Page 25 of The King's Man
‘How do you come to be working in a tavern known to be haunted by Lovell and his friends?’
Thamsine swallowed. Her mouth was dry. ‘He helped me gain employment there.’
Thurloe did not respond, watching her face from under his hooded eyes. ‘You are evidently well-born. What about your family, Mistress Granville? How do you come to be singing tavern ditties and serving ale in a common inn?’
‘I have told you the truth, Master Thurloe. I have no family. They are all dead.’ Her voice began to waver. ‘I had been forced to vacate my home and had been living on the streets of London for nearly six months. That day, the day… I threw the brick at the coach, I reached a point of despair. There was no premeditation. It was an impulsive act of desperation, nothing more sinister than that.’
Thurloe regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. ‘I am inclined to believe you, Mistress Granville,’ he said at last. ‘The question is, did you intend by your actions to kill the Lord Protector?’ As he spoke, he crossed to the table and sat down on the far side of it.
Thamsine managed a wan smile, spreading her hands in a dissembling motion. ‘My Lord, I’m a woman. Do you truly believe that I have the strength or capability to hurl such an awkward missile with an intent to kill?’
‘For a frail woman, you made quite a dent in the carriage, Mistress Granville.’ He sat back considering her, one finger laid against his mouth. Thamsine shifted in her chair. His silences were disconcerting.
‘Will I die?’ Thamsine looked down at her manacled hands, twisted together so tightly that the knuckles showed white.
‘I shall make a report to Council and they shall decide your fate, Mistress.’
Thamsine’s hand instinctively went to her throat and for the first time, Thurloe smiled, a cold, unpleasant smile that did not touch his eyes.
‘The Council of State is not likely to look kindly on a murderess, however pitiful her tale.’
‘I haven’t murdered anyone. All I have done is dent a coach.’ She could hear the desperation rising in her voice.
Thurloe did not respond. He rang a small bell on the table and the turnkey appeared at the door with the sort of speed that indicated he had been listening at the keyhole.
‘See Mistress Granville back to her cell.’
Chapter 7
Kit pressed his hands against the damp, unyielding brick wall of the prison. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the centuries of misery ingrained in the stones. He squinted up at the small aperture that admitted a pitiful degree of light and air. The Tower offered no chance of escape. It had been built for just this purpose and it served it well. He turned around and leaned his back against the wall, his ankles crossed, and surveyed his silent companions.
His gaze fell on Dutton, who sat on the filthy straw, his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving.
‘We’re dead,’ Dutton groaned. ‘We’re all dead.’
‘Keep your peace, Dutton,’ Whitely said with a voice of authority. ‘They have no evidence against us, just a map of London.’
‘And the word of an informer,’ Cotes said, his narrow eyes darting from man to man.
Dutton raised his head. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone told them we were meeting and why.’
‘You’re surely not suggesting one of us turned cloak?’ Whitely said.
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Cotes said. ‘I’m telling you.’
‘And who more likely than you?’ Kit said.
Cotes paled. ‘Me?’
‘The mouse that squeals loudest is the one with the cheese, as my old nurse used to say,’ Thomas Smith muttered darkly.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Cotes protested, his voice rising an octave in alarm.
‘Throwing allegations isn’t going to help. Look at who wasn’t there.’ Whitely’s sensible voice stilled the anxiety. ‘Young Gerard, Willys or Fitzjames. It is more likely one of them.’
‘Not Fitzjames,’ Kit said, with a pang of guilt.
