The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 8

The notion that the thief was growing desperate, and the statue might soon be destroyed, drove Chaloner to spend a good part of the night in White Hall, listening to conversations not meant for his ears. But the only thing he learned was that Lady Castlemaine was taking a rather sinister interest in the King’s oldest illegitimate son, which led him to surmise that it had been young James Croft with whom Swaddell had caught her cavorting. He was not surprised she wanted it kept quiet: the King was protective of his offspring, and would be outraged if he learned what the Lady was doing.

The Lord of Misrule had decreed that anyone in the palace grounds after dark that night should be wearing nothing but red, and courtiers disobeying his edict could expect to have the offending garments removed. Chaloner took care not to be caught, but he witnessed what happened to others who were less wary. He was obliged to rescue Haddon with his fists when a gaggle of drunken youths laid hold of him. Prudently, they slunk away when they saw their high spirits were likely to end in a trouncing.

‘Thank you,’ said the steward unsteadily. The encounter had frightened him, and he was on the verge of tears. ‘I am glad my dogs are not here — they would have raced to save me, and those vile ruffians might have hurt them.’

‘Shall I escort you home?’

Reluctantly, Haddon shook his head. ‘I had better warn the Earl, or he might suffer the same fate.’ He looked across the vast open space of the courtyard in front of him. ‘Although it is a long way to his offices. I do not suppose you would mind …’

Chaloner took him on a circuitous route that avoided the roistering mobs. While they went, Haddon said that he had managed to find out where Meg lived: with a friend on a street called Petty France.

‘She has quit her post in the White Hall laundry,’ the steward elaborated. ‘Apparently, she thinks there are too many difficult stains involved in washing for the Court. But everyone says she will have no difficulty in recruiting private customers, because she is so good at ironing.’

‘I will visit her first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Chaloner.

‘Good,’ said Haddon. ‘Let us hope it brings you one step closer to catching the killer — and me one step closer to keeping the five pounds I wagered on your success.’

When they arrived at the Earl’s offices, Turner was there, drinking wine in social bonhomie with his master. He was clad in crimson from head to toe, even down to his ear-string. The Earl was remarking on his attire with uncharacteristically good-humour, indicating he had no idea the colonel was obeying the dictates of the Lord of Misrule.

‘You should follow his example, Thomas,’ the Earl said jovially. ‘Wear pink perhaps. Or yellow.’

Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘Are you unwell, sir?’

‘I have never felt better,’ declared the Earl, standing to stretch his plump arms. The movement caused him to totter. ‘And now you will all escort me home. There is a lot of shrieking and cackling outside, and I do not want to be made the subject of some practical joke by drunken youths.’

The empty jug on his desk suggested it was not just youths who were drunk that evening.

‘Very wise, sir,’ said Turner smoothly. ‘You will be safe with us.’

Chaloner was not so sure, because the Lord Chancellor was a tempting target, and they might be overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who wanted to pick on him. He and Turner were armed, but so were many courtiers, and although most were poor swordsmen, others were highly adept. Besides, Chaloner did not want to stab influential noblemen if he could help it.

‘I will fetch your carriage, sir,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘This is not a good night to wander-’

‘No, I shall walk,’ countered the Earl. ‘I feel like some fresh air, and I refuse to let this misrule nonsense dictate my movements. Take my arm, colonel. That wine seems to have gone to my head, and I do not want to take a tumble, because I know what my enemies would make of that.’

‘Have no fear, My Lord,’ said Turner grandly, stepping forward to offer his hand. The Earl lurched, but managed to right himself. ‘I will give my life before letting harm come to a single hair on your head.’

‘That is not saying much,’ quipped the Earl merrily. ‘I am virtually bald! Incidentally, did I tell you I am invited to a play in the Banqueting House on Saturday? It is called The Prick of Love.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Chaloner, eyeing him uneasily. ‘I hope you do not intend to go.’

‘Of course I shall go! I like a good drama as much as the next man.’

With grave misgivings about the nature of the Earl’s future entertainment — and his determination to stroll around White Hall on this particular night — Chaloner followed him down the stairs. When his master started to take a route that would lead him directly across the middle of the Palace Court, he jumped forward to stop him, but the Earl pushed him away furiously.

‘How dare you presume to tell me where I can and cannot walk! I shall go where I please.’

‘Do not waste your breath, Thomas,’ whispered Haddon, watching the Earl weave off into the open with Turner at his side. ‘He is drunk, which means he will not listen to you or me. Unfortunately, he is listening to the colonel, who is almost as inebriated as he is, so cannot be relied upon to dispense sensible advice. I have a very bad feeling about this.’

‘He does not normally drink to excess,’ said Chaloner, setting off after them. ‘What happened?’

‘The Bishop of London sent him some wine,’ explained Haddon, trotting to keep up. He had grabbed a poker from the hearth before he had left the Earl’s offices, and was clutching it fearfully. ‘And he has been quaffing it all night. He gave me some, but I found it rather strong.’

Chaloner shook his head in disgust. ‘The Lord of Misrule will be behind this, providing a powerful brew in the hope that the Earl will commit an indiscretion — or be befuddled enough to walk out dressed in something other than red. He will lose his clothes, not to mention his dignity.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Haddon in alarm, glancing behind him. ‘You are right. Here they come!’

Upwards of thirty people had materialised from the shadows, and they began to converge on the Earl with hoots and jeers. They wore masks that concealed the top halves of their faces, although Chaloner recognised Brodrick, Buckingham and Chiffinch by their voices; the Lady he identified by her malicious grin. He pulled his sword from its sheath, wondering what he could do against so many.

‘Oh, dear,’ gulped the Earl, suddenly sober enough to appreciate the danger he was in. ‘They look as though they mean business. What shall we do?’

‘Draw,’ said Chaloner urgently to Turner. ‘They may think twice if they see they will not have him without a tussle.’ He glanced to where the colonel was standing with his mouth hanging open. ‘Tonight would be good.’

Turner fumbled with his scabbard. ‘Damn! I cannot get it out — the hilt seems to be jammed.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I thought you were a soldier! How can you have a broken sword?’

Turner edged behind him, and began to explain in a voice that was too low for the Earl or Haddon to hear. ‘I was not a soldier of the fighting variety. I was more of a strategist, performing behind the lines. Baking, for example. An army is nothing without its food.’

‘God help us!’ muttered Chaloner, thinking it was not a good time to find this out. ‘I thought you were wounded in the King’s service.’

‘I was wounded. Cooking is dangerous, especially if your assistant is in the habit of brandishing skewers when he is in his cups. Besides, everyone exaggerates what he did in the wars — do not tell me you were really at Naseby. You would have been too young.’

‘I need your help,’ said Chaloner, alarmed to see more courtiers flocking to join the mob by the moment. ‘I cannot protect the Earl on my own.’

‘I could try to reason with them,’ offered Turner, although not with much enthusiasm. ‘I am a solicitor, which means I am good at sly persuasion. When I first arrived in London, my intention was to practice law, but loitering around the Court was a lot more fun. Then His Portliness invited me to-’

‘Turner!’ snapped Chaloner. It was not the time to hear the man’s life story. ‘If you cannot draw, then be ready to pull the Earl to safety while I create a diversion. One the count of three. One, two-’

‘Wait!’ ordered Turner unsteadily. ‘We should think this through first. Give me a moment to …’

But it was too late. His hesitation had lost them the advantage, and the crowd surged around them.

‘You dare point weapons at the Lord of Misrule?’ demanded Brodrick. The Earl gulped audibly, and Haddon brandished his poker. Several courtiers laughed when they saw how much it shook. ‘And flout his edict that all should wear red tonight?’

‘We did not know about your decree, noble sir,’ lied Turner, taking several steps to distance himself from Chaloner. ‘But we shall fetch some crimson finery immediately. So, if you will excuse us-’

‘Your clothing is acceptable, colonel,’ declared Brodrick. ‘So you may join us. But your three companions must pay the price for their disobedience.’

‘And the Earl will pay for accusing innocent men of murder, too,’ hissed the Lady. ‘Poor Greene!’

Turner said nothing, and Chaloner saw he was seriously tempted to abandon his responsibilities and accept Brodrick’s invitation. While he dithered, Chaloner stepped protectively in front of their master. Unfortunately, the Earl chose that moment to lurch forward, and the resulting collision made him stagger. He flailed with his arms for a moment, desperately fighting for balance, but he had swallowed far too much wine, and his equilibrium was gone. He sat down hard, legs splayed in front of him. There was an astonished silence, and then Buckingham started to laugh. He had an infectious guffaw, and it was not many moments before the whole mob had joined in.

‘Come, friends,’ said Brodrick, putting his arm around the Duke’s shoulders and leading him away. ‘We have had our fun here, and I am bored. Let us find some other entertainment.’

In moments, the crowd was gone, skipping and cavorting around their Lord of Misrule, and singing a popular Christmas song. Lady Castlemaine looked disappointed that her enemy was not to suffer further abuse, but seemed to sense there was only so far Brodrick would go as far as his cousin was concerned. She was the last to leave, but leave she did.

‘I shall never forgive you for this, Chaloner,’ snarled the Earl, as Turner helped him to his feet. ‘You pushed me deliberately, to make me a laughing stock. Consider yourself dismissed — and fortunate that I do not send you to the Tower for … for treason!’

‘He was trying to save you,’ said Haddon quietly. ‘He could not have fought all those courtiers single-handed, and would almost certainly have been killed. But he was ready to do it anyway.’

Something in the rational tone of his voice penetrated the Earl’s drink-sodden mind, and most of the rage drained out of him. He sighed wearily.

‘Take me home. I shall reconsider my position in the morning.’

As soon as the Earl was safely inside Worcester House, Turner headed back towards White Hall, obviously intending to rejoin the revelries. Chaloner walked Haddon to Cannon Row.

‘Brodrick would have tried to stop the horde from attacking us,’ the steward said. ‘But Buckingham and Chiffinch are not the kind of men to take orders from him, Lord of Misrule or no. There would have been blood spilled tonight if the Earl had not fallen when he did — and, as far as I am concerned, his dignity is a small price to pay for our lives.’

‘The Earl does not think so,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he was going to be unemployed sooner than he had anticipated.

‘He will in the morning, when he is sober and has had a chance to reflect on what happened. I was singularly unimpressed by Turner’s performance, though. For two pennies, he would have stepped over to Brodrick, and abandoned us. But I am glad we survived the encounter. What would my dogs do without me? Who would sing them to sleep at night?’

‘You sing them to sleep?’ Chaloner shot him an uneasy glance.

‘The darlings would not have it any other way.’

The incident in the Palace Court had unsettled Chaloner, and even an energetic session in Hannah’s bed did not calm him. He dressed while she slept, and slipped out into the night. He prowled restlessly, a silent shadow that no one noticed. Just before dawn broke, he went to the address Haddon had given him on Petty France, but was informed that Meg had not returned home the previous evening. Her housemate did not seem unduly concerned, and said Meg often stayed out all night when she had a man.

The Earl was in a foul mood when the spy went to his office. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of vomit. He mentioned neither his undignified tumble nor dismissing Chaloner, and the spy wondered whether he remembered them. Or perhaps he just did not want to think about an episode that was so painfully embarrassing. He barely looked up from his work when Chaloner made his report, and when the spy asked whether he had any specific instructions, he made an impatient gesture with his hand and grunted something inaudible.

Haddon smiled warmly when they met on the stairs, though, evidently feeling the danger shared as they faced the mob together had created a special bond between them. Bulteel regarded Chaloner with reproachful eyes when he saw the exchange, clearly thinking this represented a betrayal of their own friendship. To mollify him, Chaloner took him to a coffee house.

They had not been there many moments when Williamson arrived. He selected a table at which to sit, then raised his eyebrows in astonishment when the men already there promptly made their excuses and left. At the remaining tables, conversations began to revolve around the weather and the state of St Paul’s Cathedral — no one was foolish enough to talk about politics or religion when the Spymaster was listening. He saw Chaloner and Bulteel and waved, inviting them to join him. But the secretary was listening to a sail-maker hold forth about the recent gales and did not see the gesture, while the spy pretended not to notice it.

For a while, the status quo continued, but the Spymaster soon grew tired of being ignored. He stood, and began to stroll from table to table, greeting men who responded with suspicious nods or insincere smiles. While his attention was taken by two surly bakers, Chaloner took the opportunity to slip through the back door. He hid in the darkness of the hall beyond, just out of sight, listening.

‘Where is your friend?’ Williamson asked, when his perambulation brought him to Bulteel.

‘He is-’ The secretary stopped speaking in surprise when he realised Chaloner had disappeared. ‘He was here a moment ago. Where could he have gone?’

‘You tell me,’ said Williamson drily. ‘I wanted to talk to him. Tell him to come and see me at his earliest convenience. I am sure he knows what happened to Swaddell.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bulteel, swallowing nervously. ‘He is not acquainted with Swaddell.’

‘He is acquainted well enough to appreciate that Swaddell is important to me,’ said Williamson. His voice was cold. ‘And I will have answers about my spy’s disappearance. Will you pass Chaloner my message? To come to my offices?’

‘I will tell him,’ replied Bulteel uncomfortably. ‘But that does not mean he will do it.’

Williamson gave a smile that made him look like a crocodile. ‘Then he will wish he was more sociable and so will his treacherous family. You can tell him that, too.’

He had stalked out before Bulteel could respond. The secretary finished his coffee, then left himself. Chaloner joined him in the street, making him jump by falling into step at his side.

‘Did you overhear my exchange with the Spymaster?’ Bulteel asked. ‘You really should do as he says. It is better to visit of your own accord, rather than to have him drag you there.’

Chaloner supposed he would just have to stay out of Williamson’s way, because he had no intention of entering the man’s lair — voluntarily or otherwise. ‘I met Swaddell last night, as it happens, but he refuses to return to White Hall. Perhaps he is afraid of Williamson, too.’

‘Too?’ echoed Bulteel. ‘You mean as well as you? Good. You should be frightened of him.’

‘I mean as well as you. He does not worry me.’ But that was untrue: the Spymaster worried Chaloner a great deal when he started threatening his family.

The rest of the morning was spent in a fruitless search for Greene, because the spy wanted to ask him about Langston’s skill in penning saucy plays. He gave up at noon when one of Greene’s colleagues was able to tell him that the clerk had gone to Southwark.

‘He does charitable work there,’ the fellow elaborated. ‘But I do not know the details.’

The afternoon was devoted to Jones, in an effort to discover more about his personal finances. It was not easy, because Chaloner did not want anyone to know he had found the gold, but his carefully phrased questions yielded nothing of value anyway. And although he learned that Jones had indeed owned a fine ruby ring, he was unable to determine whether it was the same as the one retrieved by the train-band in the Painted Chamber.

At dusk he returned to Meg’s lodgings, but the laundress was still out. He went to see Thurloe instead, only to be told the ex-Spymaster had retired to bed with a headache. Loath to disturb him, Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn feeling as though he had wasted an entire day. He only hoped the evening would be more profitable, because it was time he visited his friend Temperance North.

Temperance’s gentleman’s club was a stylishly tasteful establishment in Hercules’ Pillars Alley. It was just beginning its operations, and several coaches were outside, disgorging customers. The club catered primarily for men, but a few liberal-minded women sometimes came to enjoy its witty conversation, professional musicians and French cuisine. Lady Castlemaine was often one of them.

It was unusually busy that evening, because the Twelve Days of Christmas meant people were in the mood for fun. At its door, ready to refuse entry to anyone who looked as if he could not pay, was a man named Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who saw nothing incongruous in the fact that he earned his living in a brothel at night, then went out to condemn such places during the day. Chaloner had warned Temperance against employing someone whose poisonous tongue might cause trouble for her, but she remained doggedly loyal to the man who had been friends with her dead parents. When the spy approached the door, Hill grabbed him by the arm.

‘This is a respectable place,’ he declared, although ‘respectable’ was not a word Chaloner would have used to describe a brothel, even a fashionable one like Temperance’s. ‘So you cannot come in.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner dangerously, shrugging him off. It had been a frustrating day, and he was not in the mood for Hill. ‘And who is going to stop me?’

Despite his bluster, Hill was frightened of Chaloner. He pretended to reconsider, determined not to lose face by backing down too readily. ‘All right — I will let you in this time, but you had better behave yourself. I have a lot of brawny friends, and if you make trouble, I will see you are sorry.’

Chaloner treated the threat with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. He stepped across the threshold and looked around in awe. More money had been spent on the club since he was last there, and the entrance hall was now opulent, with mural-covered walls and curtains screening the stairs. Maude, the formidable matron who was Temperance’s helpmeet, sat at a desk at the bottom of the steps, ensuring no one gained access to the ladies on the upper levels without her say-so. Everything was managed with the utmost decorum, so there were never unsightly queues as patrons waited their turn — if a man wanted a woman, he passed word to Maude, and was escorted to a bedroom only when the previous client had gone and the occupant was properly ready for him.

The main room, or parlour, was another glorious affair, with tapestries on the walls, works of art set on marble plinths around the edges, and Turkish carpets on the floor. A separate antechamber held a consort of musicians, usually professionals good enough to hold Court appointments, who played medleys of popular tunes. It was background music, designed to complement the genteel conversation in the parlour, although they were often drowned out in the early hours when the atmosphere became rather less refined. But it was early by club standards, and only novices or youths were drunk so far.

Temperance sat at a large gaming table, holding a hand of cards. At first Chaloner thought she was someone else, because he barely recognised her. She had always been plump, but her tight purple gown made her look fat, and the neckline was low enough to be indecent. A formal wig masked her beautiful chestnut curls, and her fresh, pink skin was smothered in a paste intended to give her a fashionable pallor. With a stab of sorrow, Chaloner realised the demure teenager he had befriended barely eighteen months before no longer existed.

She spotted Chaloner, and gestured to say she would speak to him when her game was over — gone were the days when she would have exclaimed her delight and dropped everything to greet him. While he waited, he wandered through the parlour. Several more card games were in progress, while other men preferred flirting to gambling, and were enjoying the company of the girls who had draped themselves at strategic intervals about the place. He was not surprised to see Turner there, but he was surprised to see him in company with Neale, whose cherubic face was flushed with wine and whose golden curls were in wild disarray. When he saw the spy, Turner came to talk.

‘I am sorry about last night,’ he said with an apologetic grin. ‘It was that wine His Portliness fed me. He said it came from the Bishop of London, although the Bishop denies making any such gift. However, it was unusually powerful stuff, and I think it might have been tampered with.’

‘You mean it was poisoned?’ asked Chaloner in alarm. No wonder the Earl had looked shabby that morning, and he sincerely hoped it was not a toxin that had long-term effects.

‘No, I mean it was dosed with something to make it stronger. All I can say is that he is lucky he shared it, because if he had swallowed the whole jug himself, he would still be insensible tonight. I know it is no excuse for not being able to draw my sword, but I feel I owe you some explanation.’

Chaloner nodded acceptance of the tale, although Turner had not seemed that drunk to him. He looked to where Neale was pawing a woman named Belle. She was unimpressed by the lad’s clumsy gropes, and was having trouble fending him off. Turner followed Chaloner’s glance and grimaced.

‘We had better rescue her — I shall escort her somewhere to recover, while you deal with Neale.’ He shot Chaloner a conspiratorial grin. ‘Last time I was here, she waived her fee for the romp we enjoyed, and I have hopes for a repeat performance tonight. You are a man of the world — you understand.’

‘Understand what?’ asked Chaloner, but Turner was already in motion. With one smooth, suave movement, he had plucked the prostitute from Neale’s gauche embraces and had whisked her away. The young man tried to follow, tripped, and was only saved from falling face-first across one of the gaming tables because Chaloner caught him. The spy half-carried him to a chair near the window, and gave him a cup of water. Petulantly, Neale flung it away and grabbed a jug of wine instead. He took a gulp, and Chaloner stepped back smartly when Neale’s hand shot to his mouth in a way that presaged vomiting. When he had fought off the nausea, Neale inspected his rescuer through bleary eyes.

‘The Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he slurred. ‘Investigating Chetwynd’s poisoning. You asked me about it in the Angel tavern, when I was trying to charm Bess Gold.’

‘She will not be very charmed if she learns you frequent this sort of place,’ remarked Chaloner.

‘But she is the one who drove me here,’ said Neale, full of sullen self pity. ‘You see, she refuses to lie with me while that deaf old turkey still breathes — and I am a red-blooded man with needs. Still, the old bird cannot last much longer, and then I shall have her body and her widow’s fortune.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the bluntness of the confession. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

‘Enough to know I shall have a sore head tomorrow. But where has Colonel Turner gone? He has been plying me with wine in exchange for information all night, but the moment I want him — I need some silver if I am to win Belle — he is nowhere to be found.’

‘What sort of things did he want to know?’

Neale peered at him through glazed eyes. ‘He was asking about Greene, so I told him how I often meet the fellow at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Have you been there? It is very nice.’

‘Is Greene a friend of yours, then?’

‘Not really. He is too religious for my taste, although he does share my taste for whores.’

‘Whores?’ Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him, because Greene had not seemed that kind of man, and he had certainly visited no bawdy-houses when the spy had been following him.

Neale nodded vigorously. ‘He likes the ones that do not cost much, such as can be got in Southwark. He entertains several at a time. I saw him myself once, when I was out with Brodrick and Chiffinch, and he was obviously a regular, because they all knew him by name. They were laughing and joking together, like old friends.’

His eyes started to close, so Chaloner kicked his foot, knowing he did not have much time before wine won the battle for what remained of the young man’s wits. ‘What do you discuss at John’s?’

Neale jerked awake. ‘Mostly we pray for good fortune — for money, happiness and success. I am not averse to having those, so I do not mind spending the odd evening on my knees. And we exchange news about people we know, the weather, the King’s skill at tennis. But we never debate politics. The others always override me if I try to bring up anything contentious, the boring old …’ He waved an expressive hand, his vocabulary apparently having deserted him.

‘You misled me the last time we spoke,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘You neglected to mention that you had bribed Chetwynd.’

Neale slid a little lower in the chair, and his voice became bitter. ‘You think I should have told a stranger how I corrupted a royal official? I may be young, but I am not a fool! But it was a rotten business, if you must know — Chetwynd took the last of my money, then found in my brother’s favour. Bastard! So, here I am, forced to make eyes at a sheep, so I can marry her when Gold dies.’

Chaloner regarded him with distaste. ‘What else did you tell Turner?’ He kicked Neale’s foot a second time when the young man’s eyelids drooped.

‘What? Nothing. No, wait. I told him about the river.’

‘What about the river?’ Chaloner hated interviewing drunks; it was like drawing blood from a stone.

‘I saw Greene throw something in it on Thursday morning. Something leathery. Purses, I think.’

‘Purses?’

‘Three purses. But they were empty. I could tell by the way they hit the water. No splash, see.’

Three purses, three robbed corpses, thought Chaloner uneasily, as Neale finally descended into a snoring stupor. For the second night in a row, he wondered whether he had been right to champion Greene’s innocence. But how could the clerk be guilty, when he had alibis for two of the crimes? Engrossed in his thoughts, Chaloner lifted Neale into a position where he would not choke, and placed an empty bowl at his elbow. Neale would need it when he woke, and Chaloner did not see why Temperance should have to clean up the mess.

The music was louder than it had been, to make itself heard above the rising clamour of people having a good time. Women shrieked, men laughed, and there was a constant chink of coins changing hands and goblets being refilled. Belle excused herself to confer with Maude, which left Turner at a loose end for a while. The colonel rolled his eyes when he saw the state of Neale, but did not seem unduly concerned that his informant would not be doing any more talking that night.

‘Working for His Portliness is fun, is it not?’ he remarked jovially to Chaloner. ‘I mean, what other employer leaves a man to his own devices day and night, and reimburses his expenses in the morning?’

‘Not yours,’ said Chaloner. ‘He will be horrified if he thinks you frequent brothels — whether you do it on his behalf or not — and if you present him with a bill for women, he will dismiss you.’

Turner regarded him uncertainly. ‘You jest. He is not that prudish.’

‘Try him, and see.’

Turner grimaced. ‘Then I had better curtail my spending. Neale can pay for his own whore.’

Chaloner doubted the lad would be needing one that night. ‘Has he been worth the expense?’

‘He provided me with a snippet or two. What about you? What have you learned so far?’

‘Not nearly enough,’ replied Chaloner gloomily.

Turner looked pleased with himself. ‘I, on the other hand, have done rather well — with the murders, at least. I have had no luck at all with the statue. The thief is clever. He removed it with no one seeing — no mean feat, considering its weight — and has contrived to make it disappear completely.’

Chaloner disagreed. ‘He is not clever, or he would have stolen a piece that is less famous. Everyone knows the old king’s bust is stolen, and he will never sell it for what it is really worth.’

Turner raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it famous? I thought it was just one in a whole room of similar tripe — worthy and full of artistic merit, to be sure, but not something you would want in your own house.’

Chaloner was surprised he should be so dismissive. ‘Bernini is the greatest living sculptor in the world.’

Turner grimaced. ‘Well, perhaps he was having a bad day when he made that one.’

Chaloner did not want to discuss art with someone who knew even less about it than he did. ‘What have you learned about the murders?’ he asked instead.

Turner preened. ‘I have uncovered evidence that points to Greene’s guilt. I know you do not share His Portliness’s suspicions, but it seems the old goat was right. In fact, it was because he seemed so certain that I decided to concentrate all my efforts on Greene, to see what I could learn about him.’

It was not a bad strategy, and Chaloner wondered whether he should have done the same. It would have pleased the Earl, and might even have secured his future employment. ‘What did you find out?’

Turner’s expression was amused. ‘Is this to be a one-way exchange of intelligence, or do you intend to reciprocate? I do not want you to claim all the credit for solving the case, because I enjoy spying for His Portliness and would like to carry on working for him.’

‘I doubt he has the resources to hire us both long-term. I know he was recently awarded additional funds to expand his staff, but that was for administration, not the kind of work that we do.’

‘Shall we be rivals, then?’ asked Turner, fingering his ear-string.

Chaloner shook his head tiredly. ‘That might mean more murders. If the best way to catch this villain is by pooling our resources, then that is what we must do. So, you can tell me what you have learned about Greene, and I will tell you what I have learned about the victims.’

‘You first, then,’ said Turner slyly.

‘I devised a list of common acquaintances — not casual ones, such as might be made by working in the same place, but more meaningful ones. They include Neale, Gold and his wife Bess, Doling, the Lea brothers, Hargrave, Tryan and of course Greene. And Jones, who is dead, too.’

He omitted Swaddell because of the assassin’s connections to the Spymaster — Chaloner did not understand what Swaddell was doing, but it seemed wise to keep his suspicions to himself — and Symons because he did not want Margaret disturbed during her final hours. Of course, Turner already knew the names of the men Chaloner had listed, because he had inveigled himself into their society when they had met at John’s Coffee House.

The colonel waved a dismissive hand, unimpressed. ‘If Greene is the killer, then these other “suspects” are irrele vant. Tell me something useful, or I shall keep my own information to myself.’

‘Is Greene the killer? He was in Wapping with his priest when Langston was killed, and I was watching his house when Vine died.’

‘And we know what time Langston breathed his last, because of Lady Castlemaine’s testimony,’ mused Turner. ‘She saw him alive just before four o’clock in the morning — and the Earl found the body not long after that. However, what if the Lady is mistaken? And what if Greene managed to slip past you the other night? Neither alibi is perfect.’

‘But why would Greene kill these men? All had dark pasts that may have earned them enemies: Chetwynd was corrupt, Vine blackmailed people, and Langston wrote bawdy plays. However, these are not reasons for Greene to kill them.’

Turner frowned. ‘I do not follow you.’

‘The culprit will be someone who was a victim of Chetwynd’s corruption or Vine’s penchant for blackmail. And he will be someone who was shocked by Langston’s bawdy plays — Greene may well have enjoyed them, given what Neale says about his liking for brothels.’

He ignored the clamouring voice in his head that demanded to know why Greene should have been throwing three leather purses in the Thames.

Turner’s expression was doubtful. ‘You have made this very complicated. But let me tell you what I have found out. On Thursday and Saturday evenings — the nights when Chetwynd and Vine were murdered — Greene went to the cellars and begged for brandywine. He told the man in charge, a fellow called Munt, that he was working late and needed refreshment. But Munt passed Greene’s office later, and said it was in darkness both times.’

Chaloner had been watching Greene on Saturday, but had not seen him visit the cellars. However, the building in which Greene worked had far too many doors for a lone man to monitor, so he supposed it was possible the clerk had eluded him.

‘Are you sure Munt is telling the truth?’

‘Yes, because he was indignant about being played for a fool — Greene preyed on his sympathy as a man obliged to slave long hours, then sloped off. And he did it not once, but twice. But I know what really happened: Greene added poison to this brandywine and fed it to his victims.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Is Munt certain about the days — Thursday and Saturday?’

‘Ask him yourself. And let us not forget the brandy-wine I found hidden in Greene’s office, either. It all adds up to something suspicious.’

‘If you are so certain Greene is the killer, then why have you not arrested him? That is what the Earl wants, and he will certainly continue to hire you if you prove him right.’

For the first time, Turner’s cheery confidence wavered. He frowned uneasily. ‘Because arresting Greene will lead to a speedy conviction and death at the end of a rope. If I am to be instrumental in sending a man to the gallows, then I must be certain of his guilt.’

Chaloner regarded him quizzically. The colonel did not seem like the kind of man who would allow scruples to interfere with his plans for a comfortable future.

‘You do not believe me,’ said Turner, seeing what he was thinking. ‘But it is quite true. I was obliged to break the law during the Commonwealth, when self-declared Royalists like me struggled to earn a living, and I might have been executed myself. So, I shall tell His Portliness my findings only when I am sure Greene is guilty, and not a moment before. That is where you come in.’

Chaloner smothered a smile. ‘It is, is it?’

‘I want you to confirm what I have learned. Then we can share responsibility for Greene’s death.’

‘It will also mean we shall share credit for a case you have solved.’

‘Yes, but at least I shall be able to sleep at night — and the importance of guilt-free slumber should never be underestimated. However, I do not plan on doing much dozing this evening. I shall have Belle first, but then who else? Which of these lovely lasses will best appreciate my company, do you think?’

‘Whoever you pay the most, I imagine.’

Turner gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Pay? I have never paid for a woman in my life.’

‘Perhaps so, but this is a brothel. These women are not here for their health.’

Turner waved a dismissive hand. ‘You underestimate my charms. Oh, I shall hand a few coins to that fierce matron in the hall, but the ladies I choose to accompany me upstairs will give me keepsakes that will be worth ten times that amount. Did you notice that locket around Belle’s throat? Ten shillings says that will be mine tomorrow.’

‘How will I know you have not stolen it?’

Turner was shocked. ‘I am no thief! Besides, you will be able to ask her whether she parted with it willingly. Well, what do you say? Will you accept my wager?’

Chaloner nodded. He had known Belle for some time, and she was not the kind of woman to hand hard-earned wealth to a customer, no matter how pretty he thought himself. Turner, he thought, was not a good judge of character.

Temperance was still engrossed in her game of cards, and the stakes were now more than Chaloner earned in a year. He was staggered by the amount of silver and jewellery that was being tossed on the table as bets were made, and was reminded that she now inhabited a very different world from his own. Eventually, she stood, offering her seat to Chiffinch. Brodrick objected to losing her company, but she ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on the top of his head to appease him.

‘Chaloner!’ he shouted, as she went to join the spy. ‘Have you come to play the viol? I wish you would. Greeting is drunk and keeps bowing sharp. It hurts the ears, and you have such a lovely touch.’

‘I have heard the same,’ drawled Chiffinch. ‘My wife says he has exquisite fingerwork.’

There was a gust of manly laugher, accompanied by nudges and winks, so those of slower wits would appreciate that a lewd joke had been made.

‘She would say no such thing,’ said Chaloner coolly, disliking the notion that Barbara should be the subject of conversation among such depraved company. ‘She has too much decency.’

Chiffinch’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair. ‘You accuse me of being indecent? I should call you out, and teach you a lesson with my sword.’

Chaloner wished he would, so he might rid Barbara of the man who had brought her nothing but trouble and unhappiness for the last forty years, but Temperance stepped in before he could reply.

‘You are very indecent, Mr Chiffinch,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Which is just how we like you.’

There was another manly cheer, and Chaloner allowed her to bundle him out of the room while the laughter lasted. She ushered him down the corridor and into the kitchen. This had always been a warm, quiet place, but since his last visit it had become the domain of a shrieking Frenchman, who screamed orders at his bewildered assistants in an anarchic mixture of Latin and Spanish. There was a lot of confusion, and Chaloner was not surprised his soufflés had collapsed.

‘He is telling you to use butter,’ he said to the cooks as he passed. ‘You used lard, apparently. He wants you to start again.’

There was an immediate sigh of understanding and work resumed, although the Frenchman’s squawks remained just as frenzied. Temperance led Chaloner to the little office where she and Maude counted their nightly takings. As usual, there was coffee simmering in a pan over the hearth, while a pair of cushion-loaded chairs provided somewhere the two ladies could rest, should the carousing in the parlour become too much for them. The room stank of pipe smoke and expensive perfume.

‘You once said you would teach me French,’ said Temperance, flopping into one of the seats and indicating he was to perch opposite. ‘The language of love.’

‘There is not much love in what your cook is screeching.’

Temperance smiled dreamily. ‘I was not thinking of using it on him.’

As Temperance rarely went out, Chaloner could only assume she had fallen for one of her patrons. ‘You have a …’ He was not quite sure how to phrase the question, given that ‘liking for a client’ was unlikely to be very well received. ‘… a friend?’ he finished lamely.

‘A certain person has become rather special during the last few weeks. I did not think I would ever be smitten by a man, but this one is different — worthy of my affection. I think I shall marry him.’

‘Really?’ Chaloner was amazed: Temperance had always been of the firm opinion that matrimony was a condition to be avoided at all costs. ‘Who is he?’

‘Someone you will like. He is not here tonight, though, or I would introduce you. But you should meet him. Come to dine with us on Twelfth Night, although you must promise to behave — no turning taciturn if he asks you questions, and no caustic remarks about the morality of the Court, either. He is a gay sort, and will think you a prude.’

‘I cannot,’ replied Chaloner, a little dismayed that she did not trust him to be amiable. ‘Bulteel has asked me to go to his house on Twelfth Night — he wants me to be godfather to his son.’

‘Bulteel? Ugh! It will be like dining with a Puritan, and you are sure to come away hungry. And you should not agree to be the godfather, either. The poor brat deserves better.’

‘You think I am not good enough?’ It was one thing to believe himself unequal to the task, but quite another to hear it so baldly stated from someone who was supposed to be his friend.

‘I mean better in terms of fun,’ elaborated Temperance. ‘You seldom have any, and he will need someone to show him the ways of the world. And I do not mean how to kill people in dark alleys, speak peculiar languages, or pick locks, either. I refer to dancing and cards.’

‘The important things in life.’

Temperance shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘Quite. However, these two invitations will not conflict — Bulteel’s soirée will be during the day, while mine will be the night before — so you can attend both. Come at midnight. I will make sure you are with your dull little colleague by the following noon.’

Chaloner should have known she was unlikely to do anything in daylight. She was seldom up before three, by which time the winter sun was already setting. ‘That is a singular time for dinner.’

She shrugged. ‘You let yourself be too constrained by tradition, Tom, and it is turning you into a bore. You should adopt my motto: carpe notarium.’

‘Seize the secretary?’ translated Chaloner, bemused.

‘Seize the night. I thought you knew Latin. Brodrick taught me that phrase, and I rather like it.’

Chaloner found he did not want to join her tradition-flaunting party, and tried to think of an excuse that would allow him to miss it. ‘Actually, I have also been asked to Sir Nicholas Gold’s-’

Temperance arched her eyebrows. ‘You are a social creature these days! But Gold’s invitation will not clash with mine, either. His soirée will start at dusk and be over by ten, when he will retire to bed with a cup of warm milk. Do not look so dubious — you will enjoy being with me and James. We shall dine on mince-pies, venison sausages and a Double Codlin Tart. And I have ordered a pelican.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘Have you? Whatever for?’

Temperance’s expression was defiant, which told him she had probably never seen one. ‘Brodrick said it is what the King is having, so I told my butcher to get us one, too. What is good enough for His Majesty is good enough for me, and I am not having another turkey. Did you know the beast we were going to eat last year has taken up residence on Hampstead Heath, and no one dares go near it?’

Chaloner was pleased. He liked birds, and had not relished the notion of such a fine specimen having its neck wrung. ‘What is your friend’s name?’ he asked, suspecting she would not feel the same way, so changing the subject before they could argue about it.

‘James Grey.’ Her hand went to her bodice, where a square of red silk had been tucked down the front of it, clearly a love token. ‘He plays the viol, which should commend him to you. You can bring yours, and we shall have music.’

Then perhaps the occasion would not be so bad after all, thought Chaloner, watching as Temperance reached up to the mantelpiece and took down a pipe. She had only recently acquired the habit when he had last seen her, but a few weeks had turned her into a seasoned smoker — her movements were deft and confident as she tamped the bowl with tobacco. When it was lit, and she was encased in a billowing haze, she regarded him reproachfully.

‘You know you are always welcome here, Tom, but only if you agree not to insult my guests. They are volatile at the best of times, and I cannot afford to have you challenging them to duels.’

‘Chiffinch challenged me,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘All I did was defend his wife.’

‘They insult their wives all the time, but it means nothing. They come here to forget them, and on the whole, I do not blame them. Barbara Chiffinch is a sharp-tongued shrew with no sense of humour.’

‘She has an excellent sense of humour, despite being married to that worthless dog for forty years.’

‘You and I always disagree these days,’ said Temperance sadly. ‘You never used to be like this. You have changed, and I am glad I did not marry you.’

Gallantly, Chaloner resisted the urge to say he had never considered asking her — and now he had seen what she had become, he was heartily glad of it. ‘It is you who have changed. A year ago, you were spending half your life in chapel, and the other half helping the poor.’

‘And I was deeply unhappy,’ she shot back. ‘Whereas now I run my own business, I am rich beyond my wildest dreams, James loves me, and I have a glut of wealthy and influential companions.’

‘Chiffinch and Brodrick are fair-weather friends,’ warned Chaloner, not liking the notion that she might think them dependable. When all was said and done, Temperance was barely twenty, and her strict Puritan upbringing meant she had little experience of the world. ‘If there is a popular uprising against debauchery and vice — and it could happen, because Londoners deplore the Court’s profligacy — they will not help you when your house is attacked.’

Temperance puffed smoke through rouged lips. ‘That will not happen — the King will not let it, and I have James to protect me, anyway. You are beginning to sound like Thurloe — a tedious old misery.’

‘I should go,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly. Thurloe had been good to Temperance after her parents had died, and he was sorry she had forgotten his kindness so soon. ‘I only came to ask after your health.’

‘I am well — it is you who is testy. Let me provide you with a lady, to put you in better spirits, so we can have a civilised conversation. You can have Snowflake. She knows how to make a man smile.’

‘I am sure she does,’ replied Chaloner coolly, ‘but I did not come to inveigle a …’ He waved his hand, not sure what was the correct term for an offer of a free whore. ‘I came to see you.’

Temperance smiled at last. ‘Then we should set aside our differences and talk. Sit down and have some coffee. Maude made it.’

Chaloner took a sip of the black brew, then fought the urge to spit it out. It was the most powerful thing he had ever tasted, so thick it was more syrup than beverage. Maude had a reputation for potent infusions, but this one was hearty, even by her standards. There was a rumour that her first husband had died from drinking her coffee, and Chaloner was perfectly willing to believe it.

‘Christ, Temperance!’ he managed eventually. ‘Who taught her to make this? The Devil?’

Temperance laughed. ‘Have some more. You will soon acquire a taste for it.’

But Chaloner did not want to acquire a taste for it. He pushed the dish aside, then shook his head when she offered him a pipe.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Shall I warm you some milk, then?’

‘You have made some improvements to your parlour since I was last here,’ he said, deciding he had better bring the conversation around to statues before they fell out in earnest.

She grinned. ‘James suggested we commission Brodrick to purchase us a few masterpieces. We must have the best, because our patrons will notice if we opt for rubbish. And Brodrick may be an old reprobate, but he does know his way around an art gallery.’

‘He does,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But he also throws food about when he has had too much to drink. I hope he and his cronies do not damage anything irreplaceable.’

‘That is why we decided to go for statues — Apollo was hit by a pineapple last night, but he suffered no ill effects whatsoever. I do not like sculpture, personally. Most of it seems to revolve around smug Roman emperors and fat Greek goddesses toting unlikely weapons.’

Chaloner made no comment, although he found himself thinking, rather uncharitably, that she had recently grown a lot more portly than any Greek goddess.

‘But I got Brodrick to buy extras, so I can rotate them,’ she went on. ‘I do not want to be looking at the same stony visages every night for the next fifty years. The spares are in the cellar, and I gave myself such a fright the other day. You would have laughed! I went down there for wine, and glanced up to find Nero staring at me. I screamed so loud that Preacher Hill came racing to my rescue.’

‘Who is the artist?’

Temperance frowned. ‘Do you mean who crafted my Nero? Some Italian, I think. Why?’

‘I wondered whether it was Bernini.’

‘I do not approve of him. Did you know he is a Swedish hermaphrodite, who likes rope-dancing and hedgehogs?’ There was a slight pause. ‘What is a hermaphrodite, Tom? I do not like to ask James, lest he think me ignorant.’

‘He will not think you ignorant. Are those the only reasons you do not like Bernini?’

Temperance shot him a sideways glance. ‘Are these questions anything to do with the King’s missing statue?’

‘I heard you made enquiries about Bernini before his masterpiece was stolen.’

She gaped at him. ‘You heard it from whom?’

‘It does not matter. But your discussion was overheard, and your courtly friends cannot keep secrets. So take warning and be careful what you say in future. But why did you ask about the sculpture?’

‘People were talking about it, and as I had been buying statues of my own, I had an interest. I asked Chiffinch what was so special about Bernini.’

Chaloner regarded her sadly. ‘You would lie to me?’

‘Why not, when you lie to me?’ Temperance flashed back. ‘You pump me for information, but seldom give anything in return. And you did not really come to see me tonight — you came because of an investigation. Admit it! Well, I am not telling you what prompted my interest in Bernini. You will have to find out another way.’

‘Temperance, I-’

‘Go home, Thomas. You presume too much on our friendship.’