The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 9

The spat with Temperance had upset Chaloner, and he did not feel like sleeping alone in his chilly garret, so he went to visit Hannah. She had only just returned home, and was so angry that she could barely form the words to tell him why. Apparently, the Queen had been invited to a ball that evening, and had been delighted to think she was included in a Court occasion at last. She had spent all day preparing, taking care not only with her dress, but also to learn new English phrases that she hoped would impress her hosts. But when she arrived at the Banqueting House, where the dance was to take place, she found it closed. Moreover, there was not a courtier to be found in the entire palace.

‘My first thought was that it was the Lord of Misrule,’ spat Hannah furiously. ‘And a few enquiries revealed that Brodrick has declared White Hall off-limits to anyone who does not want to be doused in green paint tonight. But it was heartless to raise the Queen’s hopes with a gesture of friendship, only to dash them so pitilessly, and I do not think Brodrick is that low.’

Chaloner was inclined to agree. The Earl’s cousin was dissolute and hedonistic, but he was not cruel. ‘I do not suppose you noticed what Lady Castlemaine was doing all day, did you?’

Hannah nodded, eyes flashing. ‘Encouraging the Queen in her excitement, telling her what a wonderful night it would be. But when it was time to go to the Banqueting House, she disappeared.’

‘Then there is your culprit.’

‘Damn her!’ cried Hannah. ‘No doubt she will be delighted when she hears how deep a wound she has inflicted. But I do not want to discuss it any more; I am too incensed. Tell me what you have been doing instead. Where did you spend your evening?’

‘In a brothel,’ replied Chaloner, loath to lie when there was a chance that someone like Brodrick or Chiffinch might report seeing him there.

But Hannah glowered at him. ‘If you cannot tell me the truth for reasons relating to your investigation, then that is fair enough, but do not insult me by inventing wild tales. I am not in the mood. Tell about your morning, then, if your evening is off limits. Where did you go, and whom did you meet?’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘It is called making conversation, Thomas,’ snapped Hannah, eyeing him balefully. ‘What is wrong with you? Surely, your work cannot be so secret that you are unable to tell me that you exchanged greetings with Lady Muskerry, or that you prefer the coffee in John’s to that served in the Rainbow?’

Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug, although he wondered whether it had been chance or design that led her to mention the establishment where his suspects met. ‘I am sorry. It has been a long day.’

‘So has mine,’ she snarled, unappeased.

He tried to make amends, recalling his vow not to alienate her by being uncommunicative, but it was too late: nothing he said or did could placate her. Eventually, he left, although he was not impressed to find his landlord had been in his rooms to mend the roof, and had succeeded in exacerbating the problem. Irregular drips had been transformed into steady trickles, and Ellis had contrived to move the bed so it was directly under the worst of the holes. Chaloner woke in the night to find himself sodden as rain hammered down outside, and he was obliged not only to fetch bowls for the new leaks, but to hunt out dry spots for his bass viol and music chest, too. He went back to bed, and dozed fitfully until a curious combination of sounds woke him the following day.

He listened with his eyes closed for a moment, then shot to his feet, grabbing his sword as he did so, sure someone else was in the room. But it was only his cat. It regarded him through lazy amber eyes, then released the pigeon it had caught. The bird immediately flapped towards the window, which it hit with a thump before flopping to the floor, stunned.

‘Oh, no!’ cried Chaloner in dismay. ‘I thought we had an understanding: rats and mice are fair game, but birds are forbidden.’

The cat meowed at him, and he sat heavily on the bed, resting his head in his hands. He was talking to the animal, and it had answered him! Was the insidious loneliness that had been a part of his life ever since he had become a spy finally taking its toll? Would it be only a matter of time before he ended up like Haddon, substituting animals for people? He decided to visit Temperance that evening and apologise, because he did not have so many friends that he could afford to squander them in petty squabbles. And the quarrel had been entirely his fault — he should have told her why he needed to know about Bernini, not ambushed her with questions. She was right to be angry with him.

And he would see Hannah, too, and try to worm his way back into her good graces. Since arriving in London, he had met no one who had interested him for more than a casual encounter, but he was beginning to feel Hannah was different. She was intelligent, amusing and had shown a remarkable tolerance for his various flaws of character. He discovered with a pang that he did not want to lose her.

When the cat meowed at him again, he ignored it and went to let the pigeon — recovered and keen to be on its way — out of the window. When it had gone, he ran his hands over the smooth, silky wood of his viol. It had been some days since he had had time for music, and he felt the tension begin to drain out of him as he took his bow and began to play. It was not long before he became totally immersed, and only came to his senses when the bells chimed noon. At first, he thought he had misheard, and then was disgusted with himself for frittering away so many hours of daylight.

He donned clean clothes, and set off to Petty France, hoping Meg would be in, but there was no reply when he knocked at her door. He walked to the back of the house, and gained access to her room via a window. But his efforts were wasted, because his search told him nothing, other than that she kept an ear-string in a box next to her bed. He supposed it belonged to Turner, and the colonel had either given it to her, or she had snagged it without his knowing.

He went to Lincoln’s Inn, feeling a need for Thurloe’s companionship, but the ex-Spymaster was out, and his manservant did not know where he had gone. Chamber XIII was full of folded clothes, ready to be packed for the journey to Oxfordshire, which was a sharp reminder that Chaloner would soon be without his mentor. His sense of isolation intensified.

He emerged from Lincoln’s Inn to see Haddon trotting along Chancery Lane, conversing merrily with his dogs and drawing wary looks from the people he passed. Not in the mood to be informed that a pooch could replace Thurloe, Chaloner ducked into the Rolls Chapel, a pretty building designed by Inigo Jones as part church and part repository for legal records. He was disconcerted when Haddon joined him there a few moments later.

‘I have never been in here before,’ said the steward, looking around appreciatively. ‘It is beautiful.’

Haddon had always been friendly to Chaloner, and the spy was already regretting the attempt to avoid him. It had been rude. He knelt at the altar rail and pretended to pray, in the hope that Haddon would not guess he had darted into the chapel to effect an escape. When the steward walked towards him, he smiled and indicated Haddon was to kneel at his side. He was taken aback when the dogs followed their master’s example, resting their front paws on the rail, and their back ones on a hassock.

‘God’s creatures,’ said Haddon, beaming fondly at them. ‘Is that not so, my beauties? They know how to behave in a church … Oh, Lord! They have never done that before.’

‘I think we should leave,’ said Chaloner, eyeing the mess uncomfortably.

‘But you have only just arrived, and you should not let a mishap stand between you and God. I had not taken you for a religious man, Thomas — I am favourably impressed.’

‘I am glad someone is,’ muttered Chaloner, acutely aware that the verger was pottering nearby. If the man saw what the dogs had done, there would be a scene, so he stood and began to walk briskly towards the door, relieved when Haddon followed. ‘Did you have something to tell me?’

‘Yes, I have sad news to impart. Margaret Symons is dead. She foretold the exact hour of her passing, and she slipped away precisely when she said she would.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Scobel had predicted the time of his death, too, and Chaloner wondered again whether it meant someone had helped them into their graves.

A tear sparkled in Haddon’s eye. ‘She was kind to me once, when I was ill. And she liked dogs.’

‘So did Vine,’ said Chaloner, remembering being told that the Treasury clerk had made donations to a charitable foundation that cared for strays. It was clearly a bad week for London’s mutts.

Haddon sighed sorrowfully. ‘Yes, he did, but I doubt George will continue his father’s good work. Do you think the Earl might spare a few shillings each month to make a puppy happy?’

Chaloner resisted the urge to laugh at the notion of the Earl parting with money for something that would not benefit himself. ‘You never know.’

‘I have something else to tell you, too,’ said Haddon. ‘Turner visited our master this morning, and I eavesdropped on their conversation. He was in some sort of club with Brodrick last night, and they got talking. Brodrick was drunk, and let slip a secret about fat old Jones who drowned the other day. Apparently, Jones liked robbing banks.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe Haddon’s claim — Brodrick liked to spin Temperance wild yarns, so perhaps he had done the same to Turner, too. The colonel was not as gullible as Temperance, but the Earl’s cousin had a clever tongue and a plausible manner, and it was not impossible that he had executed one of his practical jokes. Chaloner decided to speak to Brodrick directly, and set off for White Hall, leaving Haddon buying expensive pastries for his pampered dogs.

The first person he saw in the palace was Williamson, who waved to indicate he wanted to talk. Chaloner pretended not to notice, and stepped into a laundry to avoid him. The Spymaster followed, so Chaloner zigzagged through the steaming cauldrons and slipped out through a back door, hiding behind a stack of crates until Williamson threw up his hands in exasperation and gave up the chase. The second person he met was Barbara Chiffinch, who railed about the unkind trick that had been played on the Queen the night before. The King was said to be livid, and the Lord of Misrule had been ordered to leave her alone.

‘Brodrick denies being the guilty party,’ said Barbara angrily. ‘But no one believes him. And quite right, too! Why else would he decree that anyone found out after dark would be doused in green paint? There is a rumour that the whole thing was Lady Castlemaine’s idea, but no one likes to ask her and the King’s fury means she is unlikely to confess, either.’

‘I need to speak to Brodrick,’ said Chaloner. ‘About Jones.’

‘I suppose you have heard that Jones robbed banks.’ Barbara waved away Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The tale is all over White Hall this morning — Brodrick has a slack tongue. However, it is quite true. My husband has just confessed to me that he has known about Jones’s illegal activities for years.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘And you believe him? I mean no disrespect, but your husband is not a reliable source of information.’

‘I believe him,’ said Barbara grimly. ‘I can tell when he is lying — and he was not lying today. Besides, he also admitted to being Jones’s accomplice once, helping to relieve Backwell’s Bank of a thousand pounds. He knew details he could not have done, unless he had been directly involved.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin, thinking the story certainly explained why Jones had elected to carry his wealth about on his person — he would know from first-hand experience just how vulnerable banks could be. So, here was yet another government official who presented a respectable face to the world, but who was really something else.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ he asked, more of himself than Barbara. ‘He earned a good salary as Yeoman of the Household Kitchen, and his family is not poor.’

‘It is not just a love of money that inspires men to steal.’ Barbara’s voice held a note of regret, and Chaloner supposed she was thinking about her husband. ‘It is the thrill of playing with danger. Jones once told me he was bored with his job, so he obviously went out and found other ways to amuse himself. The Backwell’s theft was meticulously planned — the thieves left no clues whatsoever.’

‘Have you seen Brodrick this morning?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he had better hear the tale from the source of the gossip.

Barbara grimaced. ‘Try looking in the wine vaults. He usually visits about this time.’

Brodrick had been and gone by the time Chaloner had arrived, but the spy wanted to speak to the cellarer anyway, because of what the fellow had told Turner about Greene begging for brandywine. Daniel Munt repeated his story, indignation in every word.

‘The first time, Thursday, I felt sorry for him, and let him have a jug, but then I saw his offices in darkness and knew he had played me for a fool. The second time he came, I sent him packing.’

‘So he left empty-handed on Saturday?’

‘I thought so, but after he had gone, I noticed some brandywine was missing. Now, I cannot be certain he took it, because a lot of men come here in the hope of a drink, and young Neale was particularly insistent that night. But it was there at the beginning of the evening, and gone when I locked up at midnight.’

Chaloner resumed his hunt for Brodrick, eventually tracking him down in the Banqueting Hall. In his capacity as Lord of Misrule, the Earl’s cousin had hired the King’s Players to perform a theatrical production, and was busy ensuring the set was built, the props were in place and the costumes were ready. While Chaloner waited for him to finish a frantic consultation with the stage-manager, he watched the actors rehearse, and the bawdy speeches told him The Prick of Love was probably one of Langston’s masterpieces. One thespian cheerfully informed the spy that invitations had been issued to only a very select few, because the play was deemed too ribald for the average ear. After enduring two scenes of silly, predictable vulgarity, Chaloner was glad he was not on the guest list, because it was tedious stuff, and he had better things to do with his time.

‘I am not sure picking this particular play was a terribly good idea,’ confided Brodrick worriedly, as the spy approached. ‘Lady Castlemaine chose it, but I did not realise it was quite so … The King will think me desperately lewd.’

‘I am sure he has seen worse. It was unkind to invite your cousin, though.’

‘The Earl?’ Brodrick regarded him in horror. ‘He cannot come! He would have a seizure! My guests include His Majesty and a dozen close friends. But the Earl …’ He shuddered at the notion.

‘You had better warn him to stay away, then. I doubt he will listen to me, not after what happened the other night. You frightened him, Brodrick.’

Brodrick rubbed his eyes. ‘It will not happen again — I think I have satisfied my cronies that the Lord of Misrule applies his mischief even-handedly. What did you want to ask me about?’

He confirmed what the spy already knew about Jones, adding only that Chiffinch had kept quiet about the fat man’s penchant for theft while Jones had lived, but broke silence the moment he was dead. He had not gossiped about his own participation, though: he had disclosed that only to Barbara.

Chaloner left Brodrick to his preparations, and was about to walk outside when he saw a familiar figure lurking behind a stack of benches. The spy supposed he should not be surprised that Greene had wormed his way into a building where an obscene play was being rehearsed, bearing in mind his friendship with the author and his weakness for cheap whores. He regarded the clerk thoughtfully. Greene did not seem to be deriving any great enjoyment from the spectacle, though, and the expression on his face could best be described as haunted.

‘I understand you have a liking for this sort of thing,’ Chaloner said softly, watching the clerk leap in alarm at the voice so close to his ear. ‘It was an interest you and Langston shared.’

‘You are wrong,’ replied Greene hoarsely. His face was very pale. ‘I was aware that he wrote … a certain kind of verse, but I had never heard any of them until today. I find myself appalled.’

‘I do not believe you. Witnesses say you frequent the lowest kind of brothels, and that you are well-known and popular in them.’

Greene closed his eyes. ‘Then your witnesses have drawn conclusions from half-understood facts. Yes, I visit the Dog and Duck in Southwark, but not to avail myself of the women. I go to give alms, in the hope that some will take the money and make more respectable lives for themselves.’

Chaloner laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Of course you do.’

‘I have had two successes.’ There was something in Greene’s earnest, pleading voice that gave the spy pause for thought. ‘One is now a cook-maid, and the other is a laundress. You may scoff, but I hope to save more young ladies in time. Of course, I cannot do it if I am hanged …’

Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘And why should you want to rescue harlots?’

Greene swallowed hard, and looked away. ‘Because my sister … during the Commonwealth, when it was hard for Royalists to earn a crust … It was the only way to feed her baby, her husband being killed at Naseby. I was unemployed myself then, and had no funds to share with her.’

‘Your sister was a prostitute?’ asked Chaloner in disbelief. His own family had endured struggles as hard as any, but his kinswomen had never resorted to those sorts of measures.

‘Hush!’ hissed Greene, distressed. ‘There is no need to tell everyone. And she was not a prostitute — she just made herself available to one man in return for regular payment. After she died, I vowed to help other unfortunates. I do not know any gentlewomen in my sister’s position, so I elected to save the poorest whores instead — the ones in the Dog and Duck, whom nobody else cares about.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘You have been seen laughing with them.’

‘They are cheery company, and always greet me kindly. I have grown to like them, so yes, we laugh together. It makes for a pleasant change, because I seldom have cause to laugh with anyone else.’

‘Then what about the three purses you tossed in the river on Thursday morning? Explain those.’

Greene looked unutterably weary. ‘Again, your witnesses have misconstrued an innocent act. I did not throw three purses in the river — I threw ten. They belonged to Jones, and he left them at my house after Langston and I entertained him for dinner once. We always meant to return them to him, but we kept forgetting. They were a painful reminder of an evening with good friends, so I disposed of them.’

‘Why hurl them in the Thames? Why not in a gutter? Or why not give them to your cheerful harlots? I am sure they would never refuse a free gift.’

‘Because for me, dropping them in the river was a symbolic act,’ whispered Greene miserably. ‘Jones drowned, so it seemed fitting to … But I was not thinking clearly. I see now it was a stupid thing to have done, but that did not occur to me when I did it.’

There was a pitiful plausibility about the explanations, and Chaloner found he was not sure what to think. ‘Then what about the brandywine?’ he demanded. ‘You told me you do not touch strong drink, yet you begged some from Munt on two occasions; and Turner found a secret supply in your office.’

Greene was close to tears. ‘Damn! I was hoping no one would find out about Munt, because I knew how it would look. I asked him not to mention it, but I should have known he could not be trusted.’

‘So, you lied to me,’ said Chaloner flatly. ‘The hidden brandywine was yours.’

‘No! I do not drink brandywine, and I have no idea how those flasks came to be in my office. But I did ask Munt for some — on Thursday and then on Saturday. I told him I needed its stimulation, because I planned to work late. However, the real reason is because my vicar has a liking for it.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’

‘Ask him. He will tell you how I give him some most weeks. But Brodrick bought every last drop in London for his Babylonian punch, and I did not want to disappoint, so I inveigled some from Munt instead. So much for trying to be nice! But can you not see what is happening? Someone wants me accused, and is twisting innocent facts to trap me. I have explanations, but no one is listening.’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Perhaps the vicar of Wapping really did rely on Greene to provide him with a weekly dose of brandywine — and Chaloner knew from Wiseman that Brodrick had bought all the available supplies for his punch. It sounded ludicrous, but sometimes the truth was absurd.

‘Who would do such a thing to you?’ he asked eventually.

‘You have asked me that before, and the answer is the same now as it was then: I do not know. I wish I did, because it must be a misunderstanding. I have lived a simple and godly life, and I cannot imagine why anyone should hate me so. All I can do is put my trust in God — and in you.’

Confused and uncertain, Chaloner decided to visit the Dog and Duck. He took a boat to the London Bridge, then made his way through the cramped, sunless alleys that formed the area known as the Bankside Stews. Mean houses, dirty taverns and filthy streets characterised that part of Southwark, and it teemed with life. The noise was deafening, with tradesmen declaring the virtues of their wares, carts clattering along cobbled streets, and a cacophony arising from an escaped and furious bull.

The Dog and Duck was famous for its willing ladies, and Chaloner supposed it was an obvious target for anyone wanting to save fallen women. He entered its vast, smelly interior, and found a seat in a corner at the back, intending to sit quietly and watch the prostitutes in action before selecting one he thought might answer his questions. But the lasses were used to men lurking in the shadows, and he was approached almost immediately by a sallow-faced girl who told him her name was Alice.

‘Are you from Court?’ she asked with a coquettish smile. ‘You are very well dressed.’

Chaloner placed a coin on the table. ‘Will you answer some questions?’

‘For a silver shilling, I will do anything you like. Shall we go upstairs?’

Chaloner watched a rat strut boldly across the festering rushes on the floor, and did not like to imagine the state of the beds. He was not particularly fastidious, but nothing would be gained from rolling around among fleas. ‘I would prefer to stay here.’

‘Very well, as long as you promise not to do anything embarrassing. I got my reputation, see.’

‘I shall do my best. Do you know a Westminster clerk called Greene?’

‘Mr Greene? Of course! He visits us almost every week. Are you his friend? I am glad he got one, because he is a lovely man. He took us to St Paul’s Cathedral on Christmas Day.’

‘Did he? What for?’

‘He said we deserved to see something beautiful. We got dressed in our best clothes, and he paid for a carriage and a nice dinner afterwards. Bless him.’

‘Does he avail himself of your services?’ asked Chaloner bluntly.

Alice’s lips tightened in disapproval. ‘That’s none of your business, and-’

Chaloner removed the coin from the table. ‘Then I shall ask someone else.’

She reached out to grab his hand, revealing black teeth in an ingratiating smile. ‘No need to be hasty, sir. You cannot blame a girl for being wary of someone what comes in asking questions about her friends. Why do you want to know anyway? Is it about the trouble he is in? He told us about that — some Court bastard is after his blood. But he is a good man, so they should leave him alone.’

‘I am trying to help him. And you can help him, too, by answering my questions honestly. So, I repeat: does Greene frolic with you?’

Alice prised the money from his fingers and shook her head. ‘No. He comes to ask after our health, and he tries to persuade us to do other jobs. He paid for Meg to train as a washerwoman.’

‘He told me,’ lied Chaloner. He had actually failed to make this connection, but supposed it made sense. Of course, Meg had not moved too far from her old trade, if she was enjoying late-night trysts with the likes of Colonel Turner in the Painted Chamber.

‘She is over there,’ said Alice, pointing. ‘She came back, because White Hall is too debauched.’

Chaloner looked to where she gestured, and saw a small, pretty woman with bright blue eyes. She was laughing with some of her colleagues, and he was not surprised that Turner had taken a fancy to her. She had all her own teeth, her skin was smooth and white, and she had more yellow curls than the Lord Chancellor’s best wig. Alice beckoned her over.

‘Dear Mr Greene,’ said Meg sadly, after Chaloner had been introduced as the clerk’s friend. ‘The villains at White Hall are accusing him of murder, but he would never hurt a fly. He is gentle and kind, and that is the reason they hate him — his goodness makes them ashamed of themselves.’

Extraordinary though it might seem, Chaloner saw Greene had been telling the truth about his clandestine visits to Southwark. More probing told him the clerk had never taken advantage of any woman in the brothel, although all had offered him their services free of charge. He also gave them money when they were ill, tired or distressed. They looked on him as a father, and it was not long before Chaloner was surrounded by prostitutes, all eager to convince him that Greene was next in line for sainthood. Moreover, Meg confirmed the tale about Greene’s fallen sister, and said that he and Langston had indeed hosted a dinner for Jones, at which the fat man had accidentally left behind ten leather purses. She had been employed to wash the dishes afterwards, and had seen them.

Chaloner tuned out the chattering voices and thought about what he had learned. If Greene had been honest about Southwark, then there was no reason to doubt his other claims, either. And that suggested he was right: someone was trying to have him wrongfully accused of murder. But who? Someone who disliked his integrity? Or someone who thought the Southwark harlots did not deserve a friend?

By the time he left the Dog and Duck, dusk was fast approaching, bringing with it a bitter, sleety drizzle that turned Southwark’s streets more dismal than ever. Meg begged a ride in the hackney he took back to the city, saying she had laundry to deliver to Tryan the merchant in Lymestrete. Chaloner was going to Hercules’ Pillars Alley, because he wanted to apologise to Temperance, so Lymestrete was not far out of his way.

‘People have been worried about you,’ he said, as they thundered across the Bridge. The driver’s recklessly selfish speed reminded him of why he did not like walking across it.

‘About me?’ asked Meg, startled. ‘That is nice. Who?’

Chaloner looked at her in the fading daylight, and found he could not answer. Her housemate had not been overly concerned when she had failed to return home, assuming — doubtless on account of her previous occupation — that she was with a man. Turner had been anxious, but only because he thought he might have lost out on a romp. Or was he doing the colonel an injustice?

‘Turner,’ he replied, for want of anyone better.

Her pretty face split into a hopeful grin. ‘Really? I thought he did not care about me when he failed to turn up for our tryst. I waited until nightfall on Saturday, but there was no sign of him.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Nightfall? I was under the impression that he expected you much later.’

‘He told me to meet him at the witching hour.’

‘That is midnight.’

‘No, it is dusk. Everyone knows witches come out when daylight fades, so the witching hour is between sunset and total darkness. Why? Are you saying he thinks it was another time?’

‘It is another time, Meg. He expected you at twelve o’clock.’

Meg’s eyes were huge. ‘Lord! He will think I abandoned him! The dear man! I should have known better than to question his love for me. He said he adores me, and he does. And I was so angry with him! I kept thinking he had deserted me, after all I had done for him — all that smuggling him in and out of the palace on my laundry cart every time he had a meeting with Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how on earth Turner had managed to persuade one lover to facilitate his visits to another.

‘Because she needs him to protect her from that awful Earl of Clarendon,’ explained Meg, earnestly ingenuous. ‘The Earl keeps foisting his attentions on her, see. But that was before he hired my colonel as his spy — now my dearest has an official post, he can come and go as he pleases.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to be more impressed by her absolute credulity or Turner’s colourful lies.

‘You have made me so happy with this news! I should have known he thought I was special, or he would not have met me so often. Did I tell you that we have enjoyed secret assignations in the Painted Chamber every Monday and Thursday for the past two months?’

‘Even last week?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was significant: Chetwynd had died on a Thursday, and Langston on a Monday. And both bodies had been found in the Painted Chamber.

She nodded, smiling gleefully. ‘That was when he gave me one of his ear-strings.’

‘How long do these sessions last?’

Meg’s grin broadened. ‘From dusk until dawn. We meet in the Painted Chamber, and then he takes me to an inn in Chelsey. But our last tryst was arranged for a Saturday, at a different time than usual, which explains my silly confusion. So, now you have cleared that up, all I have to worry about is Mr Greene. I must do something to get him out of trouble. I owe it to him, after all he has done for me.’

Chaloner did not think the interference of a harlot would do Greene much good. ‘May I come with you to Lymestrete? Tryan is a friend of Greene’s, and might know something that will help him.’

‘I will do anything for Mr Greene,’ said Meg gamely. ‘Even be seen in company with a rogue from White Hall. You will have to carry the washing, though. I feel an aching back coming on.’

Lymestrete was an ancient road full of buildings that did not really go together. Precarious hovels rubbed shoulders with wealthy merchants’ homes, while shops that sold expensive jewellery sat next to ones that hawked cheap candles. Tryan’s house was near St Dionis Backchurch, a handsome fifteenth-century chapel with a lofty spire.

Meg and Chaloner — the latter toting a sack of clothes — were shown into Tryan’s parlour. It was a pleasant room, with a roaring fire, chestnuts roasting in a tray, and books everywhere. There was a chest under the window, armed with three heavy locks that suggested valuables were within. The spy wondered why Tryan did not conceal it with a cloth — as it stood, most would-be thieves would view it more of a challenge than a deterrent.

‘Meg!’ cried Tryan in pleasure. ‘I was beginning to think you had made off with my shirts. You are not usually late with your deliveries.’

The bandy-legged merchant was sitting at a large, polished table, surrounded by papers. A brief glance at one of the ledgers revealed some staggering sums of money, indicating business was booming. He was not alone, because Hargrave was with him, dividing his attention between finance and relieving his itching scalp with the sharp end of a quill.

Meg began to dance around with Tryan’s shirts, explaining what she had done to render them so pristine. He was captivated by her youthful exuberance, and Chaloner was sure she was earning herself a handsome bonus by taking the time to charm him. Meanwhile, Hargrave frowned at the spy.

‘You have a curious way of spending your time,’ he said suspiciously. ‘I would have thought the Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers have better things to do than carry laundry for harlots.’

‘And how many Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers do you know?’ asked Chaloner, amused.

‘Two: you and Turner. I might have known three, had Langston chosen to accept the commission. He was outraged when the Earl first approached him, but I told him he should have taken it.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Because your Earl was a good man, but White Hall is beginning to turn him wicked. However, he is probably redeemable, and I felt Langston was the fellow to save him.’

‘You are in no position to criticise another man’s virtue,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘I understand you provide materials for Langston’s dramas, but, judging from the rehearsal I saw today, they are hardly morality plays.’

Hargrave’s face flushed red. He shot an uneasy glance at Tryan, but Tryan’s attention was fixed on the cavorting Meg, and he would not have noticed an earthquake. ‘Langston did ask me to help him,’ he muttered uncomfortably. ‘As a favour to a friend. But I had no idea of the lewd content of his-’

‘You must have done,’ interrupted Chaloner, tired of lies, ‘because of the manner of props required. I saw some this morning, and you cannot possibly have been ignorant of what they are required to do.’

Hargrave shot a second uneasy glance in his colleague’s direction. ‘Can we discuss this later?’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps in a tavern? Tryan has a high opinion of me, and I do not want that to change. And I am sure we can come to some arrangement — you will keep a silent tongue, and I will provide you with a little something in return. What do you say to five pounds?’

Chaloner hated it when people tried to bribe him; it told him they held no regard for his integrity. ‘I do not want your money.’

Hargrave winced when the spy made no effort to lower his voice. ‘What then?’ he asked, a little desperately. ‘Information? Such as that the Lea brothers knew about Langston’s obscene dramatics — they wrote out the different parts for the actors to learn.’

‘What about Greene?’ asked Chaloner, to see whether Hargrave would confirm what the hapless clerk had claimed. ‘Did he know what these plays entailed?’

‘I sincerely doubt it. He is a prudish fellow and would have been deeply shocked.’

‘Then tell me about the prayer meetings you attended with Scobel.’

Hargrave blinked at him. ‘Scobel? But he died years ago. What can possibly interest you about-’ He saw Chaloner’s expression, and hurried on quickly. ‘They took place in his home, and comprised a group of men who joined together to thank God for His goodness.’

‘I do not believe you. I think there was more.’

‘I could lie, and so end this embarrassing interview,’ said Hargrave quietly, ‘but we really did meet for prayers. Scobel felt not enough people were thanking God for their good fortune, and set out to rectify the matter. And, for a while, it did seem that we — the grateful men — enjoyed better success than those who just kept asking for things. Obviously, once we realised it, we were keen to continue.’

‘So, it went from being a religious occasion to one of superstition?’

Hargrave winced. ‘You put it bluntly, but yes. Personally, I feel it is time to move on — to end these gatherings and stand on our own two feet. But the others are afraid their luck will change if we stop. They point out that when Langston left, his bank was robbed. Then there is Doling, who renounced us because he objected to what he called our pagan slavishness to Lady Fortune — he lost all at the Restoration, and has continued to lose since.’

‘He certainly lost the court case that came before Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner. ‘Although I imagine your bribe of a cottage had something to do with that.’

Hargrave’s eyes bulged in horror, and he shot another uncomfortable glance at Tryan. ‘I admit I gave Chetwynd a small property, but it had nothing to do with Doling’s claim for fishing rights. The two incidents are entirely unrelated. Perhaps my colleagues are right, and that if Doling had not abandoned our prayer meetings …’ He let the suggestion hang in the air.

Chaloner regarded him in silence for a moment. ‘I do not believe that everyone who attends these gatherings enjoys good fortune.’

‘And you would be right — Symons has not, despite his regular appearances. However, most of us have done extremely well, although I still feel it is time to end them. Unfortunately, Scobel made us promise to remain friends and pray together. We were stupid to have sworn sacred vows to do as he asked — it was a different world then, and we were different men.’

‘I am not sure I understand.’

Hargrave clawed at the scabs on his head. ‘Scobel predicted the Restoration would bring a change in morality, and he wanted to ensure a spark of virtue remained. However, while he was right in that standards have changed since the King returned, I think it is a mistake to follow outdated principles.’

‘So you approve of what you saw at the Tennis Court? You prefer those values to Scobel’s?’

‘I would not go that far,’ said Hargrave stiffly. ‘But I am not comfortable with rabid sanctimony, either. I wish I had the courage to break away from the others, but their superstition has started to infect me — I do not want to end up like Doling, so I keep waiting for someone else to leave first.’

‘What are you two talking about?’ asked Tryan, smiling as Meg flounced merrily through the door, clutching a full purse. She winked before she left, making him blush with pleasure.

‘Our prayer meetings,’ replied Hargrave quickly. ‘And how I think we should end them.’

‘That would be madness,’ said Tryan, turning to give him his full attention. ‘You are wealthy, blessed with a good wife and obedient children. Why would you risk all that? Besides, Scobel made you swear an oath, and you do not want God angry with you for vow-breaking.’

The two merchants began a debate on the matter, and when he saw he would learn nothing more from listening to them, Chaloner bowed a farewell and left, thinking of how little he had achieved that day. He had reinforced his conviction that Greene was innocent, but was no further forward with identifying the real culprit. However, he was determined to put the evening to good use, so he headed for Hercules’ Pillars Alley.

It was early by club standards, and the atmosphere in the parlour was still quietly genteel. Pipe smoke hung blue and hazy in the air, overlain by the scent of ‘burnt’ claret and orange-rind comfits. Temperance was playing cards with Chiffinch. She smiled when she saw Chaloner, and he sighed his relief — it told him she was sorry about their row, too, and was willing to make amends.

‘The Earl’s man,’ said Chiffinch, regarding the spy in icy disdain. There was a network of broken veins across his nose and cheeks, and the whites of his eyes were yellow, both the result of a life spent in pursuit of hedonistic pleasures. ‘I am surprised he pays you enough to let you come here.’

‘Tom is my personal guest,’ said Temperance, intervening before there was trouble. She need not have worried, because Chaloner was not going to let himself be needled by the likes of Chiffinch. Unless he insulted Barbara, in which case the man could expect to be punched.

‘I thought you would be watching the play in the Banqueting House tonight,’ Chaloner said to him amiably. ‘The one Langston wrote.’

‘I have seen The Prick of Love before,’ said Chiffinch sourly. ‘It is far too rude for my taste. The occasion might have been amusing, had your Earl been there, but he sent word that he is ill. He is in perfect health, of course, and I suspect Brodrick lost courage and warned him off. The man is a base coward.’

Chaloner did not like to imagine what the Earl would have made of the performance, if the likes of Chiffinch considered it excessive.

‘I shall fetch you some syllabub, Mr Chiffinch,’ said Temperance, standing and indicating that Snowflake was to take her place at the table. ‘My cook tells me it is the best he has ever made. At least, I think that is what he was saying — he is not always easy to understand.’

Chaloner followed her into the hall. ‘I am sorry about last night,’ he began, the moment they were alone. ‘I was wrong to question you about Bernini-’

‘And I am sorry, too,’ interrupted Temperance. ‘You should have told me I am a suspect for stealing the King’s statue, but I should have explained myself when you asked. We were both at fault.’

‘You are not a suspect. At least, not to me. Spymaster Williamson might reach other conclusions, though, which is why I warned you to be wary about confiding in your patrons.’

‘You still trust me, then?’

‘Of course. I do not believe you have changed so much that you would steal.’

‘And you would be right. Reputation is everything in a place like this, and I cannot afford rumours of deceit or dishonesty. So, are you still coming to meet James on Twelfth Night eve?’

Chaloner smiled. ‘If I am still invited.’

She kissed his cheek with the sisterly affection he had missed since they had started to grow apart. ‘He is eager to meet you, and I have a feeling you will be good friends. However, there is one thing I should tell you in advance: we will not be eating pelican.’

Good, thought Chaloner. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it was delivered this morning, and it was such a sweet thing that I could not bring myself to wring its neck. Maude took it to St James’s Park instead, and released it into the company of its fellows.’

Chaloner smiled again. ‘I should go,’ he said, watching her select a bowl of syllabub for Chiffinch. He was hungry, but the thick, plum-flavoured beverage did not tempt him at all. ‘You are busy.’

‘Never too busy for you, and I owe you an explan ation about Bernini, anyway. I asked questions about him, because Brodrick and Chiffinch kept talking about his fine carving of the King’s head. They chatted about it for weeks — so long that my interest was piqued.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Do you think they stole it, perhaps because Brodrick plans to use it in one of his japes as Lord of Misrule?’

‘Yes, I do, and so does James. I told him everything last night, and he said there is no other explanation. He also told me I should confide all this to you as soon as possible.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.

‘Because he is an art-lover himself, and thinks the bust might get broken if it is used in some wild caper. He says that would be a tragedy.’ Temperance was silent for a moment, then touched his arm. ‘Chiffinch told me you asked him and Brodrick whether they owned a ruby ring. Presumably, you have reason to believe that either the clerk-killer or the statue-thief might own one. Am I right?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously, but did not elaborate.

‘If it was small, then perhaps it belonged to a lady,’ suggested Temperance tentatively. ‘There is a tendency for men to forget that we can steal and commit murder, too, so do not fall into that trap. And there are a lot of ruthless women at Court.’

Chaloner nodded, and did not tell her that the notion had already occurred to him. He did not want to risk another quarrel by being ungracious. ‘I will not forget,’ he promised.

When Chaloner returned to his rooms, the bowls he had set to catch the drips that morning were so full they had overflowed, and the floor was awash. There was a note pinned to the door from the instrument-maker who rented the room below, complaining of water streaming down his walls. Landlord Ellis had been to inspect the trouble — his muddy footprints were everywhere — but in a rare moment of self-doubt, he had apparently decided repairs were beyond him, and had not attempted any. Normally, he was only too pleased to ply his dubious skills to effect even more dubious remedies, and the fact that he was daunted by the scale of the problem did not bode well for the future.

As it stood, the place was not at all inviting, and it was raining again — Chaloner did not want to spend a second night dodging deluges, so he decided to leave. Before he went, he fed his cat with some salted meat from the pantry, although it ate only two mouthfuls before going to wash itself by the fireplace, and he supposed it had found itself something more appetising during the day. He hoped it had not been a bird. He spent a few moments teasing it with a piece of ribbon, just to prove he could be in its company without resorting to meaningless chatter — or, worse yet, a serious conversation — then left for the greater comfort of Hannah’s house. She was asleep when he arrived, but moved over so he could climb into the bed beside her.

‘Where have you been?’ she murmured drowsily, nestling against him. ‘You smell of smoke.’

Remembering her response the last time he had admitted to visiting Temperance’s club, he was uncertain how to reply. He flailed around for something that was true, but that she would believe.

‘Not again,’ she said with a groan, when he took too long. ‘Surely, you cannot have been engaged in secret business all day? Or is the Earl getting every last penny’s worth out of you?’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Chaloner, feeling this at least was something that could not be disputed. ‘I think I have finally eliminated Greene as a suspect for the murders, but I have made no progress in identifying the real killer. Or in locating the King’s statue.’

She climbed out of the bed, and went to prod the fire. He supposed his answer had not been to her liking, but did not know what else to say. It was not a good idea to lie every time the truth was unacceptable, because there was a danger that he might forget what he had told her, and contradict himself later. Thurloe had taught him that liars needed very good memories, and he had always preferred avoiding questions to fabricating replies. But he did not want to do either with Hannah.

‘I talked to my cat this morning,’ he gabbled, rather desperately. ‘It had caught a pigeon.’

She turned to look at him, but her face was backlit by the fire and he could not see her expression. ‘Did it answer back?’

‘It made a noise,’ replied Chaloner cagily. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘That poor animal,’ said Hannah. He could hear laughter in her voice. ‘Attached to a man who is so unforthcoming that it takes a captured pigeon to elicit a reaction from him.’

Chaloner struggled to make her understand why the incident had unsettled him. ‘It is because of Haddon. He converses with his dogs out of loneliness. He is quite peculiar over them.’

She stared at him. ‘And you think that by passing the occasional fond remark to your cat you may become as odd as him? That is foolish, Thomas! You are not lonely — you have lots of friends.’

‘In London, I have two: Temperance and Thurloe.’

‘And not me?’ She sounded hurt. ‘Or Barbara Chiffinch, who, for all her faults, is fond of you. Or Bulteel, who has asked you to stand as godfather to his only son? Or even Haddon, who will not let the Earl say anything bad about you? We are nothing, are we? And here I was about to suggest that you come to sit next to me at the fire, and allow me to help you solve your mysteries.’

‘Now?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘Yes, now,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why do you think I have been stoking it up? You sound tired and dispirited, and I thought you might appreciate some help. It is what friends do for each other.’

‘I see. But how-’

‘You will tell me everything you have learned, and I shall see if I can spot connections you may have missed. You look suspicious. Why? Do you imagine I am the killer, and I am trying to ascertain how much you have found out about me?’

It was not easy for Chaloner to put aside his natural reticence and confide his discoveries — he could do it with Thurloe, but Thurloe had been his spymaster, and was different — and discussing his work with Hannah felt very wrong. But images of Haddon’s eccentricity kept flooding into his mind, so he ignored the clamouring instincts that urged him to silence, and began.

‘Greene is not the killer,’ he said, speaking slowly to give himself time to assemble his thoughts in a sensible manner. ‘Which means someone else is the culprit.’

‘Impeccable logic,’ said Hannah, beckoning him to sit next to her. ‘Is there anything else, or is that the sole conclusion you have reached?’

He knelt by the fire and prodded it absently. ‘The obvious suspects are the men who attend these prayer meetings. For example, Hargrave — he wants the occasions to end, so perhaps he killed the three clerks because they did not.’

But, he thought, Tryan did not want them to end, either, and he was not dead. Did that mean Hargrave was innocent? Or was Tryan spared because he was Hargrave’s friend, and murdering mere acquaintances was not the same as dispatching a man he obviously liked and respected?

‘Who else is on your list?’ asked Hannah, when he faltered into silence.

‘Gold.’

‘Sir Nicholas? No! He has asked us to his soirée on Monday — in two days time — and a killer would not do that. Besides, he is too old to go a-murdering.’

Chaloner smiled at the notion that issuing invitations to parties should be considered an exonerating factor. ‘He is not as frail as he looks. I saw him attack a man who assaulted Bess the other night.’

‘Neale!’ pounced Hannah. ‘Now there is a man who would not hesitate to kill by poison.’

Chaloner inclined his head to acknowledge it was possible. ‘Meanwhile, Doling left the prayer group after the Restoration. Perhaps envy drove him to kill three men who have been very successful. The same is true of Symons. Or perhaps I am over-complicating matters, and the Lea brothers or one of the Vines are the culprits — killing an unloved kinsman in order to secure an inheritance.’

‘And dispatching two more in an attempt to lead you astray,’ mused Hannah, nodding. ‘Do not forget George Vine devised a plot to assassinate Cromwell, either — that shows him to be murderous. Are there any other suspects?’

‘A corn-chandler called Reeve, who wears a disguise when he goes to John’s Coffee House.’

There were also Turner and Swaddell, both of whom had infiltrated the meetings to spy. Could one of them be the killer? There was certainly more to Turner than the amiable buffoon he liked to project, while Swaddell was a spymaster’s assassin. And, of course, there was Williamson himself. But Hannah did not need to be told about any of them — the knowledge might prove dangerous to her.

‘Was there any other link between the victims?’ she asked. ‘Besides these religious assemblies?’

‘They all argued publicly with my Earl. And they all appeared to be virtuous, but transpired to have the usual human flaws — dishonesty, corruption, licentiousness.’

‘So your killer dispatched not good men, but sinners? Are there any vicars among your suspects?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I should visit John’s Coffee House tomorrow, and talk to the owner. So far, only the people who actually take part in the meetings have told me what transpires in them.’

‘So, I have helped,’ announced Hannah with satisfaction. ‘I have given you a new direction to follow. Now, let me see what else I can accomplish. Tell me what you know of the culprit himself.’

‘He used poison to kill his victims. And he may have dropped a ruby ring — a small one, like a woman’s — then sent members of an elite train-band to retrieve it for him.’

‘A woman’s? Then it will be irrelevant,’ declared Hannah immediately. ‘The killer is not a lady, and you had better ignore this bauble, or it will mislead you.’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, although he had no intention of doing so. He wondered why she was so vehement, and recalled Temperance’s words about the same clue: that he should bear in mind that a lady could be responsible. It was odd to hear two such different views within a short space of time.

‘What about the statue?’ asked Hannah, changing the subject rather abruptly. ‘Any progress there?’

‘None,’ replied Chaloner gloomily.

Hannah was silent for a moment, then started to speak. ‘When Bernini finished the bust, a courtier was charged to escort it from Rome. It took him three months of dangerous travel to bring it to London. His name was Thomas Chambers, and he was my father.’

Chaloner stared at her, asking himself why she had not mentioned it sooner. Was this why the Queen had elected not to share with her the tale about it being offered to Greene and Margaret Symons? Because Hannah had a curious and unique connection to the thing? ‘I see.’

‘I was a child at the time, but I remember him coming home, and telling my mother and me about his adventures. The other thing I recall is that the bust was very heavy.’

‘Large pieces of marble usually are.’

Hannah pulled a face at the coolness of his voice. ‘I am trying to help, Tom, so do not be acerbic with me. If the Bernini bust was weighty, then a thief cannot have shoved it under his arm and walked off with it. He would have needed transport. Or a large and very strong sack. Ergo, there will be a witness to the crime. You just need to find him.’

‘I have asked virtually everyone in the palace, and if there is a witness, then he is not talking. And the area around the Shield Gallery is deserted at night, anyway, and security is minimal. I could steal anything I like, and no one would be any the wiser.’

‘That is not a good thing to claim — it could see you in trouble. But you should sleep.’ Hannah ended the discussion by jumping back into bed. ‘You will need your wits about you tomorrow, if you are to fathom any sense into these mysteries.’

It was raining hard when Chaloner woke the next morning, and windy, too. He wondered what state his Fetter Lane rooms were in, and was glad to be in Hannah’s cosy home. She toasted bread over the fire for breakfast, smearing it thickly with a marmalade of quinces. She chattered happily as she worked, asking about his plans for the day, and demanding to know how he intended to prove he was a better investigator than Turner. He gave monosyllabic answers, most of his attention on the statue of Venus that Margaret Symons had carved. It really was exquisite, and he thought it a pity she had died before achieving the recognition she had so clearly deserved.

‘You will have to find time for church, too,’ Hannah babbled on, handing him a cup of warmed ale. ‘It is Sunday, and you do not want to be on a list that says you are a Catholic. Like me.’

‘You are on a list?’

‘No, I am Catholic. I converted when I was appointed to serve the Queen. Does that shock you?’

‘Oh, deeply.’ He saw her wince, and hastened to be serious. ‘Of course not. Besides, the crucifix by your bed is something of a giveaway, and so are the specific times you tend the Queen.’

She regarded him curiously. ‘You are not going to suggest I change back again?’

‘Why would I do that? Your devotions are your own business.’

‘That is an unusually enlightened attitude, especially from a man who serves the Earl. I suppose it comes from spending so much time overseas.’

Or from seeing the trouble religious dissent could cause, thought Chaloner, as he and Hannah set out for White Hall together. He abandoned her when he saw their path was going to intersect that of Williamson, and went to lurk in an alley near the Tennis Court until the Spymaster had gone. As he peered out from his hiding place, he saw Williamson and Hannah stop to talk to each other. The exchange appeared to be cordial, and Chaloner frowned, wondering why she should deign to associate with such a fellow.

Knowing the Spymaster was loose in White Hall made Chaloner decide to go to Westminster instead. He went a second time to look at the lane where Jones had died, but it was jammed tight with carts, all waiting to be loaded with coal from a barge that was docked at the pier, and there were too many people around to permit useful skulking. He decided to come back when it was less busy. He met Symons in Old Palace Yard, and offered his condolences for Margaret’s death, but the man barely acknowledged him before shuffling away with his spiky orange head bowed.

‘Poor Margaret,’ said Doling, appearing suddenly at Chaloner’s elbow. The spy jumped, astonished that anyone should be able to come so close without him hearing. All his senses were on full alert, because he was determined to avoid Williamson, which meant the surly ex-Commonwealth official possessed a very stealthy tread. ‘And poor Symons, too. They were a devoted couple.’

‘She seemed a decent woman.’ Chaloner did not like the way Doling was standing so close to him, and the knife in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand.

‘She was the best,’ replied Doling with one of his scowls. ‘And it is a pity she is gone. She will not be properly mourned, though, except by Symons and me.’

It was a curious thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the acquisitive vultures who gather in Covent Garden do not appreciate her goodness, even though she was a shining light at the meetings in Scobel’s house. Of course, that was before he died. Once he was gone, they effectively banished her from the gatherings by electing to hold them in a coffee house, where women are not permitted to tread. It broke her heart, poor soul.’

‘She wanted to be there?’

‘Yes.’ Doling clenched his fists, as if he was considering thumping someone. ‘She told me that if she had been allowed to pray with them, her husband might have enjoyed greater success. Of course, it is all superstitious nonsense. Scobel was wrong to make us take that vow.’

‘You swore it, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘And then broke it?’

Doling grimaced. ‘The others say that is why I have been unlucky, but I disagree — God does not reward people for praying in a specific place or with specific people.’

‘I suppose not.’

Doling’s expression was distant, almost as if he was talking to someone else. ‘Scobel thought he could keep his friends godly by making them promise to pray with each other, but he reckoned without White Hall. All of them — Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Jones, Gold and others — used to be decent, upright souls, but White Hall has sucked the goodness out of them. Now they are just like everyone else.’

‘Except you? You have retained your lofty principles?’

Doling glowered at him, and for a moment, Chaloner thought the man was going to swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Doling took a deep breath and it seemed to calm him.

‘I am not perfect, but I have done my best. I wish Scobel was still alive — if ever his sober, gentle guidance was needed, it is now. Did you ever meet him?’

Chaloner tried to recall what Thurloe had said about the man, but found he could only remember one thing. ‘He looked as though his head was on upside down.’

Doling’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, and Chaloner wondered whether the remark might induce him to react with violence, but then, unexpectedly, the dour Parliamentarian cracked a smile. ‘I suppose he did, with his thick beard and bald head. That has never occurred to me before. Dear Scobel!’

Still smiling, Doling stamped away.

Great sheets of rain were gusting across the courtyard when Chaloner arrived in White Hall, and no one ventured across the middle of it, preferring instead to take advantage of the scanty protection around the edges. Gold, Neale and Bess were among the cowering throng, and, as they walked, Bess’s hat was ripped from her head and went skittering through the mud. She bleated her dismay, so Gold elbowed Neale and indicated he was to retrieve it. Obligingly, Neale hurried into the rain, golden curls whipping about his face, but each time he came close to the headpiece, the wind tugged it away again. Chaloner saw Gold snigger, confirming his suspicions about the man: he was not the feeble ancient he wanted people to see.

Eventually, Neale snagged the hat by jumping on it, and hurried back to present Bess with a soggy, dented mess of wet material and broken feathers. She simpered her appreciation before jamming it on her head, apparently oblivious of the fact that it was well past salvation. Then she gaped blankly when Lady Castlemaine asked if it was worn by decree of the Lord of Misrule.

‘Stupid woman,’ muttered Munt, who had stopped next to Chaloner to watch the incident unfold. ‘I cannot imagine what possessed a sane fellow like Gold to marry her — she looks like a sheep. But he made his fortune in wool, so perhaps she reminds him of the beasts that set him on the road to riches.’

‘I have been told his success is the result of prayers with his friends,’ said Chaloner.

‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Munt. ‘I went to a few meetings myself, when Scobel was alive, but then he asked me to sign an oath, promising to be virtuous, so I left. We live in an uncertain world, and no man should swear vows that might hinder him later.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was un certain indeed, if people were unwilling to commit to a future where they might be asked to uphold their principles.

‘Did you hear Greene did it again last night?’ asked Munt. His expression was indignant. ‘At about eight o’clock, he came to my cellar and asked for brandywine, spinning some wild tale about it being for his vicar. I told him where to take his lies, but, like last time, when I did an inventory, I found a flask of the stuff was missing. I wager you anything it was him.’

‘His vicar does like brandywine,’ said Chaloner, thinking Greene was a fool to indulge his priest’s penchant for strong liquor at such a time. Theft from the King’s cellars was a serious charge, and he was doing himself no favours. Or had someone else stolen the flask, knowing what Greene had asked of Munt, with the express purpose of seeing him in even deeper water? Still pondering the question, he made his way to the Earl’s office, nodding to Bulteel and Haddon as he passed. Haddon was looking thoroughly dejected, while Bulteel wore a smile that was uncharacteristically vengeful: clearly, one had scored a victory over the other. Chaloner stifled a sigh. Their squabble was ridiculous, and beginning to be annoying.

He stepped into the Earl’s office, and was making his way towards the desk when he tripped over one of Haddon’s dogs. He stumbled forward, and his head connected sharply with the chandelier. He staggered, seeing stars — he was not wearing his metal-lined hat this time. The Earl grinned when he turned to see the spy gripping his head with both hands.

‘That will teach you to try to sneak up on me,’ he said spitefully. ‘Incidentally, Turner has been to see me twice this morning already. He came to say he has almost enough evidence to arrest Greene. I said Greene was the killer, and should never have listened when you said he was not. And Haddon was wrong to take your side against me, too, although he will pay for his folly with five pounds.’

‘It is unfortunate,’ said Chaloner, fighting the urge to voice a few pithy objections to the Earl’s dangerously placed ceiling fixture.

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded the Earl suspiciously. ‘What is unfortunate?’

Chaloner had meant it was unfortunate that the Earl might be about to look foolish, given that the ‘evidence’ was not as solid as Turner had probably led him to believe. However, he had blurted it out because he was in pain, and wished he had been in sufficient control of his wits to say nothing. ‘What is that noise?’ he asked.

The Earl raised his eyebrows. ‘I hear nothing. And you owe me an apology — you were stupid to champion Greene, and your unwillingness to accept the truth has cost the lives of two men. Vine and Langston were not particularly good men, it would seem, but they did not deserve to be poisoned.’

‘There is a snuffling sound.’ Chaloner glanced around the Earl’s sumptuous chamber, but could see nothing amiss.

‘Haddon’s dogs. Why do you keep trying to change the subject? Are you knocked out of your senses? Turner would never walk into a chandelier. He is a fine fellow: tall, strong, and obedient.’

Chaloner supposed his unwarranted assault on the light fitting was the final straw, and the Earl had decided he was inferior to the colonel in every way: he was about to be dismissed. Absently, he wondered whether he had enough money to buy a berth on a ship to the New World, or whether he would have to acquire some illicitly. There was always Jones’s hoard, which no one had stepped forward to claim. He brought himself up sharply when he realised what he was contemplating — he had stolen in the past, but only in the course of his duties, and never for his own benefit. Were Hargrave and Doling right, and there was a poison at White Hall that sapped the goodness out of people?

‘There is an odd sound, sir,’ he said, snapping out of his reverie when he heard it again. ‘It is coming from your other office.’

‘Dogs,’ repeated the Earl. ‘I asked Haddon to leave them at home, but he looked at me as though his world would end, and I did not have the heart to press the matter. Besides, I like dogs.’

Chaloner drew his sword when a low, guttural grunt emanated from the chamber in question. ‘Have you been in there today?’

‘You know I seldom use it in winter — it is too cold.’ The Earl narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this a ploy to prove your value as a bodyguard, in the hope that I will not oust you in favour of Turner?’

‘Leave,’ ordered Chaloner urgently, now certain something was wrong. He took a firmer grip on his sword and started to walk towards the door that linked the two rooms. ‘Take Haddon and Bulteel with you.’

‘How dare you tell me what to do! It is-’

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a bear shambled through it. It wore a muzzle over its grizzled nose, suggesting it was one of the performing beasts that provided Christmas entertainment. It had small, glittering eyes, and when it spotted Chaloner and the Earl, it immediately went up on its hind legs. It was enormous, and made a curious huffing sound, which the spy took to be some sort of warning. He stepped in front of the Earl, shielding him from it.

‘Walk slowly towards the door,’ he said quietly. There was no reply, and he glanced behind him to see the Earl’s mouth hanging open in mute horror. ‘Do not run, or it will-’

But the Earl was not listening. He issued a sharp shriek that made both bear and spy jump in alarm, then turned to flee. The sudden movement secured the animal’s undivided attention, and it dropped to all fours to lumber after him. Chaloner hurled himself at it, so the weight of his body knocked it away from its intended target, but it had moved faster than its shambling gait suggested, and its slashing paw missed the Lord Chancellor by less than the width of a finger. The Earl reached the door and hauled on the handle for all he was worth, but panic made him clumsy and he could not get it open. He wailed in terror as the bear stalked towards him, long claws clicking on the marble floor.

‘Hey!’ shouted Chaloner, scrambling to his feet and prodding it with his sword. The creature whipped around and snarled at him. He regarded it dispassionately, assessing the best spot for a fatal stab. He did not enjoy killing animals, but he was not about to stand by and let one maul his master.

‘Wait!’ A figure tore from the spare office and flung itself between bear and spy. ‘Do not hurt her! I should never have agreed to this — it was a ridiculous idea. Come, Barbara. We are going home.’

‘Barbara?’ echoed Chaloner, watching the man soothe the agitated beast by rubbing its ears. It whined, then strained in the direction of the windows. It wanted to be outside.

‘Named for Lady Castlemaine: strong, beautiful and proud.’ The man slipped a leash through a loop on the muzzle, and led Barbara out of the office, adding under his breath, ‘And a bit bad tempered.’

Chaloner was about to sheath his sword when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He braced himself for more trouble, but the door was thrown open and people began to pour out, all masked against recognition. At their head was a man wearing a golden cloak and a paper crown. The courtiers scampered through the Earl’s domain, shrieking with laughter and congratulating the Lord of Misrule on the success of his prank. The Earl’s fright gave way to rage, and he began to chase them, giving even more cause for amusement, because he was far too fat and slow to catch anyone.

‘You said you had finished tormenting the Earl,’ said Chaloner fiercely, grabbing Brodrick’s arm and swinging him roughly around. ‘And this prank may have seen him harmed.’

‘He was in no danger,’ objected Brodrick, trying to free himself. ‘That is why we brought its owner with us — to control it.’

‘It lashed out with its claws,’ argued Chaloner, furious with him. ‘It has been trained to dance about outside, and being penned up with all those sniggering wastrels frightened it into aggressive behaviour. It was a dangerous trick, one that came close to going badly wrong.’

‘You saved him,’ said Brodrick dismissively. ‘As I knew you would, should matters not go according to plan. Why do you think I waited until you arrived? It was not easy persuading that lot to be patient, and you came much later than I anticipated. Let go of me, man! He is looking this way, and I do not want him unmasking me.’

‘I will unmask you, if you pick on him again,’ vowed Chaloner. ‘You will leave him alone from now on. Do you understand?’

Brodrick’s eyes glittered behind the mask, although the spy could make out nothing more of his expression. Then the Earl’s cousin gave a terse nod, before spinning on his heel and heading for the door. Haddon and Bulteel were in his way, and they stood their ground as he strode towards them. He was obliged to ask them to move, and they did so in their own time, regarding him so coldly that Chaloner suspected the man would not be paying any social calls to his kinsman’s offices for a while.

‘Damn you!’ the Earl cried after him. ‘I am going to complain to the King about this. If Thomas had not been here, I might have been killed.’

‘You had better not dismiss him in favour of Turner, then, sir,’ said Bulteel with a grin that revealed his brown teeth. ‘It would not be right, not after he risked his life to rescue you. Again.’

‘Much as it pains me to agree with the likes of Bulteel, your secretary is right,’ said Haddon. ‘You cannot reward his courage by dispensing with his services.’

‘I shall dismiss whoever I feel like,’ shouted the Earl, incensed that minions should dare tell him what to do. ‘And I stand by my original deadline. It is Sunday today, and Twelfth Night is Tuesday, so Thomas has two days to prove his worth. After that … well, suffice to say I cannot maintain two spies.’

Chaloner began to wish he had let the bear have him.