Thurloe seemed about to reply with something equally tart, but then changed his mind. ‘Tell me what happened this morning. You retrieved the satchel, so I conclude you had some sort of encounter with the villains who murdered poor Charles-Stewart.’
The pouch lay on the table, and Chaloner noted it had not been opened. ‘I chased them to the Holborn Bridge, where they disappeared into a maze of alleys and–’
‘The Fleet Rookery,’ interrupted Thurloe grimly. ‘It has an alehouse, where plots were hatched to kill the Lord Protector. I went myself once, and overheard one plan discussed in the most brazen manner. It has been a breeding ground for rebels for years, and I suspect it will continue so, regardless of who sits on the throne.’
‘People tried to kill Cromwell?’ As soon as he saw the flicker of surprise in Thurloe’s eyes, Chaloner knew he should not have asked the question.
‘I forget you are unfamiliar with your own country – although I had not imagined you to be quite so uninformed. There were many assassination attempts, although most were the bumbling efforts of amateurs. But let us return to today. You chased the thieves into that festering hotbed of treachery …’
‘I overheard them say they were in the pay of a powerful lawyer, so I decided to find out who. They went to White Hall, where a servant wearing a yellow doublet paid them–’
‘Kelyng dresses his retinue in yellow.’
‘You know Kelyng?’
This time Thurloe made no attempt to disguise his astonishment. ‘Surely you have heard of Sir John Kelyng? Really, Thomas! How can I recommend you to the government when you do not know its most infamous officials? How long have you been back?’
‘Since March, sir, but not all of it in London. I spent several months in Buckinghamshire.’
‘I know,’ said Thurloe dryly. ‘It was I who suggested you visit the siblings you have not seen in a decade, if you recall. Families are important, and you had been away too long from yours. However, your absence is not a valid excuse for such ignorance. Continue.’
The interview was not going well. Now Chaloner felt he was lacking in two areas: his weak leg and his poor knowledge of current affairs. ‘Kelyng and his chamberlain were in the garden – presumably awaiting the arrival of the satchel – and there was a skirmish. The servant was killed.’ He saw the shocked expression on Thurloe’s face. ‘Not by me. Bennet threw a dagger.’
Thurloe stared at him. ‘They killed their own man?’
‘Kelyng referred to him as Jones, but he claimed with his dying breath that his name was Hewson.’
Emotion burned briefly in Thurloe’s eyes, but was extinguished so fast Chaloner was not sure whether he had imagined it. ‘Most men call for priests or physicians, but this fellow told you his name? Did he say anything else?’
‘That we should praise the Lord, and that it was dangerous for seven.’
‘Seven what?’
‘He did not say. I think he was raving.’
‘That was all? He mentioned no other names, no messages for loved ones?’
‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering why Thurloe should be so interested in a death that was essentially irrelevant. The ex-Spymaster was silent for a moment, then indicated that Chaloner should continue. ‘Kelyng shot at me, but I escaped. The crowds at the Banqueting House assumed the gunfire was Downing’s doing – falling off his horse in his haste to ride next to the King.’
‘A whisper. That is all it takes to start a rumour. Your uncle taught me that.’
‘Which one, sir?’ asked Chaloner archly, not wanting Thurloe to think his entire family consisted of the arrogant, witty hedonist who had signed the previous king’s death warrant. ‘James? Peter? Robert?’
Thurloe pursed his lips. ‘I forgot your grandfather sired an inordinate number of brats. Eighteen, was it, from two wives? But I only knew one of them. Your Uncle Thomas used to amuse himself by fabricating a tale, then timing how long it took before the gossip was repeated back to him in a garbled form. It sounds foolish, but it taught me how powerful rumours can be. Then what happened?’
‘Bennet followed me until I was able to lose him.’
‘I wondered at the time whether that pair of cut-throats might be in Kelyng’s employ. It is a pity they killed Charles-Stewart: he was only a boy, and his mother will be devastated.’
‘Their names are Snow and Storey, sir, and they will be easy to catch. I can go to–’
‘No,’ said Thurloe tiredly. ‘If we send them to Newgate for hanging, Bennet will only replace them with others, and we will have lost the advantage of knowing who they are. Let them be for now. They will face justice soon enough – God’s justice, if not man’s.’
He stared into the flames and appeared to be lost in his thoughts. Chaloner glanced at the pouch again. ‘Are you going to look inside the satchel, to see if everything is there, sir?’
Thurloe shook his head. ‘There is no need, because I know exactly what it contains. Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Chaloner was confused.
‘Nothing. It is empty.’
Chaloner did not know whether to be angry or amused that Thurloe had sent him on a fool’s errand. He started to stand, thinking it was time he drew the interview to a close. Thurloe had already said he could not arrange his return to Holland, and there was no point in lingering.
Thurloe waved him back down with an impatient flick of his hand. ‘I wonder you managed to send me all those detailed reports, if you are in the habit of tearing off in the middle of conversations.’
Chaloner tried not to be irritated. He did not know Thurloe well – they had only met on a handful of occasions, and most communication had been in the form of letters. Each had ended his missive with polite enquiries after the other’s family, and occasionally they had confided various worries or concerns, but the general tenor had been brisk and impersonal. He began to think it was easier to serve Thurloe from a distance, and that he would probably dislike the man if he ever broke through his cool reserve and came to know him better.
‘I have had a trying morning,’ said Thurloe, pouring himself more tonic. ‘First, Charles-Stewart. Then Downing foisting himself on me, trying to make me attend meetings in which I have no interest and asking questions about you. And now Hewson. I thought I had finished with murder and subterfuge when I was dismissed from power, but they seem to follow me around.’
‘You will never be finished with them, if you arrange for empty satchels to be delivered to you, sir,’ said Chaloner, rather acidly. ‘Such activities smack of skulduggery.’
Thurloe grimaced. ‘Downing said you were insolent, and he was right. But let us return to Kelyng, before we both say things we may later regret. Ever since the Restoration, he has vowed to destroy me – he accuses me of planning a revolt, with Richard Cromwell as its figurehead.’
‘The King does not agree. If he did, you would be in the Tower.’
Thurloe nodded. ‘And the truth is I no longer have any interest in politics. Kelyng is wrong about me, and most people know it, thank God. However, he keeps trying to catch me out.’
‘By intercepting your post?’
‘Yes, although I arranged alternative methods of receiving letters months ago, and lads with satchels are a ruse. However, I confess I was surprised to learn he is brazen enough to order one snatched from my very hands.’
‘You were lucky his men did not kill you, too.’
‘He would not dare. The new government still needs my advice, and as long as I am useful, I am safe. He would not harm me physically, and risk incurring the wrath of his king.’
‘But the men he hires are stupid – one might disobey him or knife the wrong man. Or he may try to damage you in other ways, perhaps by putting forged documents in these pouches.’