Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘And what story is that?’

‘Morland claims that he overheard Richard Cromwell and John Thurloe plotting to lure the king from France to England – Sussex, I think it was – and to assassinate him there. He did not wish to be party to such an act and began sending intelligence to the king. It sounds unlikely to me.’

‘Then why would he have changed sides?’

‘Money, I expect. Morland’s always complaining of not having enough. Perhaps he was paid.’

If Morland could be bought once, he could be bought twice. Thomas would have to take care. ‘And you, Lemuel, what dark secrets do you have?’

Squire chuckled. ‘None, alas, my friend. You see all of me before you.’

‘But you cannot always have worked at the Post Office.’

‘Ah, no. I was an actor, you know. A member of a travelling company of players until the theatres were closed. That is what convinced me that Cromwell was mad. Banning dancing and closing theatres, for the love of God. What on earth for?’

‘Some misguided Puritan nonsense, I suppose. A man may not make up his own mind about what he believes in and how he conducts his life. He must be told.’

‘Quite so. Absurd. Thank God all that is behind us now and the country can move forward. It was a dreary time.’

‘Indeed it was.’

‘And how goes the decrypting?’

‘It’s been easy enough so far. I would wish for something more demanding.’

‘That’s not very loyal, is it, Thomas? Wishing our enemies had better weapons, the more to test us? What would the king say?’

Thomas changed the subject. ‘How well did you know Henry Copestick?’

‘Copestick? Oh, not very well. Distant colleagues, you might say. He seemed a very correct sort of person to me. Not at all the man to be near the river after dark. I can’t think why on earth he was there. None of us can.’

‘What about the other murders?’

‘The coroner thought they were robberies and I daresay he was right. All too common, I’m afraid. Why do you ask?’

‘Idle curiosity. Just the devious mind of an ageing cryptographer at work. I’ll stick to my codes.’

‘Very prudent. It doesn’t do to wander too far from home, if you take my meaning. The wise man sleeps in his own bed.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Nicely put, sir. And now I must be on my way. Thank you for your company and for showing me the copying machine. Most impressive.’

‘Do call again at any time, Thomas. I’m usually to be found earning my daily crust in Cloak Lane. We will avoid Morland.’

At exactly ten o’clock the next morning, Thomas walked briskly down a narrow lane running from Fleet Street to the river and knocked on the door of Madeleine Stewart’s house. It was a small, single-storey house in the middle of a row of larger ones with overhanging upper storeys in the manner of the previous century. Exactly the sort of house a single lady of modest means might live in with her housekeeper.

The door was opened immediately and Madeleine emerged dressed to go out – a broad-brimmed bonnet on her head and a short cloak over her gown. In deference to the newly widowed Lady Babb, the bonnet and cloak were a dark shade of blue.

She took Thomas’s arm for the ten-minute walk to Lady Babb’s house at the top of Ludgate Hill, where they found the old lady waiting for them in her mourning clothes – a black shawl over a black gown and a white cap.

Madeleine sat beside her with Thomas opposite. She offered her condolences, introduced Thomas and explained that he would like, with Lady Babb’s permission, to ask her some questions about her husband. When Lady Babb asked why, Thomas told her that he fondly remembered Sir Montford from when he lived in Romsey. He apologized for disturbing her at such a time and said that he was in the employ of Joseph Williamson and had been given the task of gathering information about the recent murders to see if any connection between them could be established. It was vital that the culprit be apprehended before he could strike again.

‘Very well, Mr Hill,’ replied Lady Babb, ‘but you must speak clearly. My hearing is not what it was. I doubt if I can tell you anything to help you as my husband was an unexceptional man and what he was doing in that part of the city after dark I have no idea.’

‘Did he say anything about where he was going or for what purpose on the night he died?’

‘He merely said that he had business to attend to and would be late home.’

‘Was it his habit to be out late?’

‘No. It was unlike him, but I thought no more about it.’ She took a white linen handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I suppose I should have.’

‘Nonsense, my dear Lady Babb,’ said Madeleine, taking her hand. ‘You couldn’t possibly have foreseen such a terrible thing.’

Thomas allowed her a moment to compose herself before he continued. ‘Lady Babb, did you notice anything strange or unusual about your husband’s behaviour in the weeks before his death?’

‘I have thought about this. Montford was a kindly man, not given to complaint or criticism. Yet he had started asking me about the cost of our household and pressing me to be less extravagant. He even suggested that we might manage with fewer servants. As you can see, we hardly lived in a palace.’

‘Was he a wealthy man?’

‘Comfortable, I should say, rather than wealthy.’

‘Do you know what his business interests were?’

‘He never talked of them. He inherited when his father died and, as far as I know, we lived on the income from the inheritance.’

Thomas tried a few more questions, but the old lady was tiring and had nothing more to offer. ‘Just one more thing, Lady Babb, and we will leave you in peace. Did Sir Montford keep a journal or an accounts book of any sort?’

‘He did keep a journal. It’s in his study. He never told me what he wrote in it and I haven’t touched it.’

‘May I see it?’

Lady Babb glanced at Madeleine. ‘It was his private journal. I don’t know if anyone else should read it.’

‘It might help us find his murderer.’

‘How? The coroner said he was attacked and robbed.’

‘Indeed he did, madam. But we would like to know why he was in Pudding Lane that night. Perhaps the journal will tell us.’

Lady Babb dabbed her eyes again and looked at Madeleine. ‘The coroner did not ask to see it. Is it really necessary, my dear?’

‘I believe it might be important. But only with your consent,’ replied Madeleine gently.

‘Then with your word that it will be returned just as you found it, you may take it. Please take great care of it.’

‘Thank you, Lady Babb,’ said Thomas, rising. ‘You may rest assured that I shall take the greatest care of it and return it to you as soon as I am able.’

On their way out, Lady Babb fetched the journal and handed it to Thomas. ‘Here you are, Mr Hill. I trust it will help.’

‘Allow me a moment with Lady Babb, Thomas, if you please,’ said Madeleine.

Thomas waited outside until she appeared, her cheeks flushed and her eyes red. ‘I knew she was uncomfortable about your taking the journal,’ she said as they walked down the hill. ‘I just wanted to reassure her that you could be trusted. You can be trusted, Thomas, can’t you?’

‘To keep my word, naturally. To discover his murderer, I don’t know. I’ll start on the journal today.’ Thomas escorted Madeleine home and returned directly to Piccadilly.

Thomas started on Sir Montford Babb’s journal that evening. The pages were bound in soft black leather, the first entry dated 1 July 1656, so Sir Montford had been keeping it for nearly five years. Lady Babb had given no suggestion that there were any earlier journals.