A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  Lambert appears relieved that I have not told him Underhill was in the Tower or worse.

  ‘Ah,’ he says.

  Outside the window the sky is darkening. Unnoticed by me, the clouds have been gathering, gun-metal grey and ominous. By the time the sun sets on this short winter day, the roads may be impassable. I do not think I will learn more than I have.

  ‘I must go,’ I say.

  ‘Back to your master.’

  ‘We must all answer to somebody, my Lord.’

  ‘Not all of us have to stoop to answering to a creature like Thurloe. Tell Mr Secretary Thurloe that I won’t need him when Cromwell’s gone. He can start packing his bags now.’

  ‘I’ll tell him, if those are your instructions to me.’

  Lambert nods and turns again to his sewing. Then, as I am about to leave the room he calls: ‘Wait!’

  ‘Yes?’ Perhaps after all he is going to tell me something about Underhill.

  ‘Before you go, ask my cook to serve you some warm ale and a slice of smoked ham. You have a long journey back to London. One day, so will I.’

  My Lord Fairfax

  The snow lies deep on this day that was once known as Christmas Eve. There are few abroad in this white world. Black figures scuttle across the landscape, bundled up in long cloaks, hats pulled down against the wind that is sweeping the snow in heaps against the walls of houses. The black figure scurrying towards me, hat pulled down against who knows what, is a familiar one, however. When I was younger and more credulous, my mother would often warn me that if you speak of the devil, he will appear at your elbow. This is the first instance I can think of when he has done so.

  ‘Underhill!’ I say.

  He pauses and seems to sniff me out rather than see me. ‘Mr Grey,’ he says.

  ‘Indeed,’ I say, regretting once again that I gave him my true name, rather than Plautus or Cardinal. ‘You are well, I trust, Mr Underhill? You are some way from your office at Whitehall.’

  ‘As indeed are you, Mr Grey,’ he says. ‘But we must both run errands for masters who are not ready to venture out on such a day. I am returning from Lambeth. And you, my friend, are bound for …’

  ‘Somerset House,’ I say, simply because I know that it lies in this direction but well beyond my actual destination. I see no reason to tell Underhill another truth, though I shall try to get him to tell me one or two.

  He gives me a twisted smile. ‘You have some way to go.’

  ‘You left Hampton Court somewhat precipitously,’ I say. ‘Was there any reason for that?’

  ‘I ran out of clean shirts,’ he says.

  ‘You tried to tell me that Sir Richard Willys was head of the Sealed Knot,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you are talking about, Mr Grey.’

  ‘You work for the Sealed Knot,’ I say.

  ‘You were drunk when I last saw you, Mr Grey. I am not sure that you have sobered up much in the meantime.’

  ‘Except,’ I say, ‘perhaps you are no longer working for the Sealed Knot. Perhaps you are now working for somebody else entirely.’

  ‘This is making my head spin, Mr Grey. First you say I’m working for a body that I’ve no knowledge of. Then you tell me I’ve left their service. Perhaps we should continue this conversation when you’ve made up your mind what it is I’m supposed to have done.’

  ‘Just tell me who employs you. Is it General Lambert?’

  He laughs. ‘I work for Mr Thurloe.’

  ‘You lie, Mr Underhill. Who do you really work for?’ I grab his arm. ‘I could make you tell me.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, Mr Grey. I doubt you could make me do anything. And you need not hold my arm. I have no intention of running away or of starting a fight with you here in the middle of the road.’

  I relax my grip slightly. Underhill makes no attempt to pull his arm away. Eventually I release him and take a step back.

  ‘I can find out who you are,’ I say.

  ‘I’m Esmond Underhill,’ he says. ‘At your service, Mr Grey. Entirely at your service. But – and here’s a funny thing – I did mention to somebody that I’d met you at Hampton Court. This person – a good friend of yours and mine – thought that you were really called John Clifford. So, I wondered, is “Grey” an assumed name? Or is “Clifford” an assumed name? Because you’ve obviously been lying to one of us.’

  ‘Who was he, your friend?’

  ‘You don’t know? I wondered whether to tell the gentleman concerned that I thought your name really was Grey. That might have surprised him quite a lot. But I decided not to tell him. As a courtesy to you. So, let’s leave it that we both know something about each other. I don’t work for Mr Thurloe, and you’re called John Grey. You see, I like you, Mr Grey – not enough to incommode myself on your behalf, but enough to be willing to keep your secrets for the time being. As long as I’m not questioned too closely by anyone, then my knowing who you are need not worry either of us. Any more than what you know about me need trouble anyone except ourselves. On the whole, I’d rather not hang and you’d probably rather not be stabbed from behind in an alleyway one fine morning. What do you say, Mr Grey? Shall we be friends? I should like that above all things. Oh, and I know where you live, by the way.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And I know who lives with you too. Clifford, eh? Very good.’

  He gives me another grin and is on his way, with no formal farewell.

  For a moment I stand there. What exactly did Underhill mean? He knows who lives with me. And Aminta has been very free in describing herself as my cousin – that may not have been helpful. So a misunderstanding concerning my name might have occurred. But what common friends do Underhill and I have except common friend Ripley, and Brodrick? And Ripley knows my father, so how can he think that I am called Clifford? I actually told Ripley that I was John Grey.

  Or, then again … thinking about it, was I less explicit on that matter than I thought? I certainly told them I was the son of the man they were expecting. As for their many questions to me, a purported John Clifford, close kinsman of Aminta, would have answered much the same. The Cliffords for example once owned the manor as we did before their time. But surely Ripley and Brodrick have had time to make enquiries, in which case they would have been told that Sir Felix had no living son called John, merely a dead one called Marius? Yet it all begins to make sense. I think that in my conversations with Thurloe it is Aminta’s father rather than my own that I have been protecting so carefully. It is he who was expected from Brussels. In which case, where is he now?

  I look at the line of footprints in the snow, all that remains of Underhill. They are coming from where I am going. No doubt about that. They lead me on, backward step by backward step, towards the south. But there are many other tracks that cross his and soon I lose any sense of what is his and what belongs to the feet of others. Has Underhill been this way? I cannot tell. Where was he going? I do not know.

  Too many questions. Too few answers.

  I press on towards the river and another meeting.

  Thurloe has given me directions to a house in the Strand, where he says Lord Fairfax may be found. I am glad that I am not riding out to Wimbledon today. The snow is deep and soft, and a few errant flakes continue to drift down from the sky. My mount is doubtless munching hay in a warm stable while I trudge the streets of London.

  I think the years have been kinder to Fairfax than to Cromwell. The hair and beard that gave him the nickname ‘Black Tom’ are only slightly tinged with grey. The brow is unfurrowed. He rises easily as I enter the room and motions me towards a chair by the fire. There is a self-assurance about him that Lambert and even Cromwell lack. Here is a man who has grown up knowing his place in the social order and knowing that it was a good one. He may rank many places below the Duke of Buckingham in the Order of Precedence, but they would speak the same language, have the same interests, marry into the same families. Lambert chafes in the country, away from th
e court for a few months. Fairfax knows that power is a long game that may be played over many generations. He views me with amused suspicion. He has the measure of his opponent.

  ‘Cromwell sent you?’ he asks.

  ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  He raises an eyebrow, but he does not ask which manner I refer to. ‘What does the Lord Protector want? Does he plan to arrest me as well as my son-in-law? The Duke’s only crime was to visit London. I am clearly in London too. Or would it please His Highness to arrest my daughter? Or my wife? Or my cook? They are here. In London.’

  ‘He has not arrested your son-in-law,’ I say. ‘The whereabouts of the Duke are unknown.’

  ‘And Cromwell expects me to tell him where he is?’

  ‘The Lord Protector understands the importance of loyalty. I doubt he expects that.’

  ‘The Lord Protector understands the importance of loyalty to himself. I am not sure that he has considered any other aspects of it. And he really believes the Duke plots against him? Just because he has returned to England? Why in God’s name would the Duke wish to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Buckingham has long been a Royalist – indeed, he was Charles Stuart’s closest friend, just as his father was close to King James. He is almost an adopted member of the Stuart family. He fought at Worcester. He accompanied the Pretender for many years in exile. His conversion to the cause of Parliament is unexpected – a great blow to the Royalist cause.’

  ‘Just so. And a great victory for Cromwell, if he would only accept the Duke as one of his most sincere and devoted supporters.’

  ‘His conversion might look cynical,’ I add, ‘to those who are cynical themselves. The Duke has secured his position.’

  ‘Provided Cromwell does not make him spend the rest of his life in the Tower.’

  ‘He would be in more danger of that if the Stuarts returned,’ I say.

  ‘Or perhaps he would charm his way back into favour. His family has never lacked charm. Or good looks.’

  ‘You are gambling that he would? He is your guarantee of safety if Charles Stuart returns?’

  Fairfax shoots me a glance. Just for an instant he is no longer a wealthy country gentleman with no concerns other than the state of his crops and his cattle. He is a general surveying the battlefield, not unpleased with his state of readiness.

  ‘Do not think for a moment that I would sacrifice my daughter’s happiness for personal ambition,’ he says. ‘I no longer have any personal ambition. But, as you say, my grandchildren’s future is assured whatever happens. Cromwell too has forged alliances with the old nobility. It is simply that I have scooped the biggest prize. That perhaps is what he resents. It is I, not he, who has extracted the Duke from the Spanish Netherlands. It is with my family, not Cromwell’s, that he has made his pact.’

  ‘Does Buckingham expect you to succeed Cromwell? Is that his gamble?’

  ‘I have never led him to believe that.’

  ‘Or,’ I say, ‘do you expect Buckingham to succeed? He is the closest thing this country has to royalty other than the Stuarts.’

  ‘He is a man of ability. I would expect that to be recognised. Eventually.’

  ‘So, if Cromwell dies …’

  Fairfax gives me a crooked smile. ‘Tell me, Mr Grey, why are you sent? Not, I think, to test my loyalty. His Highness knows he has that as long as he lives and I live. I lack for nothing. I am content with my estate in Yorkshire. Were he to grant me another, I would not know what to do with it. I doubt that he has sent you with any concession for my son-in-law. So what is this about?’

  ‘He wishes for some reassurance that you remain friends.’

  ‘Friends …’ He smiles and looks into a distance that I cannot see, because I was never there. ‘And what mark of friendship does he plan to bestow on me?’

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘To be left alone. To have my family left alone. To see my fruit trees deliver a prodigious harvest next autumn. Can he do that? Caesar after all became a god as well as an Emperor. A good crop of peaches should not be beyond him. He might also suspend the warrant for the arrest of my son-in-law.’

  ‘I shall tell him.’

  ‘I still have some influence with Parliament, Mr Grey. One day Cromwell may need that.’

  I pause, then say: ‘There are rumours of a plot against His Highness’s life. By somebody close to him.’

  ‘Nobody is close to him now.’

  ‘Then by somebody who might easily gain access to him.’

  ‘He is guarded.’

  ‘There have been two attempts this month.’

  I watch Fairfax carefully. His expression does not change.

  ‘Cromwell will die in his bed, just as Buckingham will one day govern the country. There are some things of which one can be certain, even if one cannot see quite how they will be done or when.’

  Thurloe nods thoughtfully. ‘So, Fairfax is not to be feared but Lambert is dangerously discontented with Wimbledon? I think you are right about both. And Lambert communicates with Underhill?’

  ‘Lambert should have damned my impertinence for questioning him about a corporal who served him many years ago but he was studiously polite, trying to discover what I, and therefore you, knew of the man.’

  ‘I agree that is interesting.’

  ‘Underhill must be arrested,’ I say. ‘I met him here in London. I fear that he may make another attempt on the Lord Protector’s life.’

  ‘We know exactly where Underhill is and we shall arrest him at a time of our choosing, just as Lambert dreads we will. We think he will provide us with a great deal of information and not just about Lambert.’

  ‘Underhill said something else that I did not understand at first. He told me that there were those who thought that Grey was a name I had assumed – that I was really called Clifford.’

  ‘Does he mean Ripley and Brodrick think that?’

  ‘I think that they believe I am the son of Sir Felix Clifford. His daughter, Lady Pole, is temporarily staying with me at Mistress Reynolds’s house – hence the confusion in their minds.’

  Thurloe frowns. ‘Aminta Clifford? She and her father, as you know, left England hurriedly as proscribed Royalists. They left moreover as a result of information that you provided when you were working for me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I do not care to be reminded of this. ‘But she is now completely loyal to the State, and comes to petition for the return of property forfeit by Lord Pole’s father.’

  ‘Is this lady aware of your role in her exile?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Nor is anyone else except you and Mr Probert and Mr Morland.’

  I do not add that my mother knows too. Thurloe looks at me as if trying to decide where to file this piece of information. ‘As a member of the Clifford family, I can see why they might trust you. It could be inconvenient if Underhill – or anyone else – told Ripley that you were John Grey.’

  ‘Underhill wishes to be my friend. In return for my not informing on him, he will not inform on me.’

  ‘A bargain you have not kept.’

  ‘A bargain that I never made.’

  ‘At some point I am sure he will decide to inform Ripley. I think your days as Mr Clifford are numbered.’

  ‘Then, with your permission, I would now like to retire to the country, as you promised I should, until such time as you have arrested Lambert and Underhill and Ripley and Brodrick.’

  Thurloe considers this. ‘Did I say that? We should not be precipitous. I said that your days were numbered – not that they were over. They clearly do not suspect you yet.’

  ‘I would not wish to delay my departure until after they suspect me. It might not then happen at all.’

  ‘But to withdraw you to the country now might simply arouse the very suspicions you fear – especially when we are close to making some arrests. I think we need you to continue as Mr Clifford for a little longer – for your own safety, you understand. We need to
ensure that we have cut this plot off at the very roots. Another week may be enough for that. Underhill will soon be safely under lock and key. Whatever danger he poses will then be of no account. And, in the meantime, Ripley clearly still trusts you, because you are happily still alive.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I am happily still alive.’

  But for how much longer?

  A Former Physician of the King

  ‘So, Mr Thurloe does not release you?’ asks Aminta. ‘Like some over-trusting knight in a fairy tale, you are given just one more task before you can marry the princess. Your labours continue.’

  ‘I think their conclusion is in sight,’ I say. ‘Aminta, your father – he is still in Paris?’

  I had hoped that my question was guileless, but Aminta’s expression suggests that it wasn’t.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she says. ‘I have told you. With his gout he would find it difficult to travel anywhere.’

  ‘Has he travelled to Brussels lately? Or London?’

  ‘London? Why should he? Even if it were not for his health, he would probably face arrest as a delinquent Royalist. I am the only member of my family who could visit England in reasonable safety. That is why I am here.’

  We look at each other. If there is something she has not told me, then she is still not telling me.

  ‘Of course,’ I say nonchalantly. ‘That is why you are here. I suppose, by the way, that you haven’t said anything to anyone that would have convinced them I was your brother? That my own name might be Clifford?’

  ‘You are asking me some very odd questions this afternoon. Has something happened?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘All is well. And how have your own labours progressed?’

  ‘My labours?’

  ‘Your petition. Is that not also a Herculean task?’

  ‘Ah, that. I have submitted my request to Cromwell. It is well written and its arguments are irrefutable. But I fear it will just sit there unloved unless somebody speaks for me. It would have been better if you had used your influence …’

  ‘I truly have none,’ I say.