Blood on the Strand (7 page)

‘Who are you?’ demanded Leybourn when Chaloner started to walk inside. He tried to haul his sword from its scabbard, although
as usual he had not bothered to oil it, and it stuck halfway out. Leybourn always claimed that time spent on maintaining weapons
was time that could be better spent reading. ‘What do you want?’

Thurloe came to stand next to him, and his normally sombre face broke into a rare smile when he recognised the grey eyes.
‘Thomas is playing a game with us.’

Leybourn’s jaw dropped, then he started to laugh, amused by the fact that he had been fooled. ‘Is this for our benefit, or
do you have another perilous mission to fulfil for Lord Clarendon?’

‘I would never wear this wretched thing for fun,’ said Chaloner, indicating the wig. It was hot and itched in a way that made
him sure it was host to a legion of lice. He said what was uppermost in his mind as he pushed past the surveyor and went to
warm his hands by the fire. ‘Have you seen Temperance recently?’

‘I am a married man, so her establishment is anathema to me,’ said Thurloe distastefully. ‘I would never visit her there,
although she comes to pass the time of day with me here on occasion. I am pleased to see colour in the poor child’s cheeks
at last.’

‘She is blooming,’ agreed Leybourn cheerfully, struggling to replace his sword in its sticky scabbard. ‘And
I
have visited Hercules’s Pillars Alley on several occasions. She runs an excellent show, although it can grow a little wild
in the small hours. She has promised to introduce me to a few decent ladies, because I do not have much luck with the fairer
sex, and I would like to be married.’

‘I doubt you will find a suitable match among the women in Temperance’s employ,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘I know you
are not particular, but there should be limits to how low you are willing to stoop, and a bordello – even an elegant one –
should be well beneath them. You would do better frequenting funerals, and keeping an eye out for a respectable widow.’

Chaloner rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I am gone three months and return to find the world turned upside-down. Temperance has
become a madam, Will is trawling brothels for a wife, and
you
are dispensing some of the worst advice I have ever heard.’

Thurloe was stung. ‘My advice is perfectly sound. He is likely to meet a better class of person in a church than in a bawdy
house. However, if you have a better suggestion, then let us hear it.’

‘Temperance’s place is not just a bawdy house,’ said Leybourn, giving up the battle to replace his sword in its scabbard and
giving it to Chaloner to sort out. ‘Men visit her for witty conversation, too. It is like a coffee house that admits women,
and not all its patrons are desperate for a whore. Do not tell her you disapprove, Tom. She thinks the world of you, and it
would be a pity to spoil her happiness.’

‘She could be arrested,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘Prostitution is illegal, and so is owning a brothel.’

‘This one should be safe enough,’ said Leybourn. ‘It is already popular with influential courtiers like Buckingham, York and
Bristol. And once word is out that
they
visit the place, it is only a matter of time before others patronise it, too, to show they are men of fashion. Buckingham
took Lady Castlemaine one night, and an excellent evening was had by all.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. It was not that he disapproved of bawdy houses – on the contrary, they were useful places for
collecting information, and for relaxing with women he did not want to meet again – but it felt sordid when Temperance was
involved.

‘You have grown thin,’ said Thurloe in the silence that followed. Chaloner did not believe him, knowing the ex-Spymaster could
not tell what he looked like under the layers of powder and grease. ‘So, I shall provide you with breakfast. My servant is
ill, and has gone to stay with his sister, so I am obliged to order victuals from the kitchens myself these days.’

‘I came to keep him company,’ said Leybourn, when Thurloe had gone to collect the food. ‘You know how he likes to walk in
the Inn’s grounds each morning, as dawn breaks? Well, there are plans afoot to remodel them in a way that will make this a
thing of the past. He is very upset about it.’

‘There have been rumours about a new garden for as long as I can remember,’ said Chaloner, ‘but the benchers are united in
their opposition to change, and since they are the ruling council, they have the final word on the matter. Nothing will happen
to Thurloe’s orchard.’

‘That is no longer true. William Prynne, who is Lincoln’s Inn’s most famous bencher—’

‘A deranged bigot,’ interrupted Chaloner. He had met the elderly lawyer several times, and had been deeply repelled. ‘He writes
bitter diatribes on matters he does not understand –
The Quakers Unmasked
was so sickeningly poisonous that I could not put it down. Appalled disbelief kept me turning its pages.’

Leybourn laughed. ‘That is how I feel about some of the pamphlets the government asks me to print about
mathematics. But Prynne’s literary talents are irrelevant. The point is that he marched into White Hall, told the King what
he wanted, and His Majesty was so taken aback by his effrontery that he signed a letter ordering Lincoln’s Inn to see the
plans though. The foundation is in the unenviable position of either defying its King or going against its own wishes.’

‘Surely they can find a way to procrastinate until Prynne loses interest? These are lawyers, Will – making a lot of fuss while
actually doing nothing is what they are trained to do.’

‘Not with Prynne sending daily reports to White Hall about progress, or lack of it. The gardens mean a lot to Thurloe – he
loves those old trees – and Prynne’s project will see them all uprooted.’

‘You are talking about my orchard,’ said Thurloe, as he returned. Behind him was the Inn’s tabby cat, and a servant carrying
a tray. ‘Have you heard what Prynne intends to replace it with? An expanse of plain grass, crossed by two paths with a dovecote
in the middle. It will be as barren as a desert – and the dovecote is not for decoration, but so the hapless birds can be
bred for the table. I will feed them in the morning, only to have them grace my dinner plate at noon. Damned Puritan!’

Chaloner and Leybourn gazed at him in surprise. Thurloe was a deeply religious man who seldom swore – and he was a devout
adherent to Puritan principles himself. He was about to continue his tirade when the servant gave a howl of anger; the cat
had jumped on to the table he was setting, and had made off with a piece of salted pork.

‘What do the staff think about Prynne’s designs, Yates?’ asked Thurloe, waving a hand to indicate the cat was to be left alone
with its prize. ‘Do they approve?’

‘We are afraid that a great square containing nothing but grass will take a lot of scything in the summer, sir,’ replied Yates.
He was a small, lean fellow, unremarkable except for pale-brown eyes that roved independently of each other. At that precise
moment, one was fixed balefully on the cat, and the other was looking at Thurloe. ‘Mr Prynne said the labour will be good
for our souls.’

‘He can mow it, then,’ said Chaloner. ‘And reap the benefit for his own soul. God knows, he needs it, given all the odious
vitriol he has written during his life.’

Yates was thoughtful. ‘I wager Mr Prynne cannot tell the difference between seed for grass and seed for flowers. My sister
owns a cottage in a remote village called Hammersmith, and
that
is full of seeding flowers at this time of year. If you take my meaning, sir.’

Thurloe regarded him conspiratorially. ‘How long will it take you to reach Hammersmith?’

Yates grinned. ‘No time at all, sir.’

‘I hear you were involved in a shooting yesterday,’ said Thurloe, when Yates had gone and his guests had been provided with
a cup containing something brown.

Thurloe was often in ill health – or claimed he was – and was always swallowing tinctures, potions and tonics that promised
wellbeing and vitality. He sometimes tried to inflict them on his friends, too, and Chaloner had been the unwitting victim
of several experiments in the past. The spy sniffed the cup cautiously, then declined to drink what was in it – he had no
intention of imbibing something that contained a hefty dose of gunpowder. He explained what had happened as he ate bread and
cold meat. He did not usually discuss his work with anyone, but it was the ex-Spymaster who had introduced him to
Lord Clarendon, while Leybourn dabbled in espionage himself occasionally, although only for Thurloe. Chaloner trusted them
both implicitly. When he had finished, Leybourn’s expression was one of unease.

‘I do not like the sound of either of these assignments, Tom. The beggar’s business must have been important, given that he
was willing to risk his life to speak to Williamson, and it will be dangerous to spy on Bristol and his cronies. God alone
knows what they get up to once the palace gates are closed – and what they might do to keep their activities secret.’

Thurloe pursed his lips. ‘Bristol is an odd contradiction. He feels strongly enough about his religion to declare himself
a papist – and the price of that is being banned from holding any lucrative public offices – and yet he is one of the most
dissipated, sinful, vice-loving creatures at Court.’

‘Lord Clarendon was foolish to oppose that bill that granted indulgences to Roman Catholics,’ said Leybourn, off on a tangent,
‘because papists like Bristol are now his most bitter enemies.’

‘His antipathy towards Catholics is wholly unjustified,’ said Chaloner. Having lived abroad much of his adult life, he tended
to be more tolerant of the Old Religion than most of his countrymen. ‘I cannot imagine why he has taken against them so hotly.’

‘Who knows what dark poison fuels any man’s bigotry,’ said Thurloe, shaking his head sadly.

‘I heard Bristol has recruited Sir Richard Temple to help him fight Clarendon now,’ said Leybourn. As a bookseller, he was
the recipient of a lot of gossip, and was invariably better informed about the Court than Chaloner – and sometimes even than
Thurloe.

Chaloner knew the name, although it took a moment to place it: Temple was the man whom Scot did not want to marry his sister.
‘I know very little about him.’

‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself,’ said Thurloe sternly. ‘He is Member of Parliament for Buckinghamshire – the county
in which you were born, and where your siblings still live.’

Chaloner was irritated by the admonition. ‘I would like to learn such things, but
you
sent me from England for more than a decade, and when I came back, the Earl promptly dispatched me to Ireland.’

Thurloe’s expression softened. ‘True – so I shall enlighten you. Temple is a vain, shallow man, eager for a government post.
However, it is generally agreed that once he is given what he wants, he will almost certainly prove to be corrupt. He is also
on the verge of purchasing a slave-worked sugar plantation in Barbados, and
that
makes him abhorrent to any decent person.’

‘He is not alone,’ said Leybourn. ‘Half the members of the Guinea Company are now interested in investing in sugar. A merchant
called Johan Behn from the province of Brandenburg is currently based in London, and all he does is wax lyrical about the
profits that can be made from such ventures. His predictions of huge fortunes are encouraging others to speculate, too.’

‘Behn owns a sugar plantation – and slaves to work it – of his own,’ said Thurloe with distaste. ‘If I were still Spymaster,
I would find an excuse to be rid of him.’

Leybourn regarded him uneasily. ‘Rid of him how?’

Thurloe favoured him with one of his unreadable smiles. ‘With discretion, of course.’

‘Incidentally, Behn is courting your friend Eaffrey, Tom,’ said Leybourn, a little disconcerted by the reply.
‘And Behn does not know it, but
she
enjoys the odd clandestine meeting with an Irish scholar called Peter Terrell, too.’

Chaloner said nothing. Eaffrey had confessed to loving Behn, and obviously she spent time with ‘Terrell’ because she and Scot
were fellow spies with the same master. When ‘Vanders’ arrived in White Hall and Eaffrey talked to him, too, wagging tongues
would no doubt add a third name to her list of conquests. He was, however, unhappy to learn that Behn’s wealth came from sugar
– he would not have expected Eaffrey to fall for a man who condoned slavery.

‘What about your beggar, Tom?’ asked Thurloe, seeing Chaloner was going to make no comment. ‘Can we help you establish his
identity?’

Although he preferred to work alone, Chaloner did not mind accepting Thurloe’s help. The ex-Spymaster was a fount of knowledge
about the city and its people, and several of his old spies continued to keep him well supplied with good, reliable information.
He also possessed a clever mind, and Chaloner respected his opinions and advice.

‘Clarendon thinks May wanted to prevent this so-called beggar from speaking to Williamson. The man was desperate for an interview,
so he clearly had something to impart. He confided some of it before he died.’

‘Did you tell Williamson what he said?’ asked Thurloe, wincing as the cat leapt on to his lap, hauling itself into a comfortable
position by liberal use of claws.

Chaloner shook his head. ‘It made no sense, so I thought I would make some enquiries first – to set it in context, and be
in a position to answer any questions he might have.’

Thurloe looked doubtful. ‘If I were Williamson, I would want to be told immediately, not left waiting until someone else decided
it was time for me to know. And while this beggar’s words may mean nothing to you, that does not mean they will be similarly
meaningless to Williamson. What did he say exactly? I still know a little White Hall business, and may be able to interpret
them for you.’

‘He mentioned Terrell and Burne in a way that suggested he thought the names might be aliases, and he wanted Dillon to be
saved.’

‘He is right about the first part,’ said Thurloe promptly, showing he knew more than ‘a little’ about current affairs. ‘Terrell
is Scot’s present character, and Burne is the name adopted by May in Ireland. I do not know about Dillon – although a spy
called Dillon worked for me some years ago.’