‘Have you come to collect the shirts I offered to mend before you left?’ she asked, directing him to sit at the table. Pots and pans were everywhere, and there was a mouth-watering scent of baking pastry. Piles of plates sat washed and draining near a stone sink, and a heavy, comfortable matron sat next to a roaring fire, toasting bread on the end of a poker. ‘I confess I put them away when you disappeared, but I shall see to them today.’
‘Leave them to me,’ said the older woman, whose powerful arms and strong hands gave her the appearance of a milkmaid. She leered at Chaloner. ‘And I shall lace them, too. You are sadly dowdy, and in desperate need of a lady’s touch. I shall add so much lace to your collar, sleeves and cuffs that the King himself will ask where you purchased such magnificent garments.’
Chaloner did not recall the shirts, and did not like the sound of the ‘improvements’, either. ‘That is not necessary, ma’am.’
‘It is no trouble,’ she said, fluffing her hair as she winked at him.
There was a merry twinkle in Temperance’s eyes. ‘Were he to remove his beard and wig, you would see he is far too young to warrant your interest, Maude. I harboured an affection for him once, until I realised life is more enjoyable without a man telling me what to do. What husband would permit the kind of civilised evenings we have enjoyed these last few weeks?’
Chaloner did not try to hide his concern. ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood, Temperance, and if your … your enterprise is too brazen, you may find yourself in trouble.’
‘We are always quiet, so do not fret,’ said Temperance, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Would you like some coffee? Maude knows how to make it.’
Maude heaved her bulk out of the chair, and set about heating water for the beverage that was fast becoming popular in London. While she was waiting for the pan to boil, she took some roasted beans and pounded them vigorously with a pestle and mortar. She tossed the resulting powder into a jug, along with a vast quantity of dark sugar, and added hot water. A sharp, burned aroma filled the kitchen when she poured her brew into three dishes. It was black, syrupy, and tasted like medicine. After a few moments, Chaloner felt his heart begin to pound, and he set it down half finished. It was too strong, although Temperance and Maude did not seem to be affected.
‘Are you going to chapel?’ he asked, recalling how Temperance had never missed morning prayers when they had been neighbours. ‘Perhaps I can escort you there?’
She shook her head after Maude, taking the hint, grabbed a basket and muttered something about going to the market for eggs. ‘I do not hold with all that any more – I go to St Dunstan’s on Sundays, and that is enough. It is good to see you, Thomas. I was beginning to think you might have forgotten me, which would have been sad. I value our friendship, and would not like to lose it.’
‘I have been in Ireland, and only returned a few days ago.’
Her face filled with alarm. ‘Ireland? I hope it was nothing to do with the Castle Plot – that sounded horrible! I wish you would abandon your work with that Lord Clarendon. Clerking would be much safer. If you are interested, I could find you something here.’
‘You are in a position to employ me?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Your business is lucrative, then?’
‘Very,’ said Temperance with a satisfied smile of pleasure. ‘And I am in sore need of a reliable manager of accounts. Are you interested?’
Chaloner had questions of his own. ‘Why was Preacher Hill here? If you have abandoned your old religion, then why continue to associate with him? His wild opinions make him a dangerous man to know, and he may bring you trouble.’
‘He has been extruded – prevented from conducting religious offices in his own church – so he works for me now, as a doorman. He is rather good at it, and the position leaves his days free for spouting sermons in public places. The arrangement suits us both. Do you really disapprove? I thought you were opposed to discrimination on religious grounds.’
‘I do, but that is no reason … ’ He trailed off, seeing there was no point in pursuing the matter. He could tell from the stubborn expression on her face that she was not going to change her mind, or listen to advice from him.
‘Dear Thomas,’ she said after a moment, shooting him a fond smile. ‘You have not changed.’
She had, though. ‘You have grown up. I was gone a few weeks, and you are different.’
She nodded, pleased he had noticed. ‘I think the word is “liberated”. For the first time in my life I can do exactly as I please. I wear lace. I see plays. I read books that are nothing to do with religion. I feel as though I have woken up after a long sleep, and I am happier now than I have ever been. I grieve for my parents, of course – they raised me in a way they thought was right – but I prefer my life now. Will you teach me French? I would so like to speak that particular language.’
‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Chaloner ungraciously. ‘Brothel business always sounds so much more genteel when conducted in French.’
Even after an hour with Temperance, it was still too early to visit White Hall or to interview gunsmiths, so Chaloner crossed Fleet Street and walked to Lincoln’s Inn. Although his thoughts were mostly on Temperance, an innate sense still warned him of the thieves who saw him as an easy target. He was obliged to side-step two pickpockets and flash his dagger at a would-be robber before he was even halfway up Chancery Lane. He slipped through Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate when its porter was looking the other way, and headed for Chamber XIII in Dial Court. It was here that John Thurloe, his friend and former employer, lived when he was not at his family estate near Oxford.
Dial Court was one of the oldest parts of the ancient foundation for licensing lawyers and clerks, and comprised accommodation wings to the east and west, and the new chapel to the south. To the north were the gardens, a tangle of untamed vegetation, venerable oaks and gnarled fruit trees. In the middle of Dial Court was the ugliest sundial ever created, a monstrosity of curly iron and leering cherubs. It had been installed in a place where it was in the shade for most of the day, which somewhat defeated its purpose.
As a ‘bencher’ – a governing member of Lincoln’s Inn – Thurloe was entitled to occupy a suite of chambers on two floors. On one level was his bedchamber and an oak-panelled sitting room, full of books and the scent of polished wood; above was a pantry and an attic that was home to his manservant, a fellow so quiet and unobtrusive that he was thought to be mute.
Thurloe was sitting next to a blazing fire, even though summer was fast approaching and most people had blocked their chimneys in anticipation of warmth to come. He hated cold weather, and his chambers were always stifling. The man who had been one of Cromwell’s closest friends and most trusted advisor was slightly built, with shoulder-length brown hair. His large blue eyes often appeared soulful, but there was a core of steel in him that had taken more than one would-be conspirator by surprise. He had single-handedly managed an intelligence service that had not only monitored the activities of foreign governments, but had watched the movements of the exiled King and his followers, too. Chaloner suspected the Commonwealth would not have lasted as long as it had, if Thurloe had not been its Secretary of State and Spymaster General.