Blood on the Strand

Chapter 2

At first, Chaloner was unhappy about the task he had been allotted, because he was painfully aware of his lack of knowledge about the Court and its political alliances, and such places could be dangerous for the uninformed. Then he realised that disguising himself as a foreigner would explain his ignorance to anyone who might be suspicious of him. His concerns began to evaporate, and he saw the assignment might even be turned to his advantage – it would give him an opportunity to rectify his appalling unfamiliarity with English affairs. He took his leave of the Lord Chancellor in a thoughtful frame of mind, busily analysing ideas for the deception.

He could not walk directly to the main gate, because a street-sweeper so near the royal apartments would be sure to attract unwanted attention – the palace guards had been trained to shoot first and ask questions second where the King’s safety was concerned – so he followed a tortuous route through storerooms and servants’ quarters instead. He was crossing a yard occupied by the Queen’s laundresses and their steaming boiler houses when he saw a familiar face. He smiled, feeling his spirits lift even further. Eaffrey Johnson had been a Royalist spy in Holland, and although she and Chaloner had worked for rival factions, they had often shared information when they felt an alliance would better serve their country’s interests. For a while, they had been lovers, too, although the affair had floundered when she had followed the King to France and Chaloner’s duties had kept him in the Netherlands. More recently, she had been in Ireland, with a remit to seduce high-ranking rebels, but Chaloner had not known she was back in London.

She was talking to the Countess of Castlemaine, whose stomach bulged with the King’s next illegitimate child. ‘The Lady’ was generally acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman at Court, although Chaloner thought her face was too spiteful to be truly attractive, and her infamous temper was already scoring scowl marks around her eyes and mouth. She might well be lovely when she smiled, but he had only ever seen her angry.

‘And he still has that diamond ring from the French ambassador,’ she was saying when Chaloner edged closer, plying his broom and keeping his face hidden under his broad-brimmed hat. ‘I told him I wanted it, but he always makes excuses when I order him to hand it over.’

‘You order him?’ asked Eaffrey, in an awed voice. ‘You order the King?’

‘Of course I do. He had better not pass it to the Queen, not when he promised it to me.’

‘I doubt he would be so rash,’ said Eaffrey ambiguously. ‘I hear you are to move to new quarters.’

Lady Castlemaine laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘I am weary of dashing across the Privy Garden in my nightshift each time I feel like Charles’s company, and the new arrangement will be much more convenient for our nightly frolics. The rooms are better, too – nicer than the Queen’s.’

When she had gone, Chaloner shadowed Eaffrey until she reached a narrow lane sandwiched between the river and the series of ramshackle sheds known as the Small Beer Buttery, then darted forward to grab her arm. A knife immediately appeared in her hand, but her face broke into a grin of delight when she recognised her assailant. She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Although not classically pretty – her face was too round and her eyes far too mischievous – there was something captivating about Eaffrey. She was in her twenties, but possessed a cool self-assurance that made people assume she was older. Chaloner gestured to her clothes, which boasted a neckline that plunged indecently low and skirts that clung to her hips in a way that ensured everyone would know exactly what lay beneath.

‘Has Williamson set you to bewitch some hapless courtier and make him reveal all his secrets?’

Her eyebrows shot up in amusement. ‘Are you implying my costume makes me a whore?’

He shrugged. ‘They set you in Lady Castlemaine’s camp of loose women. My Lord Clarendon railed about them at length yesterday.’

She pulled a disapproving face. ‘All is sobriety and prudery with your earl – he is worse than the Puritans. Personally, I hope Bristol does manage to rid us of the tedious old bore! I like Lady Castlemaine’s light-hearted gaiety, though, and I am delighted that she has taken me under her wing. She has taught me a lot about the Court and its customs.’

Chaloner was not sure Lady Castlemaine’s advice would be the sort of knowledge most decent women would want to own, but he was deeply fond of Eaffrey, and was loath to offend her by revealing his conservatism where the Court was concerned. He looked to where the Lady was screeching abuse at a servant who had splashed her with milk from a pail as their paths had crossed. ‘She seems to have developed a powerful yearning for the King’s jewellery,’ he said instead.

‘His Christmas presents, to be precise. Surely you must have heard how she cajoled him into parting with them? Well, it is true, and the only thing he has managed to keep for himself is a diamond ring – but I do not fancy his chances of hanging on to it for much longer. Why are you dressed like a vagrant? Is it something to do with the coronation celebrations?’

‘Someone told Williamson that the King might be shot at today, and every available agent in London was detailed to protect him. I was working with our old friend Adrian May.’

She grimaced her disgust. ‘That toad! He is a dangerous fool, as we both saw in Ireland – the rebels would have succeeded in kidnapping the governor had you not stepped in and put an end to his stupid antics. And now he hates you for exposing his ignorance, so you should be wary of him.’

‘I know.’

‘Of course, the real reason for his dislike is that he knows you are a better spy than he – and that if you ever do work for Williamson, it will only be a matter of time before you displace him. He will do anything to avoid that, including wielding a sly dagger in a dark lane. Just yesterday, William heard him telling a courtier called Willys how he would dearly love to be rid of you.’

‘William?’ asked Chaloner, unconcerned with threats issued by the likes of Adrian May. ‘You mean Scot? I thought he had gone to Surinam.’

She grinned, showing small white teeth. ‘That is what everyone thinks, but he is here, in White Hall, busy with his latest assignment for Williamson. If you meet a bumbling Irish scholar called Peter Terrell, you will know he is a friend.’

‘Terrell?’ Chaloner had heard the name, but it was a moment before it snapped into place: the beggar had mentioned it – ‘Terrell is not what he says.’ He had obviously seen through the disguise.

Before he could ask her about it, Eaffrey laughed, the tinkling, sunny sound he remembered so well. ‘Speak of the Devil and he will appear. May I introduce you to this raker, Mr Terrell?’

Chaloner shook his head in mute admiration when a tall figure approached, knowing he would never have recognised his old friend had Eaffrey not given him away. He tried to remember when he had last seen Scot as himself, and decided it must have been fifteen years ago, during the wars. He could not say what colour his hair might be, because it was never the same shade twice, and his face had been so variously marked with scars, warts and freckles that Chaloner had no idea which were real and which were the result of pastes and plasters. Most of what Chaloner knew about disguises had been learned from Scot, who was ten years his senior.

That day Scot was dressed in a fashionable coat of deep red, which was enlivened with a sash of yellow satin, and there was an exotic flower pinned among the frothing lace at his throat. Under his arm, he carried a book entitled Musaeum Tradescantianum, a catalogue of the remarkable collection of artefacts and plants held in Oxford. His cheeks had been shadowed to make them appear sallow, and he had somehow lengthened his nose. The only familiar feature was his pale-blue eyes.

Scot peered at Chaloner, then laughed. ‘I trained you well – I did not recognise you at all! I saw a rough villain follow Eaffrey to this secluded alley, and I came to protect her virtue.’

Eaffrey showed him her knife. ‘Your chivalry was unnecessary, although appreciated.’

‘I hear you are posing as a scholar,’ said Chaloner, nodding at the book Scot held.

Scot nodded, eyes gleaming with a sudden and uncharacteristic passion – he was not usually an effusive man. ‘Williamson asked me to explore accusations of fraud in the Royal Society, but I quickly learned there is nothing amiss. However, I have neglected to tell him so, because the Society’s meetings are so damned fascinating – especially anything to do with botanicals. Would you believe I have actually read this book and enjoyed every word?’

It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner doubted such a dry subject would hold Scot’s bright mind for long. Scot sensed his scepticism.

‘I mean it, Chaloner. I am weary of espionage and its dangers, and the sooner I can take a ship for Surinam, where I shall spend my days studying its flora, the better.’

‘Why are you here, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You could be on your way now. Or is Williamson reluctant to release one of his most experienced and valued spies?’

Scot smiled. ‘I have not told him my decision to leave yet, although he will be peeved when I do. He has come to trust me, despite May’s constant whispers that former Parliamentarians should be banned from the intelligence services. However, the reason I am still here is my brother – I cannot leave as long as Thomas is a prisoner in the Tower.’

Chaloner was intrigued. ‘You intend to help him escape?’

‘Christ, no! We are talking about the Tower here, Chaloner, not some city gaol! I want him out, but I have no desire to be killed in the process. I shall rescue him by diplomatic means – by oiling the right palms, and by bringing pressure to bear on those with influence. I will prevail – hopefully soon – and then I shall leave England for good.’

‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ said Chaloner, meaning it.

Scot looked away. ‘And there is the rub. I will miss my friends – and you two most of all.’

A dank, dripping lane in the nether regions of White Hall was no place for friends to exchange news, so Chaloner, Scot and Eaffrey went to the Crown, a cookshop on nearby King Street. It was not a very salubrious establishment, and its owner, a man named Wilkinson, had a reputation for being rude to his customers. The Crown had once been a tavern, but had started to sell food when Wilkinson realised there was a palace full of hungry courtiers opposite. It was a large building, filled with the scent of baked pies, spilled ale and tobacco smoke. Eaffrey, Scot and Chaloner ordered beef pasties with onions, and something called a ‘green tansy’, which Wilkinson declined to define, but which transpired to be a mess of eggs, cream, spinach and sugar.

As they ate, Chaloner and Scot discussed their families. Chaloner’s was maintaining a low profile in a quiet part of Buckinghamshire, patiently waiting for Cavaliers to tire of baiting old Roundheads. Meanwhile, Scot’s father, executed for regicide, had been Thurloe’s predecessor as Spymaster, and his two sons had followed him into espionage. Unfortunately, Thomas was not very good at it, as his incarceration in the Tower attested. Finally, there was the daughter of the house.

‘And Alice?’ Chaloner asked cautiously. He was always uncomfortable when discussing the one member of the Scot family who did not much care for him. ‘How is she?’

Scot clapped him on the shoulder, laughing at his unease. ‘She still has not forgiven you for fighting that duel with her first husband, and spits fire every time your name is mentioned.’

‘He challenged me,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I was willing to overlook the fact that he had been selling Cromwell’s secrets to the enemy, but he was the one who insisted honour should be satisfied. He was lucky you were there to plead his case, because I should have killed him for what he had done.’

‘The fact that he was in the wrong makes no difference to Alice,’ said Scot, still grinning. ‘But her wrath will fade eventually, especially now he is dead. Incidentally, her period of mourning is over now, and she is on the prowl for a replacement. However, I categorically refuse to give my blessing to her current choice. Sir Richard Temple is not a man I want as a brother-in-law. He is corrupt, greedy, selfish and – worst of all – a politician.’

‘Leave her alone,’ advised Eaffrey. ‘A woman her age does not need a meddling brother telling her what to do.’

‘The meddling brother does not want her hitched to a man who is only after her money,’ retorted Scot tartly. ‘I despise Temple, and will do all I can to prevent the match.’

Chaloner recalled that Alice’s first husband had been rich, and she had inherited everything when he had died. ‘Surely her wealth will attract someone more suitable? There must be hundreds of decent, but poor, men who might … ’ He thrashed around for a more polite alternative to ‘put up with her’.

‘She says Temple is the only one who fulfils her exacting standards,’ explained Scot. ‘God alone knows what they are, because they certainly do not include looks, character, integrity or charm.’

‘I have a lover,’ said Eaffrey casually, after a brief silence during which Wilkinson brought more beer. ‘His name is Johan Behn and he is a merchant from Brandenburg. I shall marry him soon.’

Chaloner was amazed. Eaffrey’s lifestyle – like his own – was not suited for serious relationships, and she had always declared that she would never give up her freedom for something as mundane and repressive as a husband. He supposed her opinions must have moderated over time, and recalled her mentioning someone special when they had been in Ireland. They had been too busy to discuss it then.

She smiled dreamily. ‘I missed him dreadfully when we were in Dublin, and I find myself happier in his company than at any other time. I suppose that is love. And he is very handsome.’

‘Rich, too,’ added Scot impishly. ‘Which is far more important.’

‘That is probably what this Temple thinks about Alice,’ said Chaloner. He changed the subject before he could land himself in trouble – Scot was fiercely protective of his siblings. ‘What do you know about my Earl’s feud with Bristol? So far, I have only heard one side of the story.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Scot wryly. ‘Clarendon holds forth to anyone who will listen and, as his spy, you can hardly ask him to talk about something else. However, while he is decent and honest – albeit deadly dull – there is something a little knavish about Bristol.’

Eaffrey ate some tansy. ‘He kissed me last week, and I thought I would faint from the reek of onions. I swear he eats them raw! And his clothes are horribly unfashionable. Yet even so, I prefer him to Lord Clarendon and his moralising.’

Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘You are in love with your new beau, but you let Bristol kiss you?’

She pushed him playfully. ‘I still need to earn a crust, and Spymaster Williamson wanted information only Bristol could provide. It was not easy to flutter my eyelashes at one without the other noticing, but I have always enjoyed a challenge.’

‘I wish you would not take such risks,’ said Scot unhappily. ‘Now you have captured Behn’s heart, you have no reason to court danger on Williamson’s behalf.’

‘Bristol is hardly dangerous,’ said Eaffrey contemptuously. ‘Not to me, at least – although Lord Clarendon should watch him. Do not look shocked, Tom. I have always said that lying with a man is the easiest way to make him part with his secrets, although I would not recommend you try it. It is best left to women, who know what they are doing.’

‘I am not shocked,’ said Chaloner, who knew perfectly well why Eaffrey often succeeded where her male colleagues failed. ‘I am concerned. White Hall is a breeding ground for gossip, and it will only be a matter of time before someone tells your Johan about Bristol. You may lose him … ’

She flapped her hand impatiently. ‘He will never find out. Try this tansy. It is rather unusual.’

‘Sugar-coated spinach is rarely anything else.’ Chaloner tried again to make his point. ‘If your lover learns that you and Bristol–’

‘Did you hear about that murder on The Strand three weeks ago?’ interrupted Eaffrey. She ate more tansy, not seeming to care that the landlord had provided them with some very odd victuals. ‘A wealthy merchant was reeling home from the annual Guinea Company dinner, when he was stabbed.’

Scot grimaced. ‘I inveigled an invitation to that particular feast – as Peter Terrell – because my would-be brother-in-law is a member of the Guinea Company, and I wanted to watch him on his home turf. It was a tedious occasion, and I shall devise another way to spy on the fellow in future.’

‘You found it tedious?’ asked Eaffrey. ‘Johan was there, and he said it was overly lively. He reported several violent arguments, three of which were settled by duels the following morning.’

Chaloner watched her eat. ‘Is that what happened to the man killed on The Strand? He lost a duel?’

‘I have no idea – I only mentioned him as a means to stop you passing judgement on my personal life. It was the first thing that came into my head. The second is William’s brother: how is he surviving in the Tower?’

‘Why is he still in prison at all?’ asked Chaloner curiously. ‘Surely he must have told Williamson everything he knows by now? And anyway, I thought the agreement was for him to reveal the identities of his conspirators and then be allowed to live out his days in peaceful exile.’

‘So did I,’ replied Scot bitterly, ‘but unfortunately, some senior officials are now saying Williamson did not have the authority to make such a pact. I wish you were not so keen to follow a career in intelligence, Chaloner. Now is the time to leave the spying business, not immerse yourself more deeply in it.’

‘The beggar May shot today mentioned you before he died,’ said Chaloner. He did not have the luxury to make the choice Scot was suggesting, because he needed to earn a living and was qualified to do very little else. ‘He told me Terrell is not what he says.’

Scot regarded him uneasily. ‘Obviously he is right, but how did he know?’

‘He must have discovered that “Terrell” is an alias.’ Eaffrey finished the tansy with a satisfied sigh. ‘Someone in Williamson’s office has been indiscreet.’

Scot was thoughtful. ‘The only spy I do not trust is Adrian May, but even he has more sense than to gossip about such matters. However, there is a fishmonger called Peter Terrell – I have never met him, but I am told he is a terrible rogue. Perhaps this beggar was talking about him.’

‘I need to identify him,’ confided Chaloner. ‘The beggar, I mean.’

‘When I heard the body had been taken to White Hall, I tried to inspect it.’ Scot smiled at Chaloner. ‘I thought May might use the incident to harm you – by telling Williamson that it was your fault he was shot before he could be questioned. I wanted to see if there was anything on the corpse that might exonerate you.’

‘Was there?’ asked Chaloner, not surprised by Scot’s course of action. They had always looked out for each other, and had their situations been reversed, he would have done the same.

‘I only managed a glance before May ousted me. He had wrapped the fellow’s head in a sack, so I could not see his face. However, I was able to observe that his clothes – his disguise, I should say – had chafed his clean, soft skin. Ergo, I suspect your “beggar” was a person of some standing, used to better-quality attire.’

‘Then I shall have to follow the lead provided by the gun,’ said Chaloner, disappointed there was not more. ‘The manufacturer’s details were on the barrel: Trulocke of St Martin’s Lane. Perhaps he can tell me the name of the man who bought it, because it was a relatively new weapon.’

Scot’s handsome face creased into a frown of concern. ‘Did this “beggar” say anything else? I do not like the notion that strangers know secrets about me.’

‘He mentioned Terrell and Burne, and was insistent that Dillon should be saved.’

Scot thought carefully. ‘I have never heard of Dillon, although it is a fairly common Irish name. You know someone called Burne, though – Gregory Burne.’

‘I do?’ It rang vague bells, but Chaloner could not place it.

‘Come on, Chaloner! You were never so slow witted in Holland – and you will not last long in this pit of vipers if you do not pull yourself together.’

Chaloner looked to Eaffrey for help. She appeared equally blank, but suddenly snapped her fingers. ‘It was the name May adopted in Dublin. He could not use his own, because everyone knows Williamson hires a spy called May, so he made one up.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering how he could have been so dim – although in his defence, he had only heard May’s alias once. The antagonism between them had been so intense that he had tried to stay out of the man’s way, afraid it might harm their operation. Foiling the Castle Plot had been far too important a matter to risk over personal rivalries.

‘So,’ mused Scot, seeing understanding dawn in his eyes. ‘It seems your beggar was referring to me and not the fishmonger, since he knew May’s alias, as well as mine. How did he come by such information? And who is the Dillon you are supposed to save?’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘May claimed the man was working alone, but I had a feeling there was more to him than a lone gunman. This investigation might be more complex than I anticipated.’

‘It might,’ warned Eaffrey. ‘And you do not know where it might lead, so watch your step.’

Scot stood. ‘There is a Royal Society gathering tonight – Robert Boyle is going to talk about the proportional relation between elasticity and pressure, which promises to be exciting. Good luck, Chaloner – and please be careful. Far too many of our colleagues have died spying over the last decade, and I do not want to lose any more.’

The daylight was fading by the time Chaloner left the Crown, so he decided to go home and consider how he would discover the identity of the beggar and carry off his disguise as the Dutch upholsterer. The streets were still relatively empty as he made his way along The Strand, but it was just late enough for a different kind of citizen to emerge and slink along its manure-coated cobbles. His raker’s disguise meant he was ignored by the pickpockets who prowled in search of easy prey, although a rumpus near the Savoy Palace indicated that others were not so lucky.

Home for Chaloner was a pair of dingy attics about halfway up Fetter Lane, rented from a landlord who was mildly eccentric and blissfully incurious about his tenants. Fetter Lane boasted a mixture of buildings. Some, like the house in which Chaloner lived, were dilapidated, and their owners should have invested money in replacing rotten timbers and sagging roofs. Others were new and pristine – although they would not stay that way for long in London’s smoke-laden air. Opposite Chaloner’s home was a large tavern called the Golden Lion, which had a reputation for turning a blind eye to all manner of seditious activities. In addition, its landlord ran an unofficial post office, which Chaloner found convenient as a means to collect and leave messages without revealing his own address. Farther south was the ugly Fetter Lane Independent Chapel, and from his bedroom window, Chaloner could see the roofs of several famous Inns of Court.

He reached his front door and climbed the uneven stairs to his garret, wondering whether the dark cracks that jagged through the plaster were new, or whether he had just failed to notice them before. A bucket placed to catch drips from a leaking roof suggested there was certainly something amiss. He reached his sitting room, noting the way the floor sloped to one side, something it had not done before Christmas, although his landlord told him there was nothing to be worried about. Chaloner was not so sure, but the rooms suited him for several reasons – they were centrally located, the neighbours did not object to him playing his viol, and they were cheap – and he was loath to give them up over something as inconsequential as imminent collapse.

As he shrugged out of his costume, his mind teemed with questions. He knew he needed to settle his thoughts before he attempted any sort of analysis, so he went to his bass viol, or viola de gamba, and began to practise a piece by the contemporary composer Matthew Locke. Chaloner was not the most talented of players, but music soothed him, concentrated his wits, and there was little he enjoyed more than joining like-minded people for an evening of chamber music. In the five days since he had returned from Ireland, he had been invited to join three such events. The Locke was planned for the next gathering, and Chaloner was looking forward to it.

After an hour, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the tasks he had been allotted. First, there was the beggar. The fellow had known details about Williamson’s spies that were supposed to be secret, which suggested some connection to White Hall. What had he wanted Williamson to know? Was it just that Burne and Terrell were aliases – and the man naively imagined the Spymaster was unaware of the fact? Who was Dillon? And perhaps most important of all, why had May shot him when it had been obvious he had posed no threat? Had May known what the man had intended to tell Williamson? According to the beggar, May had already refused to grant him an audience with the Spymaster, so they had clearly met on a previous occasion – something May had neglected to mention. Why had May been secretive?

Chaloner thought about the beggar’s behaviour during his last moments on Earth. He must have been desperate to secure an interview, because it was foolishness itself to loiter around royal processions with a firearm. The fact that it was not loaded would have been deemed irrelevant at any trial, although it suggested to Chaloner that the fellow’s purpose had not been murder. He decided to visit Trulocke’s shop as soon as it opened the following morning. Handguns were expensive, and he doubted many were sold, so it should not be too difficult to find out who had bought one.

The second assignment was spying on the Earl of Bristol. Chaloner knew he would have no trouble eavesdropping on sensitive conversations, because it was something at which he excelled. The challenge lay in knowing whom to stalk, because he was not sure which courtiers had taken Bristol’s side, and who had remained loyal to Clarendon. He cursed his lack of knowledge about British politics: identifying the right men would take time, which might be something his earl did not have.

He turned his thoughts to his disguise. He recalled Vanders from Holland, a wizened, white-bearded ancient who spoke eccentric English. Chaloner could not make himself small, but he knew how to appear old and stooped, and he supposed poor English might encourage people to say things around him they might otherwise keep to themselves. He only hoped no one had either attended or heard about the upholsterer’s lavish funeral in The Hague three years earlier.

Chaloner awoke to another grey day, already thinking about Vanders. The upholsterer had been wealthy but mean, and people had mocked his slovenly appearance. Chaloner rummaged in the chest where he kept the materials for his disguises, and emerged with an unfashionably short jerkin and a pair of petticoat breeches – an item of clothing so voluminous that it was possible to put both legs in the same hole and not notice. In a city where the current fashion was for long coats, knee-breeches and elaborate lacy socks known as ‘boot hose’, he knew he would stand out as suitably outmoded, while at the same time not looking so disreputable that he would not be allowed inside White Hall.

He found an ancient horsehair wig, and ensured all his own hair was tucked well inside it – it would only take one strand of brown to expose him as a man thirty years younger than the fellow he was attempting to emulate. Then, using a trick Scot had taught him, he glued a light coating of lambswool to his cheeks and chin to produce a tatty white beard. He applied powders and paints to construct some very plausible wrinkles around his eyes, and spent several minutes practising Vanders’s crabbed, arthritic walk. He disliked being in White Hall without a sword, but Vanders had never worn one, so reluctantly he set it aside. He did not dispense with the arsenal of knives he kept concealed in his clothing, however. There was a limit, even to the best of disguises.

He went to the larder for something to eat before he began his day, but was not very inspired by the wizened turnips or the sack of wheat that sat amid the smattering of mouse droppings. He closed and locked the door, then clattered down the stairs, stopping to greet his landlord, who was waiting to ask whether he had seen a raker loitering around the house the previous morning. Fortunately for Chaloner, Daniel Ellis had not yet associated the appearance of some very odd characters with his tenant’s vague explanations of what he did for a living. Ellis gazed curiously at Chaloner’s attire.

‘That is an odd assemblage. It makes you look three decades older.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘My brother wants me to meet a woman with a view to marriage.’

Ellis tapped the side of his nose in manly understanding. ‘Well, that costume should certainly put her off. She will not want to wed Methuselah.’

The clocks were chiming six o’clock when Chaloner stepped out of the door on to Fetter Lane, and the city was wide awake. Carts rattled up and down, laden with wood, coal, hay, cloth and country-grown vegetables for the markets at Cheapside and Gracechurch Street. The harsh voices of street-sellers echoed between the tall buildings – a baker offered fresh pies, although they were black with dried gravy and dead flies; a milkmaid had cream in the pail she carried over her shoulder; and children tried to sell flowers they had picked before dawn in the nearby villages of Paddington and Stepney. It was a dull day, the sky a mass of solid white above. It was darkened by smoke from the thousands of fires lit to heat water and bread for breakfast, and the drizzle that began to fall was thick with soot.

There was no point in going to White Hall straight away, because no self-respecting courtier would be out of his bed until at least nine o’clock, and Chaloner did not want to roam deserted corridors and attract unnecessary attention. It was also too early to visit the gunsmith, as such places tended to open later than the stalls that sold foodstuffs. Instead, he headed for Hercules’s Pillars Alley, a lane running south from Fleet Street, opposite the Church of St Dunstan-in-the-West. Just before he had left for Ireland, his friend Temperance North had bought a house there, and he had not yet been to see how she was settling in. It was an odd hour to call on anyone, but Temperance was a devout Puritan who always rose early for chapel, so he knew she would be awake.

Temperance had been left destitute and pregnant when her parents had died, but Thurloe had tackled the law-courts to salvage some of their estate for her. He had done better than anyone had anticipated, and although grief had caused Temperance to miscarry, she had rallied her spirits and spent her fortune on a rambling three-storeyed house taxed on fourteen hearths. It was a large place for a single woman, but she had enigmatically informed her anxious friends that she had plans for it.

On the chilly February day when she had taken him to inspect the building, Chaloner had thought it gloomy and unprepossessing, but three months later it was transformed. Gone were the rotten windows, and in their place were fresh, brightly painted shutters and flowers in pots on the sills. The roof had been re-tiled, and iron railings fenced off a small yard at the front of the house, paved with flagstones and shaded by a dripping tree. He was impressed by the speed with which Temperance had made her changes, and saw she had not allowed herself to wallow in self-pity.

He was about to approach the door, when it opened and two well-dressed men reeled out, although their drunkenness was not the boisterous kind. Chaloner ducked behind a water butt when he saw they were accompanied by a man called Preacher Hill, a nonconformist fanatic who did a great deal of damage with his loud opinions and bigotry. Chaloner waited until they had gone, then tapped on the door, pondering why the three men should have been visiting Temperance at such a peculiar hour. It was hardly proper, and he wondered whether Thurloe had been right to help her move away from the kindly widow who had looked after her following the death of her parents.

The door was opened by Temperance herself. She was a tall, solidly built woman of twenty, with a large, homely face and gorgeous tresses of shiny chestnut hair. These had been concealed under a prim bonnet when her mother had been alive, but now they were displayed for all to see, and Chaloner was sure even Lady Castlemaine would covet them. She had dispensed with the plain black skirts favoured by her co-religionists, too, and wore a tightly laced bodice that did not flatter her stout frame, with billowing skirts of green satin. She looked prosperous and confident, and her hazel eyes had lost the endearing innocence he recalled from a few months before.

She looked him up and down appraisingly, then gestured that he could enter. ‘You have come at an odd time. Most men prefer evenings, but I shall see what we can do, since you look respectable.’

Chaloner was bemused by the cool greeting. ‘What are you talking about?’

Temperance peered into his face, then released a bubbling chuckle of pleasure. ‘Thomas! I did not recognise you under all that paint. Are you engaged on another assignment for your earl? Where have you been these last three months? You sent a note in February saying you were going overseas, but since then I have heard nothing. I thought perhaps you were never coming back.’

‘You did not recognise me, and yet you invited me in?’

Temperance laughed again. ‘Only because you looked too old to cause any trouble.’

He had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and when he made no reply, she took his arm and led him into a warm, steamy kitchen at the rear of the house. As he passed the large room that overlooked the courtyard, his eyes watered at the fug of stale tobacco smoke. Dirty goblets and empty decanters were strewn everywhere, and spilled food had been crushed into the rugs. He glimpsed a furtive movement on the stairs, and glanced up to see a half-clad woman. Other voices told him she was not the only female in residence. Gradually, it began to dawn on him that Temperance’s plans for her new life had revolved around establishing some sort of bawdy house. He was not usually slow on the uptake, but Temperance hailed from a deeply devout family that believed even innocent pleasures like reading or singing were sinful, and the abrupt transformation was unexpected, to say the least.

‘Have you come to collect the shirts I offered to mend before you left?’ she asked, directing him to sit at the table. Pots and pans were everywhere, and there was a mouth-watering scent of baking pastry. Piles of plates sat washed and draining near a stone sink, and a heavy, comfortable matron sat next to a roaring fire, toasting bread on the end of a poker. ‘I confess I put them away when you disappeared, but I shall see to them today.’

‘Leave them to me,’ said the older woman, whose powerful arms and strong hands gave her the appearance of a milkmaid. She leered at Chaloner. ‘And I shall lace them, too. You are sadly dowdy, and in desperate need of a lady’s touch. I shall add so much lace to your collar, sleeves and cuffs that the King himself will ask where you purchased such magnificent garments.’

Chaloner did not recall the shirts, and did not like the sound of the ‘improvements’, either. ‘That is not necessary, ma’am.’

‘It is no trouble,’ she said, fluffing her hair as she winked at him.

There was a merry twinkle in Temperance’s eyes. ‘Were he to remove his beard and wig, you would see he is far too young to warrant your interest, Maude. I harboured an affection for him once, until I realised life is more enjoyable without a man telling me what to do. What husband would permit the kind of civilised evenings we have enjoyed these last few weeks?’

Chaloner did not try to hide his concern. ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood, Temperance, and if your … your enterprise is too brazen, you may find yourself in trouble.’

‘We are always quiet, so do not fret,’ said Temperance, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Would you like some coffee? Maude knows how to make it.’

Maude heaved her bulk out of the chair, and set about heating water for the beverage that was fast becoming popular in London. While she was waiting for the pan to boil, she took some roasted beans and pounded them vigorously with a pestle and mortar. She tossed the resulting powder into a jug, along with a vast quantity of dark sugar, and added hot water. A sharp, burned aroma filled the kitchen when she poured her brew into three dishes. It was black, syrupy, and tasted like medicine. After a few moments, Chaloner felt his heart begin to pound, and he set it down half finished. It was too strong, although Temperance and Maude did not seem to be affected.

‘Are you going to chapel?’ he asked, recalling how Temperance had never missed morning prayers when they had been neighbours. ‘Perhaps I can escort you there?’

She shook her head after Maude, taking the hint, grabbed a basket and muttered something about going to the market for eggs. ‘I do not hold with all that any more – I go to St Dunstan’s on Sundays, and that is enough. It is good to see you, Thomas. I was beginning to think you might have forgotten me, which would have been sad. I value our friendship, and would not like to lose it.’

‘I have been in Ireland, and only returned a few days ago.’

Her face filled with alarm. ‘Ireland? I hope it was nothing to do with the Castle Plot – that sounded horrible! I wish you would abandon your work with that Lord Clarendon. Clerking would be much safer. If you are interested, I could find you something here.’

‘You are in a position to employ me?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Your business is lucrative, then?’

‘Very,’ said Temperance with a satisfied smile of pleasure. ‘And I am in sore need of a reliable manager of accounts. Are you interested?’

Chaloner had questions of his own. ‘Why was Preacher Hill here? If you have abandoned your old religion, then why continue to associate with him? His wild opinions make him a dangerous man to know, and he may bring you trouble.’

‘He has been extruded – prevented from conducting religious offices in his own church – so he works for me now, as a doorman. He is rather good at it, and the position leaves his days free for spouting sermons in public places. The arrangement suits us both. Do you really disapprove? I thought you were opposed to discrimination on religious grounds.’

‘I do, but that is no reason … ’ He trailed off, seeing there was no point in pursuing the matter. He could tell from the stubborn expression on her face that she was not going to change her mind, or listen to advice from him.

‘Dear Thomas,’ she said after a moment, shooting him a fond smile. ‘You have not changed.’

She had, though. ‘You have grown up. I was gone a few weeks, and you are different.’

She nodded, pleased he had noticed. ‘I think the word is “liberated”. For the first time in my life I can do exactly as I please. I wear lace. I see plays. I read books that are nothing to do with religion. I feel as though I have woken up after a long sleep, and I am happier now than I have ever been. I grieve for my parents, of course – they raised me in a way they thought was right – but I prefer my life now. Will you teach me French? I would so like to speak that particular language.’

‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Chaloner ungraciously. ‘Brothel business always sounds so much more genteel when conducted in French.’

Even after an hour with Temperance, it was still too early to visit White Hall or to interview gunsmiths, so Chaloner crossed Fleet Street and walked to Lincoln’s Inn. Although his thoughts were mostly on Temperance, an innate sense still warned him of the thieves who saw him as an easy target. He was obliged to side-step two pickpockets and flash his dagger at a would-be robber before he was even halfway up Chancery Lane. He slipped through Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate when its porter was looking the other way, and headed for Chamber XIII in Dial Court. It was here that John Thurloe, his friend and former employer, lived when he was not at his family estate near Oxford.

Dial Court was one of the oldest parts of the ancient foundation for licensing lawyers and clerks, and comprised accommodation wings to the east and west, and the new chapel to the south. To the north were the gardens, a tangle of untamed vegetation, venerable oaks and gnarled fruit trees. In the middle of Dial Court was the ugliest sundial ever created, a monstrosity of curly iron and leering cherubs. It had been installed in a place where it was in the shade for most of the day, which somewhat defeated its purpose.

As a ‘bencher’ – a governing member of Lincoln’s Inn – Thurloe was entitled to occupy a suite of chambers on two floors. On one level was his bedchamber and an oak-panelled sitting room, full of books and the scent of polished wood; above was a pantry and an attic that was home to his manservant, a fellow so quiet and unobtrusive that he was thought to be mute.

Thurloe was sitting next to a blazing fire, even though summer was fast approaching and most people had blocked their chimneys in anticipation of warmth to come. He hated cold weather, and his chambers were always stifling. The man who had been one of Cromwell’s closest friends and most trusted advisor was slightly built, with shoulder-length brown hair. His large blue eyes often appeared soulful, but there was a core of steel in him that had taken more than one would-be conspirator by surprise. He had single-handedly managed an intelligence service that had not only monitored the activities of foreign governments, but had watched the movements of the exiled King and his followers, too. Chaloner suspected the Commonwealth would not have lasted as long as it had, if Thurloe had not been its Secretary of State and Spymaster General.

Thurloe was not alone that morning, because a thin, stoop-shouldered mathematician – surveyor called William Leybourn was visiting him. Chaloner had met Leybourn the previous winter, and they had become friends. Leybourn owned a bookshop on Monkwell Street near Cripplegate, and Chaloner had spent many happy hours browsing his collection while listening to him expound all manner of complex and mostly incomprehensible geometrical theories.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Leybourn when Chaloner started to walk inside. He tried to haul his sword from its scabbard, although as usual he had not bothered to oil it, and it stuck halfway out. Leybourn always claimed that time spent on maintaining weapons was time that could be better spent reading. ‘What do you want?’

Thurloe came to stand next to him, and his normally sombre face broke into a rare smile when he recognised the grey eyes. ‘Thomas is playing a game with us.’

Leybourn’s jaw dropped, then he started to laugh, amused by the fact that he had been fooled. ‘Is this for our benefit, or do you have another perilous mission to fulfil for Lord Clarendon?’

‘I would never wear this wretched thing for fun,’ said Chaloner, indicating the wig. It was hot and itched in a way that made him sure it was host to a legion of lice. He said what was uppermost in his mind as he pushed past the surveyor and went to warm his hands by the fire. ‘Have you seen Temperance recently?’

‘I am a married man, so her establishment is anathema to me,’ said Thurloe distastefully. ‘I would never visit her there, although she comes to pass the time of day with me here on occasion. I am pleased to see colour in the poor child’s cheeks at last.’

‘She is blooming,’ agreed Leybourn cheerfully, struggling to replace his sword in its sticky scabbard. ‘And I have visited Hercules’s Pillars Alley on several occasions. She runs an excellent show, although it can grow a little wild in the small hours. She has promised to introduce me to a few decent ladies, because I do not have much luck with the fairer sex, and I would like to be married.’

‘I doubt you will find a suitable match among the women in Temperance’s employ,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘I know you are not particular, but there should be limits to how low you are willing to stoop, and a bordello – even an elegant one – should be well beneath them. You would do better frequenting funerals, and keeping an eye out for a respectable widow.’

Chaloner rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I am gone three months and return to find the world turned upside-down. Temperance has become a madam, Will is trawling brothels for a wife, and you are dispensing some of the worst advice I have ever heard.’

Thurloe was stung. ‘My advice is perfectly sound. He is likely to meet a better class of person in a church than in a bawdy house. However, if you have a better suggestion, then let us hear it.’

‘Temperance’s place is not just a bawdy house,’ said Leybourn, giving up the battle to replace his sword in its scabbard and giving it to Chaloner to sort out. ‘Men visit her for witty conversation, too. It is like a coffee house that admits women, and not all its patrons are desperate for a whore. Do not tell her you disapprove, Tom. She thinks the world of you, and it would be a pity to spoil her happiness.’

‘She could be arrested,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘Prostitution is illegal, and so is owning a brothel.’

‘This one should be safe enough,’ said Leybourn. ‘It is already popular with influential courtiers like Buckingham, York and Bristol. And once word is out that they visit the place, it is only a matter of time before others patronise it, too, to show they are men of fashion. Buckingham took Lady Castlemaine one night, and an excellent evening was had by all.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. It was not that he disapproved of bawdy houses – on the contrary, they were useful places for collecting information, and for relaxing with women he did not want to meet again – but it felt sordid when Temperance was involved.

‘You have grown thin,’ said Thurloe in the silence that followed. Chaloner did not believe him, knowing the ex-Spymaster could not tell what he looked like under the layers of powder and grease. ‘So, I shall provide you with breakfast. My servant is ill, and has gone to stay with his sister, so I am obliged to order victuals from the kitchens myself these days.’

‘I came to keep him company,’ said Leybourn, when Thurloe had gone to collect the food. ‘You know how he likes to walk in the Inn’s grounds each morning, as dawn breaks? Well, there are plans afoot to remodel them in a way that will make this a thing of the past. He is very upset about it.’

‘There have been rumours about a new garden for as long as I can remember,’ said Chaloner, ‘but the benchers are united in their opposition to change, and since they are the ruling council, they have the final word on the matter. Nothing will happen to Thurloe’s orchard.’

‘That is no longer true. William Prynne, who is Lincoln’s Inn’s most famous bencher–’

‘A deranged bigot,’ interrupted Chaloner. He had met the elderly lawyer several times, and had been deeply repelled. ‘He writes bitter diatribes on matters he does not understand – The Quakers Unmasked was so sickeningly poisonous that I could not put it down. Appalled disbelief kept me turning its pages.’

Leybourn laughed. ‘That is how I feel about some of the pamphlets the government asks me to print about mathematics. But Prynne’s literary talents are irrelevant. The point is that he marched into White Hall, told the King what he wanted, and His Majesty was so taken aback by his effrontery that he signed a letter ordering Lincoln’s Inn to see the plans though. The foundation is in the unenviable position of either defying its King or going against its own wishes.’

‘Surely they can find a way to procrastinate until Prynne loses interest? These are lawyers, Will – making a lot of fuss while actually doing nothing is what they are trained to do.’

‘Not with Prynne sending daily reports to White Hall about progress, or lack of it. The gardens mean a lot to Thurloe – he loves those old trees – and Prynne’s project will see them all uprooted.’

‘You are talking about my orchard,’ said Thurloe, as he returned. Behind him was the Inn’s tabby cat, and a servant carrying a tray. ‘Have you heard what Prynne intends to replace it with? An expanse of plain grass, crossed by two paths with a dovecote in the middle. It will be as barren as a desert – and the dovecote is not for decoration, but so the hapless birds can be bred for the table. I will feed them in the morning, only to have them grace my dinner plate at noon. Damned Puritan!’

Chaloner and Leybourn gazed at him in surprise. Thurloe was a deeply religious man who seldom swore – and he was a devout adherent to Puritan principles himself. He was about to continue his tirade when the servant gave a howl of anger; the cat had jumped on to the table he was setting, and had made off with a piece of salted pork.

‘What do the staff think about Prynne’s designs, Yates?’ asked Thurloe, waving a hand to indicate the cat was to be left alone with its prize. ‘Do they approve?’

‘We are afraid that a great square containing nothing but grass will take a lot of scything in the summer, sir,’ replied Yates. He was a small, lean fellow, unremarkable except for pale-brown eyes that roved independently of each other. At that precise moment, one was fixed balefully on the cat, and the other was looking at Thurloe. ‘Mr Prynne said the labour will be good for our souls.’

‘He can mow it, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘And reap the benefit for his own soul. God knows, he needs it, given all the odious vitriol he has written during his life.’

Yates was thoughtful. ‘I wager Mr Prynne cannot tell the difference between seed for grass and seed for flowers. My sister owns a cottage in a remote village called Hammersmith, and that is full of seeding flowers at this time of year. If you take my meaning, sir.’

Thurloe regarded him conspiratorially. ‘How long will it take you to reach Hammersmith?’

Yates grinned. ‘No time at all, sir.’

‘I hear you were involved in a shooting yesterday,’ said Thurloe, when Yates had gone and his guests had been provided with a cup containing something brown.

Thurloe was often in ill health – or claimed he was – and was always swallowing tinctures, potions and tonics that promised wellbeing and vitality. He sometimes tried to inflict them on his friends, too, and Chaloner had been the unwitting victim of several experiments in the past. The spy sniffed the cup cautiously, then declined to drink what was in it – he had no intention of imbibing something that contained a hefty dose of gunpowder. He explained what had happened as he ate bread and cold meat. He did not usually discuss his work with anyone, but it was the ex-Spymaster who had introduced him to Lord Clarendon, while Leybourn dabbled in espionage himself occasionally, although only for Thurloe. Chaloner trusted them both implicitly. When he had finished, Leybourn’s expression was one of unease.

‘I do not like the sound of either of these assignments, Tom. The beggar’s business must have been important, given that he was willing to risk his life to speak to Williamson, and it will be dangerous to spy on Bristol and his cronies. God alone knows what they get up to once the palace gates are closed – and what they might do to keep their activities secret.’

Thurloe pursed his lips. ‘Bristol is an odd contradiction. He feels strongly enough about his religion to declare himself a papist – and the price of that is being banned from holding any lucrative public offices – and yet he is one of the most dissipated, sinful, vice-loving creatures at Court.’

‘Lord Clarendon was foolish to oppose that bill that granted indulgences to Roman Catholics,’ said Leybourn, off on a tangent, ‘because papists like Bristol are now his most bitter enemies.’

‘His antipathy towards Catholics is wholly unjustified,’ said Chaloner. Having lived abroad much of his adult life, he tended to be more tolerant of the Old Religion than most of his countrymen. ‘I cannot imagine why he has taken against them so hotly.’

‘Who knows what dark poison fuels any man’s bigotry,’ said Thurloe, shaking his head sadly.

‘I heard Bristol has recruited Sir Richard Temple to help him fight Clarendon now,’ said Leybourn. As a bookseller, he was the recipient of a lot of gossip, and was invariably better informed about the Court than Chaloner – and sometimes even than Thurloe.

Chaloner knew the name, although it took a moment to place it: Temple was the man whom Scot did not want to marry his sister. ‘I know very little about him.’

‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself,’ said Thurloe sternly. ‘He is Member of Parliament for Buckinghamshire – the county in which you were born, and where your siblings still live.’

Chaloner was irritated by the admonition. ‘I would like to learn such things, but you sent me from England for more than a decade, and when I came back, the Earl promptly dispatched me to Ireland.’

Thurloe’s expression softened. ‘True – so I shall enlighten you. Temple is a vain, shallow man, eager for a government post. However, it is generally agreed that once he is given what he wants, he will almost certainly prove to be corrupt. He is also on the verge of purchasing a slave-worked sugar plantation in Barbados, and that makes him abhorrent to any decent person.’

‘He is not alone,’ said Leybourn. ‘Half the members of the Guinea Company are now interested in investing in sugar. A merchant called Johan Behn from the province of Brandenburg is currently based in London, and all he does is wax lyrical about the profits that can be made from such ventures. His predictions of huge fortunes are encouraging others to speculate, too.’

‘Behn owns a sugar plantation – and slaves to work it – of his own,’ said Thurloe with distaste. ‘If I were still Spymaster, I would find an excuse to be rid of him.’

Leybourn regarded him uneasily. ‘Rid of him how?’

Thurloe favoured him with one of his unreadable smiles. ‘With discretion, of course.’

‘Incidentally, Behn is courting your friend Eaffrey, Tom,’ said Leybourn, a little disconcerted by the reply. ‘And Behn does not know it, but she enjoys the odd clandestine meeting with an Irish scholar called Peter Terrell, too.’

Chaloner said nothing. Eaffrey had confessed to loving Behn, and obviously she spent time with ‘Terrell’ because she and Scot were fellow spies with the same master. When ‘Vanders’ arrived in White Hall and Eaffrey talked to him, too, wagging tongues would no doubt add a third name to her list of conquests. He was, however, unhappy to learn that Behn’s wealth came from sugar – he would not have expected Eaffrey to fall for a man who condoned slavery.

‘What about your beggar, Tom?’ asked Thurloe, seeing Chaloner was going to make no comment. ‘Can we help you establish his identity?’

Although he preferred to work alone, Chaloner did not mind accepting Thurloe’s help. The ex-Spymaster was a fount of knowledge about the city and its people, and several of his old spies continued to keep him well supplied with good, reliable information. He also possessed a clever mind, and Chaloner respected his opinions and advice.

‘Clarendon thinks May wanted to prevent this so-called beggar from speaking to Williamson. The man was desperate for an interview, so he clearly had something to impart. He confided some of it before he died.’

‘Did you tell Williamson what he said?’ asked Thurloe, wincing as the cat leapt on to his lap, hauling itself into a comfortable position by liberal use of claws.

Chaloner shook his head. ‘It made no sense, so I thought I would make some enquiries first – to set it in context, and be in a position to answer any questions he might have.’

Thurloe looked doubtful. ‘If I were Williamson, I would want to be told immediately, not left waiting until someone else decided it was time for me to know. And while this beggar’s words may mean nothing to you, that does not mean they will be similarly meaningless to Williamson. What did he say exactly? I still know a little White Hall business, and may be able to interpret them for you.’

‘He mentioned Terrell and Burne in a way that suggested he thought the names might be aliases, and he wanted Dillon to be saved.’

‘He is right about the first part,’ said Thurloe promptly, showing he knew more than ‘a little’ about current affairs. ‘Terrell is Scot’s present character, and Burne is the name adopted by May in Ireland. I do not know about Dillon – although a spy called Dillon worked for me some years ago.’

‘If you are going to save him, you will have your task cut out for you,’ said Leybourn, sipping the tonic, then setting it aside in distaste. He glanced up to see Chaloner and Thurloe regarding him with puzzled expressions. ‘Was your Dillon a tall man, who always wore a large hat to cover his face?’

Thurloe frowned. ‘How do you know that?’

‘He has been arrested for murder.’

‘Murder?’ echoed Thurloe, shocked. ‘But that is impossible! Dillon is a Quaker, and his religion forbids violence – it was what led me to dismiss him. As Spymaster, I avoided assassination when I could, but sometimes there was no choice. Dillon would not kill under any circumstances, and his refusal to eliminate a double agent brought about the deaths of several of my men. One was Henry Manning.’

Chaloner stared at him. Manning had been executed in Neuburg – taken into a wood and shot by Royalist soldiers. He could have betrayed other agents when he had been interrogated, but he had not, and Chaloner was still alive to prove it. If Dillon’s principles had brought about Manning’s capture and death, then he was no friend of Chaloner’s.

‘Well, he has killed someone now,’ said Leybourn. ‘He was found guilty and sentenced to hang. The execution is planned for next Saturday.’

Thurloe shot to his feet, and the cat hurtled away in alarm. ‘I do not believe it!’

‘I am afraid it is true. I attended the trial at the Old Bailey myself – it was quite a case, and I am surprised you did not hear about it. Dillon and another eight men were arrested for the crime, because a letter naming them was sent to the Earl of Bristol by an anonymous witness.’

‘Sent to Bristol?’ asked Chaloner, bemused. ‘Why him?’

‘Because he is a decent man who can be trusted to do the right thing,’ replied Leybourn wryly. ‘According to the letter.’

‘And I suppose no one knows the author of this note?’ said Thurloe scathingly.

Leybourn shook his head. ‘Of course not. But on its basis, soldiers searched the homes of the accused, and a bloody rapier was found in Dillon’s. Its tip matched the fatal injury in the victim’s chest. The jury was invited to compare wound to weapon, and all agreed that one caused the other.’

‘That may well be true,’ said Thurloe. ‘However, we all know that sort of evidence can be planted.’

‘The jury did not think so. Its verdict was unanimous.’

‘Who did Dillon kill?’ asked Chaloner.

‘A merchant called Matthew Webb,’ said Leybourn. ‘I know nothing about him, other than that he was wealthy. I can find out more, if you like. Some of my customers may know him.’

‘That would be appreciated,’ said Thurloe, inclining his head. ‘What about the other eight who were named in this anonymous missive? Were they sentenced to death too?’

Leybourn rubbed his chin. ‘Oddly, no. Only three of the nine turned up at the Old Bailey, and they were the ones convicted. Meanwhile, four had produced official pardons from the King, although no one explained how they came by such things. And the other two “disappeared”, but no hue and cry was ever raised to catch them. It was all very strange – and more than a little suspicious.’

‘Did no one ask about it at the trial?’ asked Chaloner.

Leybourn’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Of course not! Only a fool would question why a brazenly peculiar verdict was being passed by one of the King’s judges.’

‘Dillon will certainly be innocent,’ said Thurloe, agitated. ‘I must do something to help him. I cannot let the poor man die.’

‘I will tell you the identity of the beggar when I learn his name,’ offered Chaloner. ‘He wanted Dillon saved, so he clearly concurred with your assessment of the verdict.’

‘Thank you. I shall make a few enquiries of my own, too. I do not like the smell of this business.’