The Devlin Diary

by Christi Phillips

  “No, I’m sorry, but I’m not. Dr. Goodman was walking on the Backs, fell, and hit his head. It happened just yesterday morning. Weren’t you here?”

  “My dad was in the hospital, and I had to go home for a few days. I just got back.” He raked his hand through his hair and looked around the room as though lost. “Christ.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” Andrew asked.

  Robbie looked at the untidy room, then at Andrew as though he were crazy. “Where?”

  “Take my chair.”

  Robbie let his pack fall to the floor and slumped into the empty chair across the table from Claire. He swept his hand through his hair again. Claire didn’t think he seemed particularly sad; more like he was about to panic and was doing his utmost to keep his feelings under control. But perhaps she wasn’t being fair. Wouldn’t anyone feel overwhelmed with school starting, a sick dad, a dead supervisor? More than enough stress for one person, certainly.

  Andrew leaned against the table next to him. “I’m terribly sorry, Robbie. I know it must be very upsetting to lose your supervisor. You’ll be assigned to someone else right away, of course.”

  Robbie didn’t answer, but Claire had the strong impression that he was upset about something more than Derek Goodman’s death.

  “Tell me something,” Andrew asked, “did you always meet him for supervisions here?”

  Robbie nodded. “Sure.”

  “Do you have any idea what he was working on?”

  Robbie shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “I just thought he might have mentioned why he had so many books in here.”

  “He was always working on more than one thing at a time.” Robbie sighed and seemed to calm down a bit, even offered up a tremulous smile. “The weird thing is, he knew where everything was.”

  “How so?”

  “He had total recall, you know.”

  “So he told me,” Andrew replied dryly. “Many times.”

  “It was true, though. He used to make a game of it. He’d turn around, close his eyes, ask me to go to a bookshelf or to one of the stacks, pick something at random, and then tell him where I’d found it—say, third bookcase, fourth shelf from the top, and he would tell me what it was. For instance, ‘The Letters of Disraeli, published 1939, very poorly edited,’ or, ‘So-and-so’s dissertation from 1953, wrong from top to bottom, he should’ve been shot.’ That sort of thing.”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Bloody annoying.”

  “Do you know anything about a diary from 1672?” Hoddy asked.

  Claire saw a gleam of panic in Robbie’s eyes. What was he so anxious about? The graduate student scanned the books and documents that covered the tabletop. “What’s going on? Are you looking for something?”

  “We’re looking for this diary,” Andrew said. “Did he ever mention it to you? A diary written in code?”

  Robbie shrugged. “Once or twice, maybe.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much. That it was written by a woman doctor who treated the king’s mistress for, uh”—he glanced sidelong at Claire—“a malady.”

  “The mistress of Charles II?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which mistress?”

  “He had more than one?”

  “Considerably.”

  Robbie shrugged again. “I don’t know.”

  “Why was Dr. Goodman interested in it?” Claire asked.

  “I think he was writing an article on codes and speed writing.” He stood up and picked up his pack. “Look, I’ve really got to go. I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Andrew took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket—the photocopy of the diary page. He handed it to Robbie. “Do you know what this is about?”

  Robbie quickly perused the page, his eyes lingering on his supervisor’s scrawled note at the bottom: I told you so—now PAY UP! “Isn’t this Dr. Goodman’s handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  Robbie shook his head. “Sorry, I haven’t a clue.” He shifted his backpack nervously. “I’ve really got to—”

  “Is there anything else you can think of?” Andrew pressed him.

  Robbie sighed, realizing he wasn’t going to get away so easily. “He was kind of secretive about his research. But one night we had a few beers and he told me that the diary was the key to solving a murder.”

  “Which murder?”

  “Let’s see…” He looked down at the floor, trying to recall. “Osburn? Or Osborne, maybe?”

  “Roger Osborne?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Andrew appeared stunned. “Derek Goodman said he was going to solve the murder of Roger Osborne?” he asked with greater insistence.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s what he said. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. I don’t know much about the Restoration. My thesis is on minorities in eighteenth-century England. Honestly, I just thought he was batty, or drunk.”

  “Bastard,” Andrew said under his breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind. Where’s the diary?”

  “It’s in the Wren Library.”

  “You sure it’s not here?”

  “No way. Pilford would never let him take it out.” Robbie backed toward the door. “Now, really, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get going.”

  After Robbie’s exit, Andrew locked the door and resumed his place at the table.

  “What was that all about?” Claire asked.

  “I spent five years researching the reign of Charles the Second and I was never able to discover the truth.”

  “About what?” Hoddy asked.

  “The murder of Roger Osborne.” He could see that Claire and Hoddy required further elucidation. “Osborne was a City merchant who took Cromwell’s side against Charles the First, then found it highly convenient to become a Royalist when Charles the Second was restored to the throne. A man not untypical of his time. Osborne loaned money to Charles II and was absolved of his Parliamentarian past. He was present at Charles’s reunion with his sister Henriette-Anne at Dover and then at her death in Paris not long after. Some sources state that the princess entrusted him with a secret, and that he worked for the Crown. Others say he was a spy.”

  “For France?” Claire asked.

  “No, for the anti-Royalist faction in England. Some suspected that he never changed his politics, just pretended to. In late 1672, his body was found”—Andrew stood up and looked over the books and papers spread on the table—“in the Fleet Ditch,” he concluded with growing enthusiasm. “Look at this: Springs, Streams & Spas of London, published 1910; Old and New London, an old chestnut from 1881, but with an entire chapter on the Fleet. And here—” He reached down into the box near his feet and brought up another book. “The Fleet, published in 1938.”

  “There are two seventeenth-century maps of London in the bedroom with red stickers on them—,” Hoddy began.

  “Three near the Fleet,” Claire added.

  “He was on to something,” Andrew said. “How a physician’s diary could shed any light on Dover, Henriette-Anne, and Roger Osborne is beyond me, but I’m dying to find out.”

  “What if Derek Goodman died because he found out?” Claire inquired.

  Andrew guffawed. “You think someone killed him because he solved a three-hundred-year-old murder?”

  “When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very likely.”

  “I think not. Academics may be cutthroat, but that’s taking it a bit far.” Andrew pulled on his jacket.

  “Where are you going?” Claire asked.

  “To the Pepys Library to see if I can get this letter transcribed right away. Why don’t you come with me? You’re the one who found the diary, after all.”

  Claire smiled. “Sure.” She turned to Hoddy. “Do you want to come with us?”

  “Count me out this time.” He held up a book that looked to be about three hundred
years old. “‘Advice Given to the Republic of Venice. How they ought to Govern themselves at home and abroad, to have perpetual Dominion,’” he read from the title. “I’ve been looking for this for two years. It’s a real page-turner. Thank you for the offer, but I think I’ll go back to my set and read.”

  Claire donned her coat. “You’re going to have to explain a few things,” she told Andrew.

  “Like what?”

  “Dover and Henriette-Anne, for starters. As you may recall, I’ve spent the past few years studying Venice.”

  Chapter Thirty

  27 November 1672

  LUCY RUSHES INTO the kitchen, her cheeks bright with cold and anticipation. “A letter’s come for you, ma’am,” she says. Mrs. Wills turns from the stove, and Hester looks up from sorting a basket of rose hips. As Hannah takes the letter, she notices that the maidservant’s hands are nearly frozen. The frosty outside air that shrouds her is faintly redolent of tart apples and dried leaves, a fresh breath of winter in the smoky kitchen.

  “How long have you been outdoors?”

  “Only a few minutes, ma’am—that’s all it seemed, anyway.” Lucy looks at Hannah and the letter with impatience. “Aren’t you going to open it? It’s from that gentleman who’s been bringing you home in his carriage.”

  Hannah breaks the seal and turns away to read in privacy.

  My dear Mrs. Devlin:

  The King has made good on his promise and proposes a dance on Wednesday next. I would be honored to be your escort for the evening. Of course you will want to bring your ladies. Mr. Maitland and Mr. Clarke will be at their service.

  I anxiously await your reply.

  Your most humble and obedient servant,

  Ralph Montagu

  Hannah looks up to find all three pairs of eyes fixed on her. “Mr. Montagu tells me that the king is to have a dance,” she says calmly. She folds the letter and slips it into her pocket, trying to hide the smile stealing over her lips.

  “Is that all he writes?” asks Lucy, perplexed. Even Hester looks intensely concerned with Hannah’s answer.

  She decides she won’t make them suffer long. “In fact,” Hannah says, “Mr. Montagu asks if I would like to go. Do you think I should?”

  “Of course!” Lucy blurts out. Hester nods her head. Mrs. Wills looks doubtful, but that’s to be expected.

  “He also asks if the two of you would care to attend.”

  Lucy gasps and looks at Hester. “Us? At court?”

  “Yes, you.”

  Lucy rushes to Hannah’s side, overcome with excitement. “Ma’am, please, you will say yes, won’t you? Hester, say something! You do want to go, don’t you?”

  “Well, Hester?”

  Hester looks back at Hannah, round-eyed, a heightened color in her cheeks. “Yes, ma’am, very much, ma’am.”

  “Then I shall reply that we will be delighted to attend.”

  Lucy can barely contain her joy. She throws her arms around Hannah, then goes to Hester and takes her by the hands. “We’re going to a court dance!” she squeals. “We might even meet the king!”

  Hester looks overwhelmed at the thought. “But ma’am,” she says solemnly, “we’ve nothing proper to wear.”

  Lucy sits down next to Hester. “Oh, no,” she cries, suddenly deflated. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s all right,” Hannah reassures them. “Of course you’ll need something new. And I can’t go to a dance in one of these old work dresses, can I?” She smoothes her ruched skirt over her cotton damask petticoat. “I’ve been told that gray wool worsted is not the height of fashion this season,” she adds in a light, mocking tone. “Why don’t you both go over to Mrs. Delacroix’s and ask if she can take us for a fitting later.”

  The girls race from the kitchen in search of cloaks and mittens, and in less than a minute Hannah and Mrs. Wills hear the front door slam.

  “I don’t think it’s wise to take them to court,” says Mrs. Wills, slicing an onion with unusual vigor. “It’s a wicked place. Meet the king, indeed. Don’t you dare let those girls near him.”

  Hannah smiles. “They’ll be perfectly safe, I promise you. It’s only for one night. And it’s the first time in weeks I’ve seen Hester look happy.”

  “It’s been even longer since I’ve seen a smile on your face,” Mrs. Wills remarks with a sidelong glance.

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I haven’t been very good company lately.”

  “I wasn’t complaining, just saying that you work yourself too hard. Taking care of your patients, your mother, the girls, putting food on this table and coal in the grate—it’s too much to be both man and mistress of a house.”

  “But I’m not, really. I have you. I couldn’t do it without you.”

  Without answering, Mrs. Wills continues her assault on the onions.

  “Am I doing such a bad job?” Hannah presses.

  Mrs. Wills puts the knife down and turns to her. “Don’t you think I hear you upstairs in the middle of the night, pacing about and scribbling in your books until all hours? You come down in the morning looking like death.”

  “I’ve had trouble sleeping.”

  “Is that all?”

  Hannah sits down at the kitchen table. She sighs and massages her temples. “I have been suffering terrible pains in my head. I suppose I should have told you, but I thought it would go away.”

  “For how long?”

  “For months now. Since Father died.”

  Mrs. Wills studies her carefully. “Your father had headaches.”

  Hannah looks up, surprised. She and her father had always been so open with each other. “He never told me.”

  “He never told anyone. But your mother knew, at least she did back when she was well. She could sense it, I think. She’d make a special decoction for him. Nettles and willow bark, as I recall.”

  “Did it help?”

  “I don’t know. Your father was a stubborn old mule. He’d never admit he felt poorly in the first place. You’re just like him.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “Hannah…” Mrs. Wills regards her with concern. “I’ve watched you grow up, seen everything you’ve been through. Life would be easier for you if you married again. Surely enough time has passed. Nathaniel loved you, he wouldn’t want you to be alone forever. You’re still a young woman.”

  “Am I?” If only she felt so herself. “I don’t know what Nathaniel would have wanted. But I can’t discuss this right now, I—I must make ready to go out.” She leaves the kitchen with the goodwife’s gaze weighing heavily upon her.

  French ambassador Colbert de Croissy has an odd habit of examining his fingertips while in conversation, as if he’s more intrigued by his perfectly manicured nails than the person with whom he’s speaking. A delaying tactic, Montagu reasons, along with a good bit of snobbery. In de Croissy’s company one is never allowed to forget that The Most Christian King Louis XIV is the richest and most powerful monarch in Europe, and Charles Stuart little more than a poor country cousin reigning over a backwater court. It’s an attitude Montagu would find less galling if it weren’t so close to the truth.

  “My king has expressed some doubt about the veracity of your claim,” de Croissy sniffs. “You must admit, it’s hard to believe you don’t know the whereabouts of your own courier.”

  Despite the ambassador’s disdain, Montagu knows that de Croissy spends all of his time spying on Charles’s court and doing his utmost to bend England’s will to French interests. The futility of his work makes it slightly more difficult to dislike him. The two men sit in the ambassador’s private chambers on high-backed chairs made from ornately carved Spanish wood. Montagu finds them uncomfortable, even inquisitorial, at least in comparison to the sensual opulence generally exhibited within the French embassy. De Croissy’s London mansion is a smaller-scale Louvre, with palatial rooms and galleries that dwarf a man. The ambassador employs a virtual army of domestic servants, footmen, cooks, chamberma
ids, and coachmen, but the rooms always feel empty—of inhabitants, at any rate. Moving de Croissy’s collection of paintings, tapestries, carpets, and furniture from France to England required two ships.

  “Did you really think we would fall for such a simpleminded story—missing courier, lost gold?” the ambassador continues. “It sounds more like a brash attempt at extortion.” He stares down his long nose in a manner Montagu regards as particularly French. As the brother of Jean-Baptiste Colbert, Louis XIV’s financial minister, Colbert de Croissy is about as wealthy and powerful as it’s possible to be without being king. He is accustomed to nothing less than the best, from the soles of his shoes—made of the finest leather imported from Italy by his personal cobbler, also imported from Italy—to the Venetian lace at his throat. Everything he wears, drinks, eats, and breathes (a perfumer and a tobacconist are on his permanent staff) has its expensive origins in some other, finer place. He is the kind of man who complains about the cost of things most people cannot possibly afford, such as how he must host sixty-five people at his table every day, or the high price of gilding a carriage. It’s a trait Montagu finds particularly irritating, although if he could himself afford such things he would find it less so. He was eager to take on this chore of extracting funds from the tight-fisted French; when money changes hands, some of it is sure to fall into his own. He only needs to convince de Croissy of His Majesty’s need for lucre, and that he is the man meant for the task of transporting it from France.

  “On His Majesty’s behalf I regret King Louis’ misapprehension.” Montagu is no longer an ambassador, but the language of diplomacy returns easily to him. “You should know that the relation between our countries is such that we would not invent something so divisive. Roger Osborne is missing, and so is the gold he was carrying. We know not if he absconded with it or if he met with foul play. I can only assure you, as my Lord Arlington assured His Majesty, that everything is being done to discover what is behind this. In the meantime, however—”

  “Your king needs money.”

  “As always.”

  Colbert leans back, lazily picking up his glass of wine as if he’s not certain he’s going to drink it; as if it’s not a fifteen-year-old burgundy with a heavenly aroma that melts like honey on the tongue. “Why doesn’t he reconvene Parliament and ask them for it?”