He stared at the body that lay on the floor of the Painted Chamber, listening to the wind rattling the windows and howling down the chimney. The lamp he held cast eerie shadows, and when a draught snaked behind the tapestries on the walls, the ghostly grey figures swayed and danced in a way that was unsettling. Beside him, the Lord Chancellor, created Earl of Clarendon at the Restoration, regarded it nervously, then shivered in the night’s deep chill.
‘Why is it called the Painted Chamber, sir?’ Chaloner asked, breaking the silence that had been hanging between them for the last few minutes, as they had pondered Chetwynd’s mortal remains. ‘There is no artwork here.’
The Earl almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound of his voice, although Chaloner had not spoken loudly. He rested a plump hand over his heart and scowled, to indicate he did not appreciate being startled. Chaloner bowed an apology. He was uneasy in the hall, too — and he knew how to defend himself, thanks to active service during the civil wars, followed by a decade of spying on hostile foreign governments.
‘There were frescos,’ replied the Earl shortly, flapping chubby fingers towards the ceiling. ‘Up there, but they have been plastered over. How can you live in London and not know this?’
Chaloner did not answer. His overseas duties had made him a virtual stranger in his own country, and he was acutely aware that he needed to remedy the situation — a spy could not be effective in a place he did not understand. Unfortunately, he kept being dispatched on missions abroad, so never had the opportunity to familiarise himself with England’s biggest city.
‘You are supposed to be telling me what happened to Vine, not quizzing me about architecture,’ the Earl continued waspishly, when there was no reply. ‘I need to know whether his death was natural, or whether you have a second murder to investigate — this one, as well as Chetwynd’s.’
Chaloner dragged his attention away from the ceiling, and knelt next to the corpse. Vine had not been dead long, because he was still warm to the touch. The spy glanced around, feeling his unease intensify. The Painted Chamber was so huge and dark that it was impossible to see far, and a killer — or killers — might still be there. The dagger he always carried in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand as he stood.
‘What is wrong?’ The Earl sensed his disquiet, and scanned the shadows with anxious eyes. ‘Is someone else in here? Turner told me the place was deserted.’
‘Turner?’ Chaloner began to prowl, taking the lamp with him. Loath to be left alone in the dark, the Earl followed. He wore fashionably tight shoes with smart red heels, which made his feet look disproportionately small under his portly frame. Their hard leather soles pattered on the floor as he scurried after his spy, short, fat legs pumping furiously.
‘Colonel James Turner,’ he panted, tugging on Chaloner’s sleeve to make him slow down. ‘You must know him — he declared himself for the King during the wars, and championed our cause all through the Commonwealth.’ There was a hint of censure in his voice: Chaloner’s family had been Parliamentarians, while the spy himself had fought for Cromwell in several major battles. In other words, Turner had chosen the right side, Chaloner had not. ‘It was Turner who found Vine’s body.’
The spy frowned. The Painted Chamber was not a place that would attract most people on such a wild night, so what had Turner been doing there? Besides being vast, dark and full of disquieting noises, it was bitterly cold. But the colonel had been right about one thing: it was deserted, and it was not long before Chaloner had satisfied himself to that effect. He returned to the body.
‘He said he saw a light as he was walking home from church,’ the Earl elaborated, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. ‘So he came to investigate. He found Vine, and, knowing my interest in Chetwynd’s murder, he came to tell me that a second prominent official lies dead.’
‘How did he know about your interest in Chetwynd?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously. Sudden deaths among government employees were for the Spymaster General to investigate, and the Earl had no business commissioning his own enquiry. So, when he had ordered his spy to look into the affair, he had promised to keep it a secret, to avoid unnecessary trouble — the Spymaster hated meddlers.
The Earl looked sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned to one or two people that I dislike the notion of our officials being murdered in Westminster, and that I have a man asking questions about the matter. Turner probably heard it from them.’
Chaloner stifled a sigh, and wished his master knew how to keep a still tongue in his head — he was always sharing information he should have kept to himself. But what was done was done, and there was no point in remonstrating, not that the Earl would take notice anyway. ‘Where is Turner now?’
‘I sent him to fetch Surgeon Wiseman.’ The Earl held up a hand when Chaloner opened his mouth to object. ‘I know you dislike Wiseman — and his gleeful penchant for gore is disconcerting — but he is good at distilling information from corpses. Turner must be having trouble finding him — I expected them to arrive before you, given that you have had to travel all the way from Wapping.’
‘I was there shadowing Greene,’ said Chaloner, keeping his voice carefully neutral. ‘The man you suspect of killing Chetwynd.’
‘But Greene did murder Chetwynd,’ declared the Earl uncompromisingly. ‘I know a scoundrel when I see one, and I was right to order you to watch his every move.’
Chaloner made no reply. He had been tailing Greene for two days now — ever since Chetwynd’s body had been found — but felt it was a complete waste of his time. Moreover, it was unreasonable to expect one man to follow another for twenty-four hours a day without help. He was exhausted, and had been relieved when the Earl’s steward had arrived to tell him he was needed urgently at Westminster.
‘Where is Haddon?’ demanded the Earl, seeming to realise for the first time that the steward was not with them. ‘Did he go home after delivering you my message?’
‘You said you wanted Greene under constant surveillance,’ explained Chaloner. ‘So Haddon offered to monitor him while I came here.’
The Earl smiled smugly. ‘He is a dedicated soul, and I am glad I hired him. He will do anything for me — even lurk around outside on foul-weathered nights.’
Chaloner nodded, not mentioning that Greene’s house was mostly visible from a nearby tavern, and Haddon was comfortably installed there with a jug of ale and a piece of plum pudding. Just then an especially violent gust of wind hurled something against one of the windows, hard enough to shatter the glass. Chaloner whipped around fast, sword in his hand, and the Earl released a sharp yelp of fright.
‘Where is Wiseman?’ he demanded unsteadily, peering out from behind the spy: being in a deserted hall with a corpse was taking a heavy toll on his nerves. ‘What is keeping him? Perhaps you should examine the body. I know you are no surgeon, trained to recognise foul play in the dead, but you spotted the signs readily enough on Chetwynd two days ago. So do the same for Vine now.’
Chaloner obliged, performing a perfunctory examination that entailed inspecting the inside of Vine’s mouth to look for tell-tale burns. They were there, as he had known they would be the moment he had set eyes on the man’s peculiarly contorted posture — it had been this that had alerted him to the fact that Chetwynd’s death was not natural some two days before.
‘Poison,’ he said, looking up at his master. ‘Just like Chetwynd.’
The gale showed no signs of abating, and when the Earl opened the door to leave the Painted Chamber, he was almost bowled over by the force of the wind. It hurled a sheet of rain into his face, too, and deprived him of his wig. Without it, he looked older, smaller and more vulnerable. Chaloner retrieved it for him, then shoved him backwards quickly when several tiles tore from the roof and smashed to the ground where he had been standing.