The King's Evil

by Andrew Taylor

  She blinked. ‘Is this somehow to do with Edward’s death?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think it must be but I can’t for the life of me see how. Your cousin was involved in an intrigue that was bigger and more dangerous than he realized. And he paid for it with his life.’ He looked away. ‘Unless …’

  Unless, Cat thought, the intrigue had been incidental to Edward’s death. She could read what was passing through Marwood’s mind as clearly as though it were written on his forehead: unless, he was thinking, Cat herself had killed her cousin as she had sworn to do. He knew better than anyone that she was not afraid to fight back with any weapon at her disposal. He had watched her push Edward’s father from the tower of St Paul’s to his death. He knew that she had tried to kill Edward himself after he raped her; and she had left him maimed for life. The first time she met Marwood himself, she had bitten his hand to the bone when, as it had turned out, he had been trying to help her. Like the cat she had watched outside the Mitre last week, when she was threatened, she hissed and she scratched. And why should she not?

  She frowned at him. ‘What did my aunt want in Cambridgeshire? And why did she want you with her?’

  ‘It was a family matter,’ he said awkwardly. ‘This isn’t the time – I will tell you later.’

  She sensed he was embarrassed, and pressed him harder: ‘And why you?’

  ‘I believe the King trusts me to be discreet.’

  She snorted. ‘Presumably my Aunt Quincy trusts you as well.’

  He was silent.

  ‘And what of Mr Hakesby?’ she said. ‘How is he? Is he free?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing. That’s one reason I’m going to Whitehall now, to make enquiries.’

  ‘You must help him.’ Cat came a step closer and stared intently at him. ‘He’s not well. And he’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘If I can help him, I shall.’

  ‘Tell him I’m safe, and that I think of him. And when you’ve seen him, will you send word to me by Margaret?’

  Marwood nodded, and turned his head away. She fought back panic. What if Mr Hakesby was dead? The thought opened up a prospect of desolation to her.

  ‘I wish to God this was over,’ Cat said suddenly. ‘I can’t abide this skulking in corners. I want employment. What’s happening at Clarendon House? Have they stopped work on the pavilion?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I have to see Mr Milcote – I’ll ask him. Lord Clarendon has his troubles at present, so he may not have much time to think of his garden.’

  ‘I saw him yesterday afternoon. Mr Milcote, I mean.’

  ‘Did he see you?’ Marwood said, alarmed.

  Flustered, she shook her head. ‘He was in a hurry, and it was raining.’

  He stared at her, his eyes narrowing. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘In Botolph Lane, the Thames Street end.’

  ‘There’s not much left down there, is there?’

  ‘Plenty of temporary shelters,’ Cat said. ‘They’ve cleared most of the cellars. The Green Dragon’s reopened. And the Botolph’s Wharf is nearly as busy as ever.’

  ‘Why were you there?’

  She stared, disliking the interrogation. She wished she hadn’t mentioned Milcote. ‘Why are you so interested all of a sudden? They take the Gazette at the Green Dragon, and so does the man who manages the wharf.’

  ‘And Milcote? What was he doing down there?’

  ‘How should I know?’ She paused, but Marwood said nothing. ‘I didn’t recognize him at first,’ she went on suddenly. ‘He looked different.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Usually his clothes befit his station. But yesterday he looked like a lawyer’s clerk, and a shabby one at that, with his hat pulled down. He wasn’t even wearing his sword.’

  Marwood was looking fixedly at her, and his gaze made her uncomfortable. ‘Cat,’ he said, and the use of her name surprised, and even shocked her. ‘Cat, before I go, I want—’

  The door to the printing shop opened, and a tide of women carrying inky bundles flowed into the passage.

  ‘Very well,’ he said to Cat in a loud, harsh voice. ‘Tie up your bundle, woman, and go on your round.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  MEN HAVE STRANGE reservoirs of strength. One cannot plumb their depths, or even suspect their existence, until circumstances draw them out. I would never have thought Brennan had such a store of resilience as he must have shown when he was imprisoned in Scotland Yard.

  ‘They let him out on Monday,’ the sergeant at the prison said. ‘Best thing to do with him. They couldn’t get a word out of him, even when the fever went down, and there was nothing against him.’

  ‘What about Mr Hakesby?’ I asked, jingling the coins in my pocket.

  ‘I kept an eye on him, sir, like you said. Indeed, I watched over the poor gentleman like a mother watches a baby.’

  ‘How is he? Has he eaten?’

  ‘He’s taken a little broth, though not enough to keep a sparrow alive.’ The sergeant’s hands rested for a moment on his great belly as if to emphasize the contrast between his own appetite and Mr Hakesby’s. ‘Mind you, sir, his teeth are chattering so much he could hardly get a word out even if he wanted to. A doctor came to see him on Tuesday. Young Brennan sent him. Not that it helped. I could have told him it would be a waste of money. If a man’s prone to ague and he comes here, the damp will bring on the shaking fits, and the fits won’t go away until he does.’

  ‘Has he been questioned?’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘Several times. Not a chatty gentleman, is he?’

  I wondered why Chiffinch had kept Hakesby here so long. Perhaps there was other evidence against him. More likely he had simply been forgotten. I took out some change. ‘Would you take me to him?’

  The sergeant’s vast hand swallowed the silver coins. I followed his swaying rump down the passage to the cells, past the cries of the unfortunates penned in the common chamber. The pervasive stench of excrement and despair filled my nostrils.

  I found Hakesby where I had left him, lying on his cot with his face to the wall. But when I said his name, he turned slowly towards me. I was shocked by his appearance – his face resembled a skull covered in grubby linen, and his clothes had acquired the grime of the prison. He had not been shaved, and the grey stubble gave him a shaggy, feral look, like one who has walked too long in the wilderness with nothing but his own thoughts for company.

  ‘Bang on the door when you want to leave, sir,’ the sergeant said.

  When we were alone, I bent down and brought my lips close to Hakesby’s ear. ‘She’s safe, sir. She asks after you.’

  A shudder ran through him. He struggled to sit up. I put my arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit against the wall.

  ‘Do they still—’ he broke off and tried to moisten his chapped lips. ‘Do they still believe she—?’

  ‘I think so. I’m not sure, though – I’ve been away these last few days.’ I hesitated, remembering the plan I had found in Hakesby’s notebook on my last visit. ‘I went to Jerusalem College.’

  He looked confused. ‘About the chapel? You?’

  ‘I had other business with Mr Warley there.’

  Hakesby nodded. ‘Lady Clarendon’s cousin. She most kindly suggested my name to him.’ He veered back to Cat. ‘Are you sure she’s safe?’

  ‘Yes.’ I looked about me. There was an uncovered jug with a little beer in it on the floor. A fly floated on the surface. Beside it was a platter containing nothing but a rat dropping. ‘You must eat, sir, and drink, to restore your strength. I shall tell them to bring you something on my way out.’

  His hand shot out. Long, bony fingers wrapped round my wrist. ‘Are you leaving me?’

  ‘I’ll return, sir. I promise.’

  I left him and walked through Scotland Yard to the more elegant surroundings of Whitehall itself. Hakesby looked worse than he had when I had seen him last week, but at least he was talking to me.

  I went throu
gh the public rooms of the royal apartments and sent a message to Mr Chiffinch. As I had expected, he kept me waiting. Waiting was the principal activity of Whitehall, and it was almost midday before a servant brought me to him. We went into the Privy Garden and walked up and down the gravelled paths under the windows of the Privy Gallery.

  ‘The King was asking only last night whether you’d returned,’ Chiffinch said. ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘Yesterday evening.’

  ‘And what happened with you and Lady Quincy?’

  I could hardly reveal the whole truth on that subject, but I told him the rest of what had happened at Cambridge and at Hitcham St Martin, including my inconsiderate treatment of Mistress Warley. Afterwards, we walked in silence for a while.

  ‘You think this man Burbrough was attacked?’ Chiffinch said abruptly.

  ‘I think it probable, though he did not want anyone to know, even though he nearly died as a consequence. He must have been to some degree in league with this man they call the Bishop. But they fell out.’

  Chiffinch grunted. ‘It’s possible. Burbrough was appointed to his fellowship under the Commonwealth, when Cambridge was a different place from what it is now. And the Duke of Buckingham still has friends in that quarter, many of them old Commonwealth men who’d bring back Cromwell if they only could.’

  That at least could not happen, not on this side of the grave: Cromwell’s head was stuck on a pole above the Palace of Westminster. But Buckingham was very much alive. It was becoming clearer and clearer that I had stumbled into something much more dangerous than a child with the King’s Evil.

  We turned at the end of a path, which brought us round to face the windows of the Privy Gallery range on the north side of the garden. The sun was out and reflected back to us from hundreds of panes of glass.

  ‘And the child?’ Chiffinch said. ‘Mistress Frances?’

  ‘At my Lady Quincy’s.’

  ‘What about the Warleys? Should we look for trouble in that quarter?’

  ‘Not from Warley himself, I think. He has an eye to preferment. But Mistress Warley is another matter. She’s attached to the child.’

  ‘I think we can deal with her. If the old woman wants the King’s pension to continue, she’ll not make trouble, despite your behaviour to her, and despite the child. The estate’s mortgaged, and they owe money everywhere. She couldn’t have managed without the pension these last ten years or so, and nor could young Warley. They barely survive as it is.’

  I wasn’t surprised to hear that – the signs of the family’s reduced circumstances had been plain to see, both in Warley’s rooms at Cambridge and in the house at Hitcham St Martin. But it was interesting that Chiffinch thought the Warleys’ pension would still be paid, even after the removal of the child from their care, presumably to ensure their continued silence.

  It was at that moment, as we paced on down the path, that I realized Mistress Frances must indeed be the King’s daughter. Nothing else could explain the continued expense of maintaining her, and the extraordinary efforts that Chiffinch was making on behalf of his master. Nothing else could explain Buckingham’s interest in her. But what had the Duke in mind? After all, the child was just another royal bastard, and not even a boy.

  ‘On another matter, sir,’ I said hesitantly, ‘is there news of Mistress Lovett?’

  ‘Eh?’ He dragged his mind away from Mistress Frances. ‘No. The bitch has gone to ground. But we’ll dig her out sooner or later.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’s guilty.’

  ‘You must convince the King of that, not me.’

  ‘Another fact has come to light that may have a bearing on Alderley’s murder. About Lord Clarendon’s servant – the one who found Alderley’s body in the well. His name’s Gorse. He’s disappeared. As far as I know, he’s not been seen since he helped us move the body.’

  Chiffinch stroked the wart on his chin. ‘You’d better go to Clarendon House and find out if he’s turned up since you were away.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And there’s another thing. It turns out that Gorse once worked for Alderley at the family’s old house, Barnabas Place. It’s possible that he and Alderley were conspiring together.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Against Lord Clarendon.’

  ‘The Lovett woman lived at Barnabas Place too,’ Chiffinch pointed out. ‘So it’s equally possible that the servant was conspiring with her against Alderley.’

  I bowed my head, as if accepting the argument. ‘And Mr Hakesby, sir?’

  ‘By all accounts he knows nothing. He’s practically in his dotage, trembling like a leaf in a storm. The woman wouldn’t have been so foolish as to trust him.’

  ‘In that case, sir, would it not be better to release him?’

  Chiffinch frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because at Scotland Yard he can do nothing for us. But in his own house he may act as bait.’

  ‘You mean his presence may persuade the Lovett woman to break cover?’

  I spread my hands. ‘It’s possible, sir. She has a kindness for him. He gave her a roof over her head, and employment she finds congenial.’

  He shrugged. ‘You may be right. I’ll consider it.’

  I looked up at the windows in front of us. Whitehall has thousands of windows and thousands of watchers and thousands of secrets. And there, at the centre of the gallery, a tall, richly dressed man was standing at an open casement on the first floor and looking down at the garden. The sun fell on him. His periwig shone like gold. Perhaps he had been there the whole time as we strolled up and down the paths.

  I touched Chiffinch’s arm. ‘The Duke is watching us, sir.’

  ‘What?’ He wheeled round to face me. ‘Which duke?’

  ‘Buckingham.’ I let my eyes drift towards the Privy Gallery. ‘The bay window.’

  ‘He’s a clever man,’ Chiffinch murmured, glancing up at him. ‘I give him that. Sometimes too clever for his own good.’ He paced on, with me just behind him. ‘Talking of whom: have you heard the news?’

  ‘About …?’

  ‘Buckingham. On Monday the King restored him to his old offices – both in the Bedchamber and to the Privy Council. He’s high in favour, and is seen everywhere at court. The King finds him amusing. So be careful what you say in that quarter, at least in public.’

  ‘And Mr Hakesby, sir?’ I said.

  ‘Say we release him. How do we keep a watch on him? And on the other fellow – Brennan?’

  ‘I could talk to the porter at his Drawing Office in Henrietta Street. I think he will be our friend in this – I could make him a present of money and give him the promise of more. He won’t want to offend us, either. Hakesby lodges elsewhere – off the Strand. If you wish, I’ll see what I can do with one of the servants there, as well.’

  ‘Do it. At once. I will see he is a free man by the end of the day.’

  I bowed. I noted that Chiffinch had the authority to command Hakesby’s release. It was an indication of the power he wielded at the discretion of his master. The King did not care to be troubled with such details.

  I never fully understood Chiffinch. He was as venal as any man I knew, and as faithless as the serpent. Yet the King trusted him as much as he trusted anyone, and Chiffinch repaid him with absolute loyalty.

  I ate a solitary dinner in an ordinary in King Street. I had originally intended to walk across the park to Clarendon House afterwards, but Chiffinch had made it clear that he wanted me to bribe the porter at Henrietta Street at once. It was a good sign, I knew. If all went well, Hakesby would sleep in his own bed tonight.

  The tide was high, and on the ebb, so I decided to take a pair of oars from Whitehall to the Savoy, call in at my house and walk up to Henrietta Street from there. Whitehall Stairs was crowded, as I had expected at this time, for it was the public landing place for those who went up and down the river.

  As it happened, I had to wait, for there was a shortage of available boats. I lingered at the southern si
de of the jetty and stared upstream at the long river frontage of the palace. I was in no great hurry. I had taken a pint of wine with my dinner and, now the interview with Chiffinch was over, I felt more relaxed than I had for days.

  At the edge of my attention, I was aware of people coming and going around me. I heard a shuffling of feet among the crowd and turned my head. More men were crowding on to the stairs. I gazed down at the turbid water, which was lapping against the river frontage of the palace and swirling around the piers that supported the landing stage.

  A man at my shoulder cleared his throat. I sensed that he was edging closer, trying to find an excuse to enter into conversation. I ignored him. I wanted my own company. I did not want to exchange banalities about the weather or hear an account of last night’s cockfight.

  ‘Mr Marwood. At last.’

  The Bishop was standing there in his shabby brown coat, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

  Someone brushed my arm on my other side. I turned my head quickly. The fat man was beside me, and a little behind. He too was armed, with his old cavalry sword. I had no weapon at all, not even a stick. In front of me was the Thames. I had no means of escaping them.

  ‘You’re a difficult man to meet, sir,’ the Bishop went on in his hard voice. ‘You’ve given us a deal of trouble.’

  ‘I don’t know you, sir,’ I said coldly. ‘Forgive me, I’m pressed for time.’

  I tried to walk away, but both the Bishop and the fat man moved closer to block me.

  ‘There’s no hurry, sir,’ the Bishop said. ‘We must all bide our time. God knows when we shall find a boat.’

  I moistened my lips, cursing the wine I had just drunk. ‘I’ll shout for help if you don’t leave me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Mr Chiffinch and his master wouldn’t want the world to know where you have been these last few days, and with whom, and what you did there.’ He stooped, bringing his mouth close to my ear. ‘You and the lady and the child. The doctor who nearly drowned and the unfortunate old woman. It would make an interesting subject for a broadsheet, would it not? We could have it about town by the morning.’