‘I will not rest until he is in his grave – him and all the evil minions who helped him, no matter who they are or what they did.’
‘So you have said before. Many times.’
‘So, there are six to go,’ concluded Kelyng. ‘I think–’
‘Is that Tom Heyden?’ came a voice from the other side of the apples. Chaloner winced when he recognised William Leybourn, the inquisitive bookseller. ‘That is a handsome cassock. Can I assume you dressed up to see the paintings?’
His voice was loud, and Chaloner glanced towards Kelyng and Bennet, to see whether they had heard his name brayed so cheerfully. Fortunately, they were more interested in their own discussion, Bennet listening intently to what his master had to say. Chaloner wished he could hear, too, but that was not possible with the bookseller clamouring about which picture was the most valuable.
‘I am busy, Leybourn,’ he interrupted tersely. ‘Perhaps we could discuss this later.’
‘You are inspecting apples,’ said Leybourn, startled. ‘How is that so pressing?’
Chaloner itched to shove him away, but did not want to create a scene. ‘Another time.’
Leybourn was offended. ‘Very well. I apologise for breaking into your reverie on fruit, and I shall certainly think twice about approaching you in the future.’
‘Good,’ breathed Chaloner under his breath. But by the time Leybourn had gone, Bennet and Kelyng had left the grocer’s and were climbing into a carriage that bore them away. His eavesdropping was over.
Deep in thought, Chaloner retraced his steps to Will’s Coffee House, only to find the building mostly empty. It was well past the time when men gravitated towards such places for their midday meals, and only the stragglers were left.
The establishment was managed by a man named William Urwin, who played the violin to his patrons and recited mediocre verses of his own composition. He was also the proud owner of a collection of ‘curiosities’, which included the mummified body of an ape, a German clock with chimes, and a psalter said to have belonged to the Venerable Bede.
The coffee house’s lower floor also served as a barber shop, where patrons could be shaved and, if necessary, be bled and have teeth drawn. The upper level was more conventional, and comprised a large room full of tables where men could dine with companions, and small booths around the edges if they craved solitude. The upstairs was devoid of customers that day, most preferring the diminishing company of the lower chamber, but Chaloner opted for a booth anyway. He drew the curtain to repel anyone who might want to talk, and sat stirring the thick, murky brew in front of him. He continued to stir and to think, until the coffee grew cold and the venison pastry on the plate at his side congealed in its viscous gravy.
Until that March, his life had been straightforward – the wars, his studies at Cambridge, a brief spell as a clerk in Lincoln’s Inn, and then duties overseas. He had only ever served one master – Downing did not count, because Chaloner had worked independently of him, and the diplomat had rarely given him orders – and suddenly he was faced with the prospect of juggling between two men who would be demanding of his loyalties: the Earl of Clarendon and Thurloe. The count could be raised to four, if North and Dalton were to be included. He found himself uncertain as to what to do.
He knew he stood at an important crossroads, and that any decision he made would dictate the rest of his life. He had four choices. He could take the sensible option, which was to return to Buckinghamshire and live quietly. The Chaloner estates at Steeple Claydon were large, if not wealthy, and there would be a corner for him somewhere, although he was loath to inflict himself on his siblings at a time when it was difficult for former Parliamentarians to make ends meet. He supposed he could earn a living by teaching at the local school, or perhaps even enrol in his old College at Cambridge and take a higher degree, although neither prospect filled him with enthusiasm.
The second possibility was to return to the United Provinces. He had friends there, and it would not be difficult to secure a post as a clerk. But administration without the additional thrill provided by spying would be tedious, and there was also the fact that discord was rumbling between the two nations. As part of a diplomatic or ambassadorial mission, he would have an excuse for being there, but it would be dangerous to go alone. He suspected it would not be many months before Englishmen in Holland would be in an untenable position, and it was one thing to be executed as a spy when he was guilty, but another altogether to be shot when he was innocent.
His third choice was to accept the challenge thrown down by the Lord Chancellor. However, he sensed with every fibre of his being that the Earl would not make a good master. His agents would not be safe, and Chaloner would probably spend a good deal of time looking over his shoulder, not sure who to trust – especially if Thurloe wanted him to investigate murders and spy on Royalist fanatics at the same time.
And finally, he could decline the Earl’s commission and continue to work for North, his income occasionally boosted by translating for Dalton. But he could not survive long on such meagre earnings, and Metje would never marry him.
He stirred the cold beverage, wondering what Thurloe would say about him being forbidden to explore Clarke’s death. The ex-Spymaster was sure to ask what he had been ordered to do instead, and Chaloner had promised not to mention the missing gold. He intended to keep his word, not out of loyalty to the Lord Chancellor, but because the Earl might have ordered his silence to see how far he could be trusted. Or was Thurloe doing the testing, to assess whether Chaloner’s allegiance would be with his old master or the new one? He rubbed his eyes. There were no answers, and it was one of few times in his life when he was wracked with indecision.
He had been allotted three independent tasks: unveil Clarke’s killer, monitor Kelyng and find some buried treasure. Any investigation involved talking to people and listening to speculation and rumour, and he supposed it was not impossible to research all three cases simultaneously without overstepping the boundaries he had been set. He had juggled a good deal of complex information in the past, and the prospect of carrying out three enquiries at the same time did not daunt him.
He considered what he knew, beginning with Clarke. Perhaps most pertinent were the two messages found in his clothing, written in the kind of code that indicated they had been intended for Thurloe. One had contained the phrase ‘praise God’s one son’ and the other had mentioned the number seven. Both had been written in the same hand as the note on Clarendon’s desk that had declared PRAISE GOD’S ONE SON in lemon juice or onion juice – which became visible only when heated, and was a well-known device for sending secret information.
Had Clarke penned them all, or had he taken them from someone else? Chaloner was inclined to believe they were Clarke’s, and Clarke had died before he could pass them to their intended recipient. Praising Jesus was also the message breathed by the dying Hewson – or was it Jones? Clarendon claimed he could not decode the cipher, although that was irrelevant, since the presence of the onion- or lemon-juice message indicated the Earl had some knowledge of the odd phrase, and possibly even knew what it meant. Did Thurloe know, too? And was Clarke’s death a result of his dabbling with the information they contained, or something to do with the thefts from the White Hall kitchens?
Secondly, he thought about Kelyng. He had learned two things. First, Dalton was passing him Thurloe’s secrets, and second, what Kelyng hoped to learn by intercepting Thurloe’s post was the identity of his brothers. What brothers? Thurloe’s only male blood kin were the Ewers, whom Kelyng had dismissed as of no consequence. Chaloner wondered whether it was significant that Kelyng had mentioned six brothers – which made seven when Thurloe was included. And the number seven had been muttered by Hewson as he had died and was included in one of Clarke’s ciphered notes. It suggested a connection between Kelyng and the messages Hewson and Clarke had been trying to pass.