The Best of Men (44 page)

“We’d still lack evidence of Pembroke’s guilt. It is a terrible charge to bring against a noble so well-reputed and honoured, and a perilous thing for us, should we levy it wrongly.”

“If he did not fall at Edgehill, Radcliff must be arrested and interrogated,” Clarke declared.

“I suggested something of the sort to Falkland even before I was certain of Radcliff’s guilt,” said Beaumont. “I wish I still had those letters. It’s thanks to Hoare that we lost them. All he’s got left are my transcriptions, and all
we
have are my copies.”

“Not any more,” Seward confessed. “I thought it best to destroy them before I fled from Merton.”

“Christ, what a pity!” Beaumont gave a short, despondent laugh. “Oh and I forgot to tell you, I’ve learnt that Hoare could be a threat to Falkland. He can’t tolerate the endless peace negotiations, and he may be reading Falkland’s private correspondence, trying to catch him out in some indiscretion with Parliament. I warned Falkland, and he asked me to bring him some proof of it.”

“Let us hope this matter does not interfere with his pursuit of the regicides,” said Seward anxiously.

Beaumont nodded. “Just the same, though, I’d like to see Hoare dismissed as soon as possible.”

“Gentlemen, we have had a great adventure this morning,” intervened Clarke, as if to terminate the conversation. “We may yet have more, when the King’s army arrives.”

“And then pray heaven I can clear my name, and Pusskins and I can move back into my rooms,” Seward added. “And what about you, Beaumont?”

“You already gave me my orders,” he said, with a sardonic smile. “I have to find Radcliff.”

A
fter a victorious sweep into Oxford, the King’s forces had pushed southeast to menace the capital. Parliament was renewing its peace overtures, even as it hurried to strengthen fortifications around London in case of an attack. From a position of strategic advantage at Reading, His Majesty declined to receive one of its chief Commissioners. At the same time, Prince Rupert was making quite clear his disdain for a settlement by pillaging the local countryside and skirmishing with any Parliamentary troops he found there.

Meanwhile, Laurence had searched vainly for Radcliff’s name on the list of casualties from Edgehill and was now convinced that he must still be alive.

“If he’s a person of any quality he may have been taken hostage to London,” said Wilmot, when Laurence consulted him one evening. “The rebels will wring some money out of him and then swap him for a prisoner of ours. Why, what’s your interest in him?”

“He’s the brother-in-law of a very good friend of mine, Walter Ingram.” Laurence pretended to think for a moment. “Wilmot, have you ever considered how valuable it might be to have some better intelligence about London’s fortifications?”

“Are you suggesting you could sneak into London and not get caught?”

“I know I can. With Rupert chasing down all the Parliamentary forces between here and the city, there won’t be enough troops to stop every man travelling alone, especially at night.”

As Laurence had anticipated, any praise for the Prince instantly raised Wilmot’s hackles. “All right, Beaumont,” he said. “But I want you to swear that you won’t share your information with anyone else before I see it.” Laurence swore obediently. “When do you propose to leave?”

“Tonight, if I have your permission.”

“Tonight, eh?” Wilmot burst into laughter. “I’m well aware that you’ve your own reasons for making this journey, but if they keep you away too long, all friendship aside, I’ll see that you pay. And if you do get caught, don’t expect any help from me.”

“That’s understood,” said Laurence.

He gained the city outskirts just as the sun began to rise. At the Chelsea turnpike, he stabled his mount at an ostler’s yard and waited until dusk in the quiet meadows nearby, before walking down towards the river. Eluding some sentries near Tothill Fields, he stole passage on one of the barges carrying goods downstream and hid, crouched amongst sacks, his legs horribly cramped. When it pulled into dock just short of the Bridge to unload, he jumped off, into familiar territory not far from Blackman Street, where he hoped to seek shelter.

Mistress Edwards’ brothel had once been as busy and well reputed in London as Simeon’s house in The Hague, yet when Laurence arrived all was silent in her street, and the place itself was boarded up with a sign pasted on the door: Closed by Order of Parliament. As he stood reading it, the contents of a chamber pot were tossed from a window above, narrowly missing his head.

“For Christ’s sake, watch what you’re doing,” he shouted up.

“Lord bless us!” cried a female voice that he recognised, and Mistress
Edwards’ maid peered out of the window. “If it isn’t Mr. Beaumont!”

“Sarah,” he said, “may I come in?”

The window slammed shut. Soon the front door opened. “Gracious, sir, I can’t believe it – haven’t seen you in years,” Sarah whispered, closing the door behind him.

He clasped her hands in greeting and asked eagerly, “How are you all? Well, I hope?”

“Oh no! What hardship we’ve fallen upon, sir! Mistress Edwards has been thrown in the Fleet Prison with some of the ladies, and we who are left have barely a penny between us. We’ve been asked to pay so much tax on everything you can think of, and we’re nigh on starving.”

“You’ve had no custom?”

“A little here and there,” she replied, “but the ladies must be ever so sly about it. And the men who come here know how miserable we are. If the ladies don’t agree to their price, they say they’ll call in the authorities.”

The main room where Mistress Edwards used to receive her guests was completely blocked off, the entrance roughly plastered over. Sarah showed Laurence upstairs, into a bedchamber stripped of its former luxurious hangings. There he found three women wrapped in blankets sitting round a fireplace in which a lump of coal smouldered; two of them he knew, the fancifully named Cordelia and Perdita, while the other must have arrived after his time. They all looked to him thin and pale, though appealing nonetheless, for Mistress Edwards, like Simeon, had taste.

“Welcome back, sir!” cried Cordelia, jumping up to embrace him. “This is Mr. Beaumont, Jane,” she added, to their companion. “One of our favourites, he was!”

Jane rose and curtseyed. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“We thought you didn’t like us any more,” Perdita reproached him. “Where’ve you been all these years?”

“I was abroad, or else of course I would have come to see you.” He shivered; he could see his breath in the air. “It’s freezing in here.”

“We’ve no more coal,” said Cordelia.

“Any wine, then?”

“Not a drop,” Sarah apologised.

“Can you buy some?”

“I could buy whatever you want, sir, if I only had the money.”

He gave her a few pounds for provisions, and after she hurried off, he sat talking with the others, who told him what a sad decline they had witnessed since Parliament ruled the city.

“No playhouses, no bear-baiting, no music except for hymns – no fun,” Cordelia lamented.

“You ain’t with the rebels, are you?” Jane asked.

He shook his head. If the Royalists were to lose this war, he thought now, life would be unbearable: it seemed as if Parliament were bent on suppressing every pleasure available to Londoners. “I’m here looking for information that may help His Majesty’s cause,” he said. “And as a matter of fact, you might be able to help
me
, because I won’t be able to go about the city openly.”

After Sarah returned, and they were all invigorated by food, drink, and a blazing hearth, he began to describe what he would like them to do, then stopped, on hearing a heavy tread on the stair beyond.

“That’s just the old Dutchman, Meyboom, what sleeps in the garret,” Sarah said. “Calls himself an artist, but he can’t get his paintings sold any more, so all he does is signs.” She gestured to a corner of the bedchamber. “There’s a whole stack of his canvases. Bowls of fruit and flowers and dead birds, most of them.”

Laurence got up to inspect them; they were not unskilfully executed. “Do you think he’s hungry?” he asked the women, who glanced at each other and began to laugh uproariously, as if this were a
foolish question. “Take him up what’s left of the meal, and tell him I want to speak with him in the morning.”

“And may we send poor Mistress Edwards a hot dish tomorrow?” Sarah asked.

“Yes indeed.” He found himself yawning. “So … where might I sleep?” he inquired, with a smile.

Cordelia giggled and nudged Perdita, who said, “You can have your choice of beds, sir.”

That night he chose Cordelia’s, for he had known her longest, and he had not forgotten some of her more ingenious talents.

The next day, as they lay together, she observed, “If we were starving for a decent meal, I think you were hungry for something else.”

“You’re right, I was, and thank you for it,” he said, kissing her affectionately.

He was feeling hungry again when there came a knock at the door.

“Mr. Meyboom to see you, sir,” Sarah called out.

“Well, isn’t that a nuisance,” Cordelia teased, pinching Laurence on the rear as he launched out of bed. “And just look at the state of you!”

“Most inconvenient,” he agreed, taking his time to dress before opening to the Dutchman.

Meyboom was grey in hair and beard, and hollow in the chest, his face pale from the same inadequate diet as that of the women. His shabby garments were dust-coloured with wear save for a few bright splatters of paint on the front of his doublet. “Mr. Beaumont, I thank you for the sustenance last night,” he said, in ponderous English. “What may I do for you?”

Laurence addressed him in his own language. “I would like to commission a painting. Not a still life – a mythical subject. A scene with two Greek gods, Eros and Harpocrates.”

“Ah – I have read my classical authors,” Meyboom answered proudly. “Eros gave a rose to Harpocrates, the god of silence, to keep him from revealing the weaknesses of the other deities.”

“That’s exactly what I wish you to portray. There’ll be some text, as well, but it can come later. When could you start?”

“As soon as you supply me with a small advance to purchase the necessary materials, sir.”

Laurence obliged with a large advance, and Meyboom left contented.

“What a tongue, Dutch – sounds more like spitting than speaking,” Cordelia said. “Now then, Mr. Beaumont, what about those new gowns you promised us?”

The four women were disappointed, however, when they heard what Laurence had in mind. “Must they be so plain?” Perdita asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Very plain,” he said. “Collars up to your chins, and caps over your ears. And no paint on your faces. Mr. Meyboom can use all the paint he likes, but not you.”

“Oh, I get your meaning – we’re sinners disguised as saints!” Jane exclaimed.

It was Jane, suitably apparelled, whom he sent out towards Whitehall to inquire as to the whereabouts of the Earl of Pembroke’s house. On the pretext of selling eggs she called there and, after a day or two, became friendly with the kitchen boy. In exchange for a cuddle, she learnt that a Mr. Rose had been staying a while back to heal from a wound. He had since gone, the boy knew not where.

When she reported this to Laurence, he was so delighted that he gave her an enormous hug, picking her up off her feet. “Jane,” he said, “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It was easy, sir,” she said, as he set her back down again. “We are all actresses, we whores. If only they’d let a girl on the stage.”

“If only there was a playhouse still open,” Cordelia grumbled. “Our turn now, Mr. Beaumont. What are the rest of us to do?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Laurence.

Over the following days, as Mr. Meyboom painted away upstairs, the women toured London using their various wiles to extract intelligence from unsuspecting citizens and Parliamentary guards alike. Gradually two images began to take shape: one a map of the city’s defences in Laurence’s blotted scrawl, and the other, on canvas, a depiction of the two gods. Meyboom claimed to be a quick worker and estimated that the painting would be finished and dry in a fortnight’s time. Laurence was perfectly happy to wait, even if he could not leave the house for fear of the city militias. He slept late, and when all was quiet during the afternoon he worked on his map. Each evening the women brought him fresh details, which they would discuss over supper, and then he would retire to his choice of bed.

“Well, sir, how does it strike you?” Meyboom inquired at last, as they examined his creation.

Against a background of rustic scenery, the semi-clad Eros held out a red flower to Harpocrates, who stood in his traditional pose, a finger to his lips. Between them was a tomb, on which lay a sword in a green scabbard.

“It’s excellent,” Laurence said. “And now there’s one more thing I want you to include.” He gave Meyboom a small piece of paper, which the artist had to put on his spectacles to read. “If you please, copy what I’ve written, right here on the canvas.”

Just past the middle of November, Laurence called the women together and revealed to them his map. At the far eastern extremity of the city was a bulwark at Gravel Lane, the beginnings of another in Whitechapel Road, a redoubt near Brick Lane, the same at
Hackney and two at Shoreditch in the northeast, batteries at Mountmill and St. John’s Street End, a large fort at the new River Upper Pond, and so on round to the northwest. The western approaches, which might prove most interesting of all to the King’s strategists, were being covered by further batteries, forts, redoubts, and breastworks, and finally, on the south side of the Thames, a fort at St. George’s Fields; another close to the brothel, at the end of Blackman Street; and one more in the Deptford Road.

“Your hard work,” Laurence told them gratefully.

“We’ve the blisters on our feet to prove it,” Sarah said, laughing.

She then went up to summon Meyboom, who descended promptly with his canvas and sketches. “Thanks to your commission, sir,” he said, “I shall not have to paint any more signs until the New Year.”