‘You cannot blame Chetwynd for the lice, though,’ said Tryan. ‘You got them from that brothel.’ He pursed his lips disapprovingly.
‘It was not a brothel,’ objected Hargrave, stung. ‘It was a gentleman’s club. Besides, I suspect I actually picked them up from the New Exchange — the Lea brothers have never been very scrupulous about hygiene.’
‘Do either of you know who murdered Chetwynd?’ asked Turner conversationally. ‘I hate to admit it, but my enquiries have reached something of an impasse.’
‘Greene did it,’ replied Tryan, sounding surprised that he should need to ask. ‘The Earl told me so, when I met him in the cathedral the other day. I confess I was astounded: Greene does not seem the type.’
Turner’s expression was pained. ‘He only thinks Greene is guilty — he has no evidence to prove it.’
Tryan’s face was a mask of horror. ‘No evidence? But he informed me of Greene’s culpability as though it were beyond the shadow of a doubt. Are you saying poor Greene might be innocent?’
‘I always thought the Earl was decent,’ said Hargrave, when Turner nodded. ‘But this makes me realise he is no different from the rest of Court — a liar and a scoundrel. We should never have invited the King back, because it is His Majesty’s fault that there are so many villains in White Hall.’
‘Stop,’ said Turner sharply. ‘I lost part of my ear serving the old king, and I am loyal to the new one. So keep your treasonous thoughts to yourself, if you do not mind.’
Hargrave regarded him disparagingly. ‘You were wounded for the Royalist cause, but what has the King done for you in return? Made you his Master of Horse? A Groom of the Bedchamber? No! You are palmed off on an earl who goes around making false accusations against hapless clerks.’
‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Tryan hastily, raising his hand to prevent the colonel from responding. ‘How many more times must you argue about politics before you realise you will never agree?’
Hargrave shot Turner a conciliatory smile. ‘My apologies, friend. I mean no offence.’
Turner inclined his head graciously. ‘And no offence is taken. However, we do agree on one thing: it is too cold to meet out here again. Next time, we shall discuss our business in a tavern. I know tobacco smoke makes you sneeze, Tryan, but the chill cannot be healthy, either.’
‘There will be smoke galore when you join the dean of St Paul’s for those Twelfth Night ceremonies in the cathedral,’ Hargrave said to Tryan, as he helped his colleague to his feet and they prepared to take their leave. ‘I told you not to accept the invitation.’
‘I could never refuse a clergyman,’ said Tryan reproachfully. ‘He might think me irreligious.’
When Turner sauntered off in the opposite direction, Chaloner caught up with him, making him jump by grabbing his shoulder. He was disappointed that his eavesdropping had revealed nothing useful, but it was as good a time as any to exchange meaningless pleasantries with the colonel — Turner was not the only one who wanted to lull his rival into a false sense of security.
‘God’s blood, man!’ exclaimed Turner. ‘Watch who you sneak up on! I might have run you through before I realised who you were.’
Chaloner showed him the dagger in his hand. ‘You would not have succeeded.’
Turner smiled. ‘I am glad. I have no desire to harm a fellow veteran of the wars, although His Portliness tells me we fought on opposite sides. Have you found the missing statue yet?’
‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner, wondering what else the Earl had said about him.
Turner grimaced. ‘Between you and me, I have reached a dead end with it. I got Lady Muskerry to escort me to the Shield Gallery again — she took me once before, when the damned thing was still there — and I stared at the empty plinth for ages, but no solutions occurred to me. I am fed up with espionage, and plan to take tonight off, to renew my energies by visiting a few ladies. Bess Gold will appreciate my company, if I can get rid of that tiresome Neale.’
‘He does pay her close attention,’ agreed Chaloner.
Turner looked disgusted. ‘Damned fortune-hunter! She will be a widow soon, and Neale intends to marry her. Gold must be worried, to see his successor champ so hard at the bit. Still, if Gold is murdered, we shall know where to look for a suspect. Even I will be able to solve that one.’
‘Will you visit Meg the laundress tonight, too?’
‘There is nothing I would like more, but I hunted high and low for her today, and could not find the merest trace of her. She seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth. I hope you are wrong, and the clerk-killer has not drowned her. She has the best thighs in London.’
Chaloner watched him swagger away, doffing his hat to various ladies, all of whom he seemed to know by name. Where was Meg? The spy rubbed his chin thoughtfully when it occurred to him that it was odd that Turner should think she had been drowned, rather than poisoned, stabbed or strangled. Did he know something he was unwilling to share with his rival investigator?
It was Hell’s turn to sell food, and delicious smells wafted from it when Chaloner opened the door. His intention was to find a corner where he could keep his own company, but Bulteel was at a table near the fire and waved him over. The secretary was with a dozen other White Hall officials, although he was not really one of them: they formed a tight, comradely cluster, and he was slightly outside it. Williamson’s clerk Swaddell was part of the throng, though. He was holding forth in an affable manner, although his dark, restless eyes were everywhere, missing nothing.
‘It is noisy this evening,’ Chaloner remarked to Bulteel, surprised to find the place so busy.
Bulteel nodded. ‘Because it is Tuesday — Sausage Night. People travel for miles to be here.’
Looking around, Chaloner realised it was true, and was amazed to see so many familiar faces. Greene was at a crowded table near the back. He was talking to Gold — or rather he was bawling in Gold’s ear, and Gold was frowning to say he could not hear. So hard was Gold concentrating that he was oblivious to the flirtatious activities of his wife and Neale at the other end of the bench. Chaloner watched Greene, and wondered why the Earl should think him a killer. There was something pitiful and limp about him, and the spy was sure he did not have the resolve to hand men cups of poison, watch them die, then calmly hide the evidence. Besides, he had alibis for two of the crimes.
He turned his attention to Neale, who had hated Chetwynd for passing an unfavourable verdict. Did the young man’s cherubic looks hide the dark visage of a killer? But then why kill Vine and Langston? As decoy victims, to ensure investigators looked elsewhere for the culprit? Neale was not stupid, so it was certainly possible that he had devised such a plan. Of course, it was equally possible that George Vine had murdered his father — and that he had killed Chetwynd and Langston to cover his tracks.
Also at Greene’s table were the couple Hannah had pointed out that morning — Scobel’s nephew, the orange-haired Will Symons, and his sickly, artistic wife Margaret. Had Williamson been telling the truth when he claimed Symons had joined the three murdered men at prayers in his uncle’s house? Did he resent all he had lost at the Restoration, and was avenging himself on those who had done rather better? Symons looked tired and drawn, and he and Margaret appeared shabby and down-at-heel compared to the bright company around them.
The door opened, and the spy glanced up to see the unsavoury Lea brothers enter. They exchanged boisterous greetings with the clerks at Chaloner’s table, then squeezed themselves in at the opposite end, amid laughter and general bonhomie. Then the door opened again, this time to admit the dour-faced Doling. Doling headed for a place near the window, but was so morose and unfriendly that the men already sitting there soon made excuses to leave. Bulteel muttered something about Sausage Night enticing all manner of vermin from their nests.