Gerbier now knew the name of the murderer. A river journey to Chelsea had located all the waterfront houses where the illicit meetings could have taken place. A second visit, this time on horseback, had narrowed his search. Casual conversations in the local tavern had provided the information that there was only one wealthy resident who had a younger wife whose behaviour was the subject of servant gossip. His name was Thomas Shearman, a master tanner and leatherworker with premises in Southwark. Gerbier now had to move cautiously. He had no intention of venturing into the rough and malodorous backstreets around Pepper Alley where the tanners’ vats polluted the air as their effluent polluted the river. Strangers entered that notorious area of stews and cutpurses very warily and did not pry into the activities of its inhabitants. Gerbier needed to be very sure of his ground before confronting Shearman. That meant that he had to find out more about the man cut down by some minion of the cuckolded merchant.
That would not be easy. If Shearman’s victim had been a member of the Commons (something by no means proved) he might have come from anywhere in the realm. Since the king had dissolved parliament (vowing never to recall it, as some said) MPs had all dispersed to their own homes. There were, of course, some who lived in or near the capital but Gerbier was not on close terms with any of them. There was the added difficulty that he was known as a “king’s man”, a frequenter of the court and, therefore, as someone not very popular among the closed ranks of parliament men who were obsessively critical and suspicious of their betters.
The obvious person to turn to was his latest patron, Lord Weston. Weston had served as a king’s man in the Commons for many years before his recent elevation to the peerage. The problem about approaching this trusted royal servant was his violent antipathy towards the “insolent” members of the lower house who were so presumptuous as to try to dictate terms to the king. If Gerbier declared an interest in one of these “lewd fellows” Weston would certainly want to know why. Only after worrying at the difficulty for several days did Gerbier come up with a stratagem he thought might work.
On a morning in early September Gerbier presented himself by appointment at Weston’s quarters in Whitehall. The nobleman was celebrating his elevation (and the increase of wealth attendant on his appointment as Chancellor of the Exchequer) by completely rebuilding his family home at Roehampton and had appointed Gerbier as his architect. The little Frenchman now brought a folio of his latest designs to discuss with his lordship. Weston, a stout, high-coloured man in his mid-fifties, welcomed Gerbier affably and had a servant clear a table before a broad window overlooking the Thames. On this Gerbier placed his folio case and untied the cords. The two men bent their heads over the architectural sketches and were soon engrossed in discussion of porticos, pediments and pilasters.
It was on turning a new leaf that a sheaf of smaller papers was revealed. They were figure drawings, some of his own and some by Rubens and the one on top was the dead man’s portrait.
“Oh, a thousand pardons, my lord. How careless of me to mix these daubs with Your Lordship’s designs.” Gerbier hastily set the drawings aside.
But not before Weston had spotted the anonymous image. “What are you doing with a picture of that rogue?” he demanded gruffly.
“What rogue, my lord?” Gerbier affected innocent bewilderment.
“Heythrop! Foul-mouthed, seditious, devil’s whelp!”
“I know nothing of that, my lord.” Gerbier turned to his next sketch of the south front of Putney Park. “Those are just some drawings that Master Rubens was kind enough to lend me as models for my own work – not that I shall ever approach his genius. Now, Your lordship will want the south windows to be as wide as possible consonant with the overall proportions.”
“Heythrop! Heythrop!” An hour later Gerbier made his way back downriver congratulating himself on his own cleverness.
It was now relatively easy to fix the identity of his mystery man. William Heythrop, one of the two MPs for Reading, was a gentleman of the shires who had made his first appearance in parliament in March 1628 but quickly shown himself to be an eloquent and forceful speaker. Accordingly, Gerbier’s investigation now took him to the Lamb in Tothill Street, a favourite resort of the Commons’ men. For this excursion he made himself appear as nondescript as possible, choosing a low-crowned hat and a light russet cloak. The Lamb was not a recognized meeting place for royal servants and court hangers-on but Gerbier preferred a modicum of disguise in order neither to be recognized nor identified as a member of the fashionable elite.
It was a wet morning with no sign of the sun at its zenith. A dozen or so men were dining – lawyers and shopmen, traders come to do deals, travellers newly arrived and travellers waiting to depart and hoping for a break in the weather. Gerbier chose a table where two elderly men he took to be locals were gossiping over their ale. They talked readily with the stranger and Gerbier soon managed to steer the conversation around to the comings and goings of the parliament men.
“Heythrop? Heythrop?” The smaller of the two men, wrinkled his brow with the effort of memory. “Wasn’t that the name of that young firebrand who was in here a few weeks back?”
His companion, an ill-kempt man with a straggle of grey beard, shrugged noncommittally. “That it may be. The landlord will know. George!” He called to the bald, aproned figure who stood in the doorway talking with two departing guests.
The Lamb’s proprietor came over and, at Gerbier’s invitation, sat down and accepted a beaker of ale from the jug Gerbier had paid for.
“This gentleman’s looking for someone called Heythrop, one of the Commons’ men.”
George raised his eyes ceilingwards. “God save us, not another one! What’s Master Heythrop done that all the world wants him?”
It took little encouragement for the innkeeper to explain.
“Yes, I know Master Heythrop. He used to meet here regular with some of his parliament friends. Sat in that corner by the fire, they did, setting the world to rights. Heythrop always had plenty to say for himself – not that I take any interest in politics. Tall fellow. Some might say handsome.”
“Yes, that sounds like my man. You say others have been here looking for him.”
George drained his drink. Gerbier took the hint and refilled the beaker. “First there was three of them. Rough country types. Tenants of Heythrop’s, so they said, come to talk local business with him. I told them that if they came back in the evening they’d likely find their master here. Which they did but I could tell that he wasn’t at all pleased to see them. He wanted to talk to ’em private so I let him use my back room. Well, they soon fell to a real jangling. You could hear the shouts and oaths in here, though the door was firm shut. Fair scared my girl they did when she went in to serve ’em. She told me there’d as like be murder done before the night was out.
“Murder?” Gerbier tried with difficulty to conceal his excitement.
“That’s right. I was all set to get some help in throwing them out but, praise be, they quieted down and parted with no more than black looks.”
“And that was quite recent, was it?” Gerbier asked.
“Oh, no, sir. That must have been, let me see, about the beginning of March. No it was Master Heythrop’s brother who came looking for him a few weeks back. Younger man but cut from the same dark cloth, I’d say.”
“William Heythrop had disappeared?”
“Run away, according to his brother. The story he told was that there was some unfinished family business to be settled but Master Heythrop, the head of the family, had simply ridden off without warning. That was why the brother – Thomas, I think he said his name was – came to London to search all his known haunts.”
“He must have been very worried about his brother.”
The innkeeper chuckled. “Worried? Not him. He was furious. Talked about marching Master William home to face his responsibilities. Well, I couldn’t help him. Haven’t seen Master Heythrop since parliament was dissolved. And no
w you’ve turned up, sir, on the same quest. Who is this Heythrop? What’s he done?”
Gerbier took his cue from the landlord’s story. There were, indeed, he said, important estate matters to be sorted out and, as a financially concerned party, he, Gerbier, needed certain documents to be signed. When he left the Lamb, replete with mutton stew and overripe cheese, the Frenchman realized that this Heythrop case had assumed fresh complications and that they would only be resolved by a journey into the country.
Rubens, meanwhile, was much enjoying his stay in England. He was feted by the king and his leading courtiers, many of whom were eager to show off their artistic treasures. He enthused in a letter to Fabri de Peiresc:
“In this island I find none of the crudeness which one might expect from a place so remote from Italian elegance and when it comes to fine pictures from the hands of the greatest masters, I have never seen such a large number in one place as in the royal palace and in the gallery of Lord Weston.”
The high point of Rubens’ English sojourn had come on the day that Charles spent several hours alone with the painter in his cabinet at Whitehall. The King had eagerly been buying up the best works of art on the market in order to establish a collection which would be the envy of Europe and he loved nothing more than showing it off to other members of the cognoscenti.
As Rubens moved with his host from canvas to canvas he was, without dissimulation, stunned by the array of Raphaels, Tintorettos, Caravaggios, Titians, Mantegnas and Coreggios. Some were hung on the walls; some stood on easels; others lay casually stacked against each other. It was as though some goddess had poured from her cornucopia of beauty an abandoned profusion of masterpieces.
The conversation ranged over many issues and Rubens found the king both affable and frank. Diplomatic language was laid aside as though out of place in the brotherhood of art. Charles spoke freely of his mistrust of the French, his desire for peace with Spain, his wish to disentangle himself from the political and religious conflicts tearing the continent apart.2
The King stopped abruptly before Titian’s Pardo Venus. “I sometimes think, Master Rubens, that your calling and mine are very similar.”
“Sire?”
“The balancing of so many elements.” He pointed to the large canvas with its numerous classical figures in a wooded landscape. While Venus slept, Cupid fired his arrows, lovers were absorbed in their own activities, huntsmen and hounds pursued their quarry. “I, too, have many concerns that I must hold in equilibrium.”
“Kingship is an art, sire.”
“Exactly!” Charles turned to face his guest, eyes gleaming. “Yet, it is more. Like painting, it is a divine calling, a divine gift. To be able to paint as you do, Master Rubens, is something that can only come from God.”
Rubens nodded. “I thank Him for it daily.”
“Yes, yes, as do I praise Him for my gift. For the ability to rule can also have no other source. When I was but a child my father taught me that kings are gods. Just as you bestow divine beauty on the world, so I am charged to provide divine peace and order for my people.”
“It is a great responsibility, sire.”
“And one that knows no compromise. Just as you must paint what you see, what you know, what you feel, without limitation, without restriction, so I must be free to follow my divine mission. Do you not concur, Master Rubens?”
“Well, your majesty . . .”
Charles fixed him with an earnest, intense gaze. “You may speak freely, Master Rubens. I have sycophants enough who agree with every word I utter.”
“Then, sire, I know nothing of the art of government but I suggest that the artist’s life is not quite as simple as you suggest. Every work presents him with many compromises. The skill lies in knowing which to accept and which to reject.”
Charles looked displeased and moved on to the next canvas, saying nothing. When he did speak it was without looking at his companion. “Any l-l-limitation must surely destroy the p-p-purity of the work.”
Rubens phrased his reply carefully. “A painter is limited first and foremost by his own talent. The vision he has inside his head will never be what appears on the finished canvas. Then there is the constraint imposed by the subject. Should the artist depict every leaf, every cloud formation, every flesh tone precisely as it is or amend it to fit better with the overall design? Beyond this lie the dictates of fashion. Tastes change and the artist must live. He cannot afford to please himself and ignore the rest of the world. Finally, of course, there is the patron. His instructions must always be considered and followed – if the artist hopes for more commissions. That is why, sire, I say that the artist lives with compromise. He may be master of his craft but he is the servant of his public.”
Charles looked thoughtful and, after another silence, changed the subject. As Rubens later reported to Madrid, the king was so courteous and reserved that it was difficult to know what he was thinking.
William Heythrop was lord of a modest estate at Polham, five miles north-east of Reading. This much Gerbier’s further researches revealed and thus a blustery autumn day found him riding along the Great West Road. The morning’s journey allowed him plenty of time to think. He was building in his mind a detailed picture of his elusive quarry. He envisaged a country gentleman of modest means who had come into his inheritance at a relatively early age but had little interest in settling to his rural responsibilities. His eyes set on the life of the city, he had managed to get himself elected to the Commons. But unlike many provincials come to the capital to seek their fortune, he had made no attempt to ingratiate himself with the court party. On the contrary, he had raised his voice along with Puritan ranters and traitorous malcontents to criticize the king. As if that were not enough excitement, this lecherous bumpkin had seduced the wife of a wealthy citizen. Adulterer, wastrel, negligent landlord, radical and quarrelsome politician – there must have been many people who would have been tempted to rid the world of William Heythrop.
The story was becoming altogether too hydra-headed, too confusing. Long before the church spires of Reading came into view Gerbier had decided that the next twenty-four hours would see the end of his quest. If his visit to Polham did not produce any convincing evidence about Heythrop’s murderer he would abandon his enquiries. Yet, even as he made this resolution, there came into his mind the image of Ruben’s dead Christ. Gerbier had been greatly moved by the recently completed work. Who would not be stirred to compassion by the grieving faces of a mother and friends, gathered round the body of their dead Saviour. But the corpse so poignantly depicted was, in reality, that of William Heythrop. His family – and Gerbier supposed there must be some who had loved him – were being deprived of their right to mourn. Surely, they deserved the truth?
He came upon Polham Manor early the following morning, having obtained directions in Reading where he stayed overnight. Local gossip placed one fact beyond a peradventure. The town’s junior MP had disappeared in June, much to the consternation of the burgesses. The house – timber-framed with brick facing – stood on a rise above the young Thames flanked by a fringe of woodland rich with autumn foliage. Cattle grazed the water meadows and the arable fields either side of the lane leading from the village were recently ploughed. To all outward appearances Heythrop lands were well cared for.
Gerbier presented himself as a traveller from London with news of the missing landlord and was immediately admitted. The house, though built to an old pattern with an all-purpose hall on the ground floor, had seen some concessions made to modern notions of comfort and it was to a small upper solar that the visitor was shown. When Heythrop’s widow joined him there minutes later Gerbier had a double shock. Margaret Heythrop was beautiful and she was a cripple. She was dark, with smiling brown eyes and lightly-coiffed hair. Her complexion was fresh and quite unlike the painted faces to be seen about the court. Gerbier guessed that she was in her mid-twenties, though her slow and obviously painful progress across the room, leaning heavily on a staff, m
ight have been more in keeping with the movement of a lady twice or thrice her age.
When Gerbier had introduced himself and his hostess had carefully taken her seat in a straight-backed chair, she said, “They tell me you have news of my husband, Master Gerbier.”
The Frenchman hesitated, suddenly aware that he had not prepared himself for this moment. “Aye, Madam,” he replied. “News which, I fear, can only bring you pain.” He produced the drawing, now well-creased. “Do you recognize this as your husband’s likeness?”
Margaret gave the picture no more than a glance. “Yes, that is William beyond a doubt. It is an amazing portrait. May I ask who made it and how you came by it?”
As gently as he could Gerbier briefly explained how Rubens had come by the model for his painting. He watched carefully for her reaction.
No change came over her features. She simply nodded slightly and, after some moments of silence murmured, “Poor William. I suppose it was much as we expected.”
“You know, then, who might have been responsible for this outrage?”
Before she could reply the door burst open to admit a young man with mud on his boots and wisps of straw in his tumbled fair hair. “Margaret, what’s all this?” he snapped, striding across to place himself beside her chair.
Mistress Heythrop made the introductions. “Monsieur Gerbier, this is my brother-in-law, Thomas Heythrop. Tom, Monsieur Gerbier comes from the king’s court. He brings the news we’ve been seeking all these weeks. William is dead. It seems he was murdered.” At the word “murdered” Margaret’s composure faltered slightly. Her lower lip trembled and she hastily raised a kerchief to it.
Thomas’s reaction was quite different. “God be praised!” he almost shouted. Then, frowning, “There’s no doubt? This is not some stratagem of Will’s to escape his responsibilities once and for all?”
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits Page 33