An Instance of the Fingerpost (46 page)

‘You surprise me,’ I said, ‘He seems a loyal subject now. Besides, what services could a priest and mathematician provide for someone like Thurloe?’

‘Many and varied,’ Morland said with a smile at my innocence. ‘Dr Wallis was the finest maker and breaker of codes in the land. He was never beaten, I think; never yielded to a stronger in cryptographical technique. For years Thurloe used his services; bundles of letters in code would be sent to him in Oxford, and the translations would come back on the next coach. Remarkable. We almost felt like telling the king’s men that they really should not waste their time putting letters into code at all, for if we captured them, Wallis could always read them. If he is your tutor, you should ask to see some; I’m sure he has them still, although he naturally does not advertise such records of his past activities.’

‘And you knew Thurloe as well? That must have been extraordinary.’

He was flattered by the compliment, and this goaded him to try and impress me the more. ‘Indeed. I was almost his right-hand man for three years.’

‘You are a family connection of his?’

‘Oh, dear me no. I was sent as an envoy to Savoy to plead on behalf of the persecuted Protestants. I was there for several years, and kept my eye on exiles there as well. So I was useful, and became trusted and was offered the post when I returned. Which I kept until I fled when discovered passing intelligence to His Majesty.’

‘His Majesty is lucky in his servants, then,’ I said, despising the man suddenly for his self-satisfaction.

‘Not all of them, by any means. For every loyal man like myself, there was another who would have sold him for a bag of sovereigns. I unmasked the worst of them by making sure that some of the documents Wallis produced were seen by the king.’

I was so close, I knew it. If I could only keep calm so that his suspicions were not aroused, I knew I could tease unheard-of treasures from him.

‘You hint that Dr Wallis and yourself are no longer on good terms. Is it because of what happened in those days?’

He shrugged. ‘It no longer matters. It is all past now.’

‘Tell me,’ I said, insisting, and I knew the moment the words were out of my mouth that I had pushed too far. Morland’s eyes narrowed, and the air of eccentric good humour drained out of him like sour wine from a bottle. ‘Perhaps you have acquired more interests at Oxford than in your studies, young man,’ he said quietly. ‘I would advise you to go back to your Dorset estate, and concern yourself with that, if indeed any such estate exists. It is a dangerous business for any man to occupy himself with matters that are none of his affair.’

He took my by the elbow and tried to guide me to the front door. I shook my arm free scornfully, and turned to confront him. ‘No,’ I said, confident that he would be no match for me, and that I could shake the information out of him if I so wished. ‘I wish to know . . .’

The sentence went uncompleted. Morland clapped his hands, and instantly a door opened, and a rough-looking man came into the room, a dagger thrust obtrusively in his belt. He said nothing, but stood awaiting orders.

I do not know whether I could have defeated such a man; it is possible, but it was just as possible that I would not. He had the air of the old soldier about him, and was certainly far more experienced in swordplay than I was myself.

‘You must excuse my conduct, Sir Samuel,’ I said, controlling myself as best I could, ‘but your stories are fascinating. It is true I have heard many tales at Oxford, and they interest me greatly, as they must all young men. You must forgive the enthusiasm and curiosity of youth.’

My words did not conciliate him. His suspicion, once aroused, could not be laid to rest. In his years of deceit and duplicity he had no doubt learned the value of silence, and he was not to be tempted into taking any risk. ‘Show this gentleman out,’ he said to the servant. Then he bowed to me politely, and withdrew. I was back on the noisy street outside a few moments later, cursing myself for my stupidity.

It was obvious by this stage that I needed to get back to Oxford. My quest was nearing its end and the answer to my remaining questions lay in that county. But it was too late to leave, and the next coach did not go until the following day. Had I been less exhausted, the constant scratching of the fleas in the straw pallet that was my communal bed would have irritated, and the noise of my companions disgusted, my senses. As it was, they occasioned no dismay at all, once I had securely bound my money bag to my waist, and ostentatiously placed my dagger under my pillow so that all could see that they were to beware of taking advantage of my sleep. The following morning I dawdled like a true gentleman of leisure, slowly drinking a pint of ale with my bread, and only leaving the place when the sun was well up.

As I had nothing better to do, I played the viewer of sights, visiting St Paul’s Cathedral – a scandalously run-down pile of stone, quite reduced from its former glory by the depredations of the Puritans, and yet more glorious in its decrepitude than the ill-formed conceit which is now being built to replace it. I watched the booksellers and hawkers of pamphlets who congregated in St Paul’s Yard, and listened to the criers and constables reciting the list of crimes and deceits which had been the previous night’s crop of malice. So many thefts, assaults, riots, it seemed the whole town must have been up all night to have committed them. Then I walked to Westminster and saw the Palace and gazed in awe at the very window from which King Charles stepped to his bloody martyrdom, covered now in black crêpe to commemorate that evil deed, and reflected awhile on the punishments the nation had endured because of that sinful act.

Such entertainments tired me quickly, though, so I bought myself some more bread from a street-seller, and walked back through
Covent Garden, which was no more agreeable to my senses now than it had been the previous day. I was hungry, and trying to decide whether to spend the vast quantity of money needed for a pint of wine in that place, when I felt a light touch on my arm.

I was not such a bumpkin that I did not realise what was probably about to take place, and I spun round and reached for my knife, then hesitated when I saw a finely dressed young woman standing beside me. She had a good face, but it was so covered in wig and beauty spots and rouge and whitening that God’s gifts to her could scarcely be discerned. Most noticeable of all, I remember, was the stink of perfume which so covered her natural aromas that it was like being in a flower shop.

‘Madam?’ I said coldly as she raised an eyebrow and smiled at my alarm.

‘Jack!’ cried the creature. ‘Do not say you have forgotten me?’

‘You have the advantage.’

‘Well, you may have forgotten me, but I cannot forget the gallant way you protected me under the stars near Tunbridge Wells,’ said she.

Then I remembered; the young whore. But how changed she was, and though her fortunes had obviously improved, in my eyes she had not changed for the better.

‘Kitty,’ I said, remembering her name at last. ‘What a fine lady you have become. You must forgive me for not knowing you, but the transformation is so great you cannot blame me too much.’

‘No, indeed,’ she said, waving a fan in front of her face in an affected manner. ‘Although no one calls me lady who knows me truly. Whore I was and now I am raised to a mistress.’

‘My congratulations,’ I said, for evidently she thought this was in order.

‘Thank you. He is a fine man, well connected and extremely generous. Nor is he too repulsive; I am a lucky woman indeed. With fortune, he will give me enough to buy myself a husband before he tires of me. But tell me, what are you doing here, gaping like a yokel in the middle of this street? It is not the place for you.’

‘I was looking for some food.’

‘There is plenty here.’

‘I cannot – will not – afford that.’

She laughed merrily. ‘But I can and will.’

And with a brazenness which took my breath away, she linked her arm in mine and led me back to the
piazza
and a coffee shop called Will’s, where she demanded a room to herself, and for food and drink to be brought. Far from being affronted at such a request, the servant obliged with obsequiousness as though she was indeed a lady of consequence, and a few minutes later we were in a commodious room on the first floor, overlooking the bustle below.

‘No one will object?’ I asked anxiously, concerned that her lord might send some bravos around in a fit of jealousy. It took her some moments to work out what I meant by this, but then she laughed again.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘He knows me too well to think me capable of ruining my prospects by such an indiscretion.’

‘May I know the name of your benefactor?’

‘Of course. Everyone else does. He is My Lord of Bristol, an entertaining and well-placed favourite of the king’s, if rather old. I caught him at Tunbridge Wells, so you see I have great reason to be grateful to you. I was there scarcely a day before I received a message asking to meet me. I pleased him as best I could, and kept him entertained, and thought that was that. The next thing I know, he wants my company back in London, and offers a handsome incentive.’

‘Is he in love with you?’

‘Goodness, no. But he is hot-blooded where his wife is an old prune, and he is mortally afraid of disease. It was all her idea; she spotted me in the street first of all and drew his attention to me.’

She wagged her finger at me. ‘You look about to launch into a sermon, Jack Prestcott. Do desist, I pray you, or you will vex me. You are too virtuous to do anything but disapprove strongly, but what would you have me do? I sell my body for my little bit of wealth and comfort. All around there are priests and ministers who sell their souls for theirs. I am in good company, and one more sinner among such a throng will hardly be noticed. I tell you, Jack, virtue is a lonely state in this age.’

I hardly knew what to say to this frank expression of depravity. I
could not approve of her, but I was disinclined to condemn, for that would have meant an end to our acquaintance and, despite everything, her company pleased me. All the more so because, to show off her good fortune, she ordered the best food and wine, and insisted I eat as much as my stomach could hold and my head endure. All the while she talked to me of town gossip, and of her lover’s inexorable rise at court so that (she said) he was a serious rival to Lord Clarendon in the king’s favour.

‘Of course, Clarendon is powerful,’ she said, affecting to know all the secret dealings of the government. ‘But all the world knows that his ponderous gravity drives the king to distraction, while the gayness of Lord Bristol keeps His Majesty amused. And this is a king who always sacrifices on the altar of amusement. So Lord Clarendon is vulnerable; it will not take much to eject him, and then I will be the second whore in the kingdom, after Lady Castlemaine. It’s a pity My Lord is a papist, as that is a great hindrance to him, but even that can be overcome, perhaps.’

‘You think any of this might happen?’ I asked, fascinated despite myself. It is odd how gossip of the high and mighty exercises such interest.

‘Oh, yes. I hope so. For Lord Clarendon’s sake as much as anything.’

‘I hardly think he will thank you for your solicitude.’

‘He should,’ she said, seriously for a moment. ‘Truly he should. For I have heard worrying tales. He has annoyed many powerful people and some are less peaceable and generous than My Lord. If he does not fall from power, I fear worse may befall him one day.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said. ‘Fall he will, but he is an old man and that is only natural. But he will always be rich and mighty and favoured. Such people as he, who never raise a sword nor put their courage to the test, always survive and prosper while better men fall by the wayside.’

‘Oho,’ she said. ‘Spoken from the heart, I would say. Is this why you are in London?’

I had forgotten I had told her of my quest, and nodded. ‘I was here to enquire after a man called Sir Samuel Morland. Have you ever heard of him?’

‘I believe I have. Is he not a man who concerns himself with mechanical devices? He often approaches people at court trying to beg influence for some scheme.’

‘Does he have any strong patrons?’ I asked. It is always well to know what you are dealing with; it would be alarming to discover that the man you wish to attack is defended by someone far more powerful.

‘Not that I know of. I believe he is associated in some way with schemes for draining fenland, so he may know the Duke of Bedford, but more than that I could not say. Do you want me to find out? It would be easy enough to do, and a pleasure to oblige.’

‘I would be deeply grateful.’

‘Then that is all the encouragement I need. It shall be done. Would you care to come to my lodging this evening? I attend My Lady Castlemaine in the morning, and My Lord in the afternoon, but the evenings are my own, and I am free to receive whomever I like. That is our understanding, and I must invite people, if only to show that I am keeping him to our agreement.’

‘It would be a pleasure.’

‘And now, I hope you are refreshed and prepared, as I must leave you.’