The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 11

The fog had almost completely dissipated by the time Chaloner headed for Westminster, with only the occasional wisp lingering near the river. A bitter wind sliced in from the north, though, and he wondered whether there would be snow. It felt cold enough, and the clouds that hung overhead were a dirty yellow-grey, which he was sure could not be entirely attributed to London’s soot.

As he walked, he did what Bulteel had suggested, and turned his thoughts to Jones. The train-band had contributed to the fat man’s death by failing to pull him from the water when he was drowning, and by shooting at him with crossbows. Chaloner decided they would face justice for what they had done, regardless of the fact that Jones was a criminal himself.

The soldiers seemed to have some association with the alley that led to the pier, so it was high time the area was subjected to a proper search. He would look for evidence that would prove they were killers — not just of Jones, but of the two men and the woman who had been stabbed, too — so it could be passed to the appropriate authorities. And then he would present Jones’s gold to the Earl, and let him take the credit — and the reward — for returning it to the bank. Bulteel was right: it might be enough to earn him a reprieve.

The towering buildings on either side rendered the alley dark and gloomy, even in broad daylight. They formed a solid brick slit, with no windows or doors to break the monotony. Near the middle, the lane curved to the left, and a slight bulge there made him wonder whether a gate might be concealed among the shadows. It would make sense: the soldiers had to have come from somewhere. However, he suspected going to inspect it would be tantamount to suicide — the train-band clearly went to great lengths to ensure no one knew anything about them.

As he pondered what to do, a wagon trundled out, piled high with coal, and he heard someone shout that the barge was almost empty — one more load should see the job finished. Another cart stood nearby, and he guessed it was the one designated to transport the last of the cargo. He hopped into the back, burrowing beneath a tarpaulin; it stank of wet, mouldy canvas, and he was aware of an oily black grit staining his clothes.

It was not many moments before a driver arrived, clicking at his horse to indicate it was to trot down the alley. There was a long metal hook near Chaloner’s foot, used for freeing the tarpaulin when it became snagged under cargo, and he grabbed it as a plan began to form in his mind. He watched the left side of the alley intently, until he saw what he had suspected: there was a door in the shadows. It was virtually invisible, because it was flush with the wall and had been painted to look like the surrounding bricks. It would certainly go unnoticed by anyone who was not looking for it.

He jammed the hook into the moving wheel. Immediately, there was a screech of tortured metal, which made the driver haul on the reins to bring the cart to a hasty standstill. Swearing under his breath, the man jumped down and came to inspect the damage.

‘The hook is mangled in the wheel,’ he called to the bargemen waiting on the pier. ‘You will have to wait until I fetch a smith to cut it free.’

‘But that will take ages,’ one objected. ‘We shall hire someone else.’

The carter sounded smug. ‘The alley is too narrow for anyone to get past me. And I am not going anywhere until my wheel is fixed.’

The bargeman glared. ‘Then hurry up. We will be in Heaven, having a pipe and a drop of ale.’

‘Do not offer to help, boys,’ muttered the carter to their retreating backs. ‘I can manage alone. It will take longer, of course. A lot longer …’

Chaloner watched as the secret door opened and Payne stepped out. Behind him was a short hallway, with doors leading to a room on either side and a flight of stairs at the far end. Men emerged from both chambers, to listen to what was going on.

‘Get this thing out of here,’ Payne ordered curtly. ‘It is blocking the way.’

The carter started to walk away. ‘Too bad. You will have to wait until I have hired a-’

‘Stop,’ commanded Payne. Something in his voice made the carter turn to look at him. ‘Shift it now. This lane is in constant use.’

The carter put his hands on his hips. ‘How, when the wheel is jammed? By magic? Besides, I have never seen anyone else use this alley, so it is not in constant use.’

Payne addressed one of the men in the hall. ‘Fetch the captain.’

The man snapped a salute that was reminiscent of Cromwell’s New Model Army, although his moustache and hat were all Cavalier. He was back in moments with someone who wore plain, practical clothes and a dour expression on his heavy featured face.

‘What is going on?’ demanded Doling. ‘Move this thing, or we will move it for you.’

So, thought Chaloner, here was the man in charge. However, he knew for a fact that Doling was not the ‘commander’ who had questioned the vicar of Wapping so ruthlessly, because he had no scar on his neck: Chaloner remembered seeing his turkey-skin throat outside the charnel house, when his lace had blown away. The soldiers had another leader, one who was vicious and determined. Was it someone Chaloner knew? Payne, for example? One of the prayer-group men, perhaps? Or someone at Court?

The situation with the wagon had reached an impasse. Even with the best will in the world, the carter could not do what he was told, and the vehicle would remain where it was until the wheel could be made to turn again. At least, that was what Chaloner thought. But Doling nodded to his men, who proceeded to position themselves around it, while Doling himself climbed into the driver’s seat. He clicked his tongue at the horse, and the men started to push.

‘Hey!’ shouted the carter angrily. ‘What do you think you are doing? If you move it when the wheel is stuck, you will damage it even more. And who are you anyway, that you cannot wait?’

‘Busy men,’ replied Doling tersely, as the vehicle began to creak forward. The broken wheel skidded through the mud. ‘And that is all you need to know.’

His voice was low and dangerous, and the carter backed away in alarm. The wagon continued to inch ahead, but it was heavy work and progress was slow. After a while, during which scant headway was made, Doling told Payne to fetch ‘all the others’. The men who had been pushing took the opportunity to catch their breath, going to stand in a menacing circle around the hapless carter.

Assuming Doling’s order meant the soldiers’ lair was going to be temporarily empty, Chaloner knew it was an opportunity he had to seize. He peered out from under the tarpaulin, mind working furiously as he tried to devise a plan. Then he smiled when he saw the door opened outwards into the lane — and that the cart and soldiers were well beyond it. As soon as he was sure they were not looking in his direction, he abandoned his hiding place and ran towards the door, ducking quickly behind it. As long as no one closed it, or walked to or from the main road, he would remain hidden.

A dozen more soldiers trooped into the lane and ranged themselves around the vehicle. Doling flicked the reins, the men began to heave, and the cart was on the move a second time, the immobile wheel digging a deep furrow as it was forced along. This was too much for the carter — no man likes watching while his means of making a living is manhandled. He threw a punch at Payne. Chaloner expected him to be run through, but then realised that would attract too much attention — the bargemen would wonder what had happened to him, and their curiosity would be a nuisance to men who clearly preferred the shadows. Payne shoved the carter away, and the resulting set-to kept anyone from noticing Chaloner ease around the door and dart into their domain.

He inspected the room on the left first. It was a barracks, with bunks around the wall and a table in the middle for communal eating. A chamber at the back served as a storage place for ammunition, food and clothing. All was scrupulously clean, and the weaponry was new and of unusually high quality. In short, the place smacked of the professional warrior.

The room on the right was smaller and dominated by a desk. Chaloner leafed through a handful of documents. They were mostly rotas, listing which men had worked which shifts, with remarks in the margin about individual performances. Doling had signed each one. There were also requisition forms for specific pieces of equipment.

Chaloner was bemused. Doling said he had been hired by Backwell’s to improve their security after a robbery — the one masterminded by Jones, presumably. Did that mean the train-band was the bank’s personal army? But Chaloner did not think a modest commercial enterprise would run to such an expensive operation, and suspected Doling had other uses for his men. Was he a rebel, aiming to overthrow the Royalist government? If so, then surely it was chancy to base the operation in Westminster? The train-band obviously took precautions against discovery, probably using the wharf, rather than roads, to travel around the city — which explained why it was lit at night — but it was still a risk of enormous proportion.

So what did all this tell Chaloner about Jones? Had the fat Yeoman of the Household Kitchen stumbled across the train-band’s lair, and been allowed to drown to ensure his silence? Or was the opposite true — that Jones knew exactly who operated from the alley, and he had followed Swaddell to make sure he did not live to talk? But then surely the train-band would have rescued Jones?

Of course, there was yet another possibility, which was that Swaddell knew about the train-band, and had led Jones down there on purpose. And what did that suggest? That the soldiers were working for the Spymaster? That answer made sense on two counts: the train-band’s location at the heart of government, and the fact that the soldiers were provided with decent clothes and good weapons. Chaloner supposed he would have to find out whether Swaddell or Williamson had a scarred neck.

Aware that time was passing, he began to root through more papers, looking for a clue that would tell him why the train-band had been established in the first place. It did not take him long to find a log-book. Like most military officers, Doling kept a record of what his unit had been ordered to do. There was an entry referring to ‘information gathering’ at Wapping, which corresponded to the day the vicar had been interrogated. There was also a note marking the fact that Payne had been detailed to collect a red hat from a fashionable milliner.

Was Gold involved, then, thought Chaloner, recalling Bess’s new headpiece? He had never seen the man’s neck, but he knew for a fact that Gold was not the harmless old ancient he wanted everyone to see. But it was not the time for analysis, and Chaloner felt he had pushed his luck far enough. He replaced everything as he had found it, and aimed for the front door. He was about to slip through it when he heard footsteps in the alley. He had taken too long, and the soldiers were coming back.

Fighting his way past a score of skilled warriors was not an option, so Chaloner’s only hope was that the stairs went somewhere he could hide until it was safe to come out. He climbed them quickly, praying they did not lead to a dead end. He was not a moment too soon, because the soldiers moved fast, and he had only just reached the shadows when Doling stamped through the door. The captain was unsettled by the incident, and was telling Payne that nothing like it was ever to happen again.

‘We depend on the alley being clear,’ he snapped. ‘Without it, we are fish in a barrel.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped that did not mean there was only one exit, because it might be days before they all went out again, and he did not want to miss the music at Gold’s house that night — or the opportunity to see whether his host had a scar on his neck.

Suddenly, Doling went quiet. It was an unnatural silence, and Chaloner eased into a position where he could see what was happening. Doling was examining footprints. A lot had been tracked inside, but the train-band wore military-style boots, while Chaloner had donned shoes that day. Doling’s head snapped up, and he looked directly at the stairs.

‘After him!’ he cried.

Chaloner turned and fled. There was a door after two flights, but it had been nailed closed — apparently, the soldiers did not want anyone from the adjacent building to stumble into their domain by accident. He headed upwards again, hoping they had not done the same on every floor.

But they had. The third level was similarly barricaded, and so was the fourth. He was nearing the roof, and could hear the thunder of footsteps close behind him — the warriors were gaining, because of the vital seconds Chaloner was losing to check doors. They were not shouting, as many might have done in the excitement of the chase, but continued at a steady pace. Their discipline was formidable, and suddenly the spy’s chances of surviving another encounter seemed very slim.

What should he do? Continue upwards, and die when there was nowhere else to go? Turn and fight now? But Chaloner had never liked giving up, and something kept him running until the stairs ended in a tiny door that had daylight and a howling wind coming through cracks in its wood. Now he understood why Doling had been so keen to keep the alley open — there really was nowhere else to go.

The door was locked, but Chaloner’s probe was at the ready, and he had it open in a trice. He jumped through it, and braced it shut with a piece of timber. The lead soldier slammed against it, and Chaloner heard him swear when he found it blocked. The man began to hit it, not wild, undisciplined blows, but methodical ones aimed at a spot where the wood was most rotten. It would only be a matter of time before he was through. Chaloner glanced around quickly, assessing his options.

He was at the edge of a sharply pitched roof. There was only a five-storey drop to his left, so he turned right, scrambling upwards towards the apex. Loose tiles rattled beneath him, slick with damp and moss. He missed his footing and began to slide back down, only arresting his downward progress by grabbing a hole provided by a missing slate. The soldiers were almost through the door. He began climbing again, faster this time, just as the door finally collapsed in an explosion of splintering wood. He reached the top of the roof, and clambered across it.

The pitch was not so steep on the other side, but it still ended in a five-storey drop — this one down to the alley. He looked at the building opposite, the roof of which was lower. The soldiers were almost on him, and he could not fight them all — he would either be run through or pushed to his death. But the roof opposite offered a chance, so he took several steps back, then ran forward and propelled himself into space with every ounce of his strength. He heard wind whistling past his ears, but his flight lasted only a moment, and then he was across.

He landed hard, driving the breath from his body and cracking several tiles. He tasted blood in his mouth, and for a moment, he could not move. Just when he was beginning to think he might have done himself a serious injury, his legs finally obeyed the clamouring orders from his brain. He began to scramble away, aiming to put as much distance between him and the train-band as possible.

Then there was an almighty crash, and he glanced back to see he was not the only one capable of death-defying leaps: Payne had followed. He wondered what sort of man would risk his life just to catch an intruder. Meanwhile, the remaining soldiers were putting away their daggers, and turning to retrace their steps. They appeared unconcerned, as if there was no question that Payne would succeed.

Chaloner found himself amid a chaotic jungle of rooftops that formed some of Westminster’s poorer houses, shops and taverns. Most were in a dismal state of repair, and the going was treacherous. Fortunately the same was true for Payne, who took a bad tumble that lost him vital seconds. It was just as well, because not only was Chaloner tiring, but he had jolted his lame leg, and was limping badly. He tried to increase his speed, but found he could not do it.

He was obliged to make a second leap when the roof along which he was crawling ended in a dizzying drop. It was not across as great a gap, but he almost did not make it regardless. For a moment, he hung in space, suspended by his hands. It was Payne’s jeering laugh that gave him the impetus to swing up his legs, and begin running again, this time along the edge of a large hall. It ended in another sheer drop, so he made a right-angled turn, heading for the distinctive mass of the Painted Chamber. Payne was hard on his heels, swearing foully, and promising all manner of reprisals for the trouble the spy was causing. Chaloner glanced behind him, wondering whether to stand and fight now Payne was alone. But a rooftop was a precarious battlefield, and there was always the danger that his bad leg would turn traitor and tip him into oblivion.

The Painted Chamber had a turret on one of its corners, and Chaloner could tell from its narrow windows that there was a spiral staircase inside. He staggered towards it, and ripped open the door. There was no way to secure it behind him, so he began to descend, hurling himself downwards three steps at a time, trying to ignore the burning pain in his knee. He could hear Payne following, breathing hard and still full of curses and threats.

Eventually, he reached the door that led to the main hall, while the staircase wound on down towards the basement. He hauled it open, then turned back, grabbed a wooden grille — placed in a window-slit to keep out birds — and hurled it down the steps. Then he darted through the door and closed it behind him, listening with baited breath to see whether Payne would fall for the ploy. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the soldier continue down, following the clatter made by the tumbling grille in the belief that it was his quarry.

He braced a chair under the handle, then peered out from behind a pile of chests to see he was near the spot where Chetwynd, Vine and Langston had died. The hall was full of people — clerks labouring over documents, government officials issuing orders, and members of the House of Lords in their ermine-fringed robes. A row of pegs hammered into the wall next to him held a variety of garments, so he grabbed a coat and a peculiar three-cornered hat, and donned them quickly to conceal his filthy clothes. Then he strode boldly through the throng, trying to look as though he had every right to be there. No one stopped him, and it was not many moments before he reached the main exit.

Out in the street, he saw members of the train-band everywhere, scanning the faces of passers-by. He reached Old Palace Yard undetected, but Doling blocked the way to the comparative safety of White Hall — and while Chaloner’s disguise might fool the captain from a distance, he was too dishevelled to risk passing too close. He needed somewhere to improve his disguise, so he aimed for the abbey.

Westminster Abbey was always a curious combination of busy and deserted. The makeshift booths, selling books, food and candles, that had once thronged the churchyard had gradually eased their way inside, so parts of the nave now resembled a marketplace. But there were also a number of chapels and alcoves that were away from the bustle, providing small havens of tranquillity.

Chaloner found a quiet corner, and sat for a few moments, feeling his heartbeat return to normal and the ache recede from his leg. He would have rested longer, but time was passing, and he could not afford to waste any. He stood, removed his own coat and bundled it under his arm, so the stolen one did not make him seem quite so bulky, then washed his face and hands in a puddle near a leaking window. By the time he had cleaned his shoes and donned the hat, he appeared reasonably respectable — or at least, did not look as though he had been leaping across rooftops.

He was about to leave, when he saw a familiar figure. It was the surviving Lea, sobbing as he knelt at an altar. There was no one else around, and although he knew he should respect the man’s privacy Chaloner had questions to ask and time was of the essence.

‘I really am sorry about your brother,’ he said gently, kneeling next to him.

Lea spoke with difficulty. ‘His funeral is supposed to be in St Margaret’s Church, but he died serving his country, so I want it here. In this grand abbey.’

‘How did he die serving his country?’ Chaloner raised his hands defensively when Lea turned on him, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Forgive me, but I thought he fell in the river.’

It was clearly not the time to mention that Matthias had been poisoned.

‘He could swim,’ said Lea fiercely. ‘And he should not have been near the river anyway — when we got home that night and realised we had no bread, he went to the bakery in King Street, which is a long way from the Thames. It is obvious what happened: he was taken to a quiet place and pushed in. He was murdered.’

‘Who do you suspect of the crime?’ asked Chaloner.

Lea gazed at him. ‘You believe me? No one else does. I wish we had never inherited Chetwynd’s beastly fortune, because it has brought us nothing but trouble. Hargrave is a dishonest rogue.’

‘You think Hargrave killed Matthias?’

‘He might have done. He let us move into the fine house Chetwynd rented from him — and had already paid for — but it leaks like a sieve and stinks of mould. We were better off in our old place.’

‘Is Hargrave your only suspect?’

‘Oh, no!’ said Lea bitterly. ‘There are plenty who wish us ill. There are the hypocrites who meet at John’s Coffee House to ask God to make them richer and more powerful — Gold, Neale, Tryan and Symons. They hated Matthias for writing a pamphlet about false piety, in which he named them.’

‘But you and Matthias attended these meetings, too,’ said Chaloner, not bothering to point out that the hapless Symons was neither rich nor powerful. ‘I have witnesses who will swear to it.’

‘Yes, but that was years ago, when Scobel was still alive. Then there was talk of a Restoration, and it seemed foolish to hobnob with men like Symons and Doling — faithful Commonwealth clerks. So we stopped going.’

‘Your strategy worked, because you retained your posts, while they were dismissed.’

‘No, we retained them because we took matters into our own hands. We told secrets about former colleagues, which persuaded the right people we were loyal.’ Lea saw Chaloner’s distaste. ‘Well, what else were we to do? A man has to eat! Scobel died of a sharpness of the blood soon after, but Symons said it was a broken heart, because we had betrayed him. Of course, Symons had his revenge.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He would not let us rejoin the prayer meetings when all the fuss had died down. Our fortunes have bubbled along at a constant rate, but they have not exploded, like those who continued to pray — Gold, Jones, Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Tryan and Hargrave.’

‘Do you suspect anyone else of killing your brother, other than the prayer-group men?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why so many intelligent people should be prey to such rank superstition.

‘I barely know where to begin.’ Lea’s expression was vengeful. ‘There is Spymaster Williamson, who does not like the way we earn extra pennies — the government will not fall to rebellion now, so what is the harm in penning a few manifestos?’

‘Quite a bit, if enough people agree with the sentiments expressed in them.’

Lea grimaced. ‘I doubt it. However, Williamson concurs with you, because Swaddell said he would kill us if we did not desist. Well, we did not desist, so perhaps he carried out his threat. Then there is Doling, who … But no, we should not discuss him. He is too deadly for me to cross.’

Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘You work in Westminster, near a certain alley-’

Lea’s face was a mask of fear. ‘What of it? We never saw anything that led us to …’ He trailed off.

‘You learned about the train-band,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Dangerous men, who probably have a wealthy and powerful master.’

Lea put his face in his hands. ‘I told Matthias we should pretend not to have noticed them, but he said our fortunes were on the rise at last, and we should seize every opportunity that presented itself. He left a letter, suggesting Doling might like to pay a small sum to keep his activities secret.’

It was a misjudgement on an appalling scale, and Chaloner wondered how Matthias could have been so recklessly stupid. He took his leave of Lea, and walked outside to find it was dusk, the short winter day over almost before it had begun. The soldiers were still prowling around Old Palace Yard, discreetly scanning the faces of the people who passed, but the gathering gloom helped Chaloner to elude them. He met Wiseman as he was approaching White Hall. The surgeon was trying to hail a hackney to take him home.

‘You are limping again,’ said Wiseman, abandoning his increasingly bellicose attempts to attract a driver’s attention, and turning to assess Chaloner with a professional eye. ‘Would you like my-’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘Have you heard whether Greene has been found?’

‘A warrant has been issued for his arrest, but the palace guards have had no luck in tracing him. His friends say he has no reason to disappear, and fear he is poisoned or adrift in the river. His detractors say he has gone into hiding, so he can continue to murder as he pleases.’

‘Then have you seen Turner?’

‘He has spent the day hunting the lost statue.’ Wiseman grabbed the spy’s shoulder suddenly, startling him with the strength of the grip — the muscle-honing was clearly paying off, because it was like being held by a vice, and Chaloner could not have broken free to save his life. ‘Have you been invited to Gold’s home for dinner and music tonight?’

‘Yes,’ replied Chaloner warily, wincing as the surgeon’s fingers tightened further still. ‘Why?’

Wiseman released him abruptly, and when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘I knew it! Gold has invited everyone except me. I am never included in these affairs, although I cannot imagine why. I come from a respectable family, and I hold high office in the King’s Court.’

‘Perhaps it is because you describe surgical techniques while people are eating,’ suggested Chaloner, knowing from personal experience that Wiseman’s dinner-table conversation could spoil even the most resilient of appetites.

‘What is wrong with that? Anatomy is a fascinating subject, worthy of discussion at any social gathering.’

‘Actually, I have been asked to two dinners tonight.’ Chaloner had only a few hours left before the Earl dismissed him, and while he had hopes that Gold’s soirée might lead him to answers, the same was not true of Temperance’s. He was sure she would understand why he could not go when he explained the situation. He smiled rather wickedly at the notion of sending the haughty surgeon to a brothel. ‘The other is due to begin at midnight, but I have work to do. I do not suppose you would-’

‘Where is it?’ demanded Wiseman eagerly. ‘I shall take your place.’

‘Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’ Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘You do not mind accepting second-hand invitations?’

‘Not when they are the only ones I ever get,’ replied Wiseman ruefully. He grinned suddenly, clearly delighted by the prospect of a night out. ‘Now, what shall I wear? Will red be suitable, do you think?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner innocently.

*

There was no time to go home before setting out for Gold’s mansion in Aldgate, so Chaloner went straight to Hannah’s house. She still had some clothes that belonged to her husband, and was more than happy to see them worn. Most were in better condition than Chaloner’s own, and far more suitable for attending elegant receptions in fashionable parts of the city. She was horrified when she saw the state he was in, and insisted that he washed, despite his objections that they would be late. Then she selected a handsome blue coat with ruffles down the front, a well-laced shirt, and a pair of ‘petticoat’ breeches. They were not au courant — her spouse had died three years before — but the spy still felt quite respectable as he stepped outside and flagged down a hackney.

Nightfall had heralded a change in the weather. Clouds had raced in from the north, and there was snow in the air. It was bitter, far colder than it had been during the day, and puddles were beginning to turn to ice. The wind cut through clothes, straight to the bone, and Chaloner was tempted to forget the whole business and spend the evening indoors. The roof-top chase had exhausted him, and although the soirée would provide a chance to learn whether Gold was involved in the curious events that had seen so many people die, he was not sure his wits were sharp enough to capitalise on it. But he would be dismissed for certain if he failed to provide the Earl with some sort of solution by the following day, so he forced himself to rally his flagging energies. He glanced at Hannah, who was using his bulk to shield herself from the draught that whistled in through the hackney’s badly fitting windows.

‘Would you consider leaving London, and going to live in the New World?’

He felt her shudder in the darkness. ‘I would not! I have heard it is a desolate place, full of Puritans and big snakes. And I like London, especially now I have you to keep me company.’

It was a long way from Tothill Street to Gold’s home near the Tower, and Chaloner might have dozed off, had he not been so cold. The wind buffeted the carriage, making it rock furiously. Outside, the streets were almost empty, and those who were obliged to be out huddled deep inside their cloaks.

Eventually, the hackney rolled to a standstill outside a large house with a gravelled courtyard. Light blazed from every window, and Hannah murmured that she could not imagine the number of lamps required to produce such a dazzling display. Once inside, she disappeared to greet people she knew, flitting from group to group, while Chaloner kept to the edge of the festivities, watching and listening. Gold and Bess were at the centre of an appreciative crowd, and when the spy looked for Neale, he saw him, as expected, not far away, with his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the object of his aspirations.

A number of Chaloner’s other suspects were present, too. Symons and the surviving Lea stood together, looking miserable. Lea was impeccably dressed, but Symons was wearing the same clothes had had worn the night Margaret had died. They were soiled and crumpled, and his ginger hair was dull with dirt, as though he cared nothing about any of it.

By contrast, George and Mrs Vine were part of a lively, laughing throng that included Turner, Barbara Chiffinch and Brodrick. Meanwhile, Hargrave and Tryan sat with other prosperous merchants, and their serious faces suggested they were discussing business. Chaloner watched them all, noting who spoke to whom, or ignored whom, and trying to understand the intricate social ballet that was being played out in front of him. He wished he was more alert, because he was sure it would have yielded clues, had his mind been agile enough to interpret them.

‘Someone said it is snowing,’ said Hannah chattily to Gold, when she dragged the spy to pay their respects to their host. Bess wore a fluffy white garment that looked like a fleece, while her hair had been arranged into woolly ringlets. Chaloner wondered whether the Lord of Misrule had bribed her maids to dress her like a sheep. It was, after all, Brodrick’s last night in power — the Twelve Days would be over by the following morning — and the spy was sure he intended to make the most of it.

‘You are going?’ bawled Gold. ‘But you have only just arrived. Stay and have some brawn.’

‘There are pastries, too, made in the shape of angels,’ added Bess, clapping her hands in childish delight. ‘And the cook made a special one for me in the shape of a lamb.’

‘Brawn is better for you than chocolate,’ asserted Gold loudly. All around him, sycophants nodded simpering agreement. ‘While coffee makes you bald. Surgeon Wiseman said so.’

‘It is a bit late for you to be worrying about hair loss,’ muttered Neale, gazing pointedly at Gold’s expensive wig. ‘Vain old dog.’

‘Here comes your friend Turner,’ said Hannah to Chaloner, as they walked away. She sounded disapproving. ‘He has probably come to gloat, because he solved the case and you did not.’

The colonel looked magnificent that evening, in a black suit with scarlet frills that complemented his dark good looks. He had an adoring lady on each arm; they hung on his every word, and he was in his element. There were pouts when he asked them to fetch him some wine so he could speak to Chaloner in private, but they did as they were told. The moment they were out of earshot, he started to turn his oily charm on Hannah, but she stopped him with a look that said he might suffer serious bodily harm if he persisted.

‘Lord!’ he breathed in admiration, as she stalked away. ‘There is one fiery wench! Does she have all her teeth?’

‘Yes, and she is not afraid to use them,’ replied Chaloner coolly, seeing the colonel was fully intent on adding her to his list of potential conquests. ‘What do you want, Turner? The Earl tells me you have amassed enough evidence to prove Greene is the killer, so you no longer need my help.’

‘But unfortunately, the wretched man vanished before I could arrest him. Do you have any idea where he might be? I promised His Portliness I would produce him by tomorrow.’

‘That was rash. If he is in the river, it might be weeks before he surfaces.’

‘He is not dead,’ said Turner confidently. ‘He has absconded. Incidentally, you gave the Earl some of Greene’s documents earlier, and he, Haddon and Bulteel spent the afternoon studying them. Apparently, they are very revealing.’

‘They were household accounts,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘What can be “revealing” about the fact that His Majesty’s cellarer spent forty pounds on decanters last year?’

‘The fact that Munt kept his own records, which say he only spent ten. But here is Haddon. Ask him for yourself.’

Chaloner supposed it was not surprising that Haddon had been invited — sans dogs — to the soirée, but Bulteel had not: Haddon carried himself in a way that said he was a gentleman, whereas Bulteel was socially inept.

‘It is true,’ said the steward, when Turner ordered that he verify the tale. ‘In essence, these records show that the sum of forty pounds was granted to pay for decanters, but only ten pounds was actually spent. Thus thirty is unaccounted for. And that is only one entry out of hundreds.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘You mean Greene was embezzling from the government?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Turner gleefully, speaking before the steward could reply. ‘We shall be asking him about it when he is arrested.’

‘There is another possibility,’ said Haddon quietly. ‘Which is that Greene was gathering evidence to expose the real thief — that his motives are honourable.’

‘And I am the Pope,’ sneered Turner derisively.

Chaloner was thinking about the Queen. ‘Her Majesty lost thirty-six thousand pounds this year. The money was put in an account for her use, but when she went to claim it, it had all gone.’

‘Greene’s documents contain a number of references to her so-called expenditures,’ acknowledged Haddon. ‘So I imagine they do explain what happened to her missing fortune, although she will not be pleased by the news — basically, they tell us that her money is irretrievably lost.’

‘Thieves are everywhere these days,’ said Turner in distaste. Then he grinned, unable to resist the opportunity to revel in his recent success. ‘I am delighted to have solved these clerk murders to the Earl’s satisfaction, even if it does mean sending a man to the gallows. Now all I have to do is find the King’s statue, and my future with him will be assured.’

‘The King’s statue?’ asked Hargrave, coming to join them. Tryan was with him, bandy legs clad in fine silk breeches. ‘Are you still looking for that? I would have thought you had given up by now.’

‘Do not give up,’ said Tryan, rather wistfully. ‘It was by Bernini, so no effort is too great to find it, as far as I am concerned. He is a genius, and I would love to own one of his pieces.’

‘They are too expensive,’ stated Hargrave authoritatively. ‘And bankers do not like their customers removing vast sums all at once for costly bits of art, because it upsets their books.’

‘I would never put my money in a bank,’ declared Tryan. ‘Look what happened to the fools who invested with Backwell’s. Poor Langston was still waiting to be repaid, and the robbery was months ago. No, my friends, a man’s money is safer in his own home. I have a box specially made for the purpose, and it is impossible to break into.’

Chaloner seriously doubted it — he had not met a box yet that could keep him out. ‘Are you not afraid of burglars?’ he asked politely, seeing the merchant expected some sort of response to his statements. ‘Especially when you are out at night?’

‘I am rarely out at night,’ replied Tryan. ‘Today is an exception — and I have been invited to join the dean of St Paul’s later, too. But I am usually at home, and I have a gun. I am fully prepared to use it, too, should any vagabond dare tread uninvited in my property.’

‘We had better not rob him, then,’ remarked Turner to Chaloner, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘We do not want to be shot.’

The evening wore on. Symons came to confide to Hannah that he would rather be anywhere than at such a happy gathering, given his recent loss, but Margaret had written a list of tasks that she wanted him to fulfil, and attending Gold’s soirée was one of them. Another was dining with his old friend Samuel Pepys the following week.

‘You have my sympathy,’ said Hannah. In a motherly way, she reached out to smooth down some of the wilder ends of his orange hair. The gesture brought tears to his eyes, and Chaloner wondered whether it was something his wife had done, too. ‘Pepys is such a smug little fellow.’

Symons nodded miserably. ‘He is sure to gloat over his fine house, his success at the Admiralty, his new upholstery and his pretty wife. It will be difficult not to punch the man.’

‘Then perhaps you should indulge yourself,’ suggested Hannah wickedly. ‘It might do him good.’

Symons gave a wan smile, then handed Chaloner a sheet of paper. ‘Our maid wanted me to give you this. She said you were asking about it, and thought it might answer your questions — and we owe you something for persuading the surgeon to waive his fee when he came to tend Margaret.’

It was the letter offering the Bernini bust for a very reasonable sum. The handwriting was neat and familiar, and Chaloner knew immediately who had penned it. He put it in his pocket. It was certainly a clue, but unfortunately, it pointed him in a direction he would rather not look. He decided to put it from his mind and deal with it in the morning.

When Symons left, Haddon took up station at Hannah’s side. The steward chatted amiably, mostly about dogs and the Queen, which he seemed to hold in equal regard. Chaloner half-listened, most of his attention on George Vine, who was talking to Hargrave. The spy was reasonably adept at reading lips, and knew George was regaling the merchant with a drunken monologue about old Dreary Bones’ reaction when he had discovered his son’s plan to assassinate Cromwell with an exploding leek.

‘Did you know Gold is dying?’ Haddon was saying to Hannah. Chaloner turned around in surprise. ‘He will be in his grave in a matter of weeks. It is a sharpness of the blood, apparently.’

‘The poor man,’ said Hannah with quiet compassion. ‘He should be in bed, not giving parties. But I think I can guess the reason why he organised this one: he is hoping to find a good match for that silly Bess — someone who will not marry her for the money she will inherit.’

‘You are right,’ said Haddon. ‘He told me as much himself. He will leave her a fortune, and every wolf in the country will circle around, hoping for a bite of the prize. But he loves her, despite her faults, and wants her properly cared for.’

‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Hannah. ‘That Neale has poisoned him. See how he looks at Bess — all avarice and lust? And she is too stupid to know him for what he is.’

‘I suspect she has more wits than you think,’ said Chaloner. He shrugged when Hannah started to tell him he was wrong. ‘I am not saying she should be elected to the Royal Society, but she owns a certain innate cunning that will ensure she is no one’s victim.’

‘The Earl thinks the same,’ confided Haddon. ‘And he said so when Gold visited him the other day. Gold has asked him to guard Bess when he dies, you see, but the Earl maintains she is more than capable of looking after herself.’

Chaloner recalled seeing the old man in the Earl’s chamber a few days before — and the Earl lying about being alone. Gold must have requested secrecy, so the Earl’s fib must have been to oblige him. ‘His frailty is not an act after all, then?’ he asked. ‘He really is ailing?’

‘Yes, but he is a long way from being harmless,’ replied Haddon. ‘I have seen him draw his sword and wield it in a way that would put many of these youngsters to shame.’

‘Whom did he threaten?’ asked Hannah curiously. ‘Neale?’

‘Vine,’ replied Haddon. ‘Not George, but his father. I happened to be in John’s Coffee House, at the time and I witnessed the incident myself. Gold said their gatherings had gone from the honourable business of praising God, to the superstitious nonsense of praying for their own good fortunes. He wanted to end them, but Vine was afraid that if that happened, he would start to experience bad luck. Vine was being stubborn, so Gold hauled out his weapon to make his point.’

‘You have not mentioned this before,’ said Chaloner, rather accusingly.

‘Because I knew it would lead you to assume Gold was Vine’s killer,’ replied Haddon evenly. ‘And I am sure he is not. I had five pounds riding on you solving the case, so I did not want you wasting your time on false leads. Of course, my ploy was all for nothing, because Turner won anyway.’

‘These prayer meetings caused a lot of trouble,’ said Hannah, speaking before Chaloner could inform the steward that he was quite capable of making up his own mind about what constituted a false lead. ‘Scobel instituted something that should have been worthy, but that transpired to be distasteful.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Haddon. He grinned with sudden mischief. ‘I told Turner about Gold’s fight with Vine, though. He spent two days learning that Gold has alibis for all three murders.’

‘Do you know what they are?’ asked Chaloner, not sure they could be trusted.

‘He was with the Queen when Chetwynd and Langston died-’ began Haddon.

‘He was,’ agreed Hannah. ‘I was not there myself, because Her Majesty had sent me home for the night. But the other ladies mentioned it the following day.’

‘And he was with the Earl when Vine was killed,’ finished Haddon. ‘At Worcester House.’

Chaloner supposed the alibis were as solid as any he had heard, although that still left the possibility that Gold had hired someone else to do the killing. He rubbed his head wearily, and it occurred to him that he was wasting time at the soirée — and there was not even any music, as Hannah had promised. Perhaps he should be out hunting Greene, or re-interviewing the guards who had been on duty when the statue had gone missing. He looked at Hannah’s sweet, happy face, and realised he did not want to leave London because the Earl no longer had a post for him. He wanted to stay.

His gloomy thoughts were broken by a sudden commotion. People began to gather around Gold, who sat in a great fireside chair. Bess was on his lap and his face was oddly serene. But Bess was screaming, because her dress was caught on some item of his jewellery, and she could not escape. It took a moment for Chaloner to understand why she was so determined to be away from him.

Gold was dead.

The party broke up once its host was no longer in the world of the living. Outside, Brodrick bemoaned the fact that it was so early, then launched into a sulky diatribe against Temperance for electing to close her club on an evening when not much else was on offer. And how dare she organise a private get-together and not invite him, her most faithful customer? He turned towards his carriage with the defiant declaration that he would find something better to do. After a moment of indecision — to go with Brodrick or stay to see if any inroads could be made on Bess — Neale followed. Hannah watched him through narrowed eyes.

‘If he really cared for her, he would not be thinking about his own pleasures tonight. Sir Nicholas was right to elicit the help of a powerful baron to keep the vultures away. Unfortunately, it will be like trying to stop this snow from falling — you may catch a few flakes, but hundreds will get past.’

‘Come with us,’ Brodrick called jovially over his shoulder, one foot on the bottom step of his coach. He saw Hannah gird herself up for an acidly worded refusal, and added hastily, ‘No, not you, madam. The invitation was intended for Thomas and Colonel Turner only. The kind of fun I have in mind will be unsuitable for a lady.’

‘You mean you plan to visit whores?’ asked Hannah, very coldly.

‘Actually, I was thinking of serious music,’ replied Brodrick, equally icy. ‘Of the kind that is beyond the female mind to comprehend. Thomas is an excellent violist, while the colonel played for the king of Sweden during the celebrations surrounding the Treaty of Roskilde, so he should be up to my exacting standards, too. Your squawking flageolet would be anathema to us, madam.’

‘Will you let him insult me, Tom?’ demanded Hannah, but Chaloner’s thoughts were elsewhere. He had been at Roskilde, spying for Thurloe, but did not remember Turner among the entertainers. Being a music lover, he had paid more attention to the performers than he should have done, and that part of the occasion was etched vividly in his mind. Yet again, the colonel had lied.

But Turner spoke before Chaloner could challenge him. ‘Not tonight, Brodrick. I am tired after hunting the statue all day, and would make a poor addition to your consort. I am going home.’

A number of women were openly crestfallen at this announcement, and he hastened to console them. Hannah glared at Chaloner for failing to defend her, but then snow began to fall in larger, harder flakes, driven by a cruel, north-easterly wind, and she declared it was no time for lingering. Brodrick clattered away with Neale, while Turner bade fond farewells to his entourage and started to walk towards his lodgings. Chaloner hailed a hackney, intending to see Hannah home, then spend the night looking for Greene and the King’s bust. He was exhausted, but he would only have to keep going until the following noon — at which point he would probably be able to rest for longer than he would like.

‘Nicholas died happy,’ said Hannah, once she was settled in the carriage. The snow was so thick that the driver could not tear along at the usual breakneck speed, and the ride was pleasantly sedate. ‘Although I imagine Bess will think twice before sitting on anyone’s knee again!’

‘It preceded her inheriting a fortune,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Perhaps she will think it was worth it.’

‘I am surprised Turner has not made more of a play for her,’ said Hannah, making a moue of distaste. ‘He is a fortune-seeker, and Bess is foolish enough to fall for his shallow charms. The man is a snake, and I would not trust him with a … a coffee bean!’

‘He does have a habit of stretching the truth,’ acknowledged Chaloner, recalling that Turner had presented Bess with a crucifix, which suggested some kind of play had already been made.

‘Stretching?’ echoed Hannah in disbelief. ‘He elongates it to the point where it is no longer recognisable. And he is brazen. Tonight, right in front of me, he told Bess that he hailed from Ireland, then turned around and told some other simpering fool that he was from Yorkshire. He even uses different names. He is not Colonel Turner to all his hopeful conquests.’

‘No?’ Chaloner was not really listening, thinking instead about which of the palace guards he should tackle regarding the stolen statue.

‘No. He called himself Julius Grey when he was introduced to Margaret Symons, but then had to admit to the lie when someone called him “Turner” in front of her.’

That made Chaloner look up sharply. ‘Julius Grey?’

‘No, that is not right,’ Hannah frowned in thought, then brightened. ‘James Grey. That was it!’

‘Are you sure? Only Temperance is in love with a man called James Grey. But it cannot be Turner.’

Hannah shrugged deeper inside her cloak; it was bitterly cold in the carriage. ‘Why not?’

‘Because she could not introduce us the night she told me about him, owing to the fact that he was not there. Turner was there, though.’

Hannah patted his knee, rather patronisingly. ‘You have said before that she dislikes the way you condemn her lifestyle, so she probably wanted to give you time to get used to the idea, lest shock lead you to storm up to Turner and call him out for a rake.’

‘You think she lied to me?’ Why not? he thought. She had done it before.

‘I have never met her, so I cannot say. Did she tell you anything about this James Grey?’

‘Only that he played the viol.’

‘Well, there you are, then. Turner plays the viol — you just heard him and Brodrick talking about it.’

‘But Turner does not play the viol. Violists have toughened skin on the tips of their left-hand fingers, from pressing on the strings, but his fingers are soft. And he was not at Roskilde, either.’ Chaloner frowned, as something else occurred to him. ‘Grey gave Temperance a token — a piece of red silk that she wears in her bodice.’

‘Turner has red silk in the lining of his coat,’ pounced Hannah. ‘It is newly sewn, because a couple of pins have not yet been removed, and I recall thinking that some poor lady was likely to feel a prick before the night was out. So to speak. He must have had a kerchief made of the scraps, and gave it to her as a keepsake. He does hand out keepsakes, although he usually confines himself to lockets.’

‘I know he gave lockets to several ladies at Court.’

Hannah nodded. ‘At least five that I have seen swooning over the things. I suppose he must have a ready supply.’

A sense of deep unease began to wash over Chaloner. ‘Temperance said they were going to be married, but …’ He trailed off, not knowing how to finish without sounding disloyal.

‘But Turner has been frolicking with Lady Castlemaine, Lady Muskerry, Bess and several other very wealthy women,’ supplied Hannah. ‘So why would he deign to wed a brothel-keeper? Is that what you mean to say?’

‘Actually, Temperance is probably richer than any of them, because her money is her own, and she is not obliged to rely on others to dole it out. I was thinking more of her … her …’

‘Her looks,’ finished Hannah, when he faltered a second time. ‘Brodrick told me she is plain and fat. Why would Turner settle for an drab wife, when he can have a Court beauty?’

Chaloner looked away, watching the snow falling outside. Where there were lights, he could see it slanting down thickly. It was settling, and by morning, London would be covered in a blanket of white.

‘You should warn her,’ said Hannah, when he made no reply. ‘You cannot stand by and let her make a fool of herself. Or worse. It would not be the first time a lonely girl snatched too eagerly at the prospect of a handsome darling, and lost everything to him.’

Chaloner did not think Temperance was lonely, but she did not confide in him any more, so who knew what she was really feeling? ‘She will resent my interference,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Of course she will, but that is what friendship entails on occasion. You say she invited you to dine this evening, but you sent word asking to be excused. Go — say you changed your mind. When she introduces you to “James Grey”, Turner will at least be shamed into telling her his real name. Perhaps that alone will be enough to make her wary.’

‘He said he was going home,’ Chaloner began lamely. ‘And-’

‘Because he wanted to avoid being exposed as a fraud when Brodrick put a viol in his hands,’ said Hannah impatiently. ‘I wager anything you please that he is on his way to Temperance as we speak.’

‘You seem very keen for me to leave,’ said Chaloner, wondering why she should encourage him to meddle in the affairs of a woman she had never met.

‘I do not want you to feel guilty for letting down a friend.’ Hannah hammered on the hackney roof. ‘Driver! There has been a change of plan. Take us to Hercules’ Pillars Alley instead.’

‘Actually, I am letting you out here,’ called the driver, and the coach came to a sudden stop. ‘The weather is getting worse by the minute, and I am not risking my horse any longer.’

Chaloner could see his point: the snow was almost halfway up the wheels. He peered out of the window, and saw they were near Bishopsgate Street, where there were several respectable inns. Hannah would be safe there while he went about his business — he did not want her with him when he confronted Turner, and he did not have time to walk her all the way home.

‘Can you reach the Mitre?’ he asked.

The driver gave a reluctant nod, and it was not long before Hannah was installed in the best room the tavern could offer, with a roaring fire, mulled wine and clean blankets.

‘That hackneyman exaggerated the severity of the storm,’ she declared dismissively. ‘If you keep to the smaller roads, you will find the drifts are much more manageable. But you must go now, Tom — by tomorrow, Turner’s claws might be too deeply embedded for us to extract.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Chaloner, casting one last, longing glance at the fire before heading on to the streets again. It seemed colder than ever, and contrary to Hannah’s assurances, the snow was knee-deep even in the narrowest of lanes. It was impossible to walk normally, and his leg hurt. Only the thought of Temperance drove him on. She might be slipping away from him as a friend, but he still felt a modicum of responsibility towards her, no matter how much she had changed.

Snowflakes whirled around him so thickly that he could not see, and he had reached St Mary Axe before he realised he was walking in the wrong direction. With a muffled curse, he turned down Lymestrete, where the blizzard drove directly into his face. He put his head down, and ploughed on, so tired now that he did not notice someone coming towards him until it was too late. His hand dropped to his sword, but a shoulder sent him crashing into a wall before he could draw it.

Winded and dazed, he pulled himself into a sitting position. His assailant was already some distance away, and his eyes focussed just in time to see him dart down an alley. The fellow was carrying a sack that was heavy enough to make him stagger. And then he was gone.

*

Slowly, Chaloner climbed to his feet, resting his hand on the wall to steady himself. He realised he needed to pay closer attention to his surroundings, because he had just learned the hard way that the instincts that normally warned him of impending danger were not functioning properly. He took a deep breath of cold air to clear his wits, then resumed his journey.

He was almost at the end of Lymestrete, when he happened to glance to his right. Most of the larger houses were owned by people wealthy enough to keep a lamp burning in their downstairs windows all night, as dictated by the city fathers, but one mansion was notable for its darkness. It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise it as Tryan’s home, and was surprised — Tryan was an alderman, and was supposed to set a good example. Then he noticed the front door was ajar.

His senses snapped into a different level of awareness. No sane person left his door open at night, so something was wrong. Temperance momentarily forgotten, he stumbled towards it. He stepped inside and listened intently. The house was eerily silent.

‘Tryan?’ he called softly.

But of course the merchant was not home — he had been asked out by the dean of St Paul’s and would be at the cathedral, shivering his way through a lengthy ceremony during which far too many clerics would be given an opportunity to speak. Tryan had bragged about the invitation several times, so doubtless all manner of folk knew about it. And someone had taken advantage of the information to burgle him, because the wood around the door was damaged, indicating a forced entry. Chaloner supposed the culprit was the man who had bowled him over, fleeing the scene of his crime with a sack of loot. It was a pity Tryan was going to return to find his home had been invaded, but there was nothing the spy could do about it. He was about to go on his way when he heard a sound.

‘Help,’ came the merest of whispers. ‘Please!’

It came from the parlour at the front of the house, and Chaloner could just make out someone lying on the floor. It was Tryan. Chaloner knelt next to him, and eased him into a more comfortable position. Then he fetched blankets and set about lighting a fire, because the room was deathly cold. As he worked, he looked around him. The heavy, iron-bound chest he had seen on his previous visit was open, and papers were scattered around its feet.

‘The rogue knew,’ rasped Tryan, his eyes huge in his white face. ‘He knew I kept the key in my desk, because he went straight to it. And I did not even have time to aim my gun before he hit me.’

‘Who have you told about the key?’ asked Chaloner, tucking a blanket more tightly around him.

‘Just my manservant and maid — I gave them the night off, because they have been so good to me.’ Tryan’s face was anguished. ‘The thief took everything! I had one thousand and fifty pounds in cash, and four thousand pounds in jewels, which I keep here because I distrust banks. But now I am ruined! What have I done to deserve this terrible thing?’

Chaloner tensed when he heard footsteps in the hall. He drew his sword and stepped behind the door, assuming the burglar had come back to see what else he could steal. The blade wobbled in the hilt, telling him he had better buy a replacement as soon as possible, because the one he had borrowed from Landlord Ellis promised to fall apart at the first riposte.

‘Hill! Susan!’ cried Tryan, when two people walked in. They wore his livery, so Chaloner assumed they were his servants, returning from their night out. ‘I have been robbed!’

The pair suddenly became aware of Chaloner standing in the shadows. Bravely, Hill raised his fists, although they would be of little use against a sword, even a defective one. Meanwhile, Susan grabbed a poker from the hearth and stood next to him, ready to protect her fallen master.

‘No!’ gasped Tryan. ‘This man saw the door open and came to help me — he is not the thief.’

‘I knew we should not have left you,’ declared Hill, lowering his hands. His voice was full of bitter self-reproach. ‘I told you it was not safe to be here alone, not when you have been telling everyone that you planned to be out this evening.’

‘Not to mention your habit of saying you distrust banks,’ scolded Susan, kneeling at Tryan’s side and inspecting his battered face. ‘It is asking for villains to come and try their luck.’

Chaloner helped Hill carry the old man to his bed, then Susan ordered them out while she tended his wounds, clicking and soothing like a mother hen. Tryan was fortunate to have such devoted staff, thought Chaloner, as the manservant escorted him towards the front door.

‘I saw the thief,’ he said, more to himself than Hill as they walked along the corridor together. ‘At least, I saw someone carrying a heavy bag. He knocked me over.’

Hill was quietly furious. ‘If I catch him, I will kill him! It is one thing to steal the old fellow’s money, but did he have to beat him, too? And how did he know about the key? My master may blather about his distrust of banks and his invitations out, but he does not tell just anyone where he keeps his key. The thief will be someone who knows him and his habits.’

‘Hargrave?’ asked Chaloner. He seemed the obvious candidate.

But Hill shook his head. ‘He is at St Paul’s — when my master decided the weather was too foul for a man of his age to be traipsing about, Hargrave offered to go in his place.’

Chaloner was about to leave, when he saw something lying on the floor, dark against the pale wood. He bent to retrieve it. It was an ear-string. Hill snatched it from him.

‘I have seen this before,’ he said, turning it over in his hands.

‘So have I,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Worn by a man who does the occasional bit of legal work for Tryan, and who knows his foibles — the money chest, his plans to be out, and even, probably, where he keeps his key.’

‘Turner!’ exclaimed Hill in sudden fury. ‘I knew he was a villain the moment I laid eyes on him.’

‘I wish I had,’ said Chaloner ruefully, stepping out into the blizzard.