That day, every spare patch of wall boasted a work of art, and boards had been set up along the middle of the chamber to hold more. Sombre Dutch masters rubbed shoulders with the lighter, softer colours of the Venetian schools, and there was an atmosphere of hushed awe from the spectators. Chaloner turned his attention to the floor, which comprised squares of red and white marble, all in sad need of a scrub. He made for the far end of the hall and began to count: seven tiles from the door, and three from the second window. His uncle’s slab was slightly different than its neighbours, because the mortar holding it in place had been scraped away. Dirt had dropped into the resulting gaps, but it looked as though no one had raised it since the older Chaloner had deposited his five hundred silver crowns there the night he had fled the country. It would make a pleasant surprise for his sons one day – but not yet. There were still too many unfriendly eyes on the regicides’ families, regardless of the fact that most had been powerless to prevent what their kinsmen had done.
Chaloner left when a steward demanded the entrance fee, and headed for the Court Gate, which stood just north of the Banqueting House. He had never been inside White Hall palace, although he had travelled along King Street often enough, and he was obliged to ask the way to the Lord Chancellor’s offices. The soldier issued directions that were difficult to follow, sending him across the spacious yard known as the Great Court, and into a chaotic huddle of buildings that were mostly occupied by the Queen’s servants. He turned left when the soldier should have said right, and found himself in a second yard, this one boasting an individual buttery, pantry, wood shed, coal shed, stable, kitchen and laundry for virtually every White Hall resident. He passed through a gate that then locked behind him, so was unable to retrace his steps when he realised he was heading in the wrong direction. It was not long before he was hopelessly lost.
He continued to wander, confused by the palace’s jumble of buildings and alleys. Some houses were ancient and verging on ruinous, although they had probably been splendid in their day, while others were rambling Tudor monstrosities, all irregular angles, brick chimneys and thick timbers. Others still were modern, hurled up quickly and cheaply, without regard to function or style. The result was a messy village populated by scurrying clerks, aloof retainers, arrogant courtiers and a smattering of clerics. Eventually, he found someone willing to escort him, and was conducted to an elegant wing overlooking the manicured expanse of open ground called the Privy Gardens. The Lord Chancellor was in good company, Chaloner’s guide informed him, because he had Prince Rupert as a neighbour on one side, and the King on the other. The clocks were striking ten as Chaloner knocked to be admitted.
Clarendon’s quarters were impressive, as befitted a principal advisor to the King. They boasted several cartoons by famous Flemish artists, and a Renaissance sculpture of Hercules. Chaloner was admiring the latter when the Earl entered, so soft footed in velvet slippers that he did not hear him arrive, and spun around in alarm at the sound of a voice so close behind him. His reaction startled Clarendon, who dropped the vase he was carrying. It shattered with a crash on the marble floor, and the guards in the hall immediately burst in, pistols at the ready.
‘Intruder!’ yelled their captain, spotting Chaloner. ‘Shoot him!’
‘No!’ cried the Earl, waving short, plump arms as they aimed their weapons and Chaloner dived for cover behind him. ‘It was an accident. A vessel slipped from my fingers.’
The captain regarded Chaloner with narrowed eyes. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I admitted him, sir,’ said one of the soldiers uncomfortably. His voice took on a wheedling tone. ‘He has a written invitation.’
‘Give it to me,’ ordered the captain. He snatched the proffered missive and read it several times, while Chaloner watched uneasily, hoping no one had made a mistake. Eventually, it was handed back with a curt nod, and the captain turned to Clarendon. ‘It is lucky you stopped us, My Lord, or we would have killed him. He is not on the visitors list you submitted on Friday.’
‘He is from Thurloe,’ said the Earl in a whisper, although his voice was still loud enough for Chaloner to hear, and probably some of the soldiers, too. He gave a slow, meaningful wink. ‘Thurloe. We do not include his men on our official lists.’
‘Another spy,’ said the captain flatly. ‘Well, I hope he is better than the last one. Mind your feet, sir. You do not want to cut yourself through those thin slippers. What did you drop? A wine jug?’
‘A crystal vase,’ said Clarendon, inspecting the mess sorrowfully. ‘I always said it was a bad idea to use exquisite art for everyday use, but the King likes to be surrounded by fine things.’
‘I had noticed,’ muttered the captain. He spoke a little more loudly. ‘I shall fetch a brush, sir. Meanwhile, I advise you not to walk about.’
The Lord Chancellor nodded then waved a chubby, ruff-clad hand to indicate the soldiers were to leave. While they shuffled out, Chaloner studied him covertly. Sir Edward Hyde, recently dubbed Earl of Clarendon, was short, fat and fussy, and did not look at all like the kind of man who had navigated a disenfranchised king through years of bitter exile. He wore a fluffy wig that made his face look pouchy, and his clothes were tight and unflattering. Chaloner had heard that younger, wittier courtiers had no respect for Clarendon, although he was reputed to be a man of principle, and that they teased him about his obesity.
‘Philip Evett is a good sort,’ said Clarendon, once the door had closed. ‘He has been with me for years – ever since I went into exile with the King – and it is good to have a trustworthy man in charge of my personal safety. Did you see how quickly he dashed in to protect me?’
Chaloner nodded, not pointing out that if the sound had been a discharging gun, then the captain would have been too late. ‘Yes, My Lord.’
Clarendon lowered his voice. ‘Did Thurloe tell you what happened to Colonel Clarke? He was murdered – his belly sliced open like a pig’s. It happened not far from where you are standing now.’
‘Did it?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether the Earl was trying to unnerve him by describing what had happened to his predecessor. Was it some sort of warning, or perhaps a threat?
‘In a corridor that leads to the servants’ quarters. The poor maid who found him screamed herself hoarse with fright. I had asked him to investigate a series of thefts from the kitchens, so I imagine he was stabbed because he had uncovered the villain. I found papers in a secret pocket in his tunic, but they were written in cipher, and I have not been able to break the code.’ The Earl rummaged on his desk and presented Chaloner with several slivers of parchment. ‘Can you do it?’
Chaloner could: it was the common substitution code he and other agents used for sending routine messages to Thurloe, and was familiar enough to allow him to read it without a crib. One message was short, and informed the recipient that Seven were in considerable danger. The other was longer:
It hath pleaysed God hitherto to give alle men an opportunitaye to Praise God’s One Sonne above alle else, and I am with greate passion to see it donne.
‘These were concealed in Clarke’s clothing?’ he asked, thoughts tumbling in confusion. ‘Praise God’s one son’ was the phrase Hewson had muttered as he had died; Hewson had also made mention of the number seven.