by Jake Lynch
Chapter 7
Confession in the Vaults
Cate watched Luke’s retreating back as he quit The Mitre, then quickly scanned the room to make sure she was not observed, took up and lit a candle, and trod softly round behind the counter, there lifting aside a heavy curtain and passing through. Reaching into the pocket of her apron, she fished out a large iron key and turned it noiselessly in the lock of a thick oaken door: the door to the staircase that led down to the vaults.
‘How was your breakfast, Father?’ she asked, as she reached the subterranean level. Father Morris grunted and twitched awake. He’d set off very early to arrive before dawn.
‘Fine, thank you,’ he replied. She came and sat by him. Should she pass on the warning she’d received? It was all very well for Luke Sandys to advise that priests should stay away, but the need for spiritual solace and guidance in these fraught and troubled times was especially acute.
‘There are strangers in town, Father. And many more on the way, ’tis said – for the Parliament.’
‘Oh, aye?’
She paused, watching the dust drift in the shafts of light from the gratings at street-side.
‘There could be danger.’
‘We must pray for the Lord’s protection.’
‘Perhaps you could make sure ’tis fully dark before you leave this week, Father?’ The elderly priest would sometimes cause consternation by walking out of the inn’s front door in daylight, impatient to reach his bed after a long day. ‘And could you come in plain dress – that is, not in your cassock?’
‘Why, child, God’s raiment is the only clothes I own. But I’ll take extra care, don’t you worry.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
She stacked the breakfast things on the tray, and laid it on the bottom step, ready to take up into the kitchen; then turned back.
‘Will you hear my confession now, Father?’
‘Of course, dear Cate.’ He rose with visible effort, placed his biretta upon his sparse silver locks, and walked stiffly across to the cubicle they’d installed in a corner of the cellar. She took the seat outside it as he drew the curtain behind him, and lit a candle.
‘In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,’ Father Morris intoned. ‘Yes, my child?’
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. ’Tis a week since my last confession.’
‘What is it you wish to confess?’
Now she was here, how should she put it?
‘’Tis over a year since Marcus died, Father.’ She paused. ‘I… I am still a young woman.’
‘And the Lord did not see fit to bless your union with child.’
It was an unpromising start, but she resolved to press on.
‘There is another man, Father.’
‘And what do you know of this man?’
‘Why, he is a good man. And well respected.’ And – she was surprised to find this rising to the tip of her tongue, before she thrust it firmly back down – still a fine figure of a man.
‘Is he of our own religion?’
‘Nay. Nay, he is not.’
The priest drew a long sigh.
‘Do you love him?’
Did she? Well, she would have to say something.
‘I admire him, Father.’
‘And does he love you?’
She recalled Luke’s struggle to contain his intense reaction when they sat down over coffee.
‘I believe so.’
‘You believe so? He has not spoken of it, then?’
Now for the difficult part.
‘He is not… in a position to speak of it, Father.’
There was another pause while the old man caught the drift of her words. ‘He’s not a married man?’
Cate gulped.
‘He is, Father.’
‘Well, then, what you have mistaken for love is a mortal sin!’ The priest’s tone had grown harsh. But she cut in quickly with the question she’d been preparing, to forestall his tirade.
‘If he were to divorce…?’
‘Marriage in our Church is a lifelong bond, in the eyes of God,’ Father Morris snapped. ‘And in any case, I doubt whether he could afford a divorce. Very few men could. Say three Hail Marys. And let’s hear no more about this man. Do I make myself clear? You must forget about him!’
Cate dug her nails into her palms to suppress her rising anger at the seeming finality of the priest’s words.
‘What if I can’t forget?’ she asked, her tone more defiant than she had intended.
‘Why… why, then, we must look to more drastic measures. You must consider your immortal soul, child!’ His manner was gentler now, but still adamant. ‘There are convents in France. We can make arrangements for you to enter one. But it would be much better if you were to overcome this temptation.’
*
Cate rubbed vinegar-and-water into the kitchen tabletop with more than her usual vigour. The thought of being banished to a French convent served only to compound her annoyance at Luke Sandys’ suggestion of a return to Hanage House. That she could never feel at home there was confirmed, early in the marriage, in a confidential interview with the elder Lady Weston, who intercepted her as she returned from a walk in the grounds with Marcus. As he attended to some business in the stables, Cate was treated to a piece of the dowager’s mind.
‘You will be aware that my grandson has stooped to marry an innkeeper’s daughter, only because there are so few suitable Catholic girls hereabouts, in these Godforsaken times,’ she had begun portentously.
As she wrung out the cloth, Cate recalled the terrible feeling, on hearing these words, of shrinking in her very shoes. Still, they did not come as a complete surprise. The lady had already fixed her with several withering looks, when she thought no one would notice. Being, to some extent, prepared, Cate had at least managed to speak up for herself.
‘I believe he does love me, your ladyship,’ she had said, albeit tremulously.
‘Love? Pah!’ had come the immediate reply. ‘You will carry yourself with due gratitude! And see that you breed successfully. Your duty is to bear sons and daughters who will carry on the one true faith.’ But Marcus had gone as they were still trying to conceive, so there was no role and no place for her at West Hanage. There had been no demurral from the family at her plans to return to Oxford. She surveyed the fireplace, the implements hanging from the beams, and the now-gleaming wooden board. This was her home now, modest as it was; and no warnings of sectarian strife, nor even care for her immortal soul, would drive her out of it.
Chapter 8
A Tale of Two Mayors
By the time Luke reached the Guildhall, the place was in a state of upheaval as dignitaries of the city prepared for the official parade of welcome for the King and Queen. His daydreams of raven-haired Cate were rudely dispelled as Robshaw appeared at the office door.
‘Old Night-Mayor’s back,’ he pronounced without ceremony. ‘Tying up his horse in the yard, with Jacob Hopkins.’
In the early days of Farmer Pawling’s term in office, Luke discouraged the irreverent nickname that Robshaw had now revived. However, tidying up after the man’s blundering, if well-meaning interference in the work of his constables became so wearisome that before long he was forced to admit its aptness to the case.
‘What does he want?’ he asked, suppressing a groan.
‘He wants to see you, Master Sandys.’ The words were those of Pawling himself, uninvitedly pushing open the door and striding in for all the world as though he were still incumbent, as Hopkins tagged along behind, nervously fingering his hat.
‘I should say, Master Pawling, you’ve picked a very busy day to call. It’s the Royal procession as you know, and to cap it all we had a murder last night.’
Pawling pricked up his ears as the men sat down.
‘Anyone we know?’
‘A Member of Parliament, newly arrived in the city. William Harbord, from Norfolk.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of
him. Cadaver in the parlour yonder, Luke, as usual?’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘You’ve not looked at it yet, then?’ the farmer persisted.
‘Not yet. Now, sirs, what can I do for you?’ Luke listened to the tale of the flintlock, its backfire and the ill-fated kine, interrupting only to enquire sharply of Hopkins: ‘Emily’s not hurt?’
‘Only in spirit, sir, only in spirit.’
‘Dick Bourke’s due in for a shift later,’ Robshaw reminded him. The apprentice would earn extra coin by standing in for constables who had to skip their duty from time to time.
‘Aye, well, I think we can let him off that. He should be with Emily. Will you see him, Jacob?’ The man nodded.
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘The shooter should be easy to pick out,’ Pawling added. ‘His coat cuff’ll be all singed and shredded, from where he stamped on it to put out the smouldering. And he’ll have had to get those burns seen to.’
The door opened and a head appeared around the side of it, at a level surprisingly lower than seemed feasible. Its owner, Paul Calvert, was a ‘pint-sized pipsqueak’, as Robshaw memorably put it, who ran errands for the current mayor, John Bowell.
‘Sandys, Robshaw?’ he trilled. ‘Mayor wants to see you urgently. You’re to come with me.’
‘We’ll wait here,’ Pawling said immediately. ‘No rush, Luke.’ So they had no choice but to leave their visitors in the office unattended, with a promise to return as soon as practicable.
*
‘We’ll need to get the Mayor to calm down, so let’s not mention Pawling,’ Luke hissed as they climbed the Guildhall stairs, a few paces behind Calvert. Robshaw nodded agreement. Bowell’s predecessor had steered the city towards some treacherous political waters, causing queasiness among the aldermen. Freedom of the City had been granted to both Titus Oates, accuser-in-chief of the Popish Plot, and James, Duke of Monmouth.
‘The Worshipful Mayor first his Grace did Salute, And welcomed his Highness most kindly to Town,’ Robshaw recited. Calvert shot a reproachful look over his shoulder. ‘Then gave way to Squire White, retired, and was mute!’ the deputy continued, unabashed. The lines were from a satirical verse, circulated anonymously following the latter occasion, which caused merriment among the constables as it punctured Pawling’s pretensions. Those who could not read learned bits of it by heart. Feeling himself slighted, he had rounded off his year in office with a valedictory speech, harshly criticising several prominent persons, before departing to concentrate on his farm, to widespread relief.
*
‘What is to be done, Sandys?’ Bowell demanded tremulously, as they entered. He wrung his ceremonial robe in his hands: a garment mysteriously shrunken, he had discovered this morning, since the last municipal banquet. ‘We’ve Whiggish mobs, Tory mobs, Guardsmen all over the place. Now there’s this here MP been murdered.’
‘I’m sure we’ll get whoever did it, sir.’
But the mayor’s florid bulk was positively quivering with fear, rage and indignation.
‘’Tis a political killing, man – this could set everything off! Paynton’s brought me this.’ Pointing to his desk, he indicated yet another of the pamphlets that seemed to have been conveyed to Oxford in large quantities.
‘The town clerk is full of doom and gloom, sir…’ Luke began.
‘That bit there – read it!’ the Mayor demanded, jabbing a pudgy finger at a passage he’d underlined in evident alarm. Luke looked at this new publication, which seemed to be of the opposite persuasion from the one proffered on the High Street: purportedly an exchange of views between the pilot of an Oxford riverboat and two of his London counterparts. The words put in the mouth of this supposed ‘everyman’ supported the rights of the King’s brother, James, Duke of York – the ‘Popish Successor’ – as heir apparent, and presaged trouble if he was thwarted.
Luke read aloud: ‘The Scholars of Oxford are thought, by many, will be as unmannerly as the Prentices in London.’
‘It’ll be Scholastica’s all over again!’ Bowell fulminated. ‘If students start taking to the streets as them City apprentices do, why, we’ll have mayhem!’ The Saint Scholastica’s Day Riot had taken place fully three centuries earlier, but was still notorious as a nadir in relations between townsfolk and scholars, over sixty of whom perished in three days of pitched battles. ‘You’re a University man – you’ll have to see the Chancellor, and get him to keep them undergraduates under lock and key.’
‘I could approach the Provost, sir,’ Luke said reluctantly. Another errand to add to his list. ‘Perhaps he could put some of his proctors on duty during the day, as a precaution.’ It was just about enough to get them away from Bowell’s chamber.
‘That true, then – we’re to have town set against gown, all on account of this here Parliament?’ Robshaw wondered, as they trotted back down the stairs.
‘Well, they’ve brought the King to Oxford because he’s guaranteed a warm welcome, at least by the University. The pamphlet’s right, the students support the Duke of York, and oppose the Exclusion. But…’ Luke tailed off meaningfully, and the deputy finished the sentence.
‘But Old Rowley has no friends among common folk.’
‘Mm. That’s why he travels with hundreds of armed guards.’
*
Back at Sandys’ own office, Pawling was emphatic:
‘That Guardsman is a rogue and a rascal, Luke, who needs bringing to justice. Why, when I think of what happened to them cattle, ’tis tantamount to murder!’
‘Well, not quite…’
But the farmer cut him off.
‘Your brother’s in the Guards ain’t he? You can get him to find out who fired that shot, and have him bang to rights.’
‘Well, aye, I could ask Ed if he knows aught about it. But it’s not one for the magistrates; he’d be under military discipline – unless he’d committed a felony. Now, frightening cattle is ill usage, indeed, but I’ve never heard of anyone coming before the assizes for it.’
Pawling leaned back in his chair, apparently sensing there was no point in pressing the matter further for the moment.
‘Very well. You’ll let me know, then, what happens?’ Luke nodded assent. ‘And be sure you take a good close look at that dead body.’
‘As always, Master Pawling. Good day to you; and to you, Jacob.’
Robshaw rose to see the men out of the Guildhall, as if to satisfy himself that the ex-Mayor really was leaving the premises.
Luke stepped into the back parlour, looked down at Harbord’s body with a sigh, and straightened the cloth. There would be time to examine it later – but they would have to spend the rest of the day trying to pick up the trail of his killer, before it had a chance to go cold. He recalled the day when Marcus Weston had lain there. Cate’s husband was killed when trying to calm a quarrel in the queue at Bacon’s Tower, to enter Oxford from the south. One of the protagonists drew a knife, and instinctively whirled round at Weston’s touch on his shoulder. The blade severed the brachial artery under the would-be peacemaker’s raised arm. Luke rode out several times to West Hanage, the family seat in Berkshire, to report progress in the investigation, as the knifeman was tried then hanged for voluntary manslaughter.
A well-known heavy tread brought Luke back into the main office, where he found his deputy grinning and shaking his head.
‘What ails you, man?’
‘Oh but that is good, Master Sandys, ’tis good indeed.’
‘I know I’m going to regret this Robshaw, but what’s “good”?’
‘Well – supposing you was to say to I, “Guess what’s today’s news? Dick Bourke’s Emily has lost her spotted cow.” Well then, I should say, “That ain’t no news – I thought everybody knew!”’ He chortled at his own joke as Luke wondered whether to feign ignorance. He knew the country euphemism for a girl losing her virginity, but it stuck in his craw to acknowledge it to his arrant deputy.
‘Robshaw,’ he replied
at length, ‘you are grotesque.’
‘Yessir!’
Chapter 9
Pomp and Circumstance
A scarlet tide ebbed and flowed its way down Oxford High Street. Not the bloodshed of Mayor Bowell’s fevered imaginings, but the regalia of fully four-and-twenty dignitaries of the City: aldermen and bailiffs, all in fur-trimmed red robes, each mounted on horseback in solemn procession, two by two. Liverymen walked alongside, ready to grasp the reins if any of the animals broke rank. Encompassing this garish contingent were the sober colours deemed suitable for those clinging to the lower rungs of civic flummery: sixty or so black-robed members of the common council, bringing up the rear.
From his position in the foremost – though least auspicious – part of the parade, Luke glanced round at his men, the other twenty constables, as they preceded the four sergeants at mace and Paynton, the town clerk, with his silver chain. They all had the same powers of arrest, and the same basic responsibility: to keep the King’s peace. The others followed his directions because, it was commonly agreed, ‘Master Sandys knows what he’s about.’ How far, he wondered, could this miscellany of butchers, bakers and candlestick-makers, stepping out of their trades and crafts for six months or a year at a time, hold the line against the political plots and intrigues now entwining their city in tentacular embrace? Far enough, perhaps, if the city itself was on their side – though the issues dividing Parliament also divided Oxford; or at least, the University from the general populace. And expectations of them seemed to be growing alarmingly. Already that day he had been urged to cross jurisdictions to arrest a serving member of His Majesty’s Horse Guards, and to forestall a riot by students. He would put his faith, as ever he did, in the principles of evidence and deduction he had learned in his own student days. But it did not stop him from uttering a silent prayer, that all would somehow turn out for the best.
