‘We should go,’ Dorcas said, anxious and urgent to be gone. She took Cat’s arm and tried to draw her away. ‘I’m hungry.’
Cat pulled her arm free. ‘Wait.’
Those two men had brought to mind Marwood’s request last week, as they were riding into London on their return from the refugee camp at Mangot’s Farm. He had asked her to watch out for two men who wished him harm, one tall and thin in a long brown coat; the other smaller but fat; and both carrying swords. She had asked if they were connected with her cousin Edward’s death or with Lady Quincy, and he had not given her much of an answer. Were these the same men? Did they wish Mr Milcote harm as well?
‘Let’s walk past the house first.’
Ignoring Dorcas, Cat started up the lane. A man accosted her, recoiling when she bared her teeth at him and spat at the ground. Dorcas caught up with her and took her arm.
‘Don’t be foolish. Please. It’s dangerous here. Let’s go home.’
Cat shook her off. They reached the house which Milcote had entered. A rag had been draped over a hook above the door. It looked like the remains of a gown. Dorcas tried to hurry past it.
‘What is this place?’ Cat asked, her heart sinking. ‘Do you know?’
Dorcas grimaced. ‘Can’t you tell?’
‘It’s a brothel-house, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Dorcas hesitated, and then whispered, ‘But my son says it’s worse than the rest. One of his shipmates used to go there on leave sometimes, and when they found out they hanged him from the yard arm.’
Cat stopped. ‘But why?’
‘Because it’s where the sodomites go, my dear. And that’s what sailors do to the foul beasts if they catch them. They hang them. Or worse.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
THE KING DID not share my sense of urgency.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. Before leaving the Savoy, I had given Cat the fare for a boat back to the City and returned to Infirmary Close, where I washed my face and changed into my best suit of clothes. It was a little after six o’clock by the time I stepped out of the sedan chair outside the Court Gate at Whitehall. I had taken a chair to preserve my finery from the mud and the dust. I went through the suite of public rooms to the door of the King’s private apartments. The guards refused to let me enter because my name wasn’t on the list for the evening.
I sent a message to Mr Chiffinch, begging him to vouch for me, and telling him that I sought an interview with the King. In a while, he came out and drew me aside to an alcove. His face was flushed with wine – his skin habitually grew darker as the day advanced until by midnight it reached a shade approaching puce.
‘This had better be important, Marwood.’
‘It is. I must see the King.’
‘The King’s engaged,’ he said. ‘And I doubt he’d see you, in any case. You’d better tell me what it is. If it’s important enough, I’ll tell him when there is a chance for a word in private.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ I said, ‘but I must speak to him myself. It’s a most delicate matter.’
‘If you’ve any sense at all, you’ll let me be the judge of that,’ Chiffinch said, scratching the great wart on his chin. ‘Very well. If it’s that delicate, as you say, you had better come to my closet. You can tell me privately.’
‘Sir, you will remember that the King did me the honour of talking to me on the river last week. He chose to do it there – just the two of us, in the middle of the water – because this is a matter where discretion is essential.’ I took a liberty with the truth. ‘He commanded me to report directly to him when I had further intelligence on this particular subject. He was quite clear about that. I cannot disobey him.’
It was a gamble. I wasn’t sure how far the King had taken Chiffinch into his confidence. To my relief, though, he shrugged his heavy shoulders.
‘He may not be at leisure. But I suppose I can let you come in and wait in case he has a moment for you.’
‘Will you let him know I’m here, sir?’
Chiffinch scowled. ‘You grow impertinent, Marwood. It doesn’t become you.’
‘Forgive me, sir. It is my desire to serve the King.’
He sniffed and led the way to the door of the private apartments. He whispered to the guard and we went through.
The King spent a great deal of money on the public apartments of Whitehall, because it was important that their magnificence should provide a worthy setting to enhance his own. The private apartments were equally dazzling, but they had a careless, luxurious extravagance that was absent elsewhere: the gilded French furniture and the bright carpets, the pictures and clocks and sculptures reflected the taste and personality of their owner.
Chiffinch led me to an anteroom. He told me to stay there and not to make a nuisance of myself among my betters. He went through the adjoining withdrawing room. As the door was opened for him, I glimpsed the scene within, caught for an instant within the frame of the doorway, fixed like a Dutch picture. The room was a blaze of candlelight, which cast a shifting glow over the courtiers, who were standing and chatting in their finery, and over the large table where the King sat with a group of men and women. They were playing cards. Piles of gold shimmered on the table.
One tall figure drew the eye: the Duke of Buckingham was standing at the King’s shoulder, leaning forward, smiling as he gestured towards the gold. The door closed, and the picture vanished.
The anteroom was equally crowded, but with men and women with restless eyes and whispering voices. This was where attendants gathered to await the pleasure of their betters, and where people waited in the hope of an audience with one of the great ones in the next room. I drew back into a corner beyond the marble fireplace. I prayed that the Duke of Buckingham would not pass through the anteroom and catch sight of me.
Time passed, first minutes and then hours. Courtiers came and went through the door to the withdrawing room, but I was not sent for. After a while I found a seat on a bench against the wall. Every time the door opened, the chink of glasses and the hum of conversation rolled out, bringing with them a heady smell of candles and perfume. Servants went to and fro with wine and food, but none was offered to us in the anteroom. At one point, the Duke of York emerged, his face grim, and marched across the anteroom, ignoring the bows of those who waited there. He appeared not to notice me.
At last, Chiffinch returned, a little darker in the face than before. ‘Why are you hiding away in a corner, Marwood? The King will see you. Wait on him in the Red Room.’
A servant took me there. The King was sitting at a table, eating a leg of chicken and drinking a glass of wine. His features, always strongly marked, seemed heavier than usual, the lines on his face more deeply scored. He acknowledged my bow with a wave of his hand and told me to open the window. ‘God’s fish,’ he said, ‘it’s as warm as a furnace in here.’ He glanced up at the servant who attended him. ‘Leave us.’
When we were alone, he helped himself to a dish of turbot. ‘Well, Marwood? You went down to Cambridgeshire with my Lady Quincy. I hear she’s pleased with you.’ His voice hardened. ‘And what of the killing of Edward Alderley? Have you found any trace of the Lovett woman?’
‘Not as yet, sir,’ I lied. ‘But there’s other mischief afoot.’
‘Ah.’ He dropped his fork on the plate and wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘You had better tell me.’
‘There’s been another murder. One of Lord Clarendon’s servants, a man named Gorse, was stabbed and thrown into the Thames last night. It turns out that he used to serve the Alderleys before he went to Clarendon House. There must be a connection with Alderley’s murder, but I don’t know how.’
‘Perhaps he recognized Lovett, and she had him killed to shut his mouth.’
‘There is another matter, sir. Were you aware that Lady Quincy brought back a child from Cambridgeshire? The child suffers from scrofula, and Lady Quincy wishes to have her touched by Your Majesty.’
He
nodded and tore off a piece of chicken from another dish.
‘I understand that when the child, Mistress Frances, was born, my Lady Clarendon arranged for her to be brought up in seclusion by a cousin of hers. But the girl’s mother is Lady Quincy.’
The King waved impatiently. ‘Yes, yes. You’d be wise not to repeat that outside this room.’
‘The question is, who is the Mistress Frances’s father?’ I took a deep breath, for suddenly the King was frowning. ‘And whether there was a contract of marriage between that person and Lady Quincy.’
He was sitting very still, the chicken leg forgotten between his fingers. He was watching me.
‘I believe that there was such a document, sir, and that Lord Clarendon kept it in a silver box in his closet. The box was locked. Edward Alderley stole it from my lord’s private closet, shortly before his death.’
‘How? Lord Clarendon is a man who guards his privacy carefully.’
I bowed, acknowledging the point. ‘In the days of his prosperity, Alderley knew Lord Clarendon’s gentleman, Mr Milcote.’
‘Milcote? Yes, I know. The soldier. My brother speaks highly of him.’
I bowed again. ‘Alderley renewed the acquaintance. Mr Milcote is a benevolent man. He lent Alderley money and invited him to Clarendon House on several occasions. On one of them, Alderley was discovered in my lord’s closet, though he had an excuse to divert suspicion. All this is certain, sir.’
‘So you think that was when Alderley stole the box.’ The King paused and then pounced on the inference that I had already drawn for myself. ‘Ah – I see. This was not a random theft. Someone had told him what to look for.’
‘Yes, sir. After Alderley’s death, I found the box in his lodgings and gave it to Mr Chiffinch. By then the box had been forced open, and the contents removed. The lodgings had already been searched by a man named Veal, who is in the employ of the Duke of Buckingham.’
The King cleared his throat but did not interrupt.
‘Veal and his servant followed Lady Quincy and me into Cambridgeshire. They tried to capture Mistress Frances, but we foiled that. This afternoon, though, they carried me away by force, and held me in a cellar somewhere in the ruins. I was interviewed there by a man who I believe was the Duke himself. He wanted to recruit me to his cause, for me to be his informer. I pretended to agree – what else could I do? But—’
‘You believe it was Buckingham? But you must know what he looks like. Why don’t you know if it was him, one way or the other?’
‘He was masked, sir.’
‘Go on. Are you saying that the Duke has this document in his possession?’
I shook my head. ‘I understood from him that he is still looking for it, whatever it is. Which means that Veal must have failed to find it in Alderley’s lodgings.’
‘Then where the devil is it?’
‘I think Alderley broke open the box and hid the document before he died. It’s even possible that he planned to renege on his bargain with Veal. Perhaps, when he saw what the document contained, he thought he could get more for it than Veal had offered. He hoped to sell it to the highest bidder.’
‘You mean he intended to approach me? Or—?’
The King broke off and drummed his fingers on the table. He pushed back his chair so violently that it rocked on its legs. He rose, went to the window and looked out on the Privy Garden. ‘But then that damned cousin of his killed him, for quite a different reason.’ He turned back to me, and to my surprise I saw he was smiling. ‘Chance. We can’t escape it, Marwood. Our lives are governed by the roll of the dice whether we like it or not.’
‘There is one more thing, sir,’ I said. ‘Lady Quincy has thrown in her lot with the Duke of Buckingham. She is ambitious for herself and her daughter. She asked me to escort her to see a lawyer this afternoon. She wanted to enquire about a certain letter from a man she claims became her husband in Bruges, to discover whether such a letter would constitute a legally binding contract of marriage. She—’
The King hammered his fist on the table with such force that the cutlery rattled. ‘This is a parcel of lies, Marwood. Why in God’s name would she trust you? Because Buckingham has bribed you?’
I forced myself not to flinch from his rage. ‘More than that, sir. She trusts me because she believes that I will do anything she wishes in the hope of pleasing her. Besides, they may have calculated that they would lose nothing if I did tell you.’
He considered that. Then: ‘Is that true then?’ There was a flicker of mockery on his face. ‘That you love Lady Quincy?’
‘No, sir. Never that. Though there was a time …’
The King stared at me and looked away. The muscles in his cheek quivered. ‘Damned fool.’ He glanced back at me. ‘Not you. Anyone can make a fool of himself over a woman, and I can’t blame a man for that. I mean my Lord Clarendon. He should have burned what was in that box years ago. He told me that he had. These lawyers – they can’t bring themselves to destroy documents. Scraps of paper are meat and drink to them.’
His face hardened. He sat down and commanded me to ring the handbell that stood on the table. I dared not raise the question of the identity of Frances’s father or the possibility of bigamy. The King would not thank me for pointing out what he must already know and fear.
When the servant came, he called for writing materials. I stood before him in silence while he wrote a letter – only a few lines. He folded the paper. He took up the nearest candle and melted the end of the sealing wax. A soft red pool formed on the letter. He stamped it with his ring.
He took up the letter and looked at it for a few seconds. He tossed it on the table towards me. ‘Take this to my Lord Clarendon,’ he said. ‘At once. Rouse him out of bed if necessary. Put the letter in his hands and watch him opening it.’
Clarendon House was in darkness. The only lights were the watchmen’s lanterns by the gates in Piccadilly and the lantern over the front door in the centre of the house.
The watchmen admitted me when they saw the King’s warrant. One of them took me to the side door on the west side of the house. Here a porter waited in the side hall. It was lit only by a single candle and the porter’s lantern. Our footsteps on the marble floor set off echoes among the shadows in the corners. The bright figures on the painted ceiling were reduced to spectral shapes.
The porter rang a bell and eventually a servant came. ‘My lord left orders he shouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘I insist on seeing him.’ I held up the letter. ‘This is from the King. And I have his warrant here.’
The servant became less surly. ‘Of course, sir.’ He conducted me up the shallow stairs to the private apartments. ‘His lordship isn’t alone, by the way,’ he said at the turn of the stairs. ‘His Highness is with him.’
‘Is Mr Milcote here this evening?’ I asked.
‘I believe not, sir. But I will enquire if you like.’
I wished the King had not sent me. I was not looking forward to seeing Lord Clarendon but I had not expected his son-in-law, the Duke of York, to be there as well. No one likes the bearer of bad news, and I had no desire to make an enemy of a man as powerful as the King’s brother and heir.
They were in the earl’s closet. The servant bade me wait in the antechamber. He knocked and went in when his master called. I heard the voices of the men within, and caught the King’s name and mine. The servant returned, bowed to me and held the door open.
The closet was stuffy, warm and bright with candlelight. The Duke and his father-in-law were sitting by the fire. Lord Clarendon was in his wheeled chair. The Duke ignored my low bow and did not look at me.
‘Well, Marwood,’ said Clarendon. ‘You have a letter, I understand?’
I gave it to him. ‘The King bade me wait while you open it, my lord.’
Clarendon raised his eyebrows. ‘To make sure I read it?’ Despite his age and infirmity, his voice was strong and sardonic. ‘He need not have troubled.’
He bro
ke the seal and unfolded the letter. I stood at a distance and watched. He put on a pair of glasses and held the paper close to his eyes. He lowered it and pursed his lips. The Duke stared at the fire.
Clarendon beckoned me to approach him. ‘Pray hand this to His Highness.’ He gave me the letter without troubling to fold it.
The Duke read it quickly. He looked up. ‘This is intolerable.’
Clarendon said, ‘It’s no more than I expected. And I am concerned for you, of course.’ He glanced at me. ‘Enough of that for the moment. Marwood, you may tell the King that I have read his letter, and so has the Duke. Tell him that I am in a strange country, where I know nobody, and where there are very few who remember that they ever knew me.’
The Duke of York stirred uneasily in his chair.
Unexpectedly, Clarendon gave me a thin smile. ‘But pray remind him that I am not altogether friendless, and that I will not allow villainy to triumph.’
I was dismissed. The manservant was waiting for me in the anteroom. He conducted me down the dimly lit staircase.
‘I’ve sent a footman to enquire after Mr Milcote, sir,’ he murmured.
There were agitated voices in the hall below, rising and falling and stumbling over one another. I recognized the porter and the house steward, whom I had met briefly when I had dined here with Milcote. There were also two other footmen and one of the watchmen from the gates. Finally, a sixth man, dressed in black, stood by himself with a paper in his hand.
When they heard our footsteps on the stairs, the men stopped talking. Their pale faces looked up at us.
The steward stepped forward. ‘Mr Marwood – you’re come from my lord and His Highness?’
‘Yes,’ I said, glancing from one to the other. ‘What is this?’
He ignored the question. ‘And they are still in my lord’s closet?’
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