Blood on the Strand (4 page)

Clarendon shrugged. ‘If you like. I do not have much else for you to do at the
moment, and it may transpire to be important, I suppose. Yes, carry on, if you cannot think of anything better to occupy your
time.’

He could not have sounded less enthusiastic had he tried.

One of the advantages of having a monarch, rather than a Commonwealth, was that His Majesty’s subjects were often allowed
inside White Hall to watch him dine, should they feel so inclined. The Earl of Clarendon
was
so inclined, because that Friday was a special occasion, and the King’s cooks had been ordered to produce something suitably
impressive. As a man deeply interested in food, Lord Clarendon was keen to know what they had devised. Chaloner borrowed a
cloak to conceal his raker’s rags and accompanied him to the Banqueting House, where the spectacle was due to take place.
Personally, the spy failed to understand the appeal of the event – as far as he was concerned, all it did was make him feel
hungry.

The Banqueting House gallery – a raised wooden structure that allowed observers to look down on the floor below – was so full
that Chaloner wondered whether it was in danger of collapse. Between the jostling onlookers, he caught glimpses of a table
laden with gleaming silver dishes and platters. The King’s dark wig bobbed this way and that as he conversed with his fellow
diners. His Queen sat beside him, although she ate little, and seemed more interested in watching the flirtatious antics of
Lady Castlemaine than in doing justice to the splendid repast that lay in front of her.

It was difficult to see much, so the Earl, becoming
bored, began to ask questions about Chaloner’s recent visit to Ireland. Chaloner tried to point out that a crowded gallery
was not the best place for a briefing about such a sensitive matter, but the Earl dismissed his concerns with a wave of his
hand.

‘You arrived home five days ago, but when you gave me your initial report, I was preoccupied with a nasty remark Bristol had
made about me. Tell me again. What did you say the Castle Plot was about? Discontented soldiers, who had bought estates during
the Commonwealth, but who had had them confiscated when we Royalists returned to power?’

Chaloner nodded as he glanced around him. No one seemed to be listening. ‘The disinherited farmers took exception to the ruling,
so they decided to storm Dublin Castle and kidnap the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland – hold him to ransom until their land was
returned.’

‘But unfortunately for them, the plot was doomed, because Spymaster Williamson had wind of it months ago. He sent secret agents
to infiltrate the rebels, and I lent him your services because he needed all the intelligencers he could get – even ones who
once worked for Cromwell. Did
you
tell me William Scot was among the government’s army of spies, or did I hear it from someone else?’

‘Someone else,’ replied Chaloner, a little indignantly. He was not in the habit of braying about his colleagues’ exploits
to those who did not need to know about them, and Scot was a friend. Not only had they known each other since childhood, but
both had been in Thurloe’s pay during the Commonwealth, and Scot’s father, like Chaloner’s uncle, had been a regicide. Wisely,
Scot had taken the precaution of changing sides
before
Cromwell had died, so was not regarded with the same suspicion
as was Chaloner, and he was currently in Spymaster Williamson’s employ.

‘May told Williamson that the revolt failed because of the ingenuity of one man: May himself,’ the Earl went on. ‘Scot’s brother
Thomas was one of the conspirators, and it was
May
who persuaded Thomas to betray his fellow rebels. The affair ended with a whimper, and no lives were lost on our side.’

Chaloner nodded cautiously. The plan to ‘turn’ Thomas had actually been Scot’s, although the notion had been mooted in such
a way that May genuinely believed it was his own. It had allowed Scot to save his brother from a traitor’s death, while simultaneously
protecting himself from any later accusations of favouritism towards a kinsman. May, of course, had been more than happy to
take the credit that should, by rights, have gone to Scot.

‘So, Thomas sold his fellow insurgents in exchange for a pardon,’ the Earl concluded. ‘And there was a happy conclusion to
the affair – for everyone except you and the plotters.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Secretly, he had been sympathetic to the rioters’ complaints. His own family had given every
last penny to the Roundhead cause, and had been compensated with land when Cromwell had won the wars. But now the Royalists
were back, those estates had been reclaimed – along with others legally purchased during the Commonwealth. He appreciated
the fact that the original owners wanted what was theirs, but some farms had been bought for a fair price and worked for twelve
years, and he felt ownership was not always a straightforward matter. However, he had never confided his opinions to anyone,
so there was no way the Earl could know his real thoughts.

‘You played too small a role in crushing the revolt,’ elaborated the Earl, much to Chaloner’s relief. ‘Others – like May –
claimed the glory, while you stayed in the shadows. Why?’

Chaloner felt he should not need to explain the obvious – and he had actually worked very hard in Ireland, successfully completing
a number of tasks that the other intelligencers had deemed too dangerous or impossible. ‘If I had exposed my identity by clamouring
for recognition, I would be no use to you, sir. Spying and fame are not good bedfellows.’

‘May does not seem affected by the attention,’ argued the Earl. ‘And neither does William Scot.’

Chaloner tried not to sound patronising. ‘Have you
seen
Scot, sir?’ The Earl thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘That is because he left for Surinam as soon as the Castle
Plot was unmasked, and although people know his name, no one knows what he looks like. He has maintained his cover.’

‘May has not.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘May has not. And every rebel in England knows him.’

The Earl dismissed his point by flapping his plump fingers. ‘His report said you were no help at all, and Williamson believes
it – I heard the Spymaster say he expected no less from a former Parliamentarian. However,
I
am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, and that is what really matters.
I
know you, and you are not a fellow to shirk his duties.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering what he could do to make May stop his libellous campaign. Such documents had a
habit of reappearing at awkward moments, and he did not want to be permanently
tarnished by one man’s spiteful writings, especially given their inaccuracy.

Suddenly, the Earl tensed and seized his arm in a painful pinch, his attention fixed on the King’s table. ‘
Bristol
is dining with His Majesty. Look!’

Chaloner freed himself, wincing. ‘So he is.’

‘How dare he!’ raged Clarendon, working himself into a temper. ‘I am Lord Chancellor of England, and
I
was not invited to be there, so why should he be? It is insupportable! He is like a filthy bluebottle, always showing up
in places where he is not wanted.’

Chaloner refrained from pointing out that Bristol looked anything but not wanted – the King was obviously enjoying his company,
and even the Queen was smiling. As if he sensed their gaze upon him, Bristol glanced up at the gallery and his eyes lit on
the outraged earl. With calculated insolence, he raised a lace-draped hand and waved. Clarendon gaped at him, then turned
and shouldered his way outside. Immediately, Bristol threw back his head and laughed, making sure he did so loud enough for
his enemy to hear.

‘Horrible man!’ snarled Clarendon, when he and his spy were alone again. ‘Did you see how he mocked me? How can His Majesty
sit beside him and permit such low antics?’

‘He had no idea what Bristol was doing,’ said Chaloner soothingly. He had seen the puzzled look the King had shot in his companion’s
direction at the sudden explosion of mirth.

Clarendon regained some of his composure. ‘No? Well, that is something at least. Did I ever tell you the origins of the quarrel
that has turned Bristol so violently against me?’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, trying not to sound bored or insolent. As far as he could tell, the dispute was far from black
and white: Bristol had done some very nasty things to Clarendon, but Clarendon had reciprocated in kind. ‘You debarred him
from holding any official post because he is Catholic. I can understand why he finds that annoying.’

‘
You
take his side against me now?’ cried Clarendon in dismay. ‘I expected more from you! And it was not
my
decision to ban him – I was merely following the law. It is illegal for papists to hold political positions, and it would
have been remiss of me to overlook the matter of his religion.’

Chaloner had never liked the notion of religious suppression, mainly because history showed such tactics tended to breed fanatics.
‘Such a rigid stance will bring you trouble, sir,’ he warned.

‘It has already brought me trouble. Bristol hates me, and is recruiting like-minded villains to stand with him. His latest
ally is the
Lady
.’ Clarendon’s voice dropped to a disgusted whisper when he made reference to the King’s favourite mistress. So intense was
his dislike of the Countess of Castlemaine that he could never bring himself to utter her name.

‘I am sorry, sir.’ Chaloner
was
sorry;
he
would not want Lady Castlemaine as an enemy, and thought the Earl was in deep water if she had thrown in her lot with Bristol.

‘Did you know that Bristol spends so much time with the King – playing cards – that I am obliged to make appointments days
ahead when I need to see him on important affairs of state?
And
he reeks of onions!’

‘Onions?’ asked Chaloner, nonplussed.

‘He has a penchant for them, although I cannot imagine why – they are peasants’ food. Perhaps he likes them because he is
a papist.’

Chaloner did not know what to say to such a distasteful remark.

‘I cannot forget that mocking laugh he just directed at me,’ Clarendon went on worriedly. ‘Do you think it means he knows
something I don’t – he has instigated some plot that will see me harmed?’

Chaloner was sure of it – a clever, ambitious man like Bristol was not going to let himself be deprived of lucrative honours
without recourse to some kind of revenge. ‘You might be wise to be ready for—’ he began.

‘You are right. Forget the beggar – or better yet, investigate him in your spare time – and concentrate on learning what Bristol
intends instead. That is far more important now. You must adopt a disguise and infiltrate his lair.’

Chaloner’s pulse quickened. He liked disguises. ‘Do you have anything specific in mind, sir?’

The Earl was thinking fast. ‘My London home – Worcester House – is due to be redecorated, and I have asked several famous
artists to submit plans. Bristol’s abode on Great Queen Street is also in need of refurbishment, which means he is sure to
try one of two things: poach the man I hire in order to cause me inconvenience, or try to recruit him to spy on me.’

‘You want me to pose as a decorator and—’

‘We call them upholsterers, Heyden.’ Clarendon rubbed his plump hands together gleefully. ‘This is an excellent plan! Why
did I not think of it sooner? A spy in his own house! What could be better?’

But Chaloner could see problems. ‘It
is
a good plan,
sir, but there is one flaw: Bristol is notoriously short of funds, and cannot afford the services of an upholsterer – or
be able to bribe one to spy on his enemies.’

The Earl was not listening, however. ‘And because you know nothing about interior design, you can make a mess of his house
at the same time. You speak Dutch like a native, so you can be Kristiaan Vanders from The Hague. I wrote inviting him to visit,
but he is indisposed.’

And there was another problem. ‘That would be inadvisable, sir,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘Vanders died three years ago. Can
we choose someone else?’

‘No. This is a brilliant idea. My mind is made up, so do not argue with me.’

Chaloner fell silent, thinking it was a good thing that Williamson was in charge of the intelligence services, because the
Earl would be a disaster. His skill in diplomacy and politics was legendary, yet Chaloner had seen him make some astoundingly
idiotic decisions where spying was concerned. When he saw no further objections were forthcoming, the Earl continued, somewhat
defensively.

‘
I
had not heard of Vanders’s demise, so the chances are that no one else will, either. It is a perfect disguise for you, with
your knowledge of Dutch affairs. Find out all you can about Bristol, because if I lose my war against him, I will not be his
only victim – who will employ you if I am in the Tower?’

At first, Chaloner was unhappy about the task he had been allotted, because he was painfully aware of his lack of knowledge
about the Court and its political alliances, and such places could be dangerous for the uninformed. Then he realised that
disguising himself as a foreigner would explain his ignorance to anyone who might be suspicious of him. His concerns began
to evaporate, and he saw the assignment might even be turned to his advantage – it would give him an opportunity to rectify
his appalling unfamiliarity with English affairs. He took his leave of the Lord Chancellor in a thoughtful frame of mind,
busily analysing ideas for the deception.

He could not walk directly to the main gate, because a street-sweeper so near the royal apartments would be sure to attract
unwanted attention – the palace guards had been trained to shoot first and ask questions second where the King’s safety was
concerned – so he followed a tortuous route through storerooms and servants’ quarters instead. He was crossing a yard occupied
by the Queen’s laundresses and their steaming boiler houses when he saw a familiar face. He smiled, feeling his spirits
lift even further. Eaffrey Johnson had been a Royalist spy in Holland, and although she and Chaloner had worked for rival
factions, they had often shared information when they felt an alliance would better serve their country’s interests. For a
while, they had been lovers, too, although the affair had floundered when she had followed the King to France and Chaloner’s
duties had kept him in the Netherlands. More recently, she had been in Ireland, with a remit to seduce high-ranking rebels,
but Chaloner had not known she was back in London.

She was talking to the Countess of Castlemaine, whose stomach bulged with the King’s next illegitimate child. ‘The Lady’ was
generally acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman at Court, although Chaloner thought her face was too spiteful to be
truly attractive, and her infamous temper was already scoring scowl marks around her eyes and mouth. She might well be lovely
when she smiled, but he had only ever seen her angry.

‘And he still has that diamond ring from the French ambassador,’ she was saying when Chaloner edged closer, plying his broom
and keeping his face hidden under his broad-brimmed hat. ‘I told him I wanted it, but he always makes excuses when I order
him to hand it over.’

‘You order him?’ asked Eaffrey, in an awed voice. ‘You
order
the King?’

‘Of course I do. He had better not pass it to the Queen, not when he promised it to
me
.’

‘I doubt he would be so rash,’ said Eaffrey ambiguously. ‘I hear you are to move to new quarters.’

Lady Castlemaine laughed, although it was not a pleasant sound. ‘I am weary of dashing across the Privy Garden in my nightshift
each time I feel like Charles’s company, and the new arrangement will be much more
convenient for our nightly frolics. The rooms are better, too – nicer than the Queen’s.’

When she had gone, Chaloner shadowed Eaffrey until she reached a narrow lane sandwiched between the river and the series of
ramshackle sheds known as the Small Beer Buttery, then darted forward to grab her arm. A knife immediately appeared in her
hand, but her face broke into a grin of delight when she recognised her assailant. She flung her arms around his neck and
kissed him.

Although not classically pretty – her face was too round and her eyes far too mischievous – there was something captivating
about Eaffrey. She was in her twenties, but possessed a cool self-assurance that made people assume she was older. Chaloner
gestured to her clothes, which boasted a neckline that plunged indecently low and skirts that clung to her hips in a way that
ensured everyone would know exactly what lay beneath.

‘Has Williamson set you to bewitch some hapless courtier and make him reveal all his secrets?’

Her eyebrows shot up in amusement. ‘Are you implying my costume makes me a whore?’

He shrugged. ‘They set you in Lady Castlemaine’s camp of loose women. My Lord Clarendon railed about them at length yesterday.’

She pulled a disapproving face. ‘All is sobriety and prudery with your earl – he is worse than the Puritans. Personally, I
hope Bristol
does
manage to rid us of the tedious old bore! I like Lady Castlemaine’s light-hearted gaiety, though, and I am delighted that
she has taken me under her wing. She has taught me a lot about the Court and its customs.’

Chaloner was not sure Lady Castlemaine’s advice would be the sort of knowledge most decent women
would want to own, but he was deeply fond of Eaffrey, and was loath to offend her by revealing his conservatism where the
Court was concerned. He looked to where the Lady was screeching abuse at a servant who had splashed her with milk from a pail
as their paths had crossed. ‘She seems to have developed a powerful yearning for the King’s jewellery,’ he said instead.

‘His Christmas presents, to be precise. Surely you must have heard how she cajoled him into parting with them? Well, it is
true, and the only thing he has managed to keep for himself is a diamond ring – but I do not fancy his chances of hanging
on to it for much longer. Why are you dressed like a vagrant? Is it something to do with the coronation celebrations?’

‘Someone told Williamson that the King might be shot at today, and every available agent in London was detailed to protect
him. I was working with our old friend Adrian May.’

She grimaced her disgust. ‘That toad! He is a dangerous fool, as we both saw in Ireland – the rebels
would
have succeeded in kidnapping the governor had you not stepped in and put an end to his stupid antics. And now he hates you
for exposing his ignorance, so you should be wary of him.’

‘I know.’

‘Of course, the
real
reason for his dislike is that he knows you are a better spy than he – and that if you ever do work for Williamson, it will
only be a matter of time before you displace him. He will do anything to avoid that, including wielding a sly dagger in a
dark lane. Just yesterday, William heard him telling a courtier called Willys how he would dearly love to be rid of you.’

‘William?’ asked Chaloner, unconcerned with threats
issued by the likes of Adrian May. ‘You mean Scot? I thought he had gone to Surinam.’

She grinned, showing small white teeth. ‘That is what everyone thinks, but he is here, in White Hall, busy with his latest
assignment for Williamson. If you meet a bumbling Irish scholar called Peter Terrell, you will know he is a friend.’

‘Terrell?’ Chaloner had heard the name, but it was a moment before it snapped into place: the beggar had mentioned it – ‘Terrell
is not what he says.’ He had obviously seen through the disguise.

Before he could ask her about it, Eaffrey laughed, the tinkling, sunny sound he remembered so well. ‘Speak of the Devil and
he will appear. May I introduce you to this raker, Mr Terrell?’

Chaloner shook his head in mute admiration when a tall figure approached, knowing he would never have recognised his old friend
had Eaffrey not given him away. He tried to remember when he had last seen Scot as himself, and decided it must have been
fifteen years ago, during the wars. He could not say what colour his hair might be, because it was never the same shade twice,
and his face had been so variously marked with scars, warts and freckles that Chaloner had no idea which were real and which
were the result of pastes and plasters. Most of what Chaloner knew about disguises had been learned from Scot, who was ten
years his senior.

That day Scot was dressed in a fashionable coat of deep red, which was enlivened with a sash of yellow satin, and there was
an exotic flower pinned among the frothing lace at his throat. Under his arm, he carried a book entitled
Musaeum Tradescantianum
, a catalogue of the remarkable collection of artefacts and plants held in
Oxford. His cheeks had been shadowed to make them appear sallow, and he had somehow lengthened his nose. The only familiar
feature was his pale-blue eyes.

Scot peered at Chaloner, then laughed. ‘I trained
you
well – I did not recognise you at all! I saw a rough villain follow Eaffrey to this secluded alley, and I came to protect
her virtue.’

Eaffrey showed him her knife. ‘Your chivalry was unnecessary, although appreciated.’

‘I hear you are posing as a scholar,’ said Chaloner, nodding at the book Scot held.

Scot nodded, eyes gleaming with a sudden and uncharacteristic passion – he was not usually an effusive man. ‘Williamson asked
me to explore accusations of fraud in the Royal Society, but I quickly learned there is nothing amiss. However, I have neglected
to tell him so, because the Society’s meetings are so damned fascinating – especially anything to do with botanicals. Would
you believe I have actually read this book and enjoyed every word?’

It did not sound very likely, and Chaloner doubted such a dry subject would hold Scot’s bright mind for long. Scot sensed
his scepticism.

‘I mean it, Chaloner. I am weary of espionage and its dangers, and the sooner I can take a ship for Surinam, where I shall
spend my days studying its flora, the better.’

‘Why are you here, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You could be on your way now. Or is Williamson reluctant to release one of his
most experienced and valued spies?’

Scot smiled. ‘I have not told him my decision to leave yet, although he will be peeved when I do. He has come to trust me,
despite May’s constant whispers that former Parliamentarians should be banned from the intelligence services. However, the
reason I am still here is
my brother – I cannot leave as long as Thomas is a prisoner in the Tower.’

Chaloner was intrigued. ‘You intend to help him escape?’

‘Christ, no! We are talking about the Tower here, Chaloner, not some city gaol! I want him out, but I have no desire to be
killed in the process. I shall rescue him by diplomatic means – by oiling the right palms, and by bringing pressure to bear
on those with influence. I
will
prevail – hopefully soon – and then I shall leave England for good.’

‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ said Chaloner, meaning it.

Scot looked away. ‘And there is the rub. I will miss my friends – and you two most of all.’

A dank, dripping lane in the nether regions of White Hall was no place for friends to exchange news, so Chaloner, Scot and
Eaffrey went to the Crown, a cookshop on nearby King Street. It was not a very salubrious establishment, and its owner, a
man named Wilkinson, had a reputation for being rude to his customers. The Crown had once been a tavern, but had started to
sell food when Wilkinson realised there was a palace full of hungry courtiers opposite. It was a large building, filled with
the scent of baked pies, spilled ale and tobacco smoke. Eaffrey, Scot and Chaloner ordered beef pasties with onions, and something
called a ‘green tansy’, which Wilkinson declined to define, but which transpired to be a mess of eggs, cream, spinach and
sugar.

As they ate, Chaloner and Scot discussed their families. Chaloner’s was maintaining a low profile in a quiet part of Buckinghamshire,
patiently waiting for Cavaliers to tire of baiting old Roundheads. Meanwhile, Scot’s
father, executed for regicide, had been Thurloe’s predecessor as Spymaster, and his two sons had followed him into espionage.
Unfortunately, Thomas was not very good at it, as his incarceration in the Tower attested. Finally, there was the daughter
of the house.

‘And Alice?’ Chaloner asked cautiously. He was always uncomfortable when discussing the one member of the Scot family who
did not much care for him. ‘How is she?’

Scot clapped him on the shoulder, laughing at his unease. ‘She still has not forgiven you for fighting that duel with her
first husband, and spits fire every time your name is mentioned.’

‘He challenged me,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I was willing to overlook the fact that he had been selling Cromwell’s secrets to
the enemy, but
he
was the one who insisted honour should be satisfied. He was lucky you were there to plead his case, because I should have
killed him for what he had done.’

‘The fact that he was in the wrong makes no difference to Alice,’ said Scot, still grinning. ‘But her wrath will fade eventually,
especially now he is dead. Incidentally, her period of mourning is over now, and she is on the prowl for a replacement. However,
I categorically refuse to give my blessing to her current choice. Sir Richard Temple is
not
a man I want as a brother-in-law. He is corrupt, greedy, selfish and – worst of all – a politician.’

‘Leave her alone,’ advised Eaffrey. ‘A woman her age does not need a meddling brother telling her what to do.’

‘The meddling brother does not want her hitched to a man who is only after her money,’ retorted Scot tartly. ‘I despise Temple,
and will do all I can to prevent the match.’

Chaloner recalled that Alice’s first husband had been rich, and she had inherited everything when he had died. ‘Surely her
wealth will attract someone more suitable? There must be hundreds of decent, but poor, men who might … ’ He thrashed around
for a more polite alternative to ‘put up with her’.

‘She says Temple is the only one who fulfils her exacting standards,’ explained Scot. ‘God alone knows what they are, because
they certainly do not include looks, character, integrity or charm.’

‘I have a lover,’ said Eaffrey casually, after a brief silence during which Wilkinson brought more beer. ‘His name is Johan
Behn and he is a merchant from Brandenburg. I shall marry him soon.’

Chaloner was amazed. Eaffrey’s lifestyle – like his own – was not suited for serious relationships, and she had always declared
that she would never give up her freedom for something as mundane and repressive as a husband. He supposed her opinions must
have moderated over time, and recalled her mentioning someone special when they had been in Ireland. They had been too busy
to discuss it then.

She smiled dreamily. ‘I missed him dreadfully when we were in Dublin, and I find myself happier in his company than at any
other time. I suppose that is love. And he is very handsome.’