Free Blood on the Strand by Susanna Gregory Page B

is good to see you, Thomas.
     I was beginning to think you might have forgotten me, which would havebeen sad. I value our friendship, and would not like to lose it.’
    ‘I have been in Ireland, and only returned a few days ago.’
    Her face filled with alarm. ‘Ireland? I hope it was nothing to do with the Castle Plot – that sounded horrible! I wish you
     would abandon your work with that Lord Clarendon. Clerking would be much safer. If you are interested, I could find you something
     here.’
    ‘You are in a position to employ me?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Your business is lucrative, then?’
    ‘Very,’ said Temperance with a satisfied smile of pleasure. ‘And I am in sore need of a reliable manager of accounts. Are
     you interested?’
    Chaloner had questions of his own. ‘Why was Preacher Hill here? If you have abandoned your old religion, then why continue
     to associate with him? His wild opinions make him a dangerous man to know, and he may bring you trouble.’
    ‘He has been extruded – prevented from conducting religious offices in his own church – so he works for me now, as a doorman.
     He is rather good at it, and the position leaves his days free for spouting sermons in public places. The arrangement suits
     us both. Do you really disapprove? I thought you were opposed to discrimination on religious grounds.’
    ‘I do, but that is no reason … ’ He trailed off, seeing there was no point in pursuing the matter. He could tell from
     the stubborn expression on her face that she was not going to change her mind, or listen to advice from him.
    ‘Dear Thomas,’ she said after a moment, shooting him a fond smile. ‘You have not changed.’
    She had, though. ‘You have grown up. I was gone a few weeks, and you are different.’
    She nodded, pleased he had noticed. ‘I think the word is “liberated”. For the first time in my life I can do exactly as I
     please. I wear lace. I see plays. I read books that are nothing to do with religion. I feel as though I have woken up after
     a long sleep, and I am happier now than I have ever been. I grieve for my parents, of course – they raised me in a way they
     thought was right – but I prefer my life now. Will you teach me French? I would so like to speak that particular language.’
    ‘I am sure you would,’ muttered Chaloner ungraciously. ‘Brothel business always sounds so much more genteel when conducted
     in French.’
    Even after an hour with Temperance, it was still too early to visit White Hall or to interview gunsmiths, so Chaloner crossed
     Fleet Street and walked to Lincoln’s Inn. Although his thoughts were mostly on Temperance, an innate sense still warned him
     of the thieves who saw him as an easy target. He was obliged to side-step two pickpockets and flash his dagger at a would-be
     robber before he was even halfway up Chancery Lane. He slipped through Lincoln’s Inn’s main gate when its porter was looking
     the other way, and headed for Chamber XIII in Dial Court. It was here that John Thurloe, his friend and former employer, lived
     when he was not at his family estate near Oxford.
    Dial Court was one of the oldest parts of the ancient foundation for licensing lawyers and clerks, and comprised accommodation
     wings to the east and west, and the new chapel to the south. To the north were the gardens, a tangle of untamed vegetation,
     venerable oaks and gnarled fruit trees. In the middle of Dial Court was the ugliestsundial ever created, a monstrosity of curly iron and leering cherubs. It had been installed in a place where it was in the
     shade for most of the day, which somewhat defeated its purpose.
    As a ‘bencher’ – a governing member of Lincoln’s Inn – Thurloe was entitled to occupy a suite of chambers on two floors. On
     one level was his bedchamber and an oak-panelled sitting room, full of books and the scent of polished wood; above was a pantry
     and an attic that was home to his manservant, a fellow so