Chaloner was some distance away, but did not need to hear what was being said to understand the gist of the conversation. Snow approached obsequiously, adopting a submissive posture, like a weak dog in a pack of hounds; Bennet swelled at the sight of such brazen subservience. Snow said something, and Bennet’s every gesture expressed his anger. Snow cringed, as if he was afraid of being struck. Then he handed over the piece of paper containing the names of Thurloe’s ‘brothers’, and Chaloner braced himself for fireworks. But Bennet only pocketed the note, indicating with a nod that Snow was dismissed. The felon lurched away, while Bennet continued to wait.
Eventually, Bennet was joined by another man. It was Kelyng, who seemed surprised to see his henchman leaning against a wall in a bustling part of the Strand. Chaloner watched Bennet pass him the paper, then laughed when Kelyng went rigid with rage. Spitting his fury, Kelyng ripped the note into tiny shreds and began to scream abuse that was audible even at a distance, most of it centred around the fact that Bennet was so stupid that it was not surprising the Lord Mayor’s daughter had refused him. Wanting to hear what transpired when Kelyng’s temper was spent and his voice dropped to a more moderate level, Chaloner edged closer.
He was fortunate: Kelyng hauled his chamberlain towards the ramshackle premises of a grocer – an ancient, rickety affair jutting into the street in a way that had recently been deemed illegal because it interfered with the free flow of traffic. Chaloner eased towards them, making his way past rough shelves that displayed maggoty cabbages and tough turnips, eventually taking up station behind a teetering pyramid of apples. Kelyng shoved Bennet into a corner and continued to rail, while the grocer slunk to the opposite end of his domain and pretended not to notice. He studiously ignored Chaloner, too, clearly thinking that those who eavesdropped on Kelyng and Bennet did so at their own peril.
Bennet did not take kindly to being manhandled, even by the man who paid his wages. He freed his arm with a glower, but Kelyng was too interested in giving vent to his own spleen to notice the dangerous expression on his chamberlain’s face.
‘… a disaster,’ he was snapping. ‘Thurloe probably knows by now.’
‘He already knows you intend to bring him low,’ replied Bennet tightly. ‘This latest incident with the limping agent will not surprise him.’
‘But I do not want him on his guard,’ snarled Kelyng. ‘It will make my task all the more difficult.’
‘The damage was already done,’ argued Bennet. ‘The agent will already have told him what happened in your garden. What occurred today makes no difference one way or the other.’
‘But why did you try to kill the spy?’ demanded Kelyng furiously. ‘His death will serve no useful purpose, and might even prompt Thurloe to take some sort of revenge against us. I do not want hired assassins after me when I am trying to cleanse London of traitors.’
‘I was trying to disarm a loose cannon – to rid us of a man who might cause problems later.’
Kelyng switched to another topic, pacing restlessly in the narrow space and sounding as though he was talking more to himself than to his henchman. ‘I wanted the letter in that satchel. I needed it to build my case, and we came so very close to getting our hands on it. Damn that spy!’
‘What was in it?’ asked Bennet, sounding as though he did not much care. ‘A missive from one of Thurloe’s foreign agents?’
Kelyng made a face, to indicate he thought Bennet a fool for asking. ‘All those are forwarded straight to Williamson these days. I cannot find any fault with Thurloe’s conduct there – unfortunately. But I have reason to believe this latest satchel contained something pertaining to his brothers.’
Bennet was nonplussed. ‘You mean his half-brother, Isaac Ewer, whose widow married Clarke?’
‘No, stupid,’ snapped Kelyng. Chaloner saw the chamberlain bristle, and suspected Kelyng would soon have a problem: Bennet disliked the way he was being treated, and was fast reaching the point where he would rebel. ‘Ewer has been dead for years. I mean his other brothers – and we are not talking about St Thomas à Becket, Julius Caesar or Guy Fawkes, either. Fool!’
‘His other Ewer kin are nothing,’ said Bennet, rigid with barely controlled anger. ‘I looked into them myself: they are poor farmers with no interest in politics.’
‘That is why I wanted that satchel!’ Kelyng snarled. ‘I know the Ewers are irrelevant, but Thurloe has six other brothers, and I believe the contents of that pouch would have told me their names. The limping agent might know, too, but you let him escape. I told you to arrest him, but instead you take matters into your own hands – interviewing him yourself, then trying to kill him. You are an idiot.’
Bennet gritted his teeth. ‘I will kill him for you.’
Kelyng sighed in exasperation. ‘I do not want him dead: I want him in custody. However, I doubt he knows much. He is a hireling, like you, and obviously not trusted with important secrets.’
There was a tic at the corner of Bennet’s mouth. ‘With respect, sir, he made a fool of you–’
‘He made a fool of you,’ shouted Kelyng. ‘And watch where you are putting your great clumsy feet, man! You almost trod on that dog.’
‘A dog! I do apologise,’ breathed Bennet almost inaudibly. He glowered at the mutt, and for a moment, Chaloner thought he might strike the back of Kelyng’s head when he bent to pet it.
Kelyng seemed oblivious to the fury that was boiling in his accomplice as he swept the animal into his arms. ‘Thurloe is so close with his secrets that even Dalton cannot worm them out of him.’
‘Dalton?’ asked Bennet. His temper was under control, but Chaloner thought he looked more dangerous for it.
‘His sister’s husband. He is doing his best, but Thurloe trusts no one, and the documents Dalton manages to steal for me have been next to useless – defunct property deeds and letters to physicians.’
A funeral procession rolled past outside. The cart carrying the coffin clattered on the cobblestones, and the two women at the front leaned on each other and wailed in a way that suggested they would never overcome their grief. They wore veils and black flowing cloaks, and Chaloner had seen them before: professional mourners, employed to put on a good show when the next-of-kin felt they were not up to the task. Others followed more sedately, talking among themselves in the way of people who have not seen each other for a long time. Their good-humoured chatter and the women’s howls drowned out the discussion between Kelyng and Bennet, and Chaloner was obliged to wait until the cortège had passed, hoping he did not miss anything important.
He thought about what he had learned so far. Thurloe trusted his sister, but he had said nothing about her husband. Did that mean he knew Dalton was betraying him? Thurloe was astute, and might well have recognised his kinsman’s treachery. Or was he blissfully unaware, and would be shocked when he found out? The procession finished eventually, and Chaloner was able to hear again.
‘… that Thurloe should walk free when he served Cromwell.’ Kelyng spat the last name, which frightened the dog into scampering away. ‘It is because of Thurloe that the Commonwealth lasted as long as it did. Without him, one of our rebellions would have succeeded, and we would have had the King back on his throne years ago.’
‘I know.’ Bennet’s bored tone suggested he was used to this kind of rant.