‘No, but they must have passed the time of day when they met in the corridor. It would have been rude otherwise, and Maylord had beautiful manners. I would be surprised if he had anything more to do with Wenum, though. Are you going to rob me? I do not own much money, but you can have it.’
Chaloner stood. ‘All I want is your silence. You tell no one you saw me, and I tell no one we hid together. Then we will both be safe.’
‘Agreed,’ said the man with palpable relief.
The Hectors were still searching for Chaloner, so he was obliged to leave the Rhenish Wine House carefully. He turned his coat inside out to make it a different colour, and exchanged skullcap and hat for an old wig he discovered in his pocket. It reeked of horse, and he could not for the life of him remember where it had come from, but he was glad it was there. He scanned the street in both directions, then escaped by jumping on to the back of a cart filled with dirty straw. The driver did not notice him until they reached St Giles-in-the-Fields, at which point he grabbed a pitchfork and threatened to use it unless his passenger made himself scarce. Chaloner limped away, then made a tortuous journey that involved not only doubling back on himself, but making use of one or two private gardens. Only when he was certain he had not been followed did he enter Lincoln’s Inn and head for Chamber XIII.
‘Tom!’ exclaimed Thurloe, opening the door to let him in. ‘William told me you have had some trouble. Come and sit by the fire, and share my dinner.’
Chaloner could not remember when he had last eaten, and took more of the ex-Spymaster’s victuals than was polite, although Thurloe was too courteous to draw attention to the fact. While they dined, he gave a brief account of all that had happened.
‘The city was never this dangerous when I was Spymaster,’ declared Thurloe, shaking his head disparagingly. ‘Safe streets, low crime rates and a marked absence of gangs are just a few of the advantages conferred by a military dictatorship, such as the one we enjoyed under Oliver Cromwell.’
At first, Chaloner thought he was joking, but saw from his wistful expression that he was not. He changed the subject before they argued. ‘I am not sure what to think about Wenum’s notebook,’ he said, handing it over for Thurloe’s inspection.
‘You will have to tell L’Estrange,’ said Thurloe, raising his eyebrows as he flicked through it and saw the extent of the betrayal. ‘Wenum is undermining the government by his actions. People say the newsbooks contain stale news, which means there is a very real danger that they will founder — and from this ledger, I would say Wenum is largely responsible. You are duty-bound to expose it.’
Chaloner was uneasy with that. ‘There are six sets of initials in Wenum’s book, one of which is probably Muddiman’s. What will happen to him once Williamson learns what has been happening?’
‘I doubt L’Estrange will tell Williamson that one of his carefully vetted workers has been betraying him, so I imagine nothing will happen to Muddiman. Wenum will be discreetly dismissed and the whole embarrassing business quietly forgotten. Government officials dislike this sort of scandal.’
‘Have you ever come across Wenum?’
‘No. Muddiman ran the newsbooks for me during the Commonwealth — and then until he was ousted in favour of L’Estrange a few weeks ago — but there was no Wenum on his staff. L’Estrange must have appointed the fellow, as he appointed Brome. It is fortunate Brome accepted because he keeps L’Estrange in check to a certain extent. He and Joanna may appear to be meek, but their quiet common sense acts as a brake to some of L’Estrange’s wilder follies.’
Chaloner was more interested in the traitor. ‘My first assumption was that Newburne was the culprit, because of the law books and Galen’s views on cucumbers. And from what I have been told, he was the kind of man to sell secrets to the highest bidder. But instead it was Wenum.’
Thurloe was quiet for a moment. ‘Have you heard the rumour that says Newburne owned a small box filled with precious jewels, and that he hid it before he died?’
Chaloner regarded him in concern. ‘No! Is it true?’
Thurloe shook his head. ‘I sincerely doubt it. The story began to circulate shortly after his death, but those sorts of tales always proliferate when rich men die. Everyone loves hidden treasure.’
‘Well, I do not,’ said Chaloner vehemently. ‘Secret hoards nearly always bring trouble.’
‘I doubt Newburne’s will bother you unduly. I am fairly sure its existence is a myth, and I only mention it so you can consider it as a motive for his murder.’
‘You just said it does not exist.’
Thurloe frowned. ‘But others may think it does, and be beguiled by the prospect of easy riches. You are slow today, Thomas. It must be all that food you have just eaten.’
Chaloner was overfull, but his mind was clearer than it had been when he was hungry. He turned his attention to another matter. ‘Do you have any paper? I would like to make a likeness of Mary.’
Thurloe’s blue eyes gleamed. ‘Since you have more sense than to be dazzled by the woman, I assume you concur with me: that there is something unpleasant about her, and you have a plan to prise her claws from William’s heart.’
Chaloner detailed Mary’s hostility towards him, especially their last conversation, as he sat at the table and drew what he remembered of her face. ‘She made no effort to hide her real intentions,’ he concluded. ‘I will take her picture to Newgate today, to see if the wardens are familiar with her.’
Thurloe watched the picture take shape, as Chaloner sketched first with charcoal and then with a pen. Proudly, he lent the spy his Fountain Inkhorn, a newfangled device that carried its own supply of ink, but it had a tendency to blot, and Chaloner soon reverted to a quill.
‘There is certainly something felonious about her,’ the ex-Spymaster said, going back to his fireside chair. ‘But I doubt you will learn much at Newgate. She is cunning, and will have effected a disguise when she homed in on William. The guards will not recognise her now.’
‘We will not know unless we try, and her unease of the law suggests something is amiss.’
‘What if you do prove she has a criminal past? She will deny it, and William might decide it is unimportant anyway. He is utterly besotted by her. Did I tell you he claimed she was as fair as Aphrodite when he first introduced us? I do not think his eyesight is very good. And she probably keeps the lamps low at night, to ensure he cannot see her properly.’
Chaloner laughed as he held up the finished drawing. ‘Have I captured her well enough?’
Thurloe inspected the work critically. ‘You should make her eyes smaller, and her mouth thinner. And how about putting a pitchfork in her hands, and the devil whispering in her ear?’
Chaloner stood when he heard the clock chime three. ‘I should visit Newgate before dark. You say it will do no good, but I cannot think of any other way forward.’
But Thurloe took the picture and placed it in his own pocket. ‘I still have a few contacts from the old days. Leave this to me — and my heavy purse. Do not look dubious, Thomas. I was Spymaster General, if you do not mind. I can do this sort of thing in my sleep.’
Chaloner was not so sure. Thurloe was excellent at theory, but fared less well at practical matters. However, he was right in that bribery would be the most effective method of gaining information, and Chaloner supposed he should let him try.
Thurloe came to rest a solicitous hand on his shoulder. ‘You have hated prisons ever since that episode in France a few years back. Why put yourself through the ordeal of a visit, when I can do it?’
He had a point. Chaloner did own a deep-rooted aversion to gaols, and was willing to go to considerable lengths to avoid them. He nodded his thanks, and went to sit next to the fire.
‘We will prevail against this vixen, Tom. However, I am more concerned about you than William this afternoon. You are clearly not thinking straight, because you have not once asked why the men who almost killed you last night should be searching Maylord’s room today. What did they want? The documents? The key? Money? Maylord was comparatively wealthy, unlike Smegergill, whose unpredictable temper meant he had no rich pupils — with the possible exception of that big-nosed lutanist whom no one liked.’