A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  Though Pole has a good start on me, his progress is no more rapid than mine. He is going in the opposite direction from the one in which I should be going, but if I miss this chance I may never catch sight of him again in a city this size. Perhaps he is evading me, or perhaps he is evading somebody else, but he moves with a steady purpose.

  My progress, conversely, is slow and constantly checked by fools who insist on going the wrong way. While I am now pushing back in the direction from which I lately came, I still feel like a salmon swimming upstream. Perhaps the tide of Londoners has turned while I was at St Paul’s. Ahead of me, halfway down Fleet Street, Pole’s ridiculous hat is still bobbing above the crowd. Then the hat darts into one of the many narrow, twisting lanes on the right. It takes me a good two minutes to reach the same turning. The side street is clear, and at last I can run. Slipping on rotten cabbage leaves and straw, I skid down the stinking lane. Yes, that is Pole’s hat and that is Pole beneath it. Then the sound of a coach approaching makes me step back very quickly into a doorway. When the deafening clatter of the wheels has passed on by, Pole has gone.

  At first, there is only one way for the hat to have fled, then the lane splits into two, then into two again, each time halving the chances of hitting on Pole’s route. Finally, passing through a low, narrow passageway that no rider let alone coach could negotiate, I come to a dead end in a foul, sunless courtyard pervaded by the greasy memory of suppers long ago. The black and grey half-timbered buildings lean out over me. Small, ragged London children stop playing and come over to menace me. ‘Ma!’ yells one. ‘Customer!’

  I raise my hands, palms out. ‘I’m going,’ I say.

  ‘Don’t you want to do it with my ma?’

  ‘Not now,’ I say.

  ‘You ain’t after a woman then?’ asks the London child.

  ‘No, a man,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll need to go to Southwark if you want boys,’ says the London child. ‘Why don’t you take my ma? Two shillings for half an hour, she is.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Thank you kindly. I’ll remember that.’

  As I make my way by fits and starts back to where I came from, I resolve to think more carefully before I set off in pursuit of any other suspicious characters. I know no more than I did before, and whatever else I might have done with the past hour would have been more profitable than spoiling my boots in the London mire. Eventually, the broad arc of my travels brings me to the Guildhall, a great brick-and-stone building close to the city wall. By its door are posted a number of notices – missing people, lost animals, cures for the plague. Some are desperately old and ragged, and I doubt that the plague cure would work. But a bright new one catches my eye.

  The description of the felon seems deliberately disparaging – was it really necessary to say that he has ‘a loose tongue and a love of ale’ for example? Or that he is of a dangerous and unpredictable temper? The description of the horse, on the other hand, is quite flattering. But it is the first line that really gets to the heart of the matter. I read it several times to digest it fully.

  Wanted for the murder of three men and the theft of a horse in the county of Essex: John Grey.

  It would seem likely, then, that my future employer does know that I am not merely a murderer but – Dickon’s inventiveness having proved less than I had hoped – also a horse thief.

  I must change my plans. Perhaps Morland will rescue me from the jaws of a trap that seem to be closing even as I stand here admiring my poster. Or perhaps going to him will prove fatal. I remember my resolve. This time I shall not rush in. This time I shall think carefully before I act.

  In the meantime I am alone in London with a fine horse but little money. I pull my hat down hard over my face and I proceed towards Holborn.

  More Letters

  Essex, Monday, 7 July 1657

  To John Thurloe Esq, Whitehall Palace, London

  Ave! May it please your lordship, I am returning your troopers to you with this letter. Though they have enjoyed their holiday, having them lounging around at the village inn was of no value to me.

  It will gratify you to learn that I am somewhat recovered from being drilled through with a lead ball. A physician from Saffron Walden has assured me that being bled in this way has allowed the egress of many harmful humours and that I will ever be the stronger for it. I offered him the same physic as soon as my fingers are strong enough to pull a trigger, and he has not ventured inside my chamber since. So, I recover my strength bit by bit in the country air. Integer vitae scelerisque purus.

  But this is not what your lordship wishes to learn from me. I am therefore pleased to report that I have completed my investigations. John Grey was helpful, as your honour suggested he might be. I commend him to you in whatever capacity you plan to use him.

  Henderson is, as you already know, dead and buried. In the view of Colonel Payne, the Justice of the Peace, and of a jury convened by the Coroner, Henderson was the victim of footpads from neighbouring Suffolk, who, with the stupidity and dishonesty for which that county is apparently known, stole his hat but left behind his purse. Though my knowledge of the character of Suffolk is imperfect, I must concur. There is no evidence of any Royalist sentiment in the village. It is true that some antiquated muskets have been found in the stable at the inn, but the landlord assures me that they were left behind by Royalist deserters during the late conflict and were stored by him in the hayloft for safety. He offers them to the Lord Protector, at no more than the cost of conveying them to London, if His Highness feels that they are of any use to the Republic. The boy, Jem, would appear to have been the unfortunate victim of the same footpads, who must have remained hidden in the woods for some days after Henderson’s murder. I believe my own wound to be an unlucky chance shot by one poaching in the same woods. I am told everyone poaches in the woods except Colonel Payne and the Rector. Whoever it was, I forgive him entirely, for who does not enjoy a fat little rabbit? So much, my lord, for that.

  Mr Grey and I disagreed only on one point. He was convinced that he had seen a stranger on horseback the night Henderson met his end. I have spoken to many in the village, who assure me that Mr Grey slept soundly the whole night and was in no position to see anyone.

  As to the conspiracy that Henderson was investigating, I am pleased to report that the county is unfailing loyal to His Highness. Any documents that you may have that suggest otherwise are almost certainly forgeries put about by our enemies to confuse us and to waste our time. Nor, having had time to reflect on the matter, do I believe that Mr Clarges’s visit is in any way suspicious. Colonel Payne assures me that Mr Clarges is simply an old friend. To the extent that they discussed General Monck, it was merely to confirm the General’s continuing high regard for the Lord Protector.

  I therefore trust that this letter will thus lay to rest certain doubts and fears that your lordship may have harboured. I shall write again when I am once more fit to undertake your excellency’s commands. In the meantime I continue to recover slowly at the house of Mistress Grey, whither you may direct further letters and not to the inn, which is altogether less convenient.

  Vale! Henricus Probert

  The Steward’s Lodge

  7 July 1657

  To Mr John Grey, London

  My dearest John, I send this by the hand of a trusted friend in the hope that it will reach you.

  All is well here. By dint of your mother’s nursing, Probert continues to recover and has sworn that he does not believe the shot was fired by you. The Colonel has, however, already issued a warrant for your arrest. This is nailed to the door of the guildhall at Saffron Walden and, for aught I know, to the door of some great building in London too. I have told him that you are innocent, but he tells me that somebody in the village swears he saw you out on the Cambridge road shortly before Henderson was killed. John, I fear there are forces working against you that I do not understand. I am trying to find out more, but in the meantime trust nobody but me.

&n
bsp; Please reply as soon as you receive this. Until then I am fearful for your safety. I wonder constantly what you are doing.

  Yours ever,

  Aminta

  Letter Number 17

  Essex, 8 July 1657

  To Sir Edward Hyde, c/o The Abbess, Benedictine Convent, Ghent

  We understand from P that 444 is amenable to helping us when the time is right. If he were to send his forces south and to bring the arms we so sorely need, North Essex and other places would rise as a man. But if he does not, things will go on as before – certainly as concerns P, who constantly vacillates.

  As to our affairs here, the boy Jem was buried on the same day that Probert was shot. His death seems particularly unnecessary, and I did what I could to prevent it. But homo homini lupus, as the saying is. Probert remains in the village, making a good recovery. He too is now inclined, I think, to be helpful rather than otherwise, though I have not seen his dispatches to 777. The damsons are ripening and the cucumbers are plentiful.

  For M – I have conveyed your last message as you asked. I shall let you know when I receive a reply.

  Yours to command

  472

  A Problem

  Thurloe holds the letter a little further away. Nothing to do with his eyesight, he tells himself, merely that the light is not good.

  ‘There is something odd about Probert’s letter. He has changed his views,’ he says.

  Morland frowns as he considers his reply. ‘That is what happens when you conduct an investigation. He gives Grey a good character, I see.’

  ‘Colonel Payne, conversely, seems convinced of Grey’s guilt. He has issued a warrant for Grey’s arrest.’

  ‘Payne is a fool.’

  ‘Colonel Payne was a close friend of the Lord Protector’s.’

  ‘The two things are not incompatible.’

  Thurloe looks at Morland to see if he can detect the slightest trace of treason in that last remark, but what Morland has said is no more than the truth. Look at Lambert. Look at Fleetwood. Look at Harrison. All generals. All once close to the Lord Protector. All imbeciles, though it would not pay a man to say so. And then there’s Monck. No fool, but can he really be trusted?

  ‘Have Grey arrested,’ says Thurloe. ‘Payne is, after all, a magistrate.’

  ‘I think Grey will come to us.’

  ‘Have him arrested anyway. What harm can it possibly do? You must be able to find him.’

  Morland says nothing. London is a spider’s web, and this office is its very centre. He can find anyone.

  To Southwark

  This city has no uniform stink. Each part of London has its own jealously guarded odour. In certain streets there is the sickly and overpowering fragrance of malt from neighbouring breweries. Around the tanneries there is a constant reminder of the decay of all flesh. The herb market in Bucklersbury speaks of the countryside, though one that is dried and autumnal. At low tide the alleys that lead down to the Thames smell of oily mud and nameless things that float on the river. The only universal ingredient, shared indiscriminately over every neighbourhood, is sea coal; you can taste it – sometimes you can almost see it – in the air, and the resulting grime besmirches every building in the city.

  The Red Lion fronts onto Holborn, just outside the city walls. It is a large inn, old-fashioned and half-timbered. Its face is caked with soot, but the sign is newly painted, and the improbably bright red beast swings gently in the breeze, snarling at nothing in particular that I can see.

  I enter and take my place in the large parlour, calculating how many more meals I can order before my silver runs out. While I wait for my pie and ale, I look again at the sheet of paper I have been carrying in my pocket. The solution to the riddle has so far escaped me.

  NUMBER 9 PIEX NECT FEWS RRMB SUGE OBYS NMEO HEIT HOUG ATDE EDTH GKIN VHAS GERY SOOD OUPP ERTH UREB ETTH DLEA HERS FIPO KTHE INOT ISBE HNGC EALL DNGE HBYT UEYO RNGE SONE MFOR TJRE SURN EHOM NSOO UIWO ELDR DMIN OYOU UFYO ORPR EMIS 472

  I am again struck by the anagram of my name, and not out of pure vanity. I pick out the words ‘hers’ and ‘the’ and ‘had’. Could ‘THE INOT’ really mean ‘the Knot’? Or perhaps ‘Ifnot’? And ‘GKIN’ is an anagram of ‘King’ . . .

  ‘There were some troopers here while you were abroad, Mr Henderson,’ says the innkeeper softly as he places food and drink on the table. He pretends not to notice me fold away a dirty scrap of paper, but I suspect little escapes his eyes.

  ‘There are troopers all over London,’ I say.

  ‘They were looking for a John Grey from over by Saffron Walden,’ says the innkeeper.

  ‘I wish them every success in finding him.’

  ‘Me too, Mr Henderson. We always wish the officers of the Protectorate well, don’t we? I told them we had nobody of that name staying here. Didn’t you say you’d just come from Essex though?’

  ‘I didn’t say I came from Saffron Walden.’

  ‘No, you didn’t say that. They were asking after a gelding too. Roan. White blaze. A bit like the one you have in my stable.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t buy him from . . . what did you say the gentleman’s name was?’

  ‘Grey. John Grey. They didn’t call him a gentleman. He’s just a lawyer or something.’

  ‘Well, if I see John Grey, I’ll let him know.’

  The innkeeper looks at me, doubtless trying to work out if I can pay my bill. He makes up his mind.

  ‘You planning on staying long, Mr Henderson?’ he asks.

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘Then your purse is full no doubt.’

  ‘And if it’s not?’

  ‘Well, you probably won’t need a horse in London. Best sell him and save the cost of oats and hay. You’ll get a good price over in Islington. And they don’t ask too many questions. Not in Islington.’

  I don’t look up from my pie, but I nod in acknowledgment. After all, I can always buy Dickon another one.

  Riding out to Islington in sunny weather was pleasant enough. Returning on foot with the clouds gathering again is less so, though the gold in my purse is some recompense. I have for once taken some of Ben’s advice, but I am wondering whether London thieves might not look in my boots before they look anywhere else – particularly since I am unable to stop myself patting my lower leg from time to time to check that all is well. I can only hope that nobody took too much interest when the money changed hands and that nobody has followed me from the rather obscure stable where the transaction took place. For the moment a handful of gold coins sit there snugly enough, pressing uncomfortably against my calf. I look behind me. There are plenty of people on the same path, but that is to be expected on a well-frequented route between the city and one of its closest villages – a village that is, moreover, gaining an enviable reputation for dairy products and loose living. Somewhere in the distance there is a rumble of thunder, and a cold breeze whips across the open space. The field I am crossing feels a lot bigger, and the people somehow look smaller. Everyone quickens their pace.

  I am, however, back in Holborn before the first large drops of rain start to fall. I sprint the last few hundred yards and gain the open door of the Red Lion. As I shake the water off myself, I wonder briefly whether it is raining in North Essex and whether they got the hay in yesterday while they could.

  ‘I thought,’ says the landlord, emerging from some back room, ‘that you might like to pay me for your room and board – up to this evening. Now you are, I trust, richly in funds.’

  ‘Certainly – after supper,’ I say, not wishing to display a purse so full of gold in such a public place. ‘Could you kindly send a grilled chicken up to my chamber later? The walk back from Islington has given me an appetite.’

  ‘You see,’ says the landlord, ‘I was rather hoping that you might settle your reckoning straight away. I have many expenses, and my suppliers insist on ready money . . .’

  Does he think I’m about to run off without paying? That is unlikely. Not before I’ve eat
en anyway. ‘I’ll pay you when you bring supper up,’ I say.

  ‘Very well,’ says the landlord to my departing back. But he says it with great regret.

  I am halfway up the stairs before it occurs to me that he has not asked me what I wish to drink, though when I open my chamber door it becomes clear why this might be so and why the landlord might have preferred an early settlement of any debts. The room is not large but it already contains an officer, sitting in my only chair, and three troopers, standing in various poses round the walls. The officer rises. ‘You are Mr Grey, I think?’ he says.

  Since he appears to know the answer to this question already, I decide that I do not need to stay and confirm it. The officer should perhaps have placed a man closer to the entry, or at least should have assumed that a lawyer might be fairly agile. And that they, in their riding boots, might be slower than they wished. I leap the last four stairs in my haste to regain the parlour. The landlord watches open-mouthed as I send chairs flying in my desire to be away from his inn. I do not look back as I run down Holborn, but I think I have left them all far behind.

  The road across London Bridge is no more than a tunnel, sometimes with a line of sky above it, sometimes entirely covered over. The houses and shops that have been allowed to grow up on it have reduced the width of the road to just twelve feet, but everything on wheels that enters London from the south must come this way. Everyone fleeing London to the south must go this way too, unless they choose to pay to take one of the ferryboats and gain some precious minutes. On foot you have plenty of time as you shuffle along to look up at the dusty beams supporting the floors of the houses above. Voices and horses’ hooves echo strangely, competing all the time with the rush of the water below; the Thames, ponded back by the bridge, is constantly gushing between its many arches, its force slackening briefly only at high and low tide as it switches direction. Such is the strength of the flow that it amazes me that the bridge and its many-towered superstructure still stand. Now and then I emerge into the drizzle for twenty or thirty yards, only to plunge again into another dark, humming passage. Much of the time I am pressed up against the back of the man in front or trodden on by the man behind. I am getting to know both quite well. And there are no fresh breezes to blow away the stink of humanity. Finally, and much to my relief, I pass under the Great Stone Gateway at the southern end and am in Southwark. From there I am able to look back at the bridge’s most remarkable feature. On long spikes on the very top of the gateway are the boiled and tarred heads of such traitors as have been caught and dealt with. Perhaps murderers and horse stealers too. Though they are far above me, my impression is that they look wet and unhappy. It would be as well not to join them.