The sheet took the form of a petition. The first thing I realized was that I had seen a version of some of it before: the fragmentary draft, written in Buckingham’s hand, in the drawing room at Dog and Bitch Yard on my first visit there.
The second thing I noted, as my father’s son, was that the petition was clearly set out and decently printed, which was not, I knew from bitter experience as a printer’s apprentice, something that could be done in a hurry. I skimmed the text:
The Poor-Whores Petition to the most Splendid, Illustrious and Eminent Lady of Pleasure, the Countess of Castlemayne etc. The Humble Petition of the Undone Company of poor distressed Whores, Bawds, Pimps, and Panders, etc.
Humbly sheweth,
That your petitioners having been for a long time connived at and countenanced in the practice of our venereal pleasures (a trade wherein your ladyship hath great experience, and for your diligence therein have arrived to high and eminent advancement for these late years), but now we, through the rage and malice of a company of London apprentices and other malicious and very bad persons, being mechanic, rude and ill-bred boys, have sustained the loss of our habitations, trades and employments …
‘The impudence,’ Williamson said. ‘To address it to my lady, and in such terms. And with those sly insinuations.’
I quickly read the rest of the petition, which continued in the same satirical vein. It was neatly done. It purported to be written by Madam Cresswell and Damaris Page on behalf of their ‘Sisters and Fellow Sufferers’. The writers begged for her ladyship’s help in bringing a stop to this ‘before they come to Your Honour’s palace and bring contempt upon your worshiping of Venus, the great goddess whom we all adore.’
‘It’s not madams Cresswell and Page who wrote it, of course,’ Williamson said. ‘Everyone knows that. Those whore-mistresses may be bound for damnation in the next world, but they know how to prosper in this one.’
The petition was implying that Lady Castlemaine was the greatest whore in England; and, moreover, that, if unchecked, the crowds would march on Whitehall itself – her palace, rather than the King’s. In other words, the writer was threatening that this disorder would turn into something close to rebellion against the Crown.
I ran my finger down the page. Near the bottom were two lines that I read for a second time. In return for Lady Castlemaine’s protection, the writers of the petition pledged that ‘we shall oblige ourselves by as many oaths as you please, to contribute to your ladyship (as our sisters do at Rome and Venice to His Holiness the Pope).’
‘Ah,’ Williamson said. ‘You mark the part in parentheses. About paying her for protection. That struck me too.’
‘My lady is a Roman Catholic,’ I said. ‘The writer is reminding us of that—’
‘In case we’d forgotten,’ put in Williamson.
‘—and he links it to the corruption of the papacy to boot. It connects the Court with the papists.’
‘Indeed.’
Neither of us reminded the other that the Queen was a papist, and both the King and his brother were widely believed to favour them. Nor was it a secret that both men delighted in bawds. This so-called petition would be widely interpreted as an attack on the King.
Not just on the King. There was something else here.
I said cautiously, ‘Is it possible, sir, that this foolish squib is somehow concerned with the failure of the Comprehension Bill to pass through Parliament?’
‘Yes?’ Williamson gestured for me to continue.
‘The bill would have granted toleration to all but the Catholics and a few sectarians. But the bishops and their supporters fought it tooth and nail. They don’t want to yield an inch of toleration even to the Presbyterians and their kin, because it would undermine their authority, their power. And accordingly half of London, not just the apprentices, hates the bishops and their allies. Because of their opposition, the bill wasn’t even presented to Parliament. And of course the bill’s sponsor at Court was …’
Williamson held up his hand, and my voice trailed into silence. We both knew that the bill’s principal supporter had been the Duke of Buckingham, and that its failure to pass had helped to destroy his claim that he could manage Parliament for the King.
Thanks to Cat, I knew more than Williamson. I knew that Buckingham’s allies included Richard Cromwell. I knew that the Duke was actively cultivating the Presbyterians and other Dissenters as well and putting himself forward as their champion. He was playing on the widespread dissatisfaction with the King, his court and the bishops. He had planned this outbreak of rioting for some time. This petition formed part of his scheme.
Since Buckingham could not control the government by the King’s favour, I guessed, he was trying to do it another way: with the support of the King’s disaffected subjects. There was a sort of genius about it, I conceded, and a boldness too. A lesser man might have felt such intrigues were both dishonourable and dangerous. A lesser man might have been reluctant to show himself to all the world as so inconsistent in his loyalties and so devious in his scheming. But Buckingham had always felt that the world should be his for the asking, and if he could not have it by one way, he was quite entitled to have it by another.
Mr Williamson and I looked at each other in silence. My master had his own secrets no doubt; we all did in this place. Mine was Cat and this dangerous business with the Cromwells. I wished I could tell it all to Williamson. But Chiffinch had clearly heard something that affected Cat, and for her sake I dared not make a move before knowing what it was. Moreover, if I told Williamson what I knew about Richard Cromwell and his connection to the Duke, he would demand to know how I had come by the knowledge.
That would put Cat in danger of a charge of treason. The King’s Council would be automatically suspicious of a regicide’s child, and no court would be inclined to show mercy to her.
Prudence, my own safety and the welfare of the kingdom itself urged me to speak out, to betray her to Williamson. I own I was tempted.
For all that I held my peace.
The King ordered the City to double the watch and call up two of its militia companies. The army was under arms, waiting for orders. Lord Craven led a troop of the Life Guard out of Whitehall in the afternoon.
As the hours passed, we received a steady trickle of intelligence about the riots. The City authorities arrested some of the rioters and threw them into the New Prison at Clerkenwell. Their comrades thought they had been taken to Finsbury, and they besieged the gaol there. They found none of their friends but freed four common criminals. It spoke volumes for their boldness that the apprentices promptly marched over to Clerkenwell and attacked the New Prison, where they released their captured friends.
One of Williamson’s people reported to me, in a voice not much more than a whisper, ‘I heard they put the Clerkenwell gaoler in fear of his life. And they told him – mark this, sir – they said to him: we have been servants, but we will be masters now.’
I made a note of it and passed it on to Williamson immediately.
‘We have been servants,’ he repeated, ‘but we will be masters now. It’s Leveller cant, Marwood. It’s but a short step to saying that all men are equal. I thought Oliver had stamped out that impious nonsense once and for all.’
For the rest of the afternoon, the other clerks and I pretended to work but none of us achieved much. This unrest in the streets was worse than any yet since the King’s Restoration. A faint, unsettling smell of treason hung in the air, like the taint of bad meat.
Lord Craven sent Mr Williamson an express which said, in a few scribbled words, that some of his men had been attacked by rioters solely because they were believed to be led by the Duke of York. Here was yet another hint of the political motives behind the disturbances: the Duke was not only the King’s heir: he was also rumoured to be on the verge of going over to Rome.
Dusk was gathering, and the candles were lit in the office. Most of the clerks left but I stayed, and so did Williamson. Shortl
y after six, a palace messenger arrived with a letter for him. A few minutes later, he rang his bell for me.
I went into the private room and, without waiting to be told, closed the door behind me. Williamson passed me the letter.
‘They are calling for a revolution,’ he said. ‘Or the next best thing. And there’s something here that touches you.’
I glanced first at the signature. It was from William Chiffinch. I ran my eyes over the contents.
Chiffinch said that one of his own informants had claimed to hear the mob in Clerkenwell chanting ‘Down with the Red Coats’. Moreover, some rioters were saying that if the King did not give them liberty of conscience, there would be worse, much bloodier riots on May Day, the next big public holiday. They also threatened that before long, they would march on Whitehall and tear it down. Presumably, I thought, on the grounds that it was the biggest bawdy house of them all.
Then I reached the last few lines of the letter. Suddenly I found it hard to breathe.
I have also received information that a number of Dissenters gathered at Wallingford House yesterday evening. You may already be aware of this but not perhaps of this more recent intelligence I received from my informer. Two people arrived there later than the others. One was a disaffected clergyman named Veal, a member of the Duke’s household. He was escorting a woman, Mistress Hakesby, the wife of an architect and surveyor who thrived under the Commonwealth.
It is not widely known that this woman is the daughter of Lovett the regicide, that most fanatical rogue who fell to his death in the ruins of St Paul’s a year or two ago. The daughter herself lay under suspicion of murder last year, and we were also obliged to arrest Hakesby himself and bring him in for questioning. The King has an interest in her activities, as your clerk Marwood will confirm, and His Majesty will probably command you to question both Hakesbys about this present matter.
‘Hakesby,’ Williamson said. ‘The name’s familiar – didn’t you have a cousin of his working as your maid last year?’
I kept my eyes on the letter. ‘Yes. It was while I was ill, sir, if you recall, and half out of my mind on opium. My cook took her on. I don’t think the girl stayed long – she didn’t suit.’
‘It grows worse and worse. Buckingham is plotting with a regicide’s close kin – and God knows who else. We shall need to talk to Mistress Hakesby. And to her husband. I’ll ask my Lord Arlington to sign the warrant.’
‘Might it be wiser to hold our hand, sir?’ My voice sounded as artificial as an actor’s in my ears. ‘To set a watch on them, but not bring them in.’
He scowled. ‘Why?’
‘Because …’ desperately, I cast about for plausible reasons to leave the Hakesbys alone ‘… because seizing them now would send a warning to the Duke that we were uncovering his intrigue. Would it not be better to gather more evidence, and then bring them all in?’
Williamson considered. ‘Whatever we do, this must be nipped in the bud. If you’re right that Buckingham is behind it all, that he encouraged the unrest and plans to profit by it – why then, I must have certain proof. Something that Lord Arlington can take to the King. Otherwise our hands are tied. The Hakesby woman may give us that proof if we question her thoroughly.’
‘Perhaps, sir. But she’s not important in herself, only because of her father. I doubt she would be privy to the Duke’s schemes.’
‘Can you suggest a better way to proceed?’ His voice was rougher than usual, with the hard Cumbrian vowels more in evidence. ‘Well?’
I hesitated. ‘Documentary proof cannot be ignored, it cannot be disputed. It would be much more valuable than testimony from a tainted source. Even supposing we could extract such testimony and it proved worth the having.’
‘True. But what documentary proof? The Duke’s people would hardly give you free run of Wallingford House if you had a mind to search his papers.’
‘The whore I mentioned, sir. She said the Duke often sits and writes in the drawing room at the house in Dog and Bitch Yard. He keeps the keys of a desk there, and probably locks away his papers in it.’ I watched Williamson’s face, trying to interpret his expression. ‘The Duke lives in public at Wallingford House, sir. But in Dog and Bitch Yard, he is private. He meets his trusted servants there, men like Veal and Durrell who forward his intrigues.’
‘It would be hard to get a warrant for raiding a bawdy house at present. Unwise, too, with the people so inflamed and disordered. Besides, the Duke might hear of it. He has his people everywhere.’
‘Better if it could be done privately,’ I said. ‘Without the need of a warrant. And there’s a chance it could. Why not try that first? If it fails, we bring in the Hakesbys, and nothing will be lost by it but a few hours.’
‘How could it be managed?’ Williamson said.
I cleared my throat. ‘Through the good offices of the whore who helped me escape yesterday.’
‘You’d trust a whore?’ He almost shouted the words, throwing them at me one by one like stones. ‘Is your brain between your legs?’
I let the words hang in the air. Williamson was usually careful with me, and even prudish in general conversation; a rarity in Whitehall. I could count on the fingers of one hand the occasions that he had flown into a passion and spoken without calculation.
‘She’s greedy for money, sir,’ I said.
‘They all are.’
‘She wants to leave London and settle down. I wouldn’t let her cheat us.’ I paused. ‘But I would need money for her.’
‘Money?’ Williamson repeated, frowning. His meanness with money, both his own and the Crown’s, was ingrained.
‘The men who took me yesterday stole my purse. And I had to spend another twenty pounds to secure my release from Dog and Bitch Yard. And one shilling.’
Williamson stared at me, raising the candle on his desk to see me better. He shrugged, and I knew the battle was won.
‘I’ll give you a warrant for twenty pounds from the Private Fund. But remember this, Marwood, I don’t look on this as a repayment for what you lost. I look on it as an investment in what you will achieve. Don’t fail me.’
It was dark by the time I left Scotland Yard. The streets were still crowded. It would have been faster to walk but I shared a coach with Abbott. He lodged further to the east than I, in Fleet Street near the Devil Tavern. His chatter irritated me, but I judged it safer to travel in company.
As we passed Charing Cross I wondered when Cat had left Wallingford House. She might still be there. The very thought of her coloured my mind with the familiar mix of irritation, tenderness and worry. Now that she had been seen at Wallingford House, she was in serious danger.
If I could but talk to the obstinate woman, I thought, perhaps I could persuade her to come to an arrangement about Richard Cromwell. Or even if she would let me talk directly to the man himself, with her acting as the broker. That would wipe her slate clean with Williamson and indeed the King. But I feared that she would never consent to give me information that might endanger Cromwell and her husband.
Husband. Even now, the word left a sour taste. Catherine Lovett’s husband.
At Infirmary Close, Sam opened the door to me.
‘Any news?’ I said as he took my cloak.
‘You’ve heard the latest about the bawdy houses? They’re tearing them down in Holborn now.’
‘I know. What about here?’
He grinned at me. He would have winked at me if he had dared. ‘The new maid has been making herself useful. You’ll keep her on, sir? A girl of many talents. Could do worse, I’d say. Brightens up the place.’
I ignored the question. ‘Tell Margaret to bring supper in fifteen minutes.’ He was about to go but I stopped him. ‘Stay – tell her that I want Chloris to bring it.’
‘Aye aye, master,’ Sam said.
I went to my bedchamber and threw off the cursed, itching periwig. I put on my cap, gown and slippers. I went down to the parlour. Chloris came in with a tray to lay the ta
ble. Though her dress was modest enough and befitting her station, her colour was high and she avoided my eye. She looked, I thought, remarkably pretty by candlelight. At the moment I recalled the touch of her fingers on my scalp last night, and how she had assisted me so intimately in my hour of need in the attic at Dog and Bitch Yard, I felt my own colour rising.
She poured my wine, went away and returned with the food. ‘Shall I stay to serve you, sir?’
‘Yes.’
For a few minutes I ate and drank. I was aware of her behind me. I even fancied I heard the sound of her breathing. I beckoned her to refill my glass and she came forward to stand at my shoulder.
‘Tell me,’ I said as she was pouring the wine, ‘do you have friends at Madam Cresswell’s? Not among the gentlemen, I mean. Among those that work there. Someone you trust.’
‘I don’t trust anyone overmuch, sir.’ She snorted. ‘Even myself.’
‘There are degrees in all things.’
‘None of the men, for a start. They want it for free, and they’d sell their mothers for tuppence, especially that Merton.’
‘The tall man who takes the money?’
‘Aye. And who has strange tastes. He’s the one who scares me.’
‘What about the women?’
‘Us bawds, you mean.’ Her voice was flat, purged of emotion. ‘We’re all bawds there, you know. Even the kitchen maid’s at it. Everyone’s out for themselves. There’s no room for a friend.’ She hesitated. ‘Nearest thing I got to a friend is Meg.’
‘Who?’
‘We have to call her Amaryllis in company. You remember?’
I nodded. I had a memory of plump flesh, inadequately covered, and a snub nose.
‘We look out for each other, she and I,’ Chloris said. ‘But I wouldn’t call her a friend.’
‘Could you get a message to her?’
She frowned. ‘Why? You don’t want her, do you? I thought you didn’t care for what we can give you.’
I ignored that and turned away to take another mouthful of food. A moment later I said, ‘You saw my warrants. You know I work for the King. He has need of certain papers which are in Madam Cresswell’s house.’
The Last Protector Page 28
