Kelyng gazed at him in surprise, then shook his head. ‘It was Thurloe this spy was watching. I copied down the report, and sent the original to Clarendon, so he would not know it had been intercepted. I have a talent for this sort of activity.’
‘I can tell, by the way you keep your secrets,’ said Thompson gravely. ‘Would you mind if I accompany you to the Tower, to make sure this Dutchman is set free?’
‘Not at all,’ said Kelyng pleasantly. ‘I shall enjoy your company. Do you remember the time when we rescued those ducks from the Trinity Hall kitchens? Those were the days, Joseph!’
Chaloner watched them leave, then started to walk in the opposite direction, to where his cold rooms awaited him. He took great care not to limp.
Snow clicked against the window all evening, and the wind whined through the pane that had been broken by the grenade. Chaloner had no firewood and no money to buy any, but he refused to let Metje ‘borrow’ some from North. She was vexed when he elected to spend a night in discomfort when a minor theft would have alleviated the problem, but she was angry with him anyway, and he suspected she would have disapproved of whatever he had decided. He watched her slip out of her skirts – the voluminous undergarments stayed defiantly in place – and dive under the bedcovers, muttering venomously about the fact that they were damp as well as icy.
‘What do you want me to do, Meg?’ he asked tiredly, not sure how to appease her. ‘I understand your worries and will do all I can to protect you.’
‘How? You cannot afford to hire a guard. Besides, you have been odd ever since we came to England, and we no longer understand each other. I feel as though I do not know you any more.’
He was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that – your family has no farm in Buckinghamshire, and I know nothing about them.’
Chaloner was determined no one would, either – at least, not until the wave of hatred against regicides had eased. He rubbed his eyes, wondering whether he should stay away from her for a while.
‘You have no answer,’ she said sadly. ‘Tell me the name of the village where you were born then, or the location of your father’s manor. Just tell me something about you that is true.’
He was bemused. ‘Most of what you know is true.’
‘And there is a lie for a start.’ She turned her back on him. ‘Douse the lamp before you sleep.’
‘Can we discuss–?’
‘You cannot speak without lying, and I do not want untruths.’
‘I may die soon,’ he said, thinking about Robert Leybourn, who would probably be sharpening his sword as they spoke. He knew it sounded melodramatic, especially given that he had not told her about the bookseller’s challenge, but he did not care. ‘I do not want to–’
‘All right,’ she said, sitting up and eyeing him coldly. ‘If you are to die, then we had better talk. Ever since we settled in London, you have been mysterious. You go out at odd times, but you have no regular employment. What are you doing?’
‘Trying to earn the trust of men who may employ me in the future.’ He wondered why his lifestyle should so suddenly perplex her, since he had kept irregular hours ever since she had known him.
‘Once, when I was out with Faith, I saw you go inside Lincoln’s Inn. Why?’
‘I was visiting a friend.’
She lay back down. ‘Vague answers that tell me nothing. I do not want to talk to you, Thomas. I am tired of half truths.’
Chaloner lay awake for a long time, listening to the snow, and when he slept, it was fitfully. Once he dreamed about the Tower, with its great thick walls and dank cellars, and fancied he could hear the screams of prisoners. He came awake with a start, only to hear the mournful cry of the bellman outside, bawling that it was one o’clock and exhorting all to bank their fires and douse their candles.
He slept again, but woke just after four to find himself freezing cold and Metje with all the covers. He tried to retrieve some, but her fingers tightened around them and he did not want to wake her. He dressed, wondering when he had last known such a bitter night, then lit the lamp and sat at the table. It was quiet, and a good time to write to Clarendon about Barkstead’s cache, and to Thurloe about Clarke. Such messages would have been a waste of time in daylight, when there were more useful things to do, but it was a good way to pass the hours of darkness. When he had finished, he surveyed the notes critically, thinking them pitifully inadequate.
Using cipher without conscious thought, he reported to Thurloe that he had asked Evett to show more White Hall employees the weapon used to murder Clarke. He also mentioned that Kelyng remained determined to bring Thurloe down and was suspicious of his acquaintance with Downing. He added that Lane’s missives to Clarendon had been intercepted, and entirely the wrong conclusion drawn. This was worrying, because if Kelyng could misinterpret one letter, then he could do the same with others, and it was often difficult to correct such misunderstandings once accusations had been levelled.
To Clarendon, he hinted that Barkstead’s treasure might have been taken abroad, intending to break the bad news by degrees. He described the interview with ‘an unnamed witness’ who had seen the butter firkins in Holland, and said he planned to speak to others who would confirm or rebut the story. He did not include Thurloe’s theory that Barkstead might have left a legacy of a different kind in London, because his thoughts were full of what his dissolute uncle might have done: left a trail to a hoard that comprised a gloating message or a pot of farthings. Barkstead had not struck Chaloner as a practical joker, but the possibility was in the back of his mind nonetheless.
‘What are you doing?’ Chaloner turned around to see Metje sitting up and looking at him.
‘Writing letters to men I hope will employ me.’
‘Such as Dalton? Show me what you said to him.’
He regarded her uneasily. ‘Why?’
‘So I know you are telling the truth.’
Chaloner was beginning to be annoyed with her, and resented the implication that she could not believe a word he said. He flung them across, and waited for the next round of accusations.
She studied the one to Thurloe for a long time. ‘I cannot read this.’
‘It is cipher – a kind of shorthand.’
‘Why would you write in cipher?’ She gazed at him with wide eyes. ‘You are a spy, selling your country’s secrets. That is why you were in Holland. Downing did not know half of what you did – I could see it in his eyes. You are a traitor!’
‘Please do not shout,’ he said quietly. ‘I am not a traitor.’
She sniffed. ‘I had no idea you communicated in secret languages. But that should not surprise me, I suppose. What is your name?’
He regarded her expressionlessly. ‘You know my name.’
‘Preacher Hill asked friends from all over Buckinghamshire about a family called Heyden, with five brothers, two sisters, and a father and mother who died during the wars. He says one does not exist.’
‘You have been investigating me?’ Chaloner was aghast, not liking the notion that Hill might now have enough information to connect him with his real kin.
‘I need to know.’ She started to cry. ‘I am carrying a child, and its father is suddenly a stranger.’
Chaloner gaped at her, then a smile spread across his face. ‘You are pregnant?’
She would not let him touch her. ‘I do not know why you are so pleased. It will mean an end to your carefree existence. You will have to find proper work now.’
Chaloner ignored her attempts to fend him off, and took her in his arms, cradling her to his chest, fiercely at first, then gently when he thought about the precious life within. ‘It will mean a change to my carefree existence. This is wonderful news, Meg. How long have you …?’