The Best of Men (25 page)

“Mr. Beaumont,” the other said, “you’re to come with us.”

As they cuffed his wrists behind him, he was overwhelmed by an impotent rage: he should have guessed that he had been drugged as soon as he tasted the wine, which he could taste again now as it threatened to come back up. But why?

They led him to Falkland’s rooms, where he was dismayed to find Colonel Hoare sitting at the desk, which had been tidied beyond recognition, parchment stacked in neat piles, quills in regimental alignment beside the inkwell. Hoare was equally tidy, his hair and beard impeccably groomed, his collar spotless.

“Free him and leave us,” he said to the men, who removed Laurence’s handcuffs and departed. “Mr. Beaumont, my Lord Falkland insisted that I convey his regrets to you, but he could not delay his journey on your account. Are you suffering from some sort of ague, sir?”

Laurence did not reply, his teeth clenched together to avoid the further humiliation of vomiting. So Danvers was in Hoare’s pocket, and back in Oxford when he had dropped those heavy hints about his clandestine employment, he must have been fishing to recruit Laurence into the Colonel’s service.

Hoare produced the conspirators’ letters and tossed them onto the desk. “How did you come by these?”

“I have already explained that to Lord Falkland,” Laurence answered, after swallowing hard.

“I confess, sir, that I am disinclined to trust the convoluted story you gave him. For I know about you,” Hoare went on gloatingly. “You were a parasite in the foreign war, and you’re home expecting to play the same old game. But here you’ve an advantage: you can use your father’s connection with his lordship to inveigle your way into his good graces, and hoodwink him into believing that you came by these letters honestly. I can see it all: the prodigal son redeemed by uncovering a plot against the King’s life! Oh, what glory would accrue to you! Well it won’t be
quite that easy. If his lordship cannot see through your machinations, I certainly can. Now tell me the truth. How did you get the letters?”

“It was just as I said to Lord Falkland.”

“As if I’d buy that!” snorted Hoare. “Your noble father must rue the day he engendered you. Born so high, only to sink so low – a turncoat mercenary who spied for both sides in the conflict abroad.”

“I worked only for the Germans,” Laurence retorted. “How can you condemn me for that, when you’re in the same business?”

Hoare sat forward, regarding Laurence in consternation. “You would compare us, when your record is so very black? You fought with Spanish troops, so why should you not have been a mole for them, too, when you have Spanish blood in your veins? Let me warn you, sir, the onus is upon
you
to prove that you are not a regicide as well. For I suspect you were involved in this conspiracy, and decided to sell it out once you got to England! How else could you have broken such an intricate code without anyone’s assistance, as you claimed to his lordship?”

Laurence covered his mouth. “I’ll show you,” he said, “but not now.”

“About to puke, are you?” Hoare laughed shortly. “I’ll not have you fouling his lordship’s quarters, so I suppose I must wait. Tomorrow morning, would that suit?” he inquired, with savage politesse. “We shall examine the code together, and you can demonstrate to me how you unveiled its mysteries, and why you could not unveil them
all
. Good day, Mr. Beaumont. And don’t try to run – my guards will be onto you.”

The guards marched Laurence back to his quarters at the inn; he could hardly walk for the cramp in his stomach, and his head was spinning, as much from Hoare’s lecture as the after-effects of the drug.

Tom must have heard him clambering up the stairs, and opened the door with an angry gesture. “Where were you last night?” Laurence pushed past him, ran to the window, and spewed copiously. “Have you caught my flux?” Tom asked, with more concern.

“No,” muttered Laurence, still spitting and wiping his nose and mouth.

“You got drunk! I should have known you’d do a thing like that. By Christ, will you never change! Lord Falkland must have been disgusted with you.”

“I never saw him; my appointment was postponed until tomorrow,” said Laurence with what dignity he could muster, as he crawled into a corner and wrapped himself in his cloak.

“Liar,” Tom said. “You were too full of booze to wake up for it.”

To this Laurence made no reply. Almost immediately sleep engulfed him, and he began to dream he was on the road again with Juana. As they passed through a dark landscape full of the horrors of war, there was not just a single rider but an entire army after them. And as he turned to look, he saw Colonel Hoare’s face on every man.

A wet snow was falling as Laurence and Juana arrived at Lille, not more than a hundred miles from Paris. After many vain inquiries he managed to secure them a damp cellar in a village inn, though the landlord was quick to identify Juana’s origins. He exacted a high price and ordered her to stay hidden downstairs, out of respect for his customers, he said. When Laurence went to fetch her some food, he discovered that these were mostly soldiers, swilling drink and playing at dice or cards before the fire, where a haunch of mutton roasted on the spit, watched avidly by a couple of mongrel dogs.

Once Juana had eaten, she curled up in the straw and gave a satisfied belch. “Not ready for bed, Monsieur?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I might join a game of cards upstairs. Keep the pistols with you. You know how to use them, don’t you?”

She assured him that she did.

He had not been apart from her for days, and was enjoying his
temporary freedom in the warmth of a good fire, winning easy money. Then a fellow who had left the table briefly came back with a leer on his face.

“The landlord says you’re riding with a wench,” he remarked to Laurence. “Seems our friend paid a tidy sum to get her in,” he informed the others. “And by God, he’d have to – she’s a gypsy.”

The men started to laugh contemptuously. “Eh well, a cunt’s a cunt,” one of them said. “I’ve had a few in my time that weren’t too choice, and I’m not alone, am I, boys? Some will even fuck their own sheep, for want of a woman.”

“I could think of worse,” another added. “Why, when you’ve had your fun there’s no nagging afterwards. And if there is, you can slice her up and eat her!”

They howled at this witticism. When Laurence did not, the first man stared directly at him. “Vermin, them gypsies are. Shouldn’t be allowed to live. I wouldn’t touch that whore of yours if she was the last woman on earth.”

“That’s lucky for you,” said Laurence. “Because she wouldn’t have you anyway.”

The man had just launched out of his chair, fists curled, when a shot rang out, sending the taproom into confusion. Moments later, the landlord hurried over. “You come with me,” he hissed in Laurence’s ear.

Laurence hastily obeyed, cursing himself for leaving Juana on her own; she might be lying dead in her nest of straw. But there she was at the entrance to the cellar, very much alive and clad only in her thin shift, struggling to escape from a youth who was trying to pin her by the arms.

“She bit me, Father!” the youth complained.

“I was attacked!” she shouted to Laurence.

“By this little sod?” he asked, wrestling the youth off her.

“No! A big man came at me with a knife!”

“Her cock-and-bull tale,” said the landlord. “Pierre, bring the lantern. Let’s find out what mischief she was up to.”

They all descended. At the far side of the cellar, a door was banging open and shut in the icy breeze. The shot had passed through it, leaving a small hole. Laurence could see no other signs of disturbance, except that Juana’s clothing and some of the straw bedding lay scattered about, as did the contents of their saddlebags.

“A fine oak panel destroyed,” said the landlord. “That’ll cost you five gold pieces. And I shall hold your horses as security. Be gone early tomorrow and don’t come back.” He waited for his payment, and then he and his son departed with the lantern.

Laurence sat Juana down in what remained of the bedding. “What happened?” he asked.

“I – I was asleep, Monsieur,” she stammered, “and the next thing I knew, there was a light in my eyes and a knife at my heart. The man spoke to me in some foreign language and made me open the saddlebags. Thank God he couldn’t see the pistols or the sword – I’d tucked them deep in the straw. He hunted and hunted through everything. I was too scared to cry out. He forced me to undress, and went through all my clothes. I didn’t know what he was looking for! He even made me lift up my shift.” She moaned, covering her face. “
Qué deshonra
, Monsieur! No man has seen me like that since my husband.”

“Go on,” Laurence whispered.

“When he had finished groping me, he went to search our things again. So I felt underneath me in the straw for one of the pistols and I pointed it at him. He came at me, but he kicked over the lantern and then the pistol went off. He ran out through that door.”

“Was he the man we saw on the road?”

“I don’t know! But he had the evil eye.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that,” she replied impatiently. “He may come back, Monsieur! Let us leave!”

“And go where, in this weather? We’ll rest until daylight. Now put some clothes on before you freeze to death.”

She made no complaint as he assisted her to dress. Afterwards he gave her both of their cloaks, and chafed her hands to bring the blood back. She continued to shake, so he put his arms around her to keep her warm, and eventually they slept.

In the morning, he imagined himself back at Simeon’s house and wondered lazily which of the girls was with him, her back flush against his chest and belly, and her rear tucked into his groin against the hard length of his morning erection. Then he remembered. This was as close to Juana as he had ever been. For a while, he let himself think of her as he had seen her last night, with her slender hips and small rounded breasts undisguised by layers of clothing. Obviously he was missing what had been a regular part of his life at the brothel, but he knew he could seek no satisfaction here.

Braving the frigid air that greeted him as he emerged from their cocoon, he unbolted the door. Beyond were fields of mud, suffused with dull light. A few stars continued to glow in between the clouds, and there was no one about. The cold made him forget his desire, and he went to the stable where he saddled his horses, threw a sack of feed over one of their backs and led them out, towards the cellar door.

Juana was sitting with their saddlebags neatly packed, Simeon’s sword resting at her feet. She looked refreshed and happy, which made him suspicious.

“Have you told me everything you know about last night?” he said.

“Of course I have,” she replied innocently. And he knew that she was lying.

“Mr. Beaumont,” said Colonel Hoare, “take a seat. You look much improved since yesterday. Now let us see how much of an expert you really are. What do you make of this?” he added, passing over a sheet of paper.

“Suppressed vowels, and a sequence of numbers for the rest of the alphabet,” Laurence said, after a pause.

“And the next?” Hoare inquired, passing him another.

“Cardano’s cipher.”

“Which works how?”

“If you select every third letter before a punctuation mark and put them together, you have your message.”

“The next?”

“Trithemius’ alphabets.”

“I suppose you are acquainted with all fourteen of them, and the words corresponding to each letter,” Hoare remarked sceptically.

“Yes.”

“What does the letter A signify in the first alphabet?”

“A is Jesus, B is God, C is Saviour –”

“Give me O in the eighth.”

“Peace.”

“O in the thirteenth.”

“Virtuously,” said Laurence, wondering when this would stop.

“I never understood why the method was so popular. A waste of paper and ink, and tedious to memorise. Next page, if you please, Mr. Beaumont.”

“It’s a design cipher, based on a four-part grid.”

“And the last?”

“Trithemius again. His cipher table.”

“You are well versed in the essentials,” Hoare admitted, with obvious disappointment. “But your code, as you are aware, bears no
relation to the methods we have just discussed. How did you crack the first layer of it?”

“The cipher is based on a table –”

“I mean the code. Without the code, the cipher is impossible to read.”

Laurence was dreading this line of interrogation; if only he had paid more heed when Seward had helped him transcribe the documents. “It’s derived from the Cabbala,” he began, and slowly he explained how each of the ten Sephiroth pertained to the figures before him, and how, with this key, one could obtain a numerical value for the figures themselves.

“And where did you get your learning?” Hoare asked. “Have you friends amongst the tribe of Israel?”

“I had the benefit of an education while I was at Oxford,” Laurence said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

“Then why can you not break the last part of the code and supply me with the conspirators’ identities?”

“Because I haven’t got the key. It’s like Trithemius’ alphabets, but in this case it must consist of a series of numbers privately agreed upon by the correspondents. They can invent as many variations for their names as they want, to make sure that there are no repeated frequencies. It’s impossible to crack. Anyone versed in ciphering will tell you the same thing.”

Hoare must have known this already, for he did not pursue the issue. “My Lord Falkland said that you were visited by one of the conspirators, who asked you to sell him back the letters. Tell me about him.” Laurence described the meeting, after which Hoare said thoughtfully, “So, this lawyer is waiting for you at the Black Bull in Aylesbury.”

“He was, weeks ago. He’ll have given up on me by now.”

“If the regicides were patient enough to follow you all the way to England, there’s a chance he might still be there. You shall go and sell the letters, as he bade you.”

“And lose the only solid evidence we have?” exclaimed Laurence, aghast.