A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  Then let us all rejoice again,

  On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;

  Then let us all rejoice again,

  On Christmas Day in the morning.

  The heavy wooden door creaks open as I push it. The cold air rushes in. There is also a smell of horse shit in the air – no surprise when I see the number of horses that block the road. The army is out in force. There will, sadly, be no escape for the minister or for the congregation. Well, that is after all what they deserve. The sooner I am away from here the better.

  But I find a large red hand forced against my chest.

  ‘Not so fast, you Cavalier whelp,’ says the trooper.

  ‘I was just looking for a friend in there,’ I say. ‘I’m not a Royalist myself, obviously. If you’ll excuse me I must go.’

  ‘Hear that?’ he says to somebody behind him. ‘He’s not a Royalist. He must go.’

  There is a gruff chuckle.

  ‘But you don’t need to arrest me …’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘I’m not here for the service. I believe Christmas is a superstitious pagan festival.’

  The trooper smiles. ‘Save it for the magistrate,’ he says.

  ‘I’m a lawyer,’ I say.

  ‘Then you should know better.’

  ‘I work for Mr Secretary Thurloe. He warned me this was going to happen.’

  ‘Of course. That’s why you’re here then. Because you knew you’d get arrested.’

  ‘But I wasn’t even singing.’

  ‘That’s what they all say. Take him and lock him up with the others, Ned.’

  Back at Mistress Reynolds’s they will soon be sitting down to goose. I doubt they will serve goose where I am going.

  Then let us all rejoice again on Christmas Day in the morning.

  I am being held in the Tower of London. I am not optimistic that I can escape.

  At first I was in a large comfortable room with many of the rest of the congregation. Then I explained to the officer in charge that I was, in a manner of speaking, a secret agent. That caused a small and gratifying amount of excitement. I was pleased to be taken from the room and marched away from the Royalist rabble, through the snowy streets. Only as the melancholy walls of the Tower began to loom above me, did I realise that perhaps things were not turning out as I had hoped. We passed beneath a great stone gateway and a heavy door closed behind me.

  Now I am in a narrow, malodorous room that is more underground than not. The only window is high up in the stone wall – a small, barred square of light, which is already fading fast. Christmas Day is as short under Parliament as it was under the King. The floor is damp and icy. There is a stool to sit on and an old and filthy straw mattress, which I hope I shall not be here long enough to need. I believe most of the others will have already been fined and released.

  My patch of sky, which was slate grey, slowly grows pink, then fades slowly to nothing. I can scarce make out the bars. Only the icy draught from above reminds me that there is a gap in the solid stone. I have not been fed goose or any other thing. Even if I were a Puritan, I could not have wished for a more miserable Christmas Day.

  Then, in the depths of my darkness, I see a flicker of red beneath the door. The gaoler is approaching with a candle and perhaps some bread and beer. A face peers through the grill.

  ‘Stand away from the door, you. Gentleman to see you.’

  ‘Salve!’ announces my visitor. ‘You are not good at taking advice, Mr Grey.’

  ‘I was looking for somebody,’ I say.

  ‘I hope you found her and that she was pretty,’ says Probert.

  ‘I did not find her,’ I say.

  ‘Then you have suffered imprisonment in vain.’

  ‘At least you have come to release me now,’ I say.

  ‘Perhaps not quite yet,’ says Probert.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We have new intelligence. We think that the Sealed Knot is having doubts about you.’

  ‘I know. Brodrick cornered me yesterday. But it was mere bluster. They have had a letter from Brussels that failed to mention me, that is all. I merely fear Underhill. He thinks he has the power to undo me and he may not be wrong. Have you arrested him yet?’

  ‘No. He has proved more elusive than we thought. Did Brodrick say anything else to you?’

  ‘He asked about my cousin – Aminta Clifford, now married to Roger Pole and living in Paris. She is staying with me. Indeed, she was the lady I went in search of.’

  ‘Mr Thurloe said that she had reappeared in London,’ says Probert with a frown. ‘So, Pole wishes to change sides again?’

  ‘Like Buckingham and many others, he has given up hope of a restoration of the Stuarts. He is in Paris with Aminta’s father.’

  ‘If the two families are now united … Mr Thurloe told me that you thought you had perhaps been mistaken for Sir Felix’s son. But could Ripley in fact have been expecting Pole? His son-in-law, in other words?’

  I think back to our conversation. Pole also lived in the same village, for a time at least. He was secretary to my stepfather, the Colonel. He lived at the manor house.

  ‘Why would Ripley think I was then called Clifford?’

  ‘It is an obvious alias for you to choose. His wife’s maiden name.’

  ‘I do not resemble him in any way,’ I say.

  ‘That might explain their puzzlement.’

  We both consider this. I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why did you not inform us earlier about Lady Pole?’ asks Probert.

  ‘About Aminta? Because it has no relevance to the matter at hand.’

  ‘I beg to differ. She could endanger your safety if she knew too much about your activities. She may bear you a grudge.’

  ‘I do not think she would give me away,’ I say.

  ‘Better not to give her the chance. Variam et mutabile semper femina.’

  ‘That saying may be true of some women but not Aminta. She rarely changes her mind about anything. And I am sure she is telling the truth about her allegiance. She and her family have no communication with the Stuart court. And she knows nothing of my part in her exile.’

  ‘Let us hope so. She could not have met Ripley or Brodrick before?’

  ‘No, but she said that her father formerly knew Sir Richard Willys,’ I say reluctantly. ‘I believe she has had contact with him.’

  ‘Otherwise she shows no other residual Royalist leanings?’

  ‘Only, as I say, that she may have gone to church on Christmas Day. Is it possible she was arrested as well as me?’

  Probert shakes his head. Wherever Aminta went, it was not to church, or if it was, she was more cautious than I. She is not in some foul dungeon. Of course she isn’t.

  ‘When can I be released?’ I ask.

  ‘As I say, we have received fresh intelligence that the Knot is suspicious of you. It is possible that Underhill has been speaking to them. It is also possible that, contrary to what you suppose, your cousin Aminta Clifford has lied to you and told the Sealed Knot all she knows about you. We hope not, because there is one final task we need you to perform – one that will ensure not only your own safety but the whole country’s safety. The problem is what to do with you in the meantime. It may be that here in prison is the only place that we can truly protect you. But there is a further reason for keeping you here. Your arrest will also give credence to your purported status as a Royalist. Whatever they believe now, Brodrick and Ripley will reason that we would not arrest one of our own, or if we did that we would treat him well.’

  ‘So, I am to be detained and not treated well?’ I say.

  Probert nods. ‘Precisely. Another few days, or say a week at the most, will assist you greatly. We shall try to ensure that you are not too uncomfortable – I think we may spare you the usual interrogation – but we must give your imprisonment some semblance of reality.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all. It also seems to me th
at it would be wise in any case to remove you from Mistress Reynolds’s and the prying eyes of Aminta Pole.’

  ‘So, I am to stay here in the meantime eating dry bread and drinking filthy water?’

  ‘Of course not. We shall instruct the gaoler to give you water that is reasonably clean. But not so clean of course as to arouse the suspicions of Brodrick and Ripley.’

  ‘Will the Sealed Knot even know I am here?’

  ‘Yes, we shall make sure they do. And I must remember to get the gaolers to address you as Mr Clifford in case the Knot make enquiries. We shall not stint in our efforts to impress upon them that you have suffered greatly. On your release you can tell him them you were threatened in all sorts of ways, but revealed nothing about the Knot. Or we can make you a little less heroic, if you are of a modest disposition.’

  ‘No. Tell them that you threatened to torture me, but that I laughed in your face.’

  ‘I have never witnessed such a thing myself, but if that is what you would wish me to say, I shall certainly do it.’

  ‘Lay it on as thick as you like,’ I say.

  *

  It is, I think, Thursday. Time moves slowly here in prison and the winter night and day are often as one. Few sounds reach me down here, and most of those that do echo strangely on the cold stone. I hear the clink of keys, the sound of locks turning smoothly, footsteps receding into the distance. Occasionally I can make out the cries of one who has been here a little too long – the despairing sobs of somebody who is truly forgotten by the world. But I shall be here a short time only. Probert has returned.

  ‘A little longer, Mr Grey,’ he says apologetically. ‘I had expected Mr Thurloe to order your release, but he is reluctant for reasons I cannot fully understand. Underhill has, however, been arrested. He has as yet provided us with few facts. He refuses to implicate General Lambert in any way. But nothing he tells us makes us think that he has betrayed you to Ripley, whom he of course denies knowing.’

  ‘Then perhaps it would be safe to let me go?’

  ‘As I say, Mr Thurloe has ordered it otherwise. We still have a large number of dangerous Royalists in prison. Perhaps that is his reason. If we were to release you before the others, it would imply that you had friends working for you. Clearly, as a hardened Royalist, you have no friends at all.’

  ‘So it would appear,’ I say.

  ‘Friend to see you,’ says the gaoler.

  I have been dozing, dreaming of flocks of roast geese, flying across the sky, dripping a rich, dark sauce. They vanish into a vapour, which is rising warmly from innumerable plum puddings. I rub my eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Aminta to the gaoler, handing him a discreet coin or two. She looks at me, head on one side, and smiles. The gaoler touches his cap to her, a thing he had never done for me. I suspect that, even in this Republican gaol, an ancient title carries some weight. Any residual fear that she too may have been arrested is dissipated by the way the gaoler backs out of her presence, mumbling his thanks to Her Ladyship. She is certainly not here as a prisoner, however many Christmas services she may have attended. She waits patiently until he has gone before she addresses me. Perhaps she at least brings news.

  ‘I think I like your other chambers better,’ says Aminta, wrinkling her nose. ‘They are warmer and lack the green slime that seems such an important feature of this one. Your present accommodation also smells of unwashed lawyer.’

  I struggle to my feet in order to be slightly less at a disadvantage. My muscles are stiffer than I thought. I rub my chin, which I have not shaved for some days. And I doubt that she would wash that often if the water was as cold as that which I am offered.

  ‘I am not here by choice,’ I say, glancing towards the door. ‘Mr Thurloe believes—’

  ‘It has been explained to me,’ she interrupts, ‘by one in Mr Thurloe’s office. I am of course touched that you should have come looking for me, but otherwise the less we talk of that the better. We need to maintain the pretence that you are a Royalist prisoner and that I am graciously visiting you as an act of charity.’

  ‘Who in Mr Thurloe’s office has explained my incarceration?’ I ask. Probert would scarcely have explained anything to her.

  ‘I forget the name,’ she says unconvincingly. ‘But he made clear the necessity of it. He also provided me with a pass to enter here.’

  ‘And this is an act of charity?’

  ‘I have unfortunately had to bribe the gaolers with the cakes that were to form the outward and visible part of my charitable act. The pass alone proved insufficient. But as a Puritan you probably enjoy fasting. The gaolers assured me that they belonged to the Church of England. However, since I have seen you, I can report to your mother that you are in good spirits and that your cell is no worse than it might be. Of course you can give her a fuller report when you are released.’

  ‘I am to be released then?’ I ask.

  ‘I so wish I could bring you better news, but sadly not, my dear cousin. As you know, there are good reasons for holding you here for a little while longer. There are, however, things happening in the great world outside. Do you know a Mr Daniel O’Neill?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘One of Hyde’s couriers, according to my contact. He has been over here on some business for Hyde. Thurloe has been trying to arrest him, but every time he sends some soldiers round to pick him up, O’Neill has gone. Somebody seems to be tipping him off. Has Ripley mentioned him? Or Sir Richard Willys?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But if there is a leak, then it is Sam Morland’s work.’

  ‘That is your view?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  Aminta considers this, a lilac-gloved finger against her red lips. It is weeks since I have seen anyone so beautiful.

  ‘Is it Willys who has told you this?’ I ask.

  Aminta shakes her head. I am not sure I believe her.

  ‘Has Willys been arrested?’ I ask.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ Aminta looks round the cell again, though there is little enough to see. ‘Well, cousin, that is enough charity for one day. Mistress Reynolds is cooking roast lamb for dinner – tender baby lamb cooked with rosemary and a steaming hot apple pie with a golden crust to follow. I would not wish her to burn it all just because I had selfishly loitered here. But be of good cheer. You are not forgotten here. Far from it.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  It is, I think, still January. Time moves slowly here in prison and one month is much like another – damp and unpleasant.

  The gaoler delivers a note to me. It is from Probert. He regrets being unable to visit me in person, but he does not wish to arouse suspicion, and a further visit by him without my being tortured would seem odd. He makes no mention of Aminta’s visit to me but does say that she has departed my lodgings, for France in all likelihood, leaving behind a large bill for me to pay at Mistress Reynolds’s. It is only a matter of a few more days until I shall find out. I am instructed to eat the note. I do so. It at least tastes better than the bread.

  It is, I think, February. My cell remains damp, but it is a little warmer. I receive a letter from my mother, much delayed by the authorities. It bears greetings for the New Year. My mother says that she has received a full (word underlined three times) report from Mr Probert and regrets that I am detained. She wonders why I did not adhere to my plan to study law, which would have been altogether more convenient. She compares me to my father in a way that compliments neither of us. Finally, she reports that she and my stepfather enjoyed a pleasant Christmas and hopes that I shall be home next year.

  It is, I think, March. The breeze that blows through my barred and glassless window is fresher and sometimes almost warm. I receive a letter from Aminta, addressed simply from Paris, thanking me for my hospitality. She is well but her petition makes no further progress. She is sure that I will bear my imprisonment with the same fortitude that she bears having to live in France. If I meet anyone of im
portance in gaol, who might have the ear of the Lord Protector, she would be grateful if, etc etc. They have had to move house in Paris several times to avoid their creditors. I may reply to her via my mother if I need to.

  It is, I think, April. I receive a bill from my landlady for wine, oranges, tea and four months’ rent. She begs to remain, as ever, my obedient servant and hopes for early payment.

  It is, I think, late spring or early summer – at least it is in the world outside. Here in prison it is always bleak mid-winter. I have eaten nothing since a note I received yesterday from Thurloe – a brief message but finally there is hope. My incarceration will shortly be at an end. Underhill has been released, having given the State no assistance of any sort. Almost all of the other Royalists have also now been freed. There is no reason to keep me here any longer. My stomach is rumbling but, unless I am released today, it will be at least another hour before the next hunk of dry bread is thrust at me.

  Outside, I hear footsteps – not just the heavy plod of the gaoler but another lighter pair of feet accompanying him. I wonder if one of Mr Thurloe’s agents has come to conduct me back to his office at Westminster or to my lodgings. Either would be good provided we can stop off at an inn on the way and procure a roast chicken and some slices of ham and a grilled trout and a flagon of ale and a basket of apples and …

  But the lace-bedecked figure who strides through the door does not come from Thurloe.

  ‘Sir Michael …’ I begin. But Ripley quickly holds a finger to his lips. I wonder who he has told the gaoler he is. I somehow doubt if he has said that he is a renegade Cavalier.

  ‘Mr Clifford,’ he says pleasantly. ‘I have been arguing to this good man that you present no threat to anyone. He assures me, however, that you are a dangerous agent of Charles Stuart.’