by L. C. Tyler
I pause for a moment in the shadow of this awful gateway, knowing that if the troopers decided to take a ferryboat, then they will now be ahead of me. I wait, watching, as long as I dare, for they may equally be behind me, then plunge into the heaving mass of South Londoners.
Grimy, generous Southwark opens up and swallows me whole.
A Summer’s Day
Only the greenness of the trees gives any clue as to the time of year. The day is grey and unresolved, the air moist without any visible proof of rain, the breeze cold but without bite, the clouds low and ill-defined. The landlord of the Red Lion stands in his doorway, eyeing the crowd milling along Holborn. A day like this must be bad for trade – too cool for thirst; too warm for a seat by a blazing fire. Then out of nowhere a customer emerges – a farmer, by the look of him, with a ruddy face, an open smile and good appetite. What can be seen of his short blond hair is dishevelled beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He wears a new and very serviceable brown worsted suit, a garment that is perhaps not entirely ridiculous in whichever part of the country he hails from.
‘What can I do for you, my fine gentleman?’ the landlord enquires.
‘I’m after some information,’ says Dickon Grice.
‘Then please to enter, good sir, where we may the better converse, and you might perhaps wish to sample our ale. Or a gentleman of good breeding such as yourself might prefer a pint of wine. I have some excellent claret. Or Rhenish, if claret is not to your taste. Or sack or canary if you have a mind to them.’
‘No wine, thank you, nor ale. I just need to know if somebody called John Grey is staying here.’
‘Who’s asking?’
Dickon notices that he is no longer being addressed as ‘good sir’.
‘My name is Dickon Grice. I’m a friend of his.’
‘A good friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Might your friend have been going under the name of Henderson?’
‘He might. The man I’m looking for is medium height, a little over twenty years old, dressed in a green suit of clothes – nobody would mistake him for a man who does a proper day’s work in the fields. Indeed, he both looks like and is in cold hard fact a lawyer.’
‘We had somebody here named Henderson very like your friend. He left without paying his bill. I suppose you wouldn’t like to settle it for him, sir? Seeing how you’re his friend.’
‘That’s right,’ says Dickon. ‘I wouldn’t like to settle it for him. Where did he go when he left?’
‘Since he left in a bit of a hurry with two soldiers in hot pursuit, I couldn’t rightly say.’
‘Did you at least see which road he took?’
‘He ran off towards the city, if that’s any help. But a man may travel some distance in a couple of days if he does but run fast enough.’
‘He ran off? So he left his horse behind? A roan gelding?’
‘Didn’t have no horse – at least, by the time he ran off he didn’t. He just left me a leather bag with a clean shirt, two pairs of stockings and a jar of preserved cherries. You can have them if you settle the bill.’
‘I’m happy that you keep all. I doubt the shirt would fit anyone with a healthy appetite. If he returns, though, could you get a message to me? I’m staying at the White Boar, near the Tower. I’ll make it worth your while.’
The landlord looks doubtful that this last promise will come to anything, but he nods anyway. ‘He owes you money too then?’
‘It sounds as if he owes me a horse, but I’ll take that up with him later. His life is in danger. Tell him, whatever he does he should not go near Roger Pole.’
‘Roger Pole?’
‘That’s right. A thin gentleman with a pale, pockmarked face and a sneer for a mouth. If he comes here asking questions – and he may – you haven’t seen John Grey or me, do you understand?’
The landlord watches Dickon depart. He’ll certainly look out for Roger Pole, though what he tells him will depend very much on how deep this Pole person is prepared to dig into his pockets. Deeper hopefully than the fat yokel in a cheap country suit.
Thurloe looks out of his open window and wonders if it will rain. He takes in a lungful of the sooty Westminster air – a little fresher than that in the city, though not as fresh at that at Hampton Court, where the Lord Protector is today. Cromwell’s coach set off at dawn. Not even Thurloe knows the route that it was to take, such is His Highness’s fear of assassination. Probably, until the moment of departure, Cromwell had not allowed himself to consider which road they would travel by. The fate of the Protectorate hangs on a slender thread, and many citizens possess scissors.
Samuel Morland brings in a packet of letters.
‘The results of last night’s opening and reading,’ he says. ‘The letters from the Spanish Netherlands are increasingly despairing. I think we may expect more defections.’
‘Anything more from Essex?’
‘Not lately. I heard that Probert has returned.’
‘Glorying in what seems to be a relatively minor wound. “Non omnis moriar”, as he observed to me several times. He seemed to have made himself very comfortable in Essex.’
‘It is a comfortable county. But I think that the shot might have killed him without Mistress Grey’s nursing. We have much to thank her for. Did Probert have anything to say about Mr Grey?’
‘He repeats that the shot could not have been fired by him. I’m not sure how he knows, because he was shot from behind and didn’t see his assailant. But Grey seems to have given him good service. Probert commends him to us as an intelligent young man.’
Morland smiles. He does not need to say that he has been proved right.
‘Once Probert has fully recovered,’ Thurloe continues, ‘I intend to send him somewhere where he will be busier. He has had too much time on his hands. Before he left Essex, he clearly commenced some quarrel with Colonel Payne. He tells me that Payne has performed his duties ill as a magistrate and recommends Payne’s removal – well, that is a matter for the Lord Chancellor, not me. Any thoughts, Mr Morland?’
‘As you say, it is not for us to dismiss magistrates. I thought the only difference between Probert and Payne concerned Grey’s guilt. Colonel Payne has, however, now written to us. He no longer judges that Grey is the killer. He has withdrawn the warrant and begs our pardon for having troubled us.’
‘Indeed? Has Probert persuaded Payne then? If so, I fail to see why they should have fallen out.’
‘It does seem odd. Having finally reached an agreement with Payne, Probert denounces him. But there does at least now seem to be some consensus that Grey is innocent.’
‘Then Grey may come to us safely without any impediment.’
Morland nods. ‘Yes. Sadly, following your instructions, soldiers were sent to arrest John Grey. He escaped. He was staying at the Red Lion in Holborn, by the way, under the name of Henderson.’
‘That was careless. Still, we at least now know Grey is calling himself Henderson. It suggests a ready wit.’
‘Or a sad lack of imagination,’ says Morland.
‘Or a sad lack of imagination,’ Thurloe says. ‘Why is it, Sam, that you always think the worst of everyone?’
‘Because you have trained me so well, my lord,’ he says. ‘Do not worry too much about Mr Grey, however. He knows where to find us. And my informants will track him down sooner or later. I shall discover some way to reassure Mr Grey that it is safe to come to us.’
‘Thank you, Sam. I think you are the only person I can trust to get things done properly.’
Samuel Morland smiles, bows and is gone. There is no sound of footsteps. Perhaps he has learned the art of walking on air.
This city, thinks Dickon, has a foulness all its own, and the only reason people drink the ale is because you’d die if you tried to drink Thames water. He is beginning to long for a tankard containing just under a pint of Ben Bowman’s weak so-called beer. Outside it has begun to rain. The carriages and the carts splash through
the muddy puddles, throwing up a fine spray that coats the lower storeys of the houses and shops. It is already too dark in here to read – not that Dickon is a great one for reading – but too early to expect candles to be brought out. Candles might in any case assist the customers of the inn in counting their change and would thus be a double expense for the innkeeper.
Now, if a hunted man were to go into hiding in a place such as London, where would he go? Dickon has asked himself this question several times, the lack of an answer being attributable in some large part to the fact that he still does not know London well. John Grey has vanished from the sight of his friends every bit as much as from the sight of his enemies. In the course of his enquiries Dickon has, however, established that Roger Pole is somewhere in London and frequents an inn in Clerkenwell. Perhaps Pole might, wittingly or not, lead him to John Grey. Dickon takes another swallow of beer and grimaces. The sooner he can find his friend, the sooner he can stop drinking this bilge water. He pays his bill and, cramming his hat firmly onto his blond head, sets off into the rain.
The Jerusalem Inn looks as old as London itself, which in a way it is. The blackened bricks from which it is put together are from a Roman temple, and they in their turn are made of the same earth that lies beneath the city. It is also the tenth tavern in Clerkenwell that Dickon has tried. His clothes are sodden with the rain, and his shoes are starting to leak. He is just about to cross the road and try his luck there when he sees a tall figure slip out of the door, wrapped in a cloak.
Dickon ducks back into an obscure and foul-smelling alleyway. There is at least no shortage of those in London. He turns up his collar, but rainwater seems to be dripping from everywhere. Pole pauses for a moment and looks over his shoulder; then he sets out southwards. Dickon tracks him through the narrow, muddy streets to Leather Lane, then south again to Holborn, which Pole follows briefly before plunging into Chancery Lane. He appears to be heading for the Temple, but at the Strand he strikes off westwards, towards Westminster. Dickon follows as closely as he dares. He is now very close to the untidy mass of buildings that make up the Palace of Whitehall. Pole is heading for an obscure doorway at the rear of one of the buildings. He enters.
Dickon finds himself another doorway from which he can watch, unobtrusively he hopes, for Pole to re-emerge. After an hour there is still no sign of him. Seeing a man leaving the building, however, he approaches him.
‘Whose offices are those?’ he asks.
The man eyes him up and down. ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘I’m looking for the Lord Protector’s steward. He’s my cousin.’
‘You won’t find him in Westminster today. The Lord Protector is at Hampton Court. Anyway, that’s the Secretary of State’s office over there.’
‘Mr Thurloe?’
‘That’s right. Mr Secretary Thurloe. So I wouldn’t stay where you are unless you want to catch an ague. You certainly won’t find your cousin.’ The man looks up at the sky and pulls his cloak more tightly around him.
‘I may as well be getting home then,’ says Dickon, touching his hat to the rapidly departing figure.
But he makes no attempt to leave. Pole will have to appear sooner or later. Dickon wraps his cloak round him and prepares for a long wait.
More Letters
Letter Number 19
Essex
Friday, 10 July 1657
To Sir Edward Hyde, Lord Chancellor, c/o The Abbess, Benedictine Convent, Ghent
Probert has recovered sufficiently to leave for London, though I think he left with reluctance, not expecting to find so soft a billet wherever 777 sends him next. I believe he sees things more clearly than before, and this is shown in his latest report to 777.
For M – P has, I think, now accepted that Henderson’s death had naught to do with J, but he continues to fret as to whether he has done right. I do not know what His Majesty’s thoughts are on whether, on his restoration, he will remove those like Payne from the estates they have acquired and return them to their former owners, or whether they will be allowed to remain. Since, as you will understand, this is a matter of some importance to me, I would be much obliged to you for guidance. In the meantime, this rain will help the fruit.
Yours ever,
472
PS Could I possibly have a pleasanter number than the one I have? I can never remember whether I am 472 or 742 or 274 or something else entirely. Could I be 333, if nobody yet has that cipher?
10 July 1657
To His Highness the Lord Protector, Hampton Court Palace
My Lord, I have returned to Whitehall, but no easier in mind than I was before. I would beg you, above all, to reconsider the matter of the Crown. I agree it is a mere glittering bauble, but then why tarry over picking up what is of no value to anyone but yourself? Who else can wear it except you? And if this worthless bauble would make us all the safer, then it cannot be accounted Pride or any other thing to Your Highness’s detriment. If Your Highness were only to take the Crown, I do believe that that would check some of those who look even now towards Charles Stuart’s court.
With regard to the rising in Northwest Essex, I think now that the danger is not so great. Our agent there confirms that all is now quiet. As to the lying report that General Monck should disobey Your Highness’s orders, I think there is no colour in these Fancies, there being not a man in all the three nations more loyal and dutiful to Your Highness than he is.
Your faithful servant,
John Thurloe
To Mr John Grey
My dear Mr Grey, I send this by the hand of one of my servants who claims to be able to find anyone in the city. I do hope this is no mere conceit on his part, because I should like to see you here soon, if you are desirous to take up the post offered to you. I understand that you may be experiencing some minor problems with the judiciary. Should any officious fellows try to detain you on your way to Westminster, please show them my signature at the bottom of this letter and assure them that I, and indeed Mr Secretary Thurloe, will vouch for you.
You may trust the bearer of this letter completely. Follow his instructions. London can be a dangerous place for those who do not know it well.
Yrs,
Sam Morland
Night in Southwark
A moonless night in a London alley is as black as any other moonless night, except where the dull red of the linkmen’s torches washes fitfully against the blank walls, or the anaemic light of a candle peeps cautiously through an unshuttered window. Now things move that dared not move during the day, sniffing their way from dark corner to dark corner. Small things that cast great shadows. Now is the hour of the rat.
A door opens briefly, and light and noise flood into the street, then it closes again. I have paused here because a shadow has been following me for some time as I make my way through the streets. Either I failed to shake off my pursuers at the bridge and they followed me to where I stayed that night, or somebody has found me out anew. Before I can find another resting place, I need to ensure that I can slip through its doorway unobserved and under any name I choose.
A narrow alleyway invites me, and I follow its meandering turns as it drifts gently downhill. Finally, I am brought up before the broad, black expanse of the Thames. Far across the river, the spire of St Paul’s rises darkly above the housetops. I can hear the water rushing beneath London Bridge and, round a bend in the riverbank, I can just see the flickering row of lights that marks the bridge’s course. A chill wind whips across the water. I must, perforce, swim or return.
I wait and count to a hundred. Behind me nothing stirs. I think I have lost my shadowy friend. I count to a hundred again, then slowly make my way back along the lane. But it is blocked.
‘And where might you be going, my good sir?’ asks one of the group of men in front of me. The raggedness of his cloak and the halo of alcohol that surrounds him suggest that he is not an officer of the State. I think that may prove small comfort.
‘It’s none of
your business,’ I say.
‘This is an expensive road to travel,’ observes one of his companions.
‘Expensive?’ I ask, because it seems incumbent upon me to say it.
‘There is a toll,’ says the first man.
I do not need to ask to whom the toll is payable.
‘There is no toll,’ I say. ‘Out of my way, you men.’
It is too dark to see who is laughing at this remark. I think they all may be. I hear the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard. It’s not a sound that you want to hear in a place like this.
‘I think you must pay the toll, young gentleman.’
‘How much?’ I ask.
‘How much have you got?’ asks the first man.
‘A shilling or two.’ I take out my purse.
‘Hand them over.’
I hand over a shilling and some pennies. I hear them being counted.
‘That won’t buy us all a drink,’ says the first man.
‘It’s all I have,’ I say.
‘So, you’ve nothing in that boot you keep patting?’
I reach inside my left boot and remove a small bag of coins. I open the bag briefly so that they will catch a glimpse of the gold, then fling it to the ground.