‘What was Langston like?’ he asked, changing the subject when answers continued to elude him.
Greene shrugged. ‘Kind, generous, but a little secretive. Yet who does not have things he would never tell another? Do not tell me you share everything with friends!’
Chaloner ignored the challenge in the clerk’s voice. ‘Do you own a ruby ring?’
Greene blinked at the question, then held up his hands, to show they were bereft of baubles. ‘Jewellery is for courtesans and Court fops, not Puritan clerks.’
‘What about Langston?’
‘If he did, then I never saw it. Search his rooms if you like.’
It was too good an invitation to decline, regardless of the fact that the soldiers had taken the ring and it was not going to be in Wapping. While Greene watched listlessly, Chaloner went carefully through all Langston’s belongings. Unfortunately, his efforts were wasted, because he found nothing of interest, except a letter from Backwell’s Bank. It said robbers had been in their vault, but they fully intended to honour the three hundred pounds he had deposited with them — just not for a few months. It was dated in the summer of the previous year.
‘I know,’ said Greene, when Chaloner showed it to him. ‘A lot of people were inconvenienced by that crime, and the bank was so shaken that it hired a man to overhaul its security — Doling.’
There was no more to be learned, so Chaloner took his leave. Thurloe was still talking to the priest, who insisted on repeating to Chaloner what he had told the ex-Spymaster — that Greene had come to the chapel at roughly four o’clock that morning. Greene had prayed for help with his predicament, while the vicar had prayed for the roof, which he had been certain was going to blow away.
‘Greene is a melancholy fellow,’ said Thurloe, as they left Wapping. ‘I believe God looks after His own, too, but that does not mean we should sit back and do nothing to help ourselves. His belief in predestination will see him hang, unless he pulls himself together and stops feeling sorry for himself.’
‘If I asked you for money, as Langston did Greene, would you hand it over?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or would you want to know what it was for?’
‘Both. But Greene’s gloomy nature means he does not have many friends. Perhaps he did not want to lose one by asking awkward questions. You may never know why Langston needed ten pounds.’
It was late afternoon by the time Chaloner left Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn and headed towards White Hall. It was warmer than it had been earlier, and a greyish-yellow sun gleamed in the smoke above the city. As he walked past the New Exchange on The Strand, he could not help but notice how shabby it looked that day. Its gothic façade was dark with soot, and the Christmas garlands that had been hung along its eaves were torn and limp.
Outside it, Chaloner was surprised to see that the fracas he had observed earlier was still in full swing. It had attracted a mass of spectators, some of whom had simply ordered their carriages to stop in the middle of the road so they could watch, causing a serious impediment to traffic. He listened to the yells of the protagonists as he threaded his way through the mêlée, aiming to be past it as soon as possible and about his own business.
‘The King ordered it closed — and I have been charged to ensure it remains that way,’ one man was shouting. Chaloner smiled wryly when he recognised the voice of Edward Jones, thinking it odd that he should encounter the Yeoman of the Household Kitchen so soon after he had been mentioned by Greene as someone who met him and the three murdered men in Convent Garden.
Jones was a contender for the title of Fattest Man in London — he verged on the grotesque, and there was a rumour that Surgeon Wiseman had arranged for him to be measured, only to discover that he weighed precisely three times as much as the King.
‘But half the city does business here,’ objected an elderly merchant. He had impressively bandy legs, and his handsome clothes said he was very rich. ‘His Majesty cannot close the New Exchange!’
‘He can do what he likes, Alderman Tryan,’ replied Jones soberly. ‘He is the King.’
‘But he no longer wields that sort of power,’ argued Tryan. ‘And rightly so, if he is the kind of man to shut down important places of commerce on a whim. We went to war for this, and if he has not learned his place, then we shall have to fight him all over again. Is that not so, Hargrave?’
Hargrave, thought Chaloner, stopping dead in his tracks to look at the man who had given Chetwynd a cottage in exchange for a speedy verdict on his dispute with Doling — and who had rented Chetwynd his house. Hargrave and Tryan, like Jones, were also among those Greene had met at the Covent Garden coffee house. The spy decided to loiter instead of returning immediately to White Hall, to watch the three men and see what he might learn.
‘He and his Court are all rakes,’ declared Hargrave. He was not an attractive specimen. Savage red marks on his shaven pate suggested he had recently enjoined a major battle with fleas or ringworm, and wigs were not recommended until the skin had had time to heal; it was not only the poor who had trouble with parasites. ‘They do nothing but drink, frolic with whores and play cards. Why should we be taxed to support them?’
There was a rumble of agreement from his fellow merchants, and Chaloner was appalled to see how far from favour the King had fallen. It was only three years since he had been welcomed into the capital with cheering crowds and showers of roses. Now his people deplored the way he lived, and resented the cost of maintaining him and his Court.
‘The bishops get all,’ chanted Tryan, beginning a popular ditty that could be heard in London’s streets with increasing frequency. It was not just merchants who sang it, but apprentices, children and even clerics, too. ‘The courtiers spend all, the citizens pay for all, the King neglects all, and the Devil takes all.’
Jones blew out his chubby cheeks in a sigh. ‘I understand your frustration, Alderman Tryan, but one of His Majesty’s coachmen lost an eye in the fight here this morning, and traders from the New Exchange cheered for his opponent. Now the King believes it is full of traitors.’
‘Traitors?’ demanded Tryan angrily. ‘We love our country, but what does he do for it? Or does sleeping until noon, and waking only to cavort with his mistress count as patriotic service?’
‘We are not debauchees, who care only for our own comforts,’ added Hargrave. ‘We are hard-working men, and it is on our labour that this fine country is built. So open the damned Exchange!’
‘I cannot,’ said Jones, clearly uncomfortable with the position he had been forced to take. ‘His Majesty wants it to remain closed until further notice, and I am duty-bound to obey. Soldiers from White Hall will be here soon, and it would be better for everyone if you all just went home.’
There was a menacing growl from the people. Free Londoners had never appreciated being ordered about by the military, and Chaloner could see the apprentices readying themselves for battle.
‘You can try to keep it shut,’ challenged Hargrave, aware that he had the crowd’s support. ‘But we will have it open — no matter whose blood is spilled.’
While Hargrave and Tryan basked in their colleagues’ approbation for their brave stance, Chaloner approached Jones, who was wringing his fat hands in dismay.
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but the road is blocked by carriages, and the guards will be unable to get through. So do not expect reinforcements any time soon.’
‘Chaloner,’ breathed Jones, recognising him. ‘Thank God for a friendly face! You must be right about the soldiers, because they should have been here ages ago. I was a fool to have tackled these rebels alone.’