A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 1

London, December 1662

Sleet pattered wetly on the dung-coated cobbles outside Lincoln’s Inn, and the biting wind had long-since blown out the lamp that swung above the gate. The night was so dark that it was difficult even to make out the craggy outlines of the chimneys and turrets that topped the ancient walls, and the sturdy gate was no more than a looming mass of black.

Thomas Chaloner eased farther inside the doorway of the Rolls Chapel, invisible in his black cloak and the blacker shadows. It was bitterly cold, and his hands and feet were numb from standing still so long, but he was used to that kind of discomfort. Observing the movements of others while remaining unseen was how he made his living, because Chaloner was a government spy. Or rather, he had been a government spy. He had been dismissed in March, and his situation was fast becoming desperate – he owed rent to his landlord, there was no food in the larder and even his best clothes were beginning to look hopelessly tatty. And that was why he was lurking outside Lincoln’s Inn on an icy December morning, waiting for dawn and the interview that might be his salvation.

The man he wanted to see was named John Thurloe. Thurloe had been Oliver Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General during the Commonwealth, and when that regime had collapsed following Cromwell’s death, Thurloe had fallen with it, and had lost his position of power – although fortunately for Chaloner, he had retained a modicum of influence over his successors. The restored King Charles II immediately appointed good Royalists to form his new government, but they had scant idea how to run a country, and Thurloe’s advice and guidance had proved invaluable, although few of the newcomers were prepared to admit it.

A group of leatherworkers slouched past, heading for the factory on Fleet Street, although none noticed the silent, motionless figure in the doorway. The factory was owned by a political fanatic called Praisegod Barbon, whose name had been adopted for one of Cromwell’s more rabid parliaments, and so its goods were unpopular in Royalist London – no one wanted to be accused of supporting adherents of the old regime. Consequently, Barbon’s men were shabbily dressed and resentful about their change of fortune. Chaloner sympathised with their plight, and wondered how many others were consigned to poverty because of circumstances beyond their control. He watched them pass, then turned his attention back to Lincoln’s Inn, wishing dawn would come, so he could abandon his chilly vigil and go to meet Thurloe in his warm chambers.

Chaloner was not usually given to hovering outside the homes of former employers, but he was uneasy about the interview, aware that its outcome would effect the rest of his life. While he waited, he recalled how, when the republic had first started to shake itself to pieces, he had been in Holland, assigned to a diplomat named Sir George Downing. Downing had hedged his bets – offering his services to the flustered ministers of the old regime, as well as to the exiled King – until he was sure which side would emerge victorious. He had kept Chaloner on his staff for two years after the Restoration, because Chaloner’s reports on the Dutch navy were useful to any British government and Downing was more than happy to take credit for them. But in March, Downing had left The Hague and returned to England, where he and Chaloner had quarrelled violently. In a fury, he had dismissed the spy in a way that had made it difficult for him to find other work. Now, after months of futile applications, Chaloner saw his only hope was to ask Thurloe to intervene, and see whether he knew any government officials who might require an experienced pair of ears and eyes.

The significance of the meeting meant he had been unable to sleep, and he knew the time would pass more quickly if he was doing something – even if it were only standing uselessly outside Lincoln’s Inn. Also, he did not want his restlessness to communicate itself to his woman, who was sure to question him about it if it did – and he did not want Metje to know what he was doing until he was sure he had some good news. She was becoming irritated with his unsuccessful attempts to find work in the city, and he did not want to admit yet another failure if his interview with Thurloe failed to bear fruit.

Time ticked past slowly. The bells in St Clement Danes chimed five o’clock then six, and the city began to stir. Smoke scented the damp air as fires were kindled, and lights started to gleam along Chancery Lane. Chaloner waited until a smudge of lighter blue appeared in the eastern sky, then crossed the road to Lincoln’s Inn’s stocky gatehouse. Lincoln’s Inn was one of four foundations with the right to license lawyers, and had been built in an age when strong doors and high walls were a prerequisite for survival.

A porter answered his knock eventually, rubbing his eyes in a way that indicated he had been asleep. He was not used to visitors calling so early, and was more interested in his breakfast than in conducting guests to the chambers of residents. He waved Chaloner inside, then set about laying the fire in his lodge. It was too bitter a morning to be long without some warmth.

‘Where are you going?’ he called when Chaloner set off in the direction of Chamber XIII. ‘I thought you were here to see Mr Thurloe.’

‘Does he no longer live in Dial Court?’

The porter smiled fondly. ‘He lives there – he loves those rooms, although they are too dark and gloomy for my taste. But Mr Thurloe walks in the gardens at dawn every day. Everyone knows that, and you have been here before – I never forget a face.’

Chaloner was impressed. ‘It has been months since my last visit.’

The guard grinned, pleased with himself. ‘I have a good memory, which is just as well, since we have to be careful who we let in – assassination is always a risk for men like Mr Thurloe. Even though it has been nearly three years since the King came home, and everyone knows Mr Thurloe means him no harm, there are still those who want Mr Thurloe dead. But if you want to see him now, it will have to be in the orchard. Go past the chapel, then turn right at the library.’

Chaloner followed his directions, passing the rectangular chapel with its peculiar open undercroft, and the ornate library with its diamond-patterned brickwork. The garden, a pleasant tangle of old fruit trees, overgrown bushes and long grass, lay to their north. The sleet had abated, although the trees still released showers of droplets each time they swayed in the breeze. The air smelled of wet vegetation, sodden soil and the richer aroma of the compost heaps lined up under the library’s windows. Chaloner tried not to shiver when the wind cut through his cloak, afraid Thurloe would interpret it as a sign of nervousness.

The man who was often credited with running Cromwell’s government single-handedly could be seen walking along a path still strewn with old leaves from the previous autumn. He was slightly built, with medium-brown hair that fell to his shoulders. His blue eyes were often soulful, which led people to imagine him gentle or timid. He was neither, and there was a core of steel in Thurloe that had shocked more than one would-be traitor. But although he was ruthless and determined, Chaloner had never known him to be cruel or vindictive – not during his seven years as Secretary of State and Spymaster, or in the unsettled period since the collapse of the Commonwealth. As Chaloner approached, he coughed softly, to let the ex-Spymaster know he was coming.

‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe, relaxing the hand that had been reaching for his sword. ‘You are early.’

‘You said dawn, sir,’ replied Chaloner, glancing up at the sky. The east was definitely lighter than the pitch black of the west.

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘I suppose distant glimmerings might be considered dawn by some, although not by most. You have been away from England too long, and have adopted foreign notions.’

‘I assumed you would be busy once it was light enough to read.’

Thurloe smiled. ‘Well, let us stroll in the darkness together, then. I do not like these gloomy winter mornings, and your company will not be unwelcome. What can I do for you?’

‘Do you have a gun, sir?’ asked Chaloner, as they began to walk. He gestured to the walls. ‘It would not be difficult to scale those, and a sword is no protection against a pistol.’

‘Is that why you came?’ asked Thurloe. He sounded amused. ‘To ask after my personal safety?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner sheepishly. ‘I came to ask whether you might write me a testimonial, so I can apply for employment with the new government. As you know, Downing dismissed me in March, and …’ He hesitated, not sure how to describe the awkwardness of his situation without saying anything rude about Downing. For all he knew, Downing and Thurloe were still friends.

‘And he has never liked you, and declines to recommend you to his successor,’ finished Thurloe baldly. ‘Worse, he has put it about White Hall that you should never be hired again.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably.

‘And his malign influence stretches even further than that,’ Thurloe went on. ‘By declining to write you a reference, he is effectively ensuring you will never work for any respectable organisation again. Potential employers will want to know what you have been doing all your adult life, and your choice is either to admit an association with Downing, who will then say unpleasant things about you, or confess to being a spy, which is likely to see you killed.’

Chaloner nodded unhappily. ‘But although I worked under him, you were my real master – not just for the past five years in Holland, but in France, Portugal and Denmark before that – and so you are just as qualified to give an account of my skills as he is. In fact, you are more so, because I shared some of my intelligence with him, but not all – anything particularly important was sent to you without his knowledge.’

‘I would never tell him that, if I were you. He would think you considered him untrustworthy.’

‘I did – and I was right,’ said Chaloner, seeing there was no way to explain his situation without denigrating Downing – and if he and Thurloe were still friends, then that was unfortunate but unavoidable. ‘He was sending information to the exiled King while professing loyalty to you, some of which served to weaken the Commonwealth and hasten its demise.’

‘Hush, Thomas! It is not wise to make such comments, not even to me – especially since I happen to know you were no dedicated Parliamentarian yourself. Your loyalty lies with your country, not with its shifting governments, which is as it should be. But we should not waste time discussing Downing. What did you–?’ He dropped his hand to his sword a second time when he became aware of someone moving through the trees.

‘A messenger, sir,’ said Chaloner. The dagger he kept hidden in the sleeve of his tunic had dropped into his hand several moments earlier, when he had heard a twig snap underfoot. ‘From the General Letter Office. I recognise his livery.’

‘It is young Charles-Stewart,’ said Thurloe in relief, beckoning the boy forward. ‘Named after the King we executed thirteen years ago – not that I had any hand in that business, I hasten to add. However, you and I worked for the men who did, which makes us both suspect.’

The boy approached Thurloe with a friendly grin that suggested he had delivered letters to Lincoln’s Inn before, and handed him a satchel. While Thurloe asked after the lad’s ailing mother, Chaloner tactfully withdrew. He was replacing the dagger in its hiding place when there was a blur of movement and Charles-Stewart dropped to his knees. Thurloe stumbled backwards with a cry, and Chaloner saw two figures running towards the wall. One carried the satchel. Chaloner was racing towards them almost before his mind had registered what was happening.

‘Help the boy!’ Thurloe yelled, reaching towards him as he flew past. Chaloner staggered, and almost lost his footing in the sleet-plastered grass when he tried to avoid colliding with the frantic ex-Spymaster. ‘Do something! Hurry!’

Cursing under his breath, Chaloner skidded to a halt and knelt by the lad’s side, watching the two men scale the wall with half his attention, while the rest told him there was nothing he could do for Charles-Stewart. The knife had entered the lad’s chest and death would have been virtually instant.

‘I am sorry,’ he said to the distraught Thurloe. ‘He is dead.’

Thurloe’s face turned from appalled to dangerous as he hauled Chaloner to his feet and shoved him towards the wall. ‘Then catch those villains,’ he snarled. ‘Catch them – at all costs!’

Chaloner ran as hard as he could, but was nowhere near fast enough to gain the ground he had lost while stopping to tend the messenger. The two robbers had turned right along the wide avenue called Holborn, and were almost to the bridge, where he knew they would disappear into the chaotic maze of alleys that crowded the banks of the Fleet River. He forced himself on. Then the shorter of the pair collided with a cart, and his accomplice screamed abuse at him until he could regain his feet. Chaloner began to catch up, but was still too far away to capitalise on the mishap. When he saw they would reach the labyrinth of slums unchecked, the taller of the two turned to give Chaloner a triumphant, jeering salute before ducking down a lane. Chaloner tore towards the entrance, but when he reached it, feet skating across the treacherous, dung-slick cobbles, he found it empty.

The alley was not for the faint-hearted. It lay close to the Fleet, which meant it reeked not only of sewage, but of the odorous fumes released by nearby tanneries, soap-boilers and slaughterhouses. Over the years, tenements had clawed their way upwards to accommodate the increasing demand for housing, and, with each new floor, they inched closer to the buildings opposite, so the sky was now no more than a slender grey ribbon high above. At street level the passage was a thin, dark tunnel, too narrow for carts, and the ground underfoot was soft with old rubbish, squelching and sticky from the night of rain. More lanes radiated off it – dismal, stinking fissures that never saw sunlight. The cluster of hovels known as the Fleet Rookery was the domain of beggars, thieves, ruffians and harlots, living half a dozen or more to one chamber, and only the foolish or unwary ventured into it.

Cautiously, Chaloner eased down the lane, feeling the onset of the familiar stiffness in his left leg that always followed vigorous exercise. Usually, the old war injury was no more than a nuisance – an occasional cramp when the weather turned damp – but a furious run, like the one he had just made from Lincoln’s Inn, had set off the nagging ache he knew would plague him for the rest of the day. He tried to ignore it, concentrating on his surroundings as he allowed the dagger from his sleeve to slide into the palm of his hand for the second time that morning.

Out in the open, on the wide, bustling thoroughfares of roads like Holborn or the Strand, Chaloner was more than a match for any common cut-throat – time served with Cromwell’s New Model Army before Thurloe had engaged him as a spy meant he knew how to use the weapons he carried – but the cramped, sordid confines of the capital’s slums represented a different challenge. He knew it was rash to follow criminals into a place where its inhabitants would think nothing of killing a stranger and dumping his body in the river, but the simple truth was that he could not return to Thurloe and admit defeat – not if he wanted any sort of career in espionage.

He edged along the alley. Nothing moved, except rats foraging among discarded offal from an unlicensed butcher’s shop and a few rags swinging on a washing line high above his head. The lane emptied into a larger street, and he hung back to assess it. To his right was a tiny square dominated by a rust-and slime-dappled water pump; to his left was a dung cart loaded with barrels for collecting the urine and faeces used by tanneries and gunpowder manufacturers. The cart was so wide that it filled the street completely, leaving gaps of no more than the width of a hand between it and the walls to either side.

Chaloner suspected the dung collector had been paid or forced to leave his wagon in a position that would prevent pursuit. The vehicle’s stench seared the back of his throat, and he did not relish the prospect of scrambling across its top – he knew that as soon as he did, the driver would flick his whip and the whole thing would jolt forward. If he did not topple into the brimming barrels of his own accord, someone would give him a helping hand, or stab or shoot at him when he was struggling for balance.

He tensed when a window creaked above him, then stepped smartly under the overhanging façade of a towering, five-storied tenement. Swill from a chamber-pot splattered to the ground, joining the refuse and ashes that formed the foetid carpet under his feet. He edged forward, narrowing the gap between him and the cart until he was close enough to crouch down and peer underneath it.

He saw several pairs of human legs, and there was a low murmur of conversation, although he could not hear what was being said. He stood abruptly when an old woman with a donkey approached from the direction of the square. She released the low, mournful cry that every Londoner knew meant there was fresh milk to be purchased for children and invalids. Customers would answer the call with jugs, and the animal would be milked on the spot. The woman was not alone in advertising her wares. From somewhere deeper inside the labyrinth came the rising yell of a fish-seller, while the bass bellow of a tallow merchant offered the stinking fat that could be turned into cheap candles.

Chaloner considered his options. The robbers were confident now they were on home ground, lingering at the front of the wagon to chat with the dung collector. And they had good reason to feel safe: even if Chaloner did manage to scale the cart and lay hold of them, then what would he do? Their friends would never allow him to march them to the nearest parish constable, and besides, constables were notoriously corrupt if the right coins appeared, and just as likely to slip a dagger between Chaloner’s ribs and release the thieves. The sensible decision would be to return to Lincoln’s Inn and tell Thurloe that he had done his best, but the culprits had been too far away by the time he had been ordered to give chase.

But he could scarcely apologise to Thurloe for failing to catch Charles-Stewart’s killers with one breath, and ask for a testimonial with the next. If he wanted to convince the ex-Spymaster of his worth, then he had no choice but to do as he had been ordered.

‘Milk, mister?’ came a voice at Chaloner’s side. The old woman was moving towards him, hemming him in with her donkey. His fingers tightened around his dagger as he scanned the street for signs of danger, aware that she might have been sent to distract him while an attack was set up.

‘Not today.’ There was no one else in the street, so he turned his attention to the cart and the men to the front of it.

She eased closer. Her eyes were black and shiny, and gleamed in a face that was a mask of wrinkles. ‘You will not catch them from here. Go down the alley by the pump, and turn left when you see the barber’s sign. Left again by the ditch will bring you to a place where you can surprise them.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks, but did not imagine for a moment that she was being helpful. She was probably trying to send him into a trap. ‘I will wait here.’

He crouched again, using the donkey as a shield from anyone who might be aiming a pistol at him. The milling legs behind the cart had been reduced to just three pairs as onlookers lost interest. One wore boots that had been polished a deep, glossy black. These, Chaloner knew, belonged to the shorter of the two villains – the one who had snatched the satchel. It was the taller of the pair, who now paced restlessly, that had stabbed Charles-Stewart. The third man wore shoes that were thickly crusted in excrement, and were unquestionably the dung collector’s.

Chaloner assessed the cart objectively, noting the sturdy planking around its edges. If he kept to one side and moved quickly enough, he might be able to jump over it and surprise them. His best option would be to fight into a position where he could hold his dagger to the throat of the taller one and ‘persuade’ him to return to Lincoln’s Inn, preferably carrying the satchel. One killer and the return of stolen property might be enough to secure Thurloe’s good graces.

The old woman poked him with a bony finger. ‘They will have a knife in you before your feet touch the ground on the other side.’

Chaloner glanced up at her, surprised she should find his intentions so transparent. ‘Is that so?’

Her face was bleak as she petted her donkey. ‘They killed my son – my Oliver – so I will shake the hand of any man who slits their throats, but you will not do it by climbing across the cart. They will be expecting you.’

Chaloner did not think he looked like the sort of fellow who slit throats, but supposed his very presence in the Fleet Rookery was enough to make folk assume the worst. His leather jerkin, breeches and riding boots were worn and unfashionable, but they were of good quality and marked him as someone who had not always been poor. He was of average height and build, with brown hair and grey eyes. He had a pleasant face, but not one that was in any way remarkable, and he had worked hard over the years to make his appearance as unmemorable as possible. Outstanding features were a serious disadvantage for a man who made his living as a spy.

‘Who will be expecting me?’ he asked, watching his quarry intently.

The old woman tutted her annoyance. ‘Snow and Storey. The men you are chasing.’

‘Are those their names? They did not bother with a formal introduction.’

She made a wheezing sound he assumed was a chuckle. ‘Snow wears good boots – he dyes them blacker every night. Storey has yellow hair and is taller. Murdering bastards!’

Chaloner wished she would go away.

‘They work for Sir John Kelyng and his chamberlain,’ she went on. ‘They think that makes them better than the rest of us, although most around here would say it makes them vermin.’

Chaloner had no idea who she was talking about. After a decade overseas, he was a virtual stranger in his own country, and he knew he would have to conceal his ignorance of local politics when he spoke to Thurloe. He did not, however, need to hide it from nosy old ladies in the Fleet Rookery.

‘Sir John Kelyng?’ he asked, his attention fixed on the feet behind the cart. ‘Who is he?’

The old woman regarded him in disbelief. ‘You do not know Kelyng?’

Chaloner turned to look at her. ‘Should I?’

She continued to gape at him. ‘He is one of the King’s new sergeants-at-law, and was in prison for most of the last ten years, because he was so hearty a Royalist. Now he is out of the Tower, and is devoting himself to ferreting out traitors.’

‘What kind of traitors?’

‘Traitors to the King – men who prefer Cromwell’s lot. His chamberlain scours the gutters for scum like Snow and Storey, and pays them to listen in taverns for anyone saying the wrong things.’

Chaloner was not surprised. Although the King had been restored to his throne with blaring trumpets and cheering crowds, his ministers knew perfectly well that he would sit uneasily for a while yet. Spies would be hired to watch for any hint of rebellion, and Kelyng was doubtless just one of many who had been ordered to hunt down potential troublemakers.

The old woman rambled on, giving examples of Kelyng’s disreputable doings. ‘Parson Vane was fined thirty shillings for saying the old king deserved what he got, and they cut off the butcher’s ear for agreeing with him. Snow and Storey have no friends around here.’

Chaloner pointed to the strategically positioned cart. ‘But people are still prepared to help them.’

‘Potts was too scared to refuse. But while they can force a man to block a road, they cannot make us do everything they want. You got here unharmed, although you were watched from the moment you stepped off Holborn. So, take the lane by the pump, and stick your dagger through their rotten gizzards. And when you do, whisper “Oliver Greene”. Then they will know who sent you to kill them.’

Chaloner suspected it would be a bad idea to do as she suggested, and he was not for hire as an avenging angel anyway. But his other options were limited, so he nodded his thanks and walked to the alley she had indicated, aware of her approval.

The lane was home to some of the most ramshackle buildings he had ever seen. There was not a vertical line in sight, and he wondered whether she had directed him down it because it was in imminent danger of collapse. He began to run, dagger openly drawn. A man started to come of out of a door, but backed inside hurriedly when he saw Chaloner and his glinting blade. Then came the sound of a key being turned; in the Fleet Rookery it was always wiser to see and hear nothing.

A left turn took Chaloner into an alley so narrow that he had to turn sideways. It was a perfect place for an ambush, since he could not protect himself in such a confined space. But he met no one, and emerged into a lane that was considerably wider – large enough for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, although its wheels scraped against the houses on either side, producing showers of rotten splinters and earning yells of outrage from the owners. After another left turn, he saw the old woman was right: he could now see his quarry clearly.

Snow and Storey had moved with the dung collector, Potts, to stand outside an alehouse. These had been declared illegal during the Commonwealth, since they fermented sedition and disorder, but the one in the Fleet Rookery looked as though it had ignored the prohibition. The benches outside were worn shiny from generations of rumps, while the taps and barrels in the adjacent yard were in good working order. The three men were drinking, celebrating the escape. The two robbers looked hard, rough and villainous, and exactly the kind of lout hired by ruthless officials to root out treachery among the poorer classes. Snow still carried the satchel he had grabbed from Thurloe, although he had made no attempt to inspect its contents. Either he knew better than to try, or he could not read.

Chaloner slid into the shadows of a doorway, and reviewed the situation. Storey wore a sword and Snow had a pistol. It was the firearm that would be the problem: Chaloner was not afraid of being shot at – it was an old gun from the wars, of a type that was notoriously unreliable – but the noise of its discharge would draw unwanted attention. The alehouse was busy, despite the fact that it was not long past dawn, and at the first sounds of a skirmish, men would rush out to join in.

Potts climbed on to his wagon and scanned the lane Chaloner had recently vacated. ‘You lost him,’ he said, jumping down again. ‘He was a constable, you say? Which parish?’

‘Er … Whitechapel,’ replied Snow, swigging his beer.

‘You were thieving over there?’ asked Potts, eyeing the pouch. It was battered and old, but still not something Snow would have owned.

Snow was indignant. ‘No, we were not!’

‘Why was he after you, then?’ asked the dung collector with cool logic.

Storey looked smug. ‘Because we are loyal to the Crown. Traitors – like Oliver Cromwell’s lickspittle son Richard – want to kill us, so they can start a revolt and behead another King Charles. We stand in their way, and they will do anything to be rid of us.’

‘The King recruited us special,’ bragged Snow. ‘He hates rebels – you only have to go to Westminster Hall to see that.’

‘I did go,’ said Potts. ‘I saw Oliver Cromwell’s head on a pole, and a few others, too. King-killers, they said. Henry Thurloe was there – the old Spymaster.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Or did Thurloe get a post in the new government? It is difficult to keep up with it all – not that it makes much difference to me. I still scrape dung, no matter who is in charge.’

‘John Thurloe,’ corrected Snow superiorly. ‘And there is a difference between the King and the Commonwealth. There were no alehouses under Cromwell, for a start.’

Potts looked dubious, indicating Chaloner’s assessment had been accurate: the Fleet tavern had ignored the edicts, and no one had bothered – or dared – to stop it.

‘But Thurloe’s head is not outside Westminster,’ said Storey, eager to show off his superior knowledge of powerful men. ‘Kelyng said the man had collected so much dirty information about Royalists when he was Cromwell’s Spymaster, that no one dares move against him now, lest he reveals something embarrassing.’

‘Kelyng told you that?’ asked Potts. He looked more uneasy than impressed. ‘Personally?’

‘Well, he told his chamberlain, but we were meant to hear,’ confided Snow. ‘He also said that Thurloe was offered a post in the new government, but he rejected it, and sits at Lincoln’s Inn reading books about the law, hoping to find a legal way to get rid of the King.’

‘Well, Thurloe was a lawyer once,’ Storey pointed out. ‘He says he refused the King’s offer because of poor health, but Kelyng says he is lying. Kelyng means to bring him low anyway.’

Chaloner frowned, wondering whether their gossip bore any relation to the truth. He had assumed the theft of the satchel was simply that – two robbers opportunistically grabbing something that might be valuable – but now it seemed one of the King’s officers had actually commissioned Snow and Storey to intercept Thurloe’s private post. Thurloe had acquired many enemies during his years as Cromwell’s most trusted advisor, so it was no surprise to learn that some remained determined to see him destroyed.

Potts’s face assumed a wily expression. ‘If that constable was Thurloe’s man, then you owe me another jug of ale. I might have been killed helping you, and …’

In one sure, swift movement, Snow whipped a dagger from its sheath and had the man pressed against the wall with the blade under his chin. Terrified, Potts struggled to stand on tiptoe, to relieve the sharp pressure against the soft skin of his neck.

‘You might be killed yet – for a traitor,’ said Snow coldly. ‘Shall I tell Kelyng that your loyalty to the King costs? Do you want to be hanged and quartered, like the regicides?’

‘The what?’ squeaked Potts in alarm. ‘I do not know them! I am not one of their number!’

Snow sighed his disdain at the fellow’s ignorance. ‘The regicides were the men who signed the old king’s death warrant – fifty-nine of them. Three had a traitor’s death back in April, and unless you want to die like them, you will be satisfied with what you have already been given.’

He released Potts, who backed away, hand to the oozing cut on his throat. Without another word, the dung-collector clambered into his wagon and flicked his whip at the horse. The animal strained forward, then moved ahead, making the contents of its barrels slosh over the rims and forcing Storey and Snow to scramble into the alehouse to avoid the yellow-brown cascade. Inside the tavern, men huddled over their beer and pretended not to notice.

Storey and Snow ordered more ale, while Chaloner waited patiently. It was now obvious that his first priority was to learn as much as he could about Kelyng and that arresting the robbers came second – he could always hunt them out later and see them brought to justice. Eventually, the two men drained their flagons and left the alehouse, making obscene gestures when the landlord suggested payment.

It was a dull day, with pewter-coloured clouds blocking out the sun and rendering the alleys even more dark and oppressive than usual. The dimness helped Chaloner, though, allowing him to follow his quarry more easily. Stalking was a skill he had honed to perfection, and neither man had any inkling that he was being pursued. He found a filthy blanket, crushed into the muck of the street and full of vermin. He pulled it over his head, stooping and exaggerating his limp as he did so. The hasty disguise was far from perfect, but it was sufficient to fool the likes of Snow and Storey.

It was not long before they were out of the Fleet’s dark kingdom and back on Holborn, retracing the route along which they had been chased. Chaloner ditched the blanket, and retrieved the hat he had tucked inside his jerkin. Once he had donned it, and turned his black cloak inside out to display its tan-coloured lining, he was confident they would not recognise him should they happen to glance around. The pair swaggered down Fetter Lane, past the house where Chaloner rented rooms and, for a moment, he thought they might stop for yet more ale at the Golden Lion, a tavern popular with men who liked the fact that its landlord never asked questions about their business.

He ducked into the tavern’s stable when he saw his neighbour, William North, striding towards him. He did not want to be waylaid with polite conversation, and he certainly did not want to explain why he was shadowing criminals. North was a Puritan, and his dark, plain clothes contrasted starkly with the flamboyant merchants around him who were dressed in the very latest fashions – cassocks with wide cuffs, petticoat breeches with cascading ribbons and frills, ruffled shirt sleeves, and the curly wigs popular at Court. He carried a Bible in one hand, but since he was also a moderately successful jeweller, there was a sheaf of accounts in the other. Preoccupied with his own affairs, the Puritan did not so much as glance towards the stable as he hurried past with his chattering colleagues.

Snow and Storey turned on to Fleet Street, then headed for the Strand, passing the Norman church of St Clement Danes with its stocky tower of pale stone. The Strand was one of London’s major thoroughfares, with handsome mansions on its southern side, and an unruly clutter of hovels and taverns lying to the north. Here, private carriages were more numerous than handcarts, ferrying the wealthy to and from their businesses and homes. Sleek merchants peered out, their elegant wives rocking next to them. Pickpockets slunk here and there, maimed soldiers from the wars begged for alms, and a band of drunken seamen staggered noisily towards their ship, shadowed by hopeful prostitutes.

At the end of the Strand was a spacious avenue leading to the Palace of White Hall, the King’s London residence. This was a sprawling mass of buildings that included not only accommodation for the monarch and his retinue, but tennis courts, a bowling alley, gardens, a chapel, offices for his Ministers of State, and the Banqueting House – outside of which Charles I had been beheaded some thirteen years before.

The Banqueting House held a further significance for Chaloner. Like many men who had backed the losing side and been forced to abandon their property after the collapse of the Commonwealth, one of his uncles had converted land to coins and cached them. The elder Chaloner had secreted his treasure under a flagstone in the Banqueting House’s main chamber. His reasoning had been that the new regime would be too busy with its survival to think about prising up a good marble floor, and his hoard would therefore be safe. On his deathbed, he had confided its location to his nephew, with the request that Chaloner retrieve the money and present it to his sons when the current wave of persecution was spent. Uncomfortable and wary in the city where he was so much a stranger, Chaloner had kept his curiosity in check, and had not even gone to see whether he could identify the right tile.

One peculiar characteristic of the Palace of White Hall was that the main road from the city to Westminster ran clean through its centre. The avenue – the southern part of which was named King Street in deference to the fact that it cut the sovereign’s lodgings in half – was always thick with carts, carriages, horses, livestock, soldiers, merchants, courtiers and clerks, and the heaving throng made it even easier for Chaloner to follow the two robbers. The thunder of wheels, feet and hoofs on cobbles, the babble of conversation, and the various bells, gongs and rattles used by traders were deafening. The cacophony almost drowned out the ranting of the street preacher who stood on the stump of the old Charing Cross and the agitated yaps of a dog tethered outside the Angel tavern.

White Hall was even busier than usual that day, because the Banqueting House was set to be used for a ceremony in which Charles ‘touched’ his subjects in the hope of curing them of the glandular disease known as the King’s Evil, or scrofula. He took such duties seriously, and the occasions always attracted crowds.

Chaloner was not surprised that Snow and Storey were taking the stolen satchel to White Hall, since, as a man apparently devoted to exposing the King’s enemies, Kelyng might well work or live near the buildings from which the affairs of state were run. The two thieves did not enter the palace grounds, however. They stopped at a well outside, where they pretended to mingle with servants from the nearby mansions.

The area around the conduit was crowded. Some folk carried containers that were suspiciously small, indicating they were there only because it afforded an opportunity to exchange gossip with the members of other rich households, while others pushed carts loaded with empty barrels. Chaloner had spent a good deal of time at such places in the past, collecting information that was then converted into cipher and sent to Thurloe. He eased into the throng, smiling at a young woman and engaging her in idle conversation. His naturally affable manner meant people seldom objected to his friendly approaches, enabling him to blend into his surroundings without raising suspicion. He made a show of listening to her lurid revelations about the wanton Lady Castlemaine – the King’s favourite mistress – but most of his attention was on Storey and Snow. He could tell from their forced casualness that they were waiting for something to happen.

Within moments, a man wearing a livery of mustard yellow approached. He was in his late forties, with a lined, dour face. He carried himself erect, in the way of an old soldier, and there were two other details that rendered him distinctive: first, upon his little finger, he wore an emerald ring that looked altogether too expensive to be owned by a servant, and second, he was missing an eye.

He pushed his way towards the robbers, making no attempt to disguise the fact that they were his objective. Snow handed him the satchel and received a purse in exchange, while Storey attempted to create a diversion by jostling a groom. The groom’s tunic was emblazoned with the arms adopted by Sir Richard Ingoldsby, a man known even to an outsider like Chaloner. Ingoldsby, a regicide, had convinced King Charles that he had not meant to add his signature to his father’s death warrant – Cromwell had grabbed his hand and shaped the letters against his will. Contrary to all reason, the King had believed him, and even the most hardened of cynics were astonished to learn that not only had Ingoldsby been forgiven his crime, but he was to be awarded a knighthood, too.

The groom whipped out a pistol, making bystanders scatter in alarm. Storey promptly fled, forcing Snow to race after him. Chaloner watched them go, but made no attempt to follow. He knew their names and a tavern where they drank; they would still pay for murdering the post-boy. But first, he needed to concentrate on the more immediate problem represented by Kelyng and why he should want to intercept Thurloe’s private messages, so he turned back to the servant who had purchased the satchel. The fellow crossed the street and made for the Royal Mews – once stables but now converted to homes for senior court officials – and disappeared through a door that led to an ill-kept garden. Chaloner darted after him, and the man’s jaw dropped in astonishment when the satchel was ripped from his hands.

‘You have no right to come in here,’ he began angrily, trying to grab it back. ‘You–’

Chaloner drew his dagger, making him jump away in alarm. ‘Who do you work for?’

The servant glanced behind him, although whether because he was looking for rescue or because he was afraid of being heard answering, Chaloner could not be sure. ‘This is Sir John Kelyng’s house.’

‘Who is he?’

The man’s eyebrows shot up, but he answered anyway. ‘One of His Majesty’s lawyers, famous for his prosecution of regicides and traitors.’ His hand started to edge towards his knife, but Chaloner saw the stealthy movement, and knocked the weapon from his fingers.

‘Why does he pay ruffians to steal satchels?’

‘His affairs are none of your business,’ the servant replied irritably. ‘Now give me that bag.’

Chaloner took a step forward, dagger at the ready. ‘He told me to collect a pouch from the fountain,’ replied the servant with an impatient sigh, seeing in Chaloner’s determined expression that he had no choice but to reply. ‘He did not tell me why, and I am not so reckless as to ask.’

‘I do not believe you.’

‘That is not my problem. Now, I have more important–’

Chaloner swung around when he heard the rustle of leaves behind him. A sharp hiss cut through the air, and instinct and training were responsible for his abrupt dive off the moss-encrusted path. A moment later, the servant joined him on the ground, a blade embedded in his chest and his single eye already beginning to glaze with encroaching death. Blood gushed from his mouth in a way that indicated a lung had been pierced. He turned his head slightly, and looked at Chaloner.

‘Praise God’s one son,’ he whispered.

All Chaloner’s attention was on the trees where the knifeman still hid. He did not reply.

‘Praise God’s one son,’ said the man, a little louder. He coughed and tugged Chaloner’s cloak. The ring flashed green on his finger. ‘It is dangerous for … seven. Remember …’

Chaloner glanced at him and saw desperation in his face. ‘Lie still. I will find help.’

The man revealed bloodstained teeth in a grimace that indicated he knew he was beyond earthly assistance. ‘Remember to … trust no one. Praise God’s one …’

‘Amen,’ muttered Chaloner mechanically, concentrating on the leaves that were beginning to tremble in a way that suggested another attack was about to be launched. He looped the satchel around his shoulder, gripped his dagger and prepared to make his move.

‘You do not … understand.’ Chaloner glanced at the servant a second time, and sensed he no longer knew what he was saying. ‘I am … John Hewson … of seven … Trust no one, and praise …’

There was a sharp crack, as someone trod on a twig in the bushes ahead. Chaloner tensed, trying to see through the tangled undergrowth. He heard Hewson’s breathing stop, and a detached part of his mind pondered the question of whether the knife had missed its real target, or whether Hewson had been killed because he was dispensing information. There was no way to know, although he was able to conclude, from the direction of the snap and the shivering foliage, that there were two men lurking in the thicket ahead. Knowing they would expect him to head for the gate, since it was the obvious route to freedom, he scrambled upright and ran in the opposite direction – towards the house that stood at the end of the garden. There was a loud pop as a pistol went off, and he hit the ground hard. His senses reeled from the impact, and he became aware of urgent shouting from the road. The King was coming. Then another shot rang out.

The discharge of firearms close to a monarch was a relatively unusual event in London, and, after a short, stunned silence, chaos erupted. Footsteps clattered as people ran towards the Banqueting House, and voices clamoured to know what was happening. An agitated horse whinnied in a way that suggested its rider was losing control of it, and a dog barked furiously. The word ‘treason’ was suddenly in the air, and it was not long before folk were yelling that the King had been assassinated.

Inside the garden, Chaloner’s attackers held a hissing conversation that suggested one of them had not associated the discharge of his own firearm with the commotion, and was keen to go to the King’s assistance. The other rebuked him with a testy impatience that indicated it was not the first time his companion had drawn stupid conclusions. While they argued, Chaloner climbed to his feet, ignoring the protesting stab in his weak leg, and took refuge in a patch of nettles. The weeds were thick, but he was oblivious to their stings as he waited to see what his assailants would do, fingers wrapped loosely around his dagger.

He ducked when they moved along the path towards him. The one in front wore a white skullcap, a cloak of burgundy wool, blue petticoat breeches and a satin shirt with ruffled sleeves. His face reminded Chaloner of a wolf’s, with pointed chin, wide mouth, sharp yellow teeth and close-set eyes. He carried a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, and his face wore a fierce expression that turned to anger when he saw the servant.

‘Jones is dead,’ he whispered furiously, turning to his companion.

‘So I see,’ replied the other. Chaloner studied him carefully, sensing him to be the more dangerous of the pair. He was heavily built, and had massive fists, like hams. He was almost as finely dressed as the first man, although his coat was last year’s fashion and his wig looked as though it had been made using someone else’s measurements. Rings adorned his fingers, and there was a pair of calfskin gloves tucked into his belt. However, his finery and the superior airs he gave himself did not disguise the fact that he had probably not been born to them, and that elegance and wealth was something he had acquired along the way.

‘That is your dagger,’ hissed the wolf.

The second man seemed unperturbed by what was essentially an accusation. ‘Then the intruder used it to kill Jones. It is obvious.’

The wolf sighed angrily, but appeared to accept the claim. ‘He will be heading for the back gate, aiming to escape into the crowds around the Banqueting House. Guard it, while I search the garden.’

‘I would rather–’ began the second.

‘No, Bennet!’ interrupted the wolf. ‘I do not want your opinion. Just do as I say.’

Bennet’s face was a mask of disapproval, but he slouched off in the direction indicated by his companion’s pointing finger. The wolf, using his sword as a scythe to probe the vegetation, began to move towards Chaloner, who picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it into a bed of mint.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered the wolf, when Bennet immediately turned towards the noise with a predatory grin. ‘It is a trick.’

Chaloner grabbed a second fistful of soil and lobbed it at the gate, which had Bennet kicking at the brambles in a frenzied attempt to determine whether someone was hiding there. When the wolf turned to berate him, Chaloner leapt to his feet and ran full pelt towards the house. Another crack echoed as a pistol was discharged, and splinters flew from a nearby tree. Chaloner hurdled a bed of winter cabbages, jigged behind a tangle of raspberry canes, and raced into the steamy warmth of a kitchen. Startled scullions gaped as he pounded through their domain, his feet skidding on the grease-coated floor. He saw an exit at the far end and powered towards it, knocking over a boy carrying a tureen of soup; the bowl crashed to the floor, adding its contents to the already slick surface.

Chaloner found himself in a long hallway, at the end of which was a door. He heard Bennet shout behind him, ordering him to stop. A scullion grabbed his arm, but Chaloner felled him with a punch. He reached the door, and spent several agonising seconds pulling away a bar, praying it would not be locked, too – if it was, then he was a dead man, because there was nowhere to hide and even the most inept of gunmen could not fail to miss him at such close range.

The yelling grew closer. Bennet cursed foully as he lost his footing in the oily spillage and went flying in a whirlwind of arms and legs. Chaloner tugged at the door. It did not budge. The wolf was scrambling over Bennet and bringing a pistol to bear, triumph lighting his pointed features. Made strong by desperation, Chaloner hauled on the door again. Something snapped and it flew open. Then he was outside, disappearing into the crowd that was surging towards the Banqueting House.

Chaloner mingled with the throng, pulling off hat, wig and cloak and tucking them under his arm in an attempt to change his appearance and confuse his pursuers. He knew they would expect him to head in the opposite direction, to put as much distance between him and the scene of Hewson’s – or was it Jones’s? – death as possible, so he did the reverse: he allowed the crowd to take him back towards Kelyng’s rear gate, and then on to White Hall. He listened to people’s speculations as he moved among them, keeping his head down and working at being inconspicuous.

Everyone seemed to know that shots had been fired as the King had ridden from St James’s Park to the Touching Ceremony, and some folk claimed to have heard them. A baker said there had been three loud bangs, but a woman swore on the lives of her children that there had been eight. Most believed an attempt had been made on the King’s life, although an apprentice wearing a blood-splattered apron maintained that the King had shot one of his spaniels, to show his new government what would happen to them if they used him as they had his father. A fat vicar was of the opinion that the incident originated with Lady Castlemaine, whose husband had executed one of her many lovers. Chaloner recalled a comment his uncle had once made about how a mob could be controlled with rumours, but how dangerous it could be if the tales took on a life of their own.

He glanced behind him. The wolf was on the doorstep, scanning the street with one hand behind his back to conceal his reloaded weapon. He scowled when Bennet arrived and elbowed him to share the vantage point. Unlike his companion, Bennet made no attempt to disguise the fact that he was armed, and Chaloner was under the impression that he would shoot if he recognised his prey, regardless of the fact that he would probably hit the wrong person.

More people joined the crowd, and Chaloner was jostled by a thin, ungainly creature with red-rimmed eyes and the stooped shoulders of a scholar. In a gesture of apology, the man draped a comradely arm around his shoulders, and Chaloner, knowing he was less likely to be spotted with someone than alone, made no effort to shrug him off. When he glanced around again, the wolf was swimming against the crowd in the direction he imagined Chaloner would have taken, although Bennet continued to monitor the faces that streamed past.

‘Do not be alarmed, friends,’ called a chambermaid from a window above their heads. ‘It is only Kelyng’s men blasting at each other with pistols. They do it all the time.’

‘It was the King!’ shouted a grubby boy. ‘His Majesty shot Kelyng.’

Another rumour was born, and people seemed pleased to learn the identity of this particular victim. Smiles broke out, and the butcher’s apprentice pulled a flask from his jerkin and offered a toast.

‘It does not surprise me that Kelyng’s rabble are responsible,’ said the thin man to Chaloner, raising his voice above the babble. ‘It is common knowledge that he has been hiring felons and vagabonds these last few months. Such men will not be easy to control, and spats among them will be inevitable.’

‘Why has Kelyng been recruiting such folk?’ asked Chaloner.

The man grimaced. ‘He says it is to protect the King against the remnants of the last government – rebels who remain loyal to Richard Cromwell – but I am more inclined to believe the story that he intends to take up where John Thurloe left off, and employ a legion of spies that will make him the most powerful man in the country.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Was that why Kelyng had sent men to intercept Thurloe’s post? Did he realise that in order to create such an army, the vestiges of the last one needed to be totally eradicated? Yet Snow and Storey were overconfident and stupid, while the wolf and Bennet had hardly been a model of competence, either. Thurloe was more than a match for any of them. Chaloner’s new friend was speaking again.

‘I wish a pox on the lot of them, personally. We were promised a new order, but this government is no better for the common man than was the last one.’

‘You do not look like a common man to me,’ said Chaloner. He ducked away from the fellow’s embrace; he was no longer in danger, and did not need to maintain the disguise.

The man inclined his head in formal greeting. ‘William Leybourn: bookseller, printer, surveyor and mathematician. I live on Monkwell Street in Cripplegate, should you want to browse the finest collection of tomes in the city – including some written by me. And you? What is your trade, other than running for your life?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘I saw you race from Kelyng’s house as though it were on fire, and I know what it means when a man removes hat, wig and cloak on a cold winter’s day – he does not want to be recognised. I also saw the furious expression on Kelyng’s face when he realised he had lost you.’

Chaloner was startled by the revelation. ‘That was Kelyng?’

It was Leybourn’s turn to be astonished. ‘You do not recognise Kelyng?’

Chaloner cursed himself for speaking without thinking. ‘I have not been in London long,’ he explained, slipping easily into the role of country bumpkin; a good deal could be learned by pretending to be a clueless provincial. The ruse did not work, however, and Leybourn narrowed his eyes and regarded him suspiciously.

‘Where were you before? The moon?’

Chaloner changed tactics, opting for honesty instead. ‘The United Provinces of the Netherlands.’ Bitter experience had taught him it was wise to be truthful when possible, since it left fewer opportunities for being caught out in lies.

‘I see,’ said Leybourn. ‘Well, you will not learn much that makes sense from the Dutch. All they do is eat cheese and bathe in butter. Do not look shocked. You must have read the broadsheets telling us how wicked Hollanders are waiting to invade us – to kill our children while we sleep.’

‘Yes, but I am not so stupid as to believe them.’

‘And neither am I,’ said Leybourn. ‘But you did not know that when you spoke, and to admit that you reside in Holland, when there are rumours of a royal assassination, is wildly reckless. If I were to yell that you were a Dutchman, and that you had just shot at the King, you would be torn apart before you could say Rembrandt. People are afraid of the Dutch.’

Chaloner saw he had a point, although it was unsettling to hear emotions ran quite so high. The woman who had shared his bed for the past three years, and whom he loved dearly, was Dutch, and she had mentioned a growing antipathy towards her, even from friends. He had dismissed her concerns as the natural sensitivity of a foreigner abroad – he had experienced similar misgivings himself in the past – but now saw he should probably take them seriously.

‘So, you do not know Kelyng,’ mused Leybourn. ‘In that case, why were you in his house?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

Leybourn grinned, unrepentant. ‘I cannot help myself. It is not every day I see someone get the better of Kelyng, God rot his putrid soul.’

‘What has he done to you?’

‘He owes me money. He ordered several expensive legal texts last year – as a newly appointed sergeant-at-law, he needs them for his work – but now he refuses to pay.’

‘Why?’

‘On the grounds that he is using them to serve the King. It is flagrant extortion, but he says that if I complain, my comments will be considered treason.’

‘Just for asking to be reimbursed?’

‘Quite,’ agreed Leybourn bitterly. ‘Despicable, is it not? So, now you see why I detest the fellow and his niggardly ways. Any man who annoys him is a friend of mine.’

Their section of the crowd had arrived at the Banqueting House, joining the masses already there. Chaloner had never seen so many sick people, all hoping the King would cure them. Here more rumours circulated. Folk had seen the King arrive moments before, so there were no tales that he had been killed, although Chaloner was disconcerted to hear the claim that Dutch marksmen had been at large. Leybourn had been right to advise him to caution, and he saw how dangerous it was to be unaware of London’s current bigotries.

He was listening with growing horror to an Anglican priest, who was taking advantage of the gathering to bellow an impromptu sermon about the evils of any religion not consistent with his own, when another thin, stoop-shouldered man approached. Leybourn introduced him as his brother and business partner Robert, although Chaloner had guessed they were related: both had gaunt, pale faces and bony frames. Robert, more caustic than his sibling, matter-of-factly informed them that the shots heard near the Royal Mews had been due to the unpopular Sir George Downing falling off his horse – the fellow was so afraid someone might kill him, that he always carried three loaded pistols, and each had ignited when he had taken his tumble. The general consensus, Robert maintained, was that it was a pity one of the balls had not travelled through the man’s black heart.

Chaloner’s thoughts turned to the servant who lay dead in Kelyng’s garden, who had said his name was Hewson, contrary to what his employer seemed to believe. He tried again to decide whether Bennet had killed Hewson deliberately, or whether he had simply missed his intended target. He did not have enough information to say one way or the other, but Hewson, along with poor Charles-Stewart, made two dead that morning, and it was barely nine o’clock.

‘I should go,’ he said, breaking into Robert’s scathing tirade against Downing. He knew he should return to Thurloe as soon as possible, and not waste time listening to the gossip of a pair of booksellers, gratifying though it might be: having spent five years working with Downing, Chaloner doubted any Londoner could loathe the man as much as he did.

Leybourn caught his arm. ‘You are leaving? Without telling us how you came to be chased from Kelyng’s house by the man himself? And you have not told us your name.’

‘Thomas Heyden,’ replied Chaloner, giving his usual alias. Thurloe had chosen the name because it was neither resoundingly English nor resoundingly foreign. ‘I am a clerk.’

The last statement rankled, because it happened to be true. In the absence of other work, he managed the accounts for Fetter Lane’s Nonconformist chapel, although it took only a few hours each week and the pay barely covered the rent. Puritans, so numerous and powerful during the Commonwealth, were becoming an ever-dwindling minority as people shifted back to traditional Anglicanism, and few sensible folk had anything to do with them. If Chaloner had not been so desperate, he would not have done, either, and leaving the Puritans’ employ was yet another reason why he hoped Thurloe would help him.

‘What kind of clerk?’ asked Leybourn.

Chaloner was not about to admit to a link with an unpopular sect. ‘A household clerk.’

‘Whose household?’ pressed Leybourn. He tapped his chin with a long forefinger. ‘Not Downing’s? You said you have been in Holland, and he is recently returned from there.’

‘Then he predicted the collapse of the Commonwealth and became a Royalist,’ elaborated Robert. ‘However, no one likes a turncoat, not even one who turns to the King.’

He spat, leaving Chaloner wondering whether he had been cornered by a pair of rebels. Or were they Cavaliers, hired to ferret out potential traitors by encouraging seditious talk? He listened to their dialogue uneasily, heartily wishing he had a better understanding of affairs in his native country.

‘And in order to prove himself, he did that unspeakably nasty thing which shocked Dutchmen and Englishmen alike,’ added Leybourn. Chaloner kept his expression neutral: Downing’s controversial action the previous March was certainly not something he was prepared to discuss with strangers. ‘It meant he and his household were obliged to leave The Hague rather abruptly. Are we right, Heyden? Is Downing your master?’

After a moment’s reflection, Chaloner opted for honesty again: he did not want to be reported as a suspicious character by declining to answer, and Leybourn was too astute for brazen lies.

‘I worked for Downing,’ he admitted, watching the bookseller’s triumphant grin that he had been right. ‘But he did not need a Dutch-speaking clerk in London, so I was released.’

‘Consider yourself fortunate. No decent man should align himself with such a villain.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner fervently. ‘He should not.’

‘You do not like him?’ asked Robert keenly.

Since very few people liked Downing, especially once they had met him, Chaloner had no qualms about voicing his real opinion of the man. ‘I do not. He dismissed me without testimonials, because he said I was untrustworthy.’

‘Why did he think that?’ asked Leybourn curiously.

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Well, I did carry on with his daughter’s governess for a couple of years.’

‘Did you wed her?’ asked Robert, brazenly prying now. ‘Or were you just trying to annoy a man who prides himself on being able to seduce any wench who takes his fancy?’

‘She still comes to me most nights,’ replied Chaloner evasively.

‘She will not take you, because you are poor,’ surmised Leybourn with his annoying intuitiveness. He nodded at Chaloner’s head. ‘At a time when men are proud to display flowing locks, yours are short. You have good, thick hair, the kind a wigmaker might purchase from a man in urgent need of funds.’

‘I usually wear a periwig,’ said Chaloner, wondering how the man was able to draw so many accurate conclusions. It was disconcerting, and he did not like it. He pulled the headpiece, which the wigmaker had provided as part of the bargain, from his pocket. He hated it: it smelled of the horse whose tail had provided the raw materials, and had a tendency to slip to one side. ‘But I was hot.’

‘Where do you live?’ asked Leybourn. ‘If it is near Cripplegate, we can share a carriage.’

‘I would rather walk,’ said Robert, beginning to move away. ‘The last time I treated myself to a carriage, the driver went to the Fleet Rookery and abandoned me there. I lost my purse and most of my clothes to villains who crept out of the shadows with staves and knives.’

‘I will go by water,’ said Chaloner, watching him disappear into the crowd.

‘Then I will come with you,’ said Leybourn, in the kind of voice that suggested objections would be futile. ‘I fancy a jaunt on the river. How far will you be going?’

Chaloner regarded him coolly. Was he employed by the new government to watch men who had once been in Thurloe’s pay? Or was he hired by Kelyng or Downing, and his tirades against them were a ruse to gain the confidence of dissenters? Or was he just a nosy bookseller, and Chaloner had been an agent for so long that he was apt to be wary of everyone? He studied the thin, eager features as they walked, and all his experience failed him: he could not tell whether Leybourn was friend or foe.

The quickest way to the nearest pier – the Westminster Stairs – was through the Holbein Gate, a sturdy but shabby edifice that straddled King Street and was a major obstacle for carts. Drivers regularly clamoured for it to be demolished, but the King stubbornly resisted any attempts to reduce the size of his palace. The gate boasted several stately chambers, and their current occupant, Chaloner learned from Leybourn, was Lady Castlemaine. Chaloner suspected that most of the stories about the King’s favourite mistress were wildly exaggerated. When he had visited his boyhood home in Buckinghamshire that summer, his brothers had told him she regularly amassed gambling debts of a hundred thousand pounds, and his sisters thought she was a secret drinker. Now Leybourn was claiming she was pregnant with another of the King’s brats, although her meek husband declared it was his own.

‘It is not, of course,’ declared Leybourn, negotiating his way along King Street. For a major thoroughfare, it was wretchedly narrow. Vehicles were nearly always at a standstill, and the congestion sometimes had to be sorted out by armed soldiers. The squeal of metal wheels on cobbles was amplified by the towering buildings on either side and, combined with the yells of traders and the racket of cattle being driven to the slaughterhouses, Chaloner could barely hear Leybourn bawling in his ear. ‘I doubt Lord Castlemaine has been within a mile of his wedding bed for years. That honour is reserved for those with the funds to buy her expensive gifts.’

They reached the mighty façade of Westminster Hall, where a small crowd lingered around the place where the heads and limbs of traitors were displayed. Chaloner looked away, not wanting to see the decaying remnants of men he had met in life. Leybourn led the way to a damp wooden pier that boasted a jostling flotilla of waiting boats. Immediately, another clamour assailed their ears, as rivermen vied for their custom, offering improbably low prices that would be inflated with hidden extras at the end of the journey. Leybourn seemed to enjoy the barter, and eventually selected a villainous-looking fellow with no teeth. Chaloner followed them down the slick green steps and into a bobbing craft.

He scanned the pier as he scrambled into the bow, alert for any indication that he might have been followed. He did not think Kelyng could have caught up with him, since he had rushed off in the opposite direction, but Bennet might have managed. However, there was nothing amiss, and he began to relax, grateful to rest his aching leg. Leybourn and the boatman continued to haggle as they moved away from the jetty and eased into the powerful current that carried them north and then east, towards Temple Stairs where Chaloner intended to disembark. He had no idea what Leybourn would do, since Cripplegate was a good way from the river.

Then he heard running footsteps. It was Bennet. The chamberlain seized a riverman by the shoulder, pointed at Chaloner’s craft, and silver flashed. The message was clear: more would be given if the fellow caught up. The boatman grabbed his oars, clearly intending to have whatever had been offered. Chaloner watched, aware that a vessel containing three people could not possibly outrun one carrying two, the driver of which was already hauling as though his life depended on it. It was gaining, while Chaloner’s man was enjoying a niggardly debate with Leybourn about the cost of oysters. With nowhere to run, and no means to escape, Chaloner was trapped like a fish in a barrel.