by Stella Riley
‘Of course. My imagination must be running away with me.’ He paused and then, with a touch of regret, added, ‘I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Colonel – but I should go.’
‘Probably. But, before you do … tell me about Celia.’
‘Ah.’ The grin faded. ‘You mean, did she fall or was she pushed?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Well?’
‘I questioned everyone in the house at the time and could find no proof either way. My own opinion, for what it’s worth, is that she fell and Verney didn’t react quickly enough to save her. Read whatever you will into that. But if there had been a shred of evidence to suggest murder, you may be sure Francis wouldn’t have let it lie.’
‘No.’ Eden’s expression remained carefully enigmatic. ‘No. I suppose not.’ He allowed silence to linger for a few moments and then, on a completely different tack, said, ‘And Honfleur? I take it that there actually was an attack?’
‘There was. But sadly for the would-be assassins, not on the King and his brother.’
‘Ah. Who took their places?’
‘A French madman you’re unlikely to have heard of … and Francis.’
‘Francis?’ Eden gave a choke of incredulous laughter. ‘Seriously?’
‘Unlikely as it may sound, yes. But perhaps I’d better start at the beginning?’
‘Do. This is starting to sound better than a play.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
THREE
On the day Colonel Maxwell left London, a sergeant and two troopers appeared on Mistress Neville’s doorstep. Since Lydia was out, it was left to Margaret – who didn’t appreciate the neighbours seeing soldiers at her door – to give them short shrift.
‘Sir Aubrey isn’t here – neither do I have any idea where he might be. You had best call again when his sister is at home. Good day.’
And she shut the door in their faces.
When Lydia returned, however, she showed no such reticence.
‘Why has your brother got soldiers looking for him?’ she demanded. ‘Got himself mixed up in this plot to murder Cromwell, has he?’
Something curdled in Lydia’s stomach but she managed a careless smile.
‘No – though one of the officers warned me that this might happen. It seems Aubrey is acquainted with a man who has been arrested – which is enough, at present, to make the authorities want to question him.’
‘You know one of the Army officers?’
‘Yes. Moderately well, as it happens.’
‘How come? And who is he?’
Margaret’s suspiciously belligerent manner was beginning to grate but Lydia held on to both her easy tone and the recollection of Eden Maxwell saying he couldn’t afford for his name to be linked with Aubrey’s disappearance.
‘He’s a Colonel,’ she sighed. ‘And as to how I met him … how do you think? Some of his old troopers work in Duck Lane and he occasionally passes the time of day with them.’
Margaret’s expression was frankly scathing but she abandoned this tack in favour of another.
‘Well, if we’re to have soldiers knocking at the door, I’d like to know why Sir Aubrey isn’t here to speak for himself. And don’t give me that faradiddle about him visiting friends in the country because I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘That’s up to you, Margaret. But as to the soldiers … I’ll go to Westminster tomorrow and straighten things out. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to change my dress.’
As it turned out, the troopers came back an hour later. Her hands not quite steady and feeling slightly sick, Lydia pinned a smile on her face and ushered them into the back parlour. Then, since she was about to embark on a tissue of lies, she decided to let them think she was completely feather-brained and immediately launched into a long and extremely muddled speech in which Aubrey’s whereabouts became inextricably entangled with the household accounts.
When she finally stopped talking, the sergeant in charge subjected her to a gimlet stare.
‘Let me get this right, Mistress. You’re saying your brother’s been in the country for near on two weeks, visiting his young lady’s family?’
‘Yes. He left on a Saturday … or it might have been a Sunday. No – it was definitely a Saturday because I remember I was adding up the bill for coal and it wouldn’t come out right and of course I wouldn’t have been doing that on a Sunday, would I? And that’s when Aubrey told me all about Isabel and how her family wouldn’t allow a betrothal until he’d met her brothers and uncles and her grandfather – which I must say I think is very small-minded of them. After all, my brother is a baronet. But they’re a large family and quite wealthy and they live in Kent and Isabel’s the only girl so naturally --’
‘Where in Kent?’ asked the sergeant.
‘What? Oh dear. I’m not sure … that is, Aubrey wrote it down for me and said to be careful not to lose it. Only somehow it got muddled with the bills and though I know it’s here somewhere, I haven’t been able to find it and Aubrey will be so cross. He’s always telling me to be more careful and I try. I really do. Only there were bills we’d paid and bills we hadn’t and I got confused. I was sure I’d paid the butcher but it turned out that I hadn’t and he came to the door and was most unpleasant. So --’
Once again, the sergeant stopped the flow.
‘Perhaps you could try remembering where Sir Aubrey said he was going.’
‘Oh! Well, yes … I suppose I could try.’ Lydia screwed up her face in extreme and excruciating concentration. ‘It may have begun with S. Er … Sevenoaks? No. That’s not it. Wait. Let me think.’
‘Strood?’ offered one of the troopers helpfully. ‘Sittingbourne?’
She beamed at him. ‘Yes! How clever of you!’
‘Which?’ asked the sergeant, testily. ‘Strood or Sittingbourne?’
‘I – I don’t know. I’m so sorry.’ Lydia wrung her hands. ‘I’d help you if I could. Truly, I would. But I have the wretchedest memory. My l-late husband used to say I must have the worst memory in the world.’ She whipped out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It m-made him laugh. But Aubrey doesn’t laugh. He just g-gets annoyed.’
The sergeant’s expression told her that Aubrey had his sympathy. He said, ‘Is there anyone else who might know where your brother is?’
‘No! Good heavens, no.’ Lydia emerged from her handkerchief looking positively aghast. ‘He had to keep his attachment secret or there’d have been no peace in the house. My step-daughter-in-law is the most formidable woman and she’s set her heart on Aubrey marrying her eldest girl – for the title, you know. So --’
Seeing that another involved and unhelpful speech was forthcoming and recognising that he was getting precisely nowhere, the sergeant shoved his notes into the breast of his coat and said, ‘Very well, Mistress Neville. We’ll leave this for now. But if your brother returns or you remember where he’s gone, you should let us know immediately.’
‘Yes. Oh yes. Of course. Except that I’ll have to tell Aubrey how silly I’ve been and he’ll give me such a lecture – which I know is quite my own fault, of course! But still …’
Lydia talked all the way to the door and watched them make a thankful escape.
Then she dropped exhaustedly on to a chair and stared desperately at the ceiling.
* * *
Next day she managed to have a brief, private conversation with Nicholas which ended with him saying, ‘You did well and it might serve. But take Eden’s advice and don’t go anywhere near Shoreditch. Your brother is perfectly safe and the Morrells have made him very welcome.’
‘So I gather from his last note. He certainly doesn’t seem in any hurry to come home,’ replied Lydia a shade tartly. ‘And who exactly are these Morrells? All I’ve gleaned so far is that Mr Morrell is an armourer and that Colonel Maxwell apparently had no qualms about demanding a huge favour of him.’
‘Eden knows he can rely on Jack. As to why your brother’s enjoying his stay … it might have something to do
with Verity.’ He grinned a trifle sheepishly. ‘She’s no relation to the Morrells but they took her in at the same time and in rather the same way Eden did me. She’s twenty years old now and for a while, I think she hoped that she and I might … you know.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘No. She’s a very sweet girl but she’s like a sister.’
Lydia eyed him a shade caustically.
‘I see. Well, hoping Aubrey may eclipse you is one thing; hoping he’ll do more than flirt is quite another. I trust you’ve thought of that? Because if not – and however much it eases your mind – you are doing the poor girl an ill turn.’
* * *
At home, Cousin Geoffrey continued to call every other day and started to bring small gifts. Lydia avoided him as often as she could but found that the opportunities to do so were gradually shrinking. She realised that, in a few short weeks, she would be out of full mourning and when that happened, Geoffrey would waste no time in declaring himself. So she treated him with a chilly formality that would have had most men running for the hills and watched in despair when it simply bounced off the Reverend’s thick skin.
Mercifully, no more troopers arrived in search of Aubrey and the unrest in the streets started to die down allowing Lydia to hope that the worst was over. Then, during the first week in June, Colonel Gerard and two other men she’d never heard of were put on trial for their part in the plot. Lydia felt slightly sick and was more than ever grateful to Colonel Maxwell for saving Aubrey from a similar fate.
A few days later, while she was enduring yet another irritating half-hour with Cousin Geoffrey, a tap at the door heralded Nancy who said, ‘Beg pardon, Mistress Neville – but Sir Ellis Brandon has called. I’ve told him Sir Aubrey’s from home and you have company but he’s still hoping you’ll receive him. What shall I say?’
For a second, Lydia merely stared at her.
Ellis Brandon? What on earth can he want? Please God let him not be looking for Aubrey. On the other hand, anything’s better than listening to another twenty minutes of yesterday’s sermon.
‘Show him in, Nancy. Reverend Neville won’t mind – will you Cousin?’
‘No.’ Geoffrey didn’t sound very certain. ‘No. Not at all.
Nancy disappeared and Lydia took the opportunity to say quickly, ‘He will be sorry to miss Aubrey, I’m sure. But I had rather not discuss my brother’s business if it can be avoided.’
‘As is entirely proper. And you need have no fears on my account, I can assure you.’
Lydia rewarded him with a cool smile, then rose to greet a man she didn’t particularly like but intended to make the best use of.
‘Sir Ellis – what an unexpected pleasure.’
Ellis took her hand and bowed over it with consummate grace.
‘That is most kind, Mistress Neville – and more than I deserve. Had affairs not kept me from London these last two months, I would naturally have called before. But I must beg pardon for intruding upon you when you already have a visitor.’
Lydia retrieved her hand despite his apparent desire to hold on to it.
‘That’s not necessary, sir. Reverend Neville is family. Cousin Geoffrey … allow me to introduce Sir Ellis Brandon.’
She’d very nearly said only family and knew that her tone implied it. She also noticed that Geoffrey was looking a little less self-satisfied – for which the reason was obvious. Elegant in well-cut claret broadcloth, his lovelocks curled and the inevitable ear-ring glinting in one ear, Ellis Brandon was the epitome of good looks and sophistication. She wondered if he was still looking to marry money and decided that, if his clothing was anything to go by, he probably was. If his visit today was less idle than it seemed, it was likely the last couple of months had failed to provide the kind of bride he needed … and that being so, he must have come to the conclusion that the ordinary little widow would just have to do.
Someone else who’s going to be disappointed, she thought.
Ellis acknowledged the introduction to Geoffrey and then made the mistake of asking about his parish. This enabled Geoffrey to pontificate at length on his many responsibilities, his needy parishioners and, eventually, the piety, virtue and generosity of his favourite patron. It was the kind of pompous speech Lydia had heard a hundred times and always found impossible to reply to. Sir Ellis apparently had no such problem.
‘Lizzie Aylesbury?’ he drawled. ‘Really? Well, admittedly I haven’t met her for a while. But I don’t recall her being quite the paragon you describe, Reverend. Quite the opposite in fact.’
Oh Lord, thought Lydia, torn between terror and glee as a tide of red suffused the Reverend’s face. Geoffrey’s going to have an apoplexy.
Mercifully, he didn’t. He stood up, every line of his body radiating furious disgust and delivered a sermon on vile and lewd insinuations in general and Sir Ellis’s style of conversation in particular. Finally, spurred on by the mocking curl to Sir Ellis’s mouth, he said, ‘Cousin Lydia, I am alarmed that you should allow this – this gentleman into your presence. Alarmed and displeased. Indeed, I see no alternative but show him the door.’
Realising it was time to enter the fray, Lydia also rose and met his angry gaze with a firm one of her own. ‘You take too much upon yourself, Geoffrey. This is not your house.’
‘I am aware of that. But in the absence of your brother or my cousin, it is incumbent upon me to protect both your reputation and --’
‘My reputation requires no protection and is, in any case, no concern of yours. Neither do you have the right to dictate which visitors I should receive. So let us put the subject aside - before you are left with no alternative but to go home.’
‘And leave you alone with this – this --’ Words failed him and he sat down with a bump. ‘Never!’
‘That’s a pity,’ murmured Ellis, not quite beneath his breath.
Lydia impaled him on a look that very clearly said, Behave or go. Ellis grinned and subsided. Nodding, Lydia resumed her seat and, as if nothing untoward had occurred, said composedly, ‘They say that the Protector has doubled his guard and keeps a weapon at his side at all times. Do you think his life is really under threat?’
‘All good Christians should pray that it is not,’ said Geoffrey piously.
‘Pray, by all means,’ remarked Ellis. ‘But these days, Cromwell has more enemies than friends … and those enemies aren’t all Royalists. If I was him, I’d be worried too.’
* * *
A week later, four men sat in the Morrells’ parlour in Shoreditch while in the next room, two women entertained the children and a third informed her cook that there would be three extra guests for supper.
‘They can’t do that!’ said Aubrey Durand, aghast. ‘Gerard doesn’t deserve it. None of them do.’
‘What they deserve is beside the point,’ replied Samuel Radford flatly.
‘But it wasn’t even Gerard’s idea! The whole plot was made by Thomas Henshaw.’
‘Who would appear to have made himself scarce,’ observed Jack Morrell, reaching for the ale jug.
‘Yes. He would do, damn it,’ said Aubrey bitterly. ‘But it was he and Lord Gerard who pushed the scheme forward. John was never comfortable about going ahead with something the King hadn’t sanctioned and wouldn’t have done so if others hadn’t chivvied him into it.’
Samuel eyed the other man with world-weary resignation.
‘None of that matters. From the moment Thurloe learned of a credible plot to kill Cromwell, examples were always going to be made. That much was clear from the outset – and it’s why they set up a special High Court of Justice. Cromwell wanted to be sure of the verdict.’
‘Clearly,’ said Nicholas Austin. ‘But why did he think he wouldn’t get it from a jury?’
‘If a jury wouldn’t convict Free-born John, there was no guarantee it would convict the members of a conspiracy that most people believe didn’t happen. Cromwell didn’t intend to take that risk and a High Court of Justice ensur
ed the result.’ Samuel paused and then added scathingly, ‘It’s iniquitous, of course. Everybody has a right to trial by jury under Magna Carta.’
‘Clearly, Cromwell isn’t letting that fact bother him,’ remarked Nicholas.
‘Neither that nor a good many other things. He’s bending the law to suit his own ends. And when it won’t bend, he simply ignores it. People are detained without trial virtually every day. Since they moved Free-born John to Jersey, I myself have been hauled in twice because I dared speak my mind in the editorial column of The Moderate. Nothing and nobody is allowed to stand in his way.’
‘Parliament will,’ said Jack, sitting back down after re-filling everyone’s tankard. ‘It must.’
‘The Instrument of Government stipulates that Parliament must sit for five months out of every thirty-six,’ replied Samuel impatiently. ‘The way this trial has been handled shows fairly conclusively what’s likely to happen the rest of the time.’
Aubrey stood up and swung away towards the window.
‘Surely something can be done? Something to stop the executions?’
‘No. If there was, I and others of like mind would be doing it.’
‘But if the assassination scheme wasn’t hatched by Gerard or the other two,’ asked Nicholas reasonably, ‘why are they the ones who are being made to pay?’
‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ said Aubrey between his teeth.
‘Did nobody read my report in the newspaper?’ asked Samuel with a hint of annoyance.
‘We all did,’ soothed Jack. ‘But we’d like the concluding paragraph you didn’t write.’
Mr Radford sighed and set down his tankard.
‘All right. Somerset Fox admitted his guilt on the first time of asking. In the end, that may save his neck – though there’s been no word of that yet. Gerard and Vowell continued denying all knowledge – but their names came up too often to be ignored. Mostly, they came up in the evidence supplied by Charles Gerard.’
Nicholas sat up, eyes widening in shock.
‘He gave witness against his own brother? Hell. What sort of man is he?’
