The bullies included the big-nosed Congett, who was either still drunk from the night before, or had started imbibing afresh that morning; he ‘accidentally’ trod on Chaloner’s foot. Lady Castlemaine and the Duke of Buckingham confined themselves to verbal abuse, while others fingered the guns they wore in their belts or pretended to inspect their knives.
Then Kipps appeared, and although he explained in an undertone that he was there to help Chaloner eavesdrop, he promptly took himself off to sit in a corner with the Adventurer Grey, who seemed to have recovered from his earlier grief and was smiling.
‘Stop!’ cried O’Brien, hurrying forward when Congett elbowed Chaloner hard enough to make him stumble. ‘It is not his fault that Clarendon is an ill-mannered brute. Leave him be.’
‘Especially as he plays the viol like an angel,’ said Kitty, smiling first at Chaloner and then at his tormentors. The spy suspected he was not the only one whose heart melted. ‘In fact, we must organise another soirée, so all our talented friends can exhibit their musical skills.’
There was a smattering of applause, although Chaloner imagined her admirers would prefer something more rambunctious; most of them had been at Temperance’s club the previous night.
‘Speaking of invitations, the King has asked us to a drama in the Banqueting House,’ said O’Brien, clearly delighted. ‘A Turkish one. What fun! I can hardly wait! I shall wear a pair of-’
‘Never mind that,’ interrupted Buckingham briskly. He turned to Chaloner with a malevolent grin. ‘Is it true that Clarendon has taken to spending his nights under a tarpaulin, guarding his bricks and nails?’
‘No,’ replied Chaloner, once the spiteful laughter had died down. ‘He pays others to do it for him. His supplies are now extremely well protected, and anyone raiding them will be caught.’
There were several uneasy glances, and he wondered whether his remark would be enough to see the thefts stop. If so, then at least something would have been gained from his trying day.
‘I do not believe they were stolen in the first place,’ said Lady Castlemaine. She was wearing a gown cut tight at the waist to show off her shapely figure, and careful application of face-paints almost disguised the fact that her wild lifestyle was beginning to take its toll. ‘I think Pratt underestimated what he needed, and is covering his incompetence with false accusations.’
Chaloner stared at her, wondering whether she might be right. It was certainly possible — Pratt was not the sort of man who would admit to making mistakes.
‘I dislike Pratt,’ declared Congett, clinging drunkenly to a pillar. ‘He is odious for an architect.’
‘Odious enough to warrant being assassinated?’ asked Chaloner. He winced: the question had just slipped out. Fortunately, no one seemed surprised by it, leaving him with the impression that those deserving of timely demises was a regular topic of conversation at Court.
‘Dugdale would like Pratt dead,’ mused the Lady, her eyes gleaming with spite. ‘Because he is jealous of Clarendon’s admiration for the fellow. Dugdale knows he will never be Pratt’s equal, you see.’
‘Or that sly secretary — Edgeman,’ added Buckingham. ‘I do not think I have ever encountered a more reprehensible individual. He positively oozes corruption.’
There was a general murmur of agreement, and Chaloner thought wistfully how satisfying it would be if Dugdale and Edgeman were responsible for the threatening letters. Moreover, it would show that Hyde had fallen for a hoax, which would make him look both ridiculous and disloyal to the Queen. But Chaloner knew better than to let prejudices lead him astray, so while he would bear the notion in mind, he would not let it influence his conclusions.
‘Kipps does not like Pratt, either,’ added the Lady in a low voice, glancing to where the Seal Bearer was still muttering to Grey. ‘And he is a very dark horse with his-’
‘I do not like this kind of talk,’ interrupted O’Brien in distaste. ‘Let us play tennis instead!’
Buckingham obliged, but transpired to be a much better player than his opponent, and the spectators soon lost interest in what quickly became a rout. They began talking among themselves again, and their first topic of conversation was the fire.
‘It is almost as if someone has declared war on Adventurers,’ said Kitty with a shudder. ‘Because first there was Proby, and now Lucas and Turner. And those poor children …’
‘Do you think Fitzgerald did it, Secretary Leighton?’ asked Congett, tossing back a cup of wine as though it were water. ‘We all know he disapproves of our monopoly on African trade.’
‘No,’ replied Leighton. ‘Because he is a pirate, and monopolies are irrelevant to those who operate outside the law. I cannot see him wasting his time with us. Indeed, I am under the impression that he is in London because he has bigger fish to fry.’
‘What fish?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Fitzgerald is not a pirate!’ exclaimed Kitty, while Leighton treated Chaloner to a contemptuous glance and declined to answer. ‘He came to our house. Cave brought him, and he sang with my husband. He is not nice — and neither is his voice — but I do not see him incinerating babies.’
‘He prefers to be called a privateer, anyway,’ added Kipps. ‘Or a patriot.’
‘I disagree with you, Leighton,’ slurred Congett. ‘I believe that Fitzgerald killed Turner and Lucas to avenge his friend Reyner. He probably killed Proby, too.’
‘Nonsense!’ declared Leighton dismissively. ‘Reyner died in the Gaming House, which is full of gamblers. Obviously, one of them cut his throat in a quarrel over money.’
‘Reverend Addison — who is Tangier’s chaplain, and who came back to London on a ship named Eagle a couple of weeks ago — told me that Reyner was not a very nice man,’ confided Kipps. ‘He said he was not surprised the fellow had died violently.’
More wine was served at that point, and the discussion moved to other matters, leaving Chaloner supposing he had better track Addison down.
As Kitty’s mention of Cave made him wonder whether she might have any insights into why the singer had died, he set about cornering her and her husband alone. It was not easy, because Leighton stuck to them like a leech, muttering in O’Brien’s ear about the many invitations that would come his way if he invested his fortune with the Adventurers. But Chaloner managed eventually, and steered the discussion around to the dead singer.
Kitty’s face clouded. ‘Poor Cave. He had such a lovely voice.’
‘It is a damned shame,’ agreed O’Brien, red-faced and sweaty after his exertions on the court. ‘He was the best tenor in London. Have you heard that the Chapel Royal choir will perform at his funeral? We shall go, of course.’
‘I cannot imagine why he was chosen to organise music for Tangier’s troops, though,’ said Kitty. ‘I doubt he knew any of the songs that soldiers like.’
‘I suppose it was a peculiar appointment, now you mention it,’ mused O’Brien. ‘And I think he was relieved to be home. Until he was murdered by Elliot, of course.’
‘Did he ever mention Elliot to you?’ asked Chaloner.
O’Brien frowned. ‘You know, I think he did. At least, he mentioned running into an old friend, who had been a sailor, but who now worked for Williamson. I imagine it is the same fellow. But he only alluded to it in passing, and I doubt it is important.’
But Chaloner was not so sure.
The games dragged on interminably, but Chaloner dared not leave, sure the Earl would be told if he did. He chafed at the lost time, and was disgusted when he emerged to find dusk had fallen. He was weary from fending off sly prods and shoves, and wanted only to go home, but as he aimed for King Street, he met the Earl. Clarendon was surrounded by his ushers, and Hyde was at his side.