In my haste and excitement, I had forgotten one important detail, and as the heavy studded door of Wood’s house in Merton Street was dragged open I remembered that Sarah Blundy was employed by the family. To my great relief, however, it was not the girl who opened, but Wood’s mother, who looked not at all pleased to see me, even though it was not late.

“Jack Prestcott’s compliments to Mr. Wood, and he would beg the indulgence of an interview,” I said. I could see she was half-minded to tell me to go away, and return only when an appointment was made, but she relented and instead gestured for me to enter. Wood came down to meet me a few moments later, also looking not best pleased. “Mr. Prest-cott,” he said when all the bowing was done, “I am surprised to see you. I wish I could have had more time to prepare for the honor.”

I ignored the rebuke, and told him that it was a matter of urgency. I was in town only for a short while. Wood grumbled like the fusspot he was, pretended that he had so many matters of import to deal with, then gave way and led me to his room.

“I am surprised not to see that Blundy girl here,” I said as we climbed back up the stairs. “She does work as a maid for you, does she not?”

Wood looked uncomfortable. “We discussed the matter,” he said, “and decided it would be best to dismiss her. Probably a sensible decision, and certainly the best for my family’s reputation. But I am not content with it, nonetheless. My mother was very partial to her. Remarkably so, in fact; I could never account for it.”

“Perhaps she was bewitched,” I said as lightly as possible. Wood gave me a look which indicated something of the same had passed through his mind.

“Perhaps,” he replied slowly. “Strange how we all end in thrall to our servants.”

“Some servants,” I said. “Some masters.”

A suspicious, furtive look showed he had seen the criticism but wished to deflect it. “You are not here to talk about the difficulty of hiring reliable maids, I think,” he said.

I told him of my problem, and something of my interview with Dr. Grove. “I know this evidence, presumably the same material Lord Mordaunt told me about, was made known to the world by Sir William. I now know he had them via Sir John Russell from someone called Morland. Now, who is Morland?”

“That, I think,” he said as he scurried around the room like a lost mole, searching through one pile of papers after another until he came onto the pile he needed, “that, I think is not a great mystery. I think this must be Samuel Morland.”

“And he is…?”

“He is now, I understand, Sir Samuel. Which is in itself quite remarkable, and gives much food for thought. He must have rendered a very signal service to be so favored, considering his past. Unmasking a traitor in the king’s ranks might well qualify.”

“Or passing forged documents which purported to do so.”

“Oh, indeed,” Wood said, nodding his head and snuffling. “Indeed, for Morland was noted for what you might call his pensmanship. He worked in Thurloe’s office for some time, I believe, and even tried to succeed him when Thurloe was thrown out in the last days of the Protectorate, if I remember the story properly. Then, I think, he threw in his lot with the Royalists. His timing was impeccable.”

“So the idea of forged documents does not strike you as being absurd.”

Wood shook his head. “Either your father was guilty, or he was not. If he was not then some device must have been employed to create the illusion of culpability. But the only way you will find out, I think, is to tackle Morland himself. He lives somewhere in London, I imagine. I was told by Mr. Boyle that he concerns himself with hydraulic engines for drainage schemes and suchlike. They are said to be most ingenious.”

I almost fell on my knees to thank the silly little man for the information, and had the grace to admit that Thomas had been correct in recommending him to me. As quickly as was decent, I left that house. The next morning, after a night made sleepless by my fevered excitement, I coached to London.

11

I had never been in a large metropolis before; Oxford was by far the grandest town I had ever entered. Most of my life had been spent either on country estates where the largest habitation was a village of a few hundred souls, or small market towns, such as Boston or Warwick, with populations of only a few thousand. London (so I am told, although I do not believe anyone knows for certain) contained then some half million people. It sprawled over the landscape like a vast, bleeding pustule on the face of the earth, sickening the land, and poisoning all who lived in it. I was at first fascinated, as I pulled up the leather to peer out of the coach window, but this amazement turned to disgust as I perceived the shocking meanness of life in such a place. I am not (as must be clear by now) much of a bookman, but there is a line in a poem which I was forced to construe by Dr. Grove in my youth, which has stuck with me. I do not recall the poet, but he was obviously a wise and sober man, for he said, “I cannot live in the city, for I have not learned to lie.” So it always will be; the honesty of the country man is at a disadvantage in the town, where duplicity is prized, and straightforwardness scorned, where all men look after only themselves, and generosity occasions only laughter.

Before I made enquiries for Sir Samuel Morland, I decided I needed as much to collect myself and prepare myself for the interview which lay ahead. So I took my pack and walked across the great thoroughfare which links London with Westminster (although there is so much construction it will soon be completely impossible to discern where one city ends and the other begins) and took myself northward to find a place which sold something to eat and drink. I soon came to a Piazza (as it is called, though square should be good enough for any Englishman) which I am told can stand equal with any in Europe. It did not seem so grand to me; the buildings were ruined by the squalor all around, of women selling vegetables, and dirt and waste trampled underfoot. There were eating houses there, but the prices were such that I removed myself in horror at the audacity of the owners. Round the corner was another street which seemed much calmer, although again I was deceived, for this Drury Lane was accounted one of the most vile and dangerous in the city, full of bawds and cutthroats. All I saw was the theater, shortly to open, and witnessed the actors in the uniforms which won them protection from the law, and mighty ridiculous they looked.

From Covent Garden, I walked to London, diverting only up a squalid alley near St. Paul’s Cathedral to leave my possessions in a dingy little tavern I had been told was both cheap and honest. It was so, but unfortunately did not accompany these virtues by being quiet and clean as well. The blankets were crawling with lice, and such evidence as there was indicated that my future bedmates were less than genteel. But I had lice in my hair anyway, so decided there was little point in spending my money on better. Then I began to make enquiries about Sir Samuel Morland. It did not take long to find his address.

It was an old house in an ancient street near Bow Church and, I don’t doubt, was one of those burned to the ground a few years later in the fire, for it was an ancient construction of wood and thatch which would have been the more attractive had any care been taken on its upkeep. That, of course, is another problem with city life, as when owners are not the same as inhabitants, then no care is taken of buildings, and they molder and decay, casting a distemper on the streets and becoming a breeding ground for vermin. The lane itself was narrow and dark from the overhanging storys above, and a riot of noise from the traders who plied their wares up and down its length. I looked for the sign of an ox as instructed, but it was so discolored that I walked up and down twice before I realized that the tattered and broken piece of wood above one door had once carried such an image on it.