He had taken only a few steps along the Haymarket, eager now for home and bed, when there was a shrill shriek, followed by a lot of shouting. Because it would have looked suspicious to continue walking in the opposite direction, he joined the throng that poured into the garden. The alarm had been raised by a serving maid who had gone for a tryst with a card player, and had been distressed to find her favourite flower bed occupied by a cadaver.
By the time Chaloner arrived, torches had been lit, allowing the full extent of Reyner’s injury to be seen. Whoever had cut his throat had used enough force almost to sever his head from his body. It was a vicious attack, and Chaloner wondered who had done it. Harley or Newell, because they knew their comrade was about to betray them? Or Brinkes?
The two scouts were among the crowd. The faces of both were white, and Newell was leaning heavily on Harley’s shoulder. Chaloner eased back into the shadows, reluctant for them to see him, lest they assumed he was responsible. They did not linger long, though, and slouched away when the spectators began to reveal what they knew of the victim.
‘His name is Reyner, and he lives in that shabby old Feathers tavern,’ the serving wench was saying. She added rather sneeringly, ‘With his mother.’
Chaloner brightened. Perhaps Reyner’s dam would know what her son had embroiled himself in. He loitered a while longer, hoping to learn more by listening to the excited speculations, but it soon became clear that no one knew anything useful. He left and aimed for the decrepit Feathers, arriving to see lamps lit: Mrs Reyner already had visitors. He crouched down outside and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe, pleased when he heard the discussion within emanating through several conveniently cracked and broken windows.
‘Reyner was a good man,’ Newell was saying, his voice tight with fury. ‘We will hunt down who killed him, and slit his throat.’
‘Thank you kindly.’ Mrs Reyner’s voice was slurred, but Chaloner did not think it was from shock at the news she had just received. ‘Pour me another drink, will you? My nerves are all aquiver.’
‘It was Chaloner,’ said Harley softly. ‘It is too much of a coincidence that he should start asking questions about Teviot, and within hours Reyner is dead. He must have thought Reyner was a soft touch and slit his throat when he discovered otherwise.’
‘Chaloner wants to gain our favour, not kill us,’ argued Newell. ‘He is not the culprit. And it cannot be anyone from the Piccadilly Company, so that only leaves one set of suspects: our old adversaries. They killed Reyner because of what happened to Proby.’
‘You may be right,’ conceded Harley. ‘They certainly hate us.’
‘They do,’ said Newell tightly. ‘And when I find out which of them was responsible, I will kill him. I swear it on Reyner’s soul.’
At that point Mrs Reyner knocked over her cup, and there was a fuss as the mess was mopped up. Chaloner frowned his confusion. The only Proby he knew was the Adventurer who had recently jumped from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. Was Newell referring to him? But why would he be an enemy of the Piccadilly Company? And who were the ‘old adversaries’?
He continued to listen, but the scouts and Reyner’s mother had repositioned themselves after the spillage and he could no longer hear them clearly. As there was only so long he could pretend to be adjusting his shoe, he stood and began to walk home. He would have to interview Mrs Reyner the following day, when she was alone.
He was relieved that Newell had convinced Harley of his innocence, because it would have been inconvenient to dodge murderous attacks when he had so much else to do. But Reyner’s death was a blow, and he could not escape the feeling that it was his fault. He turned south when he reached Charing Cross, but it had been a frustratingly trying day, and he felt the need to be alone, away from the inquisitive stares of the servants in Tothill Street. He retraced his steps, intending to sleep at Long Acre instead.
Long Acre had once been a fashionable part of the city, with residents that included Oliver Cromwell and the poet John Dryden, but standards had slipped since the Restoration. Most of the elegant people had moved to more salubrious lodgings, and the place was now given over to coach-makers and brothels. It suited Chaloner perfectly. First, it was usually busy, even at night, which meant he was less likely to be noticed — always an important consideration for a spy. Second, it was convenient for White Hall. And third, Landlord Lamb only cared about the rent being paid on time, and never asked questions about his tenants’ business.
The house was a four-storey affair with a cellar, and was neither respectable nor notably seedy. The ground floor and rear garden were occupied by a coach-maker, while the first floor was home to Lamb and his wife. An old Cromwellian major named John Stokes lived in the rooms above, and Chaloner was right at the top.
The attic comprised three tiny chambers, and had the advantage of being reached by two separate staircases. It was also possible to climb out of the windows to the roof next door, further reducing his chances of being trapped. There was a bed and a chest in one chamber; the second was a cosy parlour where he kept his best bass viol; and the third was a cupboard-like pantry.
He was too restless to sleep, so he took his viol and began to play, a sad, lilting melody by Schütz, which matched his mood. He felt the music begin to calm him, and although he knew he should work on the cipher he had found, he continued to play until he could barely keep his eyes open. Then he lay on the bed, fully clothed, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A loud clatter in the street below woke him the following morning. He was off the bed with his sword in his hand before he was fully cognisant, but soon learned that the noise was nothing to concern him. Red kites liked to range themselves along the roof, from where they swooped down to pick juicy morsels from the filth of the road, and one had dislodged a tile. It had landed on a glazier’s cart, making short work of the finished wares. Needless to say, the glazier was furious, and an argument ensued when he began to demand compensation from an indignantly defensive Landlord Lamb.
Chaloner ignored the clamouring voices as he fetched water from the butt in the hallway. He washed and shaved, then donned a heavily laced shirt, breeches with enough ribbon to satisfy even the most particular of critics, and a green long-coat with buttons to the knees. A white ‘falling band’ — a piece of linen that fell across the chest like a bib — completed the outfit.
He went to White Hall first, to report to the Earl. The dough-faced Sergeant Wright was on duty at the Great Gate, bags under eyes that were rimmed red with tiredness.
‘Bad night?’ asked Chaloner, as Wright stepped in front of him to prevent him from passing.
Wright spat. ‘Your Earl has a vicious tongue. He refused to pay me for the night before last, just because his bricks went missing. It meant I had to stay awake all last night, to make sure it did not happen again. It was damned hard work!’
‘Doing the job you have been paid for can be taxing.’
‘Too right,’ agreed Wright, the irony sailing over his head. ‘I usually find somewhere to snatch a doze, but I did not dare last night, not after what he said to me. Still, I shall manage a nap later this morning. Have you heard the latest news, by the way? About the missing Adventurer?’
‘I thought Proby had been found,’ said Chaloner. ‘After he jumped off St Paul’s Cathedral.’
Wright leaned closer, treating Chaloner to a waft of second-hand onions. ‘They are worried about another of their members now. Mr Grey set out to visit the Hercules’ Pillars Alley brothel last night, but he never arrived.’
‘Perhaps he found somewhere better to take his pleasure along the way.’
‘There is nowhere better.’ The sergeant sighed ruefully. ‘Not that the likes of you and I will ever see it, of course. It is an exclusive establishment, open only to barons or the extremely wealthy.’