by Jake Lynch
The two bewigged heads bent obligingly back over the paper.
‘Why, you should learn this one, sir, as an Oxford man, if you don’t already know it,’ Bob Tim said. ‘There – a C, an L and a G – d’you see? College.’
‘Does it say which one?’
‘Well, sir,’ Bob Sim began, then paused, mouthing silently. ‘’Tis not one that I’ve heard of. It begins with S-T… and that’s an N at the end, I’m sure.’
‘Could the S-T be the shortened form of “Saint” – as in St John’s College?’ Luke speculated.
‘Hmm… unlikely, sir. Looks to be all one word. And that letter in the middle is a P, I’ll warrant, not a J.’
‘Looks like Stephen College,’ Bob Tim said.
‘That’s it. Could be Stephen,’ Bob Sim agreed.
‘But… but that’s not a college, that’s the name of a person!’ Bob Tim cried, in sudden alarm.
Of course: the warning that ‘Tom’, the intelligence officer for the Lord Chancellor, had given earlier. Stephen College was the troublemaker now reckoned to be on the way. And he was right in his surmise – the Green Ribbons obviously were in league with him. If College was planning to appear tomorrow – market day, the busiest of the week – then what did they have up their sleeve? ‘Some kind of stunt,’ the spy had guessed.
‘The Protestant Joiner,’ Luke said. ‘I’ve been told he’s coming to Oxford.’
The Bobs’ demeanour turned, if anything, more serious still.
‘Have nothing to do with that one, sir, I beg of you.’
‘He’s a rogue, sir. And a scoundrel!’
‘Yes, I’ve been warned. But what of the section below that?’
‘Well, sir, that word is said very often in Parliament these days: Papist.’ Bob Sim traced the shorthand with his index finger. ‘And the one next to it… here’s a G, an R and an L. Grill?’
‘Papist grill? Doesn’t make sense, surely,’ Luke said.
‘Ah – possibly girl, in that case?’ Bob Tim then took up the translation.
‘Below that, we have the figure “3” – must be that, there’s no such outline in Master Shelton’s system. And that’s “window”. Plain as a pikestaff.’
‘As a pikestaff, sir,’ Bob Sim confirmed. ‘And that’s “Old”… then C-H, and a P, and an L – could be “Chapel”, the vowel is an A.’
Luke followed the clerk’s finger as he pointed out each letter.
‘Third window of the Old Chapel?’
‘Probably, sir.’
‘That could be it, sir, yes.’
Lurching up at him from within, Luke felt a sickening access of insight.
‘And what does it say below that?’ he demanded, the new note of urgency in his voice raising the Bobs’ eyebrows.
‘Why, here’s W-H-L,’ Bob Tim began, ‘and that squiggle above indicates the vowel-sound is an E – might be “wheel”. Then, after it, 40s – almost certainly just as it looks, forty shillings. Mind, ’twould be an expensive wheel.’
‘Expensive, indeed,’ Luke murmured, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘And the other word?’ Now it was Bob Sim’s turn to take up the work.
‘It begins with a B, then L, D and S. The vowel is an A. 20s would be twenty shillings.’
‘“Blades”,’ Luke said thickly. ‘They’ve bought a wheel, and some blades, for sixty shillings.’ He shook his head to clear it. ‘Sirs, I must bid you good day. A matter has arisen that demands my immediate attention.’ But Bob Tim put a hand on his arm.
‘Someone should be told about this, sir.’
‘The treason, sir,’ Bob Sim added. Luke’s mind raced. They were right, of course. But Settle’s notes leant themselves to an interpretation he hardly dared formulate: one that would mean Cate was in deadly peril. He could go straight away to Lord Finch, the Lord Chancellor, lodged as he was in Christ Church College, and present his evidence – but he knew full well that, as soon as he did so, whatever leverage he might hold over the pamphleteer and his co-conspirators would be lost. Affairs of State would grind into motion, and what was the fate of one young woman compared with a seemingly well-developed plot to unseat the King of England? There would be arrests, and a crackdown – perhaps even a lockdown. But the danger in such a turn of events was surely that Cate, alive, would represent a ‘loose end’ to be tied off, before the Green Ribbons dispersed.
‘May I prevail once more upon your assistance, sirs, and your understanding?’ Luke began.
‘If it lies within our compass, sir,’ Bob Sim replied doubtfully.
‘May I ask you to wait, before reporting this to anyone, and accept my assurance that the evidence will be presented to the proper authorities, at the proper time?’
‘You’re asking us to turn a blind eye, sir?’ Bob Tim asked.
‘Why, if ’tis too much to expect, sirs…’ Well, now he was in a hole, and no mistake. Going to the Bobs had seemed the only way to find out what was in the notebook; but of course, as parliamentary clerks, they would be sworn to serve the Crown. If it came out later that they had known about the conspiracy, and kept quiet, they would be in trouble. He had let the cat out of the bag.
The Bobs looked meaningfully at one another.
‘As long as you promise to report it later…’
‘We can do that, sir.’
‘Indeed, at Parliament, we have to turn blind eyes all the time.’
‘There’s just one condition, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘A favour for a favour…’
‘Get us out of this accursed room!’ they cried, once more in unison. Inwardly, Luke breathed a sigh of relief. This, he could easily do, using his old Bodleian connections.
‘Certainly, sirs – consider it done. You will be in more suitable accommodation by the time Parliament opens. Now, I must go.’ The Bobs’ ecstatic good wishes ringing in his ears, he took the stone steps two at a time, scurried out of the library and off down the High Street back to the Guildhall, an inner frenzy of speculative dread lending wings to his feet.
Chapter 55
In Christ Church Cathedral
As Luke strode back into the chamber where reports had been coming in from the search, Robshaw hastily stuffed the last corner of a meat pasty into his mouth, wiped his hands on his coat front, and looked up expectantly.
‘Come on!’ Luke said. ‘We’re going to the cathedral.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ the deputy protested, jogging along to keep up as his master set a brisk pace. ‘You’ll give us indigestion.’
The forced march stopped only when they reached the oldest corner of the building, the original Chapel of St Frideswide, onto which the much larger modern structure had been grafted. There, in the original north wall, were three medieval stained-glass windows. The first two, counting back from the shrine, depicted St Frideswide herself and St Mary the Virgin, cradling the infant Christ, respectively. And the third showed a crowned female figure in a white robe and blue skirts, holding, on the palm of her outstretched left hand, the unmistakable outline of a six-spoked wheel, with blades in the spaces between the spokes.
‘God’s body, it’s what I thought,’ Luke said, aghast. ‘Saint Catherine the martyr: Catherine of Alexandria. The window must have given them the idea. Robshaw – they mean to Catherine-wheel her!’
The deputy had just recovered enough breath to try swallowing the corner of pasty, and now the horrified astonishment provoked by this news caused him to splutter, as Luke steadied himself by leaning on the back of a nearby wooden pew.
‘How d’you know?’ Robshaw asked, when he had recovered – and Luke gave him a brief summary of the information he’d gleaned from the Bobs.
‘’Course, that’s who she’s named for,’ he said, as they glumly contemplated the ancient image. ‘Catherine of Alexandria, that is. When Cate was a girl, she’d come into the inn, and her Ma would say, “Catherine Alexandra Napper, I’ve told you not to play with them tankards” – or some such.’
Luke could scarcely bear to think about it, but he could not help visualising the way their ‘stunt’ would work.
‘That’s why they wanted that special wheel from Cox’s yard: they’ll shackle her hands and feet to the four blocks, and attach the blades to the wheel itself. The iron block on the other side will keep it upright. Then, when it rotates…’ Now, however, the numbing effect of shock was beginning to give way to calculation. They were not finished yet. ‘Wherever they are, my guess is, they’ll try to coordinate it with some kind of speech by College.’
‘College?’
‘Aye – a fellow named Stephen College, an anti-Catholic extremist, and a rabble-rousing rogue, by all accounts. I saw that spy, “Tom” again earlier, and he told me College is heading to Oxford. Then the Bobs found mention of his name in Settle’s notes, so they’re obviously in cahoots.’
‘Right, well we’ll have to keep a dead sharp eye out for this College, then, tomorrow?’
‘We will that. If we find him, we can assume Cate won’t be far away. Then it’ll be a case of getting to her in time.’ Once more, he thought of the rotating blades.
‘Unless we nab them at The Unicorn tonight,’ Robshaw reminded him.
‘Indeed – then we’d hopefully reach her before they have a chance to tie her on to that wheel.’
Chapter 56
A Desperate Realisation
‘By God, man, must you make such a stink?’ Settle exclaimed. Cate wrinkled her nose. They turned their backs to look the other way as Francis visited the ‘corner of business’, in order to – as he put it – ‘nip one off’. He sluiced away the mess with water transferred to the pail from a rain-butt in the other corner.
‘I suppose yours doesn’t?’ he retorted. Cate looked down to avoid eye contact during the long ensuing pall of mutual disgruntlement.
Settle broke the silence by opening what was, she realised straight away from his tone, another topic of contention.
‘So, Hawkins’ll be here with the blades and rope some time after dusk.’
‘Aye, so you’ve said. But I’m taking no part in that, Settle, I’ve told you.’
‘Well, we’ll just have to dock your pay, then!’
‘We’ll see what Armstrong has to say about that!’ Another angry pause ensued.
‘You had no such qualms about killing Unsworth.’
Francis sighed. ‘Unsworth was a bug. And a security risk. He knew too much, about all of us – and those two constables were leaning on him. This…’ – he nodded in Cate’s direction – ‘this is different.’ Cate listened intently, trying not to let the men see she was trembling. Was she about to find out what they were planning?
‘All Papists are a security risk,’ the other shot back. ‘Or had you forgotten? Maybe just with the pretty ones, eh?’
‘Look, Settle, I said I would help you to capture and hold her, and so I have. But I’m a soldier. Your “spectacular”, as you call it – that’s for you political fellows, leave me out of it.’
‘Very well, then, we’ll manage without you.’
Poor Cate was now in renewed agonies of conjecture, which she struggled to conceal. If she was to be involved in a ‘spectacular’, aimed at somehow drawing attention to her Roman Catholic faith, what could that possibly entail? She clutched at the crucifix through the fabric of her neck kerchief. That blades and rope were required left no room for doubt that Settle and his gang meant to harm her; and that she had, so far, been left untouched and unmolested – while a continuing source of relief in itself – added to the creeping dread that something uniquely vile now lay in store for her.
As she fretted, her eye strayed to the cartwheel propped against the wall at the far end of the enclosed yard. Every so often, she had idly wondered what it was doing there, but it scarcely merited any portion of her concern, given the circumstances. It was of an odd design, she now realised. There was a black-painted iron crosspiece attached to it, by means of four curved blocks, which fitted over a raised extra ring around its rim, at regular intervals. It was a big one: if she stood next to it, the top of her head would probably be about level with the top of the uppermost spokes. It must be about five-and-a-half feet in diameter.
Cate froze in sudden and awful insight, letting out an involuntary gasp that drew a look of suspicion from both men. She hurriedly covered her mouth with her hand, and turned away, lest they see the tears now starting from her eyes. The wheel, and the blades – surely that could only mean one thing? Settle knew, from the inscription in the prayer book he’d taken from her pocket, that she was named after St Catherine of Alexandria. They meant to re-enact the saint’s martyrdom, in some twisted sectarian spectacle, calculated to impress the market-day crowds – she was to be Catherine-wheeled!
She clenched her fists. She would not let them see her crying; and, since preparations were clearly due to be completed overnight, she must bring forward a plan to escape. But how? Her ankle, tucked under one side of the chair as she hunched round to keep her face hidden, brushed against an obstacle. She felt down behind her skirt, and her hand closed around the neck of a ceramic bottle. Of course: it had contained the small beer she’d been given on the first evening, when Settle was preoccupied, and Francis evidently saw no reason to deprive her of whatever basic comfort might come their way. Could it somehow be of use?
Looking around now, the situation felt hopeless. The walls were high, and the door securely locked, with the only key in Settle’s pocket. As the day’s business in Oxford had worn on outside, the cries of commerce – and occasionally of anger, or merriment – had been faintly audible from Fish Street, at the far end of New Inn Yard. Many times Cate had considered calling for help, even at the risk of violent retribution – only to realise with dismal certainty that the likelihood of her cries being heard, let alone correctly interpreted, by a random passer-by was so remote as to render the gesture worthless. No – the only chance must be when the door was opened, and her captors momentarily distracted. The bottle in her hand gave her an idea and, with it, the outline of a plan; a faint one, to be sure, but then her circumstances were desperate.
Chapter 57
A Dramatic Opera
The shadows were lengthening by the time they returned to Luke’s office, only to find a waiting Captain Sutherland, cane tucked beneath his arm and his ginger moustache twitching.
‘Ah, there you are, Sandys,’ he said in evident relief. Curses! Luke had clean forgotten about the Royal command performance of Purcell’s ‘dramatic opera’, and the requirement to attend in person.
Promising to present himself at the Christ Church College dining room, where the recital was to take place, in just a few minutes, Luke first led Robshaw across the road, where the pair re-entered The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well. Getting down on hands and knees, he could still see the faint outline in the dust, on the floor under the bench on the far side from the street, where the wallet had lain when they initially found it. Making sure it was, so far as possible, in its original configuration of pages, with the calling cards sticking out of slots in its inside front cover as before, he carefully placed it back on to the exact same spot. The Chief Officer and deputy then shut the door of the inn behind them, and sent the two constables, who’d been on guard duty all day, home for the night.
‘You settle yourself in behind the college doors, then,’ Luke told Robshaw. Earlier, they had made the necessary arrangements with the porters, Greening and Hignett. Perched on a tall stool, the deputy was to keep watch, through a small hatch that opened in one of the tall oaken doors at eye level, for any movement around or into the tavern, more or less opposite on Fish Street. ‘When I get to Christ Church, I’ll talk to Ed, and send him to join you.’
Luke found his brother keen to help. In truth, the Blues were becoming bored. They were, in effect, on standby whilst in Oxford, in case of any serious trouble. But Colonel Russell’s Foot Guards were in charge of day-to-day security arrangements, and there were only so many drills they could do
without feeling they would much rather be back in their respective barracks – either in London or elsewhere.
‘We’re not having this, Luke – not in Oxford. Young women being abducted? It won’t stand.’ Ed buckled on his scabbard. ‘I’ll get Tom Lucy to come along, too. He’s spoiling for some action, we all are.’ As the regiment had been on exercise that day, the officers were in full uniform, Luke noted with satisfaction: the more impressive the visual effect, the more likely their presence would be to deter trouble at a potentially crucial moment.
From the head of the high-ceilinged hall, the two progenitors-in-chief of Christ Church Cathedral and College – King Henry VIII and Cardinal Wolsey – glowered down in portrait on the assembled company. Did the present incumbent, Charles Stuart, shift uncomfortably on the throne in the middle of the floor, under their baleful eye? By now, Luke was virtually quivering with impatience. Members of the orchestra, the King’s Players, chatted desultorily among themselves in between tuning up their instruments. College servants lit numerous candles against the incipient chill and gloom of the late afternoon, sending shadows across the painted paper backdrop: a vaguely sylvan tableau of blue sky, white fluffy clouds and green edging. How many hours did these people plan on taking? He swore to himself that, if this wretched ‘dramatic opera’ went on so long as to make him miss the chance to arrest Settle and his henchman in person, why, he’d convert to the republican cause on the spot. With another spasm of anxiety, he realised that, in the rush, he had omitted to tell the University Provost not to send his proctors to stand guard that night outside The Unicorn and Jacob’s Well.
Finally, a stir at the door indicated that the conductor and singers had arrived, and the instrumentalists immediately sat up in their chairs, as if an invisible puppet-master had suddenly tightened their strings. Soprano singing evidently required the throat and chest to be free of constricting clothing, since the two young women who were to vocalise Purcell’s libretto both wore gowns that were unusually low-cut at the front – the effect in no way diminished by their matching bejewelled necklaces. The King leant forward, propping an elbow on the arm of his gilded seat; the conductor tapped his music-stand with his baton, and, at last, the performance got under way. There was something ineffably soothing about the music and the deft movements of the players, as the trilling flageolet and dancing bows of the viols and cellos were enveloped in the harpsichord’s metallic rustling caress. Then, it could not be denied that the talent of the two female singers brought the songs to vibrant life, causing even seasoned courtiers – for whom it was almost a point of honour to be unimpressed by artistic entertainments laid on for the King – to give their full attention.
