The Beckoning Dream. Paula Marshall

sir,” Grahame said, handing Tom his glass of Rhenish and seating him in a large chair opposite to him, Geordie having been left in the garden to keep watch at the back of the house. “Pray tell me who you are, and why I am honoured by your presence,” and he lifted his glass to Tom, almost fawning on him.

      Oh, the greasy swine! Tom had difficulty in not laughing out loud at such a seductive attempt to charm. There was something odd about Grahame, but exactly what the oddness consisted of Tom did not yet know.

      “My name is Thomas, Tom, Trenchard. I am a member of that family, noted as a supporter of the late Lord Protector. Colonel Ned Trenchard, now a soldier for the Hapsburgs and the Empire, is a distant cousin. I met him once in Nurnberg, when I was still a mere lad.”

      Now that, at least was true, for Tom mixed truth with lies to achieve a greater truth—as all such conspirators do, and if pushed could describe Ned Trenchard accurately, aye, and others who were opposed to King Charles as well.

      “Indeed, indeed, Master Tom Trenchard. And what does this cousin of Ned Trenchard come to me for? On whose behalf? Not on his cousin’s, I dare swear.”

      “No, indeed. On the contrary, for although my inclination lies towards the late Cromwell’s cause, I do not wish to see my country brought low by a foreign power, even to bring down King Charles. That were to leave us helpless before any European state which might wish to conquer us. And knowing my mind on this, I am sent by my masters in London to offer you what they believe you most dearly wish…”

      Tom paused, and waited for Grahame to answer.

      “And that wish is? Tell me, Master Trenchard, since you have just claimed to know my mind, what my mind is.”

      Oh, a devil! A most cunning devil! He and Tom were a good pair, were they not? This was Catherine’s immediate reaction to this conversation between two men, neither of whom could be trusted to tell the truth. She waited for Tom’s answer.

      It was his turn to raise his glass to Grahame before speaking. “Why, Master Grahame, I believe that you have a great mind to return to the land of your birth, but that you do not wish to meet the headsman’s axe shortly after arriving there!

      “That being so, I am to inform you that a pardon awaits you if you give my masters, through me, not only what you know of the dispositions of the Dutch Army and Navy, but also what you have learned of the arrangements of the French forces. You see, I am being frank with you,” Tom ended, trying to look as sincere as a man being insincere could.

      “Oh, I do like a frank man,” exclaimed Grahame, “frankness not being much of a commodity on any exchange these days! You will, I know, be well aware that I may not be equally frank back. For it is my head that will roll if I accept this offer at face value. Pray forgive me for speaking the language of commerce, but we are in the Low Countries where commerce reigns, and commerce is what we are engaged in, is it not? Yes, I must have time to think.”

      “I am authorised to give you time,” Tom told him, “but not a great deal of it.” Which last, at least, was truthful.

      He had not expected, nor had Gower or Arlington, that Grahame would fall on his neck, and agree to come home immediately—hence their insistence that Catherine accompany him to act as bait.

      Grahame’s next words were unexpected. “Your wife speaks Dutch well, and French also, not always accomplishments which English women possess. How so?”

      Truth would serve again, Tom thought, and Catherine should tell it. “My wife must answer you, Master Grahame, if she be so willing.”

      So this was to be her baptism into the devious business of spying. She must not falter—nor did she, saying eagerly, “Indeed, husband. My father was married to a Dutch lady of good birth who spoke both Dutch and French well, and insisted that I learned to speak both languages well. And Latin, too, for she thought that girls as well as boys should have the education that the Dutch gave them, which the English do not.”

      She ended by rising and dropping Grahame a neat curtsy.

      “Convenient,” was all that Grahame had to say to that. Tom did not inform him that Catherine was an actress—for that was no business of his, and he was pleased that her answer had been short and sweet with nothing volunteered that had not been asked for. She was now sitting down again, head bent, looking both submissive and wifely.

      A strange warm feeling swept over Tom. It was not a feeling he had ever experienced before. He had no time to analyse this new sensation further, for he had more pressing matters on which to ponder.

      He had probably gone as far as he could in this first meeting. He had laid Gower and Arlington’s proposition before Grahame, and whether, if he returned to the English fold, they would hold to their promises to him, he did not know. It was not his business, but it was Grahame’s. And if Grahame were as wily as Tom thought he was, it was likely that he would take a deal of time before making up his mind.

      So far as Tom was concerned, there were other questions that needed an answer. Item: Why was Grahame living alone in the country without servants or helpers? Item: What was his connection with Amos Shooter, that Shooter should know the whereabouts of a double agent who was obviously in hiding?

      All this whilst watching Grahame watch him as they drank their wine. Silences, Tom thought, often told one as much as words. Grahame ended this one by pouring Tom more wine, saying as he did so, “And who, may I ask—for perhaps I may not—told you where to find me?”

      Again the truth was best. “Oh, you may ask, no secret there. None but my old friend and late companion in arms, Amos Shooter, now a fat burgher with a rich and pretty wife.”