‘Lisle does?’
‘Johnson does. Lisle is like Williamson – he declines to take either side – although anyone with an ounce of sense will see that I am in the right and Bristol is wrong. However, as Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, Lisle will not want to offend half his members by declaring an allegiance with me.’
‘It is a sorry state of affairs, sir,’ said Chaloner in a way that he hoped would discourage further confidences. Clarendon had ranted at him about Bristol before, and the tirades were difficult to stop once they had started. He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but nothing came to mind.
Clarendon looked pained. ‘Bristol is determined to destroy me, you know, Heyden.’
‘You are Lord Chancellor of England, sir,’ said Chaloner, when he saw the matter was not to be avoided, ‘while Bristol holds no official post whatsoever. You are in a far stronger position to fight any battle than he.’ He wondered if it was true – the gay and witty Bristol was much more popular at Court than the stuffy, respectable Clarendon.
‘I suppose so.’ The Earl pulled himself together and forced a smile. ‘You did not come to talk about my troubles, though. I assume you are here to give me your version of today’s shooting?’
‘I thought you might have questions.’ Chaloner did not like the way the Earl had phrased his question – it made it sound as though he was expecting to hear something other than the truth.
‘I do – especially since Colonel Holles told me what really happened. He saw you apprehend the beggar without incident, and thinks someone was overly hasty with the trigger. He has a point: it does seem to be a pity that we have lost the chance to interrogate a would-be regicide.’
‘Will Holles tell Williamson this?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.
Clarendon shook his head. ‘I said he should keep it to himself. May has a wicked temper, and we do not want him thinking you have been going around questioning his actions to all and sundry. As I have told you before, your old mentor Thurloe sent you to me on the understanding that I am careful with you. And while Thurloe lost most of his power when the Restoration saw him dismissed from his posts as Secretary of State and Spymaster General, he still has teeth and claws aplenty. I do not want him coming after me because May has skewered you in a silly duel.’
Chaloner tried to conceal his exasperation. When he had arrived in London the previous year, penniless and desperate for employment, Thurloe had indeed recommended him to Clarendon with the stipulation that his life was not to be needlessly squandered. However, the ‘request’ had been issued at a time when other spies had been murdered while working at White Hall, and that particular danger was long over. The Earl’s continued unease about what Thurloe might do if Chaloner was harmed was beginning to be a nuisance.
‘With respect, My Lord, I can look after myself – especially against May.’
‘So you say, but your profession is a risky one. How many elderly spies does one ever meet? None! And it is not you I am worried about, anyway – it is me. Thurloe has too many old friends like you – dangerous men who will still do anything for him. I have no intention of crossing him.’
Chaloner was astonished that the Earl should consider him dangerous, sure he had never given him cause to think so. He ignored the comment and addressed the slur on Thurloe’s character instead. ‘He is not a vindictive man, sir.’
The Earl raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not serve seven years in government without learning something about neutralising your enemies, believe me. But let us return to today. Did you manage to talk to this beggar before he died?’
Chaloner decided he was unwilling to divulge the vagrant’s gabbled claims to anyone at White Hall until he had at least some idea about what he had been trying to communicate. ‘A little,’ he replied vaguely. ‘He claimed he had information to impart, but declined to confide in me.’
The Earl stroked his tiny beard – a thumbnail-sized patch under his lower lip; it matched his little moustache. ‘Do you think May shot him to prevent this information from being passed on?’
Chaloner frowned, puzzled. ‘Why would he do that? The beggar seemed to think the government might be interested in what he had to say.’
The Earl raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Because of what Holles told me: that the fellow was killed after you had relieved him of his dag. May is a devious fellow, with fingers in a great many pies. Perhaps he has his own reasons for wanting to still the beggar’s mouth before it started flapping.’
It was an intriguing notion, although Chaloner was wary of embracing it too eagerly; he did not want his dislike of May to lead him astray. ‘If Williamson is worth his salt as Spymaster, he will have reservations about the necessity of the execution, too.’
‘May said he did it to save your life, and Williamson believes him. This beggar had a knife.’
‘He posed no danger, and May should have known it. Besides, I suspect Williamson would happily sacrifice me for the chance to converse with a would-be assassin. Perhaps you are right, My Lord: May did want to silence him before he said anything incriminating.’
‘What did the fellow say to you?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘Holles says he saw you chatting for several moments before the shot rang out.’
Chaloner hesitated. The Earl could not always be trusted to keep secrets – not from any desire to cause trouble, but from his tendency to be overly trusting of the people he met – and if his suspicions about May were correct, then Chaloner would be safer if no one knew the beggar had died reciting names. ‘He was declaring his innocence – telling me he was no king-killer.’
‘And what do you think? Did he intend to shoot the King?’
Chaloner considered the question carefully. He had believed the man’s claim that waylaying Williamson had been his main objective, and the weapon had been in no state for a serious attempt at regicide anyway. ‘Not everyone in possession of a gun is bent on murder,’ he said eventually.
The Earl walked to the window and stared out at the wet garden. The wind blew misty sheets of rain across the perfectly symmetrical flower beds and the tiny clipped hedges. Chaloner went to stand next to him. He did not like the artificial neatness of White Hall’s grounds, and preferred the tangled, chaotic jumble of places like Lincoln’s Inn, where long grass grew among wild flowers, and where trees were gnarled and misshapen with age. It was some time before the Earl spoke.
‘May brought the body to White Hall, and it looked familiar to me. I am sure he was no vagrant.’
Chaloner was startled that Clarendon should recognise the man. ‘Where might you have seen him before, sir?’
The Earl shook his head slowly. ‘That is the annoying thing: I cannot recall. Perhaps I am mistaken, what with his stubbly chin and his dirty clothes. Yet there was something about him … ’
‘Would you like me to find out who he was?’
Clarendon shrugged. ‘If you like. I do not have much else for you to do at the moment, and it may transpire to be important, I suppose. Yes, carry on, if you cannot think of anything better to occupy your time.’
He could not have sounded less enthusiastic had he tried.
One of the advantages of having a monarch, rather than a Commonwealth, was that His Majesty’s subjects were often allowed inside White Hall to watch him dine, should they feel so inclined. The Earl of Clarendon was so inclined, because that Friday was a special occasion, and the King’s cooks had been ordered to produce something suitably impressive. As a man deeply interested in food, Lord Clarendon was keen to know what they had devised. Chaloner borrowed a cloak to conceal his raker’s rags and accompanied him to the Banqueting House, where the spectacle was due to take place. Personally, the spy failed to understand the appeal of the event – as far as he was concerned, all it did was make him feel hungry.