‘You must have been very proud of your son,’ he began. ‘Being a scout in Tangier.’
‘Spying on people was what he did best.’ She nodded. ‘He was always good at it, even as a child. But he did not come home a happy man. He was frightened.’
‘Frightened of what?’
‘He would not tell me, although he did mention that we were going to be rich. Of course, that will not happen now.’ Bitterly, she took a gulp from her mug.
‘No? Surely Harley and Newell will see you are looked after — for his sake?’
‘Those scum! They are furious that he is dead, and promised vengeance. But vengeance does not put wine on the table, does it? I want money!’
‘He belonged to a group called the Piccadilly Company,’ said Chaloner, a little taken aback by her brazen rapacity, especially as Reyner professed to have been fond of her. Naively, he had expected the sentiment to have been reciprocated. ‘Do you know what-’
Mrs Reyner sneered. ‘That Brilliana is a member! She is Colonel Harley’s sister, and an evil witch. The others I do not know. Well, there is Fitzgerald — the one-eyed sailor with the large orange beard — but we do not talk about him, of course.’
‘Why not?’ asked Chaloner, aware that her voice had dropped to a whisper.
‘Because he is a pirate. And he visits brothels, like the one in Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’
‘I see. Is that the best place to find him, then?’
‘No one “finds” Fitzgerald. And you had better hope he does not find you, either.’
Chaloner changed the subject, thinking he would rather have answers about Fitzgerald from the man himself, anyway. ‘Did your son tell you what happened in Tangier the day Lord Teviot died?’
‘He said he was paid handsomely to facilitate an ambush, although I never saw any of the money.’ Mrs Reyner sighed mournfully. ‘And now I never will.’
‘Did he tell you that this ambush resulted in the deaths of almost five hundred men?’
She shrugged. ‘What of it? They were soldiers, and soldiers are supposed to fight. It was hardly my boy’s fault that they were not very good at it.’
There was no point in embarking on a debate about the ethics of the situation, and Chaloner did not try. ‘What else did he tell you about it?’
‘Nothing, except that it plagued his conscience.’ She grimaced. ‘He always was a weakling.’
‘Who do you think killed him?’ asked Chaloner, fighting down his revulsion for the woman.
‘His enemies — the deadly horde that Harley and Newell kept talking about last night. You see, there is the Piccadilly Company, and there are their foes. They hate each other. You should watch yourself, Mr … what did you say your name was?’
‘Thank you for your time,’ said Chaloner. ‘But if this “deadly horde” is as dangerous as you say, you might be wise not to speak to anyone else about your son’s activities in Tangier.’
‘The horde will not harm me,’ stated Mrs Reyner confidently. ‘Because I have this.’
She reached under her skirts, and there followed several moments of rather unseemly rummaging. Chaloner was on the verge of leaving — there was only so much he could be expected to endure for the sake of an inquiry — when she produced a piece of paper with a drunken flourish.
‘It is a list of names, but it is in code, so no one can read it. My son gave it to me, and said it would protect me if his enemies come.’
She brandished it again, but the movement caused her to teeter, obliging Chaloner to grab her arm before she fell. He settled her in a chair, then turned his attention to the paper. On it were written about fifty words, all in cipher. Pen and ink stood on the table, so he began to make a copy.
‘Here!’ she demanded belligerently. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Saving your life. If this horde comes, and you are forced to give them the list, you can tell them there is a duplicate — one that will be made public should anything happen to you.’
‘Who shall I say has it?’ she asked blearily. ‘You have not told me your name.’
Chaloner smothered his exasperation. ‘That is the point! If they do not know me, they cannot order me to hand my copy over, too. They will have to leave you alone, or risk being exposed.’
Such a complex explanation took a while for Mrs Reyner to grasp, but when she did, she grinned. ‘Hurry up, then. But be warned — my boy said the code is impossible to crack, because it came from vinegar.’
‘Vinegar? Do you mean Vigenère?’
She snapped her fingers. ‘That is the man! Do you know him?’
‘No,’ said Chaloner, although his heart sank. The polyalphabetic cipher adapted by Vigenère was said to be unbreakable. He handed the scroll back to Mrs Reyner, reminded her what she should say if her son’s enemies came calling, and took his leave. It was time to visit his friend John Thurloe, who had a rare talent for decoding messages not intended for his eyes.
Chaloner took a hackney carriage to Chancery Lane, not because he was tired, but because he was bored with the journey between Piccadilly and the city. Unfortunately, he was not in the coach for long before it rolled to a standstill, and he peered out to see The Strand was in the midst of one of its ‘stops’ — carts, carriages and horses in a jam so dense that nothing was moving.
With a sigh, he clambered out and began to walk, dodging through the traffic until he reached Lincoln’s Inn, one of London’s four great legal foundations. He waved to the duty porter as he stepped through the wicket gate, then made his way to Chamber XIII. He tapped softly on the door, and let himself into the one place in London where he felt truly safe, a comfortable suite of rooms that were full of the cosy, familiar scent of old books, wax polish and wood-smoke.
John Thurloe was sitting by the fire. He was a slight man with large blue eyes, whose unassuming appearance belied the power he had wielded when he was Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have lasted as long as it had without Thurloe’s guidance — he had run a highly efficient intelligence network, of which Chaloner had been a part. He had retired from politics at the Restoration, and now lived quietly, dividing his time between London and his estate in Oxfordshire.
‘Tom!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in! It is a bitterly cold day, and you must be freezing.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘It is a pleasant morning, and I am hot from walking.’
‘Then you had better take one of these,’ said Thurloe, offering him a tin. ‘We cannot have you overheating. One of Mr Matthew’s Excellent Pills should put you right.’
Thurloe was always concerned about his own health, and declared himself to be fragile, although there was a strength in him that was unmatched by anyone else Chaloner had ever met. He swallowed all manner of cure-alls in his search for one that would make him feel as he had when he was twenty. Chaloner was sure they could not be good for him.
‘Good for slaying fluxes,’ he said, shaking his head as he recalled what he had read about the tablets in The Intelligencer. He did not mention the bit about expelling wind: Thurloe was inclined to be prudish.
‘If you will not accept a pill, then have a sip of this instead,’ said Thurloe, proffering a brightly coloured phial that declared itself to be Sydenham’s Laudanum.
Chaloner shook his head a second time, then watched in alarm as Thurloe drained it in a single swallow. ‘Easy! There might be all manner of unpleasant ingredients in that.’
‘Almost certainly,’ agreed Thurloe blithely. ‘But if essence of slug or tincture of quicksilver can restore the spark of vitality that has been missing in me since Cromwell died, I shall not complain.’
‘You will complain if they kill you. Quicksilver is poisonous. I know — I have seen it used.’