B004BDOJZ4 EBOK

by Susanna GREGORY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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