judgement – Kelyng is not my only enemy.
And Clarke’s death may have nothing to do with me, anyway. He may have been killed over whatever he was doing for Clarendon.’
‘I will do my best to find his murderer, sir.’
‘I know you will, Tom. But you cannot go to Clarendon dressed like a pauper, so buy yourself a decent cassock-coat and a new
wig.’ Thurloe passed him a heavy purse. ‘I would not ask you to do this if there was anyone else I could trust. Your uncle
would not approve of me shoving you into the lion’s mouth.’
Chaloner was not so sure. His uncle had done a good deal of shoving himself, and had made it perfectly clear that he considered
the youngest son of a younger brother to be a readily disposable asset. He had not enrolled his own boys in the wars that
had almost claimed his nephew’s life, and nor had he encouraged them to become intelligence agents in countries that would
shoot them if they were caught. ‘He would have understood.’
Thurloe gave a grim smile. ‘He was a practical man. I asked my other agents to send me reports on Kelyng, too, but Clarke
was the only one who did. I thought Simon Lane might oblige, but he obviously thinks it is too risky – that communicating
with me might be misconstrued.’
Lane was a smiling, cheerful man whose tuneful baritone had often accompanied Chaloner’s bass viol. ‘If I see him, I will
ask.’
‘No, he has made his choice, and it is the sensible one under the circumstances. You may feel the same way ina week, although I hope you will not forget me entirely – that you will find time to visit.’
Chaloner wondered whether there might be truth in the whispers about Thurloe’s lack of friends after all. ‘If you like, sir.’
Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘Go shopping, then – and throw that wig in the river at the earliest opportunity. It smells
of horse.’
Chapter 3
The following day, Chaloner took Metje with him when he went to purchase clothes to impress the Lord Chancellor. However,
it was not long before he wished he had left her behind. Her idea of what was suitable did not match his own notion of buying
the first thing he saw, and the business dragged on far longer than he felt it should. By the time the garments were ordered,
he was tired, irritable and painfully aware that nearly all the money Thurloe had given him was gone. Since he was late with
the rent and there was not so much as a crust of bread in the larder, clothes seemed an outrageous extravagance.
‘You cannot meet the Lord Chancellor dressed in rags,’ argued Metje, speaking Dutch as she always did when they were alone.
‘He will not employ clerks for the Victualling Office who look poor enough to help themselves to the navy’s supplies.’
Chaloner had allowed himself to fall into an awkward situation with Metje. To her, he was Thomas Heyden, a diplomatic envoy.
This had worked perfectly well in Holland, when their relationship had been superficial,but it was different in London, when he had come to realise that she was the woman he wanted to marry. He was not looking
forward to the time when he would be obliged to confess that he had misled her for the past three years, suspecting she would
be hurt and angry.
She knew he was struggling to find a new employer, and nagged him incessantly about his lack of success when
she
had experienced no such problems, so she was delighted when he mentioned the possibility of an interview at White Hall. Because
she had been so pleased to hear he had finally done something right, he had broken one of his own rules of secrecy by confiding
that the man he was to meet was the Earl of Clarendon. She saw the post would be a considerable improvement on part-time clerking
for the Puritans of Fetter Lane, and was determined to do all she could to ensure he created a good impression, waving aside
his concerns over paying the landlord.
‘I could move to cheaper accommodation,
And Clarke’s death may have nothing to do with me, anyway. He may have been killed over whatever he was doing for Clarendon.’
‘I will do my best to find his murderer, sir.’
‘I know you will, Tom. But you cannot go to Clarendon dressed like a pauper, so buy yourself a decent cassock-coat and a new
wig.’ Thurloe passed him a heavy purse. ‘I would not ask you to do this if there was anyone else I could trust. Your uncle
would not approve of me shoving you into the lion’s mouth.’
Chaloner was not so sure. His uncle had done a good deal of shoving himself, and had made it perfectly clear that he considered
the youngest son of a younger brother to be a readily disposable asset. He had not enrolled his own boys in the wars that
had almost claimed his nephew’s life, and nor had he encouraged them to become intelligence agents in countries that would
shoot them if they were caught. ‘He would have understood.’
Thurloe gave a grim smile. ‘He was a practical man. I asked my other agents to send me reports on Kelyng, too, but Clarke
was the only one who did. I thought Simon Lane might oblige, but he obviously thinks it is too risky – that communicating
with me might be misconstrued.’
Lane was a smiling, cheerful man whose tuneful baritone had often accompanied Chaloner’s bass viol. ‘If I see him, I will
ask.’
‘No, he has made his choice, and it is the sensible one under the circumstances. You may feel the same way ina week, although I hope you will not forget me entirely – that you will find time to visit.’
Chaloner wondered whether there might be truth in the whispers about Thurloe’s lack of friends after all. ‘If you like, sir.’
Thurloe regarded him appraisingly. ‘Go shopping, then – and throw that wig in the river at the earliest opportunity. It smells
of horse.’
Chapter 3
The following day, Chaloner took Metje with him when he went to purchase clothes to impress the Lord Chancellor. However,
it was not long before he wished he had left her behind. Her idea of what was suitable did not match his own notion of buying
the first thing he saw, and the business dragged on far longer than he felt it should. By the time the garments were ordered,
he was tired, irritable and painfully aware that nearly all the money Thurloe had given him was gone. Since he was late with
the rent and there was not so much as a crust of bread in the larder, clothes seemed an outrageous extravagance.
‘You cannot meet the Lord Chancellor dressed in rags,’ argued Metje, speaking Dutch as she always did when they were alone.
‘He will not employ clerks for the Victualling Office who look poor enough to help themselves to the navy’s supplies.’
Chaloner had allowed himself to fall into an awkward situation with Metje. To her, he was Thomas Heyden, a diplomatic envoy.
This had worked perfectly well in Holland, when their relationship had been superficial,but it was different in London, when he had come to realise that she was the woman he wanted to marry. He was not looking
forward to the time when he would be obliged to confess that he had misled her for the past three years, suspecting she would
be hurt and angry.
She knew he was struggling to find a new employer, and nagged him incessantly about his lack of success when
she
had experienced no such problems, so she was delighted when he mentioned the possibility of an interview at White Hall. Because
she had been so pleased to hear he had finally done something right, he had broken one of his own rules of secrecy by confiding
that the man he was to meet was the Earl of Clarendon. She saw the post would be a considerable improvement on part-time clerking
for the Puritans of Fetter Lane, and was determined to do all she could to ensure he created a good impression, waving aside
his concerns over paying the landlord.
‘I could move to cheaper accommodation,
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