The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 10

Time was running out for Greene, and for Chaloner, too, and had reached the point where it was necessary to stop chipping at the edges of the investigation and go for the heart. And the spy could think of no better way forward than to corner Greene and demand a list of anyone with whom he had had even the slightest disagreement over the years. He walked to the clerk’s Westminster office, but was told Greene was not expected in that day — he had sent a note informing his colleagues that he planned to work at home.

The spy headed for the river, where he hired a boat to take him to Wapping. It was a miserable trek, with a spiteful wind blowing needles of rain into his face the whole way. They ‘shot’ London Bridge, something that was perilous when the tide was in full flow, but that was uneventful that morning because it was on the turn, and continued east. Chaloner huddled inside his cloak, his mood growing blacker and bleaker when he realised he was as far from solutions now as he had been ten days earlier.

He strode to Greene’s house as fast as he could, partly because he needed answers as a matter of urgency, but also because he was cold and a brisk walk was a good way to warm himself up. He hammered on Greene’s door, but there was no answer, and the building had a peculiarly abandoned feel to it. He wondered if the clerk had had enough of waiting to be arrested, and had finally run away. If he had, then Chaloner did not blame him, although the Earl was going to see it as a sign of guilt.

Glancing around to ensure he was not being watched, he picked the lock and let himself in. Then he began a systematic search, not sure what he was looking for, but determined to be thorough. And if Greene returned and caught him, then so much the better — it might make the clerk understand that he would hang unless he put his mind to identifying the person who was so determined to see him in trouble. The spy finished exploring the ground floor without learning anything useful, and turned to the upper one. He had already searched Langston’s room, so this time he concentrated on Greene’s.

The chamber was almost Spartan in its neatness. It contained a bed, two chests, and a shelf of books. The tomes were almost entirely devotional tracts — with the curious exception of Michel Millot’s L’Ecole des Filles, widely condemned as pornographic, although it was tame by Langston’s standards. Chaloner opened it, and was surprised to see an inscription in the front, written in a flowing hand he recognised as Lady Castlemaine’s. It directed the reader to the particularly juicy sections, although there was no indication that the recommendations were aimed at Greene. Chaloner frowned. Had Greene stolen it? Or was it actually Langston’s, and Greene had borrowed it out of salacious curiosity? There was one explanation he refused to entertain, though: that the Lady had given it to Greene herself. She would simply not waste her time on a lowly official, especially one who was unlikely to please her in the bedchamber. He put it back and resumed his search.

He was about to give up, when he realised that although the curtains were drawn, they did not quite meet in the middle. He stood on a stool and ran his hand along the top of the rail. His groping fingers encountered a small box, no bigger than the length of his hand. He took it down, and opened it to find it full of papers.

The first document he inspected was an oath, and its brownish colour led him to wonder whether it had been written in blood. The language was Latin, and promised the reader that God’s commandments would be followed and a righteous life led. It was signed with Greene’s name, and was so well worn that Chaloner suspected it had been taken out and read a lot. So, he thought, the vow sworn by members of Scobel’s prayer group had included a written declaration, as well as a verbal one. The man had obviously done his utmost to prevent his flock from straying, although, as Doling and Hargrave had said, he had reckoned without the corruptive influence of White Hall.

The remaining papers were lists of various expenditures. Chaloner sat on the bed and studied them carefully, but they seemed to be exactly what they appeared: household accounts for the previous year. He read that purchases of ale, wine, coal, cloth, utensils and barley had been made, and the cost was carefully recorded each week. They were dull and uninteresting, and he could not imagine why Greene should have considered them important enough to hide. He slipped them in his pocket anyway, and was about to leave when he became aware that the bottom of the doorframe was glittering slightly. He crouched down, and saw a tiny hole made by a knot in the wood. Something had been pressed inside it, and it was not many moments before he had prised it out.

It was a ruby ring.

He gazed at it in confusion. Was the Earl right after all, and Greene was the killer? His first reaction was disgust at himself: he was a professional spy, and should not have been deceived like some inexperienced novice. But then questions flooded into his mind, and he forced himself to stop leaping to conclusions and analyse the evidence logically, as Thurloe had trained him to do.

He had inspected the ring only briefly before the train-band had reclaimed it, but he had a good memory, and was fairly sure that the bauble he held now was not the one from the Painted Chamber — it felt lighter and cheaper, and lacked the quality of the other. So, had someone left it to incriminate Greene, because that person knew Chaloner was aware of the ring’s existence and the implications of owning it? Uncomfortably, he wondered whether the Earl had contrived to plant it there, because he was tired of his spy’s unwillingness to accept his point of view.

He swore softly when it occurred to him that he had asked virtually everyone he had met about the ring — not just his suspects, but anyone he thought might recognise it. Ergo, his questions had ensured that a huge number of people knew it was central to his investigation. He had even told Hannah about it. The upshot was that anyone wanting to incriminate Greene would know that hiding a red-stoned ring among the man’s possessions would do the trick.

He continued to stare at it, wishing there was some way it could tell him its story. But gawking was not going to provide him with answers — he needed to find Greene, and fast. He stuffed it in his breast pocket, next to the documents, and headed for Wapping church, recalling its vicar saying that Greene was a regular and punctilious visitor.

‘Greene,’ he said without preamble, when the cleric gave him a wary smile, recognising him from the last time he was there. ‘Where is he?’

‘I wish I knew. He failed to return home last night, and this morning he missed dawn prayers for the first time since the Restoration. I am worried, because there have been some very nasty characters asking after him of late.’ The priest swallowed uneasily when he realised what he had said. ‘Not you, of course-’

‘Turner?’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘A handsome man with an ear-string?’

‘Yes, he was here, but he was all smiles and good manners. I refer to the group of men who look like soldiers. Their commander treated me like dirt, and I do not mind admitting that he terrified me.’

‘Describe him.’

The vicar shuddered. ‘Rough, brutish and bullying. He and his louts asked me question after question, but it was more of an interrogation than a conversation.’

‘What did they want to know?’

‘Details of Greene’s activities, where he kept his valuables, whether he had secret hiding places.’

‘And does he?’ asked Chaloner, to see whether Greene had trusted him enough to mention the little box above the curtains. Or the hole in the doorframe.

‘Not that I know of. We only ever talk about God. Poor Greene! They terrified me into telling them about his daily visits to church, and now he is missing. How could I have blathered about him, when he has been nothing but kind to me? He knows my weakness for brandywine — it is difficult to buy, but he never fails to provide me with a weekly flask. And what do I do? Repay him with betrayal!’

Chaloner was not sure what to think about the brandy-wine. ‘Was there anything about these soldiers that will allow me to identify them?’

‘They wore masks to conceal their faces, but the commander has a scar on his neck. It will not be obvious unless you stand close to him, but it is there.’ The priest regarded Chaloner thoughtfully. ‘Greene tells me you are the only one who believes his innocence, so I shall confide something I managed to keep from those ruffians: he has an understanding with Lady Castlemaine.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You mean he is one of her lovers?’ It did not sound very likely, given that Greene was an unattractive specimen, but with the Lady, anything was possible.

The vicar was horrified. ‘Lord, no! I mean that Langston and Greene worked for her. Secretly. They ran errands, although I have no idea what kind. Greene never said, and I never asked. I would rather not know anything that involves her.’

Chaloner was beginning to see the glimmer of a solution at last: Lady Castlemaine knew Langston from his ribald writing, and he must have introduced Greene to her as a dependable sort. Perhaps she had made Greene a gift of L’Ecole des Filles, or one of his ‘errands’ was to deliver it to someone else. It certainly explained why she had challenged the Earl’s belief that Greene was the killer — it was not just to oppose an enemy, as everyone assumed, but because she did not want to lose a servant. Chaloner recalled the way she had nodded to Greene when their paths had crossed at White Hall, and how he had been puzzled by it, given that she never acknowledged minions. But trustworthy staff were not easy to find, and she must have been keen to retain Greene’s goodwill. And Greene was clearly among the best, because Chaloner had detected no hint of his association with her, despite more than a week of interviewing his closest friends and associates.

The priest had nothing else to add, so Chaloner boarded a skiff and headed back to the city. The boatman was the garrulous sort, who insisted on regaling his fare with a list of men who had drowned in the Thames. The depressing monologue, along with the fact that the wind rocked the little craft in a way that made him seasick, meant Chaloner was relieved to arrive back in the city.

‘There was a corpse washed up just this morning,’ the boatman continued, as the spy rummaged in his purse for coins to pay him. ‘Kersey will keep it in his charnel house, and if no one claims it within a week, it will be buried in St Margaret’s. There are hundreds of drowned men in that churchyard, and they wail whenever there is an especially high tide. I have heard them myself.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner, his mind more on where to find Greene than the dismal stories.

The fellow saw he was not believed, and became indignant. ‘Ask Kersey. He hears them, too. You can see him today, and view the new corpse at the same time. After all, threepence is not much for a bit of light entertainment — less than the price of a night at the theatre, and a lot more memorable.’

‘Who drowned last night?’ asked Chaloner, loath to offend him. He might have to use the fellow’s boat again in the future, and did not want to be ‘accidentally’ tipped in the water.

‘Kersey said it was a clerk,’ replied the boatman, gratified by the interest.

Chaloner regarded him sharply. ‘What was his name?’

‘He did not say — he just mentioned that it was the fifth government official to die since Christmas Day. Dangerous place, Westminster.’

Chaloner could not agree more. He walked briskly along Canning Street, although even the smart pace he set himself did not dispel the cold, unsettled feeling that had seeped deep inside him. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need for the company of a friend, and although he knew he should visit Kersey as a matter of urgency, he stopped at Lincoln’s Inn first.

His search of Greene’s house had taken much longer than he had anticipated, and the daylight was fading as he walked across the yard, heading for Chamber XIII. The journey to Wapping had yielded some clues, but the ring had only served to deepen the mystery, while learning about Greene’s association with Lady Castlemaine was interesting, but would probably not help in identifying the killer. Chaloner felt he had wasted the best part of yet another day, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs he was in a melancholy frame of mind. His spirits plunged further still when Thurloe opened the door to reveal packed chests and sheet-draped furniture.

‘Ah, Tom.’ Thurloe was dressed for travel in heavy cloak, woollen hat and sturdy boots. ‘I am glad you came. I am leaving in a few moments, and did not like to disappear without bidding you farewell.’

Chaloner struggled to mask his dismay. ‘You are going now? But surely, no carriage will venture out onto the King’s highways at night. It would be madness!’

‘Robbers were never a problem in the Commonwealth,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘A military dictatorship knows how to secure safe roads.’

‘Actually, I was thinking about the more immediate danger of floods, broken wheels and getting lost. No self-respecting driver travels a road he cannot see.’

‘I shall sleep at an inn in Aldersgate this evening, and be ready take the coach at first light tomorrow. You are very wet. What have you been doing?’

‘Squandering time on the river,’ replied Chaloner despondently.

Unfortunately, repeating what he had learned did not help him this time. The ex-Spymaster asked several intelligent questions, but was also unable to make any sense of the confusion of facts.

‘And I am afraid I have gleaned nothing of any great use, either,’ he said apologetically. ‘At least, nothing you have not already discovered for yourself. Greene and Langston did work for Lady Castlemaine, although only as agents for organising her various trysts — they were not entrusted with anything politically significant. And I have found no one who admits to owning a ruby ring.’

‘Does this look valuable to you?’ Chaloner passed him the one he had found in Greene’s house.

Thurloe did not take long to assess it. ‘No. In fact, there is a shop that sells dozens just like it in the New Exchange. Your killer would not have hired a train-band to retrieve this bauble, so I can only assume you are right: someone left it in Greene’s house to incriminate him. And the culprit has done a good job — if I were your Earl, I would have issued a warrant for Greene’s arrest days ago.’

‘Then why does he hold back?’

‘I imagine because of you. You have been proven right on a number of occasions, and it is enough to make him stay his hand. Clearly, he trusts your judgement, even if he is unwilling to admit it. However, he is beginning to lose patience with the ponderous pace of your investigation, so you had better find him some answers fast.’

‘It is too late. I am almost certain the drowned clerk in the charnel house will transpire to be Greene, and I cannot see answers appearing by Tuesday.’

He knelt next to the fire, trying to thaw his frozen hands. Was it his fault Greene was dead? Would the clerk still be alive if he had worked harder to find the killer? He sighed, thinking of how much he would miss Thurloe’s calm logic — he knew from previous Oxfordshire expeditions that his friend was unlikely to be back before spring, and was glad he had made his peace with Temperance. At least he would have one friend in the city. Thinking of her reminded him of the man she claimed to love.

‘James Grey,’ he said, looking up at Thurloe. ‘Have you met him?’

‘No. I asked Temperance to bring him to me, but he declined to come — said he could not risk his reputation by drinking ale with ex-Commonwealth spymasters. I suppose I cannot blame him.’

‘She intends to wed him, which surprises me. I thought she was against marriage.’

‘I may be responsible for her change of heart,’ said Thurloe sheepishly. ‘I told her marriage was a blissful state — that I would not be without Ann for the world. If ever I am sad, I just think of her sweet face, and all unhappiness vanishes, like mist in the sun.’

‘Really?’ asked Chaloner. He vaguely remembered feeling that way about his own wife, but they had only been married a year, so he had no way of knowing whether the affection would have lasted.

Thurloe nodded, rather dreamily. ‘However, I am uncommonly blessed, and I hope I have not led Temperance to imagine that all matches are perfect.’

‘Have you investigated him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Ascertained whether he is suitable?’

Thurloe smiled. ‘And what kind of man do you think is “suitable” for a brothel-keeper?’

Chaloner grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’

Thurloe patted his shoulder. ‘I do. But she guessed what I might do, and came to tell me not to — she does not want him thinking she has overly protective friends. I agreed to comply, although not happily. Perhaps you will learn something when you meet him on Twelfth Night eve.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Did you know Margaret Symons is dead? She breathed her last at the exact hour she predicted. Apparently, as soon as she had her premonition, she wrote out a list of tasks for her husband, to keep him occupied during the first few weeks of his bereavement. She was wise, because he is the kind of man to mourn over-deeply.’

‘I am not convinced her death was natural. Surgeon Wiseman said it was impossible to tell whether she had a sharpness of the blood or whether she had been poisoned, although he offered to run some experiments. Regardless, her demise sounds uncannily similar to Scobel’s.’

Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘I am not happy about leaving you here alone. There is plenty of room in the carriage, and I cannot see how this affair will end happily. You say the Earl was on the verge of dismissing you today. Leave him of your own accord, and come with me.’

The prospect of spending time with a happy family, away from the scandals and intrigues of White Hall, was an appealing one. And what did London hold for him, other than a leaking garret, a master who did not like him, and a cat that had started to hunt birds? He supposed there was Hannah — and there was his self-respect. He had never abandoned a case because he was uneasy before, and he did not want to start now. Reluctantly, he shook his head.

He escorted the ex-Spymaster to where a coach was waiting to take him to Aldersgate. But although he was sorry to see Thurloe go, there was also an element of relief. He had not liked the notion of his friend involving himself in the investigation, and now he would be safely away from the city and its myriad dangers. He watched the carriage rattle away, then turned towards Westminster. It was cold, dark, pouring with rain and not a time when most men would pay a visit to a charnel house, but if Kersey had gone home, then Chaloner would just have to break in to see Greene’s body.

The foul weather meant the roads were essentially deserted — even the festivities for the Twelve Days of Christmas could not induce people to leave their warm homes and brave these elements. Chaloner trudged wearily along The Strand, thinking the tattered, wind-torn greenery that bedecked its buildings was more depressing than decorative. A group of beggars had been hired to sing carols outside the New Exchange, but there was no one to hear them, and their voices formed a mournful duet with the desolate sigh of the wind.

He reached Westminster, and left the relatively well-lit Old Palace Yard to head for the darker streets near the river, where the mortuary was located. He thought about Greene. Had the clerk been drowned by the same person who had put the ring in his house? Did the killer hope Greene’s death would mark the end of the matter — that it would be assumed he had committed suicide, sick with remorse for his crimes? The more Chaloner thought about the callous campaign waged against the hapless clerk, the more he became determined that the killer would not get away with it.

He was so engrossed in his ruminations that he almost missed the shadow that flitted towards the wharf where Jones had died. Snapping into a state of high alert, he followed.

He reached the alley’s entrance and peered down it. The blackness was impenetrable, and totally silent. However, it was not silent behind him, and he whipped around when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a shoe scraping on cobbles, drawing his sword as he did so. He was only just in time. Two men were bearing down on him, blades at the ready. He parried their attack, but then became aware of footsteps coming from the alley, too. Two more soldiers were emerging from the darkness, aiming to trap him in a pincer-like movement. Their confid ent manoeuvres told him they were members of the train-band. Again.

‘What do you want?’ he demanded, backing against a wall so they could not outflank him.

‘You should have gone to Oxfordshire.’ Chaloner recognised the voice of the leader from the last time they had met. ‘It is a pity you stayed.’

The spy’s stomach lurched at the notion that they knew Thurloe. ‘Who are you?’

‘You think Greene killed those officials,’ the leader went on. ‘You have been listening to the Lord Chancellor and that idiot Turner, and you let them convince you. You are a fool!’

Chaloner’s thoughts reeled in confusion. ‘How did you-’

‘Our orders were to kill him, not engage him in conversation,’ muttered a soldier who was bigger than the others. ‘You are too fond of your own tongue, Payne.’

Payne was clearly irked by the reprimand, but was too professional to start an argument when there was work to be done. He nodded to his comrades, who began to advance. Chaloner was heavily outnumbered, but was not about to go down without a fight. He launched himself at Payne, taking the man off-guard with the ferocity of his attack. Even so, Payne managed a thrust that punched a hole through his coat, although the wad of documents he had taken from Greene saved him from injury.

Then the big man was on him. Chaloner fended him off, then attacked Payne again. Backing away fast, Payne missed his footing, and stumbled into his larger colleague, so they both fell. And suddenly, there was no one between Chaloner and the road leading to Old Palace Yard. If he reached it, he might yet escape, because he did not think the train-band would kill him in front of witnesses — and there was always someone about in Westminster’s busiest square, even on a dark, filthy night like this one.

He began to sprint towards it. Payne released an angry yell and started to follow, his comrades streaming at his heels. Chaloner did not look around, but powered on, dropping his sword because holding it was losing him speed. Ahead, he could see that some kind of function had just ended in Parliament House, and carriages were converging there to take the participants home. Chaloner tore towards them. He gained the edge of Old Palace Yard, and heard several of the soldiers skid to a hasty standstill, clearly loath to enter such a well-lit area.

Unfortunately, no such reservations hampered Payne. He ran harder, single-mindedly determined that his quarry should not escape a third time. By contrast, Chaloner’s leg was starting to hurt, and it was slowing him down. Payne was gaining on him, and he knew it would only be a matter of moments before he was caught — and he had thrown away his sword, so would be unable to defend himself. Payne would strike him down the moment he was in range, then disappear into the night.

He was vaguely aware of a coach bearing down on him, travelling far too fast. The driver gave a warning yell when he saw Chaloner, and the spy only just managed to jig to one side, narrowly avoiding the thundering hoofs. Lightning quick, he reached up to grab the door-handle as the carriage hurtled past. The manoeuvre almost ripped his arm from its socket, and for one agonising moment, he thought he was going to be dragged under the wheels. But he managed to gain a toehold on one of the coach’s steps, and then he was being carried along as the vehicle charged towards St Margaret’s Street.

The driver did not see what had happened, but the coach’s occupant had heard the thump of someone landing on his private conveyance. Outraged, he stuck his head through the window to see what was going on. It was Brodrick. His eyes widened in astonishment when he saw Chaloner, and they widened even more when Payne leapt up beside the spy and tried to stab him.

It was not easy clinging to a speeding carriage with one hand while trying to defend himself against a flailing dagger with the other, and Chaloner was struggling to hold his own. But with unexpected aplomb, the Earl’s cousin produced a sword and poked Payne in the shoulder. More startled than hurt, Payne dropped away, hitting the ground and rolling several times. Amazingly, he staggered to his feet and tried to give chase, but managed only a few faltering steps before collapsing. Chaloner saw his comrades surround him quickly, and bundle him down a quiet lane, away from curious eyes. Relief slackened the spy’s grip on the door, but Brodrick grabbed him before he fell, and supported him until they had cleared Westminster and were cantering along King Street. Only then did he shout to the driver to stop.

‘You lead an exciting life,’ he said drily, watching the spy climb to the ground. ‘Fighting bears, tackling mobs, indulging in reckless chases. What next? Seducing Lady Castlemaine?’

‘I am not that brave,’ said Chaloner, brushing himself down and feigning nonchalance. The truth was that his heart was pounding and his legs were wobbly.

‘May I offer you a ride somewhere? To Hercules’ Pillars Alley, perhaps? Or would you prefer the more tender ministrations of Hannah Cotton?’

‘Thank you for your help,’ said Chaloner sincerely. ‘I am in your debt.’

‘Really?’ Brodrick looked sly. ‘Then how about saying nothing to my cousin about my involvement in the bear incident? You were right this morning — it was a stupid thing to have done.’

‘So why did you do it?’

Brodrick looked pained. ‘The bear was supposed to wander into his office and eat some nuts we had left it. The damned thing was not supposed to start swiping about with its claws. I knew I should not have accepted the Lady’s advice for a jape. Well? Will you be discreet about my role in the affair? You owe me something for saving your life.’

Chaloner gave his promise, then watched the carriage rattle away. When he turned, he saw two members of the train-band running towards him. He melted into the shadows, and when the soldiers arrived moments later, he was nowhere to be found.

The next day was so foggy that when Chaloner opened the door of Hannah’s house, he could not see the opposite side of the street. It made London dangerous, because hackneys still raced along at a furious lick, hoping the clatter of their wheels and the occasional yell would be enough to warn pedestrians of their approach. Those on horseback were almost as bad, and Chaloner only just managed to haul Hannah out of the path of one pack of snorting stallions. It was Buckingham, Chiffinch and their cronies, riding home after a night of debauchery at Temperance’s club.

‘Buckingham is such a scamp,’ said Hannah indulgently, as the cavalcade galloped on. ‘London would be so dull without him. Speaking of fun, you have not forgotten that we are to dine with Sir Nicholas Gold this evening, have you?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner. He brightened at the prospect. ‘You said there would be music.’

‘And food,’ added Hannah wryly. ‘And perhaps even conversation. What will you do today?’

‘Why do you ask?’ he said, before he could stop himself.

She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Because you listened to me for hours last night — virtually my entire life story — and it is only right that I reciprocate by enquiring after you in return.’

‘Visit the charnel house, to view Greene’s body.’ Chaloner had not felt up to breaking into Kersey’s domain and inspecting corpses after his encounter with the train-band the previous evening. He had not really felt up to listening to Hannah, either, but had forced himself to pay attention. When she had finally gone to sleep, he had been restless and uneasy. Questions whirled about in his mind, and he had spent most of the night sitting by the window, staring into the street as he tried to reason some sense into all he had learned. Dawn had found him tired, haggard and frustrated by the lack of answers.

Hannah heard the unhappiness in his voice. ‘It is not your fault he is dead, Tom. You tried to prove him innocent. But people — including Greene himself — were not honest with you, so how could you be expected to solve the mystery under those circumstances?’

‘Would you mind telling my Earl that? Of course, it does not explain why I have neglected to locate the stolen statue, as he is sure to point out.’

‘Then he is a fool,’ she declared. ‘You have done your best, and he has no right to expect more. What will you do after you have stared at Greene, and blamed yourself for the fact that he is dead?’

‘Speak to his colleagues and show them a ring I found. Visit John’s Coffee House, to ask its owner about the prayer meetings that take place there. Return to the wharf where the train-band seems to lurk — I need to learn more about them if I am to survive our next encounter.’

Hannah regarded him uneasily. ‘What next encounter? Surely, it is better to stay away from them?’

‘That may not be possible — I did not exactly seek them out yesterday. And I cannot avoid them if they are involved in the clerk murders — at least, not today. It will not matter tomorrow, because the Earl’s deadline will have passed, and I will either be victorious or dismissed.’

‘Then why not go to the Queen, and tell her you will look into her missing money? It would be a lot safer than risking your life for a man who keeps threatening you with unemployment.’

‘I wish I could — she is worth ten of him — but her loss is one of embezzlement, and the only way to find out who cheated her is to comb through dozens of palace accounts.’

‘Then comb.’

‘I cannot, I am not qualified. Only someone with accounting experience will catch the culprit.’

Hannah looked as if she did not believe him, but he did not know what more he could say to convince her. They parted at the Court Gate, where he decided to visit John’s Coffee House first, hoping to catch the proprietor before his establishment became busy. Greene could wait — he was not going anywhere, and Chaloner was not sure what he could accomplish by looking at a corpse anyway.

‘What news?’ the coffee-house owner called, as the spy walked in. John Ravernet did not look up from his perusal of The Intelligencer, and the greeting was automatic rather than a genuine request for information. As Chaloner had hoped, the place was virtually empty, and the only customer was a morose-looking fellow with a wart between his eyes.

‘A body was washed up near Westminster yesterday,’ replied Chaloner.

‘That is not news,’ said the customer disdainfully. ‘That is an everyday occurrence.’

‘Not in this case,’ argued Ravernet, folding the news-book and going to give his roasting coffee beans a stir. ‘Because word is that the corpse was yet another of the King’s clerks. It seems to be a bad time for them, because not only were three hapless souls poisoned, but poor Jones drowned last week, too. Unfortunately, no one is quite sure how it happened.’

‘And no one is asking, either,’ said the customer, fixing him with a meaningful look. ‘Jones was a high-ranking official, and he ended up in the Thames, but no one is curious to learn why. And after three of his colleagues were murdered, you would think someone would be looking into the matter. But no one is, not even Spymaster Williamson.’

‘You see conspiracy everywhere, Hawley,’ said Ravernet. ‘However, in this instance, you are right. No one is investigating, which means someone is glad he is dead. Someone important.’

With a start, Chaloner realised it was true, and wondered why it had not occurred to him before. Other than the ghoulish curiosity common to all violent deaths, no one had asked why Jones had drowned, not even his colleagues from the prayer meetings. Of course, it had worked to Chaloner’s advantage, because an investigation might have uncovered the fact that he had followed Swaddell and Jones down the alley, and he could imagine what Williamson would make of that small fact. Had Jones’s death gone unremarked because the Spymaster’s men were too busy hunting the statue? Or was there a more sinister reason — which seemed eminently likely, given that Jones had been loaded down with stolen gold when he had died?

‘Mr Greene recommended your coffee house to me,’ he said, intending to lead the discussion around to the gatherings. He could not afford to waste time on Jones when he had only one day left to solve the murders of Chetwynd, Vine and Langston. ‘And so did Sir Nicholas Gold.’

Ravernet looked pleased. ‘They have been loyal customers for years. They used to meet at Scobel’s home, but when he died, they elected to come here instead. They are an amiable crowd.’

‘But sadly depleted by death,’ said Hawley. ‘Jones was the fourth of their number to perish. Now there is only a handful left: Greene, Tryan, Hargrave, that angel-faced Neale. Swaddell comes in disguise, but we all know he is the Spymaster’s assassin. Colonel Turner attends the odd meeting these days, too.’

‘And do not forget Reeve,’ added Ravernet. ‘He never misses.’

‘I do not know him,’ said Chaloner.

‘Neither do we,’ said Hawley ruefully, ‘although I have done my best to penetrate his cover — I like a challenge. Personally, I think he is a woman, because of the slight mince he has when he walks. And his beard is patently false.’

Chaloner stared at him. Could ‘Reeve’ be Bess Gold? Was she sufficiently clever to carry off a convincing disguise? Or was it Margaret Symons, whom Doling said was heartbroken to be excluded from the meetings by virtue of her sex? But that was not possible: Margaret had been at home dying when Chaloner had seen Reeve with his companions. Or was it Lady Castlemaine, determined to secure herself a prosperous future by spending the occasional hour with devout men? Mrs Vine could not be forgotten, either. She had, after all, been suspiciously vehement in her denials that her husband had owned a ruby ring, and the spy did not trust her or her testimony.

‘They used to pray a lot,’ Ravernet was saying. ‘But they are just like any other group of friends these days. They talk about the news and the weather, and Symons is the only one who tries to impose religion on them. They oblige, but with increasing reluctance.’

‘Then perhaps they should have listened to him,’ suggested Hawley soberly. ‘Because if they had, God might have watched over them, and four of their number might not be dead.’

Unwilling to spend the day without a sword, Chaloner borrowed one from his landlord, who had a large collection. None were very good, because Ellis was in the habit of using them as tools to effect repairs around the home, but they were better than nothing. Chaloner picked one, then set off towards Westminster, knowing he could postpone inspecting Greene’s body no longer. He was just crossing New Palace Yard, alert for any sign of the train-band, when he met Haddon. The steward looked out of sorts, and his usually kindly face was angry and flustered.

‘Bulteel fed pepper cake to my dogs,’ he explained bitterly, as their paths converged. ‘The poor darlings do not know what to do with themselves for the pain. How could he do such a cruel thing?’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. ‘His wife’s cakes are usually-’

‘Brodrick commissioned it, to feed to Lady Muskerry as a joke,’ interrupted Haddon. ‘And some was left over. A man who harms a dog is a low creature, as I told Bulteel to his face. Perhaps I should work to see him ousted, since he believes I am doing it anyway. Hateful fellow!’

‘I am sure he did not mean to hurt them,’ said Chaloner, although he was not sure at all. Bulteel, like Chaloner himself, was not very keen on the yappy little lapdogs. Nonetheless, he hoped they would recover from their ordeal, because Haddon would be devastated if one died.

Haddon shot him a look that said he knew better. ‘They are resting by the Earl’s fire at the moment. He has been very kind.’ Tears sparkled in his eyes briefly, and he brushed them away, embarrassed.

‘Where are you going now?’ asked Chaloner curiously. They were walking towards the charnel house, which seemed an odd destination for the steward.

‘The Earl wants me to view the corpse that was found yesterday, given that you have not been in to tell him about it. He tried to send Bulteel, but the villain fabricated some sly excuse to get himself exempted.’

‘Turner could not oblige?’

‘He has been ordered to concentrate on the stolen statue now he has solved the murders to the Earl’s satisfaction. So, which clerk do you think lies in Kersey’s horrible mortuary? It would be good to be able to brace myself. I am not very good with corpses — they make me feel queasy.’

‘Greene has been missing since Saturday night.’

Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure? Only I saw him on Saturday night myself, here in Westminster. He was working — or so he told me when I asked him what he was doing out so late.’

‘When we last spoke about him, you said you thought he was innocent. Do you still believe that?’

Haddon took a moment to reply. ‘Turner has amassed a lot of evidence that says he is guilty, but Greene has always seemed a decent sort to me. It is hard to see him as a ruthless slaughterer.’

But Chaloner knew the most unlikely of people were capable of doing terrible things, and being a ‘decent sort’ meant nothing, as far as he was concerned. He followed the steward inside the mortuary, where Kersey bustled forward to greet them, holding out his hand for the requis ite fee. The charnel-house keeper was clad in a set of brand new clothes, and was smoking a pipe.

‘People are very interested in these clerk-killings,’ he said gleefully, counting the coins carefully before adding them to his bulging purse. ‘Will there be many more, do you think?’

‘Perhaps he is the killer,’ murmured Haddon to Chaloner in distaste. ‘He is the one who is benefitting from the deaths — they are making him a fortune!’

Kersey’s domain was crowded. The only poison victim to have been buried was Vine, hastily shoved in the ground before Wiseman could ignore his family’s wishes and dissect him anyway. The others remained in Kersey’s tender care. Chetwynd lay between Jones and Langston, and the charnel-house keeper said there had been three stabbings that week, too. Before Chaloner or Haddon could stop him — neither wanted to view more corpses than necessary — he had whisked away some sheets, to reveal two men and a woman. The shapes of the wounds were more indicative of swords than daggers, and Chaloner recalled Wiseman’s claim that the trio had asked questions about the train-band.

Then Kersey whipped the cover off his most recent acquisition. But it was not the gloomy clerk who lay naked on the table.

Haddon turned accusingly to Chaloner. ‘You led me to believe it would be Greene!’

‘I thought it was,’ said Chaloner, equally astonished. ‘I do not understand!’

Kersey puffed contentedly on his pipe. ‘You are obviously looking for intrigue, because so many government clerks have died of late. But the simple fact is that people sometimes just fall in the river and drown. Perhaps this is one of those occasions.’

‘So, who is this man?’ asked Haddon tiredly.

‘Matthias Lea,’ replied Chaloner, staring down at the body. ‘One of Chetwynd’s heirs.’

‘His brother was missing a kinsman,’ elaborated Kersey. ‘And he came to look when he heard I had charge of an unidentified cadaver. He was very upset when he discovered it was indeed Matthias.’

While Kersey described in ghastly detail how most drowned men were bloated beyond recognition if the Thames did not give them up immediately, Chaloner stared at Jones’s massive bulk, thinking about Ravernet and Hawley’s contention that no one had bothered to investigate his death.

‘How many people have been to see him?’ he asked, cutting across the grisly exposition and nodding towards Jones. Haddon, who had been listening with increasing horror, breathed his relief.

‘Lots,’ replied the charnel-house keeper smugly. ‘He has been popular because of his mighty girth. We do not get such vast specimens in very often, and he is impressive.’

‘Has anyone asked any questions about him?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Other than about his size.’

Kersey shook his head, then grinned. ‘His kin said I could keep his clothes, and I am thinking of creating a display out of some of the more unusual items I have collected through the years. His massive drawers will provide the centrepiece. People will pay handsomely to see them.’

Haddon put his hand over his mouth, and his face was so pale, that Chaloner took his arm and led him outside, afraid he might faint. When he had recovered, they began to walk towards White Hall together, and were almost there when they met Wiseman. In a rather piercing whisper, the surgeon confided that Lady Castlemaine had strained a groin muscle during the night. Neither Chaloner nor Haddon cared to ask how, but Wiseman was ready with the information anyway.

‘She was following a special exercise regime devised by me. If she pursues it diligently, she will develop limbs a man will die for.’

‘She already has those,’ said Haddon, rather wistfully. ‘Of course, they are nothing compared to those of my dogs, whose legs are an example of God’s perfection.’

‘Did you hear about Matthias Lea?’ asked Wiseman, regarding the steward dubiously before changing the subject. ‘Yet another government official gone. Perhaps we should defect to another employer while we are still alive.’

‘Defection is a young man’s game, and I am past sixty,’ said Haddon, taking him seriously, although Chaloner suspected Wiseman was just being flippant. ‘However, I take sensible precautions — I try to stay in at night, I have not touched wine since Chetwynd was killed, and my sweethearts bark at any uninvited visitors to my home. Of course, if they are sick from pepper cake, they may not be as vigilant as usual.’

He went to report to the Earl, walking rather more slowly than was his wont; Chaloner was not sure whether the mistreatment of his pets or the sights in the charnel house had distressed him more.

‘Did Kersey tell you Matthias had drowned?’ asked Wiseman, when the steward had gone.

Chaloner nodded grimly, recalling the beginnings of the vivid lecture.

‘Then he has made an erroneous assumption,’ asserted Wiseman pompously. ‘Just because a corpse is found in the river, does not mean it perished there.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Matthias was thrown in the water after he died?’

‘Yes, because the cause of his death was poison, not drowning,’ announced Wiseman, relishing Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The blisters in his mouth indicate he swallowed a corrosive substance.’

‘The same corrosive substance that killed the other three?’

‘I cannot say with certainty, but my informed guess would be yes.’

‘Do you have any idea when he might have died?’

‘He was last seen alive on Saturday, at about nine o’clock in the evening, and his body was found yesterday morning — Sunday — just before dawn. Obviously, he died between those two times.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. He saw Wiseman regarding him quizzically and hastened to explain. ‘The cellarer said Greene asked for brandywine on Saturday night. It was refused, but a flask was later found missing.’

‘And now we have Matthias dead of poison, which we know has been delivered in brandywine in the past,’ mused Wiseman. ‘As a scientific man, I find the evidence against Greene compelling.’

Chaloner was not sure what to think, but the nagging worry that he might have made a terrible mistake had returned. He had known from the start that Greene could have slipped out of the back door of his house to go and kill Vine, while Lady Castlemaine had good reason to lie about the timing of her last sighting of Langston.

So, where was Greene? Chaloner had been so certain he was dead, that he had given no consideration to where the clerk might have gone. Or was this the line of reasoning the real killer hoped people would take — to wrap the noose even more tightly around an innocent man’s neck?

‘Has anyone asked you about Jones’s death?’ Chaloner asked the surgeon, wanting to think about something else. ‘Or about the gold we found?’

‘No. I have been listening out for rumours relating to his hoard, but there has not been so much as a whisper. It is all very mysterious.’

‘His gold must have come from the thefts he committed, which explains why he chose to carry it on his person. After all, he could hardly invest it with Backwell’s Bank — they are its rightful owners!’

‘I do not believe the tale that has Jones responsible for what happened at Backwell’s,’ began Wiseman dismissively. ‘It is-’ But then he stopped speaking abruptly. His jaw dropped, and he looked staggered. ‘Jones and I discussed that particular incident. He … Oh, Lord! Now it makes sense!’

‘What makes sense?’

‘He said Backwell’s had only themselves to blame, because they had not locked up their wares properly before closing shop for the night. I asked him how he knew, and he winked at me.’

It was not far from the charnel house to the building the Leas had inherited from their murdered kinsman Chetwynd. When Chaloner arrived, he found the surviving brother being visited by Gold and Bess. Gold was doing his best to comfort the bereaved man, but Bess was standing in the window, happily waving at people who passed by outside. She wore a new hat — a red creation, with even more feathers in it than the one that had been damaged the previous day. She waved to Neale, who immediately decided that he should come in and console Lea, too.

‘I will kill him!’ Lea wept, while Gold patted his hand. ‘Whoever pushed Matthias in the river is a dead man. I will hunt him down and strangle him with my bare hands. How could he?’

‘Pushed him in the river?’ echoed Neale. He did not look so cherubic that morning, with bloodshot eyes, a pale complexion and a trail of dried vomit down the front of his coat.

‘Yes, pushed,’ howled Lea. ‘Matthias would never have gone near the Thames on his own, so some vile beast led him there and murdered him. It is someone here!’

‘You mean one of us?’ asked Neale, gazing around the room in confusion. Gold cocked his head, straining to hear. ‘Bess, Gold, the Lord Chancellor’s man or me?’

‘I mean someone at White Hall or Westminster.’ Tears gushed down Lea’s face. ‘There is slaughter everywhere these days. It is like a disease.’ The last part was de livered in a shriek that hurt the ears.

‘White Hall is full of disease,’ agreed Gold, entering the conversation with some relief. He had not liked being excluded. ‘It is being spread by Lady Muskerry, apparently. Wiseman says she has an advanced case of the pox, so I stopped sleeping with her immediately.’

Chaloner blinked, but his astonishment was not nearly as great as that of Bess. She gaped at her husband, and her eyes were suddenly full of flashing emotion. It was the first expression approaching intelligence the spy had ever seen in her, and the transformation was chilling. It was quickly masked, though, and the ovine blankness came down like a steel trap. He recalled Hawley’s theory — that Reeve the corn-chandler might be a woman. Could Bess be a contender?

‘Well,’ drawled Neale, smirking at her. ‘This puts a different complexion on matters, does it not?’

‘Do you know anyone who wanted to harm Matthias?’ asked Chaloner of Lea, interrupting before the conversation could range too far along that road.

‘Doling and Symons were always jealous that we kept our jobs while they lost theirs,’ wailed Lea. ‘Doling went around telling people that we were corrupt, although we never left any evidence of …’ He stopped when he realised what he was saying.

‘Matthias was not abrupt,’ said Gold kindly. ‘He was very patient, especially with old ladies.’

Lea began to sob at the compassion in his voice, and Chaloner saw he was going to have no sense from the man while he was distraught — or when Gold was there to lead the discussion astray. He took his leave when Bess asked her husband whether Lady Muskerry snored. Gold did not hear, but Neale’s expression was predatory, and Chaloner suspected the young man would have her between the sheets before the day was out. He wondered whether it would be before or after the soirée Gold had planned for that evening.

His mind was full of questions as he headed towards White Hall. It was not so full that he failed to notice Williamson bearing down on him, however. This time, though, there was nowhere to hide, and he was not inclined to run. He braced himself as the Spymaster came closer, not liking the dangerous expression on his face. Williamson raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

‘Do not confuse me with the rough villains with whom you usually consort,’ he said coldly, while Chaloner thought he would never insult a rough villain by mistaking him for Williamson. ‘Have you done as I ordered, and located Swaddell?’

‘He was at John’s Coffee House last week, in disguise and infiltrating one of the meetings you told me about. I suggested he make contact with you, although it looks as though he has not bothered.’

Williamson stepped back, startled. ‘He is alive? I was certain you had murdered him.’

‘Why would I do that? I barely know him.’

Williamson sneered. ‘Because you think it will damage me, and we are not exactly friends. Incidentally, I hear Turner has proved Greene is the clerk-killer. What will you do now? Your Earl will not keep you on his payroll when Turner is your superior in every way.’

‘Not every way,’ said Chaloner, recalling the colonel’s pitiful performance when threatened with the Lord of Misrule and his mob. ‘Have you found the King’s statue yet?’

‘No, but I will provide him with what he wants, even if it means sending to Bernini for a replacement. How much do you think it will cost?’

‘The last one was exchanged for a diamond ring worth a thousand pounds. But I understand Bernini prefers rubies. Do you happen to have one?’

Williamson regarded him oddly. ‘I shall rummage in my jewellery box, and see what I can find.’

Chaloner was still pondering what he might have meant by the enigmatic reply — if anything — when he met Turner, swaggering along King Street as if he owned it. Women called greetings to him as they passed, and he acknowledged every one of them by name. The lowest street-trader was treated to the same merry charm as the highest duchess, and Chaloner realised that Turner was just a man who adored women. Age, shape and economic status was immaterial to him, and only the toothless could expect to be shunned.

Turner grinned as he approached the spy, brandishing something provocatively. It was a locket. ‘You owe me ten shillings! You said I could not persuade Belle to part with it, yet here it is.’

‘You also said I was free to ask her whether she had handed it to you willingly.’

Turner looked hurt. ‘You think I would try to cheat you?’

Chaloner smiled. ‘I am sure of it.’

Turner laughed. ‘Belle will tell you the truth. Give me the ten shillings — unless you think me such a liar that you do not trust my word?’

Chaloner supposed Turner was unlikely to fabricate tales knowing they were likely to be verified. He handed over the coins. ‘I hear you have gathered enough evidence to arrest Greene.’

Turner’s jovial expression faded, and he began to count facts on his fingers. ‘He begged brandywine on the nights Chetwynd and Vine were murdered. He was actually found with one victim, and I am unconvinced by his tale of borrowing ink. He had a secret life in that he was an errand-boy for Lady Castlemaine — and God alone knows what she asked him to do. And if all that is not enough, I have learned that he argued with Matthias Lea, just hours before the fellow was found dead.’

‘He was seen? By whom?’

‘By His Portliness. Bulteel was with him, so it is not a figment of the old goat’s imagination.’

‘Do you think Greene killed Matthias?’

‘Matthias was not poisoned, as far as I know, but perhaps the river was to hand, so Greene just pushed him in. However, I am still uncomfortable with the whole business — I do not like the notion that my evidence will send a man to the gallows, whether he is guilty or not. It sounds womanish, but there is something about hanging that turns my stomach. You probably do not understand.’

Chaloner understood only too well, because he felt the same way about prisons, and did not know what he would do if his spying ever saw him incarcerated again. ‘I thought Greene was dead — that the drowned clerk was him, not Matthias. He has been missing for the right amount of time.’

‘Of course he has,’ said Turner bitterly. ‘He killed Matthias, then decided he had better flee before the Earl decided he has stayed his hand long enough. Perhaps we should have put him behind bars when His Portliness first suggested it. Then Vine, Langston and Matthias would still be alive.’

Chaloner was finally beginning to accept that he might be right.

The atmosphere was strained when Chaloner arrived at the Earl’s offices. Bulteel was working in his antechamber, and had pinned a notice on his door saying dogs were not welcome. Haddon was sitting in the hallway, writing out a list of guests for the Earl’s next soirée. There was no sign of his pets, and although Chaloner did not ask, he was told they were at home, recovering. Haddon shot a reproachful glare in the secretary’s direction as he spoke, which Bulteel pointedly ignored. Before he could be drawn into the spat, Chaloner knocked on the Earl’s door and entered his domain.

‘I saw Greene bickering viciously with Matthias just hours before his body was found in the river,’ said the Earl when he saw his spy. ‘And now Greene is nowhere to be found. Of course, you and Turner have discovered some very nasty truths about his victims — they were not the good men they would have us believe.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were not the only ones with dubious secrets, either — the Lea brothers probably acted as scribes, producing copies of Langston’s indecent plays.’

‘Really?’ The Earl’s voice dripped disapproval. ‘I did not know that. My objection to Matthias lies in another direction. He said he was loyal to the new government when we reappointed him at the Restoration, and swore all manner of oaths to “prove” it. But he was a liar.’

‘You mean he was a traitor, plotting rebellion?’ It did not seem very likely — treachery took hard work and sacrifice, and the Leas were far too selfish for either.

‘Williamson has learned that they accepted large sums of money to write seditious pamphlets. I am sure they do not applaud the sentiments themselves — they are too worldly to hold with anything that might be construed as principle — but they accepted money for their literary talents. Such as they are. Still, at least Matthias did not pretend to be saintly, like the other three.’

‘There is a witness who believes Greene stole brandy-wine on the night Matthias died,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Just as he did on the nights Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were poisoned. You were right all along.’

‘And yet I still detect a note of hesitation,’ said the Earl curiously. ‘Why? Is it because you cannot believe you might have made a mistake? I had not taken you for that sort of fellow. You are stubborn, but I did not think you were a sulker.’

The truth was that Chaloner could not rid himself of the nagging notion that someone was framing Greene. But trying to explain his concerns would be a waste of time, so he handed the Earl the ring he had found. His master had a good eye for jewellery, and might well have noticed Greene — or someone else — wearing it. ‘Have you seen this before?’

‘No, but it is a woman’s ring — it would be too small for a man. Why? Is it something to do with the murders? Or a clue in the mystery of the missing statue?’

‘I am not sure.’ Chaloner passed him the documents. ‘I also found these hidden in Greene’s house. They mean nothing to me, but you may understand their significance.’

The Earl’s eyebrows shot up when he saw the damage they had suffered during the encounter with the train-band: Payne’s sword had punched a hole almost all the way through them. ‘I shall not ask what you did to acquire these — what I do not know cannot plague my conscience. I will review them later, after I have seen the King about this visit of the French ambassador. What will you do now?’

‘Try to find Greene.’

‘You will be wasting your time: he will be in Holland by now. So, you had better concentrate on locating the statue, because I meant what I said — you only have until tomorrow to prove yourself.’

Haddon had gone when Chaloner left the Earl, so the spy took the opportunity to speak to Bulteel alone. Hannah and Temperance had told him to refuse the invitation to be godfather, while the Earl had recommended that he accept. He wished he had asked Thurloe, the one person whose opinion he truly respected. But Thurloe was gone, so he would have to make up his own mind. Bulteel’s face fell when Chaloner told him of his decision.

‘So, I have no idea how to find the King’s statue,’ the spy concluded tiredly. ‘The Earl will dismiss me, and your son deserves someone who at least has a job. I am sorry.’

‘You are giving up?’ demanded Bulteel. ‘Why? You still have twenty-four hours left, and you are not a man to be deterred by insurmountable odds. And do not forget Jones’s gold, either. Retrieving that for Backwell’s Bank must count for something — they may give you a reward, and you can share it with the Earl. He likes money.’

‘Bribery?’ asked Chaloner mildly. ‘I thought you were above that.’

‘I am above it — I was thinking it was something you could do. I refuse to see Turner win this race when he has done nothing to deserve it. Besides, there are a lot of questions raised by saying Greene is the killer — such as the fact that he had alibis for Vine and Langston. And why would he run away now? It makes no sense.’

‘Because he killed Matthias, and knew it was one victim too many.’

‘Rubbish!’ declared Bulteel with uncharacteristic force. He changed tack. ‘What about Jones, then? No one seems to care that he should die in the same week as the other three, whereas I think it is extremely odd. Look into his death, Tom. I am sure you will find something amiss.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘You seem very determined that I should succeed.’

‘I am determined,’ said Bulteel vehemently. ‘But even if you fail, I still want you to be godfather to my baby. You are my friend, and that is more important than anything else.’

Chaloner continued to stare. He liked Bulteel, and liked even more the notion of being part of a family again. And while he might not be able to help with money or influence, he could teach the boy Latin, Greek and French — and other languages, too, if he had an aptitude. He could also show him how to fight, ride and play musical instruments.

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘As long as you are sure.’

Bulteel’s thin face broke into a broad grin. ‘Really? And will you come to dine on Twelfth Night?’

Chaloner nodded.

Bulteel clasped his hand. ‘Then go out and show that arrogant Turner what real investigations are all about. Solve the riddle of Jones’s death. Meanwhile, I shall double my efforts to locate the bust. We make a formidable team, you and I — sly thieves and wicked murderers cannot pull the wool over our eyes.’