Traitor's Field (42 page)

[SS C/S/49/133]

The great hall which the Government had commandeered for Thomas Scot and his platoon of clerks looked out, from the windows of one of its long sides, on Cornhill. In the morning the sun from the great thoroughfare would bleach the men hunched at their papers. In the evening, torches would flicker weird through the glass. And always the smells of the city creeping in. The other three sides of the building were marked by the back alleyways of London: at one end, inaccessible from Cornhill, a closed courtyard where the rubbish of decades of building work had collected and where animals slunk to die. This was the exterior of the blank, fireplace end of the hall. At the other end, under a minstrels’ gallery, Scot had his cubicle and other storerooms and offices huddled together, with rarely used windows opening onto the warren that spread from Cornhill away into the darker districts of the city.

After his experiences at Nottingham Castle, and Pontefract, and London fortress Thurloe had found that he was in the habit of exploring and understanding the obscurer details of his surroundings. After his experiences at Doncaster and here in London, rattling between the evasions of Scot and Tarrant and Lyle, he had found himself increasingly frustrated.

This morning was passing as had become routine, the subdued murmuring and careful bustle of the young men at their work, the scratching of pens and papers, the transit of the sun across the benches, until a blast of thunder hammered at the blank end of the hall and had the young men leaping startled to their feet and gaping in surprise. Thomas Scot hurried in a moment later, staring anxious at his shaken world. Everyone was watching the other end of the hall, where the explosion – had it been an explosion? – had happened. There were cracks in the plasterwork over the fireplace, and plaster dust drifting down, and shards of glass on the floor where one small window high in the corner had shattered.

Scot gasped, hoarse: ‘Assassins!’ and stared around himself.

Tarrant had grabbed his arm. ‘Out – now!’ Scot hesitated, resisted on instinct. ‘We must get you to safety, Master Scot!’

‘Fire! There’s a fire!’ Now, from a room against the back wall of the building, under the gallery and next to Scot’s cubicle, thick smoke was beginning to drift. One intrepid spirit pushed at the door, and flames were visible.

‘Move, sir!’ Scot let himself be pulled towards the main door, then began flapping an arm towards his cubicle. ‘You must away, Master Scot!’ And Tarrant was still pulling him out into Cornhill, leading the way with knife drawn.

Scot was still gaping around as he left. ‘Papers!’ he called, shrill, to anyone. ‘You must be careful!’ But it wasn’t clear to anyone whether the papers should be taken with them as they fled or left where they were; or perhaps Scot had been addressing his beloved papers directly. With the smoke still gusting in, the hall emptied with coughs and hurrying feet.

The empty hall, and the smoke, and then solitary movement. From the room of flames, John Thurloe emerged, a cloth held over his face and eyes straining for sight. Three steps took him to Scot’s cubicle. A breath, hissed in through teeth and the muffling cloth, a final glance to see that he was alone, and in.

Who am I become?
The ledger was on the desk, as always, exactly centred and open.
How many minutes?
He was around the desk and clutching at the ledger with both hands.
How many minutes? Surely not many.
Five. He’d allowed five. Once it was clear that there was no more threat and no more fire, they would – his hands were still clamped at the two sides of the ledger –
Concentrate!

‘1038. Dublin (Army) – 29th August 1649 – summary of attitudes and practices among soldiers during. . .’ As he’d thought, each page was a summary of an intelligence report. ‘1039. Cicero – 29th August 1649  the reformed Parliament is not minded to. . .’
Looking for August 1648. Preston. 17th August
. He had to focus on two narrow windows only. There was no time. Hands scrabbling at the pages, pulling them over in clumps. 1648 – April – the King believes – June – in Scotland it is

 threats – the Army wants – July – the King is –
surely a minute gone already
– August – brushing at the pages with his palm, one at a time and clutching for meaning – Scottish – army – south – rumours of – direction of march will – a courier was – it is certain that. . . He snapped back – the courier – and dashed through Scot’s meticulous script. ‘427. Doncaster – 15th August 1648 – presumed Royalist agent or courier, contrary to their usual routines, observed and pursued as far as Leek, where lost, believed wounded.’
Contrary to their usual routines?
There was nothing here. He knew all this.
Another minute gone – concentrate!
Again his hands gliding over the pages.
Rainsborough: Rainsborough died on 30th October
. Scottish stragglers seen – acts of revenge by – Duke of – In Newport it is – captured today – Rainsborough – He clutched at the page. ‘582. Doncaster – 30th October –’ the report of Rainsborough’s assassination. But nothing new in this. Lyle’s immediate investigation of the death, presumably. Had a copy of his own report come here to be summarized?
Another minute: two minutes left.
Thurloe’s head lifted instinctively and he strained to hear.
What am I even looking for now?
His fingers began to turn the pages into November.
No – not after – the history of that incident is in what came before
. Now his left hand brushing wildly at the pages, back into October, eyes staring for references to Pontefract and Doncaster.
What was going on in those towns in those strange weeks? What was going between them?

In Cornhill, a crowd had gathered around Scot and his clerks, inflating and elaborating the story with every question and suggestion, and making the old man increasingly uncomfortable. ‘That’ll teach you to ban the lads’ games!’ a voice called, and Tarrant turned and glared at the crowd. ‘Damn your taxes!’ someone else added.

‘Powder – it was powder.’ A clerk emerging from an alley and hurrying up to Tarrant and Scot. ‘You can see by the scorching on the wall.’

Tarrant: ‘Is there any more?’

‘I didn’t – I didn’t see any.’

‘Check, man! You two as well.’

‘Tarrant, may we not re-enter? There is surely no more danger.’

‘In a moment, Master Scot.’

550 was a report on conditions inside Pontefract. 551 recorded the progress of the siege and Cromwell’s intentions. 554 summarized attitudes in Doncaster. 559 reported a forthcoming sally by Pontefract’s defenders against a forward battery. 561 was Doncaster again – news reaching Pontefract of Cromwell’s army – not the usual – presumably Reverend Beaumont at work, 562 –
One minute. I must leave in one minute.
562 –
Something unusual?
Eyes hurrying down the lines of 561 again. Military details being sent to the Royalist garrison in Pontefract, from Doncaster, and not by the usual hands.
What does any of this mean?
562 was from the Scilly Isles, 563 was from Scotland. 564 gossip from Parliament, 567 progress of the siege and Cromwell’s intentions again, 568— And suddenly the sound of voices and boots.
Move!

567? Surely –
checking the sequence of numbers, fingers scrabbling in the crease, finding the faint ridge, all that was left of the absent page.
Move!

Tarrant led the way back into the building, ready for a new threat but certain that there was no other door by which it could come. Thomas Scot was quickly pushing past him and hurrying back into his cubicle, hands stretching to touch and check papers and heart sighing as it saw the ledger, open and unmoved, in its proper place on the table. 1039. Cicero.

Tarrant had moved on to explore the adjacent room, and was quickly out, as the first of the clerks began to drift in from the street. ‘Remains of a powder barrel in there,’ he said, to no one in particular. ‘Misfired, maybe.’ Scot was in front of him now, and anxious. ‘Burned a few papers. Not much. I can’t see how it made all that smoke.’

Nor would he. A bucket had been abandoned in the slime of the back alleys, showing little trace of the wet straw that had burned in it. Among the crowd of returning clerks came John Thurloe, curious like the rest.

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