‘God’s blood!’ cried Brodrick, spinning around so fast he almost lost his balance. He scrabbled with his clothing, mortified. ‘Must you sneak up behind a man when he is engaged in personal business? As Lord of Misrule, I could fine you for- Damn my loose tongue! I did not want anyone in my kinsman’s retinue to know it is me who is elected this year.’
‘I am sure you do not. But I repeat: no harm will come to the Earl.’
Brodrick looked pained. ‘I shall have to make him the subject of one or two japes, because people expect it, and it is more than my life is worth to disappoint. But I will not do anything that will hurt him physically, or anything that will allow his enemies to score points against him politically. Beyond that, my hands are tied. You will just have to trust my judgement.’
Chaloner eyed him. Brodrick looked debauched when he was sober and properly dressed, but that morning he was neither. He had lost his pantaloons during the night, leaving him in his undergarments, and his turban had unravelled at the back. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of strong drink.
‘Your judgement,’ Chaloner repeated, not bothering to hide his disdain.
Brodrick’s expression turned spiteful. ‘Why do you care about him, anyway? He is hiring new staff as though there is no tomorrow, and it is only a matter of time before you are displaced. He already prefers Turner to you, and I learned last night that he wants Langston to be his spy, too. But Langston refused outright — he told me so himself.’
Chaloner recalled Langston heading for the ball after visiting the charnel house with Wiseman, so supposed it was not inconceivable that he had chatted to Brodrick there. ‘Why did he refuse?’
‘Because spying is sordid,’ replied Brodrick, taking the opportunity to fling out an insult of his own. ‘Langston is honourable and, like any decent man, wants nothing to do with a profession that is so indescribably disreputable. Although, to be frank, I suspect my cousin’s real aim is to populate his household with upright souls, and he did not think that offering to hire Langston as an intelligencer might be deemed offensive.’
‘Langston is dead,’ said Chaloner, watching him closely for a reaction.
Brodrick gaped. ‘Dead? No, you are mistaken! I was talking to him not long ago. You did not swallow any of that Babylonian punch, did you? Surgeon Wiseman told me it might be dangerous, and my head tells me I should have listened to him. I have rarely felt so fragile after a drinking bout.’
‘Did you notice whether anyone took an unusual or sinister interest in Langston last night?’ Chaloner asked, although not with much hope of a sensible answer.
Brodrick shook his head apologetically. ‘I was more concerned with my own pleasures than in observing what others were doing. I recall him regaling me with his indignation about the Earl, but that is about all.’
Chaloner tried another line of questioning. ‘Does Lady Castlemaine ever employ Greene?’
‘You want to know why she is going around telling everyone he is innocent, when my cousin is so adamant he is guilty.’ Brodrick shrugged, grabbing Chaloner’s arm when the gesture threatened to tip him over. ‘I suspect she is just taking the opportunity to oppose an enemy. I doubt it is significant.’
The discussion ended abruptly when Brodrick slumped to the ground and closed his eyes. Supposing he should not leave him there to freeze, although it was tempting, Chaloner summoned the palace guards and ordered them to carry him indoors. Then, craving the company of someone who would not fall into a drunken stupor in the middle of a conversation, or accuse him of negligence, disloyalty and choosing an unsavoury career, the spy set off for Lincoln’s Inn.
When he arrived, Lincoln’s Inn was still mostly in darkness, although lamps gleamed in the occasional room, showing its lawyer-occupant was already hard at work. White Hall had put Chaloner in a sullen mood, and he did not feel like exchanging pleasantries with the porter at the gate, so he walked to the back of the building and scrambled over a wall. His temper was not improved when he misjudged the drop and jarred his bad leg. He hobbled to the courtyard called Dial Court, then climbed the stairs to Chamber XIII, aware of the familiar, comforting scent of wood-smoke and beeswax polish.
Thurloe was sitting at a table in the room he used as an office, poring over documents and sipping one of his infamous tonics. The spy shook his head when he was offered a draught, but accepted a slice of mince pie. It had been made by the Inn’s cook, and contained chopped tongue, as well as apples, dried fruit and spices. The taste transported Chaloner back to his Buckinghamshire childhood, when he had been safe and happy. He recalled singing Christmas carols with his brothers and sisters, and watching his parents hold hands in the ridiculously affectionate way they had with each other. He experienced a sharp pang of sadness for an age and a contentment that were lost to him forever.
‘Well?’ prompted Thurloe after several minutes, during which the spy’s only words were a greeting so terse it was barely civil. ‘Did you come just to stare into space and devour the best part of my pie?’
Chaloner saw the plate was indeed a good deal emptier than it had been when he had arrived. ‘It is a very good pie.’
‘But not as fine as my wife’s. Come home with me and try some — you look in need of a rest. I plan to leave for Oxfordshire at the end of the week, and will probably be gone for several months.’
Chaloner struggled to conceal his dismay. London would be a bleak place without Thurloe. ‘I see.’
The ex-Spymaster gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Ann and the children like me home on Twelfth Night, to give them presents and join the festivities. Come, too — they would love to see you.’
Chaloner was sorely tempted, but shook his head. ‘Greene might hang if I do not find the real culprit. And my Earl will not escape unscathed if he sends an innocent man to the gallows, either. His enemies will use it to destroy him.’
‘Your devotion does you credit, but is it worth it? The Earl will not thank you for proving him wrong, especially now I hear Lady Castlemaine has joined the affray, and is championing Greene’s cause. You are effectively taking her side, and he will not appreciate that.’
‘No, but what sort of retainer would I be, if I let him make a fool of himself? Besides, I cannot leave now — he is hiring more spies, and if I go to Oxfordshire, he may use the opportunity to replace me permanently. Then I shall have to take a ship to the New World, and try to earn a living there, although it is a terrible place — full of frozen rivers, tangled woods and dangerous animals. I would rather go to Spain, and that …’ He faltered, not wanting to talk about Spain.
Thurloe gazed at him. ‘You are in a dark mood this morning! But do not worry — I shall help you with your investigation before I leave. Do you have any questions I might be able to answer? Or would you like me to help you interview suspects?’ He misunderstood Chaloner’s rising alarm and grimaced. ‘I was a Spymaster General, Thomas. I do know what I am doing.’
‘But I do not want you involved!’ Chaloner stood abruptly. ‘I should not have come. It was selfish.’
‘It was nothing of the kind,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘And I shall be hurt and offended if you decline to confide in me because of some misguided notion that I need to be protected. So sit down and ask me your questions, before I become annoyed with you. What do you need to know?’
‘Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner, relenting when he saw the determined set of Thurloe’s chin. ‘You said he was your friend, but my landlord told me he was corrupt.’
‘There were claims that he was crooked. But he was a Chancery clerk — his chief duty was to dispense rulings in those cases where a plaintiff felt common law was not up to the task — and the folk he ruled against were invariably bitter. Ergo, accusations of misconduct were an occupational hazard.’