Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘Is that your normal practice?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And?’

‘This morning when I went to take him his breakfast he hadn’t moved, so I went to wake him. He was dead.’

‘Were there any signs of how he died?’

‘No, sir. No blood, no wounds.’

‘Can you describe the visitors?’

‘The older one was tall, with a black beard and a limp. The younger one quite slight, also bearded and hooded. They both wore long coats.’

‘Did you see their hands?’

‘They wore gloves.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Where is the body?’

‘It hasn’t been moved, sir. The Constable said he would inform you before we sent word to the coroner.’

Given the likely state of Seymour Manners at that hour of the day, Thomas thought that was wise. ‘Shall we inspect the body, Joseph?’ he suggested.

‘Yes. With the Constable’s permission, we shall.’ The Constable nodded his agreement. ‘Thank you. Lead on, guard.’

They followed the guard across a small courtyard, through a door in the innermost of the Tower’s walls, and up a winding staircase. The guard opened a door at the top of the staircase with a large key and stood back to allow them to enter. ‘Stay there, man,’ ordered Williamson, going in.

Thomas went in after him and looked around. It was a more comfortable prison than any he had been in. Light and clean, a decent bed, a washstand and wash bowl, a writing table and a chair. Stoner lay on the bed, just as the guard had told them, with his back to the door. They walked around the bed and examined him. ‘No sign of poison,’ said Joseph, sniffing, ‘no smell, and he looks peaceful.’

‘Princes in the Tower?’

‘Eh? Oh, yes, probably. Soundless, impossible to detect and there were two of them. It’s very difficult for one alone to suffocate a grown man.’

‘Cheated investors or hired assassins?’

Williamson fixed Thomas with his good eye. ‘I wonder. A father and son, both bearded and in long coats. What does that put you in mind of, Thomas?’

At first, Thomas could think of nothing it put him in mind of except a pair of hooded assassins hired by England’s enemies to get rid of a serious risk to their plans. Then it dawned on him. The Carringtons’ dinner party. The entertainment planned by Mary Carrington which had gone unperformed when news of Winter’s death had arrived. A father and his miscreant son. Costumes and beards to hand and Charles had learned his words. To be sure, the Carringtons had suffered at Stoner’s hands, as many had. But murder? Surely not.

‘Oh come now, Joseph,’ replied Thomas, ‘I hardly think so. And in any event, Stoner died yesterday. Charles and Mary left for Southampton two days ago.’

‘So they said. But that might have been a ruse. They could have hidden in London for a day.’

‘Joseph,’ exclaimed Thomas, ‘are you really suggesting that Charles and Mary Carrington, our friends, pretended to leave at short notice for Southampton but instead hid somewhere, visited Stoner last night and smothered him? And that they did so out of revenge for their losses in Quicksilver?’

Williamson’s voice was cold. ‘I am saying that it is possible. They are suspects, that is all.’

‘Charles and Mary are dear friends of mine and of yours. How can you think this?’

‘Thomas, I am in charge of His Majesty’s security and that of his realm. He does not pay me to let personal feelings interfere with my judgement or my duty. The Carringtons, dear friends or not, had the means and the motive to murder Stoner.’

‘As did many others.’

‘Possibly. But it is incumbent upon me to find out the truth of the matter and I cannot allow my suspicions to go unchecked.’

Thomas was aghast. ‘So what do you intend to do, if I may ask?’

‘I shall send urgent word to Southampton. If their ship has not yet sailed, the Carringtons will be apprehended.’

‘And if it has?’

‘In that case, I shall consider what further steps should be taken. Meanwhile, we will continue our enquiries. I too hope that my fears are unfounded. It would be a hurt of the most grievous kind to see Charles and Mary on trial for murder, albeit the murder of a foul fraudster and traitor.’

Thomas was silent. Williamson, the king’s servant, took precedence over Joseph, the Carringtons’ friend. He was set on doing his duty as he saw it and that was that. Thomas could only hope that when the ship sailed Charles and Mary would be safely on it. Not that he thought them guilty of Stoner’s murder. It would just be better if their fate were not put in the hands of a jury.

Joseph was unusually flustered. ‘Can you find your own way home? I must arrange for a message to be taken at once to Southampton and then go to Whitehall. The king must be informed of Stoner’s death and of Squire’s. I’ll tell the Constable to send for Manners. Not that he will be able to tell us anything.’

‘I shall be happy to,’ replied Thomas. ‘It might clear my head and settle my temper.’

At the Carringtons’ house, Thomas sat at the writing table, took out the Dramatis Personae , laid out a new sheet of paper and dipped a quill in his pot of ink. After rewriting the list once more, he had:

Plato: ‘Life must be lived as a play.’

The Post Office, the Fraud and the Plot

Dramatis Personae

------------------------

Joseph Williamson: the king’s spymaster, and clever pragmatist

Henry Bishop: Postmaster General, deceived by Squire

Sir Samuel Morland: unpleasant but innocent inventor

Charles and Mary Carrington: dear friends of Thomas and Madeleine

Josiah Mottershead: Williamson’s fearless and loyal man

Lemuel Squire: Aurum, spy and traitor. Dead by his own hand

Chandle Stoner: Argentum, fraudster and murderer. Dead

Matthew Smith: murdered intelligencer

John Winter: murdered intelligencer

Henry Copestick: murdered Post Office man

Sir Montford Babb: murdered investor in Quicksilver

Disfigured assassin: whereabouts?

Madeleine Stewart: beautiful and fiery cousin of Williamson

Thomas Hill: devoted admirer and lover of Miss Stewart

Alchemist: unknown

Roger Willow: Post Office clerk

He sprinkled sand on the paper, folded it and put it in his pocket. God willing, the play was nearly over. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again it was dark and he heard the long-case clock strike three. He had slept for twelve hours. He lay awake until dawn, when he rose and dressed. Then he went down to the kitchen and helped himself to a large slab of chicken pie. For the task ahead he needed serious sustenance.

He walked briskly down Haymarket to Charing Cross and along the Strand. At the junction with Chancery Lane where Fleet Street began, he bought an expensive bunch of tulips from an early morning flower-seller. ‘Good luck, sir,’ said the flower girl cheerfully. ‘There’s nothing like tulips to melt a heart.’ He hoped she was right.

The door was opened by Agnes. ‘Good morning, sir. You’re early. Miss Stewart is still in bed.’

Thomas held out the tulips. ‘Please give her these and tell her I am outside.’

Agnes took the flowers. ‘Very well, sir. Will you come in?’

‘No thank you, Agnes. I shall wait here.’

‘As you wish, sir. Mottershead is here. Shall I send him out to see you?’

‘Please do.’

Agnes disappeared into the house, leaving Thomas on the doorstep.

It was not long before a dishevelled Mottershead poked his head out of the door. ‘Good morning, sir. Come to see Miss Stewart, ’ave you? I ’ope she’s in a better temper than she was yesterday.’

‘So do I, Josiah. How was Henrietta’s reward?’