Jack Frake (24 page)

“I don’t know
which
people, sir!” said Dawson. “There is simply a general, well, sentiment about it, expressed in the most curious curiosity! Gentlemen come into my shop and ask about you, the author, in a way that lets me know in no uncertain terms that the book displeases them. Others have come in and spoiled the book, throwing an
unpurchased
copy of it on the floor and using it as, well, as a chamber pot! In
my
place! Still others have struck up conversations with me on the subject of licenses and the penalties for printing seditious-like material — without naming the book or you, sir.” Dawson paused, then leaned forward even closer to whisper, “They say there is a secret, select Commons committee studying your book. They
say
— I
hear
— ” he emphasized, “though it has not been reported anywhere. I have been merely a collector of hints. Nothing has been said
openly
.”

“Not even in
Gentleman’s Magazine
, or
London Magazine
?” asked Redmagne. These two were the only publications that successfully evaded the 1660 ban on reporting Parliamentary debates and proceedings, by employing the devices of hyperbole, allusion, and innuendo.

“By my troth, sir, not even
they
have mentioned this matter,” said the printer. He looked miserable. “It’s too daunting, sir!”

“And which newspapers?”

“Oh, just the government papers. You know,
The Journal
,
The Mid-Day Post
,
The Register
. They’ve done nothing more than make asides and
passing comments of a snickering nature, burying them in items from abroad. It’s clear to me that if it weren’t for the war news, they’d devote more time and space to this particular subject.”

“But you haven’t been subpoenaed, or had your place searched?”

“No, but it could come to that if I continue printing the book — especially with illustrations!” Dawson furtively glanced around again. “Look, sir: I regret to say that the last edition of your book must be, well, the
last
edition. I
dare
not press another. You can see my position. A single torch tossed into the shop, or a gang of ruffians destroying my presses — I could be ruined! And I’d have no proof of misdemeanor against anyone.” He reached into his coat, took out a small sack and plunked it on the table in front of Redmagne. “Here are the proceeds coming to you, per our contract. Please be satisfied with it.”

“Keep it, Mr. Dawson,” said Redmagne with contempt, shoving the sack away. “Print yourself a book on the life of St. Bruno, or of Galileo. Sign it ‘Anonymous.’”

“Sir, that is unkind of you!” exclaimed Mr. Dawson. Then he sniffed and added, “Not to say vain, and presumptuous!”

“Is it? At least I can say to myself, ‘Thank God for pirates!’ Good day to you, sir.”

Mr. Dawson, now livid, stood up and made to leave. At the last moment, he snatched up the bag of coins and walked out of the tavern.

“When there’s no definition of sanity,” remarked Redmagne, “even sane men can be called mad.” He finished his coffee. Jack Frake noticed that his friend’s hands were shaking. “Come, Jack. Let us do some detecting work, and seek out the one responsible for my literary anagnorisis.”

They spent the remainder of the day visiting small theaters and old haunts in search of Redmagne’s former colleagues. Finally, long after sunset, in the Orange Tree, a tavern that was an actors’ rendezvous on a side street off of Longacre, Redmagne recognized William Leggate, the property master of his old troupe. And the man recognized Redmagne as he approached his corner table, for he excused himself from his party and hurriedly guided Redmagne back outside before he was halfway inside the crowded, smoke-fogged tavern. They stood just outside the shadow cast by a sputtering street lamp.

“John, what are you doing here?” he asked with urgency.

“I’ve come for the express purpose of
not
attending Lord Lovat’s axing on Tower Hill,” chuckled Redmagne. He paused and studied the anxious
look on his old colleague’s face. “Good evening to you, too, William,” he added. “It’s been ages, hasn’t it?” He took Leggate’s hand and shook it with emphasis.

“We haven’t time to make merry or rollick through old times, John!” insisted the man. “They’ve been looking for you!”

“Who has?”

“Watchmen! And constables! A pair were in here not half an hour ago, and came straight to me with questions!” Leggate put a hand on Redmagne’s shoulder. “John, it’s known you’re in London, and there’s a price on your head!
Fifty
guineas for your mere arrest!”

Jack Frake said, “It must have been the Neaveses, Redmagne! They went straight to the bailiff in Ealing!”

Redmagne nodded in agreement. Leggate said, looking down at the boy, “Who’s this?”

Redmagne made the introductions. “Jack, Mr. Leggate here could make a gown for Lady Yarmouth out of potato sacks, and she’d be proud to wear it to the Lord Mayor’s Water Procession.” He paused. “And it was Mr. Leggate who made the fatal weapon with which I poked Master Hockaday that evening, out of a barrel stave, of all things. What are you doing now, William?”

“I’m costumer for another troupe — but never mind me, John! Get out of London quick as you can! You’re bound to be caught if you stay.”

Redmagne was adamant. “That may be. However, I
will
have some gossip from an old friend. Is it true, what I hear? That Garrick is to marry La Violette?” he asked wistfully.

Leggate nodded impatiently. “She’s made enough in the ballet to retire, and it’s said her patroness is negotiating a stiff contract.”

“There are holes in your shoes, William,” said Redmagne, lightly tapping the objects of his scrutiny with the tip of his cane. “And your elbows are threadbare. Perhaps you should sew yourself a costume.”

“I would if we could scare up more engagements, John,” said Leggate with bitterness. “But the war pinched many a pocket, especially those of the higher stratum. My new troupe did a masque at the Earl of Bracken’s last Tuesday, and his butler warned us to bring our own lunches!”

“Well, so much for our gossip.” Redmagne frowned. “Have
you
read my book, William?”

“Yes, I have,” said Leggate. “Wonderful work! I envy you for having written it. It’s not your usual stuff and nonsense, brilliant as that may have
been.” The man relented and smiled. “If you want an epitaph for your gravestone, John, I’ll suggest one here and now: ‘I have gone neither to Heaven, nor to Hell, but to Hyperborea.”

With a slight bow of his head, Redmagne said, “Thank you, William.”

Leggate said, “It was Toby Trist who put me onto the identity of the real author. If it weren’t for him, I’d never have imagined.”

Redmagne glanced at Jack Frake. “What did I tell you?” Then he asked Leggate, “And who else would you think had the same recollection — and would be in a position to point a finger?”

“Adeline Cole,” snapped the actor.

“There was enough acid in that reply to etch a Hogarth print, William. Why?”

“It
must
have been Adeline Cole, John!” said Leggate. “You see, she married Nicholas Hockaday — Epping’s oldest son — or rather, he married her, set his sights on her one evening when she was doing pratfalls for another troupe, and away she went; she won’t even speak to any of us now, her old troupers. And Nicholas Hockaday is secretary to the
Solicitor-General
! He’ll be Marquis of Epping soon, for his uncle is prone with the fever and is not expected to outlive it.”

“I see,” sighed Redmagne. Adeline Cole, on the night of the masque, played opposite him as Idonea Lumley, mistress of a deposed Privy Council adviser. “Well,” he mused, “she always envied me the last bow of an entertainment. But, then, I
was
the author of all our triumphs. And, then, I think she was furious with me because I never invited her to rehearse slap and tickle — except on the stage.”

Leggate chuckled. “That’s right. I remember. But she certainly rehearsed it with everyone else.” He squinted into the darkness and saw a pair of men carrying staves coming in their direction. “John, go now!” he whispered. “They can’t see us yet. Please go! And Godspeed!”

Redmagne turned, saw the men ambling up the street from Longacre, and then clasped Leggate’s hand. “Thank you, William, for your worry, and for not asking me where I’m staying! Those fifty guineas are tempting, I know. Wait! Here!” He reached into his purse and dropped a handful of guineas into Leggate’s coat pocket. “Ill-gotten gains for you, William. Don’t argue! We’ll meet again!”

Redmagne and Jack Frake turned and walked quickly down the street, taking care to stay in the shadows of the street lamps. They went back to the Three Swans Inn.

A
T THE
I
NN, THEY ATE A LIGHT DINNER, AND THEN RETIRED TO THEIR
room. There they removed their wigs, coats and shoes. There was a single window, which Redmagne opened and moved a chair to. He looked morose. Jack Frake asked, “Will you try to see your father?”

Redmagne frowned and shook his head. “No, Jack. I tried mending things between him and me years ago. But he has a conscience to salve and a shame to erase. He would turn me in to the Crown with a speed that would make Adeline Cole blink.” He chuckled. “He was so set on my going into law, and then politics. Obviously he places no value on all the jokes about lawyers and politicians.”

Jack Frake leafed through his book of Roman history for a while. Redmagne said nothing, but gazed out the window. Then the boy asked, “Why does it bother you?”

“What bothers me, Jack?”

“The book, and Dawson and this actress you knew.”

“Because I have been betrayed, Jack. I’ve known a great many injustices, but I’ve never before been betrayed. And what was the vehicle of that betrayal?
Hyperborea
! I’ve done a few things in my life of which I am proud, but that book is my proudest act. And so, there sat Adeline Cole, passing an afternoon with, to her, an amusing novel, waiting for dear Nicholas to return from the Law Court at Westminster Hall. She came upon the name
of Toby Trist. ‘Who’s that flapper?’ she asks herself. ‘Why, if it isn’t John Smith, up to his old tricks again! Lud! What a piece of information this is! My husband could use it and advance himself in the eyes of his gouty grace the Solicitor-General!’ And so she did the deed. Well, I was right to cast her as Idonea Lumley. She betrayed Toby Trist in the masque, too.” He shrugged. “Dawson? Well, I thought he would have a little more spine.”

Jack Frake did not like the pain he saw in Redmagne’s eyes.

Redmagne went on. “That highwayman you wounded, Jack — remember him? There is a similarity here. You see, the ball entered a part of his body, and his body and all its parts asked the question: This is a foreign thing that has invaded us. How shall we deal with it? But the body cannot deal with it. That is why men die of their wounds.”

“You should not let it disturb you so, Redmagne,” volunteered Jack Frake.

For the first time ever, Redmagne glared at him with anger. The boy stared back at him. He saw that his friend wanted to reply, but would not permit himself to.

Jack Frake said, “Your soul has been winded, Redmagne. But it can recover. There’s no profit in being the man who could not be the author of
Hyperborea
. Be him again.”

Redmagne held his glance for a while, and then looked out the window. “Forgive me for being angry with you, Jack. You’re right.” He lit his pipe again, and picked up one of several newspapers he had bought in a tavern on their way back to the Inn. But after a moment, he dropped it. “Listen, Jack!” he said. “It’s ten o’clock. Listen to the bells marking the hour, all around the city. The parishes, whose churches don’t have bells, have watchmen call out the hour. You can hear them, too. Listen; you can hear the quiet roar from under London Bridge, and the carriages rolling over its length, many on their way to Ranelagh Gardens. Listen hard enough, and you can hear people singing outside their tenements and taverns, or catch the sound of hautboys and oboes and violins of a private chamber concert.” He paused. “Listen, and you can hear the whisper of Millicent Morley’s nightgown as she enters little Etain McRae’s bedroom to sing her a lullaby. She must know, Jack. She must have known that the Neaveses did their dirty deed, too. Would she still want a wanted man? Verily, I believe she would.” He paused. “I must see her again before we leave. I’ll find her.”

Redmagne picked the newspaper up again. “Jack, I am resolved that we shall have one proper evening here. They will not rob us of that, at least.”
He looked at his companion. “Are you willing to risk it?”

“Yes,” answered Jack Frake.

Redmagne snapped the paper. “Then tomorrow we shall tour the town. The season ended in April, and many concert patrons have fled the city for the summer, but tomorrow evening Viscountess Oldham’s opera company is performing a
pasticcio
of Handel’s arias and choruses at the King’s Theatre, Haymarket. It’s a benefit for widows and wounded soldiers of the Scottish campaign, at five guineas a ticket, so we needn’t worry about seats. Following that,
we
shall dine at Ranelagh.” He threw the paper aside. “But tonight, we sleep.”

The next day, Redmagne took Jack Frake all over the city — to London Bridge, to the Steelyard, to the Timber Yards, to the various waterworks, to the nine-story Dye Houses on the Thames. They even browsed through the bookshops in St. Paul’s Churchyard. But while Redmagne was as generous with his descriptions and anecdotes as usual, their tour was soured by an undercurrent of jeopardy. They knew that they could be seized at any moment.

Redmagne visited the offices of several tobacco merchants and asked for information about Ian McRae, partner in a firm that traded with Virginia — and Millicent Morley’s employer. No one had heard of him. “You might try Glasgow,” quipped a junior partner in one establishment. “Those damned Scots are horning in on our business.”

They next went to Cornhill, a section of the city that contained the Royal Exchange and numerous merchants’ coffeehouses. In the Virginia and Maryland Coffeehouse they had to press through an especially noisy group of merchants, brokers, agents and ship captains. The place was more like a commodities exchange than a place of relaxation. A Scots trader had heard of McRae, but could not remember the names of his associates, and did not know where he lived.