by L. C. Tyler
‘Then perhaps he will not be so hard to find,’ my mother says. ‘Let us hope so anyway. As for the horse you found in the stables, that is perhaps not so very remarkable. There are, after all, many grey horses. And I myself have always felt that one horse looked much like another.’
‘It is the one I saw,’ I say. ‘Or else the county is full of greys with one new horseshoe.’
‘Not full exactly,’ says my mother, ‘but surely not that uncommon either. Horseshoes need replacing all the time. And grey horses are very common. Really, unless you were the horse’s mother, I don’t believe it is possible to tell them apart.’
So, unless I can show beyond reasonable doubt that I am the horse’s mother, I am wasting my time arguing further. I shall return to the inn and enquire whether Jem has been found. It will give me something to do while I decide what I ought to be doing.
The walk gives me time to formulate some questions that I might still ask of Ben if I can but take him aside quietly. When I arrive at the inn, however, I find a traveller is already sitting at the table near the front door in the welcome shade of Ben’s damson tree. He smiles and nods at me in a friendly way. I do neither. There is not the slightest thing about him suggesting I should trust him.
He is dressed in a suit of clothes that may have once been russet or may have once been crimson. A cloth is tied loosely round his neck. The cloth is none too clean but looks cleaner than his neck. As a small concession to fashion, one greasy lock of hair has been tied up in a bright red ribbon and rests easily on his shoulder. One stocking is rolled down, but he does not appear to have noticed. The clothes, like him, are large and comfortable. The coat is decorated with small holes, burned into the cloth by sparks from his pipe. This has not deterred him from smoking a pipe this morning. A glowing speck has just landed on his arm, where it burns brightly for a moment and then fades to a small black point. He sees the black spot and slaps at it. He misses by several inches but is content.
‘You are John Grey,’ he says to me eventually.
‘I am, but you have the advantage of me, sir,’ I reply.
‘Have I? Then you may call me George Probert.’
‘And how do you claim to know who I am?’
He draws again on his pipe, not because he needs time to think, but because he wishes to make me wait a little longer. ‘I have been seated here for an hour and watched an assortment of yokels and hobbledehoys and bumpkins going about their normal business. None of them appeared to be John Grey Artium Baccalaureus Universitatis Cantabrigiensis.’ He pauses and belches loudly. ‘Come and sit with me, Mr Grey. I think we shall be friends, you and I.’
I take the seat opposite him, though I am no wiser than I was before about how he knows my identity. He slaps his hand on the board and bellows for the landlord. He gets the only one available: Ben’s round, pink, worried face appears through the doorway.
‘Two tankards of ale, Mr Bowman,’ he says. ‘I have not yet taken my morning draught, and this young man looks thirsty enough.’
‘Certainly, Mr Probert,’ Ben says, rubbing his hands together, but Ben’s eye is very much on me. When he thinks Probert is looking elsewhere, he mouths something at me, but Ben’s mouthing is just that. He opens his mouth and closes it like a fish out of water, leaving the spectator no wiser than before. It would seem, however, to be a fishy warning of some sort, and one that he does not want Mr Probert to see. This is still all I have to go on when the ale is delivered to us by Nell Bowman, who has appeared by our sides without either of us noticing her soft footfall. She’s always there somewhere in the background, making things work while Ben huffs and puffs.
‘A fine young woman,’ says Probert appreciatively. ‘I’d make Bowman a cuckold if I had but time enough.’
‘I believe her to be virtuous,’ I say.
‘She has refused you then, Grey? I am surprised and sorry for it. But I think she would not refuse me. Or the young farmer who engaged her in conversation earlier. They had a most earnest discussion, though too softly for me to be able to overhear it. A pity. Your health, my dear sir,’ he adds, raising his tankard. ‘Nunc est bibendum.’
I respond in kind but in my native tongue. I decline to correct him on the subject of Nell lest I encourage him further. The ‘young farmer’ must have been Dickon, but their discussion was probably about the price of onions. I note that Ben has given Probert one of the smallest pint tankards he possesses, a sure sign of his disapproval. Sadly, I have its twin. I think my impersonation of a rat is still not entirely forgiven.
‘You are recently returned from Cambridge, I think?’ asks Probert. ‘I understand that you were an ornament of Magdalene College.’
‘You seem to know a great deal about me, sir,’ I say, ‘though I still know nothing about you.’
We eye each other across two untouched almost-pints of Ben’s ale.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That is very true. You know nothing about me. Your tutor at Cambridge speaks well of you, however.’
‘Dr Grahame?’
Probert takes another long puff on his pipe. That is his only response to my question. I wonder if he will belch again, a fitting rejoinder to Dr Grahame’s name in my humble opinion, but he does not. ‘Your tutor commends your ability and your sound principles.’
‘Did he?’ I say. ‘I don’t think he ever said as much to me.’
‘But he said it to me,’ says Probert. ‘People tell me things that they would not tell others. It is a way that I have. Or perhaps I read it in a letter he wrote to somebody else. That is a way I have too.’
Probert draws on his pipe, sending a shower of sparks flying in all directions. I instinctively brush the front of my coat, which is much newer than Probert’s, though not so ridiculously foppish and new-fashioned as Pole’s.
‘Indeed,’ I say very coolly. ‘What business brings you to our village, Mr Probert?’ I am determined he shall not have the advantage over me for long.
Probert raises his eyebrows as if to say that he has even more interesting tales to tell about Dr Grahame but that he will change the subject simply to oblige me. ‘I’m seeking a friend of mine. Mr Henderson. Would you have met him by any chance? He might not be calling himself Henderson of course. He might be calling himself Mr Freeman. Or maybe Mr Jennings.’
‘Is any of those his real name?’ I ask. ‘Or has he forgotten the circumstances of his baptism?’
‘His baptism would not have touched on his surname,’ says Probert reprovingly. ‘Of course, he would possess a Christian name of some sort, but he would have had very little need of it.’
‘I have met nobody here named Henderson,’ I say.
Probert looks disappointed. ‘Small, black man. Big belly. Livid scar on his chin. Dead probably. Have you noticed anyone like that walking about here?’
Well, I’ve seen a dead Royalist spy answering very much to that description.
‘Or maybe he was calling himself Smith?’ I ask.
‘Smith? Of course. He used that name. Why not? A man named Smith might pass unnoticed anywhere. He would be almost invisible to mortal eye. Did this Smith you speak of bear a fine scar below his mouth?’
Well, Probert doesn’t lack courage. He must know I shall report this conversation as soon as I have the opportunity to do so. Or does he imagine I too am a Royalist? Smith clearly thought so if he was asking after me. The influence of my tutor, foolish or malign, lies somewhere behind these delusions.
‘Perhaps,’ I say, ‘you would like to tell me who you are and what right you have to demand answers of anyone here.’
‘Very good. I commend your caution. I like caution in one with whom I shall be working closely.’
‘You seem mightily convinced that I am of your party,’ I say.
‘I would scarcely be drinking with you if I thought you were of the other party. Dr Grahame vouches for your loyalty.’
‘Everyone here is loyal,’ I say. ‘Loyal to His Highness the Lord Protector.’
P
robert roars with laugher and reaches across the table and slaps me on the shoulder. I think he could arm-wrestle Ifnot. ‘Everyone! Ha! That is rare wit, Grey. Dr Grahame did not tell me that you were so merry. He told me you were as dull as a dog’s arse. But he was sorely mistaken. Everyone here loyal to the Lord Protector . . . Ha! Very good indeed!’
I wonder if Probert is aware how loud his voice is. It rises from a mere forte for the word ‘ha!’ to fortissimo for ‘dog’s arse’. His closing statement is clearly intended to reach the good people of Suffolk.
‘If you wish to trap me into disparaging His Highness,’ I say quietly and just for the two of us, ‘you will need to try much harder than that.’
Probert looks at me, disappointed. ‘Really? Perhaps Dr Grahame was not so mistaken after all,’ he says eventually.
‘Whether Dr Grahame is mistaken about me or no, I am not in the habit of mocking His Highness the Lord Protector. As for your friend Smith, alias Henderson . . .’
‘Grey, let me give you some advice.’ Probert leans across the table. ‘For reasons that I do not entirely understand, you look as if you may be about to lie to me. If so, then let your lie be large! Let it be bold! Let your lie contain some small germ of truth, if you will, but small lies are sad things that wither and die at the first blast of an icy wind. Credat Iudeas Apella, non ego! Only big lies are truly robust, though sometimes they throw out branches strong enough to hang a man from.’
‘Who are you?’ I ask for what I hope is the last time.
‘A friend, Grey. At least, I hope we shall be friends. If we prove to be less, then it may chance that I must cut your throat in the course of my business here. But in the meantime, and in proof of my amity, can I buy you more ale, my dear fellow? Your Essex pints seem smaller than our London ones.’ He drains his tankard at a single draught and slaps it down on the table. ‘More ale, Bowman!’ he yells. ‘And this time we’ll have the full legal measure. Or I’ll have both your ears cut off and fried in your own butter!’
‘No more ale for me,’ I say.
Ben appears quickly. He may have been lurking close by, listening. He needs those ears. And butter’s not cheap.
‘More ale for me, but none for the pathetic milksop lawyer,’ says Probert. ‘So, Grey, what can you tell me of Mr Henderson? I know that he planned to pass through this village. He had business here, you might say. He was to report to us on the outcome of his endeavours, but sadly he has not. So, what became of him? There is but one inn, and yet the landlord has no clear recollection of him. I have asked him several times, but he has no clear recollection. The big lie, you see, would be to say that he is certain that nobody of that description came here. The small, feeble lie is to say that he might have been here or might not have been here, but that he cannot rightly say. And yet Henderson is, in my view, the most memorable of men. Not handsome, I will grant you, but that scar on his chin is much admired. His body is compact, but there is more menace in him, more genuine malevolence, than in ten others of a more normal size. Nobody who has been threatened by Henderson forgets him, and he threatens almost everyone he meets. Homo homini lupus, as you will be only too aware. Those who have not seen a man cannot be made to remember him, do to them what you will. But those who are not certain may find that their memories can be stimulated in all manner of ways. So, what say you, Grey? How is your memory?’ He leans across the table and grins a lopsided grin. For a moment he has the appearance of an old, arthritic mastiff, hoping for a bone.
I stand. ‘I wish you all the success you deserve in finding your friend,’ I say. ‘But I do not believe I can assist you.’
‘Merely the success I deserve?’ says Probert in simulated dismay. ‘Oh dear. Poor Henderson. But I shall find him. And you are going to help me, for all your belief to the contrary. Do you want to know why?’
I give the brim of my hat the merest touch, perfectly civil. As I walk away, I do not look back.
‘Another Royalist spy?’ asks the Colonel. ‘Are you certain?’
‘He says he is a friend of this man Smith – or Henderson as he knows him, though he seems to have had plenty of other names. He claims acquaintance with my old tutor, Dr Grahame, but that is, I think, a trick. The things he claimed to have heard from him were . . . unlikely. I also think Probert plans to stay until he finds the body, which he may before long. The first place I would look for a fresh grave is the churchyard. We need to get word to Mr Thurloe, but we cannot wait for his response before we act. You must arrest Probert and hold him until he can be taken to London for questioning.’
‘What did he say exactly?’ asks Pole, who unfortunately is also here. Whatever I reply, Pole will proceed to show us how much better he would have handled things.
‘He said he was seeking Henderson. And he tried to cozen me into making treasonable remarks about the Lord Protector. Oh, and he also spoke Latin – quoting Horace mainly, I think. He pointed out to me that man is a wolf to man.’ I look Pole in the eye and add for his education: ‘Homo homini lupus.’
‘Lupus est homo homini, non homo, quom qualis sit non novit,’ says Pole. (I’ll wager he was the Latin master’s simpering little favourite.) ‘And that is Plautus, by the way, not Horace. I am surprised, Mr Grey, that a man with any education would make such a simple mistake.’
‘I said that Probert quoted Horace mainly,’ I say, ‘not that Horace actually wrote lupus est homo homini, non . . .’ I pause, trying to recall the last bit.
‘Non homo, quom qualis sit non novit,’ Pole continues smugly, his condescension made doubly effective with my helpful assistance. ‘It would seem, in any event, that you have been given a warning, Mr Grey. You are vermin to be hunted down without pity by your fellow wolves. I do hope that you can run fast. As for arresting Mr Probert – my counsel, Colonel, is that we should tread carefully.’
‘But he is clearly a malignant Royalist and a spy!’ I say. ‘He will make a clean getaway unless we act swiftly.’
The Colonel looks from Pole to me and then back to Pole.
‘What say you to that, Roger?’
‘We do not know who Henderson was. We know even less who Probert is. But the choice is yours, sir. You should arrest him if you are certain that is the right course of action.’
The Colonel would rather the choice lay elsewhere. But however long he dithers, it will not become my decision or Will Cobley’s. He gives a profound sigh. ‘Roger is right. It would be misguided to act hastily in this matter. We must watch this Probert and see what he does. After all, what was Henderson’s motive in coming to this village? We still have no idea. Let us see where Probert goes and to whom he speaks. He can do little harm with Henderson safely in the ground, and, if we watch him, we may learn something of importance.’
Pole smirks.
‘Are you asking me to watch Probert then?’ I say to the Colonel. ‘Until we are in a position to report him?’
The Colonel again looks at Pole, as if for guidance, and then says: ‘There would be no hurt in your doing so.’
‘Do try not to let him catch you spying on him,’ says Pole. ‘It might, if you will accept my advice on the matter, be better not to stomp around too much.’
I scowl at him, but he is now examining one of the ribbons on his glove. Ribbons on a glove always look ridiculous.
*
‘They are all lying to me,’ I say to Dickon. ‘Pole especially.’
We are closeted in one corner of a Grice field, away from any prying ears or eyes. I am sitting on the ground with my arms wrapped round my knees. Dickon is on his back, staring up at the sky, a leaf of grass between his teeth. The land dips away gently to a distant hedge. The sun is warm. The buzzing of the bees is almost deafening. Soon, Dickon will complain to me again about the hardships of being a farmer.
‘Pole?’ says Dickon. ‘I wouldn’t trust a word he says.’
‘I don’t. Pole’s a Royalist and, whatever his reasons may be, he’s covering up the death of a Royalist agent.’
/> Dickon considers. ‘Pole claims to be a good Republican now. It’s all “my Lord Protector this” and “His Highness the Lord Protector that”. It would do Cromwell’s heart good to hear it, but my own ears ache with the repetition.’
‘Why? Pole’s father died fighting for the King.’
‘If he wants his lands and his titles back, he’ll need to prove he’s Cromwell’s man in spite of it. So, he works for the Colonel and professes his loyalty to the Protectorate ten times a day. I hear he’s petitioned Parliament to reverse the attainder, much good may it do him.’
‘Has he indeed? Well, however he may dissemble, the leopard doesn’t change his spots. When the Royalist snake sloughs one skin, he just reveals a shinier set of scales beneath. I don’t understand precisely why Pole is dissuading the Colonel from taking action, but he’s hiding something. So is Ben. Ben can have hardly missed a bloodstain like that in his own stable. And he must have noticed he has the stranger’s horse as his guest.’
I hear Dickon give a long sigh. ‘You are wearing me out with this talk of a strange horseman. I was at the inn. Don’t you think I would have seen him or heard him?’
‘But you saw the horse this morning.’
‘I saw a grey horse. Stables often have horses in them.’
‘It’s the rider’s horse.’
‘John, you were too drunk to get home that night, and you still claim you can recall the horse as clear as day. Ben, who was sober all evening, swears it is Henderson’s.’
‘Perhaps I should ask Nell,’ I say. ‘She notices more than Ben.’
‘I wouldn’t trouble Nell,’ says Dickon chivalrously. ‘I mean, she’d have told us if she saw anything.’
Well, if Dickon says so.
‘Then what’s going on, Dickon? Horseman or no horseman . . . first we find a dead spy, and nobody seems much concerned. Now we have another Royalist agent alive and amongst us, and that seems to trouble folk as little. If the Colonel won’t arrest Probert as a spy, I shall ride into Saffron Walden or Royston and get the magistrate there to issue a warrant. Unless they are also in thrall to Roger Pole.’