“This will be just between us for now,” Andrew said. “But if I hear so much as a hint that you’re not on the path of the straight and narrow…”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know of any other students that Dr. Goodman may have paid to write for him?”
“I don’t know any names,” Robbie said, “but I got the distinct feeling that I wasn’t the first person he’d ever asked.”
Andrew shook his head in amazement. “It seems that Derek Goodman broke every moral and ethical code held by this college. Or any decent human being, for that matter.” He turned his attention back to Robbie. “Are you still having financial problems?”
“My dad’s sick, he can’t work. It’s been kind of tough.”
“I’ll call the junior bursar’s office and set up a meeting for you, all right? I’m sure we can find a way to help you out.”
“Thank you, Dr. Kent.”
Andrew gave the diary to Claire. She looked at it with wonder. The end of the story was right in her hands.
“How long will it take you to transcribe it?” he asked.
“A few hours.”
“Would you like some help?”
Claire smiled.
Chapter Forty-seven
21 December 1672
IN THE CHAMBER outside Arlington’s office, Hannah gives the clerk a sealed letter addressed to the minister.
“Could you take it in to him at once, please?” The clerk looks doubtful, so she prods his memory. “You may recall that I was here a week ago. With a gentleman.” She sees the recognition in his eyes as he recalls his encounter with Dr. Strathern. He nods and hurries away, message in hand.
Only moments later he returns and ushers her into Arlington’s chambers. The minister waits for her behind a massive desk, arms crossed over his chest, wearing a look of extreme displeasure. His affable expression has become decidedly more peevish of late. Her open letter lies in front of him: I know who killed Princess Henriette-Anne and why. “You intend to explain this, I assume,” he says sourly.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well? Don’t waste my time.”
“Henriette-Anne had a lover. Her husband found out about it. He also discovered that she was with child and that he was not the father. It couldn’t have been difficult to deduce, as according to Madame Severin they were rarely intimate.
“I suspect this betrayal was not easily countenanced by the duc, who was known to be of a jealous and vengeful nature. The duc poisoned her. Perhaps not by his own hand, but I believe it was done on his behalf.”
“And what, pray tell, put these ideas into your head?”
Hannah places a neatly written sheet with all the markings and her interpretations on the desk in front of the minister, then watches as he reads. “I believe it means, in essence, ‘The cuckolded son of France murdered the pregnant daughter of England.’”
“Where does this come from?” he asks.
“These symbols were found carved into the skin of the bodies of the murder victims.”
Arlington reads her interpretation aloud. “‘The son of France, a cuckold.’” He looks up at Hannah. “How did you derive ‘cuckold’ from this?”
“It’s the sign for Capricorn, symbolized by a goat. In Latin, the word for ‘goat’ is capri, or sometimes cornutu, which means ‘horns,’ or ‘cuckold.’”
“Ahh.” Arlington’s mood is not improving, but he continues reading. “And the moon and the sign of Leo signify daughter of England?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And the letters?”
“The first four letters of potio—Latin for ‘poison.’ Seeing as all four victims were at Princess Henriette-Anne’s on the night she died,” Hannah says, “I think we can assume that this story is about her.”
He turns the page over. “Is this all?”
“Unhappily, Lord Arlington, I believe this story is meant to continue. The murderer is by no means finished.”
He studies her carefully, as if attempting to judge her earnestness. “And what do you imagine happens next?”
“I can’t honestly say. But if I were you, I would not go out at night without an armed guard, and I would be very careful about allowing strangers into my rooms.”
“I do not need advice from you,” Arlington snorts.
“My lord, I do not know what is to come, but I believe there is someone who knows much more than he lets on. If you care for your own and Madame Severin’s safety, I suggest that you arrest Ralph Montagu and question him.”
“Montagu? You must be mad.”
“You told me yourself that he was the one other person who knew how Princess Henriette-Anne died.”
“And you think this makes him a murderer?”
“I suspect that he may know more about this affair than anyone else. I do not want to believe that he is a murderer, but there are a number of things that, taken together, signify his guilt. Dr. Strathern said that it was common knowledge in Paris that Montagu and the princess were close, that there were rumors that they were more than just friends. Montagu may have been her lover—or conversely, he may have been her killer. It’s even possible that he was both, as he is a man who has revealed himself to be thoroughly unscrupulous. Also, whoever killed my father and the others is an educated man, who has at the very least a passing knowledge of medicine, astrology, alchemy, and Latin.”
“Your conviction is inspiring, but these are not terribly convincing arguments. Keep in mind that you’re accusing a former ambassador of England and one of the king’s servants. Do you really expect me to arrest him on the basis of your suppositions?”
“Such scruples have never stopped you before,” Hannah points out.
Arlington’s mouth twists at the corners, as if he’s suppressing a smile. “You skirt dangerously close to the edge, Mrs. Devlin. All of my dealings are based on what is best for the king. And right now I would say that it is best for the king that we drop this matter.”
“Why are you protecting Montagu?”
“I do no such thing. You simply have not convinced me that there is any need to take action against him.”
“If you will not send the guard after him, at least tell me where I can find him.”
“His lodgings are on the Scotland Yard.”
“I’ve already asked for him there. Where does he stay when not at court?”
“What need have you to see him?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
“Ahh,” Arlington says. “I’m not entirely surprised.”
“It is not quite what you think. He seduced my maid, then abandoned her. After which she took her own life.”
“I’m sure that’s no more than an unfortunate coincidence,” Arlington says, unperturbed. “Montagu’s personal life is of no interest to me as long as it does not conflict with the king’s business.”
“I should like to speak to him regardless.”
The minister mulls it over. “He is to depart for Paris again tonight. Mind you, I’ll have nothing interfere with that. I’ll give you leave to see him, but I insist on sending an escort with you.”
“I don’t need an escort. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”
Arlington snorts again, but she senses respect along with the scorn.
“It’s not for your safety,” he says grudgingly. “It’s for his.”
Chapter Forty-eight
AT LEAST ARLINGTON didn’t send one of his brutes along as her escort. Jeremy Maitland sits across from her in the minister’s coach, pensively studying the floor. Other than what she thought was a rather insincere expression of pleasure at seeing her again and a comment on the luxuriousness of Arlington’s carriage, he has not said a word since they left Whitehall. He appears anxious, as well he should be. She suspects that Maitland was aware of Montagu’s seduction of Lucy from the beginning. He is one of the few people who can shed some light on recent events, and she intends to find out everything he knows about what happ
ened to Lucy. That Maitland, who aspired to be her friend, should have kept it from her feels like a betrayal.
He sits hunched forward, both hands gripping the upholstered seat as if in preparation for a battery of questions.
“It isn’t necessary to make yourself so uneasy, Mr. Maitland. I simply want to know what happened between Lucy and Mr. Montagu.”
He glances up at her, wary and perhaps even a little fearful. “There is nothing I can tell you. Mr. Montagu is my patron. I cannot divulge details of his personal life.”
“You may want to reconsider with whom your loyalty lies.”
He looks at her sharply. “What exactly are you planning to do, Mrs. Devlin?”
“When we find Montagu? I don’t know precisely. But I believe when I look into his eyes I will know the truth.” About more than just Lucy, she hopes.
“It’s as simple as that—you’ll look into his eyes and know if he’s a good man or a bad man?” A few golden whiskers on Maitland’s upper lip and chin catch the candlelight; otherwise his face is as downy as a girl’s.
He’s so young, she thinks. Like Lucy. Which brings her back to her subject of inquiry. “I fear I know the answer to that already. Did you know that Lucy Harsnett was found in an alley in Southwark four days ago, a suicide?”
“No.” He appears genuinely troubled by the news. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Could you not at least tell me what happened at the dance?” she asks, his sincerity softening her tone. “Did you see Mr. Montagu kiss her?”
He shakes his head. “I cannot say.”
“You were her escort. Did you not feel any obligation to protect her?”
“No matter what he has done, I cannot betray Mr. Montagu’s trust.”
“Even though your silence has contributed to the ruin of an innocent girl?”
His olive green eyes take on a grim aspect. “Innocence is but a commodity in this world, Mrs. Devlin.”
Ravenscroft supervises his Fleet Ditch project from the relative comfort of the observation platform. Despite its grandiose name, the observation platform is nothing more than a tarp strung up over a few planks of warping wood set down on the riverbank, and it is neither elegant nor even particularly good at staving off the rain. It makes up for its shoddiness with its location at the north end of the construction, just below the Holborn bridge. From here, Ravenscroft has a view of the entire site. In the half mile from Fleet Lane to Holborn, both sides of the twenty-foot-wide river have been cleared of the pigsties that formerly lined its banks. Now it’s crawling with men and machines, home to what looks like an occupying army.
What he most often feels as he observes the progression of the work is not accomplishment—that’s something reserved for the vague and distant future—but frustration. Building a structure in a river, even a river as small as the Fleet, is a complicated enterprise. First, an oblong island formed with pilings must be created in the center, dividing the river in two. Massive gates, wide enough to block half the river, are attached to each end of the island. They are moved with the aid of huge counterweights, like those used for a drawbridge. Half the river is then dammed by the upstream gate, and all the water is diverted to the other side.
This they have already accomplished, but nothing has gone quite as he imagined it would; his project is behind schedule and over budget, expending the funds the king has allocated at an alarming rate. The wood frame for the first filter (or purification apparatus, as it is now officially called) stands in the exposed riverbed looking, to the knowledgeable eye, as unsteady as a newborn calf. It has been buttressed with supports, but these are only temporary. He’s encountered the same problem that Wren and Hooke faced when trying to build at the mouth of the river: the Fleet produces an uncommon amount of silt. These alluvial deposits, combined with decades, perhaps even centuries, of accumulated waste, have turned the river bottom into a stinking, muddy quagmire that cannot possibly support the weight of the structures he has designed. The riverbed must be dredged at least another four feet so that the filter pilings can be secured in bedrock.
Presently, dozens of workmen wade knee-deep in the exposed riverbed, pumping out rainwater and filling countless handcarts with the sludge of the ditch. A steady stream of laborers pushes the handcarts up to the embankment and the waiting oxcarts. Two hundred and eighty-four oxcarts have been filled since they began digging. There are many more to go, more than he can estimate.
“Mr. Ravenscroft!” His foreman ducks his head as he steps beneath the tarp.
“What say you, Mr. Abbott?” The foreman is a tall, thin fellow whose very protuberant Adam’s apple is on the same plane as Ravenscroft’s eyes. He does not dislike Mr. Abbott, who is generally diligent in exercising his duty, but unfortunately the man is quite lacking in vision, which has led to some tiresome conflicts in the recent past.
“The river has risen more than a foot since yesterday,” Abbott says. “If the rain keeps up like this, the water will rise high enough to breach the gate. The men are worried. They fear it won’t hold.”
Normally, bisecting a riverbed such as the Fleet would not be so difficult, but the recent rains have swollen the river to more than twice its usual size. It rushes furiously through its narrowed channel, pummeling the gate that dams the west side of the river, eroding the embankment on the east side. If the rain continues, they’ll have to open the gate and let the water flow into the exposed riverbed. He knows better than anyone that the filter apparatus will be swept away. It would be a monumental setback, one that could prove fatal to the entire enterprise. Perhaps even fatal to himself. He’s heard there’s an especially frigid dungeon reserved in the Tower for builders who fritter away the king’s money so fruitlessly. At the very least, Robert Hooke will make the most of his failure, and he’ll never hear the end of it. There is only one thing to do, and that is to keep going.
“I should think that I am a better judge than those fellows down in the ditch, Mr. Abbott. The rain will stop, I am certain. In the meantime, we must keep on. I will not open the gate until the filter apparatus is secure.”
“That could be another two weeks.”
“So be it.”
“With all respect, sir, I have worked on the construction of many a building since the Fire. I have seen some terrible accidents happen when the architects push too hard and too fast to get the job done. It’s always the workers who suffer.”
“But this is not a building, Mr. Abbott. Am I not right in believing that this is your first river project?”
“Yes, but that does not mean I cannot perceive problems as they occur. That’s what I was hired to do.”
“You were hired to direct the crews, Mr. Abbott, nothing more.” God save him from small-minded men who attempt to impose their own ideas on his work. He crosses his arms over his chest and rocks back on his heels. As far as he is concerned, their conversation is finished.
But the foreman will not back down. “There’s a problem on the other side of the river.”
“What problem?”
“The storm has washed a great deal of debris into the water. Tree branches and suchlike. It’s getting caught in the supports for the footbridge and damming the river on that side as well. I took some men over there earlier”—he points to the temporary footbridge that spans the river at the center of the island—“to try and remove some of it, but it’s too dangerous. The water’s moving too fast. And the dam is taking a beating. The river’s too high, sir. It’s time to get the men out of the Ditch.”
“Absolutely not! The king himself has taken an interest in this endeavor, and His Majesty means for us to proceed with all speed.” It isn’t only the king’s good graces that he cares for. If he can’t make a success of this, how will he show his face at the Royal Society? They’ll say he was beaten by the Fleet Ditch, of all things. London’s sewer!
“No doubt the king has his reasons,” Abbott says, “but even the king can’t control the weather. If the rain continues—”
>
“I know what will happen if the rain continues, Mr. Abbott. You should keep in mind that there is no greatness without risk. Think of the pyramids. Think of the Parthenon. Think of Westminster Abbey. Nothing monumental is ever achieved without sacrifice.”
Abbott lowers his voice. “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit beyond yourself, Mr. Ravenscroft? This isn’t a cathedral, this is the bloody Fleet Ditch.”
“If you care to keep your job, you will curb your tongue, Mr. Abbott. If the river rises high enough to breach the dam, we’ll talk again.”
“Staring out at the rain all day won’t help matters,” Hugh says, clapping his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “This isn’t the first time an engagement’s been called off.” He moves away to the warm center of the room and settles into his favorite chair next to his wife, Elizabeth.
“Yes, I know,” Edward concedes, turning from the window. He follows Hugh closer to the fire, looking around the withdrawing room with a feeling of relief. It’s smaller, darker, and more cluttered than Arabella’s; it appears as though people actually live here. It’s been months since he’s spent an afternoon with his brother and sister-in-law, and he feels as if he’s come home after a long journey. He has that strange sense of disorientation in which everything familiar seems changed. It isn’t, of course; it’s him who’s been transformed. He hasn’t told Hugh and Elizabeth about the true origin of his melancholy, that it isn’t his split with Arabella that’s to blame for his present state.
“Just because it isn’t the first time doesn’t make it any less serious,” Elizabeth says. She is a lovely, temperate woman who is more cultivated and more sensible than his brother, who, Edward believes, is lucky to have found her. God has not seen fit to bless them with children yet, a circumstance that has made her all the more sensitive to others’ misfortune. “It’s the first time for him, that’s all that matters.”
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