A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 2

Bennet knelt in his boat, bracing himself against the rocking motion, and took a pistol from under his cloak. If his riverman thought this irregular, he made no comment, and only continued to haul on his oars for all he was worth. Chaloner’s own man faltered when he saw the weapon.

‘Pull,’ Chaloner ordered, scrambling forward and grabbing an oar. The boatman obeyed with mute terror, and they began to ease ahead. Then Chaloner saw Bennet extend his arm and squint along the barrel. Even the most dire of marksmen could not miss at such close range, and he braced himself for the impact.

But Leybourn hauled something from his doublet. ‘Fireball!’ he yelled, hurling it at the other craft. It landed with a thud that was audible even at a distance. Bennet’s oarsman gave a shriek of horror and dived overboard. Bennet tried to maintain his balance in the savagely bucking craft, but soon disappeared with an almighty splash. Chaloner’s man cheered wildly, and stood to make obscene gestures at the bobbing heads that surfaced a moment later. Leybourn sat with a satisfied smile stamped across his thin features.

‘What was it really?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Tobacco,’ replied the bookseller. ‘A customer gave it to me in exchange for one of my pamphlets. I am sorry to see the Thames have it, but it cannot be helped.’

‘It is a waste,’ agreed the boatman. He elbowed Chaloner away, wanting the craft back under his own control. ‘This will affect the fare, gentlemen. Me being threatened with firearms costs extra.’

‘And you being you rescued from gun-toting lunatics does not come cheap, either,’ retorted Leybourn tartly. ‘I charge for that sort of service, so I advise you to stick to our original agreement or you may find yourself in debt at the end of the journey.’

‘He was trying to kill your friend,’ objected the boatman. ‘You endangered me, by making me carry you when Gervaise Bennet was after your blood. If you got on his wrong side, then you had no business asking me to take you upriver. I might have been killed.’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Leybourn smoothly. He pointed forward, to where another boat was in disarray, oars in the water as it rotated hopelessly out of control. A large, heavily paunched man in a red wig, and a pretty, fattish girl carrying a long-handled parasol were shrieking their alarm while their boatman paddled ineffectually with his hands. ‘Bennet was aiming at them. It was my quick thinking that saved the day, but they were the ones he was trying to shoot.’

‘I doubt it,’ said the boatman, inspecting the stricken craft as they passed. ‘The passengers are Sir John Robinson and his daughter Fanny. Bennet would never risk harming Fanny.’

‘But he does not feel as benevolent towards her father,’ argued Leybourn. ‘He might well want to put a ball in Robinson’s heart.’

The names meant nothing to Chaloner. ‘Who are they?’

‘Robinson is Lord Mayor of London,’ replied the boatman, regarding him askance. ‘Every decent soul knows that. He is a powerful and wealthy merchant, with fingers in every pie worth eating.’

‘Robinson is also Lieutenant of the Tower,’ added Leybourn helpfully. ‘Bennet wanted to marry his daughter, but his offer was declined in no uncertain terms.’

‘Bennet is a chamberlain,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘Yet he set his sights on the Lord Mayor’s daughter? I would have thought he was aiming somewhat above his station.’

The boatman nodded, relishing an opportunity to give his opinion. ‘So it was no surprise when he was turned down.’

‘No surprise to most folk,’ corrected Leybourn. ‘It came as a great shock to Bennet himself, however. Rumour has it that he dressed himself in his finest clothes and arrived bearing a bribe of forty silver spoons. Apparently, he was stunned when Robinson told him to leave.’

‘I heard it was Fanny who told him where to go,’ said the boatman, laughing. ‘Robinson took a fancy to the spoons, and was seriously considering the offer.’

Leybourn waved a hand to indicate detail was unimportant. ‘It is common knowledge that Bennet had decided to wed Fanny, so it was deeply mortifying for him to be publicly rejected.’

‘Why did he think he had a chance?’ pressed Chaloner. He had guessed, from Bennet’s clothes and demeanour, that he considered himself something special, and his attitude to Kelyng had verged on the insolent. But even with delusions of grandeur, it was still a massive leap from hired servant to the son-in-law of an influential merchant.

‘Ambition and an inflated notion of his own worth,’ replied Leybourn. ‘And he was rejected for two reasons. First, because he is just what he appears: a bully in fancy clothes. And second, he is in the pay of Kelyng, and no one wants anything to do with him.’

‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because he is a fanatic, and thus a man without reason. Although he is said to be fond of cats.’

‘It was men with violent opinions who got the last king beheaded,’ stated the boatman, giving voice to an inflexible view of his own, ‘and who got that traitor Cromwell on the throne–’

‘Cromwell was never king,’ said Chaloner pedantically. ‘The crown was offered, but he refused.’

‘Only because he knew he could never keep it,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I suspect he was sorely tempted by the thought of King Oliver.’

‘Did you see him dug up?’ asked the boatman conversationally, as he rowed. ‘When I learned he was going to be prised from his tomb, I went to watch. I saw his corpse plucked out and taken to Tyburn for hanging.’

‘I was busy,’ said Leybourn distastefully. ‘But Kelyng was there, laughing his delight. Inflicting justice on Roundheads – dead or alive – is the sort of thing he enjoys very much.’

Chaloner winced. He was not particularly squeamish, but very little would have induced him to witness such a spectacle. To him, the Royalists’ treatment of Cromwell’s body had smacked of a spoiled child stamping its foot because it had been deprived of its revenge, and he recalled the revulsion of the Dutch when the story had reached Holland. He did not know how Englishmen dared accuse Netherlanders of debauched and grotesque behaviour when they hacked up old corpses to provide the public with an afternoon of entertainment. He could not imagine what a black day it must have been for Thurloe, to see the remains of his friend so barbarously treated.

When the craft bumped against the seaweed-draped Temple Stairs, Leybourn dropped some coins in the boatman’s hand – enough to earn him a pleased grin – and clambered inelegantly to dry land. He waved away Chaloner’s offer to pay half.

‘Who are you?’ asked Chaloner, as he and the bookseller walked along the narrow lane that divided the Middle Temple from Inner Temple. London’s four ‘Inns of Court’ – Lincoln’s, Gray’s, Middle Temple and Inner Temple – were all solid, semi-fortified foundations that stood aloof from the teeming metropolis that surrounded them, and within their towering walls stood peaceful courtyards, manicured gardens and gracious halls. But the public alley that ran between Inner and Middle temples, and provided access to the river from Fleet Street, was a foetid tunnel with a gate at either end, and a world apart from the rarified domains it transected. ‘You are no mere peddler of books.’

Leybourn was indignant. ‘No, I am not! Robert and I print and sell books to earn an honest crust, but I am actually a surveyor and a mathematician of some repute. Have you never heard of me? I have written a number of erudite pamphlets and treatises. You can come to see them in my shop if you do not believe me.’

Chaloner remained unconvinced. ‘Who do you work for? The King?’

‘I work for no man!’ protested Leybourn. His expression became spiteful. ‘It is a good deal safer that way, if you are anything to go by. First Kelyng was after you, then Bennet. What have you done to make such dangerous enemies?’

‘It must have been a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Really,’ said Leybourn flatly. ‘Well, do not underestimate them. They may be bumbling fools, but they are dangerous ones. Kelyng is so ardently Royalist that he sees conspiracies everywhere, and if he thinks you are an enemy of the King, he will not rest until you are dead. And Bennet is vengeful, mean and ambitious. You would be wise to stay out their way.’

‘So would you. It was your tobacco that brought about Bennet’s ducking. But thank you for the ride.’ They were nearing the end of the lane. ‘If there is anything I can do in return …’

‘A generous offer,’ said Leybourn sullenly, ‘from a man who declines to tell me where he lives. I will never find you again, even if I do have a favour to ask.’

‘You can leave a message for me at the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane.’

‘I might, then,’ said Leybourn. He forced a smile. ‘I have enjoyed meeting you, Heyden. It is not every day I am obliged to rescue someone from waving pistols.’

‘And it is not every day I owe my life to a well-lobbed ball of tobacco,’ said Chaloner with a pleasant smile, passing through the gate at the end of the lane and emerging into Fleet Street. ‘Good morning, Mr Leybourn – and thank you.’

Once through the gate, Chaloner limped towards St Dunstan-in-the-West, unwilling to visit Thurloe until he was sure he was not being followed. Fleet Street was perfect for tailing someone, because it was chaotic and busy, and the huddle of illegal stalls along each side provided ample opportunity for disguise and concealment. Leybourn was adequate – he kept his distance and exchanged his wide-brimmed hat for a skullcap – but nowhere near good enough to fool Chaloner. Smiling, because he had suspected from the start that the encounter had been engineered, Chaloner ambled past the church, then ducked behind a carriage, using it as a shield to mask his entry into the game shop at the end of Fetter Lane.

Bright pheasants, pearl-feathered pigeons and dull-eyed rabbits swung from the rafters, while the limp bodies of deer were draped in the window, like curtains. The room smelled of the sawdust scattered on the floor and the cloying scent of old death: some of the corpses had been hung rather too long. Chaloner pretended to be inspecting a hare as he waited to see what would happen outside.

Within moments, Leybourn appeared, looking this way and that in mounting annoyance when he realised he had lost his quarry. Chaloner was puzzled. Who was he? The man had certainly saved him: Bennet could not have missed at such close range, and it had only ever been a faint hope that he could have been out-rowed. But why had Leybourn risked himself? Had Thurloe set a spy to watch a spy? But how could Thurloe have known Chaloner would end up near White Hall when he was dispatched to follow the two robbers?

After a while, Leybourn gave up the chase and walked back the way he had come. Chaloner waited a moment, then made for the door. Escape, however, was not to be so easy. Blocking the exit was the largest bird he had ever seen and, unlike the other feathered occupants of the shop, this one was alive and looked dangerous. It fluffed up its green-brown feathers, and the bare skin on its neck flushed with bad temper.

‘Do not move,’ came a hoarse whisper from the back of the shop. ‘If you do, it will have you.’

‘Thomas!’ cried another voice, this one familiar. At first, Chaloner could see no one, but then he spotted his neighbour’s daughter, Temperance, crouching atop a cupboard and clutching her drab Puritan skirts decorously around her knees. He liked the nineteen-year-old, who was as tall and almost as bulky as he, but who had a kind face and gentle hazel eyes. He often thought that if her father had allowed her more social contact, then they might have been friends.

‘What are you doing there?’ he asked. It was unlike the demure Temperance to climb furniture.

‘I am trapped,’ she replied, although he could hear laughter in her voice. She thought her predicament amusing, unlike the raw terror of the first person who had spoken. ‘That bird snaps at me every time I try to reach the door. Be careful. It is very vicious.’

‘Is it a turkey?’ asked Chaloner. He had read about turkeys, and had even eaten some at a feast given by Downing in The Hague once, but he had never seen one alive.

‘It was supposed to have been delivered dead,’ came the whisper. Chaloner looked around the shop, but still could not locate the speaker. ‘I am a game dealer. Game means someone is supposed to have shot it. How am I supposed to cope with living goods?’

Chaloner jumped back as the bird lunged at him, beak open in an angry gape and wattles bobbling menacingly. ‘It will be dead soon enough if it does that again.’

‘Really?’ asked the voice eagerly. ‘You would be doing me a great service if you were to dispatch it. My regular patrons are too frightened to visit, and the damned thing is ruining me. It has been here almost a week now, and you and Miss North are the first customers I have seen since Tuesday. Look out! Here it comes again!’

Chaloner took a piece of bread from his pocket – left from the meagre breakfast he had eaten while waiting to see Thurloe – and tossed it towards the bird, hoping to stall its relentless advance. The ugly head dropped towards the offering, then began to peck, flinging the bread this way and that as it broke it into manageable pieces.

‘It is just hungry,’ said Chaloner, watching it with pity. ‘Do you have any seed?’

‘I am not usually required to feed my merchandise, but I suppose I can make an exception,’ replied the voice. ‘Look in the cupboard behind you. There should be some barley.’

Chaloner eased towards the chest while the bird was occupied, and found the sack of grain. He scrambled away in alarm when a thick neck suddenly thrust under his arm in an attempt to reach the food. The bird was a fast and silent mover. There followed a brief tussle, in which the turkey tried to grab the bag and Chaloner resisted. When the bird’s neck was stretched to full length, the snapping beak was uncomfortably close to his face, and the furious cackling at close quarters was unsettling.

‘Do not antagonise it!’ cried Temperance, frightened for him. ‘Let it have what it wants.’

‘Turkeys will slay a fellow without a moment’s hesitation,’ yelped the voice at the same time. ‘In New England, they are feared by man and beast alike.’

With difficulty, Chaloner managed to extricate a fistful of grain, and the bird’s head followed his hand to the floor, gobbling greedily. He edged around it while it was feeding, and began to lay a trail. ‘Where do you want it?’

‘I want it dead,’ said the voice. ‘Use your dagger to cut its throat while its mind is on the barley.’

Chaloner studied the featherless neck without enthusiasm. He had never enjoyed killing, and suspected any assault on the turkey’s life would end with them both being hurt, since he had no idea how to slaughter something of its ilk. Besides, there was something about the bird’s bristling defiance that appealed to him. ‘I will entice it out of your shop, but you can dispatch it yourself.’

‘I cannot!’ cried the voice in horror. ‘Not a great, dangerous brute like that!’

‘It can stay in here, then,’ said Chaloner, watching it eat. It was clearly starving, and the barley was probably the first food it had seen in days. It was no surprise the creature was in such a foul mood.

The disembodied voice released a resigned sigh. ‘Then lead it into the yard. But for God’s sake make sure the gate is closed first. I do not want it to get into Fleet Street – I will be fined.’

‘You are limping,’ said Temperance, watching Chaloner entice the bird towards the back door. ‘Did it bite you?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. That was something he would have to remember to disguise when he met Thurloe: the ex-Spymaster could not be expected to recommend anyone in a poor physical condition. ‘There is grain in my boot.’

‘Then get it out,’ advised the voice. ‘Or that greedy bird will chew through your foot to get at it.’

It was not long before the turkey was installed in a tiny garden with the rest of the barley and a bowl of water. A thickset, lugubrious man with a black beard emerged from under a bench to watch it through the window, while Chaloner helped Temperance down from her perch.

‘Thank you,’ she said gratefully. ‘I was beginning to think I might be there all day. I knew it was a mistake to order one of those things for Christmas, but mother insisted. They dine on turkey in New England, you see, and she wanted to show kinship for our distant Puritan brethren.’

‘If she wants to eat like them, then she is going to have to behead it herself,’ said the shopkeeper shakily. ‘You can tell her it is in the yard, waiting.’

The turkey incident had taken some time, but Chaloner was not entirely convinced Leybourn had really gone. He walked across the road to Praisegod Barbon’s leather factory, and pretended to inspect the jumble of displayed merchandise. Barbon, only recently released from the Tower for anti-Royalist ranting, nodded a startled welcome to a rare customer, but Chaloner declined to engage in conversation, and lingered near the door while he waited to see whether the bookseller would reappear. It was the first opportunity he had had to draw breath since chasing Snow and Storey out of Lincoln’s Inn, and he used the time to think carefully about the theft of the satchel and the stabbing of the post-boy.

Most of Thurloe’s spies were now unemployed, and Chaloner would not be the only one wanting to be hired by the new government. Was the entire incident a test, to see who was the most efficient, and whose name should go forward? Chaloner would not put such a trick past the wily Thurloe. The question was, would returning the satchel with news that its theft had been ordered by Kelyng be sufficient, or would Thurloe expect robbers in tow, too?

Bells chimed, telling him it was noon, and that he had been gone more than four hours – too long. He donned the hated wig, and to ensure he was not being followed, took a tortuous route through the Clare Market to Lincoln’s Inn. The market, recently established by the Earl of Clare, was a chaotic jumble of stalls, alleys, sheds and runnels. Chaloner held his sleeve over his nose when he passed the shambles, wincing at the rank, choking stench that emanated from the butchers’ and fishmongers’ shops. He emerged near the new theatre built for the Duke’s Company in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, although all the ornate plasterwork in the world could not disguise the fact that it had enjoyed a previous life as a tennis court. Checking for the last time that he was alone, he cut across the Fields to Chancery Lane.

The gate to Lincoln’s Inn was answered by the same porter who had admitted him that morning. The man raised his eyebrows questioningly, and Chaloner brandished the satchel, feigning a buoyancy he did not feel. The porter grinned and waved him inside, letting him make his own way to Thurloe’s apartments. Chaloner crossed a neat square that was bound by accommodation wings to the north, west and east, and the chapel to the south. It was dominated by one of the ugliest sundials he had ever seen. He weaved through knots of black-gowned students, then climbed a set of creaking stairs in the building that abutted on to the western end of the chapel, before knocking on the door to Chamber XIII.

Thurloe’s suite comprised rooms on two levels, all boasting oak panelling and a comforting, homely odour of wax and wood smoke. On the lower floor were a bedchamber and sitting room, both with dark furniture that rendered them gloomy and sombre. Shelves lined the walls, bowing under the weight of books. Most were legal texts, purchased when Thurloe had decided to eschew politics and turn to the law again. Chaloner glanced at the spines, and wondered whether any had been bought from William Leybourn of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. The upper floor comprised a garret for his manservant – an elusive, unobtrusive fellow whom Chaloner suspected was dumb – and a pantry where his meals were prepared.

When Chaloner entered the sitting room, he saw a fire blazing in the hearth and Thurloe sitting so close to it that there was a smell of singed cloth. That morning he had visitors, which was unusual: he was almost always alone, and there were rumours that his fall from grace had left him with no friends. One of the three guests Chaloner knew well, although it was not someone he would have chosen to meet. Ten years older than Chaloner, Sir George Downing was a florid man, whose expensive green coat failed to disguise the fact that he was growing fat. He was confident, aggressive, and cared for no one’s opinion – unless he thought the acquaintance might be useful, in which case he was greasily obsequious. Given that he had betrayed Thurloe by changing sides before the Protectorate had fully disintegrated, Chaloner was surprised to see the fellow in the ex-Spymaster’s home.

The second man Chaloner did not know. He was in his fifties, and wore an eccentric arrangement of waistcoats and doublets. All were well made, suggesting he was wealthy. When he raised his handkerchief to dab his lips, the scent of oranges wafted across the room. The hand holding the napkin was unsteady, and Chaloner was under the impression that the knock at the door had startled him. He was accompanied by a lady who wore a dress that fell in sumptuous pleats, and with short, straight sleeves that ended in a series of elaborate ruffs. It was a style made popular by those wanting to emulate the sensuous Lady Castlemaine, and Chaloner knew the neckline would be indecently low. In this case, however, the suggestive plunge was concealed by a gorget – a decorous cape-like collar – fastened with a jewelled clasp. She was considerably younger than her husband, and her lively blue eyes and aristocratic posture suggested the gorget would be whipped off as soon as she was away from the company of prim men.

‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe, as Chaloner entered. ‘You were gone so long I thought you had decided not to come back. What happened? Are you limping?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner, aware that Downing was regarding him with open disdain. He glanced down and realised his clothes were dishevelled and stained, and was annoyed the man should see him looking quite so disrepu-table. He did not want him to have the satisfaction of knowing his refusal to provide a reference had reduced a former ‘employee’ to near destitution.

‘You cannot hide it for ever,’ said Downing spitefully. ‘Being lame cannot make it easy to find profitable work. No one hires cripples, when there are whole men to be had.’

Before Chaloner could think of a suitable reply – the ones that sprung immediately to mind were far too vulgar to be uttered in Thurloe’s genteel presence – the ex-Spymaster went to a jug on the table, gesturing towards the hearth as he did so. ‘Sit, while I pour you a tonic, Tom. My physician recommended this potion of strengthening herbs, and it does help of a morning. Take that stool.’

Chaloner declined, knowing perfectly well that he would struggle to rise once he was down, and when Thurloe gave one of his small, secret smiles he inwardly cursed his stiff knee – the seat had been offered to test his fitness, and Chaloner’s refusal had told the clever lawyer exactly what he had wanted to know. Thurloe handed him something brown in a silver goblet, which he accepted cautiously: as a man often in poor health, Thurloe tended to swallow a good many draughts that promised vitality and well-being. Most tasted foul and all were probably worthless.

‘Have we met before?’ asked the stranger, studying him. ‘There is something familiar about you.’

‘Your paths have never crossed,’ replied Thurloe with considerable conviction. He held out his hand for the satchel. ‘Did you buy my cinnamon, Tom? It is difficult to come by these days, and there is nothing like spice in hot milk on a cold winter’s evening.’

‘You have gone from diplomatic envoy to housemaid, have you, Heyden?’ asked Downing with a sneer. ‘Could you not find a better use for your talents after we parted company? You must have fallen on very hard times if that wig is anything to go by.’

‘That is hardly his fault,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘Clerks flocked to London in their thousands after the Restoration, and there is little hope for a man without proper testimonials, as you know very well – just as you also know that one from me would do him scant good, either. No household professing to be Royalist would employ a man recommended by a former Parliamentarian minister.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped he was mistaken.

Downing waved a plump hand, to indicate he did not consider Chaloner’s predicament important. ‘I dismissed nearly all my retainers last spring, because I want everyone to know that I only hire Cavaliers. Obviously, that description does not apply to the men who were pressed on me by you, John. We are friends, but I am sure you appreciate my point.’ He shot Thurloe a meaningful glance.

Thurloe grimaced, and it was clear to Chaloner that he did not consider Downing a friend, and nor was he happy about the indiscreet references to matters of intelligence.

‘You dismissed anyone you suspected of remaining loyal to Cromwell, Sir George?’ asked the woman, regarding the diplomat with some amusement. ‘How can you be sure you eliminated the right ones?’

‘By ridding myself of the lot, except for some maids, women who …’ Downing flapped his hand expansively.

‘Come to your bedchamber when your wife is away?’ suggested Chaloner.

‘Whom I know to be firm Royalists,’ finished Downing with a scowl.

‘Why did you decline to write their testimonials?’ the woman asked. ‘Because you do not want other wealthy households to harbour deadly Roundheads under their roofs?’

‘I gave them all testimonials, except Heyden here,’ replied Downing curtly, not liking the tone of her voice. He glowered at her, while Chaloner recalled how he had thought Thurloe overly cautious five years before, when he had insisted that Downing should not know his real name. Now he was greatly relieved by it. In fact, Thurloe was the only man in London who did know and, given the rabid Parliamentarian convictions of one of his uncles – the most widely known and outspoken member of his family – Chaloner hoped to keep it that way.

‘And what did poor Heyden do to incur your displeasure?’ asked the woman with arched eyebrows. ‘Provide an alternative bed for these Royalist lasses?’

‘Sarah!’ exclaimed Thurloe, shocked. As a devout Puritan, although by no means a fanatic, lewd jests were anathema to him. ‘Please!’

‘I do not like his handwriting,’ replied Downing stiffly, although a shifty expression in his eyes indicated she was near the truth. ‘And he made two mistakes with my accounts – minor ones, it is true, but a clerk must strive for accuracy.’ He glanced at Thurloe, passing the message that if errors were made in this, then could Chaloner’s espionage reports be trusted?

‘Two small errors in the five years he served you is hardly serious,’ said Thurloe reproachfully. ‘And his other skills must have been of value to you – his fluency in Spanish, French and Dutch, for example.’

‘Dutch?’ asked the stranger with a sudden eagerness. ‘How well can you speak Dutch?’

‘Like a native, so they said,’ replied Downing before Chaloner could answer for himself. ‘He jabbered incessantly in the filthy tongue when he was in Holland, and I dislike servants having discussions I cannot understand. You never know what they might be saying about you.’

‘I do business with the Dutch,’ said the man. He raised his handkerchief to his lips again. ‘It is rare to find an Englishman who knows their language. Perhaps I might have a place for you, Heyden. Visit my house on the Strand next week. Thurloe will tell you how to find it.’

‘Once or twice, there was uproarious laughter,’ Downing went on darkly, shooting the fellow a glance full of comradely warning. ‘I am certain he was cracking jokes at my expense – making sport of me in the knowledge that I had no choice but to sit there and grin like a half-wit. Think very carefully before you make any decisions, my friend.’

‘You told me to do all I could to impress The Hague’s burgesses,’ said Chaloner, neither denying nor confirming the charge. ‘So that is what I did. And that particular alliance brought you a lucrative treaty, so I do not think you should complain about how I came by it.’

‘You insolent whelp!’ exclaimed Downing, struggling to his feet. ‘How dare you speak–’

‘Sit down, Sir George,’ interrupted Thurloe sharply. He gazed steadily at the spluttering diplomat until he complied, then turned to Chaloner. He was angry, objecting to sparring matches carried out in his presence. ‘You are pale, Thomas; perhaps you have taken a chill. Go to my bedchamber and lie down. I will see you when my business is completed.’

‘I shall bring you some more tonic,’ offered Sarah, going to fetch the jug and indicating Chaloner was to precede her into the adjoining chamber. ‘I am not very interested in hearing their tedious discussions, and would rather have you tell me where I can buy good cinnamon.’

‘Leave the door open so we can see you, then,’ instructed her husband. ‘And keep your voice down. We do not want a noisy analysis of condiments distracting us. Our business is important.’

Chaloner was uneasy. He did not want a woman quizzing him about spices when he had not the faintest idea where they might be purchased, suspecting he would be caught out in an instant. However, Thurloe’s visitors seemed keen to rid themselves of him, and nodded approvingly when Sarah ushered him into the next room, leaving the door decorously ajar. Downing immediately began a malicious diatribe about ungrateful staff, and only desisted when Thurloe regarded him with unfriendly eyes. Then their voices dropped to inaudible murmurs, suggesting business was underway. Chaloner perched on the edge of the bed, while Sarah kindled a lamp.

‘Do not sit there,’ she advised. ‘You will spread muck on John’s clean blankets, and he will not like that at all.’

Chaloner moved to the hearth, watching her take one of Thurloe’s night-caps and drop it in a pot that was warming over the fire; the ex-Spymaster was fastidious and liked hot water available all day. She rolled the steaming garment into a ball and handed it to him. He regarded it blankly.

She sighed impatiently. ‘For your leg, to ease the ache.’

‘There is nothing wrong–’

She slapped it into his hand. ‘Take it – unless you want to give Downing cause to jibe you.’

‘Thurloe will no more want grime on his night-cap than he will on his bedclothes.’

‘We will burn it when you have finished. He has a dozen, and will not miss one. My husband seemed to recognise you, and he is usually good with faces. Where could you have met?’

‘Nowhere,’ replied Chaloner. He knew for a fact he had never encountered the man before – he would have remembered the orange-scented linen and the fellow’s lumpy nose. ‘He is confusing me with someone else.’

‘Perhaps so. He is not himself at the moment – too many financial worries, I suppose. What shall we talk about? Cinnamon? Or would you prefer to tell me your problems?’

Chaloner was startled. ‘What problems?’

‘Downing hates you, and you are unlikely to secure another post as long as he refuses a testimonial. My husband will offer you work, but it will only be a matter of time before Downing makes him change his mind – he is a slippery, conniving fellow, and my husband always yields to him eventually. Were you one of John’s spies? Is that why Downing is afraid of you?’

‘I am not a spy,’ replied Chaloner firmly. ‘And Downing is not afraid of me – I only wish he were, because then he might keep his nasty opinions to himself.’

She took the cap and soaked it in the water again. ‘It is no secret that John once employed an army of agents – or that some of them now want places in the new government. Downing sent him information about the political situation in the Netherlands, and I assume you did the same, since you worked with him and you speak Dutch. Well? Am I right?’

‘You have a vivid imagination,’ said Chaloner, smiling because he did not want to offend her. ‘I was just a clerk.’

She regarded him critically, head tilted to one side, then continued as if he had not spoken. ‘Downing professes himself to be a Royalist now, and is keen to eradicate all evidence of his former loyalties. John will say nothing about him, because he and Downing share too many secrets. But can Downing be sure you will not? I suspect the answer is no, and that is why he is wary of you.’

Chaloner wondered if she was right. He and Downing had never liked each other, although they had kept their antipathy decently concealed until events in March had brought their true feelings to the surface, but it had never occurred to him that Downing might see him as a threat. He hoped she was mistaken: Downing was the kind of man to make life very difficult for those he considered a nuisance.

‘Then why is he here?’ he asked. ‘Meeting Cromwell’s old Secretary of State is not the best way to go about eliminating ties with the former regime.’

‘John has been asked to provide reports about Britain’s relations with various foreign powers,’ she explained, ‘and Downing was an ambassador to the Dutch. Therefore, being seen conferring with John is a good thing at the moment, because it means Downing is providing a vital service in the government. But we were talking about why Downing detests you.’

‘Probably because of Metje de Haas,’ he said, to lead her away from politics.

‘Who is she?’

‘His daughter’s governess, whom I helped to evade his charms. He never did catch her.’

Sarah gave a grin that was at odds with her haughty demeanour. ‘Good. I do not like to think of women violated by those fat, pawing hands. Where is she now? Holland? Or is she one of the secret Parliamentarians he dismissed when he returned to London?’

Chaloner saw no reason not to talk about Metje. It was safer than discussing whether the powerful Downing was a good Royalist. He glanced to where Thurloe leaned towards the portly diplomat, listening to a whispered monologue, and wished he would hurry up, so Sarah would stop trying to interrogate him. ‘She is in the service of William North the jeweller – a companion to his daughter.’

‘You mean Temperance?’ asked Sarah, her face alight with sudden pleasure. ‘I know her! She and her family came from Ely, just after the Restoration. We used to meet in St Paul’s Cathedral and explore the traders’ booths together, but then her father declared such places out of bounds, on the grounds that they sell ribbons – the kind of wicked fripperies that insult his Puritan sensibilities. We seldom see each other these days, which is a pity. I suppose he hired this Metje because Temperance was lonely after the ban on shopping. Do you still see Metje?’

He changed the subject, thinking it none of her affair. ‘Your husband is a merchant?’

‘He is John Dalton.’ She looked at him in a way that indicated the name should be familiar, and sighed when she saw it was not. ‘After the wars, he made his fortune in wine. This means he has the favour of the King, whose Court consumes rather a lot of it. Because the King approves of him, Downing is attempting to befriend him, too, although both are finding the process a sore trial.’

‘Is your husband a difficult man to like, then?’

She glanced sharply at him, and he sensed he had hit a nerve. ‘He can be awkward, but so are most men. I wish he were a handsome young soldier, but we cannot choose what we want in this life, and so must make do with what we are given. Do you really speak Dutch like a native?’

‘Metje thinks I sound German, but that is preferable to an Englishman, given that we are on the brink of war with Holland.’

‘On the brink of war?’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘We are not!’

Chaloner shook his head slowly, wondering why so many affluent Londoners were unwilling to see the truth – unlike the poor, who seemed almost eager for the conflict. Personally, he considered the looming Dutch crisis a serious problem, and was more than happy to talk about it – and if she passed his concerns to her husband, then so much the better. ‘We will be fighting within three years unless someone takes steps to stop it. We would be fools to challenge the Dutch – they have more ships, a navy in which men are actually paid, and better resources. We cannot afford to take them on.’

But she was not particularly interested, and her expression became mischievous as she thought of another question. ‘Did you really say malicious things in Dutch when Downing was actually present?’

‘Of course not. That would have been the height of bad manners.’

She seemed disappointed. ‘Well, you should not take his malice to heart. He hates everyone, and the feeling is wholly reciprocated. I think he was despised before March, but what he did to those regicides earlier this year was despicable – discovering their hiding places in Holland, and dragging them back to be hanged and quartered. What sort of man does that to another human being?’

The descriptions that sprung into Chaloner’s mind were unrepeatable. He affected nonchalance, although she had chosen another subject about which he felt strongly. ‘Downing supported Cromwell for ten years, and needed a spectacular way to prove himself loyal to the King. What better way than presenting His Majesty with three former friends to be sentenced to a hideous death?’

She regarded him silently for a moment. ‘Were you with Downing when he caught them? He said you parted company last spring, and that was when those men were apprehended.’

‘Is there any more tonic?’

‘You refuse to answer. Why? Because you helped Downing? Or because you decline to be associated with his shameful behaviour?’

Chaloner glanced towards the door. ‘Because I do not want to engage in such talk when the man is within spitting distance of us.’

‘Spitting is the best thing to do to him. My husband went to watch those poor men die, but I could not bring myself to join him. Did you go?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘Shall I stoke up the fire? It is cold in here.’

‘It is not cold,’ she said softly. ‘So, I surmise from your reaction that you objected to what he did, and you argued about it. That is why he hates you, and why you are so open in your disdain for him. It is nothing to be ashamed of – there are men who would shake your hand for defying him.’

‘And there are others who would hang me for angering a friend of the King.’

‘Downing is no man’s friend. The King was angry about what happened to those particular regicides – I heard him myself, telling the Earl of Clarendon how wrong it was to demand the return of criminals from a foreign country. He said it made us look stupid, for allowing their escape in the first place.’

‘The Dutch refused the extradition at first,’ said Chaloner, relenting and recalling the tense negotiations that had taken place between government officials and Downing. ‘But he bullied, cajoled and bribed, and eventually they capitulated. One clerk told me it was just to make him go away. And John Okey, Miles Corbet and John Barkstead paid the price.’

‘Did you meet the regicides? I suppose you did: Englishmen abroad naturally gather together, no matter what their political affiliation.’

Chaloner frowned: first Leybourn had questioned him, and now Sarah Dalton was doing it. He was tempted to tell her to mind her own business, but if she was close enough to Thurloe to refer to him as ‘John’, then it would be unwise to alienate her.

‘They were not interested in talking to clerks,’ he replied vaguely.

She poked the embers with a stick. ‘I have always wanted to see Holland, but my husband tells me it is too far. I doubt I will ever go – at least, not as long as I am married to him.’

‘You could always go to East Anglia instead. There is not much to choose between them in terms of bogs and flat fields.’

She raised her eyebrows, amused. ‘I see I am talking to a true romantic.’

Chaloner was relieved when Thurloe came to tell Sarah that her husband was ready to leave. He waited in the bedchamber until they had gone, unwilling to endure another spat with Downing. His encounter with Sarah had been perplexing, but now he needed to muster his wits and convince Thurloe that he would be a worthy addition to the new government’s intelligence services.

‘They have gone,’ said Thurloe, beckoning him into the sitting room. ‘Dalton is a decent soul, but Downing is a sore trial. I cannot imagine how you managed to put up with him all those years. I should have paid you double, to compensate you for such unpleasant working conditions.’

‘He has his good points,’ replied Chaloner, walking carefully so as not to draw attention to his stiff leg. The chamber still reeked of Dalton’s orange water.

‘Name one,’ challenged Thurloe. Chaloner hesitated. ‘You cannot, because he does not have any – except perhaps a fondness for good music. The man is a disgrace, and what he did to Barkstead, Okey and Corbet was truly wicked. I understand he tried to do the same to your uncle – who also signed the old king’s death warrant.’

Chaloner nodded, but made no other reply.

Thurloe regarded him closely. ‘Your uncle was my friend. I would like to know Downing had nothing to do with his end.’

‘He died of natural causes months before Downing indulged his penchant for persecuting regicides.’ Chaloner glanced uneasily at Thurloe, wondering why Downing had been visiting him, and whether they had traded secrets. ‘He still thinks my name is Heyden.’

‘And I recommend you keep it that way. It would be extremely unwise to let him know you are the nephew of a king-killer. He will almost certainly use it against you, and my influence is on the wane, so I may not be able to stop him. What did he say when he learned death had cheated him of his prize?’

‘That he was going to excavate my uncle’s grave and cart the body to London. I thought he was jesting, but then I learned it had happened before – that Cromwell had been exhumed and his skeleton ceremonially hanged before a crowd of spectators.’

‘You are not the only one to be shocked by that,’ said Thurloe, reading the distaste in his face. ‘I had supposed we lived in civilised times, and was appalled to see corpses defiled. However, there are men in the new government who consider that sort of thing perfectly justified, so we should keep our opinions to ourselves. Are any of your family likely to visit London?’

‘No, sir. They know former Parliamentarians should stay low until the frenzy of purges is over. They will remain quietly in Buckinghamshire.’

Thurloe indicated Chaloner was to sit opposite him, then huddled close to the fire, as if the discussion had chilled him. ‘Downing really is a selfish scoundrel. He suggested I order you back into his service just now. He detests you, and the feeling is clearly mutual, but he could not bear the thought of Dalton having a clerk who can speak Dutch, while he does not.’

Chaloner was hopeful, prepared to put up with Downing if it meant gainful employment. ‘Is he planning to return to The Hague soon?’

‘No – and I strongly suggest you decline any post offered by him. He cannot be trusted and you will not be safe under his roof. I will never tell him your name and family connections, but that does not mean he will not learn them for himself.’

Chaloner was disappointed by the advice. ‘We will be at war soon, and Britain needs intelligence agents – preferably experienced ones – in place as soon as possible. I could do a lot of good for our country, if the government would only send me back.’

‘Unfortunately, that is easier said than done, as far as you are concerned. You need an official diplomatic post in order to operate efficiently, but our government has appointed its own people and dismissed the ones I hired. It is a ridiculous – not to mention dangerous – situation, since it takes years to cultivate reliable informants, as you know. But I cannot force Williamson to take you, even though it would be in England’s best interests.’

‘Williamson?’

‘Joseph Williamson, a clever tutor from Oxford. He is in charge of intelligence now. He is astute, quick witted and will do well in time, but I have no influence over his decisions. All I can do is offer names to the Lord Chancellor – the Earl of Clarendon – and hope he passes them to the right quarters. I have had scant success so far: none of the spies I recommended have been hired by Williamson.’

‘Because he does not trust people who once worked for you?’

‘Almost certainly, and I do not blame him. I would be wary myself, were I in his position. You are in an unenviable situation, Tom: you cannot return to Holland alone, because you need the cover of an ambassador’s entourage for your work, but Downing declines to recommend you to his replacement in The Hague. As I see it, the only way forward is to prove yourself first by working here.’

Chaloner was unhappy. ‘But in Holland I watched shipyards, monitored the manufacture of cannons, stole nautical charts, and started rumours to damage Dutch alliances with France and Spain. I did not spy on my fellow countrymen, and being an agent in a foreign country is not the same as being a spy here. I do not have the right skills for such work.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘We live in changing times, and only those prepared to adapt will survive. I will suggest you are used where you will be most effective, but I doubt my advice will be acted upon – at least, not immediately. You may find the choice is reduced to doing what you are told by the new government, or abandoning espionage altogether.’

Chaloner stared at the fire. He had known the situation was unpromising, but had not imagined it to be quite so bleak. He thought about his encounters with Kelyng, Bennet, Snow and Storey, and then being questioned rather more keenly than was appropriate by Leybourn and Sarah Dalton. He did not understand London’s tense, bitter politics, and disliked not knowing whom he could trust. It was a bad position for a spy to be in.

‘Who is Sarah Dalton, sir?’ he asked after a while. ‘She asked a lot of questions.’

‘I trained her well, then.’

‘She is one of your agents?’ Chaloner supposed he should have guessed.

Thurloe nodded. ‘I would have told you – both of you – before I left you alone together, but it was impossible under the circumstances. If she quizzed you, then it was on my behalf. Even though I am no longer Spymaster, a faithful few still supply me with gossip. I am lucky they do, or men like Downing would have had my head on a block months ago. As it is, I am too knowledgeable to kill.’

‘I am glad to hear it, sir.’

‘If anything happens to me, and you need a friend, you can turn to Sarah. I am not in the habit of divulging my agents’ identities, but England is turbulent, and everyone needs someone he can trust.’

‘She supported Cromwell, was a Parliamentarian?’

‘Not really. Like all of us, she witnessed the undesirability of civil war, and wants to ensure we do not travel that road again. What she supports is stability and peace. I imagine you feel much the same. Most of my people do.’

‘Do you know a bookseller called William Leybourn, sir?’ asked Chaloner, after another pause.

Thurloe nodded. ‘I buy legal pamphlets from him on occasion, although he is best known for his erudite contributions to mathematics and surveying. Why do you ask?’

‘He also asked a lot of questions.’

‘It seems you have had a busy morning, fending off all these interrogations. Shall I summon a physician to tend your leg, or was Sarah able to help?’

‘There is nothing–’

Thurloe’s voice was cool. ‘Do not lie, Thomas. I dislike being misled, especially since it has already cost me my favourite night-cap.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Thurloe could not possibly have seen what he and Sarah had been doing from his fireside chair. ‘How did you–?’

‘Because it was not on the pillow where I left it, there is a suspicious pile of ashes in the hearth, and your breeches are damp around the knee – where I know you were hit by splinters from an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby. You were sixteen, and should have been at your studies.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, trying to mask his annoyance. The last statement had told him exactly who had revealed the secret he had been to such pains to conceal for the past seventeen years: his uncle, the regicide. The older Thomas Chaloner had dragged his nephew from Cambridge, very much against his will, and later claimed he had joined the New Model Army of his own volition. Chaloner had not been expected to live after Naseby, and by the time he had recovered and learned what had been said about him, it was too late to correct the story.

Thurloe settled more comfortably in his chair. ‘You seem surprised I know about your private life. You should not be. First, your uncle and I were friends, and so of course we discussed our families. And second, I was particular about my agents, and investigated them very carefully before I hired them. I know more about you than you imagine. I know about a lot of people. Why do you think my head is not on a pole outside Westminster Hall?’

‘I assumed because of your detailed knowledge of foreign affairs, sir.’

Thurloe smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, there is that, too.’

A knock at the door preceded a visit from some of Thurloe’s relations, who filled the room with boisterous shouts and laughter. Thurloe sat amid the chaos like a king, revered by the men, fussed over by the women and clamoured at by noisy children. He said little, but reached out to ruffle a boy’s hair here or chuck a giggling girl under the chin there, and it did not seem possible that such a quiet, mild man held secrets that could destroy some of the most powerful men in the country. Chaloner withdrew to a corner, although it was not long before the whirlwind of happy voices had retreated – they were to travel to Thurloe’s own wife and children at his manor near Oxford later that day – and he and the ex-Spymaster were alone again.

‘Marriage is a splendid institution,’ Thurloe observed smugly, knowing he was unusually fortunate. ‘And children are a blessing from God. Do you have any plans in that direction?’

Chaloner felt like retorting that he probably knew the answer to that question already, given that he seemed to have probed so many other private aspects of his former spy’s life. ‘Possibly.’

Thurloe seemed about to reply with something equally tart, but then changed his mind. ‘Tell me what happened this morning. You retrieved the satchel, so I conclude you had some sort of encounter with the villains who murdered poor Charles-Stewart.’

The pouch lay on the table, and Chaloner noted it had not been opened. ‘I chased them to the Holborn Bridge, where they disappeared into a maze of alleys and–’

‘The Fleet Rookery,’ interrupted Thurloe grimly. ‘It has an alehouse, where plots were hatched to kill the Lord Protector. I went myself once, and overheard one plan discussed in the most brazen manner. It has been a breeding ground for rebels for years, and I suspect it will continue so, regardless of who sits on the throne.’

‘People tried to kill Cromwell?’ As soon as he saw the flicker of surprise in Thurloe’s eyes, Chaloner knew he should not have asked the question.

‘I forget you are unfamiliar with your own country – although I had not imagined you to be quite so uninformed. There were many assassination attempts, although most were the bumbling efforts of amateurs. But let us return to today. You chased the thieves into that festering hotbed of treachery …’

‘I overheard them say they were in the pay of a powerful lawyer, so I decided to find out who. They went to White Hall, where a servant wearing a yellow doublet paid them–’

‘Kelyng dresses his retinue in yellow.’

‘You know Kelyng?’

This time Thurloe made no attempt to disguise his astonishment. ‘Surely you have heard of Sir John Kelyng? Really, Thomas! How can I recommend you to the government when you do not know its most infamous officials? How long have you been back?’

‘Since March, sir, but not all of it in London. I spent several months in Buckinghamshire.’

‘I know,’ said Thurloe dryly. ‘It was I who suggested you visit the siblings you have not seen in a decade, if you recall. Families are important, and you had been away too long from yours. However, your absence is not a valid excuse for such ignorance. Continue.’

The interview was not going well. Now Chaloner felt he was lacking in two areas: his weak leg and his poor knowledge of current affairs. ‘Kelyng and his chamberlain were in the garden – presumably awaiting the arrival of the satchel – and there was a skirmish. The servant was killed.’ He saw the shocked expression on Thurloe’s face. ‘Not by me. Bennet threw a dagger.’

Thurloe stared at him. ‘They killed their own man?’

‘Kelyng referred to him as Jones, but he claimed with his dying breath that his name was Hewson.’

Emotion burned briefly in Thurloe’s eyes, but was extinguished so fast Chaloner was not sure whether he had imagined it. ‘Most men call for priests or physicians, but this fellow told you his name? Did he say anything else?’

‘That we should praise the Lord, and that it was dangerous for seven.’

‘Seven what?’

‘He did not say. I think he was raving.’

‘That was all? He mentioned no other names, no messages for loved ones?’

‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering why Thurloe should be so interested in a death that was essentially irrelevant. The ex-Spymaster was silent for a moment, then indicated that Chaloner should continue. ‘Kelyng shot at me, but I escaped. The crowds at the Banqueting House assumed the gunfire was Downing’s doing – falling off his horse in his haste to ride next to the King.’

‘A whisper. That is all it takes to start a rumour. Your uncle taught me that.’

‘Which one, sir?’ asked Chaloner archly, not wanting Thurloe to think his entire family consisted of the arrogant, witty hedonist who had signed the previous king’s death warrant. ‘James? Peter? Robert?’

Thurloe pursed his lips. ‘I forgot your grandfather sired an inordinate number of brats. Eighteen, was it, from two wives? But I only knew one of them. Your Uncle Thomas used to amuse himself by fabricating a tale, then timing how long it took before the gossip was repeated back to him in a garbled form. It sounds foolish, but it taught me how powerful rumours can be. Then what happened?’

‘Bennet followed me until I was able to lose him.’

‘I wondered at the time whether that pair of cut-throats might be in Kelyng’s employ. It is a pity they killed Charles-Stewart: he was only a boy, and his mother will be devastated.’

‘Their names are Snow and Storey, sir, and they will be easy to catch. I can go to–’

‘No,’ said Thurloe tiredly. ‘If we send them to Newgate for hanging, Bennet will only replace them with others, and we will have lost the advantage of knowing who they are. Let them be for now. They will face justice soon enough – God’s justice, if not man’s.’

He stared into the flames and appeared to be lost in his thoughts. Chaloner glanced at the pouch again. ‘Are you going to look inside the satchel, to see if everything is there, sir?’

Thurloe shook his head. ‘There is no need, because I know exactly what it contains. Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ Chaloner was confused.

‘Nothing. It is empty.’

Chaloner did not know whether to be angry or amused that Thurloe had sent him on a fool’s errand. He started to stand, thinking it was time he drew the interview to a close. Thurloe had already said he could not arrange his return to Holland, and there was no point in lingering.

Thurloe waved him back down with an impatient flick of his hand. ‘I wonder you managed to send me all those detailed reports, if you are in the habit of tearing off in the middle of conversations.’

Chaloner tried not to be irritated. He did not know Thurloe well – they had only met on a handful of occasions, and most communication had been in the form of letters. Each had ended his missive with polite enquiries after the other’s family, and occasionally they had confided various worries or concerns, but the general tenor had been brisk and impersonal. He began to think it was easier to serve Thurloe from a distance, and that he would probably dislike the man if he ever broke through his cool reserve and came to know him better.

‘I have had a trying morning,’ said Thurloe, pouring himself more tonic. ‘First, Charles-Stewart. Then Downing foisting himself on me, trying to make me attend meetings in which I have no interest and asking questions about you. And now Hewson. I thought I had finished with murder and subterfuge when I was dismissed from power, but they seem to follow me around.’

‘You will never be finished with them, if you arrange for empty satchels to be delivered to you, sir,’ said Chaloner, rather acidly. ‘Such activities smack of skulduggery.’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘Downing said you were insolent, and he was right. But let us return to Kelyng, before we both say things we may later regret. Ever since the Restoration, he has vowed to destroy me – he accuses me of planning a revolt, with Richard Cromwell as its figurehead.’

‘The King does not agree. If he did, you would be in the Tower.’

Thurloe nodded. ‘And the truth is I no longer have any interest in politics. Kelyng is wrong about me, and most people know it, thank God. However, he keeps trying to catch me out.’

‘By intercepting your post?’

‘Yes, although I arranged alternative methods of receiving letters months ago, and lads with satchels are a ruse. However, I confess I was surprised to learn he is brazen enough to order one snatched from my very hands.’

‘You were lucky his men did not kill you, too.’

‘He would not dare. The new government still needs my advice, and as long as I am useful, I am safe. He would not harm me physically, and risk incurring the wrath of his king.’

‘But the men he hires are stupid – one might disobey him or knife the wrong man. Or he may try to damage you in other ways, perhaps by putting forged documents in these pouches.’

‘He has done that already, but I was able to exchange them for some laundry bills. Kelyng is more nuisance than danger, although I would be a fool to ignore his antics completely.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Chaloner had not worked for Thurloe without incurring some sense of obligation, and disliked the notion of Kelyng trying to bring him down by underhand means.

Thurloe smiled, pleased. ‘Thank you, Tom. There are two things that would help enormously. First, I would like to be told of any rumours concerning Kelyng or his men. They might allow me to stay a few steps ahead of the wretched fellow.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Chaloner supposed he had better start frequenting taverns and listening to more street gossip. ‘And the second?’

Thurloe raised a finger. ‘Before we discuss that, we should assess your situation. You are eager to return to your duties – preferably in Holland – but that is out of the question at the moment. Downing’s replacement will not hire you, given what Downing wrote in his official report. However, that is not to say that we cannot take steps towards your eventual reinstatement. The first stage is to have you noticed by the right men.’

‘Williamson?’

‘Williamson, yes. But I do not know him, so I will send you to the Lord Chancellor instead. Once established at White Hall, you will have to work hard to prove your worth – and even then, you may never be trusted. But it is a chance, and I know you will make the best of it.’ Thurloe studied the younger man thoughtfully. ‘Your young lady is Dutch, is she not? What is her name?’

‘Metje de Haas,’ replied Chaloner, wondering whether the relationship would count against him; the Earl of Clarendon might think his loyalties were divided. ‘Her mother was English,’ he added, although it occurred to him that the ex-Spymaster might know more about Metje than he did. He and Metje seldom discussed families, because she did not like hers and he had been undercover with a false name, so not in a position to say much about his own.

‘I imagine it was useful to have a Dutch citizen in tow when you went about your duties for me?’

‘I never involved her, sir. It was safer that way – for both of us.’

‘Very wise. How does she feel about being a foreigner in England?’

‘She likes being a companion to a jeweller’s daughter, but complains about the growing antipathy towards the Dutch in London.’

Thurloe nodded. ‘If we go to war with Holland, she may find herself in considerable danger. But this is none of my affair.’ He cleared his throat and became businesslike. ‘So far, I have sent only six intelligence agents to the Earl – five spies experienced at rooting out rebellions, and an investigator by the name of Colonel John Clarke. None were passed to Williamson, unfortunately.’

‘I met Clarke once, when he visited The Hague.’ Chaloner had quarrelled with him. ‘He tried to seduce Metje. When she repelled his advances, he turned his attentions to Downing’s wife.’

Thurloe pursed his lips in disapproval. ‘He promised he would mend his ways after that scandal involving Cromwell’s niece. I am his kinsman, you see – his new wife Joan was married to my half-brother Isaac Ewer. Isaac died of fever in Ireland ten years ago.’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. Isaac Ewer was one of the better-known regicides, which meant Chaloner was not the only one unlucky enough to own kin who had executed a monarch.

‘Clarke was a fine investigator, despite his fondness for other men’s wives,’ Thurloe went on. ‘But he was murdered last week.’

Chaloner hid his shock. ‘By the Lord Chancellor?’

Thurloe was startled by the suggestion. ‘Of course not by him! He is eager for good spies, and you do not demand the cream of the crop and then kill them. He is as angry about this as I am.’

‘What about the other five?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, wondering what he was letting himself in for by going to White Hall. ‘Are they still alive?’

‘Alive and impressing the Earl with their diligence – he sent me a note praising them only this morning. You will be the seventh man I recommend, although I am uneasy about doing so, knowing what happened to Clarke.’

‘What did happen, exactly?’

‘He was stabbed in the belly, although White Hall did not want itself tarnished by the reek of murder, so Clarendon spirited the body out of the palace and dumped it by the Thames. Everyone assumes Clarke was murdered by footpads, and very few know what really happened.’

‘But the Earl told you?’

‘Yes, he did. He feels guilty that I sent him a man – a friend – who was then killed.’

‘A friend?’

Thurloe’s expression was cool. ‘I do have some, Thomas, despite rumours to the contrary. I was fond of Clarke, and when I write to Clarendon, I may ask him to let you find his killer. You offered to help me, and this is the second thing you can do.’

‘Me?’ Chaloner was uncomfortable; it was a long way from reporting the movements of Dutch ships.

‘You have investigated murders before – Downing said you solved at least two when you were in The Hague. Be careful, though. White Hall is a pit of vipers, no matter which government occupies it, and I shall be vexed if you take unnecessary risks. And then, when you have discovered the identity of the killer, please come to me with the answer. Do not tackle Kelyng alone – that might endanger both of us, especially if any animals are involved. He has a passionate liking for them.’

‘So you have already decided Kelyng is the guilty party.’

Thurloe gave a humourless smile. ‘It stands to reason he is involved: he knows Clarke and I were related, and that I held him in brotherly esteem. Perhaps he stabbed him in the hope that I would become careless with grief, and let slip with something incriminating. However, you must not let my opinion cloud your judgement – Kelyng is not my only enemy. And Clarke’s death may have nothing to do with me, anyway. He may have been killed over whatever he was doing for Clarendon.’

‘I will do my best to find his murderer, sir.’

‘I know you will, Tom. But you cannot go to Clarendon dressed like a pauper, so buy yourself a decent cassock-coat and a new wig.’ Thurloe passed him a heavy purse. ‘I would not ask you to do this if there was anyone else I could trust. Your uncle would not approve of me shoving you into the lion’s mouth.’

Chaloner was not so sure. His uncle had done a good deal of shoving himself, and had made it perfectly clear that he considered the youngest son of a younger brother to be a readily disposable asset. He had not enrolled his own boys in the wars that had almost claimed his nephew’s life, and nor had he encouraged them to become intelligence agents in countries that would shoot them if they were caught. ‘He would have understood.’

Thurloe gave a grim smile. ‘He was a practical man. I asked my other agents to send me reports on Kelyng, too, but Clarke was the only one who did. I thought Simon Lane might oblige, but he obviously thinks it is too risky – that communicating with me might be misconstrued.’

Lane was a smiling, cheerful man whose tuneful baritone had often accompanied Chaloner’s bass viol. ‘If I see him, I will ask.’

‘No, he has made his choice, and it is the sensible one under the circumstances. You may feel the same way in a week, although I hope you will not forget me entirely – that you will find time to visit.’

Chaloner wondered whether there might be truth in the whispers about Thurloe’s lack of friends after all. ‘If you like, sir.’

Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘Go shopping, then – and throw that wig in the river at the earliest opportunity. It smells of horse.’