‘There is scant information about murder to be had from those lasses,’ he declared, smoothing down his moustache, ‘but their company is a delight — I shall be doubling my tally of children, at this rate! But while we are speaking of ladies, have you heard anything of Meg the laundress? I have not seen her since we failed to meet for our midnight tryst — the night I found Vine murdered.’
‘Has it occurred to you that she might have stumbled across the killer, and he has ensured she will not be around to provide a description of him?’
Turner shook his head. ‘It is more likely that she has found out about my growing affection for Barbara — that is Lady Castlemaine to you — and is jealous. Damn! I was growing fond of Meg, too.’
‘You should find her,’ advised Chaloner, feeling the man should not need to be told. ‘If she is alive, she might be in danger, or frightened and in need of your protection.’
Turner brightened. ‘Oh, I can do protection. I am good at gallantry. Where shall I start looking?’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘How should I know? Try her home, or the place where she works. Does she have family in the city?’
‘I have no idea. I want to bed her, not marry her, for God’s sake — I am not interested in her kin. But perhaps I will have a bit of a hunt for her tonight, when I am done with His Portliness’s affairs.’
‘You think you will have solved the case by then?’ Chaloner wondered whether Turner intended to present Greene as a culprit, simply because it was the easiest option and would please the Earl.
But Turner shook his head again. ‘Unfortunately, it is proving more complex than I imagined. Incidentally, His Portliness says I can have a permanent post with him if I beat you to the answer, and he and Haddon have taken bets on which one of us will win.’
Chaloner was disgusted. ‘Murder is hardly a subject for wagers.’ And neither was his future.
‘That is what I thought — I was under the impression they had more decorum. But Haddon believes you will succeed, while His Portliness is backing me. However, both agree that neither of us has a hope in Hell of locating this missing figurine — the one by Barocci.’
‘Bernini. And it is a bust, not a figurine.’
Turner flapped a hand, to indicate details were irrelevant. ‘Suffice to say it cost the old king’s wife a diamond ring, which was valued at a thousand pounds.’
‘You do not know the sculptor’s name, but you know what he was paid?’ Chaloner was amused.
Turner grinned back. ‘I know what is important. Where are you going? To see Langston’s corpse? I have already done that, but it yielded nothing in the way of clues. And it cost me threepence, too.’
‘What did?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.
‘Viewing the corpse,’ explained Turner. ‘Because there has been such a demand to see it, Kersey has opened his mortuary to spectators, and is making a fortune in entry fees. But I had better talk to Bess Gold, before her husband takes her away. She was one of the last people to see Langston alive, and might have something useful to impart.’
But Chaloner had interviewed Bess at the King’s Musick the previous evening, and had discovered that her powers of observation were negligible — she barely recalled what she had been wearing, let alone anything to solve a murder. He watched Turner strut away, but did not tell him he would be wasting his time. The tale about the Earl’s wager had annoyed him, and he found himself determined to prove his master wrong. And if that meant not sharing information with his rival, then so be it.
The charnel house was located near the river, sandwiched between a granary and a coalhouse. As Turner had warned, it was full of spectators — it was not often three clerks were murdered in the same week, and people were eager to view the victims. They handed over their coins and disappeared into the mortuary’s dark interior, pomanders pressed to noses. None lingered long, so although there was a queue, it moved quickly. Chaloner loitered, waiting for the horde to dissipate, because there was no point going inside if he could not see Langston for sightseers.
The first person he recognised among the ghoulish throng was the grim-faced Doling, who stamped out looking as black as thunder. Chaloner might have assumed the fellow had seen something to enrage him, but then recalled the way he had scowled at his ale in the Angel the previous day: Doling was just one of those men who frowned at everything. His expression blackened further still when the wind caught the lace at his throat and whisked it off to reveal skin that was old, red and wrinkled, like that of a turkey. The lace was retrieved by Hargrave, whose flea-ravaged head was wrapped in a scarf that made him look like a fishwife, and who was in company with the elderly Tryan. The three exchanged a few words, then walked away together, Tryan’s bandy legs pumping nineteen to the dozen as he struggled to keep up with his younger companions.
Moments later, George Vine reeled out, a Lea brother on either side. He lurched to a doorway and was promptly sick, although Chaloner could not tell whether it was at the sight of a man who had suffered the same fate as his father, or his stomach rebelling at the amount of wine that had been poured into it the previous night. The Leas were spitefully amused by his misery, and were still sniggering when they helped him into a hackney carriage some time later.
They were watched in rank disapproval by a number of courtiers, among whom was the obese Jones, still limping from his encounter with Lady Castlemaine’s gaming stick. He grimaced, and pointedly leaned down to rub the afflicted limb when she and Buckingham arrived a few moments later. It was then that Chaloner saw he was not the only one observing the proceedings: so was Williamson’s clerk, who skulked in the shadows of a nearby doorway, almost invisible in his black clothes.
Eventually, the queue dwindled to nothing. Chaloner prised a stone from the road, and lobbed it at the glass window of a nearby warehouse. Immediately, the owner tore out, and began to accuse a departing courtier of the crime. While Swaddell’s attention was fixed on the resulting fracas, Chaloner left his hiding place and slipped inside the charnel house unseen.
Kersey’s domain was larger than it looked from the outside, and the main section comprised a long, windowless hall with lamps hanging at irregular intervals from the ceiling. There were a dozen wooden tables, each graced with either a cadaver, or a neatly folded sheet. Kersey — a dapper, well-dressed little man — was holding forth to the last of his visitors, informing them that on a good week, he might have as many as twenty corpses to mind. His audience, however, was more interested in clucking over his charges than listening to him. Chaloner waited until they were all gaping at the remains of a drowned apprentice, then turned to inspect the poisoner’s most recent victim.
Langston lay next to Chetwynd, identifiable by his large nose and plump body — Chaloner recalled that Vine had already been buried, and so was spared the humili ation of being turned into an exhibition. He was devoid of all clothing except a strategically placed handkerchief, and the spy shuddered, not liking the notion that anyone who happened to die in Westminster could expect to be laid out and exposed to all and sundry. It was undignified, and for a moment, he had a disturbing vision of his own violent demise, and the Earl coming to gawp at his naked corpse. He took a deep breath, to clear his mind of such dark thoughts, and turned his attention to Langston.
A quick glance at the mouth and lips revealed blisters that were reminiscent of the poison used on Chetwynd and Vine, which came as no surprise. Surreptitiously he looked for signs of other injuries, but there was nothing he could see. He was on his way out when a familiar figure strode through the door. Kersey opened his mouth to demand an admission fee, but closed it again when he recognised the newcomer.