‘It is impossible to tell. But please do not meddle in-’
‘I shall do as I think fit,’ interrupted Thurloe, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘And I shall be gone from London soon, anyway, so if I make a mistake, it will be forgotten by the time I return. These affairs never last long in people’s memories.’
‘I disagree. Royalists seem to have extremely long memories, and they are bitter and vengeful. Ask Doling and Symons. They lost everything when-’
‘That is different,’ snapped Thurloe impatiently. He changed the subject, to prevent a quarrel. ‘Why did you come to see me? Just for confirmation of Chetwynd’s corruption?’
Chaloner was tempted to say yes, because he did not want his friend involved any further, but Thurloe fixed him with steely blue eyes, and the spy knew better than to lie to him.
‘Scobel,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He hosted meetings — for prayers, apparently — which all three murder victims attended. So did a number of other people, including Greene, Jones, Doling, Symons, Gold, the Lea brothers, Hargrave and another merchant called Tryan.’
‘But Scobel died three years ago,’ said Thurloe doubtfully. ‘How can these gatherings be important now? Moreover, there are probably other connections between these men, too — such as a shared interest in poetry, or a liking for pigeons. Are you sure these meetings are relevant?’
‘No, but it is a lead I feel compelled to follow. According to Williamson, they convened in John’s Coffee House after Scobel died, so it looks as though the men involved thought the assemblies were important. What can you tell me about him?’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘Not much. He was clerk to both Houses of Parliament during Cromwell’s reign, and did well for himself. He died of a sharpness of the blood. Very nasty.’
Chaloner had never heard of this particular affliction, but was not surprised Thurloe had, obsessed as he was by matters of health. ‘What is a sharpness of the blood?’
‘It entails aching pains, shortness of breath and violent shuddering. As I said, very nasty.’
‘Poison can produce those symptoms,’ said Chaloner, wondering what was going on. ‘It will not be the same toxin that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, because that was caustic, but there are plenty of others. I will confirm it with Wiseman, but I am sure I am right.’
‘Why would anyone kill Scobel?’ asked Thurloe. ‘He spoke out against the Court when it first arrived in London — saw it as a nest of corruption and vice — but no one took issue with him, because everyone knew he was right. His was not a lone voice — many people felt the same. Most still do.’
‘What else can you tell me about him?’
‘That his nephew, Will Symons, inherited all his worldly goods. Symons lost his job at the Restoration, and if it had not been for Scobel’s bequest, he and his sculptress wife would have starved. Scobel was also friends with Doling and the Lea brothers, but dropped his association with the latter when they turned Royalist — you may recall they were the only clerks to retain their positions.’
‘So, there are four suspects for Scobel’s murder: Symons and Margaret may have wanted to inherit his money sooner rather than later, and the Leas might have objected to him rejecting their friendship.’
Thurloe wagged a finger. ‘You are jumping ahead of yourself. First, Scobel may not have been murdered — people do die of natural causes, you know, even in London. And second, even if he was unlawfully killed, there is no evidence with which to accuse anyone.’
‘Those four are the ones with the motives.’
‘The ones with the motives that you know about,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘The Leas are sly and self-serving, but I cannot see them having the courage to kill, while Symons was very fond of his uncle. Scobel was a lovely man.’
‘Another saint,’ said Chaloner with a weary sigh.
Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘He was a saint, and I consider it an honour to have known him. He had a dog, which sat by his grave and howled for two weeks solid. It would probably be howling still, if someone had not shot it. Did you never meet him?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘But you mentioned him in your letters. Often.’
Thurloe had been an avid correspondent, and the friendship between him and his spy had developed almost entirely through letters for the first decade of their acquaintance. He had written at length about all aspects of his life, his work, his friends and his family.
‘Yes, I would have done,’ he said sadly. ‘I liked him enormously. And he did hold prayer meetings in his home, although I cannot tell you who joined him. He invited me, but I prefer to meditate in private, so I never went. He gave thanks, mostly.’
‘Gave thanks for what?’
‘For everything — his success at work, his nephew, his friends, the food on his table. He sincerely believed thanking God was a vital duty, and encouraged others to do the same. You look sceptical, Tom, but you must remember that he was rather more pious than you. He went to church because he loved God, not because he did not want to be seen as a nonconformist.’
‘What did he look like?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring the dig. Religion was something about which they would never agree — Thurloe was a committed Puritan, while Chaloner was not sure what he believed.
‘A short, fat fellow, bald as an egg, who sported a huge black beard. He refused to conceal his pate with wigs, because he said God had made him hairless and he would never try to improve on His handiwork. Unfortunately, it made him look as though his head was on upside down.’
‘Was he tedious about religion, then? Overly zealous?’
‘No. People attended his meetings because they wanted to be there, not because he forced them to go — he was devout, not a fanatic. Incidentally, he foretold the exact time of his death. Did I write to you about that? It was eerie, and folk talked about it for weeks afterwards.’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘He had a premonition that he would breathe his last on a specific date, and although we all told him that sort of thing was for God to decide, he transpired to be right. He did die on the day he predicted.’
‘Do you think he knew someone was going to poison him?’
‘It did not occur to me at the time,’ replied Thurloe soberly, ‘but now I find myself wondering.’
It was mid-morning by the time Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn. He stopped to collect his spare sword on the way to White Hall, feeling naked and vulnerable without one. Most men wore them as fashion accessories, and rarely, if ever, drew them in earnest, but Chaloner’s were working weapons, and he kept both oiled and well honed.
His cat padded to greet him when he opened the door, and he spent a few moments petting it. He was unimpressed when he found dead mice secreted in several different places, but the cat purred when he glared at it, and the show of affection made it impossible to stay angry. With a sigh of resignation, he went to the window and lobbed the bodies into the street below. He aimed for, and was pleased when he hit, the sign of the Golden Lion opposite. He ducked back inside when one of the furry corpses bounced off the board and ricocheted into a passing carriage. The coach bore the Muskerry coat of arms, and Chaloner was almost certain it was Colonel Turner who reached across the female occupant and chivalrously removed the dead rodent from her lap.
‘The man is insatiable,’ he remarked to the cat, then stopped abruptly. Haddon talked to his dogs as though they were people, and the spy considered it a peculiar habit. He was appalled by the notion that he might be in the process of acquiring it himself — that people might think he was short of a few wits.
He left his garret and began to walk towards White Hall, mentally reviewing the connections that linked his three victims. All were government officials, their corpses had been stripped of valuables, they had argued with the Earl, they had attended Scobel’s prayer meetings before the Restoration, and they had met in John’s Coffee House after. Common acquaintances included Gold, Bess, Neale, Greene, Hargrave, Tryan, Scobel, Symons, Margaret, the Lea brothers, Doling and Jones. There would be others, too, but these were the names that kept cropping up, and which seemed worth exploring.