The city could be seen from afar, too, first as a yellow-brown smear on the horizon from countless belching sea-coal fires, furnaces and ovens, and then as a bristle of towers, spires and turrets, with the lofty bulk of St Paul’s Cathedral looming majestically over them. Despite the city’s drawbacks, filth and reek being but two, Thomas Chaloner was pleased to see it again. Since taking employment as intelligencer to the Earl of Clarendon three years before, he had spent more time away than at home, and his latest jaunt of six weeks had told him more than ever that he wanted to settle down. He had married the previous June, but had spent scant few nights with his wife since, and as their relationship was turbulent to say the least, he needed time to work on it if he did not want it to end in disaster. He returned his hired horse to the stable in Westminster, and began to walk the short distance to his house on Tothill Street. It was warm for the time of year, which was a relief after a long and unusually bitter winter, and everywhere were signs that spring had arrived.
