‘They are not rebels,’ said Chaloner, not liking to think what might happen if that description of the crowd reached the nervous ears at White Hall. ‘Just angry citizens.’
But Jones was not interested in splitting hairs. ‘What am I to do? I cannot disobey a direct order from the King, but I do not love him so much that I am willing to be torn limb from limb. And if you ever repeat that, I shall deny saying it.’
‘Then turn the situation to His Majesty’s advantage,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking the solution should have been obvious. ‘Tell these merchants that you have just received word from the King, who has decided to reopen the Exchange as a mark of affection for his loyal subjects.’
Jones gazed at him. ‘But that would be untrue! He hates these upstarts.’
Chaloner was surprised Jones had managed to secure a Court post, if he baulked at telling lies. ‘The alternative is to keep the place closed and increase the King’s unpopularity — and risk losing your life. There must be upwards of five hundred people here, with more flocking to join them by the moment.’
Jones hesitated until someone threw a clod of mud that narrowly missed his tent-sized coat. ‘I have just received word from the King,’ he shouted, raising a plump hand to gain attention. ‘He orders that the Exchange be opened for business immediately. And he sends warm greetings to all his people, whom he loves like his own children.’
‘Steady!’ murmured Chaloner in alarm. Londoners were not stupid.
‘He does not have any children,’ said Hargrave, bemused. ‘The Queen is barren.’
‘She is not,’ declared Chaloner, stepping forward before he could stop himself. He liked the Queen, and objected to anyone abusing her. His quiet words, the expression on his face, and the confident stance of a man who knew how to handle himself made Hargrave scuttle back in alarm.
‘Actually, the King has plenty of children,’ countered Jones. ‘The only problem being that none of them are legitimate. But time is passing, and I have much to do. Good afternoon, gentlemen. God save the King, and so forth.’
‘God save the King,’ echoed Tryan mechanically. A few others joined in, but not many and none were very enthusiastic.
‘God might prefer saving the Devil to that scoundrel on the throne,’ muttered Hargrave. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. ‘And now let us to business. Too much time has been wasted today.’
‘Thank God that is over,’ breathed Jones, watching the mob disperse. Many went reluctantly, giving the impression that they would rather have had a skirmish; it underlined what a volatile place the city could be. ‘But what shall I tell the King? He will ask why the Exchange is open.’
‘Say his people appreciated his magnanimity in permitting the resumption of trade,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And that money made today can be taxed tomorrow. That should mollify him.’
Jones invited Chaloner to ride with him to White Hall. The carriage listed heavily to one side, leaving Chaloner gripping the window in order to prevent himself from sliding into the large courtier’s lap.
‘I understand you have competition in the form of one Colonel Turner,’ said Jones conversationally as they jolted along. ‘The Earl has appointed him as his new spy, and he is doing rather well with his investigation into these murders.’
‘Is he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘He told me he is coming close to a solution. Little Bulteel follows him around in the hope of finding out what he has learned, because he is determined that you should win the contest. You should let Bulteel befriend you, Chaloner, because his wife makes excellent cakes.’
‘Always a good reason for developing relationships,’ said Chaloner facetiously, before realising that for an obese man like Jones, it probably was.
‘Do not develop one with Turner, though,’ advised Jones, leaning towards him confidentially. ‘He is a liar — he told me he has twenty-eight legitimate children, and that he intends to increase his brood the moment he finds himself another wife. And would you believe that women are eager to be considered for the honour — even those who are already married?’
‘I heard he attracted the attentions of Lady Castlemaine last night. In a mud bath.’
Jones shuddered as he nodded. ‘It was rather horrible, if you want the truth. He will cavort with anyone. That poor young Meg from the laundry is under the impression that he is going to wed her, but of course he will do no such thing. Perhaps that is why she has not been seen since Saturday — she has learned his intentions are less than honourable towards her.’
Chaloner frowned, recalling that Turner had been due to meet Meg for a midnight tryst, but the colonel had been unable to fulfil his obligations, on account of him finding Vine’s body. ‘She is missing?’
‘Yes. It is a pity, because she is a pretty little piece.’
Chaloner’s frown deepened. Had the laundress arrived early for the assignation, and seen the killer at work? And had she then fled, to ensure she was not his next victim? Or had she screamed or announced her presence in some other way, and so was lying dead somewhere? The Painted Chamber was not far from the river, which was an excellent repository for corpses. He supposed he would have to ask the charnel-house keeper whether any bodies had been washed ashore. Of course, all this assumed Turner was telling the truth. What if he was the killer, and he had been obliged to ‘find’ Vine because Meg had caught him in the act of dispatching his victim? Either way, Chaloner did not hold much hope that the laundress was still alive.
When they reached White Hall, they paid the driver and were just walking through the gates, when two people hurtled towards them, intent on a game that involved a ball and two curved sticks. One stick caught Jones a painful blow on the shin, causing him to howl and jump about in agony. Lady Castlemaine put her hand over her mouth when she saw what she had done, but her remorse did not last long: she took one look at the fat man’s undulating jig, and immediately burst into laughter. Her partner in crime, the Duke of Buckingham, ignored Jones altogether as he took aim and hit the ball as hard as he could, sending it whizzing towards a fountain. Whooping and shrieking, he and the Lady hared after it. They appeared a little too intimate together, indicating their relationship was probably sexual, as well as one of coconspirators against the Lord Chancellor.
Chaloner watched them disapprovingly. The Lady reminded him of a cat — smug, sensual and vain, with claws ever at the ready. She was still young, but lines of spite and bad-temper were beginning to etch their way around her mouth and eyes, and the spy had never understood why so many men found her irresistible. Meanwhile, Buckingham was a tall, athletic fellow in his mid-thirties, who should have known better than to play rough games in a place where people might be hurt. Chaloner turned to Jones, offering an arm for balance as the fat man bent to inspect the damage to his leg.
‘I have been looking for you, Jones,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I have a message: the King wants you to re-open the Exchange as soon as possible. Apparently, keeping it shut entails too much paperwork.’
The speaker was a clerk, and Jones straightened up to stare at him. ‘What?’
‘He realised it was more trouble than it was worth shortly after he dispatched you to The Strand. He apologises for not sending word sooner, but says he has been engrossed in a game of blind man’s buff, and forgot about you. Indeed, it was only by chance that he happened to mention the matter to Williamson, who then ordered me to look for you and tell you of the decision.’
‘I see,’ said Jones. He looked deflated, hurt by the revelation that the unpleasant episode outside the New Exchange had all been for nothing.
‘You work for Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the clerk. He had not seen the man before, and was curious about his relationship to the Spymaster. The fellow was clad in black from head to toe, with the exception of his spotlessly white neck-band. The effect might have been smart on another person, but on the clerk it was sinister, although Chaloner could not have said why. Perhaps it was something to do with the dark, close-set eyes, which never seemed to settle on anything.