But Chaloner’s faith had been shaken — well and truly shattered, in fact — a long time before.
Thurloe wanted to accompany Chaloner to see the Vine family, but the spy refused to let him. George was a courtier, and would almost certainly gossip about the fact that he had received a call from the Commonwealth’s old spymaster, and the spy did not want that reaching Williamson’s ears. He was relieved when Thurloe agreed, albeit reluctantly, to wait in the carriage.
‘Do not ask about the ring,’ warned Thurloe, catching his sleeve as he started to climb out. ‘If it does belong to the poisoner, you are effectively telling him that you have a clue regarding his identity. And those soldiers wanted you dead, so you would not be a witness to them or what they were sent to retrieve. So you should not advertise the fact that they failed, because they may try again.’
‘But the ring is my only clue. If I do not ask, how will I find out who owned it?’
Thurloe looked unhappy. ‘I do not like this enquiry, Thomas. I wish you would abandon it and come to Oxfordshire with me. I will find something for you to do — clerking, perhaps.’
But Thurloe’s estates were already full of displaced friends and kin who had lost all at the Restoration, and there was no room for yet another penniless petitioner. Chaloner promised to be careful, and walked to Vine’s house.
George had only just returned from his night out, and was having a bedtime snack in the parlour — his ‘meal’ appeared to be a glass of wine with a raw egg beaten into it. His mother was with him, and Chaloner was astonished to see her wearing an outfit that would not have looked out of place on a Southwark harlot. When she said Brodrick had asked her to attend the ball as a Babylonian concubine, he thought it explained why she was dressed in such a bizarre fashion, but not why she should have accepted the invitation in the first place.
‘Why should I not go?’ she demanded, reading his thoughts. ‘Old Dreary Bones never let me do anything fun, and I am owed something for twenty-five years of boredom. Do you think I should don black and sit behind closed curtains, instead? That would make me a hypocrite!’
‘God forbid,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was not surprising Vine had kept her indoors, if her idea of entertainment was to go into high society dressed like a whore. He changed the subject when he saw her lips press together in anger — he did not want to waste time debating with her. ‘I have been told that your husband owned a ruby ring, and-’
‘He owned no rings of any description,’ interrupted Mrs Vine firmly. ‘He said they got in the way of his writing, and preferred other forms of jewellery, like lockets and brooches.’
‘Then how about you?’ asked Chaloner, noting her fingers were well adorned in that respect.
‘No,’ she said sullenly, putting her hands out of sight under the table. ‘And neither does George.’
Chaloner knew she was holding out on him, because she had not asked why he wanted to know, as most people would have done. He could not decide whether she, Vine or George had owned a ruby ring, and she was denying it because she knew it was connected to her husband’s murder, or whether she was just unwilling to commit herself until she understood the implications of his questions. He glanced at George, wondering whether she suspected him of the crime, and was trying to protect him. And was he guilty? Chaloner had no idea. However, one thing he did know was that his enquiries about the ring were going no further, so he changed the subject.
‘How well did your husband know Langston and Greene?’
‘Quite well,’ replied George. He spoke cagily, as if he was afraid that even the most innocent reply might see him in trouble. ‘He did not invite them here to dine, but then he never brought friends home. It was almost as if he was ashamed of us.’
‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.
‘You had better be frank with him, George,’ said Mrs Vine, leaning back in her chair. ‘Someone is sure to gossip about us, and I want him to hear our side of the story. Tell him what a drab bird we have lived with all these years.’
George shrugged, but his expression was uneasy. ‘My father was a vile man. He carped incessantly against wickedness and sin, but he made our lives a misery — which is a sin, is it not? To make another person unhappy? And he was furious when my mother took a lover.’
‘Well, why should I not have one?’ demanded Mrs Vine, seeing Chaloner’s startled look. ‘He never came to my bed after George was born. And George is twenty-four!’
‘His piety was disgusting,’ George went on, angry now. ‘He gave money to the poor, but refused to buy me new clothes. What kind of father deprives his son of decent clothes? He was a hypocrite, with his stupid principles and out-dated morality, and I am surprised he lasted three years at Court.’
‘We thought one of those gay libertines would have dispensed with him long before now,’ agreed Mrs Vine. She grinned suddenly. ‘The Lord of Misrule has some wonderful japes planned for the Christmas season, and this year I shall be able to enjoy them all. Did you know it was Brodrick?’
George gaped at her, grievances against his stern father forgotten. ‘Really? Everyone else is saying it is Chiffinch.’
‘Then everyone else is wrong,’ gloated Mrs Vine. ‘He is trying to keep it secret, but he talks in his sleep, and Lady Muskerry overheard. She knows about some of his plans, too. One is to decorate the Lord Chancellor’s offices in the style of a Turkish brothel — complete with concubines. Another is to send love-letters in Bess Gold’s writing to the Bishop of London.’
George giggled. ‘Gold will be furious.’
‘But unable to do anything about it,’ said Mrs Vine maliciously. ‘Feeble old fool!’
‘He did not look feeble when he threatened to run me through last week,’ said George, turning sullen again. ‘It was Bess’s fault — she should not have squealed so when we frolicked in her parlour. Do you think Neale has managed to bed her yet? I shall be vexed if he wins her affections, because I am a far better proposition — not that I need Gold’s fortune now old Dreary Bones is-’
‘Greene,’ interrupted Mrs Vine abruptly. Chaloner was under the impression that she was afraid her son might say something he would later regret, and was blurting the first thing that came into her head. ‘There is a rumour that he killed my husband — and Chetwynd, too. It is almost certainly true.’
‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Why?’
Mrs Vine grinned slyly. ‘For two reasons. First, because the three of them were in the habit of meeting mutual friends every week at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden — perhaps they had some kind of falling out there. And second, because I understand Langston has also been poisoned.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure I follow-’
‘Then think about it. Where did Langston live? With Greene in Wapping. Obviously, Greene killed Chetwynd and my husband, then Langston discovered something incriminating. So Greene was obliged to murder him, too.’
Chapter 4
‘We had better travel to Wapping and interview Greene immediately,’ said Thurloe, when Chaloner returned to the carriage and told him what he had learned. ‘The Earl will certainly be suspicious when he finds out that Greene’s tenant is the poisoner’s latest victim, and might order his arrest. So, if Greene has an alibi, you should check it as soon as possible, to prevent your master from making a fool of himself.’
‘He tried to hire Langston as a spy,’ said Chaloner, banging on the roof of the hackney with his fist to tell the driver to go. ‘Although it seems his offer was rejected in no uncertain terms. Why would he recruit the housemate of the man he is so intent on destroying?’