A Cruel Necessity (A John Grey Historical Mystery)

by L. C. Tyler

  ‘I saw him too, but he couldn’t shake me off as he did you. He was visiting Thurloe’s office.’

  ‘He can’t have,’ I say.

  ‘I tracked him through the streets in the rain a day or two ago. It could have been no other. He headed for Westminster and vanished into that building you and Thurloe inhabit.’

  ‘A dyed-in-the-wool Royalist like Pole could have no business with Mr Thurloe.’

  ‘Pole wouldn’t be the first Royalist to change his colours. I told you that he was full of praise for the Lord Protector these days. If he’s switched sides – or more likely pretended to switch sides – it would explain his actions.’

  ‘Pretence,’ I say. ‘Of that I am sure. Fortunately, Mr Thurloe is unlikely to be deceived, if that was indeed Pole you saw.’

  ‘I know a Pole when I see one. And it’s as well you didn’t catch up with the rogue. Like as not, he’d have cut your throat.’ Dickon nods sagely at his own wisdom. ‘The sooner you come back to Essex, the better, John. I’m off home in a day or two – you could come with me. The journey would be the merrier for your good company.’

  I hesitate only for a moment. London seems safe enough if you avoid narrow lanes in Southwark.

  ‘No, Dickon, my new work likes me well. I am more useful to the Protectorate here than in Essex or in Cambridge. And I have given Mr Thurloe my word.’

  Dickon looks doubtful. He doesn’t think I’m safe.

  ‘Very well,’ he sighs. ‘I’ve done my best. Now, why don’t you tell me about my horse and what you plan to do about getting him back?’

  My lack of funds means that my pleasures in London are for the moment limited.

  To divert myself this evening, I take out the paper that I bought for a penny from Goodwife Mansell.

  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

  Perhaps it is the blow to the head expertly administered by the ruffians in Southwark that has done it. For suddenly the message speaks clearly to me, though my head feels no better when I understand its full meaning.

  I had been looking for something complex; I should have been looking for the obvious. This cipher was, after all, replaced with a simple substitution code. I try less hard and all is made clear.

  The anagram of ‘Grey’ was a red herring. That part of the message, at least, was not about me. It is the anagram of ‘King’ that shows how it is done. When the first letter of each block is transferred to the last place in the block it gives us:

  NUMBER 9 IEXP ECTN EWSF RMBR UGES BYSO MEON EITH OUGH TDEA DTHE KING HASV ERYG OODS UPPO RTHE REBU TTHE LEAD ERSH IPOF THEK NOTI SBEI NGCH ALLE NGED BYTH EYOU NGER ONES FORM JRET URNS HOME SOON IWOU LDRE MIND YOUO FYOU RPRO MISE 472

  Finally, rearranging the spaces:

  NUMBER 9 I EXPECT NEWS FRM BRUGES BY SOMEONE I THOUGHT DEAD. THE KING HAS VERY GOOD SUPPORT HERE BUT THE LEADERSHIP OF THE KNOT IS BEING CHALLENGED BY THE YOUNGER ONES. FOR M – J RETURNS HOME SOON. I WOULD REMIND YOU OF YOUR PROMISE 472

  I rather think that the person from Bruges is my rider. ‘Someone I thought dead.’ For the rider’s words have finally come back to me: he asked whether Ben Bowman still kept the inn. That was the phrase that had eluded me for so long. Whoever it is, he was returning to the village after a long time away from it, and those in the village had reason to believe him no longer alive.

  As for J, who is about to return home, can he be anyone except me? There are other Js to be sure, but the population of the village is static. Few go anywhere from which they can return. So Pole – who else? – is writing about my return from Cambridge. But who is M, towards whom Pole is directing his asides? It is somebody for whom a simple unadorned J can only mean John Grey. And yet I know nobody at that corrupt and indolent court. Certainly not Mordaunt or Mary Knatchbull, as Thurloe proposed.

  There were days in Cambridge when I would be sitting at my desk, absorbed in some dusty lawbook, only to find my studies interrupted by a sudden and inexplicable burst of thunder. Unnoticed by me, a storm had been brewing outside, and the wind and rain were now flinging themselves at my casement. I would stare up at the sky, unable to understand how I had been so unobservant. I stare out of my window now. The sky is blue, if a little smoky. And yet I fear that somewhere a storm is brewing.

  A Discovery

  Mr Morland has assigned to me the relatively easy duty of reading other people’s letters. He is solicitous over the state of my head, though I tell him that the blow was not severe, and that I was unconscious for no more than half an hour at the most.

  Post from all over the country passes through this office. Unknown to the senders, it is opened, read, sealed and sent on its way. Some – treasonable or potentially so – is copied out in case Mr Thurloe wishes to remind the author of its precise wording at some future date. Today’s post is dull. There are letters to the Spanish Netherlands, it is true, from the families of exiled cavaliers, informing the absent head of the household of their want of credit of any sort. There are replies urging the families of the exiled cavaliers to live frugally and to be steadfast to an absent king. Unless they reveal useful information that might lead to the sequestration of Royalist funds not previously declared to the State, these are resealed and allowed on their way. There are other letters where references to a cargo of Flemish cloth to be landed at Weymouth may mean cloth or may mean something else entirely. These are copied and sent on to the relevant magistrates, who will later board newly arrived boats to burrow into bales of woollen goods, perhaps to discover weapons or perhaps merely to look foolish.

  I am about to go to my dinner when the writing on one letter catches my eye. It is addressed to Sir Edward Hyde, care of a nunnery in Ghent. I open it. It is in code, but I see that it begins Number 21 and is signed by ‘472’.

  Mr Morland has asked that I pass on any such letters to him for him to decrypt personally. But, in view of his kindness to me, I decide to undertake the drudgery of deciphering it for him. I do, after all, have a copy of the relevant tables. It does not take me long.

  NUMBER 21 SINCE PROBERT’S DEPARTURE ALL HAS BEEN VERY QUIET HERE. HENDERSON IS UNLIKELY TO RISE AGAIN FROM HIS GRAVE. BOWMAN HAS MOVED THE MUSKETS TO A SAFER LOCATION.

  FOR M – NOW THAT J IS IN LONDON I HOPE YOU WILL TAKE CARE OF HIM AS AGREED. 472

  I put my pen down. There I am again – it says J is in London. And so I am. And now this person M is asked to take care of me. In what way? Is this an instruction to cherish me or have me lured into a cellar and pistolled to death? M will have difficulty in doing either from Bruges. Of course, if it were addressed to somebody who is also in London, that would be a different matter . . .

  And suddenly I see the truth. This aside is addressed to somebody in London, for all the letter bears Hyde’s name. All mail to Flanders will pass through this office. All mail to Flanders will be read by this office. And Morland has left very specific instructions that such mail must be delivered to him still encrypted. This is Pole writing not just to Hyde but also to ‘M’. Morland! So is Pole asking Morland to protect me or – and surely this is more likely – to take some other action entirely? And Dickon was wrong that Pole was visiting Mr Thurloe’s office as a supporter of the Protectorate. Pole and Morland are both plotting against the State.

  Perhaps I would do well to be circumspect and hold my tongue for the moment. But Mr Thurloe has a traitor in the very heart of his office, and I fear there have been at least two murders as a consequence. This cannot wait. I seize the paper from my desk and march to where I know I shall find Morland.

  ‘A letter from Essex,’ I say, flinging it on his desk.

  Morland looks up. ‘Thank you, John. I shall decipher it after dinner.’

  ‘I have done so already,’ I say. I offer him my manuscript, which he reads.

  ‘No news then,’ he says. ‘You should
not have troubled yourself. I shall reseal it and send it on. There is no point in alerting Hyde to our scrutiny of his business.’

  ‘Do you ever send them on?’ I say. ‘They are addressed to Hyde, but they seem to be for your eyes.’

  ‘All mail is for our eyes,’ says Morland. ‘That is our job. But this is clearly for Sir Edward. And we always forward his mail to avoid suspicion that we have tampered with it.’

  ‘You will see 472 wishes M to take care of me. That can scarcely be somebody in Bruges. Your name begins with M, does it not?’

  ‘To take care of you? It merely refers to somebody called J. Are you saying that you are the only person who has ever borne a name beginning with J? I seem to remember that Charles Stuart has a brother named James. So there are at least two of you. As for M – Prince Rupert’s brother is Maurice, as you know well. I should imagine that there are at least a dozen men serving the King in Bruges who might be intended by this single letter of the alphabet.’

  ‘J is in London. I doubt that is James Stuart. I have another letter in which it says that J is about to return to my village. I am sure somebody would have told me if they had seen the late King’s son drinking at the inn.’

  Actually, I’m not certain that Ben wouldn’t have kept that to himself as he has kept other things, but no matter. I look Morland in the eye.

  Morland also looks at me, not quite with respect but with greater caution than heretofore. ‘Another letter?’

  ‘It was in the lining of Henderson’s doublet.’

  ‘From which you took it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see. You had better explain yourself more clearly, Mr Grey. Are you saying that I am engaged in treasonable correspondence with Royalist sympathisers in Essex?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You’ve been very clever. Because the letters are addressed to Hyde, they do not implicate you, even if they were to be discovered. You are, however, kept informed of the strength of Royalist feeling in the eastern counties and General Monck’s willingness to join the Royalist party. They enabled you to persuade Mr Thurloe that there was no threat from Monck.’

  ‘That is perfectly true. General Monck remains loyal to the Republic. So, I am M, am I? And who is 472?’

  I can shield him no longer. The safety of the State itself is at risk.

  ‘Roger Pole,’ I say. ‘As you know well. He has been feigning allegiance to the Lord Protector but remains an obstinate Royalist. A friend of mine saw Pole coming to this office. Your office.’

  ‘All sorts of people come to this office,’ says Morland. ‘Many of them are men that the Knot believe are loyal to His Majesty . . .’

  I think Morland may have just betrayed himself.

  ‘By His Majesty, I assume you mean the traitor Charles Stuart, titular King of the Scots?’

  ‘I spoke ironically. I merely employed the term that the Sealed Knot would use. I am happy to give Charles Stuart his full title, if that pleases you better.’

  ‘There is nothing about Charles Stuart that could ever please me,’ I say. ‘And they are fools who call him King or His Majesty and hope for his return.’

  Morland tips his head on one side and studies me for a moment. Then, having made up his mind, he addresses me: ‘Not all fools perhaps,’ he says. ‘How long do you think this Republic can last, John? Cromwell is a sick man. Oh, it isn’t generally known, but I can assure you that it is the case. What then when he dies, as we all must? Will he name his son Richard as his successor, Cromwells following Cromwells as Stuarts formerly followed Stuarts? Or will he name one of his generals, with England ruled for ever by the Army? Fairfax would like the post. So would Fleetwood. So would Lambert. But I doubt any of them will succeed without fighting the others off. Is that what we want, John? Another war? So, my friend, many are starting to say that perhaps – after the Lord Protector dies of course – the prudent thing may be to ask Charles Stuart back. If the Stuarts are restored – and I say “if” – those who stick longest to their Republican principles may be the first who find their heads on the block. But those who show their support before other men do will find themselves rewarded before other men are – and rewarded more richly.’

  ‘So, is that it?’ I say. ‘You are ready to betray your country for a handful of gold coins or a blue ribbon?’

  ‘A blue ribbon? Yes, it would be pleasant to be a Knight of the Garter,’ says Morland. ‘That is undeniable. But I have no such ambitions for myself. Still, you would do well to remember that today’s treason is tomorrow’s loyalty; today’s danger is tomorrow’s safety.’

  ‘Treason is always treason,’ I say. But it isn’t of course. Treason is finding yourself on the losing side.

  ‘What do you want, John?’ asks Morland. ‘You are a young man. You have, I hope, many years to live. I think you would not wish to live them in the Tower of London. You have much to gain by supporting the right party. Tell me, what do you want? Perhaps I may be in a position to grant it.’

  ‘I want the truth,’ I say.

  Morland shrugs. ‘What is truth?’ he asks.

  ‘Pilate may not have known,’ I say, ‘but I think you do.’

  Before Morland can confirm or deny this, however, Mr Secretary Thurloe enters the room. He is surprised that we are discussing The Scriptures so heatedly. I need to explain myself.

  ‘This man,’ I say, pointing to Morland, ‘is a traitor. He has betrayed your office through treasonable correspondence with Royalists.’

  Thurloe frowns. Has he already suspected something of the sort? If so, first blow to me, I think. When he finally speaks, his words are slow and precise. ‘You had better tell me more,’ he says.

  ‘Mr Morland has for some time been receiving reports from Royalists in Essex. They are nominally directed to Sir Edward Hyde, but their author knows they will be intercepted here and sends messages to Mr Morland in asides contained in the letters. There are also references to me in the letters. See – this one asks M to look after J.’

  Thurloe examines my transcription. ‘So, you say that you are J?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘And it could refer to nobody else?’

  I hear Morland laugh. ‘I have already explained to Mr Grey the weakness of this argument,’ he says. ‘He thinks that nobody else in the three nations is called John. Anyway, if Mr Grey knows the author of the letter so well, perhaps he would tell us who it is.’

  I pause, because I have already told Morland that it is Pole. But if he wishes me to tell Thurloe myself, then I will do so gladly.

  ‘It’s Roger Pole,’ I say. ‘His family were Royalists. He is clearly the coordinator of the Sealed Knot in Essex. He is one of the few people who would have known both that I was returning from Cambridge and that I was now in London and working for Mr Morland.’

  I look at Morland, who is strangely indifferent to my having exposed his correspondent.

  ‘And Pole has been seen visiting this office,’ I add, ‘to see Mr Morland.’

  ‘You observed this yourself?’ asks Thurloe.

  ‘No, it was a friend of mine . . .’

  ‘Who is here to give evidence?’

  ‘Not at present,’ I say.

  Thurloe and Morland exchange glances. Morland smiles.

  ‘Go on,’ Thurloe tells me.

  ‘There was also an earlier letter that I have in my possession. It refers to somebody that the author had thought dead who would bring news from Bruges. That person was the stranger who visited the village the night Henderson died. It was that person who killed Henderson and Jem. And he was able to kill Henderson because Mr Morland here had tipped him off that Henderson was coming.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ says Morland. ‘I didn’t know Henderson had been sent to Essex until some time after he had gone. I couldn’t have tipped anyone off.’

  ‘That’s true,’ says Thurloe. ‘Mr Morland did not know.’

  ‘And there is an even bigger problem with Mr Grey’s theory,’ says Morland. �
��My informant, as Mr Grey likes to call him, cannot have been Roger Pole. We all know Roger Pole has been in London of late. But the letters have continued to arrive, have they not, my lord?’

  This last remark is directed at Thurloe.

  ‘Is that true?’ I ask.

  Thurloe nods. ‘Yes, Mr Grey. Do you not remember the dates on the letters I showed you?’

  ‘Which rather clears me of Mr Grey’s accusation that I have been corresponding with Roger Pole,’ says Morland.

  ‘Colonel Payne has spoken well of Roger Pole,’ adds Thurloe. ‘Payne has petitioned my Lord Cromwell that Pole’s lands and titles should be restored, though these requests have met with little success so far. Anyway, Pole could scarcely be leading the Sealed Knot from Payne’s own house.’

  I beg to differ. Pole could be cozening the Colonel in any number of ways. But I do see that Pole cannot, after all, be 472.

  ‘That simply means that the author of these letters is somebody else . . .’ I say.

  ‘That is self-evident,’ says Thurloe. ‘But who? Earlier, Mr Grey, you told me that you did not know who wrote them. I suggested that it was a lady, but you thought not. Now you say with great confidence that it was Mr Pole, which is simply not possible. But I agree that it may be somebody who knows you well. Somebody living in the village. Somebody certainly with a flourishing garden.’

  Then suddenly I know exactly who the correspondent is. How could I have been so stupid as not to know? The question is: can I still save her and myself? While I am adding up that particular sum, Thurloe is continuing to question me.

  ‘Let us consider. Who has damsons and cucumbers in their garden?’

  ‘Many people would,’ I say.

  For a moment I see him as a hawk circling, his eyes dispassionately on some distant prey – on some small, warm creature made of flesh and fur.

  ‘Who wants Colonel Payne out of the manor house?’

  I wonder if I can still make the coming blow fall harmlessly. ‘Anybody,’ I say. ‘It could be almost anybody. The Colonel is an outsider and not well liked. And the letter asks for clarification of future policy rather than an eviction.’