A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘There are others plotting revolution,’ says Dickon, ‘not just the Royalists: Fifth Monarchy Men, for example, like General Harrison. Or Levellers.’

  ‘Fifth Monarchy Men? Levellers? He thinks I am one of those madmen? God save us all.’

  Was Aminta right? Do I now resemble a Puritan or even an Anabaptist? Is that why there is some secret in the village that I am not to share?

  ‘The Colonel must be made to see sense,’ says my mother, as though I had not been trying to do this since the discovery of the body. ‘I am sure that John has simply been maladroit in his dealings with him. It is a way he has. The question is, where is the safest place for John in the meantime?’

  Probert chooses this moment to open his eyes. He looks at the little group of us clustered by the doorway. With great effort he raises himself painfully on his elbows, then lifts one hand and points straight at me. ‘That is the man!’ he gasps.

  I look at my mother in horror. ‘I swear to you . . .’ I say.

  ‘No matter,’ she says. ‘The fever is upon him and he knows not what he says. Tomorrow he may prove more rational.’

  ‘Tomorrow may be too late,’ says Dickon. ‘If he is not alive in the morning and those chance to be his dying words, no jury can fail to convict you. It may only be for Probert’s murder, not Henderson’s, but a man cannot hang twice however many times he is found guilty. You are not safe here. John, as your friend I beg you to flee.’

  ‘Where should I go?’ I ask.

  ‘To London,’ says Dickon.

  ‘But that will just make people believe I am guilty,’ I say.

  ‘Only for a while,’ says my mother. ‘One way or another, I think this will resolve itself in time. Indeed, I think it will resolve itself very soon. But for the moment you must take our horse and ride to London. It is easier to hide there. I shall give you money – I do have a little gold that I have put aside. Please do not tell Martha, however, or she will expect me to pay her wages; the lower orders of society are sadly mercenary.’

  ‘Just keep clear of Thurloe,’ says Dickon. ‘Or any of his agents.’

  ‘Unless you have been properly introduced,’ says my mother vaguely.

  I turn and look at her. I am in mortal danger and she is worried about social niceties? She smiles at me as if she has just given me good advice. I despair of her. Truly, I despair.

  ‘That mare of yours will never reach London,’ says Dickon more practically. ‘You must take my gelding.’

  I clasp Dickon’s hand. ‘You are a true friend,’ I say. ‘A true friend in my hour of need. But how will you explain the loss of your horse to your father?’

  He gives me a crooked smile. ‘I can always say somebody stole it, can’t I? But you need to leave now, before they come to arrest you. I wouldn’t want you spending tonight with Harry Hardy’s pigs. They’ve been spared Pole, but I’m too fond of those pigs to want them to have to share their sty with you.’

  I pat Dickon’s roan gelding, which is tied up in our yard, and strap on my saddlebag. I unhitch him and lead him quietly onto the road. We have agreed that it is better that neither of our servants witnesses my departure. It will be easier for them if they are questioned. But there I run straight into Ifnot Davies.

  ‘Thou hast taken to Dickon Grice’s horse,’ he observes. ‘And, to judge by thy baggage, thou art not taking him for a quick canter across the fields.’

  You can’t lie to somebody like Ifnot. Or tell him to mind his own business.

  ‘I’m off to London,’ I say. ‘I seem to have upset the Colonel, and it may be better I’m elsewhere.’

  Ifnot nods. ‘God be with thee, then, John Grey,’ he says. He proffers his hand.

  I know I’m going to need my hand to ride the horse, but I give it to Ifnot to be crushed anyway.

  ‘You know that Probert has been shot?’ I ask, wincing as I receive Ifnot’s good wishes.

  ‘Yes. Will he live?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘I spoke to him this morning,’ says Ifnot. ‘There was little I could tell him. He does believe in thy horseman though.’

  ‘I think it’s too late for that to matter,’ I say.

  ‘The truth always matters,’ says Ifnot.

  ‘You’re a good man, Ifnot. Look out for my mother while I’m away.’

  ‘I’ll pray for her,’ says Ifnot. ‘And for Probert, though he blasphemes in strange tongues. And for thee – in whichever city thou are bound for. York, wasn’t it?’

  So he does know how to lie after all.

  ‘Thanks, Ifnot,’ I say. After all, I’m going to need all the help I can get.

  I am here, at the crossroads of the village. I am here because I am no longer at my mother’s house. I am no longer at my mother’s house because, because . . .

  Even three hours ago this would have seemed the most unlikely of outcomes. Dark forces are working against me, and I cannot say what those forces are or whether they may seek to pursue me southwards to the capital. As it is, I am being obliged to flee to London, with just a spare shirt, a few of last year’s apples and, I notice, a jar of preserved cherries in my saddlebag.

  It would be safer to make this a short farewell, and it would be best to use the few remaining hours of daylight as well as I can. Once in London, I must seek out Mr Samuel Morland, who it seems is inclined to offer me work. Unless his mind too has already been poisoned against me.

  I rein in Dickon’s gelding and pause for a moment. Was it my imagination, or did I notice a movement in the bushes ahead? A minute passes slowly, and I see nothing more than should be there. And yet if nobody waits in that bush with a dagger or an arrest warrant, there is always the next bush and the one after that and the one after that. Whatever dangers lie ahead in London, I cannot stay here.

  So, for one last time let us both breathe in the cool, damp air that has followed in the wake of the storm and which speaks to us of everything that is in the village which I am about to leave – the sweet white roses over the door of this beshitten cottage, the green-leaf smell of the orchard beyond and the rich, many-coloured stink of the cowshed.

  The road to noisy, friendly London stands open to me.

  London

  ‘A report from Essex, Mr Secretary,’ says Morland.

  ‘Can it wait?’ asks Thurloe.

  Morland gives a rhetorical sniff and looks down at his seated master.

  ‘Yes, of course. It will still be here at ten o’clock or any hour that you wish to call for it. But you said you wanted to read anything from Probert as soon as it arrived.’ He tosses a copious head of blond hair. There is perhaps just a hint of contempt in his look, but his voice is honey.

  ‘Is it enciphered?’

  ‘It is not in code, though it is partly in Latin.’

  ‘Horace or Plautus?’ asks Thurloe with a sigh.

  ‘The Latin is, I think, from the liturgy of the Romish Church,’ says Morland. ‘But that is merely conjecture. I have never been an adherent of that false religion.’

  Thurloe grunts in apparent approval – it’s always prudent to be an adherent of whichever religion currently enjoys official endorsement. He skims the letter. ‘Probert is obscure and complacent,’ he notes. ‘He says Henderson is dead, by an unknown hand. Sic transit gloria mundi, he adds. I think that you are right, by the way, that the phrase relates to dead Bishops of Rome. I have no idea why Probert should apply it to Henderson. He also reports that Mr Thomas Clarges, General Monck’s brother-in-law, has visited the village. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Does he make any specific charge against Clarges?’

  ‘I think not. Still, it is a strange coincidence. Probert believes that his own life may be in danger but that he is well able to manage things. That is, on the face of it, unlikely.’

  Morland tilts his head on one side as if considering this point. ‘Had you asked my advice, Mr Secretary, I would not have sent Probert . . .’

  ‘Well, I did, and now I’m reinforc
ing him. I’ve sent him four dragoons under a good officer. There is no further need for secrecy. They can stay and guard him if needed or bring us a further report if not. I merely hope they are not too late. A lot can happen in a couple of days.’

  ‘I’m sure the dragoons are a wise precaution. As you have observed, something odd has occurred.’

  ‘Another odd thing,’ says Thurloe, ‘is that the young man who was recommended to you for a place in this department comes from the same village.’

  ‘John Grey?’ asks Morland.

  ‘You hadn’t noticed?’

  ‘I was aware only that Grey had just completed his studies at Cambridge. But if you say he does . . .’

  ‘There are a lot of coincidences here for one small village,’ says Thurloe. ‘We might question Grey a little when he arrives in London if Probert has not already done so. I asked Probert to look him out and to examine him cautiously.’

  ‘Cautiously? I would be interested to know what Probert made of that instruction,’ says Morland.

  Thurloe pauses. His directions had seemed to him to admit of only one meaning. But it is in Morland’s nature to see several. That’s why he is so useful to him.

  ‘I assume that we shall see Mr Grey in person very soon,’ says Thurloe. ‘When can we expect him?’

  ‘If it is a choice between Probert’s cautious questioning and coming to London, then he will be with us quite soon, I would think,’ says Morland.

  A Traveller Requests a Room for the Night

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a bed. You mind sharing?’

  ‘The room or the bed?’ I ask.

  ‘The bed. Already got two gentlemen in the other bed,’ says the innkeeper.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fourpence for supper, fourpence for the bed, tuppence for your horse, farthing for beer.’

  The price is not unreasonable, and I shall need to stay at worse places than this if I am to make my money last.

  ‘You’re lucky,’ adds the landlord. ‘A party of dragoons almost stopped here. There’d have been no beds left then and no room in the stables neither.’

  ‘I saw them on the road,’ I say. ‘Five of them. They were travelling fast.’

  ‘Going to Saffron Walden or some such. I told them to rest their horses. Told them they’d never be in Saffron Walden before dark.’

  ‘They won’t be. And they may break a leg if they are not careful.’

  The innkeeper nods. ‘With luck they may break a neck. And where might you be bound for, young man?’

  ‘London,’ I say.

  ‘You’ve still a good few miles to go.’

  ‘So they tell me.’

  ‘And your name, my good sir?’

  ‘Henderson,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll have a pass, naturally, Mr Henderson. Just so as I know you’re travelling on your proper business.’

  ‘I don’t need a pass. Do I look like a vagrant? Am I likely to become a charge on the parish? I’ll be in London by noon tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘Legally, everyone needs a pass.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Henderson. That’ll be fourpence for the room, then, and tuppence for the illegality.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And thruppence for stabling.’

  ‘I’ll pay you two. My horse needs no pass. You may bring me some beer now and bring my supper when it’s ready. I’ll be sitting over there in the corner.’

  ‘Over there? Away from the candles and the fire?’

  ‘That’s right. And tell the stableboy I’ll need my horse early. At first light, tell him.’

  London

  So this is it. Well, it’s bigger than Cambridge.

  It is the slender spires and the towers that I notice first, and the smoke that rises from every chimney. From up here on breezy Highgate Hill, London has a silver haze drifting above it. Below the haze, the sun glints dully off the mass of dwellings, churches, slaughterhouses, palaces, tanneries, halls, foundries, shops, breweries and one great cathedral, all spreading like the flood tide across the broad plain of the muddy Thames. It’s difficult to say precisely where this shimmering thing called London begins and ends. Countryside merges into orchards and gardens. Fingers of brick inch out along each country road. From here you can just make out the noise of the far-off city streets. Is this not, after all, where Dick Whittington and his cat paused and heard the sound of Bow Bells summoning them to return? But this morning no bells invite me on. Today London is making no promises.

  I take one last breath of wholesome country air and, leading Dickon’s horse by the bridle, I start to descend the hill.

  Now I am in London, I wish myself back at Highgate. The press of people in each street is overwhelming, all moving ruthlessly towards some destination that has not yet been disclosed to me. I cannot say how far I have come since I trustingly left the gelding at the inn, munching hay at an unknown price. I doubt I have progressed half a mile, and even then at a pace that a snail would regard as unchallenging. The city conspires to close in on its inhabitants. The houses are above me as well as to each side. If you look up, all you see are the grime-streaked overhanging floors that jut out into the roadway, each storey encroaching a little further than the one below. How does anyone breathe here in these airless lanes? Do they not notice the constant stench of piss and rotting vegetables, or do Londoners grow to love it? Are they not deafened by their own voices? How does any child grow to manhood or womanhood without being crushed under the great wheels of one of the painted coaches that creak and rattle by? Perhaps they don’t need to. As I came in from Highgate, half the countryside seemed to be flocking with me, more than making up any chance losses amongst the native Londoners.

  St Paul’s Churchyard, with its leafy plane trees and its bookstalls, seems to offer some sort of haven – at least of a relative kind. Not that I can afford to purchase any books. I have already established that a room in a London inn costs more than one on the road, though fortunately nobody here cares whether you have a pass signed by a magistrate or indeed by the giants Gog and Magog themselves. I have established too that food in London costs more than anywhere else and is much worse. It is fortunate that I have the offer of employment here in London and am on my way to take it up. My new employer, moreover, cannot yet have heard that I am wanted for murder in Essex. It is important that I reach Morland quickly and can tell him my own story first.

  I find it difficult, however, to pass so many bookstalls without stopping briefly to examine the wares. I pick up an old, battered copy of Horace, flick through its well-thumbed pages, then reluctantly return it to the table. The bookseller, a small man with bad teeth and worse breath than he supposes, attempts to strike up a conversation with me.

  ‘Perhaps Horace is not to your taste,’ he says with a wink. ‘I have some other books that I keep for discerning gentlemen who like something a bit different. Some books in French, if you’ll understand me right. That is to say, the words are all French, but the pictures require little translation. And very instructive withal for a gentleman like yourself. I have one here written by a young French lady, explaining the many ways in which ladies in France may be gratified. You can examine it, good sir, if you choose.’

  He places a slim volume into my hands. If he had hoped to arouse my curiosity, he has chosen a bad moment to do it. Something more interesting is happening behind his back. A man in a mulberry-coloured coat is moving across the churchyard.

  ‘It is a most moral tale,’ the bookseller continues, ‘for the young ladies of France, though very wicked, are often punished for their vices. There are a number of plates illustrative of the punishments accorded them and, though I cannot vouch myself for their accuracy, they are detailed enough not to leave you in any uncertainty as to what is intended. Should you meet a French lady and need to correct her. Five shillings, including a discreet and careful wrapping.’

  The man in mulberry has his back to me, but I still cannot mistake that
hat or its ridiculous feathers.

  ‘Or I have here the confessions of a young gentlewoman,’ the bookseller is saying. ‘In English, newly translated . . .’

  ‘Pole!’ I exclaim. I do not know whether he has seen me, but he has started to walk briskly towards Fleet Street.

  ‘Sir?’ enquires the bookseller. Of the many possible responses he had anticipated to this offer of fine literature, ‘pole’ was not one. It puzzles him. I feel I owe him some sort of explanation.

  ‘Roger Pole,’ I say. ‘It could be no other.’

  The bookseller understands no better than before. Sadly, it would take some time to tell him the full story, if I understood it myself. And I need to decide quickly – do I let Pole slip away, or do I follow him? I have no wish for a long conversation with him, but to know what he is doing and where he can be found may be of use to me.

  ‘Indeed,’ says the bookseller. I am clearly a madman, but madmen do sometimes buy books. ‘Now, in this fine tale, the young gentlewoman is enamoured of a rough highwayman, who . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You’ll settle with me first, young sir!’ he says. ‘For that most instructive book. Let’s call it four shillings and sixpence.’

  I look down at my hands. I am still holding a book that would, apparently, assist me if I need to discipline a French lady. I doubt that I shall have need of it today.

  ‘You’ll damage the gold leaf!’ exclaims the bookseller as he sees the book land back on his stall.

  ‘Do you think anyone buys this sort of thing for the binding?’ I ask.

  The bookseller may be about to explain to me the many advantages of a fine binding, but he has spotted a more likely prospect – a rather bumptious young clerk, by the look of him. The bookseller brushes the leather cover with a loving hand.

  ‘Ah, Mr Pepys,’ he says. ‘I think I may have something here to your taste, sir.’

  But sadly I cannot stay to listen to Mr Pepys’s reply.