Authors: Claire Letemendia
“I was afraid of what might happen to me, if it
were
true,” Poole responded, looking straight at him.
“But I longed to confide in you about the awful burden that I have been carrying!” Radcliff exhaled heavily. “In one of the letters Beaumont partially transcribed, Pembroke wrote that if the King became intransigent over terms for a peace, we might be driven to just such a dire
solution. I was horrified. I realised that he would employ any means towards his aim, and that it was my bounden duty to thwart him.”
“Why did you not inform His Majesty there and then?”
“How could I? I had to play along until I had incontrovertible evidence of Pembroke’s designs, or else His Majesty would never credit my accusations against the word of an earl who was once his great friend.
I
would be the one to suffer. Yet that is what has brought grief upon me, Poole. It would have been safer for me to destroy that correspondence, exactly as Pembroke commanded me to do.”
“You must go to the King at once and reveal everything! You are caught on both sides: by Pembroke, and by the Secretary of State, who can have you seized the instant you return to your troop.”
“I cannot return,” Radcliff said, with a wry laugh. “I have burned that particular bridge. We are in the last stages of a chess game, and few pieces are left on the board. Indeed, I am confounded that Falkland has not already arrested me.”
“Surrender to him and make a full confession. He might prove merciful, in exchange.”
“Or he might not, and I will suffer a more painful death than Colonel Hoare, to say nothing of the disgrace and impoverishment that will befall my wife and child. No, Poole, I have another option. To find Beaumont and convince him of my innocence.”
“You are clutching at straws,” said Poole, in such a scornful tone that Radcliff was roused to genuine fury.
“I am doing what I can to salvage my honour, and that of my kin!” he exclaimed. “In all my dealings with Pembroke, I was striving for a happier future for my family. You may call it ambition if you like, but if no one had ambition, we would still be dwelling in mud huts, as do the savages of Africa. I am not much better off than they.” He gestured at the mouldy, water-damaged plaster buckling the walls. “Mark the deterioration in my house since the war took me away from it. A year
and a half ago, Pembroke said he would give me money to drain my land. But as soon as he quarrelled with the King and hostilities broke out, he said he must abandon even his own building plans at Wilton House in order to work for a resolution to our country’s woes. And so he sent his funds with me to The Hague, to buy arms – and the rest you know.”
“No,” said Poole, “I do not. When you were robbed, Sir Bernard, were you at a tavern, or at a bawdy house?”
Damn Beaumont to hell
, Radcliff wanted to scream; the man had invaded and threatened to trample upon almost every part of his life. Suppressing his anger, he said, “Yes, Poole, I was at a brothel.”
“You know very well that it is not the deed, it is the fact of your
lying
that troubles me!”
“You would have judged me badly for it, even though I was unmarried then. What would I have to do with any other woman, now that I have my wife? But can you imagine her here, Poole? She would be miserable, as I am, pinching pennies to make ends meet, struggling to give the appearance of prosperity where there is only a form of poverty more degrading, more crushing to the soul, than the life of a street-beggar! He is at least free of society’s yoke and has no need to pretend that he is anything else. I am not afraid to die before my time, but what I will not tolerate is the obscure life of a country squire – not for myself, nor for my child.”
“You misled your wife, too,” observed Poole quietly. “She believes you to be wealthier than you are.”
“I trusted that the wealth would come. And I still do,” Radcliff added, swayed to optimism by his own performance. “We must not become discouraged; that is the weakness of inferior strategists, to give up when circumstances take a turn against them. Go to Pembroke and tell him that I’ll attend him shortly. You shall hear from me soon. Now have I still your faith, Poole?”
Poole regarded him with gloomy resignation. “I have hitched my wagon to your star, Sir Bernard, and can only pray that it does not fall.”
Security measures around London had tightened noticeably since Laurence’s last visit. Again he entered under cover of dark and sought refuge in Blackman Street. This time, however, Mistress Edwards’ house wore a less dreary air. The sign alerting passersby to its closure had been removed and its façade whitewashed, and when he knocked at the door, a short, swarthy, unsmiling manservant whom he did not recognise opened it.
“Is Mistress Edwards at home?” he inquired.
“Your name, sir,” the man asked, in a funereal voice, as he showed Laurence into the main parlour, which was now reopened but remarkably austere without its usual hangings, carpets, and bacchanalian paintings. The interior walls had also received a coat of whitewash, and the only objects of furniture were straight-backed chairs and a long table, on which were arranged, of all things, several prayer books. When the man had gone, Laurence entertained himself by leafing through them until Mistress Edwards arrived, walking as gracefully as someone half her age.
“Not out of business, Mr. Beaumont, though I came very close,” she said, offering her gnarled hand for him to kiss. She was transformed, clad in a sober, dark blue dress with a plain, high-necked collar.
“But what business
are
you in?”
“The same as always, though I am obliged to disguise my establishment as a religious meeting house.” He started to laugh. “It’s no joke,” she assured him. “Fifteen years I have spent in this street, a decent citizen making no trouble for anyone, and in a single blow these canting rascals in Parliament nigh on ruined me. The money I pay them in bribes, to keep a roof over my head!” She smiled, permitting him a
glimpse of her large wooden false teeth. “Thank you, sir, for what you did for me last year. My girls wept with joy the day I got out of the Fleet. And they said you saved them from starvation, God bless you.”
“Don’t mention it. I should be thanking
them
– they were extremely helpful to me.”
“Well, now, how many years has it been, sir? Six or more – and you’re as kind on the eye as you ever was, no grey hair yet and no gentleman’s paunch. Would you take a sip of wine and a bite of supper?”
“Yes, thanks. In fact, I was hoping I might stay here for a while.”
“Of course you shall, sir, as an honoured guest.”
“How are your ladies?”
“In fine fettle, the lazy creatures. They’ve gone early to bed, since it’s a quiet night.”
“And Mr. Meyboom, is he still in the garret upstairs?”
“No, he left just after my return. He’d come into some money, he said, and could afford to move away from the river. Said the damp air was bad for his chest. Try a spell in the Fleet, I told him – that could finish anyone off.”
She sat down and shared some wine with Laurence at table, and as he ate, he thought of his conversation with Ingram about Blackman Street.
When he asked if she had ever received a client of Sir Bernard Radcliff’s description, she replied in the affirmative. “Hasn’t graced us for over a year, though.”
“He got married.”
“That don’t stop most men from darkening my door. And have you a wife, sir?” Laurence shook his head, and pushed back his empty plate. “Not even a lover? You must have at least one! Might she be fond of jewellery, Mr. Beaumont? I’ve some trinkets for sale, if you …” Mistress Edwards hesitated, with the peculiar delicacy of a high-class bawd, and he understood at once. She was forced to sell off her own property, just to make ends meet.
“I’d like to see them,” he said.
Simeon had taught him about gems and their cut, and he found it easy to select Mistress Edwards’ best necklace, for which he gave her more than her price.
That night he shared Cordelia’s bed; she was already fast asleep and did not wake when he got in beside her. In the morning, even before opening his eyes, he was aware of a pleasant sensation passing through him; and as he drew back the covers and saw what she was doing, he let her continue. He had been full of frustrated passion for Isabella ever since bringing her to Merton, but after that one kiss she had not encouraged him, and he had refrained from anything more than a few friendly visits to her sickbed. Now he could not argue with the part of his body that Cordelia had coaxed to action. Nonetheless, the experience was like eating with a bad head cold: he did not enjoy it as much as usual.
Over breakfast, he told Mistress Edwards how the women had assisted the Royalist cause on his previous visit, and how they might help him again. Later that day, her maid Sarah dropped by Sir Edmund Waller’s house with the gift of a dried-quince cake to be delivered directly to him alone. Falkland’s correspondence had been baked inside. Sarah returned bearing a note from Waller asking for her to be sent again in two days’ time, so that he could reciprocate with a special offering from his own cook. Meanwhile, Jane headed north across the Thames and westwards, to call upon the law offices of Joshua Poole in Fleet Street. Mr. Poole was away, his clerk told her, and had not said when he would be back. Claiming she was a distant relative of Mrs. Poole’s just arrived from the country, Jane obtained an address off Holborn Hill where she went to look around, and in the evening, she was able to give Laurence a description of both Poole’s offices and his house.
On the following day, Cordelia took a turn about Fleet Street and came home with news. “He’s there. I had it from a girl who was
sweeping the steps next door. And I saw him through his window – a sad little man with beady eyes.”
All well and good, Laurence thought, but how to approach him? Poole’s offices gave onto a busy public courtyard; no arrest could be made in broad daylight without attracting the attention of a Parliamentary patrol. His house seemed a more likely prospect: it stood at the end of a row of other dwellings and had only one door to the street; to the back of the house were gardens and then a field. The main obstacle was Poole’s ferocious guard dog, which had menaced Jane at the garden gate.
“You ask my servant Barlow to go round instead, sir,” Mistress Edwards suggested. “He was a great sneaksman in his youth – prides hisself on it, and still has his fingers in a bit of that trade, I suspect. But he’s been with me four years and did time with me in the Fleet. You can depend on him for your life.”
The lugubrious Barlow averred that he knew everything there was to know about housebreaking, and disappeared for an entire day to scout out the neighbourhood of Holborn Hill. Jane visited Waller and came back with a partridge that must have hung too long, for it reeked, as did what had been stuffed up it: a sealed document for Falkland. The next day Laurence gave Barlow funds to buy a couple of good horses, and at dusk, he primed his pistols and said goodbye to Mistress Edwards and her ladies.
No moon or stars were visible as he and Barlow walked the horses north through small streets and alleys, and over London Bridge. Barlow must have been acquainted with every nightwatchman’s beat, for they were not stopped. When they reached Holborn Hill, they waited an hour or so, their horses tethered, in the fields behind Poole’s house. Once every light inside was extinguished, Barlow crept to the front to keep watch, armed with a cudgel, while Laurence pushed through the garden fence and gained the back entrance.
Immediately he heard growling. He had come equipped with a hambone that he now tossed over the garden gate, and the animal fell upon it, gnawing greedily as Laurence stole past, up the path to the house. Following Barlow’s precise directions, he jimmied open a window on the ground floor and squeezed inside, then moved towards the stairs beneath which the potboy apparently slept in a cupboard. “He won’t wake, sir – the young ’uns never do,” Barlow had said. “They’re too worn out from their labours. It’s the old who sleep lightly, I’ve found.”
The potboy did not wake. Laurence had three more occupants with whom to contend: Poole, his wife, and the maidservant. “She’s Poole’s daughter’s niece by marriage,” Barlow had informed him. “That’s why she has a chamber to herself, off his.”
“What
don’t
you know about them?” Laurence had exclaimed; the Secretary of State could use a man such as this.
At the top of the stairs Laurence found the door to Poole’s chamber ajar. He entered quietly, wishing that Barlow could have told him on which side of the bed Poole slept. But the sound of masculine snoring was sufficient indication. He drew aside the bed curtains with the nose of his pistol, and stuck it against Poole’s temple.
“Mr. Poole,” he whispered. Poole stirred, then blinked at him in alarm. “Don’t wake your wife,” he hissed. “Get out of bed, find yourself some clothes, and come downstairs with me. I won’t hurt you if you do as I say.” Poole slid from his wife’s side and fumbled for his garments and shoes. Then he and Laurence descended the stairs and went out into the garden.
“How did you get past my dog?” he asked, a stunned expression on his face, as he dressed.
“I gave it a bone. Poole, I have to take you to Oxford. The Secretary of State wants to talk to you. If you’re frank with him, you’ll be safe from any charges,” Laurence said encouragingly, although Falkland had made no such promise.
“Please, sir, spare me from arrest,” Poole begged. “My poor wife is not strong! She needs me!”
“I’m sorry, it’s not my decision.”
As Laurence guided him through the gate towards the horses, which were invisible in the darkness, he began talking in a rapid whisper. “Sir, I’ll tell you whatever I can, if you will only let me be! I saw Sir Bernard Radcliff at Longstanton four days ago. He told me you have his letters. He also told me about the regicide. All along he intended to prevent it! He is now looking for you, to explain this. And the Earl of Pembroke is after you both. He heard about that trial and is bent on questioning you.”