‘How?’
‘I heard them come.’
‘Them?’
‘Dragging the dead body.’
Nicholas grabbed him by the arms. ‘You saw them?’
‘No, sir. I was too late.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Voices only. Then the horses galloping off.’
‘These voices. What did they say?’
‘I do not know, sir. The language was unknown to me.’
‘Foreigners?’
‘Deep and gruff.’
‘Can you you remember no words at all?’
‘None, sir. Except “smell.” They were in a hurry. One of them kept saying “smell” or something much like it.’
‘Could it have been “schnell”?’ asked Nicholas.
‘Indeed, it could. Say it again.’
‘Schnell. Schnell.’
‘That was it, sir!’ said Valentine. ‘What language?’
‘German.’
‘Why should two Germans kill poor Master Chaloner?’
Nicholas said nothing. He was quite certain that the men were only delivering the corpse of someone who had been murdered elsewhere by another hand. Their nationality was an important clue, however, and he took due note of it.
‘I wish I could tell you more,’ said Valentine.
‘You have been most helpful and I thank you for that.’ His tone became much sterner. ‘But that does not excuse your eavesdropping. Why did you listen to me when I talked with Mistress Brinklow earlier in the ruins of the laboratory?’
‘I did not, sir.’
‘You admitted it only two minutes ago.’
‘I said I overheard you by accident. But not today. It was when you first came to Greenwich. You and your friend talked in the arbour with the mistress and Master Chaloner.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Caught nearby and forced to listen.’
‘Why did you not discover yourself and leave?’
‘It would have thrown suspicion on me, sir,’ said the gardener. ‘Once I had heard a little, I had to hear all. Besides, sir, I was interested. Master Brinklow was like a father to me. I mourn him every day.’
Nicholas warmed to the man. Disfigurement was only skin deep. Valentine was a loyal and compassionate man underneath his repellent exterior. He could yet be of more help.
‘Why do you sometimes sleep in the garden?’ he said.
‘I like it, Master Bracewell. I am at peace here.’
‘There must be another reason.’
Valentine grew restless. ‘I’d blush to acknowledge it.’
‘Why?’
‘Come, sir, you are a man. You may guess at it.’
Nicholas was surprised. ‘This concerns a woman, then?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the other, strangely bashful. ‘Not that the woman in question knows anything about it. Nor must she or all is lost. I’ll say no more unless you keep my secret.’
‘The matter will go no further.’
‘Then hear her name.’ The grin broadened. ‘Agnes.’
‘The maidservant?’
‘As fine a piece of flesh as any in Greenwich.’
‘You and she have some…understanding?’
‘Oh, no, sir,’ said Valentine with bitterness. ‘She looks at my ugliness and blames me for it. I am never allowed near her. Agnes goes out of her way to abuse me. Why, only today she caught me near the window of the parlour and chided me for trying to listen to your conversation within.’
‘Mistress Brinklow and I?’
‘Agnes chased me off down the garden.’
‘Then what did she do?’
‘I have no idea.’
Nicholas did. It was conceivable that the maidservant had cleared Valentine away from the vantage point outside the window so that she could take it up herself. If she had overheard the conversation in the parlour, she would have known that they moved on to the laboratory. Someone had been listening to them in the bushes. Since it had not been the gardener, it may well have been Agnes. She had always been in the vicinity on his previous visit to the house. When he and Hoode had first arrived, the maidservant had actually been in the arbour with Emilia.
‘It is Agnes who keeps you in the garden at night?’
‘Yes, sir. I cannot but be fond of her.’
‘Even though she rails at you.’
‘That is the fault of my face and not her temper.’
‘You are very forgiving.’
‘All I want is to see her now again,’ said Valentine in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘To catch her unawares at some simple task. Opening her window, closing her curtains, even just blowing out her candle. In those moments-though Agnes will never know-she is mine.’
‘Where is her chamber?’
‘At the top of the house. I see her from the garden.’
‘I cannot think she would enjoy your surveillance.’
‘What harm does it do?’ He plucked at Nicholas’s sleeve and let out a chuckle. ‘I watched her window for a whole month once. She did the same thing every night bar Fridays.’
‘What was different about those?’
‘She did not sleep in her room. Or if she did, she entered it in darkness and came not to the window. Why do the same thing six nights a week and not the seventh?’
‘Haply, she was released from service on Fridays.’
‘No question of that, sir. It is one of her busiest days with Saturday even more so. We work a full week here, sir. Sunday morning is our only time of rest and part of that must be spent in church.’
Nicholas was fascinated by the information. The insight into the weird emotional life of Valentine had started a line of thought which led in only one direction. If there was a spy in the household, the maidservant was best placed to perform the office.
‘Thank you, Valentine,’ he said. ‘I am glad we met.’
A grim chuckle. ‘Nobody has ever said that before.’
‘Tell nobody else what you have told me.’
‘I must ask the same of you, Master Bracewell. This is my domain out here. I stalk it like a cat. Do not take it away from me, sir. It is all I have.’
Nicholas nodded. He had no reason to rob the gardener of anything, especially as Valentine had helped him. They shook hands to seal their bargain and parted.
***
Emilia Brinklow was dogged by fatigue but kept awake by remorse. The murder of Simon Chaloner was devastating. Coming as it did in the wake of the attack on the play, it completely disoriented her. She did not know what to do or where to go next. Agnes sat with her in the parlour and tried to offer some words of comfort but they fell on deaf ears. All that Emilia could hear was the fearful thud on the front door which had announced the arrival of Chaloner’s corpse.
Guilt coursed through her like molten lead. She blamed herself for his death. But for her, he would never have been drawn into the long and fretful search for justice with regard to her brother’s murder. Chaloner had now joined Thomas Brinklow on a premature slab. Emilia believed that it was all her fault, that she should somehow have prevented him from taking such precipitate action against an enemy far stronger than him. She even wished that she had agreed to marry him sooner instead of offering him conditions. Her anguish was proof against all solace.
There was a tap on the door and it opened to admit the head of Nicholas Bracewell. She sat up with a start.
‘Have they gone?’ she asked.
‘Their enquiries are over for tonight,’ he said, coming into the room. ‘I made sure that they did not trouble you.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate that.’
‘I will not disturb you any longer.’
‘Where are you going?’ she said anxiously.
‘To the inn at the end of the main street. If I can rouse the landlord, I am sure he will give me a bed for tonight. I will then be on hand in the morning to lend further assistance.’
‘You will say here, Nicholas.’
‘I have no right to intrude.’
‘I insist,’ she said, turning to the maidservant. ‘See that a bed is made ready at once, Agnes. Hurry.’
As the woman went off about her task, Nicholas thought he detected a slight reluctance. He surmised that she was unhappy about his continued stay in the house and annoyed to be sent too far away to overhear what might be a valuable conversation. He took swift advantage of her absence.