by Stella Riley
‘Your father made a diamond pendant for my wife. You were there the day I collected it.’
The fine-boned face was turned very slowly towards him.
‘A tear-drop diamond surrounded by small emeralds in a filigree setting?’
Brandon nodded. ‘You remember it?’
‘Vividly. It was one of the last pieces I saw him make.’ Luciano paused and then, with a visible effort, said, ‘I don’t suppose your wife would consider selling it?’
‘My wife has been dead for three years, Signor Falcieri. If you want the pendant, it’s yours. And no,’ he added quickly, as Luciano would have spoken, ‘that’s an attempt neither to placate my own conscience nor make reparation. Both are impossible and the second would be nothing short of an insult.’
‘I am glad,’ remarked Luciano, ‘that you realise it.’
There was no hostility in his voice; only an incredible weariness. He supposed, somewhat distantly, that he ought to thank the fellow, but it seemed too great an effort. Then, as he opened his mouth to try, the door opened and a woman came in.
She was on the shady side of forty and draped in numerous scarves and shawls, one of which had escaped to trail along the floor. Ignoring Luciano completely, she said with gentle anxiety, ‘Robert, dear … you haven’t seen Moppet, have you? I can’t find her anywhere and the kittens are due any day now.’
‘Oh God,’ breathed Sir Robert. And then, patiently, ‘No, Sophy – I haven’t seen her. And if she gives birth on my bed again, I’ll --’
‘Of course! Your room. How could I have forgotten that? I’ll go and look there immediately.’
‘By all means, do. And pick up that shawl before you trip over it and break your neck.’
‘What?’ She hunted vaguely about for the offending article and finally succeeded in looping it over one elbow. Then, with a sweet, myopic smile in Luciano’s direction, she said, ‘I’ll have Baxter bring some food. The young man looks as though he needs it.’ And wafted irresolutely back through the door, leaving it open behind her.
Brandon looked across at his visitor with a sort of desperate calm.
‘My sister,’ he said. ‘If she finds the cat, she may remember the food – but I wouldn’t like to rely on it.’
‘No,’ agreed Luciano weakly. He was aware of finding it funnier than it actually was and had to fight a dangerous impulse to laugh. If he once started, he might not be able to stop. On the other hand, Mistress Sophy had cut through the tension like a knife. He said unsteadily, ‘And that would be a shame … because I, for one, am all out of lofty principles.’
‘If that means you feel able to break bread with me, I should be honoured,’ came the honest reply. ‘So sit down and finish your wine. I’ll be back in five minutes.’
* * *
Over a simple meal of cold meat and slices of game pie, they spoke only of the war and likelihood of either side being able to bring it to a successful conclusion. Then, when the remains of the food had been pushed aside, Sir Robert silently passed Luciano two much-folded and slightly yellowing pieces of paper.
Handling them with controlled distaste, Luciano read and re-read both of them. The handwriting was ornate and completely unknown to him; the contents were exactly as Brandon had described.
At length, he placed them on the table in front of him and, looking up, said flatly, ‘As you say … an evil bastard.’
Brandon sighed. ‘It’s no help, is it?’
‘Except in the unlikely event of either one of us seeing a hand that exactly matches this – none.’ As he had been doing for the last two hours, Luciano tried to shut out the thought that he appeared to have arrived at the ultimate brick wall; that he had spent the best part of four years and a small fortune in order to destroy two men who were nothing more than cogs in the wheel; that there was quite plainly a fifth man who was the only one who really counted – and to whose identity he had no clues at all. He said slowly, ‘Giles Langley drowned in 1629 under circumstances which no one I have spoken to can properly explain. I wonder if he knew something?’
‘And was murdered because of it? Possibly. But what good is that?’
Luciano shrugged slightly and picked up his glass.
‘Just that it would be nice to think that whoever is behind all this isn’t absolutely foolproof.’
Sir Robert grunted and then said, ‘Of course, we’ll never be sure that it wasn’t Langley himself.’
‘On the contrary. We know that it wasn’t – for the simple reason that, less than a month ago, just after I dealt with Webb, someone took the trouble to have my house searched.’ A wry smile touched the firm mouth. ‘I was rather hoping that it might have been you. As it is, another great theory bites the dust.’
‘It’s worse than that, isn’t it? Someone – one assumes the man himself – knows what you’re doing.’
‘Indeed. And the only avenue I have left is Samuel Fisher.’
‘You’re sure it couldn’t have been him?’
‘Yes. He is already precisely aware both of what I know and how much use it’s likely to be.’ Luciano sipped his wine, frowning a little. ‘But he must have had a stronger reason than I’d previously supposed for appropriating the trial record. And he knew that the evidence was a tissue of lies. In fact, it’s beginning to look as if he may know a damned sight more than I’d thought possible.’
Brandon drew a long breath and then loosed it. He said, ‘You know where to find him?’
‘Yes. And that, I might add, is the only thing keeping me from climbing the walls at my own stupidity. I was expecting four names and that’s what Fisher gave me. When Ferrars told me he’d been blackmailed, I just assumed the culprit must be one of the other three; and when Webb said the same, I still thought it had to be either Langley or you. Or no. That’s not strictly true. I was counting on it being you, since Langley is beyond my reach. Only then my house was attacked.’ He stopped for a moment, trying to curb the rush of anger. ‘That cost another life. And all because I’ve been too bloody inept to look beyond the end of my nose.’
Sir Robert Brandon closed his lips on all the futile words that sprang to mind. Finally he said simply, ‘I’ve a stake in this too. I’d like to come with you.’
‘No,’ snapped Luciano irascibly. ‘Haven’t you realised yet that, since the day I found Webb, the only things keeping you alive have been your ignorance and the possibility that I might never find you? The man who wrote those letters is clever and ruthless and still alive. He’s also, at the very least, beginning to guess what I’m doing. So do you really think that, had he not known how little you could tell me, I’d have been allowed to reach you?’
‘In which case – if Fisher does know something – the first move you make towards him will sign either his death warrant or yours.’
‘Not necessarily. The very fact that he’s still alive suggests that he’s either kept his information to himself or arranged for his own protection. And as for me, I ought to be safe enough provided I take adequate precautions. At any rate, I’ll take my chances. I’ll have to. There’s no other choice.’
‘You could stop.’
‘No. I can’t. I have to finish it – because, until I do, I’ve no hope of anything approaching a normal life.’ And I’d so very much like to have one. ‘So it’s back to London and Fisher.’
‘Along with four or five of my men,’ said Sir Robert calmly. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’
Luciano eyed him with irritation, slowly giving way to wry amusement.
‘All right. If and when I find our mutual friend, you want to know about it. Understood. But you don’t need to make yourself responsible for my safety.’
‘I do. It’s a long way back to London – especially if, as you suspect, you may be being watched. And I’d as soon you didn’t die before you’re able to talk to Fisher.’
‘Thank you. For myself, I’d as soon not die at all.’
‘So you’ll take my men?’
‘If you i
nsist – but only as far as my door. After that, I’ll make my own arrangements.’ Luciano stared down into his glass, the momentary levity dying from his face. Then, meeting the older man’s gaze, he said reflectively, ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, how things turn out? Life is full of surprises.’
Brandon allowed his understanding to show but let it lie unspoken. Reaching into his pocket, he drew out the delicate diamond pendant that Alessandro Falcieri had made for him sixteen years before and placed it carefully in front of Alessandro’s son. Then he said quietly, ‘God moves in mysterious ways. And at least your father was fortunate in his heir. There are a good many men – myself amongst them – who would envy him that.’
* * *
It took a week to get back to Cheapside, by which time Luciano was as heartily sick of his frigidly efficient companions as they apparently were of him. If they were followed, it was done with flawless discretion; and they met with no violence at all – a fact which Captain Harper seemed to find regrettable. Neither did he take kindly to passing himself and his troopers off as Royalists when the need arose. Indeed, had it not been that the alternative was probably spending the rest of the war in prison, he would almost certainly have refused. But at least the news was good. The Scots, having signed a treaty with the Parliament, were preparing to cross the border … and, in Lincolnshire, Lord Manchester and Colonel Cromwell had routed a Royalist force from Newark and taken eight hundred prisoners. Filled with circumspect elation, the captain was able to face the road ahead with greater equanimity and looked blithely forward to saying goodbye his charge.
Luciano looked forward to it as well and, when they finally arrived outside his door, bade the captain and his men a suitably acidic farewell and directed them to a comfortable nearby hostelry. Then he went thankfully inside to create untold relief in the bosoms of Selim and Giacomo.
There had been no further trouble during his absence and he devoutly hoped he could visit Fisher without causing any. He therefore spent the better part of the evening discussing with Selim the various routes and times that might enable him to get to Lambeth unobserved; and, this done, threw himself into bed and attempted to get a few hours’ sleep.
* * *
He left the house again swathed in a dark cloak a couple of hours before dawn, with Selim following at a sensible distance; near enough to help should help be needed but far enough behind to pick up any signs of pursuit. In this way – and sticking to a pre-arranged and highly tortuous route – they successfully reached the river and found a boat to take them across. No other craft, so far as they could see, set out after them. And, in due course, Luciano found himself once more amidst the weeds of Samuel Fisher’s garden.
Dawn was breaking – a fact of which he found himself rather glad. He had no especial objection to confronting the old man in bed, but would rather not do it by the light of no more than a candle. Aware that Selim had arrived at his elbow, he said softly, ‘All right. Let’s find a window.’
The one they chose was at the side of the house, well-hidden from the gaze of local early-risers and with a frame so rotten that it was but the work of a moment for Selim to force it. Then they were inside.
The room, so far as they could see in the gloom, was virtually empty of furniture but thickly carpeted with dust. Luciano led the way across to the door, opened it as quietly as possible and stepped into the familiar territory of the hall.
The smell, this time, had nothing to do with cabbage or fish and was worse than either. Luciano’s first breath nearly choked him and even Selim came to an abrupt halt, one hand clamped hard over his mouth. But then, Selim had a good excuse. He knew what it was.
Closing his other hand on his master’s arm, he said rapidly, ‘We should go. There is nothing here for you.’
His lungs full of the sickly, cloying odour, Luciano peered back at him through the near-darkness. Then he understood.
‘Oh bloody hell,’ he breathed desperately. And, tearing his arm free, took the stairs two at a time.
Selim swore and followed him.
Luciano checked for a moment outside Fisher’s room, as if trying to summon all his resources. Then, with every muscle rigidly controlled, he pressed the latch and let the door swing wide.
Light, filtering dimly from the uncurtained windows, fell on over-turned furniture, yawning cupboards and ripped-out panelling. Someone had conducted something that was less a search than a systematic dismantling. Even the floor had not escaped attention. And the stench was overpowering.
Luciano stepped inside, his eyes raking the cluttered floor. And then he saw it; a foot protruding from behind the overturned chair. Slowly but without hesitation, he forced himself to advance towards it until he could see the bloated, sprawling remains of Samuel Fisher. The body had been stabbed, very messily, a number of times. It had also been dead for several days. But the thing that finally shattered Luciano’s careful self-discipline was the sight of the old man’s left hand … from which someone, presumably for the sake of his own emerald, had hacked the little finger.
It was too much. Luciano’s stomach rose into this throat and, reeling clumsily away from the corpse, he vomited into the nearest corner. It was both painful and disgusting; but it was better, he already knew, than facing the only fact that mattered.
With Fisher dead, there was nowhere else to go. It had all been for nothing. Stalemate.
It wasn’t until much later that he thought of some of the things that were already worrying Selim. Such as whether, for example, Samuel Fisher would be the only one to end up a victim of murder.
~ * * ~ * * ~
THE RECKONING
January 1644 to November 1645
His Majesty has now no way left to preserve his posterity, kingdom and nobility but by a treaty. I believe it a more prudent way to retain something, than to lose all.
Rupert of the Rhine
ONE
By the time they took Arundel Castle on January 6th, Eden was heartily sick of rain and mud. He was also sick of having his major – whom he liked and respected – tell him that he could not possibly be released from duty.
‘Don’t even think of it,’ advised Gabriel, crisply. ‘Quite apart from the fact that I can’t spare you, we’ve already got enough trouble keeping our fellows together without them getting wind of an officer taking leave to attend his wife’s confinement. Every man-jack of them would turn into an expectant father overnight. And winter is no time for recruiting.’
It was all too aggravatingly true. Back in November, after they’d failed once again to take the great stronghold of Basing House, virtually all the London boys had marched off home through the driving rain, leaving the rest of the army – equally wet and unpaid and now hamstrung for lack of numbers – to seek shelter at Farnham. Eden sometimes wondered if the other generals – Lord Manchester and Sir Tom Fairfax, for example – suffered as much from desertion as Waller and his arch-rival, Essex, did; or whether, cynically, they’d found some magic formula for getting clothes and pay and munitions out of Westminster.
It had been a mixed year since he’d transferred to Waller and been given his captaincy. Roundway Down, of course, had been an unmitigated disaster. He still carried the mark of it across his left cheek – and would for the rest of his life. But some things had gone right – such as taking Alton from that silly fellow Crawford, who’d sent to Waller asking for some wine in exchange for an ox. Eden and Ralph had delivered the wine personally, taken a good look at the Royalist dispositions and returned with the impudent message that Sir William should have his ox if he cared to fetch it. Well, they’d fetched it, all right; and taken five hundred prisoners into the bargain – some of whom had re-enlisted under Waller. So much, as Ralph said, for relying on amateurs. And now, after four days of sitting in the mud, they’d also succeeded in forcing Sir Ralph Hopton – who wasn’t an amateur at all – out of Arundel.
As far as progress elsewhere was concerned, everyone agreed that it was impossible to judge. After a
glorious summer, the Cavaliers had taken Newport Pagnell only to lose it again; and while the King was expecting troops out of Ireland, some twenty thousand Scots were preparing to cross the border in aid of the Parliament. But if either side was about to win the war, nobody Eden knew was keen to put money on it.
In fact, the most momentous event of the last three months had not happened in the field at all but on a quiet bed in London when, racking with pain and wasted to skeletal thinness, John Pym had finally relinquished his hold on life.
‘Eaten by worms,’ had been the immediate and gleeful Cavalier verdict; and the Scots, whom Pym had worked so hard to befriend, condemned his funeral rites as Popish and refused to attend. But there were others left to note that his sole aim had always been to promote the public good. And everywhere, as was natural, people speculated on who would succeed him.
After that, the second Christmas of the war came and went more or less unnoticed – mainly because, in deference to the Scots Commissioners, Parliament decreed that it was to be treated as an ordinary working day.
‘Stupid idea,’ said Ralph flatly. ‘With no bear-baiting or plays, a fast-day every Wednesday and only the odd hanging or parade of prisoners to break the monotony, people are getting pretty sick of Westminster. And now the King’s offering a free pardon to any members who’ll exchange their seat in London for one in Oxford, there’s bound to be trouble.’
Eden didn’t doubt it but was more concerned with his own problems. Within days of Arundel, the mud and rain he’d so deplored was replaced with a week’s continuous snow as the winter closed in with a vengeance. The baby, so far as he could calculate, must be due any day now and yet here he was kicking his heels in the modest Royalist household at Farnham that Gabriel had appropriated as a billet. This – what with Mistress Maynard’s glacial courtesy and her two children’s implacable hostility – was strain enough; but when it was also the very last place one wanted to be just now, the effect was well-nigh intolerable.
