‘I am expected to do both.’ Chaloner hesitated uncertainly. ‘I would not mind telling you all I have learned about the murders, to see if you can think of any way forward. The Earl is determined to see Greene hanged for killing Chetwynd and Vine, but I am sure he is innocent.’
Thurloe listened without interruption as the spy outlined all he had discovered. ‘I met Greene once,’ he said when Chaloner had finished. ‘He is a nonentity — an unassuming fellow without the vigour to kill two men. Why does the Earl dislike him so intensely?’
‘I do not know — and I suspect I never will. He has never really trusted me, and I think he intends to replace me soon, with a man called Colonel Turner. Have you heard of him?’
‘Yes. He was a minor nuisance during the Common-wealth — he liked breaking into the Post Office and stealing letters. He never laid hold of anything import ant, but it was an annoyance, regardless.’
‘He says you put a price on his head.’
‘Then he is lying — he would not have been worth the expense.’
‘What else can you tell me about him?’
‘Only that he has twenty-eight children, and he trained as a solicitor. And that he could never match your expertise as an intelligencer, and the Earl is an ass if he thinks otherwise.’
But the Earl was an ass in matters of espionage, thought Chaloner dejectedly, and might well dismiss him in favour of a flamboyant Cavalier. And then what? The spy could not foist himself on his family, because, as fervent supporters of Cromwell, they were being taxed into poverty by vengeful Royalists. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he should abandon England, and go to live in the New World. The only problem was that he had been there once, and had not liked it.
‘What do you know about the victims?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Vine and Chetwynd?’
‘Just that they were pillars of decency in a government that seethes with corruption. It was not like that when Cromwell was in charge — as absolute ruler, he had the power to dismiss or arrest anyone he deemed less than honest. As I have said before, a military dictatorship is the best form of govern-’
‘What about their families?’ asked Chaloner, interrupting before they could argue. He did not share Thurloe’s views on the joys of repressive regimes. ‘George Vine told me he tried to assassinate Cromwell. Is it true?’
Thurloe grimaced. ‘I did have wind of a plot, but it transpired to be so outlandish that I did not bother with a prosecution. He planned to give the Lord Protector an exploding leek, but failed to take into account that most men are not in the habit of devouring raw vegetables presented to them by strangers. And we all know you cannot pack enough gunpowder inside a leek to kill anyone.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘You would need a cabbage, at the very least.’
Religion was a contentious issue in England, and as far as the bishops were concerned, a person was either a devout Anglican who attended his weekly devotions, or a fanatic who should be treated with suspicion. Some churches kept registers of which parishioners stayed away, and because Chaloner had been trained never to attract unnecessary attention, he always tried to make an appearance at St Dunstan-in-the-West on those Sundays when he was home. He did not usually mind, because the old building was a haven of peace amid the clamour of the city, and the rector’s rambling sermons gave him a chance to sit quietly and think of other matters.
But he resented the wasted time that day. There was too much to do, and Rector Thompson was holding a sheaf of notes that suggested his congregation might be trapped for hours while he ploughed through them all. Chaloner exchanged amiable greetings with him in the nave, ensured his name was recorded on the attendance list, then escaped through the vestry door when no one was looking. Once in the street, he headed for Westminster, walking with one hand on his hat to prevent the wind from tearing it from his head. It had been a gift from a lady in Spain, and its crown was cunningly reinforced with a metal bowl. It had saved his life on several occasions, and he did not want to lose it.
Westminster was different from White Hall, despite the fact that both were medieval palaces. White Hall was brazenly secular, alive with the colours of Court — the reds, golds, oranges and purples of balls and banquets. Its larger buildings were built of brick, although most were in desperate need of painting, and fountains and statues adorned its open spaces. By contrast, Westminster was dominated by its abbey and Norman hall, and had a monastic feel. Its buildings were characterised by lancet windows, stained glass and pinnacles, and there was an atmosphere of sobriety and business. Policy might be decided in White Hall, but the documents and writs to make it legal came from Westminster.
At the heart of Westminster, in the open area known as New Palace Yard, was the medieval Great Hall. As Chaloner walked past it, he paused to stare up at the severed heads that had been placed on poles outside. Cromwell’s was there, although the spy had no idea which of the blackened, almost inhuman objects belonged to the man who had ruled the Commonwealth. Some had long hair that waved in the wind, but most were bald, picked clean by crows. They had a tendency to blow down in rough weather, and he could see at least two on the ground. People were giving them a wide berth, because Spymaster Williamson’s men were in the habit of lurking nearby, ready to arrest anyone who attempted to rescue the pathetic objects and give them a decent burial.
Chaloner cut through a series of alleys until he reached the narrow lane that gave access to the Painted Chamber, intending to inspect it more thoroughly than he had been able to the previous night. He was unimpressed to find it very busy, not only with the clerks who had turned it into their personal office space, but with spectators who wanted to see the spot where two men had been murdered. A search was out of the question, so he lingered unobtrusively near the tapestries, eavesdropping on the discussions of the ghouls. It did not take him long to realise that he was wasting his time, and that the chances of overhearing anything relevant were negligible, so he left.
Unfortunately, he had no clear idea of how else to proceed, so he spent the rest of the day lurking in the kitchens, cook-houses and public areas of both palaces. But although there was a lot of talk about the murders — the statue was not mentioned, because it was old news and no longer of interest — it was all gossip and speculation, and nothing was based in fact. And the Lord of Misrule was being unusually close-lipped about his plans, so the spy made no headway there, either. He did learn that an event was planned for that evening in the Great Hall, though — it was something to do with Babylon, and necessitated the preparation of vast platters of a glutinous, rose-flavoured jelly.
The daylight faded and darkness fell. People began to dissipate, either to go home, or — if they were important enough to be invited — head for the Great Hall to enjoy whatever Near Eastern extravaganza Brodrick had devised. Among the latter was George Vine, who wore a bizarre combination of clothes meant to make him look like a sultan. The wind caught his turban and sent it cart-wheeling across the courtyard; Chaloner stopped it with his foot, and handed it back to him.
‘What do you think?’ asked George, twirling around then grabbing Chaloner’s arm when a combination of wine and a sudden gust of wind made him stagger. ‘I am a Babylonian prince.’
‘Very pretty. Have you made arrangements for your father’s funeral yet?’
‘Do not think to berate me for merrymaking while he lies above ground, because old Dreary Bones was buried this morning.’ George smirked at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘I wanted to make sure Surgeon Wiseman did not get him, so time was of the essence.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering why George was so determined to prevent an examination that might yield clues. It was clearly nothing to do with filial love. ‘Can you tell me anything about his last day? What time did he leave home?’