‘The less, since we have Hew here, to tell us what he knows of him.’ The mother would not be deterred. ‘Was it in Cambridge you met? Or perhaps it was France?’
Hew had remembered what Laurence had taught him – speak as much of the truth as you can, say as little as possible, when you must lie – and answered, ‘It was in France, where I lived for some years.’
As far then as he could, he had told them all: his father had been an advocate in the Scottish courts, and had sent him to study law in Paris – the Scots had no equivalent of English inns of court. In Paris he had met the Scots physician, Giles Locke, who had become his brother-in-law. They had returned to the university at St Andrews, where Giles had become principal of St Salvator’s College. Hew’s father had died, and he had tried to honour him by concluding his studies at the bar, in service of an Edinburgh advocate. He had not had the stomach for the work. He had worked at St Andrews as professor in the law. But he had found in himself a restless urge to find out a particular kind of justice, which the law did not satisfy. His brother-in-law Giles had been appointed Visitor, with the task of examining unnatural deaths, in which he had assisted him. Where Giles had found the final cause, Hew found himself adept at finding the efficient one; he had discovered murderers.
Mistress Phillips had gasped. How many murderers had he unmasked?
He had considered. ‘In the space of four years, over four cases, I should say, six.’
‘Lord save us! Six murderers! Then St Andrews must be a most bloody, lawless place. There are not so many murders in the whole of England, and in the whole of London, no unnatural deaths!’ Joan Phillips had exclaimed. Hew smiled at that now, and wondered if the traitors spiked up on the Bishopsgate might have disagreed.
William, with a shrewdness copied in his son, had asked, ‘And of those six murderers, how many of them did you bring to justice?’
Hew had hesitated then, as he hesitated now. ‘Justice is served in many different ways. But I suppose you must mean, brought before the courts.’
‘Do not prevaricate with me, sir. I have that from my son, and Tom will tell you plainly, as he is your friend, I will not stand for it. I mean, as you must know, how many were there hanged.’
He had answered one, quiet then, and fierce. That one death he kept still in conscience and in mind, and he was far from proud of it. ‘That was the man I had served at the bar, who turned out to be false, and wicked in his heart.’
It had been direct, a challenge to his host, who took it in good part. ‘Small return, no doubt, is preferable to none. A fraud has been detected in our custom house. Until the thief is found, we are all of us under suspicion, and most of all, myself, since I have the charge of it. And since I cannot work the matter out, I must answer for it, or give up the thief. Therefore am I resolute, and grateful for your help.’ The worry and the strain of it showed clearly in his face. ‘I suspect a clerk. But I cannot for the world fathom out which one.’
‘Then,’ Hew had promised, ‘we shall set a trap.’
He had done his best to allay the clerks’ suspicions, and to engage their trust. But the presence of a stranger was sufficient in itself to bring the thief in check. And though he had succeeded in uncovering the evidence, as carefully the culprit had obscured his trail; before he could be caught, for want of certain proof, the perpetrator fled.
William had been satisfied. It was enough for him that his office had been cleared of collusion in the fraud. The same could not be said of Phelippes and of Walsingham. The placement was a test that Hew both passed and failed.
On that first day, he had felt that he had answered them sufficiently, for what there was deficient there, they answered for themselves. They saw what they would see, believing what they wanted to believe. Helpful in the matter was the seal of Francis Walsingham. Joan Phillips in particular, perked up at the name. Hew thought it quite unlikely they had ever met. William was less sure. He shuddered in the glare of the Secretary’s suspicion, from which no one but the queen of England, and perhaps, her treasurer, was thoroughly immune. At times, he had to appeal to his son Thomas to intercede on his behalf in his business interests, in representations to that great man. And so, while he welcomed Hew’s help in this matter, he viewed the intervention with a cautious circumspection. His instincts had been sound. He had believed, nonetheless, that Hew was placed in his household as a personal servant, as a cover for his investigations in the custom house. He had never quite grasped that it was the other way round.
‘I do not understand,’ Frances had remarked at last, on that first occasion when he told his tale. ‘Why you are come to England, when it is so clear to see how much you miss your home. Surely, since it grieves you, you ought to return there.’
For he had been too free and open with the truth, of the parents he had lost, of his sister Meg, who lived upon the land, and of her husband Giles, whom he had assisted working for the Crown, and of his work and teaching at the university. And all of which convinced, as it was meant to do, and coloured in the telling with the rawness of his loss, his exile from the country he had called his own, so moved and impressed them that they took him to their hearts.
He had answered simply, there was nothing for him there, since he did not like the law. ‘In my heart, I have learned that I am not a scholar.’ He had dared to suppose, their son Thomas was the same. ‘He stilled in me that spirit of adventure, that he has himself. When Master Secretary Walsingham came on embassy to Scotland, I applied to him, whether with my learning I might be of service, in some poor application of my studies in the law. It pleased him to accept me as a servant in his household. At Thomas’ request, he has sent me on to you.’
‘You see, there,’ Joan had said, comforted at this. ‘That is a thoughtful boy. Indeed, it is the essence of a loving son.’
William had answered, ‘Perhaps. You have no inkling, I imagine, when he will return? He does not stoop to tell us much of his affairs.’
Phelippes was in France. Hew knew no more than that. He looked forward, with a fascinated dread, to the prodigal’s return.
Frances had shown him the loft, where, in that house, he had slept ever since. At the door she had said, ‘Are you truly Tom’s friend? You are not like him at all.’
Chapter 3
A Quiet Man
They came to Caxton village on the cusp of nightfall, as the clock struck nine. Both were hot and tired; the grey horse had begun to hang and falter, picking over stones, fretful and fastidious. They were thankful to find shelter at the Crown, William’s favoured resting place on forays into Cambridgeshire. Grey Gelding was familiar with the stable here, and well assured of welcome. On credit to his master, Hew had the indulgence of a private room underneath the eaves, where he took his supper, with a stoup of ale to wash away the dust and rigor of the road. There he lay to rest, to quiet introspection in the rising darkness, muffled from the drinkers who made merry down below. The bed was sweet and clean, and presently he felt the willing bands of sleep, and closed his eyes to doze.
It had been at night that he had first encountered Phelippes, not long after Christmastide, lying in his bed in the loft at Leadenhall. He was woken at the crack of a brittle winter’s dawn by the wrenching of the blankets that were wrapped around his feet.
‘Jesu, thou art sluggish as a Scotsman’s fart. Make shift will you, sirrah?’
He dared not strike a light to look upon the face, which, dredged up from his dreams, he knew belonged to Tom. But when the morning broke, and he saw him clearly, Phelippes was so like, and unlike, his imagining, he had to look again. He was small and slight, in his narrow-waisted doublet, slender as a woman, or a young boy half his age. He wore his fine hair long, a darkened shade of sand that tapered to the yellow of a sculpted beard, tenderly exact. His fair complexion scabbed and pitted with the pox had deepened to a rose of a more livid shade. His eyes, a clear blue-grey, looked blandly on the world, and kept their secrets close. In looks, he and Frances could well have bee
n brother and sister. Yet they were nothing alike. Frances wore her flaxen tresses pinned back from her brow, the bloom upon her cheekbones delicate and clear, the gaze in her grey eyes intelligent and frank.
By morning they were close, though not exactly, friends. It had been a bold and thoughtful course of action, for if Phelippes had arrived home in the fullness of the day, they would not have had the chance of private talk alone. By breakfast, they had known each other more than well enough to convince the Phillips family that they had been friends for years.
‘Tomorrow, you begin your schooling,’ Phelippes had declared.
Hew had pointed out he had already started it.
‘Ah, and you may think so. So much have I heard. Your Latin is beneath contempt, Laurence Tomson says.’
So Phelippes had begun a calculated rivalry, and by mercilessly pricking at Hew’s strengths and skills, had shaped and sharpened them. As tutor, he would spare no stricture nor waste words on praise.
‘I shall want some time to play with my old friend, and show to him the town, that he is ill acquainted with,’ he had told his father. William Phillips, Hew remembered, had not been best pleased. In the space of a month, he had found Hew’s service indispensable, in his trade at home as much as in his dealings in the custom house. Though he relied on Frances in the keeping of accounts, Hew could write a letter with more plenitude and force, the full weight of the law, resting in his hands, while William Phillips’ own hand, riddled with the gout, struggled to adapt to the holding of a pen. Wherefore he resisted: ‘He is acquainted with the markets and the custom house, and with Leadenhall. I cannot think where else he would wish to go. At sixpence a day, he is here to work.’ Hew was retained as his clerk for eight pounds a year, with full bed and board, sheets and a blanket, shirts, coat and hose. If nothing else, the cloth merchant was generous with his clothes.
‘At five pence a day,’ his son had corrected, ‘you may bear the loss. Besides, he belongs to Master Secretary Walsingham, and is here on loan.’
The old man had bridled at this, but despite his objections, Hew was released two days weekly to Tom, without loss of a place more open and respectable, or remit of pay.
In those days, he was worked as hard as ever in his life. Phelippes had a house in Holborn, where he taught Hew how to make up ciphers of his own, convolute and intricate, some of several layers. Of such ciphers, Walsingham required an endless new supply, for they were changed as quickly as his agents could get used to them. They must be opaque enough to baffle anyone who did not hold the key, yet clear enough to spill their secrets easily, to anyone who did. Hew had built his first attempt upon the Book of Common Prayer, and had been dismayed when Phelippes solved it easily. ‘You could not choose a key more indiscreet and obvious. Why not write it plain, in English, and be done with it? Or if you would be cryptical, in your own vile Scots?’ He meant no lasting malice in his piercing wit, which was his natural voice; Phelippes was a perfect mimic, and his cruelties were dispensed with careless generosity, often ending up in helpless fits of laughter. His mimicry had taught Hew to amend those imperfections which had marked him as a Scot, and return to the refinements he had learned among the French, which Phelippes, even-handed, ridiculed in turn. His scorn had the effect of spurring on Hew’s efforts, which was his intent.
Hew’s education, under Phelippes’ hands, took him to the belly of that teeming city, to taverns, bull and bear pits, dank and fleshly stews. When he surfaced, he could taste it, sawdust, iron and blood, and a new kind of excitement quickened in his veins. With Phelippes, he had played at dice and dealt in corners, dimly lit, with a stream of dark-lipped strangers, who slipped by like ghosts. Phelippes had a liberal purse, which he dispensed in drink, though he was rarely drunk. Nor was he ever drawn into a tavern brawl, for even when it seemed to Hew he started one himself, he somehow had the knack of sliding out from under it. In all things, he was quick. His shrill wit and incisiveness were often turned to charm; and no one could deny he made engaging company. Yet though Hew was aware he owed a debt to him, for all his time and care, he did not feel at ease with him, or count him as a friend. When he could escape, he went to Seething Lane, and sometimes in that winter left the filth and stew to walk with Laurence once again through quiet lanes and streets, or row upon the river that was white with frost. On those rare occasions, he felt clean, at peace. One day at a fair he had bought a little horse of sugar-gilded gingerbread for Laurence Tomson’s child. Frances found a ribbon for a halter round its neck, a little scrap of red. Phelippes had remarked upon it, watchful and amused. ‘You have won the friendship of the quiet man. That is rare indeed. No other man but Walsingham ever saw his house.’ By habit, he referred to Laurence as ‘the Quiet Man’; sometimes, too, the ‘Muscovite’, which Hew, when he first heard it, had not understood. He took the sugar horse to Seething Lane, for he would not for the world disturb him at his rest. But Laurence had insisted he must come himself, to give the child her gift. Hew had gone to dine with them one Sunday after church on cold cuts and a cheese, and a salad made of roots. The little girl had said the grace, and Jane had sung a psalm. The child had clasped the horse. ‘He is too good to eat. I will keep him safe, in my treasure box. May I fetch it, now?’
Jane had smiled, why not? The child had disappeared into the sleeping space, returning with a box. And Hew, who had expected to be shown a pebble or a shell, was astonished at the toys the little girl brought out. A pocket wrought in silver with a clasp of pearl, a psalter set with emeralds, in a case of gold, a ruby like a gull’s egg in a golden nest.
‘My Daddie got these for me. The bird’s nest was a gift, from the king of Russia. He is called the Czar.’
‘Put those away, now,’ Laurence had said. ‘They are not for Sunday play. The little horse too. You can eat him at supper.’
His daughter had kissed the gingerbread horse, sucking the sugar that clung to her lips. ‘I will keep him for ever. I never will eat him.’
Her mother had laughed. ‘Do not make promises that you cannot keep.’
When Jane bent low to fill his cup, Hew had confessed to her, ‘I feel foolish to have brought her such a trifling thing.’
‘Indeed, you should not. You can see by her face how much she loves him, though I fear he will be gone by bedtime.’
‘I had no idea she had such precious toys.’ He could not reconcile it with that modest house.
‘Precious?’ Jane had echoed. ‘I suppose they are.’
‘But you must know their worth.’
‘To Laurence, they are worth that they make our daughter smile, like your gift of gingerbread, and little more than that. They were given to him by some great men on his travels. He went, in his time, to many far places. Moscow is the place he remembers most of all. But he does not care to mention it. Katherine and I are glad he does not go there now. We do not see enough of him.’
‘What do you speak of?’ Laurence had smiled at them, helping his daughter to close up the box.
‘I was telling Hew, of the travels you once made.’
‘Once.’ It was plain enough that he would not be drawn. The Muscovite, Hew thought. What Laurence had been once was buried in the past. Phelippes might allude it, but would never tell.
‘See how modest he is,’ Jane had laughed. ‘He does not care at all for precious things.’
Laurence had glanced at his small daughter’s face. ‘Do I not, though?’ he had asked.
Hew had worked hard, and learned quickly. He was rewarded at last. Walsingham sent word to him that he might send a letter with the despatches to Scotland to his brother-in-law, Giles Locke, at the university. The terms of the letter were carefully prescribed by Thomas Phelippes: the ambush at Dysart had surprised Hew, as much as his captors. The outlaws had left him for dead. By God’s grace, he had survived, and crept into a wood, where he lived on roots and berries for the space of several weeks. Once the clamour had died down, he had made his way through shadows to the English border, which he ha
d crossed buried deep inside a cart of dung.
‘Why dung?’ he had objected. Phelippes had grinned at him. ‘Because the Scots will swallow any kind of shit. You want a story that is credible, that does not leave a trace, with just enough of the implausible to test their disbelief; that small, contentious detail will persuade them it is true.’
Hew had not been convinced. Phelippes was indulging his own foul sense of humour. Yet he had no option but to comply. To send a private letter of his own – even if it did not pose a danger to his family – would cost more than he earned in a year.
At Berwick, Phelippes’ version of the tale went on, he had met with old friends of his father, who had helped him with money and clothes – you were a sore sight to them – Phelippes had sniggered – and set him on the way to London, where he found employment in the custom house, by virtue of his education and his skill in languages. A letter by return could safely find him there.
He sent his love to his sister, and assured them both that he was safe and well, and whatever else they heard, he denied all accusations that were made of him, maliciously, and falsely, and swore before God who had saved and sheltered him, that he was loyal still, as ever, to God and King James.
That, Phelippes said, was all. He was not permitted to include a private line for Meg, but the letter must be sent to Giles at the College of St Salvator, where there was no doubt it would be read and noted, by whatever spies were working for the king. There was, of course, no mention made of Phelippes or of Walsingham, the house in Seething Lane or of Leadenhall.
Even then, Phelippes would not be content, scouring through the letter he had made Hew write again, with no subtle piece of Scots, lest some secret might be hidden in a foreign word. The result was anodyne, squeezed dry of its sentiment, and all that had remained to assure Giles of its writer was the sureness of its script, in Hew’s familiar hand, that was framed and tempered in the time they shared in France, no other mark remaining of the sender’s heart.
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