Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

Mary laughed. ‘Be assured, sir, that he will indeed hear of it, because I shall tell him myself. It does him good to be jealous from time to time.’

They found Charles sitting in front of the fire, a glass in his hand. ‘How was the play?’ he asked, slurring his words a little. ‘You’re home earlier than expected.’

‘I found the first half a trifle slow,’ replied Thomas, ‘but it warmed up later.’

‘And you, my dear, did you enjoy it?’

‘It was unexpected.’

Charles beamed at them. Then he noticed Thomas’s eye. ‘Are you sure it was the theatre and not a prizefight? Your escort appears somewhat the worse for wear.’

‘Quite sure,’ replied Thomas, with a glare at Mary. ‘There was a minor disturbance, nothing more.’

Charles nodded, refilled his glass and patted his stomach. ‘I, too, had a good evening. Chandle is full of confidence about the venture. He even suggested that we increase our investment.’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Mary.

‘I said we would consider it.’

That night, after soothing his eye with a cold compress, Thomas thought of Plato. Life must be lived as a play , the great philosopher had said. Surely he had meant a play with a beginning, a middle and an end, not one cut short by fear and panic. If Thomas’s visit to London was an act in his own play, he hoped it would be a good deal less dramatic than a Greek tragedy.

THREE DAYS LATER, Thomas decided to visit an apothecary who offered an efficaceous remedy for gout; having tried potions and salves supplied by any number of charlatans – so far with little success – he hoped for something better from an apothecary in Cheapside, of whom he had heard good reports. He sometimes thought that gout was the one thing he had in common with the late Lord Protector. At least the walk would give him an opportunity to see the city for himself, to buy a news-sheet and perhaps to visit one of the new coffee houses.

Lavender handkerchief pressed to his nose and purse tucked safely inside his shirt, he strolled slowly along the Strand and Fleet Street, the better to take in the noise and bustle. In the Strand, he was accosted by a pair of well-dressed young gentlemen, neither of whom could have drawn a sober breath since the eve of the coronation, and forced to toast the new king with a drink from their bottles. Halfway along Fleet Street, he passed a couple noisily copulating in a doorway, and on Ludgate Hill he stopped to buy a stick of sugar from a street vendor. The coins were barely out of his purse before he found himself surrounded by insistent vendors of pastries, herrings, garlic, milk, ale, daffodils and the Lord only knew what else. He shouldered his way past them, up the hill and through the narrow streets towards Cheapside.

In Bread Street he declined an offer from a girl who could not have been much more than twelve years old. Partially covered in filthy rags, her face and hair streaked with the grime of a hundred coal fires, bare-footed and bare-headed, she would be lucky to see another Christmas. As the Puritans had abolished Christmas fourteen years earlier, she could never have seen one. He was reminded of the filth and squalor he had witnessed in Oxford at the start of the war. Beggars and whores, mutilation, disease, death. Not wishing to dwell on that terrible time, he put it out of his mind and hurried on.

Streeter’s Apothecary stood at the junction of Cheapside and Bow Lane. Thomas paid for a small jar of Master Streeter’s mixture of honey, rosemary, goat droppings and his ‘particular ingredient, imported at great cost from the island of Jamaica’, put it in his pocket and set off along Poultry and Cornmarket to Threadneedle Street. There he bought the day’s news-sheet from a vendor and found a seat at a small table in Turrell’s coffee house near the church of St Katharine Cree. He ordered a dish of Turkish coffee for a penny and spread the news-sheet on the table.

The murder of John Winter was reported on the front page. His body had been found in the evening of the day of the coronation, in the graveyard of St Olave’s church. The coroner, Seymour Manners, had inspected the body and judged the cause of death to have been strangulation. The deceased’s identity had been established by an inscribed silver watch found in his coat pocket. As the dead man carried no money the coroner had expressed the view that robbery was certainly the motive, the thief having been disturbed before he could remove the watch.

The writer of the article speculated about the reason for Mr Winter being in such a place, suggesting that he might have overdone his celebrations on coronation day and lost his way among the tangle of streets in that part of the city. He made no mention of the murders of Matthew Smith or Sir Montford Babb.

Thomas was surprised that the coroner had not suggested a possible connection between the three murders – all the victims being well-to-do and respectable men, robbed and killed in unsavoury parts of the city – and wondered if Williamson’s damning description of Seymour Manners might be on the mark. He finished the news-sheet, left the coffee house and made his way back to Piccadilly. This time he did not stop to buy a sugar stick or a pie and was in the Carringtons’ sitting room within the hour. He had just sat down and was about to apply the salve to his foot when Smythe came in with the silver letter tray.

‘A letter arrived for you no more than a few minutes ago, Mr Hill. The boy was instructed to wait for your reply. He’s in the kitchen.’

Thomas broke the seal and read the letter. It was brief.

For the personal attention of Thomas Hill Esquire

I should be much obliged if you would call on me tomorrow morning. At ten o’clock, if that is convenient. I have a matter of importance to discuss and upon which I should value your opinion. Please inform the courier if this will be convenient.

Your respectful servant,

Joseph Williamson, Chancery Lane

Thomas could think of no reason why it would be inconvenient. ‘Thank you, John. Please tell the boy that I shall call as requested.’ Smythe bowed low and went to do so.

Well now, Thomas, he wondered, what could Joseph Williamson, officer in the department of the secretary of state and adviser to His Majesty King Charles II of England, Scotland and Ireland, want to discuss with the likes of you?

When he arrived at Joseph Williamson’s house in Chancery Lane at five minutes before ten o’clock the next morning, Thomas was shown by a steward into a large room which evidently served as both library and study. Books covered three walls from floor to ceiling, two library chairs stood either side of a coal fire and heavy curtains, half drawn back to allow some light into the room, hung at the windows.

Williamson rose from his seat behind a wide oak desk and offered his hand. The desk was precisely organized, with neat stacks of papers and a box of quills placed exactly between pots of black and red ink. Thomas noticed that the files open on the desk had even been given names. One had AUGUSTUS written in large letters on it, another CALIGULA. He was just able to make out that the AUGUSTUS file concerned Parliament. It was the desk of an orderly, precise, even obsessive man. ‘Good day, Mr Hill. I am greatly indebted to you for coming at such short notice. Do be seated.’

He indicated a chair, politely sitting only when Thomas was seated and at an angle which favoured his right eye. ‘Like you,’ he began without preamble, ‘I studied mathematics at Oxford. Now, as you know, I serve Sir Edward Nicholas in the office of the secretary of state. While Sir Edward is travelling, His Majesty has appointed me to deputize for him in all matters of security. That includes our work at the Post Office, as he considers it essential that a close watch is kept on correspondence that might pertain to the defence of his realm. We have many enemies abroad and at home. London is brimming with spies and malcontents, not all of them ruffians and vagabonds. Some masquerade as professional men. The medical profession is the most popular, possibly because a sick man is thought more likely to be indiscreet. This is a continual source of anxiety. I’m sure you understand.’ Thomas nodded gravely, wondering when Williamson was going to get to the point.