Birthright

by David Hingley

  ‘Because of this nobleman. He has a secret to hide, and he is scared enough of being discovered that he will kill to protect it.’ She looked at him. ‘Could North have been hired to steal those paintings? A nobleman would have had the means to pay him to do it.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you are assuming this nobleman was the one who killed North.’

  ‘Ordered him killed, at least. Who else could it have been?’

  He thought a moment. ‘Anyone North had a rivalry with. An argument gone bad.’

  ‘I doubt it. I think North returned to England to demand more money from his paymaster and was killed for his trouble. And you forget, somebody out there is anxious to scare me from my purpose, and ’tis not North. That cannot be a mere criminal, surely? But a nobleman – if the King were to find out he stole from his father, he would lose his position, perhaps even his head.’

  He blew out his cheeks. ‘You may be right.’

  ‘But I wonder. Would this nobleman have kept the paintings for himself, or sold them on for profit? If they are not abroad they are very well hidden. Oh!’

  As if it were the contents of a shaken beer bottle, the crowd shot forward towards the drays. The force pushed one of the wagons aside, jarring its cargo of barrels to the ground. The wider space formed was immediately filled with barging pedestrians, but they managed to squeeze themselves through without injury, at last coming off the bridge onto Fish Street Hill.

  ‘Remind me to take a wherry in future.’ She shook her head as a fight broke out on the bridge behind them. ‘Talking of selling the paintings, did you have any luck with your … connections?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He nodded. ‘I’ve arranged a meeting for two days’ time. I didn’t want to mention it in all the commotion before.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘I don’t know these people myself, you understand.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Naturally.’

  ‘A mate of mine is arranging it. He says if you wanted – special things – smuggled in the fifties, you went to One-Eye Wilkins. Anybody else tried to get in on the act, One Eye cut them down.’

  ‘A monopoly?’ She laughed. ‘And … One Eye?’

  He grinned. ‘That’s what I was told. Still, names are just names.’

  ‘Oh, I think they can be more than that.’ She rubbed her tired eyes, spreading mud across her lashes. ‘But this is no good. I have to go home to wash.’

  ‘Then I’ll come with you. With all this going on I want to be sure you get there safe.’

  Mercia kept the hackney driver talking when he pulled up, allowing Nicholas, caked in mud, to dash into the carriage unseen. Back in Queen Street, he was not so nimble. The driver swore profusely when he saw him get out, but Mercia left a hefty tip.

  ‘You give money away easily,’ said Nicholas. ‘How rich are you?’

  ‘Not very. I should be earning income from the estate my uncle has seized, but—Nicholas!’ She stopped as she tried the front-door latch. ‘The door is unlocked.’

  ‘Perhaps your maidservant has been careless.’

  ‘She has gone out for the day. She would never forget to lock the door.’

  He surveyed the facade. ‘Then our friend may have returned. Christ, what if he’s still here?’

  Biting her lip, she eased the door open halfway, entering first despite Nicholas’s protestations. The old wood of the hall floor creaked slightly, making her wince. As her eyes adjusted to the semi-light, she heard muffled voices talking in the parlour above.

  Hearing them too, Nicholas pushed in front. She mouthed her irritation but he shook his head, signalling her to stay put. He began to climb the stairs, as quietly as he could; when she followed he waved her back, but she slapped away his hand. She was not going to be cowed, not in her own lodgings.

  At the top, the final step croaked a deep groan. Nicholas swore under his breath. No longer able to be stealthy, he skidded across the small landing, throwing open the parlour door. A man within shouted in surprise. Nicholas rushed through, and there was a loud crash as he grappled with the intruder, knocking him to the floor.

  By now Mercia had reached the landing. She snatched up a brass candle holder, but then someone fled from the room: a tiny figure, no taller than a child, grabbing at her muddy dress.

  ‘Mamma!’ the boy cried. ‘Help!’

  She opened her mouth in disbelief. Looking down she saw her own son’s beseeching face staring up at her. In one swift movement she picked him up and pivoted towards the parlour, peering inside. Nicholas was astride a man on the floor; the stranger was flailing his arms, trying to reach for an object to use as a weapon. Of a sudden Mercia realised who he was.

  ‘Nicholas!’ she cried. ‘Get off him!’ She put Daniel down and dashed over, pulling at the arm Nicholas had drawn back to strike at the struggling man. ‘Get up!’ she insisted. ‘Now!’

  Frowning, Nicholas clambered off the prostrate figure, his fists still clenched. His adversary was sprawled in an awkward position, caught off guard by the unexpected attack. Mercia bent down to look at him.

  ‘Hello, Nathan,’ she said.

  ‘Mercia.’ Nathan pulled himself up. ‘’Tis good to see you.’ His eyes raked over Nicholas. ‘But who is this oaf?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It took Mercia well over an hour to clean off the mud, even with Bethany’s help after she returned from her day out. Heaven knew how long it would take Nicholas, who had eventually calmed down and left, promising to tell her the arrangements for their meeting with the smugglers as soon as he knew himself. A great melancholy came over her as she washed, a morbidity at having found James North dead, but Bethany spoke with such pride of her visit to her niece that the monologue distracted her, and by the time she returned to the parlour she felt refreshed, as though removing the dirt had also cleansed her spirit.

  ‘Mamma!’ Daniel ran to her as she entered the room, hugging her through her mourning dress. She looked down at him and felt a surge of maternal pride. What she did here – all the threats, all the setbacks – she could face them all, in the knowledge she was doing it for her family, for her son.

  She looked over at a chessboard Nathan had found. ‘Is Uncle Nathan teaching you to play?’

  Daniel nodded. ‘I like the horses best, and the prawns.’

  ‘Very good.’ She stifled a smile and bent down to him. ‘Bethany has some food for you in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Go downstairs. You can finish your game later.’

  He scowled. ‘I don’t want to eat.’

  ‘Daniel, go. Bethany is waiting.’ She steered him from the room then turned to Nathan with a questioning look. ‘Prawns?’

  Nathan shrugged. ‘’Tis a hard game to master.’ He stood up from where he had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, his doublet in a heap beside him. Stretching his limbs he joined Mercia on the more comfortable low-backed couch.

  ‘I’m sorry I caused you a fright,’ he said. ‘Sir Jeremy’s servant let me in. He keeps a key at his rooms in the palace.’ He tugged on his shirtsleeves. ‘I did not realise you would have company.’

  ‘We had a tough time on the marsh. I am afraid Nicholas got carried away.’

  He looked at her. ‘I think you had best tell me who he is.’

  She patted at her topknot; it still felt loose, even after Bethany’s administrations. ‘A friend, I hope. When I arrived I was desperate to find anyone who might know something. Nicholas used to work for Sir Edward Markstone. He has been of great help.’

  Nathan nodded slowly. ‘Can you trust him?’

  ‘I admit he is not a usual acquaintance, but these are hardly usual times.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ He smiled. ‘Well, I am here now.’

  ‘I am glad.’ She paused. ‘But – why are you here?’

  His face set. ‘There is trouble at home. Isabel.’

  A coldness flared up in her stomach. ‘What trouble?’

  He bit his lip. ‘She discovered you were in Lon
don, that Daniel was staying with me. Anthony sent men to the farm threatening to take him by force.’ He sighed. ‘I am not his father, however much I care for him. ’Tis difficult for me to refuse his grandparents. But I sent the men away and prepared Daniel to travel here. I did not know what else I could do.’

  Mercia stared at him, horrified. ‘By God’s truth! I have been chasing after dead men while my son has been threatened!’ Her voice shook. ‘What kind of mother would do that?’

  ‘Dead men?’ He shook his head. ‘No, tell me later. Mercia, you are an excellent mother. You have raised that child on your own since William threw away his life. And you are doing this for him, are you not?’

  ‘I am. And I will carry on doing it. But I had not anticipated how wrathful Isabel would be.’ She wrung her hands. ‘She must truly hate me. I think she blames me for William’s death, that I took him away from her and allowed him to die.’

  He sucked in his cheek. ‘That is madness.’

  ‘Maybe so, but a mother’s love is a powerful force, Nathan, never forget that.’

  ‘So is a father’s,’ he said, a sadness in his eyes.

  ‘I know.’ A moment passed. ‘What will Isabel do now?’

  ‘She will discover I have taken Daniel, and she will react.’

  ‘Then she may come to London. We must make sure he is protected at all times.’

  ‘We will. Now tell me what has happened this past week.’

  The morning sunlight shone through the study window as Nathan fixed a blank parchment to the cucumber-green wall; made of pine rather than oak, the panelling still looked expensive.

  Mercia winced. ‘Won’t that damage it?’

  ‘Nobody will notice.’ He unfolded an oval table and set a quill and ink stand on its smooth walnut surface. ‘When we talked last night you were despondent. I know you are upset at finding North dead, but I hope this will show you that you know more than you think.’ Dipping the feathered quill into the ink, he turned to the parchment. ‘Tell me what you have learnt.’

  ‘Very well.’ She leant forward in her chair. As she made her points, Nathan wrote them down. ‘One. North is dead. Two. He was murdered. Three. He came back to England around October or November last year, having previously lived in New Amsterdam. Four. He might have been transported to New England after Worcester, but that is supposition.’

  ‘Excellent. What else?’

  ‘Five. North wanted to extort money from someone at the palace. One conclusion is this person hired him to steal the paintings, or at least bought them from him, although again, that is not definite. Except – six – someone who clearly is not North is trying to scare me off.’ She smiled. ‘Do not look so worried. We talked about that last night.’

  ‘I know. But you cannot blame me.’

  ‘Seven,’ she resumed. ‘We know the paintings are still missing, or the King would not be so eager to get them back. Given Colonel Hawley could never find them, there is a good chance they were smuggled abroad. That would, of course, suggest the nobleman sold the paintings on.’

  ‘That could make sense.’ Nathan chewed at the end of the quill. ‘Do you remember the Spanish ambassador at the time, how many of the King’s paintings he bought from Cromwell in the Great Sale? There were plenty of foreign buyers, and those were the less interesting works. The Oxford Section would have been quite a prize, no matter how it was acquired.’

  She leant back, studying Nathan’s scribbles. ‘So we still have two approaches. Either we learn ourselves where the paintings have gone, or we uncover this mysterious nobleman and hope he tells us.’ She stood up, warming to the discussion. ‘Nicholas aims to help with the first approach.’

  Nathan scoffed. ‘With his dubious associates, according to you.’

  She tutted. ‘Let’s focus on the nobleman. Who could it have been?’

  He sighed, but didn’t press the point. ‘If the nobleman did hire North, he could not have done so much in advance. He would have to have known that North was being assigned to the escort, and you say that only happened after his trouble at Warwick.’

  ‘But there was time?’

  He ran his tongue round his teeth, thinking. ‘Yes. North would have been seething with rage. It might not have taken long to persuade him with the promise of money and a new life. But if so, it would narrow it down to anyone who had access to him at Warwick, or else at Oxford while he was waiting to leave with the escort.’

  ‘That is still a lot of people. All the commanders on Cromwell’s side, and any nobleman who happened to be in the area who knew the Section was about to leave.’

  Nathan blew out his cheeks. ‘I suppose it could even have been a Royalist who was at Worcester with Charles.’

  She frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘There would have been spies everywhere, Mercia. As I understand it, Cromwell chose to move the Section then in case the Royalists pushed him back and swept straight round to Oxford. News of the impending escort could easily have reached their camp.’ He paced the room. ‘Think about it. We know how their mood was bleak. One of their commanders could have devised the plan in desperation, thinking to sell the paintings against any loss he feared a victorious Cromwell might impose to his estate. He could have ridden hard to Oxford, if he found some excuse. Or used an accomplice, perhaps.’

  She smiled at his imagination. ‘I am pleased you are here, Nat. I have missed you.’

  He laughed. ‘Come, I think we have had enough of this. We were going to take Daniel out.’ He unpinned the parchment, peeling it from the wall. ‘Hell!’

  Mercia put her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The ink had run through onto Sir Jeremy’s stylish panelling beneath.

  In spite of the uncertain conclusions, the discussion had stimulated Mercia’s mind, and as Nathan had hoped she felt much better than the night before. He, conversely, was in a melancholy mood following their excursion with Daniel to the physic garden in St James’s Park. Mercia had spent much of the afternoon praising how helpful Nicholas had been.

  ‘Are you jealous?’ she teased as they meandered their way home.

  He grunted, walking ahead down King’s Street, emerging into the lively square of Covent Garden. The piazza was relatively new, built thirty years before as an upmarket residential area, and as such the north side was lined with grand, terraced town houses. Unfortunately for the incoming families of quality, the south side had quickly been taken over by noisy market stalls and coffee houses. Salespeople of all types were pushing barrows and heaving baskets, peddling coal, selling water, demonstrating mops. In the midst of all, a boy was standing on a crate shouting out news: ‘Coronation Day tomorrow. Long live the King.’ And then, just as cheerfully: ‘Dutch raid our African forts. War expected soon.’

  ‘They say John Dryden drinks there.’ Nathan pointed out a coffee house in the corner of the square, the sign outside advertising ‘a most Invigorating drink from Java’. ‘I wonder what they make of the prospect of war. Perhaps I will call in sometime, join the conversation.’

  ‘Now you are being petulant.’ Mercia shook her head, keeping a close hold on Daniel as they pushed through the crowds.

  Nathan laughed. ‘You wouldn’t want to go in, anyway. Save to cause indignation at men raging at a woman daring to join them.’

  ‘I have better things to do than talk with fawning poets.’ She stopped to buy cherries from a woman balancing a precarious basket of the tiny fruit on her head. ‘Danny, have one of these.’ She pushed a cherry in his mouth, holding out her hand for him to spit out the stone.

  Gradually they made their way towards the middle of the square. The boy on the crate was still shouting his news. ‘Guinea outposts raided. Commons wants action. Famous gunsmith shot. Colonel Stephen Fell killed in tragic accident.’

  Mercia stopped dead, causing Nathan to stumble behind her. Still holding Daniel’s hand, she pushed a red-jerkined juggler aside in her haste to reach the newsboy. The entertainer’s crowd jeered as he dropped his colourful stic
ks, but Mercia was too preoccupied to notice.

  ‘What do you mean, Stephen Fell is dead?’ she demanded. ‘What news?’

  The boy broke off his chant. ‘Don’t know, missis. I just tell what’s happened, then people buy me dad’s pamphlets. This one’s brand new, printed an hour back. Look.’

  He held out a single sheet. Mercia gave him a penny, scouring the contents until she found the paragraph about Fell. It was badly worded, but the story was clear enough.

  Renowned Colonel Stephen Fell Master Gunsmith was Yesterday found shot in his own shop by apprentice Jeremiah Frome. Constables suspect an Accident, Fell being killed by a Flintlock gun he was mending and so shot himself. The Affair was yesterday evening, when the Apprentice drinking with friends in his room above heard a gun and found his Master dead, who was clutching the terrible Weapon in his mortal hand.

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Fell is dead.’

  They walked back to Queen Street in a more sombre mood, although Daniel was still happy, his lips progressively reddening from all the cherries.

  ‘Fell knew everything about guns,’ whispered Mercia. ‘To kill himself like that, ’tis preposterous.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ said Nathan.

  ‘I do not know.’ She sighed. ‘I only spoke with him last Friday.’

  He hesitated. ‘I don’t think you should presume anything. It probably was an accident. These things happen.’

  ‘I’m sure you are right.’ Agitated, she nearly stepped into the Drury Lane roadway as a swerving hackney hurtled past; Nathan put his hand across her waist just in time.

  ‘Careful,’ he said. ‘You nearly had an accident of your own.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked around her. ‘Where is—Daniel, stop right there!’ Daniel skidded to a halt on the other side of the street. Annoyed, she ran over to him, this time checking for traffic. ‘I told you before, do not run off. And now look, all that cherry juice down your new doublet.’

  ‘I am sorry, Mamma.’ He looked innocently at Nathan, who failed to be stern back, his attention focused on Mercia.