Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

The two men were startlingly different. Sir Samuel Morland was in his mid-thirties, with long brown hair, a thin moustache of the type Thomas always distrusted and an even thinner mouth. He was dressed in the black coat and breeches of a Puritan and looked thoroughly dyspeptic. Only the silver buckles on his shoes offered the slightest nod to fashion.

Lemuel Squire, on the other hand, was a head shorter and might have been constructed from two spheres – the larger for his torso, the smaller for his head. There was no evidence of the connection between the two. A thick brown wig fell in ringlets to his shoulders and his eyes were hidden somewhere between bushy eyebrows and deep folds of skin. Thomas could not recall having ever before seen a purple coat matched with turquoise breeches. Only his enormous smile saved Squire from looking grotesque. He waddled forward and greeted Thomas warmly. ‘Thomas Hill. A pleasure to meet you, sir. Lemuel Squire at your service. We’ve heard much about you and how you served the late king so gallantly. Have we not, Samuel?’ Morland did not reply. ‘Welcome indeed to our little world.’

‘I’m obliged, sir,’ replied Thomas, suppressing a grin. He was struggling to take this extraordinary man seriously. Morland still said nothing. Thomas turned to him. ‘And it is a honour to meet you, Sir Samuel. I’m sure I shall learn much from you.’

Morland looked down his long nose. ‘Doubtless you shall. Remember, sir, that Machiavelli himself said that a skilful prince makes a watchtower of his Post Office. Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have important work to do.’ And with that, he was gone.

Squire’s laugh started in his ample stomach and erupted through his whole face. ‘Don’t mind Samuel, Thomas. He means no harm. Just a bit short on manners and fond of dramatic exits, that’s all. Ah, is that Madeira I see? Excellent.’ He helped himself to a glass and held it up to Thomas. ‘To you, sir, and a successful outcome to your work.’

‘I understand that you are in charge of opening and resealing intercepted letters, Mr Squire?’

‘Lemuel, if you please. I so hate formality. Indeed, I am. We have excellent techniques for opening and resealing – far more advanced, though I say it myself, than those of the Dutch or the French – and Samuel is perfecting a machine for copying a page without damaging the original. It is most ingenious and will spare us having to employ armies of clerks to copy by hand at speeds which defy accuracy.’

‘I should like to see it.’

‘And you shall, Thomas. I shall show it to you myself.’ Again Squire’s plump face was split by the gigantic smile. It was impossible not to warm to the man. ‘The king’s dalliances in Holland and France are well known and there is talk of a Portuguese queen. The people fear a return to Catholic intolerance and there are continual threats from abroad. The Dutch and the French are invariably up to something. We have much opening and copying to do.’

So far neither Williamson nor Bishop had said anything. Mind you, with Squire in the room, thought Thomas, there’s scant need for anyone to say anything. He talks enough for all.

‘Well,’ said Williamson, ‘now that we’ve all met each other we’ll let you get back to work, Lemuel, before you finish off the Madeira.’

Squire pretended to be put out. ‘As you wish, sir. Good day to you all. I look forward to our meeting again soon, Thomas, and to demonstrating our work. Rest assured that I am at your service at all times.’

‘And I look forward to seeing you again, Lemuel.’

‘What a pair,’ exclaimed Thomas when he had gone, ‘an insulting inventor and a garrulous gargoyle.’

The corners of Bishop’s mouth turned up slightly. ‘Don’t underestimate them, Thomas. Morland looks and sounds like a righteous Puritan, I grant you, and Squire has acquired a certain notoriety for his manner and habits, but both men are brilliant at their work.’

‘I don’t doubt it, sir. I shall treat them both with the utmost respect.’

‘That would be wise, whatever you think of them. Although Squire has been with us for no more than a year, he has shown himself to be shrewd and reliable. He has an instinct for our work. Morland, like me, worked for Cromwell. I inherited him when I took over at the Post Office from John Thurloe, knowing him to be quite brilliant.’

Thurloe’s name brought Thomas up with a start. He had been Cromwell’s chief of security. ‘I wonder then why you did not give Dr Wallis’s work to him,’ he observed.

‘Allow me to answer that,’ said Williamson. ‘As you have observed, Morland is rude and arrogant, the kind of man who works best alone and in a locked room. He has no time for even the most basic social graces and I do not wish to work any more closely with him than I must. In addition to which, he is permanently short of money and demanding more. Does that answer your question?’

Thomas laughed. ‘It does, sir. I shall treat Sir Samuel with respect.’

Back in his room at the Carringtons’ house, it occurred to Thomas that spies and actors alike seek to hide behind a mask. He sat at a small writing table and scribbled idly on a sheet of paper.

Plato: ‘Life must be lived as a play.’

The Post Office

Dramatis Personae

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Joseph Williamson: spymaster for the new king

Henry Bishop: suspicious spaniel and master of the king’s Post

Sir Samuel Morland: taciturn inventor, linguist and cryptographer

Lemuel Squire: spherical letter-opener and oenophile

Matthew Smith and John Winter: murdered intelligencers

He looked at his list, and added

Thomas Hill: ageing cryptographer and reluctant player

‘What would the bard have made of that?’ he said out loud. ‘All we need is the murderer and we’ll have a full cast.’

THE DUTCHMAN DID not have to wait long for his fourth task. The two in the lane and one in the graveyard had been simple enough. This mark, he was told, made a habit of visiting a brothel in Swan Lane every Friday, arriving at eight o’clock in the evening and leaving between ten and eleven. He was described as well built and answering to the name of Henry. His body was to be dumped in the river.

Before carrying out a job the Dutchman always familiarized himself with what he called ‘the killing ground’. In Swan Lane he had identified the brothel and found an excellent spot behind a heap of rubbish from which to observe it. By sitting with his back to a low wall behind the heap he could watch the brothel door without the risk of being seen.

For this task he had been instructed not to use his hands and to use a different weapon. He had chosen a heavy iron bar, tapered at one end to make a handle and short enough to be hidden comfortably under his coat. The smith who had fashioned it for him had cut rows of nicks on the bar and prised up their sharp edges, so that it resembled a thick rose stem. It had never let the Dutchman down.

He had taken up his place behind the rubbish heap in time to see a man who matched the mark’s description enter the brothel, and had sat there for a little more than two hours. Soon after ten o’clock, the door of the brothel opened and the man emerged. He was tall and broad-shouldered – a different proposition to the other three. The Dutchman touched his maimed face. Being careful to keep his head down, he rose silently to his feet and took the iron bar from inside his coat. He stepped out from his hiding place and was about to follow the mark up the lane when the brothel door opened again and another customer emerged. The Dutchman ducked down quickly. He would not risk an attack on two men.