In the Earl’s note, he announced his intention of resurrecting the Dutch upholsterer, in the hope that ‘Vanders’ might provide new opportunities for spying on Bristol. He would not normally have revealed such plans in advance, but he had learned his lesson about surprising Clarendon with disguises, and did not want a recurrence of what had happened the last time. His message to Thurloe contained the information he had gathered about Webb the previous evening.
When he had finished, he went to the Golden Lion – a tavern that never closed, so the landlord had no trouble locating a boy to deliver the notes. Then he found a quiet spot near a fire, and ordered ale and bread. He rubbed his eyes as he waited for them to arrive, wondering how long Eaffrey and Scot had been lovers. Did that mean she still intended to wed Behn, and their marriage would be based on deceit? Or had she lied about her love for the merchant? Chaloner could tell from the way she and Scot had fallen into each other’s arms that it was not the first time it had happened. Of course, Behn was enjoying an illicit affair with Silence, and perhaps Eaffrey knew it. Or was Behn’s dalliance just a calculated attempt to get his hands on Webb’s idle ship? If so, then it appeared to have worked.
All told, Chaloner was happier to think of Eaffrey with Scot than with the Brandenburger. Scot lived a dangerous life, like Chaloner himself, and might not be there to protect her when she needed him, but he was a good man who would not suffocate her in a restrictive marriage. And nor would he oblige her to live on riches earned from sugar and slaves. Chaloner hoped she knew what she was doing, and that Behn would not find out and avenge himself on Scot. Chaloner knew from personal experience that the merchant had a strong arm.
At six o’clock, he returned to his room and found the clothes he needed to become Vanders again. He was even more meticulous with his disguise than he had been the previous Saturday, knowing people would pay him greater attention if rumours had been spread about his poor health, and he took special care to conceal the splint with his lacy cuffs. The last time he had played Vanders, he had dispensed with his sword in the interests of authenticity, but White Hall no longer felt safe to him, and he had no intention of going without the means to defend himself. It was an hour before he was satisfied with his appearance, during which time he hoped his note to Clarendon would have been delivered, and the Earl would be ready to play his part in the charade.
He reached White Hall without incident, although he felt eyes on him as he began his hunt for Clarendon. It did not take him long to identify them: it was Bristol’s man, Willys. He had exchanged his yellow stockings for black ones, which hung loose on his long, thin legs and made them look more spindly than ever. Willys watched Chaloner for a moment, then hurried away. The spy eventually located the Earl outside the Stone Gallery, waiting for a carriage to take him to the site of his new Piccadilly mansion. Clarendon narrowed his eyes and regarded ‘Vanders’ intently.
‘It is you, Heyden,’ he muttered. ‘You never know when someone might be an assassin these days, and I am ever wary. I had your letter half an hour ago. I am glad you decided to try the upholsterer business again, because now people will see the rumours about me hitting you are unfounded. And the vultures are gathering already, because here is Bristol and his entourage, come to inspect you. Do not forget what you promised to do – infiltrate his household with a view to spying for me.’
Chaloner did not dignify the reminder with a response. Why else did the Earl imagine he was dressed up in such a ridiculous fashion?
‘Vanders?’ asked Bristol. His clothes were rumpled, he stank of old wine, and he looked as though he had yet to retire to bed. ‘I am told you excel at turkeywork sofas, and I am in the market for such an object. Do you have any for sale?’
‘I might,’ said Chaloner cagily, hoping he would not want details. He was not entirely sure what ‘turkeywork’ meant, and it would not take many minutes before he was exposed as a fraud.
‘I shall leave you to discuss it, then,’ said the Earl, a little too readily. ‘Here is my carriage, come to take me to Piccadilly. Clarendon House will be the talk of all London once it is built, and I have already secured some excellent black marble for its stairs. The King will want to visit me there, away from the shallow vices – and people – of Court.’
‘It would not be the black marble intended for the repair of St Paul’s Cathedral, would it?’ pounced Bristol. ‘That is a House of God, and your immortal soul will be stained if you take that for yourself.’
‘Papist claptrap,’ muttered Clarendon, waddling away on his short, fat legs.
The dark expression on Bristol’s face told Chaloner that the Earl had made a serious tactical error by attacking his rival’s religion. Bristol had sacrificed the chance to hold lucrative public office by professing his Catholicism, proving that his beliefs were important to him; mocking them was unwise. Then Lady Castlemaine arrived in a flurry of yapping dogs and jabbering voices. Bristol immediately turned to join her, but he grabbed Willys’s arm and whispered something first. Willys nodded, and approached Chaloner.
‘There is a private hall where senior retainers often gather of a morning, Mr Vanders,’ Willys said politely. ‘Will you take a cup of ale there with me?’
Chaloner accepted the invitation, thinking it might be a good opportunity to quiz him about his name being included in Bristol’s letter. He followed the aide to the Spares Gallery, recalling with wry amusement that it had been Willys who had kept him company the last time he was there.
Because it was early, the Spares Gallery was relatively empty. Three musicians were restringing a violin at the far end, Wiseman’s massive bulk was crammed into a chair near the fire, and an elderly equerry in a blue coat dozed in the sunshine that flooded through the windows. Wiseman raised a hand in greeting, but was more interested in reading his book than in talking; he did not wait for Willys to wave back before his attention was riveted on the pages again.
‘You see that surgeon?’ whispered Willys, as they took seats at a table. ‘He was summoned at two o’clock this morning, because the King complained of a blockage. His Majesty went to bed at four – still constipated – and is unlikely to rise before noon, but Wiseman is obliged to wait until he does, lest another royal summons is issued. It serves him right for taking against Bristol! I caught him searching our carriage last night, although he claims he was only looking for a bat that flew into it. Well, there was a bat, as it happened, but I think it just provided him with an excuse to rummage.’
‘Rummage for what?’
‘Evidence that my master was involved in the Castle Plot, probably. That took place in Ireland, which is full of Catholics. And since Bristol is Catholic, Lord Clarendon might say he instigated it.’
‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner.
Willys regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course not! He sent me to Dublin to help thwart it – and I was instrumental in seizing a vital shipment of rebel guns. Just because a man is a papist, does not mean he is desperate to overthrow a monarchy. But let us talk of other business. I have been authorised to make you an offer: My Lord Bristol wants his furniture upholstered, and says he will pay twice what Clarendon has offered you.’
‘That is very generous,’ said Chaloner, smothering a smile. Everyone knew Bristol had no money, and could never afford to double an asking price. The spy could only assume the impecunious noble intended to default on payment, just as he probably did with his other creditors.
‘Yes, it is. However, there is something he would like you to do in the meantime: while you work in Clarendon’s domain, keep your eyes and ears open, and report any unusual happenings to me.’