Chaloner knew his earl would want an eyewitness account of the beggar’s death, so he decided to stop at White Hall on his way home. The streets were strangely quiet, and the churches, which had been compelled to hold special services of thanksgiving for the three-year anniversary, were mostly empty. The stalls that lined busy King Street were dutifully shuttered, although their owners had been furious at the royal decree prohibiting trade that day – Fridays were always good for commerce because of the many markets taking place. Dogs scavenged among the rubbish that carpeted the cobbles, and a preacher stood on a box and informed passers-by that the world would shortly be consumed by fire and brimstone, so folk had better repent while they could.
The sprawling Palace of White Hall, London’s chief royal residence, had been built piecemeal as and when past monarchs had had the money and the need, and the result was a chaotic settlement with dozens of separate buildings, few of which seemed to bear any relation to their neighbours. Thus ancient, windowless halls rubbed shoulders with flamboyant Tudor monstrosities, and dark, grubby alleys sometimes opened out into elegant courtyards fringed with glorious gems of architecture.
Chaloner was still dressed in his street-cleaner’s disguise, which was simultaneously an advantage and a drawback. On the one hand, no one would recognise him, which was always a good thing, but on the other, he was more likely to be challenged as an intruder. Relishing an opportunity to practise his skills, he made his way undetected through the maze of yards, halls, sheds and houses, coming ever closer to the sumptuous apartments that overlooked the area of manicured grounds known as the Privy Garden, where the Earl of Clarendon had his offices.
Like most good spies, Chaloner worked hard at being nondescript. He was of medium height and stocky build, with brown hair and grey eyes. He had no obvious scars or marks, although his left leg had been badly mangled at the Battle of Naseby, and he tended to limp if he was tired or had engaged in overly strenuous exercise. That Friday had been an easy day for him, however, and he walked with a perfectly even gait along the corridor that led to the Earl’s offices. He opened the door quickly, using a thin piece of metal to assist him when he found it locked, and stepped inside to wait.
It was not long before Lord Clarendon arrived. He stood in the hall outside, congratulating May for shooting the wicked traitor who had come so close to murdering the King. Williamson was with him, and his softer voice added its own praise. Chaloner grimaced. People were assuming that May had acted correctly, which meant any attempt to tell them what had really happened would look like sour grapes on his part – they would think he was making excuses for not killing the man himself. Eventually, Clarendon finished the conversation and bustled into his rooms. In his wake was a short, smiling man with bushy brown hair and dimples in his cheeks.
The Earl of Clarendon, who currently held office as Lord Chancellor of England, had gained weight since the Restoration. The Court’s rich food was unsuitable for a man who tended to fat and whose working day revolved around sedentary activities. Chaloner had even noticed a difference in the Earl’s girth between the time he himself had been dispatched to Ireland to help quell a rebellion back in February and his return five days ago. The Earl knew he was expanding at an alarming rate, but blamed it on a nasty brush with gout, which had confined him to his bed for much of the past three months.
He had dispensed with the enormous blond wig he had worn in the procession, and had donned a smaller, more practical headpiece. He had also removed his elaborate ceremonial costume and wore a pair of peach-coloured breeches and a coat of dark green – although there was more lace on it than Chaloner thought was possible to attach to a single garment, and he hoped the man took care near naked flames. The Earl was chatting to his companion about a popular new cure-all called Venice Treacle, asking whether it might help with the residual pains in his lower legs.
When several minutes had passed, and the two men had still not noticed him in the shadows near the curtains, Chaloner cleared his throat. The Earl almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around in alarm, and then closed his eyes and rested a plump hand on his chest when he recognised the intruder.
‘I wish you would not do that,’ he snapped. ‘One day my heart will leap so much that it will stop and never start again. And then where would you be?’
‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Chaloner, contrite. The Earl had asked on several occasions not to be startled, but noisy, attention-grabbing entrances tended to be anathema to a spy.
‘I think I might be able to do something about a stopped heart,’ said the other man comfortably. ‘I am a surgeon, after all, and intimately acquainted with that particular organ.’
‘This is Thomas Lisle,’ explained the Earl to Chaloner. ‘He is Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, here to help me with my gout.’
‘And you are a raker,’ said Lisle, his eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘However, as you have made your own way to My Lord Chancellor’s rooms, and as he is not surprised to see you here, I surmise you are actually something rather different, and I shall enquire no further.’
‘He is Thomas Heyden,’ said Clarendon, obviously feeling an explanation was in order anyway. ‘He has been at Westminster Abbey today, protecting the King against assassins.’
‘We live in a wicked age,’ said Lisle, shaking his head sadly. ‘No one can be trusted, it seems.’
‘You are right,’ agreed the Earl sombrely, ‘although Heyden has proven himself loyal to me twice now – once in retrieving some missing gold, and once when I sent him to Ireland with some of Williamson’s men to thwart the Castle Plot. He acquitted himself admirably both times.’
While the Earl was speaking, Lisle produced several flasks from the bag he carried looped around his neck, and began to mix them in a goblet. He barely reached Chaloner’s shoulder, and had the look of a gnome about him, with his brown face, kindly eyes and slightly stooped posture. He wore the red-trimmed gown and hat that identified his profession, and he hummed under his breath while he worked. When he had finished, he handed the cup to Clarendon with a conspiratorial grin.
‘The apothecaries will be after my blood if they learn I am dispensing medicines – tonics are their domain, and they jealously defend their sole right to concoct them – but I refuse to watch a patient suffer when I can help him myself. The head of a young kite boiled in wine is the perfect remedy for gout, although you will not find an apothecary who will ever share such a closely guarded secret.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clarendon, wincing as he swallowed the draft. ‘It was kind of you to come the moment I experienced a twinge. The damp weather must have aggravated my condition and I am eager to nip it in the bud this time. I do not want to be laid up for another three months.’
‘Keep your legs warm and dry,’ instructed Lisle, packing away his empty phials. ‘And apply that poultice I gave you before you retire tonight. There is nothing like an ointment of crushed snails, suet of goat and saffron to ease your particular trouble.’
‘Lisle is a good man,’ said Clarendon, when the surgeon had left. ‘The only thing I do not like about him is his association with another medicus called Johnson, who is a loud, blustering fellow, full of wind and unfounded opinions. He openly supports that vile heathen, the Earl of Bristol.’