Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

Henrietta examined Thomas, who tried to look simpleminded. After his practice in the Honest Wherryman, he thought he was making a decent job of it. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can see he’s not right. Not like you, Josiah. You’re as right as a silver guinea, the ladies tell me.’

For some reason, this brought on a fit of coughing, terminated only by her hawking loudly into a bowl set at her feet. ‘Don’t want any gentlemen slipping on the floor, do we?’ she asked innocently, taking a gulp of port. ‘And what can I do for you gentlemen today? Something special? There’s a girl from Morocco arrived only last week. A princess she is and knows the things those Moroccan princes like. One of my gentlemen could barely walk home, another one wants to marry her. Makes up for the ones I’ve been losing. It’s always the pretty ones who go off with my gentlemen. Doesn’t last long. They’re back soon enough when his lordship has had enough of them. Lost Molly not long ago and don’t even know who she went off with. Remember Molly, Josiah?’

‘I do, ’Enrietta. Red ’air and a viper’s tongue. And I’d like to meet the princess, but I don’t think we shall today, eh, Tom? Got work to do, ’aven’t we?’ Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes. Josiah affected not to notice the histrionics. ‘Just wanted to introduce Tom so’s you’d know ’im next time.’

‘Pity. Still you’ll take a drink with me, eh?’ She smiled at her tall servant. ‘Rupert will fetch it, won’t you, my lovely?’ Oliver and Rupert. The late Lord Protector and the king’s cousin – no sign of Henrietta taking sides.

Josiah was hoping for this. Henrietta consumed enormous amounts of wine and ale and much preferred company while doing so. Next to money, she most loved an audience.

‘Be pleased to, ’Enrietta. Mug of ale, Tom?’ Tom nodded enthusiastically. ‘Same for me, if you please.’

Thomas studied the room. It was as large as the Carringtons’ sitting room, oak-panelled, oak-floored and with a fine portrait of a lady aged about twenty adorning one wall. The subject was a striking woman and the artist had skilfully captured a devil-may-care look in her eye.

Rupert returned with mugs of ale and a fresh bottle of port for Henrietta. ‘I see you’re admiring my portrait, Tom,’ said Henrietta. ‘Pretty, wasn’t I? Know who painted it?’ Thomas hoped it was the last time he would have to shake his head and look simple. ‘Sir Anthony van Dyck himself, it was. Not many London ladies had their portraits painted by Sir Anthony. Lovely man. Gave it to me for a present. He used to visit me when he was in London painting the new king’s father.’ Astonished at this information, Thomas managed, just, to look blank.

‘Don’t suppose Tom knows who you’re talking about, ’Enrietta,’ said Josiah. Deftly, he changed the subject. ‘’Ow’s business, now we’ve a king again?’

‘And thank the Lord we have, I say. Gentlemen were too frightened to come here when Cromwell’s lot were telling us all what to do and what not to do. Spent too much time on their knees in church and not enough on their elbows at Henrietta’s.’ Fearing another cough, Thomas looked away. Happily it never came. ‘Business has been much better since the coronation and the king himself sets a good example. They say there’s scores of little royal bastards running around Paris and Rotterdam. I wish His Majesty would call here, though. Trade’s fallen off again since those murders. Bad for business, murders. Especially murders of four respectable gentlemen. Some of our regulars have been staying at home. Hope they catch whoever done it quick.’

This was promising. ‘You mean the gentlemen in Pudding Lane and the other in the graveyard? Was there a fourth one, ’Enrietta?’

‘Course there was. They said he’d jumped off the bridge. Jumped off the bridge, my arse. Pushed he was and most likely by the same man who did for the other three.’

‘Why d’you say that?’

‘No one who really wants to top himself jumps off that bridge. More often than not they get washed up safe and sound. He was dead when he hit the water, you mark my words. And there’s talk.’

‘Is there? What sort of talk would that be?’

‘What’s it to you, Josiah Mottershead? You got something to do with it?’ Henrietta spoke sharply.

Josiah grunted. ‘Me? Course not. Not my game, murder, nor robbery, as well you know. Just interested, that’s all.’

‘Well then. There was talk of a foreigner, Dutch or German perhaps, come over to do it for money. He was seen about the place. Here and there, as you might say. Came and went. Didn’t say much, but he was marked by his face. Sliced lip and half a nose, he had. Hasn’t been seen since the last murder.’

‘Took ’is money and went ’ome, I daresay. Any word on who paid ’im?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. Nor why.’

Josiah decided he had gone far enough. Henrietta had been helpful, but any more probing and she’d be suspicious. He rose to go. ‘Better be off, Tom. Thanks for the ale, ’Enrietta. ’Ope business picks up.’

Thomas took his lead and followed Josiah to the door. As he did so, he glanced out of the window. In the courtyard he caught a glimpse of long fair hair and a handsome young face. He swallowed an exclamation and sneaked another look. There was no doubt about it.

‘Come again, Josiah. And before you do, tell your cousin not to go getting into fights and to wash his hands. They’re filthy.’

At Charing Cross, they parted company. ‘Thank you for introducing me to your friends, Josiah,’ said Thomas. ‘We learned more today than I have in a week. In more ways than one.’

‘You’re welcome, sir,’ replied Josiah. ‘Only I ’ope you won’t be wanting to meet them again. Made me quite jumpy wondering if you were going to open your mouth and give the game away.’

‘We could always say I had suddenly gained the power of speech following the king’s touch. I hear His Majesty believes he can heal all manner of diseases with his hand.’

‘We could, but I’d rather you stayed at ’ome and left it to me. I like to work alone. Always ’ave.’

‘Very well, Josiah. But if you hear anything, anything at all, be sure to let me know at once. If the lovely Henrietta is right, someone might have hired the murderer and brought him here from Holland or Germany. We need to know who hired him and why.’

‘I will, sir. You can depend on it. And don’t get in no more fights.’

‘I won’t. And when you report to Mr Williamson, there’s no need to mention me.’

‘No, sir, I’ll just tell ’im about the Dutchman.’

As to the other matter, it had been a shock and Thomas would need to think carefully about what to do for the best. Indulging his niece was one thing, but this was quite another.

JUST AS THE church bells struck two the next afternoon, Thomas knocked on the door of the little house in the lane off Fleet Street, Sir Montford’s journal under his arm. The scratch on his face had dulled to a yellowy brown.

Madeleine’s housekeeper, a stout woman with a cheerful, open face, answered the door and introduced herself as Agnes. She showed him into a cluttered room which served as sitting room and parlour. The furniture consisted of just four plain chairs and a table; one wall was lined with books, the others adorned with paintings of rural scenes. The room was saved from being oppressive by the afternoon sun which shone through a large window and bathed it in light.

While he waited for the housekeeper to fetch Madeleine, Thomas studied the paintings. He thought they were rather good. Skilful draughtsmanship and fine brushwork combined to produce interesting and unsentimental scenes of cottages, harvesting, a village square and a tiny church. To his surprise, each one was discreetly signed ‘M. Stewart’. Charming, intelligent, beautiful and artistic too.