‘So he was not corrupt?’
‘I do not believe so. And you must remember that the two men who were most vocal in their allegations bore him a grudge.’
‘Doling and Neale?’ asked Chaloner, thinking about the names Landlord Ellis had mentioned.
‘Yes. They were furious when he ruled against them. But I read those particular cases myself, and I would have come to the same conclusion: they should have lost.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Why did you read them?’
‘Because of the rumours that Chetwynd had been less than even-handed — I was curious. Moreover, both cases were heard in the summer, when you were in Iberia, and I was bored and lonely without you to cheer me. I did it to pass the time.’
As always when Thurloe made references to the depth of their friendship, Chaloner was surprised, not sure what he had done to earn the affection. He was grateful, though, to have secured the amity of a man he respected, admired and trusted. He found himself telling Thurloe all he had learned and surmised since they had last spoken.
‘And Langston is the third man to be poisoned,’ said Thurloe, turning the new information over in his mind. ‘Langston knew Chetwynd and Vine — he told you so when you met him last night.’
‘He said he was a friend of Greene’s, too.’
‘More than a friend — I happen to know that he rented rooms in Greene’s house. He fancied himself a playwright, and wanted a peaceful place to pen his masterpieces. He told me himself that Wapping fitted the bill perfectly.’
‘But I did not see Langston when I was watching Greene’s house,’ said Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Langston was a busy man with lots of friends at Court,’ explained Thurloe. ‘You not spotting him means nothing. And I imagine he spent more time there during the day, when Greene was out at work and the place was quiet.’
Suddenly, a connection snapped into place in Chaloner’s mind, and he remembered what he had been struggling to recall the previous night, when the blow to his head had scrambled his wits. Greene had visited the Dolphin tavern on his way home from work on Saturday, and he had met Langston there. But what the spy had failed to recollect was a detail of their meeting — namely that Greene had given Langston a purse, a heavy one that looked as if it contained a substantial amount of money.
‘So Greene paid Langston for something, and now Langston is poisoned,’ mused Thurloe, when Chaloner told him. ‘Of course, there are dozens of perfectly innocent explanations for what you saw. Perhaps Greene was making a charitable donation — Langston was on the board of St Catherine’s Hospital, so it is not impossible. Or maybe he was repaying a debt. You say they made no attempt to hide what they were doing, so I doubt the transaction involved anything untoward.’
‘Perhaps they made no attempt to hide because they did not know a spy was watching.’ Chaloner was angry with himself. ‘I should have questioned Langston about it last night, but I was too befuddled. Now he is dead, and the opportunity is gone. I suppose I shall have to talk to Greene instead.’
‘However,’ said Thurloe, ignoring the interruption, ‘the incident should not be discounted, either. You think Greene is being victimised by the Earl, but do not let sympathy cloud your judgement.’
‘It is not sympathy — it is caution. There is something odd about this case, and I am unwilling to jump to conclusions before having all the facts.’
Thurloe stood. ‘Then we had better find you some. I knew all three victims, albeit not intimately, but I may be able to wheedle something useful from their heirs on your behalf.’ He sighed as he donned his cloak. ‘Why can people not see that a military dictatorship has so much to offer? We never had all these horrible murders under Cromwell’s iron fist.’
It was not far from Chancery Lane to Westminster, where Chetwynd and Vine had lived, but Thurloe insisted on taking a hackney, claiming there was so much debris on the roads from the storm that there was a danger of stepping in something nasty. Chaloner climbed in the vehicle after him wondering whether he had been so oddly fastidious when he had had weighty affairs of state to occupy his mind.
It was light at last, and bells were ringing to announce it was eight o’clock. London was wide awake now — with the notable exception of White Hall’s debauchees — and the city was alive with noise and colour. Daylight showed that some of the houses along The Strand had been washed clean of soot for the Christmas season, and their reds, yellows and blues were bright in the sunshine. A group of players was performing a mime in the open area around Charing Cross, and the audience that had gathered to watch was obstructing the flow of traffic. Carters and hackneymen objected vociferously, and in one or two places, fights had broken out. Thurloe’s lips compressed into a disapproving line, and Chaloner supposed he was thinking that Cromwell’s repressive regime would not have countenanced such unseemly public behaviour.
As the coach drew closer to Westminster, the spy’s misgivings about involving Thurloe intensified. Talking to his friend had helped him see connections he would otherwise have missed, but the price was too high — and the previous night’s attack weighed heavily on his mind. Thurloe might be full of good ideas and logical conclusions, but he was no fighter, and the spy did not like the notion of putting him in danger. It would only be a matter of time before word spread that Cromwell’s chief minister was visiting the kin of murdered clerks, and the spy did not like to imagine what Thurloe’s enemies would make of that — if Thurloe was less feared now than he was at the beginning of the Restoration, then he should be keeping a low profile, not jaunting around with one of his former intelligencers. It was not long before Thurloe grew tired of the litany of objections.
‘How many more times do I need to remind you of who I was?’ he snapped. ‘You, of all people, should know I have been enmeshed in far more serious — and deadly — matters in the past. Besides, I am not visiting these folk as an investigator, but as an acquaintance concerned for their welfare. But if it makes you feel better, we can call on them separately, and pretend not to know each other.’
It was an improvement on arriving together. ‘You go ahead, then. I need to stop at the Angel tavern first, to see if Doling and Neale are there.’
‘They might be having breakfast, I suppose,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘But they will not be doing it together. Neale is a fey youth, in London to make his fortune; Doling is a dour old Roundhead who hates everything about the new regime. He clerked for Cromwell’s government, and resents the fact that he was ousted so a Royalist could have his job.’
‘Resentful enough to kill Royalists in revenge?’
‘Possibly, although I imagine he is more of a knife-man than a poisoner. I doubt Neale killed Chetwynd, though. He would never be sober enough. I shall come with you, to point them out.’
The Angel was a small, cramped place. It comprised a single chamber with benches near the hearth, and a table in the window. It was not very busy — thanks to the smelly rushes on the floor and the over-friendly pig that charged forward to greet newcomers — but it had its share of patrons. The air was dense with smoke, mostly from a badly swept chimney, but also from pipes.
‘Doling is near the fire,’ said Thurloe, wiping his streaming eyes. ‘He is the one glaring at his ale as though he would like to strangle it. And Neale seems to have persuaded Sir Nicholas Gold’s wife to join him; they are together in the window seat. What in God’s name are they wearing? Is it legal?’
Chaloner regarded the young couple with interest. He had seen them in White Hall the previous evening, waiting for a coach to take them to the ball. Lady Gold still wore nothing around her middle and bells on her ankles, while Neale was the genie. Both costumes were ripped and soiled, and he wondered what they had been doing; he could only surmise that it had involved time spent on the floor.