A Masterpiece of Corruption

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘Thurloe knows that Willys is head of the Sealed Knot, but at first pretended not to. When I asked him why he did not have him arrested, he said that it was inopportune.’

  ‘Inopportune?’ repeats O’Neill.

  ‘And though he asked me to gather what information I could on the Sealed Knot, he told me that I should not under any circumstance visit or question Sir Richard.’

  We all three look at each other.

  ‘I think,’ says Ripley, ‘that our worst fears are confirmed. Willys has been turned and Thurloe has been protecting his creature in every possible way. Let us recall, moreover, that it was Willys who assured us that you were not working for Thurloe. He said that he had written to Brussels and was able to confirm that you were indeed John Clifford. I begin to see the hand of Thurloe everywhere I look.’

  ‘It had seemed odd to me that Willys was so much on my side,’ I say. ‘But if he is working for Thurloe …’

  ‘As indeed he is,’ says O’Neill, ‘then it is not so surprising. There is, you might say, a pattern to it all, but not a pretty one. I need you to come and tell Hyde exactly what you have told me. He does not trust the Sealed Knot, but until now he, like the King, has refused to believe that Willys could be false; he thinks that the letters sent to us by our contact are forgeries. Once he hears from you, I think he will change his mind.’

  There is, of course, one important question to be answered before I agree to cooperate with anybody about anything.

  ‘So, if I do all that, then I may go home?’

  ‘Probably,’ says O’Neill. ‘You have deceived us, but if you have helped us root out such a traitor in our midst … Let us go and visit Sir Edward Hyde. The court keeps late hours. I am sure he will still be awake.’

  I look at Ripley. I am not sure that he wouldn’t prefer to shoot me.

  ‘You should be thankful that it’s Mr O’Neill’s decision,’ he says. ‘Didn’t I tell you that you were a lucky person?’

  O’Neill nods at the men who had previously kicked me upstairs.

  ‘I do not need a guard,’ I say. ‘I have said I will come with you.’

  ‘It is less safe out there than you think,’ says Ripley. ‘I agree we do not need to treat you as a prisoner, but our swords may prove useful on a dark night.’

  ‘I think this city is safer than London,’ I say.

  There is a hurried discussion. Ripley and two others will go with me. O’Neill is to go on some other mission of his own. Three will be enough to see me through the dark streets of Brussels. I’d prefer O’Neill guarding me, but I don’t think Ripley will go back on his word.

  We set off, the four of us, down the dark lane. Ripley holds a torch. His companion holds my arm, as if unsure whether I may still try to escape. The last man brings up behind, looking over his shoulder from time to time. His footsteps are steady, then he stops briefly before hurrying to catch us up again. Perhaps he saw something. Ripley’s enquiry as to whether there is a problem is, however, met with a laconic ‘No’.

  We have gone only a short distance further when I feel the grip on my elbow tighten suddenly, then relax completely. I turn to my guard. There is, in the flickering red light of Ripley’s torch, a look of surprise on the man’s face and the point of a sword sticking out of the front of his doublet. That is red too. Then the point is withdrawn and the man falls to the ground. From the shadows behind him somebody says: ‘Stand to one side, Mr Grey. I need to deal with the last of these Royalist dogs.’

  I hear rather than see Ripley draw his sword. He is holding aloft the torch, which is guttering but still throws out a dim light. For a moment Ripley stands, torch in one hand, sword in the other, squinting into the darkness to one side of me. I feel a waft of air as somebody’s sword strikes home. Ripley curses, the torch falls, rolls on the cobblestones and finally goes out. Then there is another swishing in the darkness and Ripley grunts and clutches at his face. The sharp note of bright metal striking stone rings out into the warm night air.

  A hand grasps my arm again. ‘This way, Mr Grey. The street is uneven and we now have no torch to light our way, not that it would be a good idea to draw attention to ourselves.’

  I find myself hurried along the lane by somebody who knows Brussels better than I do. We turn a corner. Somewhere behind us I hear a clatter of steel, as if Ripley is recovering his weapon, but there is no sound of pursuit. I am pulled, pushed and prodded, mainly in silence, until we reach the doorway of an inn.

  As the door is pushed open, the candlelight catches the face of the man I am with.

  ‘Mr Smithson,’ I say.

  ‘Just so,’ he says. ‘Let us ascend to my chamber. I have already ordered food and you must be starving.’

  Mr Smithson

  ‘So,’ says Smithson, putting down a chicken bone, ‘you made things quite difficult for me. I hoped you might remember me, even though when we first met I was disguised as a beggar on Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The half-crown that you gave me was generous. But clearly you have forgotten that occasion. Quite right. When thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right doeth, as St Matthew instructs us. This time, I had been tasked by Mr Thurloe to wait for you at Dover and to accompany you on the packet to Ostend, in case we failed to stop Ripley in England. I was to guard you as far as Brussels, then ensure that you were able to make your getaway after your meeting with Hyde. I discovered that Ripley had been on the boat with us; but when I later tried to speak to you in private, you evaded me.’

  ‘I ran into Ripley,’ I say. ‘He offered me a place in his carriage.’

  ‘That was not wise. Our coach was delayed an hour while we waited for your return, or I might have intercepted you on your way to Charles Stuart’s court. Fortunately I knew that your father lived in Brussels and, like you, was able to discover his address. I reached the house just as Ripley and his minions were escorting you away. I followed and discovered where they planned to keep you for the time being. I was aware that, if they did not kill you there and then, they would need to take you somewhere else sooner or later. So, I waited for you all to emerge. It was easy enough, in the dark, to cut the throat of one of your captors as he tried to guard the rear of your party. The second should have realised something was amiss when I caught you all up again, but he was sadly unaware of me until he saw the point of my sword sticking through his chest. I think I have wounded Ripley, though unfortunately not killed him. He may be contemplating revenge – against both of us. But with the whole of Brussels to scour, I think they will not find us here tonight. You delivered the message, I hope?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It would have been helpful if Thurloe had told me what was in it.’

  ‘That was not necessary. Anyway, telling people things is not Mr Thurloe’s way of doing business.’

  ‘The King did not believe it,’ I say, with a certain secret satisfaction.

  Smithson nods as if this was not unexpected.

  ‘Somebody in Thurloe’s office had already warned them it was a trick,’ I say.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Morland,’ I say.

  ‘They told you that?’

  ‘As good as.’

  Smithson nods again and wipes his fingers carefully on a napkin. He is more fastidious in his eating than Probert.

  ‘You show no surprise?’ I say.

  ‘It was certainly Morland. You warned Mr Thurloe some time ago that he might be a risk.’

  ‘But he did not believe me.’

  ‘No. Not at the time. But Mr Thurloe stores things like that away. Stores them away until he has some problem that might be explained by a fact such as that. When we realised that information was leaking from our office, we wondered if you had been right. Now you have provided us with the proof. Well done, Mr Grey. Well done, indeed. Your mission could not have been more successful.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘Of course, we never expected Charles Stuart to believe that there was such a plot. He is too cautious for that. The
question was whether it would be leaked. Only Cromwell, Thurloe and Morland knew of it. If word has reached Brussels that it is a trick, then it can only be Morland.’

  ‘And that is why I was sent?’

  ‘That is why you were sent.’

  ‘But the Knot now knows that Willys has gone over to Thurloe. The letter implicates him.’

  ‘It could have been done without Willys’s knowledge … but I see from your face that that is not what they believe. You have an honest face, Mr Grey – has anyone ever told you that? It is, however, of no account. The Knot already suspected Willys. I think there are things that they have not been telling him for a long time – secrets that were kept from him. He was less and less use to us. Indeed, he has told us nothing of note for some months. Mr Thurloe was happy to sacrifice him while he still had a value. And we have made a good exchange of pieces – for Willys we have gained Morland. Sam Morland’s fate is sealed and the State is grateful to you for uncovering such a rogue. As for Willys, the Knot will ask themselves who they can trust if they cannot trust their leader. There may be some blood-letting within their ranks, I fear. They will be even less effective than before. You have done well – very well indeed. But I am sorry, Mr Grey – you are not eating. Can I pass you a chicken leg?’

  I shake my head. ‘Ripley had a man named O’Neill with him. Who is he?’

  ‘Daniel O’Neill,’ he says. ‘Or Infallible Subtle, as Hyde calls him – though O’Neill just refers to Hyde as the Fat Fellow. O’Neill’s one of the leading Royalist agents. Maybe their very best. We almost caught him when he was in England in January, but somebody tipped him off each time. If we could eliminate him now …’ He looks at me thoughtfully.

  ‘There is nothing further I can do for you,’ I say.

  ‘But if we got a message to him, saying that you wished to speak to him …’

  ‘We would get Ripley and twenty armed men.’

  ‘Two or three at the most.’

  ‘But without the advantage of surprise and a dark night,’ I say.

  ‘True. You have been lucky so far.’

  ‘That’s what Ripley thinks too. All I wish to know is when we can return to London.’

  ‘Soon,’ he says.

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘I should like to discover my father’s grave first, if possible.’

  ‘My condolences, Mr Grey, on the loss of a parent, but such a visit would be inadvisable. Ripley may suspect that you would do that. I have no wish to be ambushed by Ripley as I ambushed him.’

  ‘So, we leave for the coast as soon as we can?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘There are no further conditions?’

  Smithson stretches and yawns. ‘None. You have faithfully carried out your mission. Once we have finished eating, we must get a few hours’ sleep, then we shall leave at dawn. It is a good time to go – the Knot will still be carousing in the taverns, if they have the money to do so. We shall leave inconspicuously on foot. I have horses stabled just outside the city walls. We shall ride to Dunkirk, in case Ostend is watched, then take a boat to Dover.’

  I am not sure that I have faithfully carried out anything. Indeed, I feel no loyalty to Thurloe at all. I would willingly tell Ripley all I know about Thurloe or Thurloe all I know about Ripley if either would allow me to return to London and not trouble me again. I have thrown in my lot with Smithson because Smithson has (I hope) faster horses than Ripley and O’Neill. As for Morland and Willys, they both deserve whatever fate has in store for them.

  ‘I’ll take the bed closest to the door,’ says Smithson. ‘I’m sure we are undiscovered here, but it’s best to be safe. I wouldn’t want Ripley whisking you away again in the middle of the night. I think he may be less favourably inclined towards you now I have dispatched one or two of his friends. Still, it’s unlikely you’ll ever see him again.’

  ‘I fear I could sleep all of tomorrow,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll wake you just before dawn,’ says Smithson. ‘It would be as well to be on our way before daylight. The sooner I can get back to London and we can deal with Morland the better.’

  I awake to find the sunlight streaming into the room. It is long after dawn. We have certainly overslept and shall need to hurry. I roll over in bed and reach across to shake Smithson’s shoulder. He does not respond. Then I see that his sheets are covered in blood. I look up and there, sitting in the only chair in the room, is Ripley. His left hand is bandaged and there is a vivid red wound on his cheek. But his right hand is capable of wielding a knife, it would seem.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grey,’ he says. ‘You have slept well. I don’t think your companion will be stirring today, so you may as well come with me. I am here to remind you that we have an appointment with Sir Edward Hyde.’

  His Most Excellent Majesty Charles the Second, by the Grace of God King of England, Scotland, Ireland and France

  It is mid-morning. The sun bathes the large room in which I met Hyde and the King yesterday. But the air is frosty for such a warm day.

  Behind the table sits Hyde, leaning forwards as if to catch every traitorous word I utter, and the King, who lounges in his chair, a spaniel on his lap. These three, it would seem, are my judges. Behind them, the sunlight playing on its gold and red and forest-green threads, is a Flemish tapestry, representing some sort of allegory of justice or of enlightenment or of not getting yourself shot by first trusting your father’s slut and then failing to wake up before your companion was stabbed to death. Something like that. I am reminded, but only briefly, of my samples of wool, abandoned at the inn. They will not help me now. The rest of my life could depend on what I say in the next few minutes.

  To one side of me stands Ripley, the counsel for the prosecution. O’Neill sits attentively on the other side. There is no counsel for the defence.

  The King yawns and stretches, almost unseating Fairfax, who growls and then settles down again.

  ‘So,’ says the King, ‘it seems you are not Mr Clifford, but Mr Grey.’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I say.

  ‘And why were you Mr Clifford?’

  ‘It was expedient,’ I say.

  The King nods. He understands expediency. ‘So, as Mr Grey, did your father still fight for His late Majesty, as he did when you were Mr Clifford? Was that part of the story at least true?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He fought for your father.’

  ‘And he was forced to flee because Parliament declared him a traitor?’

  ‘No, he fled with somebody else’s wife.’

  The King nods again, this time with greater approval. ‘And he now lives with her here?’

  ‘He left her for somebody younger,’ I say.

  Another nod from the King. He and my father would have got on well. ‘And he is content, I hope, living here with his new companion?’

  ‘He is not living at all, Your Majesty. He died last month.’

  ‘My condolences,’ says the King. ‘But I’m sure, from what you say, that he died a happy man. Sir Michael here says that, in your capacity as Mr Grey, you have some important information for us that you did not give us yesterday as Mr Clifford. I confess that I do not entirely understand why that should be, but Sir Edward tells me that he does. That is his job.’

  ‘There is a more important point to discuss first,’ says Hyde. ‘Mr Grey, whose side are you actually on?’

  We look at each other. It occurs to me that not only does he know my father was a Royalist but, since he now knows my true name, he may have worked out that my mother was also a Royalist, who once corresponded with him from Essex. That might have stood in my favour. But now I think about it, my mother has, at my insistence, broken all connections with him – broken them utterly. That may not be the best advice that I ever gave her.

  I think it is time to tell the truth again.

  ‘I am on nobody’s side,’ I say. ‘I simply wish to go home.’

  The King looks upon that statemen
t with almost as much sympathy as on my father’s wish to flee the country with somebody else’s wife. I want to go home. That is also his most fervent wish. To do so, he has allied with the Protestant Scots, he has signed the Covenant, he has resided with the Catholic French, he is negotiating with the Spanish, the enemies of both France and England. Throughout this constantly changing pattern of alliances there is one consistent policy. He wants to go home.

  ‘What is your view, Sir Michael?’ he asks.

  Ripley rubs his chin with his one good hand and winces slightly when he touches the bright red wound. I doubt he feels well inclined towards me.

  ‘Brodrick always suspected that Grey was an enemy of ours. He thought we should kill him there and then. I should have listened to him. It might have saved me a great deal of trouble. On the other hand, he has useful information for us. I think, Your Majesty, that you should hear it before we decide what to do with him. And I would ask you not to make up your mind until you have heard all of the evidence.’

  That is a more generous opening submission for the prosecution than I had hoped for, but there is just a hint of menace in those final words that keeps me on my guard. Does Ripley have further accusations to make against me?

  ‘Very well,’ says Hyde. ‘Let us see what Mr Grey can tell us. After that we shall decide what his fate should be. No more deception, Mr Grey. If you are to save yourself, it will be through the truth and the truth alone. Sir Michael has already explained to you the problem that we have. We have known for some time that Thurloe had a source of information high up in the Sealed Knot. One plan after another was betrayed before it could properly begin. It was as if Cromwell could read our minds. We knew that he has spies here in Brussels, but this person seemed to know everything that went on.’