He was on the verge of giving up when he saw Hannah, who had come to fetch warm milk for the Queen. Hannah was small, fair and her face was more interesting than pretty. Unlike the Lady, she could be witty without resorting to cruelty, and one of the things Chaloner liked best about her was her ability to make him laugh. He loitered, waiting for her to finish her duties, then escorted her to the pleasant cottage in Tothill Street where she lived. The road was bounded by the rural Tothill Fields to the south, and the landscaped splendour of St James’s Park to the north, and was a quiet, peaceful place. It smelled of damp earth and dew, and owls could be heard hooting in the woods nearby.
Hannah was livid, because one of Buckingham’s footmen had made some impolitic remark about the Queen’s failure to produce children. She had left the fellow in no doubt as to what would happen if she heard him utter such treasonous statements again, but his stammering apology had done nothing to appease her: she remained incandescent.
‘How can people be so heartless?’ she raged as they walked. Her voice was loud enough to cause a few residents to peer through their curtains, and Chaloner supposed it was no surprise that word had spread about their blossoming friendship. ‘The Queen is doing her best to achieve what is expected of her, but these … these pigs are implacable.’
‘It is unfair,’ agreed Chaloner.
‘It is more than unfair — it is a scandal! They exclude her from their revelries — she was not even invited to the King’s Musick tonight — they shun her when she speaks to them, and they laugh at her attempts to learn English. She is the Queen, but they treat her with rank disrespect.’
She continued to rail while Chaloner lit a fire and warmed some wine, so he listened patiently and without interruption until her temper burned out. Then he spent the night, and was tired enough after several nights of poor sleep that he did not wake until an hour after dawn the following day. Alarmed by the loss of time, he slipped out of bed, dressed and walked briskly to White Hall. The weather had continued to improve, and patches of blue let shafts of sunlight dance across the winter-bare ground.
He climbed the stairs to the Earl’s office slowly, wondering what he could say about his progress. To postpone the inevitable reprimand for his lack of success — when the unctuous Turner was probably on the brink of a solution — he went to speak to Bulteel first. The secretary was good at gathering information, and now they had a formal pact to help each other, Chaloner was hopeful that he might have learned something useful. Unfortunately, he had nothing with which to reciprocate.
He met Haddon first, in the hallway outside Bulteel’s little domain. His dogs were with him, straining against their leashes and making breathless, gagging sounds.
‘I thought I would bring my darlings to work today,’ the steward said beaming merrily, ‘The Earl is having a soirée tonight, which means a lot of running about to arrange food, guests and music, and my beauties like a bit of exercise.’
‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘What manner of music?’
‘Viols, I believe, although stringed instruments sound like a lot of screeching cats to me. Give me a trumpet any day. A trumpet is like a dog — loud, clear and commanding of respect.’
Chaloner looked at the glossy, pampered creatures that panted and gasped at his feet. ‘Is that so?’
‘Come along, my lovers,’ trilled Haddon. ‘The Earl wants us to hire Greeting’s consort because Brodrick’s is unavailable. Shall we look for Greeting in the chapel first, or his coffee house?’
‘His coffee house,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He will not be in the chapel at this time of day.’
‘I was talking to the dogs, actually,’ said Haddon jovially. ‘But your advice is welcome, and we shall do as you suggest, although my sweethearts dislike coffee houses. They tell me the smell of burned beans irritates their little noses.’
‘They talk to you?’ asked Chaloner, regarding him warily. Men had been taken to the lunatic house at Bedlam for less.
‘Of course they do! Surely you converse with your cat?’ Haddon smiled at the spy’s bewildered expression, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should try it. It keeps the loneliness at bay, and animals are a great comfort to those who live a solitary life.’
He bounced away whistling, openly delighted at the prospect of a day with his canine companions. Chaloner watched him go, and supposed he had better spend more time with Hannah or Thurloe, lest his isolated lifestyle drove him to imagine his cat might have something worthwhile to say. He would not be able to do his job if he was mad, and then he would starve.
Bulteel leapt in alarm when Chaloner tapped him on the shoulder, not having heard him approach. He clutched his chest and regarded the spy balefully, then gave a reluctant grin and offered him a piece of his wife’s Christmas gingerbread. Chaloner sat on the desk while he ate it. It was excellent, as usual, and he wondered how the secretary had managed to capture himself such a talented cook. He found himself thinking about Hannah, but their relation ship was at such an early stage that he did not know if she could bake. He decided he had better find out.
‘Did you hear about the third poisoning?’ asked Bulteel in a low voice, so the Earl would not hear and come to find out why he was chatting when he should be at his ledgers. ‘Langston — the plump fellow with the long nose — is dead.’
Chaloner brushed crumbs from his coat. ‘What was Langston like? I met him with Surgeon Wiseman the other night, but only briefly. And I was not really in any condition to take his measure.’
Bulteel shrugged. ‘Honest, kind and considerate. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill him. Kersey has him in the charnel house, so you should inspect him before you see the Earl — he is sure to ask whether this death is the same as the others. And you should examine the Painted Chamber, where Langston died, too. Perhaps the killer left a clue this time. Williamson told me …’
He faltered, and Chaloner frowned. ‘You have been talking to the Spymaster? Why?’
Bulteel grimaced, angry with himself. ‘Damn! That slipped out because I am frightened.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Frightened by what? These murders? But why? Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were all government-appointed officials, but you are an earl’s private secretary. I doubt the killer will regard you as a suitable victim.’
But Bulteel disagreed. ‘It is well known that I refuse bribes, and the three dead men had one thing in common: their integrity.’
Chaloner hastened to reassure him. ‘Chetwynd was not as honest as he liked people to think, so I doubt probity is the motive for their murders. Is that why you were talking to Williamson? You are afraid, and think he might be able to protect you?’
Bulteel looked miserable. ‘Williamson has had his claws in me for a lot longer than that. A few months ago, he came to me and said that unless I provide him with the occasional report on the Earl, he would start rumours that would see me dismissed.’
‘Rumours about what? I doubt you have ever done anything unsavoury.’
Bulteel shot him a wan smile. ‘Your confidence is generous, but unfounded. You see, during the Common-wealth I worked for a bookseller who believed Cromwell was a hero. I told Williamson I did not think the same way, but he said it was irrelevant. He left me with no choice but to do as he asked.’
Chaloner thought Bulteel was a fool for letting Williamson use such a paltry excuse to intimidate him. He shrugged. ‘A spymaster should have eyes all over White Hall, to keep him appraised of what is happening. But I am sure you never impart information that shows the Earl in a bad light.’
Bulteel was indignant. ‘Of course not! I like this job, and a steady income is important for a man with a new baby. But it is not easy. Williamson is always after me for snippets, and now Haddon is here, it is only a matter of time before I am ousted. I do not suppose you have learned anything that may give me an advantage over him?’