The King's Chameleon (11 page)

‘I did not know of Henry's deception until about a month ago. He came to the house and I had come home from the counter while you had gone to Blackwall to discuss the fitting of the lower capstan and then aboard the
Arrow
, d'you remember? I expressed my astonishment, but immediately guessed how he had played his trick and that his being in the house meant that someone here knew too.'

‘Hannah?'

Gooding shook his head. ‘No, she knows nothing, bless her, though how Henry and Judith kept things from her I do not know.'

‘She is trusting and trustworthy,' Faulkner said pointedly. ‘She believed Henry had sailed with Edmund Drinkwater, and that association made the lie the more believable. It gulled me, by God!'

‘Yes, yes, I daresay. They had concealed the matter from me well enough, but I am not here during the daytime. For all I know they met elsewhere.' He shrugged. ‘To hear Henry talk, the entire city is rife with plots and conspiracies and the King's life hangs by a thread. Ever since the hanging of the first of the Regicides – Thomas Harrison, if I recall aright, though there have been over-many of them for my liking, poor souls – there have been rumours of a revival of the old Army.'

Faulkner scoffed. ‘Time passes, Nathan; the New Model has become the Old Army as well as the Royal Army and most get their pay after a fashion, which is more than can be said during Old Nol's reign.'

‘That may be, but it does not alter the case in Henry's eyes.'

‘Where is the boy, Nathan? And where is his mother? She will burn for a witch if the King has his way, while Henry will be dragged on a hurdle to Tyburn.'

‘Don't talk like that about your own son!'

‘Don't preach to me, damn you,' Faulkner said in a low voice. ‘I set out the plain truth. If that fool of a boy has allied himself with any plot he will hang, and all the rest of the disgusting ritual which has been inflicted on the Regicides will be visited upon him and his co-conspirators.'

‘I know, I know.' Gooding was weeping now, the effects of emotion and alcoholic remorse playing havoc with him.

‘Where
is
his mother?' Faulkner asked, his voice again low and temperate.

Gooding looked at him miserably and shook his head. ‘I don't know, Kit, I truly do not know.'

Faulkner nodded and indicated the stain seeping through Gooding's breeches. ‘Very well; you look as though you need a piss-pot. I am going to a bath. I will send up some food.'

‘No, don't do that,' said Gooding, his humiliation complete as he rummaged under the bed for the piss-pot. ‘I could not bear for anyone else to see me like this.'

‘I understand. Come below when you are ready. I will send Hargreaves to Blackwall with a note that we are detained.'

The bath not only refreshed Faulkner, it also gave him time to think. He thought not only of Judith's treachery but of Katherine's pliant hands, for the hot water still stung his wounded flesh, despite the remarkable effects of Prince Rupert's grease. His mood of elation heightened: it was clear that the King entertained some regard for him; he had discovered Katherine and, almost in the same breath, the deception of his wife. Why, the coincidence could not have been more apt! It was astonishing! Despite the dangerous curiosity of his circumstances he felt an extreme pang of sublime happiness …

Until, that is, he recalled that all hinged upon the apprehension and transportation of Henry far from these shores. The recollection threw cold-water on his sudden and infatuated felicity, making him angry again. As he rose from the tub, the water running from him over the paved floor, the absence of Judith only increased his sudden feeling of cold fury.

He was almost dressed when the pallid form of Gooding entered the room. Seeing Faulkner naked, he apologized, but Faulkner insisted he come in, and he called for the kitchen-maid to empty the bath and serve Master Gooding some breakfast. The wan appearance of his brother-in-law had prompted another sudden thought; it occurred to Faulkner that while he had been duped by his wife, Gooding had been used. Manipulated by a sister who knew well his honest and compliant character, Gooding had been trapped in so unfamiliar a situation that he was quite unable to use his customary moral yardstick. The thought led Faulkner to conclude that Judith's whereabouts were perhaps not so difficult to divine. He looked at Gooding, who had sunk into a chair, leaned his elbows on the table and sat miserably waiting for his bread.

‘You say you have no idea of Judith's whereabouts, Nathan?'

Gooding shook his head, the drawn-out monosyllabic groan presumably a negative response. ‘Has she been to the counting-house of late?' Again Gooding shook his head. ‘And you say you caught Henry here, not at the wharf?'

‘Yes, but he would tell me nothing. Nothing about himself, that is.'

Faulkner grunted, then raised his voice and called Hannah's name. The girl came in from the parlour next door. ‘You said your mother left last night. Did you see her leave?'

Hannah shook her head. ‘No, Father. That is what is so strange; she simply went out.'

‘You did not see her go? Did not see whether she carried anything, a satchel or bag?'

‘No. She simply left the room and was gone when I sought her out. Molly told me she had left the house.'

‘Send Molly in to me and then go immediately to your mother's chamber. See if you can find her keys, and tell me if you think any of her garments have been taken away.'

Hannah did as she was bid, and a moment later Molly stepped into the room carrying bread, cheese and a tankard of small beer for Gooding. ‘You sent for me, Sir?' she said after serving Gooding. Her face wore an expression of apprehension as she bobbed dutifully to her master.

‘Your mistress left here last night, I understand.'

‘Yes, Master.'

‘Did she tell you where she was going?'

‘No, Master.'

‘Did she ask you to pack her a bag, or did she leave with anyone?'

Molly shook her head.

‘Has anyone unusual called here in the last fortnight or so? Think, now …'

Molly's non-too-clean brow furrowed. She was a bright enough young woman whom Judith had taken as her maid, but she seemed genuinely at a loss as to offer any credible evidence which would solve the domestic mystery.

‘Has she told you anything unusual, offered any hint as to why she might leave in a hurry?'

Molly shook her head with slow deliberation. At that moment Hannah came back into the room. Faulkner turned to her: ‘Well?'

‘I think there are some clothes gone. Molly, run up and see. The blue gown and the grey cloak. Check the mistress's small clothes and her linen.'

‘Aye, Miss.'

After Molly had disappeared, Hannah held up the ring of household keys. ‘I found these.'

‘I thought as much,' Faulkner said. ‘Hannah, my dear, you are in charge of the household and must keep those. Tell me, are you aware of any odd visitors of late?'

Hannah shook her head. ‘No, Father, only old Captain Lamont who came to pay his respects … Something to do with a mortgage …'

‘Lamont!' Faulkner thundered in sudden comprehension. ‘By all the devils in hell! Lamont!'

‘What of Lamont?' said a pained Gooding, turning from the table.

‘Where is his damned bilander, Nathan?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You don't know? You laded him; you
must
know!'

Gooding rubbed his brow. ‘I … he … I think he was due to clear outwards yesterday or perhaps this morning …' Gooding's mind seemed to clear. ‘No,' he said decisively, gathering his wits, ‘it was Tuesday, the day before yesterday, but he had not sailed yesterday for I saw his mate with a boat at Wapping stairs.'

‘What's the wind been?'

‘A light easterly … That would explain Lamont's still being in the river.'

‘The devil it does!' exclaimed Faulkner dismissively, his mind racing. ‘Get off your arse, Nathan, at once! D'you hear? Hie you to the counting-house and order Hargreaves to go at once to the Gun Wharf. Tell him to hire a wherry – give him a guinea for his trouble – and get aboard the
Hawk
. Have them make her ready to slip the mooring, then get him back with his wherry to Wapping Stairs. I'll join him within the hour. While he does that, have two barrels of water, some biscuit and a barricoe of beef sent to the Stairs.'

‘You are going in chase of Lamont?'

‘Of course! Now move, Nathan; you have no idea what hangs upon this.' He turned to his daughter as Gooding hauled himself to his feet and went out. ‘Hannah, mind the house. Let no-one unfamiliar across the threshold. No-one, d'you understand?'

Despite her confusion, Hannah nodded. ‘Will you be gone long, Father?'

‘If I am lucky, no. If not …' He shrugged. ‘Who knows?'

Faulkner went upstairs to the room he and Gooding used and sat for a moment considering what he had set afoot. If he was wrong in his guesswork, and it was only guesswork, he would be wasting precious hours. But he was confident that if Henry was as implicated as he feared, he would be making for the Low Countries where, as half of London knew, a handful of the Regicides now lived in exile just as, but ten years earlier, the Royalists had done. What was extraordinary was that Judith had gone with the boy. They were close, it was true, both being of firm Puritan conviction, but for Judith to throw up everything and follow him into exile made no sense to Faulkner. Had his sudden summons to the King's presence had some influence on her thinking? He considered the matter for a moment; it was certainly possible. She was a woman of intelligence, if of little imagination, but – a sudden alliance with Lamont?

He should have asked Gooding whither Lamont's cargo was consigned, and he chid himself for the lack of forethought. It was too late to worry now. Instead, he cudgelled his brain to recall the time of the tides and found himself too out of joint to recollect with confidence. He could not remember the phase of the moon, not even by reference to his recent night's ride to Oxford, for the sky had been cloudy and his mind had been on other things.

Other things! Great heavens, but Katherine was in London! He stood up with an oath, picked up his bag and made for the staircase. Ten minutes later he was at Wapping Stairs, awaiting a sign of Hargreaves and his hired wherry. He looked across the river; it was thick with shipping, most of which was moored, but several were under way: a pair of collier-brigs and a stumpie or two. A few wore ensigns or pendants at their mastheads. The wind, what there was of it, seemed no longer in the east, but appeared to be lifting the bunting from the westwards. Boats crabbed across the stream like so many giant beetles; the tide was ebbing fast. ‘Damn,' he muttered under his breath.

‘D'you want a boat, Cap'n?' a voice enquired. Faulkner turned round. A couple of seamen lounged at the head of the Stairs. Both men were chewing tobacco, and the man who spoke loosed a squirt of juice into the river.

‘I have one coming, I thank you.' He turned away, searching for a wherry heading upstream against the tide. He could see three or four, but none seemed to be heading towards Wapping Stairs and none had a passenger. He could, of course, hire a boat and drop down stream on the ebb in the hope of meeting Hargreaves. In fact it would not matter if he did not meet Hargreaves, only that he got aboard the
Hawk
without delay. He was about to engage one of the loungers, neither of whom was a licensed waterman by the look of them, and would charge him what they liked if they sensed his haste, when he heard a hail.

‘Cap'n Faulkner!' A wherry was coming upstream inshore, two boatmen pulling vigorously at their oars. In the stern, waving his battered hat, sat Charlie Hargreaves.

Faulkner lifted his hand in response when a thought struck him. He turned to the two loungers. ‘D'you want a day or two's work?'

‘What'd you pay?'

‘Two sovereigns if you come at once for no more than a week.'

‘All found in victuals and a donkey's breakfast if there is anything on board,' said the taller of the two.

‘And the sail-maker's locker if there ain't,' said the other.

‘Just so.' Faulkner held out his hand. Both men shook it. A moment later Hargreaves and the double-banked wherry pulled in towards the Stairs, the watermen drew in their oars with a clatter and handed the boat alongside. The three men tumbled smartly in, the watermen shoved off and shipped their still-dripping oars. Faulkner settled himself in the stern-sheets alongside Hargreaves. ‘Well?'

‘I used the money Mr Gooding gave me to engage a double-banked boat, sir. I hope—'

‘Yes, yes, that's fine. What of the
Hawk
?'

‘She'll be ready. Mr Gooding sent off two extra hands to help old Toshack. He was taking advantage of the wind and tide to dress the mains'l, so she's only to be cast off.'

‘Good. Now, tell me. Cap'n Lamont … what of his bilander?'

‘The
Mary
, sir? Why, I know she was on the mooring at noon of yesterday because I saw her, but she is gone this morning.'

‘What o'clock was high-water slack?'

‘About six, I think, sir.'

‘A quarter before seven, Cap'n,' growled the nearer of the two watermen as he leaned forward to make his stroke.

‘So, it's after half-ebb, then,' he mused.

‘This westerly'll soon pick up,' the waterman added. ‘If yer outward-bound you'll likely 'ave a dusting off the Nore by the time yer get there.'

‘Very likely.' Faulkner turned again to Hargreaves. ‘Charlie, d'you recollect where the
Mary
is loaded for?'

‘She's got a part-cargo for Flushing, and part for Leith, including passengers.'

‘How many passengers?' The presence of passengers could complicate matters.