of arms recently?’
Trulocke’s glistening eyes snapped up from the coins, full of indignation. ‘No, why? Is someone planning an uprising without telling us?’
‘So you have heard nothing?’
‘No,’ said Trulocke, aggrieved. ‘But keep them coins, and if
you
hear anything I will give you double if you tell me the name of the villain who provided the guns. This is
our
patch, and we don’t take kindly to trespassers.’
Chaloner supposed it was as firm an indication as any that the High Holborn Plotters were not buying weapons to support whatever was in the offing.
Chapter 4
Chaloner was guiltily relieved when he went home to find a note from Hannah, telling him that she would be late and that the pickled ling pie was to be postponed until the following evening. Apparently, there was to be a service in St Paul’s Cathedral to commemorate the loss of HMS
London
, and the Queen wanted her there. Chaloner understood why: Her Majesty had failed to produce a royal heir, and there were rumours that she was barren. The Court shunned her, and she was naturally keen to have a friendly face on hand at such a public occasion.
There was a second letter, too, this one from Leving, informing Chaloner that he was to be at the Talbot tavern at three o’clock the following afternoon. Chaloner was unimpressed that messages should be sent to his home; it was an unwritten rule of espionage that fellow intelligencers’ families were to be kept away from such dealings.
He gave the servants the rest of the evening off on condition that they all went out, and when he had the house to himself he settled by the drawing room fire with his viol. He played airs by Lawes until well past midnight, relishing the instrument’s rich tones as he lost himself in the joy of music. Then he heard Hannah struggling to insert her key in the front door. Hastily, he stowed his viol in the cupboard under the stairs, and was standing innocently in the hallway when she finally managed to stagger inside.
‘Tom,’ she slurred tipsily. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It is where I live,’ he replied, making a dive to catch the delicate clock on the hallstand as she jostled against it. ‘Well, some of the time, at least.’
‘Silly!’ she cried, giving him a playful thump. ‘I mean why are you in the corridor in the dark? Have you forgotten your way upstairs?’
She began to laugh, leaning against the wall while tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks. Chaloner watched her warily, wondering how she had contrived to get drunk at a memorial. Then he recalled that it had been at White Hall, and the King’s merry courtiers had an uncanny knack of introducing wine at any occasion, no matter how inappropriate.
‘I met Clarendon,’ she said, once she had gained some semblance of control. ‘I told him.’
‘Told him what?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘That he was an arse for dismissing you.’ Hannah giggled. ‘But he thought he had misheard.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped so: the Earl deplored bad language, and would certainly object to being called names. Such an incident might lead to Chaloner losing his post permanently.
‘Oh, and we have a problem,’ said Hannah airily, attempting a twirl. She stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her.
‘What manner of problem?’ he asked, under the powerful impression that it was something she would not have dared mention had she been sober.
‘Debt,’ she replied crisply. ‘We owe lots of people lots of money. A hundred pounds or more.’
‘
What?
’ Chaloner was horrified. ‘How have you—’
‘These things happen, and it is not my fault that you do not earn a decent salary.’
Chaloner’s salary had been perfectly respectable, and he could not conceive how she had contrived to spend so much. But there was no point debating the matter while she was drunk – it was a discussion that needed both of them sober.
‘Your coat is wet,’ he said instead, the tone of his voice
Trulocke’s glistening eyes snapped up from the coins, full of indignation. ‘No, why? Is someone planning an uprising without telling us?’
‘So you have heard nothing?’
‘No,’ said Trulocke, aggrieved. ‘But keep them coins, and if
you
hear anything I will give you double if you tell me the name of the villain who provided the guns. This is
our
patch, and we don’t take kindly to trespassers.’
Chaloner supposed it was as firm an indication as any that the High Holborn Plotters were not buying weapons to support whatever was in the offing.
Chapter 4
Chaloner was guiltily relieved when he went home to find a note from Hannah, telling him that she would be late and that the pickled ling pie was to be postponed until the following evening. Apparently, there was to be a service in St Paul’s Cathedral to commemorate the loss of HMS
London
, and the Queen wanted her there. Chaloner understood why: Her Majesty had failed to produce a royal heir, and there were rumours that she was barren. The Court shunned her, and she was naturally keen to have a friendly face on hand at such a public occasion.
There was a second letter, too, this one from Leving, informing Chaloner that he was to be at the Talbot tavern at three o’clock the following afternoon. Chaloner was unimpressed that messages should be sent to his home; it was an unwritten rule of espionage that fellow intelligencers’ families were to be kept away from such dealings.
He gave the servants the rest of the evening off on condition that they all went out, and when he had the house to himself he settled by the drawing room fire with his viol. He played airs by Lawes until well past midnight, relishing the instrument’s rich tones as he lost himself in the joy of music. Then he heard Hannah struggling to insert her key in the front door. Hastily, he stowed his viol in the cupboard under the stairs, and was standing innocently in the hallway when she finally managed to stagger inside.
‘Tom,’ she slurred tipsily. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It is where I live,’ he replied, making a dive to catch the delicate clock on the hallstand as she jostled against it. ‘Well, some of the time, at least.’
‘Silly!’ she cried, giving him a playful thump. ‘I mean why are you in the corridor in the dark? Have you forgotten your way upstairs?’
She began to laugh, leaning against the wall while tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks. Chaloner watched her warily, wondering how she had contrived to get drunk at a memorial. Then he recalled that it had been at White Hall, and the King’s merry courtiers had an uncanny knack of introducing wine at any occasion, no matter how inappropriate.
‘I met Clarendon,’ she said, once she had gained some semblance of control. ‘I told him.’
‘Told him what?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘That he was an arse for dismissing you.’ Hannah giggled. ‘But he thought he had misheard.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped so: the Earl deplored bad language, and would certainly object to being called names. Such an incident might lead to Chaloner losing his post permanently.
‘Oh, and we have a problem,’ said Hannah airily, attempting a twirl. She stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her.
‘What manner of problem?’ he asked, under the powerful impression that it was something she would not have dared mention had she been sober.
‘Debt,’ she replied crisply. ‘We owe lots of people lots of money. A hundred pounds or more.’
‘
What?
’ Chaloner was horrified. ‘How have you—’
‘These things happen, and it is not my fault that you do not earn a decent salary.’
Chaloner’s salary had been perfectly respectable, and he could not conceive how she had contrived to spend so much. But there was no point debating the matter while she was drunk – it was a discussion that needed both of them sober.
‘Your coat is wet,’ he said instead, the tone of his voice
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