by L. C. Tyler
‘Roger Pole is a cousin of the Duke of Buckingham?’ I say.
‘There’s no need to sound quite so reverential. He is only a third or fourth cousin, cousin. I had thought that, as a Republican with impeccable credentials and so on, you would be unimpressed by mere titles. Otherwise I would have reminded you more often of my own. Lady Pole. I’m a viscountess.’
‘But only in Brussels.’
‘I thought I would remind you anyway.’
‘You could remind my landlady, if you wish.’
‘Oh, I do. All the time. She never tires of it. I think you will find that she now regards you almost as a gentleman.’
‘Really?’
‘No, not really. You are unquestionably a lawyer for all that. And a lawyer is regrettably … Well, I need scarcely tell you how low you have fallen, Cousin John. To study law is acceptable, but to work at it for money … Even the great Sir Edward Hyde flinches when anyone reminds him that he once actually practised law. The point of being a gentleman is to be capable of doing something useful but to choose not to. Make yourself serviceable and everyone will look down on you.’
‘Then Charles Stuart must be the most respected man alive,’ I say.
‘There’s more to him than he allows men to think,’ says Aminta. ‘If Cromwell believes His Majesty is a fool then he’s more likely to leave him alone.’
‘If you wish anyone to credit that your conversion to Republicanism is sincere and affected in no way by pecuniary considerations, then you must learn to call the Lord Protector “His Highness” and to call the man in Brussels “Charles Stuart” or, if you choose, “the titular King of the Scots”. Either is acceptable if you sneer as you say it.’
‘Charles Stuart,’ says Aminta. She’s good. That’s the best sneer I’ve seen for some time. Then she adds: ‘John Grey.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’s certainly the tone I had in mind.’
‘Drunkard.’
‘Excellent. Very sneering.’
‘Loose-tongued drinker of cheap spirits.’
‘Yes.’
‘Lawyer.’
‘Well, I think that’s enough sneering practice for today,’ I say.
‘I’d be happy to continue sneering.’
‘You are continuing.’
‘So I am.’
‘I must go and find Underhill,’ I say.
‘Good idea. You can let slip a few more secrets.’
‘You can stop practising now,’ I say.
‘There are some things you can never be quite good enough at,’ says Aminta.
I am fortunate that Probert is also at Hampton Court. As the Lord Protector moves from place to place he draws in his wake a crowd of greater and lesser officials. Probert it seems is one of them. I find him enjoying a long clay pipe in a sunny corner, his large frame propped up against a buttress of mellow red brick. He is dressed in brownish fustian, with some evidence of wear, especially to the knees and the elbows. His stockings are a pale buff colour that may once have been white. The broad brim of his hat flops in a way which its maker surely cannot have intended. It occurs to me that I have never seen him in a suit of clothes that appeared in any way new. Everything about him, other than his size, seems designed to draw attention to others rather than to himself. And yet even Probert’s clothes must have been new once.
He listens to what I have to say about my meeting with Ripley, then breathes out a cloud of smoke.
‘I have not seen him myself. Perhaps he has already left.’
‘Is Mr Thurloe here?’
He shakes his head. ‘Mr Secretary Thurloe is still in Westminster.’
‘And his clerks?’
‘I believe they are all hard at work in the same place, as they should be.’
‘Could he have sent one ahead of him? A man named Underhill – Esmond Underhill?’
‘Esmond Underhill? I know all of the clerks in the department and there is none of that name.’
‘A sneaking ferret-like fellow,’ I offer. ‘Sallow of countenance as if long out of the sun, perhaps in some damp underground burrow. Slightly stooped. Sly, deceitful and grubby.’
Probert considers this with some care. He draws in smoke slowly, then releases it from the corner of his mouth. It hangs in the cold air for a moment, then dissolves.
‘Not called Underhill,’ he says eventually. ‘Dickinson and Musgrave certainly fit the description you give. Slightly stooped? Grubby? Perhaps you would be describing Musgrave a little generously. Did he smell of cloves?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Not Dickinson then, who takes some tincture against the cold at times such as this. But why do you ask?’
‘I met a man claiming to be such a person.’
‘And you think he was not?’
‘I am beginning to think that – yes.’
‘Why? To be Esmond Underhill – it is a modest enough claim, surely?’
‘He behaved … oddly.’
‘That in itself is nothing. It is almost reassuring. Those who behave oddly are rarely concealing anything. It is those who behave normally that you should mistrust. Meet me at dinner. It is served for those such as you and me in the hall near the kitchen. Sit on the bench next to me as if we are not acquainted. I shall perhaps be able to tell you more.’
I spend the next hour wandering round Hampton Court. Other than Whitehall, I have never seen a palace before. There is a constant coming and going – messengers arrive, clerks dressed in black fustian run this way and that with bundles of papers. A group of men dressed in magnificent furs and long beards process to the Great Hall, preceded by a man holding a bow and arrows. Some say they are from Russia, some say they are from Turkey. Nobody quite knows why they are here. Serving men cross the court in the other direction carrying dark red sides of bacon, all following each other to a destination that the leading man at least appears to know. Two maids run after them, lifting their skirts to prevent them trailing across the ground, chattering as they go. One glances at me and grins but the other pulls at her arm and they are gone. A man in a blue silk suit emerges from a side door that I had not previously noticed, looks up at the sky, then vanishes again inside the building. It is like watching a vast ants’ nest. There is constant activity but it is difficult to make much sense of what I see. For a while, like Probert, I find a sunny spot and just sit and watch the vast pageant that is the court.
My stomach rather than the giant one-handed clock tells me that dinnertime is approaching. By dint of asking every other person I see, I manage to work my way gradually to the dining hall, across courtyards and along low-ceilinged passageways, where my footsteps echo. I smell my destination long before I see it. A warm fug hits me as I finally pass through the door; indeed, there is so much steam, I can scarcely see the far end of the room. Oak tables and benches are set out and serving men rush backwards and forwards, some with full plates, some removing empty ones. Two or three clerks elbow past me without apology – I think they do not have much time to eat their dinner. There is activity everywhere. It is a microcosm of the court itself. Probert is already there and has been served with some roast mutton. I join him at the table. A wooden trencher is thrust unceremoniously in front of me.
‘There has been another attempt on the Lord Protector’s life,’ says Probert as soon as the serving man departs. He does not look at me, but tears a hunk of greyish bread for himself and dips it into his gravy. ‘It happened last night. Crude but ingenious. A dagger was rigged up on a long rope, hidden inside the canopy of His Highness’s bed. The other end of the rope was nailed to the floor, with a candle close by. Once the candle had burned through the rope, the knife would fall, point first.’
‘But His Highness is safe?’
‘Of course. The rope burned through long before he retired for the night. He found a dagger embedded in the mattress and a length of smouldering rope. He smelled the rope burning even before he entered the room, by the way.’
‘Not the best-laid of tr
aps?’
‘Not the best.’
‘Who had access to the room?’ I ask.
Probert looks round, but in the general hum of eating and talking, nobody pays us any attention. Still, he lowers his voice to no more than a normal volume. ‘We are trying to find out. There were two entrances to the room, but apparently only one was guarded. Latet anguis in herba – and I believe the snake concerned may be named Underhill. He is definitely not one of our men. Do you know where he was last night?’
‘Only for a part of it,’ I say.
‘Where is he now?’
I too survey the room, but see no Underhill.
‘I don’t know whether he is still at Hampton Court. He is certainly no longer in the chamber, though his shirt was there. Ripley, of course, was here,’ I add.
‘So you said. I do not think, from what you tell me, that Ripley is a man for games of the sort you describe. A dagger, by all means, or a rope, but not both together. We are making enquiries about him in Brussels and with our contacts in the Royalist camp. I think we may add Underhill’s name to the list of those about whom we would like to know more – if Underhill is his real name. I shall leave you now, Grey, in case any observe us talking for longer than might seem plausible. The Sealed Knot will expect you to sound out Dr Bate but it will seem odd if you are friends with one such as I.’
‘We could have met somewhere by chance.’
‘I never meet anyone by chance, Grey.’
‘Do you have further instructions for me?’
Probert stands and stretches.
‘Watch and wait,’ he says. ‘Festina lente, Mr Grey. There is no need for haste. I think the man you are seeking will come to you – if he hasn’t already.’
Indeed – if he hasn’t already. For I do not trust Underhill. But what could I have told him? Little more than my name, when you think about it.
*
Hampton Court was built for another less sophisticated age. Though it has one or two very grand chambers, much of it is Gothick and inconvenient. Few, I think, admire it now or will ever admire it again. For the spy, however, its small panelled rooms and narrow stone-floored passages afford many opportunities.
I am returning to my chamber after dinner when ahead of me I see Aminta and Dr Bate in earnest conversation, almost concealed in a window embrasure. Bate is half-sitting on the window seat and Aminta is standing over him. I think at first that she must be lost and has chanced to meet him and is now asking her way. But there is something about the way she is jabbing her finger into his chest that suggests she is telling rather than asking. She glances over her shoulder, without noticing me in this shadowy corridor, then continues her discussion. My greeting to her freezes on my lips. Bate looks worried and I am interested to see what Aminta plans to do with him.
I press myself into an alcove and try to make out what they are saying. I hear her ask something about Cromwell. Then I think I hear her mention Willys, though that seems unlikely. Bate shakes his head once or twice.
‘I do not think it can be done,’ he says.
‘But you will think on it?’
‘I have already said.’ The good doctor is not happy.
In the ensuing silence, Bate makes a bow to Aminta, and not I think because of her claim to be a viscountess. For all his defiance, he has a beaten look about him. Then he creeps away. If he had a tail it would be between his legs.
Aminta gives a disgusted snort then turns to discover me just behind her.
‘Was that Dr Bate?’ I ask.
‘Why are you trying to look innocent?’ asks Aminta.
‘I didn’t know I was,’ I say.
‘Well, if you were, it wasn’t very good,’ she says. ‘Yes, that was Dr Bate, as you are aware.’
‘How are you acquainted?’ I ask.
‘My father knew him well many years ago. He is another possible friend to make our case to Cromwell.’
‘But he won’t?’
‘He is the third or fourth most cowardly man I know. He will risk nothing. Nothing at all. He will merely think on it. Even that seems to carry too much danger. I must report back to my husband that we can expect little from Dr Bate. You know that he was formerly the King’s chief physician?’
‘I had heard that.’
‘When the war started to go against the King, Bate was one of the first rats to jump ship. He crawled back to London from Oxford to resume his medical practice and soon had Oliver Cromwell as one of his patients. He’s now chief physician to “His Highness” and his family. If the good doctor thinks you’re a Royalist he will express all kinds of regret for the passing of the monarchy, but in between times he sucks up to Cromwell.’
‘So, why won’t Bate help you?’ I ask.
‘Help me?’
‘You said he wouldn’t help you make representations to Cromwell.’
‘Oh, yes. He seems to think that being associated with delinquent Royalists may cost him his place here at court. He’s treating Cromwell’s daughter Elizabeth at the moment. I’m sure he’s well paid for it.’
‘I believe she is very ill.’
‘She’s dying of cancer. Bate’s suggested cure is to take the waters at Tunbridge Wells. It will at least do nothing to hasten her death, unlike most of the other things he might advise.’
‘It’s as easy for a doctor to kill as cure,’ I say.
‘I suppose you would know,’ says Aminta, ‘since your father is a surgeon.’
When I return to my room I find a small sheet of paper there, neatly folded and placed in the centre of my bed.
Mr S. K. sends his greetings to Mr Cardinal and asks him to present himself on his return to London. Thursday night. Same time and place as before. The obliging porter has gone but you won’t need him.
Underhill’s bed is carefully made up but his damp shirt is nowhere to be seen, any more than Underhill himself.
Mr Cardinal
‘Sir Richard is again called away?’
‘You don’t need to know that,’ says Ripley.
The chill in the air is not due only to the lack of fire in Sir Richard’s grate. We will not be here long enough to make it worthwhile fetching and lighting the coals. But I think that Ripley is, in any case, going to tell me no more than he has to. Something has changed.
Cold though it is in the chamber, it is by many degrees warmer than it is outside. Snow is piled against the windows, a brilliant white at the top where the sun shines through it, a deeper grey where it rests on the sill.
‘So, have you yet formed a plan?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Even though you now have the post that you need? Even though you have access to Cromwell? You are not, I hope, planning to deceive us?’
I had little enough opportunity at Hampton Court, as he must realise. Something has happened. And whatever Ripley has learned is not to my credit.
‘If it were easy, he would already be dead,’ I say. ‘Others have tried. He never tells anyone in advance when he is planning to travel, he never stays in a room unless there is more than one exit, he is cautious what he accepts to eat or drink, he wears plate armour, at least on his front, and he is guarded wherever he goes.’
‘All things you presumably knew when you accepted the assignment?’
We look at each other. I think I can bluster my way out of this. In a moment I shall know for certain.
‘Hyde doesn’t want it to be an obvious assassination,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t want the taint of Cromwell’s death on himself or on His Majesty. It must be done subtly.’
I am impressed by my own powers of invention, but Ripley nods and, at that moment, we both know that what I have said is true. Cromwell lives forever under the shadow of having executed his predecessor. Charles Stuart will wish not to have the same stain on his character. He would prefer that assassinations of heads of states should continue to be regarded as rare and exceptional events. However Cromwell dies, it should not touch the court in Brussels or appea
r as a precedent that might inconvenience a future monarch. It must be done subtly indeed, and at the right time, when Hyde has gathered his forces to strike.
‘But how long will it take?’ demands Ripley. ‘What you say is undoubtedly true, but I can’t hold good men in a constant state of readiness for an uprising that may not happen for months. Hyde must realise that. I have five thousand foot and five thousand horse at my disposal – but it would take only one of them to betray us for all to be undone. And each day that passes is another four and twenty hours for one of them to fall victim to fear or avarice or stupidity and to walk up to the front door of his local magistrate with a wagging tongue and a purse open to receive Cromwell’s silver.’
‘My job,’ I say, ‘is to kill Cromwell. Yours is to ensure that the troops are ready when needed. Is that understood, Sir Michael?’
Ripley is still not happy, but he nods reluctantly.
‘We have been preparing for some time,’ he says. ‘As Hyde is aware.’
‘Where are they?’ I ask. ‘Your ten thousand men?’
‘That’s not something that Hyde needs to know. But I assure you they will be ready to fight.’
‘Where do you store their equipment – helmets, breastplates, swords, pikes, muskets, powder, shot? Is there not a danger it will be discovered?”
‘At the moment Parliament keeps it safe for us. We shall take it from them when we need it and not before.’
‘So, you are relying on seizing arms in the possession of the State?’
‘They are the best that money can buy.’
‘I shall let Sir Edward know,’ I say.
‘Good,’ says Ripley. ‘And perhaps in return he will let us know what he is doing.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say.
‘Yes, you do. I told you: the only way that we knew you were coming was that our own man in Brussels told me. And we were able to contact you only because our man also overheard you telling Hyde where you could be contacted.’
‘Contacted at Mistress Reynolds’s house?’