The Earl nodded as he took them back, stuffing them carelessly inside a drawer. ‘Yes. I assume they relate to the investigation he was conducting for me, but I cannot be certain until I have their meaning.’
‘Perhaps I could look into the matter for you, sir,’ suggested Chaloner, trying to sound as though the idea had just occurred to him.
‘No, thank you,’ said Clarendon curtly. ‘He was Thurloe’s kinsman, sent to me as a favour because I asked for a good spy. I feel responsible for his death, and consider it far too important a matter to entrust to someone I do not know – no offence. I will order Evett to work on it with me.’
Chaloner tried again. ‘I have some experience with–’
‘I said no,’ said Clarendon firmly. ‘If you see him, you can tell Thurloe that he need not fear the culprit will go unpunished, because I am looking into the crime personally. Now, since we are alone, we should take the opportunity to talk privately, Heyden. Or do you prefer to be called Chaloner?’
Chaloner kept his expression blank. ‘Either is acceptable, sir,’ he said, assuming Thurloe had told him his real name, although he could not imagine why. His family connections would hardly encourage the Earl to hire him, which meant he would not be able to do what Thurloe had asked.
Clarendon pursed his lips. ‘I expected to see some reaction when I mentioned the fact that I know your uncle signed the warrant that killed the King’s father.’
‘I did not condone my kinsman’s actions, sir. I would have stopped him, had I been able.’
‘Brave words, but unfortunately not ones that will see you safe from vengeful hands – and there are far too many of those around these days. Thurloe did not tell me, in case you wonder how I come to know – your uncle did. I met him in France once, where he mentioned a nephew of the same name who was Thurloe’s Dutch agent. I drew my own conclusions when Thurloe described your career. Besides, you have your uncle’s eyes – a fine dark grey. However, this information will remain with me alone, and in White Hall you will be known as Thomas Heyden.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Chaloner, wishing his uncle had been less verbose. Between dragging him to war and telling Royalists he was Cromwell’s spy, it was almost as if the man had wanted him killed. He might have assumed that were the case, had it not been for the fact that he was the only one entrusted with the secret of the hidden silver.
The Earl sighed irritably. ‘You could at least pretend to be grateful for my magnanimity. Do you know why I am prepared to keep your identity quiet?’
‘Because Thurloe said that knowing a secret about someone will ensure he will never betray you?’
Clarendon’s eyebrows shot up. ‘He most certainly did not! He said the key to loyalty is making sure people are paid on time, if you must know. But I am prepared to protect you because our country has an urgent need for reliable men, and we are not in a position to be choosy. I understand you know a great deal about Holland, and you speak the language well enough to pass for a Dutchman.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Thurloe thinks you should return there as soon as possible, because he says there will be a war soon. The problem with that plan is that Cerberus – that is what I call George Downing, because he is such a twofaced dog – does not share Thurloe’s good opinion of you, and Joseph Williamson, who has taken charge of the intelligence services, declines to hire men with dubious testimonials. Thurloe suggests we put you to the test – we use you here for a few months and allow you to prove yourself. Will you accept the challenge?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, feeling as though he was selling his soul – and to a man who did not know that the mythical Cerberus had three heads. ‘What would you like me to do?’
Clarendon smiled. ‘Here comes Evett with the brush, so we shall have no more talk of regicides and spies in Holland. I shall tell you what I want, as soon as we have cleaned up this mess.’
The captain had brought the kind of broom that was used to sweep leaves from the garden, and was wholly unsuitable for collecting small shards of glass from a marble floor. Neither he nor Clarendon seemed aware of the fact, and a good deal of effort went into something that should have been completed in moments. The Lord Chancellor tutted and fussed over the breakage.
‘Can this be repaired, do you think, Heyden?’
‘No, sir. It has shattered into too many pieces.’
‘Well, collect them up anyway, and I shall work on them this evening. The King is hosting another masque. It is bound to end late, and I shall need something to keep me occupied, since the racket will keep me awake.’ He dropped to his knees. ‘Put the larger bits in my handkerchief. Come on, or we shall be here all day.’
Chaloner knelt and began to gather splinters. He was unhappy, worried by the fact that his uncle had been very loose tongued to members of an enemy court, and wary of the panting, sweating man on the floor beside him, suspecting there was more to the Earl than he allowed people to see. The desire for deception meant he was potentially dangerous, and Chaloner began to see what sort of life he might lead if he followed through with the challenge.
He stood to collect one or two fragments that had somehow landed on the desk. As he did so, he noticed that among the scattered papers were reports from the five agents Thurloe had sent. For example, Simon Lane’s familiar scrawl read:
C talked all through church with Jo.
Leaving such communications lying around was careless at best, and criminally negligent at worst. Pretending to pat the table for more shards, Chaloner shoved Lane’s missive under another document for safety, but was startled when his tampering revealed a paper on which praise god’s one son was printed in large, capital letters. The words were brown, and the parchment scorched: they had been written in lemon or onion juice, which needed to be heated before it became visible. Some of the letters were similar to ones in the notes the Earl had found in Clarke’s clothing, suggesting they had been penned by the same person.
He crouched behind the table to hide his consternation. Who had sent the Lord Chancellor a missive containing that particular phrase, and what did it mean? Or had it been intended for someone else, and the Earl had intercepted it? And why had Clarke converted the same words to cipher and hidden them in his secret pocket? Were the Earl and Clarke associated with John Hewson, who had ordered Chaloner to praise God’s one son as he lay dying, or was that coincidence? Chaloner did not think so. He was beginning to think there was an important message in those four syllables, something vital enough for Hewson to gasp with his last breath.
‘I think that is all of it,’ said Evett eventually, standing with his cupped hands full of glass.
‘Put it on the table by the window, if you please,’ said the Earl, following him, to make sure he did as he was told. ‘Perhaps I shall work a miracle tonight, when the King and his courtiers chase each other around dressed as wild animals.’
‘Wild animals?’ blurted Chaloner, unable to help himself. He was disconcerted and uneasy, already regretting his promise to do the Earl’s bidding. It would be safer to walk away and have no more to do with any of it. And do what? The notion of being a burden to his family was a powerful reason to see the thing through. He tried to gather his scattered, disorganised thoughts, before he made a mistake or said something best kept to himself.
‘The masque,’ said the Lord Chancellor, as if that explained everything.
‘They dress up,’ added Evett in a disapproving undertone. ‘Skins, feathers and furs have been arriving all week, and most of them stink. No one will be allowed in unless he or she is in the guise of some wild beast. The King will be a lion, naturally, and Lady Castlemaine will not tell anyone her chosen creature. She says we must wait and see.’