Thurloe’s suite comprised rooms on two levels, all boasting oak panelling and a comforting, homely odour of wax and wood smoke. On the lower floor were a bedchamber and sitting room, both with dark furniture that rendered them gloomy and sombre. Shelves lined the walls, bowing under the weight of books. Most were legal texts, purchased when Thurloe had decided to eschew politics and turn to the law again. Chaloner glanced at the spines, and wondered whether any had been bought from William Leybourn of Monkwell Street, Cripplegate. The upper floor comprised a garret for his manservant – an elusive, unobtrusive fellow whom Chaloner suspected was dumb – and a pantry where his meals were prepared.
When Chaloner entered the sitting room, he saw a fire blazing in the hearth and Thurloe sitting so close to it that there was a smell of singed cloth. That morning he had visitors, which was unusuaclass="underline" he was almost always alone, and there were rumours that his fall from grace had left him with no friends. One of the three guests Chaloner knew well, although it was not someone he would have chosen to meet. Ten years older than Chaloner, Sir George Downing was a florid man, whose expensive green coat failed to disguise the fact that he was growing fat. He was confident, aggressive, and cared for no one’s opinion – unless he thought the acquaintance might be useful, in which case he was greasily obsequious. Given that he had betrayed Thurloe by changing sides before the Protectorate had fully disintegrated, Chaloner was surprised to see the fellow in the ex-Spymaster’s home.
The second man Chaloner did not know. He was in his fifties, and wore an eccentric arrangement of waistcoats and doublets. All were well made, suggesting he was wealthy. When he raised his handkerchief to dab his lips, the scent of oranges wafted across the room. The hand holding the napkin was unsteady, and Chaloner was under the impression that the knock at the door had startled him. He was accompanied by a lady who wore a dress that fell in sumptuous pleats, and with short, straight sleeves that ended in a series of elaborate ruffs. It was a style made popular by those wanting to emulate the sensuous Lady Castlemaine, and Chaloner knew the neckline would be indecently low. In this case, however, the suggestive plunge was concealed by a gorget – a decorous cape-like collar – fastened with a jewelled clasp. She was considerably younger than her husband, and her lively blue eyes and aristocratic posture suggested the gorget would be whipped off as soon as she was away from the company of prim men.
‘Thomas,’ said Thurloe, as Chaloner entered. ‘You were gone so long I thought you had decided not to come back. What happened? Are you limping?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner, aware that Downing was regarding him with open disdain. He glanced down and realised his clothes were dishevelled and stained, and was annoyed the man should see him looking quite so disrepu-table. He did not want him to have the satisfaction of knowing his refusal to provide a reference had reduced a former ‘employee’ to near destitution.
‘You cannot hide it for ever,’ said Downing spitefully. ‘Being lame cannot make it easy to find profitable work. No one hires cripples, when there are whole men to be had.’
Before Chaloner could think of a suitable reply – the ones that sprung immediately to mind were far too vulgar to be uttered in Thurloe’s genteel presence – the ex-Spymaster went to a jug on the table, gesturing towards the hearth as he did so. ‘Sit, while I pour you a tonic, Tom. My physician recommended this potion of strengthening herbs, and it does help of a morning. Take that stool.’
Chaloner declined, knowing perfectly well that he would struggle to rise once he was down, and when Thurloe gave one of his small, secret smiles he inwardly cursed his stiff knee – the seat had been offered to test his fitness, and Chaloner’s refusal had told the clever lawyer exactly what he had wanted to know. Thurloe handed him something brown in a silver goblet, which he accepted cautiously: as a man often in poor health, Thurloe tended to swallow a good many draughts that promised vitality and well-being. Most tasted foul and all were probably worthless.
‘Have we met before?’ asked the stranger, studying him. ‘There is something familiar about you.’
‘Your paths have never crossed,’ replied Thurloe with considerable conviction. He held out his hand for the satchel. ‘Did you buy my cinnamon, Tom? It is difficult to come by these days, and there is nothing like spice in hot milk on a cold winter’s evening.’
‘You have gone from diplomatic envoy to housemaid, have you, Heyden?’ asked Downing with a sneer. ‘Could you not find a better use for your talents after we parted company? You must have fallen on very hard times if that wig is anything to go by.’
‘That is hardly his fault,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘Clerks flocked to London in their thousands after the Restoration, and there is little hope for a man without proper testimonials, as you know very well – just as you also know that one from me would do him scant good, either. No household professing to be Royalist would employ a man recommended by a former Parliamentarian minister.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped he was mistaken.
Downing waved a plump hand, to indicate he did not consider Chaloner’s predicament important. ‘I dismissed nearly all my retainers last spring, because I want everyone to know that I only hire Cavaliers. Obviously, that description does not apply to the men who were pressed on me by you, John. We are friends, but I am sure you appreciate my point.’ He shot Thurloe a meaningful glance.
Thurloe grimaced, and it was clear to Chaloner that he did not consider Downing a friend, and nor was he happy about the indiscreet references to matters of intelligence.
‘You dismissed anyone you suspected of remaining loyal to Cromwell, Sir George?’ asked the woman, regarding the diplomat with some amusement. ‘How can you be sure you eliminated the right ones?’
‘By ridding myself of the lot, except for some maids, women who …’ Downing flapped his hand expansively.
‘Come to your bedchamber when your wife is away?’ suggested Chaloner.
‘Whom I know to be firm Royalists,’ finished Downing with a scowl.
‘Why did you decline to write their testimonials?’ the woman asked. ‘Because you do not want other wealthy households to harbour deadly Roundheads under their roofs?’
‘I gave them all testimonials, except Heyden here,’ replied Downing curtly, not liking the tone of her voice. He glowered at her, while Chaloner recalled how he had thought Thurloe overly cautious five years before, when he had insisted that Downing should not know his real name. Now he was greatly relieved by it. In fact, Thurloe was the only man in London who did know and, given the rabid Parliamentarian convictions of one of his uncles – the most widely known and outspoken member of his family – Chaloner hoped to keep it that way.
‘And what did poor Heyden do to incur your displeasure?’ asked the woman with arched eyebrows. ‘Provide an alternative bed for these Royalist lasses?’
‘Sarah!’ exclaimed Thurloe, shocked. As a devout Puritan, although by no means a fanatic, lewd jests were anathema to him. ‘Please!’
‘I do not like his handwriting,’ replied Downing stiffly, although a shifty expression in his eyes indicated she was near the truth. ‘And he made two mistakes with my accounts – minor ones, it is true, but a clerk must strive for accuracy.’ He glanced at Thurloe, passing the message that if errors were made in this, then could Chaloner’s espionage reports be trusted?
‘Two small errors in the five years he served you is hardly serious,’ said Thurloe reproachfully. ‘And his other skills must have been of value to you – his fluency in Spanish, French and Dutch, for example.’
‘Dutch?’ asked the stranger with a sudden eagerness. ‘How well can you speak Dutch?’