by L. C. Tyler
‘Just the sort of response I would expect from a Puritan lawyer,’ says Aminta.
‘I’m not a Puritan,’ I protest. ‘I am merely a loyal citizen of the Republic, as you should be.’
‘Cambridge has changed you,’ she says.
‘Yes, it has made me a lawyer, and I have just given you good legal advice.’
‘It will come to pass,’ she says with more confidence than seems immediately justified. ‘When the King is restored, we’ll be back too. In the meantime we’ll put a curse on the Colonel’s chickens so they won’t lay.’
‘And his deer,’ I suggest helpfully.
‘They are our deer,’ says Aminta indignantly. ‘I’m not cursing them. I want to be sure there will be venison from the park when we are back at the manor.’
‘Legally,’ I say ‘it is very unlikely that—’
Then Aminta hits me. Hard. Just like she used to. And for what exactly? I may have changed, but Aminta is exactly as she was aged six.
*
For the journey back to the house, Aminta decides she no longer needs my arm. The path has grown smoother in the past half-hour. We walk mainly in silence, but as we enter through the garden door, Aminta says in an unnecessarily loud voice (it seems to me), ‘So, we are back now, John. Well, I did enjoy our walk.’
I cross the flagstoned hallway and open the low door into the parlour. My mother is seated on the oak settle, smoothing her velvet skirts and looking slightly flustered. Sir Felix is standing a little way off, examining his grease-encrusted nails. I try to catch Aminta’s eye to confirm that she is as shocked as she should be at the behaviour of our respective parents, but she is looking the other way and humming to herself.
‘You are back before we expected you,’ says my mother brightly.
‘Indeed,’ says Sir Felix. ‘We had thought you would be longer. I am surprised that my daughter wishes to relinquish the attentions of this handsome young man so soon. Of course, if you wished to take another turn . . .’
‘Aminta has seen the garden many times before,’ I point out. ‘Those limes really do need pruning, Mother.’
‘I’ll send my gardener over to do it,’ says Sir Felix.
‘You still retain a gardener?’ I ask.
‘Strictly speaking, he’s the Colonel’s gardener now, but he helps me out when I need him,’ says Sir Felix. ‘That fool Payne hasn’t the faintest idea what his people are doing most of the time.’
‘Which is most fortunate for his butler,’ says Aminta primly.
I wonder what she means and whether it has anything to do with the four bottles of sack that Sir Felix sent over earlier today, two of which we drank at dinner.
‘It will all be yours again one day,’ says my mother dreamily. ‘When the King returns.’
‘Mother!’ I exclaim. It is one thing for Aminta to whisper treasons of this sort to me in the garden, but another entirely for my own mother to do so in public.
Sir Felix laughs. ‘Your son is afraid you will lose your pretty head, Mistress Grey. It would be a terrible waste if you did.’
‘Being beheaded is a family tradition,’ says my mother with just a hint of pride.
Not a tradition I would wish to see continued, however. ‘What if the servants heard?’ I ask indignantly.
‘À d’autres!’ she says, and gives Sir Felix a wink.
‘You do well to warn us, John,’ says Sir Felix in an avuncular manner that he has no right to. ‘Good folk are hauled off to the county gaol or the pillory every day for saying less. But even you must miss the merry times when we had a king amongst us. For all that we are loyal citizens of the Republic or Commonwealth or Protectorate or whatever we are supposed to call it now.’
‘We’ll be able to call it a kingdom again soon,’ says Aminta. She watches my face with amusement and then adds: ‘That is to say, when His Highness The Lord Protector has himself crowned.’
I shake my head. ‘Oliver was offered the crown and immediately declined it with contempt.’
‘It took him six weeks to decide to immediately decline it,’ says Aminta. ‘There are still those urging him to accept. And he wants his eldest son to succeed him. One way or another, we’ll have a king by the end of next year – a Stuart or a Cromwell.’
‘To answer your question, Sir Felix,’ I say, desirous that a small part of our conversation should not be treasonable, ‘I miss nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘But what about the maypoles?’ asks Aminta.
‘Pagan relics for silly girls to dance round,’ I say pointedly. ‘Parliament did well to order their destruction.’
‘And Christmas?’ asks Sir Felix. ‘Surely, we should be able to celebrate the birth of Our Saviour?’
‘There is no evidence that Christ’s nativity took place on 25 December,’ I say. ‘It is merely some heathenish midwinter debauch disguised as a holy day.’
My mother opens her mouth to speak in defence of debauchery, but this time a look from me silences her. I do not remind her, in front of our guests, that she shamefully smuggled holly and mistletoe into the house last December.
‘What about plays then?’ asks Sir Felix, leaning back in his chair and picking his teeth. ‘How does the closure of a few theatres make us safe from the return of the Stuarts, against which the Good Lord defend us? And what about poor Nell Bowman? Once the theatres closed and she was out of a job, she had no choice but to marry our village innkeeper. Surely, that at least was too cruel? Admit it, young John. The world has grown drab in the last ten years.’
Just out of sight of her father, Aminta is pointing a finger at me and mouthing the word ‘Puritan’.
‘We live,’ I say, ‘in dangerous times. Parliament may have executed the Tyrant himself, but his son is lurking in the Spanish Netherlands, debauching himself by night and ever hopeful that plots by renegade Royalists will bring him to the throne.’
I pause, realising that Sir Felix might think that I was including him in this class of clandestine plotters, but he smiles at me amiably.
‘I think you will find he debauches himself by day as well,’ he says. ‘But you are right that there are some misguided people working towards his return. After all, the dead man that you and Ben Bowman found this morning was carrying a ring with the royal coat of arms, was he not?’
The royal coat of arms?
‘Where did you hear that?’ I ask. ‘Ben Bowman only mentioned a gold ring that was stolen; he said nothing about a coat of arms.’
‘That is the rumour in the village,’ says Sir Felix. ‘I cannot say that I saw it myself.’
Of course, it made sense. A man might not have his throat cut for a simple gold ring – though throats have been cut for much less – but for carrying a ring with the detested Stuart coat of arms . . . And it explained why the killer might take the ring but disdain the silver in his purse.
‘I must report this to Colonel Payne,’ I say. ‘He seemed to doubt that Smith was a Royalist spy, but with this additional piece of evidence . . .’
‘Rumour could have been wrong,’ says Sir Felix. ‘It often is. But if Smith was indeed a Royalist agent, then we can scarcely expect the Colonel to waste much effort on bringing the killers of such a villain to justice. The sooner that traitor is quietly buried in an unhallowed grave, the better, eh? As a loyal citizen of the Republic, John, I am sure you will agree.’
I pause. In a sense this is very true. It would certainly explain why the Colonel is inclined to do so little. And yet, though I have said nothing even to my mother about this, Harry Hardy’s words still run through my head. Smith was asking for me. And Ben was reluctant to tell him anything. The death of this Royalist spy touches me personally, albeit in some manner I cannot yet give a name to. I shall need to tread carefully.
‘You are right, Sir Felix,’ I say. ‘I am sure the Colonel understands his duties.’
Sir Felix smiles at me tolerantly, as if at a wayward puppy who has just pissed on somebody else’s leg. ‘You think
that common upstart Payne understands the duties of a lord of the manor? À d’autres,’ he says.
Afternoon
The sun warms my face, and the pale dust rises from the road as I tramp along, coating the lowest leaves of the hawthorn hedges with a creamy powder. The Cliffords have departed to their Lodge, happily stuffed with our chicken and beef, all washed down with wine shamelessly stolen from the Colonel’s cellar. I am free to attend to business. I must go and talk to the Colonel again, because I cannot see how I can resolve this puzzle without his help; but first I shall exchange a few hard words with Ben Bowman and let him know I am not quite the fool he takes me for.
The inn is cool, gloomy and welcoming, and there is the scent of sawdust freshly sprinkled on the floor. I bang on the counter with a clenched fist and call Ben up from the cellar. He appears suddenly through the trap door in the floor, like the Devil in one of the plays now so wisely banned by Parliament. He is dressed in a clean apron – Nell keeps him tidy – and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbows.
‘Master John! You must have a thirst on you today that you are with us again so soon. A pint of my best ale, is it?’
‘I’ll have a pint of truth from you this time, Ben Bowman,’ I say.
He is at once on his guard, suggesting that there might have been better ways to begin this conversation than by scoring a cheap point with a trite metaphor. But no matter.
‘There’s something odd going on, Ben,’ I say. ‘First, the murdered man was staying here and you didn’t tell me.’
‘Didn’t I?’ asks Ben.
‘No,’ I remind him. ‘You didn’t. Then you seem to have forgotten to mention that there was a Stuart coat of arms on this ring that he was flashing about.’
‘Was there?’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Who says?’
‘Everyone, apparently.’
‘Do they?’
Ben has the ability to delay answering a question almost indefinitely by turning anything you say into a question of his own. It is amusing only if you are easily amused.
‘Ben,’ I say firmly, ‘was there or was there not a Stuart coat of arms on the ring?’
Ben’s look shows that he is aware that none of the three possible answers to that question will guarantee his safety. Nor can he remain silent forever, much though he would like to.
‘Look, can I get you a pint of ale, young Master John? No charge.’
‘And Smith was apparently asking after me, here at the inn.’
‘Was he?’
‘Ben, what is going on?’ I ask.
‘Nothing.’
‘I don’t think so. Let me ask you again: Ben, what is going on?’
Even the most amiable of hounds, when backed against the wall, will bare its teeth eventually. I watch Ben’s expression harden.
‘It’s for the Magistrate to investigate murders, Master John. Not me. Not you either. So you’d better ask the Colonel, hadn’t you?’
I pick up my hat and clap it on my head. I fear that it sits there a little awkwardly.
‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do,’ I say. ‘After which, you can be sure that I’ll be back here – and not for a pint of ale.’
‘Seems like I’d better get a cask of Truth up from the cellar then,’ he says. ‘If that’s what you lawyers drink these days.’
I look at Ben, and he looks back at me. Whatever he knows, he has no plans to tell it.
I step out of the pleasant gloom of the inn into a hot, dusty June afternoon, and I slam the heavy iron-studded door behind me. I stop and listen for a moment. From the inn there is no sound at all. And outside even the birdsong has ceased.
I find Colonel Payne in the oak-panelled chamber again, but this time he is not alone. He looks at me blankly as if his mind were elsewhere and I were a complete stranger.
‘John,’ he says as if recalling my name with difficulty. Then more briskly: ‘I had not been expecting you. Let me introduce Mr Thomas Clarges, a good friend of mine. Thomas, this is John Grey, who lives at the New House, just outside the village on the Cambridge road. I was saying to Mr Clarges that the Greys once held this manor, did they not, John?’
‘The Greys? Not a bit of it,’ I say. ‘It was my mother’s family – the Wests. They owned it until my great-grandfather was executed for treason after the Earl of Essex’s rebellion. The estate was confiscated by the Crown and later given to the Cliffords by King James.’
‘So this was once your family’s house?’ asks Mr Clarges.
‘Not even that. The Cliffords demolished the old house and built this one about thirty years ago. But I visited it as a child. Marius Clifford was older than I, but I often played with him. He taught me to fence and to shoot arrows and to sharpen a knife. He died in the late wars but, had he lived, he too, I fear, would have faced ruin.’
‘Thus it is with many cavaliers,’ says Mr Clarges. ‘They can leave nothing to their children except their name and their loyalties. But I doubt you have come here to discuss family history, Mr Grey. It is a warm day, Colonel Payne; I shall take a stroll under the shade of your trees, if you give me leave, and return when you have determined your business with this young man.’
Now I have finished speaking my piece, I am aware that I have perhaps spoken for longer and more forcefully than I should. The Colonel rubs his eyes. He too would rather be walking in his park than shut up with me in the still air of a hot room. For a moment I think that he is not going to give me any reply at all, then he smiles.
‘Thank you for telling me about the ring. I agree that it does strengthen the case for Mr Smith being a spy, though many former Royalists secretly carry mementos of the late Tyrant. I think, however, that your judgement of Ben is a little uncharitable if I may say so, John. I am sure that he meant to keep nothing from you – but perhaps did not express himself well.’ He pauses, then gives a little chuckle. ‘Anyway, I doubt that Ben would recognise the royal coat of arms if he saw it. You have to understand that most folk in this village couldn’t tell a lion rampant from a pickled herring.’
Well, up to a point. I do not join him in laughing about Ben or my village.
‘But you and I shall not be able to plead such charming bucolic ignorance,’ I point out. ‘We do know some heraldry and, more importantly, we know that a Royalist spy has been killed here. We must report it.’
‘Indeed,’ says the Colonel with some emphasis. ‘We must report it. But to whom? That is the question. A spy has been killed. But whom or what was he seeking here? Are other recalcitrant Royalists lurking in the village?’
He looks at me. Does he know Smith mentioned my name? No, I think not. For the moment that is my secret. Roger Pole is an undoubted Royalist, but there is no point in trying to persuade the Colonel of that. The Colonel will hear no criticism of his secretary. Of course, there are others who have no love of Parliament.
‘The Cliffords perhaps,’ I say. ‘But I scarcely suspect them of plotting against the State.’
‘Of course not,’ says the Colonel. ‘But still, these are deep waters. We must proceed with caution, John. This is not a matter for Will Cobley or even for me. I shall write to the Lord Protector’s head of intelligence, Mr Secretary Thurloe, and inform him. That is what must be done. My name must still carry some weight in Westminster; Thurloe can scarcely fail to take notice. In the meantime, however, the fewer people who know about this, the better. This is a confidential matter, John. I trust that I can rely on you?’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘But if you cannot now inform the neighbouring magistrates, will you at least mention the horseman in your report to Mr Thurloe?’
‘Ah yes, your horseman . . . the man that you cannot describe. Has anyone else told you that they saw him?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘The Saffron Walden magistrates might be lenient with us, but I would fear for my head if I sent Mr Thurloe chasing after phantoms on horseback.’
‘He was no phantom. I saw hi
m,’ I say.
‘You think you saw him,’ says the Colonel.
‘Well, yes, of course,’ I say. I can’t deny that’s what I think.
‘That’s settled then,’ says the Colonel, who clearly does not wish to inconvenience me by discussing this further.
Perhaps he is anxious to resume his conversation with Mr Clarges. He looks towards the door as if expecting me to use it quite soon.
I bow. ‘Your servant, Colonel Payne,’ I say.
He nods. I have finally said something he can agree with.
I am quitting the house when I meet Roger Pole, who is returning from some unimportant errand for the Colonel. He is dressed in the sort of finery that I despise. He wears a pale blue silk jackanapes coat with silver buttons, wide beribboned petticoat breeches of the same hue, Spanish leather boots and a beaver hat with two vast feathers in it and a hatband of indented lace. Clouds of white shirt billow out between the bottom of the ridiculously short coat and the top of the ridiculously spacious nether garments. White shirt-cuffs cascade from the too-short sleeves of his coat down almost to his fingertips. Everything about him is a question of carefully calculated excess. It gives me great pleasure that I have no idea what his Brussels lace collar must have cost, nor ever will have. His face is sharp and unpleasant like . . . like . . . some sharp and unpleasant thing.
‘I give you good day, Mr Pole,’ I say, trying to recall what things are both sharp and unpleasant. No matter. His hat is ridiculous anyway.
‘Good day, Mr Grey,’ he says. He looks pointedly at my own modest headgear.
‘Is there something about my hat that displeases you?’ I ask. I fear that, for all Martha’s steaming and ironing, there remains something of the pillow about it.
‘Amongst those who have been taught good manners, it is customary to remove it when greeting your betters,’ says Pole.
‘Thus I shall keep mine on,’ I say.
‘I do so beg your pardon, Mr Grey,’ he says. With his right hand poised on his hip, he sweeps his own hat off, brushing my cheek with its feathers as he does so. ‘I had not realised that you men of Law had grown so grand. The world has truly been turned upside down.’ He smirks as if that were an excellent joke. Though my hat is still on my head and his is not, I feel that I have in some way been outwitted – that he would indeed have placed me at a disadvantage whether I had doffed my headgear or retained it. Of course, he has a point of sorts. The Poles are descended in some way from King Edward III, which is rare enough but requires little effort. They have never needed to work for money or anything else. I certainly doubt that this Pole would find work congenial. I cannot see him lifting bales of hay with those arms. But he still feels he can sneer at me. He probably lumps lawyers together with bakers and rat-catchers as mere tradesmen.