‘A great person has died,’ announced Landlord Ellis, when he saw his tenant descend the rickety stairs and aim for the front door. Chaloner was surprised to see him, because dawn was still some way off, and Ellis was not an early riser. ‘One always does when there is a strong wind. Did you hear about Chetwynd, who perished during that terrible blow we had on Christmas Day?’
Chaloner nodded, but declined to say he was one of those charged to find the man’s killer.
‘Chetwynd was not what I would have called great, though,’ Ellis went on, standing in front of the tin mirror in the hallway and attempting to straighten his wig. ‘You cannot be great if you are corrupt, in my humble opinion.’
Chaloner blinked in surprise. ‘Chetwynd was corrupt? I thought he was one of the few honest men at Westminster — devout, hard-working and upright.’
‘He was a lawyer,’ countered Ellis tartly. ‘And a Chancery clerk into the bargain. Of course he was corrupt. And if you do not believe me, ask Thomas Doling. And that young rascal Neale, who was rendered penniless by Chetwynd’s duplicitous manoeuvrings.’
‘Who are Doling and Neale?’
‘Doling was a Commonwealth clerk, and Neale is a penniless courtier. They both haunt the Angel Inn on King Street, although not together obviously — Roundhead henchmen and Cavalier fops do not befriend each other, even if they are both victims of the same crooked lawyer. The man who died during the latest gale was great, though. No one can argue with that.’
‘Was he?’ asked Chaloner. A number of people had remarked on Vine’s innate decency, so he supposed the fellow really had been a paragon of virtue.
Ellis nodded. ‘I heard all about it this morning, when I went to my coffee house.’
‘You must have gone very early,’ said Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘It is not yet light.’
Ellis looked sheepish. ‘I could not sleep with all that rattling and howling, so I went out at midnight. I dislike storms, and there is nothing like coffee-house discourse to take one’s mind off one’s worries.’
As he spoke, he moved furtively to one side, and Chaloner saw he was trying to stand in front of a strongbox, to hide it from sight. It had a substantial lock, and was clearly for transporting valuables.
‘You mean you were afraid the house would tumble about your ears, so you took your gold and spent the night somewhere safe. Why did you not warn your tenants to do likewise?’
Ellis became indignant. ‘My house is safe — I was just not in the mood for taking chances. But we were talking about gales. The wind blew for Chetwynd on Thursday, and then it blew until a second great man died — a fat one, this time. “Great” can mean fat, you know.’
Chaloner frowned: Vine had not been fat. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Francis Langston,’ replied Ellis. ‘He was murdered last night.’
‘Langston?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the plump fellow with the long nose he had met with Wiseman outside the Painted Chamber. Could it be the same man? ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes — the storm died out at four o’clock, precisely when he was said to have breathed his last.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Chaloner estimated it was not quite six, so the news must have travelled very fast, even for London.
‘One of the palace guards is a regular in my coffee house, and he told us the tale. The story is that Langston’s corpse was found by the Lord Chancellor, who is said to be in a state of high agitation about it. And who can blame him? Apparently, he was going to hire Langston to be his personal spy.’
The news of Langston’s death — and the unsettling notion that the Earl was expanding his intelligence network without telling him — was enough to drive Chaloner to White Hall immediately. He walked as fast as his sore leg would let him. As he limped across the Palace Court, he saw the day was not quite advanced enough for the King and his Court to have retired to bed, and the rumpus emanating from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments suggested an extension of the Babylonian escapade was still in full swing. He heard the King’s distinctive laugh, followed by the bleat of a goat, and then something that sounded like a musical instrument being smashed. He did not like to imagine what they were doing, but suspected that whatever it was would transpire to be expensive for the taxpayer.
He was just walking up the stairs to the Lord Chancellor’s offices, when he heard a scream. It was his master, and he sounded terrified. Chaloner broke into a run, ignoring the protesting twinge in his leg as he took the steps three at a time. When he reached the Earl’s door, he threw it open with a resounding crack, sword in his hand. The Earl knelt precariously on top of his desk, while his steward stood on a chair next to him. They were clutching each other, white-faced and frightened, and Chaloner was immediately struck by how old and vulnerable they both looked.
‘Help me!’ cried the Earl, when the spy edged into the room, every sense alert for danger. It appeared to be deserted, and there was no sign of assassins or anything else that might have driven the Lord Chancellor and his steward to take refuge atop the furniture. Chaloner took a step towards the window, but was brought up short when he cracked his head on the inconveniently placed chandelier.
‘Help you with what?’ he asked, hand to his scalp. Once again, he was grateful for Isabella’s hat, because he suspected he would have knocked himself insensible without it — the fixture seemed to be made of especially unyielding metal.
‘Look, man, look!’ screeched the Earl, pointing unsteadily at a chest in the corner, where he kept a few changes of clothes and a spare hairpiece or two. ‘It is the Devil’s work!’
Assuming some sort of explosive device was hidden there, Chaloner gestured that his master was to walk towards him, intent on getting him out before anything detonated. ‘Come,’ he said, a little impatiently, when the Earl merely shook his head and refused to move. ‘You must leave now.’
‘I am not jumping down while that … that thing is there!’ declared the Earl vehemently.
Bemused, Chaloner studied the chest more closely, and saw a wig on the floor next to it. It was one of the larger ones, a magnificent creation of golden curls that hung well past the Earl’s shoulders. They were rumoured to have come from a Southwark whore, who was currently in the process of growing a new set for the Duke of York. As he looked, Chaloner became aware that it was twitching. Then it began to slide along the floor of its own volition, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed as it approached the desk. The Earl howled again, and so did Haddon. Chaloner started to laugh.
‘Do something!’ shrieked the Earl. ‘Before it races up the table and attaches itself to my person.’
‘Or mine,’ added Haddon fearfully. ‘There is witchery in that periwig, and I am not sure such spells are very discerning. The evil may be meant for him, but it might harm me instead.’
Struggling to control his amusement, Chaloner jabbed the tip of his sword into the wig as it slithered past him. It stopped dead, although he could feel it tugging as it tried to continue its journey.
‘Do not damage the hair!’ squawked the Earl, watching him in horror. ‘Do you know how much those things cost? More than you earn in a year!’
‘Perhaps I should ask for a pay-rise, then,’ muttered Chaloner, keeping the sword where it was until he had reached down to grab the wig. It squeaked as he picked it up. Then it bit him. With a yelp of his own, he dropped it, and it was off again, skittering towards the window.
‘It has teeth,’ wailed Haddon, clutching the Earl so hard that he threatened to have them both on the floor. ‘It is truly a demon sent by the Devil!’
The Earl closed his eyes and intoned a prayer of deliver ance. ‘Stab it again, Thomas,’ he ordered. ‘But without spoiling the wig, if you please. Then you can stay here and guard it, while Haddon and I fetch a priest. We shall have to exorcise this vile fiend, since it seems determined to do violence.’