‘You can dismiss the servants,’ he said, feeling this was an unpleasantness he did not have to endure. It had been her decision to hire them, so she could deal with their dismay when told they were no longer needed. Hannah eyed him balefully, but nodded assent.
‘That Nicholas Colburn has a lot to answer for,’ she said bitterly. ‘He knew the heartache he would inflict on decent people with his profligacy, and he killed himself because he could not bear the shame. Horrid, selfish man!’
As Colburn was not the only one who had amassed debts, Chaloner thought she was a fine one to pass judgement.
Chapter 3
It was still dark as Chaloner trudged towards Lincoln’s Inn, but he knew Thurloe would be awake. The hours around dawn were his friend’s favourite time of day, a quiet period in which he could think and reflect without interruption. Generally speaking, Thurloe disliked his musings interrupted, but he always made an exception for Chaloner.
Thurloe had been Cromwell’s sole Secretary of State, a post he had held concurrently with those of Spymaster General and Controller of the Post Office. There had been other titles and honours, too, but he had resigned them all when the Commonwealth had fallen. The King had bewailed the loss of so much expertise, but Thurloe had steadfastly declined to serve another regime. He now lived unobtrusively, dividing his time between Lincoln’s Inn and his estates in Oxfordshire.
Lincoln’s Inn was one of four foundations in London that licensed lawyers; Chaloner had been a student there himself briefly, after he had finished his degree at Cambridge. The spy crossed Dial Court, named for the sundial that always graced its centre – the current model had such a complex array of rings and discs that no one knew how to read it – and made his way to Chamber XIII, a suite of rooms on the top floor. He listened outside the door for a moment, and when there was only silence within, he tapped softly and opened it.
‘Tom!’ cried Thurloe, giving one of his rare smiles. He was slightly built with light brown hair and large blue eyes. His unimposing physique led some to believe him weak, but he had not survived the hurly-burly of interregnum politics by being bland and ineffective. There was a core of steel in Thurloe that had made him a formidable statesman. ‘When did you return?’
‘Yesterday.’ Chaloner sat in one of the fireside chairs and looked around, aware of the comfortingly familiar aroma of woodsmoke, beeswax polish and the musty scent of old paper. The decor was sombre and heavy, with book-packed shelves and dark, substantial furniture. He had once found it oppressive, but had grown to appreciate its air of venerable solidity.
‘Well, I am glad to see you safe,’ said Thurloe, touching his shoulder in a self-conscious gesture of affection. The ex-Spymaster was not a demonstrative man, and it was often said that he had no friends. It was true to a degree – he knew a lot of people, but allowed few to grow close. Chaloner understood why: it did not do for spies to have too large a circle of confidants, and although Thurloe was no longer engaged in espionage, it was a difficult habit to break.
Knowing Thurloe would want a report on his travels, Chaloner told him about the feeble uprising in Hull. The ex-Spymaster liked to keep abreast of current affairs, partly because he was interested, but mostly because he was still hated by many Royalists, and staying informed allowed him to be one step ahead of those who itched to see his head on a pole outside Westminster Hall, next to Cromwell’s.
‘But it kept you out of London for a while,’ he said, when Chaloner had finished, ‘which was no bad thing after you crossed the Duke of Buckingham. He is still vexed with you, so you might want to avoid White Hall until he travels north himself.’
‘Then let us hope he goes soon. I do not have time to play hide and seek with him.’
‘Thank you for visiting Cromwell’s wife and son on my behalf,’ Thurloe went on. ‘How was poor Elizabeth? I expected your missive to contain a little more detail, to be frank – a letter to a friend, not a terse memorandum to a spymaster.’
Chaloner struggled to think of what else he could add. Mrs Cromwell, who had once held the lofty title of Lady Protectress, was now just a tired, ageing widow with health problems. She had played no part in Commonwealth politics, and had never been comfortable with the role that Parliament had thrust upon her. She now lived quietly in the country with her favourite daughter, and spent her days wishing that the civil wars had never happened.
‘She grieves for her husband,’ he replied eventually. ‘And probably will until she dies.’
Thurloe sighed sadly. ‘Yes, she was devoted to Oliver. Anything else?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘She is as content as can be expected.’
‘She is in reasonable spirits?’ pressed Thurloe. ‘Nothing has vexed her of late?’
‘Well, she was irked when the cook put too many onions in his sausages.’
‘You discussed baking with her?’ demanded Thurloe sharply.
Chaloner was startled by the abrupt tone. ‘Once or twice. It was difficult to find subjects that interested her, to be honest, and meals are the highlight of her day. What is this about?’
Thurloe picked up a booklet from the table. ‘I am trying to ascertain whether she might have seen this nasty little epistle.’
Chaloner took it. It was not very long, and was entitled The Court & Kitchin of Elizabeth, Commonly called Joan Cromwel, Wife of the late Usurper, Truly Described and Represented, and now Made Publick for General Satisfaction. It comprised a Preface to the Reader, an Introduction, and then a lot of recipes, beginning with ‘How to make a rare Dutch pudding’.
‘Were her Dutch puddings any good?’ he asked, wondering what he was supposed to say.
Thurloe shot him a baleful look. ‘Take it with you and read it, then you will understand my concern. It is a vicious piece of invective against a harmless old lady who has never hurt a soul. It accuses her of niggardliness, greed and corruption.’
‘Printed for Randal Taylor,’ read Chaloner. He glanced up. ‘Taylor the banker has a son named Randal. He married Dick Wheler’s widow.’
‘Yes.’ Thurloe’s expression was contemptuous. ‘He fancies himself a writer, although it is a pity his talents do not match his aspirations. Walk with me in the garden, Tom. Even the thought of that loathsome worm makes me long for clean air.’
It was still not fully light, although it would not be long before the sun poked its fiery head above the horizon. Pale pink clouds dappled the sky, promising a fine day to come, and birds were already singing in the Inn’s plentiful trees and bushes.
‘Did you know about the pamphlet when you asked me to visit Mrs Cromwell?’ asked Chaloner, as they strolled along one of the Inn’s neatly gravelled paths, past manicured rose beds and miniature hedges of lavender and thyme. ‘Is that why you wanted a report on her well-being?’
Thurloe shook his head. ‘The pamphlet appeared after you had left – I asked you to go because I heard she was in poor health and I was worried.’ He made a moue of distaste. ‘Randal should be ashamed of himself. Not only might his vicious musings distress a vulnerable widow, but mean-spirited Royalists crow that every word is true, while gallant Roundheads leap to defend her. There have been several quarrels over the thing already, especially along Cheapside.’
‘Why?’ Chaloner was puzzled. ‘She was not like the wives of other heads of state, who are either loved or hated. Most folk have no opinion whatsoever of Mrs Cromwell, as she was virtually invisible. I do not see why an attack on her should incite discord.’
Thurloe eyed him lugubriously: he disliked disparaging remarks about the Lord Protector’s family, regardless of whether or not they were true. ‘Yes, such a disgusting piece of nonsense should not be taken seriously, but someone is using it as an excuse to stir up trouble. And there will be even more turmoil soon, because Randal is planning a sequel.’
‘Then perhaps someone should suggest that he stays his hand.’
‘My thoughts exactly. I would visit him myself, but a request from the Commonwealth�
�s ex-Secretary of State is likely to inflame him to even greater spite. Will you do it?’
‘Of course. Where does he live?’
‘And there lies the problem. There have been threats against his life by angry Roundheads, so he has gone into hiding. His kin claim they do not know where he is, but they may be lying.’
‘I have to visit Taylor today anyway. I will ask after Randal at the same time.’
‘Then be careful. Taylor has always been formidable, but the last few weeks have turned him into a despot.’
‘Because of his alliance with the widow of Dick Wheler, which has united two extremely profitable businesses?’
‘That is one reason. The second is that he is the current Master of the Goldsmiths’ Company, and the third is that he was a Royalist during the Commonwealth so the King has exempted him from providing “donations” for the Dutch war. These combine to give him rather too much power, allowing him to expand at his colleagues’ expense. He now controls London’s purse strings, which is unfortunate, as he does it with a view to his own coffers, not the good of the city.’
‘My father always told me never to trust bankers,’ mused Chaloner. ‘He kept his money in a box under the stairs. But then our house was raided by Royalists during the wars, and guess what they found? My family have struggled ever since, so I am not sure what to think about banks.’
‘Under the stairs?’ asked Thurloe incredulously. ‘He should have buried it in the garden – mine is under that tree over there. But he was right to be wary of financiers. Even if they are honest, it still means putting faith in their judgement. And recent events have proved that they are as fallible as the rest of us.’
‘You mean because they lent vast sums to Colburn the gambler?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘They were greedy for the high interest he offered. It has ruined Angier, Hinton and Johnson, and more are likely to follow. Only the larger concerns, like Taylor, Vyner, Glosson and Backwell, have managed to weather the storm.’
‘The Earl wants me to investigate the death of a spy named Georges DuPont,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject. ‘Have you heard of him?’
Thurloe shook his head. ‘How did he die?’
‘The plague.’ Briefly, Chaloner outlined what little he knew about the Frenchman, finishing with the bold murder of Coo by two masked gunmen.
‘Coo was killed because you were asking questions about DuPont?’
‘I doubt it. DuPont died last Friday, and Coo would have been dispatched sooner if someone had wanted to silence him on the matter. I am not sure Coo had much to tell, anyway. I had the feeling that he knew about the disease, not the man.’
‘He was loved for his kindness, and his death will cause much anger along Cheapside. The culprits must be found as soon as possible, before their vile act causes trouble.’
‘Williamson agrees,’ said Chaloner. ‘And has ordered me to investigate.’
‘Good,’ said Thurloe. ‘Although I imagine you will be keen to find the rogues anyway, given that they came close to killing you as well. I shall make a few enquiries on your behalf. I leave for Oxfordshire on Sunday, though, so I do not have much time.’
‘You are going home?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘The authorities are taking the threat of plague seriously, but Londoners have been regaled with rumours about it for so long that they are inclined to dismiss it. The city is no longer safe, and men with delicate constitutions, such as myself, must flee while we can.’
He had nothing of the kind, although he had convinced himself that he was in fragile health, and swallowed all manner of potions in search of one that would make him feel young again.
‘Do you know a felon named James Baron?’ asked Chaloner, watching him remove a bottle from his pocket and take a substantial gulp. A glimpse of the label revealed that it was Bayhurst’s Elixir, an Improved Antidote or Pectoral against the Plague.
‘I know of him,’ replied Thurloe. ‘When Wheler was murdered, the general consensus was that Baron did it. He certainly benefited, as now he controls a large part of Cheapside.’
At that moment, a plump man with a gap between his front teeth bustled up. It was Philip Starkey, the master chef who had run the kitchens when Cromwell had kept court at White Hall.
‘It is very early in the day for visiting, Starkey,’ said Thurloe coolly. He disliked interruptions to his morning stroll.
‘I am sorry, Mr Thurloe,’ cried Starkey, wringing his hands in consternation. ‘But I am desperate and do not know where else to turn. It is about that slanderous claptrap penned by Randal Taylor. Have you seen it?’
‘We were just discussing it, as a matter of fact,’ replied Thurloe. ‘It—’
‘Did you read what it said about me?’ The chef’s red face was a mask of distress. ‘That I am a drunkard, who had to be summoned before Cromwell to answer for stealing wine.’
‘No one believes it,’ said Thurloe soothingly. ‘It is obviously a—’
‘Yes, they do, and that is the problem, Mr Thurloe. I am tipped to be Master of the Company of Cooks in a year, and this sort of tale could see me passed over. You must make the villain issue a public apology. It is the only thing that will salvage my reputation now.’
‘I am afraid that is well beyond my sway,’ said Thurloe apologetically. ‘The best we can do is persuade him not to publish a sequel.’
‘A sequel?’ squawked Starkey, appalled. ‘But more slanderous remarks will ruin me for certain! I have borrowed money to open a cook-shop, and the venture will fail if people think I am a sot who cannot bake. Then I will default on my loan and … well, suffice to say that Banker Taylor is not gentle with those who cannot pay what they owe.’
‘Why did you approach him for a loan in the first place?’ asked Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘You know he was a Royalist during the Commonwealth.’
‘Because he is the only London goldsmith with cash to spare,’ explained the cook tearfully. ‘All the others are funding the war. Of course, I was offended when he demanded collateral.’
‘Collateral?’
‘The lovely crystal salt cellar that Mrs Cromwell gave me. He says he will keep it if I default, so I hope I do not, because I should hate to lose it. Please stop his despicable son from writing more scurrilous lies, Mr Thurloe. If you do, I shall bake you a cake every week for a year.’
‘Well, then,’ drawled Thurloe. ‘We had better see what we can do.’
As Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn, he began planning his day. His most pressing task was to visit Taylor, where he had three things to do: discuss Hannah’s debt; find out what Taylor knew about Wheler’s murder; and ask where Randal was hiding. Randal would probably refuse to keep his sequel to himself, so some form of coercion would have to be devised. Perhaps it could revolve around his recently acquired wife, who was another suspect in Wheler’s death.
Once Chaloner had finished with the Taylors, he would have to tackle Baron, to secure the last two pairs of curtains and sever relations between him and Clarendon House. While he was there, he would question yet another suspect for Wheler’s stabbing – Baron had moved suspiciously fast to seize the criminal side of Wheler’s operation. Next on the list was DuPont: Long Acre had yielded nothing useful, so Chaloner would have to visit Bearbinder Lane, where the French spy had died. And finally, he had to find Coo’s killers.
He crossed the bridge over the slimy streak of the Fleet River, then climbed Ludgate Hill towards the shabby splendour of St Paul’s. The cathedral close was busy, business brisk in the stalls that huddled against its massive buttresses. He was assailed by a range of smells as he passed – incense, back in fashion after the Puritan ban; cakes from a tray balanced on a vendor’s head; sewage spilling from a blocked drain; and a sweeter waft from the new grass growing over the graves in the churchyard.
He soon reached Goldsmiths’ Row, a short but glorious jewel of a lane that ran between Bread and Friday Streets, parallel to and south of Cheapside. When he was a boy, his mother had
taught him a rhyme about the beauty of this particular road, and as he walked along it, he understood why poets had been moved to wax lyrical. It was not quite as glittering as it had been in its Elizabethan heyday, but was still impressive – a line of extravagant houses, most plastered with gilt, interspersed with shops that sold some of the most expensive jewellery in the country.
Taylor’s Bank was the largest and grandest of all, and bespoke old money and good taste. It comprised a large sales area at street level, leading to workshops and a sturdy vault below ground. The shop was opulent, with glass cases holding display after display of sparkling bijouterie – bracelets, necklaces, tiaras, chains of office. Many were works of art that would have taken months to create, and a glance into the workshop revealed artisans and their apprentices bent over benches, their faces taut with concentration.
Chaloner stated his purpose to a servant, and was conducted to the next floor, which had several offices for clerks and a large chamber for Taylor himself. This was sumptuously appointed, and silver-rimmed mirrors filled it with reflected light. The banker sat behind an ornately carved desk, while two men hovered behind him. One was a younger version of himself; the other was a black-garbed physician with the biggest wig Chaloner had ever seen – the extravagant curls not only fell well past its wearer’s waist, but billowed out at the sides, so it appeared as though he was wearing a large sheep.
‘Thank you, Misick,’ Taylor was saying, as the medic proffered a beaker containing medicine. ‘I cannot afford to catch the pestilence when business is at such a critical juncture.’
Misick, thought Chaloner. Coo’s colleague and medicus to the bankers, whom Temperance had recommended as a source of information on the murdered physician.
‘One can never be too careful, Father,’ said the younger man. His hair was brown where Taylor’s was grey, and he looked strong and fit, yet he lacked his sire’s charisma and his expression was obsequious. ‘Those who do not take preventatives will certainly die.’
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