‘I heard it was Fanny who told him where to go,’ said the boatman, laughing. ‘Robinson took a fancy to the spoons, and was seriously considering the offer.’
Leybourn waved a hand to indicate detail was unimportant. ‘It is common knowledge that Bennet had decided to wed Fanny, so it was deeply mortifying for him to be publicly rejected.’
‘Why did he think he had a chance?’ pressed Chaloner. He had guessed, from Bennet’s clothes and demeanour, that he considered himself something special, and his attitude to Kelyng had verged on the insolent. But even with delusions of grandeur, it was still a massive leap from hired servant to the son-in-law of an influential merchant.
‘Ambition and an inflated notion of his own worth,’ replied Leybourn. ‘And he was rejected for two reasons. First, because he is just what he appears: a bully in fancy clothes. And second, he is in the pay of Kelyng, and no one wants anything to do with him.’
‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Because he is a fanatic, and thus a man without reason. Although he is said to be fond of cats.’
‘It was men with violent opinions who got the last king beheaded,’ stated the boatman, giving voice to an inflexible view of his own, ‘and who got that traitor Cromwell on the throne–’
‘Cromwell was never king,’ said Chaloner pedantically. ‘The crown was offered, but he refused.’
‘Only because he knew he could never keep it,’ said Leybourn acidly. ‘I suspect he was sorely tempted by the thought of King Oliver.’
‘Did you see him dug up?’ asked the boatman conversationally, as he rowed. ‘When I learned he was going to be prised from his tomb, I went to watch. I saw his corpse plucked out and taken to Tyburn for hanging.’
‘I was busy,’ said Leybourn distastefully. ‘But Kelyng was there, laughing his delight. Inflicting justice on Roundheads – dead or alive – is the sort of thing he enjoys very much.’
Chaloner winced. He was not particularly squeamish, but very little would have induced him to witness such a spectacle. To him, the Royalists’ treatment of Cromwell’s body had smacked of a spoiled child stamping its foot because it had been deprived of its revenge, and he recalled the revulsion of the Dutch when the story had reached Holland. He did not know how Englishmen dared accuse Netherlanders of debauched and grotesque behaviour when they hacked up old corpses to provide the public with an afternoon of entertainment. He could not imagine what a black day it must have been for Thurloe, to see the remains of his friend so barbarously treated.
When the craft bumped against the seaweed-draped Temple Stairs, Leybourn dropped some coins in the boatman’s hand – enough to earn him a pleased grin – and clambered inelegantly to dry land. He waved away Chaloner’s offer to pay half.
‘Who are you?’ asked Chaloner, as he and the bookseller walked along the narrow lane that divided the Middle Temple from Inner Temple. London’s four ‘Inns of Court’ – Lincoln’s, Gray’s, Middle Temple and Inner Temple – were all solid, semi-fortified foundations that stood aloof from the teeming metropolis that surrounded them, and within their towering walls stood peaceful courtyards, manicured gardens and gracious halls. But the public alley that ran between Inner and Middle temples, and provided access to the river from Fleet Street, was a foetid tunnel with a gate at either end, and a world apart from the rarified domains it transected. ‘You are no mere peddler of books.’
Leybourn was indignant. ‘No, I am not! Robert and I print and sell books to earn an honest crust, but I am actually a surveyor and a mathematician of some repute. Have you never heard of me? I have written a number of erudite pamphlets and treatises. You can come to see them in my shop if you do not believe me.’
Chaloner remained unconvinced. ‘Who do you work for? The King?’
‘I work for no man!’ protested Leybourn. His expression became spiteful. ‘It is a good deal safer that way, if you are anything to go by. First Kelyng was after you, then Bennet. What have you done to make such dangerous enemies?’
‘It must have been a case of mistaken identity.’
‘Really,’ said Leybourn flatly. ‘Well, do not underestimate them. They may be bumbling fools, but they are dangerous ones. Kelyng is so ardently Royalist that he sees conspiracies everywhere, and if he thinks you are an enemy of the King, he will not rest until you are dead. And Bennet is vengeful, mean and ambitious. You would be wise to stay out their way.’
‘So would you. It was your tobacco that brought about Bennet’s ducking. But thank you for the ride.’ They were nearing the end of the lane. ‘If there is anything I can do in return …’
‘A generous offer,’ said Leybourn sullenly, ‘from a man who declines to tell me where he lives. I will never find you again, even if I do have a favour to ask.’
‘You can leave a message for me at the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane.’
‘I might, then,’ said Leybourn. He forced a smile. ‘I have enjoyed meeting you, Heyden. It is not every day I am obliged to rescue someone from waving pistols.’
‘And it is not every day I owe my life to a well-lobbed ball of tobacco,’ said Chaloner with a pleasant smile, passing through the gate at the end of the lane and emerging into Fleet Street. ‘Good morning, Mr Leybourn – and thank you.’
Once through the gate, Chaloner limped towards St Dunstan-in-the-West, unwilling to visit Thurloe until he was sure he was not being followed. Fleet Street was perfect for tailing someone, because it was chaotic and busy, and the huddle of illegal stalls along each side provided ample opportunity for disguise and concealment. Leybourn was adequate – he kept his distance and exchanged his wide-brimmed hat for a skullcap – but nowhere near good enough to fool Chaloner. Smiling, because he had suspected from the start that the encounter had been engineered, Chaloner ambled past the church, then ducked behind a carriage, using it as a shield to mask his entry into the game shop at the end of Fetter Lane.
Bright pheasants, pearl-feathered pigeons and dull-eyed rabbits swung from the rafters, while the limp bodies of deer were draped in the window, like curtains. The room smelled of the sawdust scattered on the floor and the cloying scent of old death: some of the corpses had been hung rather too long. Chaloner pretended to be inspecting a hare as he waited to see what would happen outside.
Within moments, Leybourn appeared, looking this way and that in mounting annoyance when he realised he had lost his quarry. Chaloner was puzzled. Who was he? The man had certainly saved him: Bennet could not have missed at such close range, and it had only ever been a faint hope that he could have been out-rowed. But why had Leybourn risked himself? Had Thurloe set a spy to watch a spy? But how could Thurloe have known Chaloner would end up near White Hall when he was dispatched to follow the two robbers?
After a while, Leybourn gave up the chase and walked back the way he had come. Chaloner waited a moment, then made for the door. Escape, however, was not to be so easy. Blocking the exit was the largest bird he had ever seen and, unlike the other feathered occupants of the shop, this one was alive and looked dangerous. It fluffed up its green-brown feathers, and the bare skin on its neck flushed with bad temper.
‘Do not move,’ came a hoarse whisper from the back of the shop. ‘If you do, it will have you.’
‘Thomas!’ cried another voice, this one familiar. At first, Chaloner could see no one, but then he spotted his neighbour’s daughter, Temperance, crouching atop a cupboard and clutching her drab Puritan skirts decorously around her knees. He liked the nineteen-year-old, who was as tall and almost as bulky as he, but who had a kind face and gentle hazel eyes. He often thought that if her father had allowed her more social contact, then they might have been friends.