Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

To Thomas’s relief the entries were in plain text, albeit with odd abbreviations and in Babb’s spidery, sometimes illegible hand. Penmanship was not a skill Babb had mastered and he had been less than careful to ensure that the ink was dry before turning a page. Numerous blots and splodges obscured what he had written.

He had made an entry twice each week. Thomas did not try to decipher the illegible ones and concentrated only on those he could read with comparative ease. He chose a page at random. It was dated July 1658 and would do as well as any. But two hours later, having ploughed through a year of visits to friends and relatives, meals consumed, sermons listened to, tradesmen favoured with the Babbs’ custom and detailed records of the author’s health, Thomas wondered why the old man had bothered to keep a journal at all. Until his sudden death he had lived a wholly uneventful life and had held opinions on nothing. Other than his fondness for eels and his dislike of his cousin Prudence, he revealed very little of himself.

The next day, unable to face four more years of cutlets, constipation and communion, Thomas did something he used to do when faced with a stubborn cipher. He started at the end. Without knowing what he was looking for, it would have been more sensible to have done so in the first place.

The last entry was dated 16 April 1661, three days before Sir Montford’s death. It dealt with breakfast and dinner, the cancellation of an order with his tailor for a new coat and Lady Babb’s increasing deafness. The final sentence revealed that he was in despair about something he called ‘AV’.

Working his way back through the year, he found no mention of Matthew Smith, Henry Copestick or John Winter and nothing to suggest any knowledge of activities at the Post Office. Not that he had really expected any. Life was seldom as simple as that. If there was a link between Babb’s murder and those of the others it would surely not reveal itself so readily. The only entries to catch Thomas’s eye referred to an investment in AV.

The first mention of it was on 30 June 1660, when Sir Montford declared himself delighted with some recent news of the enterprise. A number of entries continued in similar vein until January 1661, when he had been disappointed to learn that he could not sell part of his interest in AV because he had been planning to buy a house in Cheapside which was available at a good price.

By March, Sir Montford’s disappointment was turning to worry and in April almost every entry mentioned AV with increasing alarm. Thomas remembered Lady Babb saying that her husband had started complaining about the costs of the household. Whatever AV was, it had not turned out well for the Babbs. Perhaps poor Sir Montford had been drowning his sorrows on the night he was murdered in Pudding Lane.

Having followed the AV trail backwards to its first appearance, Thomas had had enough. Sir Montford had made an unwise investment, he had lost money, he chided himself for his stupidity and it might have led indirectly to his death. He had not discussed the matter with Lady Babb and there was nothing to be gained by troubling her further. He would ask Madeleine to return the journal to her.

The Carringtons made a habit of spending an hour or two each morning in their sitting room, drinking coffee, reading the news-sheets and exchanging views. It was a simple pleasure which plantation life in Barbados did not permit. That was where Thomas found them the next morning. The day was already warm and no fire had been lit, but the fireplace was still the focal point of the room and library chairs had been set on either side of it.

‘Well now, Thomas,’ said Charles in his cheerful way, ‘we’ve seen little of you these past few days. What have you been up to and how is the gout?’

Thomas hesitated. Of course he could trust the Carringtons, but Williamson had impressed upon him the need for secrecy. ‘Where the safety of the kingdom is concerned,’ Joseph had said portentously, ‘one must take not the slightest risk. Who knows where an enemy may lurk?’ Well, no enemy lurks around this fireplace, decided Thomas, and I need to confide in someone.

‘The gout is much improved, thanks to Streeter’s mixture. I’ve been doing the encrypting and decrypting they bring me and going about Joseph’s business as he instructed. And I’ve been reading Sir Montford’s journal.’

‘A good story, was it? Well up to Shakespeare’s standards?’ Charles was not much of a reader.

‘Not exactly. As far as I can tell, Sir Montford led a dull and blameless life. I wonder that he took the trouble to record it.’

‘No mistresses, no gambling debts, no secret confessions?’

‘Alas, none of those. There was only one unexpected thing.’

‘And what was that? He wasn’t a French madame in disguise, was he?’

‘No. Last year he made an investment in a venture he called AV. He didn’t say what it was and at first it seems he was delighted with it. Then earlier this year something went wrong, he couldn’t get his money out and he became worried and depressed. He didn’t tell Lady Babb about it and I think he must have lost it all. It might explain why he was in Pudding Lane the night he was murdered. Drowning his sorrows, perhaps.’

‘AV, did you say?’ asked Mary. Thomas nodded. ‘Have you heard of AV, Charles?’

‘Don’t think so,’ replied Charles thoughtfully. ‘We could ask Chandle, though. He knows what’s going on in the world of business and he’s done very well for us.’

‘So you tell me, Charles. I know little of such affairs, as befits a lady.’

‘Befits a lady? A lady who struck fear into the black hearts of the revolting Gibbes brothers, saved a wounded man’s life, rescued one Thomas Hill from certain death and who knows at least as much as her husband about matters of business. What nonsense.’

‘May I enquire how Chandle Stoner has been of service to you?’ asked Thomas.

‘Of course you may,’ replied Charles. ‘Thinking of making an investment yourself? Could do worse than take Chandle’s advice.’

‘Not exactly, Charles. Just interested.’

‘Well, Chandle has his fingers in lots of pies, so to speak, and he knows where there’s money to be made. We put a thousand guineas into an enterprise he recommended. He tells us our share is now worth five times as much and he expects it to go higher. Possibly much higher.’

‘And what is the enterprise, if I may ask?’

‘We swore not to reveal its name. Chandle prefers to keep his best ideas pretty quiet. Damned sensible if you ask me. We don’t want the whole world clamouring for a share.’

‘We can tell you it’s a mining venture in the Americas,’ said Mary, ‘but that’s all.’

‘Mining for what?’

Charles laughed. ‘Gold, silver, emeralds, rubies, and plenty of them, by all accounts. Should keep a man happy in his old age.’

‘Isn’t that what I’m for, my dear?’ asked Mary.

‘Of course, of course.’ Charles cleared his throat. ‘Helped by the money, that is.’

Thomas was intrigued. The Carringtons were not gambling types. They must think very highly of Stoner. ‘How did you meet Chandle Stoner?’ he asked.

‘He was recommended to us by James Drax, a man who knows a thing or two about making money.’

‘Indeed, and not a man to be taken lightly.’

‘Anything but. James did well from another of Chandle’s enterprises and suggested we contact him when we came to London.’

‘Which you did, and I’m delighted it has proved so successful for you. Do ask him if he has heard of an enterprise known as AV, won’t you? It may be something or nothing, but I’d like to know out of curiosity.’

‘I will, next time I see him.’