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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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raker’s
disguise meant he was ignored by the pickpockets who prowled in search of easy prey, although a rumpus near the Savoy Palace
indicated that others were not so lucky.
Home for Chaloner was a pair of dingy attics about halfway up Fetter Lane, rented from a landlord who wasmildly eccentric and blissfully incurious about his tenants. Fetter Lane boasted a mixture of buildings. Some, like the house
in which Chaloner lived, were dilapidated, and their owners should have invested money in replacing rotten timbers and sagging
roofs. Others were new and pristine – although they would not stay that way for long in London’s smoke-laden air. Opposite
Chaloner’s home was a large tavern called the Golden Lion, which had a reputation for turning a blind eye to all manner of
seditious activities. In addition, its landlord ran an unofficial post office, which Chaloner found convenient as a means
to collect and leave messages without revealing his own address. Farther south was the ugly Fetter Lane Independent Chapel,
and from his bedroom window, Chaloner could see the roofs of several famous Inns of Court.
He reached his front door and climbed the uneven stairs to his garret, wondering whether the dark cracks that jagged through
the plaster were new, or whether he had just failed to notice them before. A bucket placed to catch drips from a leaking roof
suggested there was certainly something amiss. He reached his sitting room, noting the way the floor sloped to one side, something
it had not done before Christmas, although his landlord told him there was nothing to be worried about. Chaloner was not so
sure, but the rooms suited him for several reasons – they were centrally located, the neighbours did not object to him playing
his viol, and they were cheap – and he was loath to give them up over something as inconsequential as imminent collapse.
As he shrugged out of his costume, his mind teemed with questions. He knew he needed to settle his thoughts before he attempted
any sort of analysis, so he went tohis bass viol, or viola de gamba, and began to practise a piece by the contemporary composer Matthew Locke. Chaloner was
not the most talented of players, but music soothed him, concentrated his wits, and there was little he enjoyed more than
joining like-minded people for an evening of chamber music. In the five days since he had returned from Ireland, he had been
invited to join three such events. The Locke was planned for the next gathering, and Chaloner was looking forward to it.
After an hour, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the tasks he had been allotted. First, there was
the beggar. The fellow had known details about Williamson’s spies that were supposed to be secret, which suggested some connection
to White Hall. What had he wanted Williamson to know? Was it just that Burne and Terrell were aliases – and the man naively
imagined the Spymaster was unaware of the fact? Who was Dillon? And perhaps most important of all, why had May shot him when
it had been obvious he had posed no threat? Had May known what the man had intended to tell Williamson? According to the beggar,
May had already refused to grant him an audience with the Spymaster, so they had clearly met on a previous occasion – something
May had neglected to mention. Why had May been secretive?
Chaloner thought about the beggar’s behaviour during his last moments on Earth. He must have been desperate to secure an interview,
because it was foolishness itself to loiter around royal processions with a firearm. The fact that it was not loaded would
have been deemed irrelevant at any trial, although it suggested to Chaloner that the fellow’s purpose had not been murder.
He decided to visit Trulocke’s shop as soon as it opened the following morning. Handguns were expensive, and he doubtedmany were sold, so it should not be too difficult to find out who had bought
disguise meant he was ignored by the pickpockets who prowled in search of easy prey, although a rumpus near the Savoy Palace
indicated that others were not so lucky.
Home for Chaloner was a pair of dingy attics about halfway up Fetter Lane, rented from a landlord who wasmildly eccentric and blissfully incurious about his tenants. Fetter Lane boasted a mixture of buildings. Some, like the house
in which Chaloner lived, were dilapidated, and their owners should have invested money in replacing rotten timbers and sagging
roofs. Others were new and pristine – although they would not stay that way for long in London’s smoke-laden air. Opposite
Chaloner’s home was a large tavern called the Golden Lion, which had a reputation for turning a blind eye to all manner of
seditious activities. In addition, its landlord ran an unofficial post office, which Chaloner found convenient as a means
to collect and leave messages without revealing his own address. Farther south was the ugly Fetter Lane Independent Chapel,
and from his bedroom window, Chaloner could see the roofs of several famous Inns of Court.
He reached his front door and climbed the uneven stairs to his garret, wondering whether the dark cracks that jagged through
the plaster were new, or whether he had just failed to notice them before. A bucket placed to catch drips from a leaking roof
suggested there was certainly something amiss. He reached his sitting room, noting the way the floor sloped to one side, something
it had not done before Christmas, although his landlord told him there was nothing to be worried about. Chaloner was not so
sure, but the rooms suited him for several reasons – they were centrally located, the neighbours did not object to him playing
his viol, and they were cheap – and he was loath to give them up over something as inconsequential as imminent collapse.
As he shrugged out of his costume, his mind teemed with questions. He knew he needed to settle his thoughts before he attempted
any sort of analysis, so he went tohis bass viol, or viola de gamba, and began to practise a piece by the contemporary composer Matthew Locke. Chaloner was
not the most talented of players, but music soothed him, concentrated his wits, and there was little he enjoyed more than
joining like-minded people for an evening of chamber music. In the five days since he had returned from Ireland, he had been
invited to join three such events. The Locke was planned for the next gathering, and Chaloner was looking forward to it.
After an hour, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the tasks he had been allotted. First, there was
the beggar. The fellow had known details about Williamson’s spies that were supposed to be secret, which suggested some connection
to White Hall. What had he wanted Williamson to know? Was it just that Burne and Terrell were aliases – and the man naively
imagined the Spymaster was unaware of the fact? Who was Dillon? And perhaps most important of all, why had May shot him when
it had been obvious he had posed no threat? Had May known what the man had intended to tell Williamson? According to the beggar,
May had already refused to grant him an audience with the Spymaster, so they had clearly met on a previous occasion – something
May had neglected to mention. Why had May been secretive?
Chaloner thought about the beggar’s behaviour during his last moments on Earth. He must have been desperate to secure an interview,
because it was foolishness itself to loiter around royal processions with a firearm. The fact that it was not loaded would
have been deemed irrelevant at any trial, although it suggested to Chaloner that the fellow’s purpose had not been murder.
He decided to visit Trulocke’s shop as soon as it opened the following morning. Handguns were expensive, and he doubtedmany were sold, so it should not be too difficult to find out who had bought
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