Chaloner was not so engrossed in the stain that he had dropped his defences, and knew perfectly well that someone had been slinking towards him. The knife he carried in his sleeve was in his hand, and he could have had it in the fellow’s heart in an instant, had he wanted. He stood and turned, feigning surprise to see someone behind him — it was Spymaster Williamson, and he was loath to antagonise the man by informing him that elephants could have effected a more stealthy approach.
Williamson was tall, impeccably dressed and an expression of lofty disdain was permanently etched into his face. He had been an Oxford academic before embarking on a career on politics, and there was no question that he possessed a formidable intellect. Unfortunately, his unattractive personality — he was vengeful, condescending and greedy — meant he was unlikely to be awarded the promotions he doubtless thought he deserved. Chaloner was not the only man to have earned his dislike, although he was the only one still living in London — the others had either run for their lives or had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. In other words, people crossed the Spymaster at their peril.
‘According to our records, your family were late paying their taxes again this year,’ Williamson said. His voice was low and full of pent up malevolence. ‘They supported Cromwell during the wars, so I imagine depriving the government of its revenues is their way of continuing to fight against us.’
‘Then you imagine wrong,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘The taxes imposed on old Parliamentarians are colossal, and my kin are not the only ones struggling to pay what is being demanded from them.’
‘If they default, then they are traitors, as far as I am concerned,’ said Williamson silkily.
‘Them and half of England,’ retorted Chaloner. He was appalled by the discussion — shocked to learn that the Spymaster was the kind of man to strike at an enemy through his relations. Chaloner’s siblings were peaceful, gentle folk, who lived quietly on their Buckinghamshire estates; they should not have to suffer more hardship, just because their youngest brother had antagonised someone in London.
‘I could prosecute them,’ Williamson went on, casually examining his fingernails. ‘Or do you think I should leave them alone? Of course, if I do, you will have to make it worth my while.’
Chaloner was ready to do virtually anything to protect his brothers and sisters, but was careful to keep his expression neutral, aware that the Spymaster would exploit any sign of weakness. ‘I doubt the Earl pays me enough to satisfy a man of your standing.’
Williamson gave what Chaloner supposed was a smile, although it did not touch his eyes. ‘I am not thinking about money — I am more interested in you doing me a service. You see, I am aware that the Earl has ordered you to explore these clerk-killings, despite the fact that they come under my remit.’
‘You want me to stop?’ It would mean his dismissal for certain, but Chaloner was willing to do it.
‘I want you to continue,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘The city is full of treasonous talk at the moment, and my spies are hard-pressed to monitor it all. Moreover, I want to be the one to find the King’s missing statue and earn his undying gratitude, so I must expend manpower on that, too. I do not have the resources to catch a killer, as well.’
‘But the victims were government officials,’ said Chaloner, puzzled by the Spymaster’s priorities. ‘And their deaths may be an attempt to destabilise the Royalist administration. Surely, finding the killer is more important than locating a piece of art?’
‘Not necessarily,’ replied Williamson smoothly. ‘Stealing from the King is a very serious matter.’
But Chaloner did not believe it, and was sure there was another reason for the Spymaster’s curious position. ‘I do not suppose the King ordered you to find the statue, to prove yourself, did he?’ He could tell from Williamson’s pained expression that he was on the right track. ‘What did he say? That if you cannot do that, then how can you be trusted with the nation’s security?’
Williamson glowered. ‘He did not put it in quite those terms, but, as it happens, I have been asked to demonstrate my agency’s efficacy by tracing the bust. So, I am loath to waste my time on murder.’
‘And you want me to do it instead?’
‘Yes, because you are right — finding the killer is important. However, it is not as important as me keeping my job. So, do we have an agreement? I will overlook your family’s persistent late-payment of taxes, and you will hunt down the villain who is murdering officials?’
‘Very well,’ said Chaloner stiffly. He disliked the notion of entering a pact with such a man.
‘Good, although I should warn you that I will prosecute them if you fail to solve the case — and I mean solve it properly, not just present me with Greene because your Earl believes him to be guilty.’
‘You think Greene is innocent?’
‘Let us say I am sceptical, although my opinion is based solely on the fact that I have met Greene, and he does not seem the murdering type. But before I ordered my spies to concentrate on the statue, I heard their reports on the crimes. They uncovered three facts that may help you. First, Chetwynd, Vine and Langston had public arguments with your Earl in the last few weeks.’
‘I know,’ said Chaloner, struggling to mask his unease. Had Williamson joined the Earl’s enemies, and intended to use the case to help topple him from power? The Spymaster had so far declined to pick a side, although his neutrality had nothing to do with professionalism or fair play: he was just waiting to see who would win before committing himself. ‘He told me.’
Williamson ignored him. ‘Second, all three frequented John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden, as does Sir Nicholas Gold. You might want to speak to him in the course of your enquiries.’
‘I know this, too. They also met Greene, Neale, Hargrave, Tryan, Jones, and several others.’
Williamson ignored him again. ‘And third, the three dead men used to be regular and enthusiastic members of prayer meetings held at the home of a man named Henry Scobel.’
‘Scobel?’ echoed Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, who died a few months after the Restoration. Why would he entertain Royalists in his home?’
‘I have no idea, but entertain them he did, right up until his death. I heard the testimony of reliable witnesses — men with no reason to lie — with my own ears.’
Chaloner would make up his own mind about whether these ‘reliable witnesses’ had no reason to lie — being interrogated by Williamson alone might have been enough to send them into a frenzy of fabrication. ‘Why do you think this is important? Scobel died more than three years ago.’
Williamson shrugged. ‘Perhaps it isn’t important. I am merely reporting facts — interpreting them is your business, and you may pursue or dismiss them as you see fit.’
‘It was just four of them at Scobel’s meetings?’ asked Chaloner, trusting neither the Spymaster nor his information. It was not inconceivable that he was trying to sabotage the Earl’s investigation by muddying the waters with untruths. ‘Scobel himself, Vine, Chetwynd and Langston?’
‘No, there were many others, including the men you listed as enjoying each other’s company at John’s Coffee House — Greene, Jones, Neale, Gold, Hargrave and Tryan. In addition, Will Symons went, and so did an old Roundhead soldier called Doling. And the Lea brothers.’
Chaloner kept his expression blank, but his thoughts were racing. What did it mean? That this eclectic collection of men had prayed together in Scobel’s home during Cromwell’s reign, and had moved their devotions to a coffee house after his death? And that one of them had decided to kill some of the others? But why?
‘Will Symons is Scobel’s nephew,’ Williamson was saying. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, too, but lost his post at the Restoration. So did Doling, and both are bitter. Like you, I imagine. You must be disappointed that I decline to employ you in Holland, after all your efforts to integrate yourself so seamlessly into that country — speaking their language, adopting their customs, learning their politics.’