Thurloe indicated Chaloner was to sit opposite him, then huddled close to the fire, as if the discussion had chilled him. ‘Downing really is a selfish scoundrel. He suggested I order you back into his service just now. He detests you, and the feeling is clearly mutual, but he could not bear the thought of Dalton having a clerk who can speak Dutch, while he does not.’
Chaloner was hopeful, prepared to put up with Downing if it meant gainful employment. ‘Is he planning to return to The Hague soon?’
‘No – and I strongly suggest you decline any post offered by him. He cannot be trusted and you will not be safe under his roof. I will never tell him your name and family connections, but that does not mean he will not learn them for himself.’
Chaloner was disappointed by the advice. ‘We will be at war soon, and Britain needs intelligence agents – preferably experienced ones – in place as soon as possible. I could do a lot of good for our country, if the government would only send me back.’
‘Unfortunately, that is easier said than done, as far as you are concerned. You need an official diplomatic post in order to operate efficiently, but our government has appointed its own people and dismissed the ones I hired. It is a ridiculous – not to mention dangerous – situation, since it takes years to cultivate reliable informants, as you know. But I cannot force Williamson to take you, even though it would be in England’s best interests.’
‘Williamson?’
‘Joseph Williamson, a clever tutor from Oxford. He is in charge of intelligence now. He is astute, quick witted and will do well in time, but I have no influence over his decisions. All I can do is offer names to the Lord Chancellor – the Earl of Clarendon – and hope he passes them to the right quarters. I have had scant success so far: none of the spies I recommended have been hired by Williamson.’
‘Because he does not trust people who once worked for you?’
‘Almost certainly, and I do not blame him. I would be wary myself, were I in his position. You are in an unenviable situation, Tom: you cannot return to Holland alone, because you need the cover of an ambassador’s entourage for your work, but Downing declines to recommend you to his replacement in The Hague. As I see it, the only way forward is to prove yourself first by working here.’
Chaloner was unhappy. ‘But in Holland I watched shipyards, monitored the manufacture of cannons, stole nautical charts, and started rumours to damage Dutch alliances with France and Spain. I did not spy on my fellow countrymen, and being an agent in a foreign country is not the same as being a spy here. I do not have the right skills for such work.’
Thurloe sighed. ‘We live in changing times, and only those prepared to adapt will survive. I will suggest you are used where you will be most effective, but I doubt my advice will be acted upon – at least, not immediately. You may find the choice is reduced to doing what you are told by the new government, or abandoning espionage altogether.’
Chaloner stared at the fire. He had known the situation was unpromising, but had not imagined it to be quite so bleak. He thought about his encounters with Kelyng, Bennet, Snow and Storey, and then being questioned rather more keenly than was appropriate by Leybourn and Sarah Dalton. He did not understand London’s tense, bitter politics, and disliked not knowing whom he could trust. It was a bad position for a spy to be in.
‘Who is Sarah Dalton, sir?’ he asked after a while. ‘She asked a lot of questions.’
‘I trained her well, then.’
‘She is one of your agents?’ Chaloner supposed he should have guessed.
Thurloe nodded. ‘I would have told you – both of you – before I left you alone together, but it was impossible under the circumstances. If she quizzed you, then it was on my behalf. Even though I am no longer Spymaster, a faithful few still supply me with gossip. I am lucky they do, or men like Downing would have had my head on a block months ago. As it is, I am too knowledgeable to kill.’
‘I am glad to hear it, sir.’
‘If anything happens to me, and you need a friend, you can turn to Sarah. I am not in the habit of divulging my agents’ identities, but England is turbulent, and everyone needs someone he can trust.’
‘She supported Cromwell, was a Parliamentarian?’
‘Not really. Like all of us, she witnessed the undesirability of civil war, and wants to ensure we do not travel that road again. What she supports is stability and peace. I imagine you feel much the same. Most of my people do.’
‘Do you know a bookseller called William Leybourn, sir?’ asked Chaloner, after another pause.
Thurloe nodded. ‘I buy legal pamphlets from him on occasion, although he is best known for his erudite contributions to mathematics and surveying. Why do you ask?’
‘He also asked a lot of questions.’
‘It seems you have had a busy morning, fending off all these interrogations. Shall I summon a physician to tend your leg, or was Sarah able to help?’
‘There is nothing–’
Thurloe’s voice was cool. ‘Do not lie, Thomas. I dislike being misled, especially since it has already cost me my favourite night-cap.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Thurloe could not possibly have seen what he and Sarah had been doing from his fireside chair. ‘How did you–?’
‘Because it was not on the pillow where I left it, there is a suspicious pile of ashes in the hearth, and your breeches are damp around the knee – where I know you were hit by splinters from an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby. You were sixteen, and should have been at your studies.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, trying to mask his annoyance. The last statement had told him exactly who had revealed the secret he had been to such pains to conceal for the past seventeen years: his uncle, the regicide. The older Thomas Chaloner had dragged his nephew from Cambridge, very much against his will, and later claimed he had joined the New Model Army of his own volition. Chaloner had not been expected to live after Naseby, and by the time he had recovered and learned what had been said about him, it was too late to correct the story.
Thurloe settled more comfortably in his chair. ‘You seem surprised I know about your private life. You should not be. First, your uncle and I were friends, and so of course we discussed our families. And second, I was particular about my agents, and investigated them very carefully before I hired them. I know more about you than you imagine. I know about a lot of people. Why do you think my head is not on a pole outside Westminster Hall?’
‘I assumed because of your detailed knowledge of foreign affairs, sir.’
Thurloe smiled enigmatically. ‘Well, there is that, too.’
A knock at the door preceded a visit from some of Thurloe’s relations, who filled the room with boisterous shouts and laughter. Thurloe sat amid the chaos like a king, revered by the men, fussed over by the women and clamoured at by noisy children. He said little, but reached out to ruffle a boy’s hair here or chuck a giggling girl under the chin there, and it did not seem possible that such a quiet, mild man held secrets that could destroy some of the most powerful men in the country. Chaloner withdrew to a corner, although it was not long before the whirlwind of happy voices had retreated – they were to travel to Thurloe’s own wife and children at his manor near Oxford later that day – and he and the ex-Spymaster were alone again.
‘Marriage is a splendid institution,’ Thurloe observed smugly, knowing he was unusually fortunate. ‘And children are a blessing from God. Do you have any plans in that direction?’
Chaloner felt like retorting that he probably knew the answer to that question already, given that he seemed to have probed so many other private aspects of his former spy’s life. ‘Possibly.’