“Why, Mister Defoe,” said Newton. “Do you attend us?”
Mister Defoe laid down some Mint papers he had been examining and, stepping side to side like a dancing master, stuttered and stammered his crippled explanation. “Yes,” he said, blushing like a virgin. “I only thought to await your return. To bring you information.”
“Information? About what, pray?” Newton collected the papers Mister Defoe had been reading and perused their contents while our interloper tried to untie his tongue.
“About certain coiners,” declared Mister Defoe. “I know not their names, but they operate out of a tavern in Fleet Street.”
“Do you refer to The Goat?”
“Yes, The Goat,” replied Mister Defoe.
Newton winced, as if he felt the pain of Mister Defoe’s words. “Oh, you disappoint me. The Goat is in Charing Cross, between the Chequer Inn at the southwest corner of St. Martin’s Lane, and the Royal Mews, farther west. Now if you had said The George—”
“I did mean The George.”
“You would also be mistaken, for The George is in Holborn, north of Snow Hill. What bad luck for you. There are so many taverns in Fleet Street you might have chosen to mention: The Globe, Hercules’ Pillars, The Horn, The Mitre, and Penell’s. We know them all, don’t we, Mister Ellis?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Perhaps you meant The Greyhound? On the south side, close to Salisbury Court? Now that’s a tavern that was always said to be full of coiners.”
“It must have been that one.”
“Until it burned down during the Great Fire. You did say you had some information for us?”
“I may have made a mistake,” said Mister Defoe.
“You most certainly have,” said Newton. “Mister Defoe, I seize you as my prisoner. Mister Ellis? Draw your sword and command this rogue’s obedience while I fetch a sentinel.”
I drew my sword as Newton had ordered, and extended the point toward Mister Defoe.
“Upon what charge do you detain me?”
“Spying,” said Newton.
“Nonsense.”
Newton brandished the papers Defoe had been reading.
“These are confidential documents in this office relating to the security of the coin of this realm. I cannot think what else I might call it, sir.”
“Is he serious?” asked Defoe when Newton had gone out of the office.
“He is so seldom anything else that I wonder if he knows one simple joke,” said I. “But you will find out if this is raillery or not, soon enough, I’ll warrant.”
As good as his word, Newton returned in the company of two sentries and quickly wrote out a warrant in his capacity as a Justice.
“Mister Neale will not tolerate this,” said Mister Defoe. “He’ll have me out of here in no time.”
Newton handed one of the sentries the warrant and commanded him to take the prisoner not to the Tower prison, as all of us had expected, but to Newgate.
“Newgate?” exclaimed Mister Defoe upon learning his fate.
“I believe you know it well enough,” said Newton. “We will see what your friends can do for you when you are in there.” And with that, poor Daniel Defoe was led out of the office, still protesting loudly.
“And now,” said Newton, when we were alone again. “Let’s have a fire and some supper.”
After supper Newton commanded me to go to bed, which I was glad to do, although I felt a little guilty leaving him at work; and so the next morning I rose early to do some paperwork of my own and found that he had not been home at all, and him being most sullen, it was evident how he had not yet made the progress he had earlier anticipated. His mood was not improved by the arrival in the office of milord Lucas, who loudly complained about my own conduct toward the late Major Mornay, and who proceeded to describe what had passed between us in a way that was quite contrary to the facts, so that I believed he had some ill will to me, or at least an opinion that I was guilty of provoking the Major to kill himself. But I cared not a turd — the more so when Newton defended me and took all the blame upon himself and saidthat Mornay had been murdered.
“Murdered?” Lord Lucas, who sat most stiffly as if he feared to ruffle his cravat or incommode his wig, and turned one way in his chair and then the other as if he did not believe what he had heard. “Did you say murdered, sir?”
“I did, milord.”
“What nonsense, Doctor. The fellow hanged himself.”
“No, milord, he was murdered,” repeated my master.
“What, sir, do you contradict me?”
“It was made to look as though he had hanged himself, by them as I hope soon to arrest.”
“I know your game, sir,” sneered Lord Lucas. “It’s your conceit to make men believe the very opposite of what their eyes and ears tell them to be true. Like your damned theory of gravity. I can’t see that either, sir. And I tell you plain, I don’t believe in it, sir.”
“I wonder, then, that you do not fly off this earth, and into the heavens,” observed Newton. “For I cannot think what else might detain you here, milord.”
“I have not the time nor the patience for your blasted Royal Society sophistry.”
“That much is obvious, in any case.”
“Well, you may think what you like, Newton. If he’s buried in this Tower—and it seems he will have to be, for his family don’t want the disgrace—it’ll be face down, north to south.” Lord Lucas opened his snuff-box and smeared his lofty nose with a generous pinch which did nothing to lessen his obvious distaste for our company.
“Then for the Major’s sake, I shall make a point of proving you wrong, milord.”
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” said Lucas. “Neither of you has.” And with a loud sneeze and a string of oaths he kicked the door open and marched out of our office.
Newton yawned and stretched himself like a cat. “I believe I shall take some air,” he said. “Whenever I am in His Lordship’s company I feel like I am a candle burning in Mister Boyle’s bell-jar, which soon goes out for lack of atmosphere. Besides, I have not moved from this chair all night. What say you that we venture out to the Strand and call upon Mister Scroope?”
“I think that it would benefit you, sir,” I replied. “For you are too much indoors.”
Newton left off scratching Melchior under the chin and, glancing out of the window, nodded. “Yes. You are right. I am too much indoors. I should dwell more in the light. For although I have not yet much understood the Sun, I sometimes think its rays nourish all living things with an invisible light. I do not doubt how one day that secret light will be revealed as I have revealed the spectrum of colours; and when it is, we shall begin to know everything. Why, perhaps we shall even understand the immanent nature of God.”
Newton stood up and put on his coat and hat.
“But for the moment let us merely hope that we may understand the mind of Mister Scroope.”
We walked to the Strand, and along the way Newton outlined his plan in greater detail:
“Being a gold- and silversmith, Mister Scroope is obliged by law to keep a record of his stock of precious metals,” he explained. “For it is of great importance that the Treasury knows how much gold and silver there is in the country. I shall say that the Mint has the power to inspect Mister Scroope’s books. I shall inform him that I am handling the matter personally, in order that the inconvenience to his business shall be minimised. When I explain that such inspections often take a whole day but that I expect to complete my own within the hour, I believe that he will be more than pleased to co-operate with us. And while he is so diverted with appeasing me, you shall find an opportunity to slip away, perhaps to use the close-stool, and then to examine his library in search of the book by Trithemius.”
“Is any of that true?” I asked.
“About the Mint? Sadly, no. But it ought to be. For much of the time we are making up our powers as we go along. Of course, as a justice of the peace I could easily obtain a specific warrant to inspect his books. But that would look wrong, for we must counterfeit the appearance that our actions are in Scroope’s best interest, and he must apprehend that we are his friends.”
