‘Neither will I, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Clarendon, rubbing his hands. ‘All is settled, then.’
Once away from the grandeur of White Hall, Chaloner hauled off his new wig and scrubbed at his hair, glad to be rid of something that was hot, itchy and uncomfortable. He wanted to consider the implications of his allotted task, and reflect on the man who had assigned it to him, so began to walk to his favourite coffee house, thinking about the Lord Chancellor as he went. On first acquaintance, Clarendon came across as genial and slightly absurd. However, he had taken the precaution of investigating the spy recommended by Thurloe, and had learned something very few men knew, which suggested some degree of competence. Had he discovered a secret about Clarke, too, who had then been killed because he was deemed unsuitable? Would Chaloner also be found stabbed in a White Hall corridor – because he had failed to locate the gold, because he had located it but the Earl wanted no witnesses, or because the Earl did not want the nephew of a regicide in his employ?
Tucked away near Covent Garden was Will’s Coffee House. It was a large, noisy establishment, patronised by officials who worked at White Hall and merchants whose premises were on the Strand. Like most coffee houses – and more were being built each year – Will’s was the exclusive domain of men, and was consequently a hearty, smoky place. Chaloner liked the pungent scent of tobacco as it mingled with the acrid odour of burning wood in the hearth, and there was something pleasantly heady about the exotic aroma of coffee beans. Will’s was also a good place to go, because its owner allowed his customers to buy pots of coffee on credit.
Chaloner was about to open the door when he sensed something amiss. It was nothing tangible, more of a tingling at the back of his neck, but he had not survived ten years by ignoring such warnings, and had learned to trust his instincts. He moved away from the door, and when a handsome coach decorated with the Duke of Buckingham’s crest collided with a brewer’s cart, he capitalised on the chaos to slip into a wigmaker’s shop. From a shadowy corner near the window, he had a good view of the road, but was invisible to anyone looking in. Moments later, the door clanked to admit a woman, while outside, two men peered through the glass, making a pretence at examining the displayed merchandise.
‘Mr Heyden,’ said the wigmaker, a Frenchman named Jervas. His expression was one of agitated consternation, which intensified when he saw curls dangling from Chaloner’s pocket. ‘Are you dissatisfied with the piece I sold you Saturday? Or have you come to demand your own hair back? If so, then it is too late – I have promised it to another client, and he has been in for fittings.’
The door opened and the two loiterers strolled inside. They were Snow with his jet-black boots, and fair-headed Storey. Chaloner glanced through the window, and saw the stout, menacing presence of Gervaise Bennet across the street, distorted to monstrous dimensions by imperfections in the glass. He shot an apologetic smile at the wigmaker and addressed him in his native tongue, confident the two louts would not be able to understand him.
‘I am eluding creditors, Monsieur. Tend your other customers and ignore me.’
Jervas tapped the side of his nose in manly camaraderie, and moved away to speak to the woman, a tall, elegant lady who carried a fan and whose expensive dress had more ruffles and frills than Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir. With a jolt of unease, Chaloner recognised Sarah Dalton. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye in a way that made him sure her presence there was no coincidence. Surely she could not be working with Bennet and Kelyng?
Meanwhile, Snow and Storey sauntered to the rear of the shop, where they began to try on the more expensive hairpieces. The way to the door was clear, but Bennet was standing with his hand inside his coat, and Chaloner saw through their plan in an instant – he was not about to be herded out of the building and into the sights of Bennet’s pistol. The dagger in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand, and he moved silently to where Storey was sniggering at the sight of Snow in an elaborate auburn affair that reached his waist.
‘I recommend the black wigs today, Snow,’ he said, speaking in a low voice, so the man almost jumped out of his skin. He had not expected Chaloner to approach him. ‘The red ones have lice.’
‘I do not need a wig,’ said Storey, fingering his oily yellow locks with pride. He glanced at his friend’s dour expression, and collected himself, belatedly pretending to be surprised that Chaloner should address him. ‘Who are you? We have not met before.’
‘Why are you following me?’ asked Chaloner, in the same low voice. He did not want to attract Sarah Dalton towards a situation that might end in violence, no matter whose side she was on.
‘Bennet hired us to ask you a few questions, then kill you,’ replied Snow, seeing there was no point in continuing the charade: they had been exposed and that was that. ‘He paid us two shillings.’
Chaloner was taken aback by the bald confession. ‘Why does he want me dead?’
‘Kelyng probably told him to arrange it,’ replied Storey. ‘But we never asked why.’
‘You commit murder for them, and they do not bother to tell you the reason?’ Chaloner asked, making his voice drip contempt. ‘They must think very little of you.’
‘It is because you killed One-Eyed Jones,’ snapped Storey, nettled. ‘They want revenge.’
‘But they want questions answered first, you say? What do they want to know?’
Storey smiled, revealing a set of unexpectedly white teeth. ‘That is more like it. Cooperation. They want the names of John Thurloe’s six brothers.’
Chaloner was taken aback at the bizarre nature of the enquiry. ‘What for?’
Storey’s grin vanished. ‘How should I know? They just want names and the places where they might be found. If you tell us, I will kill you quickly – you will not feel a thing.’
Chaloner was surprised Kelyng should need anyone to furnish him with such information – Thurloe was fond of his family, and their identities were no secret. ‘Well, there is Thomas, who lives in Becket,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Then there is another John, this one from Gaunt, and there is Guy from Fawkes. Would you like me to continue?’ He waited for the inevitable eruption of anger.
Storey shot him an apologetic grin, while Snow counted off the names on his fingers. ‘We cannot remember all that, and it would not do to get it wrong. Would you mind writing it down?’
Bemused, Chaloner went to where Jervas kept his pens and ink, and began to scribe. He was aware of Sarah watching him curiously. ‘This is a very strange thing to be asking.’
Storey agreed with a sigh. ‘There is no fathoming the likes of Kelyng and Bennet. Still, they do what they must to rid London of traitors, and it is not for us to question their tactics.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Bennet saw you coming out of White Hall,’ said Storey, prepared to be helpful in his turn. ‘We have been watching the area, although we had little to go on – a lame man with short hair.’
Chaloner was furious at himself for making two elementary mistakes: removing his wig and forgetting to disguise his limp. They combined to make him easily identifiable, and the area around the Royal Mews was sufficiently busy that Bennet had obviously predicted it would not be long before his quarry appeared. Just because Chaloner had put the incident in Kelyng’s garden to the back of his mind did not mean Kelyng had done so, too.
‘How do you know I killed Jones?’ he asked.