An Instance of the Fingerpost (34 page)

He paused, and courteously requested a servant to bring me some cakes and wine, then asked me whether I had heard this story before. I had not, and told him so. I felt like telling him also that I found it thrilling to hear such details of danger and bravado, and that I wished I had been older, that I could have met the dangers with him. I am glad I did not; he would have found the remarks childish, as indeed they were. Instead I concentrated on the gravity of the events he was describing, and asked a few questions about his suspicions.

‘I had none. I thought merely I was cursed with the greatest ill fortune. It never occurred to me then that my peril might have been deliberately caused. In any case my meditations on the matter were
swept away a few months later, when we heard the glorious news that Cromwell was dead. You remember that, I’m sure?’

I smiled. ‘Oh, indeed. Who could not? I think it was the happiest day of my life, and I was full of hope for the country.’

Mordaunt nodded. ‘As were we all. It was a gift from God, and we felt at last that providence was with us. Our spirits rose immediately, and all energies were rekindled, even though his son Richard was declared Protector in Cromwell’s stead. And from that hope a new plan emerged, without it even being commanded, a way at least to rattle the régime. There was to be a rising in several parts of the country at once, by forces too big to be ignored. The Commonwealth army would have to split to deal with them and that, it was hoped, would open the way for a swift landing in Kent by the king’s forces and a rapid march on London.

‘Would it have succeeded? Possibly not, but I do know that every man involved did the best he could. Arms that had been stockpiled for years against such a day were brought out of hiding; men of all sorts declared in secret their readiness to march. Great and small mortgaged their land and melted their plate to provide us with money. The sense of excitement and. anticipation was so great even the most dubious were swept up in the enthusiasm and thought that, at last, the hour of deliverance had come.

‘And again we were betrayed. Suddenly, everywhere that men were to rise, troops appeared. They knew as if by magic where arms were stored and where money was hidden. They knew who had been appointed officers and who had the plans and lists of the forces. The entire venture, which had taken the better part of a year to bring to fruition, was dashed to the ground and trampled on in less than a week. Only one part of the country reacted swiftly enough; Sir George Booth in Cheshire brought out his troops and did his duty. But he was all alone, and had to face the onslaught of the entire army, led by a general second only to Cromwell himself. It was a massacre; as complete in its destruction as its ruthlessness.’

There was a silence in the room as he finished speaking, and I sat there transfixed by his tale. Truly, I had not imagined anything so shocking. The failure of Sir George’s rising I knew about, of course, but I never dreamt that his collapse had been caused by treachery.
Nor did I suspect this was the crime of which my father was accused. Had he been responsible, then I would have hanged him myself. But I had not yet heard anything to suggest that he was guilty.

‘We did not rush to accuse anyone,’ Mordaunt continued when I put this to him. ‘And your father led the campaign to uncover the man responsible. His indignation and outrage were terrifying to behold. And yet it appeared this was duplicity; eventually we received documents from within the government which indicated without a shadow of doubt that the traitor was your father. When he was confronted with the evidence in early 1660, he fled abroad.’

‘The matter was never resolved, then?’ I said. ‘He did not have the chance of rebutting the charges properly.’

‘He would have had every chance, had he stayed in England,’ Mordaunt replied, frowning at the hint of scepticism in my voice. ‘But the documents, I think, were unanswerable. There was letter after letter in a cipher only he used; notes of meetings with high officials in the government in which conversations were recorded and containing information he alone could have possessed. Notes of payment . . .’

‘No!’ I all but shouted. ‘That I will not believe. You tell me, you dare to say, that my father sold his friends for money?’

‘I tell you what is there, plain to see,’ Mordaunt said severely, and I knew that I had overstepped the bounds of propriety. His favour now hung on the thinnest of threads, and I made haste to apologise for my incivility.

‘But the main accusation against him came from the government? You believed that?’

‘Government papers, but not from the government. John Thurloe was not the only person to have spies.’

‘It never occurred to you the papers might have come to you deliberately? To point the finger of accusation at the wrong person and sow dissent?’

‘Of course it did,’ he said tartly, and I could see that I was beginning to weary him. ‘We were extremely cautious. And if you do not believe me, you should also go and see other associates of his, and they will tell you honestly what they know as well.’

‘I will do so. Where would I find these people?’

Lord Mordaunt looked at me disapprovingly. ‘You do need help. London, boy. Or rather, considering the time of year, Tunbridge Wells. Where they are jockeying for position like everyone else.’

‘And can I come and see you again?’

‘No. What is more, I do not want it known that you have been here. I suggest that you conduct yourself with discretion and be careful with whom you talk; this is still a delicate matter, which men remember with bitterness. I do not wish it known that I have helped you in picking at old wounds best forgotten. It is only because of my memory of what I thought your father was, that I have even talked to you today. And I want something in return.’

‘Anything in my power.’

‘I believe your father was guilty of a monstrous crime. If you find any evidence suggesting I am wrong, you will tell me of it instantly, and I will do everything in my power to help.’

I nodded.

‘And if you agree that my conclusions were correct, you will tell me of that as well. Then I can rest peacefully. I am haunted by the possibility that a good man may have been unjustly accused. If you can be persuaded of his guilt; then I will accept it. If not . . .’

‘What?’

‘Then a good man has suffered, and a guilty one has gone free. That is an evil, which must be corrected.’

THE JOURNEY TO
Tunbridge Wells took me four days as I skirted round London rather than go through it, and I did not begrudge a moment of the time even though I was keen to make swift progress. The nights were still warm, and the solitude filled my heart with a tranquillity that I had scarcely known before. I thought a great deal of what Mordaunt had said, and realised that I had made progress: I knew what my father was accused of doing, and I knew how the accusations were put abroad – forged papers, coming from within Thurloe’s office – finding them would now be part of my quest. More than this, however, I knew that a traitor, well placed and well informed, had indeed existed; if it was not my father, the number of people it might be was small – only a handful of trusted men could have betrayed the rising of 1659 so very comprehensively. I had seen his face in old Blundy’s bowl of water; now I had to discover his name. I knew how it was done and why; with good fortune I would also discover who.

I could have fallen in with company, as many people were on the move, but I shunned all attempts to draw me into companionship, sleeping alone in woods at night wrapped in my blanket and buying such food as I wanted in the villages and small towns I passed through. That solitary mood passed only when I came to the outskirts of Tunbridge Wells itself, and noted the bustle of coaches and carriages, the never-ending trails of wagons taking produce in to keep the courtiers supplied with their needs, the growing numbers of itinerant peddlers, musicians and servants, heading there in the hope of squeezing some money for themselves by selling their wares. In the last two days I did have a companion despite myself, as a young whore called Kitty attached herself to me, offering her services in exchange for protection. She was coming from London and had been attacked
the day before, and did not want the experience repeated. She had been lucky that first time, as no visible damage was done beyond some bruises, but she was frightened. Had she lost a tooth, or broken her nose, her earnings would have suffered badly, and she had no other trade to fall back on.

I agreed to protect her because the creature had a strange fascination; for a country boy like myself, such a phantasm of city corruption had never come into view before. She was not what the lurid tales had led me to expect; indeed she was very much more correct than many fine ladies I met in later life and, I suspect, no less virtuous. She was about the same age as me, a soldier’s bastard abandoned by the mother for fear of chastisement. How she’d been brought up I do not know, but she was wiser and more cunning for it. She had no notion of honesty whatsoever, and all her morality lay in her obligations – help her and hers and she would owe. Hurt, and she would hurt back. That was her entire moral universe and what it lacked in Christianity, it more than made up in practicality. It was at least a code she could keep to, simple as it was.

I should say that I did not partake of what she had to offer the night before we arrived in Tunbridge Wells; fear of the clap and a heaviness of mind about what I was to do the next day took away my appetites; but we fed, talked and later fell asleep under the same blanket and, though she made fun of me, I think she was quite happy that it was so. We parted on good terms outside the town, with me hanging back for fear of being seen in her company.

Like my father, I have never been a man for courts or courtly ways; indeed, I have always avoided the taint of corruption that goes along with such association. Although I am no Puritan, there is a level of decency which a gentleman should maintain, and the court in those days had quickly abandoned any pretence at the sturdy values which make any country fit to live in. Tunbridge Wells shocked me beyond measure. I was quite prepared (for rumours were spreading thick and fast by then) to find the ladies of the court unmasked in public and even sporting wigs and perfume and make-up; I was appalled to discover that the Horseguards were wearing them as well.

But such things hardly concerned me; I was not there to cut a dash, to duel, to lacerate with razor-sharp wit or to worm my way
into a position. Nor did I have the resources to do so. To gain a post worth
£
50 a year, a friend of mine had to lay out near
£
750 in bribes, all borrowed at interest, and consequently has had to defraud the government of more than
£
200 to live decently and pay his debts. I scarcely had enough to buy the post of His Majesty’s ratcatcher, let alone one worthy of my standing in society. And, given the fact that I was my father’s son, all the money in the world would not have won me even that lowly post.

When I arrived I could not stay in town as it was too expensive; the place knew its vogue would not last long and the court would soon turn its fickle attention elsewhere. It was an ugly little settlement with no attractions but the waters, but they were
à la mode
that year. All the fops and fools were there, prattling on about how much better they felt for drinking the foul-tasting muck when all the time they jostled to be close to men of influence. Around them, the tradesmen gathered like flies trying to suck what money they could from their purses. I do not know which side was worse: both made me sick at the stomach. Prices were outrageous but, even so, all the rooms were let easily to courtiers willing to pay handsomely to be near His Majesty; many were even in tents on the common near by. In my brief time there, I never even came within eyeshot of the king. I was too ashamed of my dress to go to a levée, and too concerned of an insult should my name become known. I had a task to accomplish, and did not want my life cut short by some fop’s sword. If publicly insulted, I would have to call and I was wise enough to know that I would almost certainly lose.

So, avoiding all the fashionable resorts and those who populated them, I confined myself to the lesser taverns on the outskirts of the town, where the footmen and lackeys would come once their duties were done, to gamble and drink and swap tales of the high and mighty. I saw my travelling companion the once, but she was too obliging to acknowledge me publicly, although she did give me an insolent wink as she passed on the arm of a grand gentleman, who was not ashamed to display his lechery in public.

From the servants I learned very quickly that I had wasted my trip as far as talking to my guardian Sir William Compton was concerned, for he was not there. His advancement had been utterly
blasted by a dispute with Lord Chancellor Clarendon over hunting rights in Wychwood Forest, which they both claimed, and as long as Clarendon held the strings of government, Compton could whistle for preferment. He knew this well, it seemed, so had decided to save his money and stay on his estate, not even bothering to come to court.

Two others of the magic circle were indeed present, however: but I soon learned that although Edward Villiers and Sir John Russell had been staunch comrades in adversity, the blessings of success had divided them more than Thurloe’s schemes had ever managed. Villiers was in My Lord Clarendon’s party, into which he was drawn by Lord Mordaunt, while Sir John, a member of the Duke of Bedford’s great family, had attached himself to the opposition, whose only unity came from a detestation of Clarendon. Such is power, that good men, loyal, generous and courageous in the field, squabble like infants when they become courtiers.

None the less, I had two people whom I could approach and I felt that the evening passed gathering gossip in the tavern had been well spent. I was tempted to approach Villiers, as he most clearly had the ear of men in power, but after some consideration I decided to start with easier meat and so set off the next morning to pay my respects to Sir John Russell. I wish I had not done so. I would prefer to pass over this incident in silence, as it reflects badly on one born a gentleman, but I am in the mood to tell everything, ‘warts and all’, as Cromwell said. Sir John refused to talk to me. Would that this were all; but he rebuffed me in a way calculated to humiliate, even though I had never done him or his any wrong. It was some months before I discovered why my name caused him to act in such a way.