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‘The United Provinces of the Netherlands.’ Bitter experience had taught
     him it was wise to be truthful when possible, since it left fewer opportunities for being caught out in lies.
    ‘I see,’ said Leybourn. ‘Well, you will not learn much that makes sense from the Dutch. All they do is eat cheese and bathe
     in butter. Do not look shocked. You must have read the broadsheets telling us how wicked Hollanders are waiting to invade
     us – to kill our children while we sleep.’
    ‘Yes, but I am not so stupid as to believe them.’
    ‘And neither am I,’ said Leybourn. ‘But you did not know that when you spoke, and to admit that you reside in Holland, when
     there are rumours of a royal assassination, is wildly reckless. If I were to yell that you were a Dutchman, and that you had
     just shot at the King, you would be torn apart before you could say Rembrandt. People are afraid of the Dutch.’
    Chaloner saw he had a point, although it was unsettling to hear emotions ran quite so high. The woman who had shared his bed
     for the past three years, and whom he loved dearly, was Dutch, and she had mentioned a growing antipathy towards her, even
     from friends. He had dismissed her concerns as the natural sensitivity of a foreigner abroad – he had experienced similar
     misgivingshimself in the past – but now saw he should probably take them seriously.
    ‘So, you do not know Kelyng,’ mused Leybourn. ‘In that case, why were you in his house?’
    ‘You ask a lot of questions.’
    Leybourn grinned, unrepentant. ‘I cannot help myself. It is not every day I see someone get the better of Kelyng, God rot
     his putrid soul.’
    ‘What has he done to you?’
    ‘He owes me money. He ordered several expensive legal texts last year – as a newly appointed sergeant-atlaw, he needs them
     for his work – but now he refuses to pay.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘On the grounds that he is using them to serve the King. It is flagrant extortion, but he says that if I complain, my comments
     will be considered treason.’
    ‘Just for asking to be reimbursed?’
    ‘Quite,’ agreed Leybourn bitterly. ‘Despicable, is it not? So, now you see why I detest the fellow and his niggardly ways.
     Any man who annoys him is a friend of mine.’
    Their section of the crowd had arrived at the Banqueting House, joining the masses already there. Chaloner had never seen
     so many sick people, all hoping the King would cure them. Here more rumours circulated. Folk had seen the King arrive moments
     before, so there were no tales that he had been killed, although Chaloner was disconcerted to hear the claim that Dutch marksmen
     had been at large. Leybourn had been right to advise him to caution, and he saw how dangerous it was to be unaware of London’s
     current bigotries.
    He was listening with growing horror to an Anglicanpriest, who was taking advantage of the gathering to bellow an impromptu sermon about the evils of any religion not consistent
     with his own, when another thin, stoop-shouldered man approached. Leybourn introduced him as his brother and business partner
     Robert, although Chaloner had guessed they were related: both had gaunt, pale faces and bony frames. Robert, more caustic
     than his sibling, matter-of-factly informed them that the shots heard near the Royal Mews had been due to the unpopular Sir
     George Downing falling off his horse – the fellow was so afraid someone might kill him, that he always carried three loaded
     pistols, and each had ignited when he had taken his tumble. The general consensus, Robert maintained, was that it was a pity
     one of the balls had not travelled through the man’s black heart.
    Chaloner’s thoughts turned to the servant who lay dead in Kelyng’s garden, who had said his name was Hewson, contrary to what
     his employer seemed to believe. He tried again to decide whether Bennet had killed Hewson deliberately, or whether he had
     simply missed his intended target. He did not have enough