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 deat
h 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 eas
t 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.
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 6
