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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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on to the bench next to him.
‘Tom! Where have you been these last few weeks? You told me your Earl was sending you to Oxford,to investigate a theft in his old College, but I did not imagine you would be gone so long. When did you come home?’
‘Last week,’ replied Chaloner, knowing he should have visited sooner. One reason he had not was Hannah, who had claimed a
disproportionate amount of his time – and he found himself willing to let her. ‘I have been looking for a missing statue ever
since.’
Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The Bernini bust? That is unfortunate. Everyone is talking about how it was a perfect crime,
because the thief left nothing in the way of clues. I suspect there may be some truth to these claims, because you do not
look exactly flushed with victory.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully.
‘I do not suppose you visited our friend Will Leybourn on your way home from Oxford, did you?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy
said no more. ‘To see how life in the country is suiting him?’
‘He seemed all right,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. The ex-Spymaster did not need to hear that the mathematician–surveyor had
taken up two new pastimes since leaving the city: one was watching his neighbour’s wife through a binocular-telescope in the
attic; the other was visiting her when her husband was out. Chaloner sincerely hoped he would come to his senses before there
was trouble.
‘Are you well?’ asked Thurloe, when he saw that was all the news he could expect of their erstwhile companion. ‘You are very
pale.’
As a man obsessed with the state of his own health, Thurloe tended to assume there was something wrong with most people, even
when they were blooming. He claimed he had a fragile constitution, although Chalonersuspected that he had nothing of the kind, and was as robust as the next man.
The spy smiled. ‘It is dark in here. You cannot tell what shade I am.’
‘I can see well enough,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘Perhaps you should take one of my tonics.’
Chaloner was saved from having to devise an excuse – Thurloe’s tonics had a reputation for turning even strong men into invalids
– by the arrival of the coffee-boy, who slapped a bowl of dark-brown liquid down in front of him, then demanded to know whether
he wanted green-pea tart or sausages. Coffee houses did not usually sell food, but Rider disliked the way his patrons disappeared
for dinner at noon, so he provided victuals between twelve and one o’clock in an attempt to keep them there. Chaloner opted
for the pie. A second servant flung it on the table as he passed, so carelessly that the spy was obliged to grab the flying
platter before it upended in his lap. It transpired to be a pastry case filled with dried peas, sugar, spices and enough butter
to render the whole thing hard and greasy.
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner in distaste. ‘No wonder the King prefers French food.’
‘You should have had the sausages,’ remarked Thurloe unhelpfully. ‘Only a lunatic orders something called green-pea tart.’
Chaloner sipped the coffee and winced – even when the beans were not burned, the beverage did not make for pleasant drinking.
He swallowed the rest quickly, like medicine, then set the bowl down, repelled by the thick, sandy residue that remained at
the bottom. He glanced up and was disconcerted to see Thurloe eating his sludge with a spoon.
‘Are you sure that is good for you?’ he asked uneasily, certain it was not.
‘Coffee grit is a digestive aid – it helps grind up food in the stomach, allowing it to pass more easily through the gut.
At least, that is what my old friend Chetwynd told me, when he was still alive.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘You are losing your touch, because that was
not
a subtle way of learning whether the Earl has charged me to investigate Chetwynd’s murder. Three years ago, you would have
been aghast at such transparency.’
Thurloe set his
‘Tom! Where have you been these last few weeks? You told me your Earl was sending you to Oxford,to investigate a theft in his old College, but I did not imagine you would be gone so long. When did you come home?’
‘Last week,’ replied Chaloner, knowing he should have visited sooner. One reason he had not was Hannah, who had claimed a
disproportionate amount of his time – and he found himself willing to let her. ‘I have been looking for a missing statue ever
since.’
Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The Bernini bust? That is unfortunate. Everyone is talking about how it was a perfect crime,
because the thief left nothing in the way of clues. I suspect there may be some truth to these claims, because you do not
look exactly flushed with victory.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully.
‘I do not suppose you visited our friend Will Leybourn on your way home from Oxford, did you?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy
said no more. ‘To see how life in the country is suiting him?’
‘He seemed all right,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. The ex-Spymaster did not need to hear that the mathematician–surveyor had
taken up two new pastimes since leaving the city: one was watching his neighbour’s wife through a binocular-telescope in the
attic; the other was visiting her when her husband was out. Chaloner sincerely hoped he would come to his senses before there
was trouble.
‘Are you well?’ asked Thurloe, when he saw that was all the news he could expect of their erstwhile companion. ‘You are very
pale.’
As a man obsessed with the state of his own health, Thurloe tended to assume there was something wrong with most people, even
when they were blooming. He claimed he had a fragile constitution, although Chalonersuspected that he had nothing of the kind, and was as robust as the next man.
The spy smiled. ‘It is dark in here. You cannot tell what shade I am.’
‘I can see well enough,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘Perhaps you should take one of my tonics.’
Chaloner was saved from having to devise an excuse – Thurloe’s tonics had a reputation for turning even strong men into invalids
– by the arrival of the coffee-boy, who slapped a bowl of dark-brown liquid down in front of him, then demanded to know whether
he wanted green-pea tart or sausages. Coffee houses did not usually sell food, but Rider disliked the way his patrons disappeared
for dinner at noon, so he provided victuals between twelve and one o’clock in an attempt to keep them there. Chaloner opted
for the pie. A second servant flung it on the table as he passed, so carelessly that the spy was obliged to grab the flying
platter before it upended in his lap. It transpired to be a pastry case filled with dried peas, sugar, spices and enough butter
to render the whole thing hard and greasy.
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner in distaste. ‘No wonder the King prefers French food.’
‘You should have had the sausages,’ remarked Thurloe unhelpfully. ‘Only a lunatic orders something called green-pea tart.’
Chaloner sipped the coffee and winced – even when the beans were not burned, the beverage did not make for pleasant drinking.
He swallowed the rest quickly, like medicine, then set the bowl down, repelled by the thick, sandy residue that remained at
the bottom. He glanced up and was disconcerted to see Thurloe eating his sludge with a spoon.
‘Are you sure that is good for you?’ he asked uneasily, certain it was not.
‘Coffee grit is a digestive aid – it helps grind up food in the stomach, allowing it to pass more easily through the gut.
At least, that is what my old friend Chetwynd told me, when he was still alive.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘You are losing your touch, because that was
not
a subtle way of learning whether the Earl has charged me to investigate Chetwynd’s murder. Three years ago, you would have
been aghast at such transparency.’
Thurloe set his
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