So, who had lurked on the stairs in the darkness, waiting for him to return? Chaloner sensed it was no one who wished him well, and spent the rest of the night wide awake, waiting for an attack that never came.
In the faint light of pre-dawn, Chaloner went to Lincoln’s Inn, where he found Thurloe standing forlornly among his felled trees – almost half gone already. Leybourn was with him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. The mighty oaks had been carted off to the shipyards, while the fruit trees lay on their sides, waiting to be chopped into logs for the winter. The garden had an oddly lopsided feel to it, and the absence of vegetation along one wall showed it to be in urgent need of repair. Prynne had evidently been unaware that not only had the ancient roots and branches concealed unsightly masonry, but they been critical in shoring up some of the more unstable sections, too.
‘Thank you for the note you sent last night, Thomas,’ said Thurloe. He looked miserable. ‘But I am afraid all your efforts to help Dillon have been in vain. I was up until the small hours, trying to think of a way to save him, but I failed. He will have to rely on his new master for salvation after all.’
Chaloner had not imagined for a moment that Thurloe would succeed in rescuing his former spy, but he admired him for trying. Prudently, Chaloner’s note had neglected to include the fact that Dillon had actually confessed to the crime – it was not the sort of thing that should be entrusted to paper. He had planned to tell Thurloe that morning, but the ex-Spymaster seemed so disconsolate about the destruction of his beloved sanctuary that Chaloner could not bring himself to do it.
‘That will be expensive to mend,’ he remarked instead, nodding towards the wall. ‘And it cannot be left as it is, because it looks as though it is in imminent danger of collapse. Prynne may find he has no money left to destroy the rest of the orchard, once funds have been diverted to make good this mess.’
Thurloe gazed at him, then turned to study the walls. Slowly, a smile lit his unhappy face. A plan was beginning to take shape. ‘Do you own any skill with gunpowder, Thomas?’
Chaloner knew exactly what he had in mind. ‘A little. Do you know where I might find some?’
‘It is not the sort of thing an ex-Spymaster keeps in his chambers, for obvious reasons. However, Prynne used some to clear the well a few days ago. I suspect he has a bit left. It will be in his room.’
Leybourn looked from one to the other uneasily. ‘You are going to blow up Lincoln’s Inn?’
‘Only enough to ensure Prynne will have to pay for some urgent repairs,’ said Thurloe. His face was uncharacteristically vengeful. ‘Then he may not have enough money left to hire men with axes.’
Chaloner and Leybourn followed him to the building – already called the Garden Court in anticipation of the splendid views it would enjoy once the trees had gone – where Prynne lived. Leybourn was appalled by their plan, and tried to make them reconsider. They would be caught, he hissed, and made to pay for the damage themselves – or worse. Thurloe informed him curtly that he had no intention of being caught.
Prynne was at dawn prayers, and the Garden Court was deserted as Thurloe led the way to his colleague’s quarters and cautiously picked the lock. Then Chaloner searched for gunpowder, while Thurloe kept guard and Leybourn prowled. The surveyor stopped at a desk covered with documents, all filled with Prynne’s tiny, crabbed writing. He snorted with disgust as he picked one up and read it.
‘I wish we could put a fuse to this inflammatory rubbish, too. I did not know men still existed who wrote about matters of which they are entirely ignorant, not in these enlightened times.’
‘Why would you think that?’ asked Chaloner, opening a chest. ‘You publish government pamphlets, for God’s sake. Ah, here is the powder. We had better not take too much. There is no point in adding insult to injury by leaving evidence to show we used his own explosives to thwart him.’
While Chaloner scooped the odorous black substance into his hat – it was the only receptacle available to him – Leybourn busied himself among the flasks, decanters and bottles on Prynne’s shelves. Chaloner recalled Yates mentioning that there were an inordinate number of them, and Prynne was their prime suspect for trying to poison Thurloe. He heard the clink of glass as stoppers were removed, and sharp intakes of breath as Leybourn sniffed the contents. He concentrated on what he was doing, ladling faster when he thought he heard footsteps in the courtyard below.
Eventually, he had enough to accomplish what he needed to do, but Prynne’s supply was too obviously depleted. Swearing under his breath, he replaced what he had taken with soot from the chimney. But then he saw that the dust was a different colour from the explosive, so he was obliged to mix it in. Stirring gunpowder was not something that could be rushed, and he was acutely aware that the whole operation was taking far too long. After what felt an age, he finished, and looked up to see Leybourn in the process of drinking something dark red.
‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed, aghast. ‘You know he keeps poisons here.’
‘None of these are poisonous,’ said Leybourn, grinning in a way that indicated he had taken his experiment rather too far. ‘They are all wine. Most labels say otherwise, but I know a decent claret when I taste it. Prynne is a secret drinker, with a palate for vintages that would impress a king.’
He upended a decanter and drained it before Chaloner could stop him. Horrified, the spy grabbed his arm and pulled him outside. Leybourn staggered, and it was not easy to drag him in the direction they needed to go. He began to warble, a tuneless, reedy tenor that reminded Chaloner why he always fabricated an excuse for not accompanying him on the viol.
‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Thurloe, as they hurried away from the Garden Court.
‘He has discovered that your colleague’s collection of liquids is nothing more dangerous than wine. Prynne is innocent of attempting to poison you, it seems.’
‘Yates told me–’ began Thurloe. He stopped, and his eyes narrowed. ‘I had a letter yesterday from my old manservant, begging me to take him back. He is under the impression that I dismissed him, while I was told he had left because he was ill. Someone is causing mischief.’
‘It must be Yates,’ said Chaloner. ‘There he is – you can ask him.’
Leybourn reeled drunkenly, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to hold him upright and keep the contents of his hat from spilling at the same time. He cursed the splint that made him clumsy, and decided the dressing would come off that day, no matter what else happened. And if Lisle could not do it, then he would borrow Thurloe’s gun and hold it to Wiseman’s head until the surgeon had removed every last shred of the damned thing.
‘Mr Thurloe,’ said Yates with an uneasy smile as the ex-Spymaster bore down on him. Thurloe’s blue eyes were hard and cold, an expression that had set more than one Royalist spy trembling in his boots during the Commonwealth. ‘Can I fetch you anything from the kitchen?’
‘Who hired you?’ demanded Thurloe. He grabbed Yates by the collar when the porter tried to make a run for it, displaying surprising speed and strength for a man who so seldom engaged in any kind of physical activity.
Yates licked dry lips, one frightened eye on Thurloe and the other one on Chaloner. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Thurloe in a low, sibilant voice that was distinctly sinister. Yates paled. ‘You have been spying on me ever since you arrived, and I know it was you who sent my servant away under false pretences. Now, are you going to be cooperative, or shall we do this another way?’