no treasonous correspondence) should now wish to risk my own neck in making the acquaintance of the gentleman she claims to have forsworn.
Outside I hear a bell strike the half-hour. If I leave in ten minutes, I shall be able to meet Mr S. K. at the appointed time and inform him that I am not the fool that my mother takes me for. For this indulgence I hope I may be forgiven. I have little enough money while I study law at Lincoln’s Inn and my amusements are few. I have no shillings to pay for the theatre, even if the theatres had not been closed (with good cause) by the State. I have few enough pennies to pay for ale, even if drunkenness had not been proscribed (very wisely) by the Lord Protector’s ordinances. Of course, I could go and listen to a learned sermon, which, as for all citizens of the Republic, really ought to count amongst my greatest pleasures. But this evening I can also go and have a little innocent fun at the expense of some of my mother’s Royalist acquaintances – foolish young men of distinguished ancestry, with a taste for Brussels lace and ineffectual plotting. Providing Mr S. K. with a mirror in which he may see himself will afford both pleasure and instruction for us both.
I carry my law books up to my chamber and leave them on one of my two chairs. I would change my suit of clothes if I had another to change into; but I do not, for my tailor has calculated to the last inch of ribbon how much credit it is safe to give me.
As I set off, I pause briefly and wonder why Mr S. K. feels the need to be so obscure if he really does wish to be my friend. But I reassure myself with this thought: What harm can possibly come to me at Gray’s Inn?
Mr S. K.
It has grown cold of late. This evening, a low, chill mist has crept in from the distant banks of the Thames, wheedling a passage, narrow lane by narrow lane, until it has reached Theobalds Road. Above and through it, a blood-red sun inflames the sky, giving fire to west-facing windows. It is an hour for mean and glorious deeds.
At Gray’s Inn I pause at the porter’s lodge. A man sits inside the little wooden hut, a patch over one eye. He wears a rough, mended woollen cloak over what seems to be a good velvet suit with lace cuffs. From time to time he tugs at the eye-patch as if unused to wearing it. Perhaps the loss of that eye is very recent. He looks at me suspiciously with his one uncovered organ of vision, though he must have seen many lawyers pass this way before. Indeed, at Gray’s Inn he must see little else.
‘I am seeking Mr S. K.,’ I say, rubbing two cold hands together. ‘I am told that you may be able to direct me to him.’
‘Who says I may?’ His accent is somewhat of Devon, but only somewhat.
I show him the letter. Strangely, for such a lowly minion, he has no difficulty in reading it. He thrusts it back at me.
‘And who might you be?’ he asks.
‘That’s none of your business, as you know well.’
He nods. This is the sort of answer he expects from any friend of Mr S. K., who would damn his remaining eye as soon as glance in his direction. ‘First building on the left, third floor right.’ His accent is now somewhat of London though it is also somewhat of Suffolk. He seems not to have fixed firmly on his county of birth.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘It is my pleasure to assist you,’ he says. ‘But I’d go quickly if I were you. I suspect they are already on their second bottle.’ He looks at his threadbare cloak with undisguised distaste, then pulls it around him.
He solicits no money for the information provided, which I regard as far more suspicious than his shifting place of origin or the lace cuffs that must be so inconvenient in his chosen trade of portering.
I follow his directions and climb the broad oak staircase to the top floor of the building, where Mr S. K. is apparently to be found. Close by the chamber door is a small wooden sign, which has been hastily covered with a piece of sacking. I lift the sacking without difficulty and read: Sir Richard Willys. I replace the sacking and knock on a panel to alert Mr S. K. of my presence. There is no response, but I am not expecting one. I push the door and it swings open easily as if lately oiled to prevent it drawing attention to itself. There are two gentlemen seated by a blazing fire; though there is still a chill in the room, as if the conflagration has not yet had time to heat more than a narrow arc round the hearth. Each man holds a glass of wine. There is a bottle, still almost one third full, and a fairly clean glass on a table nearby. I am expected, it would seem. It is time for the fun to begin.
‘I seek Mr S. K.,’ I say with a smile.
There is a long and awkward hiatus as the gentlemen look at each other. Then they look at me again. The shorter man strokes a blond moustache. But neither says a word. This is not what I expected. Nor, I realise, is this what they expected. Something about me puzzles them.
‘He’s not here,’ says the owner of the blond moustache. He is dressed in a suit of crimson silk with much lace about neck and wrists; it is not, you would have thought, an outfit for one who wished to pass through the streets unnoticed. Not in these times of decent sobriety. He takes a sip of wine, but his bright eyes don’t leave mine for a moment. There is, I now observe, a pistol on the table as well as a bottle. The game is afoot, but the stakes are slightly higher than I had imagined. I find that I need to swallow hard.
‘Nevertheless, you are his representatives,’ I suggest.
‘Why should you think that?’ The older, taller one has untidy, dark hair. There is black stubble on his chin. He is dressed in a plain suit of dark blue stuff and lacks somewhat the ostentation of his friend. I think the porter was right that this is not the first bottle they have opened. This man is drunk and a little dangerous.
‘Your temporarily one-eyed friend at the gate told me to come to this chamber. See – I have a letter of invitation to meet Mr S. K. It seems correct in all particulars – I am indeed lately arrived here. And it was delivered to my landlady’s door. But if you gentlemen truly do not know Mr S. K….’
My words hang in the air. I do not, on reflection, think that these people will stand the gentle chaffing that I had planned – the drunk one in particular lo
oks as if he has a poor sense of humour. But I shall still make it clear to them, very politely, that I am no Royalist and that they need trouble me no further, whatever my mother may have told them. I wish Charles Stuart no ill, but I do not desire to see him on the throne of any of these three kingdoms. I shall say that. Then I shall go quickly before the conversation turns to pistols.
‘Stay!’ commands the dark-haired man, perhaps sensing that my thoughts are tending towards an early departure.
‘I apologise,’ says the man in the red silk, as if sensing my disquiet. ‘I apologise for my colleague’s brusque tones. But since you have chosen to join us, we cannot allow you to leave so abruptly. That would be neither hospitable of us nor polite of you. You will come to no harm if indeed you are here with good intent.’
For some reason, this does not make me feel any better. I begin to wish I had spent the evening reading my law books. I swallow hard once more and remain where I am, watching the pistol.
They glance at the letter, which I think they have seen before, and then their puzzled gaze reverts to me. No, I am not what they had expected. But, on reflection, this is no surprise. My mother will have told them to expect a soldier – the man of daring and resolution that she so much wishes me to be. What they see is a young lawyer, country-bred but rapidly gaining a good London pallor, the dust of the library of Lincoln’s Inn still upon his shoulders, his arm still crooked as if holding a large leather-bound tome. I do not look as if I laugh in the face of danger. I do not look as if I regularly run men through with a sword for my own amusement but, on reflection, I suspect that these two may do so. Mr S. K.’s written promise that no harm will come to me begins to ring hollow. Or perhaps, bearing in mind their puzzlement that I am here at all, it was a promise made to somebody else entirely – somebody with whom I have been confused. I have misjudged things in a way that I do not yet understand.
‘Nevertheless, if I were to leave now …’ I say. ‘After all, no hurt has been done.’
‘A moment longer, sir, if you please,’ says the younger man. ‘We shall detain you no more than we have to.’ He half-turns and has a whispered conversation with his companion. It goes on for some time. Midway through, they both pause and stare at me again. They utter no word of rebuke, but they are greatly disappointed with what they see before them.
‘You expected somebody else?’ I say.
‘To be perfectly honest with you, yes,’ says the dark-haired man. ‘There has been a mistake of some sort. The man who informed us of your coming is a fool. But you say you have just arrived from Brussels?’
‘Brussels?’
‘We were warned to expect your arrival from Brussels.’ He seems to feel I should know this, if that’s where I’ve come from.
Then suddenly, all becomes clear. Only one of my family resides in Brussels. It is not my mother’s meddling hand that I should have seen in this, but my father’s. They were not expecting me at all – but him! If my father too has recently come to London – and he would have had no reason to inform me if he had – then it is not too difficult to see how a letter intended for him might find its way to me, also newly arrived, albeit from Essex. My hosts are understandably surprised to find me so youthful. I had thought that my mother was mistakenly trying to introduce me to some convivial but ineffectual Royalist sympathisers – that far from abandoning her links with the Stuarts she wished to influence me in that direction. As a result of disbelieving her many assurances, I now find myself impersonating my other parent, whose purpose in coming to London is utterly unknown to me but unlikely to be lawful.
‘I think you were expecting another member of my family,’ I say.
The younger one nods. His nimble mind has been running beside my own. ‘Then the message we received was correct except in one minor but important detail. We were, as you see, not expecting the son. Indeed, we were unaware of your existence. You are …?’
My father has clearly chosen not to tell anyone that he has a son in England – and why should he? Our paths have diverged in so many ways. In Brussels I doubt that he feels a need to mention that he has a family here, any more than my mother feels it necessary to talk about a redundant husband overseas.
‘I’m John,’ I say. ‘I think you were expecting my father, who is currently exiled in Brussels and—’
He holds up his hand. ‘Of course. I see what has happened. I must apologise if we appeared bemused. Now we understand. We knew your family was in Brussels. We didn’t know that you were too. Now we do know, and all is well.’
By ‘family’ he doubtless means my father and his whore. But are things well only if I am living in Brussels? That would seem to be the case. I must take great care what I say until I am more certain of my facts. Whatever my father’s reasons for visiting London, they must be important. As a known, if not particularly distinguished, Royalist, he would be taking a great risk in coming here.
The dark-haired man takes another mouthful of wine and pulls a face. I do not think he regards me as a friend. ‘You are too trusting, Sir Michael. How do we know this John is who he claims to be? He could be any man’s son. I sense an unease on his part. He shuffles his feet and looks towards the door. You clearly know his father. Does the young man resemble him in any way? If not, then he may be an agent of the Republic come hither to undo us utterly. He seems disinclined to take wine with us, as a gentleman should. No Royalist, and no son of a Royalist, would refuse a glass of good Canary. Consider, Sir Michael: if he is an imposter then we are all undone. I say we shoot him now and make an end on it.’
Well, perhaps they have already told me more than is safe for any of us. If they do not shoot me, I shall certainly now be able to report to the authorities that one of them is called Sir Michael. But will they shoot me? It seems to be Sir Michael’s decision. I look yet again at the pistol on the table and wonder if it is loaded. I have never thought I was much like my father in character, but hopefully there is at least a small similitude in the flesh.
‘There is some resemblance,’ says Sir Michael. To this I make no objection. I begin to like Sir Michael better than the other man, who eyes me as if he might yet see through me and my Republican ways.
‘Even so …’ The dark-haired man pauses. He is not convinced by my appearance alone. ‘I think, Sir Michael, that we should question him a little.’
‘As you wish.’ Sir Michael waves his hand in my direction. His companion has leave to ask whatever he likes. I try not to shuffle my feet or look towards the door. I hope none of the questions are about Brussels, a place I have never visited.
‘Where do you come from, John?’ he demands. He rubs his face as if to aid thought. ‘I mean what is your place of birth?’
‘Clavershall West,’ I say with relief. ‘In the county of Essex.’
Sir Michael turns to his companion with a smug expression on his face. He clearly knows where my father came from. But this telling poof of my loyalties is insufficient for his friend.
‘To which saint is the parish church there dedicated?’
‘St Peter,’ I say.
Sir Michael shrugs. I doubt if either of them know if I have told the truth. My father rarely set foot in the place.
‘Who now owns the manor?’ the other man persists.
‘Colonel Payne,’ I say. I do not add that Colonel Payne is my stepfather. If they know my father even a little, then the one thing they will certainly be aware of is that he is living. It might be difficult to explain how I come to have a stepfather.
‘Who owned the manor before that?’
Well, he knows about my family then.
‘We did,’ I say. ‘My family owned it. But not any more.’
That my mother has recently repossessed it by marrying my stepfather is again a detail that I would be wise to omit.
‘Enough,’ says Sir Michael. ‘This young man comes from a family loyal to the King. And I assume he therefore knows who we are?’
‘I am familiar with the Sealed Knot
,’ I say. ‘Mr S. K., as you have called it in your letter. For the past six years you have worked secretly for the restoration of …’ I pause. The words are like ashes in my Republican mouth but it may be as well not to upset the gentleman with the pistol. ‘… the restoration of the rightful King. You answer to Sir Edward Hyde at His Majesty’s court in Brussels.’
‘Just so,’ says Sir Michael. ‘We answer to Sir Edward Hyde.’ He sees my eyes on the pistol and adds: ‘Had you not been who you say you are – had you not been sent from Brussels – we would have been obliged to shoot you as my friend so devoutly wished. I would have regretted it almost as much as you, and for slightly longer, but it would not have been safe to let you leave Gray’s Inn alive. I mean, if you had been some low Republican who had accidentally stumbled on our invitation.’
‘Of course,’ I say. I am a Republican but, I would argue, not a low one. Even so, the smallest slip might still be the end of me.
‘Since we are friends,’ he continues, ‘and we are all friends of Mr S. K., let me introduce myself. I, as you will already have gathered, am called Sir Michael. Sir Michael de Ripley. Baronet. My indiscreet companion here is Mr Allen Brodrick, gentleman, wine-drinker, womaniser and Secretary of the Sealed Knot.’
Neither then is Sir Richard Willys, who may or may not know that his chamber is being used in this way. Unless Ripley is lying, which is quite possible. He looks like a man who holds truth and falsehood in equal respect.
For the next few minutes I have to remember that, if I wish to live to see tomorrow’s dawn, I am a Royalist, newly come from Brussels for a purpose that I have no way of knowing. For as long as it takes, I must play my part. Then I must leave quickly.
‘So, why did you summon me here?’ I ask.
‘Why did we summon you?’ says Ripley, the merest hint of surprise in his voice. ‘We know that you have come to London on business that concerns us. After all, Hyde would scarcely send you all this way and tell you to avoid talking to his agents in London – or would he?’