A Murder on London Bridge by Susanna Gregory Page A

the Earl – you once said it is his job to recruit spies in White Hall, and that I do the Earl no disservice by reporting details of his business, just as long as I reveal nothing harmful. Well, he often asks about you, and I know for a fact that he wants you alive. He says you might be useful one day.’
    ‘He wants me for his intelligence service?’ Chaloner was filled with a sudden hope that he might be forgiven at last. He spoke several languages, had a good grasp of Dutch politics, and there was nothing he would like more than to be posted back to The Hague. Spying on hostile foreign governments was what he was good at – far more so than hunting killers and absconded barons.
    ‘No, he does not trust you enough for that. But he says one can never be sure of what one might need in the future, and you may prove to be a useful asset one day.’
    Chaloner supposed it was better than hearing that the Spymaster still wanted his blood. But not by much.
    With a sense of foreboding, Chaloner tapped on the door and entered his employer’s office. It was sumptuous, with thick rugs on the floors, paintings by Great Masters on the walls and lavishly upholstered furniture. The Earl of Clarendon was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by paper. He was short, fat and prim, with a penchant for fancy clothes and large wigs. He also liked ridiculously narrow shoes that could not possibly be good for his gout, although no one had the nerve to tell him so, not even Surgeon Wiseman, who was notorious for his bold opinions and blunt tongue.
    Chaloner’s feelings towards the Earl were ambiguous. On the one hand, his master possessed moral courage and was comparatively honest – at least, by White Hall standards. On the other, he was bad-tempered, secretive and unpredictable. Meanwhile, the Earl’s attitude towards his spy was equally ambivalent. He was abusive, contemptuous and critical, yet only a few weeks before, he had put himself in danger to save Chaloner’s life. Chaloner did not understand him or their relationship, but suspected the Earl’s lingering mistrust was because of his past.
    After finishing his studies at Cambridge – interrupted when his regicide uncle had dragged him away to fight for Cromwell in the civil wars – Chaloner had gone to Lincoln’s Inn to study law. There he had met a man named John Thurloe, who had later become Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General. Thurloe had recruited Chaloner as an intelligencer, sending him off to spy in France, Spain and Holland. But then Cromwell had died, Thurloe had been dismissed, and a second Charles had been invited to take the throne. Chaloner had expected to continue his work – the new King needed accurate reports on unfriendly foreign regimes just as urgently as Cromwell had – but Spymaster Williamson had made it perfectly clear that no ex-Parliamentarians were going to be employed in his intelligence service.
    For a while, Chaloner had been destitute, but then he had met the Earl, who had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to overlook his past loyalties. However, while the Earl appreciated being able to tap into Chaloner’s arsenal of specialist skills, the fact that they had taken opposite sides during a series of very bitter wars would always be something of a barrier between them.
    ‘There you are,’ said the Earl icily. Chaloner felt like an errant schoolboy when his master glared at him, hands folded across his ample paunch. ‘I expected you sooner. It is almost eight o’clock.’
    ‘I am sorry, sir. I spent most of last night in Southwark, trying to find the men who killed Blue Dick Culmer, and I was still trawling through taverns, alehouses and brothels at dawn. I had no idea there were so many of them.’
    ‘Two hundred and thirty eight,’ replied the Earl promptly. ‘Of course, that is only taverns and alehouses. I would not know about the other places.’ He pursed his lips prudishly.
    Chaloner wondered how he came by such a precise