by L. C. Tyler
‘He would, of course, be wise to seek out some rich heiress, preferably not too hideous in appearance and still of child-bearing age if at all possible. But young men are not always sensible in these matters. And Aminta is pretty enough to turn most heads – with the possible exception of your own.’
‘I shall take that as a compliment.’
‘She has always been very fond of you.’
‘Fond? I think not, Mother,’ I say. ‘Not in any way that the term is normally understood.’
‘Very fond of you,’ my mother repeats in the belief that constant repetition eventually makes things true. ‘Even if you don’t credit it, Roger Pole does.’
‘He told you that?’
‘No, Aminta told me that. I think that she may have been making Roger Pole a little jealous. She can be quite mischievous.’
Well, that at least explains why Roger Pole, who had previously been obnoxiously, snottily civil, now seems to be my implacable enemy.
‘Then I shall tell him that he has nothing to worry about, at least as far as I am concerned,’ I say. But perhaps I shall not tell him today. If it pleases him, then let him imagine by all means that he has a rival. Not that I care one way or the other.
‘Aminta has lots of admirers – your friend Dickon, for example,’ says my mother. ‘There! That’s darned now. Please do take more care of them in future.’
‘Lord, I’d rather she married Dickon than Roger Pole,’ I say, taking the object from her. Yes, it’s a stocking.
‘Do you really see her as a farmer’s wife?’ asks my mother. ‘She would end up like poor Mistress Grice. Such a shame for everyone. But as the wife of a prosperous lawyer, on the other hand . . . You really are most well suited.’
‘In the sense that we are both vain and shallow and enjoy viewing our own faces in the looking glass?’ I suggest. ‘In the sense that we both have silly little stuck-up noses? In the sense that . . .’
‘Tush,’ says my mother. ‘Nobody marries their twin sister. At least, not in this part of the county. In any case, neither of you has a silly stuck-up little nose. I simply mean that you are both good-looking young people.’
‘Dickon says that I shall soon resemble a withered pippin stuck on a rake handle.’
‘Dickon will soon resemble one of his own oxen. You are a little thinner than you were, but I have never seen my son so handsome.’
I laugh at this last piece of flattery. ‘Like my father no doubt,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says my mother in all seriousness. ‘He had few good qualities, but that was one of them.’
‘It is the least important of qualities,’ I say.
‘So it is fortunate that Aminta has many others, even though you don’t see them.’
‘Then let Roger Pole appreciate them,’ I say.
‘The Poles are a very old family,’ says my mother. ‘I have it on good authority that they are descended from King Edward III. And until the war they were very rich. Their lands were confiscated by Parliament. Like Sir Felix.’
‘No, not like Sir Felix,’ I say. ‘Sir Felix had to sell up to pay his debts and his fines. But the late Viscount, Roger’s father, was, as I understand it, attainted by Act of Parliament, and his lands were forfeit to the State. It is a very different legal process.’
‘The same result,’ says my mother.
‘But totally different,’ I say.
My mother sniffs. She has her own view on the matter. You’d think she was the Lord Chancellor.
‘So, Sir Felix would not regain the manor if the King were to return?’ she says, burrowing into her bag for something else to mend. ‘But Roger’s father’s lands and the title may yet revert to his heirs?’
‘In theory. I mean, Parliament could reverse the attainder.’
‘Is that likely?’
‘Only if Pole ingratiates himself with those in power. Even then I doubt that Cromwell would wish to see him a viscount again, less still to have the expense of restoring his estate.’
‘Then perhaps when the King returns . . .’ She produces a shirt and examines it to see whether it is worth her attention or no.
‘Mother!’ I say. ‘The King is not going to return. England will remain a republic for ever.’
‘If you say so, dear. Just bear in mind that Roger, as a viscount, would be a very eligible young man, even with his pockmarked face. Do you want this old shirt repaired, or shall I cut it up for cleaning cloths?’
‘You mean Aminta might wish to be a viscountess?’
‘Her father might wish it for her and advise her accordingly. Some children listen to their parents. In my view, she simply needs a nice young man with good prospects in a respected profession. Such as Law, if you decide to complete your training. Perhaps I shall repair this after all. The holes are not so large.’
I pause because of my mother’s unexpected ‘if’. There is indeed some doubt in my mind as to whether I shall go to Lincoln’s Inn, but I have mentioned this to nobody. My mother certainly can have no way of knowing.
‘Mother, has it ever occurred to you that Sir Felix may be planning to restore his own fortunes by marrying you?’
‘Marry me? Lord, Sir Felix knows how little we have.’
‘You have this cottage . . . house . . . and you have an annuity.’
‘Your dear father is, for all we know, still alive,’ she sighs. She clearly wishes it were otherwise.
‘You have had a letter from him?’ I ask.
‘Not since he left,’ she says.
‘You have had news of him from somebody else?’
‘No,’ she says, threading a needle.
It is not a convincing ‘no’.
‘Mother,’ I say, ‘have you heard from my father?’
‘Do you suppose that I would keep such important news from you?’
‘Of course not,’ I say.
This talk of my father is, then, nothing more than a ploy to persuade me that she would not listen to Sir Felix’s blandishments.
‘Promise me,’ I say, ‘you will not marry again without consulting me first.’
‘If I receive another proposal,’ she says, ‘I shall let you know.’
‘Another proposal?’ I ask.
‘Your father obviously proposed to me, a long time ago,’ she says, but she is a little too pleased with herself for this to be the honest answer it purports to be. Sir Felix’s designs, in any case, are all too clear.
‘It would be a dangerous thing,’ I say, ‘to be allied to the Cliffords.’
My mother looks ready to say ‘tush’ again. She shakes her head. ‘Why is it,’ she says, ‘that children can never imagine that their parents were young once? Why is it that they can never see that their parents are not completely in their dotage? Even at my age, I am not wholly averse to the thought of pleasure.’
‘Is that true?’ I ask, meaning, do children really think that?
‘Oh yes,’ she says – but so fervently I am no longer sure which question she is answering.
Dickon has undertaken to keep Ben Bowman talking – not a difficult task, even for Dickon. Nell is busy in the kitchen. The inn is unusually empty. Normally, this hour of the evening would provide much shouting, yelling and drunken singing to cover my footsteps. I shall need to be quiet. I am therefore creeping cautiously up the stairs of the inn to the three chambers that Ben optimistically reserves for paying guests.
I put my thumb gently on the latch and slowly open the door of the first chamber. The hinges squeak, but not, I hope, too much. I pause, listening for any change to the distant rise and fall of speech in the room below. I hear Dickon laugh a little too appreciatively at some remark of Ben’s. I count to twenty under my breath; there are still no footsteps behind me on the stairs. I slip into the room.
It is simple and clean. The walls are newly lime-washed. There is a low bed large enough for two guests who do not mind sleeping in close proximity to each other. There is a small oak table with a candle upon it. Three lar
ge nails have been banged into the wall in case guests have anything they wish to hang on a large nail. That’s it.
I tip the straw mattress almost onto its side and peer into the wedge of shadows and floating dust that I have created. There is no gold ring between the mattress and the boards on which it rests. I look under the bed. Nothing. Not even dust. Just a damp scent of newly washed wood. I look into the cracks in the floorboards, of which there are many. No ring. No blood. I tiptoe out of the chamber and onto the landing. Downstairs, I think I hear Ben ask ‘What’s that?’ and Dickon mutter a reply. Even though I cannot make out a single word, I do not believe him. I doubt Ben does either.
Deciding that it is no worse to be caught in one place than another, I carefully open the door of the chamber opposite. This is even smaller. Two purplish smoked hams, propped up against the wall, suggest that Ben regards this as a storeroom. It would be a rare night indeed when all three chambers are full, and they must earn their keep in other ways. Apart from the ham, there is a small bed, a mattress, some creamy woollen blankets piled neatly on top. Nothing to suggest that a man might recently have died here, a rough hand over his mouth, his blood spilling out in scarlet streams. Nothing to suggest where he might have hidden a ring that he would have been better off not revealing to anyone in the first place.
On tiptoe but aware of the slightest sound, I cross the passage again to the remaining guest chamber. Gentle pressure on the latch produces no results. I put my shoulder against wood in case it is merely sticking in the summer heat. The door does not budge. It is clearly locked. Now that is more promising. I am wondering how strong the lock might be when I hear steps behind me. Dickon’s conversational skills are clearly not as good as he claimed. A voice says: ‘A rat indeed!’ I turn.
‘Can I assist you in some way, Mr Lawyer?’ asks Ben. I get the impression he wishes to convey the message that this is his inn. Not mine. ‘You seem to want to break down one of my doors. I can’t help wondering why you should wish to do that, or why you are prowling amongst my chambers like a common thief – a common thief with large feet.’
‘I simply wondered which of them Mr Smith had occupied,’ I say.
‘Had you asked me,’ says Ben, very restrained, ‘had you asked me civil-like, I could have told you that he occupied that one at the back.’ He indicates the first that I inspected, with its three nails and no dust. ‘Which may or may not be any business of yours, Mr Cambridge Lawyer, but now you do know.’
‘And what’s in this one?’ I ask, indicating the locked door.
‘Is there any reason why I should tell you?’ asks Ben. Could that be a rhetorical question? Neither of us tries to answer it anyway.
‘Smith didn’t die where he was found,’ I say, watching Ben’s face closely.
Ben has previously been indignant or evasive. My transgression now apparently gives him the right to be angry and sarcastic.
‘Does the back chamber look as though somebody died in it?’
‘It’s very clean,’ I say. ‘Recently scrubbed and polished. It does you credit. But what’s in the other room, Ben? The locked one? I can get the Colonel to make you open it.’
‘Why don’t you, then, Mr Grey?’ Like a bad smell that you can’t at first identify, Roger Pole has oozed silently up the stairs. ‘Creeping about like a common thief, are we?’ He voices much the same opinion as Ben but places more emphasis on the word ‘common’. He is not wearing his hat for once, though more because the staircase is narrower than his ridiculous plume than because he wishes to show respect for anyone or anything.
‘I have the Colonel’s authority to search the room,’ I say, in the sense that I am sure he would have given me such authority had I asked.
‘Oh, I doubt that,’ says Pole. ‘I think I would know if the Colonel had authorised you to do anything of the sort. I am, after all, his secretary, whereas you are . . . I’m not sure you are anything really, are you? A lawyer with no clients? You don’t have to open that door, Ben. Not for Mister No Clients.’
Pole doesn’t know any more than my mother knows that I am not planning to become a lawyer. Of course, he is still right that I have no clients.
Ben looks relieved at Pole’s intervention and says: ‘I had no intention of opening the door for Mister No Clients. I keep all sorts of valuable things in there. The door is locked for a reason.’
‘Get along, Ben,’ says Pole. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
‘Yes, Mr Pole,’ says Ben respectfully. And he’s gone.
‘I don’t know what you’re covering up,’ I say.
Pole smiles.
‘Or what influence you have over the Colonel,’ I say.
Pole smiles.
‘But I’m going to get to the bottom of it,’ I say.
Pole smiles.
I stamp off down the stairs. Pole has dealt with it, and without the aid of his hat this time.
‘I did my best,’ says Dickon, as close to contrite as needs be. ‘But you were banging away so much above our heads that I could hardly hear myself speak. Ben asked me a couple of times what the noise was, and I kept saying “rats” – but he would go and check.’
‘He clearly didn’t want rats chewing away at his hams,’ I say. ‘You more or less told him to go and find me.’
‘Didn’t think of that,’ says Dickon. ‘Next time I’ll say “ghosts”. They don’t eat much, do they?’
‘Not as much as rats,’ I say. ‘I’d have been better off with nobody down here than you.’
Having deeply offended Ben, I have now deeply offended Dickon. ‘Well, next time you can have nobody for all I care.’
‘Sorry, Dickon,’ I say. ‘I’m sure you did your best.’
We are drinking ale in an obscure corner of the inn. We could sit anywhere, but we decide we like the obscure corner. It’s a quiet evening – just the two of us and Ben Bowman now that Pole has snatched up his fine hat and gone away to report back to the Colonel whatever lies he is choosing to report. Ben occasionally glances in our direction, half contemptuous, half wary. The contempt is reserved mainly for me. I’d drink elsewhere, but this is the only inn in the village.
After a while, Nell comes over to us to ask us if we wish to order anything else. Her manner is reserved, but she does not imply she thinks we’re complete idiots. That’s kind of her. Strangely, she seems more distant to Dickon than she does to me. Maybe her expectations of him were higher.
Nell’s pretty, with her dark curls and ringlets. Her clear, almost bell-like tones are as unlike the slurred local accent as you could hope to find. She’s not from round here, as I say, but nobody minds in her case. When we choose to be, we are quite tolerant of strangers. I sometimes wonder if Ben realises what an asset she is to the house or why his sales increased after he married her. Probably not.
‘So, it’s another pint of ale for you young gentlemen?’ she enquires.
‘If it’s as good as the last,’ I say, hoping a little ingratiation may speed my forgiveness.
‘If it is delivered by your own fair hands,’ says Dickon, succeeding perhaps a little better than I.
I expect Nell to smile, feeble though the compliment is, but she simply says, ‘It would be difficult to deliver it with any other part of my body.’
She turns on her heel and departs with a swish of petticoats and the tap of her shoes on the boards. A few minutes later Nell delivers the ale with her own fair hands, precisely as requested, and is gone almost without our noticing. It’s a trick she seems to have.
‘We have to get into that room,’ I say when I am sure she is gone. ‘Two chambers unlocked, one locked. I’ll lay you any odds you like that there’s something interesting in there.’
‘Smuggled brandy probably. Ben only takes risks if there is a clear profit to be made. And he never takes sides. Look, John, you seem to have got it into your head that your horseman came here and killed Smith. But nobody saw him, and there’s nothing upstairs to suggest that was what happened. How long have
we known each other?’
‘Why, all our lives, pretty well.’
‘Then take some advice from your oldest friend. I’ve helped you with your investigations and you’ve got nowhere at all. You’ve just made Ben annoyed with both of us. Nell too, though she shows it less. Just go back to your lawbooks and stop worrying about things that don’t concern you.’
‘It does concern me,’ I say. ‘Smith and the rider both knew me. Whatever they were here for, I’m already tied up in it somehow.’
‘You’re not so tied up that you can’t walk away. And you still ought to recognise danger when you see it. One man’s already dead, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’d rather not find you with your throat cut one fine summer morning.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
Westminster
The pearly light of a summer evening is scarcely strong enough to penetrate the grimy panes of glass, but it is enough to examine papers by. Some activities are in any case better suited to a world of shadows. The room is small, low and panelled with dark wood. A map of Europe hangs on one wall, but that is the only ornamentation considered necessary. It is, however, well provided for by way of tables, and each is heaped with papers, some flat, some rolled, some folded, some sealed, some tied with red or pink ribbon. Just the desk at the centre of the room is neat, clear, uncluttered.
The man seated at the desk holds a piece of paper in his hand. His pale, oval face gives away only what he wishes it to give away – or perhaps not even that. His flowing hair would be the envy of many an ageing cavalier. His large square linen collar and his spotless black velvet suit would be considered appropriate by many a fashionable Puritan. His chin is delicate, his nose slightly fleshy. His gaze is untroubled, but his fingers fidget with his cuff. You could meet him in the street and not realise that he is one of the most powerful men in the country. You could talk to him for half an hour and still not realise it. There is, in a sense, both more to him and less to him than meets the eye.