Chaloner shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. ‘I am happy here.’
‘Are you?’ asked Williamson softly. ‘Then I must see what I can do about that.’
Chaloner was resentful as he left the Painted Chamber. He disliked his family being used as pawns to secure his cooperation, and he distrusted Williamson with every fibre of his being. However, if the Earl was connected to the murders, as Williamson obviously suspected, then Chaloner did not blame him for keeping his distance from the investigation — the King would not thank him for revealing that his Lord Chancellor was involved in something sinister. And the statue? Chaloner had no intention of giving up his enquiries on that, just so Williamson could prove the efficacy of his intelligence service. He would have to be careful, but he took orders from no man except the one who paid his wages. And that was the Earl — for the time being, at least.
He thought about the new information. Three years before, Thurloe had written him a letter, expressing his deep grief at Scobel’s death — Scobel was gentle and kind, and Thurloe had liked him. Had there been something suspicious about his demise, too? Thurloe had not mentioned anything amiss, but perhaps it had not occurred to him to look. Chaloner rubbed his head as he walked across New Palace Yard. What had the Earl let him in for this time, if the enquiry necessitated peering back into the mists of time?
Confused and a little bewildered, he reviewed all he had learned. He knew the three victims had been killed by the same poison and thus probably by the same person. They had been robbed of purses and jewellery. All had died in the Painted Chamber. They had prayed in the home of a Parliamentarian official, and after Scobel’s death had continued to meet at a coffee house in Covent Garden. Chetwynd had pretended to be upright, but had been corrupt, although Vine and Langston were said to be decent men. And that was all he knew — the rest was speculation and theory.
Frustrated, he turned his thoughts to the missing statue. No one had admitted to seeing anything suspicious the night it disappeared, and there had been no sightings of it since. But who would steal a bust of the old king? It was valuable, but hardly something that could be hawked on the black market — too many people knew it was stolen, so buyers were unlikely to be lining up. Had it been acquired for someone’s private collection then, because to own a work of art by Bernini was its own reward? Should he start investigating wealthy men, to ascertain whether any had a penchant for sculpture? Merchants, perhaps? Or some of the more affluent courtiers? But that represented a lot of people, and with disgust, Chaloner acknowledged that he was no further along with that enquiry than he was with the murders.
He arrived at the Earl’s offices, treading lightly as was his wont, and was rather surprised to catch Haddon in the act of rummaging through Bulteel’s desk — the secretary was out delivering letters. Haddon stopped what he was doing, and gave the spy a sickly, unconvincing smile. His dogs were with him, and Chaloner supposed they had not been trained to bark a warning as someone approached.
‘I was looking for a pen,’ explained the steward, straightening up furtively.
Chaloner pointed to the box of quills that stood in plain view. ‘What is wrong with those?’
Haddon grimaced. ‘I know what you are thinking — that I am searching Bulteel’s drawers because I intend to see him ousted and me appointed in his place. He accuses me of it every time we meet.’
‘Perhaps he has a point.’
Haddon winced. ‘But I do not want his post. I would hate being cooped up in this dismal hole all day, writing letters and making dull little entries in ledgers. The reason I am invading his domain is because I do not trust him. I think he may have drawn that map of the Earl’s rooms I showed you. Unfortunately, he is too clever to have left any clues that will allow me to prove it.’
‘Bulteel did not make that sketch,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Brodrick did, as you first assumed — you said you found the drawing after he had been to visit. I imagine it has something to do with his plan, as Lord of Misrule, to decorate the Earl’s offices in the manner of a Turkish brothel.’
Haddon gazed at him, then sighed in relief. ‘Is that what he intends to do? Then it is not as bad as I feared! It will be inconvenient, but we can cope with that. I shall have to take the Earl away for a few hours, to ensure they have enough time to accomplish their mischief, but that should be no problem.’
Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You will let them proceed?’
Haddon regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course! If I thwart him, Brodrick might devise something much worse — and better the devil you know. Not a word to the Earl, though. He will refuse to play along, and that would be unfortunate, because I know it will be better for him if he just lets matters run their course.’
Chaloner left thinking the steward was wiser than he looked, and that the Earl was fortunate in his servants. It was a pity Bulteel and Haddon disliked each other, because together they would make a formidable team, and would increase the Earl’s chances of besting his enemies permanently.
He tapped at the door to the Earl’s offices, expecting to be reprimanded for taking so long to report his findings. The Earl opened it furtively, and when he recognised Chaloner, he slipped out and led his spy a short distance down the corridor, evidently intending to have the discussion there. Chaloner was bemused, because the hallway was draughty, which the Earl always said was bad for his gout. His mystification intensified when he glanced behind him, through the door that had been left ajar, and glimpsed a visitor. It was Sir Nicholas Gold.
‘I am sorry to take you away from your company, sir,’ he said, apologetically.
‘I am alone,’ said the Earl rather too quickly. ‘But I have confidential papers out on my desk — ones I cannot let anyone else see.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback. He had never known the Earl to lie quite so brazenly before. Uncharitably, he wondered whether he was asking Gold about the murders, and planned to pass any clues to Turner. Then Turner would solve the case, and the Earl would win his bet with Haddon.
‘Well?’ demanded the Earl, when the spy said no more. ‘Have you proved Greene’s guilt yet?’
‘No, I came to report that-’
The Earl raised a plump hand to stop him. ‘I want a culprit, not a résumé of your discoveries. And while you waste time here, Turner is in the charnel house, watching those who gawk at Langston’s corpse — he tells me killers often gloat over their handiwork. He knows a lot about such matters.’
‘Does he?’ asked Chaloner curiously. ‘How? I thought he was a soldier.’
‘Like you, he has enjoyed a colourful career, although he was never a Parliamentarian spy or an officer in Cromwell’s New Model Army.’
There was no answer to a statement like that, and Chaloner did not try to think of one. ‘How violently did Chetwynd oppose your stance on religion, sir?’ he asked instead. It was a blunt question, but he was beginning to think the Earl would hire Turner in preference to him no matter what he did, and felt he had nothing to lose by impertinence.
The Earl regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘I hope you are not intimating that I might have wanted Chetwynd dead because he attacked me in public! Or that I had designs on Vine’s life, because he condemned my new house.’
Not to mention your ire when Langston declined to become your spy, thought Chaloner. He shook his head. ‘Of course not, sir. I ask because I need to be ready to answer any accusations from your enemies. That will be difficult, if I do not have all the facts.’