A Conspiracy of Violence

Chapter 7

For the second time that day, Evett retched while Chaloner looked in the opposite direction. Then the captain hovered in the doorway, offering to ‘keep watch’ while Chaloner searched the house, although there was no longer any danger – whoever had murdered Lee had been gone for days. Chaloner left the unhappy aide outside and stood next to the body, hands on hips as he looked around.

The little room was the home of a man who lived frugally, either from choice or necessity. There was a table, a chair and a bench, while pots and pans, all scrupulously clean, sat on shelves above the fireplace. A set of stairs, so steep and narrow that most people would have deemed them a ladder, led to an attic. Chaloner climbed them, but the loft was bare except for a bed with neatly folded covers. He poked the floorboards and knocked on the plaster walls, but there was nothing to find.

He returned to the lower chamber and completed a similar search, aware of Evett chatting to a water-seller outside. He knelt in the hearth and peered up the chimney, jumping back when his probing released an avalanche of soot. Then he turned his attention to the table. Three cups stood on it, and when he lifted one and sniffed its contents, he detected the distinctive aroma of wine. Lee had been enjoying a drink with two companions when he had died. However, there was nothing to suggest they had shared his fate. Had one of them killed him? Chaloner tapped a forefinger on his chin, looking from Lee to the broken window and back again.

Then he assessed the body, noting its relaxed posture, with one hand resting on the table and the other folded in its lap, and was sure death had come as a surprise. But what about Lee’s companions? Had they expected it? Or had the attack been startling for them, too? Chaloner looked more closely at Lee’s hands, and saw something caught between his fingers. He removed it carefully, but the house was no place to study such a find, so he put it in his pocket to examine later.

When he had finished, he rejoined Evett. The water-seller had gone and Evett was full of questions, but Chaloner motioned him to silence as he led the way to Botolph’s Wharf, where they hired a boat to carry them to White Hall. The sun had managed to burst through the clouds during the afternoon, and was setting in a blaze of orange. The boatman began to row with clean, strong stokes, hurrying to deliver them before dusk, and they sat in the stern, so they could talk without being overheard.

‘Do you know Latin or French?’ asked Chaloner in a low voice. ‘It would be safer.’

‘French would not,’ Evett pointed out. ‘He would think we were Catholic spies. I speak Dutch, though. I learned when I was in exile with Clarendon, but I do not suppose you–’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, pleased to use the tongue he knew best. ‘Who would want to kill Lee?’

‘You cannot assume his death had anything to do with Barkstead’s treasure,’ said Evett, pronouncing each word carefully. He was not comfortable with the language. ‘It was a burglary. There are slums all around here, and that water-seller just told me thefts occur every night.’

‘Lee’s house was not burgled. When we first arrived, I saw five pounds in coins on the downstairs window sill, and a thief would have had that, if nothing else.’

‘Then the villain was disturbed,’ argued Evett. ‘He killed Lee, but heard someone coming. No man wants to be caught in a house with a corpse, so he fled before he could profit from his crime.’

‘That is possible, but when the body went undiscovered, the robber would have returned to finish what he had started. Also, I have never met a thief who would abandon that much silver when it was sitting in full view, no matter how pressed for time – not even a thief who lives in the splendour of White Hall.’ He stared hard at Evett, to let him see he knew what the man had done.

Evett had the grace to blush. ‘I took the money for Clarendon – to make sure the constables did not steal it. I spotted it when you were upstairs.’

But Chaloner was not interested in Evett’s colourful ethics. ‘How well did you know Lee?’

‘We met on four occasions – the four times I went to dig in the Tower. Robinson told me he was a good man, and he seemed honest enough. He worked in the Treasury, counting money.’

‘How did Robinson know him? Surely a Lord Mayor does not mingle with clerks?’

‘Lee was the kinsman of some friend. You will have to ask Robinson.’

Chaloner was annoyed with Evett. ‘Is there anything else about this treasure that may have slipped your mind? You are supposed to be helping me, and neglecting to mention one of the men involved in the initial search is not the way to go about it.’

Evett considered carefully, taking no offence at the accusatory nature of the comment – or perhaps his Dutch was not good enough to allow him to detect it. ‘No, there is nothing, and I really do not think Lee’s death has anything to do with the treasure. I saw nearly all the soldiers who did the actual spadework today. Why should Lee, who is insignificant, be killed, and the rest of us left alive?’

‘We saw Pepys this morning, but what about Wade? Are you sure he is living?’

‘He and I exchanged words when you were in the cellar. He came to ask what you were doing.’

‘What did you tell him?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘That I had lost a ring and sent servants to look for it. Do not worry. I can dissemble when necessary. Did you learn anything when you searched Lee’s house?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Why? What did you expect me to find?’

‘I did not expect you to find anything, as I told you to start with. I think it was a botched robbery. How did he die?’

‘Shot with a crossbow,’ replied Chaloner. ‘I imagine a gun was not used, because the killer did not want to make a noise. There was no evidence of a fight, and there were empty cups on the table. I think he was drinking wine with guests when it happened.’

‘And one shot him?’ Evett was incredulous. ‘Crossbows are large weapons, and I do not see even a gentle clerk like Lee sipping claret while his killer wound and aimed one at him. You do not need to be a spy to deduce that!’

‘No one in the house killed him. You remember the broken window? Someone stood outside and shot him, smashing the glass in the process. His drinking companions may have known what was going to happen, or it may have been as big a shock to them as it must have been to Lee. However, if the former is true, then they must be cool customers. I would not sit next to someone about to be assassinated – not unless I had absolute faith in the marksman, and probably not even then.’

Evett was thoughtful. ‘So who is this furtive killer? I can tell you think it was someone who believed Lee had information about the treasure.’

‘Actually, I do not think that. Dispatching Lee would not help the killer find the hoard, because obviously the information would die with him. So, perhaps the intention was not to learn the location of the gold, but to prevent Lee from telling anyone else about it.’

Evett stared at him. ‘That is convoluted reasoning.’

‘Yes, perhaps it is.’ Chaloner leaned back in the boat and tipped his hat over his eyes, not wanting to talk any more. Evett was a pleasant enough fellow, but he was not very bright – or perhaps he was just not at his best after dealing with lions and corpses – and seemed incapable of making insightful suggestions. Chaloner thought about the item he had retrieved from Lee: the scrap of paper. He had no firm evidence, but he believed Lee had been holding a document when he had died. Afterwards, someone – although whether a companion or the killer was impossible to say – had snatched it from him, but in the hurry it had torn, leaving a fragment behind. The writing was tiny, and it was in cipher. He would try to decode it that evening, before Metje came.

‘I do not think we should tell the Earl any of this,’ said Evett, somewhat out of the blue.

Chaloner was surprised. ‘Why not? And speak Dutch, especially when you are talking about Clarendon. He may not be the only one with spies paid to listen to idle chatter.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Evett. ‘And you wonder why I joined the Brotherhood! Are you content to have agents listening to your every word, and never daring to say what you think?’

‘I am used to it. And you had better inure yourself, too, if you want to be of use to the Earl.’

‘I joined the Brotherhood for him, you know,’ said Evett resentfully. ‘I believe in its aims, of course, but all they do is talk. They never act, because they are too busy arguing with each other.’

‘Did he ask you to enrol, or did you do it of your own volition?’

‘The former. Downing let slip something about it once, and Clarendon sent me to find out more. I stalked Downing for a few days, and eventually the fraternity met. I told Clarendon it was all perfectly innocent, but he asked Downing whether I could join anyway. Did you know Thurloe founded it?’

Chaloner only just managed to keep the surprise from his face. ‘Did he?’

‘He seems a decent man. It is a pity he spent the last ten years working for the other side.’

And which side was that? wondered Chaloner. He changed the subject. ‘Why should we not tell the Earl about Lee?’

‘Because he may order me to look into that death, too, and I have my hands full with Clarke. I do not want to spend weeks probing Lee’s personal affairs, only to learn I was right all along, and that he was killed by a burglar. I hate that kind of work.’ He hesitated, and a crafty expression stole across his face. ‘If you agree to say nothing about Lee, I will tell you something about the treasure that Clarendon ordered me to keep to myself.’

‘Very well.’

‘Can I trust you?’

‘You can trust me not to mention Lee to anyone else. What is this secret?’

‘Mother Pinchon. Clarendon ordered me to watch Wade’s house after that first night of digging, and I saw a crone come to visit him – probably to claim her hundred pounds. When she left, I followed her to the Fleet Rookery, but she ducked down one of those wretched alleys and I lost her. I do wish the Earl would not give me such missions. I hope to God he will pass such tasks to you from now on, and let me learn about the navy instead.’

‘So, Pinchon does exist,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I thought Wade had made her up – that Barkstead had told him the location of the hoard, and he invented someone to take the blame if things went wrong.’

‘What a suspicious mind you have,’ said Evett in distaste. ‘She exists, and she probably lives near Turnagain Lane, since that is where I lost her. I would have asked the locals, but they were not of a mind to chat, and I was lucky to escape with my life.’

‘Why did Clarendon order you to keep the Pinchon episode quiet?’

‘He does not want you to think us incompetent. Will you try to find her?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Tonight.’

‘Do you mind if I decline to come with you? I did not enjoy it much the last time I went.’

‘Not at all.’ Chaloner leaned back in the seat again, and closed his eyes, thinking about the cipher from Lee, and wondering whether he would be able to unravel the code. If he could, then he would have two leads to follow: Mother Pinchon and whatever he learned from the document. Or was he being overly optimistic? He had assumed Lee’s death was connected to the treasure, but perhaps Evett was right and it was not. He did not dwell too long on the matter. Answers would come soon enough.

Chaloner and Evett did not speak again until the boatman pulled into the pier near White Hall and let them off. It was a long journey, but the tide was with them, so they were able to pass under the London Bridge without disembarking to meet the boat on the other side – the starlings that formed the bridge’s feet funnelled the water into treacherous rapids when the river was in full spate. Once the sun had set, the city assumed shades of grey and brown. Red roof tiles showed their dusting of black soot, and the once-pristine washes on the bank-side houses became the colour of old pewter. Buildings clawed towards the darkening sky in a confusion of chimneys, gables and garrets, their uneven lines punctuated by the taller, stronger masses of churches. Rising above it all, like a stately galleon on a turbulent sea, was the mighty bulk of St Paul’s with its myriad buttresses and pinnacles.

The city rang with sound, even on the Thames. Hundreds of craft still plied their trade, some carrying passengers, who shouted greetings to each other, and some ferrying the goods that were needed to keep the metropolis grinding on – grain from Lincolnshire, wool from Suffolk, coal from the north. A quay was being repaired, and the rattle of hammers and saws, along with the urgent yells of a foreman keen to squeeze the very last moment of light from the dying day, drifted across the water. Boats were being unloaded by winches that creaked and groaned, and people were everywhere, buying, selling, walking, working, picking pockets, shopping, scavenging.

Chaloner was hungry, and wanted to eat something before he inspected the place where Clarke’s body had been found, but Evett was keen to press on, claiming that since Chaloner had managed to deduce so much from the place where Lee had died, then he could now do the same for Clarke. He strode under the Holbein Gate, and opened an inconspicuous door that led to a dank passage and then the servants’ quarters. He led the way along several unlit corridors that he said were only ever used by the below-stairs staff, and Chaloner was astonished to see spyholes cut into the wood, affording views of the sumptuous chambers on the other side. He pointed them out to Evett.

‘We did not put them there,’ said the captain defensively. ‘This wing is said to have been built by the eighth King Henry, who was fond of that sort of thing. So was Queen Elizabeth, who also spent money here. Clarendon constantly orders them blocked, but people keep poking them open again.’

‘Are they concealed within paintings or murals?’ asked Chaloner. As an intelligence-gathering agent, it was the kind of thing that interested him, particularly if he was going to work at the palace.

‘Some are, while others are hidden behind statues or furniture. Here is one of the chambers used by Lady Castlemaine. She is in it now.’ He swallowed, and his voice became unsteady. ‘Naked.’

Chaloner peered through another hole. He had heard a lot about Lady Castlemaine, and was keen to see her for himself. Loyally, he thought she was nothing compared with Metje: her face was small and rather catlike, and it was not difficult to imagine her being spiteful. However, even her harshest critics could not deny that her body was about as near to perfection as it was possible to be, with perfectly proportioned limbs, exquisite curves and alabaster skin.

‘Metje is better,’ he declared, after a period of detailed study. ‘Rubens himself could not have made her more beautiful.’

Evett raised his eyebrows. ‘She must be a veritable Madonna. You must introduce us.’

‘You have enough women of your own.’

‘Two wives and someone special,’ acknowledged Evett. ‘I am in love again, thinking of extending my harem. But I was not going to seduce Metje: I just wanted to see her. When will you marry?’

‘She will not have me until I secure a permanent post with Clarendon.’

‘Then unless she wants to be a widow, she should encourage you to look elsewhere. You seem a decent fellow, Heyden, and poor Simon’s fate keeps preying on my mind – I do not want you to go the same way. Why not apply to the Treasury? They are always looking for clerks.’

‘That would be safe,’ remarked Chaloner caustically. ‘Just ask Lee.’

Evett was suddenly more interested in what was happening on the other side of the hole ‘That is Buckingham with her,’ he whispered disapprovingly. He squinted and angled his head to one side as she released a moan of delight and Buckingham sniggered. ‘What are they doing?’

Chaloner pushed him gently, to make him move on, but Evett was intrigued by the curious positions the lovers had adopted, and refused to budge. Chaloner shoved him harder, then glanced through the gap in alarm when Evett stumbled against the panelling hard enough to make a substantial thud. The two people entwined on the bed either had not noticed or did not care, because they showed no sign of interrupting their antics to investigate.

‘This is where Clarke died,’ said Evett, when they reached a hallway that was somewhat more public than the ones they had just travelled. ‘He was found at dawn, and I was the one who had to take his body to the river – Clarendon thought it was unwise to have rumours about murder in the royal household. All these chambers are used as offices by palace administrators during the day.’

‘And at night?’

‘They are empty, as you can see. The clerks do not work after dark, because the light in this wing is poor, and it is too expensive to provide them all with lamps.’

‘So, these offices are always empty after dusk? This corridor is deserted?’

‘Not necessarily. Some of the King’s celebrations are very wild, and his barons copulate everywhere – with any woman who possesses the requisite body parts, usually. Because these rooms are relatively secluded, they are occasionally used by those who exercise discretion in their trysts.’

‘Using a clerk’s office is being discreet, is it?’ Chaloner was amused.

Evett nodded with great seriousness. ‘Yes, when the rest of them use the public rooms. I like women, as you know, but even I disapprove of the Court’s behaviour. The common people are beginning to mutter about it, and the King should be setting a moral example, not engaging in orgies every night of the week – or at least, not orgies that everyone knows about.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘The problem lies not in the Court’s decadence, but in the fact that it follows so hard on the heels of Cromwell’s strictures. One was too repressive, and the other too free. I think it is the contrast that unsettles people.’

‘Moderation,’ said Evett with a grin. ‘We are there again. At every turn I am proven right.’

Chaloner turned his attention back to the hall. ‘So, in essence, anyone can come here? It is used mostly by servants and clerks, but courtiers have access, too? Especially at night?’

‘Yes. The killer took quite a risk in choosing it for his crime.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin, thinking about the deserted tunnels he had just travelled, which would have been far better places to commit a stealthy murder. ‘Perhaps you should consider the possibility that the culprit is someone who does not know White Hall very well.’

Evett was unimpressed by this. ‘But Buckingham knows White Hall like the back of his hand, and so does Downing. Even Kelyng and Bennet have a working knowledge of the place, because they come here to report to the King. Your suggestion will take me away from my main suspects.’

Chaloner pointed to the floor. ‘Is that blood?’

Evett nodded. ‘The maids scrubbed and scrubbed, but it will not come out.’

Chaloner bent to examine the mark, which was huge and suggested Clarke had bled profusely. ‘A proficient assassin would never have made such a mess, so perhaps he was stabbed by someone unused to killing – someone who does not know how to do it with a minimum amount of spillage.’

Evett regarded him askance. ‘The things you say! But I suspect few courtiers have experience of actual slaughter, although I imagine Buckingham has done it, and Kelyng and Bennet certainly have. What about Downing? Has he stabbed anyone in the past?’

‘I do not know. Was the knife left with Clarke’s body?’

Evett pulled a blade from his belt, making Chaloner step back instinctively. ‘Easy! I am no silent assassin – especially in a half-public hallway like this one. I have taken to carrying this dagger around with me, in the hope that someone might recognise it, but no one has, as yet.’

Chaloner was not surprised, since recognition might go hand in hand with an accusation of murder. He inspected the weapon. It was a fine one, with a jewelled hilt. He thought it unlikely that a servant would have owned it, because it was far too valuable to have been left behind. He said as much to Evett, who looked pleased.

‘Good. That means I can concentrate on my wealthier suspects – such as Buckingham.’

‘Do not allow your judgement to be clouded by dislike,’ warned Chaloner. ‘If you look for clues that point only to him, you may miss evidence directing you towards the real culprit.’

Evett nodded, although Chaloner had the feeling the advice would be ignored, and pointed to the dagger. ‘What else can you tell me about it?’

Chaloner turned it over in his hands. ‘It is small, which means it was probably concealed. The killer could have hidden it in his hand, then turned and struck upwards. Like this.’

Evett did not enjoy playing the role of victim with a sharp blade slicing through the air towards him. He jumped away in alarm. ‘And how does knowing that help us?’

‘It suggests a sudden attack, which left Clarke no time to defend himself. It also indicates that he did not suspect the person intended to harm him.’ Chaloner was thinking aloud. ‘He may have been lured – he followed the killer here, perhaps with the promise of information or a tryst.’

‘Not a tryst,’ said Evett. ‘Clarke liked women, and would never have let himself be seduced by Buckingham, Downing or Kelyng’s fellows. So, one of them must have promised information – perhaps about the missing knives from the kitchen.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Chaloner cautiously, thinking about the coded messages discovered in Clarke’s secret pocket. He had obviously been investigating something other than the theft of silverware, and might well have gone to the hall in the hope of learning something useful – perhaps about praising God or the Seven.

Evett sighed, then threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Questions and speculation! That is all there is with this case. I hate this kind of work! I wish I was someone else’s aide.’

Chaloner smiled ruefully. ‘And I have no idea how to find Barkstead’s treasure, so I suggest we both leave White Hall before the Earl sees us and demands a progress report.’

Evett led the way out of the corridor, and Chaloner was uneasy to note it emerged in the wing where Clarendon had his rooms. Almost immediately, the Lord Chancellor waddled out of his office, driving a crowd of petitioners before him like a flock of geese. Chaloner tried to escape while the rabble took issue about their abrupt dismissal, but Clarendon spotted him and cocked a chubby forefinger, beckoning agent and aide into his office with one hand, while he flapped away his clamouring visitors with the other. Chaloner complied, wishing he had something more to tell his new employer than ‘questions and speculations’.

When he entered the Earl’s chamber, the first thing he saw was a peculiarly shaped object, crazed with cracks and knobbly with glue: he had been right when he had predicted that repairing the crystal vase was impossible. He also noticed Clarendon’s desk had been cleared, and sensitive documents no longer sat in full view. Of course, he thought grimly, with six of his seven agents dead, there were probably very few secret reports coming to him.

‘Have you made a will, Heyden?’ asked the Earl, closing the door behind them.

Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘I do not own any property, sir.’

‘None at all? Thurloe told me you had a bass viol.’

‘Why do you want to know?’ Unease made the question more curt than Chaloner had intended.

‘A will would be helpful in the event of … well, you do not need me to tell you that your kind of work can be dangerous. Talk to Thurloe. He should be able to draft something out for you.’

‘Is life at White Hall so perilous, then, My Lord?’ asked Chaloner, aware of Evett’s frantic signals, urging him to say nothing that would reveal he had been told about the sad fate of Lane and the others.

The Lord Chancellor gave a patently false smile. ‘Not at all, except for poor Clarke, of course. All the others are in fine fettle, and are very happy working for me.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘Because Simon Lane is a friend of mine.’

‘Was he?’ muttered Clarendon unhappily. ‘Damn!’ He cleared his throat and became businesslike. ‘Have you been looking for my treasure today?’

The use of the possessive pronoun did not escape Chaloner’s attention, and he wondered whether the man planned to keep the entire seven thousand pounds for himself. His anxiety deepened, knowing perfectly well that while Clarendon was unlikely to be hanged for defrauding the King, the agent who abetted him would be tried by a different set of laws altogether.

‘He has not found it yet,’ said Evett, when Chaloner did not reply.

‘Well, keep looking,’ ordered the Earl. He seemed out of sorts, and Chaloner supposed the petitioners’ demands had annoyed him, along with the reminder that six spies had died doing his bidding. ‘It will turn up. Lost objects always do.’

‘We have just come from the Tower,’ said Evett conversationally. ‘You asked me to show Heyden where we dug for the gold. We met Robinson, and there was a lion on the loose. It had escaped, and was looking for someone to eat. Robinson sent us out through the Traitors’ Gate, thinking to keep us from its waiting maw, but it almost had us anyway. Someone had tied a rope across the steps that led to the water, obviously intending to see us fall to its mercy.’

‘We do not know it was put there for us,’ said Chaloner reasonably. Indeed, he strongly suspected it was not, since no one could have predicted they would leave the Tower that way.

Anger crossed Clarendon’s face. ‘Let me understand you correctly. A lion – presumably the mad one – was released into the Tower grounds when you were in them? It was inside the Traitors’ Gate, and Robinson sent you in there with it?’

‘I do not think he did it deliberately, sir,’ said Evett, although he sounded uncertain.

‘Do you not?’ shouted the Earl, his temper breaking. ‘Do you not? Well I do! It was a deliberate strike against me! He tried to murder my aide and my new spy – to make Thurloe angry with me for losing yet another one.’ He grimaced, annoyed with himself for the inadvertent admission.

‘Robinson wanted me dead?’ asked Evett, aghast.

‘Of course he did,’ hissed the Earl. ‘Do you not agree, Heyden?’

‘I have no idea, sir,’ replied Chaloner, wanting to say that he did not think Robinson would waste his time on Evett. He was a pleasant fellow, but hardly represented a threat. ‘We had no appointment to visit the Tower, so it would have been a very last-minute attempt.’

But there had actually been plenty of time to organise it, given the number of hours they had spent there. Robinson had been very determined that they should leave by the Traitors’ Gate, and he would also have known that they had been disarmed before they had entered his castle. Then there was the rope: it had been pure luck they had not been injured by it. And the reason for such an attack? Did Robinson want to find Barkstead’s treasure, and either keep it for himself or donate it to the Brotherhood? Chaloner thought about Lee, described as a kinsman of one of Robinson’s friends. What was going on?

‘Robinson saw an opportunity and he seized it,’ declared Clarendon angrily. ‘For two reasons. First, to weaken me by depriving me of men. And second, because he wants to prevent further searches for the treasure. Go and fetch me some wine, Philip. I am so angry that my heart is all a-flutter.’

Evett disappeared, and some of Clarendon’s rage seemed to go with him.

‘I thought Robinson had no interest in Barkstead’s money,’ said Chaloner. ‘He was never in line for a share of it.’

‘He will have a share if he finds it on his own. I may not be up to Thurloe’s standards, Heyden, but I have a few informants in place, and I know for a fact that he went digging himself one night. And I can assure you he was not looking for mushrooms.’

‘He will not find it, sir,’ said Chaloner, supposing the same people had also reported Evett’s excuse for his presence in the Tower that day. ‘It is in none of the obvious places.’

The Earl pursed his lips. ‘Then you must look in the less obvious ones – before he does. Barkstead had a family. Talk to them and ask where else he might have put it.’

‘His wife and son – a child of six – are in Holland, and he has no other relatives. Would you like me to travel to the United Provinces and speak to–?’

‘No, I would not,’ snapped Clarendon. ‘Once you are there, you might decide not to come back – I know you are fond of the place and that you keep a Dutch mistress. What about his friends?’

‘They were Parliamentarians, either dead, fled or in prison. Those who are incarcerated or in hiding will not betray his trust, and those who are dead cannot.’

‘Those in gaol may reconsider their loyalties if we promise them their freedom,’ suggested the Earl. ‘You can visit them, and see what they say.’

‘With respect, sir, they will not parley with me. I do not have the authority to make offers they would trust.’

‘I will go, then. I am the Lord Chancellor – they will believe me.’

‘I am not sure that is a good idea, either,’ said Chaloner, knowing any such approach would be treated with the suspicion it deserved. ‘Trouble-makers like Kelyng would accuse you of treason before you had asked Robinson for the keys to their cells.’

Clarendon scowled, giving the impression that promises would have been made with no intention of honouring them. ‘He must have had other friends. Find them. I want that money!’

Barkstead did have other friends, Chaloner thought, as the Lord Chancellor turned on his heel and stalked away. He had the Brotherhood. Chaloner saw he would be spending the next few days interviewing its senior members, and hoped one would give him a clue that might take him forward. And then there was Mother Pinchon. Perhaps there was a detail she had forgotten, which skilled questioning might shake loose. He was planning his strategy when the Earl turned around.

Chaloner was startled by the transformation. Gone was the fussy little fellow who had almost stamped his feet in impotent rage, and he was replaced by something far more unnerving, leaving Chaloner with the absolute conviction that here was a man who would have what he wanted. For the first time, he understood how Clarendon had risen to become Lord Chancellor of England.

‘You had better not fail me, Chaloner,’ he said in a soft voice. He did not need to add threats. The tone of his voice spoke them all.

Night had fallen by the time Chaloner left White Hall, and lamps were set along some roads in compliance with the city fathers’ ordinances. But mostly, the highways were dark, and there was already a different kind of crowd emerging to slouch along them. Chaloner was not worried about street ruffians. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, and the other on the dagger at his waist, and the weapons would be out without conscious thought at the first sign of danger. One man tried to bump into him as he walked, probably to pick his pocket, but Chaloner side-stepped him and the fellow staggered into nothing. Linksmen with pitch torches wanted him to pay them to light his way, while beggars in doorways snatched at him as he passed. He rummaged for change, but his purse was empty. He was hungry himself and could not even find a farthing for a pie.

He had intended to go home, to resolve his differences with Metje, but first he stopped at St Martin-in-the-Fields, where the vicar showed him five wooden crosses in the churchyard. There was a sixth, too – a mound of earth that the minister said would soon be covered by a stone memorial. It was being prepared at Thurloe’s expense, and would be ready the following week. Chaloner was used to losing colleagues, but was unsettled by the graves of so many in such a small space, and was sorry that Simon Lane should be among them.

He took his leave of the priest, relieved to be away from the graveyard. Despite the fact that it adjoined the Strand, with its bright shops and busy traffic, St Martin’s cemetery was a bleak place, and the diversion had depressed him. He knew it was the wrong time to repair his rift with Metje, since they would almost certainly argue again if he was morose. So, since Lincoln’s Inn was not far, he decided to speak to Thurloe about some of the facts he had learned. He wanted to ask the ex-Spymaster whether he had indeed founded the Brotherhood, whether he knew anything about the Seven, and what Clarke and Hewson – and possibly the five dead agents – might have been investigating on his behalf. Thurloe had not actually lied to him, but he had not been wholly honest, either, and if Chaloner was to solve Clarke’s murder, then he needed the truth.

He walked to Lincoln’s Inn, keeping to the left side of Chancery Lane, which was better lit and less potholed than the right. It was a cold evening, and he supposed it was clear, but the sky was masked by a pall of smoke from thousands of fires, which blotted out any stars that might have been visible. The air stank of burning wood, overlain with a sharper tang that made him wonder whether more snow was in the offing. For the second time in as many days, a memory surfaced of a childhood Christmas, when the hall of his father’s manor was bright gold with candlelight, and the rafters were adorned with holly and mistletoe. Pine cones on the fire, spiced wine and sweet oranges added to the heady aroma of celebration. He remembered laughing at something his oldest brother had said, something that still made him smile, and wondered whether he could share the joke with Metje without revealing too much about his family. He was sure she would find it amusing, and was assailed with the realisation that he missed being able to talk openly about people he loved.

He reached Lincoln’s Inn, and trudged towards Dial Court, shivering as the wind gusted hard and cold. Thurloe had seen him coming through the window, and the door to his quarters was ajar. A fire blazed, as usual, and the room was full of the scent of a good dinner – roasted meat, baked parsnips, boiled fowl, and a pear tart to follow – but the dishes on the table were empty, and only a pile of gnawed bones remained.

‘I expect you have already eaten,’ said Thurloe, going to his customary seat at the hearth. ‘But join me in a glass of milk with honey. I always find milk soothes the stomach and reduces night terrors.’

Chaloner accepted – he would have taken anything offered at that moment – and scalded his mouth when he tried to swallow it too soon. Thurloe liked his milk boiling. He also liked it sweet enough to be sickly, so the resulting potion was more syrup than drink. Chaloner set it by the hearth to cool, intending on finishing every last drop, no matter how vile it tasted. There was no food at home, and Thurloe’s sugary potion was the only thing he was likely to get that day.

‘The Lord Chancellor told me I should make a will,’ he said, when Thurloe waited for him to state the purpose of his visit. ‘He thought you might be able to help.’

Thurloe stared at him in surprise. ‘Why were you discussing such a topic?’

‘I imagine because Clarke is not the only agent to have met an early end in his service. The other five you sent are dead, too, and he was advising me to take precautions against intestacy.’

The colour drained from Thurloe’s face. ‘What?’

‘I have just seen their graves in St Martin’s churchyard, and their names are in the parish register.’

Thurloe massaged his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘Here is a detail the Earl neglected to mention when he asked for more men. I would not have obliged, had I known. All five are dead?’

Chaloner nodded, and they sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the wind gusting outside and the fire popping in the hearth.

‘I sent him about forty names,’ said Thurloe eventually. ‘Clerks and men skilled at administration. But only six spies, counting Clarke.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I should take you away from him before he buries you, too. I knew there was an element of risk – old intelligence officers working for a new regime – but I thought my people could look after themselves. What have I done?’

‘It is not your fault, sir. Presumably, they wanted the opportunity you provided, and we all know the dangers of our work.’

‘Who killed them?’ demanded Thurloe, suddenly angry. ‘Kelyng?’

‘Possibly. All except Clarke were instructed to watch him or Downing.’

‘Downing is a sly villain, but I do not think he solves problems with violence. He was here again today, talking about you. He said you eavesdropped on one of his meetings, and left him no choice but to take you into his confidence.’

Chaloner grimaced at Downing’s untruthful version of events. ‘He claimed it was to protect himself and his colleagues – by stopping me from asking questions that might alert Kelyng to the Brotherhood’s existence. But you never know with him.’

‘No, you do not. He has somehow learned that you operate under a false name, and is determined to discover your real identity. He said he would give me fifty pounds if I told him.’

‘What did you say?’ Fifty pounds was a lot of money, and Chaloner found himself holding his breath for the answer.

‘I told him to discuss it with you, although I strongly advise against confiding in him. He will offer protection and friendship, but you should accept neither. Perhaps his intentions are honourable – I think he really does want an end to civil strife – but I cannot forget what he did to Barkstead, Okey and Corbet. He knows he made a serious error of judgement over that, because now even the most ardent of Royalists thinks him a rogue. As regards you, he is probably afraid that the Earl has asked you to catch him out in some way.’

‘Then why did he tell me about the Brotherhood? Surely, it would have been better to keep his clandestine dealings to himself?’

‘The Brotherhood is not clandestine, Thomas. It is perfectly innocent – which is why he was keen for you to witness a gathering, I imagine. And he is still eager for you to join its ranks, although I stand by my threat to contest your election, should you ignore my advice and decide to accept a nomination. I told him the same thing today: I do not want you involved.’

Chaloner was a little suspicious. ‘Why not? People keep telling me its aims are virtuous.’

‘For several reasons, the strongest being that Downing is in it, and the less time you spend with him, the better – you made an enemy of him when you argued against his arrest of Barkstead, and I think he means you harm. Another reason is that membership of the Brotherhood costs, and I doubt you have funds to squander in such a way, no matter how worthy the cause.’

That was certainly true, thought Chaloner ruefully, thinking about his empty larder. ‘You said you are no longer active, yet it seems Downing still consults you about its affairs.’

Thurloe looked hard at him. ‘Because he hopes to entice me back. But I have not attended a meeting in three years – Kelyng watches my every move, and I know exactly what he would make of me sitting in a private chamber with Downing, Ingoldsby and the others. He would assume we were plotting, and would order our arrests without bothering to ask what we discuss. It is safer for everyone if I keep my distance. But what have you learned about Clarke’s death? Perhaps he and the other five were murdered by the same hand.’

‘Evett showed me the place where he was killed. I have scant evidence, but I do not think he was dispatched by a professional assassin. I think he was lured into a hallway, perhaps with the promise of information, and then stabbed. Evett thinks Buckingham did it.’

‘Buckingham might hire someone to kill, but I doubt he would bloody his own hands. I appreciate his position: I have ordered the occasional expedient death myself, but I could never slip my own knife between a man’s ribs.’

Chaloner nodded, not sure what to say to such a confidence, and an uncomfortable silence fell until Thurloe spoke again.

‘Where did you go today?’

Chaloner recalled his vow to say nothing about Barkstead’s gold. He considered inventing a tale that would place him well away from the hunt for the treasure, but several members of the Brotherhood had seen him near the castle, and Robinson had even discussed the matter with him. He decided to stay as close to the truth as possible.

‘I went with Evett to the Tower. He was happy to accept my help with Clarke’s murder – I do not think he has much stomach for violent death, despite being a soldier.’

‘Clarendon told me he has never seen a gun fired in anger. He has great faith in the fellow, so he must have some wits, although he has always seemed rather stupid to me.’

‘You know him well?’ asked Chaloner, recalling that the last time they had discussed Evett, Thurloe had been wary about admitting an acquaintance with him.

‘Well enough to know I would not trust him near my wife. He has two of his own already, and no lady is safe from his amours. I would watch Metje, if I were you, Tom. She is a pretty lady.’

‘They will never meet. I do not introduce friends to working colleagues.’

‘Very wise,’ said Thurloe. ‘So, tell me what you did at the Tower today.’

‘A lion had escaped, and Evett and I ended up inside the Traitors’ Gate with it.’

‘Not the mad one?’ asked Thurloe, shocked. ‘They should shoot the poor thing before it kills someone else. Of course, the problem lies with the King: he does not want a royal menagerie with no lion, but they are expensive and the Court is short of money. What else did you do?’

‘Then I went by river to White Hall, where–’

‘No prevarication, Thomas, I beg you,’ commanded Thurloe sharply. ‘Do not forget who I am and what I once did for a living – or the fact that I know you well enough to see when you are lying. I ask you again: what did you do at the Tower?’

Thurloe’s blue eyes bored into him, and Chaloner saw it was time to make his choice. He had always known he could not manage two powerful men who demanded his complete loyalty.

‘I cannot say, sir.’

Thurloe regarded him expressionlessly. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I gave Clarendon my word.’

‘What about your word to me?’

‘I will keep that, too. I would never reveal details of the past – you should know that.’

Thurloe continued to stare. ‘Are you sure you are making the right decision today?’

‘Not really. However, you told me to do my best for Clarendon – and I made him a promise and I intend to keep it.’

‘But you must have broken confidences when you were working abroad. There is no such thing as an honest spy – he would not be able to function!’

‘Of course, but that was in an enemy state. And we are not talking about honesty here, but about fidelity.’

Thurloe stared into the fire, and it was some time before he spoke again. ‘I own a manor in Essex – one I managed to keep from the Royalists when they confiscated the rest of my property. It is a good place, with fertile soil, streams and woods. You and Metje could live there. You could have children, and let them grow up safely and happily, as you did. What do you say?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, acutely uncomfortable. He had been offered bribes in the past, but there was something very sordid in what Thurloe was doing.

‘Clarendon will probably cast you aside in a week, and you will be reduced to translating letters for Dalton. But only until Britain breaks with Holland, when you will be lucky not to be hanged as a spy for your knowledge of Dutch. It is not much of a future. Is there anything I can offer you, to make you change your mind?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Then we have no more to say to each other. Serve your new master well, Thomas.’

Chaloner stood, a deep sadness washing over him. He had not expected his relationship with Thurloe to end in bribes and corruption, and he was sorry for it. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

Chaloner was opening the door when Thurloe called out to him. ‘Come back, Tom. You have passed the test – not that I had doubts, but the last three years have made me more suspicious than I once was.’

Chaloner turned to face him. ‘Test?’

‘Of your integrity. It is difficult to know whom to trust these days, and my friends urged me to make sure of you before I take you further into my confidence. Your uncle would have floundered, but I always knew you were the better man. If you decline to betray someone who has been your patron for three days, then our ten years makes you a true friend. Come and sit, please.’

‘I am tired,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘And Metje is waiting.’

‘She will not arrive until at least ten o’clock,’ said Thurloe, standing to close the door. ‘Unless she stays away altogether, as she did last night.’

Chaloner gaped in disbelief. ‘You sent someone to watch me?’

‘Actually, I did it myself. I keep a chamber in the Golden Lion, and I have not entirely forgotten the skills I once taught you.’

Chaloner reached for the door again. ‘Goodnight.’

Thurloe’s grip on his wrist was surprisingly firm for a man who professed to be delicate. Chaloner could have broken it – and the wrist, too, had he wanted – but although he was angry, his temper had seldom led him to violence.

‘I know what you were doing at the Tower,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘I attended a service in Westminster Abbey this evening, and I met Robinson there. He said you had been looking for mushrooms, but that you, Evett and he discussed matters that had nothing to do with fungus. These included salt beef, a buried seven thousand pounds, and plots against the King.’

‘We talked about silver spoons and Bennet’s pursuit of Fanny, too.’

Thurloe continued as if he had not spoken. ‘And I already know from the loose-tongued Pepys that there were recent excavations for a vast sum of gold, said to have been buried by Barkstead. Since the hunt was unsuccessful, and Clarendon is desperate for funds, I assume he has ordered you to look into the matter. I also suspect he is keeping his new investigation a secret, or Pepys would have been involved – and he is not, because he spent his day fawning over Lord Lauderdale in the Dolphin.’

Chaloner said nothing, and Thurloe released his hand.

‘I may be able to help you, but not if you scowl at me. Stop it. It is making me nervous.’

‘I do not need your help.’

‘Every man needs help on occasion, and you need mine more than you imagine. I was telling the truth when I said Downing was very keen to learn who you are. Perhaps he offered to find out for Clarendon, who is naturally suspicious of all my people. I am worried for you.’

‘There is no need. Clarendon already knows my real name, and I fended off Downing’s enquiries for five years in Holland. He will not best me.’

Thurloe smiled faintly. ‘Yes, of that I am sure. Please sit down, Tom. You cannot imagine how unpleasant this has been for me. What would I have said if you had accepted the manor, and I was then forced to admit that it does not exist? Finish your milk. It may soothe your acid temper.’

Reluctantly, Chaloner sat, but he no longer had an appetite for milk or anything else. The first spurt of anger had faded, but Thurloe had fallen in his estimation, and he was not sure the trust the ex-Spymaster seemed to place in his integrity would ever be fully reciprocated. Then he reconsidered. There had been a moment when he had considered confiding in Thurloe, which would have meant defying Clarendon. Perhaps he was not as honourable as he thought, and had no right to sit in judgement of others. Thurloe was in an unenviable position, with men like Kelyng baying for his blood, and others like Downing regaling him with offers of ‘friendship’. Chaloner supposed he would be cautious of everyone, too, were he in Thurloe’s shoes. He relented, and Thurloe seemed to detect a softening of his mood, because he began to talk.

‘I suspect, from some of your earlier questions, that you have stumbled upon various matters that involve me, and you are wondering why I have not mentioned them sooner.’

‘The Brotherhood, for a start,’ said Chaloner. ‘The society you founded.’

‘Who told you that?’ Thurloe sighed. ‘Downing, I suppose. Robinson, Ingoldsby and Dalton would not have blathered; Clarke, Barkstead and Hewson cannot; and Wade, Leybourn, Evett and North are late-comers, so I suspect they do not know who started the whole business. Of course, I could be wrong …’

‘And Livesay? Why not him?’

Thurloe’s expression did not change. ‘North believes he was killed in an explosion, but you will know for yourself how violent “accidents” often conceal the truth. Personally, I believe he is still alive, and that he used the incident to disappear. Dalton thinks so, too, although none of us knows for certain. What I can say, though, is that Livesay would not have told you I founded the Brotherhood – he was not an original member, and so not in a position to know.’

‘Is it true?’

Thurloe stared at the flames for so long that Chaloner thought he was not going to reply. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Shortly after the birth of the Commonwealth, although most of the first members are now dead, senile or in exile. I do not really know the newcomers – men like Evett, North and Wade. But the Brotherhood ceased to have any significant function months ago – when England started to slide faster into the pit of bigotry and intolerance – so it is irrelevant who is acquainted with whom.’

‘And what about the Seven?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Are you one of them, too?’

Thurloe gazed at him, bemused. ‘The Seven what?’

‘The Seven men who were determined to prevent the Restoration. Hewson and Clarke both left messages warning the Seven, and I believe they were intended for you.’

‘For me? Why? I did not stand against the Restoration. If I had, I would not be sitting here now.’

That was true, although Chaloner was unwilling to admit it. ‘Then what about the cipher I saw in Clarendon’s room, about praising God’s son? What does that mean?’

Thurloe regarded him uneasily. ‘What cipher? If these messages were meant for me, then why does Clarendon have them? And what is it that you think Clarke and Hewson wanted me to know?’

Chaloner saw that interrogating Thurloe was not going to produce many answers. He sighed. ‘I saw letters on the Earl’s desk, which I assumed were from Clarke. Perhaps I was mistaken.’

‘On his desk?’ asked Thurloe, appalled. ‘You mean lying there, for anyone to read?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘They had gone the next time I visited.’

Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘If I asked you, as a friend, to walk away from Barkstead’s treasure, would you do it?’

‘That would be impossible. The Earl would demand to know why, and he would guess I have been divulging matters he ordered me to keep to myself.’

‘I do not want you associated with this business. It will almost certainly turn out badly.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Chaloner had predicted Thurloe would decline to admit an association with the Seven, but he had not anticipated a stand over the missing treasure. Surely he had not been to the Tower with a spade? As two highly placed ministers in Cromwell’s government, Thurloe and Barkstead would have known each other well, and it was entirely possible that the Lord Lieutenant had confided his secret to the Secretary of State and Spymaster General.

‘Because treasure comes in a variety of forms, Tom, and not all of it is gold and silver. The Earl may discover he is prodding about with more than he can handle.’

‘You are speaking in riddles, sir.’

‘I am saying you may well find treasure in the Tower, but it may not be the kind of wealth you hope for. And Clarendon may not be pleased with the result.’

‘My remit is to find it, not assess whether it is something he will like. I agreed to undertake this task, sir, and I cannot refuse it now. First, Clarendon is my only real hope for the future. And second, he may assume I have located it, but that I intend to keep it for myself. I would spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.’

‘You do that anyway,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘It is second nature to you. I ask you again: please walk away from this dangerous assignment while you still can. I will petition the King on your behalf, and suggest he recommends you directly to Williamson.’

‘Why would Williamson trust me, when I have failed the Lord Chancellor in a fairly simple quest?’

Thurloe sighed. ‘Very well. If I cannot dissuade you, I suppose I must help you. Let us consider Barkstead’s damned hoard, then.’ He seldom swore, and Chaloner could see he was vexed.

‘I would rather not discuss–’

‘Do not worry about your vow to Clarendon: it is hardly your fault I guessed what you were doing. But I knew Barkstead, and may be able to answer some questions. Tell me what you need to know.’

‘First, it would be helpful to know whether this hoard actually exists.’

‘Barkstead was a rich man, and when the Commonwealth fragmented, he knew he would lose everything he could not carry away with him. He would definitely have hidden something somewhere, you can be sure of that.’

Chaloner thought of his uncle’s money, tucked inside the Banqueting House. ‘Then where is it?’

‘I have no idea, although I can be fairly confident in predicting that it will not be in the Tower.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he would have known that he was never likely to be in a position to go and get it again. He lived in the Lieutenant’s Lodgings, so there is no private London house to excavate, as there would be with Robinson. Perhaps you should look at the place he rented in Holland, before he was arrested.’

‘This treasure was packed into butter firkins. Could he have left England with what would have been a sizeable load?’

‘He knew a lot of merchants, and merchants excel at transporting goods. Of course he could have spirited his treasure away. If I were forced to locate it, I would go to Holland.’

Since the Lord Chancellor had forbidden Chaloner to leave the country, it was not an option he could choose. ‘I was planning to speak to Barkstead’s friends – his fellow regicides.’

‘It is a pity we do not know what happened to Livesay, because he would have been your best bet. He was commissioner for the armed forces, and worked closely with Barkstead. They fled to Holland together, although Livesay eventually grew homesick and came back. Did you ever see him there? He spent a few days with your uncle.’

‘What does he look like?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Like a Puritan – sober clothes, grim face, plain features. And he has a thin moustache like the one favoured by the King, which he darkens daily with charcoal.’

The description fitted many men. ‘Does he have no unique characteristic or habit?’

Thurloe thought for a long time. ‘He clasps his hands when he is nervous or distressed – he interlocks his fingers, and makes a curious rubbing motion with his palms.’

‘I do not recall anyone wringing his hands with my uncle. Do you think Livesay is in England?’

‘Yes, but not in London. Ingoldsby might have managed to convince the King of his innocence, but the other regicides paid for their crime with their lives or imprisonment. Livesay will be in some remote retreat, using a false name and staying low. As I said, the best way to find this treasure is to go to Holland. I can give you money, if that is what keeps you here.’

‘Thank you, sir, but I will talk to Ingoldsby first. Then perhaps Robinson will let me interview–’

‘No, Tom! Associating yourself with imprisoned regicides is a dangerous–’ Thurloe stopped speaking when there was a soft sound in the corridor outside.

Chaloner was already on his feet, dagger in his hand. ‘Are you expecting visitors?’

‘No. It is more would-be assassins, I suppose. Will this never end?’

Thurloe, his movements stealthy, retrieved a sword from behind his chair, and took up station on the left side of the door, while Chaloner stood to the right. They waited in silence for several moments, listening hard, and eventually there was a gentle tap – one beat, followed by three in rapid succession, ending with two slow ones. Thurloe sighed in relief, and indicated that Chaloner was to answer it.

‘My sister. She always uses that sequence when she visits me.’

Chaloner opened the door cautiously, dagger at the ready, and checked the corridor after Sarah had marched in. There was no one else, but smears of mud on the polished floor indicated that someone had spent some time standing outside in one position. When more dirt dropped from Sarah’s shoes as she flounced towards Thurloe, he assumed she had been crouching with her ear pressed against the panels. He wondered whether they had spoken loudly enough for her to have heard them.

Sarah give no indication that she had been eavesdropping, and made for the hearth, tossing her gloves carelessly towards the table. She wore a riding outfit, following the current fashion for masculine coat, doublet, wig and hat, and if it were not for her trailing petticoats, she might have been a man. It was a style favoured by the Queen, although the older members of Court grumbled that such attire made it difficult to discern a person’s sex.

‘Are you alone?’ asked Thurloe, frowning. ‘You know I do not like you coming here in the dark.’

‘My maid rode most of the way with me – her nephew lives in Shoe Lane. And there are several plays tonight, so the streets are busier than usual. Do you have any wine? I am parched. I have been in the Cockpit watching Claracilla. A tragicomedy by Killigrew,’ she added, rather condescendingly.

‘I trust you enjoyed it,’ said Thurloe, while Chaloner went to the wine jug. ‘Personally, I dislike the theatre – too many people in too small a space.’

‘Quite. That makes them excellent venues for listening to idle chatter. Ask any of your spies.’

‘Indeed,’ said Thurloe, watching her sip the drink. ‘Tom, bring a chair and join us.’

‘He and I met near the Strand the day before yesterday,’ said Sarah, indicating Chaloner with a flick of her thumb. ‘I rescued him from a beggarly pair, who were going to blow out his brains.’

‘Snow and Storey,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Kelyng is now minus a henchman.’

‘You killed one?’ asked Thurloe worriedly. ‘Are you sure that was wise, Tom? Kelyng will only recruit more, and there is a wealth of louts to choose from. And, since they usually work in pairs, the survivor tends to yearn for revenge when his partner dies violently.’

‘I should be going,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to be preached at when he could be working on the cipher he had recovered from Lee. ‘I have a lot to do.’

He caught the spark of interest in Sarah’s eye, and wondered yet again what she had overheard. Was she expecting him to visit Ingoldsby that night, and would she try to follow him again? If she did, he sincerely hoped she would not batter the fat knight to death and leave Chaloner himself to take the blame.

‘Will you see my sister home first?’ asked Thurloe. He raised his hands when both parties began to object. ‘I do not care how many people are abroad for the theatre, Sarah. You are precious to me, and I do not want to lose you to a robber who thinks your life is worth his night in an alehouse.’

‘I can look after myself,’ said Sarah, although there was uncertainty in her voice.

‘You can protect Tom again, then,’ said Thurloe, unmoved. ‘But it is late and I want my bed. I dislike these cold, dark evenings. The only place to be is tucked under the blankets with a book.’

‘But I have not said why I came to see you,’ said Sarah. She glanced significantly at Chaloner.

‘You can trust him,’ said Thurloe. ‘I have already told you that.’

‘You have also taught me to trust no one,’ she shot back, not unreasonably.

‘True, but we all need friends sometimes,’ said Thurloe. ‘If anything happens to me, I would like to think you two would turn to each other, and–’

‘Stop!’ cried Sarah, troubled. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you, and I do not like you talking like this. It is unlike you to be maudlin. If I want a friend, you are the one I shall visit.’

Thurloe raised his hands to quell the outburst. ‘Forgive me, my dear. I am tired, and the news about my poor agents has been most distressing. What did you want to tell me?’

She glanced uneasily at Chaloner, but spoke anyway. ‘My husband is becoming increasingly agitated, and has it in his head that Livesay has been passing secrets to his rivals.’

‘What secrets?’ asked Thurloe, bemused. ‘Secrets about his business?’

She shrugged, to indicate she did not know. ‘I keep telling him Livesay is either dead or in some remote country retreat, but he will not believe me. Will you speak to him?’

‘I will visit tomorrow, if you think it will help. I shall recommend rest – a few days in bed can do wonders for a man. So can a night.’ He looked pointedly towards the adjoining chamber, where his manservant had arrived to remove the warming pans.

She ignored the hint. ‘It is not easy to live with a man who seems to be losing his mind.’

Thurloe was alarmed. ‘Are you in danger? If so, then I shall arrange for you to move to Oxfordshire with my Ann and the children immediately.’

She waved her hand. ‘He is not dangerous – at least, I do not think so. We have never been close, as you know, but he barely exchanges a greeting with me these days, and spends hours gazing out of the window. He witnessed two robberies and a brawl last night, and sees them as a sign that London is on the brink of revolution. I tell him it has always been that way, but he will not listen.’

‘Perhaps you should both go to Oxfordshire,’ suggested Thurloe. ‘He clearly needs the peace of the country. And I need the peace of my bed.’

‘Poor soul,’ said Sarah, going to kiss the top of his head. ‘Sleep well, then, and tomorrow I shall tell you everything I overheard at the Cockpit. None of it is particularly interesting, but I can give you a detailed account of Lady Castlemaine’s latest lover.’

‘Buckingham,’ said Chaloner. ‘Late this afternoon in White Hall. And she has a mole on her right thigh.’ Leaving them both gaping, he walked to the door and held it open, indicating that Sarah should precede him outside.