The Last Protector Page 8

  The rain was falling gently but steadily. Hakesby sheltered under a tree while Cat and Brennan measured the ground and calculated its relationship to the surrounding buildings.

  Cat noted the measurements that Brennan called out to her. The overall dimensions of the site were a hundred feet by forty, thirty-three paces by thirteen. The plot lay at the north end of the long gallery that ran south to the river; but there were no windows directly overlooking it.

  The work absorbed her. Despite herself, her imagination stirred, and she found herself thinking of how she would build the Solomon House, if the decisions were hers to make. Clearly, the principal windows should face south, towards the river, to have the most advantage from the light. The observatory should be built at the western end, as far as possible from the tall range of apartments that joined the long gallery at right angles.

  It was nearly dinner time before they were finished, because Hakesby wanted her to make rough sketches of the elevations of the surrounding buildings. By this time he was flagging, and the symptoms of his ague or shaking palsy were growing more marked. After they had finished, as they were walking across the nearer courtyard, the three of them arm in arm with Hakesby in the middle, he announced that he wished to be taken at once to the nearest privy.

  Cat and Brennan exchanged glances. The movements of Hakesby’s bowels were sacrosanct and unpredictable. A clock began to strike midday.

  ‘At once,’ her husband repeated, with a note of panic in his voice.

  ‘Will you take him?’ Cat said to Brennan. She nodded towards an outhouse tucked in the corner of the court. ‘Try there. I’ll give the key back to the steward, and meet you in the front court by the archway to the lane. We’ll find a hackney in the Strand.’

  She left Brennan to escort his master to the necessary house. Hakesby’s absence, even for a moment, made her feel lighter and younger. She almost ran into the passage to the court beyond, earning a curious glance from a pair of maidservants who were gossiping out of the rain.

  Cat returned the site key to the steward’s office, and walked at a more decorous pace towards the main gateway. Hakesby and Brennan had not yet arrived, which did not surprise her. To the left of the gate, a covered flight of steps led up to a first-floor entrance. The rain was falling more heavily, so she took shelter in the space beneath the steps. She set her back against the wall, drew her cloak more tightly around her and idly watched the people passing to and fro.

  Two gentlemen emerged from a doorway on the south side of the court, where the main range of the family’s apartments were; on the other side, the windows looked over the gardens and the river. The men were talking earnestly, and walked slowly towards the gateway, their broad hats close together. As they drew near, the one on the left looked up and she recognized him with a jolt of surprise. It was James Marwood.

  At almost the same moment, he caught sight of her. He said a word to his companion, who turned away. Marwood changed his course and walked towards Cat. He stopped a few yards from her and bowed. ‘Mistress Hakesby. I hope you’re in good health.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, yes.’

  For a moment they stared at each other. When she had seen him four months earlier, he had looked haggard, and indeed with reason. Now he seemed in good spirits; he was better dressed than before, too. All in all, she thought with a touch of amusement, he looked quite the rising man of affairs.

  Marwood was examining her too. ‘What are you doing at Arundel House?’

  ‘I might ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I’ve business here.’

  ‘So have I.’

  Disarmingly, he smiled. ‘In fact, my master Mr Williamson sent me to enquire how Lord Shrewsbury does.’

  ‘After that wretched duel?’

  ‘Yes. My lord is recovering.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘And you? Why are you here?’

  ‘Mr Hakesby has been surveying a piece of the garden. The Howards have offered it to the Royal Society for their meeting house.’

  Marwood’s eyes flickered as if he were resisting the temptation to look about him for her husband. The scar tissue on the left-hand side of his face was less angry than it had been a few months ago, less obvious to the eye.

  ‘My husband is easing nature,’ she said primly, answering the question he hadn’t asked. ‘Brennan is with him. I am to meet them here when they are done.’

  ‘And are you all thriving in Henrietta Street?’

  ‘There’s work enough, if that’s what you mean. Though the payments come more slowly than I would like.’

  A short but awkward silence fell like a stone between them.

  He said, ‘And Mr Hakesby’s health?’

  ‘Very well,’ she answered automatically. But then she found herself blurting out something closer to the truth. ‘In truth, he grows no younger, sir, and he has his good days and his bad days.’

  ‘Yes,’ Marwood said. ‘I understand.’

  Cat thought he did. That was the quality she expected least from him and liked most: that he generally seemed to understand what she was about, or at least to accept her for what she was.

  For a moment or two neither of them spoke, but this was a more comfortable silence than before. They stood side by side, looking out at the rain and at people scurrying from doorway to doorway. She was suddenly tempted to lay before him the matter of Elizabeth Cromwell, and ask his opinion about what she should do. She could hardly confide in Hakesby, and she did not entirely trust Brennan.

  But Marwood was different. At their first meeting, during the Great Fire eighteen months ago, circumstances had briefly thrown them together and made them unwilling allies in a dangerous affair that involved Cat’s late father, the notorious regicide Thomas Lovett. Since then there had been two other episodes, when each had been in a position to help the other. They had survived great peril together too, and had kept each other’s secrets. That had bred trust between them, if not friendship.

  She knew that Marwood could keep his mouth shut. Besides, he was much at Whitehall, and was probably better aware than she of how the government currently viewed the Cromwell family. There was also the point that, if the worst came to the worst and there was a sinister motive behind Elizabeth’s actions, the authorities might see it as a point in Cat’s favour that she had asked Marwood’s advice about what to do.

  Before she could speak, though, he turned to her and said, ‘Do you remember when we last met?’

  She felt the colour rising to her face. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I warned you against two men who wish me harm. A tall and very thin one, and his servant who is a big, gross fellow. They both wear swords. The tall one is named Veal. The other one is called Roger Durrell.’

  ‘I remember. I saw them once, in Love Lane.’ She bit her lip, for it had not been a happy occasion.

  ‘They’re the Duke of Buckingham’s creatures. They’re watching this house.’

  ‘Why?’ As she was speaking, she guessed the answer to her question. ‘Lord Shrewsbury.’

  ‘Yes. They wish me harm. If you see them again, would you write to me privately at the Savoy and let me know?’

  ‘Very well. Why do they wish you harm?’

  Marwood shrugged. ‘Because their master does.’

  Surprised, Cat looked at him. ‘You’ve offended the Duke? How?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘There’s something you can do for me, too.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I met an old acquaintance the—’

  ‘Is that Marwood?’

  At the sound of Hakesby’s voice, Cat turned sharply, a sudden, irrational surge of guilt shooting through her. Her husband and Brennan were framed in the archway leading to the passage.

  Marwood was already moving towards them. ‘It is indeed, sir. What a pleasant chance this is, this encounter. How are you?’

  He’s learned to be as smooth as butter, Cat thought. But then Marwood had
always been a quick learner.

  ‘To tell the truth, sir, I wish I were better,’ Hakesby said. ‘It’s the damp weather – I find I cannot tolerate it. I must go back to our lodgings.’ He was so wrapped in his own problems, Cat realized, that he had little time for outsiders except insofar as they affected his comfort. ‘I need a hackney. Would you fetch one for me? You would stand a better chance of success than poor Brennan here.’

  This was tactless but true. Hackneys were in short supply in wet weather, particularly in the Strand. Marwood’s prosperous appearance suggested a full purse, whereas Brennan looked no more than he was: a plainly dressed artisan who did not usually take hackneys.

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Marwood said. If he was surprised by Hakesby’s condition he did not show it. ‘I’ll go up to the street, and leave you to follow at your convenience.’

  Marwood took his leave. With a sour face, Brennan watched him go. She took Hakesby’s arm and followed more slowly, with Brennan supporting him on the other side. When they reached the street, they found Marwood negotiating with the driver.

  He pulled aside the curtain for them. Cat mounted the step first.

  ‘Don’t let the fellow charge you again,’ he murmured to her as she climbed into the coach. ‘He’s had his fare, and he knows where to go.’

  ‘You must let us repay you.’

  ‘Not now.’

  He turned aside to help Brennan manoeuvre the old man into the coach. He did not linger to say farewell but walked away, westwards towards the Savoy or perhaps Whitehall.

  Hakesby kept up a stream of complaint on their way back to Henrietta Street. Their progress was slow, with many stops, because of the traffic. But at least, Cat thought, he was sitting down; it would have been worse for them all if he had had to stand much longer or walk for any length of time.

  When the hackney came to a halt outside their house in Henrietta Street. Brennan scrambled out to alert the porter. Cat followed more slowly with her husband, while their driver watched from the box, with a studiously uninterested expression on his face.

  Brennan and the porter helped Hakesby into the house. Cat followed. On the step, she glanced back. A large man was walking up the road in the same direction as they had taken. He was shabbily dressed, and a heavy sword hung by his side. The sword’s sheath was swinging from side to side, banging against the legs of passers-by.

  For an instant, their eyes met. He examined her briefly, his gaze running up and down in that familiar masculine way that contrived to be impersonal, invasive and insulting, all at the same time. He swaggered across the road and entered St Paul’s churchyard on the other side.

  It was the man she had seen all those months ago in Love Lane, the man Marwood had said might be watching Arundel House. Roger Durrell. In which case, he had probably seen them together in the Strand. He had followed their coach as it struggled through the traffic, as sluggish as Mr Hakesby’s bowels, and at last turned into Henrietta Street. And now he knew where she and Hakesby lived.

  But why had Durrell followed them? It was only as she was climbing the stairs in their house that the obvious answer came to her: because she had been talking to James Marwood.

  The rest of Tuesday was taken up with preparations for Elizabeth Cromwell’s visit in the morning. With Hakesby fussing around them, Cat and the maid prepared the parlour below the Drawing Office. They washed and scrubbed, dusted and polished. They ordered biscuits and sweetmeats to tempt Mistress Cromwell’s appetite and wine to delight her palate. At Hakesby’s insistence, they even placed a provisional order for a dinner to be sent in from a neighbouring tavern.

  ‘After all,’ he said, ‘it’s possible that she might condescend to dine with us.’

  He could hardly have been more concerned, or more excited, if a member of the royal family had been due to visit Henrietta Street. But in a way, Cat thought, that was precisely how the occasion seemed to him. For all his pretended loyalty to the King, her husband believed that the Cromwells were more worthy of veneration than the Stuarts had ever been. In one sense he was right: Oliver had managed to rule England with a firmer hand than either the king who had lost his head or the one who now sat on the throne.

  When Hakesby went upstairs to deal with a query from Brennan, Cat scribbled a note to Marwood, telling him about Durrell, Buckingham’s servant, whom she had seen in the street. She sent it to the Savoy by the porter’s boy. She hoped the boy might return from Infirmary Close with a reply, or even that Marwood himself might call. If she were lucky, they might have a chance for private conversation, and she could discuss the matter of Elizabeth Cromwell with him.

  But when the boy came back, he told her that Mr Marwood had not been at the house, and he had left her letter with the servant.

  That night, Hakesby slept more restlessly than usual. Cat lay awake by his side, counting the hours. When at last the morning came, she and the maid helped her husband dress in his best suit, the one he had worn when they dined at Hatton Garden. After breakfast, he went to his closet. When he emerged he was carrying a scuffed leather folder. Cat settled him in the elbow chair by the parlour fire.

  ‘You must set Mistress Dalton’s chair by the fire too,’ he said, ‘as well as Mistress Cromwell’s.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, ‘and we shall. But first, sit here and rest.’

  To her relief, he obeyed. But he would not relinquish his grip on the folder. He cradled it in his arms like a baby. Even when he dozed off, the dribble running from one corner of his mouth, he did not let the folder slip.

  It was not until a quarter-past eleven that the porter’s boy came running up the stairs to say that a hackney had drawn up outside the street door. With some difficulty, Cat induced Mr Hakesby to remain where he was, while she and Brennan went downstairs to usher the ladies up to the parlour.

  Guided by the boy, however, Elizabeth Cromwell was already mounting the stairs. ‘Catty!’ she cried, putting on a spurt of speed. ‘Dearest! It seems an age since I saw you!’

  The person behind her wasn’t Mistress Dalton, after all. It was her father.

  On the half-landing, Elizabeth embraced Cat with such force that her cheekbone jarred against Cat’s mouth, forcing her to bite her tongue. She curtsied to Cromwell in his guise as Mr Cranmore, who peered at her and gripped the bannister rail with both hands.

  ‘Mistress Hakesby?’ he said uncertainly, as if unsure it was her. ‘Your servant, madam.’

  ‘You are welcome indeed, sir,’ she said mechanically. ‘My husband is upstairs. He begs your pardon for not coming down to greet you – his health is indifferent today.’

  ‘Mr Cranmore has been so obliging,’ Elizabeth said loudly. ‘Mistress Dalton has a chill on her stomach, and he graciously offered to escort me in her place.’

  Cat introduced Brennan. Sulky-faced, he sent Elizabeth a swift, sly glance as if assessing her charms, and then looked down at his feet. In a flutter of compliments, the four of them walked slowly up to the next floor, where the Hakesbys’ apartments were. Brennan opened the parlour door, bowed and left them.

  Hakesby had already struggled to his feet. He gave the newcomers a shaky bow and muttered something about being honoured by Mistress Cromwell’s condescension.

  ‘None of that, sir,’ she cried with an arch note in her voice. ‘We are all friends here, I hope.’

  The maid carried away the visitors’ cloaks. It took several flustered minutes to settle their guests to Mr Hakesby’s satisfaction, and to provide them with the refreshments he felt essential to their happiness as his guests and his honour as their host.

  Under cover of this, Elizabeth leaned her head so close to Cat that she felt the other woman’s breath on her cheek.

  ‘Would you send your maid away when this is done? There is a matter we would like to discuss … in confidence.’

  I am sure you would, Cat thought as she smiled and nodded. And so would your father.

  When the four of them were alone, there was a moment’s silen
ce. Elizabeth glanced at the parlour door, making sure that the maid had latched it properly when she left. She was more richly dressed than before, as if reminding them all of the position she had once held in the world. Mr Hakesby could not help giving her admiring glances in a manner he fondly believed to be discreet.

  Mr Cranmore removed his green glasses and rose to his feet. ‘Sir,’ he said to Hakesby. ‘And you, madam.’ He turned to Cat. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t been altogether open with you. If I may, I should like to make amends.’

  Hakesby stopped fumbling with the strap of his satchel. He looked bewildered. ‘But I don’t understand, sir. The plans—?’

  ‘Forgive me – one moment.’ Their guest’s voice was quiet, but it had become more assured; he had lost his stoop; and his face without the glasses looked younger. ‘Here in London, I am in a delicate position, though I have done nothing wrong, as God is my witness.’

  ‘Nothing wrong?’ Hakesby echoed. ‘Then why—?’

  ‘I have committed no crime, sir, I assure you, and I mean you no harm. But before I took you fully into my confidence, I thought it best – for all of us, I mean – to see you at close quarters, without your knowing my identity.’ He dropped the glasses on the table. ‘Though God knows my troubles have changed me so much I need hardly have troubled to disguise myself.’

  ‘Mr Cromwell,’ Cat said.

  He glanced at her. ‘Yes, Mistress Hakesby, you have it in one.’ He turned back to Hakesby, who was trembling, his mouth wide open. ‘Pray don’t be disturbed, sir. There is no need for concern.’

  ‘My lord,’ Hakesby said faintly. ‘Your – your highness.’

  ‘I beg you, sir – none of that. I am a private gentleman now, and I have been these ten years. Nor have I ever sought to be anything else.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘And I am as loyal to the King as any man.’

  Elizabeth took his hand in both of hers. ‘My dear father.’ She glanced at Hakesby. ‘He can’t bear to be parted from his family. He hasn’t seen any of us for nearly eight years.’