The next morning we set out for London. The snow was as heavy here as it had been in the Low Countries, so it was not until early afternoon on the third day that we reached Seething Lane. I hoped that Sir Francis would be here and not at his home in Barn Elms, for I had no wish to cross the river again and go riding about the Surrey countryside.

We went first to Phelippes’s office, which held a welcome warmth after our long cold ride from Dover. I unwound the scarf from my head and hung my cloak on the back of my chair. Phelippes looked up from his papers.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, quite as if we had merely stepped out of the room and not been away for nearly a month.

‘Is Sir Francis in?’ Berden asked, easing off his cloak. His left arm was still somewhat stiff, though the injury was beginning to heal cleanly.

‘He is. I will take you to him.’

Arthur Gregory put his head round the door of his room and smiled at us, but said nothing. Then Phelippes led us along the hallway to Sir Francis’s office.

We spent the rest of the afternoon with Sir Francis, delivering Leicester’s despatches and going over in detail exactly what we had done every day we had been away. He even questioned us about the situation at Dover Castle, the strength and morale of the garrison, what ships had been in the harbour, our general impression of military preparations. Berden was much better at answering his questions than I was, and I realised just how observant he had been.

When it came to Amsterdam, however, everyone’s attention was focused on me. Sir Francis took me through my account twice, obliging me to recall every detail about Cornelius Parker, van Leyden, and the murder of Hans Viederman. He was also very attentive to the information given me by Ettore Añez.

‘We know of Parker, of course,’ he said, almost to himself.

I explained how I had gone to Leicester with my fears about a poison plot, and how he had laughed at me and thrown me out.

‘Luckily,’ I said, ‘Robert Hurst was in service with him there.’

Sir Francis nodded. As I had suspected, he already knew this. Had probably placed Hurst there himself. I told him how I had alerted Hurst and given him the evidence of the handkerchief.

‘When we reached our ship,’ I said, ‘a letter had just been sent to me there.’

I took out Hurst’s letter and handed it to Sir Francis, who read it quickly, then beamed at me.

‘Excellent, Kit. You have done just as you should. It seems His Lordship has now realised that what you suspected was true. He will be grateful to you.’

‘But van Leyden seems to have escaped, sir.’ To me this seemed more urgent.

‘For the moment, perhaps.’

‘And the murderer of Hans Viederman, will he ever be brought to justice?’

‘I doubt it, Kit. What is most important is that you have averted a plot to kill England’s foremost Earl.’

I thought Hans’s death was important too, but realised I should not say so.

‘And this other man, Cornelius Parker?’ I said. ‘He is implicated. He deals with the Spanish.’

‘I will have him watched. If he proves dangerous, we will take measures against him.’

When at last Walsingham dismissed us, I bade Berden farewell, unsure whether I would see him again, which seemed strange after being in his company for most of the last month. I went down the backstairs and round to the stable yard, to collect Rikki and my belongings and to say my other farewells, to Hector. Many would think me foolish, but I always felt Hector could read my thoughts and knew that we were parting again. I closed my eyes and pressed my forehead against his neck, my hand buried in the thick hair of his mane. Stupid tears filled my eyes and I blotted them against his silky, ugly coat. I had come to love this horse, but I could not allow any of the grooms to see me crying over him. Neither Walsingham nor Phelippes had said anything to me about further code-breaking work, so I would have no excuse to see Hector again, though I would try to slip in here from time to time and give him an apple. With a final pat, I turned my back on him and fetched my satchel and knapsack from the tack room, where Rikki had stayed with the grooms.

‘It is good to see you again. Dr Alvarez,’ the head groom said as he handed me my belongings. ‘Was the snow as bad as this in the Low Countries?’

It was no surprise to me that my destination was known to him. The last people Walsingham would be able to keep secrets from were his own servants.

‘Aye, it was,’ I said. ‘Worse, even. The canals were frozen, with people skating on them.’

‘I’ve heard of that. We used to skate on the pools in the Kent marshes when I was a lad. Made our own skates out of mutton bones. Then when I first come to London – the winter of ’64 it was – the Thames froze and we sported on the river. Skating, dancing, tumblers, bear baiting. Even the Queen came and joined the fun. I wonder whether the river will ever freeze again.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ I said. ‘This is cold enough for me.’

He laughed and patted the dog. ‘Been in the wars, has he?’

‘Aye. Took a sword slash meant for me.’

‘Did he!’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a good dog to have by you.’

‘He is that. Come, Rikki.’

The dog scrambled to his feet at once. One thing I had learned in Amsterdam was that their word for ‘come’ sounded just like ours, so Rikki had no difficulty understanding me.

We set off across London, which was as snowbound as Amsterdam, but here the snow was dirtier. London is a busier city and the horse traffic is heavier, so the snow, which must have last fallen some days ago, was badly stained. Somehow you do not notice the horse dung in the normal way of things, but when it lies on the pure white of snow it seems more offensive. As we walked across London, Rikki was distracted from time to time by irresistible smells, and also stopped several times to make the acquaintance of other dogs. I had never noticed before quite how many dogs roamed the streets, with or without owners.

When I reached Eastcheap I decided to stop at Jake Winterly’s leather shop. Bess greeted me with her usual delight and urged me to come upstairs for a meal, it being nearly supper time.

I shook my head. ‘I must go home to my father, Bess. I am just back from abroad, but you can see that I have acquired a dog.’

We both looked at Rikki, who sat alert, watching us.

‘I need a collar for him.’

‘We have plenty.’ She cast an expert eye, then reached into a cupboard behind her. ‘This should fit.’ It was a supple length of cow hide with a plain buckle and no ornamentation. ‘Unless you would like something prettier.’

‘No, this is good.’ I clasped it round Rikki’s neck. Bess had judged right. The collar fitted well, with just enough slack for comfort. ‘I should have a lead as well, I suppose, though he is obedient enough even without one.’

I paid for both items, rolled up the lead to fit in my pocket, and left my good wishes for the rest of the family.

Rikki shook his head a few times as we continued on our way, and once sat down and scratched at the collar. Clearly he had never worn one before, but I felt it was wise to fit him with one. The city dog catchers of London never hesitate to kill stray dogs, for they are believed to carry the plague. They would at least hesitate briefly before drowning a dog wearing a collar.

At we neared Duck Lane I noticed that Rikki had scented the smell of the Shambles and all the butchers’ shops around Smithfield. I had given little thought to how I was to feed him, but at least we were well placed for butchers’ scraps. I had told Berden I would find a home for the dog when I reached London, but it was becoming more and more difficult to think of parting with him.

It was almost dark when I reached home and saw a shaft of candlelight falling from the kitchen window, not yet shuttered. Our ground floor windows were glazed, but it was cheap glass, full of swirls and lumps. Through it I could see movement, but nothing clearly. Upstairs we had only shutters, which were closed against the cold. I opened the door and stepped inside, enveloped at once in warmth and steam. Joan was bending over and stirring a pot hanging from a hook over the fire; my father was sitting in his carved chair at the table, a book open in front of him, his chin resting on his hand and his eyes closed.