‘There is a Collection of Curiosities near St Paul’s,’ he said, opening the door and speaking without preamble. ‘We should visit it, because a lot of people we need to interview will probably be there. We might even be able to determine which of the Adventurers wants the Queen accused of plotting to kill Pratt.’
‘Good morning to you, too,’ said Thurloe drily. He was sitting at the table, and Chaloner saw he was working on the same cipher that continued to defeat him — they had made a copy the previous night. ‘Do you expect me to come with you? Before my devotions in the chapel?’
Chaloner felt the business at hand was rather more urgent than religious ceremonies, although he knew better than to say so outright — Thurloe was devout. ‘You can go this afternoon. The Earl will be doing the same, so he can mind Clarendon House instead.’
‘He is reduced to guarding his own property, is he?’ Thurloe rose with a sigh. ‘Very well, we shall go to St Paul’s, although I shall have to don a disguise. The Court is unlikely to appreciate being watched by an old Parliamentarian spymaster.’
Chaloner sat by the fire as Thurloe changed his appearance with a range of pastes, powders and an exceptionally unattractive orange wig.
‘The more I think about it, the more I am sure that Elliot is alive and masquerading as Cave’s brother,’ Chaloner said, staring into the flames. ‘Both the curate and Kersey mentioned an unusually black wig — which Elliot had. And both said “Jacob” was large and loutish.’
‘But anyone can don a hairpiece,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘While I could write you a list as long as my arm of “large and loutish” men. Lester would be on it — and we know for certain that he is alive.’
‘Why would Lester want Cave buried without a grand funeral?’ asked Chaloner impatiently.
Thurloe turned away from the mirror to regard him soberly. ‘To avenge Elliot — his shipmate and brother-in-law.’
‘No,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Lester is not Jacob.’
Thurloe went back to perfecting his disguise. They were silent for some time, Chaloner gazing moodily at the fire. Eventually, Thurloe indicated that he was ready.
‘Have you given consideration to Williamson’s request?’ he asked, as they walked across Dial Court towards Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate. ‘Will you work with him?’
‘No. I do not trust him, and the notion of taking orders from such a man …’
‘Take them,’ instructed Thurloe. ‘This is far too grave a matter to be affected by your pride. He has swallowed his by asking for your help. Do likewise, and help him.’
‘Then when I fall foul of him — an inevitability, given his prickly temper and our past quarrels — will you rescue me from his dungeons?’
Thurloe raised his eyebrows, and it was clear that he was thinking that Williamson was not the only one prone to bad tempers. ‘He would not dare incarcerate you. Clarendon would not stand for it.’
Chaloner recalled the hot words that had been spoken earlier. ‘I think he might.’
‘He is all bluster, but he appreciates what you do for him. His son does not, though. You should be wary of Hyde.’
‘You have warned me to be wary of a lot of people lately — Hyde, Lester, Fitzgerald. Indeed, half of London seems to be swirling with deadly villains according to you.’
Thurloe regarded him sharply. ‘They are dangerous, Thomas, and you are a fool if you discount my advice. You think Fitzgerald is less deadly than I have portrayed, and Hyde is too feeble to be a threat, while you like Lester.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Chaloner. ‘I do.’
‘Then continue to like him. Just do not trust him. That should not be difficult — you repel overtures of friendship from everyone else you meet. And I cannot say it is healthy.’
‘You trained me to do it,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled. ‘Besides, it means I am rarely disappointed when they transpire to be villains.’
‘Speaking of villains, you might want to watch Kipps, too,’ said Thurloe. ‘He professes a powerful dislike of Adventurers, but that does not stop him from hobnobbing with them.’
‘He is just friendly.’ Chaloner was becoming tired of Thurloe’s suspicions. Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Did you ever harbour misgivings about Hannah’s maid Susan?’
‘I told Hannah she was sly and untrustworthy, but she — like you — declined to listen. Why?’
‘She was dismissed for spying this morning. God knows who paid her to do it. Unfortunately, she had been sent packing before I could question her.’
‘That is a pity,’ said Thurloe.
Chapter 9
Thurloe talked all the way to St Paul’s, and his calm voice and rational analyses of the information they had gathered did much to lift the dark mood that had descended on Chaloner. By the time they arrived, all that remained was an acute sense of unease, arising partly from the fact that they had less than three days to prevent whatever catastrophes the Piccadilly Company and their rivals intended to inflict on London, but mostly because he had finally come to accept the realisation that it had been a mistake to marry Hannah.
He was fond of her — he supposed it might even be love — but they had nothing in common, and he knew now that they would make each other increasingly unhappy as the gulf between them widened. But these were painful, secret thoughts, and he doubted he would ever be able to share them with another person. Not even Thurloe, who was as close a friend as any. He pushed them from his mind as they neared St Paul’s, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand.
Because it was Sunday, the cathedral was busy. Canons, vicars and vergers hurried here and there in ceremonial robes, and a large congregation was massing. It was a fabulous building, with mighty towers and soaring pinnacles that dominated the city’s skyline. Unfortunately, time had not treated it welclass="underline" there were cracks in its walls, its stonework was crumbling, and several sections were being held up by precarious messes of scaffolding. Ambitious architects — Pratt among them — clamoured for it to be demolished, but Londoners loved it, and strenuously resisted all efforts to provide them with a new-fangled replacement.
‘The exhibition is at the Mitre,’ said Chaloner, as they walked. ‘At the western end of the cathedral.’
‘The Mitre,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘Even in Cromwell’s time it was a place that catered to the bizarre. We should have suppressed it.’
The tenement in question was sandwiched between a coffee house and a bookshop. Its ground floor was a tavern, while the upper storey had a spacious hall that was used for travelling expositions. It was virtually deserted when Chaloner and Thurloe arrived, with only one or two clerics poring over the artefacts, killing time before attending to their religious duties.
‘We are too early,’ murmured Thurloe. ‘But it does not matter — there is much to entertain us while we wait. I have never seen a tropic bird. Or a remora, come to that.’
‘What is a remora?’ asked Chaloner.
Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine we shall know by the time we leave.’
Chaloner wandered restlessly, intrigued by some exhibits and repelled by others. The Egyptian mummy held pride of place, although moths had been at its bandages, and some of its ‘hieroglyphicks’ had been over-painted by someone with a sense of humour, because one of the oft-repeated symbols bore a distinct resemblance to the King in his wig.
‘Apparently, the tropic bird has not survived London’s climate,’ reported Thurloe, having gone to enquire after its whereabouts. ‘I am sorry. I would have liked to have made its acquaintance.’
At that moment the door opened and Lady Castlemaine strutted in, a number of admirers at her heels. Immediately, the atmosphere went from hushed and scholarly to boisterously puerile. The exhibits were poked, mocked and hooted at, and the situation degenerated further still as more courtiers arrived. Soon, the place was so packed that it was difficult to move.