Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘That is most generous of you,’ replied Thomas politely, thinking that after his recent experience he would prefer to stay clear of theatres for the moment.

Stoner enquired about Thomas’s family and mentioned that his own family came from a small village in Yorkshire. Thomas thought it best not to ask about his late wife, and when he asked about his sister, Stoner said simply that she had returned to Paris. Then he asked whether Thomas had any interest in business affairs.

‘Very little. I am fortunate enough to be adequately provided for and I have never sought wealth.’

‘Fortunate indeed, sir. Most of us have to work hard to earn our daily crust. I myself am always trying to find profitable investments for myself and my friends. All very discreet, of course, and I choose my clients with care. Good opportunities are best kept confidential. If you should be interested, Thomas, of course I would be happy to advise a friend of the Carringtons.’

‘Thank you. I do not wish to give offence, but I find that while it is sometimes wise to entrust another man with one’s health, it is wiser not to do so with one’s wealth.’ He knew Stoner was being modest about his circumstances. Mary had told him that the Stoners were considerable landowners in Yorkshire.

Stoner laughed. ‘As well not everyone agrees with you or I should be hard put to find a single client. And if you should change your mind, be sure to contact me. I have one especially promising venture in which I have myself invested and which I expect to produce an unusually high return. Do bear it in mind, won’t you?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now I must be away. Business calls. Good day, Thomas. And remember what I said.’

‘I certainly shall,’ replied Thomas. ‘Good day.’ A decent enough man, charming even. Land in Yorkshire and business in London. Clever, too.

At the Post Office, Lemuel Squire’s welcome was effusive. Resplendent in sky-blue satin and silver-buckled shoes, he bustled out to greet his visitor.

‘Thomas, my dear fellow, this is indeed an unexpected surprise. I had not thought you would call so soon.’ He grasped Thomas’s hand with both of his and shook it vigorously enough to dislodge his curled wig, which slipped over his eyes. Unabashed, he pushed it back on to his round head. ‘Have you come from Piccadilly?’

‘No, I’ve been sampling the delights of a coffee house in Cornhill. I thought I would return by way of Cloak Lane.’

‘Splendid. What was the name of the coffee house?’

Thomas scratched his head. ‘I fear I have quite forgotten. They are all so alike.’

‘Was it comfortable?’ asked Squire.

‘Comfortable enough, and I happened to meet Chandle Stoner there. Do you know him?’

Squire took a small gold box from his pocket and made a show of opening it and taking a pinch of snuff before answering. He sneezed loudly and offered the box to Thomas, who declined it. ‘Stoner? Chandle Stoner, you say? An unusual name. No, I don’t believe I know him.’

‘He’s a friend of Charles and Mary Carrington. A man of business.’

‘Ah, business,’ sighed Squire. ‘Quite beyond me, I’m afraid. Words I can manage, numbers remain a mystery. Now, let me show you the wonderful workings of our Post Office. Come and I shall lead.’ Thomas followed him through the door by which he had entered and down a corridor with doors on either side. He stopped outside the last door on the right and with a theatrical sweep of the hand ushered Thomas inside.

It was a large square room, with a long counter down one wall and neat rows of wooden boxes lining two others. The counter was marked with each letter of the alphabet. Six clerks were busy taking letters and packets from the boxes, checking their addresses and that they had been stamped and putting them into leather bags or on to the counter. No one spoke or interrupted their work when Thomas and Lemuel came in. The atmosphere was one of hushed concentration and efficiency.

A bespectacled little man with a thin, pale face sat at a desk by the window on the far side of the room. He took a letter from the small pile on his desk, peered at it and put it to one side. When he glanced up and saw the visitors, he jumped to his feet and scurried over to greet them. ‘Mr Squire, good morning, sir. Is all well?’ The little man sounded nervous and Thomas noticed that his hands shook.

‘Quite well, thank you, Roger. This is Mr Thomas Hill, who is deputizing for Dr Wallis.’ He turned to Thomas. ‘Thomas, this is our chief clerk, Roger Willow, who makes the Post Office run smoothly.’

Willow extended a limp hand. ‘Welcome to our little world, Mr Hill. Mr Squire of course exaggerates. I merely oil the wheels, as it were.’

‘Good morning, Mr Willow,’ replied Thomas with a grin. ‘Have you time to explain briefly how the wheels work?’

Roger Willow beamed. ‘Certainly, sir.’ He pointed to the counter. ‘These letters are marked to be collected from here rather than delivered. As you can see, we sort them alphabetically. The clerks are putting outgoing correspondence into bags, which will be checked and labelled by a clerk of the road and sent on their way in a mail safe. Each bag carries a brass label with the name of the town to which it will be delivered. There are now over one hundred and fifty such towns along the post roads. The service grows every week.’

‘I understood that the clerks work at night, Mr Willow. Yet here they are hard at it in broad daylight.’

Willow looked sheepish. ‘When the volume of post is such that we find ourselves a little behind, we do also work by day. I fear this is such a time.’

‘And suspicious letters?’

Willow removed his spectacles and wiped them on the sleeve of his coat. ‘These are handed to me by one of the clerks or brought over from Love Lane. I take them to Mr Squire, who performs his mysterious arts on them, and then we send them on resealed.’

‘You make it sound easy, Mr Willow, but mistakes must surely be made.’

‘Alas, sir, they are. But we select our clerks most carefully and train them fully before allowing them to work unsupervised. A clerk who did not know where Wisbech is, for example, might put a letter addressed there in the Bristol bag.’

Thomas laughed. ‘And that wouldn’t do at all.’ Throughout Roger Willow’s descriptions, Lemuel Squire had said nothing and the clerks had taken no notice of them. Their work clearly demanded total concentration. ‘Well, I am grateful, Mr Willow. My eyes have been opened and I am most impressed by your operation.’ It seemed the right thing to say to a man who evidently took such pride in his work.

‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Willow. ‘Do call again if there is anything else.’ And with that, he inclined his head and went back to his desk.

Outside the sorting office, Lemuel put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and asked, ‘What did you make of it, Thomas?’

‘A swift and efficient business. And in Roger Willow you seem to have a most capable chief clerk.’

‘Willow. Yes indeed. Most capable.’ Thomas glanced at him. Had there been something strange in Lemuel’s voice? ‘Now let us examine the copying machine. Morland, as I said, is away this morning, so we shall not be disturbed. If he could, I fancy he would refuse ever to let anyone else near it. A brilliant man, but he can be most disagreeable.’

‘So I’ve heard. And once a formidable supporter of Cromwell. Not a man to be taken lightly.’

Squire led him down a narrow corridor lined with doors. At the end, he took two keys from his pocket and opened two locks on the last one. ‘Here we are now,’ he announced grandly. ‘Morland’s copying machine.’

Thomas followed Squire into the room, which was empty but for a single table on which the machine stood, together with two piles of paper, a linen cloth and a small bowl of water. He walked round the table, examining it.