‘Well?’ asked Haddon, when Chaloner rejoined him in the tavern. ‘What did you find? Is the Earl right about Greene, or am I?’
‘You are. He has not been out since returning home this evening, so he cannot have given Vine the poison. Of course, he might have hired someone to do it for him.’
Haddon nodded slowly. ‘I cannot imagine there are many poisoners among his acquaintances, but I suppose it is something you should explore.’
‘What do you know about James Turner?’ asked Chaloner, thinking again that if the Earl regarded Greene as a suspect for discovering Chetwynd, then the flamboyant colonel should be treated likewise.
Haddon was surprised by the change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘He likes the company of ladies, and I predict hearts will be broken, because he cannot possibly please them all. He is egalitarian in his tastes — he enjoys a romp with Meg the laundress just as much as one with Lady Castlemaine.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He seems personable enough to me, although I doubt the hole in his ear was made by a musket-ball, which implies a tendency to moderate the truth. And I would not trust him with my daughters.’
‘You have daughters?’
‘It is a figure of speech. My wife died many years ago, and I have no other family — unless you count my dogs, which are like children to me. And you? Sir George Downing, with whom you worked in The Hague, told me last week that you married a Dutch lass when you first went to Holland.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Chaloner liked Haddon, but did not feel equal to an exchange of confidences that night — although a nagging voice at the back of his mind warned him that he was never in the mood for personal conversations, not even with Hannah. How was he going to develop friendships, if he could not bring himself to confide in the people who were trying to get to know him? ‘Even if Greene is a killer, there is no point in watching him now, because I doubt he will strike twice in one night. We should both go home.’
‘It is late for travelling, so I suggest we hire rooms here,’ said Haddon, adding with an impish smile, ‘then you can tell the Earl truthfully that you remained within spitting distance of Greene all night.’
It was another good idea, and Chaloner was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
A lifetime of travel meant Chaloner had developed the ability to rest tolerably well in most strange beds, and the one in the Wapping tavern was surprisingly comfortable. The following morning Haddon complained that he had been kept awake by howling winds and the thunder of rain on the roof, but Chaloner had noticed none of it. There had not been much of the night left by the time they had retired, but even so, he felt reasonably well-rested when he joined the steward for a breakfast of bread and ale.
They hired a skiff to take them to White Hall, leaving as soon as it was light enough for the boatman to see. It was a bumpy ride, because the wind had churned the Thames into a confusion of waves, most of which were going against the tide. The boatman moaned about the conditions all the way, oblivious to the fact that spray from his oars drenched his passengers at almost every stroke. Haddon was shivering miserably by the time they alighted at the Westminster Stairs.
It was not a pleasant day, even once they were off the river. The sun began to flash from behind the clouds occasionally, although never for long enough do any useful warming. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wavy fringe of ice all along the beach. Because it was Sunday, bells were ringing all across the city. The wind played with the sound, making a deafening jangle one moment, and a distant tinkle the next.
Chaloner and Haddon walked up Cannon Row, a well-maintained street with gates giving access to a number of elegant mansions, as well as to the King’s private orchard in the Palace of White Hall. Haddon stopped outside a pretty cottage that had a dog-shaped weather-vane on the roof.
‘This is my humble abode. Since we are passing, I shall change my clothes before I take a chill. Come in and wait for me, and when I am warm and dry again, I would like to ask your opinion about something — a matter that is worrying me deeply.’
He had opened the door and stepped inside before the spy could demur, and immediately, two lapdogs scampered at him with frenzied yaps of delight. They were brown and white with long, silky ears. Their fur was glossy, their noses shiny, and their necks adorned with bows of silk. Haddon knelt and greeted them with professions of such love that Chaloner wondered whether he should wait outside. The spy could not have made himself speak such words to a woman, let alone an animal.
‘Do you own a dog?’ asked the steward conversationally, when the pooches were bored with affection and began to clamour for food. He fed them prime cuts of meat on solid silver platters.
‘Cat,’ Chaloner replied, grateful it was not in the habit of overwhelming him with gushing adoration every time he arrived home.
‘You should get a dog,’ advised Haddon, shooting his charges a doting glance as they ate. ‘I would not be without my little darlings for the world, and cats have too many unpleasant habits.’
Chaloner was not sure what he meant, but time was passing, and he did not want to waste the few hours of winter daylight on a debate about pets. He gestured that Haddon should hurry, and while the steward went to remove his sodden clothes, he prowled around the parlour, reading the titles of the books on the shelves — mostly religious tracts and tomes about dogs — and then picking out tunes on a virginals that stood by the window.
‘What did you want to ask me about?’ he called, frowning when he made a mistake in the music. He was an adequate virginalist, but his real love was the bass viol, which he played extremely well.
Still fastening the ‘falling band’ that went around his neck like a bib, Haddon went to a desk, and removed a piece of paper. ‘I found this lying on the floor after Brodrick visited the Earl last night.’
The spy was puzzled. ‘It is a plan of our master’s White Hall offices. But Brodrick is his cousin, and does not need a map to find his way around — he knows the place inside out.’
‘I think he drew it yesterday, but dropped it by mistake on his way out. You mentioned rumours that the Lord of Misrule intends to play a prank on the Earl …’
‘And Brodrick is the Lord of Misrule,’ finished Chaloner in understanding. ‘So he sketched the layout of the Earl’s domain to help him with whatever piece of mischief he intends to perpetrate.’
‘Brodrick is the Lord of Misrule?’ echoed Haddon in astonishment. ‘I have been trying to find that out since Thursday, but everyone keeps telling me they have been sworn to secrecy.’
They had told Chaloner the same thing, but it had not stopped him acquiring the information anyway. He handed back the paper. ‘It is a stroke of luck for the Earl, because Brodrick will never harm the one person who keeps trying to get him a high-paying post in government. Whatever Brodrick plans, I doubt it will be too terrible.’
Haddon’s expression was troubled. ‘I disagree. Libertines like Buckingham and Chiffinch have been jibing him about his affection for the Earl recently, so he might devise something especially horrid, just to prove himself to them. After all, the Lord of Misrule’s identity is a secret, so how will the Earl ever know who is to blame for whatever outrage is inflicted on him?’
‘Then you must stop it.’
‘I can only act if I know what Brodrick intends. That means I need you to make some enquiries for me.’