The King's Evil

by Andrew Taylor

  The King brought us alongside the stairs. ‘Marwood,’ he said softly, ‘if you believe this young woman is innocent, despite everything that speaks of her guilt, you must bring me the evidence to prove it.’

  The servants crouched and held the boat steady against the masonry while he climbed out. I followed less gracefully. One of the servants took my arm and urged me towards the entrance of the Stone Gallery, which was the public way to the Bowling Green.

  On my way I passed the tall stranger. He was in the act of turning towards the King, just as I was bowing to His Majesty. The lantern was behind the newcomer and I glimpsed his profile, sharp as the face on a newly minted coin. It was James, Duke of York, the King’s brother.

  At the Back Stairs, I asked for Chiffinch and was brought up to his closet. He gave me a purse containing thirty pounds in mixed gold and silver for my expenses on the journey. ‘I’ll need a schedule of all disbursements,’ he said, ‘and if my lady offers to pay for anything, then well and good, you must let her.’

  ‘Should I hire a horse or take one from the stables here?’ The very thought of riding made my limbs ache even harder than they were already.

  ‘Lady Quincy’s people will see to all that. Just go to her house in the morning, and do as she tells you.’

  He waved his hand to dismiss me.

  ‘Sir – have the prisoners spoken?’

  ‘Hakesby and Brennan, you mean?’ Chiffinch snorted. ‘No one’s got a word of any sort out of Hakesby. I think he’s gone mad – he’ll spend the rest of his days in Bedlam, if he’s not careful. As for Brennan – would you believe it, he’s gone down with fever, and the difficulty is to stop him talking. But there’s no making sense of anything he says.’

  That was a stroke of luck. Brennan was one person who knew where Cat had gone.

  ‘I’m told the fellow’s complaining of cold,’ Chiffinch said. ‘Keeps asking if his cloak’s arrived yet. Who does he think we are? His servants? Mind you, Marwood, it’s certainly getting chilly in here. Tell them to send in another scuttle of coals on your way out.’

  I left him and went back to my lodgings. I took a hackney, partly because I was so weary and partly because I was carrying so much money on my person.

  Sam opened the door to my knock. Cat was no longer in the house, he told me – she had gone to Dorcas, Margaret’s friend.

  ‘All well, sir – she’s glad of the help with the Gazette and gladder still of the money Mistress Lovett will give her.’

  He seemed unusually merry – so much so that at first I wondered whether he had been drinking again. Even the news that he and Margaret would have to work half the night preparing my clothes against the journey tomorrow did not dent his good spirits.

  But it wasn’t ale that had elevated Sam’s mood. It was the business with Cat, with its air of risk and secrecy. I had noticed this before about him: whereas any person of sense was made unhappy by danger, he by contrast tended to become more cheerful in times of peril.

  I did not get to bed until nearly two o’clock in the morning. When I did, I found that I couldn’t sleep. I lay on my back and stared up at the darkness. The King and Duke of York, Clarendon and Buckingham, were so far above me and my world that they might have been distant planets revolving in the night sky, quite beyond my terrestrial comprehension. So I thought about Cat Lovett and Lady Quincy instead until my head hurt and my heart ached.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IT WAS STILL dark when I knocked on the door of the house in Cradle Alley. Sam had accompanied me in the hackney and waited with my portmanteau. A servant took my bag and showed me into the gloomy and plainly furnished chamber where Lady Quincy had interviewed me on my last visit. He brought biscuits and a draught of small beer. He would call me, he said, when my lady was ready.

  I sat down and made myself eat and drink. I was neither hungry nor thirsty but I knew it might be a while before I had another chance of refreshment. Beyond the closed door, footsteps clattered down the stairs. There were snatches of conversation in muffled voices. Heavy objects scraped and bumped on the floor.

  The servant reappeared, bearing a sword and a holstered pistol. He asked if I had brought my own weapons and, when I said no, he gave me the ones he had brought. ‘My lady wishes it,’ he said.

  My next visitor was Lady Quincy herself, already in her travelling cloak. ‘Thank you for agreeing to escort us, sir,’ she said with unexpected civility. ‘Would you sit with us in the coach?’

  Nothing pleased me more. My limbs were still aching from my unaccustomed riding yesterday. I followed her into the hall, which was full of people. A coach drawn by six great horses, matched greys, was waiting in the street before the door. The coachman was already on the box, and the postillion mounted on the leading horse on the nearside. Another servant was standing behind, beside his horse. I saw to my relief it was a glass coach, with doors and windows, rather than the old-fashioned leather flaps that kept out light and let in draughts. It was heavy-built, for long-distance travel.

  I had never travelled in anything like such style and comfort before. Lady Quincy was helped into the coach. I waited at the door until she had settled herself on the seat facing forwards. She beckoned me to join her and indicated that I should sit diagonally opposite her by the window.

  For a wild moment I thought that perhaps we were to travel alone together in the swaying interior of the vehicle. Then I heard steps behind me. The servant helped in a thin-faced maid, who avoided looking at me. She sat beside her mistress.

  Then the servant lifted up the small figure of the boy Stephen. The maid thrust him on to the seat beside me. He huddled into the corner, his face invisible in the gloom apart from the whites of his eyes.

  The door closed and the servant raised the steps. The coachman cracked his whip. The coach twitched and then edged forward, gradually gathering speed. No one spoke.

  We made good speed, for the roads were still dry after the heat of the summer, and the six horses kept up a steady pace that made short work of the miles. We had little conversation, for Lady Quincy was lost in her thoughts and spent most of the journey staring out of the window at the passing country. I had enough to think about myself. Cat Lovett was much on my mind. Would she be safe with Dorcas? Why had I been such a fool as to help her? What on earth would I do with her in the long run?

  Stephen slept for much of the time, or at least closed his eyes and withdrew into himself. The great swellings on his neck threatened his delicate features: it was as if scrofula were a species of worm that was burrowing beneath the skin of the poor child and gradually reshaping him into a monster. My own scars seemed trivial by comparison, and I felt ashamed of my self-pity.

  Cambridge was more than fifty miles from London, too far for the coach-and-six to carry us with ease in a single day. We lay at Puckeridge that night, where we took rooms at the Falcon. At the inn, the country people pointed and sniggered at Stephen, both for the colour of his skin and the swellings beneath it, until I put a stop to it.

  Lady Quincy supped in her bedchamber. I was about to sit at the host’s table downstairs when her maid came to ask me to join her mistress. The curtains were drawn and the candles were lit. She had changed her gown. We talked of trivial things while we ate. But when we were done, she sent the servants away.

  ‘Well, sir,’ she said, toying with an apple, rolling it about like a ball on the tablecloth, ‘so you are sent to watch over me?’

  ‘I’m here at the King’s command, madam, and to do as you bid.’

  ‘And to report to him where I go and what I do?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  She started to peel the apple. ‘You’re an honest man, at least.’

  ‘You’d not have believed me if I’d said otherwise.’

  ‘Then if not honest, at least intelligent.’

  That was suspiciously close to flattery. I said, ‘May I ask what your plans are?’

  ‘Tomorrow we should reach Cambridge in the afternoon. I sho
uld like you to take a letter to a gentleman who lives there. At Jerusalem.’

  Her mention of the name made me start. I said, as casually as I was able, ‘Jerusalem, madam?’

  ‘The college. The gentleman in question is one of the fellows there.’

  ‘Of course.’ I sensed danger; there must be more to this expedition than merely delivering a letter; the business must somehow be connected with Dr Wren’s plan that I had found in Hakesby’s notebook. I said, ‘I hear that they plan to build a new chapel at Jerusalem.’

  ‘Really?’ Lady Quincy sounded weary. ‘These colleges are always building something or other – it is surprising they find any time at all for learning.’

  The following morning, when we left the Falcon, Lady Quincy gave me her purse and asked me to pay what we owed.

  The landlord, who had profited handsomely from our visit, could not have been more civil. As he was counting out the money I gave him, he asked me if I had seen my friend.

  ‘My friend? Who?’

  ‘The gentleman who stopped for breakfast, sir. He’s bound for Cambridge like yourselves, but he was pressed for time and couldn’t linger. I wasn’t sure whether he would find you and my lady before he went.’

  ‘I wonder who it could have been,’ I said. ‘So he’s gone, has he?’

  ‘He and his servant rode on when their horses were ready. They’re travelling post so it won’t take them long to get to Cambridge.’

  My alarm was growing. ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Tall man – a northern gentleman by his voice. I can’t rightly tell you much more than that. The servant was a big man, too. In more ways than one.’ The landlord sketched a great belly with his hands. ‘I pity his horse.’

  ‘Does the man carry an old cavalry sword?’

  ‘That’s him, sir,’ said the landlord. ‘So you do know them. I told his master you were putting up at the Rose tonight so I daresay he’ll call on you there.’

  ‘I daresay.’

  I went upstairs, wondering which of us the Bishop and his servant were following: Lady Quincy or myself. And why would the Duke of Buckingham have sent his men to follow either of us?

  Lady Quincy had asked me to send the postillion ahead to command rooms at the Rose Tavern. We dined on the road and reached Cambridge in the early afternoon. Despite a few fine buildings, the town was of no great size, low-lying and poorly paved.

  I had not told Lady Quincy about the Bishop – this I had decided to keep to myself until I knew more of what it meant. If she could have secrets, then so could I.

  At the tavern, she called me up to her chamber while her maid, Ann, was unpacking her bags. Stephen was fetching and carrying as the maid ordered. He was a compact boy, neat in his movements.

  She gave me the letter she had mentioned last night. It was addressed to the Reverend Mr Warley at Jerusalem College. ‘Take great care of it,’ she said. ‘Don’t give it to anyone apart from Mr Warley. And as soon as possible, if you please.’

  Despite Lady Quincy’s last words, I lingered in the taproom and called for a draught of beer, for my throat was dry from the dust of the road. That was not my only reason. I have a dislike of being used as a cat’s paw, without understanding the business I am employed in. The King, Chiffinch and Lady Quincy expected me to serve them with blind loyalty, as a dog serves his master. Loyalty was one thing, I thought, but blindness was quite another, close kin to folly.

  The landlord was at his table, reckoning up a set of accounts. It was a quiet time of day for the tavern, and he was happy enough to take a glass of beer with me. He was obliging, too, and for the same reason as his colleague at Puckeridge had been: our party was spending a great deal of money with him.

  ‘I wonder if you could satisfy my curiosity,’ I said. ‘I’m to call on a gentleman at Jerusalem College, a man I’ve never met, and I’d be glad to have some idea of him beforehand. His name’s Warley.’

  ‘Mr Warley? Yes, indeed. A gentleman of high repute. I’ve known him since he was but a boy. Local man, sir. I can just remember his grandfather.’

  ‘His family comes from Cambridge?’ I asked.

  ‘No – from the Fens, north of here. They have an estate at Hitcham St Martin. It’ll all come to Mr Warley one day, I suppose.’

  I realized the landlord was a man who enjoyed gossiping, so I settled down to make the most of it. ‘Mr Warley is the heir?’

  ‘Yes – mind you, it’s not a large estate and they say it’s much embarrassed. His grandmother is living at the house, and has the benefit of it for her lifetime by her husband’s will, as well as most of the income. But that’s not likely to be long, as the poor lady is ailing. Lungs, probably. It’s the damp air in the Fens, you see, sir. It kills off the old people.’

  I drained my beer. The landlord, sensing I was about to leave, tried to delay me.

  ‘It’s possible, of course, that Mr Warley will put in a bailiff to run the place when he takes possession.’

  ‘So he can stay in Cambridge?’ I asked idly, looking for my stick. ‘At Jerusalem?’

  ‘Or elsewhere. He’s in holy orders, of course, like all the college fellows are. So he may get preferment that takes him away altogether.’ He paused and then added impressively, ‘The family has connections who can make interest for him. A word in the right ear, and Mr Warley could end up a bishop with a coach-and-six and a seat in the House of Lords.’

  ‘Connections?’ I said. ‘It’s always useful to have connections. Who?’

  The landlord gave me a wink. ‘I don’t know for sure, sir. It’s just what they say. He was a very young man when they made him a fellow. A young man with friends in high places, perhaps.’

  I probed further, but I could get nothing more out of the landlord on that subject. But the mention of bishops had reminded me of another thing. ‘Would you tell me privately if anyone enquires about us while we’re here?’

  Suddenly wary, the landlord squinted at me. ‘Nothing that will bring my house into ill-repute, I trust?’

  ‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘A private matter that doesn’t concern anyone else in the least. Now tell me the way to Jerusalem.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I LEFT THE Rose soon afterwards. The tavern overlooked the bustle of Market Hill, which was packed with the stalls of traders. I had expected to find more students in Cambridge, but I learned from the landlord that the Michaelmas Term had not yet begun so the town was quieter than usual.

  I made my way through the crowd with some difficulty and followed his directions into the streets on the far side. Jerusalem was on the edge of the town. I entered the college by way of an archway set in a line of railings, which led into an open court with a collection of buildings on three sides. They were largely of brick, old and soot-stained.

  The porter at the gate asked my business, and I asked for Mr Warley.

  He stared up at me. He was a small, squat fellow with long grey hair and beetling brows well-framed for frowning. ‘Not one of ours, are you, sir? I never forget the face of a gentleman who matriculated here, however many years pass.’

  ‘Indeed. Where can I find Mr Warley?’

  He pointed to a doorway in the left-hand corner of the court. ‘Through there. Mr Warley’s chambers are in the court beyond, on the far side. Second door from the left.’

  The porter’s directions took me through a passage that smelled of cooking into another court, larger than the first, where somebody was talking in a loud, angry voice. I lingered in the passage, keeping to a patch of shadow. Two men were standing not far away, their backs to me. They were looking up at a low and dilapidated building to the left.

  ‘… it’s all very well but we can’t take your word for it.’ The speaker was a heavy, stooping man; he had sloping shoulders like a bull’s; he wore a gown that had once been black and was now a dark and grubby shade of green. ‘Besides, until the money’s here, we can’t tear the whole place down, just on your whim. We have chambers for undergraduates in there a
nd—’

  The other man, who was small and slight, said something in a softer voice.

  This led to another explosion. ‘I know they’ve been empty for a few years. Our admissions aren’t what they were before the war. But numbers will improve one day, God willing.’

  The smaller man shook his head and made another inaudible remark.

  ‘Of course repairs will cost money,’ roared the first man. ‘But it would be folly to let the place fall down for want of a few pence. East Building has sheltered scholars for nigh on three hundred years. Your chapel will cost a hundred times as much, a thousand times, and it will give shelter to no one. If you ever see it built, it will do nothing but encourage ungodly rituals and Papist practices. Our founder must be turning in his grave.’

  The other raised his voice at last. ‘We shall have the money to build it. I have a promise of it.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘I can’t say at present.’

  ‘Then it’s no more than fairy gold.’

  ‘It will come. I have given my word.’

  ‘You’re hardly in a position to find the money yourself, I believe.’

  The bull-man was smiling in a way that showed that his words were designed to taunt. The smaller man raised his arm, and for a moment I thought he was going to strike the other. But he restrained himself.

  ‘So we must trust you, must we?’ said his tormentor. ‘We must tear this college apart simply because you say so? Well, sir, consider this: we may have been forced to accept you into our fellowship by royal mandate, but you can’t expect us to take every word you say as gospel.’

  ‘When you see the model that the architects are making, Dr Burbrough, you and others will understand. This chapel will make Jerusalem the glory of Cambridge.’

  ‘The glory?’ bellowed the bull. ‘More likely the laughing stock.’

  They glared at each other. I decided that I had heard enough. I left the shadows and came out into the sunshine.