“What is new is that I believe it to be organized by the Spanish.”
“And what is it to be this time? Massed attack by Fifth Monarchists? A sudden cannonade by rebellious guardsmen?”
“One man. The Venetian gentleman who now passes as a philosopher. He has already killed twice, my servant and Dr. Grove. And he stole letters from me which are of the greatest importance.”
“This is the physician you asked Prestcott about?”
“He is no physician. He is a soldier, a known killer, and is here to murder the Earl of Clarendon.”
Thurloe grunted. For the first time in my life, I saw him surprised.
“You would be best to kill him first, then.”
“Then his paymasters will try again, and swiftly. At least this time I know who he is. Next time I might not be so lucky. I must use this opportunity to uncover the English end of the conspiracy and stop it once and for all.”
Thurloe stood up, took the heavy poker from the hearth and rearranged the logs on the fire so that he sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. He did this for some time; it was always a habit of his to occupy himself with some trivial physical task while he thought.
Eventually he turned to me once more. “If I were you, I should kill him,” he repeated. “If this man is dead, then the plot is at an end. It may be revived, but it may not. If he slips away from you, then you will have blood on your hands.”
“And if I am wrong?”
“Then an Italian traveler dies, ambushed on a road by highwaymen. A great tragedy, no doubt. But all except his family will forget it within weeks.”
“I cannot believe you would take your own advice in these circumstances.”
“You must. When I looked out for Oliver, I always moved immediately when I heard of a plot against his person. Risings, conspiracies, all those minor matters, they could be left to run a little, because they could always be defeated. Assassination is different. One mistake and you are ruined forever. Believe me, Dr. Wallis—do not overreach yourself with subtlety. You are dealing here with men, not geometry; they are less predictable, and more given to causing surprise.”
“I would agree wholeheartedly with you,” I said, “were it not for the fact that I have no man I could rely on to do this, and a botched attempt would only make him more cautious. And for suitable help I would have to inform Mr. Ben-net more thoroughly. I have told him a little, but very far from all.”
“Ah, yes,” Thurloe replied thoughtfully. “That ambitious and pompous gentleman. You consider him less than safe?”
I reluctantly nodded—I still did not know how Cola had found out so quickly about Matthew; it was certainly possible, though dreadful to contemplate, that Bennet himself might have passed on that information and might also be involved in the plot against Clarendon.
Thurloe leaned back in his chair and considered, sitting so long and quietly that I was half afraid he had fallen asleep in the heat of the fire, that perhaps his mind was no longer what it was, and that he could no longer occupy himself with such matters.
But I was wrong; eventually he opened his eyes and nodded to himself. “I would doubt his involvement, if that is what concerns you,” he said.
“Is there something you know that makes you conclude this?”
“No; I know less of the man than you do. I proceed from character, no more. Mr. Bennet is an able man; very able indeed. Everyone knows it, and the king is more aware than most. For all his faults, this is not a prince who surrounds himself with fools; he is not like his father. Mr. Bennet will dominate the government when Clarendon goes, as soon he must. He has power within his grasp; all he has to do is wait for the fruits of office to fall in profusion into his lap. Now, is it likely that a man such as this would suddenly indulge himself in these grandly extravagant actions, which can in no way improve his prospects? Risk all on the throw of dice when patience will soon bring all he wants? That is not his way, I think.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“But there must be a sponsor in England, this is certainly true. Do you know who this is?”
I shrugged helplessly. “It could be any one of many dozen people. Clarendon has enemies without end, for good reasons and bad. You know that as well as I do. He has been attacked in print and in person, in the House of Commons and in the House of Lords, through his family and his friends. It was only a matter of time, I think, before someone attacked his body. That moment may be soon.”
“A rash man, it must be,” Thurloe observed, “to act in such desperation, as however good a soldier your Venetian is, the chance of him missing and being captured must always be there. It may be, of course, that he is being held in reserve, that he will be called into action only if other attempts to ruin Lord Clarendon fail.”
“Such as?” I asked, feeling that once again, Thurloe was teaching me as he had an entire generation of servants of the state. “How do you know all this, sir?”
“I keep my ears open, and I listen,” Thurloe replied with quiet amusement. “A course I recommend to you, doctor.”
“And you have heard of another plot?”
“Maybe so. It seems that enemies of Clarendon are trying to weaken him by associating him with treason. In particular, the treason of John Mordaunt in betraying to me the rising of 1659. In this matter they seek to employ the good offices of Jack Prestcott, the son of the man who took the blame for that regrettable event.”
“Mordaunt?” I asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, perfectly serious, thank you. Shortly before Cromwell died,’’ he continued, “I myself attended a meeting alone with him where he mapped out his own death, which he knew could not be greatly delayed. He could barely walk, so much had his final illness gripped him, and so severe were the treatments meted out to him by his physicians. He knew as well as any he had but a little time remaining, and he regarded the prospect unflinchingly, wanting only to ensure that his affairs on earth were settled before the Lord took him.
“He instructed me how to proceed, confident that his orders would be obeyed, even though he was no longer here to enforce them. His protectorate would pass temporarily to his son Richard, he said, and that would buy the time necessary to conclude negotiations with Charles about how best to effect a restoration of the monarchy. The king was to be allowed back only if he was shackled with so many chains limiting his deeds that he would never act as his father had.
“Naturally, the whole affair was to be kept the closest guarded secret; no meeting was to be noted, no letters, and not a word should be spoken outside the small circle on both sides privy to the talks.
“I did as I was told because he was right—only Cromwell kept civil war at bay, and when he went it would resume unless the breach in the nation was healed. And the English are a monarchical people, who love subjection more than freedom. It was desperately difficult, as if the fanatics on either side knew of it, then we would all be cast aside. Even so, they carne close to taking power again, and I was thrown out of office for a while. Even then, though, I kept the talks going, with John Mordaunt representing His Majesty. One of the conditions, of course, was that all plans and plots for risings should stop—and if the Royalists themselves could not stop them we were to be given enough information so we might do so. Accordingly, Mordaunt gave us full details of the 1659 rising, which was put down with considerable loss of life.
“Many more would have died had war resumed properly, but that would not save Mordaunt if the details of this transaction were known. The trouble is that this young man Prest-cott is trying to prove his father innocent, and must inevitably prove Mordaunt guilty if he is to succeed, for he has been told enough to know who was really responsible. Then it would be assumed that Clarendon gave Mordaunt his orders.”