though, so I do not have much time.’
‘You are going home?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘The authorities are taking the threat of plague seriously, but Londoners have been regaled with rumours about it for so long that they are inclined to dismiss it. The city is no longer safe, and men with delicate constitutions, such as myself, must flee while we can.’
He had nothing of the kind, although he had convinced himself that he was in fragile health, and swallowed all manner of potions in search of one that would make him feel young again.
‘Do you know a felon named James Baron?’ asked Chaloner, watching him remove a bottle from his pocket and take a substantial gulp. A glimpse of the label revealed that it was
Bayhurst’s Elixir, an Improved Antidote or Pectoral against the Plague
.
‘I know
of
him,’ replied Thurloe. ‘When Wheler was murdered, the general consensus was that Baron did it. He certainly benefited, as now he controls a large part of Cheapside.’
At that moment, a plump man with a gap between his front teeth bustled up. It was Philip Starkey, the master chef who had run the kitchens when Cromwell had kept court at White Hall.
‘It is very early in the day for visiting, Starkey,’ said Thurloe coolly. He disliked interruptions to his morning stroll.
‘I am sorry, Mr Thurloe,’ cried Starkey, wringing his hands in consternation. ‘But I am desperate and do not know where else to turn. It is about that slanderous claptrap penned by Randal Taylor. Have you seen it?’
‘We were just discussing it, as a matter of fact,’ replied Thurloe. ‘It—’
‘Did you read what it said about me?’ The chef’s red face was a mask of distress. ‘That I am a drunkard, who had to be summoned before Cromwell to answer for stealing wine.’
‘No one believes it,’ said Thurloe soothingly. ‘It is obviously a—’
‘Yes, they
do
, and that is the problem, Mr Thurloe. I am tipped to be Master of the Company of Cooks in a year, and this sort of tale could see me passed over. You
must
make the villain issue a public apology. It is the only thing that will salvage my reputation now.’
‘I am afraid that is well beyond my sway,’ said Thurloe apologetically. ‘The best we can do is persuade him not to publish a sequel.’
‘A sequel?’ squawked Starkey, appalled. ‘But more slanderous remarks will ruin me for certain! I have borrowed money to open a cook-shop, and the venture will fail if people think I am a sot who cannot bake. Then I will default on my loan and … well, suffice to say that Banker Taylor is not gentle with those who cannot pay what they owe.’
‘Why did you approach him for a loan in the first place?’ asked Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘You know he was a Royalist during the Commonwealth.’
‘Because he is the only London goldsmith with cash to spare,’ explained the cook tearfully. ‘All the others are funding the war. Of course, I was offended when he demanded collateral.’
‘Collateral?’
‘The lovely crystal salt cellar that Mrs Cromwell gave me. He says he will keep it if I default, so I hope I do not, because I should hate to lose it.
Please
stop his despicable son from writing more scurrilous lies, Mr Thurloe. If you do, I shall bake you a cake every week for a year.’
‘Well, then,’ drawled Thurloe. ‘We had better see what we can do.’
As Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn, he began planning his day. His most pressing task was to visit Taylor, where he had three things to do: discuss Hannah’s debt; find out what Taylor knew about Wheler’s murder; and ask where Randal was hiding. Randal would probably refuse to keep his sequel to himself, so some form of coercion would have to be devised. Perhaps it could revolve around his recently acquired wife, who was another suspect in Wheler’s death.
Once Chaloner had finished with the Taylors, he would have to tackle Baron, to secure the last two pairs of curtains and sever relations between him and Clarendon
‘You are going home?’
Thurloe nodded. ‘The authorities are taking the threat of plague seriously, but Londoners have been regaled with rumours about it for so long that they are inclined to dismiss it. The city is no longer safe, and men with delicate constitutions, such as myself, must flee while we can.’
He had nothing of the kind, although he had convinced himself that he was in fragile health, and swallowed all manner of potions in search of one that would make him feel young again.
‘Do you know a felon named James Baron?’ asked Chaloner, watching him remove a bottle from his pocket and take a substantial gulp. A glimpse of the label revealed that it was
Bayhurst’s Elixir, an Improved Antidote or Pectoral against the Plague
.
‘I know
of
him,’ replied Thurloe. ‘When Wheler was murdered, the general consensus was that Baron did it. He certainly benefited, as now he controls a large part of Cheapside.’
At that moment, a plump man with a gap between his front teeth bustled up. It was Philip Starkey, the master chef who had run the kitchens when Cromwell had kept court at White Hall.
‘It is very early in the day for visiting, Starkey,’ said Thurloe coolly. He disliked interruptions to his morning stroll.
‘I am sorry, Mr Thurloe,’ cried Starkey, wringing his hands in consternation. ‘But I am desperate and do not know where else to turn. It is about that slanderous claptrap penned by Randal Taylor. Have you seen it?’
‘We were just discussing it, as a matter of fact,’ replied Thurloe. ‘It—’
‘Did you read what it said about me?’ The chef’s red face was a mask of distress. ‘That I am a drunkard, who had to be summoned before Cromwell to answer for stealing wine.’
‘No one believes it,’ said Thurloe soothingly. ‘It is obviously a—’
‘Yes, they
do
, and that is the problem, Mr Thurloe. I am tipped to be Master of the Company of Cooks in a year, and this sort of tale could see me passed over. You
must
make the villain issue a public apology. It is the only thing that will salvage my reputation now.’
‘I am afraid that is well beyond my sway,’ said Thurloe apologetically. ‘The best we can do is persuade him not to publish a sequel.’
‘A sequel?’ squawked Starkey, appalled. ‘But more slanderous remarks will ruin me for certain! I have borrowed money to open a cook-shop, and the venture will fail if people think I am a sot who cannot bake. Then I will default on my loan and … well, suffice to say that Banker Taylor is not gentle with those who cannot pay what they owe.’
‘Why did you approach him for a loan in the first place?’ asked Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘You know he was a Royalist during the Commonwealth.’
‘Because he is the only London goldsmith with cash to spare,’ explained the cook tearfully. ‘All the others are funding the war. Of course, I was offended when he demanded collateral.’
‘Collateral?’
‘The lovely crystal salt cellar that Mrs Cromwell gave me. He says he will keep it if I default, so I hope I do not, because I should hate to lose it.
Please
stop his despicable son from writing more scurrilous lies, Mr Thurloe. If you do, I shall bake you a cake every week for a year.’
‘Well, then,’ drawled Thurloe. ‘We had better see what we can do.’
As Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn, he began planning his day. His most pressing task was to visit Taylor, where he had three things to do: discuss Hannah’s debt; find out what Taylor knew about Wheler’s murder; and ask where Randal was hiding. Randal would probably refuse to keep his sequel to himself, so some form of coercion would have to be devised. Perhaps it could revolve around his recently acquired wife, who was another suspect in Wheler’s death.
Once Chaloner had finished with the Taylors, he would have to tackle Baron, to secure the last two pairs of curtains and sever relations between him and Clarendon
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