Chaloner was inspecting three pale bands on the beggar’s fingers, which suggested the man had worn rings until recently. What pauper habitually donned jewellery? ‘I do not need him to hire me – not any more. I am perfectly happy with Lord Clarendon.’
May sneered at him, unconvinced. ‘The feud between your new master and the Earl of Bristol means you will never be promoted to the secret services. You see, if Williamson does employ you, it will look as though he is taking sides – trying to harm Clarendon by depriving him of a useful retainer.’
‘I doubt Clarendon sees it like that,’ said Chaloner, sure it was true. He was useful to the Earl, but a long way from being indispensable. He wished it were otherwise, because courtiers were constantly being urged to ease back on their expenditure, and he was always worried that the Earl might see eliminating the salary of his spy as an easy way to cut costs.
‘We shall see. Do not think you will come to Williamson as long as I am his friend, anyway. He listens to me, and I shall oppose any application you make.’
Chaloner turned away, not dignifying the threat with a response. He thought about what the beggar had said before he was shot, and wondered how best to communicate it to the Spymaster. Finding a way to Williamson’s White Hall offices without May’s knowledge presented no great challenge, but he suspected that appearing unannounced would not be a good idea – Williamson was likely to have him arrested before he could speak. He would have to find another way to pass on the information.
Or should he? The vagrant’s words had meant nothing to him, and if they were meaningless to Williamson, too, then was there any point in relaying them? He decided to make a few enquiries first, to see if he could unravel their meaning. Repeating garbled sentences verbatim was likely to make him look stupid, and he needed to provide Williamson with solid, useful intelligence if he wanted to make a good impression – and despite May’s warnings, Chaloner would apply for work with the government if his earl ever dismissed him. Therefore, he had to determine why Terrell was not what he claimed, who Burne was, and why Dillon required saving.
So it was decided. Only when he had answers would he ask to speak to Williamson.
It was still raining when the royal party emerged from the abbey, and there was an undignified scramble for horses and carriages. The King and Lady Castlemaine were first away, eager to escape the damp chill of the medieval building. Buckingham and the Queen were quick in following, but Bristol took rather longer, hopping about with one foot in the stirrup when his lively horse would not keep still as he tried to mount it. Eventually, he took a second tumble. Clarendon happened to be watching, and this time he sniggered openly. Bristol scowled in a way that made him look dangerous.
Williamson nodded to May, silently ordering him to assist the wallowing noble, although Chaloner could not tell whether he did so from compassion, friendship or pity. Virtually the entire Court had taken sides in the Bristol–Clarendon dispute, but no one knew where Williamson stood. Chaloner assumed he was waiting to see who would win before committing himself, which was the sensible option for any ambitious politician.
Eventually, all the courtiers had been helped on to horses or into carriages, and Colonel Holles came to stand down the security detail. His Majesty had been pleased with their diligence, he said, especially when it transpired that an assassin had indeed been waiting. As an expression of appreciation, he had provided a few shillings for ale, so they could drink to his health that evening. There was a cheer, which faltered somewhat when it transpired that the King’s idea of ‘a few’ was two, which would not go far among so many men.
Chaloner knew his earl would want an eyewitness account of the beggar’s death, so he decided to stop at White Hall on his way home. The streets were strangely quiet, and the churches, which had been compelled to hold special services of thanksgiving for the three-year anniversary, were mostly empty. The stalls that lined busy King Street were dutifully shuttered, although their owners had been furious at the royal decree prohibiting trade that day – Fridays were always good for commerce because of the many markets taking place. Dogs scavenged among the rubbish that carpeted the cobbles, and a preacher stood on a box and informed passers-by that the world would shortly be consumed by fire and brimstone, so folk had better repent while they could.
The sprawling Palace of White Hall, London’s chief royal residence, had been built piecemeal as and when past monarchs had had the money and the need, and the result was a chaotic settlement with dozens of separate buildings, few of which seemed to bear any relation to their neighbours. Thus ancient, windowless halls rubbed shoulders with flamboyant Tudor monstrosities, and dark, grubby alleys sometimes opened out into elegant courtyards fringed with glorious gems of architecture.
Chaloner was still dressed in his street-cleaner’s disguise, which was simultaneously an advantage and a drawback. On the one hand, no one would recognise him, which was always a good thing, but on the other, he was more likely to be challenged as an intruder. Relishing an opportunity to practise his skills, he made his way undetected through the maze of yards, halls, sheds and houses, coming ever closer to the sumptuous apartments that overlooked the area of manicured grounds known as the Privy Garden, where the Earl of Clarendon had his offices.
Like most good spies, Chaloner worked hard at being nondescript. He was of medium height and stocky build, with brown hair and grey eyes. He had no obvious scars or marks, although his left leg had been badly mangled at the Battle of Naseby, and he tended to limp if he was tired or had engaged in overly strenuous exercise. That Friday had been an easy day for him, however, and he walked with a perfectly even gait along the corridor that led to the Earl’s offices. He opened the door quickly, using a thin piece of metal to assist him when he found it locked, and stepped inside to wait.
It was not long before Lord Clarendon arrived. He stood in the hall outside, congratulating May for shooting the wicked traitor who had come so close to murdering the King. Williamson was with him, and his softer voice added its own praise. Chaloner grimaced. People were assuming that May had acted correctly, which meant any attempt to tell them what had really happened would look like sour grapes on his part – they would think he was making excuses for not killing the man himself. Eventually, Clarendon finished the conversation and bustled into his rooms. In his wake was a short, smiling man with bushy brown hair and dimples in his cheeks.
The Earl of Clarendon, who currently held office as Lord Chancellor of England, had gained weight since the Restoration. The Court’s rich food was unsuitable for a man who tended to fat and whose working day revolved around sedentary activities. Chaloner had even noticed a difference in the Earl’s girth between the time he himself had been dispatched to Ireland to help quell a rebellion back in February and his return five days ago. The Earl knew he was expanding at an alarming rate, but blamed it on a nasty brush with gout, which had confined him to his bed for much of the past three months.
He had dispensed with the enormous blond wig he had worn in the procession, and had donned a smaller, more practical headpiece. He had also removed his elaborate ceremonial costume and wore a pair of peach-coloured breeches and a coat of dark green – although there was more lace on it than Chaloner thought was possible to attach to a single garment, and he hoped the man took care near naked flames. The Earl was chatting to his companion about a popular new cure-all called Venice Treacle, asking whether it might help with the residual pains in his lower legs.
When several minutes had passed, and the two men had still not noticed him in the shadows near the curtains, Chaloner cleared his throat. The Earl almost jumped out of his skin. He spun around in alarm, and then closed his eyes and rested a plump hand on his chest when he recognised the intruder.
‘I wish you would not do that,’ he snapped. ‘One day my heart will leap so much that it will stop and never start again. And then where would you be?’
‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Chaloner, contrite. The Earl had asked on sev
eral occasions not to be startled, but noisy, attention-grabbing entrances tended to be anathema to a spy.
‘I think I might be able to do something about a stopped heart,’ said the other man comfortably. ‘I am a surgeon, after all, and intimately acquainted with that particular organ.’
‘This is Thomas Lisle,’ explained the Earl to Chaloner. ‘He is Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, here to help me with my gout.’
‘And you are a raker,’ said Lisle, his eyes crinkling in a smile. ‘However, as you have made your own way to My Lord Chancellor’s rooms, and as he is not surprised to see you here, I surmise you are actually something rather different, and I shall enquire no further.’
‘He is Thomas Heyden,’ said Clarendon, obviously feeling an explanation was in order anyway. ‘He has been at Westminster Abbey today, protecting the King against assassins.’
‘We live in a wicked age,’ said Lisle, shaking his head sadly. ‘No one can be trusted, it seems.’
‘You are right,’ agreed the Earl sombrely, ‘although Heyden has proven himself loyal to me twice now – once in retrieving some missing gold, and once when I sent him to Ireland with some of Williamson’s men to thwart the Castle Plot. He acquitted himself admirably both times.’
While the Earl was speaking, Lisle produced several flasks from the bag he carried looped around his neck, and began to mix them in a goblet. He barely reached Chaloner’s shoulder, and had the look of a gnome about him, with his brown face, kindly eyes and slightly stooped posture. He wore the red-trimmed gown and hat that identified his profession, and he hummed under his breath while he worked. When he had finished, he handed the cup to Clarendon with a conspiratorial grin.
‘The apothecaries will be after my blood if they learn I am dispensing medicines – tonics are their domain, and they jealously defend their sole right to concoct them – but I refuse to watch a patient suffer when I can help him myself. The head of a young kite boiled in wine is the perfect remedy for gout, although you will not find an apothecary who will ever share such a closely guarded secret.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clarendon, wincing as he swallowed the draft. ‘It was kind of you to come the moment I experienced a twinge. The damp weather must have aggravated my condition and I am eager to nip it in the bud this time. I do not want to be laid up for another three months.’
‘Keep your legs warm and dry,’ instructed Lisle, packing away his empty phials. ‘And apply that poultice I gave you before you retire tonight. There is nothing like an ointment of crushed snails, suet of goat and saffron to ease your particular trouble.’
‘Lisle is a good man,’ said Clarendon, when the surgeon had left. ‘The only thing I do not like about him is his association with another medicus called Johnson, who is a loud, blustering fellow, full of wind and unfounded opinions. He openly supports that vile heathen, the Earl of Bristol.’
‘Lisle does?’
‘Johnson does. Lisle is like Williamson – he declines to take either side – although anyone with an ounce of sense will see that I am in the right and Bristol is wrong. However, as Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, Lisle will not want to offend half his members by declaring an allegiance with me.’
‘It is a sorry state of affairs, sir,’ said Chaloner in a way that he hoped would discourage further confidences. Clarendon had ranted at him about Bristol before, and the tirades were difficult to stop once they had started. He tried to think of a way to change the subject, but nothing came to mind.
Clarendon looked pained. ‘Bristol is determined to destroy me, you know, Heyden.’
‘You are Lord Chancellor of England, sir,’ said Chaloner, when he saw the matter was not to be avoided, ‘while Bristol holds no official post whatsoever. You are in a far stronger position to fight any battle than he.’ He wondered if it was true – the gay and witty Bristol was much more popular at Court than the stuffy, respectable Clarendon.
‘I suppose so.’ The Earl pulled himself together and forced a smile. ‘You did not come to talk about my troubles, though. I assume you are here to give me your version of today’s shooting?’
‘I thought you might have questions.’ Chaloner did not like the way the Earl had phrased his question – it made it sound as though he was expecting to hear something other than the truth.
‘I do – especially since Colonel Holles told me what really happened. He saw you apprehend the beggar without incident, and thinks someone was overly hasty with the trigger. He has a point: it does seem to be a pity that we have lost the chance to interrogate a would-be regicide.’
‘Will Holles tell Williamson this?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.
Clarendon shook his head. ‘I said he should keep it to himself. May has a wicked temper, and we do not want him thinking you have been going around questioning his actions to all and sundry. As I have told you before, your old mentor Thurloe sent you to me on the understanding that I am careful with you. And while Thurloe lost most of his power when the Restoration saw him dismissed from his posts as Secretary of State and Spymaster General, he still has teeth and claws aplenty. I do not want him coming after me because May has skewered you in a silly duel.’
Chaloner tried to conceal his exasperation. When he had arrived in London the previous year, penniless and desperate for employment, Thurloe had indeed recommended him to Clarendon with the stipulation that his life was not to be needlessly squandered. However, the ‘request’ had been issued at a time when other spies had been murdered while working at White Hall, and that particular danger was long over. The Earl’s continued unease about what Thurloe might do if Chaloner was harmed was beginning to be a nuisance.
‘With respect, My Lord, I can look after myself – especially against May.’
‘So you say, but your profession is a risky one. How many elderly spies does one ever meet? None! And it is not you I am worried about, anyway – it is me. Thurloe has too many old friends like you – dangerous men who will still do anything for him. I have no intention of crossing him.’
Chaloner was astonished that the Earl should consider him dangerous, sure he had never given him cause to think so. He ignored the comment and addressed the slur on Thurloe’s character instead. ‘He is not a vindictive man, sir.’
The Earl raised an eyebrow. ‘You do not serve seven years in government without learning something about neutralising your enemies, believe me. But let us return to today. Did you manage to talk to this beggar before he died?’
Chaloner decided he was unwilling to divulge the vagrant’s gabbled claims to anyone at White Hall until he had at least some idea about what he had been trying to communicate. ‘A little,’ he replied vaguely. ‘He claimed he had information to impart, but declined to confide in me.’
The Earl stroked his tiny beard – a thumbnail-sized patch under his lower lip; it matched his little moustache. ‘Do you think May shot him to prevent this information from being passed on?’
Chaloner frowned, puzzled. ‘Why would he do that? The beggar seemed to think the government might be interested in what he had to say.’
The Earl raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Because of what Holles told me: that the fellow was killed after you had relieved him of his dag. May is a devious fellow, with fingers in a great many pies. Perhaps he has his own reasons for wanting to still the beggar’s mouth before it started flapping.’
It was an intriguing notion, although Chaloner was wary of embracing it too eagerly; he did not want his dislike of May to lead him astray. ‘If Williamson is worth his salt as Spymaster, he will have reservations about the necessity of the execution, too.’
‘May said he did it to save your life, and Williamson believes him. This beggar had a knife.’
‘He posed no danger, and May should have known it. Besides, I suspect Williamson would happily sacrifice me for the chance to converse with a would-be assassin. Perhaps you are right, My Lord: May did want to silence him before he said anything incriminating.’
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bsp; ‘What did the fellow say to you?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘Holles says he saw you chatting for several moments before the shot rang out.’
Chaloner hesitated. The Earl could not always be trusted to keep secrets – not from any desire to cause trouble, but from his tendency to be overly trusting of the people he met – and if his suspicions about May were correct, then Chaloner would be safer if no one knew the beggar had died reciting names. ‘He was declaring his innocence – telling me he was no king-killer.’
‘And what do you think? Did he intend to shoot the King?’
Chaloner considered the question carefully. He had believed the man’s claim that waylaying Williamson had been his main objective, and the weapon had been in no state for a serious attempt at regicide anyway. ‘Not everyone in possession of a gun is bent on murder,’ he said eventually.
The Earl walked to the window and stared out at the wet garden. The wind blew misty sheets of rain across the perfectly symmetrical flower beds and the tiny clipped hedges. Chaloner went to stand next to him. He did not like the artificial neatness of White Hall’s grounds, and preferred the tangled, chaotic jumble of places like Lincoln’s Inn, where long grass grew among wild flowers, and where trees were gnarled and misshapen with age. It was some time before the Earl spoke.
‘May brought the body to White Hall, and it looked familiar to me. I am sure he was no vagrant.’
Chaloner was startled that Clarendon should recognise the man. ‘Where might you have seen him before, sir?’
The Earl shook his head slowly. ‘That is the annoying thing: I cannot recall. Perhaps I am mistaken, what with his stubbly chin and his dirty clothes. Yet there was something about him … ’
‘Would you like me to find out who he was?’
Blood On The Strand: Chaloner's Second Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner) Page 3