‘Like a native, so they said,’ replied Downing before Chaloner could answer for himself. ‘He jabbered incessantly in the filthy tongue when he was in Holland, and I dislike servants having discussions I cannot understand. You never know what they might be saying about you.’
‘I do business with the Dutch,’ said the man. He raised his handkerchief to his lips again. ‘It is rare to find an Englishman who knows their language. Perhaps I might have a place for you, Heyden. Visit my house on the Strand next week. Thurloe will tell you how to find it.’
‘Once or twice, there was uproarious laughter,’ Downing went on darkly, shooting the fellow a glance full of comradely warning. ‘I am certain he was cracking jokes at my expense – making sport of me in the knowledge that I had no choice but to sit there and grin like a half-wit. Think very carefully before you make any decisions, my friend.’
‘You told me to do all I could to impress The Hague’s burgesses,’ said Chaloner, neither denying nor confirming the charge. ‘So that is what I did. And that particular alliance brought you a lucrative treaty, so I do not think you should complain about how I came by it.’
‘You insolent whelp!’ exclaimed Downing, struggling to his feet. ‘How dare you speak–’
‘Sit down, Sir George,’ interrupted Thurloe sharply. He gazed steadily at the spluttering diplomat until he complied, then turned to Chaloner. He was angry, objecting to sparring matches carried out in his presence. ‘You are pale, Thomas; perhaps you have taken a chill. Go to my bedchamber and lie down. I will see you when my business is completed.’
‘I shall bring you some more tonic,’ offered Sarah, going to fetch the jug and indicating Chaloner was to precede her into the adjoining chamber. ‘I am not very interested in hearing their tedious discussions, and would rather have you tell me where I can buy good cinnamon.’
‘Leave the door open so we can see you, then,’ instructed her husband. ‘And keep your voice down. We do not want a noisy analysis of condiments distracting us. Our business is important.’
Chaloner was uneasy. He did not want a woman quizzing him about spices when he had not the faintest idea where they might be purchased, suspecting he would be caught out in an instant. However, Thurloe’s visitors seemed keen to rid themselves of him, and nodded approvingly when Sarah ushered him into the next room, leaving the door decorously ajar. Downing immediately began a malicious diatribe about ungrateful staff, and only desisted when Thurloe regarded him with unfriendly eyes. Then their voices dropped to inaudible murmurs, suggesting business was underway. Chaloner perched on the edge of the bed, while Sarah kindled a lamp.
‘Do not sit there,’ she advised. ‘You will spread muck on John’s clean blankets, and he will not like that at all.’
Chaloner moved to the hearth, watching her take one of Thurloe’s night-caps and drop it in a pot that was warming over the fire; the ex-Spymaster was fastidious and liked hot water available all day. She rolled the steaming garment into a ball and handed it to him. He regarded it blankly.
She sighed impatiently. ‘For your leg, to ease the ache.’
‘There is nothing wrong–’
She slapped it into his hand. ‘Take it – unless you want to give Downing cause to jibe you.’
‘Thurloe will no more want grime on his night-cap than he will on his bedclothes.’
‘We will burn it when you have finished. He has a dozen, and will not miss one. My husband seemed to recognise you, and he is usually good with faces. Where could you have met?’
‘Nowhere,’ replied Chaloner. He knew for a fact he had never encountered the man before – he would have remembered the orange-scented linen and the fellow’s lumpy nose. ‘He is confusing me with someone else.’
‘Perhaps so. He is not himself at the moment – too many financial worries, I suppose. What shall we talk about? Cinnamon? Or would you prefer to tell me your problems?’
Chaloner was startled. ‘What problems?’
‘Downing hates you, and you are unlikely to secure another post as long as he refuses a testimonial. My husband will offer you work, but it will only be a matter of time before Downing makes him change his mind – he is a slippery, conniving fellow, and my husband always yields to him eventually. Were you one of John’s spies? Is that why Downing is afraid of you?’
‘I am not a spy,’ replied Chaloner firmly. ‘And Downing is not afraid of me – I only wish he were, because then he might keep his nasty opinions to himself.’
She took the cap and soaked it in the water again. ‘It is no secret that John once employed an army of agents – or that some of them now want places in the new government. Downing sent him information about the political situation in the Netherlands, and I assume you did the same, since you worked with him and you speak Dutch. Well? Am I right?’
‘You have a vivid imagination,’ said Chaloner, smiling because he did not want to offend her. ‘I was just a clerk.’
She regarded him critically, head tilted to one side, then continued as if he had not spoken. ‘Downing professes himself to be a Royalist now, and is keen to eradicate all evidence of his former loyalties. John will say nothing about him, because he and Downing share too many secrets. But can Downing be sure you will not? I suspect the answer is no, and that is why he is wary of you.’
Chaloner wondered if she was right. He and Downing had never liked each other, although they had kept their antipathy decently concealed until events in March had brought their true feelings to the surface, but it had never occurred to him that Downing might see him as a threat. He hoped she was mistaken: Downing was the kind of man to make life very difficult for those he considered a nuisance.
‘Then why is he here?’ he asked. ‘Meeting Cromwell’s old Secretary of State is not the best way to go about eliminating ties with the former regime.’
‘John has been asked to provide reports about Britain’s relations with various foreign powers,’ she explained, ‘and Downing was an ambassador to the Dutch. Therefore, being seen conferring with John is a good thing at the moment, because it means Downing is providing a vital service in the government. But we were talking about why Downing detests you.’
‘Probably because of Metje de Haas,’ he said, to lead her away from politics.
‘Who is she?’
‘His daughter’s governess, whom I helped to evade his charms. He never did catch her.’
Sarah gave a grin that was at odds with her haughty demeanour. ‘Good. I do not like to think of women violated by those fat, pawing hands. Where is she now? Holland? Or is she one of the secret Parliamentarians he dismissed when he returned to London?’
Chaloner saw no reason not to talk about Metje. It was safer than discussing whether the powerful Downing was a good Royalist. He glanced to where Thurloe leaned towards the portly diplomat, listening to a whispered monologue, and wished he would hurry up, so Sarah would stop trying to interrogate him. ‘She is in the service of William North the jeweller – a companion to his daughter.’
‘You mean Temperance?’ asked Sarah, her face alight with sudden pleasure. ‘I know her! She and her family came from Ely, just after the Restoration. We used to meet in St Paul’s Cathedral and explore the traders’ booths together, but then her father declared such places out of bounds, on the grounds that they sell ribbons – the kind of wicked fripperies that insult his Puritan sensibilities. We seldom see each other these days, which is a pity. I suppose he hired this Metje because Temperance was lonely after the ban on shopping. Do you still see Metje?’