A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  Under different circumstances, I might have said that this town offered little by way of entertainment. It is neither large nor well planned. There are few buildings of note. But I stroll through the narrow lanes, viewing with curiosity the strange and much decayed plasterwork on the houses. Women sit in their doorways, making lace on small frames. They do not glance in my direction as I pass. I do not look like a customer.

  I am not sure at what point I become aware that I am being followed by Smithson. He seems disinclined to run after me but his pace is as rapid as mine and increases when mine does. When I slow, he does too. Eventually, reaching a small square, I turn and face him.

  He gives me an encouraging smile. ‘Mr Grey, I think?’ he says.

  ‘I’m called Black,’ I reply.

  ‘You are most certainly called Black and many other things, but I think that it is sufficiently private here for me to address you by your real name, though perhaps not private enough to hold the conversation that we need to have,’ he says. ‘We are not at present overheard, but others may choose to walk this way – and not by chance. Perhaps if you would care to accompany me we may find somewhere more convenient?’

  The invitation sounds honest enough, but so did Ripley’s letter inviting me to Gray’s Inn. And I think back to Brodrick’s invitation to walk with him and his friends for a while and converse. That did not work out well either. This proposed conversation with the gentleman who knows my real name may prove to be harmless, but recent experience suggests that it will not be. I have escaped Ripley, who perhaps had some suspicions of me, in exchange for this swordsman, who knows full well that I have been lying.

  ‘There is an alleyway yonder,’ I say. ‘Go there now. I shall follow in a few minutes.’

  He nods a little too trustingly. As soon as his back is turned, I take off as quickly as I can in the other direction. I will later plead, if necessary, a genuine misunderstanding. But that will be in the company of the other passengers, in front of whom he may be reluctant to run me through with his rapier. For the moment, I would rather not be alone with him, unarmed and in a dark alley in a strange country.

  As I slip into a narrow lane, I hear a shout behind me. He has seen me, then. But I have a lead of a hundred yards at least, and the path is obligingly twisting and deceitful. The footsteps behind me falter at a crossroads and then fade away. Of the three choices he had, he has made a wrong one. I lean against a wall and regain my breath, then set off on what seems to be the right bearing. My plan is to circle round and back to the safety of the inn, but my sense of direction now fails me utterly. When I do finally reach an inn it is a different one. This one is smaller and more decrepit and has only a single carriage drawn up under its gently swinging sign. The carriage is familiar. It looks indeed like the missing carriage from Ostend – the one commandeered by the English milord.

  A man is leaving the inn in a leisurely manner. He is dressed in dark stuff and a large hat, pulled low over his eyes. He approaches the carriage as if he owns it rather than merely leases it by the hour – indeed, as if he owns a number of carriages, of which this is not the grandest. The coachman runs round and opens the door in as obsequious a manner as you could wish. But his passenger stops and turns, as if suddenly aware of my presence. He raises the brim of his hat. And Ripley smiles and winks at me.

  I have already cut and run once this afternoon. And in any case, he knows I am bound for Brussels. Running may help me in the short term, but in the longer term must confirm whatever suspicions have been growing in his mind. I remove my hat with a flourish and bow very low.

  ‘Your servant, Sir Michael,’ I say.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Clifford,’ he replies.

  ‘I thought I had lost you at Dover,’ I say.

  ‘To your great distress, no doubt,’ says Ripley.

  ‘Your departure was very sudden.’

  ‘I was concerned at the behaviour of the officer who came in search of us,’ he says. ‘Though he called out your name and yours alone, I noticed that he glanced several times in my direction and once indicated me to his sergeant when he thought I was looking the other way. For the avoidance of doubt, Mr Clifford, I am never looking the other way. I thought, by the bye, that you answered his questions well.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘A nice touch of insolence. I could not have done better myself. But, to continue my story, I felt it was odd that my name was not mentioned at all. It occurred to me – though I would never have previously suspected it of an officer of the State – that they might be playing some kind of low trick. I therefore slipped away and left the inn by the back door. I ascertained that the soldiers, on leaving the inn, had not gone as far as they might have done. Indeed, they were waiting on the path to the ship, poorly concealed behind some bales of wool. I therefore hung back from the main party as you went towards the boat. I might have delayed and caught the next boat across, but a gentleman of about my size and height decided to visit the privy before he boarded. Once I had him stripped of his doublet and breeches, gagged and trussed, I discovered from his passport that he was called Obadiah Shufflebottom. Ever since I was a small boy, it has been my ambition to be called Obadiah Shufflebottom, so I took the opportunity to impersonate him.’ Ripley pauses, perhaps wondering if he has stretched my credulity a little too far. If he is willing to believe that I am pleased to see him, however, I am quite happy to accept his regret that he was not baptised Obadiah. I therefore say nothing and allow Ripley to continue the tale.

  ‘Since the soldiers were searching for a Cavalier in a red silk suit, they paid Mr Shufflebottom scant attention as he hurried to the boat, his hat pulled down over his eyes. I apologised to the captain for my late arrival and spent the night sleeping out of the way of the other passengers, on a badly stowed heap of rope. The tar may have spoiled Mr Shufflebottom’s breeches a little, but I have no plans to return them to him. I think that I overheard you vomiting, so I did not disturb you. I trust you passed an otherwise pleasant night on board?’

  ‘Indifferently bad,’ I say. ‘I did not see you leave the ship. You were not on the small boat with us.’

  ‘No, I had no wish to get cold and wet. While the first group was joining the rowing boat, I thought to engage the captain in conversation. I told him how the ship might be brought in.’

  ‘You knew how? He said it was impossible.’

  ‘I told him that I had served with Prince Rupert and that I had commanded my own ship at the age of sixteen and sailed her to the West Indies and safe home to France. I assured him that manoeuvring in these calm coastal waters was easy enough and that I could issue the necessary commands to his crew if he wished.’

  ‘And he accepted?’

  ‘No, surprisingly he declined. I rather think that he knew all along how it might be done, but was too modest to say so. Or perhaps he thought you would enjoy the ride in a small, leaking boat on a choppy sea.’

  ‘He was wrong.’

  ‘Then he clearly didn’t realise his mistake until it was too late to offer you a more comfortable arrival in Ostend. You see how badly you do when we are separated. I think I will take greater care to ensure that it does not happen again. I shall watch you in future as a mother hawk watches her chicks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But as you can see, I have in fact got this far without your help.’

  ‘But in less comfort.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Well, we are both here now, by our various routes, and no harm has been done. I do think your carriage is slightly more crowded than mine. Why don’t you join me for the rest of our journey to Brussels?’

  So, Ripley is not as easy to shake off as Probert had thought. I hope that Thurloe has another plan up his sleeve, though I fear he may not. I am at least safe until we reach Brussels. I have heard it is a large city and I believe my father lives there with his Flemish whore. I think I can give Ripley the slip long enough to deliver my letter and find sanctuary at my father’s re
sidence. Then I shall hire a horse and ride as fast as I can for the coast. All is not yet lost.

  ‘Did you really serve under Rupert?’ I ask. ‘Or was that Mr Shufflebottom?’

  ‘Rupert would employ no officer called Obadiah Shufflebottom,’ says Ripley. ‘A baronet, on the other hand, would always be welcome in his service.’

  ‘So that was not invented?’

  ‘I have no objection in principle to telling the truth,’ he replies.

  His face gives nothing away. I think Ripley has indeed been on a boat before but whether that was with Rupert or somebody else is unclear. What I am sure of is that he would have taken the helm of our ship without the slightest doubt in his mind, sailing us into port or dashing us to pieces against the mole with equal confidence.

  ‘You are looking over your shoulder,’ says Ripley.

  ‘There was a man in the carriage …’ I begin.

  ‘With a pointed beard?’ asks Ripley.

  ‘Exactly. Do you know him?’

  ‘After a fashion. I saw him on board the ship. I took care that he should not see me. You would do well to avoid him.’

  ‘Who does he work for? Thurloe?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I am certain that he is no friend of mine. Nor do I think he is any friend of yours. I imagine that his plan may be to ensure that an absconding felon, such as yourself, does not reach Brussels alive. Did he invite you to converse with him in a dark alleyway?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Then we should leave as soon as we can. You may choose to return and face your pursuer if you wish. I would merely ask you not to mention my name in your dying breath. It might be inconvenient if he knew I had also reached these shores. But I should, as I say, be honoured to offer you a seat in my coach, which would not involve your meeting the bearded gentleman again. Really, I think that would be best.’

  If Smithson works for Thurloe then it might in fact be best if I travelled with him. On the other hand, if I opt to continue the journey with an officer of the State in preference to himself, Ripley may find that strange. Anyway, Smithson may work for somebody else entirely. At least with Ripley I know which lies I must tell in order to stay alive.

  ‘It must be expensive to hire a carriage all to yourself,’ I say.

  ‘Mr Shufflebottom’s purse proved to be full,’ says Ripley. ‘And the King will recompense him once he is restored. If we can find him.’

  Ripley has arranged for my bag to be quietly collected from my own carriage and transferred to his own. The roads over which we now travel are no better than before and the dust is much the same colour – these things are beyond Ripley’s control – but I have more space to be thrown around in and we bump over the ruts and crash through potholes at a surprising speed. We have just sent a harmless flock of geese flying and have been cursed by bystanders in Flemish and French.

  ‘Did you promise the driver more money to get us there quickly?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course,’ says Ripley. ‘I fear that, in his greed, he may damage his conveyance beyond repair. But I think it will get us to Brussels before nightfall. Or very close to Brussels anyway.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I say.

  ‘I am sure you are. But why have you come at all?’ he asks.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You chose to come with me to Brussels.’

  ‘I had no choice. You killed my gaoler. Do you not remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember. But the world is full of places to hide; it did not have to be Brussels.’

  ‘I need to report to Sir Edward.’

  ‘I could have taken your message. Whatever it was. There must be little enough to report.’

  Our eyes meet and he holds my gaze for longer than is comfortable. Is it my imagination, or can he see the slight bulge in my doublet where Willys’s letter resides? Does he know I bear this package? Does he know Willys did not trust him with it?

  ‘I’ve told you what Brodrick thinks of you?’ he says.

  ‘A scurvy piece of shit?’

  ‘Yes, a scurvy piece of shit. But he also thinks you work for Thurloe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Brodrick has a nose for double agents. In his opinion, you move a little too easily amongst the officers of the Republic and have told us very little that is of value. He believes that you were in the carriage with Cromwell on your way to Hampton Court and that you not only failed to kill him but did not even think to mention it to us. He opines that you are coming to Brussels because Thurloe has sent you.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I think it odd that you were allowed to stroll onto the boat at Dover, while I was required to bind and gag Mr Shufflebottom.’

  ‘You believe that is a cause for concern?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not at all. The officer searching for me would have had only the slightest idea what I looked like. You, I suspect, are better known. And of greater value. There is every reason why they should have overlooked me while continuing to watch you. But, if you are so suspicious, why didn’t you kill me and dump my body in the harbour at Ostend?’

  ‘Because my own personal preferences are not to be considered. Willys has ordered that I should see you safely to the King’s court. I don’t understand why, but Willys is your friend. Your very good friend. He says that you were imprisoned by Thurloe. He places a great weight on this, having been imprisoned by Thurloe himself and for much longer. It is his touchstone of credibility.’

  Again, Ripley’s gaze is better informed than I would like it to be.

  ‘He is right. Thurloe would scarcely imprison one of his own agents,’ I say.

  ‘But you were one of Thurloe’s agents once,’ he says.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Willys,’ he says. ‘Brodrick asked him how you could gain access to Cromwell so easily if you weren’t a double agent. Willys said you’d worked for Thurloe before but had deserted him. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I worked for Sam Morland.’

  ‘Thurloe’s right-hand man?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And then you left?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I changed my mind.’

  ‘And now you work for Sir Edward Hyde?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Changes of allegiance are not uncommon, as you know. But more often we lose our agents to Thurloe rather than the other way round.’

  ‘My father fought for the King.’

  He looks at me. The statement is equally true of Surgeon Matthew Grey and Sir Felix Clifford. I do not think he will detect a lie there.

  ‘That usually counts for little. Only a fool repeats all of his father’s mistakes. I never served in Rupert’s cavalry, for example. Some might say you have chosen a very bad time to change sides. The King has no ready money, no credit and a Spanish ally who is less bountiful than we had hoped. When the Duke of Buckingham quit His Majesty’s camp, it should have been a sign to all of us that the game was up.’

  ‘And you?’ I say.

  ‘My father fought for the last King too,’ he says. ‘As you know. I fought for this one at Worcester and saw him onto the boat at Shoreham. That was an interesting night – riding through the dark, dodging the Roundheads, making the King see sense, making him understand that he had to flee – all acts fraught with difficulty.’

  ‘You fought at Worcester?’ I ask. I think Thurloe told me that, but I had forgotten. In that case he fought with Marius Clifford. Does he know therefore that Marius had no brother – that there is no John Clifford and never was? Probably not. He would scarcely know every officer in the Royalist ranks.

  ‘I was at the King’s side throughout the battle,’ Ripley replies. ‘That was my choice.’

  I nod. That would be Ripley’s place, no doubt about that. But all the time I am thinking: Ripley’s right. Why have I come? I know, as Ripley doesn’t, that the gaoler is not dea
d and that I am in no danger of being hanged for murder. In those few minutes, when I had to make a decision in the fading light of my London chamber, Probert’s assertion that there was a task that only I could perform made sense. But here under a warm Flemish sun, I am beginning to have doubts. Surely another messenger could have been found? Even if Hyde is expecting somebody of my age and height, Thurloe could have produced a suitable person to go to Brussels and say he was John Clifford – or merely that he had been sent in his place. Am I not simply travelling into danger for no clear purpose? Does Thurloe have a plan about which I as yet know nothing? If so, is it better than his plan to stop Ripley at Dover?

  The answer to Aminta’s question all those months ago, that will Thurloe have lost nothing if I am discovered, still rings in my ears. And yet, I find I do want to go to Brussels more than anywhere else in the world.

  ‘And I chose to come to Brussels,’ I say to Ripley. ‘That is all you need to know.’

  Ripley touches his hat. ‘I’ll be the judge of what I need to know, Mr Clifford,’ he says.

  At last we pass through one of the great gates in the walls of the city. We have arrived.

  The carriage sets us down in the main square. There is a brief altercation between the driver and Ripley as to what the agreed price was. Ripley, it seems, is being more careful with Mr Shufflebottom’s money than he implied. My French is just good enough for me to understand that Ripley is explaining very patiently that he had offered the driver ten times the legal fare, not ten times the fare that I and the other English passengers were being charged. The difference between the two sums is quite large. The driver argues forcefully, but Ripley merely smiles politely and keeps his purse in his pocket. Eventually a few coins change hands and the horses are whipped harder than necessary as the carriage quits the square.