‘At dawn. I remember, because we met at the door, and argued over the fact that he was going to work, while I had not yet been to bed. He was like that, always criticising me for having fun.’
‘And what did his work at the Treasury entail, exactly?’
‘He dealt with large quantities of money. I suppose I shall have to find out more, given that I intend to take over his duties. But I refuse to work as hard as he did -
I am no bore.’ ‘I am sure the King will be impressed by your dedication.’
George curled his lip, jammed his turban on his head and began to totter away. He called back over his shoulder as he went. ‘The wind is picking up again, and we all know what that means.’
Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What?’
‘That a great person will die. People said it blew for my father, but it persists, so obviously it gusts for someone else — old Dreary Bones was not a “great person” after all. You had better make sure the Lord Chancellor is tucked up safe in his bed.’
Chaloner darted after him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to make him squeal as he jerked him to a standstill. ‘Are you threatening my Earl?’
George was frightened — by the spy’s speed, strength and the expression on his face. ‘No! I was just blathering. I did not mean anything by it, I swear!’ His bloodshot eyes lit on a nearby lane, and he jabbed a desperate finger at it. ‘Look, there are Thomas and Matthias Lea. Go and interrogate them — they also benefited from the murder of a kinsman, and I am not the only one who is suddenly rich.’
Chaloner peered into the gloom, and saw Chetwynd’s heirs climbing into a hackney. They were looking in his direction, but when he released George and took a few steps towards them, one said something to the driver and they rattled away. He could have caught them, had he run, but it was not worth the effort. They had left abruptly because they did not want to deal with him, and chasing them was not going to change that fact. He would simply have to wait for a more opportune moment.
He lingered a while longer, standing in the shadows of White Hall’s largest courtyard, and watching gaggles of courtiers set off towards Westminster together. Most wore costumes that showed they had not the faintest idea of what Babylon had been like. Eventually, only the stragglers remained. One trio comprised a girl with woolly hair who wore nothing around her midriff and bells on her ankles, a youth dressed as a genie, and an old man whose sole concession to the occasion was a fez. He appeared to be deaf, and kept turning questioningly to his companions, who made no effort to speak at a volume that would help him. Chaloner knew they were rich when a coach came to collect them, although it was too dark to make out the insignia on its side. He could tell from their gestures that the youngsters were annoyed about being late, while the ancient gave the impression that he would rather be at home with a good book and a cup of warm milk.
But then even they had gone. There was no point in remaining, so Chaloner set off for Westminster himself, not to spy on the ball, but to see whether the Painted Chamber was empty at last.
When he reached New Palace Yard, the twang of foreign-sounding music and a cacophony of voices emanated from the Great Hall. A few revellers spilled into the street, one or two to vomit up the unpalatable mixture of wine and rose-flavoured jellies, and others to snatch kisses and fondles in the darkness outside. Several enterprising businesses had stayed open in the hope of attracting late trade, although Chaloner could not imagine many courtiers being interested in legal books or porpoise tongues, which seemed to be the two main commodities on offer.
The area around the Painted Chamber was deserted, though. It was illuminated by the odd lantern, but not many, because fuel was expensive and the government saw no point in spending money on a part of the complex that was usually abandoned at night. The occasional clerk risked life and limb to work late — the Palace of Westminster was surrounded by tenements and hovels, so violent crime was rife — but they were not many. One shadow sidled up to Chaloner with the clear intention of relieving him of his purse, but it melted away when he started to draw his sword.
The Painted Chamber was unlocked, and he supposed the guards had yet to make their rounds and secure the building for the night. He opened the door to its lobby, then ascended the wide stone steps to the main hall. He paused by the entrance, listening intently for any sound from within, more from habit than any expectation of detecting anything amiss. But George had been right when he said the wind was picking up again — it screamed down the chimney and roared across the roof, and Chaloner could barely hear his own footsteps, let alone anyone else’s. He scanned the shadows for any flicker of movement that might tell him someone was there, but the place appeared to be empty. It was lit by a lamp at its far end, near the spot where Vine and Chetwynd had died, but was otherwise in darkness.
It was a large building, perhaps eighty feet long by twenty-five wide, and showed signs of serious long-term neglect. The great tapestries depicting the Trojan Wars were grey with filth, and the ceiling was black from years of smoking candles. The stone tracery in the windows was crumbling, and the floorboards needed replacing — there were gaps between some that could swallow a small foot.
He walked to the far end, and gazed at the place where the bodies had been found. The first victim, Chetwynd, had been working at his desk. So what had happened? Had the killer arrived, amiably offering to share a cup of wine with him? If so, then Chetwynd must have known his murderer, because government officials did not accept refreshments from just anyone in the depths of night. The fact that no cup was anywhere to be found when the chamber was later searched told Chaloner that the culprit had been careful to leave nothing in the way of clues.
And Vine? The building where he worked adjoined the Painted Chamber, so perhaps he, like Greene, had run out of ink, and hoped to borrow some from Chetwynd’s well-supplied table. Or perhaps the killer had invited him there, offering to share his deadly brew on the pretence that it was a toast to a dead colleague. And that meant the killer knew both his victims — knew them well enough that Vine was not suspicious, despite almost certainly being aware of what had happened to Chetwynd.
The spy took the lamp and began to examine the floor, although not with much hope of finding anything useful — the hall had been graced by too many visitors that day. He was on the verge of giving up and going home, when he spotted something gleaming faintly between two floorboards. It was a ring, but when he tried to pick it up, he found it was solidly wedged. There was a smear of mud on it, which told him someone — possibly its owner — had trodden on it, probably by accident, crushing it even more firmly into the slit. New scratches on the floor around it indicated someone had tried to prise it out, but had given up. Chaloner saw why when his dagger proved too unwieldy for the task, and he was obliged to use one of his lock-picking probes. It was not easy, but he succeeded eventually.
The ring was small — too tiny to fit even his little finger — and beautiful in its simplicity. It comprised a plain gold band with a clasp that held a deep-red ruby. The size of the gem and the quality of the workmanship told him it was valuable. Did it belong to one of the ghouls who had visited the Painted Chamber that day? He did not think so, because they would not have abandoned their efforts to retrieve it — they would have fetched a more suitable implement with which to lever it out.
Had it belonged to Vine, then, and his attempts to rescue it had been interrupted when the killer had arrived? It would have been too small to fit his fingers, but there was a current fashion for wearing rings suspended from cuff-strings, so its size meant nothing. Or was Chaloner holding something that belonged to the murderer, ripped away as Vine thrashed around in his death throes? He was sure of one thing, though: it was not Greene’s. The clerk was something of a Puritan, and favoured clothes devoid of extravagant accessories, jewellery included.