‘You sent Clarke to the Earl to do what, exactly, sir?’
‘To use as he saw fit. The last I heard, Clarke was looking into the theft of silver table knives from the White Hall kitchens, which you would not think was terribly dangerous.’
‘That depends on the thief – it might be very dangerous if Clarendon has a penchant for royal cutlery. But last week, you said you thought Kelyng might have killed Clarke.’
Thurloe sighed. ‘It is possible – he knew Clarke was kin, and may have killed him in an attempt to hurt me. However, I am dogged with the sense that I sent Clarke to his death. I would like to know the identity of his murderer, if for no other reason that the answer may salve my troubled conscience.’
‘Do you know anything about Clarke that might help me catch his killer?’
Thurloe regarded him oddly. ‘Are you going to ignore the Earl’s wishes and look into Clarke’s death anyway?’
‘I thought that is what you wanted me to do.’
‘But not at the expense of you ruining your future – or risking your life. I do not want to lose another man to White Hall.’
‘I can look after myself, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking of all the hazardous tasks he had undertaken on Thurloe’s behalf in the past. ‘Tell me about Clarke.’
‘I cannot think of anything that might be of use to you. He was handsome, but aloof, he played the violin, and he worked at being unmemorable – like all good intelligence agents.’
‘Could he have been dispatched by a jealous husband?’ Chaloner thought about how Clarke had flirted with Metje, who had responded rather too readily to his charms.
‘Not in White Hall, Tom. They all bed whoever takes their fancy – even you must have heard those rumours. If every jealous husband took a knife to his rival, we would have no Court left.’
‘Was his body searched before it was dumped on the riverbank? Did his room contain anything in the way of clues?’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘At the time, I suspect the Lord Chancellor was more intent on concealing the murder than in solving it. He has no experience in such matters.’
Chaloner’s cautious probing had not told him whether the Earl had shown Thurloe the cipher messages from Clarke’s pocket – or perhaps Thurloe was unwilling to admit that he was the recipient of notes containing the phrase about praising God. He tried one last time. ‘Do you have an agent whose codename is Seven?’
Thurloe was startled and wary. ‘No. Why?’
‘Clarke was alleged to have told a friend that he praised God for sending him seven pairs of boots, and I wondered if the word held any significance for you.’
Thurloe’s suspicion intensified. ‘One of the skills developed by a good spy is deciding which information to discard and which to pursue. Your seven pairs of boots are definitely in the former category, and you will be wasting your time if you follow them. Besides, I want to know who stabbed him, not what he was doing for Clarendon. Do you understand me?’
‘Not really, sir.’
Thurloe’s expression was cool. ‘I do not want you asking questions about the case Clarke was working on – these knives – because the Earl may assume I sent you to investigate him. I do not want him to think that – it would be extremely dangerous for you and for me. So, no questions about Clarke’s business at White Hall, if you please. I want only to know who killed him.’
Chaloner felt this was unreasonable. ‘But he may have been killed because of what he was doing at White Hall. It may not be possible to look at one without exploring the other.’
‘It will have to be,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘A night of listening to gossiping servants may well tell you all you need to know. Kelyng and Bennet are not subtle, and someone may have seen them loitering or asking questions. So, will you do as I ask, or shall I recruit someone else to help me?’
Chaloner was tempted to tell him to find some other fool. If he found Barkstead’s treasure for the Earl, he would not need Thurloe’s good opinion, and he was being given a task with conditions that might make a solution impossible. But he owed Thurloe something for the past ten years, and he had been oddly touched by the ex-Spymaster’s shy expression of friendship.
‘It will depend on whether I can gain access to the right servants – whether I can talk to them without arousing Clarendon’s suspicions.’
‘True,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘So be careful. Concentrate on Kelyng – he should not present much of a challenge to a man who survived Downing for so many years. If he has stepped up his campaign against me, I would like to know, so I can take precautions.’ He went to a table and began to write. ‘I will tell Evett you have solved murders before. He is a soldier, not an investigator, and will doubtless welcome any help that comes his way. But what did the Earl ask you to do, if not look into Clarke’s death?’
‘Hunt down some missing money,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.
Thurloe nodded, not looking up as he dipped his pen into the ink. ‘The new government is desperate for funds, and Clarendon is always trying to find ways of raising more. I wish you luck – if you find him a few hundred, he will take you under his wing for certain.’
Chaloner left Thurloe deeply uneasy. The ex-Spymaster had admitted to belonging to the Brotherhood, but only when the alternative was a brazen lie. Was he really in the process of extricating himself, or was he still involved? And did it matter, given that Downing claimed the group’s aims were not illegal or seditious anyway? Thurloe had also declined to admit any familiarity with the words ‘seven’ and ‘praise God’, although Chaloner still believed the messages from Clarke and Hewson were intended for him. Was he telling the truth, or was Chaloner being unreasonable, since Thurloe could hardly be expected to know the meaning of messages he had never received?
No answers were forthcoming, no matter how many times he pondered the questions, so he walked to Will’s Coffee House and read the pamphlet written by Leybourn, which Downing had given him. He studied it closely, assessing it for the kind of stilted phrase or unusual reference that might be indicative of secret orders to waiting members, but he could see nothing amiss. Perhaps it was just what it seemed: a call for people to exercise tolerance, patience and understanding. He wished there was someone he could discuss it with, but for the first time in years, he did not know whom he could trust. And that night Metje did not come to him.
Chaloner was early for his appointment with Captain Evett the next morning. When Evett had asked where they should meet, Chaloner had suggested the Dolphin, on the grounds that it was near the Tower. It was also where members of the Brotherhood would meet later that day, after the conclave at the Royal Foundation of St Katherine, and although he would not be joining their ranks, Chaloner intended to engineer a meeting with some of its members. There were too many links between them and his three investigations to be innocent, and he would be remiss to ignore them.
The Dolphin was one of London’s best taverns, patronised by clerks from the Navy Office, officers from the Tower and merchants from nearby Fishmongers’ Hall. The atmosphere was one of genteel civility, and the inn boasted a freshly swept floor, polished oak furniture and two fires burning in separate hearths. It smelled of sweet ale, pipe smoke and freshly cut logs. Chaloner ordered, but then did not feel like eating, a dish of salted herrings and bread, paid for with a shilling he had found in his spare breeches. His thoughts were on Metje, and he was sorry they had argued. He wondered what she would say if he asked her to go to Buckinghamshire with him, so he could abandon Clarendon and the awkward situation with Thurloe. He had the feeling she would not agree, and did not blame her. She thrived amid the colourful bustle of London, with its theatres, pageants and fairs, and there was little in the country that would make her love it.