Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  And that, of course, settled it.

  Chloë pushed her hair behind her ears and knelt down on the carpet amongst the lists and costings before he could see that tears were stinging her eyes.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said irritably. ‘And if you lift a finger, I swear I’ll go back to bed.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ begged Mr Deveril, meekly doing as she said and concealing the acute relief it brought. ‘The truth is it’s just an excuse because I like to share my insomnia.’

  Head bent over a sheaf of papers, she retorted, ‘The truth – as someone once said – is that you don’t know when to recognise a piece of good advice and take it.’

  ‘Or how to tell it from interference?’

  ‘Quite.’ She sifted a handful of documents on to various piles and collected more from the litter around her.

  Alex forced down the temptation to say things for which this was definitely not the time and fell silent, watching her. The fall of shining hair brushed the floor where she knelt and the narrow, arched brows were drawn together in concentration as she went through the papers, filing them one by one. He leant his head against the chair-back and his eyes grew heavy as he followed the small, capable hands.

  He fell asleep very quickly and, through an hour of sorting and collating, Chloë glanced up from time to time to assure herself that he had not woken. Then she became absorbed in her task, checking and re-checking the piles until there was no doubt at all that only one document was missing. She sat on the floor, frowning thoughtfully, and then, hearing sounds that told her it was day and the servants were up, rose stiffly and went in search of Naomi.

  When she returned some half-hour later bearing a tray of warm medicinally spiced ale, Mr Deveril had not moved. Chloë set the tray on the desk and stood for a moment, seething with resentment. Then, because she had promised, she blew out the candles and opened the curtains. Sunlight came flooding in but still he didn’t stir and looking at his face, fine-drawn and bruised, Chloë wasn’t surprised. Then, hating the necessity, she set out to wake him.

  Eventually he sat up, wincing as the movement jarred his shoulder and rubbing a hand sluggishly across his eyes while Chloë put the ale in front of him and tried not to watch.

  ‘I need a shave,’ he said stupidly.

  ‘Yes. Never mind. Drink that.’ She paused, then added, ‘It’s still early – just past six. You only slept for an hour or so.’

  Alex took a drink and then looked up, the blue gaze focusing slowly.

  ‘I’ve kept you up all night. I’m sorry.’

  Chloë repressed a desire to scream. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve found what you wanted to know.’

  He was suddenly wide awake. ‘And?’

  ‘There’s only one thing missing. The Black Boy’s bill of lading.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bill of lading,’ she repeated. ‘The list of the cargo on – ‘

  ‘Yes. I know what it is.’ Alex stared at her with worrying intensity and then hauled himself to his feet. ‘Wait here, will you?’

  Chloë watched him go and then sat down, wondering if her control would last as long as she needed it. Then he was back and holding a piece of paper out to her.

  ‘A bill of lading, you said. Like this?’

  She looked and then, with surprise, into his face. ‘Yes. Only this is for the Arabella – Captain Vine’s ship. How did you get it?’

  ‘I rather think that it was put into my pocket by mistake last night at Whitehall,’ replied Mr Deveril slowly. ‘This man Vine … do you know anything about him?’

  ‘Not much. Captain Pierce thinks he’s either smuggling or breaking bulk.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘Put into your pocket? By that child?’

  He nodded and watched her, a curious smile touching his mouth.

  ‘Then somebody discovered their mistake and came to get it back but took mine instead,’ she went on in growing disbelief, ‘And we were chased all over the City and five men died … for a bill of lading?’

  ‘It looks that way, yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘That’s what I have to find out.’ The smile grew into one of enormous charm and, taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. ‘You may not realise it, but thanks to you I believe I may have the key. All that remains, is to find the door it opens.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Chloë, covering confusion with gloom. ‘You’re going to tell me to forget what I know and ask no questions.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. But not without gratitude.’

  She rose and walked wearily to the door, saying flatly, ‘The only thing you need thank me for is waking you up just now. Compared to that, the rest was nothing.’ And she went out.

  For a minute, Alex stared after her then, picking up the bill of lading, examined it carefully. He read every word, looked closely at both sides, held it to the light and found nothing that gave a clue to its importance. He tapped it thoughtfully against his hand. It might, of course, just be coded but he did not think so; which left only one other possibility. Reaching for the flint, he lit a candle and proceeded to warm the paper gently by the flame. And then smiled as, between lines of open script, new ones in faded ochre began to appear.

  The cipher was moderately complex but it presented few difficulties to one experienced in the art and half an hour later Mr Deveril was writing it neatly on to a fresh sheet of paper. Then he decoded the message which was brief and consisted of just three lines.

  Send detail sail power and planned movement.

  Submission re. Beverweed approved. Proceed.

  Urgent you increase victualing disruption.

  Alex drew a long breath and considered the words. Then, ‘Eureka,’ he said, without visible signs of rejoicing and, going to the door, shouted for Matt.

  By the time Mr Lewis made an appearance, Alex was sitting at Chloë’s desk assembling various writing materials in front of him and did not immediately look up, thus giving Matt the opportunity to make a comprehensive survey. He noted the marks on the face and hands and the tell-tale stiffness of one shoulder, then said, ‘She must have been a sturdy lass. What happened? Did you forget your money?’

  Mr Deveril raised cool blue eyes.

  ‘Sit down. If I had the time, I’d ask where the hell you were last night – but as it is, we need to hurry.’ He tossed the bill of lading across the desk. ‘Last night that was put in my pocket – a mistake it’s owners later tried to rectify by attacking us on our way home and then burgling this house. As you see, there’s an extra message in code.’ He flicked his translation in the wake of the original. ‘I’m about to make a copy which you’ll deliver to Captain Vine aboard the Arabella – make sure you put him off the scent with a quantity of naïve chatter. It’s vital he thinks this document is the original and myself entirely unaware of its hidden contents. Clear so far?’

  ‘I think I can just about follow you,’ said Matthew, annoyed.

  ‘Good. Once he has the paper, watch him and if – as I think likely - he sends a messenger out of London, follow him. I trust you’ve still got someone watching my cousin?’

  ‘Yes. He’s at Sandwich and looks like staying there a while longer.’

  ‘Then we must hope Captain Vine changes that. Unless we’re very unlucky, he’ll send the bill to Simon – who will then need to visit the Naval Office.’

  ‘You’re sure,’ asked Matt, ‘this it’s meant for Simon?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Mr Deveril smoothly. ‘The second instruction refers to Isabella van Beverweed who is not only Dutch but married to Lord Arlington. As we know, Simon has failed to discredit his lordship in other ways and so has presumably decided to try doing so through his lady.’ He paused. ‘Also, we have the not unimportant question of why that paper was put in my pocket.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A fortuitous coincidence. Their arrangements and information were, for once, poor – and presumably I was where Simon was expected to be. Someone hailed me loudly by name and the
obvious mistake occurred. Truly,’ finished Alex pleasantly, ‘God works in a mysterious way. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

  *

  Some three hours later, having furnished Matt with an artfully contrived forgery, then shaved, bathed and changed his clothes, Mr Deveril stowed the original carefully in his pocket and set off for Mr Beckwith’s lodgings in King Street. Giles greeted him civilly but without warmth and then waited to be given the reason for his visit.

  ‘I want you to come with me to Goring House,’ said Alex, without preamble. ‘I have a certain matter concerning our mutual endeavours to lay before Lord Arlington and it will save time if you’re there.’

  ‘What matter?’ asked Giles, unimpressed and irritated by Mr Deveril’s abrasive manner.

  ‘Come and you’ll find out. It won’t take long.’

  The dark grey eyes examined him impersonally.

  ‘You look somewhat the worse for wear.’

  His mouth curling at the understatement and his hand on the door-latch, Alex said, ‘You know me … never a dull moment.’

  Their journey to Goring House, situated on the edge of St James’ Park at the far end of the Mall, was accomplished in a short time and in total silence. Even when they stood in an antechamber waiting for the Secretary of State to receive them, they neither spoke nor looked at each other but maintained an air of studied relaxation. And then they were called in.

  In his late forties, Henry Bennet, first Baron Arlington, was distinguished from his fellows in two respects; the scar on his nose gained twenty years ago in a skirmish at Andover and the extreme formality of manner acquired during an exile spent at the court of Madrid. Both were in evidence as he rose from his desk and bowed slightly.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Please be seated. My assistant informs me that your business is urgent and so I have agreed to see you. However, I am expected at Whitehall within the hour so I would be obliged if you will come directly to the point.’

  ‘The point,’ said Mr Deveril, ‘is that, at the request of Prince Rupert, Mr Beckwith and I have spent five months trying to discover and identify a traitor within the Naval service. We are now, I hope, in a position to do so – subject to your lordship’s approval and a small amount of official help.’

  There was a long silence while Arlington looked at them narrowly. Then he said, ‘And why was I not told of His Highness’ suspicions before?’

  ‘Because suspicions are all they were,’ replied Alex. ‘Our orders were to furnish both the Prince and yourself with proof.’

  ‘Which you now have?’

  ‘Yes.’ Rising, Mr Deveril produced two folded sheets of paper and handed one to his lordship. ‘This bill of lading came into my possession yesterday. As you can see, it contains more than is at first apparent and is, in fact, the means by which our man receives his orders and relays his information. A simple device – but it works.’

  ‘And the message? I presume you have decoded it?’

  Alex nodded and, without speaking, passed over the second sheet.

  Arlington read it twice, a frown mantling his brow. Then, looking up, ‘If you are aware of the significance of the second of these instructions, I would be glad to know it.’

  ‘Yes. I thought you might.’

  Giles, who had possessed himself in patience up to this point, rose and crossed to where his lordship sat.

  ‘May I?’ he asked coolly, extending his hand. ‘Mr Deveril likes surprises and I know as little of this as you do, my lord.’

  Arlington passed the papers over, his eyes fixed on Alex. ‘Well?’

  Alex sat down again. ‘You are right in believing that it refers to your wife. The person for whom the message is intended presumably has some plan to discredit you through her. Indeed, he has already tried something of the sort which resulted in the unsuccessful accusation you faced last month.’

  ‘How do you know the two are connected?’ asked Giles sharply.

  ‘Because the gentleman in question holds detailed reports on both Lord Arlington and Sir William Coventry.’

  ‘How do you know?’ It was Giles again.

  His lordship stood up. ‘I assume you came by this information in an unorthodox manner that you would prefer not to disclose,’ he said shrewdly. ‘But the little I have seen of you, Mr Deveril, leads me to suspect that – having found these files – you then read them. Am I right?’

  Alex smiled. ‘Quite right, my lord. But you know as well as I that they contained nothing remotely treasonous … and, for the rest, you may depend on my discretion.’

  ‘I am obliged to you,’ said Arlington sardonically. ‘And would have been more so if you had seen fit to warn me. However. There remains only one question to be asked. The gentleman’s name.’

  There was a pause while Mr Deveril surveyed them with an air of chilly amusement.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said gently, ‘that I don’t propose to tell you.’

  ‘You what?’ snapped Arlington, startled out of his usual punctiliousness. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I prefer to give you the man himself – in flagrante, as it were.’

  ‘I might have known,’ said Mr Beckwith acidly, ‘that you’d find a way of turning this into a drama. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I am.’ Temper flared briefly and then was gone. ‘I’m also, if you can believe it, trying to ensure there can be no mistakes – and no need for further proof.’

  ‘That is all very well,’ said Arlington, ‘but there are other considerations. If your traitor is in a position to fulfil the requirements on that paper, he holds a post of some responsibility. You must realise that it is my official duty to determine the political implications of publicly arresting such a man.’

  ‘I do realise it,’ replied Alex, ‘but in this case I think you will find that your problems lie less with the man himself, than in the doubtful light his actions will cast on his innocent patron. And that, Sir Henry, is your affair not mine. What I require right now is a little help from yourself to enable me to complete the necessary arrangements.’

  His lordship sat down again. ‘Since you are perfectly aware that I need this person caught as quickly as possible, you may be sure of my complete attention.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Alex paused. ‘Very well. I’ve traced a copy of this bill of lading – complete with additions – and by now it will be in the hands of the same Captain Vine who mistakenly allowed it to stray into mine. We can only trust that he doesn’t notice the difference. His movements are being watched and, when he sends a message to his principal, I’ll know.’

  ‘This man, Vine,’ interrupted Arlington. ‘I want him as well.’

  ‘Naturally – and you’ll have him once he’s performed his function. But he’s just the carrier-pigeon. First we have to make sure of the vulture.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Giles. ‘So the vulture receives his orders and tries to fulfil them.’ He stopped and gave a brief, humourless laugh. ‘Of course. The Naval Office.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Alex. ‘The Naval Office – where our friend will go quite openly, expecting to be given the information he asks for. Only this time he won’t get it. And that, Lord Arlington, is where you come in. Can you secure the relevant files and ensure that Pepys and his staff tell all comers that they’ve been locked away on the King’s command and can only be seen with his permission?’

  His lordship nodded slowly. ‘Yes. But I don’t see - - ‘

  ‘You will,’ smiled Mr Deveril. ‘We’re going to make it impossible for our man to get what he wants legitimately and thus force him to try other methods. So long as he believes the documents are still there but inaccessible to him, he’ll have no choice but to break into the Office to take them. And when he does, we’ll be waiting.’

  ‘We?’ queried Mr Beckwith.

  The blue eyes filled with restrained exasperation.

  ‘I am not,’ said Alex, ‘inviting spectators, if that’s what you think. You
can come, or not – just as you please. Lord Arlington’s presence, on the other hand, is vital. Because, from this point on, I want all proceedings blessed with official sanction.’

  Lord Arlington nodded approvingly but Giles wasn’t satisfied. ‘Why?’

  The exasperation was no long restrained and, in one smooth movement, Alex was on his feet. ‘Because I don’t want to have gone to all this trouble for nothing and will expect some recognition. Why else?’

  *

  Within the space of three hours, Mr Deveril received word that Matt had successfully accomplished his mission and was currently travelling south-east out of London in discreet pursuit of Samuel Vine. He would, so his message said, advise Mr Deveril further in due course.

  It was at this stage that Alex discovered the flaw in his arrangements for he now had nothing to do but sit at home and wait for news. And with time on his hands, he did little but indulge in bitter recollections that were totally unrelated to the task ahead. Instead, it was his own voice that came back to taunt him with an eight-month catalogue of mistakes; the stupid jibes and pointless remarks he’d doubtless thought so clever; the off-hand way he’d given her that bloody trinket she now wore as if it were some sort of talisman; and worst of all, his callous, flippant reaction when she’d volunteered to undergo what had to be the most horrible of physical intrusions in order to secure the thrice-damned annulment. All of these things and more, all said without care or thought, to the girl he had been falling in love with; and all of them waiting now, like snares to trap him.

  She wasn’t stupid, his Marigold, and she knew too well what he was. Try to woo her now with all the arts one possessed but had never thought necessary to practise with her and she would see through them. So one was left with no alternative but simply to declare oneself, which – after all that had gone before – would sound either fatuous or highly improbable. And even if, by some miracle, she believed it, what had he ever done to deserve more than tolerance or mild liking? Neither of which was enough. For his love wasn’t mild and she would not stay if she couldn’t return it. Nor, in truth, would he want her to.