He had intended to go home, to resolve his differences with Metje, but first he stopped at St Martin-in-the-Fields, where the vicar showed him five wooden crosses in the churchyard. There was a sixth, too – a mound of earth that the minister said would soon be covered by a stone memorial. It was being prepared at Thurloe’s expense, and would be ready the following week. Chaloner was used to losing colleagues, but was unsettled by the graves of so many in such a small space, and was sorry that Simon Lane should be among them.
He took his leave of the priest, relieved to be away from the graveyard. Despite the fact that it adjoined the Strand, with its bright shops and busy traffic, St Martin’s cemetery was a bleak place, and the diversion had depressed him. He knew it was the wrong time to repair his rift with Metje, since they would almost certainly argue again if he was morose. So, since Lincoln’s Inn was not far, he decided to speak to Thurloe about some of the facts he had learned. He wanted to ask the ex-Spymaster whether he had indeed founded the Brotherhood, whether he knew anything about the Seven, and what Clarke and Hewson – and possibly the five dead agents – might have been investigating on his behalf. Thurloe had not actually lied to him, but he had not been wholly honest, either, and if Chaloner was to solve Clarke’s murder, then he needed the truth.
He walked to Lincoln’s Inn, keeping to the left side of Chancery Lane, which was better lit and less potholed than the right. It was a cold evening, and he supposed it was clear, but the sky was masked by a pall of smoke from thousands of fires, which blotted out any stars that might have been visible. The air stank of burning wood, overlain with a sharper tang that made him wonder whether more snow was in the offing. For the second time in as many days, a memory surfaced of a childhood Christmas, when the hall of his father’s manor was bright gold with candlelight, and the rafters were adorned with holly and mistletoe. Pine cones on the fire, spiced wine and sweet oranges added to the heady aroma of celebration. He remembered laughing at something his oldest brother had said, something that still made him smile, and wondered whether he could share the joke with Metje without revealing too much about his family. He was sure she would find it amusing, and was assailed with the realisation that he missed being able to talk openly about people he loved.
He reached Lincoln’s Inn, and trudged towards Dial Court, shivering as the wind gusted hard and cold. Thurloe had seen him coming through the window, and the door to his quarters was ajar. A fire blazed, as usual, and the room was full of the scent of a good dinner – roasted meat, baked parsnips, boiled fowl, and a pear tart to follow – but the dishes on the table were empty, and only a pile of gnawed bones remained.
‘I expect you have already eaten,’ said Thurloe, going to his customary seat at the hearth. ‘But join me in a glass of milk with honey. I always find milk soothes the stomach and reduces night terrors.’
Chaloner accepted – he would have taken anything offered at that moment – and scalded his mouth when he tried to swallow it too soon. Thurloe liked his milk boiling. He also liked it sweet enough to be sickly, so the resulting potion was more syrup than drink. Chaloner set it by the hearth to cool, intending on finishing every last drop, no matter how vile it tasted. There was no food at home, and Thurloe’s sugary potion was the only thing he was likely to get that day.
‘The Lord Chancellor told me I should make a will,’ he said, when Thurloe waited for him to state the purpose of his visit. ‘He thought you might be able to help.’
Thurloe stared at him in surprise. ‘Why were you discussing such a topic?’
‘I imagine because Clarke is not the only agent to have met an early end in his service. The other five you sent are dead, too, and he was advising me to take precautions against intestacy.’
The colour drained from Thurloe’s face. ‘What?’
‘I have just seen their graves in St Martin’s churchyard, and their names are in the parish register.’
Thurloe massaged his eyes with unsteady fingers. ‘Here is a detail the Earl neglected to mention when he asked for more men. I would not have obliged, had I known. All five are dead?’
Chaloner nodded, and they sat in silence for a while, the only sound being the wind gusting outside and the fire popping in the hearth.
‘I sent him about forty names,’ said Thurloe eventually. ‘Clerks and men skilled at administration. But only six spies, counting Clarke.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I should take you away from him before he buries you, too. I knew there was an element of risk – old intelligence officers working for a new regime – but I thought my people could look after themselves. What have I done?’
‘It is not your fault, sir. Presumably, they wanted the opportunity you provided, and we all know the dangers of our work.’
‘Who killed them?’ demanded Thurloe, suddenly angry. ‘Kelyng?’
‘Possibly. All except Clarke were instructed to watch him or Downing.’
‘Downing is a sly villain, but I do not think he solves problems with violence. He was here again today, talking about you. He said you eavesdropped on one of his meetings, and left him no choice but to take you into his confidence.’
Chaloner grimaced at Downing’s untruthful version of events. ‘He claimed it was to protect himself and his colleagues – by stopping me from asking questions that might alert Kelyng to the Brotherhood’s existence. But you never know with him.’
‘No, you do not. He has somehow learned that you operate under a false name, and is determined to discover your real identity. He said he would give me fifty pounds if I told him.’
‘What did you say?’ Fifty pounds was a lot of money, and Chaloner found himself holding his breath for the answer.
‘I told him to discuss it with you, although I strongly advise against confiding in him. He will offer protection and friendship, but you should accept neither. Perhaps his intentions are honourable – I think he really does want an end to civil strife – but I cannot forget what he did to Barkstead, Okey and Corbet. He knows he made a serious error of judgement over that, because now even the most ardent of Royalists thinks him a rogue. As regards you, he is probably afraid that the Earl has asked you to catch him out in some way.’
‘Then why did he tell me about the Brotherhood? Surely, it would have been better to keep his clandestine dealings to himself?’
‘The Brotherhood is not clandestine, Thomas. It is perfectly innocent – which is why he was keen for you to witness a gathering, I imagine. And he is still eager for you to join its ranks, although I stand by my threat to contest your election, should you ignore my advice and decide to accept a nomination. I told him the same thing today: I do not want you involved.’
Chaloner was a little suspicious. ‘Why not? People keep telling me its aims are virtuous.’
‘For several reasons, the strongest being that Downing is in it, and the less time you spend with him, the better – you made an enemy of him when you argued against his arrest of Barkstead, and I think he means you harm. Another reason is that membership of the Brotherhood costs, and I doubt you have funds to squander in such a way, no matter how worthy the cause.’