The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 5

As Chaloner left the charnel house it was more desperation than any real expect ation of finding answers that drove him to the Painted Chamber. He was surprised to find it deserted — it was usually busy during the day — but then he realised it was the time when folk went for their midday meals. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked, and he noticed that the tapestry used to incapacitate him had already been rehung.

A dark, sticky stain on the floor indicated where something had been spilled. He knelt to inspect it, and saw the edges were slightly frothy, while the bulk smelled of brandy-wine. It was almost certainly the remains of whatever had killed Langston, although Bulteel had told him that — like the first two murders — there had been no sign of a cup. He could only surmise that the killer had taken it with him when he had left. Of course, it did not explain why Langston should have accepted a drink in a place where two of his colleagues had died doing the same thing. The only answer was that all three had known the killer, and trusted him.

‘Taste it,’ urged a soft voice from behind him. ‘Swallow some, to see if it contains poison.’

Chaloner was not so engrossed in the stain that he had dropped his defences, and knew perfectly well that someone had been slinking towards him. The knife he carried in his sleeve was in his hand, and he could have had it in the fellow’s heart in an instant, had he wanted. He stood and turned, feigning surprise to see someone behind him — it was Spymaster Williamson, and he was loath to antagonise the man by informing him that elephants could have effected a more stealthy approach.

Williamson was tall, impeccably dressed and an expression of lofty disdain was permanently etched into his face. He had been an Oxford academic before embarking on a career on politics, and there was no question that he possessed a formidable intellect. Unfortunately, his unattractive personality — he was vengeful, condescending and greedy — meant he was unlikely to be awarded the promotions he doubtless thought he deserved. Chaloner was not the only man to have earned his dislike, although he was the only one still living in London — the others had either run for their lives or had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. In other words, people crossed the Spymaster at their peril.

‘According to our records, your family were late paying their taxes again this year,’ Williamson said. His voice was low and full of pent up malevolence. ‘They supported Cromwell during the wars, so I imagine depriving the government of its revenues is their way of continuing to fight against us.’

‘Then you imagine wrong,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘The taxes imposed on old Parliamentarians are colossal, and my kin are not the only ones struggling to pay what is being demanded from them.’

‘If they default, then they are traitors, as far as I am concerned,’ said Williamson silkily.

‘Them and half of England,’ retorted Chaloner. He was appalled by the discussion — shocked to learn that the Spymaster was the kind of man to strike at an enemy through his relations. Chaloner’s siblings were peaceful, gentle folk, who lived quietly on their Buckinghamshire estates; they should not have to suffer more hardship, just because their youngest brother had antagonised someone in London.

‘I could prosecute them,’ Williamson went on, casually examining his fingernails. ‘Or do you think I should leave them alone? Of course, if I do, you will have to make it worth my while.’

Chaloner was ready to do virtually anything to protect his brothers and sisters, but was careful to keep his expression neutral, aware that the Spymaster would exploit any sign of weakness. ‘I doubt the Earl pays me enough to satisfy a man of your standing.’

Williamson gave what Chaloner supposed was a smile, although it did not touch his eyes. ‘I am not thinking about money — I am more interested in you doing me a service. You see, I am aware that the Earl has ordered you to explore these clerk-killings, despite the fact that they come under my remit.’

‘You want me to stop?’ It would mean his dismissal for certain, but Chaloner was willing to do it.

‘I want you to continue,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘The city is full of treasonous talk at the moment, and my spies are hard-pressed to monitor it all. Moreover, I want to be the one to find the King’s missing statue and earn his undying gratitude, so I must expend manpower on that, too. I do not have the resources to catch a killer, as well.’

‘But the victims were government officials,’ said Chaloner, puzzled by the Spymaster’s priorities. ‘And their deaths may be an attempt to destabilise the Royalist administration. Surely, finding the killer is more important than locating a piece of art?’

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Williamson smoothly. ‘Stealing from the King is a very serious matter.’

But Chaloner did not believe it, and was sure there was another reason for the Spymaster’s curious position. ‘I do not suppose the King ordered you to find the statue, to prove yourself, did he?’ He could tell from Williamson’s pained expression that he was on the right track. ‘What did he say? That if you cannot do that, then how can you be trusted with the nation’s security?’

Williamson glowered. ‘He did not put it in quite those terms, but, as it happens, I have been asked to demonstrate my agency’s efficacy by tracing the bust. So, I am loath to waste my time on murder.’

‘And you want me to do it instead?’

‘Yes, because you are right — finding the killer is important. However, it is not as important as me keeping my job. So, do we have an agreement? I will overlook your family’s persistent late-payment of taxes, and you will hunt down the villain who is murdering officials?’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner stiffly. He disliked the notion of entering a pact with such a man.

‘Good, although I should warn you that I will prosecute them if you fail to solve the case — and I mean solve it properly, not just present me with Greene because your Earl believes him to be guilty.’

‘You think Greene is innocent?’

‘Let us say I am sceptical, although my opinion is based solely on the fact that I have met Greene, and he does not seem the murdering type. But before I ordered my spies to concentrate on the statue, I heard their reports on the crimes. They uncovered three facts that may help you. First, Chetwynd, Vine and Langston had public arguments with your Earl in the last few weeks.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner, struggling to mask his unease. Had Williamson joined the Earl’s enemies, and intended to use the case to help topple him from power? The Spymaster had so far declined to pick a side, although his neutrality had nothing to do with professionalism or fair play: he was just waiting to see who would win before committing himself. ‘He told me.’

Williamson ignored him. ‘Second, all three frequented John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden, as does Sir Nicholas Gold. You might want to speak to him in the course of your enquiries.’

‘I know this, too. They also met Greene, Neale, Hargrave, Tryan, Jones, and several others.’

Williamson ignored him again. ‘And third, the three dead men used to be regular and enthusiastic members of prayer meetings held at the home of a man named Henry Scobel.’

‘Scobel?’ echoed Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, who died a few months after the Restoration. Why would he entertain Royalists in his home?’

‘I have no idea, but entertain them he did, right up until his death. I heard the testimony of reliable witnesses — men with no reason to lie — with my own ears.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about whether these ‘reliable witnesses’ had no reason to lie — being interrogated by Williamson alone might have been enough to send them into a frenzy of fabrication. ‘Why do you think this is important? Scobel died more than three years ago.’

Williamson shrugged. ‘Perhaps it isn’t important. I am merely reporting facts — interpreting them is your business, and you may pursue or dismiss them as you see fit.’

‘It was just four of them at Scobel’s meetings?’ asked Chaloner, trusting neither the Spymaster nor his information. It was not inconceivable that he was trying to sabotage the Earl’s investigation by muddying the waters with untruths. ‘Scobel himself, Vine, Chetwynd and Langston?’

‘No, there were many others, including the men you listed as enjoying each other’s company at John’s Coffee House — Greene, Jones, Neale, Gold, Hargrave and Tryan. In addition, Will Symons went, and so did an old Roundhead soldier called Doling. And the Lea brothers.’

Chaloner kept his expression blank, but his thoughts were racing. What did it mean? That this eclectic collection of men had prayed together in Scobel’s home during Cromwell’s reign, and had moved their devotions to a coffee house after his death? And that one of them had decided to kill some of the others? But why?

‘Will Symons is Scobel’s nephew,’ Williamson was saying. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, too, but lost his post at the Restoration. So did Doling, and both are bitter. Like you, I imagine. You must be disappointed that I decline to employ you in Holland, after all your efforts to integrate yourself so seamlessly into that country — speaking their language, adopting their customs, learning their politics.’

Chaloner shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. ‘I am happy here.’

‘Are you?’ asked Williamson softly. ‘Then I must see what I can do about that.’

Chaloner was resentful as he left the Painted Chamber. He disliked his family being used as pawns to secure his cooperation, and he distrusted Williamson with every fibre of his being. However, if the Earl was connected to the murders, as Williamson obviously suspected, then Chaloner did not blame him for keeping his distance from the investigation — the King would not thank him for revealing that his Lord Chancellor was involved in something sinister. And the statue? Chaloner had no intention of giving up his enquiries on that, just so Williamson could prove the efficacy of his intelligence service. He would have to be careful, but he took orders from no man except the one who paid his wages. And that was the Earl — for the time being, at least.

He thought about the new information. Three years before, Thurloe had written him a letter, expressing his deep grief at Scobel’s death — Scobel was gentle and kind, and Thurloe had liked him. Had there been something suspicious about his demise, too? Thurloe had not mentioned anything amiss, but perhaps it had not occurred to him to look. Chaloner rubbed his head as he walked across New Palace Yard. What had the Earl let him in for this time, if the enquiry necessitated peering back into the mists of time?

Confused and a little bewildered, he reviewed all he had learned. He knew the three victims had been killed by the same poison and thus probably by the same person. They had been robbed of purses and jewellery. All had died in the Painted Chamber. They had prayed in the home of a Parliamentarian official, and after Scobel’s death had continued to meet at a coffee house in Covent Garden. Chetwynd had pretended to be upright, but had been corrupt, although Vine and Langston were said to be decent men. And that was all he knew — the rest was speculation and theory.

Frustrated, he turned his thoughts to the missing statue. No one had admitted to seeing anything suspicious the night it disappeared, and there had been no sightings of it since. But who would steal a bust of the old king? It was valuable, but hardly something that could be hawked on the black market — too many people knew it was stolen, so buyers were unlikely to be lining up. Had it been acquired for someone’s private collection then, because to own a work of art by Bernini was its own reward? Should he start investigating wealthy men, to ascertain whether any had a penchant for sculpture? Merchants, perhaps? Or some of the more affluent courtiers? But that represented a lot of people, and with disgust, Chaloner acknowledged that he was no further along with that enquiry than he was with the murders.

He arrived at the Earl’s offices, treading lightly as was his wont, and was rather surprised to catch Haddon in the act of rummaging through Bulteel’s desk — the secretary was out delivering letters. Haddon stopped what he was doing, and gave the spy a sickly, unconvincing smile. His dogs were with him, and Chaloner supposed they had not been trained to bark a warning as someone approached.

‘I was looking for a pen,’ explained the steward, straightening up furtively.

Chaloner pointed to the box of quills that stood in plain view. ‘What is wrong with those?’

Haddon grimaced. ‘I know what you are thinking — that I am searching Bulteel’s drawers because I intend to see him ousted and me appointed in his place. He accuses me of it every time we meet.’

‘Perhaps he has a point.’

Haddon winced. ‘But I do not want his post. I would hate being cooped up in this dismal hole all day, writing letters and making dull little entries in ledgers. The reason I am invading his domain is because I do not trust him. I think he may have drawn that map of the Earl’s rooms I showed you. Unfortunately, he is too clever to have left any clues that will allow me to prove it.’

‘Bulteel did not make that sketch,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Brodrick did, as you first assumed — you said you found the drawing after he had been to visit. I imagine it has something to do with his plan, as Lord of Misrule, to decorate the Earl’s offices in the manner of a Turkish brothel.’

Haddon gazed at him, then sighed in relief. ‘Is that what he intends to do? Then it is not as bad as I feared! It will be inconvenient, but we can cope with that. I shall have to take the Earl away for a few hours, to ensure they have enough time to accomplish their mischief, but that should be no problem.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You will let them proceed?’

Haddon regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course! If I thwart him, Brodrick might devise something much worse — and better the devil you know. Not a word to the Earl, though. He will refuse to play along, and that would be unfortunate, because I know it will be better for him if he just lets matters run their course.’

Chaloner left thinking the steward was wiser than he looked, and that the Earl was fortunate in his servants. It was a pity Bulteel and Haddon disliked each other, because together they would make a formidable team, and would increase the Earl’s chances of besting his enemies permanently.

He tapped at the door to the Earl’s offices, expecting to be reprimanded for taking so long to report his findings. The Earl opened it furtively, and when he recognised Chaloner, he slipped out and led his spy a short distance down the corridor, evidently intending to have the discussion there. Chaloner was bemused, because the hallway was draughty, which the Earl always said was bad for his gout. His mystification intensified when he glanced behind him, through the door that had been left ajar, and glimpsed a visitor. It was Sir Nicholas Gold.

‘I am sorry to take you away from your company, sir,’ he said, apologetically.

‘I am alone,’ said the Earl rather too quickly. ‘But I have confidential papers out on my desk — ones I cannot let anyone else see.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback. He had never known the Earl to lie quite so brazenly before. Uncharitably, he wondered whether he was asking Gold about the murders, and planned to pass any clues to Turner. Then Turner would solve the case, and the Earl would win his bet with Haddon.

‘Well?’ demanded the Earl, when the spy said no more. ‘Have you proved Greene’s guilt yet?’

‘No, I came to report that-’

The Earl raised a plump hand to stop him. ‘I want a culprit, not a résumé of your discoveries. And while you waste time here, Turner is in the charnel house, watching those who gawk at Langston’s corpse — he tells me killers often gloat over their handiwork. He knows a lot about such matters.’

‘Does he?’ asked Chaloner curiously. ‘How? I thought he was a soldier.’

‘Like you, he has enjoyed a colourful career, although he was never a Parliamentarian spy or an officer in Cromwell’s New Model Army.’

There was no answer to a statement like that, and Chaloner did not try to think of one. ‘How violently did Chetwynd oppose your stance on religion, sir?’ he asked instead. It was a blunt question, but he was beginning to think the Earl would hire Turner in preference to him no matter what he did, and felt he had nothing to lose by impertinence.

The Earl regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘I hope you are not intimating that I might have wanted Chetwynd dead because he attacked me in public! Or that I had designs on Vine’s life, because he condemned my new house.’

Not to mention your ire when Langston declined to become your spy, thought Chaloner. He shook his head. ‘Of course not, sir. I ask because I need to be ready to answer any accusations from your enemies. That will be difficult, if I do not have all the facts.’

The Earl mulled this over. ‘My disputes with Vine and Chetwynd did turn nasty,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘I was furious when they presumed to question my judgement. And I was angry with Langston for refusing to work for me, so yes, I had reason to dislike all three. But anyone who thinks I had anything to do with their deaths is a fool. Damn Vine! Why did he have to be a victim?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Why do you single out him in particular?’

The Earl jutted out a defiant chin. ‘I do not want to talk about it.’

Chaloner would find out anyway, although it would save time if he did not have to. ‘I would rather hear it from you, than from one of your detractors, sir,’ he said reasonably.

The Earl eyed him balefully. ‘You really are a disrespectful rogue! No wonder Thurloe kept you overseas all those years — he would have been compelled to slit your throat, had you worked here.’

Chaloner was growing tired of the Earl’s reluctance to trust him. Why could he not be more like Thurloe? Not for the first time, the Spy wished Cromwell had not died, the Commonwealth had not fallen, and Thurloe was still in charge of the intelligence services. ‘Then I will ask Vine’s family-’

‘No,’ snapped the Earl. He sighed irritably, and went to close the door to his office. He lowered his voice when he returned. ‘If you must know, Vine was black mailing me.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I doubt you have ever done anything worthy of extortion.’

For the first time in weeks, the Earl smiled at him. ‘A compliment! There is a rare event — I was under the impression you consider me something of a villain. But your good opinion is misplaced, I am afraid. Vine knew a terrible secret about me, which he threatened to make public. He said he would hold his tongue only if I agreed not to build my home in Piccadilly.’

‘Did he think it too grand?’

‘Yes, but that was not his main complaint. Raising Clarendon House will necessitate the destruction of some woods. Nightingales sing in these woods, apparently, and he did not want their song silenced.’

Chaloner struggled to understand. He liked birds himself, and the haunting sound of nightingales was a source of great delight to him, but there were other trees nearby, and the ones that would be felled to make way for the mansion were something of a jungle. Then he considered the geography.

‘Did his objections arise from the fact that he could hear these birds from his house?’

The Earl nodded. ‘It took me rather longer to grasp the selfish rationale behind his demands, but you are right. He said it was a crime against God to render nightingales homeless, but the reality was that he liked them. His family hated him, and listening to these birds was the only thing that made being at home with them tolerable. And now I had better tell you what Vine knew about me — my awful secret.’

Chaloner doubted he was about to hear anything overtly shocking. ‘It might help, sir.’

‘It involves something that happened a few months ago, when the Lady was moving from her old rooms in the Holbein Gate to fabulous new quarters overlooking the Privy Gardens. To furnish them, she looted works of art from the King, from public rooms, and from any White Hall resident too intimidated to oppose her plunder.’

‘I remember. She put White Hall in a frenzy of chaos for about a week.’

‘One night, just before she moved in, I found myself with an opportunity to inspect her new domain alone. When I saw the beautiful things she had appropriated for herself, I was overcome with a deep and uncontrollable anger. I did something of which I am deeply ashamed.’

‘And Vine saw you?’

‘Yes. He was also taking the opportunity to admire what the Lady had accumulated, and was standing quietly in the shadows, so I did not see him until it was too late. Needless to say, he was shocked when I … did what I did. He said he understood the reasons for my uncharacteristically loutish behaviour, and promised to overlook the matter like any decent man — until the matter of the nightingales arose, and he threatened to tell everyone.’

Chaloner was silent, wondering whether the Earl was the kind of man to hire an assassin to prevent the revelation of an embarrassing secret. He would have said no a few months before, but now he found he was not so sure.

‘What did you do?’ he asked eventually.

The Earl lowered his voice to a whisper, and his eyes were huge with mortification. ‘I drew on the Lady’s portrait — the one painted by Lely. I gave her a beard and a moustache.’

Chaloner gazed at him for a moment, then started to laugh. ‘Really?’

The Earl glared at him. ‘It is not funny! We are talking about the King’s favourite mistress here, and that portrait cost a lot of money. I defaced it so vigorously that it is far beyond repair.’

‘You should have given her a pair of horns, too, and sketched in a pitchfork.’

That coaxed a reluctant smile. ‘I wish I had thought of it. But this unedifying tale tells you something new about Vine, this noble, upright man, does it not? That he was willing to resort to underhand means to get his own way?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘So Vine was a blackmailer and Chetwynd was corrupt, although they both presented godly faces to the world. I wonder what we will learn about Langston.’

‘Nothing,’ said the Earl firmly. ‘He really was a decent fellow.’

The short winter day was almost over, and dusk was falling fast. Chaloner was hungry, having eaten nothing that day except Bulteel’s cakes. Fortunately, the Earl was in one of his conscientious phases, and had been paying his staff on time, so the spy was currently solvent. It was not always so, which was another reason he missed working for the Commonwealth — Thurloe had paid regularly and well, allowing Chaloner to live respectably and even invest funds for the future. It had all disappeared at the Restoration when, for the first time in his life, he had experienced genuine poverty.

But he had money to spend that evening, so he went to New Palace Yard, on which were located three establishments called Heaven, Hell and Purgatory. It depended on their owners’ whim whether they were taverns, coffee houses or cookshops on any particular week, but it was usually possible to purchase victuals of some description, and he liked their dark rooms, worn benches and convivial atmospheres. He was heading towards them when he spotted some familiar faces.

Turner was sitting on a bench near the central fountain, stretching his long legs in front of him as though he was relaxing in the sun, rather than perching on a stone monument in the middle of winter. His trademark ear-string fluttered in the breeze. With him were the bandy-legged Tryan, and Hargrave with his scarred and shaven head. Neither merchant looked as comfortable as Turner, and huddled inside their coats. The bench was protected by an awning, and at that time of night, the trio were virtually invisible under its shadow. Intrigued as to why they felt compelled to meet in such a place, Chaloner eased his way behind them, aiming for a position where he could eavesdrop.

‘Of course I can read the contracts for you,’ Turner was saying amiably. ‘If they are anything like the ones I did last week, they will be easy.’

‘You are most kind,’ said Hargrave, scratching his scalp. ‘But are you sure it is no bother? I thought you were employed by the Lord Chancellor these days, to catch him a killer.’

‘I am,’ said Turner. ‘But I am perfectly capable of helping you at the same time.’

‘We would have lost a fortune in the past, without solicitors to safeguard our interests,’ said Tryan soberly. ‘It is a sad state of affairs when a man cannot trust a fellow merchant not to cheat him. We are indebted to you, sir.’

‘Lord, it is cold!’ exclaimed Hargrave, pulling his coat more tightly around him. ‘I rarely noticed bad weather when I had hair, and I should never have listened to Chetwynd — it was he who suggested I cut it all off, and have it made into a wig. But the damned thing has been nothing but trouble.’

‘You cannot blame Chetwynd for the lice, though,’ said Tryan. ‘You got them from that brothel.’ He pursed his lips disapprovingly.

‘It was not a brothel,’ objected Hargrave, stung. ‘It was a gentleman’s club. Besides, I suspect I actually picked them up from the New Exchange — the Lea brothers have never been very scrupulous about hygiene.’

‘Do either of you know who murdered Chetwynd?’ asked Turner conversationally. ‘I hate to admit it, but my enquiries have reached something of an impasse.’

‘Greene did it,’ replied Tryan, sounding surprised that he should need to ask. ‘The Earl told me so, when I met him in the cathedral the other day. I confess I was astounded: Greene does not seem the type.’

Turner’s expression was pained. ‘He only thinks Greene is guilty — he has no evidence to prove it.’

Tryan’s face was a mask of horror. ‘No evidence? But he informed me of Greene’s culpability as though it were beyond the shadow of a doubt. Are you saying poor Greene might be innocent?’

‘I always thought the Earl was decent,’ said Hargrave, when Turner nodded. ‘But this makes me realise he is no different from the rest of Court — a liar and a scoundrel. We should never have invited the King back, because it is His Majesty’s fault that there are so many villains in White Hall.’

‘Stop,’ said Turner sharply. ‘I lost part of my ear serving the old king, and I am loyal to the new one. So keep your treasonous thoughts to yourself, if you do not mind.’

Hargrave regarded him disparagingly. ‘You were wounded for the Royalist cause, but what has the King done for you in return? Made you his Master of Horse? A Groom of the Bedchamber? No! You are palmed off on an earl who goes around making false accusations against hapless clerks.’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Tryan hastily, raising his hand to prevent the colonel from responding. ‘How many more times must you argue about politics before you realise you will never agree?’

Hargrave shot Turner a conciliatory smile. ‘My apologies, friend. I mean no offence.’

Turner inclined his head graciously. ‘And no offence is taken. However, we do agree on one thing: it is too cold to meet out here again. Next time, we shall discuss our business in a tavern. I know tobacco smoke makes you sneeze, Tryan, but the chill cannot be healthy, either.’

‘There will be smoke galore when you join the dean of St Paul’s for those Twelfth Night ceremonies in the cathedral,’ Hargrave said to Tryan, as he helped his colleague to his feet and they prepared to take their leave. ‘I told you not to accept the invitation.’

‘I could never refuse a clergyman,’ said Tryan reproachfully. ‘He might think me irreligious.’

When Turner sauntered off in the opposite direction, Chaloner caught up with him, making him jump by grabbing his shoulder. He was disappointed that his eavesdropping had revealed nothing useful, but it was as good a time as any to exchange meaningless pleasantries with the colonel — Turner was not the only one who wanted to lull his rival into a false sense of security.

‘God’s blood, man!’ exclaimed Turner. ‘Watch who you sneak up on! I might have run you through before I realised who you were.’

Chaloner showed him the dagger in his hand. ‘You would not have succeeded.’

Turner smiled. ‘I am glad. I have no desire to harm a fellow veteran of the wars, although His Portliness tells me we fought on opposite sides. Have you found the missing statue yet?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner, wondering what else the Earl had said about him.

Turner grimaced. ‘Between you and me, I have reached a dead end with it. I got Lady Muskerry to escort me to the Shield Gallery again — she took me once before, when the damned thing was still there — and I stared at the empty plinth for ages, but no solutions occurred to me. I am fed up with espionage, and plan to take tonight off, to renew my energies by visiting a few ladies. Bess Gold will appreciate my company, if I can get rid of that tiresome Neale.’

‘He does pay her close attention,’ agreed Chaloner.

Turner looked disgusted. ‘Damned fortune-hunter! She will be a widow soon, and Neale intends to marry her. Gold must be worried, to see his successor champ so hard at the bit. Still, if Gold is murdered, we shall know where to look for a suspect. Even I will be able to solve that one.’

‘Will you visit Meg the laundress tonight, too?’

‘There is nothing I would like more, but I hunted high and low for her today, and could not find the merest trace of her. She seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth. I hope you are wrong, and the clerk-killer has not drowned her. She has the best thighs in London.’

Chaloner watched him swagger away, doffing his hat to various ladies, all of whom he seemed to know by name. Where was Meg? The spy rubbed his chin thoughtfully when it occurred to him that it was odd that Turner should think she had been drowned, rather than poisoned, stabbed or strangled. Did he know something he was unwilling to share with his rival investigator?

It was Hell’s turn to sell food, and delicious smells wafted from it when Chaloner opened the door. His intention was to find a corner where he could keep his own company, but Bulteel was at a table near the fire and waved him over. The secretary was with a dozen other White Hall officials, although he was not really one of them: they formed a tight, comradely cluster, and he was slightly outside it. Williamson’s clerk Swaddell was part of the throng, though. He was holding forth in an affable manner, although his dark, restless eyes were everywhere, missing nothing.

‘It is noisy this evening,’ Chaloner remarked to Bulteel, surprised to find the place so busy.

Bulteel nodded. ‘Because it is Tuesday — Sausage Night. People travel for miles to be here.’

Looking around, Chaloner realised it was true, and was amazed to see so many familiar faces. Greene was at a crowded table near the back. He was talking to Gold — or rather he was bawling in Gold’s ear, and Gold was frowning to say he could not hear. So hard was Gold concentrating that he was oblivious to the flirtatious activities of his wife and Neale at the other end of the bench. Chaloner watched Greene, and wondered why the Earl should think him a killer. There was something pitiful and limp about him, and the spy was sure he did not have the resolve to hand men cups of poison, watch them die, then calmly hide the evidence. Besides, he had alibis for two of the crimes.

He turned his attention to Neale, who had hated Chetwynd for passing an unfavourable verdict. Did the young man’s cherubic looks hide the dark visage of a killer? But then why kill Vine and Langston? As decoy victims, to ensure investigators looked elsewhere for the culprit? Neale was not stupid, so it was certainly possible that he had devised such a plan. Of course, it was equally possible that George Vine had murdered his father — and that he had killed Chetwynd and Langston to cover his tracks.

Also at Greene’s table were the couple Hannah had pointed out that morning — Scobel’s nephew, the orange-haired Will Symons, and his sickly, artistic wife Margaret. Had Williamson been telling the truth when he claimed Symons had joined the three murdered men at prayers in his uncle’s house? Did he resent all he had lost at the Restoration, and was avenging himself on those who had done rather better? Symons looked tired and drawn, and he and Margaret appeared shabby and down-at-heel compared to the bright company around them.

The door opened, and the spy glanced up to see the unsavoury Lea brothers enter. They exchanged boisterous greetings with the clerks at Chaloner’s table, then squeezed themselves in at the opposite end, amid laughter and general bonhomie. Then the door opened again, this time to admit the dour-faced Doling. Doling headed for a place near the window, but was so morose and unfriendly that the men already sitting there soon made excuses to leave. Bulteel muttered something about Sausage Night enticing all manner of vermin from their nests.

‘You do not like Doling?’ said Chaloner.

‘I do not like any bitter old Roundhead who holds us responsible for his misfortunes — and Doling has gone from government official to security minion for Backwell’s Bank. Incident ally, the Earl is losing patience with you over your refusal to see Greene as the killer. Turner is not so foolish as to oppose him — he tells the Earl he is right, and keeps any reservations he might have to himself.’

‘How do you know he has reservations? Has he mentioned them to you?’

Bulteel looked pained. ‘No — I cannot get him to tell me anything, although I have tried my best to worm my way into his confidence. However, do not be too ready to dismiss Greene from your inventory of possible villains. He knew all three victims, and he was caught trying to sneak away from the scene of Chetwynd’s murder. Of course, there are other suspects, too.’

‘Who?’ Chaloner was interested to know whether Bulteel’s list matched his own.

‘Well, the Lea brothers have expensive tastes, and wasted no time claiming Chetwynd’s fortune. Meanwhile, Neale hated Chetwynd, George Vine hated his father, and Doling hates everyone. Then there are the victims’ so-called friends. I saw them at John’s Coffee House about a month ago, and they were all arguing furiously — Gold, Jones, Tryan and Hargrave, to name but a few.’

It was a depressingly long list, and reminded Chaloner of the enormity of the challenge he was facing. He fell silent, listening to Swaddell talk about the Spymaster’s new-found passion for cockfighting. Sourly, he thought it unsurprising that a man of Williamson’s brutal temperament should take pleasure from such a barbaric activity.

‘Fine company you keep,’ he remarked acidly to Bulteel. ‘Men like the Spymaster’s toady.’

‘Hush!’ whispered Bulteel in alarm. ‘Swaddell has uncannily sharp hearing. Besides, we are all just clerks in here — it is a place where we forget our differences, and enjoy easy company and good ale.’

Chaloner doubted Swaddell felt the same way, and was sure he would use such occasions to gather intelligence for his master. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so,’ said Bulteel firmly. ‘But I am glad you came tonight, because there is something I want to ask you. Will you stand as godfather to my son?’

Chaloner stared at him, certain he had misheard. ‘What?’

‘My boy means more to me than life itself, and I want him to have the best godfather I can procure. Will you oblige? It would make me very happy.’

Chaloner was at a loss for words, astonished to learn that Bulteel liked him well enough to extend such an offer. No one had asked him to be godfather to their children before, not even his siblings.

‘But I have no money and no influence at Court,’ he said, aware that Bulteel was waiting for an answer. ‘I will not be able to help him in the way he will need.’

‘You will be able to teach him decency, though,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘And there are not many who can do that in this place. I would rather have him virtuous and poor, than rich and rakish.’

‘You may not think so when he comes of age and needs a patron. I am not a good choice, Bulteel. My life is dangerous — there are not many elderly spies in London, in case you have not noticed.’

‘But you are more careful than others, more experienced,’ persisted Bulteel stubbornly. He laid a thin hand on Chaloner’s arm. ‘And do not refuse me without giving my request proper consideration. Come to share our Twelfth Night dinner, and see the baby. Then decide.’

Chaloner smiled back. ‘Thank you. It is an honour. My hesitation only stems from my own shortcomings — the fear of letting you down.’

‘You will not,’ stated Bulteel firmly. ‘Not ever.’

The sausages arrived on huge platters, one for each table. They comprised tubes of seasoned meat stuffed into the intestines of a sheep, and the combination of gristle and rubbery guts provided a serious challenge for even the sharpest of teeth. Once scullions had slapped down the plates, the noise level dropped dramatically as people struggled to chew. The sausages were criminally hot, and more than one man was obliged to cool a burned mouth with gulps of ale. Chaloner was just wondering how Bulteel had managed to finish his before anyone else, when his teeth were by far the worst in the tavern, when the door opened and a vast figure materialised. It was Jones, the obese Yeoman of the Household Kitchen who had closed the New Exchange.

‘Am I too late?’ he cried, dismayed. ‘Buckingham delayed me on a matter concerning the Lord of Misrule, and was unsympathetic when I told him I did not want to miss Sausage Night in Hell.’

Voices assured him that there was plenty left, although no one seemed keen on him joining their particular group. Men spread out along to benches to repel him, reluctant to share with someone who was likely to eat too much. Eventually, he arrived at Greene’s table. Because most people were now chewing rather than talking, Chaloner found he was able to hear what was said.

‘Make room for a little one,’ ordered Jones, sliding his vast posterior along the wood with grim determination. Protesting men were crushed into each other, and Greene dropped off the far end.

‘I will sit elsewhere, then,’ said the clerk in his gloomy, resigned voice as he picked himself up. ‘It was draughty there, in any case, and breezes around the ankles predispose a man to gout.’

‘I never gloat,’ declared Gold, looking up from his repast in surprise. ‘It is bad manners.’

‘That does not stop people from doing it, though,’ said Symons, shooting Jones a look that could only be described as resentful. ‘Folk gloat over me all the time.’

‘My Nicky has good cause to gloat,’ said Bess, running her fingers down her husband’s sleeve. She looked particularly ovine that evening, because her dress was the colour of undyed wool, and she had dressed her white-blonde hair into tight little ringlets. ‘He has earned lots of lovely money, and tells me I will be a wealthy widow one day.’

‘Do not wish it too soon,’ said Margaret softly. She looked at her husband, and her thin, wan face softened into a smile. ‘If you have a good man, I recommend you keep him alive for as long as possible.’

‘There are plenty of fish on the beach,’ countered Bess carelessly. ‘I shall find another one I like.’

‘Fish in the sea,’ corrected Neale, to remind her that he was at her side. She had been flirting with Peters — French pox notwithstanding — and Neale did not like it.

‘I adore tea,’ said Gold, flinging a couple of sausages at his rivals, ostensibly to ensure they did not miss out now the gluttonous Jones had arrived, but one fell in Neale’s lap, leaving a greasy stain that necessitated the use of a damp cloth. Chaloner thought he saw the old man smirk. ‘The Queen quaffs it every day, and what is good enough for Her Majesty is good enough for me.’

‘I have never had any,’ said Greene miserably. ‘No one has ever offered it to me. Although there was once a man from Barrington who-’

‘The Earl of Clarendon?’ demanded Gold aggressively. ‘I did not take tea with him today, and anyone who claims otherwise is a damned liar!’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. Was it the ritual of tea-drinking that had elicited such a vehement denial, or was it his conference with the Earl? The spy was just trying to imagine why Gold should object to people knowing about either, when he became aware that Swaddell was also listening to the exchange — he was nodding at Bulteel’s monologue about a batch of bad ink, but Chaloner was too experienced an eavesdropper himself to be deceived.

But Swaddell was wasting his time, and so was Chaloner. The rest of the discussion around Greene’s table could not have been more innocuous, and the most contentious subject raised was whether the sausage casings came from a sheep or a pig.

Eventually, Gold stood to leave, hauling Bess away from Peters and Neale, who were vying for her attention in a way that was beginning to be uncouth. It was the cue for a general exodus as, food eaten, people began to make their farewells. Outside, patrons waited for each other — crime was rife in Westminster, and only a fool walked there alone after dark. They began to wander away in groups of three or four, while a gaggle of about two dozen headed along St Margaret’s Lane. Chaloner followed when he saw Greene, Jones and the Symons couple were among the throng, with Gold, Bess, Peters and Neale trailing along behind them.

When the company reached Old Palace Yard, most began to climb into the hackney carriages that were for hire there, but Greene and his companions lingered, talking in low voices. Chaloner eased closer, but stopped short of the alley he had been aiming for when he saw someone was already in it. It was Swaddell, listening intently to what was being said.

‘… not meet for a while,’ Jones was suggesting. ‘It is the most sensible thing to do.’

‘I disagree,’ said Symons. He sounded almost tearful. ‘Now is the time we need it most, and I refuse to countenance what you are proposing. It is wrong!’

‘My husband has a point,’ said Margaret quietly. ‘You should not allow-’

‘It is only for a while,’ interrupted Jones. ‘Just until this blows over. Then we can resume, if you feel we must, although I believe it is unnecessary. What do you say, Gold?’

But Gold’s eyes were on Bess. ‘Did Peters just put his hand on my wife’s rump?’

‘On her hips,’ corrected Greene. He stiffened suddenly when Swaddell’s foot clinked against something metal that had been left in the alley. ‘What was that? Is someone spying on us?’

Jones drew his sword, and so did Gold. Swaddell promptly beat a hasty retreat down the lane. His footsteps rang out, and Jones immediately waddled off in pursuit. Meanwhile, Gold gave a howl of outrage, and dived after Peters with his naked blade. Suddenly, he was not a feeble old man, and Symons, Neale and Greene were hard-pressed to restrain him. Peters ran for his life, Bess pouted, and Gold’s friends bundled him into a coach before he could do any harm.

‘Impertinent dog!’ Gold roared. ‘Get in the coach, friends. We shall hunt him down like vermin!’

‘What about Jones?’ asked Greene uneasily. ‘He heard someone in that lane, so we should wait for him to come back and tell us-’

‘It was probably a rat,’ said Bess, shooting her husband a sulky look. ‘There are a lot of them about at this time of night. Great big ones that spoil a person’s fun.’

‘Symons! Greene! Neale! Get in the carriage,’ yelled Gold, still incensed. ‘You, too, Margaret. I am sure you know how to deal with Court cockerels. When we catch him, you shall chop off his-’

‘I am taking Margaret home,’ interrupted Symons. ‘It is too cold for her to be out. But Jones knows how to look after himself, and if he did hear someone, it will only be a beggar. He can deal with one of those without our help. He was once a soldier, after all, and distinguished himself during the wars.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Greene, although he did not look happy. ‘He should be able to manage a beggar.’

Chaloner watched them leave, then turned towards the alley, which he knew led to a wharf — a gloomy, ramshackle dock that was used by the fuel barges that came from Newcastle. He moved cautiously, ready to hide in the shadows when Jones and Swaddell came back — which he knew they would, because it was a dead end, and there was nowhere else for them to go.

But they did not return, and eventually he arrived at the pier. It was lit by a lantern on a pole, which swung gently in the breeze. He wondered why anyone would bother to illuminate the place, when fuel was expensive and the lamp itself was likely to be stolen by anyone who knew it was there. He looked around, and saw the wharf was bounded on three sides by high walls, while the fourth was open to the river. There were no doorways, alcoves or sheds, and the only way out was the way he had come. Thus he was astonished to find no sign of Swaddell or Jones.

Puzzled, he walked to the wharf ’s edge, and looked into the water. The only place for them to have gone was the river, but it was bitterly cold and he did not see either eager to take a dip. Yet he could see something bobbing there, and was about to kneel for a closer look, when he heard a sound. He spun around, and saw half a dozen figures converging on him from the alley. All carried swords.

‘Never meddle in matters that do not concern you,’ said one softly. Like his companions, he wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face, and he moved with an easy confidence. Chaloner knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they were members of the train-band from the Painted Chamber.

‘What matters?’ he demanded, drawing his own weapon as they advanced on him.

‘Murders and rings,’ replied the leader in the same low whisper. ‘It will be the end of you.’

His sudden attack forced Chaloner to jerk away, and his colleagues lunged forward before the spy had regained his balance. Chaloner fought hard, using every trick he had ever learned, but they were experienced warriors, and although he managed to score hits on two, he was no match for so many. He was going to be killed unless he did something fast. He drove them all back with a wild, undisciplined swipe that took them off guard, then turned and leapt into the river.

Water roared in Chaloner’s ears, and seaweed brushed his face as he sank. The tide was in, and the river ran deep and agonisingly cold. His downward progress ended when his feet sank into a layer of silt. It clung to his legs, and he could not kick himself free. He strugged violently, but the mud was reluctant to relinquish its prize. It was not long before his lungs began to burn from the lack of air, but just when he thought he might drown, one foot came free, followed by the other. He propelled himself upwards, emerging next to one of the wharf ’s thick wooden struts. A light above his head told him that his attackers had removed the lamp from its post, and were using it to search. He paddled under the pier and tried to control his ragged breathing, aware that he was a sitting duck if they had guns. Suddenly, a great, whale-like form surfaced next to him in a violent explosion of spray.

‘Help!’ Jones gurgled in a voice that was full of water. ‘Help me!’

Instinctively, Chaloner moved towards him, intending to direct one of the flailing arms towards the weed-encrusted pillar, so Jones could keep himself afloat. But the fat man grabbed him, and they both went under. Chaloner tried to punch his way free, but Jones’s grip was made powerful by terror. The spy’s feet touched the river’s sticky bottom a second time, and he was aware of mud sucking at his ankles.

He fought harder, and felt his knuckles graze against something hard: it was one of the pier’s legs. He grasped it, and used it as an anchor to tear free of Jones’s panicked clutch. The move seemed to weaken Jones, enabling Chaloner to spin him around, to prevent him from grabbing his rescuer a second time, then kick upwards, keeping a firm grip on the man’s collar as he did so. It was like dragging lead, and there was a moment when he thought Jones was just going to be too heavy for him — that he would have to let him go. But then he glimpsed light shimmering down through the black water, and seeing it so close gave him the strength he needed to swim the last few feet.

‘There!’ snapped the train-band leader, as spy and Yeoman of the Household Kitchen surfaced at last and took great gasps of sweet air. ‘Shoot him!’

Immediately, something zipped past Chaloner’s face. They were using a crossbow, presumably because the discharge of firearms on government property would attract unwanted attention.

‘Save me!’ screamed Jones, oblivious to the danger. ‘I cannot swim!’

‘Quickly,’ hissed the leader. ‘Make an end of this before someone hears.’

Jones was thrashing furiously, creating great spumes of foam that made it difficult for Chaloner to see. He lunged for the spy again, but missed. Was this what had happened to Swaddell? He had been ensnared by a drowning man, and had been unable to escape? Suddenly, there was a crack as the crossbow was fired again, audible even over Jones’s noisy splashes. Then the fat man was gone. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of lapping water and the distant barking of dogs.

‘It is done,’ said the leader eventually. ‘You two stay here, on the chance that he escaped and is waiting to climb out. The rest can go home.’

While he talked, Chaloner forced himself underwater, groping in the darkness for Jones, but he soon gave up. The tide had just turned, and the current had almost certainly swept the hapless Yeoman downstream. It tugged at Chaloner as he clung to the pillar, and made the seaweed undulate. He saw a ladder leading up to the quay, but he had lost his sword, and he could not fight the two remaining guards without it. He realised he was going to be trapped in the water until either they left or the tide went out, allowing him to walk to safety along the beach.

He knew he should concentrate on devising a solution to his predicament before the icy river sucked away his life, but his mind kept wandering. He thought about the fact that the pier was provided with a lantern, even though coal was unlikely to be landed at night. Ergo, it was used to light some other activity. Then he considered the train-band. They had appeared very suddenly, and were determined that he would not escape. Of course, the leader had mentioned the ring, which meant they knew it was him they had met in the Painted Chamber. And after he had jumped, they had referred to him in the singular. He could only assume that they thought he and Jones were one and the same — that the feeble lamplight had not allowed them to see two men in the water. Three, counting Swaddell.

His grip on the pillar was starting to loosen, and he was aware of a warm lethargy taking hold of him. It would be easy to close his eyes and sleep, but something deep within him stirred, and he felt his resolve begin to strengthen. He could not climb this ladder, but there were other public stairs. All he had to do was let the current take him. He would have to ensure it did not sweep him to the middle of the river, because then he would never escape its frigid embrace, but he could stay near the edge. Without giving himself too much time to think, he took a deep breath, let himself slide under the water, and gave himself to the pull of the tide.

He stayed submerged until his lungs felt as though they would burst, then surfaced with a gasp that sounded deafening to his ears. He glanced behind him and saw the lamp, but he had been carried beyond the point where the soldiers would be able to see him. He was safe — or as safe as he could be in a fast-flowing river in the dark. He could see the Westminster Stairs a short distance ahead, so he struck out towards them. But the current was too strong, and carried him past.

He swallowed water, and began to cough. Then he saw lights ahead, and knew they were his last chance, because the cold was now seriously weakening him. Mustering every last ounce of his strength, he swam towards them. Were they closer, or was he imagining it? He closed his eyes, summoning reserves of energy he did not know he had. Then he felt something solid beneath his feet, and could hear the lap of waves on stone. Struggling to make his limbs obey, he clambered out of the water, and collapsed in an exhausted heap at the top of a flight of steps. He was not sure how long he lay there, but it was enough to bring back the warm lethargy. He forced himself to stand.

He knew, from the number of lights, that he was at White Hall, but he was not on the main pier. His heart sank when he realised he had fetched up on the Privy Stairs, which led to the rooms used by the King and his Queen. Now what? he thought. He was not inclined to jump back in the river and aim for a more suitable landing spot, so he supposed he would just have creep through the royal apartments without being seen. It would not be easy, but his cold-numbed mind was failing to come up with any other options. With water squelching in his boots and weighing down his clothes, he picked the lock at the top of the stairs, and let himself inside.

It was a relief to be out of the wind, although the little chamber in which he found himself could hardly be described as cosy. He climbed more steps, then picked a second lock, to find himself in the Shield Gallery with its long line of statues, ghostly sentinels faintly illuminated by the light of the lamps in the alley outside. Happier now he was in familiar territory, he stumbled along it, aiming for the door that led down to the lane. From there, he could reach the Earl’s offices, where there would be a fire — the Earl liked his rooms permanently heated on account of his gout, and kept blankets to hand for the same reason. Chaloner would thaw himself out, then go home. Or better still, visit Hannah, who would know how to banish the aching chill from his bones.

He had almost reached the end of what felt like an inordinately long chamber, when a door opened. Instinctively, he dodged towards a statue, aiming to hide behind it, but his legs would not do what his brain suggested, and he did not move nearly quickly enough. Light from a powerful lantern flooded the chamber, and there was nothing he could do to prevent himself from being caught.

Chaloner waited for the yell of outrage that would see soldiers racing to arrest him. Then he would be bundled into some dismal cell until the Earl rescued him, which was likely to be hours, given that they would be loath to disturb the great man until morning. Chaloner hated gaols with a passion, and did not relish being locked up when he was soaking wet. Briefly, he considered fighting his way free, but he was in no condition to do battle with anyone — especially without his sword.

‘Thomas?’ came a voice full of astonishment. ‘Is that you?’

Chaloner blinked against the light. It had sounded like Hannah. Footsteps clattered towards him.

‘It is your lover?’ The question was asked in heavily accented English, and Chaloner was horrified to recognise Queen Katherine. He tried to bow, but was too cold to move properly, and Her Majesty was lucky he did not topple into her arms.

Soldiers immediately seized him, and he resigned himself to a night in prison. He hoped the Earl would not arrive too late for work the following day — or worse, decline to take responsibility for him, because it would be an easy way to dispense with his services. Being caught near the Queen’s bedroom was not something that could easily be explained away, and he saw he was in very grave trouble.

‘My friend,’ corrected Hannah primly. ‘The Earl charged him to investigate the King’s missing statue, which I imagine is what he is doing here.’

‘Let him go,’ ordered the Queen, addressing the guards. She was not long recovered from a serious illness, and her small, delicate face was far too pale.

‘That would be unwise, ma’am,’ said the captain, stepping forward to prevent his men from doing as they were bid. He pointed at the water that had gathered in a pool around Chaloner’s feet. ‘I do not believe he is investigating the theft, because he would have used the door from the lane, like any normal person. But he came via the river, suggesting he plans to steal something himself.’

‘Steal what?’ demanded Hannah archly, gesturing at the large paintings and heavy sculptures that surrounded them. ‘Some of these? How? By swimming off with them? He is not a fish!’

‘My husband’s statue was stole at night,’ said the Queen slowly. ‘It is recreating the crime.’

‘Of course!’ cried Hannah in delight. ‘How exciting! We shall help you, Tom — Her Majesty cannot sleep, and this will be much more fun than walking up and down until she wears herself out.’

‘She should not be here anyway,’ muttered the captain. ‘The roof was damaged in the last storm, and it has not been mended yet. It may not be safe.’

‘I play this game,’ said the Queen, smiling. ‘But not here. Too cold. My chambers has fire.’

With open unease, the soldiers escorted her, Hannah and Chaloner to the room in question. Once there, they did not close the door all the way, but stayed to peer through the crack, ready to dash in the moment there was any hint of a threat. Chaloner was pleased they took their duties seriously, because the Queen was the one person at Court whom he thought was worth protecting.

Hannah handed him a blanket, and the Queen gestured he was to sit opposite her, by the fire. As he warmed up, he began to shiver, almost uncontrollably, and it was difficult to keep his teeth from chattering. Hannah knelt between them, poking the flames with a stick, while the Queen studied him with dark, sad eyes. Politely, he waited for one of them to speak first.

‘We shall use my language,’ the Queen said in Portuguese. ‘I do not have the opportunity very often, now the King has sent my tiring women home. Incidentally, I never thanked you for travelling to Spain on my behalf this summer, or for sending me all those intelligence reports. My brother the king was able to make good use of them, and the result is a cessation of hostilities.’

‘But an uneasy one, ma’am,’ replied Chaloner in the same tongue. He saw Hannah regarding him in astonishment, and supposed he had never mentioned his skill with languages. ‘It will not last.’

‘I pray that it will,’ said the Queen, crossing herself. ‘Now, what were you really doing in the Shield Gallery? It was nothing to do with locating my husband’s bust, because there are no clues to be gained from studying an empty room, especially so long after the original theft. And your explanation does not account for the fact that you are soaking wet.’

Chaloner was not sure how much to tell her. ‘The investigation led to a skirmish that saw me fall in the river,’ he replied, not about to admit that the ‘investigation’ he had been following had nothing to do with statues.

‘Well, I am glad you are safe, because there is something I want you to do for me.’

Chaloner experienced a lurch of alarm. The Earl had almost dismissed him the last time he had accepted a commission from the Queen, and had made it clear that he would not countenance it happening again. Of course, that was before the Earl had appointed a rival investigator. Perhaps this time he would not care.

The Queen interpreted his silence as acquiescence. ‘My marriage contract stipulated that I was to have forty thousand pounds a year for my household expenses. The money was deposited in the Treasury, and I was to apply for funds as and when I needed them. I am not extravagant, like … like other women. My expenditure for this year amounts to less than four thousand pounds.’

It was common knowledge that ‘other women’ — namely Lady Castlemaine — could go through that in a single night. Chaloner waited for her to continue, wishing he could stop shivering. Meanwhile, Hannah frowned; the rapidly spoken Portuguese was excluding her from the discussion.

‘I should have thirty-six thousand pounds left, but when I requested funds to travel to Bath — to partake of the healing waters — I was told it had all gone.’

‘What happened to it, ma’am?’ Thirty-six thousand pounds was a staggering sum to go adrift.

‘That is what you must find out. All I know is that the money has disappeared, and I am prevented from accessing the waters that may help me conceive.’

She looked away, and Chaloner’s heart went out to her. He recalled the rumour that she was barren, and could not do the one thing the King demanded of her: provide him with an heir.

‘This is important to me,’ she continued softly. ‘I want you to find out what happened to my money, and then I want enough of it back to let me go to Bath.’

‘I am not qualified for this task, ma’am,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘You need someone to go through records and other expenditures. If your lost money was in silver pieces, then I might be able to hunt it down for you, but this is a crime of embezzlement, and will only be solved by someone skilled at interpreting complex accounts.’

The Queen’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘No one wants to help me. I have appealed to the King and the bishops, but they all hate me, because they think I am infertile. But when I offer to immerse myself in stinking water — a desperate remedy, but I will do anything to fulfil my duty — the government refuses to advance me the money. What am I to do?’

Chaloner felt wretched. ‘I would help if I could, but it would be like asking Hannah to translate the Bible into Portuguese. She does not have the necessary skills, despite her devotion to you. It would be beyond her — and identifying accounting errors is beyond me.’

The Queen wiped her eyes, and attempted a smile. ‘And I imagine you are busy with the missing statue anyway, and have no time to devote to a trifling matter like mine. You served me well once, and I suppose it is unreasonable to expect more. But I can do something for you.’

‘You can?’ Chaloner hoped it was not arresting him for declining to do as he was told.

‘Your master would like to find the bust, but Williamson is determined to reach it first. However, the Earl has always been kind to me, whereas Williamson is cold and aloof. I want the Earl to win this race, so I shall tell you something that might bring about a result that will please me.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Williamson is vindictive and ruthless, and you should not risk his wrath for any reason. Keep your secret — do not become involved in his affairs.’

‘No one else would decline free information on the grounds that it puts me in danger,’ said the Queen bitterly. ‘But I am going to tell you anyway. I trust you not to tell Williamson the source.’

Chaloner wished he was more alert, because he could not think of a way to stop her. He opened his mouth, but she raised her hand to prevent him from speaking.

‘My servants gossip in front of me, in the mistaken belief that I cannot understand a word they say. I overheard one mention that my husband’s statue has been offered for sale to a clerk called Greene.’

Chaloner gaped at her, forgetting himself as his thoughts whirled. ‘Who offered to sell it to him?’

‘They did not seem to know. Then they went on to say that he declined in horror, and so the same proposal was made to a woman named Margaret Symons. Will this information help you?’

‘It might,’ said Chaloner gratefully. ‘Thank you.’