‘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 declin
ed 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.’
Chapter 3
Thurloe was unsettled by the notion that one of his former spies was in prison, and decided to visit Dillon in Newgate Gaol immediately; Leybourn went with him. Meanwhile, the day was now sufficiently advanced for Chaloner to head for St Martin’s Lane, where the Trulocke brothers had their business, and ask about the beggar’s gun. It was drizzling heavily, a sullen, drenching spray that soaked through clothes and turned the streets into rivers of mud. Water splattered from the eaves of houses, black with soot from the smoking, grinding industries that huddled along the banks of the Fleet river.
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 7
