A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘It’s me or Grey,’ says Pole. ‘I’m the better horseman.’

  ‘But John will be listened to,’ says Aminta. ‘Thurloe will see him.’

  They all look at me.

  ‘Ripley has said he will kill me, if I so much as stir beyond the city walls,’ I point out.

  ‘I’ll send him a message, asking him to meet me,’ says Pole. ‘I’ll keep him drinking at some tavern. That will give Grey an hour or two to get clear of Brussels.’

  ‘I shall need money,’ I say. ‘I have spent almost all I had.’

  ‘Then you really will have to use your wits,’ says Pole, ‘for we have nothing to give you.’

  ‘I think I know somebody who may be able to help,’ I say.

  I knock on the door of a decrepit house in a decrepit street. I hear a wooden bolt being pulled back and the door opens a crack. I shove my boot into the gap before it can close again.

  ‘Good evening, Lisette,’ I say. ‘I hope you made a good profit from my last visit?’

  ‘It was money your father owed me,’ she says. ‘You can’t have it. It is spent.’

  ‘I am happy to let bygones be bygones,’ I say. ‘I don’t need your money.’

  The door opens a little more. ‘What do you need?’ she asks.

  ‘I should be grateful,’ I say, ‘if you can show me where to steal a horse. A fast one.’

  I am sitting in an inn at Ostend. My horse is in the stables of another inn entirely. I have paid the innkeeper for his food for tonight and, to avoid suspicion, for mine too. Tomorrow he will find he has been gifted a horse, albeit one that will prove to be stolen if he makes enquiries. I doubt, however, that he will make enquiries, especially since the prominent white blaze can be dyed brown for as long as it takes to make a sale.

  The sun is rising to the east, on the landward side. Before it sets in the west, I hope to be in Dover. There is no sign of Ripley or of anyone who wishes me ill. Pole must have detained him for more than the hour or so that he promised. I look around me for the tenth time. A merchant is sitting, reading through some bills. A couple of seamen are quietly at their tankards. When I stand, nobody shifts in their seat as if it is in their mind to follow me. Indeed, nobody even glances in my direction. I stoop and pick up my leather satchel and then, with my hat pulled down over my eyes, I stride confidently down to the quay.

  *

  ‘Good evening, Mr Black,’ says the officer as I present my passport. ‘Welcome to Dover. You have been gone some months. I hope you took plenty of orders for your wool?’

  ‘My visit was satisfactory,’ I say.

  ‘You are lucky to have completed your crossing today. A storm is blowing up. The sea will be rough tonight and tomorrow.’

  Well, that will impede Ripley if he is following in my footsteps. And yet I fear that Ripley has not followed because he does not believe he needs to follow.

  ‘I hope I have arrived in time,’ I say. ‘I need to get to Westminster as fast as I can in order to report to Mr Secretary Thurloe. Do you have a horse I can borrow?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Black. We’ve had one waiting for you on Mr Thurloe’s instructions. Just in case you made it back alive. But you cannot travel tonight. You must hope that the storm will have blown itself out by the morning.’

  Sam Morland

  I had not realised, until I set out from Dover early this morning, that autumn was fast approaching. Last night’s storm has stripped many leaves from the trees and they lie in green drifts across the road. Indeed, whole trees have been brought down. It was one of the roughest nights I can recall. Clouds still scud across the sky, racing east as I race west. But, though I started at dawn, it is late afternoon before I reach Westminster.

  I find Thurloe in conference with Morland. They both turn to me somewhat wearily as I enter the room. You would think that they had ridden from Dover rather than I. Well, I suppose that it may be the end of a long day for them too. And what I have to say can be said to both of them. Morland’s treachery, Willys’s reprieve from exposure – these are matters that may need to be dealt with, but they can wait. First we must prevent Bate from killing his patient.

  Morland nods in my direction. His face is as sleek, his hair as glossy as ever. I think that he may have gained a pound or two in weight since I last saw him. Whatever treachery he has indulged in, in the meantime, he is comfortable with it. But he is frowning. Thurloe too looks worried. Have they also had news of the latest plot?

  ‘I have returned,’ I say to Thurloe. ‘And I have important information that touches on the safety of the Lord Protector.’

  ‘Which Lord Protector?’ asks Thurloe.

  ‘Cromwell,’ I say, confused.

  ‘Which Cromwell?’ asks Morland.

  They look tired, but these questions are inexplicable. Are they both mad – or am I?

  ‘His Highness Lord Protector Oliver Cromwell,’ I say. I look from one to the other, hoping for some sign of comprehension.

  ‘Oliver is dead,’ says Thurloe. ‘He died last night here in Whitehall, while the storm raged about him.’

  ‘Cromwell is dead?’

  ‘He has been sick for some time,’ says Morland, examining his nails carefully. ‘Dr Bate has been attending on him for some weeks. He has administered the strongest medicines that he dared, but sadly to no avail. The Lord Protector passed away some fifteen hours ago.’

  ‘And the cause?’ I ask.

  ‘Ague,’ says Morland.

  ‘Bate has murdered him,’ I say.

  ‘How could you possibly know that?’ asks Thurloe.

  ‘Ripley told me in Brussels. Bate was to administer mercury, arsenic and antimony.’

  ‘All good physic,’ says Thurloe.

  ‘In the right quantities, yes. In excess, no.’

  Morland has been considering this. ‘Do you bring with you any proof, other than what Ripley told you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘But it would seem that Bate has been in correspondence with Hyde.’

  ‘Correspondence which you have?’

  ‘No. I think that Daniel O’Neill carried the latest message. But even so – Ripley said that’s what would happen and it has.’

  ‘Will Ripley or O’Neill testify against Bate?’ asks Thurloe.

  ‘I would not imagine so.’

  ‘No,’ says Thurloe. ‘I would not imagine so either – even if we could find either of them and bring him back.’

  ‘Of course, we were warned, Mr Secretary,’ says Morland, smiling.

  ‘Possibly,’ says Thurloe.

  ‘By whom?’ I ask.

  ‘Esmond Underhill. After his arrest he was very helpful. He told us many months ago that he thought Bate was about to poison the Lord Protector. He wanted two hundred Pounds to reveal further details. And to be released, of course. But, my Lord, you thought it was not worth the money.’

  ‘Underhill is a rogue,’ says Thurloe. ‘It seemed unlikely that anything he said was true.’

  ‘Mr Secretary Thurloe thought,’ says Morland, addressing me, ‘that we should make further enquiries in Brussels as to whether Bate could be in contact with the Royalists there. But while we were prevaricating, it would appear that Bate has acted.’

  ‘Underhill would have said anything to save his skin,’ says Thurloe.

  ‘Precisely,’ says Morland. ‘To save his skin he told us the truth. We ignored it. And now the Lord Protector is dead. Of course, Underhill’s offer to us is known to very few people. Very few indeed. Perhaps that is as well. I mean, it would help nobody if it became generally known that this office had the information that would have saved Oliver but that we failed to act.’

  ‘Where is Underhill now?’ asks Thurloe.

  Morland shrugs. ‘Lisbon? Paris? Offering his services to the King of Spain or to the Grand Sophy of Persia? People like that are found only when they wish to be found. And I suspect he would want a lot more than two hundred Pounds to testify against Bate in court.’

  ‘He’s in Brus
sels,’ I say. ‘And I doubt he would testify against Bate either – not at any price you’d be prepared to pay. But if the Lord Protector’s body is examined, it will testify. There will be evidence of poisoning.’

  ‘Even if we could show it was poison,’ says Morland slowly, ‘suspicion might fall on others, not simply on Bate.’

  ‘The only important thing now is to ensure that the Republic survives,’ says Thurloe. ‘Richard Cromwell must succeed to the office of Lord Protector without delay, before Lambert or Fleetwood or Fairfax can raise an army. We must move before news of the death reaches Brussels.’

  ‘Better,’ says Morland, ‘that the death is announced as being the result of ague. Poison would be an unwanted complication. It opens the door to all sorts of questions.’

  ‘Will the army accept Richard Cromwell?’ I ask.

  ‘They must be made to,’ says Thurloe.

  ‘Because,’ says Morland, ‘if Richard fails, then it could open the way for the Stuarts to return – which God forfend!’ And Morland winks at me.

  ‘But Bate has killed the Lord Protector …’ I say. ‘Is he to be allowed to escape unpunished?’

  Neither appears to be listening, however. Cromwell is dead. He is part of history. There is nothing more to be done. It is more convenient for everyone that he died of ague, in spite of Bate’s devoted care, than that Cromwell was murdered in a plot that Thurloe had been warned of months before and could have prevented. And Morland is not unhappy. A few months of Richard Cromwell and England will be looking across the Channel to Brussels. Why live under a Cromwellian monarchy when there is a Stuart one?

  One death has changed everything. Morland, so long Thurloe’s secret nemesis, is now his ally again. For the moment. All over the country, men will be re-examining their loyalties. Monck may now be ready to play his part. My stepfather will soon be writing to him again. And Willys? What is Willys doing?

  ‘Willys,’ I say. ‘Did he know of this plot?’

  ‘Willys? No, he would have told us,’ says Thurloe. ‘I think that the court have kept him in the dark.’

  ‘Willys is in your pay?’

  ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘So Willys is a traitor?’

  Thurloe looks puzzled. ‘A traitor? No, he is on our side,’ he says. ‘How can he be a traitor?’

  ‘Very well,’ I say, ‘what do you need me to do now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ says Thurloe. ‘I am grateful to you for your work in Brussels. You are owed several months’ back pay, which you can collect before you leave here. But we have no further need of you. And in any case, things have moved on. Nothing is as it was before. Nothing at all. You may return to your studies, as you wished.’

  ‘The Republic doesn’t need me further then?’ I say.

  Thurloe looks at me blankly. ‘The Republic? No, it doesn’t need you at all.’

  I have one further task before I leave London. The moonlight that is assisting whatever journeys Thurloe and Morland are making is also helping me reach Gray’s Inn. I know my way to Sir Richard’s chambers without the assistance of any porter.

  He is seated this time at his desk. The grate is empty and swept, though soon it will be time for fires again, I think.

  ‘I bring you news,’ I say. ‘Cromwell is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Thurloe is, even as I speak, in Whitehall ensuring the succession of Cromwell’s son. So, which side are you now on, Sir Richard?’

  He looks at me. He clearly knows that I was working for Thurloe, but he also knows I have been in Brussels for some months. Whose side am I now on?

  ‘Why should I tell you that?’ he says.

  ‘Because,’ I say, ‘your shifting allegiances have caused me many problems. The King decided you were loyal to him because you served his father well. And the King likes to think the best of people who served his father. You could not therefore have sent a letter to the King, inviting him into a trap. Except you did.’

  ‘I knew he would not come,’ says Willys.

  ‘Why?’ I ask.

  ‘Because I had already told you that I did not have the men. And I knew you were too honest to lie to the King. I knew if you bore the letter, then all would be well.’

  ‘You wanted the mission to fail?’

  ‘Precisely. I intended no harm.’

  ‘Why send the letter at all?’

  ‘Thurloe made me send it.’

  ‘You could not have refused? You could not be completely sure the King would not believe me.’

  Willys hesitates for a moment.

  ‘I betrayed nobody,’ he says. ‘You have to understand that.’

  ‘And when O’Neill was in London? Did you tell Thurloe where he was?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘And did you then warn O’Neill when Thurloe was about to arrest him?’

  There is a very long pause.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am loyal …’ he says.

  ‘To whom?’ I ask.

  He looks around the room as if that person might be present. ‘To …’ There is another long pause. I wonder if he will ever speak again, then he says: ‘You don’t know how difficult it is. It is so hard to abandon your old loyalties, even when you see that the country’s interests are this or that. It is difficult to betray your old friends. You must understand that?’

  ‘And what are your old loyalties?’ I ask. ‘Which are your old ones and which are your new ones?’

  Willys shakes his head. My question is too difficult. ‘Does the King know everything?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘But he has chosen not to believe it.’

  Willys lets out a long sigh. ‘My loyalty to His Majesty has never faltered,’ he says. ‘Never. I told Thurloe nothing that would be of use to him. I deliberately misled him. I saved O’Neill. You must tell them that.’

  I wonder whether to tell Willys that Morland has betrayed him. I wonder whether to ask him about the Barret letters. He probably knows that Morland will betray him sooner or later, if it is to his advantage. Not everyone finds it difficult to abandon their old loyalties. Some find it very easy. Indeed, I think soon most people will have to do so. But there is no advantage to me in telling him what I know. Morland may, after all, be somebody I need in future. He was my enemy once, but no longer. Old betrayals need to be forgotten as well as old friendships. The world is turned upside down.

  ‘So,’ says Willys, ‘all has happened as I intended. The King is well. No harm has been done.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Willys, taking my hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Grey. I am very grateful to you. Will you stay and take wine with me?’

  ‘I am going now,’ I say. ‘I have to return home to Essex. My father has died recently. I have to inform my mother of the fact.’

  He nods but I don’t think he has heard me. He is thinking of other things.

  I get up and leave the room. He does not say goodbye to me, nor I to him. After I close the door, I pause for a moment. I fancy I hear somebody sobbing. But I am not certain of that. I am not certain of anything.

  I descend the stairs and go out into Theobalds Road. The sky is clear and the moon is bright. Tomorrow will be a fine day.

  My Mother

  My mother takes the news of her first husband’s death with the stoicism that one might expect.

  ‘Not before time,’ she says. ‘And the woman he was living with is left completely destitute?’

  ‘I was able to help her earn a little money,’ I say. ‘But I fear it will not last long.’

  ‘I am sure that somebody with her loose morals will think of a way of making more. She sounds as if she would stoop to most things.’

  ‘She was recently involved in the theft of a horse.’

  ‘A woman who will steal a husband will steal anything. If it was anything like your father, I assume that it was an old and rather useless horse?’

  ‘No, it
was the best I’ve had,’ I say. ‘I was sorry to have to part with him.’

  ‘Did you visit your father’s grave?’

  ‘He shares a plot of ground with others. Many others. Lisette was unable to pay for a proper burial.’

  ‘You have left your father’s body in a pauper’s grave?’

  ‘Yes. I thought you would have no objection.’

  ‘Well, he will at least be close to Lisette when she is buried. That is a comfort of sorts.’

  ‘Mother,’ I say. ‘My father …’

  ‘Who is now, as you have so often pointed out, dead …’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘That is what you have just told me. You are getting more forgetful than I am.’

  ‘No, I mean – is my father … is he actually my father? Sir Michael clearly thought I was very much like Sir Felix Clifford. When I told Sir Felix that, he almost choked and Aminta looked at me very oddly. Aminta said how much like Marius I am. Lisette said that I did not resemble the man she had been living with. We and the Cliffords have always been neighbours. And I am aware that Sir Felix has always – well, admired you.’

  ‘You do take a long time to get to the point. You mean is Sir Felix your father? I would scarcely have encouraged you to marry Aminta if so. She would be your sister.’

  ‘So, it cannot be true?’

  My mother considers and then counts carefully on her fingers. She frowns and counts again even more slowly. For a while she holds onto her ninth finger.

  ‘Absolutely impossible,’ she says at length. ‘And Aminta is married to Roger Pole now, so the question of marriage to you does not really arise.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That is very reassuring.’

  ‘In any case,’ says my mother, ‘she would only be your half-sister. And nobody would have known. Not for certain. And, when you think about it, that’s the most important thing.’

  ‘I loved her,’ I say.

  My mother pats my arm. ‘Of course you do,’ she says. ‘I’d say better late than never, but I don’t think that applies to love. If you have foolishly missed your chance – well, better not to know, I think. I have always believed in seizing opportunities when they arise. I hope Aminta is well?’