A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘And what are you offering in exchange?’

  ‘If things work out differently, as you seem to think they will, I’ll put in a good word for you with General Lambert. Or Harrison. Or Fleetwood.’

  ‘It is unlikely that I’ll need that,’ I say. ‘Cromwell has, I hope, many years to live. If that is all you have to offer, then good day, Mr Underhill.’

  ‘That’s not quite all,’ he says. ‘You know there’s a plot to kill Cromwell, don’t you?’

  ‘Lady Pole told me about it,’ I say cautiously.

  ‘No, she didn’t. I could tell by your face you had no idea. But I think I know.’

  ‘So, you are offering to tell me?’

  ‘I can tell you who I think it is. I’ll tell you and you put it to my Lady Pole. If I’m right, you’ll see it in her face. Then you report that back to me.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I’ll report nothing back to you.’

  ‘You’ll regret that when General Harrison comes to power.’

  ‘He won’t,’ I say.

  Underhill laughs. ‘You’re right. Whoever wins, we’ve already lost. You know, we almost had it within our grasp for a year or two. We might have had a democracy with all men voting for a parliament. We might have had no lords amongst us. The land could have been a common treasury for all – every man with enough to keep himself and his family and no more. Then Cromwell took control and it slipped away. The Good Old Cause slipped away.’

  ‘It would have been different under General Lambert?’

  ‘Of course it would. Or under Harrison or even Fleetwood. But it’s Cromwell, and now he’s Lord Protector, if you please, and wants to make himself King.’

  ‘If you had the information – I mean, if you knew for certain who Hyde had commissioned to kill Cromwell – what good would it do you?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that, Mr Grey.’

  I wonder if he plans to sell the information to Thurloe. It would, of course, be a way of getting the information to him, if that is still the right thing to do. But can I trust Underhill?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I can’t help you.’

  Lord Pole, His Plan

  For a week or so I live more or less amicably with Aminta and her father. She is friendly, affectionate, but there are no further kisses after that one in the street. Not in her husband’s house. There is little money but there does seem to be a great deal of credit for Cavaliers. The sentiment in the markets is clearly that the King may still be restored, for all that others may think to the contrary. Providing bread and meat and lace to the court, with payment delayed until the King enjoys his own again, is a gamble that Flemish tradesmen are now prepared to take. They seem to have news that I do not. Or perhaps they have already gambled too heavily on this card to be able to back out now.

  In between meals of bread and horse, I wander the streets of Brussels because it is cheap and does not remind me how much I am beholden to the Cliffords even for the little I have. It does not remind me that Aminta and her father had to flee here because of me. Fortunately they have no idea that is the case.

  Then Roger Pole returns. I find him sitting in the parlour when I come back, hot and dusty, from yet another walk. He seems at ease, as well he might be in his own house. He is wearing a pale blue silk suit, which I saw him wear in England last year. I am sure that normally he would have already abandoned it as having an inch too much or an inch too little lace or because the breeches were too wide or too narrow or because the silk was the wrong shade of blue. But he is in exile now and must wear last year’s clothes. He too suffers for the cause.

  ‘I was told you were here,’ he says by way of greeting. He pours himself a glass of wine and offers me none.

  ‘I am under house arrest,’ I say. ‘I may not leave Brussels. I am sorry to inconvenience you, but it is not by choice.’

  ‘The inconvenience to me is slight, Mr Grey,’ says Pole. ‘I hope that intruding on my wife and her family is no great hardship for you?’

  ‘They have been very hospitable,’ I say.

  Pole’s pock-marked face breaks into a grin. ‘I am sure they have,’ he says. He holds his glass up to examine the colour of the wine that I will not be asked to drink.

  ‘Believe me when I say that I have no more wish to be here than you wish to have me here.’

  ‘As little as that? Surely not?’ says Pole.

  ‘I assure you, Mr Pole, that I would go tomorrow if I could.’

  ‘You may address me as Lord Pole,’ says Pole. He looks down his sharp nose at me. ‘That is my title. Viscount Pole. Your Lordship, if you prefer. Or my Lord. All are equally good, if said with respect and sincerity. I in turn address you as Grey, though I hear that you prefer the name Clifford. It is certainly more distinguished than your own, rather ordinary name.’

  ‘Your title has been restored by the King,’ I say. ‘But the State does not recognise it.’

  ‘Restored by the King and about to be restored by Cromwell very soon. Lord Fairfax has spoken to Cromwell on my behalf. I hope that my own exile will soon be over. Of course, yours will continue. I doubt that Hyde will let you leave Brussels and I am certain that Ripley won’t. But we shall think of you, here in this hot, dusty city, when we are at our ease on our green and pleasant estates. When I say that it is hot and dusty here, I should of course add that it is very cold and damp during the winter. And sadly you will still be here when winter comes.’

  ‘So your new loyalties are now firmly fixed?’ I ask.

  ‘I have spoken to Fairfax and to Buckingham. We cannot afford to have anything other than a peaceful transition of power from Cromwell to one of the leading men of the country. That must be Fairfax. A group of us are working to get Fairfax named as Cromwell’s heir.’

  I am sure they are working. All over England people will be working to secure their positions, committing themselves as little as possible until they know which way the wind is blowing. Underhill is right. A revolution has simply put a different group of aristocrats in control of the country. A group of aristocrats untrammelled by a monarchy.

  ‘Not working for the King?’ I say.

  ‘The King will be restored only by means of another war. Nobody wants that.’

  ‘Nor for Richard Cromwell?’

  ‘No. He’s a good fellow, but the people will not rally to him as they will to Black Tom. I need to be in England to ensure that happens.’

  Pole pauses and looks at me. He has told me a great deal. Perhaps too much. But a word from him here would still seal my fate. Or he could run me through and claim that I had attempted to escape. I matter very little. He knows I will not go to the King and say that another rat is about to desert his ship.

  ‘I had assumed you would approve of my supporting Cromwell,’ says Pole. ‘Or has the King beguiled you? He has charm, even if he has little judgement. You would not be the first to throw in your lot with him simply because you liked him. His dogs adopt much the same position. Join his court and wait for him to throw you a bone. But you’ll be backing the wrong runner. Fairfax is the coming man.’

  ‘I am no Royalist,’ I say. ‘Nor shall I ever be.’

  ‘How wise you are,’ says Pole.

  The days pass. Many weeks pass. I receive letters from my mother but no offer of financial support. I am called to see Hyde again.

  ‘We have made further enquiries of you in England,’ says Hyde. ‘You have been modest about your position there.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘We think so,’ says O’Neill. ‘Though Ripley still urges us to the shortest way, it would seem that there are those in England who would be badly inconvenienced by your death. You are the stepson of Colonel Payne of Clavershall West, it would seem.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Your father died here in Brussels six months ago?’ asks Hyde.

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘Your mother has remarried quickly,’ he says.

  ‘Faster than you might have ex
pected.’

  ‘Clearly. You are aware that your stepfather has been talking to General Monk for us?’

  ‘I was aware of something of the sort. I think my mother is aware of that too.’

  ‘Your mother was formerly active on our behalf,’ says Hyde.

  ‘She remains loyal to His Majesty,’ I say.

  ‘That is as well,’ says Hyde. ‘Your own loyalties seem to have lain elsewhere.’

  O’Neill takes up the conversation once more. ‘We have made enquires of Mr Morland.’

  ‘And he did not speak in my favour?’

  ‘Morland confirms that you worked for Mr Thurloe but left his service after a short time.’

  ‘That is true,’ I say. ‘I think he was pleased to see me go.’

  ‘No, he regrets it. He says that he believes you are an honest man of good principles.’

  ‘Morland says that? But we did not agree well …’

  ‘Morland confirms that you saw through his counterfeited loyalty to the Republic and discovered his true allegiance – that is to say, to His Majesty.’

  Well, Morland might say that to Hyde now. He was less impressed by my efforts when I last saw him.

  ‘He thinks that you might be prepared to work for us,’ says O’Neill.

  ‘I simply wish to return to my studies,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t know what we want you to do,’ says O’Neill.

  ‘Whatever it is, the answer is still “no”,’ I say.

  *

  I am not permitted to leave Brussels, but I am at liberty to frequent taverns, so long as my English silver holds out. I am drinking Flemish ale at one when I am approached by Daniel O’Neill, this time alone. He smiles in a friendly way.

  ‘Your tankard is empty, Mr Grey. Let me fill it for you.’

  ‘That would be kind, Mr O’Neill, but I have already told you – I can do nothing in return.’

  ‘Did I ask you to do anything?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Very well, then. Drink with me.’

  O’Neill calls for ale for us both.

  ‘It must be dull for an active young man like yourself, here in Brussels?’ he asks.

  ‘I am a lawyer, Mr O’Neill. I am neither active nor do I entirely dislike dullness.’

  ‘Still, you say you’d like to return to London.’

  ‘Working for you?’

  O’Neill says nothing while ale is placed in front of us. He waits until the serving man has gone and then replies: ‘Don’t refuse until you know what we want. We’re told that you could get employment again with Mr Thurloe.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Morland. He says he could ensure that you get a job in Thurloe’s office tomorrow. That would be very helpful to us, if you see what I mean. To have another man inside Thurloe’s office.’

  ‘You mean, would I work for you as a double agent?’

  ‘The risk would not be great. It would be more pleasant than sitting here. We have sufficient assurance of your integrity and your principles. And when the King is restored, you would still have a place with us – regular employment. We could not pay you well until the King returns, but Mr Thurloe would very kindly look after that side of things for the moment.’

  ‘I think,’ I say, ‘that I do not wish to work as a spy for anyone. I have betrayed too many confidences already. When I have been with Thurloe I have truly believed myself a Republican. When I have been with the King I feel that I might be a Royalist. This business of switching is too easy. I do not believe that it does me any credit. My career as an agent is over.’

  O’Neill shakes his head. ‘I think you condemn yourself too harshly,’ he says. ‘Your friend Marius Clifford fought and died at Worcester, did he not?’

  ‘So we believe.’

  ‘Many of those taken prisoner after the battle elected to join the parliamentary army. It wasn’t uncommon during the war for captured men to change sides. Nobody thought badly of them.’

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘Too many people have switched their allegiances of late for them to be able to criticise others who do the same. I would merely advise you to end up on the right side rather than the wrong side.’

  I think of Pole, who wishes the same. But he is wrong. The people do not want to be ruled by an oligarchy of smug noblemen. It is a choice between the King and Cromwell. O’Neill’s offer is generous.

  ‘I simply wish to return to my studies at Lincoln’s Inn,’ I say.

  ‘That could be arranged too. After you have helped us.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I say.

  ‘Perhaps you will reconsider at a later date.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘So, what will you do, Mr Grey? Will you live off Sir Felix for ever?’

  ‘I don’t think he has that much money,’ I say.

  O’Neill puts down his tankard carefully on the table. ‘And how do matters stand between you and Lord Pole?’

  ‘He has been absent on business,’ I say. ‘Now he is back, I try to see him as little as I can.’

  ‘Business in England?’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Did he say what that business was?’

  I pause, then say, ‘No.’ I could betray Pole, but I already have as many enemies as I need.

  O’Neill nods, picks up his tankard again and drains it. ‘Think about it, Mr Grey. Your position here is a delicate one and my offer is good. We’ll pay for your journey home.’

  He is right, of course. Sharing a house with Aminta and her father has been awkward, but Roger Pole will know how to make it utterly unbearable. And I am not sure how long I can keep his secret. I need somehow to escape.

  I am still pondering this when I have a second visitor to my table.

  ‘I see you’re on good terms with O’Neill,’ says Ripley.

  ‘Not as good as he would wish.’

  Ripley sits down suddenly on the bench opposite me. He has been drinking. I wonder if he too wishes to make an overture of friendship.

  ‘I can’t kill you here in Brussels, but make a move outside and it will be a pleasure to ensure that you keep your promise not to leave town.’

  ‘Then I must stay here,’ I say.

  ‘Does O’Neill want you to work for him?’

  ‘I’ve told him I can’t.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool. In a week or two, everyone will be flocking to the King’s side again.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  Ripley laughs. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

  ‘Yes, but I doubt you’re planning to tell me.’

  To my surprise Ripley says: ‘You’re too late to stop it anyway. He’ll be dead before you can get to London.’

  ‘Who? Cromwell?’

  ‘Cromwell. O’Neill has just been in London making the final arrangements. But it is to be done in a way that will cast no suspicion on the King, less still on Sir Edward Hyde. Because everyone knows Cromwell is sick and nobody will be at all surprised.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Bate told me His Highness is ill. I’m sure he’s been telling everyone … It’s Bate, isn’t it? He’s Hyde’s assassin.’

  ‘Of course it’s Bate. He contacted Sir Edward Hyde some time ago. Your friend, Lady Pole, spoke to him in London, though she recommended we had nothing to do with it. She may have felt he lacked the nerve – or she may be playing some game of her own. Still, O’Neill seems to have made the final arrangements with him. I’ll even tell you how it is being done. Arsenic. Mercury. Antimony. All good cures for one thing or another but lethal together. It will seem that Cromwell has an ague. When he dies, nobody will suspect Bate – or not very much.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because it amuses me. You’ve been running around Europe trying to prevent this from happening. Now you know exactly what is going to take place but can’t prevent it. If you try to leave Brussels – and we shall watch every coach that departs for the coast – I will have you killed. If you try to write to Thurl
oe, we shall certainly intercept it. You could tell one of Thurloe’s agents here, if you knew who they were, but you don’t. And you’d be too late anyway. All you can do is sit in the sun and drink ale and wait for the news of Cromwell’s death to arrive.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ I say.

  ‘Then don’t believe me,’ he says. ‘It won’t be my loss. Good evening, Mr Grey.’

  But I do believe him.

  ‘And you think that Bate will act soon?’ asks Pole.

  ‘It may already be too late,’ I say.

  We are sitting round the table – Sir Felix, Aminta, Roger Pole and I. The news that Bate was the chosen assassin has clearly not surprised any of my companions, but the timing has.

  ‘I was certain Bate would not act,’ says Aminta. ‘He is a coward.’

  ‘O’Neill’s visit to London has convinced him that he will get away with it,’ I say. ‘Or perhaps he has reassured him that he will have a comfortable place at court once the King returns.’

  ‘So, what now?’ asks Sir Felix. ‘I advised against throwing in our lot with Cromwell. It would have been better to have backed the King. Then Bate could have poisoned all the Cromwells he liked and it would have been no concern of ours.’

  ‘All is not lost,’ says Pole irritably. ‘Fairfax may yet succeed him. We are already prepared.’

  ‘What if Lambert succeeds?’ asks Aminta. ‘Or Harrison?’

  ‘Harrison? Then we are all finished,’ says Pole. ‘But he won’t.’

  ‘Lambert may,’ I say. ‘He has some support still, I think.’

  ‘Can Bate still be stopped?’ Pole asks. ‘Hyde could countermand it. He must realise the risks.’

  ‘Hyde has always been in favour of assassination, as long as blame could not be traced back to him,’ says Aminta.

  ‘The King?’

  ‘He doesn’t want Cromwell’s blood on his hands – another ruler executed would be a bad precedent. But his preferred course of action is simply to pretend that it isn’t happening. He’ll neither order Cromwell’s death nor forbid it. Anyway, he’s probably still in bed.’

  ‘One of us must go to London and inform Thurloe,’ says Sir Felix.

  ‘Hardly you, my dear father,’ says Aminta. ‘Somebody will need to ride hard for the coast, then ride hard again from Dover.’