The Piccadilly Plot

Chapter 8

By the time they arrived at their destination, Chaloner was dizzy and disoriented. He was aware of being carried, but did not have the strength to resist. He heard a swirl of voices as the sack was hauled off, but kept his eyes closed, to see what might be learned about his captors by feigning unconsciousness. The ropes were removed, and he was dragged forward.

‘What have you done to him?’ Chaloner’s heart sank when he recognised Williamson’s voice. ‘I specifically told you to invite him nicely.’

‘We did,’ came Doines’s aggrieved reply. ‘But he started to fight, and injured five of us. You cannot blame us for taking him down before he could do any more damage.’

‘I can and I do,’ snapped Williamson. ‘I need his help, and he is hardly going to agree to work with me now you have knocked him senseless, is he!’

‘I told you to let me fetch him,’ came another voice. It was Lester, and he sounded angry. ‘You should have listened.’

Chaloner felt himself laid gently on a bench. Then a cloth began to wipe his face. He opened his eyes a fraction and saw the ministering angel was Lester, his ruddy face full of concern.

‘He would not have obliged you,’ argued Williamson. ‘I asked him to come here several times, and even sent a polite note with his wife. All were ignored. He does not like me, although I cannot imagine why. I have graciously overlooked all manner of injustices, insults and violations in the past — ones I would have killed another man for committing against me.’

‘This is not my fault,’ said Doines sullenly. ‘You said not to mention that it was you who wanted to see him, but he got suspicious when we refused to answer. It was-’

‘Leave,’ snapped Williamson. ‘Before I decline to pay you.’

Footsteps crossed the floor, then a door opened and closed. Chaloner opened his eyes a little more, and saw he was in Williamson’s Westminster office. Lester was still looming over him, but the Spymaster had gone to sit at his desk. As far as he could tell there was no one else in the room, but in order to get free he would have to incapacitate both, and make an escape from a building that was full of Williamson’s clerks, spies and ruffians. Could he do it?

‘Perhaps we should summon a surgeon,’ said Lester worriedly. ‘Wiseman is the best. He is expensive, but I will bear the cost. This should not have happened.’

Chaloner knew then that it was time to pretend to regain his wits, because Wiseman would not be fooled by his act. He sat up.

‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Lester. ‘I thought they had done you serious harm.’

‘He is awake?’ asked Williamson, coming to stand over them. ‘Good. Can he speak?’

‘Give him a moment to recover,’ snapped Lester. Then his voice softened. ‘Sit quietly for as long as you like, Chaloner. We shall talk only when you are ready.’

‘I am ready now,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to prolong the experience. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am sorry violence was used to bring you here,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘But a situation has arisen that means we must put aside our differences and work together. As we did in June.’

‘What situation?’ asked Chaloner, hoping he was not about to be given another mystery to unravel. He was struggling with the ones he had already.

‘One involving powerful men,’ replied Williamson soberly. ‘Members of government, wealthy merchants, and several less salubrious characters. Such as Fitzgerald the pirate. Do you know him?’

‘Not personally.’

‘He is an extremely dangerous individual,’ Williamson went on. ‘And I have reason to believe that he is behind the tragic deaths of Sir Edward Turner and Lord Lucas.’

‘Then arrest him,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘I cannot — I do not have evidence that will secure a conviction in a court of law.’

‘That has never stopped you before.’

Williamson had cells for people whose trials would not win a verdict that he deemed to be in the public interest, and assassins available should he decide on a more permanent solution.

‘He is too prominent and well connected,’ explained Williamson. ‘And if you do not believe me, then ask your friend Thurloe. He was as wily a spymaster as ever lived, but even he could not defeat Fitzgerald. The man is not a normal criminal.’

‘I overheard him talking,’ said Chaloner. He spoke hesitantly, because it went against the grain to share information with someone he distrusted. ‘He said he has a master who gives him orders.’

‘Who is it?’ demanded Williamson, clearly horrified.

‘I do not know. Another member of the Piccadilly Company, perhaps.’

‘And there are plenty in that sinister organisation to choose from,’ interposed Lester grimly. ‘Brilliana and her brother Harley, Newell, Meneses, Margareta and Cornelis Janszoon, Jones, Pratt the architect. And those are just the ones we have identified. Most of them wear disguises to their gatherings.’

Chaloner was about to point out that ‘Jones’ was stupid, rather than sinister, but there was always the possibility that Williamson did not know he was Thurloe’s brother-in-law, and there was no need to highlight the connection unnecessarily.

‘Newell is dead,’ he said instead.

Williamson’s eyes opened wide. ‘How do you know?’

‘I have just seen his body. He was shot while showing off with a gun — an accident, apparently. It was witnessed by several people, including Leighton, Hyde, and your friend O’Brien and his wife.’

‘Kitty?’ Williamson was stricken. ‘I must go to her at once. To comfort her!’

‘What about O’Brien?’ asked Chaloner archly. ‘Does he not warrant comfort, too?’

Williamson glanced at him sharply, and Chaloner wished he had held his tongue. Alluding to the Spymaster’s dalliance with his old friend’s wife had been unwarranted and reckless. He tried to think of a way to mitigate the damage, but Lester was already talking.

‘Far too many people connected to this matter have died,’ he said unhappily. ‘Turner, Lucas, Proby, Congett, Reyner and his mother, Elliot, Cave, and now Newell.’

‘What matter?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Precisely?’

Williamson looked pained. ‘That is the problem: we are not sure. However, we suspect that two organisations are at loggerheads: the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers. Deaths have occurred in both.’

Chaloner played devil’s advocate. ‘The Adventurers cannot be involved in anything untoward. The King is a member, and so is the Queen and half the Privy Council.’

‘I doubt whatever is underway involves the entire corporation,’ explained Williamson shortly. ‘However, there are rumours that something terrible will unfold next Wednesday-’

‘St Frideswide’s Day,’ put in Lester helpfully.

‘-and it must be stopped,’ Williamson finished. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot do it with the resources currently at our disposal.’

‘Doines is Williamson’s best man, and you saw what he is like,’ elaborated Lester, oblivious to the Spymaster’s irritated grimace. ‘So if we are to thwart it, we shall need other help. Yours.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly and wondering whether he would be allowed to walk out. As he did so, his eye fell on a pile of letters on a table, and he recognised the signature of the one on top. It raised another question, but it was not one he would be able to ponder until he was alone again.

‘Please wait,’ said Williamson softly, and Chaloner suddenly became aware of the lines of strain in his face. ‘I could use your family to coerce you, as I have done in the past — and as I am currently doing to Lester — but I would rather you helped me willingly.’

‘I am sure you would,’ said Chaloner. ‘Swaddell is gone, so you are desperate to replace-’

‘Swaddell has not gone anywhere,’ interrupted Williamson tiredly. ‘The tale of our break is a canard, so he can inveigle himself into the confidence of those we believe to be plotting. At great personal risk, I might add. The only people who know this are Lester, and now you.’

Chaloner was horrified on Swaddell’s behalf. ‘Sharing such information is hardly-’

‘Swaddell is my friend, and I have put his life in your hands by confiding in you. If there was another way to make you trust me, I would have taken it, believe me. But I am faced with a crisis, and I need the help of an experienced operative with the right connections.’

‘I have no connections,’ said Chaloner truthfully.

‘At least listen to what we have to say before turning us down,’ said Lester reasonably.

‘You are uncomfortable here in my office,’ surmised Williamson astutely. ‘Would it help if we went somewhere else? We could sit in my carriage and ride around London.’

‘A coffee house,’ determined Chaloner. They were public places, which meant Williamson was less likely to try to harm him. ‘The Paradise by Westminster Hall.’

Williamson scowled. ‘Certainly not. It will be busy, and we need to converse in private.’

‘It has private booths at the rear,’ said Lester quickly, as Chaloner stepped towards the door to indicate the interview was over. ‘And we are all in need of a medicinal draught.’

‘Very well,’ conceded Williamson reluctantly. ‘But you are paying.’

‘I cannot be long,’ warned Chaloner, supposing there was no harm in listening. He might learn something useful with no obligation to reciprocate. ‘I have an audience with the Queen.’

‘And you say you have no connections,’ said Lester wonderingly.

The Paradise was one of three establishments — the others were Hell and Purgatory — that sold food and drink in Westminster’s Old Palace Yard. They were sometimes taverns, sometimes ordinaries and sometimes coffee houses, depending on the whims of their owners. The Paradise was currently a coffee house, although in keeping with the eccentricity of the place, the upper floor was given over to selling fishing tackle and an assortment of patented medicines.

Inside, it was hazy not only with smoke from the coffee beans, but from a badly swept chimney. It was dominated by a large oval table with a slit up the centre that allowed the owner to walk inside it and refill his customers’ dishes. His patrons were a mixture of the black-gowned lawyers who worked in the Palace of Westminster, and the ruffians who inhabited the slums that surrounded it. They were discussing the Post Office, an institution notorious for opening any letters entrusted to its care. The lawyers were of the opinion that anyone who committed words to paper without hiring one of them to make sure they could not be misinterpreted had only himself to blame; the rest thought a man’s correspondence was his own affair, and that the Post Office had no right to pry.

Chaloner started to sit at the main table, but Lester grabbed his arm and pointed to a secluded cubicle at the back.

‘We cannot discuss our problems in front of an audience. You know that. The booth is private, but in full view — Williamson cannot do anything untoward without at least a dozen men seeing.’

Williamson shot Chaloner a reproachful glance as he led the way towards it, although Chaloner felt their past encounters gave him the right to be wary. Lester placed several coins on the table, and coffee was brought. Chaloner sipped it, surprised to discover it was almost palatable. He set the dish back on the table, and indicated that Lester and Williamson were to begin their explanations.

‘I suppose we must start with Lester’s sister,’ Williamson obliged. ‘She lives in the Crown on Piccadilly, and was the first to notice that something untoward was happening.’

‘Not Ruth?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘She is Lester’s sister as well as Elliot’s wife?’

Lester nodded. ‘I thought you knew. She said you have been to visit her twice, and I know she would have mentioned me. I assumed you went to pick her brains.’

‘Such as they are,’ muttered Williamson acidly.

Something snapped clear in Chaloner’s mind when resentment suffused Lester’s face. ‘She is the reason you are working with Williamson! He said he was using your family to coerce you.’

‘He threatened to commit her to Bedlam otherwise,’ said Lester. He glared at the Spymaster. ‘There was no need to resort to such tactics — I would have helped anyway. I am a patriotic man, which is why I joined the navy.’

Williamson ignored him. ‘Ruth told Lester that something peculiar was happening in the Crown, and rather rashly, he decided to investigate.’

‘I did not know there was anything to investigate at first,’ elaborated Lester. ‘Ruth is given to imagining things, you see. But I soon realised she was right — it is the Piccadilly Company’s headquarters. I managed to eavesdrop once, although I am not very good at that sort of thing, and they hired Brinkes to stop it happening again.’

‘What did you hear?’ asked Chaloner.

‘A discussion about a plot to kill one of their members. The Queen wants Pratt dead, apparently.’

Chaloner shook his head firmly. ‘She would never embroil herself in such an affair.’

‘I agree,’ said Williamson. ‘But that will not stop people from accusing her, should the tale become public. People dislike her, and it provides an opportunity to send her back to Portugal in disgrace. Or worse. Our country does have a habit of lopping the heads off unwanted monarchs.’

‘And if that happens, Portugal will break off diplomatic relations with us,’ added Lester. ‘We shall have to return her dowry, which includes the ports of Tangier and Bombay, jewels, money, and all manner of trading rights. It will cripple us for decades.’

‘In other words, it will be an enormous disaster,’ summarised Williamson. ‘The French and Spanish will leap to take advantage of our weakened state, and the Dutch will declare war on us.’

‘Pratt does not seem overly worried by the plot, though,’ said Lester, while Chaloner’s mind reeled at their revelations. ‘He probably thinks Fitzgerald can protect him.’

‘Protect him from whom?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Who is behind this plot? The Adventurers?’

‘We do not know,’ replied Lester. ‘However, Fitzgerald may think so — it would certainly explain why he roasted Turner and Lucas, and may also account for Proby’s “suicide” and Congett’s “accident”. We cannot forget Captain Pepperell of Eagle, either. Brinkes killed him, and Brinkes is Fitzgerald’s henchman. Perhaps Pepperell was an Adventurer, too. He did sail to Africa a lot, after all.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘So Fitzgerald has declared war on the Adventurers?’

‘We suspect he has taken against some of them,’ said Williamson. ‘However, if we are right, then they are fighting back. Reyner and Newell are dead, and Pratt may soon follow …’

‘I am still hoping that the relationship between Pepperell and Elliot will provide answers,’ said Lester. He shrugged at Williamson’s dismissive expression. ‘You think I am wasting my time, but we have no other leads to follow, and I would like to know the truth about their deaths.’

‘Are you sure Elliot is dead?’ Chaloner asked him.

Lester looked startled. ‘Of course! The wound he received was mortal. He died the same day.’

‘Were you with him?’

‘No. The surgeon was drunk, so I left to see whether Wiseman was available. Unfortunately, I could not find him, and by the time I returned, Elliot had expired.’

‘What was this surgeon’s name?’

‘Jeremiah King of Axe Yard.’ Lester was puzzled. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because Cave’s “brother” buried him rather hastily, thus depriving him of his elaborate funeral, and the descriptions of Jacob sound remarkably like Elliot.’

‘Then it is coincidence,’ said Lester firmly. ‘Because Elliot is buried himself. I saw him laid to rest in St Giles-in-the-Fields yesterday.’

‘That was Friday,’ said Chaloner. ‘But Cave was collected from the charnel house on Monday night, and buried on Tuesday. Elliot could have done it.’

‘He died on Monday,’ said Lester shortly. ‘Besides, he had no reason to tamper with Cave’s funeral arrangements. What a terrible accusation to make!’

‘His reason for tampering would be the same as the one that led him to fight Cave in the first place,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Brilliana.’

‘Well, he is innocent,’ stated Lester uncompromisingly. ‘I am sure of it.’

‘I understand why Cave’s brother acted as he did,’ said Williamson quietly. ‘The Chapel Royal choristers were organising a wildly expensive affair, and Cave was not wealthy. Payment would ultimately have fallen on Jacob, and I do not blame him for declining to be beggared.’

Lester nodded agreement, but Chaloner thought he would reserve judgement until he had visited ‘Jacob’ in Covent Garden and heard the tale from his own lips.

Unsettled and confused by the connections that were emerging, Chaloner followed Williamson and Lester out of the coffee house, hearing the bells of Westminster strike three. The day was passing, and he still had much to do. He took a deep breath. The air reeked of soot and blocked drains, but its coolness was refreshing after the fug of the shop.

‘So, to summarise,’ he said, ‘you believe there is a plot underway to discredit the Queen by implicating her in the murder of a prominent architect. The result will be a diplomatic crisis, resulting in the loss of Tangier, untold money and trading rights. Meanwhile, the Piccadilly Company and the Adventurers are at each other’s throats, and members of both are dead.’

‘Some Adventurers are involved,’ stressed Williamson. ‘Not all of them.’

‘The Piccadilly Company includes Fitzgerald, Meneses, Brilliana, Harley, the Janszoons and Pratt,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And Brinkes is their henchman.’

‘Among others,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘It also includes a number of upstanding merchants, and several knights. They are not all sinister, and some may very well think their sole aim is to export fine glassware to New England and bring gravel back.’

‘Meanwhile, the Adventurers also boast dozens of rich and influential people,’ Chaloner continued. ‘Leighton, the Duke of Buckingham, the King-

‘And four members of your employer’s household,’ interjected Williamson pointedly. ‘Brodrick and Hyde are open about their association; Dugdale and Edgeman keep it quiet.’

‘Kipps is not a member, though,’ said Lester. ‘I cannot imagine why, because he is exactly their kind of fellow — rich, brash and interested in extravagant parties.’

‘He was rejected, although I have been unable to ascertain why,’ said Williamson. ‘I would say it is because he works for Clarendon, whom most Adventurers hate, but if that were true, then Hyde, Brodrick, Edgeman and Dugdale would not have been accepted, either.’

Chaloner addressed his next question to Lester. ‘Have you heard of a ship called Jane?’

Lester nodded. ‘She is a privateer trading out of Tangier. A smuggler, in essence. I remember her well, because she has a peculiarly curved bowsprit. Why?’

Chaloner hesitated, but was acutely aware that he and Thurloe could not thwart what was happening alone, and the Queen was in danger. ‘Harley may have a connection to Jane. It has been suggested that I use it to blackmail him for answers.’

‘Then do it: smuggling is a hanging offence, and the threat may loosen his tongue.’ Williamson smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘Does this reluctant sharing of information mean you have decided to work with us?’

‘I will think about it,’ said Chaloner, reluctant to capitulate too readily.

‘Very well,’ said Williamson stiffly. ‘You know where to find me.’

The discussion over, Lester accompanied Chaloner along King Street, while Williamson returned to his offices. Chaloner glanced at the sky as they went, and saw it was too late to question Addison, Jacob, Harley or the witnesses to Newell’s death before visiting the Queen. And he dared not be late lest Hannah took umbrage and declined to let him in. Irritably, he supposed he would have to postpone his other enquiries until afterwards.

‘I really am sorry about the way you were brought to us,’ said Lester, seeing his annoyed grimace and misunderstanding the reason. ‘Doines is a lout.’

Chaloner glanced at him. ‘Are you happy working with Williamson?’

‘Not at all! However, I shall continue to do so until this crisis is resolved — it is my duty as a sea-officer. Yet I cannot rid myself of the notion that he might incarcerate Ruth in Bedlam anyway, just for spite. And she does not belong there. She may be fey-witted, but she is not insane.’

‘Was she fey-witted when she married Elliot?’

Lester shrugged uncomfortably. ‘She has always been a little … unworldly. I did not want her to wed him, but she was in love, and I did not have the heart to withhold permission. I wish I had, though, because he did not make her happy.’

‘My wife tells me you play the flute.’ Chaloner would have liked to express his sympathy, but was unsure what to say, so he changed the subject to one he thought Lester might prefer instead.

Lester smiled. ‘Williamson was waxing lyrical about your skill on the viol today, so perhaps we should try a duet. We shall do it after we have saved England from that damned pirate Fitzgerald. It will give me something to look forward to.’

Chaloner met Kipps when he arrived at White Hall, but the Seal Bearer looked him up and down in horror when he heard he was bound for the Queen’s quarters — the scuffle with Doines had taken its toll on his finery. There was also a coffee stain on his cuff, although he could not recall spilling any. Kipps whisked him into his office, and set about polishing his shoes and brushing the muck from his coat. He also lent him a clean shirt and a pair of white stockings.

‘I have been hearing about the Adventurers today,’ said Chaloner while he changed, intending to find out what Kipps knew about them. ‘I understand they-’

‘Thieves and scoundrels,’ declared Kipps uncompromisingly, scrubbing so vigorously at a sleeve that Chaloner feared he might make a hole. ‘What gives them the right to sequester an entire continent for themselves, forbidding anyone else to trade there?’

‘Presumably the fact that the King is a member, and he can do what he likes.’

‘I thought that was why we had Parliament,’ snapped Kipps, uncharacteristically revolutionary. ‘So monarchs cannot make decisions based on brazen self-interest. What have you been doing to get yourself into such a mess? Surely a conversation about the Adventurers was not the cause?’

‘Commerce is a dirty subject,’ replied Chaloner wryly.

‘It is where the Adventurers are concerned,’ agreed Kipps. ‘I am glad they rejected my application to join, because they are treasure-hunting aristocrats, not businessmen, and their venture will founder from lack of fiscal acumen.’

‘What about the Piccadilly Company?’ probed Chaloner. ‘Would you join that?’

‘Never heard of it,’ replied Kipps briskly. ‘You have one stocking inside out, by the way. God’s blood, Chaloner! No wonder Dugdale considers you slovenly. And if you will not wear a wig, then at least remove the blades of grass from your hair.’

He fussed until he was satisfied, unwilling for the spy to leave in anything less than pristine condition. Aware that the process had taken some time, Chaloner set off across the Great Court at a run, but was obliged to skid to a halt when he heard someone calling his name.

It was Hyde, the Earl puffing along in his wake with Frances on his arm. Dugdale was behind them, nose in the air and looking more regal than his master. From the other side of the courtyard, Buckingham aped the Earl’s portly waddle, and his rakish companions burst into peals of laughter. Hyde glowered, but it was Frances’s admonishing look that shamed them into silence.

‘Will you let them mock our employer so, Chaloner?’ demanded Dugdale indignantly. ‘Why do you not draw your sword and punish them for their effrontery?’

‘Because the King will not be happy if I slaughter his oldest friend, his mistress and several of his favourite barons,’ replied Chaloner shortly. He did not have time for this sort of nonsense.

‘There is no need for impudence,’ said Dugdale mildly, although his eyes showed his anger.

‘I suggest we incarcerate him in the palace prison for a few days,’ said Hyde, eyes narrowing. ‘That will teach him to mind his manners.’

‘That is a good idea,’ nodded Dugdale. ‘They are cold, dark and full of rats.’

Chaloner regarded him sharply. Was it coincidence that he should mention rats and dark places, or did the Chief Usher know what had transpired in Clarendon House the night before?

‘Your incautious tongue keeps bringing you trouble, Chaloner,’ said the Earl, raising his hand to prevent his son from adding more. ‘I understand you accused Pratt of stealing, too. I wish you had not. What if he takes umbrage and decides not to finish my home?’

‘He will do no such thing, dear.’ Frances patted her husband’s arm soothingly. ‘His pride will not let him abandon a half-finished masterpiece.’

‘And architects are vain,’ agreed Hyde. ‘I know, because I trained as one, and met lots of them.’

‘It was hardly training, Henry,’ remarked Frances. ‘A few months on a-’

‘We were discussing Chaloner’s claims,’ interrupted Hyde sharply, clearly furious at being put in his place by his mother. ‘I do not believe he saw these thieves. I think he invented them, to encourage us not to dismiss him.’

‘We will never do that,’ said Frances vehemently. ‘I feel much happier now he is home, looking after our interests.’ She turned to her husband. ‘And so do you, dear. You said so only last night.’

‘Well, yes, I did,’ acknowledged the Earl. Then he scowled at Chaloner. ‘But that was before he failed to lay hold of these villains.’

‘I can find someone better,’ said Hyde stiffly. ‘Someone who will follow orders and keep a civil tongue in his head. Of course, he will not be a spy, but espionage is sordid anyway, and-’

‘It is sordid,’ interrupted Frances. ‘But it is also necessary. And no one will dismiss Thomas, because he is better at it than anyone we have ever known.’

She took the Earl’s arm and pulled him on their way, inclining her head to Chaloner, who was not sure whether he had just been complimented or insulted. The twinkle in her eye led him to hope it was the former. Dugdale followed, leaving Chaloner alone with Hyde.

‘I am glad we met,’ said Chaloner, although he chafed at the passing time, and hoped Hyde would not prove awkward to interview. ‘I understand you witnessed Newell’s death today.’

‘I decline to discuss it,’ said Hyde curtly. ‘And you cannot make me.’

Chaloner was sure he could. ‘I only wanted to ask who else was there.’

‘Lots of people,’ snapped Hyde. ‘Men often demonstrate new weapons in St James’s Park on a Saturday morning, and I was there with Leighton and the O’Briens. It is one of London’s favourite pastimes. Well, favourite among respectable people. I doubt you have ever been.’

‘How close were you when it happened?’

‘Quite close — touching distance.’ Hyde’s expression was suddenly bleak, and Chaloner realised that distress, not mulishness, was the reason for his reluctance to discuss the matter. When Hyde next spoke, it was more to himself than the spy. ‘The weapon was a type I had never seen before — and not one I am inclined to purchase, either, given that demonstration of its capabilities.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner sympathetically. ‘It cannot have been easy to witness.’

Hyde shuddered, and his manner softened slightly. ‘No. But never mind Newell — I have something much more important to tell you. I declined to mention it in front of my father, because I do not want him worried, but I found another letter this morning.’

‘Where?’ asked Chaloner.

‘In the Queen’s purse again,’ replied Hyde. ‘Which means she must have put it there, because no one else goes in it. It was in a different one from last time — that was red, and this one was yellow.’

‘You went in it,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘So logic dictates that someone else could, too.’

‘Yes, but I am her secretary,’ countered Hyde haughtily. ‘I am different.’

‘What did the letter say?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue. ‘And where is it now?’

‘It reiterated all the same nonsense as the first three. I put it on the fire.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, pleased Hyde had done something right at last. ‘Are you sure the whole thing was burned? No readable fragments were left?’

Hyde shot him a look of pure dislike. ‘Of course I am sure. But I cannot waste time chatting to you. I have an important Adventurers’ meeting to attend.’

The Queen’s quarters comprised a suite of rooms that were cold in winter and hot in summer, and while a few chambers afforded a nice view of the river, most overlooked a dingy courtyard near the servants’ latrine. Chaloner went through the formalities of admission with Captain Appleby, then climbed a staircase that was nowhere near as fine as the one that led to the Earl’s offices.

‘There you are, Tom,’ said Hannah, emerging from a plain and rather threadbare antechamber. ‘I was beginning to think you might have forgotten. Where have you been?’

‘Hyde found another letter today.’ Chaloner ignored the question and said what was on his mind. ‘In the Queen’s purse. Does he often rummage around in those?’

Hannah gaped. ‘He certainly should not! I would not appreciate a man rifling through mine, not even you. They are personal.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Had Hyde gone where no man should dare to root because he wanted to protect the Queen, or because he was eager to see her in trouble? And there was the question that kept nagging at him: had Hyde planted the letters there himself?

‘He said it was in a different purse from last time,’ he went on. ‘Yellow, rather than red.’

Hannah stared at him. ‘The Queen never uses the red and yellow ones — she does not like them. Her favourites are the green and white.’

Chaloner smiled. ‘Which is indicative of her innocence — if the letters were hers, they would have been in the purses she uses, not in the ones she dislikes.’

‘All well and good,’ said Hannah worriedly. ‘But it means someone villainous has access to the Blue Dressing Room — the chamber where she keeps such accessories. I shall have to work longer hours, to see if I can catch him.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner, alarmed. ‘It might be dangerous.’

‘It would be worth it.’ Hannah raised her chin bravely, reminding Chaloner of why he had married her. ‘The Queen is worth ten of anyone else in White Hall — except the Duke and you.’

Chaloner supposed it was a compliment, although he was not flattered to be likened to Buckingham. ‘I have a number of clues,’ he lied. ‘So there is no need to risk yourself just yet. But we had better make a start before Hyde comes back.’

‘He has gone for the day. Why do you think I suggested you come now? I wanted to show you how Her Majesty gets letters without him leaning over my shoulder and contradicting me at every turn. He really is the most frightful bore, and I wish she had a different secretary.’

So did Chaloner. He followed her through another grimly barren chamber, to one that was luxuriously appointed, with paintings by great masters and a wealth of fine furnishings.

‘Hyde’s office,’ explained Hannah disapprovingly. ‘He has far nicer things than the Queen.’

Chaloner searched it, going through the standard procedures to identify secret hiding places, aiming to discover anything that might prove Hyde was the author of the letters. He was aware of Hannah watching some of his checks in astonishment, no doubt wondering how he had come to learn them, but she grinned her delight when he located a secret drawer in a bureau. It was not a novel hiding place, but one in keeping with Hyde’s unimaginative but overconfident character.

Unfortunately, it contained nothing but sketches of Lady Castlemaine sans clothes. The Earl would be unimpressed to think of his son poring over such images, but it was irrelevant as far as Chaloner was concerned. Hannah picked up one of the drawings and studied it disparagingly.

‘Her knees are too big.’

‘If Hyde is responsible for writing the letters, then he has left no evidence here,’ said Chaloner, replacing all as he had found it. ‘Who else has access to Her Majesty’s wardrobe?’

‘All her ladies-in-waiting, along with a host of maids, laundresses and seamstresses — some twenty or thirty women in all. No men, of course — that would be unseemly. You interviewed them when you were last here. Clearly none struck you as sly, or you would have said something.’

‘What happens when letters arrive for the Queen?’ While Chaloner did not believe the staff would have initiated such a plot of their own volition, most would have planted the missives in exchange for money. Loyalty was cheap at White Hall, where wages were low and often paid late.

‘They are given to Captain Appleby downstairs, and he brings them to Hyde.’

‘And Hyde reads them all?’

‘He opens them all, but the ones that are personal he is supposed to pass on without perusing. Of course, he is a nosy fellow and scans the lot. Except the ones in Portuguese, which are beyond him.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then, if he thinks she should see them, he places them on this silver platter, and conveys them to her. He deals with the routine correspondence, of course — petitions, bills and so forth.’

Chaloner had learned nothing helpful, and was about to leave when a door opened and the Queen stepped through it. Meneses was with her, along with several ladies-in-waiting, who scampered away with indecent haste when they saw that Hannah was available to take over as chaperon.

‘I hope he does not stay long,’ Hannah whispered resentfully to Chaloner, ‘because there is nothing more tedious than listening to conversations in a language you do not know.’

‘Hannah tells me you have been in Tangier, Thomas,’ said Katherine pleasantly. She spoke Portuguese, and Chaloner suspected the pleasure she always exhibited when she met him derived from the fact that she was not obliged to struggle in English. ‘I hope you liked it. It was part of my dowry, and the King says it will soon become one of England’s most prized possessions.’

‘Perhaps, Your Majesty,’ Chaloner replied evasively, wanting neither to lie nor hurt her feelings.

Meneses regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Who are you? You speak our language like a Spaniard, but you do not look like one.’

‘He is Hannah’s husband,’ explained Katherine. ‘I suppose he does sound like a Spaniard, now that you mention it. I have never noticed that before.’

As Spain and Portugal were mortal enemies, speaking Portuguese with a Spanish accent was clearly undesirable, and Chaloner would have to remedy the matter when he had time.

‘Meneses has been to Tangier, too,’ said Katherine conversationally. ‘In fact, he was one of its governors, before it was handed to the English. I am sure you will enjoy talking to each other.’

Meneses’ smile was tight. ‘Alas, my sojourn there was brief, so I have little to say about it.’

‘Come, My Lady,’ said Hannah, taking the Queen’s arm and clearly intent on separating her from the man she did not like. ‘You promised to show me the new dances you have learned — the ones you will use at tomorrow’s ball.’

The Queen laughed, a pleasant sound that was rarely heard, and allowed herself to be led away. She loved dancing, and could nearly always be diverted by it.

‘The Queen is a dear, sweet creature, but easily confused,’ said Meneses, when they had gone. ‘You will ignore her chatter. She does not know what she is talking about.’

‘You mean you were not Governor of Tangier?’

‘I have never been there,’ replied Meneses smoothly. ‘But if it amuses her to think I held the title of governor, then where is the harm in letting her dream?’

He bowed and set off after her before Chaloner could ask more. The man was lying, but about what? Had he awarded himself fictitious titles to gain her favour? Or was he reluctant for anyone other than her — whose poor English did not permit her to gossip — to know of his Tangier connections, especially given his association with Fitzgerald and the Piccadilly Company?

As Meneses turned to close the door behind him, he caught Chaloner staring, and a combination of unease and anger flitted across his face. Chaloner looked away, but too late. Meneses knew he was suspicious, and Chaloner had a very bad feeling that might prove to be dangerous.

The next day was Sunday, and Chaloner awoke long before dawn when two cats elected to hold a brawl under his bedroom window. The moment he opened his eyes, he was aware of an immediate sense of frustration.

He had collected Thurloe after leaving the Queen’s lodgings, and the two of them had spent the evening being thwarted at every turn. First, Reverend Addison had been out. Second, Harley had declined to answer his door and Thurloe had baulked at breaking in. Third, they had been unable to locate Jacob’s house in Covent Garden. Fourth, Leighton had taken a number of Adventurers for a jaunt on the river; his guests included Kitty and O’Brien, so none of the three were available to describe what had happened to Newell. And finally, enquiries in the Piccadilly taverns had failed to yield a single shred of useful information.

Hannah had not been home when Chaloner had returned, and he was not sure how long he had been asleep before she had arrived. He had snapped awake with a dagger in his hand when she slid into bed beside him, although he had managed to shove it under the pillow before she saw it. Exhausted, he had dozed again, and had not woken until the cats had started yowling.

He rose quietly and went into the dressing room to hunt for fresh clothes. Then, because his stomach was tender and acidic from days of missed or hastily snatched meals, he went to the kitchen, to see whether there was anything nice to eat.

‘It is far too early for breakfast,’ stated Joan, the moment she saw him. She was still wearing nightclothes, although Nan was dressed. There was no sign of George or Susan. ‘The mistress gave strict instructions that nothing was to be served before ten o’clock on a Sunday.’

‘Well, I am not the mistress,’ replied Chaloner coolly, going to the larder. There was a pie, but remembering his injunction to George about the possibility of poison, he settled for a cup of milk instead.

‘Do not drink that,’ ordered Joan. ‘Cold milk is dangerous.’

Chaloner took a larger gulp than he might otherwise have done, and stalked past her, wishing he had stayed in Long Acre. He went to the drawing room and retrieved the singed document he had hidden in the skirting board — the one he had found in the Piccadilly Company’s rooms in the Crown. Then he opened his pen-box, and was unimpressed to note that it had been searched a second time — a pot of violet ink, which he liked for its unusual colour, had been moved. There was nothing significant in the box for the culprit to find, but it was unsettling nevertheless.

He settled down to work, trying all manner of exotic formulae, and using reams of paper in the process, but he met with no success. Bored, he leaned back in his chair to ease the cramped muscles in his shoulders, and his eye lit on his second-best viol, which he had neglected to put away the last time he had played it. He walked over to it and ran his fingers across its cool, silky wood. Then he took a sheet of music and began to go through it in his mind. A draught on the back of his neck told him someone was watching. He whipped around to see Nan.

‘Joan sent me to tell you not to make a noise,’ she said boldly. ‘It disturbs the neighbours, and the mistress is still resting.’

Chaloner had not been going to play, but the directive prompted him to bow a rather tempestuous fantasy by Henry Lawes, which expressed his feelings far more accurately than words ever could. It was not long before Joan appeared.

‘You will wake the mistress,’ she snapped, going immediately to the table where the cipher still lay. Chaloner stood quickly and went to put it in his pocket. ‘And she worked very late last night. She needs her sleep, and you are disturbing her.’

It was difficult to argue with such a remark, so Chaloner burned the useless decrypting notes in the hearth, then went to stand in the garden, craving fresh air and peace.

He was not sure of the time, but the sky was lightening in the east, and London was coming awake. It was too early for bells to summon the faithful to church, but there was a low and constant hum as carts, carriages and coaches rumbled their way along the capital’s cobbled streets. Dogs barked, a baby cried, someone was singing and there was a metallic clatter from the ironmonger’s shop three doors down. It was hardly restful, but he breathed in deeply, relishing the cool, earthy scent of the open fields that lay not far to the west.

He was not left alone to enjoy it for long. George appeared, carrying a lamp — a luxury Chaloner had certainly not considered claiming for himself. Clearly, the footman had not taken long to make himself at home in Tothill Street.

‘A smoke is the only way to start the day,’ he said, blowing great clouds of it towards the last of the season’s cabbages. He was wearing a curious combination of clothes to ward off the early morning chill, including what looked suspiciously like Chaloner’s best hat. ‘Clears the mind.’

‘Does it?’ Chaloner glanced at him, and as the footman’s fingers closed round the bowl of his pipe, he saw a smudge of violet ink on his hand, starkly visible in the lamp light. He grabbed it and inspected it more closely.

‘An accident,’ said George, freeing himself with more vigour than was appropriate between master and servant.

‘Explain,’ ordered Chaloner curtly.

‘I was cleaning the pens in your box,’ replied George, not looking at him. ‘And the ink spilled.’

‘None of my pens appeared to be clean.’

George looked him directly in the eye. ‘Then it seems I am no better at that duty then I am at most others in the stewarding line. No wonder Fitzgerald dismissed me.’

‘Speaking of Fitzgerald, did you ever sail with him on Jane?’

‘Jane? Never heard of her.’

‘Then were you with him when he traded in gravel?’

George shrugged, and produced so much smoke that it was difficult to see his face. ‘He never told me what was in his holds. And I never asked.’

A sudden screech from the kitchen made Chaloner run back inside the house in alarm, although George ignored it. He arrived to find Joan had cornered a massive rat in the pantry.

‘Fetch your gun and shoot it!’ she ordered. ‘I know you have one, because I have seen it.’

It was a brazen admission that she had been through his belongings, because he had taken care to hide the weapon at the bottom of a drawer. He stared at her, wondering whether all servants considered it their bounden duty to pry into their employers’ affairs.

‘Do not just stand there!’ she shrieked. ‘Fetch the pistol and make an end of the beast.’

‘The neighbours will complain about the noise,’ he objected. ‘Chase it out with a-’

He stopped in disgust when she swooped forward and brought a broom down on the rodent’s head. The resulting gore was far worse than death from a gun, and he was sorry for Nan, who was given the task of cleaning it up.

When he went to resume his discussion with George, the footman had gone. Was he already on his way to report the conversation to Fitzgerald — or whoever else had ordered him to spy? Chaloner finished the milk, took more because he knew it would annoy Joan, and retired upstairs, sure Hannah would be awake by now.

She was only just beginning to stir, which was impressive given the racket that had been made by the duelling cats and by Joan over the rat. He was glad he did not sleep so soundly, certain he would have been dead long ago if he had.

‘Did I hear you scraping on that horrible viol?’ she asked accusingly.

Chaloner said nothing, but wondered why his playing should have disturbed her, when all the other sounds had not.

‘I wish you had learned the flageolet instead,’ she went on. ‘Those are much nicer.’

He changed the subject quickly: they would fall out for certain if they debated the relative merits of flageolets and viols. ‘Could Meneses have hidden those letters in the Queen’s purses?’

Hannah blinked, startled by such a question out of the blue. ‘No. He is a man, and we do not allow those in Her Majesty’s dressing rooms. It would not be decent. Where are you going?’

‘Church,’ replied Chaloner, suddenly seized with the desire to be out of the house.

‘Good. You can take the servants. I want people to know we have an exotic footman.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Hannah,’ snapped Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘He is not a performing bear. He may not even be Christian.’

Hannah stared at him. He rarely lost his temper with her, not even when he was seriously angry. Her expression darkened. ‘If you cannot be civil, Thomas, it is wiser to say nothing at all.’

Chaloner rubbed his head, itching to retort that she should heed her own advice, especially in the mornings, but he was not equal to the argument that would follow. ‘You were home late last night,’ he said, changing the subject again in the interests of matrimonial harmony.

‘Because Meneses would not leave. Perhaps he did plant those letters, although I cannot imagine how. Or why, come to that — he will not gain anything if the Queen is accused of plotting to kill the vainest man in London. Incidentally, I caught Susan poking about in your pen-box when I came home last night. I hope you do not keep anything sensitive in there.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Did she explain what she was doing?’

Hannah looked away. ‘It seems you were right to distrust her. She has been accepting money from someone to spy on you. She would not say who.’

Chaloner aimed for the door. ‘Where is she?’

‘Gone. I ordered her out of the house immediately, never to return.’

Chaloner smothered a sigh. ‘It would have been better to question her first.’

‘I did question her. And I just told you all she said. Besides, I did not want her in our home a moment longer.’

There was no point quarrelling over a fait accompli, so Chaloner bowed in an absurdly formal manner and took his leave, pausing only to hide the scrap of cipher in one of his old boots, an article so grimly shabby that he was certain no one would ever be inclined to investigate within. Perhaps such a precaution was unnecessary now Susan was exposed, but he had not forgotten George’s suspicious behaviour or the fact that Joan had made a beeline for the document when it had been left on the table. As far as he was concerned, he trusted no one in his house. Not even, he realised with a pang, his wife.

Because London was terrified of religious fanatics — defined as anyone who did not follow traditional Anglican rites — Chaloner had no choice but to go to church that Sunday. The vergers made lists of absentees, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by playing truant. He could not afford to lose two hours that day, though, so he exchanged friendly greetings with the sexton in St Margaret’s porch until he was sure his name had been recorded in the register, then escaped through the vestry door before the ceremonies began.

Yet he resented the fact that such deception was necessary, feeling he had fought a series of wars to end such dictates. The injustice of the situation gnawed at him as he walked to Worcester House — exacerbated by his irritation with Hannah, George and Susan — so that by the time he arrived to ask the Earl whether Meneses had been Governor of Tangier, he was in a black mood.

He stalked past the guards and rapped on the study door with considerable force. It was opened cautiously by Edgeman, who sighed his relief when he recognised the visitor.

‘It is all right,’ the secretary called over his shoulder. ‘It is only Chaloner.’

‘It was such an imperious knock that I thought it was Parliament come to impeach me,’ said the Earl, putting his hand on his chest to indicate he had been given a fright. He was sitting by the fire, and Oliver and Dugdale were standing to attention in front of him.

‘It is unbecoming for an usher to pound on his master’s doors,’ admonished Dugdale. He looked seedy that morning, so his rebuke lacked the venom it would usually carry. ‘You made us all jump.’

‘My apologies,’ said Chaloner insincerely. He glanced at Oliver, thinking he had never seen the assistant architect in Worcester House before. It was the Earl who explained.

‘Pratt has gone to view the Collection of Curiosities that is the talk of all London, so Oliver has come to give me my daily report instead.’

‘The Earl refers to the exhibition near St Paul’s Cathedral,’ Oliver elaborated, although Chaloner recalled Farr telling him about it and reading the advertisment for it in the newsbook, so needed no explanation. An expression of gloom settled over the assistant architect’s long face as he continued. ‘And everyone who is anyone will be there today. Except me — I am the only man in the city who is not invited.’

‘That is untrue,’ said the Earl kindly. ‘I have not been asked to attend, and neither has anyone else from my household.’

Dugdale and Edgeman exchanged a smug glance that said he was wrong.

‘The rich and the famous,’ Oliver went on morosely. ‘Earls, barons and fêted merchants. Great people like Leighton, O’Brien, Kitty, Meneses and Brodrick. And Pratt, of course. But I shall be at Clarendon House, dusting banisters before the labourers return to work tomorrow.’

‘Being in Clarendon House is not that bad,’ objected the Earl, offended. ‘It is a fine place to spend a Sunday morning. Indeed, I shall be there myself in an hour.’

Oliver brightened. ‘Will you, sir? Some company would be nice.’

‘I shall bring a jug of wine, and you can show me around,’ elaborated the Earl graciously. Oliver cracked what was almost a smile. ‘So go and make everything ready. My wife and I will join you as soon as she is ready. We are expected at church this morning, but we shall attend this afternoon, instead. No sacrifice is too great where my house is concerned.’

‘You should not have yielded, sir,’ chided Dugdale, after Oliver had shuffled out. ‘It is not your responsibility to create a merry workforce. I never make any concessions in that direction myself. Indeed, I keep my ushers in line by ensuring that they are as unhappy as I can possibly make them.’

He had certainly done that, thought Chaloner, watching the Earl’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the bald confession. Dugdale started to add something else, but the Earl flapped a pudgy hand to indicate he should leave. The Chief Usher grimaced his indignation at the curt dismissal, and the bow he gave as he left was shallow enough to be impertinent. Edgeman scurried after him.

‘Well?’ asked the Earl, when the door had closed. ‘Who is stealing my bricks? And have you identified the villain who wants to kill Pratt? You are fast running out of time.’

Chaloner did not need to be told. ‘I have uncovered a lot of connections between the cases,’ he hedged. ‘And Williamson is worried about what will happen if the plot to harm the Queen succeeds — concerned for our future relations with Portugal.’

‘It would be awkward, to say the least. Moreover, I do not want Pratt to die before he has finished my home. Are you sure you saw the thieves yesterday? Henry thinks you were mistaken.’

‘Of course I saw them.’

‘There is no need to snap,’ said the Earl sharply. ‘I believe you. It is a wretched shame you did not catch them, though. Was there anything that might allow you to identify them?’

‘They were disguised.’ Chaloner moved to what he considered more important matters. ‘I need some information, sir: the names of the last Portuguese governors of Tangier.’

The Earl regarded him askance. ‘What an odd request! But it is one I can grant, as it happens. The fellow with whom I had most correspondence — as I negotiated that part of the Queen’s dowry — was Fernando de Meneses. He was later dismissed for dishonesty.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘I never met him. However, I imagine he looks Portuguese.’

It was not helpful, and left Chaloner none the wiser as to whether the Queen’s new friend was an impostor. Of course, if Meneses stood accused of corruption, and so was unable to secure a post at home, then perhaps he had come to London to try his luck with a countrywoman who might not have heard of his shortcomings.

‘I am glad you came,’ said the Earl, when there was no response. ‘Because I want you to spend the afternoon at Clarendon House. It is the workmen’s day off, so it needs guarding. Frances and I will be there this morning. You can take over at two o’clock, and stay until Wright arrives at dusk.’

Chaloner struggled to control his temper. ‘I thought you wanted me to catch the brick-thief, expose the plot to kill Pratt, and find out what happened to Teviot. All before Wednesday. How am I supposed to do that when-’

‘You have had days to make enquiries,’ snapped the Earl. ‘It is not my fault you wasted them.’

‘I have not wasted them,’ countered Chaloner in something of a snarl. ‘You ordered me to Woolwich and the Tennis Court, both of which were stupid, futile exercises.’

‘You go too far!’ cried the Earl, shocked. ‘Perhaps Henry is right, and I should dismiss you in favour of someone more amenable. Or at least, someone who does not rail at me.’

Chaloner took a deep breath, knowing he had over-stepped the mark. He was also aware that it would not have happened if he had not been troubled by his home life and its attendant problems.

‘I am sorry, sir. But something deadly is planned for three days’ time, and we need to discover the identity of the man who is giving Fitzgerald orders before it is too late. It may involve Pratt, and-’

‘Then you can do it this morning and tonight,’ said the Earl, unappeased. ‘Protecting my new home is far more important than rumours of vague plots. It is the reason I brought you home from Tangier, after all. This is not negotiable, Chaloner. You will do as I say.’

Chaloner had no choice but to agree. His temper was even blacker as he bowed and took his leave. As he hauled open the door, Kipps tumbled inside. The Seal Bearer’s expression was distinctly furtive.

‘I was not eavesdropping,’ he blustered. ‘I just wanted to know if you had finished.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner brusquely. ‘He is all yours now.’

He walked to Chancery Lane Inn amid a cacophony of bells, as churches advertised their Sunday rites. The roads were full of people flocking towards them, along with those street vendors who declined to acknowledge that there were laws prohibiting Sabbath trading, and sought to provide for those who had time and money to spare. Other services had finished, disgorging congregations into the streets, while still more were in progress, so that singing drifted through their windows.

Chaloner reached Lincoln’s Inn and ran up the stairs to Chamber XIII.

‘There is a Collection of Curiosities near St Paul’s,’ he said, opening the door and speaking without preamble. ‘We should visit it, because a lot of people we need to interview will probably be there. We might even be able to determine which of the Adventurers wants the Queen accused of plotting to kill Pratt.’

‘Good morning to you, too,’ said Thurloe drily. He was sitting at the table, and Chaloner saw he was working on the same cipher that continued to defeat him — they had made a copy the previous night. ‘Do you expect me to come with you? Before my devotions in the chapel?’

Chaloner felt the business at hand was rather more urgent than religious ceremonies, although he knew better than to say so outright — Thurloe was devout. ‘You can go this afternoon. The Earl will be doing the same, so he can mind Clarendon House instead.’

‘He is reduced to guarding his own property, is he?’ Thurloe rose with a sigh. ‘Very well, we shall go to St Paul’s, although I shall have to don a disguise. The Court is unlikely to appreciate being watched by an old Parliamentarian spymaster.’

Chaloner sat by the fire as Thurloe changed his appearance with a range of pastes, powders and an exceptionally unattractive orange wig.

‘The more I think about it, the more I am sure that Elliot is alive and masquerading as Cave’s brother,’ Chaloner said, staring into the flames. ‘Both the curate and Kersey mentioned an unusually black wig — which Elliot had. And both said “Jacob” was large and loutish.’

‘But anyone can don a hairpiece,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘While I could write you a list as long as my arm of “large and loutish” men. Lester would be on it — and we know for certain that he is alive.’

‘Why would Lester want Cave buried without a grand funeral?’ asked Chaloner impatiently.

Thurloe turned away from the mirror to regard him soberly. ‘To avenge Elliot — his shipmate and brother-in-law.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Lester is not Jacob.’

Thurloe went back to perfecting his disguise. They were silent for some time, Chaloner gazing moodily at the fire. Eventually, Thurloe indicated that he was ready.

‘Have you given consideration to Williamson’s request?’ he asked, as they walked across Dial Court towards Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate. ‘Will you work with him?’

‘No. I do not trust him, and the notion of taking orders from such a man …’

‘Take them,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘This is far too grave a matter to be affected by your pride. He has swallowed his by asking for your help. Do likewise, and help him.’

‘Then when I fall foul of him — an inevitability, given his prickly temper and our past quarrels — will you rescue me from his dungeons?’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows, and it was clear that he was thinking that Williamson was not the only one prone to bad tempers. ‘He would not dare incarcerate you. Clarendon would not stand for it.’

Chaloner recalled the hot words that had been spoken earlier. ‘I think he might.’

‘He is all bluster, but he appreciates what you do for him. His son does not, though. You should be wary of Hyde.’

‘You have warned me to be wary of a lot of people lately — Hyde, Lester, Fitzgerald. Indeed, half of London seems to be swirling with deadly villains according to you.’

Thurloe regarded him sharply. ‘They are dangerous, Thomas, and you are a fool if you discount my advice. You think Fitzgerald is less deadly than I have portrayed, and Hyde is too feeble to be a threat, while you like Lester.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Chaloner. ‘I do.’

‘Then continue to like him. Just do not trust him. That should not be difficult — you repel overtures of friendship from everyone else you meet. And I cannot say it is healthy.’

‘You trained me to do it,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled. ‘Besides, it means I am rarely disappointed when they transpire to be villains.’

‘Speaking of villains, you might want to watch Kipps, too,’ said Thurloe. ‘He professes a powerful dislike of Adventurers, but that does not stop him from hobnobbing with them.’

‘He is just friendly.’ Chaloner was becoming tired of Thurloe’s suspicions. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Did you ever harbour misgivings about Hannah’s maid Susan?’

‘I told Hannah she was sly and untrustworthy, but she — like you — declined to listen. Why?’

‘She was dismissed for spying this morning. God knows who paid her to do it. Unfortunately, she had been sent packing before I could question her.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Thurloe.