Blood on the Strand (6 page)

He went to the larder for something to eat before he began his day, but was not very inspired by the wizened turnips or the
sack of wheat that sat amid the smattering of mouse droppings. He closed and locked the door, then clattered down the stairs,
stopping to greet his landlord, who was waiting to ask whether he had seen a raker loitering around the house the previous
morning. Fortunately for Chaloner, Daniel Ellis had not yet associated the appearance of some very odd characters with his
tenant’s vague explanations of what he did for a living. Ellis gazed curiously at Chaloner’s attire.

‘That is an odd assemblage. It makes you look three decades older.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘My brother wants me to meet a woman with a view to marriage.’

Ellis tapped the side of his nose in manly understanding.
‘Well, that costume should certainly put her off. She will not want to wed Methuselah.’

The clocks were chiming six o’clock when Chaloner stepped out of the door on to Fetter Lane, and the city was wide awake.
Carts rattled up and down, laden with wood, coal, hay, cloth and country-grown vegetables for the markets at Cheapside and
Gracechurch Street. The harsh voices of street-sellers echoed between the tall buildings – a baker offered fresh pies, although
they were black with dried gravy and dead flies; a milkmaid had cream in the pail she carried over her shoulder; and children
tried to sell flowers they had picked before dawn in the nearby villages of Paddington and Stepney. It was a dull day, the
sky a mass of solid white above. It was darkened by smoke from the thousands of fires lit to heat water and bread for breakfast,
and the drizzle that began to fall was thick with soot.

There was no point in going to White Hall straight away, because no self-respecting courtier would be out of his bed until
at least nine o’clock, and Chaloner did not want to roam deserted corridors and attract unnecessary attention. It was also
too early to visit the gunsmith, as such places tended to open later than the stalls that sold foodstuffs. Instead, he headed
for Hercules’s Pillars Alley, a lane running south from Fleet Street, opposite the Church of St Dunstan-in-the-West. Just
before he had left for Ireland, his friend Temperance North had bought a house there, and he had not yet been to see how she
was settling in. It was an odd hour to call on anyone, but Temperance was a devout Puritan who always rose early for chapel,
so he knew she would be awake.

Temperance had been left destitute and pregnant when her parents had died, but Thurloe had tackled the
law-courts to salvage some of their estate for her. He had done better than anyone had anticipated, and although grief had
caused Temperance to miscarry, she had rallied her spirits and spent her fortune on a rambling three-storeyed house taxed
on fourteen hearths. It was a large place for a single woman, but she had enigmatically informed her anxious friends that
she had plans for it.

On the chilly February day when she had taken him to inspect the building, Chaloner had thought it gloomy and unprepossessing,
but three months later it was transformed. Gone were the rotten windows, and in their place were fresh, brightly painted shutters
and flowers in pots on the sills. The roof had been re-tiled, and iron railings fenced off a small yard at the front of the
house, paved with flagstones and shaded by a dripping tree. He was impressed by the speed with which Temperance had made her
changes, and saw she had not allowed herself to wallow in self-pity.

He was about to approach the door, when it opened and two well-dressed men reeled out, although their drunkenness was not
the boisterous kind. Chaloner ducked behind a water butt when he saw they were accompanied by a man called Preacher Hill,
a nonconformist fanatic who did a great deal of damage with his loud opinions and bigotry. Chaloner waited until they had
gone, then tapped on the door, pondering why the three men should have been visiting Temperance at such a peculiar hour. It
was hardly proper, and he wondered whether Thurloe had been right to help her move away from the kindly widow who had looked
after her following the death of her parents.

The door was opened by Temperance herself. She was a tall, solidly built woman of twenty, with a large, homely
face and gorgeous tresses of shiny chestnut hair. These had been concealed under a prim bonnet when her mother had been alive,
but now they were displayed for all to see, and Chaloner was sure even Lady Castlemaine would covet them. She had dispensed
with the plain black skirts favoured by her co-religionists, too, and wore a tightly laced bodice that did not flatter her
stout frame, with billowing skirts of green satin. She looked prosperous and confident, and her hazel eyes had lost the endearing
innocence he recalled from a few months before.

She looked him up and down appraisingly, then gestured that he could enter. ‘You have come at an odd time. Most men prefer
evenings, but I shall see what we can do, since you look respectable.’

Chaloner was bemused by the cool greeting. ‘What are you talking about?’

Temperance peered into his face, then released a bubbling chuckle of pleasure. ‘Thomas! I did not recognise you under all
that paint. Are you engaged on another assignment for your earl? Where have you been these last three months? You sent a note
in February saying you were going overseas, but since then I have heard nothing. I thought perhaps you were never coming back.’

‘You did not recognise me, and yet you invited me in?’

Temperance laughed again. ‘Only because you looked too old to cause any trouble.’

He had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and when he made no reply, she took his arm and led him into a warm, steamy
kitchen at the rear of the house. As he passed the large room that overlooked the courtyard, his eyes watered at the fug of
stale tobacco smoke. Dirty goblets and empty decanters were strewn everywhere, and
spilled food had been crushed into the rugs. He glimpsed a furtive movement on the stairs, and glanced up to see a half-clad
woman. Other voices told him she was not the only female in residence. Gradually, it began to dawn on him that Temperance’s
plans for her new life had revolved around establishing some sort of bawdy house. He was not usually slow on the uptake, but
Temperance hailed from a deeply devout family that believed even innocent pleasures like reading or singing were sinful, and
the abrupt transformation was unexpected, to say the least.

‘Have you come to collect the shirts I offered to mend before you left?’ she asked, directing him to sit at the table. Pots
and pans were everywhere, and there was a mouth-watering scent of baking pastry. Piles of plates sat washed and draining near
a stone sink, and a heavy, comfortable matron sat next to a roaring fire, toasting bread on the end of a poker. ‘I confess
I put them away when you disappeared, but I shall see to them today.’

‘Leave them to me,’ said the older woman, whose powerful arms and strong hands gave her the appearance of a milkmaid. She
leered at Chaloner. ‘And I shall lace them, too. You are sadly dowdy, and in desperate need of a lady’s touch. I shall add
so much lace to your collar, sleeves and cuffs that the King himself will ask where you purchased such magnificent garments.’

Chaloner did not recall the shirts, and did not like the sound of the ‘improvements’, either. ‘That is not necessary, ma’am.’

‘It is no trouble,’ she said, fluffing her hair as she winked at him.

There was a merry twinkle in Temperance’s eyes. ‘Were he to remove his beard and wig, you would see he is far
too young to warrant your interest, Maude. I harboured an affection for him once, until I realised life is more enjoyable
without a man telling me what to do. What husband would permit the kind of civilised evenings
we
have enjoyed these last few weeks?’

Chaloner did not try to hide his concern. ‘This is a respectable neighbourhood, Temperance, and if your … your
enterprise
is too brazen, you may find yourself in trouble.’

‘We are always quiet, so do not fret,’ said Temperance, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Would you like some coffee?
Maude knows how to make it.’

Maude heaved her bulk out of the chair, and set about heating water for the beverage that was fast becoming popular in London.
While she was waiting for the pan to boil, she took some roasted beans and pounded them vigorously with a pestle and mortar.
She tossed the resulting powder into a jug, along with a vast quantity of dark sugar, and added hot water. A sharp, burned
aroma filled the kitchen when she poured her brew into three dishes. It was black, syrupy, and tasted like medicine. After
a few moments, Chaloner felt his heart begin to pound, and he set it down half finished. It was too strong, although Temperance
and Maude did not seem to be affected.

‘Are you going to chapel?’ he asked, recalling how Temperance had never missed morning prayers when they had been neighbours.
‘Perhaps I can escort you there?’

She shook her head after Maude, taking the hint, grabbed a basket and muttered something about going to the market for eggs.
‘I do not hold with all that any more – I go to St Dunstan’s on Sundays, and that is enough. It is good to see you, Thomas.
I was beginning to think you might have forgotten me, which would have
been sad. I value our friendship, and would not like to lose it.’

‘I have been in Ireland, and only returned a few days ago.’

Her face filled with alarm. ‘Ireland? I hope it was nothing to do with the Castle Plot – that sounded horrible! I wish you
would abandon your work with that Lord Clarendon. Clerking would be much safer. If you are interested, I could find you something
here.’

‘You are in a position to employ me?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Your business is lucrative, then?’

‘Very,’ said Temperance with a satisfied smile of pleasure. ‘And I am in sore need of a reliable manager of accounts. Are
you interested?’

Chaloner had questions of his own. ‘Why was Preacher Hill here? If you have abandoned your old religion, then why continue
to associate with him? His wild opinions make him a dangerous man to know, and he may bring you trouble.’

‘He has been extruded – prevented from conducting religious offices in his own church – so he works for me now, as a doorman.
He is rather good at it, and the position leaves his days free for spouting sermons in public places. The arrangement suits
us both. Do you really disapprove? I thought you were opposed to discrimination on religious grounds.’

‘I do, but that is no reason … ’ He trailed off, seeing there was no point in pursuing the matter. He could tell from
the stubborn expression on her face that she was not going to change her mind, or listen to advice from him.

‘Dear Thomas,’ she said after a moment, shooting him a fond smile. ‘You have not changed.’

She had, though. ‘You have grown up. I was gone a few weeks, and you are different.’

She nodded, pleased he had noticed. ‘I think the word is “liberated”. For the first time in my life I can do exactly as I
please. I wear lace. I see plays. I read books that are nothing to do with religion. I feel as though I have woken up after
a long sleep, and I am happier now than I have ever been. I grieve for my parents, of course – they raised me in a way they
thought was right – but I prefer my life now. Will you teach me French? I would so like to speak that particular language.’

‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Chaloner ungraciously. ‘Brothel business always sounds so much more genteel when conducted
in French.’

Even after an hour with Temperance, it was still too early to visit White Hall or to interview gunsmiths, so Chaloner crossed
Fleet Street and walked to Lincoln’s Inn. Although his thoughts were mostly on Temperance, an innate sense still warned him
of the thieves who saw him as an easy target. He was obliged to side-step two pickpockets and flash his dagger at a would-be
robber before he was even halfway up Chancery Lane. He slipped through Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate when its porter was looking
the other way, and headed for Chamber XIII in Dial Court. It was here that John Thurloe, his friend and former employer, lived
when he was not at his family estate near Oxford.

Dial Court was one of the oldest parts of the ancient foundation for licensing lawyers and clerks, and comprised accommodation
wings to the east and west, and the new chapel to the south. To the north were the gardens, a tangle of untamed vegetation,
venerable oaks and gnarled fruit trees. In the middle of Dial Court was the ugliest
sundial ever created, a monstrosity of curly iron and leering cherubs. It had been installed in a place where it was in the
shade for most of the day, which somewhat defeated its purpose.

As a ‘bencher’ – a governing member of Lincoln’s Inn – Thurloe was entitled to occupy a suite of chambers on two floors. On
one level was his bedchamber and an oak-panelled sitting room, full of books and the scent of polished wood; above was a pantry
and an attic that was home to his manservant, a fellow so quiet and unobtrusive that he was thought to be mute.

Thurloe was sitting next to a blazing fire, even though summer was fast approaching and most people had blocked their chimneys
in anticipation of warmth to come. He hated cold weather, and his chambers were always stifling. The man who had been one
of Cromwell’s closest friends and most trusted advisor was slightly built, with shoulder-length brown hair. His large blue
eyes often appeared soulful, but there was a core of steel in him that had taken more than one would-be conspirator by surprise.
He had single-handedly managed an intelligence service that had not only monitored the activities of foreign governments,
but had watched the movements of the exiled King and his followers, too. Chaloner suspected the Commonwealth would not have
lasted as long as it had, if Thurloe had not been its Secretary of State and Spymaster General.

Thurloe was not alone that morning, because a thin, stoop-shouldered mathematician–surveyor called William Leybourn was visiting
him. Chaloner had met Leybourn the previous winter, and they had become friends. Leybourn owned a bookshop on Monkwell Street
near Cripplegate, and Chaloner had spent many happy hours browsing his collection while listening to him expound
all manner of complex and mostly incomprehensible geometrical theories.