Intrigue in Covent Garden

Book 13: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

By January 1666, the plague has almost disappeared from London, leaving its surviving population diminished and in poverty. The resentment against those who had fled to the country turns to outrage as the court and its followers return, their licentiousness undiminished.

The death of a well-connected physician, the mysterious sinking of a man-of-war in the Thames and the disappearance of a popular courtier are causing concern to Thomas Chaloner's employer. When instructed to investigate them all, he is irritated that he is prevented from gaining intelligence on the military preparations of the Dutch. Then he discovers common threads in all the cases, which seem linked to those planning to set a match to the powder keg of rebellion in the city.

Battling a ferocious winter storm that causes serious damage to London's fabric, Chaloner is in a race against time to prevent the weakened city from utter destruction.

Release date: August 2, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 464

Sample

13 June, 1665; aboard HMS Royal Charles, near Lowestoft

Captain John Harman peered through the gathering dusk, to where the tattered remnants of the Dutch flotilla was struggling to escape. They would not get far. Royal Charles would give chase, and the enemy would surrender or be blasted into oblivion. By noon the following day, the proud navy of the United Provinces would be no more.

The Duke of York stood nearby, drinking a toast to the victory with his jubilant entourage. He was the King’s brother – and his heir, given that the Queen had yet to conceive – as well as Lord High Admiral. He had commanded the fleet well that day, although Harman was glad he had not tried to interfere with the actual handling of the ship – for all his warlike mettle, the Duke was still a landsman, and it took a man born to the sea, like Harman himself, to coax the best out of a big, powerful vessel like Royal Charles.

However, while Harman was honoured to have the Duke aboard, the same could not be said about the rest of the Court popinjays. Early in the skirmish, three had been decapitated by a chain-shot, and the severed head of one had bowled the Duke over like a skittle. Their cronies had promptly become a dreadful liability: a few had set a dismal example by fleeing below decks in a blind panic, but most had milled about in terror, getting underfoot and unsettling the crew with their petrified whimpering.

Harman turned to the man who stood next to him – his friend and sailing master John Cox. Life at sea had turned Cox’s face to the texture of old leather, although this was barely visible under the film of smoke and sweat that now streaked it.

‘I wish the Duke would stop congratulating himself and give the order to pursue,’ Harman muttered tersely. ‘It will be dark soon, and we will lose them.’

Cox nodded agreement, but his reply was drowned out by the booming voice of the Duke’s leading admiral, Sir William Penn, a crusty old sea-dog with years of active service. Unlike the courtiers, Penn had thoroughly enjoyed himself that day.

‘I am looking forward to tomorrow, by God!’ he declared, rubbing his hands together gleefully. ‘We shall begin the process of finishing them off at first light. Of course, Hollanders always fight hardest when they are cornered, so we can expect some ferocious resistance.’

‘You mean they will fight harder than they did today?’ gulped one of the Duke’s sycophants in alarm. ‘Is that possible?’

Penn laughed. ‘Just you wait and see, laddie! They will come at us like ravening beasts, knowing the very survival of their country depends on it, and today’s business will look like a lovers’ tiff by comparison. Harman! Set a course: west by south-west.’

The Duke yawned. ‘I am going down to my quarters. If I should sleep, wake me before dawn. Then we will show the rogues, eh, Penn?’

Harman began to issue the stream of instructions that would prepare Royal Charles for the chase. It was not a moment too soon, as the enemy was now no more than pale dots on the horizon. The Duke and his chattering train trooped below, leaving the sea-officers to see that every scrap of canvas was spread. Away to the stern, Harman saw the rest of the fleet preparing to follow him, and his heart swelled with pride.

‘Will we catch them?’

The question came from one of the ship’s medics, Dr Merrett, who had come to snatch a breath of fresh air, away from the hot stench of blood. His gentle face was anxious.

‘Easily,’ replied Harman. ‘But do not listen to Admiral Penn – the enemy will surrender without another shot being fired. To do anything else would be suicide, and they know it.’

He forced the horrors of the battle to the back of his mind as Royal Charles flew across the waves, concentrating instead on the thrill of commanding a good, weatherly ship and a well-disciplined crew. He did not permit himself to consider the hundreds who had died that day: there would be time for grief later, when they had won not just a battle, but the war. Yet within the hour, an order came to shorten sail and heave-to. He, Cox and Merrett gaped their disbelief at the man who had brought the message.

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ he snapped, once he had found his voice. ‘You misheard the Duke – go below and find out what he really wants us to do.’

The man disappeared, but it was not long before he was back. ‘I did not mishear: you are to shorten sail at once. We shall resume the chase in the morning.’

Harman stared incredulously at him. ‘How? Once we lose sight of the enemy, they will change course under cover of darkness, and we shall have no idea where they went. The Duke knows this perfectly well.’

The courtier shrugged. ‘He says he is exhausted and needs to sleep – which he cannot do while the ship tosses and pitches like a cork in a barrel.’

Even Dr Merrett, no mariner, gasped his astonishment at this claim. ‘I hardly think a little movement should determine the outcome of—’ he began.

‘And we are to rescue survivors,’ interrupted the courtier curtly. ‘He does not want the death toll to be higher than it is, even if those we save are only Dutchmen.’

Harman thought fast. ‘In that case, we shall lower our water-boats. They can stay to fish out enemy sailors, while we pursue—’

‘The Duke has spoken,’ snapped the courtier, growing irked with the discussion. ‘And we must obey. Unless you want to go downstairs and tell him he is wrong?’

Cox lurched forward to grab Harman’s shoulder, preventing his old friend from storming below to do just that. ‘Of course we will obey,’ he said quickly. ‘But even so, you must admit that the order is mystifying.’

The courtier glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. ‘Personally, I think that the vicious duel we fought with Eendracht has addled his wits. And when she exploded in front of our eyes, so suddenly and unexpectedly … well, it shocked him.’

‘It shocked us all,’ said Harman tightly. ‘But we must harden our hearts to such weakness and do our patriotic duty – which is to press on and end this war tonight.’

‘Then you go and tell him so,’ retorted the courtier. ‘Because I am not doing it.’

He waited to see if Harman would accept the challenge, but Cox’s restraining grip tightened, and although he was fit to explode with incredulity and frustration, Harman knew his sailing master was right – he would likely find himself on a charge of treason if he informed the Duke that he was making a massive mistake. Even so, he could not bring himself to give the order to his crew, obliging Cox to step up to the mark.

‘Reduce sail!’ the sailing master bellowed. ‘Reef the mainsail!’

Cox had to repeat himself twice before the astonished sailors did what they were told, leaving Harman thinking that even the rawest recruit had more sense and understanding than their asinine Lord High Admiral.

‘Perhaps the Duke is out of his wits,’ whispered Cox a short while later, when Royal Charles had slowed to a crawl, and the Dutch fleet had vanished over the horizon. ‘Because no sane leader would have made this decision. It is utter madness!’

‘The government will demand an explanation when we return home,’ said Harman between gritted teeth. ‘And I shall not speak in support of this foolery. Heads will roll.’

‘Only figuratively, I hope,’ said Cox nervously.

30 October 1665, The Hague,

United Provinces of the Netherlands

Thomas Chaloner was in his element. He had been sent to deliver letters from his employer, the Earl of Clarendon, to the English ambassador in The Hague. He knew the city well. He also understood its politics and spoke Dutch, although perhaps less fluently than when he had actually lived there, and was enjoying every moment.

After the civil wars that had turned England upside down, Cromwell’s government had been desperate for good intelligence from hostile foreign countries, and Chaloner had been one of the resourceful young men recruited to supply it. He had completed tours all over the continent, but the United Provinces had always been his favourite, and he liked to think he had played a role, albeit a minor one, in keeping the two nations from each other’s throats. Then Cromwell had died, the monarchy had been restored, and Chaloner had been dismissed from the intelligence services. Relations between England and Holland had deteriorated fast, and war had been declared within five years.

Chaloner knew the Earl had chosen him to deliver the letters because the task was a dangerous one and he was considered to be expendable, but he did not care. As far as he was concerned, it was a perfect opportunity to gather information that might help England win the current conflict. He had already contrived to examine the sea-defences at Rotterdam, Groningen, Middelburg and Flushing, and had eavesdropped on several conversations between Dutch admirals. He had also learned which enemy ships were at sea and which were in port, and how much ammunition each vessel carried.

However, that evening would put the real icing on the cake – assuming he was not caught, of course. He had learned from a reliable source that a meeting had been scheduled between Grand Pensionary de Witt, de facto head of the United Provinces, and his leading admiral, Michiel de Ruyter.

Such encounters were traditionally held deep inside the Binnenhof – the Gothic palace that was the seat of government – a place impossible for foreign spies to infiltrate. However, de Witt was having trouble with the royal House of Orange, which aimed to undermine his authority by contesting every detail of his naval campaign. He had quickly learned that the best way to circumvent them was by giving his admirals their orders in secret. He used a number of places for the purpose, and that day’s venue was Rosee’s Coffee House in Korte Voorhout, a street in the heart of the old city.

Chaloner was ready for him. Rosee was trussed up on the kitchen floor, and most of the customers had fled when Chaloner had started to complain about a bubo in his groin – London was not the only city to have suffered an outbreak of the plague that summer. A few diehards had declined to be frightened away, but that was fine – all Chaloner wanted was for the room to be quiet enough for him to eavesdrop.

De Witt and de Ruyter arrived separately, both in disguise. They chose the secluded table at the back of the room, exactly as Chaloner had predicted they would. He bustled forward in Rosee’s apron, bearing two dishes and a long-spouted jug, but retreated obediently when de Witt waved him away. He returned to the kitchen, and put his ear to the hole he had drilled in the wall earlier.

The pair began by discussing finances, and Chaloner was sure his own government would be delighted to learn that the war had all but drained de Witt’s gold reserves. However, that did not stop the Grand Pensionary from promising de Ruyter twenty-five new battleships. These were to be funded by a tax that would hit particularly hard at the House of Orange, so Chaloner was not surprised that de Witt did not want his political opponents to get wind of it before it could be put into law and enforced.

‘And what of the other matter?’ de Witt asked eventually, after Chaloner had gathered a veritable wealth of sensitive information to take home with him. ‘Did our scheme work?’

‘Like a charm,’ the admiral replied gleefully. ‘As you predicted, the English attacked our merchant fleet without provocation, prompting Norway and Denmark to declare an alliance with us, and to sever all ties with them.’

‘That is excellent news! So what happened precisely?’

‘The moment an English cannonball landed in Bergen, the outraged Norwegians joined their firepower to ours. The English were driven back in disarray, and although they lost no ships, we still killed a hundred or so of their sailors and wounded three times as many more. It shocked them, and they no longer see themselves as invincible.’

‘Whereas our own navy is heartened by the victory,’ said de Witt approvingly. ‘It has given morale a massive boost, which we needed after the disaster at Lowestoft.’

‘Officially, we lost thirty sailors,’ de Ruyter went on. ‘Although between you and me, it was actually nearer ninety. I am astonished, de Witt. I did not think the enemy would fall for such a transparent ruse.’

De Witt laughed. ‘A convoy of fat Dutch merchantmen in a neutral harbour, the king of which had promised to turn a blind eye to any efforts to seize them? Of course the English would snap at such juicy bait! Naturally, the King of Denmark and Norway now claims that they misunderstood what he said, and is all outraged indignation at the assault on his shores.’

‘The English skulked home with their tails between their legs,’ grinned de Ruyter. ‘The carnage of Lowestoft is avenged at last.’

Sunday, 21 January 1666, London

Visiting a mortuary was not Thomas Chaloner’s idea of fun. Unfortunately, his employer, the Earl of Clarendon, had ordered him to guard two other members of his household, so when they had decided to join a Court excursion to a house of the dead that bitter winter morning, he had had no choice but to accompany them.

The Westminster charnel house did not look like much from the outside. It was sandwiched between an old granary and a coal warehouse, and stood at the end of a mean, smelly little lane. Inside, however, was a revelation. At the front were two very finely appointed rooms. One was an office, and the other a comfortable parlour where its keeper, Mr Kersey, comforted grieving families. Behind these was the large, low-ceilinged, windowless chamber that contained the corpses, each one lying on a table draped with a clean blanket.

Kersey was a neat, dapper little man, who made a good living from his trade. His success was evident in his fine clothes and expensive wig – not items taken from dead bodies, as Chaloner had originally assumed, but bespoke garments designed to show off his trim figure. His wealth came not just from selling goods salvaged from those ‘guests’ who were never formally identified, but from tips pressed on him by grateful kin, who appreciated the quietly respectful way in which he tended their loved ones.

Another source of income was his museum, where he displayed some of the more unusual artefacts that had come his way. For a modest fee, visitors could inspect all manner of curiosities, including jewellery, items of clothing, an array of false teeth and eyes, hairpieces of all shapes and sizes, and a display of objects retrieved from his customers’ innards, most of which beggared belief.

The recent plague might have terrified most people, but it had been very lucrative for Kersey, who had grown richer still from acquiring goods that no one else had dared to touch. It had allowed him to buy the granary next door, and his treasures were now displayed there in custom-built cases. In pride of place was a vast pair of drawers, so large that three men could have fitted inside them and still had room to spare.

‘Friends enter for free,’ he murmured, smiling when he saw Chaloner bringing up the rear of the party. He indicated that the spy should put his purse away, although everyone else had been charged full price. The gesture was intended as a compliment, although Chaloner would not have regarded the charnel-house keeper as a friend exactly – more a colleague with whom he shared several delicate secrets. Feeling obliged to make polite small talk in return, Chaloner nodded to a wiry little man who was showing the other visitors around.

‘You have a new assistant, I see.’

‘James Deakin.’ Kersey glanced around quickly, then lowered his voice. ‘He was hanged a few weeks ago, and brought here prior to being shipped to Chyrurgeons’ Hall for dissection. But before I could let the surgeons know he was available, he sat up and asked for a cup of ale.’

‘Goodness!’ muttered Chaloner, amazed the authorities had not demanded that Deakin be returned to them immediately, so the executioner could try again.

‘I was terribly busy at the time, so he offered to help me out in exchange for free bed and board – and a blind eye turned to his predicament for a short while. But as days turned to weeks … well, it seemed unfair to turn him in. He may look like a rogue, but he has some very useful talents.’

Chaloner started to ask what they were, but then decided that he did not want to know, given that they were evidently ones that made him useful in a charnel house. ‘What was his crime?’

‘He tried to blow up a tavern that had cheated him of his wages, although he did set the fuse for a time when no one would be in it.’

‘Well, that is something in his favour, I suppose,’ said Chaloner, hoping the encounter with the hangman would deter Deakin from solving future grievances with gunpowder.

Kersey turned to watch the rest of Chaloner’s party coo over the exhibits. ‘How can you bear to be with them?’ he asked wonderingly. ‘Courtiers lost any respect I might have held for them when they fled London, leaving us to cope with the plague alone.’

Personally, Chaloner thought that most courtiers would have been of scant use anyway, and that the city had been better off without them.

‘Two work for my Earl,’ he explained. ‘And he wants to keep them in his service, so my orders are to repel anyone who approaches them with a better offer.’

It was a demeaning task for someone with his talents, but beggars could not be choosers, and he was lucky to have a job at all, given that he had supported the ‘wrong’ side during the civil wars and the interregnum that had followed. Now that the Royalists were back in power, old Parliamentarians were persona non grata, so Chaloner never dared refuse the petty, degrading or dangerous assignments his Earl set him, lest he was dismissed.

‘I have no idea how they dare show their faces,’ declared Kersey, becoming indignant. ‘That goes for the King, too. It was selfish of him to skulk away to Oxford without a backward glance at the subjects he claims to love.’

‘Easy!’ breathed Chaloner, alarmed. This was treasonous talk, and surprising from a man who had always been moderate in his opinions. ‘Someone might hear you.’

‘I expected more of him,’ Kersey continued bitterly, albeit more softly. ‘We did not invite him to reclaim his throne, only to have him abandon us at the first hurdle. He should have stayed in White Hall, to comfort and aid us in our hour of need.’

Privately, Chaloner agreed, although he understood why the King had cut and run. With no legitimate heir, his brother the Duke of York would inherit the crown, at which point the monarchy was likely to be overthrown once and for all – the Duke might be a fearless admiral who won sea-battles, but he was also stupid, vain, arrogant and dictatorial. Yet Chaloner would never say so to anyone else, and especially not in a place where so many sly and self-serving courtiers were within earshot. He changed the subject hastily.

‘You are very full today,’ he remarked, nodding through the open door that led to the mortuary, where nearly every table was occupied by a blanket-covered form.

‘Assurance,’ explained Kersey. ‘The thirty-two-gun warship that sank off the Savoy Wharf a week last Saturday, leaving twenty sailors dead. Surely you heard about it?’

Chaloner had. ‘They are not buried yet?’

‘There is a dispute about who should pay for the funerals – their families or the government. Their kin cannot and the government will not, so they remain with me.’

‘Their captain did not offer to shoulder the bill? Look – he is here now, admiring your display of false teeth.’

Chaloner nodded to a red-faced, bearded man in a blue coat, whom he knew because the fellow was married to Olivia Stoakes, one of the two people Chaloner had been instructed to mind that day. John Stoakes was a belligerent drunk, who had not been sober since his ship had gone down.

‘Common decency would dictate so,’ replied Kersey, eyeing Stoakes in distaste. ‘But he declines, on the grounds that he lost a lot of personal possessions in the disaster, and he feels it should not cost him any more than it has already.’

‘Perhaps he—’ began Chaloner, then noticed what was happening by the vast pair of drawers. ‘Damn it! Harry Brouncker has just cornered George Thompson. Excuse me – duty calls.’

Usually known simply as ‘George’, to distinguish him from several others at Court with the same surname, George Thompson was the second retainer whom the Earl had charged Chaloner to watch. And as Brouncker was one the Earl’s most fervent enemies – one among many he had accumulated by being inflexible, moralistic and hypercritical – Chaloner knew he should hasten to make sure no sly offers of employment were being made. He nodded a brisk farewell to Kersey and strode towards them.

The Earl did not treat his staff well, as Chaloner could personally attest, so it was no surprise that he was worried about losing them. However, he had no cause to be concerned about George, as he earned a salary far in excess of what he was worth, so was unlikely to be seduced away by other offers. This arose not from generosity on the Earl’s part, but because George was a wealthy man with two wealthy brothers, and the Earl thought that by wooing one, he could win all three. Rich and influential friends often meant the difference between life and death to those embroiled in the turbulent world of White Hall politics, so acquiring some was a precaution all sensible courtiers took.

George was an imposing figure, who wore a false leg to replace the one he had lost in the civil wars. It was no mere peg, but an object that had been lovingly crafted to match the limb that had gone, right down to skin-coloured paint, real hairs and some very authentic-looking toenails. Chaloner understood the need for it better than most – he had suffered a serious leg injury during the wars himself, caused by an exploding cannon during the Battle of Naseby. It had healed, but not perfectly, and made him limp when he was cold or tired.

He approached George and Brouncker discreetly, and pretended to inspect a nearby exhibit while he eavesdropped – there was no point barging in on their discussion if Brouncker was innocently passing the time of day. And, if Chaloner was honest with himself, he disliked Brouncker, and would just as soon avoid his company if he could.

Brouncker was Gentleman of the Bedchamber to the Duke of York, and a typical courtier – debauched, haughty and sly. He aped the King’s penchant for large black wigs and thin moustaches, and his clothes were ridiculously ornate. He had a reputation for licentiousness and corruption, and ran a bawdy house to keep his master supplied with prostitutes. He was one of the men who gave the Court its bad name, and the best anyone could say about him was that he played a good game of chess.

‘… talking to Lady Castlemaine about your Earl’s medicus,’ he was saying spitefully.

‘You mean Dr Quartermain?’ asked George, laughing. ‘What did you tell her, exactly?’

‘That I do not blame Quartermain for refusing the Earl’s summons, because I would not touch Clarendon’s gouty old legs for a kingdom. The Lady said she would not either.’

The Earl had been upset when his physician had failed to answer an urgent call the previous day. Indeed, it was why Chaloner had been told to watch Olivia Stoakes and George – to make sure they did not abandon him, too. Chaloner felt his dislike for Brouncker intensify. Was nothing sacred? Did the man really have to gossip about the Earl’s medical problems?

‘Clarendon is not so bad,’ shrugged George, which was hardly a resounding defence of the man who paid him a fortune each week. ‘And I do not like Quartermain anyway. I hired him once, and he stank of garlic.’

‘Probably from his plague medicine,’ surmised Brouncker. ‘He calls it King’s Gold.’

‘Well, it was nasty, and while the Earl might miss his malodorous presence, I shall not. He had the audacity to allege that my leg is anatomically incorrect.’ George hoisted up his petticoat breeches. ‘Does that look anatomically incorrect to you?’

Brouncker gushed a polite denial, and eventually George shambled away. Chaloner was about to return to Kersey when Brouncker hailed him.

‘Chaloner! Are you recovered from your recent visit to The Hague? It cannot have been pleasant for you, dwelling among all those butter-eaters.’

Chaloner went to considerable trouble to make himself unobtrusive. He had mid-brown hair, grey eyes, and was of medium height and build. His clothes were smart without being showy, and would look as natural in a tavern or a coffee house as at Court or in church. Thus it was irksome that Brouncker should have noticed him. Fortunately, Brouncker was more interested in talking about himself than hearing a reply to his question, and promptly launched into a monologue about his importance to the smooth running of his Duke’s household. Eventually, he turned the conversation to the Battle of Lowestoft and the vital role he had played in it.

‘I was at the Duke’s side throughout,’ he bragged. ‘On Royal Charles. I enjoyed it immensely, and the fight itself was great fun.’

Chaloner had also been there – representing the Earl on HMS Swiftsure – but he would never have described the encounter as fun. It had been bloody, noisy and terrifying, and he would never forget the horror of Eendracht exploding, killing all but five of her complement of four hundred.

‘It was a day to remember,’ he acknowledged cautiously. ‘But too many sailors died.’

‘True,’ agreed Brouncker. ‘Although the toll would have been higher still if we had hared off after the Dutch fleet. Thank God the Duke ordered us to fish out survivors instead.’

It was generally held that not giving chase had been a serious error of judgement, but of course Brouncker would feel obliged to support the Duke’s decision. Chaloner was not, though.

‘We could have done both,’ he pointed out. ‘The damaged ships could have stayed behind to rescue drowning seamen, while the rest of us set off in pursuit.’

Brouncker raised his eyebrows. ‘You would have inflicted another terrible skirmish on our brave sailors? After all they had done for their country that day?’

‘The Dutch were outnumbered and had lost their ranking admiral,’ shrugged Chaloner. ‘I doubt there would have been another fight – they would have surrendered.’

‘Nonsense! I clearly heard Sir William Penn remark that the Dutch never fight so hard as when they are in a corner. He thought Lowestoft would be nothing compared to what would have followed if we had raced after the surviving ships and caught them.’

‘The Dutch are not stupid – they would not have thrown away their lives on a hopeless cause. By letting them escape, we guaranteed that the war will continue, and the next time our fleet meets theirs, we may not be so lucky.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it! Our victory was down to the skill and courage of the Duke of York. But you were not on Royal Charles, so you cannot expect to have an informed opinion. Let us talk of something else – such as what you think of her. Is she not lovely?’

Brouncker’s eyes were fixed on a woman who stood with her back to them. She was slightly built, and wore clothes that showed her figure to its best advantage. Her hair was a mass of gold curls, pinned up at the sides but allowed to tumble freely down her back. Chaloner supposed she was one of Brouncker’s teenaged prostitutes, taken on a courtly jaunt as a perk of the job.

‘How long has she been working for you?’ he asked politely.

‘She is not one of my girls, more is the pity! She is my brother’s mistress.’

It was clear from his lustfully glittering eyes that Brouncker aimed to steal her away from his hapless sibling. Chaloner was sorry. He had met the older Brouncker and liked him, mostly because he was everything his younger kinsman was not – honest, hard-working and intelligent. Unfortunately, decent, staid Sir William would pale in comparison to lively, handsome Harry.

‘Why her?’ asked Chaloner reproachfully. ‘Surely there are other fish in the sea?’

‘Plenty,’ smirked Brouncker. ‘But none like Abigail Williams. She is unique.’

Chaloner saw what he meant when she turned and revealed herself as not a young girl in her teens, but a woman well past fifty. There were wrinkles around her eyes, although a sterling effort had been made to disguise them with face-paints, and her neck was scraggy. Her mouth had begun the inevitable downward sag, which she had attempted to circumvent by drawing in lines of her choosing instead. The result was vaguely surreal.

‘As Navy Commissioner, my brother is obliged to be in Portsmouth a lot,’ Brouncker went on. ‘And he charged me to look after Abigail while he is away.’

‘I doubt seducing her was what he had in mind,’ said Chaloner, feeling his opinion of the younger Brouncker sink lower with every word that fell from the man’s lips.

Before Brouncker could reply, Abigail saw she was the subject of attention, and flounced towards them.

‘There you are, Harry,’ she simpered. ‘Will you accompany me to see the glass eyes? I may need your strong arms to hold me up, if they make me feel faint.’

She batted her eyelashes, so Brouncker led her away, although not before Cha