Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

Mary changed the subject. ‘Did you have a chance to converse with Madeleine, Thomas?’

‘Not really. The streets of London do not lend themselves to polite conversation.’

‘So at least you did not bore her with talk of that damned Frenchman,’ spluttered Charles.

‘If he was mentioned at all it was but briefly, as I recall.’

‘Good,’ said Mary. ‘A lady might not be all that interested in a man who speaks only of ancient French philosophers.’

‘And she might not be interested in an ageing bookseller with little hair and a sensitive nose. Are you match-making, Mary Carrington?’

‘I? Certainly not. Although I can’t help feeling that you have much in common. Perhaps you should call on Miss Stewart again.’

‘Perhaps. I’ll give the matter some thought.’

‘As you wish, Thomas, but don’t take too long. Ladies can become disobliging if not attended to promptly.’

MONTFORD BABB’S JOURNAL had revealed nothing and Thomas’s efforts to bring Joseph useful intelligence from the coffee houses and barbers’ shops of the city had so far proved futile. He resolved to try harder and spent the next two days in and around Fleet Street, Cheapside and Holborn, drinking numerous cups of Turkish coffee, listening to gentlemen in long periwigs earnestly discussing affairs of business and of the heart. And still learning exactly nothing which he might usefully report to an adviser to the king.

The men who sat at the common tables in the coffee shops took little interest in politics or at least did not reveal their opinions in public. They much preferred to boast of their latest conquests, lay wagers on whatever took their fancy from horse races to the colour of the coat of the next man to walk in, and to press each other for advice on how to invest their money to best advantage. It was talk with which Thomas quickly became thoroughly bored.

The barbers’ shops were no better. At Fossett’s he had his teeth painfully scraped and polished, at a filthy establishment on Ludgate Hill his nails were pared and his face shaved, and while sitting on an uncomfortable wooden stool in the shop of Samuel Gill (barber-surgeon) he allowed a little of his blood to be let. Blood letting was not a treatment in which Thomas had the least faith – it had never helped his gout – and he submitted to it only out of duty. Fortunately, Mr Gill’s knife had been sharpened that morning and his incision was neat. The bruising on Thomas’s arm would be gone in a day or two.

When Thomas left Mr Gill to attend to the needs of his other customers – needs which he noted included treatment for the pox, the provision of opium imported from the east and tobacco from the west, and advice on the use of a range of devices designed to prevent a lady from becoming pregnant – he imagined himself, blood let, close-shaved, teeth cleaned and nails trimmed, to be as well turned out as any London gentleman. Yet still he had learned nothing. Josiah Mottershead might fare better in low taverns and alehouses but from coffee drinkers and pipe smokers there had been not a word worth reporting.

Turning right down Fleet Street, Thomas set off for Piccadilly, thinking that a short sleep before dinner would be in order. He walked briskly, anxious to be away from the sounds and smells of that part of the city. The Fleet river carried a good deal of London’s effluent to the Thames, where with luck it was swept out to sea. Usually, however, the tide that came up the river ensured that the city’s waste matter remained where it was.

On the corner of Bell Yard his progress was halted by a noisy brawl blocking the street. Such disturbances were common enough and he waited patiently for one man or the other to prevail and for the crowd to disperse so that he could continue on his way. Happening to glance behind him as he waited, he glimpsed a man ducking into a doorway. He was a short man carrying a stout stick. Why was Josiah Mottershead following him?

Thomas elbowed his way through the crowd watching the fight and turned into a narrow lane, intending to double back until he was behind Mottershead. He would steal up on the man and demand to know what he was doing. Either Joseph Williamson did not trust Thomas or Mottershead was up to no good.

Trying both to keep an eye out behind him and to avoid the piles of muck that lined the lane, Thomas did not see the hag who leapt out from the shadows and tore at his face with her nails. Taken quite by surprise, he stumbled backwards and tripped over a raised cobblestone. Lying on his back, dazed and bloody, it took him a moment to realize what had happened. He pushed himself to his knees and looked about. The woman had disappeared, leaving him with no more than a wound on his cheek and a pair of filthy breeches. He felt his pockets and found that nothing had been taken. Nor was there any sign of an accomplice. A mad woman escaped from the Bedlam, perhaps. He stood up and speedily retraced his steps. His plan had gone awry. He would face Mottershead another time.

At the end of the lane, however, he ran straight into the little man. Josiah Mottershead was no runner but, stick in hand, he was doing the best he could along Fleet Street. His face was red and he was breathing hard. When he saw Thomas emerge from the lane he came to an abrupt halt. Hands on knees, he tried to regain his breath while Thomas stood and watched.

Eventually he was able to speak. ‘There you are, sir, thank the Lord. I thought I’d lost you.’

‘Lost me, Mottershead? What do you mean? I am not a sheep.’

‘No, sir. And I see you’ve ’ad a little trouble. That scratch looks nasty.’

Thomas reached up and felt his face. Blood was dripping down his cheek where the woman’s nails had torn the skin. He wiped it with his handkerchief and tried not to wince. ‘It’s nothing, Mottershead, just a mishap. More importantly, I want to know why you have been following me.’

Mottershead looked as if he might cry. ‘Mr Williamson’s orders, sir. ’E said I was to keep an eye on you to make sure you didn’t come to any ’arm.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘Just a precaution, ’e said, sir. I wasn’t to trouble you unless I ’ad to.’

‘I see. A precaution against what, I wonder.’

‘I couldn’t say, sir.’

‘No, Mottershead, nor could I.’ He paused. ‘Now I shall return to Piccadilly, where I shall be quite safe. Would you care to accompany me?’

‘I better ’ad, sir, just in case.’

Outside the Carringtons’ house, Thomas invited Mottershead in. The little man followed him nervously into the sitting room. To Thomas’s relief the Carringtons were out so he did not have to explain himself. He fetched Mottershead a tankard of ale from the kitchen and asked him to wait while he cleaned himself up.

Having sluiced himself down with water from the jug in his room, washed away the blood from his face and changed his clothes, he found Josiah, his feet only just touching the floor, perched on one of Charles’s big library chairs. With a restorative glass of Charles’s French brandy, he sat down opposite the little man. ‘Now, Josiah,’ he began, ‘I should be pleased to know exactly what Mr Williamson told you.’

‘Told me? ’Ow do you mean, sir?’

‘What exactly were your orders and why did he think I needed following?’

‘As to why, sir, I couldn’t say, except that Mr Williamson said ’e’d ’ave my balls for ’is breakfast if you came to any ’arm. Not like ’im, sir. Always such a correct gentleman. Very emphatic, ’e was. Must ’ave thought you were likely to come to some ’arm. Seems ’e was right.’