Most Secret (12 page)

“No end whatever, until it shall please me to grow weary. However! I spoke of a second King’s Messenger with a ring like mine. The man in question is not acquainted with
my
identity, although I know his.”

“One of your malcontented group, belike?”

“He is not, being a grotesquely loyal king’s man who can’t be corrupted. But he is a fool, and will pay dearly for his folly.”

“Stop, Pem; for God’s sake, stop!”

“Nay, attend to me! This other messenger is called Bygones Abraham: a gross fellow of low origins, once a common soldier, who has contrived in some measure to better his position. By only two things may you mark him out. He talks great nonsense in the most florid of ill-chosen words. And, though none might suspect it from his clumsy bearing, he is a noted swordsman.”

Harker looked down at her steadily.

“We ply our separate routes between Whitehall and Versailles, each carrying half of a dispatch writ on thick paper and heavily sealed over. The king pretends no knowledge of our existence. He meets us only in secret, in his private cabinet abovestairs from the Great Bedchamber. Who knows of this clandestine correspondence between Charles Stuart and King Louis the Fourteenth—in particular with a proposed French treaty which by every sign to be read is now afoot between them? Who knows, or suspects this, let it be asked? Apart from myself and perhaps the other messenger, not one living soul.”

“Pem, Pem! You bleat of one who talks nonsense. And yet
this
is great nonsense, at all events!”

“Do you indeed find it so, madam?”

“Even
I
am aware,” Dolly screamed, “the king hath advisers and a council. If these are documents of state—ay, a treaty …”

“They are not documents of state,” Harker answered; “and
this
treaty is of different sort. The king’s closest advisers (need I speak it?) are five men the first letters of whose names form the letters of the word ‘cabal.’

“The ‘C’ of the Cabal is Sir Thomas Clifford. The first ‘A’ is my Lord Arlington. The ‘B’ is my Lord Duke of Bucks. The second ‘A’ is my Lord Ashley: our most cunning ‘little man with three names’—born Anthony Ashley Cooper, but a decade ago created Baron Ashley of Wimborne St. Giles …”

Tap, tap
went the knife.
Tap, tap, tap …

“Whereas the last name, Dolly, give us the ‘L’ for my Lord Duke of Lauderdale: a brutal fellow and a ruthless, but beyond doubt with wits in his head, who—”

“Lord, lord, I understand not one word of all this!”

“Patience,” said Harker, “you need understand very little. Now, it is remotely possible that Sir Thomas Clifford, being a Roman Catholic as well as a lover of France and monarchial principle, may have learned some details of the proposed treaty. The others—never. These others are united in their passionate hatred of Popery, or at least in their hatred and distrust of France. The king rides high; he may ride for a fall. If the others were to learn of what goes forward, and if all England came to know it as well

There was a sharp crack as the knife edge smote the goblet. Glass pieces flew wide above a broken stem; Dolly Landis cowered back.

“Habet!
” Harker said.

“The latest dispatch,” he continued, “will be sent this night. I had my information three days ago. I had it from none other than Rab Butterworth, Second Page of the Back-Stairs and assistant to the more notorious Will Chiffinch, First Page of the Back-Stairs and procurer for His Majesty. The man Abraham will be told late today.

“On each occasion when dispatches are sent, Chiffinch and Butterworth thinking it only some trumpery affair of amorous notes or
billets-doux,
the custom is ever the same. At ten o’clock I present myself at the last door on the south side of the Shield Gallery. I scratch at the door. When it is opened, I pass in my ring to identify me. I am conducted abovestairs to the private cabinet. My ring is returned to me—this is most necessary!—together with half of a much-sealed cipher document in the king’s own hand.

“Forthwith I am off to Dover, with horses provided at posting stations along the road, and I take ship for Calais. The ring (that insignificant ring!) is my badge, my sign, my touchstone to open doors. It carries me to Calais, to Paris, to Versailles, and to Charles Stuart’s young sister, Madame la Duchesse d’Orleans, who is the go-between for the French king.

“But what of our second messenger, the man Bygones Abraham, carrying the other half of the dispatch?

“He is instructed in much the same way, though he shapes a different course for France. He waits upon the king at half past ten, so that neither messenger may see the other. Once he has received his half of the document, the rest of his journey is by water.”

“By water?” Dolly exclaimed.

“In the main, yes. A wherry at the private landing stairs bears him downstream to a sloop, the war sloop
Saucy Ann
, lying below London Bridge. The sloop weighs anchor for the Narrow Seas. And yet much time must elapse ere he need even leave Whitehall Palace on his mission. Do you know why?”

“What this to me? Shall I know or care?”

“You had better know. The sloop must wait for the tide, which is at a quarter hour past midnight. Even the wherry does not call at Whitehall Stairs until the quarter hour
to
twelve. Do I speak plain?”

In the gloom of a cupboard grown ever more stifling, his back and legs cramped from bending to that knothole, Kinsmere glanced sideways at his companion. A tiny shaft of light through the knothole touched Bygones’s mottled face, and Bygones nodded confirmation of what had been said.

Back went my grandsire’s gaze to the scene in the Cupid Room.

“The man Abraham,” pursued Harker, “has therefore a full hour and a quarter between the time of receiving his half-document and the time of his departure at Whitehall Stairs. Therein, sweet strumpet, lies our most fortunate circumstances. Therein he finds his death, and we have him.”

Sheer horror had seized on Dolly.

“Finds his death?
We
have him?”

“Come, madam! What choice is there? Be not troubled; your part in the business occurs elsewhere. But mine is with the man Abraham. If I am to gain his half of the dispatch, so as to present the complete and damning document to a plotter-in-chief who so much desires it, have I any alternative save to remove it from a dead body? Zounds, madam, this is only good sense! Will you try to be reasonable?”

“Reasonable? Oh, God kill me!”

“Nay, dear drab, seek not so hard for surcease. It will arrive soon enough, I do assure you.”

“I—I begin to hope it will.”

“The man Abraham is a fool, as I told you.” Harker’s lip curled up. “The nature of his folly is a passion to be thought a gentleman. No gentleman, in this lout’s solemn belief, refuses even a challenge to fight.”

“Yes?”

“And so I challenged him: that he meet me (alone) in Leicester Fields at eleven o’clock tonight. He will be there, make no mistake, and with the half-letter upon him. From Whitehall Palace to Leicester Fields is but ten minutes’ journey on foot, the half of that by horseback. The man Abraham, in his conceit, will think he has ample time to kill or wound me and yet return to Whitehall for the wherry that awaits him at a quarter hour to midnight. He is a famous swordsman, as I freely grant …”

“And yet you’d fight him?”

“Now, why should I give myself the trouble of fighting him?”

Dolly stared and stammered, colouring up in confusion.

“But—but …!”

“Tut!” interrupted Harker, with a gesture of such supreme assurance that it would have daunted anyone. “I
could
come fairly at him and kill him; am I not a master too? Yet where is the virtue to run needless hazard? If I am anything at all, I am a man of good sense.

“No, madam! He shall have his deserts; ’tis so arranged. There are bullyrocks and bravos in plenty; two of these are already hired. They follow him from Whitehall towards Leicester Fields. In open ground beyond the Royal Mews they take him; they knock him on the head; they bury him deep. They may have his watch or the coins in his purse;
I
take the half of a cipher dispatch to give over to our plotter-in-chief for a somewhat richer reward.

“Afterwards, Dolly? Mark well what I say!

“I go abroad, in exactness as planned. I disappear, or seem to disappear, awaiting the issue of what happens. By the king it will be assumed that both loyal messengers have been robbed and slain. If the plotter-in-chief shall triumph over Charles Stuart, I still hold over him a threat of exposure such as he holds over Charles Stuart. If the king triumph, as may well be the case, I return in honour with some befitting tale for his ears. In either case my fortune is made;
I
triumph, as always; in no event can I lose.”

“Oh, P-Pem, but this is a pretty business! And is that all?”

“No, madam. We are come to your part in this affair, since there is another lout to be dealt with besides the man Abraham. Your trull’s talents, such as they are, shall find proper employment at last. I don’t persuade or cajole; I give you my command; and it will go very ill with that pretty neck unless you are strict in carrying them out”

Bygones Abraham, chest heaving, bent towards the knothole. Kinsmere drew away. From the Cupid’s Room issued the scrape of a chair being pushed back. Harker’s harsh, bored voice died away. But Dolly Landis uttered a cry. Then there was silence.

Silence, aching and interminable, except for a faint gasp. In that darkness Kinsmere could see only the little line of light that fell across Bygones’s one staring eye.

S
UCH KEGS OF GUNPOWDER
were packed into that cupboard, with Harker blowing on a lighted fuse each time he spoke, that you might have wondered why they failed to explode.

Kinsmere wondered too, in his cramped position with wobbling legs. He knew they must keep cool heads; they must do nothing precipitate. But it was very hard to remain quiet. Every word, every look of Dolly Landis went to his heart and stabbed there. He wanted in some fashion to lash out. He wanted to burst from the cupboard and face Harker. He wanted …

And yet the gunpowder did not explode—for a few moments.

“Come, that’s better!” Harker said unexpectedly.

With a great heave my grandfather pushed Bygones to one side.

Harker began to stride up and down the Cupid Room, his spurless gambado boots a-clack on boards. Dolly had risen to her feet, and stood watching him.

“This morning—” Harker began. Then he checked himself.

“Art disturbed, Pem? Art so very,
very
disturbed?”

“Nay, who saith I am disturbed at all?”

“Perhaps
I
say it. And yet who am I to speak aught save at your bidding? Stay: no matter! ‘This morning …’?”

Harker stopped pacing and returned to the table. He still carried the knife, which he threw down beside his plate.

“This morning, in the Great Court outside the palace, I had chance encounter with the second lout: an oaf, an ill-looking fellow, a very country bumpkin come to town from his rustic bog. He was young, younger than myself. And yet he wore the ring of a King’s Messenger.

“A third messenger, was it, some cursed royal servant unknown even to me? I could not believe this, Dolly; I still don’t believe this; and I know I am in the right of it. I misliked the man at sight; we quarreled; he provoked it and laid hand on me, for which he shall suffer in good time.”

“He laid hand on you, did he? Is it indeed so? This reckless bumpkin
dared
so great an outrage?”

“No insolence, madam; he will pay dearly.”

“With money, like the plotter-in-chief?”

“No insolence, I said! Yet this encounter gave me insight to explain. For all his boorishness he spoke well; I allow it; those who brought him up have been people of some culture if no manners. And the ring, therefore, the meaning of the ring …”

“Ay, the ring?”

“The meaning of the ring, madam,” retorted Harker, his self-control slipping a little, “is that it hath
no
meaning of import to you or me. The ring is imitation gold and sapphire, perhaps: a trumpery heirloom handed down from some rustic Old Hunks to his still more rustic son. We have met accident, coincidence; no more!

“Notwithstanding, I much wondered. I had left my bumpkin and begun to descend the water stairs at Whitehall when a fortunate instinct caused me to turn back. There stood my bumpkin in the passage, deep in talk with none other than the man Bygones Abraham. Though too far away to overhear, I followed them on their departure. They walked together into Whitehall Palace. Again I wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

“This Abraham, as I have named him, is a fool in his mania to pass for a man of fashion. But by otherwise he is not over-stupid. Were these two in league together? Was this by some chance a trap? Did the man Abraham suspect
my
motives? Was he grown suspicious …”

“Was he grown suspicious, in fine, you would so blithely betray the king who trusts you?”

“Charles Stuart trusts nobody!”

“Then that … that … oh, God Damn me, have it as you will!”

“There is no suspicion,” Harker told her. “There is no trap. Of this I am certain. But we’ll establish it, woman; well make the business sure. You said, I think, you are to play today?”

“I am Portia in
Julius Ceasar
.”

“Well, well, let be: we’ll allow you that indulgence! Do you enact the virtuous Roman at the theatre; you shall become your true self soon enough.”

“My true self? How?”

“I must make shift to discover who this young bumpkin is, and where he lodges. It should not prove unduly difficult. You will call on him early this evening. You will make yourself known to him. You will be at him horse, foot, and artillery, with every female weapon you own. You will use all such methods as are needful (
all
) to learn what secrets he knows or possesses, which will be none whatever. You apprehend me, woman? You will do this?”

“No, Pem, I greatly fear I won’t.”

“Come,” said Harker, knocking his knuckles against the table, “I am not sure I have heard aright. If this is more huffing at virtue …”