‘Make sure no one enters his rooms,’ ordered Chaloner, thinking of bombs with long fuses, the rims of goblets dipped in poison and myriad other modes of assassination. ‘I will go with him.’
Thurloe was walking briskly, so he was obliged to run to catch up. He followed him through a gate so cunningly masked by brambles that it was invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. It was similarly concealed outside, emerging in a thicket of hawthorns that clawed at hands and faces. Thurloe fought his way through them, then set off towards Fleet Street. Shouts and cheers emanated from a nearby gaming house, suggesting some players thought it was still night.
‘That would not have been permitted under Cromwell,’ said Thurloe without breaking his stride. ‘This licentiousness and wild liberty will bring the new government trouble for certain.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner. ‘Slow down. You are drawing attention to yourself.’
Thurloe complied, although not by much. ‘Go home, Thomas. This is not your concern.’
‘You should have told me,’ said Chaloner. ‘About my uncle and the Seven. Then I would not have assumed you were trying to mislead me for sinister reasons.’
‘I did not want you to know,’ replied Thurloe tartly. ‘You had enough to worry about, what with Downing undermining your career and Metje’s … wavering affections. Obviously, I was overly protective, although there was certainly no malice involved, as you seem to assume.’
‘I know,’ said Chaloner. He corrected himself. ‘I know now. I am sorry I doubted you.’
Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘Then will you tell Clarendon that you have reliable witnesses who saw Barkstead’s butter firkins arrive in Holland, and ask him to allot you another task?’
Chaloner frowned. ‘That witness was Ingoldsby, one of the Seven. Did you ask him to–?’
‘Stop it, Thomas,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘No, I did not ask Ingoldsby to spin you a yarn. I know what he said to you, because he told me you had been to see him. I am sure that what his wife told you was the truth. What is wrong with you? Do you not trust me, even now?’
‘I am sorry.’ Chaloner frowned. ‘What do you mean by Metje’s “wavering affections”?’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘I met her at the Nonconformist chapel in Fetter Lane, and she seemed … seemed less fond of you than you appear to be of her.’
Chaloner knew this was true, although he was surprised Thurloe should recognise it. ‘Her first husband died, and it has been difficult for another man to take his place. But we will be married soon.’
Thurloe smiled wanly. ‘Then I hope you will be happy, although I think you should leave England. You have been saying for weeks that there will be a war with the Dutch, and you are right. She will not be safe here.’
‘When did you first guess Barkstead’s buried treasure was different from the treasure he sealed in his butter barrels?’
‘On Wednesday, when Robinson mentioned that you and Evett had been hunting for seven thousand pounds in the Tower. You will appreciate that sum holds a particular significance for a member of the Seven, and I suspected immediately that it might not be coin-filled kegs you found. I did not want you to be obliged to tell Clarendon that Barkstead’s cache might be a body.’
‘But you never received the message Barkstead sent to you via Mother Pinchon?’
‘No. But I did not need it to piece the facts together. I knew Barkstead had been on the trail of the man he believed had betrayed us – who transpired to be Swanson – and I simply assessed the situation logically. I heard from Sergeant Picard at the Tower that bones and hair were unearthed, and it did not take a genius to work out whose.’
‘Smoke,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘I smell smoke.’
‘It is Christmas, and every house in London is preparing meals. Of course you can smell smoke.’
‘This is from a different kind of fire,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘A big one.’
Thurloe glanced at him, then broke into a run. Chaloner sped after him, wincing when a cloaked pedestrian coming from the opposite direction did not move quickly enough, and Thurloe crashed into him, making them both stagger. The man started to curse, but then thought better of it and backed away. He carried something heavy, concealing it under his cloak in a way that suggested he had just stolen it. That day was perfect for crime, when people were at church or celebrating the festival with friends. The fellow kept his face hidden as Chaloner passed, obviously unwilling to be seen.
‘Oh, no!’ whispered Thurloe, stopping abruptly. ‘Dear God, no!’
Smoke poured through the windows of Dalton’s grand home. A crowd had gathered, and there was an attempt to organise buckets and water, although the house was well past rescue, and the main objective was to prevent the conflagration from spreading. People were running, some converging on the site, and others racing in the opposite direction, lest the blaze run out of control and put their own properties at risk. Chaloner took Thurloe’s arm and pulled him forward, still alert for Bennet. He saw that although flames raged through the windows on the left side of the house, the right was as yet untouched. There was still a chance that lives might be saved, if prompt action was taken.
‘Stay here,’ he instructed, shaking Thurloe’s shoulder to gain his attention. The ex-Spymaster’s expression was glazed. ‘Watch yourself among the crowd. Bennet may be here.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘See if anyone is inside.’
Thurloe pulled himself together, and the appalled helplessness was replaced by resolve. Together, they dodged through the hands that would have stopped them, and Thurloe hammered on the front door. Chaloner heard people yelling that he was wasting his time – the fire had taken hold and nothing could be saved. He took aim and kicked the door. It did not budge, and he could tell by the way it shuddered that it was barred from the inside.
‘The back,’ he shouted, shouldering his way through the onlookers a second time, aiming for the narrow passage that led to the rear of the house. People were there, too, watching window frames become charred and blackened, and glass melt in the heat.
There was a small garden behind the house, dug over to receive vegetables the following spring. It was surrounded by a wall of shoulder height. Chaloner scaled it quickly, pausing to help Thurloe, who was out of practise. The back door was less robust than the handsome affair at the front, and shattered under Chaloner’s first kick. Immediately, smoke poured out, driving him back.
‘You watch for Bennet,’ gasped Thurloe, plucking at his sleeve. ‘I will go in.’
There was a butt in the garden, placed to collect rainwater. Ignoring Thurloe, Chaloner hauled off his new cassock, dunked it, and wound the sodden garment around his head. He watched Thurloe do the same, then dropped to his hands and knees and crawled inside the house, Thurloe behind him.
He moved quickly, aware that they did not have much time. He took a breath to shout Sarah’s name, but his lungs filled with smoke, and the sound he made emerged as a croak. There was an almighty crash from somewhere ahead, indicating a ceiling or a wall had fallen. His eyes smarted too much to open, and would have done him no good if he had, because there was nothing to see but a dense whiteness. His outstretched fingers encountered a door, but wood and latch were searing hot, and he knew better than to open it: anyone inside was long past help, and the sudden inrush of air from the corridor would produce a fireball that would incinerate him on the spot. He moved on until he encountered a body. He forced his eyes open a crack. It was Dalton. There was blood on his chest, and Chaloner could feel a knife still embedded in him.