The King's Return: (Thomas Hill 3) (Thomas Hill Novels)

by Andrew Swanston

  Williamson rose from his seat behind a wide oak desk and offered his hand. The desk was precisely organized, with neat stacks of papers and a box of quills placed exactly between pots of black and red ink. Thomas noticed that the files open on the desk had even been given names. One had AUGUSTUS written in large letters on it, another CALIGULA. He was just able to make out that the AUGUSTUS file concerned Parliament. It was the desk of an orderly, precise, even obsessive man. ‘Good day, Mr Hill. I am greatly indebted to you for coming at such short notice. Do be seated.’

  He indicated a chair, politely sitting only when Thomas was seated and at an angle which favoured his right eye. ‘Like you,’ he began without preamble, ‘I studied mathematics at Oxford. Now, as you know, I serve Sir Edward Nicholas in the office of the secretary of state. While Sir Edward is travelling, His Majesty has appointed me to deputize for him in all matters of security. That includes our work at the Post Office, as he considers it essential that a close watch is kept on correspondence that might pertain to the defence of his realm. We have many enemies abroad and at home. London is brimming with spies and malcontents, not all of them ruffians and vagabonds. Some masquerade as professional men. The medical profession is the most popular, possibly because a sick man is thought more likely to be indiscreet. This is a con tinual source of anxiety. I’m sure you understand.’ Thomas nodded gravely, wondering when Williamson was going to get to the point.

  ‘Our situation has been made worse by the re-emergence of some of the more extreme groups of dissenters. The Fifth Monarchists I believe we have finally dealt with by executing their leader, Thomas Venner, but there are still Levellers and Quakers, not to mention the so-called Diggers and Ranters, who are capable of the Lord only knows what. Unholy alliances are being forged under our very noses.’

  Williamson went on. ‘Not only that, but the king’s arbitrary extensions to the list of those excepted from the Act of Oblivion do not sit well with the people.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Some of us wish His Majesty had stuck to his promise and executed only those who signed his father’s death warrant. As the king himself said, he could not pardon them. But I believe it is unwise of him to hunt down others who did not sign the warrant and to deal with them as traitors. And if they must be punished, hanging would be enough. Quartering and disembowelling are unnecessary. And the digging up of bodies so that they could appear in court and be found guilty of treason before being displayed in public was, to be candid, absurd. Some of those put to death – Colonel Harrison, for instance – showed great courage and spoke with passion on the scaffold. Their words have had an effect. In my opinion, the king was badly advised to act as he did and we are now having to face the consequences.’

  ‘Why has the king done this, I wonder?’

  Williamson cleared his throat. ‘The king’s mind is subtle. I believe that he imagined that, without some reassurance, all those upon whom he wished to take revenge would disappear to Italy or Switzerland, or even the American colonies, as indeed some have. So he promised clemency to any surrendering themselves within two weeks, only to renege on the promise once he had them safely locked up. By such actions His Majesty is fuelling the flames. If the king can do this, the people ask, what else might he do? My informers are reporting growing unease and there have been unexplained disturbances.’

  ‘Mary Carrington and I experienced just such a disturbance at the theatre.’

  Williamson looked up in surprise. ‘Were you at the Salisbury Court?’

  ‘We were. It was most odd. A simple scuffle turned into a panicking bolt for the door. Which was locked.’

  ‘So I understand. It was fortunate no one was badly hurt, although I notice you did not escape entirely unmarked.’

  ‘Was it the work of dissidents?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Probably. It fits the pattern of some other incidents without obvious purpose except to spread alarm. We are investigating the troupe of players. Now, my purpose in asking you here. Do you know of Dr John Wallis?’

  Thomas knew the name well enough. Wallis had served Pym and Cromwell as a cryptographer and was highly regarded for his work. He nodded.

  ‘Dr Wallis is yet another Oxford mathematician – we do seem to be rather a multitude – and until recently was a senior member of staff at the General Letter Office, the department of the Post Office which deals with the good ordering of public correspondence. As he has just been appointed chaplain to His Majesty and therefore has other duties to detain him at present, I must find a competent replacement. I had rather despaired of doing so until we chanced to meet at the Carringtons’ dinner. Your name appears on none of my lists.’

  ‘Possibly, sir, because it is eighteen years since I served the king’s father at Oxford and I have taken no part in politics or society since. There must be many better qualified to serve than I.’

  ‘I doubt it. Having made certain enquiries, not least of the king himself, I am satisfied that you are as well qualified as anyone to undertake the work I have in mind.’

  ‘And what might that work be?’

  Williamson cleared his throat. ‘Before we speak of that, sir, have I your word that this discussion will remain confidential?’

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘If that is your wish.’

  ‘Very well. From the General Letter Office, which was restored four years ago, we despatch correspondence to our agents overseas. Much of this has to be encrypted and their incoming correspondence decrypted. We also look out for anything which might help us to identify threats to our own security. It is an embarrassment that our enemies use our Post Office for their own ends, believing it safer than a common carrier or special courier, either of whom might be arrested and searched when entering the country. Dr Wallis has been in charge of the decryption of intercepted correspondence.’

  ‘And you would like me to take his place while the king requires his services as chaplain.’

  ‘Exactly. You are a skilful cryptographer and your loyalty and discretion can be counted upon. You would be rendering a valuable service to your country.’

  ‘I am obliged, sir, but I have not decrypted anything for years. Is there really no one better suited to the task? And I am not at home in London. The New Forest is more my natural habitat. I plan to return there within the week.’

  ‘I quite understand. I have often thought of returning to Bridekirk, where I was born. The hills and the lakes are lovely. Somehow, though, I have just stayed put. It’s the importance of the work we do and the challenges it presents.’

  Thomas said nothing. He had half guessed that Williamson might come up with something like this. At dinner his interest in Thomas’s experience with codes and ciphers had been more than mere courtesy. He was flattered, of course, but did he really want to stay in London and devote himself to this sort of work? Wouldn’t forest oaks, fields of wheat and barley and brown trout from the river be more agreeable?

  ‘I cannot force you to accept,’ said Williamson, reading the doubt in Thomas’s face, ‘and I’m sure you can think of a hundred reasons not to. Bear in mind though that, as I have said, for all the gaiety and rejoicing, there are those in London who seek to overthrow our new king and replace him either with a new republic or with an interloper from across the Channel. I myself served Cromwell, as did many of my colleagues, but the last thing England needs now is to be thrown into another bloody war.’

  ‘Do you believe that this could happen?’

  Williamson nodded. ‘I do. And there is more. John Winter and Matthew Smith were two of my intelligencers. I had hoped that Smith’s murder was no more than a matter of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when Montford Babb was murdered that seemed likely. Babb had no connection with our service. It looked like a vicious thief at work. With Winter’s death, however, that has changed. Two of my men murdered, albeit in different places and by different methods, does not look like a coincidence.’

  ‘How was John Winter murdered, if I may ask?’

  �
��He was found strangled under a bush in the graveyard of St Olave’s Church.’

  ‘And Sir Montford Babb?’

  ‘I do not know. Mistaken identity perhaps or plain misfortune.’

  ‘Are there many like Winter and Smith?’

  ‘Many, both here and overseas. They are essential to our security.’

  ‘So you believe that the deaths of Smith and Winter were connected to their work?’

  ‘I fear so. Both were sober and reliable. I would not have expected either of them to be in such mean places after dark. The best explanation is that they were lured there. On what pretext, I do not know.’

  ‘Would Winter not have taken greater care in view of Smith’s murder?’

  ‘He did not know that Smith also worked for me. My agents operate independently of each other.’

  ‘And after Smith’s death, you did not tell him?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘And you see no connection with the murder of Sir Montford Babb.’

  ‘I have considered it, naturally. There were similarities. But, as I have said, Babb had nothing to do with any government department. I believe he was merely the unfortunate victim of a robbery.’

  ‘Yet the other two deaths have alarmed you.’

  ‘I confess that they have. If our enemies knew about the two men, what else might they know?’ Seeing a tiny smile play across Thomas’s face, Williamson asked, ‘You smile, sir. May I know about what?’

  ‘I was thinking, as I often do, about something said by my favourite philosopher, Michel de Montaigne.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘The public weal requires that men should betray, and lie, and massacre. It’s as true of one side as another, don’t you agree?’

  ‘That may be so. But you will not be asked to betray, lie or massacre. Merely to decrypt intercepted letters which may provide intelligence about threats to our king and to our national security. Will you do it?’

  Thomas hesitated. ‘This has come as a surprise, sir. Kindly allow me a little time to consider. You shall have my answer tomorrow.’

  ‘So be it. I shall await your reply. If you accept, we will agree a suitable fee and I shall be able to tell you more. Would the Carringtons allow you to stay on while you are carrying out the work?’

  They would, of course, although Mary would have something to say on the matter when Thomas told her what he was going to do. ‘I should have to ask them, sir.’

  ‘Naturally. Thank you for coming.’ Williamson rang a bell on his desk and the footman came in. ‘Please show Mr Hill out.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And Miss Stewart has arrived.’

  ‘Madeleine? I wasn’t expecting her.’

  ‘No, sir. She has called with some fruit for you.’

  ‘Then I had better thank her.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘You remember my cousin Madeleine, of course. She keeps an eye on me. Always telling me to eat better food and to drink less claret.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure to see her again. And most unexpected.’

  In the hall Madeleine stood with a large basket of oranges and apples. She smiled warmly at Williamson. ‘Good morning, Joseph. I trust I’m not disturbing you. One can find so many different fruits and vegetables in the markets now and I thought I would bring you some. And Mr Hill. What a pleasure.’ She curtsied to Thomas, who bowed in return. ‘Shall we have the pleasure of your company in London for long?’

  Thomas caught the look that passed between the cousins. The artful young devil, he thought. Not as unworldly as he pretends. Well, two may play that game. ‘I am not yet decided, madam. London has its attractions, but my home is in Hampshire. Good day, Mr Williamson, Miss Stewart.’

  ‘Good day, Mr Hill.’

  When he arrived back in Piccadilly, having taken a longer but quieter route from Chancery Lane, Thomas found that he had visitors. His niece Lucy, accompanied by a well-dressed young man with long fair hair, was sitting by the fire with Charles and Mary. The young man rose and bowed politely. Lucy jumped up and held out her arms to her uncle.

  ‘There you are, Uncle Thomas. Arthur and I thought to pay you a visit after our walk in St James’s Park.’ Lucy kissed him and turned to her companion. ‘Arthur, this is my uncle, Thomas Hill. Uncle Thomas, this is Arthur Phillips.’

  Thomas stepped forward and took the outstretched hand. Arthur Phillips smiled. ‘An honour to meet you, sir. Lucy has told me much about you.’

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘And how are you enjoying London, Lucy?’

  ‘Until the coronation, I saw nothing of it. The duchess’s gown kept me occupied, and Lady Richmond insisted that I go out only with an escort and for no more than an hour at a time.’

  Unbeknown to Lucy, when Lady Richmond, a lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of York, had requested that she come to London to work on the duchess’s coronation gown, Thomas had agreed only on condition that his niece was very closely chaperoned at all times. Much as he adored her, his niece was a spirited young lady, and especially since the death of her mother quite capable of thumbing her nose at custom and propriety. ‘I am relieved to hear it. And since the coronation?’

  ‘I have been asked by Lady Richmond to stay on for a while. She wishes me to embroider some furnishings for her new house.’

  ‘I see. And do you wish to stay on?’

  Lucy glanced at her companion. ‘I do.’

  Thomas stroked his chin. ‘I am not sure, Lucy. Perhaps—’

  ‘Nonsense, Thomas,’ boomed Charles, ‘of course Lucy must stay on. One cannot have too many pretty girls around if one wishes to stay young. And Arthur will take good care of her, won’t you, Arthur?’

  ‘I should welcome the opportunity, sir, if Mr Hill agrees.’

  Handsome, polite and charming, thought Thomas. I’ll never drag the girl away. ‘Tell me more about yourself, Arthur.’

  Arthur Phillips made short work of it. His family were from Wiltshire, as was the Duchess of York’s father, now the Earl of Clarendon. His lordship had graciously procured for young Arthur a post in the Navy Office in Seething Lane, where he was clerk to Mr Temple, supervisor of the refitting of the Navy’s warships. The Duke of York being Lord High Admiral, it was through Lady Richmond that Arthur met Lucy.

  ‘And do you hope to make a career in the Navy Office?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘If I am considered suitable, I do, sir.’

  Damn me, thought Thomas, modest as well. Not that Thomas generally thought very much of modesty. An overrated quality, frequently false, usually boring and often confused with humility, which was quite a different matter. Still, pleasing enough in this young man.

  For an hour or so they talked, and only after Lucy and her new admirer had left did it occur to Thomas that his niece had been without a chaperone. When he mentioned it, Charles looked sheepish. ‘Sent her home. Looked like a painting I once saw of Guy Fawkes. Enough to give a fellow nightmares. Told her Mary would do the chaperoning. Hope you don’t mind.’ Charles clapped Thomas on the back and described Lucy as ‘perfectly charming’ and Arthur Phillips as ‘an excellent young fellow’. He made it sound as if they were to be married the next morning.

  CHAPTER 6

  THOMAS WAITED TWO days before sending his reply to Williamson. It was a discourtesy he would not normally have countenanced, but he reckoned it evened the score between them. Oranges or no oranges, Madeleine’s arrival at her cousin’s house had been no coincidence, although he would have agreed to deputize for Dr Wallis anyway, just as he had agreed to travel to Oxford all those years ago. Williamson was right. It was the challenge. Much as he disliked London and missed Romsey, he could not resist it.

  And this time it was also the thought of seeing more of Madeleine Stewart, for all that his eligibility was as doubtful as Charles had pointed out. Despite the uncomfortable feeling that he was being drawn into a play in which he had no business taking part and which might well end unhappily, he sent Williamson a letter agreeing to carry out the work asked of him until th
e end of the year, unless Dr Wallis was released earlier from his chaplaincy duties.

  When Thomas was met by Williamson at the entrance to the Post Office in Cloak Lane, beside him stood a man of about fifty who reminded Thomas of a suspicious spaniel – long black wig, large brown eyes and mouth turned down towards his chin. Williamson greeted Thomas warmly and introduced his colleague. ‘Mr Hill, may I present Mr Henry Bishop, Master of the King’s Post.’ Bishop bowed politely, but said nothing. Thomas immediately sensed antipathy between them.

  Inside, it was surprisingly silent. The good ordering of public correspondence was evidently carried out very quietly indeed. Clerks with bundles of letters and packets emerged from one door and disappeared without a word through another. Thomas wondered fleetingly if Post Office staff were obliged to take a vow of silence.

  Bishop led them down a short passage and opened a door into his rooms at the end of it. ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My servant will bring us refreshment.’

  When they were settled, Williamson took charge. This time he did not bother to hide his lazy eye. ‘Thomas,’ he said – it was the first time that he had used Thomas’s given name – ‘I am grateful to you for agreeing to come here. I know you would rather be elsewhere.’ He smiled thinly. ‘While you are here, please treat me as your primary point of contact, although of course Henry will always be available if necessary.’ He glanced at Bishop, who politely inclined his head. ‘Henry is responsible for everything that goes on in this building and at the Foreign Letter Office in Love Lane and for the safe delivery of all mail at home and overseas. He will explain how the Post Office is organized.’

  Williamson studied his Madeira before continuing. ‘As you know, I am employed by the king to gather intelligence pertaining to national security and as such often have occasion to work closely with Henry. Correspondence to and from our agents overseas is usually encrypted. You will be responsible for its encryption and decryption. In addition, intercepted correspondence, particularly to and from overseas addresses, is a fruitful source of information. Some of it is encrypted. The decrypting was carried out by John Wallis and will also now be your responsibility.’ So far, everything was as Williamson had told him. Thomas said nothing.