The Best of Men (55 page)

“What a perfidious man! You must dismiss him at once. After all, you are quite innocent of such a thing!”

“Of course I am,” he told her, although he was thinking of that conversation back in September, in Pembroke’s coach; as he had said to Beaumont, he might so easily have agreed to an alliance with the King’s would-be murderer. “But some people believe otherwise. As you know, I talked with Mr. Beaumont at the wedding feast. His brother Thomas must have overheard some of what we said and misconstrued it, thinking that Beaumont is assisting me in these communications with Parliament. Thomas reported to Hoare, who went straight to the King and asked permission to detain Beaumont for questioning. And the King agreed,” Falkland murmured, closing his eyes.

“But can it not be explained to His Majesty that Thomas made a simple mistake?”

Falkland sighed again and turned to her. “Alas, what he overheard could prejudice me, although Beaumont and I were talking of something else altogether.” He hesitated; should he tell her about the conspiracy? In the end, nervous to mention Pembroke’s name, he gave her a modified version of it.

She stared at him, aghast. “Was this why Mr. Beaumont came here to find you after the wedding?”

“No. He was also helping me to obtain proof of Hoare’s treacherous behaviour towards me. We were to meet on Christmas Eve, when he would bring me a witness to it, but he did not appear. The next day I learnt of his detention from an ally in Council. Naturally, Hoare will interrogate Beaumont about the conspiracy. He is convinced that Beaumont has not been honest with him about all the details. And he’s right: Beaumont mistrusted him and was bringing information straight to me.” Falkland paused; such an irony that he had trusted Hoare over Beaumont. “If I know Hoare,” he began again, “he will want all the credit of unveiling the regicides for himself.”

“Why not pursue these men without him?”

“I cannot do that. All my agents are too loyal to him.” Except Beaumont, Falkland reflected, whom Hoare could not control.

“Then you must put pressure on His Majesty to secure Beaumont’s release,” Lettice insisted sensibly.

“My dear, I spoke to the King as soon as I found out, and told him that Hoare’s allegations were groundless. But I am afraid he did not entirely believe me. Hoare has assured him that Beaumont will not be kept for long; he said Beaumont was one of his best agents. And now I can only pray he sticks to his word.”

“Both of us are too old for such a venture,” Seward grumbled, as he and Clarke made their way early in the morning to the Blue Boar tavern.

“It was you who conceived of it,” Clarke pointed out.

Over a week had passed since Beaumont had set out for the same location, and Seward had spent many sleepless nights worrying why he had not resurfaced after his meeting with Lord Falkland. Had the planned encounter with Captain Milne ever happened? If not, where
was Beaumont? Although Seward generally avoided female company, he had decided that he must talk to Mistress Savage, and he brought along Clarke for moral support.

In the taproom of the Blue Boar, the tavern keeper directed them to an upstairs chamber, saying that Mistress Savage kept late hours and might not yet be awake. Undeterred, they ascended, Clarke puffing at the exertion, and Seward knocked at the door.

“Who is there?” asked someone from within. The voice was unlike that of a woman; to Seward it had more the quality of a youth’s, newly broken.

“Dr. Clarke and Dr. Seward of Merton College,” Clarke announced in his authoritative baritone.

The door opened a margin, and the muzzle of a pistol poked out at them. Clarke clutched Seward’s arm. “Beaumont’s,” Seward said to Clarke, indicating the pistol, and to her, “Mistress Savage, we are friends of his.”

She lowered it. “Then be welcome.”

To Seward, she resembled one of those lascivious spirits whom the Church Fathers claimed were sent to torment the dreams of honest men. Her heavy-lidded eyes might have graced the portrait of some Italian Madonna, yet in her mouth he read the promise of vice rather than virtue, as in her tumbled hair and the contours of her body, ill-concealed beneath a flimsy nightgown and a satin wrap. She did not apologise for her déshabille but waved for them to take a seat on the unmade bed, at which Clarke lowered his bulk gratefully. Seward remained standing.

“What is your relation to Mr. Beaumont?” she asked.

“I have known him for fifteen years,” replied Seward. “I was his tutor when he was a lad up at university.” She turned to Clarke, who said nothing, and so Seward added, “Beaumont left my rooms on Christmas Eve to call on you. I haven’t heard from him since and hoped you might be able to shed some light on the matter.”

She considered them a while. “Let us be straight with each other. Did you know he was to meet with my Lord Falkland that night, after he came here?”

“Yes, madam,” said Seward, reluctantly.

“Someone – I cannot guess who – must have informed Falkland’s spymaster, Colonel Hoare, of this. Hoare’s guards surrounded the tavern, seized Beaumont, and took him to the Castle, where he is presently being held.”

Seward and Clarke exclaimed aloud. “Who else knew that he was to come to your chamber?” Clarke asked sternly.

“Only he and I … or so I thought until now,” she said, eyeing them both. “I was taken into Hoare’s custody also, and questioned. I told Hoare that Beaumont had visited me for the reason many men will visit a woman at night. He could lay no charge against me other than that of having loose morals, and he could not stop Lord Digby from securing my freedom the next day.”

“You were to provide the informant on Hoare,” said Seward.

“Ah, so you were privy to it all! Yes, he was waiting to speak to Falkland. Now he will not come forward, fearing arrest himself. I shall do what I can to make him reconsider, but in the meantime Beaumont is at Hoare’s mercy.”

“What is the charge against him?”

“Hoare would not tell me, nor can I find out. Hoping for some information, I went to see a mutual
friend
,” she continued, speaking the last word as if she disliked the taste of it. “Charles Danvers has been into his cell and says that he is being kept in the most disgusting conditions, and has fallen sick.”

“Who is this Danvers, and why is he permitted access?” Seward demanded.

“Danvers is a sorry wretch without a mind of his own. He knew Beaumont abroad, and he is an agent of Hoare’s, who wants him to
encourage Beaumont to talk, in lieu of sterner measures, probably to wring out some false confession about Falkland’s doings with Parliament.”

“Men such as Danvers are often unknowing agents of evil,” Seward said bitterly, “and the first to get trodden upon.”

“As he deserves, by the sounds of it,” Clarke expostulated.

“Yes,” she said, “though he did confide in me that the fellow guarding Beaumont’s cell might be bribed to let a visitor in, as long as Hoare doesn’t find out about it. For obvious reasons I cannot go to the Castle again, but you gentlemen might have better luck.”

Clarke frowned at Seward. “I don’t advise it.”

“While I have a particular detestation of that place,” Seward said, remembering his own confinement within its walls, “I must concur with Mistress Savage. We are sufficiently harmless in appearance, and if we come bearing gifts –”

“There I can help you,” said Mistress Savage, rising from the bed. She went to a trunk in the corner of her room from which she selected two fine necklaces and a pair of earrings. “Take these to the pawn shop in Catte Street. They’ll fetch their price at this time of the year, when all the gallants in town are bent on showering their mistresses with baubles. If they contribute to liberating our friend, I shall be happier than I could ever be in wearing them.”

“Madam,” said Seward, “you must have strong feelings for Beaumont, to make such a sacrifice for his welfare.”

“I must look to my own welfare as much as his,” she responded indifferently. “Hoare is no friend of mine.”

“We thank you. Well, sir,” he said to Clarke, “we should get us to Catte Street. Oh – and madam, might I take Beaumont’s pistols with me, in the hope that I may return them to him once he is out of gaol?”

“Yes, and his cloak which he also left here.” She had it folded neatly, and held it a moment, stroking the cloth gently with her fingertips, before surrendering it.

“We thank you again, and good day, madam,” he told her.

Clarke only nodded at her as they departed, laden with their spoils. “She is no better than a strumpet, despite her fancy trappings,” he opined to Seward, once they were out of earshot. “Never trust a woman, that’s what I’ve always said. And plain is bad, but pretty is worse.”

“She is more beautiful than pretty,” Seward corrected him, “and beautiful women are by far the most dangerous. Though they hold no appeal for me.”

“Nor me,” Clarke agreed.

“Just as well, for you are no Adonis, with that monstrous belly of yours.”

“And nor are you, you rack of old bones.”

They quitted the Blue Boar for the shop in Catte Street, where all went as Mistress Savage had anticipated. Having disposed of the jewels, they walked back to Merton to discuss how to approach Beaumont’s guard at the Castle. As they gained the new quadrangle, Seward espied a man waiting outside the entrance to his chambers.

“Dr. Seward,” said Walter Ingram, “do you remember me?”

Seward felt suddenly alert; Beaumont had told him of Ingram’s relationship to Radcliff. “I do indeed, sir,” he answered.

When they had made their greetings, Ingram requested a private talk, and so Clarke went off to his own rooms.

“I don’t flatter myself that it is my company you seek, after all these years,” Seward said to Ingram, showing him indoors. “Are you looking for Beaumont?”

“Yes. I went expecting to find him at Chipping Campden, but he vanished a fortnight ago, on the night of his sister’s wedding, and hasn’t been heard from since. His parents are both very angry with him. Do you know where he is?”

“In detention at Oxford Castle.”

“Why? What trouble is he in?”

“I wish I could tell you,” replied Seward, with partial truth.

Laurence was roused from a febrile sleep by the squeaking of a bolt.

Danvers peered into the cell, holding his nose. “Beaumont, I’m getting you out.”

“Did you see Falkland?” Laurence asked, hearing his voice tremble.

“Not yet, but what matters is, you’ll soon be free. You poor fellow, you’ve been almost two weeks in that shit hole. My God, how you smell!”

Laurence was so shaky from lack of nourishment and exercise that he allowed Danvers to help him down the stairs. They passed through various passageways into a far more habitable part of the Castle; then Danvers stopped and said, “In here.” They entered a chamber where a fire blazed in the hearth. There was a table set with food and drink, and a servant in attendance. On a sideboard nearby stood a bowl, a jug of steaming water, and shaving implements.

“Sit down, man. You’ll feel better with some of this inside you,” said Danvers, pouring him a cup of wine.

Laurence sat and accepted it, his hand quivering; what trick was being played on him, he wondered, as he downed the contents. The alcohol caught in his throat and he started to cough. “Now I want to leave,” he said, when he had recovered.

“You will, but Colonel Hoare has to speak with you.” Laurence glared at Danvers. “You should eat something, Beaumont, to get your strength back.”

“I hope he paid you well for this,” Laurence murmured.

After tasting a small amount of stew and drinking more wine, he let the servant help him to wash and shave. Almost as soon as he was finished, Hoare strode in.

“Mr. Beaumont, you are refreshed, I trust,” said Hoare, inspecting the room as if he were measuring it for new furniture. He stopped beside Laurence’s chair and laid a hand on his shoulder. “We did work together quite well, sir, and I should like us to do so again. I have no interest in keeping you cooped up when we’ve business to finish.” Hoare glanced at Danvers. “Off you go.” Danvers disappeared obediently, with an anxious backward frown at Laurence. “Now, sir,” Hoare began again, “we both know that Falkland has been in talks with certain Parliament men, and that you are abetting him. It’s not a serious issue, in all likelihood, but we must have it out in the open. Supply me with the details, and I shall set you free.”

“Why am I even here?” demanded Laurence. He was well aware that ten or so days in solitary confinement were nothing compared to Hoare’s usual methods; either the arrest had not been authorized or else Hoare was on orders not to mistreat him.

“I am sorry to confess,” said Hoare, “that your brother Thomas described to me a conversation that you had with Falkland at your sister’s wedding.” Laurence sighed; so the footfalls in the snow that night had been Tom’s. “He also warned me Mistress Savage might be party to your work for Falkland,” Hoare continued, his face smug. “That is how we found you. My men had been watching the Blue Boar for some days. Out of duty, I told the King, and he is permitting me to investigate.”

“Is Falkland also in gaol?”

“No, no,” laughed Hoare. “He is with His Majesty and the rest of Council, preparing for the next round of negotiations with Parliament. As you may imagine, the King wished to sort out this little indiscretion before the Commissioners arrive at the end of January. It is as well that he should be able to trust his Secretary of State not to agree to any overgenerous terms with the rebels, don’t you think?”

“He
can
trust Falkland,” Laurence said, “and whatever my brother heard, I can explain.”

Hoare’s face became animated. “You and Falkland mentioned names: the Earl of Pembroke, Edmund Waller, Hyde, Culpeper, and John Earle. The first two are on Parliament’s side and the others purport to be on His Majesty’s. Be honest, sir: are they not in secret league together?”

“Not at all,” Laurence exclaimed, though he cursed his mistake in giving Hoare such an entrée.

“Then in what context were you talking of these men?”

“I can’t remember exactly. We may have been discussing the peace negotiations.”