‘Do not yell at me when I have just saved your life.’
‘The gun was not loaded, if you recall.’
‘But I did not know that when I raced to your rescue. It still counts.’
He suspected there was no point in arguing. ‘All right,’ he said tiredly. ‘Thank you.’
She seemed satisfied with his capitulation. ‘Will you escort me home, or do you plan to leave me standing in this filthy lane until that man wakes up and strips me of my virtue?’
‘I doubt they would dare,’ muttered Chaloner unchivalrously.
The Dalton house on the Strand was a grand affair of yellow brick. It was set back from the street, separated from it by a strip of garden that had been planted with blocks of herbs. Lavender, mint, lemon balm and rosemary stood to attention within their designated enclosures, although their sweet aroma did little to mask the pungent stench from the urine barrel that was waiting to be emptied. Judging by its overflowing state, the collectors were late.
Inside, the scent of freshly baked pies filled the hall, which was a pleasant place lit by coloured-glass windows on either side of the door. Servants hurried to take Sarah’s hat and cloak, and she indicated with an imperious gesture that Chaloner was to follow her along a corridor. Chaloner was about to say he had other business when a door opened, and Dalton came out on a waft of oranges. There was also something less pleasant, a hint of burning, which made Chaloner wonder whether he had been destroying documents.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded of his wife. ‘I have been looking for you.’
Since Chaloner had last seen him, Dalton had undergone a transformation. He looked pale and troubled, and there were rings around his eyes that suggested he slept badly.
‘To see the King’s paintings,’ replied Sarah coolly, clearly annoyed by the tone of his voice. ‘I told you at breakfast. Had you forgotten?’
Dalton rubbed his face and relented. ‘I wondered whether you had gone to visit your brother.’
‘I am worried about him. Did he tell you Kelyng tried to steal his post again? That man will not leave him alone.’
‘Sweet God!’ breathed Dalton, appalled. ‘Why does Kelyng not concentrate on men who mean the King harm now, rather than ones who took Cromwell’s side during the Protectorate? It makes no sense to me.’ He shook his head, and changed the subject. ‘Did you like His Majesty’s paintings?’
‘Not much,’ replied Sarah. ‘There were too many naked fat women in them – like on the Banqueting House’s dismal ceiling.’
‘Rubens,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘Most people admire his use of colour and light.’
She waved a dismissive hand, and turned back to her husband. ‘Do you remember Heyden, dear? He visited John sporting a horsehair periwig on Friday, and now he wears none.’
‘Wigs are a sore trial; I would just as soon go bareheaded.’ To prove it, Dalton whipped off his own, revealing a few grey wisps on a balding pate. He looked twenty years older, and Chaloner was treated to a stronger waft of burning. The merchant had definitely been wearing his hairpiece when he had been near a fire.
‘Put it back on, dear,’ said Sarah, taking it from him and jamming it firmly on his head. It was not quite straight, although he did not seem to care. ‘Or you will take a chill.’
‘Have you come about employment, Heyden?’ Dalton asked. ‘I recall inviting you, although my mind is full of other problems at the moment. Business,’ he added hastily, as if he were afraid Chaloner might think his concerns ranged along other lines. ‘All about business – and a clerk with a knowledge of Dutch would be a great asset, although Downing tells me you are dishonest.’
‘He is a fine one to talk!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘A more disreputable snake does not exist.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Dalton. ‘Which is why I usually ignore his opinions. Thurloe speaks highly of you, though, and that is a fine compliment. He approves of very few men.’
‘There are not many who deserve his approbation,’ said Sarah dourly. ‘Kelyng, Downing, Bennet, the Duke of Buckingham. None are men I would choose for decent company.’
‘I do not need you yet, Heyden,’ said Dalton, ignoring her. ‘But come next Monday, and I shall have some documents ready for translation. And now I should leave you, or I will be late.’
‘Late for what?’ asked Sarah.
‘Downing summoned me to an urgent meeting,’ said Dalton unhappily. ‘I do not want to go, but I cannot plead illness, because he has seen me up and about this morning.’
‘You need not do everything he says,’ said Sarah. ‘John resists his charms, and so could you.’
‘But your brother has nothing to lose,’ said Dalton. ‘He was Secretary of State and now he is a lawyer – you cannot sink much lower than that. But I have a great deal of money tied up in this city, and cannot afford to aggravate important men without good reason. Still, I am loath to go, after what happened this morning. I shall see you for dinner, Sarah. Good day, Heyden.’
‘What happened this morning?’ asked Chaloner, when he had gone.
‘Over the past few weeks, he has been spotting old friends who are dead,’ replied Sarah unsympathetically. ‘These “turns”, as he calls them, are probably induced by worry over his new Dutch contract. If it is successful, it will bring him great wealth – not that he needs more. Will you accept his offer and translate for him?’
‘Probably.’ It sounded dull, but would be a good deal safer than working for the Lord Chancellor. Also, there was the fact that Metje had encouraged him to accept anything offered by Dalton, and he did not want to disappoint her.
Sarah regarded him thoughtfully. ‘My brother never – never – discusses his spies with me, but he often talks about you and says I can trust you. I think he is more concerned about Kelyng’s machinations than he is willing to admit, and is making the kind of preparations that suggest he considers himself to be in mortal danger. He wants his friends to know each other.’
‘I am not his friend,’ said Chaloner, startled. ‘Just someone he hired.’
‘You underestimate the affection he holds for you – you do not write to a man every week for ten years and not come to feel something for him. If John is in danger from Kelyng, will you help him?’
Chaloner was surprised by the appeal, and imagined Thurloe would be horrified if he knew what his sister was doing, dignified and private man that he was. He nodded, although he suspected he would not be of much use, given that London and its people were such a mystery to him. ‘If I can.’
‘Thank you,’ she said softly.
As soon as he had escaped from Dalton’s house, Chaloner retraced his steps along the Strand, and was amazed to see Bennet still standing opposite the wigmaker’s shop. He estimated his skirmish with Snow and Storey had occurred nigh on an hour ago, and was astonished the chamberlain had not guessed something was amiss and gone to investigate. Chaloner certainly would have done, since the only reason for Snow and Storey not to have appeared with bloodstained hands was because they had become victims themselves. As he had nothing particularly pressing to do, he took up station near the New Exchange, with its double galleries of booths and stalls, and waited to see what would happen.
Bennet was becoming impatient. He stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, indicating he had been standing still too long, and his hand strayed frequently to the bulge under his cassock where his pistol lay. Once or twice, he seemed about to brave the traffic and go to see what had happened, but he was indecisive, and ended up doing nothing. Eventually, Chaloner glimpsed a pair of very black boots making their way towards him. It was Snow, swaying unsteadily and with his hand to his head.