‘So, you do not know Kelyng,’ mused Leybourn. ‘In that case, why were you in his house?’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
Leybourn grinned, unrepentant. ‘I cannot help myself. It is not every day I see someone get the better of Kelyng, God rot his putrid soul.’
‘What has he done to you?’
‘He owes me money. He ordered several expensive legal texts last year – as a newly appointed sergeant-at-law, he needs them for his work – but now he refuses to pay.’
‘Why?’
‘On the grounds that he is using them to serve the King. It is flagrant extortion, but he says that if I complain, my comments will be considered treason.’
‘Just for asking to be reimbursed?’
‘Quite,’ agreed Leybourn bitterly. ‘Despicable, is it not? So, now you see why I detest the fellow and his niggardly ways. Any man who annoys him is a friend of mine.’
Their section of the crowd had arrived at the Banqueting House, joining the masses already there. Chaloner had never seen so many sick people, all hoping the King would cure them. Here more rumours circulated. Folk had seen the King arrive moments before, so there were no tales that he had been killed, although Chaloner was disconcerted to hear the claim that Dutch marksmen had been at large. Leybourn had been right to advise him to caution, and he saw how dangerous it was to be unaware of London’s current bigotries.
He was listening with growing horror to an Anglican priest, who was taking advantage of the gathering to bellow an impromptu sermon about the evils of any religion not consistent with his own, when another thin, stoop-shouldered man approached. Leybourn introduced him as his brother and business partner Robert, although Chaloner had guessed they were related: both had gaunt, pale faces and bony frames. Robert, more caustic than his sibling, matter-of-factly informed them that the shots heard near the Royal Mews had been due to the unpopular Sir George Downing falling off his horse – the fellow was so afraid someone might kill him, that he always carried three loaded pistols, and each had ignited when he had taken his tumble. The general consensus, Robert maintained, was that it was a pity one of the balls had not travelled through the man’s black heart.
Chaloner’s thoughts turned to the servant who lay dead in Kelyng’s garden, who had said his name was Hewson, contrary to what his employer seemed to believe. He tried again to decide whether Bennet had killed Hewson deliberately, or whether he had simply missed his intended target. He did not have enough information to say one way or the other, but Hewson, along with poor Charles-Stewart, made two dead that morning, and it was barely nine o’clock.
‘I should go,’ he said, breaking into Robert’s scathing tirade against Downing. He knew he should return to Thurloe as soon as possible, and not waste time listening to the gossip of a pair of booksellers, gratifying though it might be: having spent five years working with Downing, Chaloner doubted any Londoner could loathe the man as much as he did.
Leybourn caught his arm. ‘You are leaving? Without telling us how you came to be chased from Kelyng’s house by the man himself? And you have not told us your name.’
‘Thomas Heyden,’ replied Chaloner, giving his usual alias. Thurloe had chosen the name because it was neither resoundingly English nor resoundingly foreign. ‘I am a clerk.’
The last statement rankled, because it happened to be true. In the absence of other work, he managed the accounts for Fetter Lane’s Nonconformist chapel, although it took only a few hours each week and the pay barely covered the rent. Puritans, so numerous and powerful during the Commonwealth, were becoming an ever-dwindling minority as people shifted back to traditional Anglicanism, and few sensible folk had anything to do with them. If Chaloner had not been so desperate, he would not have done, either, and leaving the Puritans’ employ was yet another reason why he hoped Thurloe would help him.
‘What kind of clerk?’ asked Leybourn.
Chaloner was not about to admit to a link with an unpopular sect. ‘A household clerk.’
‘Whose household?’ pressed Leybourn. He tapped his chin with a long forefinger. ‘Not Downing’s? You said you have been in Holland, and he is recently returned from there.’
‘Then he predicted the collapse of the Commonwealth and became a Royalist,’ elaborated Robert. ‘However, no one likes a turncoat, not even one who turns to the King.’
He spat, leaving Chaloner wondering whether he had been cornered by a pair of rebels. Or were they Cavaliers, hired to ferret out potential traitors by encouraging seditious talk? He listened to their dialogue uneasily, heartily wishing he had a better understanding of affairs in his native country.
‘And in order to prove himself, he did that unspeakably nasty thing which shocked Dutchmen and Englishmen alike,’ added Leybourn. Chaloner kept his expression neutraclass="underline" Downing’s controversial action the previous March was certainly not something he was prepared to discuss with strangers. ‘It meant he and his household were obliged to leave The Hague rather abruptly. Are we right, Heyden? Is Downing your master?’
After a moment’s reflection, Chaloner opted for honesty again: he did not want to be reported as a suspicious character by declining to answer, and Leybourn was too astute for brazen lies.
‘I worked for Downing,’ he admitted, watching the bookseller’s triumphant grin that he had been right. ‘But he did not need a Dutch-speaking clerk in London, so I was released.’
‘Consider yourself fortunate. No decent man should align himself with such a villain.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner fervently. ‘He should not.’
‘You do not like him?’ asked Robert keenly.
Since very few people liked Downing, especially once they had met him, Chaloner had no qualms about voicing his real opinion of the man. ‘I do not. He dismissed me without testimonials, because he said I was untrustworthy.’
‘Why did he think that?’ asked Leybourn curiously.
Chaloner shrugged. ‘Well, I did carry on with his daughter’s governess for a couple of years.’
‘Did you wed her?’ asked Robert, brazenly prying now. ‘Or were you just trying to annoy a man who prides himself on being able to seduce any wench who takes his fancy?’
‘She still comes to me most nights,’ replied Chaloner evasively.
‘She will not take you, because you are poor,’ surmised Leybourn with his annoying intuitiveness. He nodded at Chaloner’s head. ‘At a time when men are proud to display flowing locks, yours are short. You have good, thick hair, the kind a wigmaker might purchase from a man in urgent need of funds.’
‘I usually wear a periwig,’ said Chaloner, wondering how the man was able to draw so many accurate conclusions. It was disconcerting, and he did not like it. He pulled the headpiece, which the wigmaker had provided as part of the bargain, from his pocket. He hated it: it smelled of the horse whose tail had provided the raw materials, and had a tendency to slip to one side. ‘But I was hot.’
‘Where do you live?’ asked Leybourn. ‘If it is near Cripplegate, we can share a carriage.’
‘I would rather walk,’ said Robert, beginning to move away. ‘The last time I treated myself to a carriage, the driver went to the Fleet Rookery and abandoned me there. I lost my purse and most of my clothes to villains who crept out of the shadows with staves and knives.’
‘I will go by water,’ said Chaloner, watching him disappear into the crowd.