by Graham Brack
Ah, but now we have another conundrum. How does Delphi communicate his discoveries to The Hague? There must be someone else in England who knows Delphi’s identity, so why not get Wevers to meet him so that the offer can be passed to Delphi? We have to call the intermediary something, so let us name him Apollo, who was the god honoured in the temple at Delphi.
Why ask Apollo to contact Delphi to ask him to speak to Wevers instead of simply telling Apollo what we wanted? The obvious reason is that we do not want Apollo to know what Delphi is being asked; and why might that be?
I poured a cup of wine and stared into its deep red interior; and then it came to me.
Whoever Apollo was, he would not want Delphi to share the information being sought. Now, what was it?
Large ships being built in the Medway! That was it. The supply of information had been interrupted for a few months. Did someone in The Hague suspect that the material being collected by Delphi was being intercepted by Apollo? Of course, I had overlooked the matter of the missing pouch. We could be sure that Wevers had not kept the appointment, so Delphi did not have the pouch.
So now we had two suspects. Whoever Apollo was, he may have had some connection with the navy such that he would come under suspicion if the information leaked out, even though he had not personally supplied it. He would not want Wevers to get that information, or even to meet Delphi if that meant that Apollo’s own role in blocking the spying came to light.
But why would Delphi himself intend any harm to Wevers? It wasn’t as if Wevers knew who Delphi was.
That little spark lit up for me again.
Delphi might not know that. He might assume that Wevers had been told who he would be meeting; and if he had decided to stop supplying intelligence, maybe he feared that Wevers would come looking for him and expose him. Avoiding the rendezvous would not work if Wevers knew whom to seek out.
Well done, Mercurius! You had one suspect, and now you’ve made another one. Stop now, before you make matters worse.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The banquet was being set up in the Banqueting House, and I could see harassed servants running back and forth across the yard bearing platters or pushing carts with the heavier items on them.
One might have thought that staging a banquet at next to no notice would present a challenge for Charles, but his kitchens were worked hard anyway and I suppose if you feed a lot of people every day, feeding them more formally is not quite as difficult as it would have been for William, who probably did not even have the number of dishes and platters that would be needed.
William was not a gourmet, but neither was he a gourmand. He ate when he needed to, and as much as he needed to, and he disliked formal dinners at which he would be compelled to make polite conversation or, as he described it, waste time. The Princess Mary was not often to be seen at her uncle’s banquets, I understood, otherwise she might have found the Dutch court an austere place. I have heard many epithets applied to my master over the years, but I never heard a man call him frivolous.
As it happened, the Princess had been summoned from Richmond to join the festivities so that her complete delight in the plans made for her could be demonstrated. I was unsure that this was wise, having witnessed her red-rimmed eyes a few days earlier, but perhaps she had been schooled in the interim and brought to understand the great honour that my master was doing to her.
William was not one for grand palaces. He would rather have three small ones than one large one, so Mary could expect variety of residence rather than excessive opulence. On the other hand, looking at the ramshackle condition of some parts of Whitehall, perhaps she would be pleasantly surprised by the Binnenhof. Around forty years before, plans had been drawn up by Mr Inigo Jones to completely rebuild Whitehall, but the purse of King Charles I had been inadequate to complete the work, and the Banqueting House in which we were now assembled was a sample of what might have been.
Since this was a special occasion, I had donned a clean collar and hose and shaved especially carefully. My hair was freshly brushed, though I declined the perfumed powder one of the servants offered me. As I entered the hall, I could detect that I was probably the only man who had done so.
With the ending of the Puritan ascendancy in England, the fashion for black and white had been supplanted by a more colourful approach, not restricted only to the ladies. Paston was wearing a suit of gold satin with an outrageous red feather in his hat, while his wife was more primly tricked out in dark blue and silver. Coventry, Compton and I were the only ones keeping to our black outfits; even Van Langenburg had adopted a scarlet sash and gloves, while Vlisser wore a gold collar of such dimensions that I was surprised that he could walk under it. I have seen prisoners in lighter fetters.
Having been commanded to be in place by five o’clock, I was surprised when the appointed hour brought no sign of the King, and said so to Van Langenburg.
‘Oh, he’s probably having a nap,’ Van Langenburg answered. ‘It gives him something to do between breakfast and dinner.’
Just then the Bishop of London appeared at my elbow. ‘A word, if you please, Master,’ he said urgently, and plucked me away with a nod of apology to Van Langenburg. ‘I should be grateful for your help,’ he said. ‘There has been a most disturbing development.’
‘Indeed? How can I assist?’
‘The Princess Mary is most distressed. Someone has sent her an anonymous letter concerning the private life of your master. She is minded to show it to her uncle as evidence that your master is not free to marry.’
I gulped. To be honest, I gulped several times. ‘But that is nonsense!’ I exclaimed. ‘He told me himself…’ But did he? He only said he planned to marry. He did not say that he was not already betrothed. Would I have known about it if he were? Maybe not, but Van Langenburg would surely know. ‘I must consult Van Langenburg,’ I began.
‘There is no time,’ Compton urged. ‘In any case, the Princess asked particularly that you should come to her. She will accept your word that this is not true.’
‘Then I must see the letter,’ I answered. I did not add “just in case it is true.” Not aloud, at least.
Compton conducted me to a suite of rooms at the end of a gallery where the Queen’s Wardrobe was housed and where the Princess had been dressing with the assistance of some of the Queen’s maids. I entered, not without some trepidation at insinuating myself into a place of so feminine a nature.
It was not a picture of tranquillity. Her Majesty the Queen was there, displaying evidence of the highest anxiety and occasionally erupting in a string of Portuguese. I must allow that she was a comelier woman than I had been led to believe, and considerably thinner than was the fashion amongst English ladies, many of whom were stoutly built.
In one corner the Princess sat sobbing into a handkerchief that would have made an adequate sail for a small boat. I had not expected that the Princess Anne would be there, but she was, exhibiting her sisterly affection by gently patting Mary on the back.
‘There, there!’ she said. ‘Pray do not take on so. I told you he was a monster. I shall not marry. Not a man, anyway.’
‘You can’t marry anyone else,’ Mary explained through her tears.
‘When you’re Queen, you can do what you want,’ Anne replied. ‘I shall.’
I advanced and bowed with a gentle cough to betray my presence.
‘Oh, Master!’ Mary cried. ‘I am so glad that you are come.’ She reached for a paper beside her and held it out to me, convulsing once more in sobs and waving it wordlessly for me to take.
I have heard scholars remark that something is written in an educated hand. I do not know what they mean by that, because surely the fact that it is in comprehensible language rather than a child’s scrawl means it is an educated hand; but here I could see that this was written by one who was used to writing. It was fluid, without blots or misspellings (so far as I could judge, since it was in English) and admirably to the point.
Let Yo
ur Royal Highness be advised that Prince William is not free to contract a marriage, having committed himself to a lady in his own land, by name Elisabeth van der Nisse. His party will deny this, of course, but it is so.
I was momentarily nonplussed, but then it dawned on me that the writer had confused two people. The mother Elisabeth was married and at least a decade older than William. Her daughter Elisabeth was far too young to attract his notice. Whoever had written this had clearly never met either of them; he had plucked a name from an almanac or perhaps heard it mentioned in passing. It was, of course, entirely possible that during Charles’ exile he had met the mother. I could not say for sure, though I will say that all I had heard suggested that Dutch women resisted his attentions much more vigorously than their English sisters.
All this was by the by; for now, my concern was to set the Princess’s mind at rest.
‘Your Royal Highness, this is all fiction,’ I said with all the conviction I could muster. ‘The Prince is not engaged, neither is the lady at liberty to be so, being already married.’
‘But why would someone make up something like this?’ the young lady asked.
There are times when providing comfort requires an elastic rendering of the truth, and this seemed to me to be one of them. ‘Jealousy, ma’am,’ I pronounced. ‘I suspect that the writer is envious of your good fortune in securing such a noble husband.’
To my surprise, and gratitude, the Bishop of London backed me up. ‘Envy of your fortunate state is entirely understandable,’ he said. ‘It is the lot of very few women to find so upright a man to marry.’
Mary dried her tears and forced a smile. ‘You will forgive me, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I am very young, and such wickedness is not something I have experienced before.’
The Queen appeared mightily relieved and offered me her hand to kiss, which I did. She said something to me in English, but I find English spoken by English people hard enough to follow; English spoken by a foreigner is beyond me, so I cannot tell what she said.
‘I must powder my face again,’ Mary announced, and began to redo her toilette in a very matter-of-fact way. In that moment, I could see that she and William would do well together. Neither had patience with fripperies and show, and both had a strong sense of duty.
Compton grabbed my arm. ‘Come, sir, let us withdraw,’ he murmured. ‘This is not a place for clergymen to be found.’
We bowed and left, and I hoped nobody had noticed that I had kept hold of the letter.
I do not know whether it was an example of the English sense of humour, but the table plan for the banquet left me sitting next to Lady Villiers, except that Princess Anne insisted on swapping places so that she could sit between us.
Finding conversation with a young girl quite difficult to maintain, I resorted to offering her sweetmeats every time she began to speak, which stemmed the flow of noise but earned me disapproving looks from her governess.
‘Come now, young lady, let that tartlet be your last,’ Lady Villiers said sternly.
‘I hate waste,’ Anne announced, grabbing another from the platter before I had the chance to return it to the table.
‘They won’t be wasted. The grown-ups will eat them when they have finished with their meat, if there be any left.’
I had an idea I wanted to test. ‘By your leave, Lady Villiers, may I ask a question of you?’
‘Indeed, sir, please do.’
‘I wondered if you recognised a sample of handwriting.’
I did not show the whole message, which would have seemed inappropriate given the setting, but folded it in half and half again so only a portion was visible. Lady Villiers examined it closely.
‘I fear not, sir,’ she said.
I was in the process of returning the letter to my sleeve when Princess Anne spoke. ‘Of course you do, silly,’ she said. ‘That’s Mr Coleman’s writing.’
And, do you know, that was the name I had thought to hear.
Before I did anything with the information, I just needed to clarify one thing. If Princess Anne recognised the handwriting, why did Mary not do so? And if Anne did, why had she not said so earlier?
The answer was simple in the event. Neither had actually looked closely at the letter. It had been opened and read by one of their ladies, and when Mary had been given the letter, she was so emotional that she did not look carefully at it but merely confirmed that it said what her lady said it did.
I waited until I could see Arlington on his own and then advanced on him with a purpose.
‘How are you enjoying the banquet, Master?’ he asked.
‘Very much, My Lord,’ I replied, ‘but I have something to discuss with you.’
‘Now?’
‘If possible. Let us find a quiet corner.’
Arlington looked at me closely and could see I was not to be deflected in my aim. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and led me to the garden from which I had seen Hallow at the window.
I produced the letter and handed it to him. ‘The Princess Mary was upset to receive this earlier today. I need hardly say that there is no truth in the allegation.’
Arlington nodded. ‘I knew Elisabeth van der Nisse when we were in your country. The notion that she would behave improperly is laughable.’
‘Thank you for your confirmation,’ I said. ‘I am informed that the handwriting is that of Mr Coleman.’
Arlington’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘Is it, by God?’ Then, having realised that this was not the sort of thing one says to a clergyman, he continued, ‘I beg your pardon. Shouldn’t have said that. But Coleman is a thorn in my side. He is a fanatical Catholic and devoted to the cause of France, but he has been protected by the Duke of York.’
‘I observed them in an argument a few days ago.’
‘The Duke was ordered by His Majesty to discharge Coleman from his service, which he did, but Coleman was then employed by the Duke’s wife as her secretary. He continues to lobby for a French alliance, but this will see him ruined.’
‘What shall we do with it?’
‘We will take it to the King, but not now. Let us enjoy the evening, and in the morning we will share what we know.’ Arlington led the way back to the banquet, pausing at the doorway to bend towards my ear with a smile. ‘I may even find it in my heart to be civil to Mr Coleman tonight, knowing what awaits him on the morrow.’
I conceived it to be my duty to inform Van Langenburg in confidence of the letter so that it would not come as a surprise if he heard anything about it. He congratulated me on my clever deduction and walked away before I could point out that actually it was Princess Anne who had recognised the hand.
Arlington’s secretary sidled up to me at breakfast and informed me that his master would be grateful if I could attend upon him in his office in a quarter of an hour. In order to ensure that I could find it without walking halfway round London, I persuaded him to sit and have a cup of tea with me. He accepted readily, tea being an expensive commodity in England, and in due time we proceeded through the corridors and staircases together. I was delighted to see that I could actually have found my way myself, though this pride came before a fall when we were leaving to go to the King and I attempted to exit through a closet.
The King was actually two-thirds dressed when we arrived, lacking only his coat and shoes, but surprisingly alert considering the convivial evening he had enjoyed. We could hear gentle female snoring from the chamber behind him, which may have accounted for his good humour, though this rapidly dissipated when he saw the letter.
‘Van der Nisse? Nonsense. I didn’t get anywhere with her, and I’m perfectly certain my nephew wouldn’t even have tried.’
There seemed to be nothing to say to this, but Arlington mumbled, ‘Quite, Your Majesty.’
‘Who wrote it, Arlington?’
‘We believe it to be the hand of Mr Coleman, sir.’
Charles was generally an even-tempered man, but his equanimity left him. ‘That fellow Coleman again! I w
ill have him gone, Arlington. My brother will not defy me on this again. Send him to me!’
‘Coleman, Your Majesty?’
‘No, my brother, you fool! He can have the interview with Coleman. I cannot trust myself to do it.’
Arlington left to invite the Duke of York to join us. I dithered, unsure whether to leave or go.
‘You! Stay!’ His Majesty commanded.
I did as I was bid. Technically I was not his subject, but he had armed guards outside and a broad view of his prerogative powers. It is hard to conduct an argument about your rights successfully when your head is on the end of a pike.
‘Are we sure that is Coleman’s hand?’
‘I cannot speak to it, Your Majesty, but your niece Princess Anne recognised it.’
Charles seemed to be calming down somewhat. ‘Well, she is a clever girl. And she would have seen his writing many times, I suppose. How is your other enquiry going?’
‘I make progress, sir. Once Mr Coventry informs me who was giving Mr Morley his instructions, we should be much wiser.’
Charles held his foot in the air so his valet could slip a shoe on. ‘If Coventry prevaricates, let me know. He’s a good man, but he wouldn’t admit today was Friday until it was forced out of him.’
I didn’t think it was Friday, but maybe it was in England. After all, they didn’t use the Gregorian calendar like us. We were ten days ahead of them.
The door opened and the Duke of York walked in, regarding me with some suspicion. I bowed and carefully avoided any eye contact. This probably made me look shifty, but it eliminated some awkwardness.
‘Your daughter Mary was sent this yesterday,’ Charles barked. ‘It’s a clear provocation.’
