Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine he was unaware of the connection. He does tend to be ignorant about such matters — unless someone like you chooses to enlighten him. Unfortunately for him, you are not very good value as a scandal-monger. You listen and analyse, but you fail to pass on.’
‘Did your mother never teach you that gossiping is wrong?’
‘You had no problem passing me information when I sent you to spy overseas, so why do you baulk at keeping your Earl abreast of happenings in the place where he lives and works? If you obliged him with Court chatter from time to time, he might be more inclined to continue employing you. After all, no one wants an intelligencer who keeps all the interesting tittle-tattle to himself.’
If keeping his post at White Hall meant turning into a rumour-monger, then Chaloner supposed he had better start planning his voyage to the New World, because there were some depths to which he would not sink. He said nothing, and stared out of the window, watching the familiar landmarks whip past — the Royal Mews and the New Exchange, the latter of which had a large and angry crowd outside it. He wondered what was happening there, but there was no time to stop and indulge his curiosity.
It was a long way to Wapping, so Thurloe used the time to effect a disguise, in an effort to alleviate Chaloner’s concerns about him meddling in government business. From supplies he kept in his pockets, he donned a cap and wig that hid his hair, slathered his face in a paste that made him look sickly, and attached a remarkably authentic false beard. Chaloner was impressed at the speed with which he changed his appearance, and although it would not fool someone who knew him well, no casual observer would recognise him.
Wapping was separated from the city by the grounds of St Catherine’s Hospital — Langston’s favourite charitable concern — and had the scent of the sea about it. Greene’s house was on the edge of the village, looking across farmland to the north and the river to the south. The spy was about to knock on the door when it was opened and the clerk himself stepped out, apparently ready to go to work. He sighed when he saw Chaloner and his ‘servant’, and wearily gestured that they were to enter.
Greene did not look like a killer. He was stooped, thin and always seemed ready to burst into tears, although, in his defence, Chaloner had only ever met him when he had had good cause to be distressed. His plain, Puritan clothes were of decent quality, because his government post was a well-paid one, and he wore a wig that would not have been cheap. After watching him for the best part of two days and nights, Chaloner suspected there was little about him that would raise any eyebrows. Greene was a dull, uninteresting man, who lived a predictable, unexciting life, and the spy could not imagine why the Earl had taken against him so violently.
The clerk’s front parlour was large, but cold without a fire, and there was not much furniture in it, so their voices echoed when they spoke. There was a table in the window, which was covered in papers; an open ink-bottle suggested that someone had recently been working there.
‘Langston,’ said Greene, as Chaloner picked up one of the sheets. It was a page from a play. ‘He liked to see the river when he was writing. Are you here because he is dead? I heard the news at dawn this morning. However, I assure you I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Where were you last night?’ asked Chaloner.
Greene blinked back tears. ‘So, the Earl does think I am responsible. But I am not! I went to the Dolphin for some ale and a pie after I finished work, and then I came home. I went to church at four o’clock this morning, and was praying there when Swaddell arrived to tell me what had happened.’
‘Who is Swaddell?’
‘A fellow clerk. It was good of him to come, because Wapping is hardly on his way. However, this time I can prove my innocence, beyond the shadow of a doubt.’
‘You can?’ Chaloner hoped so, for his sake.
‘Swaddell told me Langston was still alive at four o’clock this morning — he was seen by Lady Castlemaine — but I was with my vicar at that time. Go and talk to him, if you do not believe me.’
Chaloner nodded to Thurloe, who immediately left to do so. ‘Why were you with a priest at such an odd hour?’ he asked, when the ex-Spymaster had gone.
‘I always pray before work — I am a religious man. Four o’clock is not an odd hour for me.’
Chaloner knew that was true, because he had watched him at his devotions. ‘You did not mention Langston sharing your house when I questioned you before.’
‘It did not occur to me to do so. Why would it, when neither of us could have predicted that he would become this fiend’s next victim?’ Tears began to fall, great salty drops that rolled unheeded down his face. ‘Why is this happening? What have I done to incur the Earl’s hatred?’
‘I wish I knew. Tell me again what happened when you found Chetwynd.’
Greene closed his eyes in despair, but he did as he was told. ‘I was working late, and went to the Painted Chamber to borrow ink. When I arrived, Chetwynd was dead on the floor. I was frightened — it was dark and that gale was raging. I ran away, but you caught me at the door. I should not have panicked, but it is easy to be wise with hindsight.’
‘You met Langston in the Dolphin on Saturday, and you gave him money. Why?’
Greene’s eyes snapped open to gaze at the spy in astonishment. ‘Have you been spying on me?’ He sighed miserably. ‘But of course you have — the Earl would have demanded it. The answer to your question is that I lent Langston ten pounds. He did not say why he wanted it, and I did not ask. We were friends, and friends do not quiz each other.’
‘Ten pounds?’ It was a good deal of money, and men had been killed for far less.
‘It was not unusual — he often borrowed from me, but he always paid me back. But surely, this is a reason for me not harming him? Now he is dead, I am ten pounds poorer.’
Chaloner looked hard at Greene, trying to understand what it was that had turned the Earl against him so zealously, but could see nothing, as he had seen nothing the other times he had done it. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ he asked eventually. ‘I cannot help you unless you are honest with me.’
‘I cannot think of anything,’ replied Greene wearily. ‘But I am innocent. As you pointed out when Chetwynd died, there was no poisoned cup in the Painted Chamber or on my person. That should have been enough to exoner ate me straight away. Meanwhile, I have an alibi for Langston’s death — and perhaps I have one for Vine’s murder, too, if you have been watching me. But I shall put my trust in God. If He wants me to hang, then I shall face my death with courage and fortitude.’
‘Right.’ Chaloner had forgotten Greene’s peculiar belief that everything happened according to some great and immutable divine plan. ‘Did you know Chetwynd took bribes?’
Greene gaped at him. ‘He did not! He was a good man, and if you think to help me by tarnishing his reputation, then I would rather hang. I have my principles.’
He would find out the truth soon enough, thought Chaloner. ‘Mrs Vine told me you met her husband regularly at a coffee house in Covent Garden. Is it true?’
Greene nodded. ‘Yes, I mentioned it when you first interrogated me. A group of like-minded men often gather to discuss religion and scripture. Besides Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and me, there are Nicholas Gold, Hargrave and Tryan the merchants, Edward Jones, Neale and a number of others.’
Chaloner had met Neale, and he knew Gold was the elderly husband of Bess. Meanwhile, Jones was a Yeoman of the Household Kitchen — he was the enormously fat fellow who ate so much that the Earl had ordered him to tighten his belt. But Chaloner had never heard of Hargrave or Tryan. Or had he? He frowned when he recalled the dour Doling mentioning someone called Hargrave — he had given Chetwynd a cottage after the lawyer had taken ten minutes to decide a complex legal case. He frowned at the connections that were forming, unable to make sense of them.