“So weak that the king is on his throne and you are here in obscurity,” I sneered, conscious not only that his arguments were good, but also that I had never even considered them before, so clear and obvious had his guilt appeared to me.

“Only because the Protector died, and he thought…Well, no matter,” he said softly. “There was a vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum. Charles didn’t win his throne back; he was sucked back by forces far greater than he could have mustered on his own. And it remains to be seen whether he is strong enough to keep his seat.”

“You must have been delighted,” I said with heavy sarcasm.

“Delighted?” he repeated thoughtfully. “No; of course not. I had worked for ten years to make England stable and free from tyranny and it was no pleasure to see that blown away on the winds. But I was not as upset as you might imagine. The armies were on the march, and the factions only Cromwell could have controlled were forming again. It was the king or war. I did not oppose Charles. And I could have done so, you know. Had I so wished, Charles would have been in his grave for years by now.”

He said it in such a calm and matter-of-fact way that for a moment I didn’t grasp the full horror of what he was saying. Then I gasped. This little man had gravely decided, as a matter of policy, whether his rightful monarch, anointed by God, would live or die. Charles, by grace of Thurloe, King of England. And I knew that he was saying nothing more than the truth—I was sure that he and the Protector had considered such a course. If they had rejected it, it was not because they recoiled from such a crime—they had committed so many already—but because it was not to their convenience.

“But you didn’t.”

“No. The Commonwealth acted within the law; and suffered gravely as a result. How much easier it would have been if the elder Charles had succumbed to a mysterious illness and died, with our hands clean in public, however shamefully we had behaved in secret. But we tried him, and executed him…”

“Murdered him, you mean.”

“…and executed him in full public view, never once seeking to hide what we were doing. The same goes with the other traitors—loyal patriots, I suppose they now are—who were caught. Name me one who was murdered in secret, without being publicly tried.”

Everyone knew there had been thousands; but as they had been done away with secretly, naturally I did not know their names, and I told him so.

“I see. So I killed countless people, but you cannot name a single one. Are you intended for the law, Mr. Prestcott?”

I said that, due to the family misfortunes, I was indeed.

“I wondered. I was a lawyer myself, you know, before I took to public service. I very much hope your family fortunes mend, as I do not think you will be a great adornment to the profession. You do not present a very good case.”

“We are not in a court of law here.”

“No,” he agreed. “You are in my parlor. But if you wish, you may turn it into a courtroom, and you may make your first speech. I will answer, and you can then make up your mind. Come now; it is a handsome offer. You get to be prosecution, judge, jury and (if you win your case) executioner. Such an opportunity comes very infrequently to a man of your age.”

For some reason, I didn’t even question him anymore. It was too late now for the bold action I had originally intended. I now wanted him to acknowledge I was right, and hear him admit that he deserved my punishment. That was why I fell in with him—and why I still think that he was wrong. I would have made a good lawyer, even though I am profoundly grateful I was not reduced to such a state.

“Well,” I began, “the thing is…”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted me gently. “We are in a court, sir. Your presentation is a disgrace. Never begin a speech with, ‘Well, the thing is…’ Do they not teach rhetoric in the university anymore? Now, begin properly, always making sure you address the judge respectfully—even when he’s an old fool—and the jury as though you are sure they are a benchful of Solomons, even if you’ve spent the morning bribing them. Start again. And don’t be shy; you can’t be shy if you want to win.”

“My lord, members of the jury,” I began. Even after all these years, I am still amazed by the way I meekly did as instructed.

“Much better,” he said. “Go on. But try to pitch your voice a little more effectively.”

“My lord, members of the jury,” I said heavily and with some irony, for I did not wish it thought that I gave way to this play-acting without some resentment. “You sit here to judge one of the most evil crimes in the history of mankind; for the defendant before you is charged not with simple theft or the murder of a man committed in hot blood, but with the cold and calculating destruction of a gentleman, too good and too honorable to be harmed in any other way.

“This gentleman, Sir James Prestcott, cannot speak to tell you of the injuries done to him. His family must do that for him in the traditional manner, so that his cries for justice from beyond the grave can be assuaged, and his soul can sleep in peace.”

“Very good,” said Thurloe. “A handsome start.”

“As the judge, I must request the defendant to keep his silence. If this is a law court, the proper forms must be maintained.”

“My apologies.”

“I do not ask you to condemn this man without laying out the full facts of the case; that is all I need to do to make you to realize, without a shadow of a doubt, that this man is guilty. I shall state the case and stop—no high-flown rhetorical persuasion is needed.

“The goodness, the loyalty and the courage of Sir James Prestcott were such that he gave everything in the king’s cause, and was prepared to give still more. When most had given up, he returned from exile to work for the blessed Restoration which we now all enjoy. Some joined him in this struggle, but few as wholeheartedly, and some did so merely out of consideration for their own gain. Some betrayed their friends and their cause for their own advancement, and whenever John Thurloe came across such people, he used them, then protected them by ensuring the blame for the damage they caused fell on the shoulders of others. His main informant, and the man who should have been punished for the deeds which destroyed my father, was John Mordaunt.”

I paused here to see whether revealing the depths of my knowledge so suddenly shocked him. It did not; rather he merely sat there, entirely without movement and with no sign even of interest.

“Let me explain. Mordaunt was the youngest son of a noble family, which was keen not to take sides in the war and instead wished to profit whoever might triumph. Mordaunt was supposedly inclined to the king but was too young to take an active part in the fighting and so was sent away, like many others, to travel abroad where he could be safe. In particular he went to Savoy, and there he met Samuel Morland, a man already in the service of the Commonwealth.

“Mordaunt was already linked to the king’s cause, Morland to Cromwell’s. When exactly the two of them entered into a partnership to advance themselves is uncertain, but I think that in all essentials it was a done deed by the time Sir Samuel returned to England in 1656. Mordaunt also returned and began to gain a reputation among the Royalists, his skill, intelligence and reputation for acumen considerably aided, I believe, by the constant information which Morland gave him. But the price the Royalists paid for his reputation was high indeed, for Mordaunt bought it by betraying every single plot the king’s men developed.

“At one stage, the traitors made a bad mistake and in 1658 Mordaunt was arrested in a general roundup of Royalist sympathizers. It is inconceivable that a man as ruthless as John Thurloe would let someone so important escape had he truly been in the king’s cause. But was he led to the gallows like his associates? Was he tied to a chair and tortured to discover his valuable hidden knowledge? Was he at the very least kept in close custody? Not at all. He was released within six weeks, it was said because the jury was bribed by his wife.