Yet she was not to be lured into extravagance. Such money as they had should be used wisely. There were only two of them. They deserved no more than they needed: a modest level of comfort. This they found to her satisfaction – though not entirely to William’s – on the second floor of a house on the southern side of Leicester Fields.
‘Four rooms and a palace in view whenever you look out of the window for fourteen shillings a week,’ observed the agent. ‘You’ll not do better.’
The palace in question was actually Leicester House, whither the Prince of Wales had fled after falling out with his father a few years previously and being expelled from St James’s. It was not a palace and it did not look like one. But the square was quiet and its residents respectable. It would do. It would do very well indeed. They took the lease.
In the King’s closet at St James’s, which really was a palace even though some had been rude enough to suggest that it looked no more like one than Leicester House, what would do and what would not do were also matters of moment.
The King was not in one of his more pliable moods. Sunderland’s death had shocked him to whatever lay at the core of his Germanic being and his reaction veered between the lachrymose and the suspicious. The triumvirate of ministers facing him – First Lord of the Treasury Walpole and Secretaries of State Townshend and Carteret – wished, it seemed, to vex him with problems beyond his fathoming while failing to answer the questions that most troubled him.
‘What made Lord Sunderland to die?’ he demanded, not for the first time that afternoon.
‘Pleurisy,’ said Walpole. ‘According to the doctors.’
‘Pleurisy? So sudden?’
‘It is a puzzle,’ remarked Lord Carteret, despite a sharp look from Walpole. The youngest and best bred of the three, Carteret impressed the King by his fine manners and independence of mind. Would that he could have more such courtiers about him, instead of coarse-tongued, beetle-browed Norfolkmen. ‘But of puzzles we have no lack.’
‘Nor of plots, Your Majesty,’ said Townshend. ‘There seems no doubt that the Pretender is set upon another attempt.’
‘They tell us his son may die also.’
The ministers needed to exchange several glances before realizing that the King was referring not to the Pretender’s son but to the Honourable William Spencer, youngest son of the late Earl of Sunderland. ‘The boy has smallpox, sir,’ said Walpole. ‘It’s not connected with—’
‘Where is the Duke of Newcastle?’ barked the King. ‘We are needful.’
‘I’m sure the Lord Chamberlain will wait upon you directly, sir,’ said Townshend. ‘He has as yet, however, no knowledge of the threat to your person.’
‘Person? Threat?’
‘We fear it does amount to that,’ said Carteret.
‘Who? When? How?’
‘The Jacobites,’ said Walpole darkly. ‘When you travel to Hanover. An assassin on the road. Simultaneous with—’ He broke off, then began again, expressing himself more simply. ‘At the same time as a rising here in London.’
‘In the circumstances …’ Townshend began.
‘It would be best to postpone your visit to Hanover,’ Walpole continued. ‘We must have regard for Your Majesty’s safety.’
‘I will go to Hanover.’
‘Perhaps not this year.’
‘I will go.’
‘There is still much resentment among your subjects on account of the Angelegenheit South Sea,’ said Carteret, smiling faintly at his own Germanism. ‘That is what the Jacobites hope to exploit. We should give them no opportunity.’
‘It is easy enough to frustrate their plans now we know of them,’ said Townshend. ‘We can station troops in Hyde Park and expel all papists and non-jurors from the city. That, together with Cardinal Dubois’ refusal of assistance for the Pretender and his withdrawal of Irish regiments from the Channel ports—’
‘And the postponement of your visit to Hanover,’ put in Walpole.
‘Should render us safe,’ Townshend concluded.
‘Ja, ja.’ The King chewed at his knuckles. ‘I stay here,’ he conceded glumly.
‘But for the moment,’ said Walpole, ‘we should do nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ The King glared at him. ‘Nichts?’
‘Nothing to alert them to our knowledge of their plans. Once they know the game is up, they will go to ground. We will not catch them then.’
‘So how will we – how will you, Mr Walpole – catch them?’
‘By luring them into betraying themselves.’
‘We believe the Bishop of Rochester to be at the bottom of it,’ put in Townshend.
‘No doubt he dreams of becoming Archbishop of Canterbury,’ Carteret remarked.
‘Verräter,’ growled the King. ‘Why do we let Atterbury to give sermons in Westminster Abbey when he plots behind us?’ Francis Atterbury was Dean of Westminster Abbey as well as Bishop of Rochester. His sermons in the former capacity, uttered a mere stone’s throw from the Palace, had often been thinly veiled dalliances with treason. Small wonder that the King did not understand why he had to tolerate him. But there were reasons. And they were good ones.
‘He is undeniably popular,’ said Townshend.
‘A veritable darling of the mob,’ said Carteret, smiling weakly. ‘Against whom there is a singular lack of evidence.’
‘Evidence that would secure his conviction in court, that is,’ added Townshend.
‘But give me a few weeks,’ said Walpole, ‘and I think I can gather such evidence.’
The King frowned at him. ‘How?’
‘You’ll remember, sir, the … Green Book?’
‘Das Grüne Buch?’ The inflexion of horror in the King’s voice suggested he was hardly likely to have forgotten it.
‘Indeed, sir.’ Walpole smiled at him reassuringly. ‘I believe we can use it to bait a trap … that will snap shut round Bishop Atterbury’s overweening neck.’
Margaret Spandrel returned to Cat and Dog Yard that afternoon to commence the less than daunting task of packing her belongings in readiness for the move to Leicester Fields. William did not accompany her. On the pretext of visiting the engraver who was holding the completed sheets of the map (and who he would later say had not been at home), he left her to make her way back there alone. He headed north to Bloomsbury, an area of the city favoured by those who had sufficient money to buy themselves a charming view of the meadow-patched hills of Hampstead and Highgate. George Chesney, a director of the New River Company, which piped Hertfordshire spring water to a goodly portion of Londoners from its reservoir at Islington, was one such person. His home in Great Ormond Street backed onto this vista of rural meadowland, while presenting an imposing Palladian face to the city.
The Chesney residence was not Spandrel’s destination, much as he would have liked it to be. The year he had spent working for Monsieur Taillard had rid him of many delusions, most notably the idea that anything could be had for nothing, be it beauty or wealth. Life could only be bettered by honest endeavour. He was financially independent because of such endeavour, whereas fortune-hunting across half of Europe had yielded only fear and a fugitive’s despair. All that was behind him. He missed old Taillard, he really did. He wished the poor fellow could have lived longer. But his death had handed Spandrel an opportunity to improve his station in society. For that he needed a wife, not a dangerously alluring dream-lover. And as a wife Maria Chesney would be ideal. But was she still available? He could hardly knock on her father’s door and ask. He could, however, enquire of the Chesneys’ loquacious footman, Sam Burrows, who was unlikely to let a Saturday afternoon pass into evening without calling at his favourite local tavern, the Goat.
‘Mr Spandrel, as I live and breathe.’ Sam was already pink-gilled and grinning when Spandrel found him. He had enjoyed a profitable afternoon at the cock-fights, so he explained, and was celebrating. But an excess of ale did not quite swamp his surprise. ‘I had you down as dead – or in the cl
ink.’
‘You were nearly right on both counts.’
‘Instead of which, here you are, looking the real gent.’
‘That’s because I am one.’
‘If you say so, Mr Spandrel.’
‘I do.’
‘What brings you out this way?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ Sam put down his mug and wiped his mouth. ‘You’re still set on Miss Maria.’
‘I might be.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Spandrel.’ To his credit, Sam actually looked as if he was. ‘You’re too late.’
‘She’s married?’
‘All but. She’ll be Mrs Surtees come July.’
Spandrel sighed. ‘I suppose I should have—’ Then he stopped and looked at Sam intently. ‘Did you say Surtees?’
‘I did.’
‘Not … Dick Surtees?’
‘Well, he calls himself Richard, but …’ Sam frowned. ‘Do you know him, then?’
Chapter Thirty-One
A Friend in Need
AS APPRENTICES, WILLIAM Spandrel and his then very good friend Dick Surtees had often marked the close of the working day by adjourning to the Hood Inn near Smithfield. Spandrel had nominated it as a rendezvous in the note he had persuaded Sam to deliver for the highly practical reasons that he could be sure it would be open on a Sunday and that Dick knew where it was. Waiting there the following afternoon, however, the choice of venue began to prey on his mind, weighed down as it was by memories of the things he had lost in the years since they had been regular customers there, Dick’s friendship not least among the losses.
Spandrel had been prepared to hear that Maria was married, or engaged to be so. He had almost expected it. But that her betrothed should be none other than Dick Surtees, failed map maker and aspiring man of the world, was a shock he had still not recovered from. He could have no fundamental complaint. Dick owed him nothing. Except an explanation. Yes, on that point Spandrel was clear. He was owed an explanation.
It seemed that Surtees agreed with him, for it was only a few minutes past the time Spandrel had specified in the note when a familiar figure threaded through the smoke-wreathed ruck to join him. The slim, slope-shouldered physique was the same, as were the dark, evasive eyes. But Surtees’ appearance had nonetheless been transformed. There were braided buttonholes and deep, embroidered cuffs on his coat, and the cream cravat and grey-black wig beneath the fancily brimmed hat singled him out not just as a gentleman but as a well-heeled student of fashion.
‘Billy, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,’ he said, clapping Spandrel on the shoulder and sitting down beside him. ‘How long has it been?’
‘Seven years.’
‘Seven years that have treated you well, by the look of you. New suit?’
‘Not as new as yours.’
‘This?’ Surtees flexed his cuffs. ‘Well, you have to put on a show, don’t you?’
‘Not for old friends.’
‘No. I suppose not.’ For a moment, Surtees looked almost sheepish. ‘I had your note.’
‘I was surprised when Sam told me of your engagement.’
‘Ah, that. Yes. Well, you would be.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘I sometimes wonder myself.’ Surtees grabbed the sleeve of a waiter as he wandered by and ordered some brandy. ‘Yes, I sometimes do.’
‘My father died.’
‘I know. I was sorry to hear of it.’
‘How did you hear of it?’
‘When I came back to London last autumn, I thought I’d look you up. For old times’ sake. Reports had it your father had got into debt and then into the Fleet Prison and then …’ Surtees shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
‘Did these … reports … mention me?’
‘Oh yes. They said you’d fled abroad.’
‘I didn’t flee.’
‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Billy.’
‘I’d be happy to. If you explained yourself to me.’
‘Me? I made good. Simple as that.’
‘Abroad?’
‘Yes. Paris. You’ve heard of the, er …’ Surtees lowered his voice. ‘Mississippi Company?’
‘I thought it crashed, like the South Sea.’
‘Oh, it did. But I sold just at the right time. Acheter la fumée; vendre la fumée. It’s a game. You have to know the rules.’
‘A game of buying and selling smoke.’
‘You, er, parlez le français, Billy?’ Surtees looked quite taken aback.
‘I spent some time there myself.’
‘In Paris?’
‘No. Rennes. Where I made good as well, out of something more substantial than smoke. And I came home, hoping I might still be able to …’
‘Capture Maria’s heart.’
‘Yes, Dick. Exactly.’
Surtees’ brandy arrived. He poured them a glass each. ‘Sorry,’ he said, by way of apologetic toast.
‘But I find you’ve captured her heart.’
‘Yes. Well, she’s a lovely girl. You know that.’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘I’ll, er, make her happy. You have my word.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘That was … thanks to you, actually.’
‘Me?’
‘I remembered you’d said what a treasure she was. Even when she was no more than fifteen. So, when I heard you’d left London, I, er, decided to try my luck.’
‘You seem to have had a lot of that – luck.’
‘More than my fair share, probably. The father and the daughter have taken to me.’
‘The mother too, I expect.’
‘Since you mention it …’ Surtees grinned nervously. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re to be married in the summer.’
‘The thirtieth of June.’
‘Perhaps I should congratulate you.’
‘No need to be sarcastical. It couldn’t be helped.’
‘Couldn’t it?’
‘No-one had seen hide or hair of you in months and no-one expected to. I thought you’d forgotten all about her. So did she.’
‘Encouraged by you, no doubt.’
‘Be reasonable, Billy. How was I to know you’d turn up like this?’
Spandrel looked at his former friend long and hard before admitting, ‘You weren’t, I suppose.’
‘It’s damned unfortunate, but …’ Surtees grimaced. ‘There it is.’
‘Be sure you do make her happy.’
‘I will. You can rely on it. You could even, er, help me to.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’ve left her life, Billy. No sense trying to come back into it.’
‘Are you warning me off?’
‘Good God, of course I’m not. I’m just …’
‘Asking me to give you a clear run.’
‘Well, I, er, wouldn’t put it quite like that, but …’ Surtees shaped a smile that somehow suggested he was both grateful for not having to express the sentiment himself and a little ashamed of letting Spandrel do it for him. ‘Yes. That’s what I’m asking you to do. Leave well alone. For Maria’s sake.’
Spandrel made his way back to Cat and Dog Yard as the sunny afternoon gave way to a pigeon-grey evening. Dick Surtees was right, of course. Spandrel would achieve nothing by trying to come between Maria and her intended, unless it was to make a fool of himself. He had had his chance and it had slipped through his fingers. Now, the only sensible course was to seize the other chances that had come his way. As Maria had for gotten him, so he would have to forget her.
‘William Spandrel?’
The voice echoed like a muffled bell in the cramped passage as Spandrel entered from the yard. A tall, broadly built man in dark clothes loomed in front of him and the shadow of another man fell across him from behind. He was suddenly surrounded.
‘William Spandrel?’ came the question once more.
‘Yes. I �
��’
‘Come with us, please.’
Powerful hands closed around Spandrel’s elbows and shoulders. He was marched back out into the yard almost without being aware of it. ‘What … Who are you?’ An absurd thought came into his mind. ‘I’ve paid my debts.’ Then he remembered: it was Sunday. ‘You can’t be bailiffs.’
‘We don’t collect debts, Spandrel. We collect people.’
‘What?’
‘You’re wanted.’
‘Who by?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough. There’s a carriage waiting. Do you want to go quietly?’ The cold head of a cudgel pressed against Spandrel’s cheekbone. ‘Or very quietly?’
The carriage was shuttered and Spandrel was held fast by his captors, who remained as reticent as they were threatening. He could see no more than twilit shards of street corners through the gap between the shutters. But he had not mapped every alley and highway of London for nothing. He tracked their route in his mind, judging every turn and every sound. Fleet Street and the Strand to Charing Cross; down Whitehall to Westminster Abbey, where the bells were summoning the faithful to evensong; round the southern side of St James’s Park to Buckingham House, then out along the King’s Road, through the darkening fields to Chelsea.
Why Chelsea? He could think of only one reason. And he did not want to believe it. But when they reached the Royal Hospital and drew to a halt in a courtyard to the rear of Orford House, residence, as all Londoners knew, of Robert Walpole, First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer … he had to believe it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Reopening the Book
THE ROOM WAS high-ceilinged and ill-lit, the windows overlooking some inner courtyard engulfed in shadow. Shadow, indeed, seemed to fill the room, despite, or perhaps because of, a roaring fire, whose flames cast flickering ghosts of themselves across the walls and the gold-worked tapestries that covered them.
For a moment, Spandrel thought he was alone. Then he saw a figure stir on the vast day-bed that covered half the length of the far wall – a big, swag-bellied, red-faced man of middle years, in plain waistcoat and breeches, scratching under his wig as he hauled himself upright. He hawked thickly as he crossed the room, spat into the fire, then turned to face Spandrel, who had, with as much reluctance as incredulity, come by now to realize that this was the master of Orford House – Robert Walpole.
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