‘He can mow it, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘And reap the benefit for his own soul. God knows, he needs it, given all the odious vitriol he has written during his life.’
Yates was thoughtful. ‘I wager Mr Prynne cannot tell the difference between seed for grass and seed for flowers. My sister owns a cottage in a remote village called Hammersmith, and that is full of seeding flowers at this time of year. If you take my meaning, sir.’
Thurloe regarded him conspiratorially. ‘How long will it take you to reach Hammersmith?’
Yates grinned. ‘No time at all, sir.’
‘I hear you were involved in a shooting yesterday,’ said Thurloe, when Yates had gone and his guests had been provided with a cup containing something brown.
Thurloe was often in ill health – or claimed he was – and was always swallowing tinctures, potions and tonics that promised wellbeing and vitality. He sometimes tried to inflict them on his friends, too, and Chaloner had been the unwitting victim of several experiments in the past. The spy sniffed the cup cautiously, then declined to drink what was in it – he had no intention of imbibing something that contained a hefty dose of gunpowder. He explained what had happened as he ate bread and cold meat. He did not usually discuss his work with anyone, but it was the ex-Spymaster who had introduced him to Lord Clarendon, while Leybourn dabbled in espionage himself occasionally, although only for Thurloe. Chaloner trusted them both implicitly. When he had finished, Leybourn’s expression was one of unease.
‘I do not like the sound of either of these assignments, Tom. The beggar’s business must have been important, given that he was willing to risk his life to speak to Williamson, and it will be dangerous to spy on Bristol and his cronies. God alone knows what they get up to once the palace gates are closed – and what they might do to keep their activities secret.’
Thurloe pursed his lips. ‘Bristol is an odd contradiction. He feels strongly enough about his religion to declare himself a papist – and the price of that is being banned from holding any lucrative public offices – and yet he is one of the most dissipated, sinful, vice-loving creatures at Court.’
‘Lord Clarendon was foolish to oppose that bill that granted indulgences to Roman Catholics,’ said Leybourn, off on a tangent, ‘because papists like Bristol are now his most bitter enemies.’
‘His antipathy towards Catholics is wholly unjustified,’ said Chaloner. Having lived abroad much of his adult life, he tended to be more tolerant of the Old Religion than most of his countrymen. ‘I cannot imagine why he has taken against them so hotly.’
‘Who knows what dark poison fuels any man’s bigotry,’ said Thurloe, shaking his head sadly.
‘I heard Bristol has recruited Sir Richard Temple to help him fight Clarendon now,’ said Leybourn. As a bookseller, he was the recipient of a lot of gossip, and was invariably better informed about the Court than Chaloner – and sometimes even than Thurloe.
Chaloner knew the name, although it took a moment to place it: Temple was the man whom Scot did not want to marry his sister. ‘I know very little about him.’
‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself,’ said Thurloe sternly. ‘He is Member of Parliament for Buckinghamshire – the county in which you were born, and where your siblings still live.’
Chaloner was irritated by the admonition. ‘I would like to learn such things, but you sent me from England for more than a decade, and when I came back, the Earl promptly dispatched me to Ireland.’
Thurloe’s expression softened. ‘True – so I shall enlighten you. Temple is a vain, shallow man, eager for a government post. However, it is generally agreed that once he is given what he wants, he will almost certainly prove to be corrupt. He is also on the verge of purchasing a slave-worked sugar plantation in Barbados, and that makes him abhorrent to any decent person.’
‘He is not alone,’ said Leybourn. ‘Half the members of the Guinea Company are now interested in investing in sugar. A merchant called Johan Behn from the province of Brandenburg is currently based in London, and all he does is wax lyrical about the profits that can be made from such ventures. His predictions of huge fortunes are encouraging others to speculate, too.’
‘Behn owns a sugar plantation – and slaves to work it – of his own,’ said Thurloe with distaste. ‘If I were still Spymaster, I would find an excuse to be rid of him.’
Leybourn regarded him uneasily. ‘Rid of him how?’
Thurloe favoured him with one of his unreadable smiles. ‘With discretion, of course.’
‘Incidentally, Behn is courting your friend Eaffrey, Tom,’ said Leybourn, a little disconcerted by the reply. ‘And Behn does not know it, but she enjoys the odd clandestine meeting with an Irish scholar called Peter Terrell, too.’
Chaloner said nothing. Eaffrey had confessed to loving Behn, and obviously she spent time with ‘Terrell’ because she and Scot were fellow spies with the same master. When ‘Vanders’ arrived in White Hall and Eaffrey talked to him, too, wagging tongues would no doubt add a third name to her list of conquests. He was, however, unhappy to learn that Behn’s wealth came from sugar – he would not have expected Eaffrey to fall for a man who condoned slavery.
‘What about your beggar, Tom?’ asked Thurloe, seeing Chaloner was going to make no comment. ‘Can we help you establish his identity?’
Although he preferred to work alone, Chaloner did not mind accepting Thurloe’s help. The ex-Spymaster was a fount of knowledge about the city and its people, and several of his old spies continued to keep him well supplied with good, reliable information. He also possessed a clever mind, and Chaloner respected his opinions and advice.
‘Clarendon thinks May wanted to prevent this so-called beggar from speaking to Williamson. The man was desperate for an interview, so he clearly had something to impart. He confided some of it before he died.’
‘Did you tell Williamson what he said?’ asked Thurloe, wincing as the cat leapt on to his lap, hauling itself into a comfortable position by liberal use of claws.
Chaloner shook his head. ‘It made no sense, so I thought I would make some enquiries first – to set it in context, and be in a position to answer any questions he might have.’
Thurloe looked doubtful. ‘If I were Williamson, I would want to be told immediately, not left waiting until someone else decided it was time for me to know. And while this beggar’s words may mean nothing to you, that does not mean they will be similarly meaningless to Williamson. What did he say exactly? I still know a little White Hall business, and may be able to interpret them for you.’
‘He mentioned Terrell and Burne in a way that suggested he thought the names might be aliases, and he wanted Dillon to be saved.’
‘He is right about the first part,’ said Thurloe promptly, showing he knew more than ‘a little’ about current affairs. ‘Terrell is Scot’s present character, and Burne is the name adopted by May in Ireland. I do not know about Dillon – although a spy called Dillon worked for me some years ago.’
‘If you are going to save him, you will have your task cut out for you,’ said Leybourn, sipping the tonic, then setting it aside in distaste. He glanced up to see Chaloner and Thurloe regarding him with puzzled expressions. ‘Was your Dillon a tall man, who always wore a large hat to cover his face?’
Thurloe frowned. ‘How do you know that?’
‘He has been arrested for murder.’
‘Murder?’ echoed Thurloe, shocked. ‘But that is impossible! Dillon is a Quaker, and his religion forbids violence – it was what led me to dismiss him. As Spymaster, I avoided assassination when I could, but sometimes there was no choice. Dillon would not kill under any circumstances, and his refusal to eliminate a double agent brought about the deaths of several of my men. One was Henry Manning.’