“I have come to ask you a favor, sir. On a personal matter.”

“I hope you don’t want instruction.”

“Oh, Lord no.”

“Do not blaspheme in my presence.”

“My apologies, sir. But I’m not certain how to start. I was told you might be able to help.”

“By whom?”

“By Mr. Ken, an MA of this university and…”

“I am aware of Mr. Ken,” Wallis said. “A dissenting priest, is he not?”

“He is trying desperately to be obedient.”

“I wish him well. He no doubt realizes we cannot afford less than total compliance in these days.”

“Yes, sir.” I noticed that “we.” It was only a short while, after all, since Wallis had been a dissenting priest himself, and done handsomely out of it.

Wallis still sat impassively, helping me not at all.

“My father was Sir James Prestcott…”

“I have heard of him.”

“In which case you also know that he was accused of dreadful deeds, which I know he did not commit. I am convinced that his fall was a plot organized by John Thurloe to hide the identity of a real traitor, and I intend to prove it.”

Again, Wallis made no move, either of encouragement or disapproval; rather he sat there, staring at me with his unblinking eyes until I felt a hot flush of foolishness come over me, and I began to sweat and stammer in my embarrassment.

“How do you intend to prove it?” he said after a while.

“Somebody must know the truth,” I said. “I had hoped, that as you were connected with Mr. Thurloe’s office…”

Here Wallis held up his hand. “Say no more, sir. You have an overblown notion of my importance, I think. I deciphered letters for the Commonwealth when I could not avoid doing so, and when I was sure my natural loyalty to His Majesty’s cause would not in any way be compromised.”

“Of course,” I muttered, almost admiring the smooth way the blatant lie dripped from his thin lips. “So my information was wrong, and you cannot help me?”

“I did not say that,” he continued. “I know little, but perhaps can find out much, if I wish. What papers do you have of your father’s from that period?”

“None,” I said. “And I do not think my mother has any either. Why do you want them?”

“No box? No books? No letters? You must find out where he was at all times. For if it was said he was in London, communicating with Thurloe, and in fact you can prove he was elsewhere, then your cause is advanced greatly. Did you not think of such a thing?”

I hung my head like a recalcitrant schoolboy, and confessed I had not. Wallis continued to press me, asking me the most absurd questions about particular books, although I do not recall the details. My way was the more direct one of confrontation, not nit-picking through letters and documents. Perhaps, I thought, Mr. Wood’s skills would turn out to be useful after all.

Dr. Wallis nodded in satisfaction. “Write to your people, and find out what they have. Bring it all to me, and I will examine it. Then perhaps I will be able to connect it with things I know.”

“That is kind of you.”

He shook his head. “It is not. If there is a traitor at court it is best to know of it. But rest assured, Mr. Prestcott, I will not help you unless you can provide proof that you are correct.”

In my mind time was pressing, and my task daily bore in on me, the memory of my father urging me to action. So I began to prepare my travels, and from then on voyaged almost without a break for the next few months, until all was resolved. I was on the move through one of the worst winters I can recall and out again into spring, driven by my duty and my desire for the truth. I traveled on my own, with little more than my cloak and a pack, walking for the most part, trudging up road and tracks, skirting the huge puddles that swamp all byways at that time of year, finding rest where I could in villages and towns or under trees and hedges when there was no alternative. It was a time of the greatest anxiety and fear; until the last I often doubted I could be successful and was concerned that my many enemies would prove impossible to defeat. And yet, I also remember that time fondly, although that is perhaps merely the rosy glow that age always puts on the memory of youth.

Before I set out, I had to honor my promise to help Thomas. Coming across Sarah Blundy was easy, although engaging her in conversation was more difficult. She would leave her lodging at six in the morning to go to the Woods’ in Merton Street, where she worked as a servant every day except Monday, which was devoted to Dr. Grove. Here she stayed until seven in the evening. She was given four hours off every Sunday, and one day every six weeks to herself. Most particularly, on Wednesdays she went to do the marketing for the family at Gloucester Green, a wasteland on the outskirts of town where farmers were allowed to sell their produce. She would buy whatever the family needed and (as Mrs. Wood was a notorious miser) had to carry it back herself as she was not given the money for a hired hand.

This, I decided, would be my best opportunity. I followed her at a discreet distance to the market, waited while she made her purchases, then made sure I encountered her at the very moment she was struggling past with two enormously heavy baskets of goods.

“Miss Blundy, is it not?” I said with a look of pleasure on my face. “You don’t remember me, no doubt. I had the good fortune to consult your mother some months ago.”

She tossed the hair out of her face and looked at me quizzically, then nodded slowly. “That’s right,” she said eventually. “You did. I trust you found the money well spent.”

“It was very helpful, thank you. Most helpful. I’m afraid I did not behave as well as I should have done. I was very concerned and upset at the time, and this no doubt came through in my lapse of manners.”

“That’s right,” she said. “It did.”

“Please,” I said. “Let me make some small amends. Allow me to carry your baskets. They are far too heavy for you.”

Without any pretense of protest, she instantly handed over both of them. “That is kind,” she said with a sigh of relief. “It is the part of the week I like the least. As long as I am not taking you out of your way.”

“Not at all.”

“How do you know where we are going?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said hastily to cover my mistake. “I have nothing at all to do, and I would willingly carry these all the way up Heddington Hill for the pleasure of your company.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. “Then you certainly don’t have much to do. Fortunately I will not impose on your good offices so much. I am heading only for Merton Street.”

They were formidably heavy, and I half-resented the girl for being so willing to hand them both over. One would have been more than sufficient. What was worse, she looked at me with scarcely concealed amusement as I struggled with what she carried as a matter of course.

“Are you treated well there?” I asked as we walked—I panting along, and she walking with a light and easy step.

“Mrs. Wood is a good mistress,” she replied. “I have nothing to complain about. Why? Were you about to offer me a position?”

“Oh, no. I cannot afford a servant.”

“You are a student, is that right?”

I nodded. Considering that my gown was flapping in the sharp wind, and my cap in constant danger of being blown into the gutter, it was not a greatly perceptive remark.

“You aim at the church?”

I laughed. “Dear me, no.”

“Do you disapprove of the church? Am I talking to a secret Catholic, perhaps?”

I flushed with anger at the remark, but remembered in time that I was not passing the morning for my own amusement.

“Far from it,” I said. “Sinner I may be, but not to that extent. My nonconformity comes from a different direction entirely. Although in action I am blameless.”

“I congratulate you.”