‘You do not like Doling?’ said Chaloner.
‘I do not like any bitter old Roundhead who holds us responsible for his misfortunes — and Doling has gone from government official to security minion for Backwell’s Bank. Incident ally, the Earl is losing patience with you over your refusal to see Greene as the killer. Turner is not so foolish as to oppose him — he tells the Earl he is right, and keeps any reservations he might have to himself.’
‘How do you know he has reservations? Has he mentioned them to you?’
Bulteel looked pained. ‘No — I cannot get him to tell me anything, although I have tried my best to worm my way into his confidence. However, do not be too ready to dismiss Greene from your inventory of possible villains. He knew all three victims, and he was caught trying to sneak away from the scene of Chetwynd’s murder. Of course, there are other suspects, too.’
‘Who?’ Chaloner was interested to know whether Bulteel’s list matched his own.
‘Well, the Lea brothers have expensive tastes, and wasted no time claiming Chetwynd’s fortune. Meanwhile, Neale hated Chetwynd, George Vine hated his father, and Doling hates everyone. Then there are the victims’ so-called friends. I saw them at John’s Coffee House about a month ago, and they were all arguing furiously — Gold, Jones, Tryan and Hargrave, to name but a few.’
It was a depressingly long list, and reminded Chaloner of the enormity of the challenge he was facing. He fell silent, listening to Swaddell talk about the Spymaster’s new-found passion for cockfighting. Sourly, he thought it unsurprising that a man of Williamson’s brutal temperament should take pleasure from such a barbaric activity.
‘Fine company you keep,’ he remarked acidly to Bulteel. ‘Men like the Spymaster’s toady.’
‘Hush!’ whispered Bulteel in alarm. ‘Swaddell has uncannily sharp hearing. Besides, we are all just clerks in here — it is a place where we forget our differences, and enjoy easy company and good ale.’
Chaloner doubted Swaddell felt the same way, and was sure he would use such occasions to gather intelligence for his master. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so,’ said Bulteel firmly. ‘But I am glad you came tonight, because there is something I want to ask you. Will you stand as godfather to my son?’
Chaloner stared at him, certain he had misheard. ‘What?’
‘My boy means more to me than life itself, and I want him to have the best godfather I can procure. Will you oblige? It would make me very happy.’
Chaloner was at a loss for words, astonished to learn that Bulteel liked him well enough to extend such an offer. No one had asked him to be godfather to their children before, not even his siblings.
‘But I have no money and no influence at Court,’ he said, aware that Bulteel was waiting for an answer. ‘I will not be able to help him in the way he will need.’
‘You will be able to teach him decency, though,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘And there are not many who can do that in this place. I would rather have him virtuous and poor, than rich and rakish.’
‘You may not think so when he comes of age and needs a patron. I am not a good choice, Bulteel. My life is dangerous — there are not many elderly spies in London, in case you have not noticed.’
‘But you are more careful than others, more experienced,’ persisted Bulteel stubbornly. He laid a thin hand on Chaloner’s arm. ‘And do not refuse me without giving my request proper consideration. Come to share our Twelfth Night dinner, and see the baby. Then decide.’
Chaloner smiled back. ‘Thank you. It is an honour. My hesitation only stems from my own shortcomings — the fear of letting you down.’
‘You will not,’ stated Bulteel firmly. ‘Not ever.’
The sausages arrived on huge platters, one for each table. They comprised tubes of seasoned meat stuffed into the intestines of a sheep, and the combination of gristle and rubbery guts provided a serious challenge for even the sharpest of teeth. Once scullions had slapped down the plates, the noise level dropped dramatically as people struggled to chew. The sausages were criminally hot, and more than one man was obliged to cool a burned mouth with gulps of ale. Chaloner was just wondering how Bulteel had managed to finish his before anyone else, when his teeth were by far the worst in the tavern, when the door opened and a vast figure materialised. It was Jones, the obese Yeoman of the Household Kitchen who had closed the New Exchange.
‘Am I too late?’ he cried, dismayed. ‘Buckingham delayed me on a matter concerning the Lord of Misrule, and was unsympathetic when I told him I did not want to miss Sausage Night in Hell.’
Voices assured him that there was plenty left, although no one seemed keen on him joining their particular group. Men spread out along to benches to repel him, reluctant to share with someone who was likely to eat too much. Eventually, he arrived at Greene’s table. Because most people were now chewing rather than talking, Chaloner found he was able to hear what was said.
‘Make room for a little one,’ ordered Jones, sliding his vast posterior along the wood with grim determination. Protesting men were crushed into each other, and Greene dropped off the far end.
‘I will sit elsewhere, then,’ said the clerk in his gloomy, resigned voice as he picked himself up. ‘It was draughty there, in any case, and breezes around the ankles predispose a man to gout.’
‘I never gloat,’ declared Gold, looking up from his repast in surprise. ‘It is bad manners.’
‘That does not stop people from doing it, though,’ said Symons, shooting Jones a look that could only be described as resentful. ‘Folk gloat over me all the time.’
‘My Nicky has good cause to gloat,’ said Bess, running her fingers down her husband’s sleeve. She looked particularly ovine that evening, because her dress was the colour of undyed wool, and she had dressed her white-blonde hair into tight little ringlets. ‘He has earned lots of lovely money, and tells me I will be a wealthy widow one day.’
‘Do not wish it too soon,’ said Margaret softly. She looked at her husband, and her thin, wan face softened into a smile. ‘If you have a good man, I recommend you keep him alive for as long as possible.’
‘There are plenty of fish on the beach,’ countered Bess carelessly. ‘I shall find another one I like.’
‘Fish in the sea,’ corrected Neale, to remind her that he was at her side. She had been flirting with Peters — French pox notwithstanding — and Neale did not like it.
‘I adore tea,’ said Gold, flinging a couple of sausages at his rivals, ostensibly to ensure they did not miss out now the gluttonous Jones had arrived, but one fell in Neale’s lap, leaving a greasy stain that necessitated the use of a damp cloth. Chaloner thought he saw the old man smirk. ‘The Queen quaffs it every day, and what is good enough for Her Majesty is good enough for me.’
‘I have never had any,’ said Greene miserably. ‘No one has ever offered it to me. Although there was once a man from Barrington who-’
‘The Earl of Clarendon?’ demanded Gold aggressively. ‘I did not take tea with him today, and anyone who claims otherwise is a damned liar!’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. Was it the ritual of tea-drinking that had elicited such a vehement denial, or was it his conference with the Earl? The spy was just trying to imagine why Gold should object to people knowing about either, when he became aware that Swaddell was also listening to the exchange — he was nodding at Bulteel’s monologue about a batch of bad ink, but Chaloner was too experienced an eavesdropper himself to be deceived.
But Swaddell was wasting his time, and so was Chaloner. The rest of the discussion around Greene’s table could not have been more innocuous, and the most contentious subject raised was whether the sausage casings came from a sheep or a pig.