‘You said Terrell was asking for me,’ said Chaloner, after several minutes of listening to Maude’s spirited defence of the man who had captured her fancy. There was no point in arguing with her – her case was based on supposition and the kind of wishful thinking that was immune to reason – so neither he nor Temperance tried. ‘Did he say why?’
‘He had been waiting at your house all evening, and was worried when you did not return,’ explained Temperance. ‘He said he had something urgent to tell you and he was afraid Wiseman’s surgery might have had some adverse effects. I told him you were adept at looking after yourself, but my assurances did nothing to ease his concern.’
Maude finished her coffee, and to show there were no hard feelings about their difference of opinion regarding Behn, said, ‘I heard Temple hatching a plot against your earl, Thomas. Would you like me to tell you about it?’
‘No,’ replied Chaloner gently. ‘Sometimes, information is leaked to a particular person to test whether he or she can be trusted. You may put yourself in danger if you talk to the wrong people.’
‘No one will trace this to me, because I happened to be under a bed at the time. Temple was telling Bristol that the best way to attack Clarendon was to damage his reputation for “moral rectitude”.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, more interested in why the bulky matron should have been under a bed containing Temple and Bristol than in learning about the toothless politician’s latest hare-brained scheme. Unfortunately for his burning curiosity, it was hardly something he felt he could ask.
‘Temple has hired an actress called Rosa Lodge,’ elaborated Maude. ‘And the plan is for her to accuse him of rape. Petticoats will be left in Clarendon’s chamber to support her allegation.’
‘That is ridiculous! He is not that kind of man, and no one will believe this Rosa Lodge.’
‘That is not the point,’ said Maude. ‘An accusation does not have to be true for it to cause trouble.’
Chaloner regarded her unhappily, aware that she was right. Temple would fan the flames of rumour and suspicion, and the Earl would be deemed guilty by default.
‘That bandage makes you very visible and you once told me a spy should conceal distinguishing features,’ said Temperance, when he made no reply. She stood, and fetched a handsome purple coat from a cupboard in the hall. ‘This will hide it far better, because it has longer sleeves.’
‘The man who owned it has gone to Rome,’ added Maude, guessing the reason for his reluctance to accept it. ‘So do not worry about it being recognised. Besides, you cannot go about your business smelling like that – you will have half the dogs in London following you. Take your clothes off, and I will air them in the garden.’
‘I am not undressing in front of you,’ objected Chaloner, the spectre of Temperance’s prim mother looming large in his mind.
‘You think this is a brothel, and that we intend to seduce you,’ said Maude, eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I assure you it is not. It is a gentleman’s club.’
‘I cannot imagine what your parents would think, Temperance,’ said Chaloner. This was not true – he could imagine exactly what the prudish Puritans would have said about their only daughter’s enterprise, and it would not have been pleasant.
Temperance’s grimace told him she knew, too. ‘I have never criticised the life you lead, Thomas, and you should return the courtesy. At least I do not visit you stinking of corpses.’
Dressed in the purple coat, a clean shirt and breeches that smelled sweetly of lavender, Chaloner felt more human. He walked along The Strand to Covent Garden, where his favourite coffee house was located. Will’s was a comfortable, manly place, full of tobacco smoke and the sharp aroma of roasting beans. Coffee houses were the exclusive domain of men, where they went to discuss politics, religion, literature, the increasing trouble with Holland, and any other contentious subject they felt like airing. The government wanted to suppress them before they became centres of sedition, but Spymaster Williamson had argued that it was better to leave them as they were, so he could plant informers to listen to what was being said and who said it. He even operated one or two shops of his own, and hired to run them men with a talent for encouraging dangerous talk.
That day, Will’s was quiet, because it was past the time when men gathered for their midday meals. After Newgate, Chaloner did not feel much like eating, but Leybourn had brought a tray of pastries with him, and devoured the lot while talking non-stop about the Arctic travels of Martin Frobisher.
‘You were supposed to be reading about Guinea,’ said Chaloner, when he managed to interject a comment into the continuous stream of information. ‘To help us solve Webb’s murder.’
Leybourn waved a dismissive hand. ‘Guinea is boring, but the search for a Northwest Passage is an adventure fit to stir the heart of any Englishman. Are you unwell? You are very quiet.’
‘I wish you had not recruited Temperance and Maude to eavesdrop on their customers. You should know better.’
Leybourn grimaced. ‘I did not “recruit” anyone. I asked, casually, whether they had heard anything about Webb, the Castle Plot or what Bristol plans to do to your earl, and they leapt at the chance to help us. You seem angry. Why? Surely you cultivated sources like these in the past.’
‘Not among my friends.’
Leybourn regarded him coolly. ‘You regularly ask me for information. Am I not a friend, then?’
‘That is different. You undertake assignments for Thurloe all the time.’
‘Not all the time,’ said Leybourn huffily. ‘In fact, I am only ever obliged to do it when you appear and start meddling in perilous situations. However, if you are afraid for Temperance, I suppose I can ask her to desist, although it will not be easy. She was looking forward to the challenge.’
Chaloner suspected he was right, and that she would eavesdrop with or without their blessing. He said nothing, and watched Leybourn reduce a pie to a pile of crumbs and discarded peas – Leybourn did not like peas and always picked them out. It was an aversion he shared with Scot, and Chaloner found himself thinking about the letter that had seen Dillon sentenced to death. Was Scot’s current alias one of the nine names on the list? If so, then why had he not mentioned it when they had discussed Webb’s murder at the Court ball on Saturday? Or did the letter refer to the disreputable fishmonger of the same name? What had Scot wanted with him the previous night, and why had he been with May and Behn? Chaloner found himself becoming uneasy with all the questions that rattled around in his mind, and began to wish he was back in Ireland, where everything had been so much more simple.
Leybourn made an effort to overcome his sulks and forced a smile. ‘So, you visited Temperance’s bawdy house again, did you?’
‘It is a gentleman’s club, apparently. I hope it does not land her in trouble. People are fickle, and what is popular today might be the target of hatred tomorrow. I had no idea she would reveal a hitherto unknown talent for brothel-keeping. She does not seem the type.’
‘You know enough madams to judge, do you? Come on, Tom – do not be Puritan about this. We had more than enough of that under Cromwell, and I, for one, like a bordello.’
‘You do?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He had not thought the surveyor a bordello kind of man.
‘I have no wife,’ said Leybourn, a little soulfully. ‘But I would like to be married, and it is not easy to meet ladies in the bookselling business. Bordellos offer a unique opportunity to enjoy female company, and I am ever hopeful of finding the perfect spouse in one.’