by L. C. Tyler
‘It would be best if we could discuss this inside.’
Lisette smiles. ‘Then you had better come in,’ she says.
She moves to one side and I take one more backward glance before entering. The street, I am pleased to see, is completely empty.
‘They are English, the people who chase you? Or Spanish?’ asks Lisette, closing the door.
‘English,’ I say, dropping my bag to the sawdust-covered floor. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘You do not need to explain why. Your father tells me. You English all hate each other. As long as it is not the Spanish who chase you. I will not hide you from them but I do not fear the English. And in a way you are my son. In a way, I am your mother. That is right, yes? You can stay here. You will be safe until morning. Then your mother will teach you to steal a horse. Be a good boy and give your mother money and she will go and buy food, and maybe some gin.’
The inside of the house, now I have a chance to look at my surroundings, is no better than the exterior. On the ground floor the small room contains a table and two broken chairs in front of a brick fireplace, within which is suspended an empty cooking pot. The light is dim, both because the day is drawing to an end and because the small windows are caked with grime, which Lisette has not thought to have removed. In the same way, it may be some days or weeks since the floor was last swept and the sawdust renewed. I do not see a broom. A single candle stands on the table ready for the night. A steep wooden staircase leads to another floor.
‘Did my father live here with you for long?’ I ask.
‘All the time,’ she says.
‘Was he happy?’ I ask.
She shakes her head impatiently. ‘Soon the shops will close. We talk about happiness later.’
I take out my purse and count over to her some good English silver. She watches me carefully, willing one bright coin to follow another.
‘You wait here,’ says Lisette, tucking my money into her pocket. ‘I come back with a chicken. Bread. Some beer. A little gin.’
I nod. I am not hungry, but a meal for her, and a glass or two of gin, in exchange for a night’s concealment strikes me as a good bargain at the moment. Where can you be safer than with your late father’s whore? She closes the door carefully after her but does not lock it. I suspect it has no lock. Locks cost money. There is, however, a large wooden bolt, which I push into place. Who knows when they will start looking for me and whether they will think to come here tonight?
So this is where my father spent his final days. Though my mother wished many misfortunes upon him, I doubt she ever thought of this. This is where you live when only the gutter is a degradation. I climb the stairs carefully and glance into the only other room. The dormer window gives slightly more light than in the chamber below. There is an old bed, unmade and strewn with various items of women’s clothing. Under the bed are some unsaleable medical textbooks in English and a leather case containing the tools of my father’s trade – knives, a saw, pincers, a spatula, a drill, some probes and a hammer – all a little rusty. There is also a sword in a leather scabbard, which I am surprised has not been turned into cash. I take the last of these items and examine it. It too has clearly not been used for a while, but it may be better than nothing if I am obliged to fight my way out of this city. I carry it downstairs and prop it against the table. Then I sit and wait.
I must have dozed because, without hearing footsteps, I am suddenly aware of a rattling of the door. Of course, I have bolted it and Lisette is locked out. I pick up my father’s sword and walk softly over to the door.
‘Lisette?’ I say. ‘Is that you?’
‘Of course it is me, stupid boy. Why have you locked me out? Open the door!’
I slide back the bolt. It is indeed Lisette, but it is also other people.
‘Is this the man you want?’ she asks Ripley.
‘That’s him,’ Ripley replies.
‘Then give me what you said.’
Ripley takes out his purse and hands over two small gold coins. Lisette has done well out of my visit.
‘I think you should give me that sword, Mr Grey,’ he says. ‘I have half a dozen men at the end of the street. Even if you were to kill me, and I doubt that you could, you would not reach the main road alive. Still, you were wise to attempt to escape. Your treachery has been revealed in full. If you would care to accompany me, we will explain things to you and you will have a chance to make your defence. Then we will take you out and shoot you.’
I could try to run Ripley through the guts. It would give me a certain amount of pleasure to do so. Ripley has clearly had a chance to talk to Hyde and, in comparing notes, they have discovered discrepancies in my story, as I feared they would. Thurloe’s plan has failed utterly. Any small remaining debt I might have felt towards him for protecting me from Ripley has been cancelled out. He has not, after all, protected me from Ripley in any fashion.
But I am still thinking: I can talk my way out of this. My legal training may not have benefited me much so far, but perhaps it will save me now. And Hyde is a lawyer. He will find it difficult to authorise my death without some sort of due process. I sheath my father’s sword, which has been mine for less than an hour, and pass it to Ripley. He bows as if I were surrendering a whole city to him.
A clink of coins behind me reminds me that Lisette is still with us. She is sitting at the table working out her profit for the evening. It is strange that, when my mother has in the past described her as a filthy, cheating Flemish slut, I had assumed that she was employing picturesque exaggeration. But I am beginning to learn that sometimes your mother can be far more right about things than you ever knew.
Mr John Grey
It is late. I do not know the exact hour. Nor do I know the name of the place to which I have been taken. I have been hustled through the back streets of Brussels, a boy with a torch lighting the path well enough for Ripley at the front of the party but leaving me stumbling in the shadows behind. The two men holding my arms seemed to be able to keep their feet well enough, however, and to see well enough to land the occasional blow to my ears or my back as incentives not to tarry. Finally I was thrust through a doorway and up a flight of stairs. Behind me I heard a lock – a better lock than Lisette’s in every respect – being turned and the key removed.
Now I sit on a stool on one side of a table. On the other is Ripley and another man who has simply been introduced as O’Neill. I wonder if this is the Daniel O’Neill that Aminta mentioned when she visited me in the Tower. I have not had a chance to ask but, if so, he clearly managed to avoid arrest. O’Neill seems pleasant enough anyway – of middle stature with light brown hair, now leaning back in his chair, his legs splayed out in front of him. He smiles at me and then belches. I think Ripley may have dragged him away from a good supper with friends. Two candles provide a little light, but I cannot make out the expressions of my inquisitors. The candles remind me of Probert’s story of Manning’s death. Ripley may have something of the sort in mind for me.
‘Much though I hate to admit that Brodrick was right,’ says Ripley, ‘you really are a scurvy piece of shit, aren’t you?’
Sometimes, when your opponent has made a very good point, it is better to remain silent. This seems to be one of those occasions.
‘You actually thought that you could betray us, Mr … what do you want us to call you? Cardinal? Clifford? Grey?’
‘As you choose,’ I say. ‘I have also been Mr Plautus, if you prefer that.’
‘I assume Grey is your real name?’
I wonder briefly whether to claim that I was lying to Lisette for some complicated reason that I cannot quite see at present – that I had good reason to pretend to be the son of her former lover, while still being in fact John Clifford. But I think that victory may be short-lived. I shall say farewell to that alias.
‘I’ve never claimed otherwise,’ I say. ‘You simply assumed I was John Clifford.’
‘That may be true. And we might be for
given for thinking that, because we did not know the truth. You, conversely, were well aware you were not John Clifford, and the honest thing to have done would have been to tell us, would it not? The more important fact is that you have been spying on us for Thurloe. You sought us out, offered to work for us, then went to Thurloe and sold him the information you had stolen from us.’
This is untrue, or at any rate less true than my being a scurvy piece of shit. I briefly contemplate an apology, but I’m not sure it would help. Nor am I sure that Ripley is owed one.
‘You invited me to Gray’s Inn,’ I say. ‘I did not seek you out in any way. You sent a letter to my lodgings. You promised I should come to no harm. Or you promised somebody. Who were you expecting? Sir Felix Clifford?’
‘A good question, Mr Grey. To be honest with you, we were not sure who to expect. Our informant in Brussels was vague; he had overheard Hyde briefing somebody but had not seen the person concerned. And the other voice he could hear was … indistinct. Sir Felix’s name was certainly mentioned several times. Our man also heard that, once in London, this person could be contacted at Mistress Reynolds’s house. When you arrived – when you confirmed that you came from Clavershall West and that your family once owned the manor there, as the Cliffords did – we assumed, just as you say, that you must be Sir Felix’s son. That was who you appeared to be. Our informant was clearly right in some respects but we thought he had made one stupid error. We duped ourselves, Mr Grey. A simple question to you: “in summary, are you therefore John Clifford?” – that would have saved everyone a great deal of trouble. But we live in a world in which a nod and a wink are considered better than plain words. Somehow we could not quite bring ourselves to do it. Mea culpa, Mr Grey. But you knew we had made a mistake.’
‘So I did. But had I told you that I was not the man you thought I was, you would have killed me,’ I say. ‘Brodrick said so.’
‘That may in turn be true. But – and I hate to return to this point – you did not have to go to Thurloe and inform on us.’
‘Who says I informed Thurloe of anything?’ I ask.
‘That doesn’t matter for the moment. Just believe me when I say that I know that’s what you did and that there is very little point in your denying it.’
I look at him. He can’t possibly be certain of that. He must be guessing. Or has Morland discovered me and informed Ripley?
‘It’s true,’ says O’Neill, speaking for the first time. ‘We know you’ve been working for Thurloe. Now, you may try arguing that you haven’t, but we’ll know it’s a lie, and may not take kindly to it. On the other hand, if you tell us the truth …’ He smiles as if he were my friend, or would be if I told the truth. Telling Charles Stuart the truth proved a wise move. Perhaps my luck will hold a second time.
‘Going to Thurloe seemed the only way I could save myself,’ I say. ‘I’ve told you I worked for Morland before. I knew Thurloe. Brodrick was threatening to kill me. Nobody else could have offered me protection. In return, Thurloe made me report back to him. I have scarcely been working for him willingly. If the letter I brought for the King was from Thurloe, I did not know it.’
‘And what did you report back to Thurloe?’
‘Very little. Thurloe knows Willys is head of the Sealed Knot. I think he’s known for some time.’
‘That is helpful but unsurprising,’ says Ripley. ‘Thurloe’s spies are everywhere. It would, by the way, have been polite to tell me that you were carrying with you a letter for His Majesty that you believed came from Willys. You had ample opportunity on the road to Dover and at the inns and barns in which we took shelter. It was Underhill who gave the game away, if you are interested. Lisette merely told us where you were to be found.’
So maybe Ripley does know everything. ‘Underhill? Is he here in Brussels?’ I say.
‘He arrived recently. You have made life very difficult for him apparently. He seemed to think he had some sort of pact with you by which you would not inform on him to the State if he did not inform on you to us.’
‘I made no such bargain.’
‘He thinks you did. Therein lies your difficulty. He was somewhat put out to find himself arrested. He says he was not well treated by the Republic. He blames you. Once he was released, he was obliged to go to ground – not an unnatural activity for one like Underhill – until it seemed safe to make a run for the coast. He arrived here a day or two before we did, offering his services to Hyde, just as he had offered them to me earlier. He was waiting at my inn when I got there, eager to tell me that you were John Grey, an agent of Thurloe’s. He was surprised to hear that you were actually in this city, since he thought such a journey would be fatal for you. Had it not been for him, when Lisette arrived to tell us that she was sheltering one John Grey and would deliver him to us for a small fee, we would have been wracking our brains where we had heard that name before. It might have been a while before we remembered your “alias” at Hampton Court. Your value would have been a shilling or two at the most. But happily, thanks to Mr Underhill, your price had by then risen to two gold sovereigns. You will be pleased to hear that Lisette would not take less for betraying you. That is loyalty of a sort. So, here we all are, Mr Grey.’
‘And Underhill was working for you? He was your assassin – the person you spoke of who was willing to kill Cromwell?’
Ripley laughs. ‘I am embarrassed to admit that was the case. The quality of assassins is not high. Assassins are usually men whose zeal is greater than their sanity. Underhill was the best available at the time. But we think he was working for Lambert as well as us. Why get paid once for a job when you can get paid twice? We won’t be employing him again. And how many people were paying you, Mr Grey?’
‘I received nothing from you,’ I say.
‘That is very true. And from Thurloe?’
‘He arranged for me to receive my salary as a clerk to Mr Milton.’
‘I hope he paid you well.’
‘Not well enough since, as you know, I was fooled into carrying a forged message, to incriminate Sir Richard Willys.’
‘Hyde says you think it was written by Thurloe?’
‘I cannot be certain but I believe so.’
‘Why do you think that?’ asks Ripley. He leans forward on the desk.
‘Because,’ I say, ‘it was brought to me by one of his agents.’
‘That may be so, but how can you be certain that Willys himself has no hand in it?’
‘Why should he?’ I ask.
‘Why indeed?’ says Ripley. ‘The King has honoured him and placed his trust in him. Why should he betray that? But equally you have no proof that he is not complicit?’
‘No,’ I say.
Ripley nods at O’Neill, who shrugs.
‘So, what happens now?’ I ask.
‘What would you like to happen, Mr Grey?’ asks O’Neill. He seems a very reasonable man. Unlike Ripley.
I swallow hard and address O’Neill. ‘As you can see, this whole business is a mistake. I never bore you any ill-will. I have been duped by Thurloe. I am no danger to you. I should like to return to London and resume my studies. I shall need to pay my landlady for the room I have not been able to occupy since December, but if I can raise the necessary cash, then there is no impediment. Unless you are planning to shoot me, of course.’
‘Shoot you? No, I don’t think so,’ says O’Neill.
‘I had assumed that our conversation was a precursor to just that. That’s what Sir Michael told me earlier.’
‘That would be ungrateful after what you have told us.’
‘So, I can leave here and steal a horse and return to London?’
O’Neill shrugs. ‘Naturally. Any horse you choose. We can even show you where the best ones are to be found.’
‘And there is nothing at all you want from me in return?’ I ask.
‘I didn’t say that,’ says O’Neill.
‘By which you mean …’
‘I think you may be abl
e to help us. You must admit that you owe us something. I am sure that you would wish to repay that debt. I mean, for not shooting you as you deserve.’
My heart, which had briefly risen from the depths of despair, falls again. I can help them. Every time this phrase has been uttered, I have sunk deeper and deeper into the mire. I am not sure who I have to betray this time – indeed, I am not sure there is anyone left that I have not betrayed. But perhaps there is. In a moment I’ll find out.
‘How?’ I ask.
O’Neill is silent for a long while as if trying to formulate his proposition. Eventually he leans forward, frowning.
‘You will be aware from Thurloe that the Sealed Knot has long since been compromised – that he has agents within their ranks?’ O’Neill raises an eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘We have learned to live with that – to assume that our secrets would become common knowledge in a short time. But recently even discussions at the highest level seem to have become known to Thurloe.’
‘Which is why Hyde doesn’t trust the organisation any more?’ I ask.
‘Just so,’ says Ripley. ‘The lack of trust paralyses us. We no longer dare to undertake the smallest action. So, we have had to ask ourselves, who is leaking information to Thurloe?’
‘I cannot help you,’ I say. ‘I know only you and Brodrick and Willys. You are not saying that it is one of those three?’
‘It is Willys,’ says O’Neill, ‘though the King is reluctant to credit it.’
‘The head of the Sealed Knot?’
‘I did not believe it,’ says Ripley. ‘Brodrick still does not believe it. But an informant of ours in Thurloe’s office has sent us proof – letters to Thurloe that could come only from Willys. That is why we think the letter you have brought may be genuinely from him. We think Willys is actively plotting with Thurloe against the King.’
‘And your informant is Sam Morland?’ I say.
Ripley smiles. ‘Our informant is in a position to know. Still, he may be deceiving us. After all – a source high up in Thurloe’s establishment – is that not a little too good to be true? So, Mr Grey, we need to know: is Willys Thurloe’s man? You’ve spoken to Thurloe, as I have not. He must have let something slip.’