Chaloner shot him an apologetic look. ‘But he will never displace you — he is a steward, not a secretary, and he could never manage the Earl’s accounts like you do.’
Bulteel did not look comforted, although he produced another of his sickly smiles. To anyone who did not know him, it was a sinister expression, and one that would have most men reaching to secure their purses. ‘You must catch this killer, Tom — I shall not feel safe until you have tracked him down. Did you know the Earl invited Langston to work as his spy, but he refused?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘That would have made three of us, with Turner. What does he want, an army?’
‘Yes, actually. He is worried that his enemies will start accusing him of ordering these deaths, because all three victims were men with whom he has had arguments over the last few weeks.’
Chaloner recalled the Earl ranting about his detractors after they had inspected Vine’s body, when the spy had escorted him home in his carriage. He had put the incident from his mind, because it had seemed more of a diatribe than a flow of information, but now he understood. Without admitting that he had done anything wrong, the Earl had been telling his spy about his own uncomfortable association with the victims — and with others who had crossed him.
‘He said Chetwynd disapproved of his unbending stance on religion,’ he mused, thinking about what had been confided. ‘And Vine objected to his gaudy house.’
‘And Langston was deeply offended by his offer of employment — a lot of people heard him call the Earl a villain. I imagine it will not be long before our master’s opponents notice that men who disagree with him end up being poisoned in the Painted Chamber. And then they will start braying about it.’
‘He is not a murderer,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He may not be a saint, but he has his principles.’
And yet, he thought, the Earl was inexplicably determined to see an innocent man hang. Perhaps he had decided principles were putting him at a disadvantage in a place where no one else had any. It would not be the first time a good man had attempted to combat wickedness on its own terms.
Chaloner decided to take Bulteel’s advice and inspect Langston’s body before it was either moved to a church or shoved in the ground, depending on how well he had been loved by his next of kin. The Earl was ensconced with Brodrick anyway, and said he was not to be disturbed, not even to be briefed about murder or lost busts.
He walked to Westminster, and was halfway across New Palace Yard when he was sidetracked by a spectacle. Colonel Turner had dressed for the ladies that day, eschewing the current taste for lace, and opting instead for a plain blue suit with a silver sash and matching ear-string. The attire made him look martial and manly, and he was surrounded by women, all clamouring for his attention. He stood among them like a god.
Bess Gold was at the edge of the gathering. She fingered her crucifix, and simpered in a way that was brazenly provocative. Her husband clung to her arm, but his attention was on his feet, to ensure he did not stumble on the uneven ground. The cherub-faced Neale was hovering nearby, full of envious resentment that Turner should be the object of Bess’s admiration. He tried to slip around Gold to speak to her, but the old man grabbed him as he passed, ostensibly to hold himself up. Chaloner frowned. Was it a deliberate ploy to keep Neale away from his wife, or simple bad timing on Neale’s part? But there was nothing in Gold’s demeanour to suggest he objected to the young man’s presence. On the contrary, he seemed grateful for another source of physical support.
The remaining women were members of the Queen’s bedchamber, although Chaloner recognised only two. There was Lady Muskerry, reputed to be a willing partner for any man, but not overly endowed with wits; like Bess, she fingered a trinket that hung around her neck. And there was Hannah.
‘Did I dream you were with me last night?’ Hannah asked in a low voice, detaching herself from the throng to talk to him. Her face was serious, but her eyes danced with mischief. ‘I must have done, because I am sure you would not have sneaked off before dawn without a parting kiss.’
‘It was not before dawn. The sun was up and half the morning was gone.’
‘Why the rush? Was it because I did not stop chattering last night — did not draw breath to ask after your day — making you eager to escape? Or is it just that you are trying to solve these recent murders?’
Chaloner’s immediate inclination was to evade her question with a comment about Lady Muskerry’s necklace. But it had been his reluctance to talk about himself that had driven wedges between him and several previous lovers, and he was determined not to repeat the mistake. Unfortunately, it was difficult to break the practice that had kept him alive for so many years, and he much preferred the times when Hannah did all the talking.
‘The Earl has hired Turner and me to look into them,’ he forced himself to say.
Her expressive face crumpled into a grimace. ‘Then be sure you do not do all the work, while he steps in to take the credit. He thrives on adulation, and will be keen to secure your Earl’s good graces.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows, surprised — and gratified — that she could see through the colonel’s flamboyant charm. ‘Every other lady at Court seems to think him a gift from God.’
‘Oh, he is a gift, all right. I am told — by several impressed friends — that there is no one like him for making a girl feel special in the bedchamber. However, a pretty face and a perfect body are not high on my list of requirements in a man.’
‘That is a relief.’
She nudged him playfully. ‘You will suffice.’ Then her impish smile faded, to be replaced by an expression of concern as her attention was caught by something else. ‘Look — there is Margaret Symons! I am sure she is ill — do you see the taut way she holds herself, as if every step hurts?’
Chaloner glanced to where she pointed. A woman was walking slowly from the direction of the abbey, leaning heavily on the arm of a man. She was thin and pale, and did appear to be unwell; her companion was conspicuous for his mane of spiky ginger hair. Both wore respectable clothes, but ones that had seen better days, indicating they had once been much wealthier. London was full of people just like them — folk who had prospered during the Commonwealth, but who were now suspect to the new regime. No one would do business with them, and some were finding themselves reduced to desperate poverty.
‘Her husband — the man with her — is Will Symons,’ Hannah went on. ‘He was a government clerk until the Restoration, at which point he was ousted to make room for Royalists. He is a pleasant man. Margaret is a sculptress — my husband liked statues and commissioned one from her.’
‘From a woman?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He shrugged at Hannah’s indignant expression. ‘You do not hear of many female artists. I am not saying Mrs Symons is not good, just that it is unusual.’
Hannah sniffed, not entirely mollified. ‘My husband almost cancelled the work when he learned “M. Symons” was a lady, but I informed him that he had better think again. And I was right to force him to reconsider, because the piece she made for us is exquisite.’
‘But you think she is ill?’ Chaloner knew he was drawing out the discussion, so Hannah would have less time to ask him questions about his work, but he could not help himself.
‘Yes — you can see from here that Will is being very solicitous of her. They are a devoted couple, and it grieves me to see him look so worried. I should go to talk to them.’ She started to move away, but then turned back. ‘Will you visit me again soon? I enjoyed your company last night.’
He said he would try, and had not taken many steps towards the charnel house when he heard his name being called. It was Turner, who had managed to extricate himself from his adoring throng. He was adjusting his clothing, as though leaving had involved the prising off of fingers.