A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘There!’ I say.

  As five pairs of eyes hunt in a mess of horse dung and cabbage leaves, I launch myself at the chest of the smallest of the group, toppling him over. Unfortunately, I stumble as I jump over his body. I am down on the ground and scrambling for a foothold. Just as I manage to get to my feet again, I feel something strike the back of my head very hard. The last words I hear before I lose consciousness are, ‘Check the right boot, George. Only an idiot would keep the rest of his money there, so that’s probably where it will be.’

  Somewhere in the distance I hear a clock striking the hour. Then the chime is repeated in an overlapping chorus from all the clocks in Southwark. It is midnight in a stinking lane close to the Thames. As I stagger to my feet and retrieve my hat from a puddle, a figure steps out of the shadows. Even in this light I can see that his clothes are dirty and his hair hangs in greasy rats’ tails from his head.

  ‘You’re too late,’ I say. ‘I have no money left for tolls or anything else. You’ll need to rob some other fool.’

  The figure approaches slowly and smiles at me, allowing me to admire the three or four teeth he has left. He holds out a letter.

  ‘Mr Morland presents his compliments,’ he says, ‘and requests that you accompany me to his office. It looks as if I found you just in time, doesn’t it?’

  Westminster, July 1657

  Here in these dim, narrow corridors people pass like wraiths. We address those we know well with a smile, but we do not hail strangers. In their presence we bite our tongues and offer no introductions. It is not that we are nameless. Indeed, many of us possess more names than we can remember. If the dark panelling of these passageways and these small, cramped rooms could speak, it could tell a story or two. But the panelling remains dumb – perhaps so that it can listen all the better.

  Here I move quickly and silently; the only sound I make is the rustling of the bundles of paper that I carry to one place or bring back from another. Yet my footsteps are louder than I intended, because an obscure door in the panelling opens and a head emerges round it.

  ‘You, young man – you must be Mr Morland’s new clerk, John Grey.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Thurloe,’ I reply, for while he may have to ask my name, I do not have to ask his.

  ‘A word, then, Mr Grey,’ he says, beckoning me into his chamber.

  I enter. It is not a large room, but that means that everything in it is no further than his fingertips away. The window is small and grimy but it casts enough light on his desk. I glance out of the window at the world beyond. The rain outside is fizzing off the cobblestones. Now and then it whips sharply across the leaded panes, rattling them and leaving them streaming. I realise that I have been too preoccupied by work to look out of my own window.

  Thurloe’s mouth smiles reassuringly, but the rest of his face reserves judgement.

  ‘I understand you are from North Essex, Mr Grey,’ he says.

  ‘Yes. From Clavershall West,’ I say. The name of my own village rings strangely on my ears, as if I am hearing it for the first time. It seems very far away. A distant scent of white roses over the door of some beshitten cottage. And the silence – though very different from the silence in these corridors.

  ‘My father was Rector of Abbess Roding,’ says Thurloe. He doles out facts carefully one by one. Even this he is telling me for a reason.

  ‘Not far from us then,’ I say.

  ‘Practically neighbours. I know your village quite well. Do you enjoy your work here?’

  ‘I have scarcely started, but yes, I enjoy it. I have always enjoyed cryptology. It was an interest of mine when I was at university.’

  Morland would possibly have observed, while curling a golden lock round his finger, that there was a little more to the job than decoding messages. Probert would have slapped me on the back and roared as if I had just said the funniest thing he had ever heard. And my tutor might have voiced the opinion that there were better uses of my time. But Thurloe simply nods. ‘Mr Probert reports favourably on the help you gave him.’

  ‘That is kind of him,’ I say. Then I add: ‘I wanted to find out who killed Henderson.’ The words sound inadequate. Presumptuous almost. Thurloe nods again. Does he find my wish commendable? Eccentric? Treasonable? Endearing? I have no idea.

  ‘Probert believes that Henderson was killed by footpads, who later killed a stableboy.’

  ‘Footpads? Surely not,’ I say. ‘That was also the Colonel’s view but not Probert’s or mine . . .’

  ‘Well, it is Probert’s view now. And what is your own?’

  ‘It would seem likely that it was a Royalist agent,’ I say.

  ‘Whenever one of our own men is killed, that is always the most probable cause. Can you be more specific?’

  ‘The night Henderson was killed, a horseman passed through the village.’

  ‘Probert thinks he is of no relevance.’

  ‘That is also not what he said to me. And we both thought that the stranger must have had an accomplice in the village to help carry the body.’

  ‘Probert thinks a gang of footpads would have needed no accomplice.’

  ‘Then he has most certainly changed his opinion in a number of ways. Perhaps if we made enquiries in Bruges about the horseman, we might learn more . . .’

  ‘If that is where he has gone, we may indeed learn more. We have no shortage of informants at Charles Stuart’s court. But as for his accomplices – Probert is saying that there can be none in the village.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ I say.

  ‘Nor do I,’ says Thurloe. ‘You see, we have long had evidence of Royalist activity in Clavershall West. One of the tasks entrusted to this office is opening mail to obtain information that may be of use to the Republic. There have, as you know, been attempted uprisings in various parts of the country, but we have happily been able to discover them and snuff them out.’

  ‘God be praised!’ I say.

  But this is the wrong response. Thurloe has no wish to share the credit with anyone, even God. He frowns and continues: ‘Recently there were signs that a rising was being planned in Essex. We think – indeed the letters strongly suggest – that the organiser of the Sealed Knot for eastern England lives in Clavershall West. That’s why we sent Henderson.’

  ‘What evidence do you have?’ I ask.

  Thurloe hands me a letter headed ‘Number 17’ and addressed to Sir Edward Hyde. It is signed ‘472’. I read it carefully three times with growing unease. After all, I too possess a letter from 472.

  ‘It was sent like this?’ I ask. ‘Not in code?’

  ‘The original letter was in code; that is a copy in plain English.’

  ‘What sort of code?’ I ask.

  ‘A simple substitution code,’ says Thurloe. ‘Numerical.’

  Between my letter and this one, they have changed the cipher then.

  ‘And now this,’ says Thurloe. He passes me a second letter headed ‘Number 19’.

  I read it carefully three times with growing unease.

  ‘Were the originals both in the same hand?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. A neat but, in my opinion, an effeminate hand,’ says Thurloe.

  ‘Do you know to whom the codes refer?’ I ask.

  ‘In some cases,’ says Thurloe. ‘I am 777 clearly. I can make a guess that 444 is Monck, since not many people command one of His Highness’s armies in the North. P is clearly Payne. M, I think, is Mary Knatchbull, the abbess to whose care the letters are addressed – though it may be John Mordaunt, who now leads the Action Party. But it is the identity of 472, the author of the letter, that really intrigues me.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  ‘It would appear to be the local leader of the Sealed Knot. It is certainly somebody in the village who is well informed. Probert felt that the letters were intended to deceive us – particularly in respect of General Monck’s intentions. That corresponds very much with Mr Morland’s view. I have therefore told the Lord Protector that
Monck is to be trusted. And yet whether they are true or false, I should still like to know where they come from. An earlier letter reported a conversation at the inn that seemed to be of relevance. But it is not in my view a man’s hand . . . Do any ladies from the village frequent the inn?’

  ‘None that I can think of,’ I say. ‘Nell Bowman would, of course, as the wife of the innkeeper.’

  ‘And she can read and write?’

  ‘She and others.’ I run through the list, as I did with Probert – Nell, my mother, Mistress Grice and Aminta. It is laughable to imagine any of them as leaders of the Sealed Knot.

  ‘Aminta Clifford? The daughter of Sir Felix Clifford?’ says Thurloe.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Would the Cliffords still have any friends at Charles Stuart’s court in Bruges? Or perhaps in Ghent?’

  ‘Not that I know. Of course, many of their former friends are now in exile . . .’

  ‘There was a son, I think – Marius?’

  ‘Believed dead.’

  ‘But not for certain.’

  ‘His place of burial is unknown.’

  Thurloe considers this for some time.

  ‘Is Colonel Payne in any way disaffected?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘He might have reason to feel that he has been neglected by the Lord Protector . . . that his talents are not being well used. He was once part of Cromwell’s inner circle.’

  ‘I cannot believe that he would turn Royalist now. What would he gain by it?’

  ‘Indeed. What could he possibly gain? But you think he impeded your investigations rather than otherwise?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘Then later he chose to accuse you of murder.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Grey. That is very helpful.’

  Thurloe places his steepled hands to his lips, as if in prayer. His countenance is clear and untroubled. He lowers his hands and looks at me, head slightly on one side. I have not the slightest idea what he is thinking.

  ‘Do you know Mr Morland well?’ he asks.

  ‘My connection with him is through the university. He was a Fellow of Magdalene College, where I was an undergraduate. He left in 1653 or 1654, I think, just before I went up to Cambridge. My tutor wrote me an introduction to him.’

  ‘But there is no other connection?’

  ‘No,’ I say, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘No other way in which you might have been recommended to us?’

  ‘No. How could there be?’

  Thurloe nods.

  I wait in case he has anything further to say. He doesn’t. I stand there in silence. After a while, he returns to the study of his papers. I go out. I close the door very carefully.

  Should I have told him what I know? I do not need to think too hard as to the author of these letters. I have long suspected it. Somebody well connected to prominent Royalists around the country. Somebody well informed about the village. Somebody who is vain. Somebody with an effeminate hand. Somebody closely linked to the Colonel and with the Colonel’s interests at heart – or at least with some concern for his own continuing employment. Who else but Pole? My promise to Aminta prevents me informing on him to Thurloe now, just as it prevented me earlier from informing on him to Probert.

  I cannot betray my promise to Aminta.

  Unless I have to.

  More Letters

  To Mistress Grey, The New House, Clavershall West

  Monday 13 July 1657

  My dear mother, I hope that you will be gratified to hear that I have obtained, with the help of my old tutor, a place as a clerk working for Mr Samuel Morland in Whitehall. Please forgive my not having mentioned it before, but I have for some time had such a career in mind for myself. Mr Morland values my knowledge of ciphers and has set me to work translating letters from His Highness’s ambassadors and agents overseas.

  Mr Morland assures me that I need no longer fear arrest for the two murders that occurred in our village. Mr Probert has spoken well of me, and in any case the arrest warrants have been withdrawn.

  If Mr Probert has not yet departed, could you enquire of him why he believes Henderson’s death to be the work of footpads – which I must still doubt, much though I respect Mr Probert?

  And could you enquire of Ben who the lady was who visited the stables and talked to Jem?

  Enough for now! Please tell Aminta that I am safe. I shall write again once I know whither I am sent. In the meantime you may write to me care of Mr Samuel Morland at his office close to Whitehall Palace, which is now happily my place of work too.

  Your most affectionate son,

  John

  The New House

  Clavershall West

  Wednesday, 15 July 1657

  To John Grey at the office of Mr Samuel Morland, Whitehall Palace, Westminster

  Dear John,

  Thank you for your letter telling me of your plan to work for Mr Morland. Whether you are wise to abandon your legal studies so abruptly only time will reveal, but I am happy that you appear to have found some work that likes you well. In that respect you are much as your father, who placed his own pleasure considerably above duty whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  Mr Probert is recovered and has already departed for London. He was a demanding guest but not ungrateful for what Martha and I were able to do. I cannot say why he might have changed his mind, other than because men are shallow creatures prone to indecision. You may, of course, see him at Whitehall, and may ask him then, though I understand that Mr Thurloe’s plan is to send him into Sweden. I do hope that Mr Morland has no intention of sending you anywhere that is dangerous. I should be quite cross if that were the case.

  Ben says that he does not recall mentioning any lady who visited the stables. He thinks you must have misheard him.

  Please remember me to Mr Morland and say that I wish you to remain in London.

  Your loving mother

  The Lodge, 15 July 1657

  To Mr John Grey, London

  My dearest John, again I entrust this to the hand of one you will know in the hope that it will reach you safely.

  Though your mother assures me you are in no danger, since your work will not take you out of Westminster, I worry that she does not understand how grave a situation you find yourself in. I believe there are those who still wish you ill and will seek you out in London.

  I have also spoken to Nell Bowman. She says that if Henderson was murdered at the stables, nobody at the inn knew anything of it. But why were the men there drinking so late?

  And did you know that only the year before last Mr Thurloe sent Mr Morland to this very village? I cannot say what he was doing here, but it is a strange coincidence, is it not?

  And finally, John, your mother has had some sort of falling-out with Mistress Grice. They were overheard arguing, and your mother openly accused her of witchcraft – to which Mistress Grice merely laughed. Of course, the mere fact that Mistress Grice can read and write is regarded in this place as perverse and unnatural. The Rector gave us a sermon last week on the dangers of educating women, a practice which is condemned by some Father of the Church or other. I hope for his sake that Mistress Grice is not a witch, or we may see a frog in a surplice preaching to us next Sunday.

  Write to me as soon as you can.

  Your affectionate cousin,

  Aminta

  A Visit

  It is the following morning that the landlord bangs on my door and announces that I have a visitor.

  ‘Dickon!’ I exclaim. ‘What are you doing in London? And you are abroad betimes. I am still in my nightshirt!’

  ‘Those of us who keep proper country hours have been up and about since dawn. Only you Londoners slumber on in your feather beds.’

  ‘Dickon,’ I say, ‘you have a perfectly comfortable feather bed back home, as you know well. And Mr Thurloe keeps us working late, so I may be excused not witnessing the sun rise. I shall be at my desk at ei
ght, as is required of me.’

  ‘You’d do well to see the sun at all in this smoky air,’ says Dickon. ‘But that’s perhaps as well. On a dull day you notice less what a filthy hole this London is. I’m surprised they don’t charge for sunshine by the hour here – these Londoners fleece you for everything else.’

  ‘True,’ I say, ‘but since you clearly dislike London and Londoners so much, you must have a very good reason for being here.’

  Dickon glances out of my window to confirm that the gloom of a July day in the city is as bad as he feels it should be. ‘It’s about that land over at Royston,’ he says. ‘You know – that Uncle Ruggles left my pa but my cousins claim is theirs, God rot them.’

  I nod. I’ve heard Dickon’s mother speak of that couple of acres of useless marsh. It’s kept half a dozen lawyers busy for almost twenty years.

  ‘I have to swear a deposition,’ says Dickon. ‘But I thought I’d look in on you while I was here. And ask after my horse.’

  ‘I had to sell the horse,’ I say. ‘You know I was accused of stealing him?’

  ‘Yes. I told the Colonel you’d done no such thing, but somebody said they’d seen you riding off on him, and he wouldn’t believe me, even though I actually owned the beast.’

  ‘But the Colonel has changed his view? He now believes me to be innocent?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘What convinced him?’

  ‘Well, I told him myself that I believed your story. I hope that counted for something. Then Probert apparently told the Colonel that he had no idea who had shot him. And, of course, your mother would have put in her contribution too. I doubt that she spoke unfavourably of you.’

  ‘And Aminta? Did she speak to the Colonel on my behalf?’

  ‘Not that I heard. I warned you before not to trust either of those Cliffords. Courtly manners and courtly morals, you might say. I’d as soon trust Roger Pole.’

  ‘I saw Roger Pole – briefly. He is in London. He was fleeing me or somebody else. I tried to follow but lost him south of Fleet Street.’