‘You stayed all day, then,’ the Earl said, pleased. ‘I thought you would sneak out.’
‘I should have done,’ said Chaloner, too tired to be politic. ‘It was a waste of time.’
The Earl’s expression darkened. ‘In other words, you have failed to identify the brick-thief, even though you spent the entire day in his company?’
‘He is worthless, father,’ said Hyde, before Chaloner could point out that even if the culprit had been at the Tennis Court, he was unlikely to stand up and reveal himself. ‘He probably has no idea who wants to kill Pratt, either, and we are paying him for nothing.’
‘I have several suspects,’ said Chaloner, goaded into saying something he should not have done.
‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Because if you do not identify the villain by St Frideswide’s Feast — six days hence — Pratt might pay with his life. And as a deadline will serve to concentrate your mind, I shall expect answers to your other enquiries by then, too.’
Chaloner fought down the urge to say that he might have had them if he had not been forced to waste an entire day at the Tennis Court. ‘I doubt Pratt is in danger, sir. However, the Queen is a different matter. She will be harmed badly if the tale of-’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted the Earl impatiently. ‘I know. What about Cave? Frances keeps asking for news of him. What shall I tell her?’
‘That she is right: his death probably is suspicious. Williamson has ordered an investigation.’
‘Then leave the matter to him,’ ordered the Earl. ‘Concentrate on my bricks. And on catching the author of the Teviot massacre and the villain who sent those three horrible letters to the Queen.’
‘Three letters?’ asked Chaloner sharply.
‘I came across another this afternoon,’ explained Hyde.
‘What did it say?’ asked Chaloner.
Wordlessly, Hyde handed him a piece of paper, which Chaloner scanned quickly in the gathering gloom. The handwriting was the same as the last one, and so was the tenor of the message — that the Queen’s plan to dispatch Pratt would meet with the approval of all down-trodden Catholics. It was so clumsily executed that Chaloner felt a surge of anger — not towards its writer, but towards Hyde for giving it credence. He tore it into pieces.
‘Hey!’ cried Hyde, trying to stop him. ‘That was evidence.’
‘Not any more,’ said Chaloner, shoving the bits in his pocket to put on the next fire he saw. ‘And I strongly advise you to destroy the others, too. Where did the culprit leave it this time?’
‘In one of the Queen’s purses,’ replied Hyde sullenly.
Chaloner regarded him askance. Purses contained ladies’ intimate personal items, and not even a private secretary should have had access to the Queen’s. ‘What were you doing in that?’
Hyde scowled. ‘It looked overly full, so I investigated. And it was a good thing I did!’
Unhappily, Chaloner watched the Earl and his party continue on their way. Letters on a desk and half-burned in a hearth were one thing, but in a purse were another. Had he been wrong, and the Queen was embroiled in something deadly, not from malice, but from ignorance?
He took his leave of White Hall in a troubled state of mind and began to walk home. He stopped once, at a potter’s shop, where he purchased a large piece of clay.
By the time Chaloner reached Tothill Street, he was despondent, feeling he had learned nothing new that day, except the possibility that Pratt might be responsible for the disappearing materials and that Reverend Addison might be a source of information on Teviot’s scouts. He decided to explore both lines of enquiry the following morning, after he had interviewed Brilliana.
He arrived to find Hannah preparing to go out. She was wearing a new bodice and skirt, the latter of which was cut open at the front to reveal delicately embroidered underskirts. In accordance with fashion, she wore a black ‘face-patch’ on her chin, although he was relieved that she had confined herself to one; it was not unknown for people to don up to thirty in an effort to be stylish.
She was in the kitchen, which reeked powerfully of burned garlic. Lounging in a chair, George puffed on his pipe, feet propped on the wall where they left black marks on the plaster. Nan had just poured him a cup of ale, which she delivered with a curtsy before fleeing behind Joan; Susan was sewing him another shirt. All three women were subdued, and Chaloner wondered whether George’s bullying had gone beyond mental intimidation to something physical.
‘Stand up in your mistress’s presence,’ he snapped, sweeping the footman’s legs off the wall.
George came to his feet fast, and Chaloner braced himself for a fight, but the footman only bowed an apology and stood to attention. Nan and Susan exchanged a startled look, while the flicker of a smile crossed Joan’s dour face. Hannah nodded her approval, then turned to the mirror, assessing the way her hair fell in ringlets around her face.
‘You should not be leaving the house at this hour, mistress,’ chided Joan, glancing out of the window at the darkness beyond. ‘It is not seemly.’
‘Thank you, Joan,’ said Hannah crisply. ‘I shall be home late, so there is no need to wait up. Take the evening off. All of you.’
Susan and Nan did not need to be told twice, and were away before she could change her mind, jostling to be first out of the door. Joan followed more sedately, head held high to indicate her annoyance at being so casually dismissed. George started to sit back down, but saw Chaloner’s look and went instead to fetch Hannah’s cloak. Chaloner escorted her to White Hall himself, not liking the notion of her being out alone after dark.
‘You were right, and I was wrong,’ said Hannah, once they were out of the house. She sounded as dispirited as he felt. ‘George is a brute, Joan is bossy, Susan is spiteful and Nan is insolent. She just told me that I cannot cook.’
‘Did she?’ Chaloner hoped he would not be called upon to dispute it; he was too weary to tell convincing lies.
‘But I can,’ said Hannah, obviously hurt. ‘I made you a lovely stew. With lots of garlic.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner weakly. ‘Have you found anyone willing to hire George yet?’
‘Unfortunately, his reputation goes before him, so no one will oblige. I wish you would take him with you when you go out. Then I would not feel like an unwelcome interloper in my own home.’
Chaloner had visions of trying to blend into courtly functions with the surly ex-resident of Tangier in tow. ‘Impossible. Do you want my company this evening, or only as far as White Hall?’
Hannah grimaced. ‘I wish you could come, because it would make the occasion bearable — her Majesty is entertaining Meneses, the Conde de Almeida, again, and it is my turn to act as chaperon.’
‘Meneses?’ asked Chaloner sharply. Was this Temperance’s ‘Memphis, Count of America’, and the Portuguese member of the Piccadilly Company?
‘I cannot abide the man,’ Hannah went on. ‘Unfortunately, the Queen can.’
‘What is wrong with him?’
‘He pretends to know no English, but he understands it when it suits him. Personally, I think he is here to see what he can get from her, but he will be disappointed.’
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. Hannah was right about the language: Meneses had spoken perfectly passable English at the club.
‘Because the Queen has nothing to give. Personally, I think the Court will keep her poor until she produces an heir. Of course, that will never happen. She is like me: we both have dutiful husbands, but there is no sign of a baby. Surgeon Wiseman told me that some women simply never conceive.’
‘You want children?’ asked Chaloner, startled.
‘Of course I do! I thought I was just unlucky with my first husband, but it is the same with you, too. And as you had a son with your first wife, the fault must lie with me.’