‘No one knows Mary, except as a lady newly arrived in Cripplegate,’ Thurloe said, as he returned the drawing. He was tired and dispirited. ‘It is almost as if she never existed before she bewitched William.’
‘She existed,’ said Chaloner grimly. ‘The way she threatened me suggested I am not the first man she has tried to intimidate, and all we have to do is encourage her other victims to talk to us.’
‘We shall have to find them first. Perhaps they are all in the provinces. Will you travel the length and breadth of the country in an attempt to unveil her?’
‘If that is what it takes to save Will, then yes.’
Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn at ten o’clock, when the streets were quiet, and most fires were doused. He walked to his lodgings, and slept until the bellman announced that it was five o’clock on a cold, rainy morning. He washed in the bucket of water his landlord had left for him, shaved, and rummaged in his clothes chest for something respectable to wear.
His choices were even more limited than they had been the previous day, and he was obliged to settle for a shirt that was too small for him, and a purple coat he had been lent three months ago, but that he had forgotten to return. He bundled up the insect-ravaged remainder of his clothes and tossed them over his shoulder, intending to spend his last two pennies on matching thread as soon as the markets opened. He was perfectly capable of making basic repairs, and a lack of suitable attire would start to impede his work soon, by barring him from the places he needed to visit. Dick Whittington style, with the cat at his heels, he crept down the stairs and let himself out through the front door. When it saw drizzle falling steadily, the cat promptly turned around and stalked back inside again.
It was still pitch black, although London was beginning to stir. Lamps and fires were lit in Fetter Lane, and the smell of burning wood mingled with the scent of bread from a nearby cook-shop. The aroma reminded Chaloner that he needed to acquire some money before he starved. He cursed under his breath when his first step ended in a splash, and freezing water seeped into his boots. He recalled Thurloe mentioning the previous day that the Houses of Parliament were flooded, and that prayers were being said all over the city for a break in the weather.
He crossed Fleet Street, and aimed for Hercules’ Pillars Alley, a narrow lane named for the famous tavern that stood on its corner. Lights gleamed inside the inn, and muted cheers suggested a gambling session was in play. Since the Restoration, taverns had reverted to the age-old tradition of staying open for as long as their patrons demanded, and Londoners were proud of the fact that ale and wine were available in their city twenty-four hours a day.
About halfway down the road was a tall, three-storey building separated from the traffic by a line of metal railings and an attractive courtyard. Its window shutters, firmly closed against the foul weather, were newly painted, and everything about the place bespoke quality and affluence. It belonged to Temperance North, who had once been Chaloner’s neighbour. She had invested her entire inheritance in the house, then stunned her friends by opening an elegant bordello that was very popular among wealthy courtiers. Chaloner loved Temperance like a sister, but had not yet been to tell her he was back from his latest travels. She would be hurt if he left it too long, so a visit was already overdue.
He tapped on the door and waited, shivering as the wind blew rain into his face. Eventually, he heard a bar being removed, and the door was opened warily by a man called Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who worked as a night-porter for Temperance, so his days could be free to stand in public places and spout inflammatory sermons. It was men like Hill who fanned the flames of religious dissent, and he and Chaloner had never seen eye to eye.
‘What do you want at this hour of the morning?’ demanded Hill. He glanced up at the sky. ‘It is still dark.’
‘Is Temperance ill?’ asked Chaloner, suddenly aware that had the ‘gentleman’s club’ been operating as normal, Hill would have been outside, helping patrons into carriages or on to horses. Lights would have been blazing from windows, and there would have been some sort of sound — soft music or the murmur of voices. He wondered if she had been attacked during the time he had been away, and forced to close.
‘She is well,’ replied Hill. He sighed, knowing better than to annoy his employer by dismissing her friends. ‘Come in and I will fetch her, although I cannot imagine she will be pleased to see you.’
He stamped off down the hallway, and Chaloner waited uncertainly, noting that the chamber where the revelries usually took place was empty. It was also clean and tidy, and had clearly not been used for any sort of entertainment the night before.
‘Thomas!’ came Temperance’s voice from the stairs. She was wearing an elegant velvet mantua, a robe-like garment usually worn over night-clothes. ‘Where have you been these last four months? Mr Thurloe said you had gone abroad, but you could have left me a note, too, so I would not worry.’
‘There was no time.’ Chaloner was sorry to hear the reproach in her voice. He had very few friends in London — he would have fewer still if Mary Cade had her way over Leybourn — and he did not want to alienate any of them.
She inspected his face, raising her hand to touch the bruise on his jaw. ‘You have been fighting, I see. You have not changed!’
‘You have,’ said Chaloner. She had grown plumper, and her glossy chestnut hair was set in the style favoured by Lady Castlemaine. There were expensive rings on her fingers, and she had somehow acquired the casual, mocking smile that was currently the vogue at White Hall. In all, they were not pleasant developments, and he wondered what was happening to her.
‘It has rained almost constantly since you left,’ she said, when he did not elaborate. ‘The old folk say it was the worst summer ever. Special prayers were said for the harvest, but they did scant good.’
‘It is the wrath of God,’ said Preacher Hill in a voice that was far too loud for the early hour. ‘He disapproves of debauchery, and sends a scourge of rain to lead us back to the path of righteousness.’
Chaloner wanted to point out that this was rank hypocrisy from a man who earned his daily bread in a brothel, but he did not want to offend Temperance, so he held his tongue. He followed her along the hallway to the large, warm kitchen, while Hill disappeared on business of his own. Normally, the room was busy, as scullions prepared for the new day by scouring pans and fetching water. That morning, however, the hearth was a mass of dead, white ashes, and the room was still and silent. Temperance began to lay the fire, while Chaloner looked around him.
‘Where are your people? The cooks and the maids.’ And the prostitutes, he was tempted to add, but was still not quite sure how to refer to them without causing offence.
‘In bed,’ she replied. She glanced up at him. ‘Yesterday was All Saints and today is All Souls.’
He regarded her blankly. ‘I do not understand.’
She raised her eyebrows indignantly. ‘The club does not operate on religious high days, Thomas. That would be immoral.’
Temperance was eager to tell Chaloner all that had happened in London during his absence. He did not ask whether she had heard about the deaths of Newburne and Maylord, but they were included in her summary anyway. It was not long before she was joined by her matronly assistant Maude, and the discussion became even more detailed. Although listening to gossip was not something he particularly enjoyed, it was a necessary part of being a spy, and he was good at asking questions that prompted a decent flow of information.