Chaloner started to laugh after the preacher had strutted inside the chapel. He was surprised to find Temperance smiling, too.
‘Is he quite sane, do you think?’ she asked, watching Hill reach the pulpit and begin to leaf through the Good Book for a suitably rabid text. Two sections were particularly well thumbed, and Chaloner suspected they were the violently radical books of Daniel and Revelation.
‘Not really. If you have any influence over your parents, you should tell them to muzzle the man. He is doing your community no good with his controversial opinions.’
‘I know,’ said Temperance. ‘But unfortunately, they never listen to me. If they did, there would not be a turkey usurping our kitchen.’
After Temperance had gone, Chaloner lingered a while, unsettled by his argument with Metje, by the man who had tried to entice him into the alley, and by Preacher Hill’s antics. When other members of the congregation began to arrive and Hill girded himself up for his morning tirade, Chaloner left to walk to Lincoln’s Inn. Dawn was late in coming, because of the thick grey clouds that slouched above the city, and it was bitterly cold. A scything wind whipped old leaves and rubbish into corners, and cut through clothes. A pack of stray dogs snarled and worried over something in the middle of the road. They scattered when a coach clattered towards them, and Chaloner saw they had been devouring one of their own. The vehicle’s wheel hit the corpse and lurched hard to one side, making the passenger curse at the driver. Chaloner glimpsed the angry face within, and was sure it was the Duke of Buckingham, travelling home after a night of debauchery with his mistresses.
It was early enough that the Lincoln’s Inn porter was still asleep, and it was some time before he could be roused. Once inside, Chaloner went directly to Dial Court – it was still too dark for Thurloe to be walking in the gardens – and knocked softly on the door to Chamber XIII. Inside, the piles of completed correspondence on the table indicated the ex-Spymaster had been awake and working for some time. Over his day clothes, he wore a silk dressing gown and a soft white skullcap. A fire roared furiously and the window shutters were firmly closed, so Chaloner thought the room stifling to the point of discomfort. Thurloe beckoned him in and locked the door.
‘The Earl of Clarendon sent me a packet of this newfangled stuff called tea yesterday. Would you like some? It is all the rage at Court, and said to be an excellent tonic – much better than coffee, which makes the heart race in those with frail constitutions.’
‘I do not have a frail constitution, sir,’ said Chaloner, supposing the Portuguese ambassador had declined to accept a package that had already been tasted, so Clarendon had foisted it on Thurloe instead.
Thurloe looked him up and down. ‘No, I suppose you do not. But tell me what happened at White Hall. I was astonished Clarendon waited until Monday to summon you – had it been me, I would have had you there the day I received the note. Did he ask you to look into Clarke’s death, as I suggested he should?’
‘He ordered me not to interfere, because he plans to investigate personally.’ Chaloner watched Thurloe carefully as he added, ‘With his aide, Captain Evett.’
‘Evett,’ mused Thurloe thoughtfully, pouring himself some tea. ‘I know the name.’
Chaloner’s thoughts raced: Thurloe was familiar with more than Evett’s name, if they were both members of the Brotherhood. He had planned to describe how he had eavesdropped on the meeting, and to warn Thurloe that Downing was revealing its secrets, but now he reconsidered. Was it wise to bring up a matter Thurloe might want to keep to himself? He had also intended to tell Thurloe about the messages in Clarke’s clothes, but hesitated about that, too, although he was not sure why.
Thurloe leaned back in his chair, tea in hand, and stared at Chaloner. ‘Did Clarendon tell you why he wants to look into Clarke’s murder himself? It is most irregular.’
‘He said it was an important matter, so should not be delegated to a man he does not know. He feels guilty about what happened, and is determined to provide you with answers.’
‘Pride,’ said Thurloe with disapproval. ‘The undoing of many a good man. But perhaps Evett will accept your help – I shall write to him before you leave, and you can deliver the message yourself. I would send one to Clarendon, too, but I cannot think of a tactful way to suggest he should leave such business to men who know what they are doing.’
‘How well did you know Clarke, sir?’ asked Chaloner, trying another way to see whether Thurloe was willing to acknowledge the Brotherhood. ‘He was kin, but that does not mean you were close.’
‘True. I was fond of him, but I did not know him as well as I know you.’ He sipped the tea and shuddered. ‘Nasty!’
Chaloner was nonplussed. Although they had sent each other hundreds of letters he would not have considered Thurloe an intimate by any stretch of the imagination. Thurloe read his bemusement, and elaborated uncomfortably.
‘You wrote kind words to me after the deaths of my two children.’
Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘That was years ago, sir.’
Thurloe nodded awkwardly. ‘But most of my correspondents did not acknowledge the tragedy, so I was naturally drawn to those who did. Clarke was one of those whose letters were purely professional, with none of the kindly, personal addenda you always included. He was not a friend, not like you.’
This time Chaloner was unable to conceal his astonishment. He had not imagined for a moment that his casually penned postscripts had been taken so seriously. He thought about Thurloe recommending him to Sarah in the event of a crisis – and Sarah’s claim that Thurloe was fond of him – and began to wonder whether this dignified, proper man had indeed taken the letters to be genuine expressions of affection.
Thurloe became brusque, obviously embarrassed. ‘Forgive me, Tom; I am maudlin today. It must be this horrible tea. You were asking about Clarke. He was a soldier who believed in moderation, and was of the opinion that the best future for our country lies in tolerance and forgiveness.’
‘Moderation,’ mused Chaloner. He decided to test the extent of Thurloe’s ‘friendship’ towards him. ‘I know a group of men who try to instil a sense of moderation in those with power.’
Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘It is a good theory. But, like all ideals, it will become corrupted in the hands of wicked men.’
‘Clarke was a member of such a group,’ Chaloner pressed on. ‘So is Evett.’
Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘You have been busy. Do you know who else is in it?’
‘Not everyone.’
‘A diplomatic answer. However, I have not attended a meeting of the Brotherhood since Cromwell died. It started with honourable intentions, but then men like Downing and Ingoldsby enrolled, and it turned sour. Clarke and Evett joined after I ceased to play any real part in it.’
Chaloner nodded, but was not convinced. Downing had given the impression that Thurloe’s absence was temporary, although Downing was no great adherent of the truth himself. ‘Downing thought you might recommend me for membership.’
‘Never,’ said Thurloe immediately. ‘It would be a mistake for both of us. I cannot claim to have ended my affiliation if I nominate new members. And fraternising with men like Ingoldsby and Downing is a risk you do not need to take. I forbid you to have anything to do with it, and if you try to enrol on your own, I shall oppose your election. I do not want you involved with such a group.’
Chaloner regarded him appraisingly, surprised by the uncharacteristic passion. Did Thurloe really have his interests at heart, or was there another reason for his vehemence? However, he suspected pressing the man for clarification would lead nowhere, so he turned to another subject.