‘He may not live long enough to hang,’ said Chaloner soberly. ‘Cave stabbed him.’
‘We can but hope,’ said Wiseman ruthlessly.
The clocks were striking ten by the time Chaloner left the charnel house. Wiseman walked with him, chatting about all that had happened during the time the spy had been away. Chaloner listened, not because he liked gossip, but because Dugdale’s remarks about him being poorly versed in London’s affairs had reminded him that he needed to rectify the matter — only foolish spies did not take the time to acquaint themselves with the society in which they were obliged to move.
‘O’Brien and Kitty are the King’s current favourites,’ Wiseman was saying, jostling a beefy soldier out of his way. The surgeon had always been large, but he had made himself even more powerful by a regime of lifting heavy stones each morning. He claimed it was to improve his general well-being, but the practice had given him the arms and shoulders of a wrestler, and meant prudent people were inclined to overlook any insults he might dole out, physical or verbal. Hence the soldier bristled at the rough treatment, but made no other response.
‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Because they are wealthy, or because she is pretty?’
‘Have a care!’ Wiseman glanced around uneasily. ‘There is no need to announce to everyone that our King is an unscrupulous womaniser with a voracious appetite for his subjects’ money.’
‘Your words, not mine,’ said Chaloner, supposing His Majesty must have reached new depths of depravity, if even a loyal follower like Wiseman voiced reservations about his character.
‘Still, at least O’Brien and Kitty are not Adventurers. And as I am sure you have no idea what I am talking about, let me explain. It means they are not members of that shameful organisation of gold-grabbing nobles commonly called the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading into Africa.’
‘I have heard of it,’ said Chaloner drily. ‘In case you did not know, Tangier is in Africa, and the place was full of talk about the Adventurers.’
‘What talk?’ asked Wiseman curiously.
‘Mostly that their charter forbids other Britons from buying or selling goods that originate in Africa. They have secured themselves a monopoly on gold, silver, hides, feathers, ivory, slaves-’
Wiseman’s expression turned fierce. ‘Slaves?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘The Portuguese used to dominate that particular trade — most of their “cargos” go to the sugar plantations in Brazil. But the Portuguese are no longer quite so powerful at sea, and the Dutch now control the best routes.’
‘Do they, by God?’ growled Wiseman. Britain was on the verge of war with the Dutch, so even mentioning them was likely to provoke a hostile response from most Londoners.
‘It is a lucrative business,’ Chaloner went on. ‘And the British merchants in Tangier itch to join in. But the Adventurers’ charter means they cannot.’
‘I do not approve of the slave trade,’ declared Wiseman hotly.
‘No decent person does.’
Wiseman brightened. ‘I read in The Newes a week ago that a slaving ship named Henrietta Maria sank mysteriously in Tangier harbour. It went down before it could be loaded, and the delay allowed many captives to escape.’ He stared at Chaloner. ‘It happened when you were there. Did you …’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’
Wiseman clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I might have known! The loss set the Adventurers back a pretty penny, too! They had invested a fortune in fitting it out for transporting humans.’
‘It will make no difference in the end,’ said Chaloner despondently. ‘They will just build another. And another and another, until the sea is full of the damned things.’
‘You and I are not the only ones to be repelled. Others will make a stand, and the business will founder. You will see.’
Chaloner said nothing, but thought Wiseman’s optimism was sadly misplaced. People probably would be appalled by the barbaric way sugar was produced on the plantations, but they would buy the stuff anyway, and that would create a market. The ethics of the matter would be swept under the carpet and quietly forgotten.
Wiseman changed the subject. ‘I cannot say I like Roger Pratt the architect, by the way. I am beginning to think you were right when you said Clarendon House will bring our Earl trouble.’
‘What made you change your mind?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. Wiseman was one of those who firmly believed that Clarendon had every right to an extravagant mansion.
‘Pratt himself. He is arrogant and thinks himself some kind of god. I cannot bear such people.’
Chaloner smothered a smile, thinking the description applied rather well to Wiseman himself.
* * *
The Earl lived in a rambling Tudor palace onThe Strand, which he had never liked and that he complained about constantly. Indeed, Chaloner suspected that Worcester House’s poky rooms and leaking ceilings were largely responsible for his master’s wild extravagance over his new home.
‘You missed him,’ said a gardener, straightening from his labours as Chaloner walked past. ‘He left for White Hall an hour ago.’
‘I thought he was ill,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he was destined to spend the entire day traipsing around London. He hoped not: he was cold, damp and wanted to go home.
‘He recovered.’ The man sounded disappointed; the Earl was not popular with his staff.
‘That was fast. Gout usually keeps him in bed for days.’
The gardener grinned evilly. ‘He told everyone it was gout, but if you knew what he ate for his supper, you would not be surprised that he spent half the night clutching his innards. But a tonic restored him, and he sent for his coach shortly afterwards. It is not far to White Hall, but the lazy goat never walks. No wonder he is so fat.’
Wearily, Chaloner retraced his steps. White Hall was the King’s official London residence, and a number of his ministers had quarters there. It represented power and authority, as well as being the place where the King and his dissipated friends frolicked until the small hours of the morning, doing things that invariably transpired to be expensive for the tax-payer.
The palace was ancient, but had developed in a haphazard manner, depending on when money had been available for building and repairs. It was said to contain more than two thousand rooms, ranging from the spacious apartments occupied by the King and his nobles, to the cramped, badly ventilated attics that housed laundresses, grooms and scullions.
Chaloner was about to walk through the gate when a carriage drew up beside him. A face peered out and Chaloner recognised Spymaster Williamson, a tall, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding that his slippery talents would be more useful in government. He was feared by his employees, treated with extreme caution by his superiors, and detested by his equals.
‘I did not know you were back,’ Williamson said without preamble. ‘I thought you were still in Tangier, trying to learn why building a sea wall is transpiring to be so costly.’
‘Clarendon ordered me home,’ replied Chaloner, shortly and not very informatively.
He and Williamson had never liked each other. They had reached a truce of sorts in the summer, after an adventure involving some foreign diplomats, but it was an uneasy one, and Chaloner was acutely aware that it would take very little for the Spymaster to break it.
‘What is wrong, Joseph?’ came a female voice from inside the coach. Chaloner was surprised: the fairer sex tended to shy away from Williamson. ‘Why have we stopped?’
‘I want a word with this gentleman,’ replied Williamson, turning to her with a brief smile. ‘It will not take a moment, and then I shall show you my Westminster offices.’
‘Good,’ said another voice. It was a man and he sounded pleased. ‘I am looking forward to seeing the place where you spend so much time.’
Chaloner wondered whether the couple were actually being conveyed there so they could be arrested — that when they arrived, they would find themselves whisked into a grim little cell for the purposes of interrogation. It had certainly happened before. But Williamson climbed out of the carriage and began to make introductions. Chaloner was surprised a second time, because the Spymaster had never afforded him such courtesy before. He was immediately on his guard.
‘These are my very dear friends Kitty and Henry O’Brien. O’Brien and I were up at Oxford together.’ Williamson addressed the occupants of the carriage. ‘Chaloner is the fellow I was telling you about, who helped me with that business concerning the Dutch ambassador last June.’
Chaloner was not sure whether he was more taken aback to meet O’Brien and his wife so soon after the discussion in the charnel house, or to be informed that Williamson had friends. The only other man he knew who was willing to spend time in the Spymaster’s company was the sinister John Swaddell, who claimed to be a clerk, but whom everyone knew was really an assassin.
He regarded the pair with interest as they peered out. Kitty’s beauty was indeed breathtaking. Red hair tumbled around her shoulders, and there was both intelligence and humour in her arresting green eyes. He bowed politely, thinking that Kersey’s claims about her loveliness were, if anything, understated.
When he turned his attention to her husband, he thought for a fleeting moment that she had married a child, but O’Brien was just one of those men who had retained boyish looks into his thirties. He had fair curly hair, blue eyes, and the lines around his mouth said he laughed a lot. They were an attractive couple, and Chaloner was not surprised that the King had deigned to grace them with his favour. Their clothes said they were indeed wealthy, and the ruby that gleamed at Kitty’s throat was the largest that Chaloner had ever seen.
‘O’Brien has just received some sad news,’ said Williamson, addressing Chaloner. ‘A musician from the Chapel Royal, of whom he was very fond, is dead.’
‘Killed by one of your spies, Williamson,’ put in O’Brien sourly.
Kitty rested a calming hand on his arm. ‘He cannot hire choirboys for the dirty business of espionage, so it is hardly surprising that some transpire to be unruly. Like that odious Swaddell. I am glad he is no longer in your service, Joseph. He was downright sinister.’
‘Swaddell has left you?’ Chaloner was astounded — he had thought the bond between the two men was unbreakable, mostly, he had suspected uncharitably, because neither could find anyone else willing to put up with him.
Williamson grimaced. ‘I am afraid so.’
‘I shall miss Cave,’ O’Brien was saying unhappily. ‘He was an excellent tenor, and the only man in London capable of understanding how I like to perform. What shall I do without him? The King liked to listen to us sing, and he will be devastated when he hears what has happened.’
Chaloner doubted the King would care, especially if O’Brien financed some other form of entertainment. He did not usually make snap judgements about people, but there was something about O’Brien that said he lacked his wife’s brains, and that he was vain and a little bit silly.
While Kitty murmured soothing words in her husband’s ear, Williamson drew Chaloner to one side, so they could speak without being overheard. ‘One of my informants witnessed what happened. He told me you tried to prevent the skirmish.’
‘But unfortunately without success.’
‘It is a pity, especially as the quarrel was trifling. I cannot say I like Elliot, but he is a decent intelligencer.’
‘He is still alive?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the vicious blow Cave had delivered, and the dagger protruding from Elliot’s innards.
‘At the moment,’ nodded Williamson, ‘although his friend Lester fears he may not stay that way for long. And I hate to lose him. He was making headway on a troublesome case-’
‘The Earl is waiting,’ said Chaloner, unwilling to be burdened with the Spymaster’s concerns when he had more than enough of his own to contend with.
‘You can spare me a moment,’ said Williamson reproachfully. ‘And I am having a terrible week, what with Swaddell leaving, Elliot attacking Cave, and more plots to overthrow the government than you can shake a stick at. And the Privy Council has cut my budget. Again.’
‘Where has Swaddell gone?’ asked Chaloner, not liking the notion of such a deadly fellow on the loose. Williamson had never done much to control him, but he had been better than nothing.
‘To someone who can pay him what he deserves,’ replied Williamson shortly. ‘I wish I could offer him double, but how can I, when I barely have enough to make ends meet?’
‘Perhaps your friend O’Brien can secure you better funding,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘Ask him to mention it while he warbles for the King.’
‘I most certainly shall not,’ declared Williamson indignantly. ‘It would be ungentlemanly to raise matters of money with a friend. Besides, he is too distressed by Cave’s death. I am taking him to see my Westminster offices, as a way to take his mind off it. For something pleasant to do.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You think that is pleasant? A heavily guarded hall filled with labouring clerks, and dungeons below containing God knows what horrors?’
Williamson looked exasperated. ‘Then what do you suggest? I am not a man for frivolity, but I feel compelled to offer some sort of diversion.’
‘What is wrong with a visit to the Crown Jewels or the Royal Menagerie? Or even a play?’
Williamson nodded slowly. ‘Those are good ideas. But I did not stop you to ask for advice about my social life. I want to know why Cave and Elliot fought. My informant’s account made no sense.’
Seeing no reason not to oblige him, Chaloner gave a concise account of the squabble. When he had finished, Williamson frowned unhappily.
‘But why did Cave and Elliot become agitated over so ridiculous a matter? Men do not squander their lives on such trivialities. There must be more to it.’
‘Very possibly,’ acknowledged Chaloner, glad he was not the one who would have to find out.
‘Cave will have a grand funeral in Westminster Abbey,’ Williamson went on. ‘The Chapel Royal choir will provide the music, and the Bishop of London will almost certainly be prevailed upon to conduct the ceremony. It will be a lofty occasion, and I should not like it spoiled with the taint of suspicion. I do not suppose you have time to-’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly.