When one of the maids opened the door to his reluctant tap, he found the North household waiting for him. His dark blue doublet and breeches were hardly gaudy, but even so he felt like a peacock in a flock of pigeons as he approached the black-clad gathering. A single sprig of holly comprised their Christmas decorations – although some effort had been made to celebrate the festival like Anglicans, an excess of merry-making was still anathema to Puritans – but there was a spotlessly clean tablecloth and all the spoons and knives gleamed.
As usual, the room was bright and welcoming, which was more than could be said for the room’s occupants: North and Faith were grim-faced and quiet, Temperance was distressed, and the servants – Metje among them – made no bones about the fact that they wished they were somewhere else. Chaloner was relieved the gathering did not also include Preacher Hill.
‘You are still limping, Heyden,’ said North, standing to greet him with a forced smile. ‘Are you not recovered from your encounter with our burglar?’
‘There was a fire this morning,’ said Chaloner, seeing no reason why he should not tell them what he had been doing. He was tired of lies. ‘At the house of John Dalton, the vintner.’
‘What a thrilling life you lead,’ said Metje, regarding him coolly. ‘Each time we meet, you have been involved in some dramatic incident or other.’
Chaloner shrugged. ‘London can be a dangerous place.’
‘It is indeed!’ declared North, rubbing his hands together. ‘Very dangerous. In fact, I feel we can no longer live here, and plan to leave in a matter of days.’
Temperance regarded her parents with tearful defiance, and Chaloner sensed they might be about to face a rebellion from their normally dutiful daughter. ‘Why so soon?’ he asked.
‘Robbers stalk our streets as bold as brass, and sin is everywhere,’ replied North. ‘Did you hear Lord Mayor Robinson’s unwed daughter is with child? I cannot imagine how.’
‘It is very simple, sir,’ said Chaloner. ‘It happens when a man and a woman lie together.’
There was a startled silence. Then one of the maids stifled an embarrassed giggle, Temperance clasped a hand to her mouth in shock, and Faith came to her feet with a carving knife in her hand.
‘Keep a decent tongue in your head,’ she said icily. ‘Or I shall chop it off. I should have known to expect that sort of quip from a man who plays cards and reads Hobbes’s Leviathan.’
‘Would you care for some chicken, Heyden?’ asked North hastily, gesturing for his wife to sit again. She complied, although reluctantly, and he noticed she did not relinquish the knife.
Chaloner was ashamed of himself. The Norths were good people, and he had no right to behave boorishly. It was hardly their fault that he had endured such a wretched morning. He rubbed his eyes and coughed, feeling a residue of smoke scratching his throat. ‘I am sorry. I am out of sorts today.’
‘The fire?’ asked Temperance sympathetically, while Faith and Metje exchanged the kind of glance that indicated they thought he was making excuses.
Chaloner nodded, and coughed again. He could not expel the taste of burning from his mouth, and wished North would offer him some wine, knowing it would ease the ache in his leg, too.
‘I trust no one was hurt,’ said Temperance, passing Chaloner an empty plate, ready for the roasted chicken her mother was viciously hacking apart. It did not escape his notice that Faith looked as though she wished she were dismembering their guest instead of a bird.
‘Dalton was – he died.’
North stared at him in horror, and Chaloner recalled that both were in the Brotherhood, so were comrades. He should not have broken the news so bluntly.
‘Died?’ asked Faith, while her husband clasped his hands and chafed them, as if the news had chilled him. ‘How awful! Shall we abandon this dreary feast and say a prayer for his soul?’
Everyone joined hands. Chaloner’s left was seized by Temperance, who gripped it warmly, while Metje slipped cold, hesitant fingers into his right. Faith took a deep breath and launched into a lengthy intercession that seemed to go on for ever. Chaloner shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position where his leg did not hurt. She stopped when he moved, and only resumed when he was still again.
The ordeal might have gone on a good deal longer, but there was a knock on the door, and within a few moments, a visitor was ushered in. It was Downing, resplendent in green coat and new hat. He grimaced when he saw Chaloner.
‘We were praying,’ said North. ‘Would you like to join us?’
‘No, I have just eaten,’ replied Downing obscurely. ‘I was passing, so I came to tell you that another brother has died in flames. Poor John Dalton.’
‘Yes,’ said North sadly. ‘Heyden was telling us about it. It was shocking news, and we have been asking God to look with mercy on his soul.’
‘Then I shall leave you in peace,’ said Downing. He frowned at the savaged chicken. ‘I thought you said you had purchased a turkey for today.’
‘We sent it to the poor,’ said North, with the air of a martyr.
‘Actually, it went of its own accord,’ contradicted Temperance, in a rare display of spirit.
‘You mean it escaped?’ asked Downing, raising his eyebrows and trying not to look amused.
‘It unlocked the kitchen door and walked out,’ replied Faith stiffly. ‘Preacher Hill saw it marching along Piccadilly, scattering all in its path, at six o’clock this morning.’
‘It was heading towards Knightsbridge,’ elaborated Temperance wistfully. ‘And its taverns.’
‘On its own?’ Downing glanced at Chaloner. ‘Are you sure it did not have human help?’
‘I do not see how,’ said North. ‘Our locks are the best money can buy – unpickable, even by the most determined of thieves, although I was alarmed to learn they were no match for that bird. I suspect it knew I had booked the London executioner for eight this morning.’
‘I should go,’ said Chaloner, uncomfortable with the discussion. It was only a matter of time before accusations were levelled, and the turkey had probably been expensive. He stood up.
‘Go where?’ asked Metje icily. ‘To offer Mrs Dalton your condolences?’
‘I will come with you,’ offered Temperance, making for the line of cloaks that hung on the wall. ‘Sarah is my friend, and she might be in need of Christian comfort.’
‘Sit down, Temperance,’ snapped Faith. Temperance looked as though she might refuse, but returned to her seat when Faith stood up with a fierce expression.
North saw his guests to the door. ‘We have enjoyed your company, Heyden, although I imagine you would have preferred turkey to chicken.’
‘It does not matter, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the man was aware that he had only been provided with a plate, and that prayers had started before there was any kind of dead bird on it.
‘I provided you with an escape route,’ said Downing, when North had closed the door behind them. ‘Although you should not have accepted an invitation from Puritans in the first place. After ten years, I am glad to see the back of gloom and austerity. Give me a merry monarch any day.’
‘Is he?’ asked Chaloner absently, his thoughts on the unreadable glance Metje had shot him as he had left. ‘Merry?’
‘Outwardly, although his father’s fate is never far from his mind. But you know this, Chaloner. You know all about regicide.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘Did Thurloe tell you–?’
‘You do not know who you can trust, do you?’ said Downing, taunting. ‘But I have been watching you – long before Preacher Hill told me you were an impostor. I always did have an inkling that you were not who you claimed, although I am impressed that you managed to deceive me for quite so many years. Who is your real master? Some Dutchman? I dislike traitors, Chaloner.’