14

When I left for the meal, Esther was reciting from her catechism in the kitchen, her back straight against her chair, her hands open to admit the presence of God.

What will become of the righteous?

They shall be taken to Heaven.

What is Heaven?

A glorious and happy place, where the righteous shall be forever with the Lord.

What is Hell?

A place of dreadful and endless torment.

I did not disturb her. She had been no more than civil, in any case, since she had announced her intention to wed Rutherford, and I had not quite brought myself to admit my change of heart, if that was what it was. Once or twice I had approached her, but something dissuaded me from speaking. Interrupting her prayer wouldn’t cause her to look any more kindly on me. I promised myself I would talk to her tomorrow.

The surroundings for the meal were opulent, but even knowing Welmet Huxley was hot on the heel of godly works, the food was scantier than I had expected. Having consumed the last mouthful of my mutton – still as tough a slice of meat as any I have chewed – I sat back, thinking about making conversation to stifle the continued growling of my stomach.

To my left was Huxley. He was probably the thinnest person I had ever seen, to the extent that it was disconcerting to watch him push his measly serving of meat and potatoes around his plate, as if the act of putting a knife to it might bring down the Devil himself to congratulate him upon his gluttony. His lovage soup had been sent back to the kitchen barely touched. I wondered whether the man was sick with some concealed inner pain. He grimaced and cleared his throat frequently, and, when he bothered to speak at all, spoke snappishly to his wife, a drab girl some years younger than her husband. They did not look content with life.

Huxley was undoubtedly rich. It had taken twenty minutes to ride from the gates to the stables. I passed acres of woods, landscaped gardens in which swans wintered on an ornamental lake, and a huge orchard. Huxley Hall itself was quite new, with an elegant façade of stone and glass. It had three wings, each with its own chimneys, though only one spiralled with smoke. On arrival I was shown into a big lamp-lit hall with stained-glass windows depicting, in an oddly beautiful manner, the bleak landscape of the Fens. There were no Judgement Day scenes here, no Old Testament figures carrying tablets or saints and their insignia. The builder of this house was a Puritan, like my father, but I knew my father would have had to bite his tongue at this ostentation. He would have praised the industry that brought such wealth, but the money itself, I thought, he would rather have seen gracing the bellies of the poor. And I? I was not certain what I thought yet. There was nothing wrong with a man earning his way in the world, but perhaps I thought he should do so with his own hands, and had yet to grapple with what he should do with the rewards. I suppose I was still young enough to envy Huxley’s wealth, and the liberties I believed it offered.

After a wait of several minutes, a footman emerged and invited me to remove my cloak. I felt a pang of shame as I handed it over, revealing my shabby clothing below. The footman bade me follow, and we progressed through a windowed gallery densely lined with portraits, standing alongside white marble statues of serious-looking men, and women of angelic beauty. The centrepiece was a merchant ship in an unusual glass case, exquisitely rendered in oak, canvas and gold leaf, the model itself as long as I am tall. I would have liked to examine this more closely, but Huxley’s man set a brisk pace, showing me through to the library. This room was huge, with at least seven or eight times the shelving as in my father’s study, but where Father’s few shelves heaved with the books and pamphlets he liked to read, here not all the shelves were full; Huxley was a new man, after all.

Manyon was already in the library holding a delicate crystal glass of fortified wine, engaged in conversation with a tall, austere-looking man who turned when my arrival was announced. The man came forward from the shadow of the shelves to nod formally and introduce himself as Welmet Huxley. I gave my name in kind, noting that Huxley’s jacket and shirt were not particularly better than my own, and there was even a frayed cuff in sight. This made me feel better, although I thought it odd, in amongst all these luxuries, that a man would dress himself so poorly for guests.

‘I knew your father by reputation,’ said Huxley. ‘It was on his account that I asked Manyon here to extend you an invitation.’

I bowed, but not too low. However deep my host’s coffers, my father had taught me that all men were the same, each and all made in the image of God. I believed at least the first part. ‘I am honoured that you would think of me. And it is a pleasure to see your home, and its beautiful grounds.’

Huxley shook his head as if to dismiss the compliment. ‘A man must settle somewhere,’ he said. ‘This place is as good as any other.’

Manyon supped his wine and laughed. ‘You’re a modest man, Welmet,’ he said. ‘This house is as fine as any I have seen in Norfolk.’

‘A terrible vanity,’ Huxley conceded. ‘And one I regret, somewhat, now that war threatens. At such times, a man might be better advised to hold his resources in coin, no?’

‘You believe the King might prevail?’ Manyon asked, and I groaned inwardly at the talk of politics so early in the evening, when it would almost certainly be the dominant topic once the pipes and brandy bowls came out.

I listened politely as we waited for Rutherford’s arrival, but when there was a gap in the conversation, I took the opportunity to escape it by asking Huxley’s permission to see the library more closely, and was granted leave. I scoured the shelves, surprised by how many names I recognised, having thought I had forgotten more than I had retained from my education. I noted bound works by Calvin and Erasmus alongside an army of pamphlets and tracts in meticulously labelled order: the names of writers like the pilloried, earless William Prynne and the Five Dissenting Brethren stood next to – to my surprise – that of John Milton, his lying beneath a fresh-looking document entitled The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce.

I felt sure some of these writers had been exiled and their works banned, and that it was only the longevity of Parliament’s seat, and the war itself, that allowed Huxley to be so bold as to store them in plain sight. He had to be very confident of a victory for the Parliamentary forces, or he would be advised to be more circumspect.

Behind me, Huxley and Manyon spoke in low voices; not quite whispers, but beneath the level of proper hearing. I heard the name Chrissa Moore, and remembered what Manyon had said about wealthy men of the community bending his ear.

Manyon was now seated opposite me at the wide oak table in the dining room. The magistrate was next to Goodwife Huxley, and engaged her in charming trivialities as they ate. The young woman answered, but briefly, allowing him as much space as he liked to talk, and Manyon made the most of it. His ability to discourse on things which might be of interest to a young woman – fabrics, poetry, botany and music – impressed me, as I had little knowledge of those things myself, but it drew no favour from his taciturn hostess. Nor did she pay attention to her husband. I felt sorry for Goodwife Huxley – a more miserably married girl bound to a greying old man, I had not seen. I thought again of Rutherford and Esther, wondering if their union would answer better than I had allowed, and resolved to apologise to her. It was, after all, her choice; who else’s?

But Rutherford had not arrived at all. In the library, Manyon grew visibly embarrassed by the rudeness of his assistant’s absence, and I hoped not to be marked out by any offence received by Huxley. Eventually, Manyon suggested Rutherford might have been taken ill. Huxley sniffed and said, sourly, ‘Let us hope not. In these chaotic days, we cannot afford to lose such a soldier of God’s works. Come, let us eat.’ We went through to the dining room.

The meal was a sombre, slow affair, not worth the ride of more than an hour. As the meat course concluded, Manyon sank back into his seat. He looked ready for sleep, but perked up at the mention of the sweet. But Huxley looked sharp and wakeful.

‘So, Manyon, what progress in the case of this witch?’ Huxley asked, dabbling his digits in an exquisite silver fingerbowl to remove the mutton residue. I copied him, although the mutton had been so dry, I doubted it was necessary.

Manyon looked sidelong at me. His gaze seemed to hold a warning, if I was reading him correctly, to let him take the initiative. He need not have worried. I had no intention of stepping into the fray.

Steepling his fingers, the magistrate frowned as a servant refilled his glass. ‘The position is a difficult one, as you must know.’

‘Oh?’ Huxley dried his fingers on the tablecloth and then peered at Manyon, who sipped from his glass and complimented the wine before answering.

‘The girl has been incarcerated for over a fortnight, now. She has claimed – or she did at the time of her arrest – to be with child. I would thank you to keep that to yourself, by the way. And although all necessary measures have been taken to investigate her person, including a bodily examination, a search for familiars, a search of her personal effects, as well as several efforts to interrogate her and induce her to speak in her own defence, no further evidence has been forthcoming of any diabolical communion at all. Only’ – and here he nodded to me – ‘the tragic death of Richard Treadwater, and the clear evidence given by young Esther Treadwater, stand in the way of my releasing the girl—’

‘But there were other deaths,’ Huxley broke in. ‘Surely it can be assumed that the deaths of Goodwife Gedge and her daughter, so closely connected with Chrissa Moore and so near her at the time of their demises, are attributable to her deviousness and devilish compacts?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Manyon, warily. ‘But assumption is not my habit.’

Huxley snorted. ‘More than possible, I should say. I’ve seen those cells – I paid towards them, so I should know.

‘There is no way Dillon was involved, and you’ve assured me they could not have secreted hemlock on their persons. The only explanation is diabolical assistance, a familiar of some sort, transitioning the stuff from one place to another. Come, now; it’s clear the girl must be made to talk, using any means necessary. You know this as well as I. For all our sakes, when the assizes resume, this must have been dealt with by the book, or else we will all look foolish. Which is why,’ he said, looking at the empty chair pulled up for Rutherford, ‘I wished your assistant to be here, so he could relate the detail of the interrogations he has conducted with the Moore girl.’

‘I will certainly be reprimanding him,’ Manyon asserted, then caveated, ‘should he be unable to furnish me with a good explanation of his absence tonight. But as to his interrogations, I fear nothing of note would be revealed. The girl stands as silent as the Tarpeian Rock. Surely, none of us wishes to see a public spectacle, ending in failure?’

Huxley nodded to his wife, who stood with a melancholy whisper of her skirts and left the room. Just moments later, a servant brought in a layered dish of sugared fruit, leaving it uncovered in the centre of the table. I stared at the fragile crust of sugar on orange peel and skinless plums, and found my mouth watering. I looked away, embarrassed, but Huxley encouraged me to take a slice. I placed one of the delicacies in my mouth. My tongue was overwhelmed by the sweetness of the crystals and tartness of the orange.

As I swallowed, Huxley continued. ‘But there is a way, is there not, to lean on her without creating a spectacle?’ His face was fox-like in the candlelight. His eyes fell on me and I felt the rapacious intelligence behind them. ‘I am of the understanding that her young brother, a simpleton, has ended up in your care, Mr Treadwater?’

I almost choked as the peel passed down my throat, and took a sip of wine to regain control. Manyon and Huxley looked at me expectantly. I hesitated. So, this was why I was here. To play the Judas, to part with Henry so that the boy could be used against his sister. What did they intend to do with him? Threaten him? Hurt him? With so few aware of the boy’s existence and no family to object, the obstacles to Henry coming to harm were flimsy.

I met Manyon’s eyes, trying to gauge what my new master wanted, but the magistrate sat well back in shadow, his shoulders relaxed and his face unreadable.

I glanced at Huxley, who had not touched the sweet food with any more enthusiasm than he had the savoury, but just stared at me from below his vertiginous forehead. I wondered what I was supposed to see in Huxley, a man of contradictory habits, who ate meat like a pauper and sweets like a king, who had constructed a house to rival those of the great men whose extravagance his Puritan faith decried, but wore torn cloth to dinner. Was I to recognise a man of God in him?

I thought of Henry and his simple, honest face, its expression frequently elevated by joy and crumpled with fear. I had not thought to assume responsibility for a helpless, friendless little boy. But I knew, also, where my own interest lay: unequivocally, in co-operating with men like Manyon and Huxley, because in their gift lay the preferments and privileges that would see Esther and me getting on in society, or not.

And, finally, I allowed into my mind the image of Chrissa Moore, whose face and form I had tried so hard to banish. The sweetness that still sat in my mouth from the sugared fruit tasted cheap now, in comparison to the memory of the richness of her voice and the depth of her wine-dark eyes. I blushed, and cast out the thought.

When I spoke, I tried to adopt Father’s voice, channelling the calmness and sense of justice I remembered from my childhood. ‘That is true, sir. The boy has been taken into my household, with an offer of work and board.’ It wasn’t difficult to sound certain; I knew in my bones that this was what my father would have done.

Huxley sensed a change, and his own voice hardened. ‘With what reason? Surely, he’s a beggar, and owns no loyalty from you?’

I took care with my words. ‘You are correct, sir. I owe the boy no loyalty. One would be more correct to say he owes it to me, since I have taken him under my protection, and that of my name.’

Huxley leant in, probing. ‘Young man, he is a mere servant, and his sister brought about your father’s death. Surely, if the issue is the honour people might attach to your name, you are bound to see her come to justice. For your father’s sake, if for no other reason?’

‘I admit that my decision might seem odd to some observers but, for my father’s sake,’ I said, slowly, controlling the rise of anger at Huxley’s presumption of what my father would have thought, ‘I am bound by my word.’

My host’s eyes narrowed, thinking, perhaps, that I spoke in jest. Then, as he saw I meant it, his expression tightened in hostility. Opposite, Manyon let out a bark of a laugh, breaking the tension. He said, ‘I told you! Didn’t I tell you? You’ve more hope of flying from that window than of persuading this young man to break his promise. A thing I admire about you, Tom,’ he added, taking another glug of his wine. ‘A stalwart!’ He was still laughing.

Huxley was considerably less amused. ‘You realise that the magistrate has the authority to send in the constable and simply take him, don’t you?’ He left out the implication: if I tell him to do so.

I nodded in admission. ‘Magistrate Manyon has the undoubted authority to arrest the lad on a legitimate charge. There is none, as far as I am aware.’

Huxley didn’t break his stare. The air seemed thick and the room too hot.

Manyon smoothed over the moment, still chuckling. ‘The boy is quite right. Ah, I suppose there are limits even to the powers of magistrates. But there are more ways to kill a dog than by hanging, so to speak. We’ll find a solution. Come, Welmet! Allow me to sample the tastes of your sweet table and then, if you will be so kind as to show me where I might sleep, I will retire to bed, where I shall dream of more enjoyable things. We will talk more of this on the morrow.’

Later, as a servant advanced up the stairs before us, the glow of a candle illuminating the way, Manyon turned to me, shaking his head, still half-amused. ‘You do realise, don’t you, that in the absence of another way to placate Huxley and his friends, the girl will now have to be walked? You left me no choice. And all to protect that mudlark child.’

Thinking of what lay ahead for Chrissa, knowing I bore some responsibility for it, I nodded.

At least Henry would be safe for now. She would thank me for that, at least.