The Best of Men (20 page)

“What difference would it make, in any case, if he were to stay?” Clarke waved at Seward’s possessions, piled up in the centre of the room. “The damage is done.”

“For me, this is merely a temporary retreat.” Seward smiled and patted Laurence’s knee. “Stop looking so gloomy. The country air will do me good! I shall go mushroom picking, and Pusskins will become a champion mouser. And it is small trouble, if we can save His Majesty from these perfidious men.”

“I would advise you, Mr. Beaumont, to make some alteration in your appearance before you visit the Secretary of State,” Clarke said. “A shave and a change of clothes are in order at the very least.”

Laurence opened his mouth to respond but Seward cut him off. “Make yourself useful and take down that box from the shelf, will you, my boy. Clarke, I think it will fit in the chest over in my bedchamber.” Clarke glowered once more at Laurence before stomping away. “And now, Beaumont, we must bid each other goodbye.” Seward gathered up the papers on which he had been working and passed them to Laurence. “The sooner you reach the Secretary of State, the sooner we all shall sleep secure.”

“I don’t give a fuck what he says,” Laurence whispered, indicating the bedchamber. “I’m staying here tonight.”

“I forbid it! And stop worrying about me.”

As Seward hurried him out to the quadrangle, he asked, “When shall I see you again?”

“Talk to Clarke about that. No one else will know where I am. Now may God speed you on your journey.”

Laurence nodded obediently, though he had already decided to come back to Merton after suppertime.

While he was saddling his horse in the College stables, he had the distinct sensation of being watched, and he turned to see a fair-haired youth, evidently a student, looking over at him from beyond the open
doors. The boy then strolled off. Mere curiosity about a stranger, Laurence told himself, and he rode away knowing that on his return he would face Seward’s displeasure.

“Where is my Pusskins?” Seward complained.

“He must not appreciate journeys,” Clarke said. “We shall find him before morning. He is certain to manifest himself at the supper hour.”

“True enough, Clarke. He is almost as much of an epicure as you are.”

They watched the carter hoist Seward’s belongings onto his vehicle and tuck a blanket over them. “This man will go as far as Witney,” explained Clarke, “and there he’ll be met by my housekeeper, who has a second cart to pick up your goods and bear them to their destination. If he’s stopped on the road, there’s not much information anyone could extract from him.”

Once the cart had gone, they repaired to Clarke’s chamber and enjoyed a sip of Malmsey against the damp, until the university bells chimed eight times and they had to set off for the feast. But they had not sat long in the hall when something soft and warm brushed Seward’s leg underneath the trestle table. He looked down to see Pusskins, tail held high, fur standing on end, gums bared, hissing. When he tried to tempt the animal by flinging it a piece of meat, it backed a few paces away towards the doors and emitted a yowl so uncanny that the other scholars ceased talking and gazed at it in astonishment. Then it crept under the table again, and Seward felt sharp teeth on his shin.

“I cannot believe it,” he remarked to Clarke. “He bit me!”

“Cats are not celebrated for their gratitude,” someone said.

“My dear man,” responded Seward, “God has endowed these creatures with keener moral understanding than he has most of us. Any cat could tell you that virtue must be its own reward, or else it is nothing
but the vice of self-love disguised, and doubly vicious because it wishes to go unobserved.”

“Well put,” cried another. “Let’s drink to that.”

Seward was still eyeing Pusskins, now backed off to the door, swishing its tail. When Seward moved his chair, the cat made as if to run. When he sat back, it yowled at him. Since he had not once known Pusskins to do anything without a reason, he guessed that his cat wanted him to follow it.

“Gentlemen, forgive me,” he said, rising. “In my old age I am forgetful – I left a taper burning in my rooms! I must make sure that I have not set fire to them. Clarke,” he added, very deliberately, “would you please come with me?”

Clarke glanced regretfully at his heaped platter but acquiesced. “You know very well that was a lie,” he grumbled to Seward, as they crossed the new quadrangle. “Why on earth must we go hunting for your cat when we could be enjoying ourselves at the feast? I had barely touched the first course –”

“Quiet,” Seward interrupted.

Pusskins had now vanished. The dusk outside seemed more like deepest night after the brilliance of the hall, and they had only a small lantern to illuminate their path. Seward began uttering the chirrups that normally attracted his cat’s attention at mealtime. “Oh, of course, Clarke,” he said, “he will have gone to my rooms. We must stop there and catch him.”

“Damn the beast,” Clarke swore, and they headed off.

As they drew nearer, Seward handed the lantern to Clarke, to fumble for his key in the pocket of his gown. Then Clarke said, “I thought you locked everything up. But your door is ajar.”

“Good God, so it is! Clarke, beware – some kind of mischief has been done.” They both started as Pusskins scampered out of his
chambers, across their feet, and in again. “It’s safe,” whispered Seward. “We can enter.”

The lock had been smashed apart. He applied a fingertip to the door, and it swung wider to reveal shredded paper scattered everywhere, and furniture overturned. In the bedchamber, his mattress lay on the floor sliced through and eviscerated. His pillows had been torn apart, leaving drifts of feathers all about. Even his chamber pot had been cracked in two.

“A mercy you were not here,” Clarke said, gazing about.

“And that there was nothing worth the taking.” Seward stooped, picked up his cat, which had grown calm, and held it close to his chest. “My Pusskins,” he said, “how nobly you acquitted yourself. Oh Clarke, I should have listened to Beaumont.”

“Pah! He’s to blame for all this,” Clarke muttered, righting the only chair left, so that he could sit down.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable, my friend,” Seward told him. “Whoever did this violence got no satisfaction out of it and may come back tonight. We haven’t a moment to lose. We must ride out at once – and we shall take Pusskins with us.”

Laurence had repaired to a tavern for some supper. Finding himself in a quiet corner, he took out the papers to inspect them again, and as his attention was drawn towards a particular arrangement of symbols, he suddenly remembered Dr. Earle’s letter. He had not told Seward what it contained. On no account must it fall into the wrong hands.

At almost ten o’clock, he estimated that Seward would probably still be at High Table, but he could not bear to wait any longer and headed back to Merton. The College porter informed him that he had just missed Seward, who had left with Dr. Clarke half an hour before for an
unknown destination. The change of plan surprised Laurence, and so he asked the porter to admit him, and rushed over to Seward’s rooms.

He had not expected to see light in the windows, but neither had he anticipated that the lock would be removed, leaving a gaping hole in the wood. He opened the door, entering cautiously. All was silent. Inside, as he stumbled about in darkness, he was puzzled to encounter no furniture, not even the heavy old desk. In the bedchamber, he bumped into Seward’s four-poster bed. Too big to move, he thought, but the mattress was gone. Seward had obviously chosen to leave early and was safely away, he reassured himself. Since he had nowhere else to sleep that night, he settled down on the uncomfortable frame of the bed, cradling his pistols across his chest for security, and closed his eyes.

T
he toll of bells woke Laurence in the morning, and immediately he sat up in shock as he saw Seward’s wrecked mattress slumped like some dead beast in one corner of the bedchamber. In the next moment, he was unnerved to hear feet shuffling in the other room. Quietly he cocked his pistols, but when he rose from the bed, it gave him away with a loud creak.

“Tyler, is that you?” called a soft, youthful voice.

Laurence walked out. Before him stood the blond student he had noticed the day before; the boy’s face would make an angel jealous. The expression in his cornflower-blue eyes betrayed both recognition and terror, as he stared at Laurence and the raised pistols.

“Who are you?” Laurence asked, lowering them.

“I – I am Harry Illingsworth. And you?”

“A friend of Seward’s.”

“You startled me, sir. Do you know where he is?”

Laurence shook his head, gazing about. Save for a lone chair, all the furniture had gone and the floor was strewn with debris and feathers, as if gusted there by a whirlwind. “When did this happen?”

“I have no idea. I just came for my lessons in Greek, as I always do.”

“Not much chance of any lessons today, so you might as well leave,” said Laurence.

A different look, flirtatious and crafty, now crossed Illingsworth’s face. “Oh, but Dr. Seward never misses our morning hour together. Why don’t we wait for him? I should enjoy getting acquainted with any friend of his.” And he smiled seductively at Laurence.

Laurence hesitated. He had acted in such scenes before, and was not especially bothered to play out of character as long as matters did not progress too far. He was also curious as to who might appear on stage next. “All right,” he said, smiling back. “But there’s nowhere to sit. Let’s go into the bedchamber.”

The boy agreed at once, and they seated themselves on the frame of the bed, Laurence purposely close to him. “Dr. Seward and I have a special friendship,” Illingsworth declared, with all the subtlety of a novice whore, his fingertips brushing Laurence’s arm. “He finds me beautiful. Would you say the same, Mr. –?”

“I certainly would,” Laurence replied. He set down the pistols on his other side, and began to stroke the boy’s neck. “What sort of things do you like to do with him, apart from your lessons in Greek?”

“We kiss sometimes,” Illingsworth whispered, leaning forward with half-shut eyes, allowing Laurence a chance to reach inside his doublet for his knife. “Would you like to kiss me?” the boy added. Laurence moved even closer, so that their lips touched. “What else can I do for you, sir?” Illingsworth inquired after a while, his fingers straying in the direction of Laurence’s groin.

“You can tell me who Tyler is.”

The boy pulled back. “Tyler?”

“Yes. You called out his name, remember?”

“He’s a … a friend.”

“Another friend of Seward’s?”

“Of mine. Dr. Seward hasn’t been introduced to him yet,” Illingsworth went on, more confidently.

“Then why would you expect to find him here?” The boy looked discomfited again and did not answer. “What’s he like, this man Tyler?” asked Laurence, caressing the boy’s cheek.

“He’s a giant and has huge muscles. And he’s got a walleye. He can’t keep a straight gaze.”

The Englishman’s servant, thought Laurence grimly. He brought his knife to Illingsworth’s throat. The boy tried to jerk away, gasping, but Laurence had him by the collar. “You came looking for
him
, not Seward. You knew Seward was already gone.”

“That’s not true!”

The boy flinched, as Laurence tightened his grip. “When did you first meet Tyler?”

“A – a few days ago. He said he’d heard I was in Dr. Seward’s confidence, and he wanted to – to talk to Dr. Seward in private. He asked me to arrange it.”

“What’s his business with Seward?”

Illingsworth was wriggling about. “I swear to God, he didn’t tell me!”

“I’d advise you to keep still. This blade is sharp and it could slip.” Laurence remembered Clarke’s comment about the boy. “Did Tyler pay you?”

“T-twenty guineas,” Illingsworth admitted, as the point of the knife pressed against his white skin.

“I see. Is that why you’re here?” The boy nodded fractionally. “And all he wanted was an introduction to Seward?”

“Yes!” Illingsworth whimpered. “When he arrives, he’ll make you sorry for how you’re treating me!”

“I doubt he’ll have the time before I shoot him. And he’d be too late to save
you
.”

The boy grew paler. “If you release me, I – I promise I won’t say a word to him about you, nor about Dr. Seward. Please, sir, don’t hurt me!”

Laurence hesitated again, the urge to violence burning in him like sexual desire. But he knew he could not shoot Tyler here in the College without risking arrest himself, and if they fought, he might lose, given the man’s probable strength. And Tyler would have access to the papers he was carrying. The wisest course was for him to quit Merton as soon as possible.

He must have been eyeing Illingsworth as he contemplated murder, for the boy looked about to swoon. “Stay here, if you value your life,” said Laurence, and put back the blade.

He gathered up his pistols and returned to the main room. Illingsworth had not budged an inch. The boy was not made for a game like this, Laurence reflected with disgust, and after a swift glance about the quadrangle, he walked out to fetch his horse.

Lady Beaumont greeted Laurence at the doors with such uncharacteristic warmth that he was instantly suspicious. “To what do I owe such a welcome?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows at her.

“Thomas’ wife, Mary, will be most relieved to see you,” she said, helping him off with his cloak. “She is not at her best, mind you. None of us is.”

She led him into the hall, where Lord Beaumont stood before the fireplace, his arm around the shoulders of a girl not much older than Elizabeth, pretty, although her face was red and swollen from crying. They both looked up, and Lord Beaumont declared, “Oh, thank heavens you are back in time!”

“In time for
what
?” Laurence asked, mystified.

“Thomas is very ill,” explained Lady Beaumont. “His servant Adam arrived to tell us early this morning.”

“The poor fellow is at Nottingham, where the King is gathering his armies,” added Lord Beaumont. “He has the flux, which is widespread amongst the soldiers.”