The King's Return: (Thomas Hill 3) (Thomas Hill Novels)

by Andrew Swanston

  The letter was on the mantel above the fireplace. It was sealed and addressed to Thomas Hill Esquire, in Mary’s hand. He broke the seal and unrolled it.

  My dear Thomas

  Please do not think too badly of us for departing without bidding you farewell. Having learned that there is a ship sailing from Southampton the day after tomorrow, we have decided to leave immediately. We will take the coach to Guildford, and from there travel on to Southampton.

  England holds nothing for us now and we have instructed our lawyer to sell this house. Do use it as you wish until the sale is completed. I have sent a message to Joseph and will depend upon you to explain matters to dear Madeleine.

  I will write again from Barbados.

  Whatever the future brings you will always be in our thoughts, as we hope we shall be in yours.

  God bless you.

  Your most affectionate friends

  Charles and Mary Carrington

  Charles has asked me to remind you about going down on one knee. He says it never fails.

  Thomas read it twice. How unlike Mary. The Stoner affair must really have unsettled her. ‘England holds nothing for us now’ – an oddly blunt expression – and the house to be sold. And ‘Whatever the future brings’ – most unlike Mary to express such a thought.

  Sad as he was not to have been able to make his farewells, Thomas tried to understand. They were tired of London and they did not want to miss the ship sailing in two days’ time. He wondered how they had learned about the ship and how they knew there would be a cabin available for them. No doubt he would find out when Mary wrote again from the island.

  In his bedroom, Thomas washed and changed. When he came down, the cook had prepared breakfast for him. He wolfed it down with three mugs of ale and told Smythe that he was going to visit Joseph Williamson and would be back soon. He found a carriage and set off for Chancery Lane. Tired and miserable or not, he must inform Joseph of Squire’s death and Morland’s innocence.

  Williamson was at his own breakfast when Thomas arrived. ‘Good morning, Thomas. It is early for a visit.’

  ‘I have come to report that Lemuel Squire is dead. He shot himself.’

  ‘What? Squire dead? I imagined he was in Holland by now.’ Williamson put down the letter he was reading and stared at him.

  ‘He had been hiding in London, waiting for a chance to escape. We found him two days ago.’

  ‘We? You’d best sit down and tell me about it.’ As was his way, Williamson did not interrupt while Thomas told the story. He listened quietly, occasionally nodding as if making a mental note.

  ‘So,’ he said when Thomas had finished, ‘once again Mottershead has exposed you to unnecessary danger. First the Dartford marshes, now Drury Lane. A foul, evil place, riddled with crime and disease. What possessed you to go with him?’

  ‘God knows. Impetuosity, curiosity, lunacy. All three perhaps.’

  ‘Why didn’t you inform me? My men would soon have caught Squire.’

  ‘With respect, I doubt very much if they would have. The area is a warren of passages and alleyways and the moment a trained man had shown his face, Squire would have been spirited away to one of a hundred secret places. Without Josiah, Squire would still be in hiding.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he did not have to take you with him.’

  ‘I insisted.’ Williamson would recognize the lie, but he could not refute it.

  ‘Just like Dartford, eh? Your powers of persuasion are considerable, Thomas.’ Williamson stood up. ‘So. Squire dead and Stoner in the Tower awaiting a ship to Denmark. And Roger Willow has disappeared. I really cannot spare anyone to go looking for him, so whether he has run off from fear or fury we may never know. I have lost three good men, but a dangerous spy ring is broken and the ringleaders are no longer a threat. I should keep my head.’

  ‘Did you know that Willow was an actor, as Squire was?’

  Joseph raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I did not.’

  ‘Squire claimed so. Why do you suppose Squire took his own life?’

  ‘Fear, I imagine,’ replied Williamson. ‘Being half hanged, drawn and quartered cannot be a comfortable way to die and it is a death the king insists upon for traitors. Squire knew it, decided not to take the risk and shot himself. Any of us might have done the same.’

  There was a knock on the door and Williamson’s footman came in. ‘A messenger is here from the Constable, sir.’

  ‘Ye gods, what now? I’ve hardly finished my breakfast and already I’m besieged by visitors. Show him in.’

  The messenger handed Williamson a letter. He broke the seal and read it. ‘The Constable asks me to go to the Tower immediately. He does not say why. Are you up to coming with me, Thomas?’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  At the Tower, they were met by a yeoman warder and taken straight to the Constable. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ he greeted them, shaking their hands. ‘I fear that I have unwelcome news.’

  ‘Don’t tell me Stoner’s escaped,’ exclaimed Williamson.

  ‘He has not escaped, sir. He’s dead.’

  ‘By his own hand?’

  ‘I think not. I have asked the guard to join us. He will tell you what happened.’

  Williamson was furious. ‘It had better be good, or the man will find himself in Newgate before nightfall.’

  The guard was shown in and stood in front of them. He looked terrified. ‘Now, man,’ ordered the Constable, ‘tell Mr Williamson and Mr Hill what you told me. Leave nothing out.’

  The guard took a deep breath. ‘It was last night, sir. The prisoner had two visitors at about six o’clock. An elderly man and a younger one, who I understood to be his son. The older man said he was the prisoner’s uncle and that they had brought him food and drink. I inspected their basket, which had a bottle of wine and some bread and cheese in it, and searched them for weapons. They had none so I let them in. Prisoners are permitted family visitors unless I have orders to the contrary. They were with the prisoner for about half an hour. When they left, they said he had drunk the wine and was sleeping.’

  ‘Did they say anything else?’

  ‘No, sir. I checked the prisoner at ten o’clock and found him lying on the bed with his back towards the door. I assumed he was asleep and did not disturb him.’

  ‘Is that your normal practice?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘This morning when I went to take him his breakfast he hadn’t moved, so I went to wake him. He was dead.’

  ‘Were there any signs of how he died?’

  ‘No, sir. No blood, no wounds.’

  ‘Can you describe the visitors?’

  ‘The older one was tall, with a black beard and a limp. The younger one quite slight, also bearded and hooded. They both wore long coats.’

  ‘Did you see their hands?’

  ‘They wore gloves.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Where is the body?’

  ‘It hasn’t been moved, sir. The Constable said he would inform you before we sent word to the coroner.’

  Given the likely state of Seymour Manners at that hour of the day, Thomas thought that was wise. ‘Shall we inspect the body, Joseph?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes. With the Constable’s permission, we shall.’ The Constable nodded his agreement. ‘Thank you. Lead on, guard.’

  They followed the guard across a small courtyard, through a door in the innermost of the Tower’s walls, and up a winding staircase. The guard opened a door at the top of the staircase with a large key and stood back to allow them to enter. ‘Stay there, man,’ ordered Williamson, going in.

  Thomas went in after him and looked around. It was a more comfortable prison than any he had been in. Light and clean, a decent bed, a washstand and wash bowl, a writing table and a chair. Stoner lay on the bed, just as the guard had told them, with his back to the door. They walked around the bed and
examined him. ‘No sign of poison,’ said Joseph, sniffing, ‘no smell, and he looks peaceful.’

  ‘Princes in the Tower?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, yes, probably. Soundless, impossible to detect and there were two of them. It’s very difficult for one alone to suffocate a grown man.’

  ‘Cheated investors or hired assassins?’

  Williamson fixed Thomas with his good eye. ‘I wonder. A father and son, both bearded and in long coats. What does that put you in mind of, Thomas?’

  At first, Thomas could think of nothing it put him in mind of except a pair of hooded assassins hired by England’s enemies to get rid of a serious risk to their plans. Then it dawned on him. The Carringtons’ dinner party. The entertainment planned by Mary Carrington which had gone unperformed when news of Winter’s death had arrived. A father and his miscreant son. Costumes and beards to hand and Charles had learned his words. To be sure, the Carringtons had suffered at Stoner’s hands, as many had. But murder? Surely not.

  ‘Oh come now, Joseph,’ replied Thomas, ‘I hardly think so. And in any event, Stoner died yesterday. Charles and Mary left for Southampton two days ago.’

  ‘So they said. But that might have been a ruse. They could have hidden in London for a day.’

  ‘Joseph,’ exclaimed Thomas, ‘are you really suggesting that Charles and Mary Carrington, our friends, pretended to leave at short notice for Southampton but instead hid somewhere, visited Stoner last night and smothered him? And that they did so out of revenge for their losses in Quicksilver?’

  Williamson’s voice was cold. ‘I am saying that it is possible. They are suspects, that is all.’

  ‘Charles and Mary are dear friends of mine and of yours. How can you think this?’

  ‘Thomas, I am in charge of His Majesty’s security and that of his realm. He does not pay me to let personal feelings interfere with my judgement or my duty. The Carringtons, dear friends or not, had the means and the motive to murder Stoner.’

  ‘As did many others.’

  ‘Possibly. But it is incumbent upon me to find out the truth of the matter and I cannot allow my suspicions to go unchecked.’

  Thomas was aghast. ‘So what do you intend to do, if I may ask?’

  ‘I shall send urgent word to Southampton. If their ship has not yet sailed, the Carringtons will be apprehended.’

  ‘And if it has?’

  ‘In that case, I shall consider what further steps should be taken. Meanwhile, we will continue our enquiries. I too hope that my fears are unfounded. It would be a hurt of the most grievous kind to see Charles and Mary on trial for murder, albeit the murder of a foul fraudster and traitor.’

  Thomas was silent. Williamson, the king’s servant, took precedence over Joseph, the Carringtons’ friend. He was set on doing his duty as he saw it and that was that. Thomas could only hope that when the ship sailed Charles and Mary would be safely on it. Not that he thought them guilty of Stoner’s murder. It would just be better if their fate were not put in the hands of a jury.

  Joseph was unusually flustered. ‘Can you find your own way home? I must arrange for a message to be taken at once to Southampton and then go to Whitehall. The king must be informed of Stoner’s death and of Squire’s. I’ll tell the Constable to send for Manners. Not that he will be able to tell us anything.’

  ‘I shall be happy to,’ replied Thomas. ‘It might clear my head and settle my temper.’

  At the Carringtons’ house, Thomas sat at the writing table, took out the Dramatis Personae, laid out a new sheet of paper and dipped a quill in his pot of ink. After rewriting the list once more, he had:

  Plato: ‘Life must be lived as a play.’

  The Post Office, the Fraud and the Plot

  Dramatis Personae

  Joseph Williamson: the king’s spymaster, and clever pragmatist

  Henry Bishop: Postmaster General, deceived by Squire

  Sir Samuel Morland: unpleasant but innocent inventor

  Charles and Mary Carrington: dear friends of Thomas and Madeleine

  Josiah Mottershead: Williamson’s fearless and loyal man

  Lemuel Squire: Aurum, spy and traitor. Dead by his own hand

  Chandle Stoner: Argentum, fraudster and murderer. Dead

  Matthew Smith: murdered intelligencer

  John Winter: murdered intelligencer

  Henry Copestick: murdered Post Office man

  Sir Montford Babb: murdered investor in Quicksilver

  Disfigured assassin: whereabouts?

  Madeleine Stewart: beautiful and fiery cousin of Williamson

  Thomas Hill: devoted admirer and lover of Miss Stewart

  Alchemist: unknown

  Roger Willow: Post Office clerk

  He sprinkled sand on the paper, folded it and put it in his pocket. God willing, the play was nearly over. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again it was dark and he heard the long-case clock strike three. He had slept for twelve hours. He lay awake until dawn, when he rose and dressed. Then he went down to the kitchen and helped himself to a large slab of chicken pie. For the task ahead he needed serious sustenance.

  He walked briskly down Haymarket to Charing Cross and along the Strand. At the junction with Chancery Lane where Fleet Street began, he bought an expensive bunch of tulips from an early morning flower-seller. ‘Good luck, sir,’ said the flower girl cheerfully. ‘There’s nothing like tulips to melt a heart.’ He hoped she was right.

  The door was opened by Agnes. ‘Good morning, sir. You’re early. Miss Stewart is still in bed.’

  Thomas held out the tulips. ‘Please give her these and tell her I am outside.’

  Agnes took the flowers. ‘Very well, sir. Will you come in?’

  ‘No thank you, Agnes. I shall wait here.’

  ‘As you wish, sir. Mottershead is here. Shall I send him out to see you?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Agnes disappeared into the house, leaving Thomas on the doorstep.

  It was not long before a dishevelled Mottershead poked his head out of the door. ‘Good morning, sir. Come to see Miss Stewart, ’ave you? I ’ope she’s in a better temper than she was yesterday.’

  ‘So do I, Josiah. How was Henrietta’s reward?’

  ‘My word, sir, it was a close shave. I ’ad to get a pint of brandy down ’er before she passed out and I could slip away.’

  ‘Agnes will have been relieved. She was very worried about you.’

  ‘Yes, sir, she was. And very pleased to see Mottershead, as you might say.’

  ‘Chandle Stoner is dead.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I ’eard. Odd business by all accounts.’

  Thomas knew his efforts had been in vain when Agnes returned with the tulips. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Miss Stewart won’t take them. She said to give them back and to tell you to go home.’

  ‘Is she really that angry, Agnes?’

  ‘She is, sir. You should have heard her when I told her where you and Mottershead had gone. I had to cover my ears.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  Agnes frowned. ‘Not yet, sir. Give the lady time. If there’s any change, I’ll send Mottershead with a message. Will you be at the house in Piccadilly?’

  ‘Not for much longer. Now the Carringtons have left and Miss Stewart is not speaking to me, I shall go home in a day or two.’

  ‘Leave it to me, sir. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you, Agnes.’

  In Fleet Street Thomas gave the tulips back to the flower girl. Perhaps they would bring another hopeful suitor good luck. A coach stood outside the house in Piccadilly, apparently waiting for someone. Thomas ignored it and went inside. He was met by Smythe. ‘Your niece is here, sir. She wishes to see you.’

  Ah well, no time like the present. Thomas braced himself and opened the door of the sitting room. Lucy immediately threw herself into his arms. She was sobbing. Thomas did his best to comfort her although he feared that worse was to come. He sat
her on a chair and took her hands in his. When she had sufficient control of herself, he asked gently, ‘Now, now, my dear, what has brought this on?’

  Lucy sniffed and wiped her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘It’s Arthur. He’s gone.’

  Thomas suppressed an urge to cheer. Josiah had not mentioned it. ‘I am sorry to hear it. Where has he gone?’

  It took Lucy a while to answer. ‘He’s gone to Bristol. Urgent business, he said.’

  ‘Did he say when he would return?’

  Another sob. ‘No. He said he might be away for a long time and I should forget him.’

  Did he now? thought Thomas. Well done, Josiah. He tried to sound avuncular and concerned. ‘Lucy, my dear, such things happen. You will soon meet another young man.’ Lucy’s sob was more of a wail. Thomas retreated. ‘I understand your feelings. We have all felt the pain of rejection.’ Lucy nodded. ‘What are you planning to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘In that case, I suggest that we arrange for you to return immediately to Romsey.’ Another nod. ‘Good. Then that is settled. I will send a letter to Lady Richmond telling her that you are needed at home and ask Smythe to book a seat on tomorrow’s coach for you. How would that be?’

  ‘Very well, Uncle Thomas.’

  ‘Good. Now take the coach back to Lady Richmond’s house and pack your things. I will write the letter and Smythe will bring it round.’

  Thomas led Lucy to the coach and kissed her cheek. ‘I shall be home soon. Try to forget him.’ He knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment the words were out of his mouth. Lucy’s wail could have been that of a grieving widow. Thomas hastily waved the coachman away and returned inside. Not much of an effort at comforting the poor child, he thought. Perhaps a little too anxious to send her home. But I have my own problems. Madeleine Stewart for one and Joseph Williamson for another.

  For the first time in years, Thomas found himself reverting to his old habit of counting things. He thought it must be the waiting. Waiting for word from Joseph or Madeleine. He counted twenty steps in the staircase, one hundred and six bricks around the fireplace and three hundred and ten words on one page of Montaigne’s Essais.

  When he was not counting, he was worrying. Charles and Mary were determined and fearless, but capable of cold-blooded murder? He doubted it. With luck, their ship would depart for Barbados before Joseph’s messenger arrived. At least then they would be on their way home. Surely Joseph would not send a frigate to intercept them and bring them back to be interrogated. Or would they reach the island only to be apprehended there? He could well imagine Charles’s reaction to that. Two swords at the very least and woe betide any man who tried to prise him or his beloved wife from their home.