A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 3

The following day, Chaloner took Metje with him when he went to purchase clothes to impress the Lord Chancellor. However, it was not long before he wished he had left her behind. Her idea of what was suitable did not match his own notion of buying the first thing he saw, and the business dragged on far longer than he felt it should. By the time the garments were ordered, he was tired, irritable and painfully aware that nearly all the money Thurloe had given him was gone. Since he was late with the rent and there was not so much as a crust of bread in the larder, clothes seemed an outrageous extravagance.

‘You cannot meet the Lord Chancellor dressed in rags,’ argued Metje, speaking Dutch as she always did when they were alone. ‘He will not employ clerks for the Victualling Office who look poor enough to help themselves to the navy’s supplies.’

Chaloner had allowed himself to fall into an awkward situation with Metje. To her, he was Thomas Heyden, a diplomatic envoy. This had worked perfectly well in Holland, when their relationship had been superficial, but it was different in London, when he had come to realise that she was the woman he wanted to marry. He was not looking forward to the time when he would be obliged to confess that he had misled her for the past three years, suspecting she would be hurt and angry.

She knew he was struggling to find a new employer, and nagged him incessantly about his lack of success when she had experienced no such problems, so she was delighted when he mentioned the possibility of an interview at White Hall. Because she had been so pleased to hear he had finally done something right, he had broken one of his own rules of secrecy by confiding that the man he was to meet was the Earl of Clarendon. She saw the post would be a considerable improvement on part-time clerking for the Puritans of Fetter Lane, and was determined to do all she could to ensure he created a good impression, waving aside his concerns over paying the landlord.

‘I could move to cheaper accommodation, but then you would not be next door,’ he said, trying to think of ways to alleviate the problem. ‘And you cannot walk across half of London to visit me at night.’

She agreed. ‘Nor can you come to me. My room is directly above Mr North’s bedchamber, and you have only to breathe on the floorboards to make them creak. He would find us out in an instant, and I do not want to lose my position because he thinks me a harlot. You must keep those rooms if you want to see me. And what about your viol? You play it most evenings now, because the Norths like hearing it through their walls, but if you moved, your new neighbours might complain.’

‘I should cancel the order for the cassock,’ he said, looking back to the tailor’s shop.

She took his arm and pulled him on. ‘Consider it an investment, which will reap its own returns in time – and you must find work, Tom. You cannot live like a pauper for ever. Or would you rather I returned my new fancy apron, so we can purchase cheese instead?’

He smiled. ‘I cannot imagine when you will wear it, when North forbids lace in his house. He told me the Devil’s underclothes are made of lace, although he declined to explain how he comes to be party to such an intimate detail.’

‘He is a dear man,’ she said affectionately. ‘Did I tell you more of his chapel windows were smashed last night? He was so upset that he is talking about leaving London again. I hope he does not, because what would become of us? Will you visit him this afternoon? He was asking for you yesterday – something to do with whether the community can afford to replace the glass.’

‘People remember the time when it was Puritans defacing churches, and they want revenge. North should sell the building, and hold his prayer-meetings in someone’s house instead.’

‘It is wicked that people cannot attend chapel without fanatics lobbing bricks,’ said Metje angrily. ‘I am not a good Puritan – or I would not visit you night after night – but Mr North is. I shall always be grateful to him for employing me – a destitute Hollander in a hostile foreign country – when no one else would give me the time of day.’

They walked to Fetter Lane, where she returned to her duties. Although North would have dismissed Metje instantly had he learned she was carrying on with a man, he was not a strict taskmaster and afforded her a good deal of freedom. He seldom questioned her when she announced she was ‘going out’, and her life as a paid companion for Temperance was absurdly easy.

When Chaloner was sure Metje was safely home – it was a Saturday and apprentices were drunkenly demanding of passers-by whether they were true Englishmen – he went to find North. The Nonconformist chapel was an unassuming building halfway along Fetter Lane, a short distance from North’s house and the rather less grand affair next door in which Chaloner rented an attic. Despite its modest appearance, it attracted much ill will, mostly from Anglican clerics who had been deposed by Puritans during the Commonwealth, and by apprentices who enjoyed lobbing rocks. Occasionally, larger missiles were launched, and there had been threats of arson.

The door was barred, so Chaloner knocked. North answered, and his dour expression cracked into a smile when he recognised his accounts clerk. North was not an attractive man, and his plain clothes did little to improve his austere appearance. He had dark, oily hair, a low forehead and his stern face was rendered even more forbidding by a burn that darkened his chin and the lower half of one cheek.

He waved Chaloner inside the chapel, which comprised a single room with white walls and uncomfortable benches. It was dominated by the large pulpit in which the Puritan incumbent, Preacher Hill, stood to rant of a Sunday morning. Hill ranted at the daily dawn meetings, too, when his flock came to pray before they went about their earthly business, and he ranted in the afternoons when the hardy few appeared for additional devotions. In fact, he ranted whenever he had an audience, no matter how small, and Chaloner had once caught him holding forth to a frightened baby.

‘I tried to catch you yesterday,’ said North, ushering Chaloner towards the small gathering that sat near the pulpit. These were the chapel’s ‘council’ – those with the time and inclination to argue about funds, building repairs and which psalms to sing. ‘Were you looking for work again?’

‘Will you leave us if you are successful?’ demanded a large woman who wore a massive shoulder-width brimmed hat and voluminous black skirts. Faith North was clearly annoyed that her community might lose the man who acted as their treasurer. ‘We were in a dreadful mess before you came along, and I do not want to go through that again. I have better things to do than juggle money, and we cannot let Temperance do it, not after the chaos she created last time.’

Temperance blushed and stared at her shoes. ‘I told you I was hopeless at book-keeping, but you insisted I do it anyway. It was not entirely my fault things went wrong.’

‘I thought it would do you good,’ sniffed Faith. ‘Make you a better wife when the time comes.’

‘No harm was done,’ said North, laying a sympathetic hand on his daughter’s broad shoulder. ‘Heyden untangled the muddle, and we are making a profit now – enough to maintain our chapel, buy food for the poor and pay Preacher Hill.’

‘The Lord,’ boomed Hill, making several people jump. The preacher wore drab, slightly seedy clothes, and his pinched face was entirely devoid of humour. His small eyes glinted when he spoke of his love of God and his hate of blasphemers, two subjects that merited identical facial expressions, and a large mouth accommodated his shockingly powerful voice. ‘The Lord allowed us to make this profit. Heyden had nothing to do with it.’

Faith sighed wearily. ‘So you tell us every week, Preacher. But it is cold in here, and I want to go home, so we should turn our attention back to the business in hand. You can tell us about the Lord’s fiscal omnipotence later, when we are in front of a fire with a hot posset in our hands.’

North indicated Chaloner was to sit next to him. ‘Two more windows were smashed last night, and we have been discussing whether or not to replace them.’

‘You have sufficient funds in the–’ began Chaloner.

‘We should not,’ stated Hill with great finality. ‘The Lord broke them for a reason, and we must bow to His will. We shall spend the money on Bibles for the poor – to keep them warm this winter.’

‘The Lord broke them?’ asked Chaloner. ‘I thought it was apprentices.’ He did not point out that if Bibles were offered to the needy with the addendum that they were to provide warmth, then they were likely to end up on the fire.

‘Be quiet,’ ordered Hill indignantly. ‘Only true believers are allowed to speak here.’

‘Hush, Preacher,’ said North reprovingly. ‘Heyden has given us several good ideas – such as putting wire in the windows to repel fireballs – and we do not want him to resign because you insult his religious convictions. God works through unusual instruments, and he may well be one of them.’

‘Very unusual,’ agreed Hill, eyeing Chaloner coolly. ‘But if he were to accept the Truth, and follow the Way of the Light, then I might–’

‘Windows,’ prompted Temperance. ‘I do not see why we should suffer when we have the money to rectify the problem, and, despite what Preacher Hill says, I do not think God wants us to be miserable. I have never known a more bitter winter – snow already, and frosts that threaten to freeze the great Thames itself.’

‘The Lord will freeze the Thames,’ proclaimed Hill dogmatically. ‘Not frost.’

‘These acts of violence worry me,’ said North, twisting around to look at the holes in the glass. ‘As you know, our only son was killed three years ago – the victim of bigoted ruffians – and I cannot bear the thought of losing anyone else in such a way. We have not been in London long, but already people have turned against us. Perhaps we should return to Ely …’

‘Your son is with God,’ said Hill, softening his voice to indicate sympathy. ‘In Heaven.’

‘We know that,’ said Temperance, while her father struggled to control the grief that always bubbled up when he spoke of his boy. She took his hand and squeezed it comfortingly, then glared at Hill. ‘But we still miss him.’

‘Glass,’ said Faith in a voice thick with emotion. ‘We should be talking about glass.’

The discussion ranged back and forth while Chaloner wondered why decent people like the Norths had anything to do with Hill. The preacher was the kind of man who had caused so much strife with his inflexible opinions during the Commonwealth, and associating with him was dangerous at a time when even moderate Puritans were regarded with suspicion and dislike. It was cold in the chapel, and Chaloner tucked his hands inside his jerkin when Hill started to hold forth. He wished the man would shut up, so he could go home and sit by the fire, but then remembered he only had one log and, with no money to buy more, was obliged to save it until Metje arrived later.

When Hill’s diatribe blossomed into a tirade against debauchery – which coincidentally included a selfish hankering for new glass – Chaloner stopped listening and considered his own circumstances. He was earning a pittance from an unpopular sect and was prevented by Downing’s malice from doing the work he did best. It was frustrating to see relations with Holland disintegrating so rapidly, when he knew he was better qualified to arrest the slide towards war than the men who had been hired to replace him. He had seen Dutch merchants pelted with mud that morning, and Metje had been upset when one of the local rakers – street cleaners – had asked whether she bathed in butter, like all Netherlanders. He itched to be involved again – either in Holland or monitoring known Dutch spies in England – and hoped with all his heart that his interview at White Hall would be a success.

‘… and I am not sure Heyden would agree with that,’ he heard North say.

‘Yes,’ he said, jolting out of his reverie and seeing expectant faces waiting for an answer. ‘I do agree.’

‘Thomas!’ cried Faith in disgust. ‘I thought you were a sensible man! Now we shall all spend the most miserable winter imaginable – and it is your fault.’

Hill was smug. ‘The Lord made him agree with me. He does work through unusual instruments.’

Temperance, Faith and North were cool with Chaloner when the meeting ended, and he saw they felt he had let them down. They walked home in silence, the Norths marching arm-in-arm in front, and Hill and Chaloner behind. But Temperance was not the type to bear grudges, and it was not long before she dropped back to join him.

‘Have you slaughtered your turkey yet?’ he asked, before Hill could spout more religion.

‘It is still at the game shop,’ she replied. ‘Eating enough grain to feed London, apparently.’

‘It is a big bird,’ said North, overhearing. ‘But not, perhaps, God’s loveliest creation.’

‘All God’s creations are lovely – it says so in the Bible,’ bellowed Hill. He reconsidered before anyone could take issue. ‘However, turkeys are conspicuous by their absence in the Good Book.’

‘What do you think, Thomas?’ asked Temperance. Chaloner could see mischief glinting in her eyes, although her face was the picture of innocence. ‘Does God love turkeys as much as doves?’

‘Be careful how you answer that,’ advised Faith, glancing significantly in Hill’s direction. ‘You could find yourself in deep water.’

‘Not as deep as the poor turkey,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Will you really eat it at Christmas?’

Faith nodded grimly. ‘The game dealer claims he has fulfilled his end of the bargain – to supply a bird – and says turning it into dinner is our business. So, I shall kill it when it is delivered today.’

‘The Lord guide your hand and protect you from evil,’ intoned Hill. He took a deep breath and his voice became alarmingly loud. ‘The Lord leads the righteous, but the wicked He will cast–’

‘I had never seen one before,’ interrupted Chaloner quickly. ‘A turkey, I mean. Not alive, at least. I did not know they grew to such a great size.’

‘I think our game dealer procured us an exceptionally grotesque one,’ said Faith, thus beginning a debate with Hill as to whether any of God’s creatures should be so described. Chaloner took North’s arm and drew him away.

‘It is dangerous for you when Hill rants in the street. Your religion is no longer popular, and it is unwise to draw attention to yourselves. So far, the smashed windows have been confined to the chapel, but it will not be long before they turn on your home. I do not want to see you hurt.’

North sighed. ‘God will protect us.’

Chaloner was tempted to point out that God had not protected North’s son from vengeful fanatics, but it was too raw a subject to use for scoring points. ‘The new Bill of Uniformity has expelled men like Hill from the Anglican Church, and it will not be long before other laws are passed that will make your religion illegal altogether. You must keep a low profile.’

‘I will speak to Hill again,’ promised North, although he did not look enthused by the prospect.

When they reached North’s door, Metje was emptying slops into the street, but Chaloner did not return the secret smile she shot in his direction. He was worried, afraid that Hill’s intemperance might bring trouble on North, which would draw attention to the fact that not only was he a Puritan, but that one of his household was Dutch. And then broken windows might be the least of their troubles.

‘Not in front of our house, dear,’ said Faith, when she saw what her employee was doing. ‘Walk across the street and dump it outside the Golden Lion instead. They will never notice.’

Metje screwed up her face in the endearing way she had when she had made a mistake. ‘I am sorry,’ she said in her melodic English. ‘I keep forgetting swill always goes outside the tavern.’

‘It does not matter,’ whispered Temperance. A delicious smell of smoked pork and new bread emanated from the house as she opened the door. ‘The maids do it all the time – just make sure no one is looking.’ She shot Metje, then Chaloner, a conspiratorial grin before going inside.

Metje reverted to Dutch. ‘I was right,’ she said when they were alone, referring to a topic they had debated at length the previous night. ‘She does have a hankering for you.’

Chaloner thought she could not be more wrong. ‘I am neither rich nor Puritan enough to catch her eye. Will you come later?’ It was not just a selfish desire to lie with her that prompted the question: he did not want her to spend the night in North’s house.

‘Yes, but do not fall asleep before I arrive, like you did yesterday. And do not fall out of any carriages, either.’

She shot him an arch glance as she went inside, to let him know she had not been entirely convinced by the tale he had invented to explain his sore leg. She knew he had an old war injury, but she also knew it plagued him only when he had been doing something unusually taxing. It was becoming increasingly difficult to deceive her, and he sensed yet again that it would not be long before he was forced to admit he had been living a lie for the past three years. He saw her inside the house, then climbed the stairs to his attic next door – quietly, so as not to attract the attention of the landlord.

He was halfway up the second flight when Daniel Ellis appeared on the landing. Ellis was a short man with straight silver hair that fell in a gleaming sheet around his shoulders. His dark eyes were beady, and he had an annoying habit of entering his tenants’ rooms when they were out. Naturally, Chaloner had assumed he was a spy, paid to send information to the government about his lodgers, but the traps and devices he set to catch Ellis out quickly proved he was just a man who liked to indulge in superfluous – and usually inconvenient – ‘home improvements’.

‘Mr Heyden,’ Ellis said, clasping his hands in front of him. ‘A small matter of the rent.’

Chaloner passed him two crowns, everything left from Thurloe’s advance with the exception of a shilling and a few pennies. ‘I will pay the rest next week,’ he promised, reading the disapproval on the man’s face.

Ellis was sceptical. ‘You have said that before. Do you have any hope of employment, or should I offer your quarters to Mr Hibbert instead? He would never be late with payments, and nor would he waste hours scraping away on a tuneless viol.’

‘The Victualling Office,’ replied Chaloner, repeating the lie he had told Metje. The department that issued supplies to the navy was a large building near the Tower, and its officials were numerous and relatively transient, which meant it would be difficult for anyone to check up on him.

Ellis was pleased. ‘Good. Did you hear a whore last night, by the way? I swear I heard one laughing, although there was no trace of her when I went to investigate. Occasionally, the front door has been left open by mistake, and they have found their way inside.’

‘I heard no whores,’ replied Chaloner, making his way up the stairs and supposing he would have to warn Metje to keep her voice down – again. It was not easy, when one of the best aspects of their relationship was the fact that they made each other laugh.

Playing the viola de gamba, or bass viol, usually relaxed Chaloner, because it forced him to push all else from his mind. That night, however, music did little to quell his growing unease for the safety of the North family, or his concern that Metje was finally beginning to want to know more about him than he was able to share. His leg hurt, too, a residual throb from the dash to the Fleet Rookery. Even so, he was still asleep long before Metje arrived. After they had talked for a while by the flickering light of the fire, she went to bed, but he found himself wide awake. He lay next to her, listening to the clocks chime the hour until, unable to lie still any longer, he went to sit in the window. The bells struck five, then six o’clock, and he drew the blanket more closely around his shoulders as pellets of snow clicked against the glass. It was bitterly cold.

‘Come back, Tom,’ called Metje drowsily. ‘It is freezing in here without you.’

‘You should leave soon, or North will be at his morning prayers before you.’

She stirred reluctantly, and he reflected that she had changed little since they had first met. She had been a respectable widow of thirty, with black curls that were the envy of women half her age, and dark eyes in an elfin face. As governess to Downing’s hopelessly stupid daughter, she had been miserable and lonely, and Chaloner’s first encounters with her had been in the kitchens during the depths of night – she warming wine in the hope that it would bring sleep, and he returning from nocturnal forays on Thurloe’s behalf. He had been wary at first – being caught keeping odd hours by a Dutch citizen was not a good idea – but she had accepted his explanation that he was smuggling spices for Downing, and it had never occurred to her that it might not be true. Unwittingly, Downing had supported the lie by summoning Chaloner to furtive meetings, in which they discussed the reports they would send to Thurloe.

Gradually, the late-night discussions became more intimate, and she had amazed him with her increasingly imaginative ideas for visiting his room night after night without being seen. Downing, still hopeful of seducing her himself, would have dismissed her had they been caught, and the fact that they had carried on undetected for so long was a miracle of subterfuge. Then Downing had returned to England, and Metje had been dismissed when she had declined to sleep her way into his good books. As a Netherlander in London, her prospects had been bleak, and she had been fortunate North and his family did not share the current antipathy towards all things foreign.

‘It will be light soon,’ said Chaloner, watching her fall asleep again. ‘Do not grimace at me, when you are the one who seems to enjoy this ridiculous charade.’

‘I do not enjoy it,’ she countered drowsily. ‘It is just convenient. And we have no choice, anyway. You cannot support me – you can barely feed yourself.’

Chaloner was unhappy with the situation, and had been since she had first suggested it. ‘I did not mind deceiving Downing, but I dislike doing the same thing to North. He deserves better from both of us. And while we have managed to mislead the poor man so far, we cannot do it for ever.’

‘Why not? He thinks I am a pious woman, who likes rising early to prepare the chapel for morning service. He even gave me a key to his front door, so I can go out without disturbing him, and he trusts me to the point where he has never checked whether I really do leave my room at dawn – or whether I abandon it a good deal sooner. My solution to keeping you and my job is working brilliantly, so do not look for problems where there are none.’

‘He will catch us one day,’ warned Chaloner.

‘Why should he? We have fooled him since spring.’

‘I was away all summer.’

‘For the last couple of months, then. You have been here since October, trying to find work – which you had better do soon, or you will starve. The only thing in your cupboard is a cabbage long past its best.’

Chaloner saw there was no point in arguing, so let the matter lie. He gazed out of the window, to where people were emerging from the Golden Lion. Some kind of meeting – obviously an illicit one, judging by the furtive way the attendees were leaving – had just ended, and he wondered whether they had gathered for politics or religion. The tavern’s landlord was known for turning a blind eye to his patrons’ business and, for a small fee, he would also act as an unofficial post office for those who craved anonymity. It was a service Chaloner used for all his correspondence – although, he realised with a pang of alarm, he would not be able to do it for much longer, because he did not have the funds to pay for it.

Metje took a deep breath, then slid from under the covers, dashing across the floor to where her clothes lay in an untidy pile. Chaloner watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the street. Fetter Lane was reasonably affluent, and most householders obeyed the aldermen’s edict that lights were to be kept burning in ground-floor windows during the hours of darkness. It meant parts of the street were very well illuminated, something a spy always liked around his home. Additional lights flickered in most houses, where servants were up setting fires for their masters and starting their daily round of chores. The cobbles, swept the previous day for the first time in a month, were carpeted in snow, although it was a thin dusting that would melt once trampled by feet, hoofs and wheels.

Chaloner opened the window and leaned out to inspect the North property, eliciting an angry howl from Metje about the icy blast of air.

‘Speak English,’ he suggested mildly. ‘If North hears Dutch being screeched in my room, he will wonder what you are doing here.’

She winced at what could have been a serious blunder. ‘Is he awake?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Reading his Bible. It is slippery outside. Do you want me to come with you?’

‘And risk the leg you damaged falling out of that carriage?’ She grabbed her skirts and wriggled into them, jumping up and down in an attempt to stay warm at the same time. ‘Besides, he will wonder how I come to have an escort at such an hour. What would I say?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Tell him I have asked you to be my wife.’

She sighed. ‘And how will we live? They will not keep me once I am wed, because Faith believes a wife’s place is in her own home.’

He smiled, a little sadly. They had this conversation at least once a week, and her answer was always the same. ‘I hope the Earl of Clarendon sends for me soon. I do not want to wait weeks for a summons, and Ellis is demanding the rent.’

‘You should visit that other man you mentioned – the merchant who smells of oranges …’

‘John Dalton.’

‘Dalton, yes. Government posts are too much at the whim of personalities, and you should consider other options.’

Chaloner did not think he would fare much better with Dalton. Dutch merchants invariably spoke English or French, and he did not imagine there would be a vast amount of work for a translator. He said as much, but Metje disagreed.

‘If there is a choice between Clarendon and Dalton, you should accept Dalton. You will find it is more secure in the long term, and I would give a great deal to feel secure.’

‘You are uneasy?’

She regarded him in disbelief. ‘Have you not been listening to me these last few months? You know I am uneasy. I am a Dutch citizen living in a country with which we may soon be at war, and my lover is unemployed. If there is a conflict, I will need protection, and you will not be able to afford it. Perhaps you should ask Downing to take you back. He likes you.’

Chaloner was startled, both by the suggestion and the assertion. ‘He detests me.’

She pulled a face. ‘He does now, thanks to what you said to him in March when he arrested those regicides. But you managed to conceal your dislike before then, and he paid you well. Since he dismissed you, you never buy wood for the fire, I cannot remember the last time there was decent food in the larder, your clothes are wearing out. You could rent cheaper rooms …’

‘We discussed this before. I would never see you if I move – unless you hide me in your attic.’

‘But then Temperance would know – she watches you like a hawk. I will win our wager about her infatuation, Tom, just you wait and see.’ She swayed towards him, a pert, elegant figure, even in prim chapel-going garb, and came to perch on his knee. ‘But she cannot have you, not while I am here.’

He rubbed the soft skin of her neck, then glanced out of the window again. ‘Lord, Meg! North is leaving his house early. He will arrive at the chapel before you.’

She shot to her feet. ‘Damn! He will not believe I am taking bread to the homeless again – especially since he offered to go with me next time.’ She pulled on cap and cloak. ‘Go and distract him, but please do not pretend to be a beggar this time – your last performance distressed him horribly, and he was quiet all day, reflecting on the horrors of destitution.’

‘I will tell him I have the plague,’ said Chaloner. ‘That will drive him back inside his house.’

‘At your peril! He is terrified of sickness, and carries a club to repel infected people. What is wrong with talking about the weather? I do not understand this desire for the dramatic, Tom. You did it in Holland, too.’

Chaloner supposed he had, since discussions about the climate tended not to be a good way of keeping people’s attention in his line of business.

She indicated he was to hurry, so he grabbed his cloak and set off, leaving her to follow. Outside, the street smelled of snow and smoke, and he was suddenly reminded of one Christmas at his family’s manor in Buckinghamshire. All his siblings had been there, and the house had been ablaze with candles. It was before the first of the civil wars, so his parents had been alive, smiling at each other and holding hands in the absurd, affectionate way they had had with each other. His oldest sister had jokingly arranged everyone in a line according to height, and they had processed out of the house into a white Christmas Eve for midnight mass. It had been a happy time, full of laughter and light, and Chaloner had never understood why Cromwell had wanted to eliminate the festival.

The memory of candlelight and singing faded abruptly when his foot slipped on the slops Metje had dumped the previous day – now frozen into a hard, slick plate – and he took a tumble.

‘Heyden!’ exclaimed North, hurrying towards him. ‘I was going to warn you about the ice, but you were down before I could shout.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, trying to climb to his feet. It was not easy with a leg that was unwilling to bear his weight.

‘There is no need for blasphemy,’ admonished North severely.

North was wearing his Sunday best, which entailed a black suit that was even plainer than the ones he favoured during the rest of the week. In the semi-darkness, the burn on his face was more noticeable than usual, a dark patch across his chin and cheek. Temperance had told Metje that he had been set upon by a mob at the Restoration: when the King had made his triumphal return, people were keen to demonstrate their new loyalties, and North had not been the only Nonconformist to suffer an unprovoked attack. Sadly, the assault had occurred just months after a similar incident had deprived North of his only son, and Temperance had confided that both parents had clung even more fiercely to strong religion afterwards, as a way of dealing with their misfortunes.

Chaloner accepted the outstretched hand. ‘I am sorry if I offended you.’

‘You offended God,’ replied North. ‘But I shall escort you to your rooms, where you can rest and pray for forgiveness.’

Chaloner could see Metje just inside the door. ‘There is no need–’

‘Nonsense,’ said North, moving forward and hauling Chaloner with him. ‘It is no trouble.’

Metje shot back up the stairs, making so much noise that North glanced up in alarm.

‘Rats,’ explained Chaloner, leaning heavily on the man’s shoulder in an attempt to distract him. ‘They come in to escape the frost.’

‘They must be very big ones,’ said North nervously.

‘Huge,’ agreed Chaloner, moving slowly up the steps. ‘This is very kind of you, sir.’

‘It is no more than my Christian duty.’ North shivered when they reached the bedchamber. ‘It is colder here than it is outside. Do you have no firewood?’

‘I forgot to order it.’

‘Then I shall lend you some,’ declared North. ‘I will fetch it now.’

Before Chaloner could decline, North had gone, and Metje emerged from under the bed, quaking with laughter as she dusted herself down. ‘Next time, give me more than half a minute before creating your so-called diversion. I could hardly believe it when you brought him all the way in here.’

‘It was an accident. I slipped on some ice.’

The humour faded from her face. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘My dignity suffered a fatal insult. I shall never be able to look him in the face again – a man half his age wallowing on the ground and unable to rise. But you should go before he comes back. Take care not to meet him on the stairs.’

The summons from the Lord Chancellor arrived early the following morning. Fortunately, Chaloner’s new cassock and wig were ready, and with them he wore a wide-brimmed hat that he hoped would make him look more Cavalier than Roundhead. He disliked dressing up, but impressions were important at Court, and it would be foolish not to try to make a good one. With an hour to spare, he used most of the last shilling from Thurloe’s advance to lay in a supply of firewood, taking care to return more to North than he had been lent – but regretted carrying it himself when he ended up with sawdust on his finery. Metje left the Norths’ sitting room in exasperated disgust at his carelessness, while Faith and Temperance fussed with brushes and damp cloths.

‘You look very elegant,’ said Temperance warmly. ‘Although I do not like this current trend for wigs. I suspect they were invented by a man who is bald.’ Somewhat abruptly, she removed her bonnet to reveal shining chestnut tresses. Chaloner regarded them in surprise, having had no idea that her prim headwear concealed such a splendid mane. She saw his reaction and smiled. ‘I could sell it and pay for new windows in the chapel.’

‘Temperance!’ exclaimed Faith, shocked. ‘Replace your clothing at once!’

‘Do not sell it,’ said Chaloner at the same time. ‘It looks better on you than it would on a bald man.’

Faith looked from one to the other with sudden suspicion, and it did not take a genius to understand the line her thoughts were taking.

‘I should go,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably. ‘Or I will be late.’

‘I told you so,’ said Metje, coming to escort him out of the house. Behind the closed sitting room door came the muted murmur of motherly advice. ‘Temperance adores you.’

‘She has more taste,’ said Chaloner, catching her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘Not like you.’

Metje laughed. ‘My father always said my choice of men would lead me to a bad end. He was right: my first husband died fighting a duel over a neighbour’s barking dog, and you have no money.’ She reached out to straighten his hat.

‘I will if I prove to be good at victualling.’

‘I doubt that will happen. Downing said you were terrible at household accounts, although I suppose Mr North is happy with your work, so you cannot be overly dire. But I still think you should see what Dalton has to offer, and ignore the Lord Chancellor. You are better suited to translating than book-keeping – it is easier work for a lazy man.’

These comments sometimes stung, although he told himself she probably would not have made them had she known the truth about him. ‘I can do both,’ he said, a little coolly.

She laughed, rather derisively. ‘Can you? Well, it will keep you busy, but I would rather see you once a week in a warm room than five times in a cold one. I acquired something for you yesterday.’

Chaloner disliked the occasions when she changed the subject before he could defend himself from her cutting remarks, and nor did he like her use of the term ‘acquired’. It sounded as though she had stolen it. ‘What?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘A lamp – a really good one. It means you will be able to read your music at night, and I will be able to dress without groping around in the dark.’

Chaloner regarded her sceptically. ‘Where did it come from?’

She shoved him in the chest, disappointed by his response. ‘A friend – one of the chapel council – gave it to me. She bought another and offered me the old one. And I am giving it to you.’

He did not want to appear ungracious, but buying fuel for such an extravagance was currently out of the question. He forced a smile. ‘That is kind.’

‘Mr North is taking Faith and Temperance to a jewellers’ meeting in Goldsmiths’ Hall today, so I should be able to smuggle it to you with no one seeing. You will like it, I promise. It is massive.’

He smiled again, amused she should think size had anything to do with quality, and his irritation at her began to fade. ‘Thank you.’

She hugged him. ‘It is a reward for accepting a post with Dalton. Be careful if you visit Mr North tonight, though. The turkey is due to arrive this evening, and I have a feeling Faith will not have the courage to put her knife to its throat.’

The icy snap of the last two days had given way to the dank fogginess that often afflicted London in the winter months. Clouds hung low overhead, covering houses and trees with a film of fine droplets. Smoke from thousands of fires and the noxious industries along the Fleet became trapped in the mist, creating a yellow-brown pall that caught at the back of throats. Beggars were out in force, displaying wounds and sores, and appealing piteously for extra alms because of the dismal weather. One revealed fingers that looked frost-bitten, and Chaloner wondered whether he had allowed them to freeze on purpose, so he would have an injury to show passers-by. He gave the man one of his last pennies, sorry he should be forced to such desperate measures.

He walked briskly, concentrating on not stepping into the piles of ordure that littered the streets and on staying out of the path of carts and horses. Traders yelled every inch of the way, selling pies, ribbons, nails, pots, candles, cure-alls and fruit. Men in sober clothing screamed that God demanded repentance, and gaudily clad courtiers were jiggled along in sedan chairs. A massive bull, brought for slaughter from the nearby village of Islington, had escaped and was running amok, tracked by several baying dogs and an amorous cow. Its owner shadowed the menagerie nervously, calling for its return, but the bull had other ideas, and continued along the Strand on a bucking, chaotic mission of its own.

As Chaloner neared White Hall, the streets became more crowded, and he learned from the conversations around him that there was to be an exhibition that day – some of the paintings acquired by the King for his private apartments were to be publicly displayed. The Banqueting House had been chosen as the venue, and visitors were invited to inspect the collection for the very reasonable price of sixpence. Since he had some time to spare, Chaloner stepped inside, deciding at last to locate the stone under which his uncle had hidden his money.

The Banqueting House was one of the most imposing buildings in the city, a mammoth, rectangular edifice designed to look like an ancient Roman meeting hall. It had two tiers of massive oblong windows, and Chaloner recalled vividly the old king stepping through one of them to meet the executioner’s axe thirteen years before. Inside, he gazed up at the riot of colour in Rubens’s famous ceiling, although some of its the panels were already stained with soot from the many lamps that were needed to illuminate the room at night.

That day, every spare patch of wall boasted a work of art, and boards had been set up along the middle of the chamber to hold more. Sombre Dutch masters rubbed shoulders with the lighter, softer colours of the Venetian schools, and there was an atmosphere of hushed awe from the spectators. Chaloner turned his attention to the floor, which comprised squares of red and white marble, all in sad need of a scrub. He made for the far end of the hall and began to count: seven tiles from the door, and three from the second window. His uncle’s slab was slightly different than its neighbours, because the mortar holding it in place had been scraped away. Dirt had dropped into the resulting gaps, but it looked as though no one had raised it since the older Chaloner had deposited his five hundred silver crowns there the night he had fled the country. It would make a pleasant surprise for his sons one day – but not yet. There were still too many unfriendly eyes on the regicides’ families, regardless of the fact that most had been powerless to prevent what their kinsmen had done.

Chaloner left when a steward demanded the entrance fee, and headed for the Court Gate, which stood just north of the Banqueting House. He had never been inside White Hall palace, although he had travelled along King Street often enough, and he was obliged to ask the way to the Lord Chancellor’s offices. The soldier issued directions that were difficult to follow, sending him across the spacious yard known as the Great Court, and into a chaotic huddle of buildings that were mostly occupied by the Queen’s servants. He turned left when the soldier should have said right, and found himself in a second yard, this one boasting an individual buttery, pantry, wood shed, coal shed, stable, kitchen and laundry for virtually every White Hall resident. He passed through a gate that then locked behind him, so was unable to retrace his steps when he realised he was heading in the wrong direction. It was not long before he was hopelessly lost.

He continued to wander, confused by the palace’s jumble of buildings and alleys. Some houses were ancient and verging on ruinous, although they had probably been splendid in their day, while others were rambling Tudor monstrosities, all irregular angles, brick chimneys and thick timbers. Others still were modern, hurled up quickly and cheaply, without regard to function or style. The result was a messy village populated by scurrying clerks, aloof retainers, arrogant courtiers and a smattering of clerics. Eventually, he found someone willing to escort him, and was conducted to an elegant wing overlooking the manicured expanse of open ground called the Privy Gardens. The Lord Chancellor was in good company, Chaloner’s guide informed him, because he had Prince Rupert as a neighbour on one side, and the King on the other. The clocks were striking ten as Chaloner knocked to be admitted.

Clarendon’s quarters were impressive, as befitted a principal advisor to the King. They boasted several cartoons by famous Flemish artists, and a Renaissance sculpture of Hercules. Chaloner was admiring the latter when the Earl entered, so soft footed in velvet slippers that he did not hear him arrive, and spun around in alarm at the sound of a voice so close behind him. His reaction startled Clarendon, who dropped the vase he was carrying. It shattered with a crash on the marble floor, and the guards in the hall immediately burst in, pistols at the ready.

‘Intruder!’ yelled their captain, spotting Chaloner. ‘Shoot him!’

‘No!’ cried the Earl, waving short, plump arms as they aimed their weapons and Chaloner dived for cover behind him. ‘It was an accident. A vessel slipped from my fingers.’

The captain regarded Chaloner with narrowed eyes. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I admitted him, sir,’ said one of the soldiers uncomfortably. His voice took on a wheedling tone. ‘He has a written invitation.’

‘Give it to me,’ ordered the captain. He snatched the proffered missive and read it several times, while Chaloner watched uneasily, hoping no one had made a mistake. Eventually, it was handed back with a curt nod, and the captain turned to Clarendon. ‘It is lucky you stopped us, My Lord, or we would have killed him. He is not on the visitors list you submitted on Friday.’

‘He is from Thurloe,’ said the Earl in a whisper, although his voice was still loud enough for Chaloner to hear, and probably some of the soldiers, too. He gave a slow, meaningful wink. ‘Thurloe. We do not include his men on our official lists.’

‘Another spy,’ said the captain flatly. ‘Well, I hope he is better than the last one. Mind your feet, sir. You do not want to cut yourself through those thin slippers. What did you drop? A wine jug?’

‘A crystal vase,’ said Clarendon, inspecting the mess sorrowfully. ‘I always said it was a bad idea to use exquisite art for everyday use, but the King likes to be surrounded by fine things.’

‘I had noticed,’ muttered the captain. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘I shall fetch a brush, sir. Meanwhile, I advise you not to walk about.’

The Lord Chancellor nodded then waved a chubby, ruff-clad hand to indicate the soldiers were to leave. While they shuffled out, Chaloner studied him covertly. Sir Edward Hyde, recently dubbed Earl of Clarendon, was short, fat and fussy, and did not look at all like the kind of man who had navigated a disenfranchised king through years of bitter exile. He wore a fluffy wig that made his face look pouchy, and his clothes were tight and unflattering. Chaloner had heard that younger, wittier courtiers had no respect for Clarendon, although he was reputed to be a man of principle, and that they teased him about his obesity.

‘Philip Evett is a good sort,’ said Clarendon, once the door had closed. ‘He has been with me for years – ever since I went into exile with the King – and it is good to have a trustworthy man in charge of my personal safety. Did you see how quickly he dashed in to protect me?’

Chaloner nodded, not pointing out that if the sound had been a discharging gun, then the captain would have been too late. ‘Yes, My Lord.’

Clarendon lowered his voice. ‘Did Thurloe tell you what happened to Colonel Clarke? He was murdered – his belly sliced open like a pig’s. It happened not far from where you are standing now.’

‘Did it?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was trying to unnerve him by describing what had happened to his predecessor. Was it some sort of warning, or perhaps a threat?

‘In a corridor that leads to the servants’ quarters. The poor maid who found him screamed herself hoarse with fright. I had asked him to investigate a series of thefts from the kitchens, so I imagine he was stabbed because he had uncovered the villain. I found papers in a secret pocket in his tunic, but they were written in cipher, and I have not been able to break the code.’ The Earl rummaged on his desk and presented Chaloner with several slivers of parchment. ‘Can you do it?’

Chaloner could: it was the common substitution code he and other agents used for sending routine messages to Thurloe, and was familiar enough to allow him to read it without a crib. One message was short, and informed the recipient that Seven were in considerable danger. The other was longer:

‘These were concealed in Clarke’s clothing?’ he asked, thoughts tumbling in confusion. ‘Praise God’s one son’ was the phrase Hewson had muttered as he had died; Hewson had also made mention of the number seven.

The Earl nodded as he took them back, stuffing them carelessly inside a drawer. ‘Yes. I assume they relate to the investigation he was conducting for me, but I cannot be certain until I have their meaning.’

‘Perhaps I could look into the matter for you, sir,’ suggested Chaloner, trying to sound as though the idea had just occurred to him.

‘No, thank you,’ said Clarendon curtly. ‘He was Thurloe’s kinsman, sent to me as a favour because I asked for a good spy. I feel responsible for his death, and consider it far too important a matter to entrust to someone I do not know – no offence. I will order Evett to work on it with me.’

Chaloner tried again. ‘I have some experience with–’

‘I said no,’ said Clarendon firmly. ‘If you see him, you can tell Thurloe that he need not fear the culprit will go unpunished, because I am looking into the crime personally. Now, since we are alone, we should take the opportunity to talk privately, Heyden. Or do you prefer to be called Chaloner?’

Chaloner kept his expression blank. ‘Either is acceptable, sir,’ he said, assuming Thurloe had told him his real name, although he could not imagine why. His family connections would hardly encourage the Earl to hire him, which meant he would not be able to do what Thurloe had asked.

Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘I expected to see some reaction when I mentioned the fact that I know your uncle signed the warrant that killed the King’s father.’

‘I did not condone my kinsman’s actions, sir. I would have stopped him, had I been able.’

‘Brave words, but unfortunately not ones that will see you safe from vengeful hands – and there are far too many of those around these days. Thurloe did not tell me, in case you wonder how I come to know – your uncle did. I met him in France once, where he mentioned a nephew of the same name who was Thurloe’s Dutch agent. I drew my own conclusions when Thurloe described your career. Besides, you have your uncle’s eyes – a fine dark grey. However, this information will remain with me alone, and in White Hall you will be known as Thomas Heyden.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Chaloner, wishing his uncle had been less verbose. Between dragging him to war and telling Royalists he was Cromwell’s spy, it was almost as if the man had wanted him killed. He might have assumed that were the case, had it not been for the fact that he was the only one entrusted with the secret of the hidden silver.

The Earl sighed irritably. ‘You could at least pretend to be grateful for my magnanimity. Do you know why I am prepared to keep your identity quiet?’

‘Because Thurloe said that knowing a secret about someone will ensure he will never betray you?’

Clarendon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He most certainly did not! He said the key to loyalty is making sure people are paid on time, if you must know. But I am prepared to protect you because our country has an urgent need for reliable men, and we are not in a position to be choosy. I understand you know a great deal about Holland, and you speak the language well enough to pass for a Dutchman.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Thurloe thinks you should return there as soon as possible, because he says there will be a war soon. The problem with that plan is that Cerberus – that is what I call George Downing, because he is such a twofaced dog – does not share Thurloe’s good opinion of you, and Joseph Williamson, who has taken charge of the intelligence services, declines to hire men with dubious testimonials. Thurloe suggests we put you to the test – we use you here for a few months and allow you to prove yourself. Will you accept the challenge?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, feeling as though he was selling his soul – and to a man who did not know that the mythical Cerberus had three heads. ‘What would you like me to do?’

Clarendon smiled. ‘Here comes Evett with the brush, so we shall have no more talk of regicides and spies in Holland. I shall tell you what I want, as soon as we have cleaned up this mess.’

The captain had brought the kind of broom that was used to sweep leaves from the garden, and was wholly unsuitable for collecting small shards of glass from a marble floor. Neither he nor Clarendon seemed aware of the fact, and a good deal of effort went into something that should have been completed in moments. The Lord Chancellor tutted and fussed over the breakage.

‘Can this be repaired, do you think, Heyden?’

‘No, sir. It has shattered into too many pieces.’

‘Well, collect them up anyway, and I shall work on them this evening. The King is hosting another masque. It is bound to end late, and I shall need something to keep me occupied, since the racket will keep me awake.’ He dropped to his knees. ‘Put the larger bits in my handkerchief. Come on, or we shall be here all day.’

Chaloner knelt and began to gather splinters. He was unhappy, worried by the fact that his uncle had been very loose tongued to members of an enemy court, and wary of the panting, sweating man on the floor beside him, suspecting there was more to the Earl than he allowed people to see. The desire for deception meant he was potentially dangerous, and Chaloner began to see what sort of life he might lead if he followed through with the challenge.

He stood to collect one or two fragments that had somehow landed on the desk. As he did so, he noticed that among the scattered papers were reports from the five agents Thurloe had sent. For example, Simon Lane’s familiar scrawl read:

Leaving such communications lying around was careless at best, and criminally negligent at worst. Pretending to pat the table for more shards, Chaloner shoved Lane’s missive under another document for safety, but was startled when his tampering revealed a paper on which praise god’s one son was printed in large, capital letters. The words were brown, and the parchment scorched: they had been written in lemon or onion juice, which needed to be heated before it became visible. Some of the letters were similar to ones in the notes the Earl had found in Clarke’s clothing, suggesting they had been penned by the same person.

He crouched behind the table to hide his consternation. Who had sent the Lord Chancellor a missive containing that particular phrase, and what did it mean? Or had it been intended for someone else, and the Earl had intercepted it? And why had Clarke converted the same words to cipher and hidden them in his secret pocket? Were the Earl and Clarke associated with John Hewson, who had ordered Chaloner to praise God’s one son as he lay dying, or was that coincidence? Chaloner did not think so. He was beginning to think there was an important message in those four syllables, something vital enough for Hewson to gasp with his last breath.

‘I think that is all of it,’ said Evett eventually, standing with his cupped hands full of glass.

‘Put it on the table by the window, if you please,’ said the Earl, following him, to make sure he did as he was told. ‘Perhaps I shall work a miracle tonight, when the King and his courtiers chase each other around dressed as wild animals.’

‘Wild animals?’ blurted Chaloner, unable to help himself. He was disconcerted and uneasy, already regretting his promise to do the Earl’s bidding. It would be safer to walk away and have no more to do with any of it. And do what? The notion of being a burden to his family was a powerful reason to see the thing through. He tried to gather his scattered, disorganised thoughts, before he made a mistake or said something best kept to himself.

‘The masque,’ said the Lord Chancellor, as if that explained everything.

‘They dress up,’ added Evett in a disapproving undertone. ‘Skins, feathers and furs have been arriving all week, and most of them stink. No one will be allowed in unless he or she is in the guise of some wild beast. The King will be a lion, naturally, and Lady Castlemaine will not tell anyone her chosen creature. She says we must wait and see.’

‘A fox, most likely,’ said the earl. ‘Or a wolf. It will be nothing cuddly, you can be sure of that.’

‘There is a rumour that the Duke of Buckingham will be a pig,’ said Evett with a perfectly straight face.

Clarendon chuckled. ‘A boar, Philip, not a pig. No, do not withdraw. Come and enjoy a cup of tea by the fire. It arrived fresh this morning.’

‘Tea?’ asked Evett with infinite suspicion. He was Chaloner’s age, with a head of reddish curls that tumbled around his shoulders. He wore the loose breeches and short doublet of the palace guard, and there was a thin scar on his left cheek that looked as though it had been made by a duelling sword. It was not disfiguring, and added a certain dash to his appearance; uncharitably it occurred to Chaloner that he might have put it there himself.

‘It is a beverage,’ explained the Earl. ‘Popular in Portugal. Come – do not stand on ceremony with me. You to my left, Heyden on my right. There. Now we can all enjoy the warmth of the fire.’

He leaned forward and poured a thick, brown liquid into three glasses. Leaves rose to the surface of each, where they formed a floating mat. Clarendon handed them to his guests.

‘We drink this?’ asked Evett, regarding it warily. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Clarendon cheerfully. ‘The Portuguese ambassador tells me it is excellent for the spirit and the digestion. Come on, man! Do not be shy.’

Obediently, Evett took a tentative sip. Leaves dappled his moustache as he chewed and then swallowed. ‘Interesting,’ he said in a way that made it clear he thought he had been misled.

‘Actually, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he should just drink the stuff, or whether it was a test to ascertain whether he was a sycophant, ‘the Portuguese usually strain out the leaves.’

‘Do they?’ asked the Earl, his face falling. ‘Well, I suppose I can use my handkerchief as a sieve. It is relatively clean.’ He tipped the tea back into the jug, and wiped each glass with his sleeve. Then he placed the handkerchief across the top of one beaker and poured. The volume of leaves was so dense that the material soon became clogged. ‘Dash it all!’ he cried.

‘It might be better to start again,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Using less tea.’

‘Have you been to Portugal?’ asked the Earl, following his instructions. ‘I expect it was nice.’

Chaloner glanced at him, trying to assess whether there was some inner meaning to the question. He could read nothing in the guileless pale blue eyes. ‘Yes, sir. Very nice.’

‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Did you like the United Provinces, too? Or do you prefer France?’

Evett’s eyes shone. ‘I like France – those mighty castles in the south, perched on their great cliffs. We would not have lost the wars to Cromwell, if we had had a few of those to fight from.’

‘We have the Tower,’ said Clarendon. ‘That has never fallen to an enemy. And you can show it to Ch … to Heyden tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Depending.’

‘The cellars,’ said Evett. ‘To look for buried treasure.’

Chaloner began to wonder whether they were both mad – that they had engaged in one culinary experiment too many and that whatever they had imbibed had addled their wits. When a half-naked man dressed in a baboon’s head burst into the chamber, he suspected the rest of the place was affected too, and that the entire country was in the hands of lunatics.

‘Be off with you!’ shouted the Earl crossly. ‘I am engaged in private state business.’

The baboon waggled its head and made an obscene gesture, but reversed hastily when Evett came to his feet with his sword in his hand.

‘That was Buckingham,’ said Evett angrily, when the door had closed with the baboon on the other side. ‘Still, he is a monkey in life, so why not come to the masque as an ape, too?’

‘Be careful, Philip,’ warned the Earl. ‘Walls have ears. Now, let us drink this tea, and then we shall discuss business. This is a very pallid mixture, Heyden. Are you sure there are enough leaves? My original brew was much thicker and blacker.’

‘This is how the Portuguese drink it.’ Chaloner disliked tea, but was loath to say so. He could not read the Earl, and did not know whether he would be offended if his offer of hospitality was rejected.

The Earl downed his portion in a single gulp, then sat back as though waiting for something to happen. ‘I do not feel noticeably refreshed,’ he announced after several moments.

‘It is nasty,’ pronounced Evett, setting his half-empty cup on the hearth and pulling a face. ‘Tea will never catch on in England. It has a vile, bitter flavour, and in no way compares to ale.’

‘I agree,’ said Clarendon. ‘I will pass the rest to the Portuguese ambassador, since he likes it.’

‘Give it to Buckingham,’ said Evett venomously. ‘The leaves might choke him.’

‘Now,’ said the Earl, turning to Chaloner. ‘Thurloe informs me that you are a good spy, and said that once or twice your reports prevented an exchange of hostilities with the Dutch. He also said you solved a series of thefts from Cerberus’s house and you caught the man who murdered the Dutch king’s favourite page.’

‘Those cases were not as difficult as they–’

‘Modesty,’ said the Earl, regarding Chaloner with a smile. ‘That is something I do not often encounter. Thurloe praises your talent for finding the truth, and recommends I use you to look into Clarke’s murder, but I have a different task in mind – one better suited to your abilities.’

‘Yes, sir?’ asked Chaloner, beginning to be anxious again.

‘It revolves around missing gold,’ said Clarendon. ‘Seven thousand pounds’ worth of it. It is said to have been buried in the Tower of London and I want you to find it for me.’