The Pudding Lane Plot

Book 15: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Historical Mysteries; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

The people and businesses of London are quickly recovering from the ravages of the plague, none faster than the Court of Charles II where excess, corruption and debauchery has rebounded at a frenetic pace. In Westminster, in the haphazard corridors of White Hall Palace, plans are afoot for a grandiose ball in honour of a long-dead but English-born Pope. Meanwhile, the markets and coffee houses in the city are awash with rumours of war and portents of a coming disaster, inflamed by uncensored newssheets and the wagging tongues of dissatisfied citizens.

Mysterious killings at both ends of the capital have been caused by the use of an unusually long, slender blade, and Thomas Chaloner is ordered to investigate. The only common thread is the victims' connection to the Worshipful Company of Poulters, whose members are struggling to keep ahead of London's enormous demand for eggs. But this leads him into a tapestry of conspiracy, outlandish claims of the Second Coming, the reappearance of a number of regicides and ever more brazen killings.

As the date of the great ball looms closer, Chaloner fears that there is a dangerously credible conspiracy against the throne, and he has very little time to prevent history from repeating itself . . .

Release date: August 4, 2022

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 130000

Sample

Thomas Chaloner, Gentleman Usher to the Lord Chancellor, was sorry to see John Bowles lying in the Westminster charnel house. He had not known the grocer well, but had often visited his shop in New Palace Yard, as the spices he sold were useful in summer, when food spoiled fast and something was needed to disguise the taste of victuals past their best.

‘It is difficult to tell anything at all,’ grumbled Richard Wiseman, who exulted in the title of Surgeon to the Person, meaning he tended the King.

He was a large gentleman in every respect: tall, muscular, and self-assured to the point of arrogance. He always wore red, which his detractors said was to disguise the copious amounts of blood he spilled – he had accrued more critics than most medici because of his unsympathetic bedside manner and unendearing habit of denouncing his colleagues as inept and stupid. But Chaloner thought his fondness for scarlet was just because he liked to be noticed.

The surgeon was in a foul mood that morning, because Chaloner had woken him very early with a request to examine Bowles. Wiseman had a full day ahead of him, so he had been obliged to forgo breakfast in order to accommodate Chaloner’s demand. He would have refused anyone else, but Chaloner was not only his lodger – he rented the top floor of the surgeon’s Covent Garden house – but virtually his only friend.

‘Why is it difficult?’ asked Chaloner obligingly, sensing the surgeon’s need to rant.

Wiseman glared at him. ‘Because he is covered in egg, which the heat has turned bad. The stink is distracting me.’

Chaloner regarded him incredulously. The aroma of rotten eggs was nothing compared to the stench of what else lay in the charnel house that day. The place was much smellier than usual, because the country was in the grip of the hottest summer anyone could remember and the dead decomposed quickly. They were not all that was affected by the intense heat – trees and crops withered in the fields, a blistering sun blazed down on man and beast alike without respite, and the mighty Thames ran at less than half its normal volume due to the lack of rain.

‘Shall I fetch water to rinse the eggs away?’ he asked, aiming to appease.

The surgeon shook his head with a sigh. ‘There is no need. I have found what I imagine you were expecting – evidence of foul play.’

Chaloner was sorry to hear it, even if he was not surprised. He had bought ginger and cloves from Bowles on Monday afternoon, and had chatted to him while he had closed up his shop. The grocer had been fit and healthy then, and while Chaloner accepted that people sometimes did drop dead with no warning, it rarely happened to men in their prime. Thus he had been sceptical about the parish constable’s verdict that Bowles had suffered a fatal apoplexy while stacking boxes of eggs.

‘Was he poisoned?’ Chaloner asked. ‘I saw no pools of blood in the place where he died, and there is none on the body.’

‘Oh, yes, there is,’ countered Wiseman with his customary haughtiness. ‘Although I would not expect a mere layman to spot it. Spillage was kept to a minimum, because the blade was unusually long and thin. When I open him up, you will see he was subjected to a fatal penetration of the heart.’

‘There is no need to put yourself to that much trouble,’ said Chaloner hastily. ‘Your opinion alone is enough for me.’

‘You aim to explore the murder?’ asked Wiseman, reaching for a blade anyway, as no self-respecting anatomist passed up an opportunity to dissect a nice fresh specimen.

Chaloner nodded. ‘He seemed distracted when I last met him, and although the constable assures me that the mess in the shop was caused by his death throes, I am disinclined to believe it.’

‘And what gives you the authority to probe the matter?’

‘The fact that Bowles supplied White Hall with eggs and spices,’ replied Chaloner promptly. ‘Ergo, my Earl will want to know what really happened to him.’

‘So will the Navy Office,’ predicted Wiseman. ‘Bowles provided the fleet with victuals, too, and his death could delay our ships putting to sea. Word is that the Dutch sailed yesterday, and if we are not ready to defend our coastline, we shall have Hollanders marching down the Strand before the month is out.’

England was currently at war with the United Provinces of the Netherlands, an asinine conflict that served the interests of neither country. Rumours had been flying all summer about the enemy being poised to invade London, although Chaloner knew the Dutch and their politics, and felt they had more sense than to embark on such a recklessly ambitious venture. However, lightning raids were another matter entirely, so it was indeed urgent that English ships were ready to fend them off.

When Wiseman descended on Bowles with an anatomy knife the size of a small sword, Chaloner took his leave. The surgeon could tell him later if he found anything else of relevance, and he had no desire to watch the grocer dissected. Besides, he needed to tell the Earl what had happened, and obtain permission to investigate and bring the killer to justice.

First, though, he had arranged to meet another friend, this one at his favourite coffee house, the Rainbow on Fleet Street.

The journey from Westminster was hot and dusty, even though it was only mid-morning and the real heat of the day had yet to build. Chaloner had hoped to ride in a hackney carriage, but no one else wanted to walk either, so demand exceeded supply. The shortage of coaches was compounded by the fact that so many drivers had died during the previous year’s plague, and had not yet been replaced.

The streets were busy, as many of the tradesmen who came to the markets before dawn had finished their business and were eager to get home. They were noisy, too, as itinerant street-sellers advertised their wares in stentorian tones – new-baked pies, plump onions, fine candles, sweet pastries, best leather and anything else that could be hawked to the city’s population of nearly three hundred thousand souls.

During the plague, weeds had grown between the cobbles around Charing Cross, because human footfall had not been enough to trample them away. There were no weeds now, and London seemed as frenetic as it had ever been. Even so, grim reminders of the terrible sickness that had claimed so many lives could be seen on any number of cross-painted doors, showing where the disease had struck but no one had yet scoured the mark away.

As always, Chaloner overheard plenty of gossip as he walked, the most unsettling of which was the news that Wiseman had mentioned – that the Dutch fleet was at sea and poised to strike. Then there was the usual talk of omens and portents of doom, including strangely shaped clouds, talking animals, miraculous cures, and sightings of Satan. The whole city seemed to be waiting with bated breath to see what dreadful calamity would befall it next – over the last twenty years, it had endured civil wars, a beheaded king, a Commonwealth led by a man many had considered a tyrant, and a devastating plague. And now it was in the unlucky year with three sixes, so what else did fate have in store for it?

As Chaloner passed the church of St Mary le Strand, two clerics emerged laughing. One was showing the other a broadsheet. These had become popular since the wars, as they provided an easy way for people to air their opinions. A few were clever, some dull, and others downright treasonous, but all circulated unimpeded in public places, like churches, coffee houses, markets and taverns. Recently, one especially verbose writer had been active, and Chaloner recognised the distinctive red ink that characterised his work. When the cleric tossed it away, he stooped to retrieve it.

As he had thought, it was another tirade by the pamphleteer who called himself ‘the Paladin’, and this time it was an attack on the Worshipful Company of Poulters. Chaloner liked birds, so tended to agree that the industry was a ‘vile and noisome horror which abus’d the Trust that God gave Man when he mayde us Stewards of the Earth’. There followed a vivid and horrifying description of life for hens on purpose-built egg farms, and ended with a series of brutal but amusing caricatures of the Master and his officers.

Over the past few weeks, the Paladin had published upwards of a dozen attacks on people or institutions he did not like. Most were parodies of the many lunatic religious sects that had proliferated after the wars, particularly Fifth Monarchists. The government approved of his rants because he ridiculed the fanatics who itched to overthrow it, while the general populace enjoyed them because they were funny.

The piece on the poulters was typical of the Paladin’s style: a serious condemnation of the trade’s less laudable antics, but written with a sharply humorous wit that kept his readers’ attention until the end. However, it was the first time he had targeted an organisation that might hit back, and the Company of Poulters certainly would object to being singled out for such vigorous censure.

When Chaloner had finished with the broadsheet, he left it on the front steps of St Clement Dane, where a verger swept forward and grabbed it with an exclamation of delight. Clearly, it would not be long before the entire city was acquainted with the Paladin’s views on the way the poultry industry conducted itself.

At last, he arrived at the point in the road called Temple Bar, where the Strand met Fleet Street. This was a narrow archway that spanned the highway, manned by guards who controlled who came from and went into the city. There were always queues, and the current spate of hot weather was doing nothing to soothe the ragged tempers of those forced to wait.

That day, there was a vicious exchange of insults under way between the owner of a cart loaded with crates of overheated chickens and a courtier named Henry Catline. Catline was an arrogant, smug individual who thought that being a favourite of the King entitled him to do whatever he pleased. His supercilious manner had evidently alienated most of the onlookers, because there was a resounding cheer when the carter decided he had had enough of bandying words and made his point with a punch instead. Fortunately for all concerned, Catline did not draw his sword and run his assailant through, because he was intelligent enough to know that if he did, he might not escape alive himself.

‘Remember that when you make your damned syllabub!’ the carter yelled, emboldened by the crowd’s approval. ‘You selfish bastard! While honest Londoners starve, you waste food on foolery.’

‘What is this?’ demanded a butcher’s lad, identifiable by his striped and bloodstained apron. He sounded ready to be outraged, no matter what the reply.

‘White Hall is making a special dish for the King next week,’ explained the carter. ‘It is to be the size of a lake, and he and all his mistresses will frolic stark naked in it.’

Chaloner had not heard this particular rumour before, although it would not surprise him if it held an element of truth. His Majesty had been restored to his throne six years ago, but did not have the sense to live a sober and dignified life, so new stories about his debauchery surfaced on a daily basis. It was reckless behaviour for a man whose father had been beheaded for falling out with his subjects.

When the crowd growled angry disapproval, Catline prudently decided to abandon his attempt to push through the Bar without waiting his turn, and rode back the way he had come. A hail of small stones followed him, although all missed, and he did not deign to acknowledge the barrage by looking back.

Chaloner took advantage of the situation by darting through the gate while everyone else was busy jeering at Catline’s ignominious retreat. In Fleet Street beyond, a wall of heat hit him like a physical blow. The road was narrower than the Strand, and its houses more tightly packed together, so they blocked any breeze there might have been. Sweating and uncomfortable, he wondered how its residents could bear it.

The Rainbow Coffee House was a shabby building just past Temple Bar, opposite St Dunstan-in-the-West. Chaloner could smell the stench of burned beans and pipe smoke long before he reached it, even stronger than the reek of the open sewers that ran along the sides of the road, currently clogged by the weeks of rubbish that had accumulated with no rain to wash it away.

Coffee houses were places where men went not only to sample the beverage that had been virtually unknown in the city ten years ago, but also to expound views that would normally see them arrested or executed. Naturally, the government itched to close them all down, but they were very popular with the people, and more opened every week to meet the growing demand.

Chaloner was not sure why he liked the Rainbow. Its benches were uncomfortable, it was patronised by bigots of the worst kind, and its coffee was barely drinkable. He supposed it was because the place never changed, and continuity was something that had been sadly lacking in his life. He opened the door and stepped through it, grateful to find the place cooler inside than out. The owner, Thomas Farr, stood ready with the long-spouted jug that held his poisonous brew, sporting an apron that was stained black-brown from the greasy smoke that billowed from his roasting beans.

‘What news?’ he called, using the traditional coffee-house greeting, although he was invariably dissatisfied with Chaloner as a source of intelligence; the spy’s training meant he tended to be reluctant to part with any information, no matter how innocuous.

‘He will tell us nothing of import,’ scoffed Stedman the printer, then looked hopeful. ‘Unless he knows something about the King’s syllabub?’

Chaloner shook his head apologetically, not about to repeat the rumour that it involved His Majesty frolicking naked in it with his mistresses.

Farr addressed Stedman in disgust. ‘We know more about White Hall than he does, despite the fact none of us have ever been inside. As a source of interesting stories, he is worse than useless. But what is this about syllabub?’

‘Well, word is that the King will have a massive one for his Adrian Masque,’ supplied the printer, delighted to show off his superior knowledge to an interested audience.

‘For his what?’ asked Farr, bemused.

‘It is a ball to commemorate Pope Adrian the Fourth,’ elaborated Stedman. ‘He died a little over five hundred years ago, you see.’

‘The King aims to celebrate the death of a pope?’ asked Chaloner in alarm, thinking it was a sure way to offend Catholics. Then it occurred to him that the King might be Catholic himself – it was his mother’s religion, and she exerted considerable influence over him – in which case it was Protestants he aimed to goad. Either way, it was imprudent.

‘Adrian the Fourth is the only Pope of English birth,’ explained Stedman. ‘He is a national hero, so our country should be proud of him. The fact that he was Catholic is irrelevant, and I applaud His Majesty for honouring this long-forgotten man.’

Stedman was a devoted Royalist, who followed all the doings at White Hall with eager approval, so Chaloner was not surprised to hear him speak in support of the King. However, there was a rumble of disapproval from all the other patrons, who clearly felt that, English or not, a pope was hardly someone for a Protestant monarch to fete.

‘Did this Adrian have a particular liking for syllabub, then?’ asked Farr warily.

‘Who knows? But one will provide the centrepiece for the masque anyway,’ replied Stedman. ‘It is being made to a new and secret recipe devised by the Poultry.’ For the benefit of his avid listeners, he added helpfully, ‘That is a department in the Royal Household. It is under the Lord Chamberlain’s authority.’

‘Under the Lord Steward,’ said Chaloner, pleased to be able to correct the Royal-worshipping printer. Unfortunately, he should have known better than to think Stedman would make a mistake about a subject with which he was so passionately obsessed.

‘The Lord Steward is away, so Lord Chamberlain Montagu is doing his work at the moment,’ Stedman flashed back. ‘And the Poultry Department, as I was saying before you interrupted, will make the syllabub. Apparently, it calls for some very unusual ingredients.’

‘But why choose a syllabub for the centrepiece?’ asked Farr, frowning. ‘It does not sound very medieval.’

‘It is symbolic of the Vatican’s biggest lake, where Adrian drowned,’ explained Stedman confidently. ‘And I have it on good authority that everyone will jump in it at the end of the night, to eat and wallow at the same time.’

‘Goodness!’ breathed Chaloner, wondering if the dissipated courtier who had devised the entertainment was aware that the Vatican had no lakes. Moreover, he was fairly sure that this particular pontiff had died peacefully in his bed.

Of course, it would not be the first time that a rumour involving White Hall had been grossly exaggerated. And yet, there was no smoke without fire, so the chances were that some wild jape was in the making. He only hoped the King knew what he was doing. Unfortunately, he suspected that whatever was afoot was just the latest in a long series of misjudgements that would alienate His Majesty from his subjects even further.

When the conversation moved to omens and their meanings, Chaloner stepped away, loath to listen to more uninformed nonsense. He looked around for the man he had agreed to meet, his friend Captain Salathiel Lester. Lester was sitting alone in a corner, in defiance of coffee-house etiquette which expected visitors to sit with everyone else and contribute to whatever subject was being aired.

Lester was a tall, bulky man with an open, honest face, and the rolling gait of the professional sailor. He was a navy ‘tarpaulin’, which meant he was a bred seaman who had learned his trade from practical experience. Thus he knew ships and how to sail them, as opposed to the navy’s ‘gentlemen’ – nobles who had never been to sea, but who were given command of a vessel anyway, as a perk. Lester’s length of service meant he had served both the Commonwealth and the King, which made him suspect in the eyes of some. Until recently, he had been Master of HMS Swiftsure.

‘I do not know why you like this place,’ he said, looking around the Rainbow with a disparaging eye. ‘It reeks of burning.’

‘Most coffee houses do,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘Not this strongly,’ argued Lester, uncharacteristically sour. ‘I can barely breathe, and this awful heat does not help. Do you think the doom-mongers are right when they say it will never rain again, and we shall all be slowly roasted to death?’

Chaloner was beginning to wonder if they were, as the only other time he had experienced such temperatures was when he had ventured into a desert. ‘Perhaps.’

‘It will be cooler at sea – not that I shall ever experience it again,’ said Lester bitterly. ‘Not after Swiftsure. Damn Admiral Berkeley! Why could he not have listened to me? Or better yet, chosen another vessel as his flagship?’

Chaloner patted his arm sympathetically. Berkeley had been a ‘gentleman’ in his twenties, who had been promoted to the rank of admiral because he was a crony of the Duke of York. His bad decisions and abysmal seamanship had led to Swiftsure being captured by the Dutch during the encounter known as the Four Days’ Battle. He had been killed in the action, leaving Lester to take the blame for the consequences of his ineptitude.

‘Have you heard from the Navy Office yet?’ Chaloner asked, knowing that the only way his friend would recover from the humiliation of losing his ship would be if he was given another, preferably one that was free of superior officers who knew nothing about naval warfare.

Lester nodded glumly. ‘They told me that they only appoint captains who have not handed their previous commands to the enemy. My life as a sea-officer is over, Tom.’

‘I have a passing acquaintance with the Clerk of the Acts,’ said Chaloner. ‘Samuel Pepys is no fool, and will understand exactly how Swiftsure came to be lost. Perhaps he can do something to help you.’

Lester sighed. ‘I doubt he has the authority, and even if he does, it will cost more than you or I can afford to make it worth his while.’

Lester was almost certainly right: he was living on half-pay, while Chaloner sent most of his wages to his family in Buckinghamshire. Chaloner hailed from a clan of devoted Parliamentarians, who were being taxed into oblivion now the Royalists were in power; his siblings needed every penny he could provide to prevent vengeful cavaliers from marching onto their property and seizing whatever took their fancy.

‘Well, I will try anyway,’ said Chaloner, hating to see his normally ebullient friend so low. ‘Perhaps he will accept something other than money.’

‘Such as what?’ Lester did not look convinced. ‘Information,’ replied Chaloner. ‘We passed all the intelligence we recently gathered in Holland to the Spymaster General, but perhaps Pepys will appreciate his own copy of our report. It may help him to do his job more effectively.’

Lester brightened. ‘It might! Perhaps he would like to hear the truth about Holmes’s Bonfire, too. I read what was written in the newsbooks, and it was all brazen lies.’

When Swiftsure’s captain and officers – and Chaloner, who had been aboard representing the Earl – had been taken prisoner and transported to a gaol in The Hague, they had decided to turn the situation to their advantage. Picking locks was just one useful skill Chaloner had acquired during his life as a spy, so he and the others had escaped the very same day. Then they had embarked on an exhaustive circuit of every Dutch settlement with a port, making notes on all the enemy’s ships and defences.

Their last stop had been a village on the Vlie Estuary called Ter-Schelling, where one hundred and thirty Dutch merchantmen bobbed peacefully at anchor. Even as they watched, English ships appeared on the horizon. These were led by Admiral Holmes, more pirate than naval officer, who was noted for his daring raids. He destroyed the merchant ships, then burned Ter-Schelling in a venture that promptly became known as ‘Holmes’s Bonfire’.

Chaloner and Swiftsure’s officers had included the incident in their report, although they had given Holmes a less heroic role than the one he had claimed for himself – attacking the homes of unarmed civilians was hardly noble, after all. The completed document had been presented to the intelligence services three days ago, which was when they had finally returned to London.

‘I must go,’ said Chaloner, finishing his coffee. ‘I need to tell the Earl about Bowles and get his permission to investigate.’

‘I will come with you,’ said Lester, morose again. ‘I have nothing better to do.’

Seeing his friend’s misery, Chaloner saw he had better corner Pepys as soon as he had a spare moment.

Again, there were no free hackney carriages, so Chaloner and Lester were forced to walk to White Hall. Unwilling to stand in the queue of people waiting to be waved through Temple Bar, they cut through Lincoln’s Inn, then followed a series of narrow alleys that eventually emerged on the Strand. As they walked, Lester talked about the omens that ‘proved’ the city was headed for yet another disaster of monumental proportion.

‘I am surprised at you, Sal,’ said Chaloner, after being regaled with an account of a cow that had assured her owners that the Dutch would be masters of White Hall by Christmas. ‘You are a rational man – you cannot possibly believe this nonsense.’

‘I would be sceptical of one or two portents,’ replied Lester. ‘But there are dozens, and they cannot all be wrong. Besides, I have good reason to fear an invasion – namely that our defence is in the hands of inept gentlemen, instead of qualified tarpaulins.’

They turned down King Street, which bisected the vast, sprawling complex that was the King’s main London residence. White Hall was alleged to have more than two thousand rooms, although the term ‘palace’ was a misnomer, as there was no central house, but rather a random collection of buildings that had been erected as and when money had been available. There was nothing grand or imposing about it, other than Inigo Jones’s Banqueting House, and the best that could be said about the place was that it was handy for Westminster and the city.

Chaloner and Lester were about to walk through the Great Gate when there was a flurry of activity, followed by a rumble of wheels and hoofs clattering over cobblestones. A cavalcade began to emerge, the King and his latest mistress on prancing stallions at the front, and his favourite courtiers behind, some in coaches and others riding.

‘Speaking of inept gentlemen, here come a few of them now,’ growled Lester. ‘They should be in Deptford, overseeing the provisioning of their ships, not larking about here.’

‘They should,’ agreed Chaloner, although he suspected that the victualling would go a lot more smoothly without the interference of men who had no idea what they were doing.

‘And there is the Duke of York,’ said Lester, pointing at a tall, haughty man in a massive light-brown wig. York was the King’s brother – and his heir, given that the Queen remained childless. ‘As Admiral of the Fleet, he should be in Deptford, too. Good God! No wonder all our ships still languish in port! He should be leading by example.’

‘The Court must be moving to Greenwich,’ said Chaloner, watching the bright, noisy throng flood through the gate and turn towards Charing Cross. ‘It is supposed to be cooler there.’

‘Well, this intense heat is uncomfortable,’ muttered Lester sourly. ‘And God forbid that His Majesty should stay and suffer with his people, most of whom do not have the money to decant to more agreeable lodgings.’

After the coaches and horsemen came wagons bearing the paraphernalia essential to maintaining the Royal household’s lavish lifestyle – crates of clothes, kegs of wine, musical instruments, fine foods and even a cart of prostitutes. Passers-by stopped to gawp, and there were angry mutters about His Majesty abandoning the city in its time of need yet again – he had not stayed during the plague either.

‘Perhaps we should ask the Dutch to come,’ Chaloner overheard one apprentice mutter to another; they were poulters, judging by the feathers that stuck to their aprons. ‘They might be more sober – and cost less – than this worthless horde.’

‘Butter-eaters?’ asked his crony archly. ‘I would sooner cut my own throat.’

‘There goes the Poultry Department,’ said the first, nodding to a group of very well-dressed courtiers led by the arrogant Catline, who sported a swollen nose from his encounter with the carter not long before. ‘Famous for its selfishness, greed and corruption.’

‘Yes, and you see the man behind him, dressed all in black?’ asked the second. ‘That is Jeffrey Crookey, who was appointed solely to undermine our Company. I heard him say as much when he visited Poulters’ Hall last week.’

‘He was there?’ demanded the first. ‘Why? I cannot imagine he was invited.’

‘No, he just arrived, but Master Farmer was too flustered to send him packing.’

Chaloner watched the elegant men of the Poultry Department attach themselves to the back of the cavalcade with the clear intention of abandoning the city with the rest of the Court, but within moments, one of the King’s pages was sent galloping down the cavalcade to speak to them. There was a brief exchange, after which they turned around and trooped disconsolately back inside the palace.

‘The King probably wants them to stay here to oversee the preparations for his Adrian Masque,’ surmised Lester. ‘According to your coffee house, it will be the social event of the decade, attended by all manner of ambassadors and luminaries, every one of them dressed in medieval costume.’

‘There is also a rumour that he will jump in a syllabub with all his paramours,’ murmured Chaloner. ‘Let us hope it is untrue, because that will be unlikely to impress these important people.’

‘I heard that they will be expected to leap in as well,’ said Lester. ‘Then they will all eat the stuff. God save us, Tom! I must get a ship soon, because the affairs of landsmen are beyond my comprehension. We do not do that sort of thing at sea.’

‘Most of us do not do it ashore,’ said Chaloner, aiming for the gate once the way was clear. Then there was a yell of warning and one last coach rocketed out, the driver lashing his horses in order to catch up with the rest. Chaloner glimpsed two people inside as it hurtled past, and recognised one as Edward Montagu, the current Lord Chamberlain.

‘He should not be careering off to enjoy himself either,’ muttered Lester. ‘Another thing I heard in your coffee house today is that his wife died yesterday. But there he is, sitting merrily in his coach with another woman.’

‘He did not look very merry to me,’ countered Chaloner. ‘Nor did she.’

‘No,’ conceded Lester. ‘So perhaps I am being unfair. I hear good things about him – he is kind to his servants and loyal to his friends, which is unusual in White Hall.’

Once Montagu’s coach had gone, Chaloner and Lester walked through the gate and stepped into the vast op