The priest had nothing else to add, so Chaloner boarded a skiff and headed back to the city. The boatman was the garrulous sort, who insisted on regaling his fare with a list of men who had drowned in the Thames. The depressing monologue, along with the fact that the wind rocked the little craft in a way that made him seasick, meant Chaloner was relieved to arrive back in the city.
‘There was a corpse washed up just this morning,’ the boatman continued, as the spy rummaged in his purse for coins to pay him. ‘Kersey will keep it in his charnel house, and if no one claims it within a week, it will be buried in St Margaret’s. There are hundreds of drowned men in that churchyard, and they wail whenever there is an especially high tide. I have heard them myself.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner, his mind more on where to find Greene than the dismal stories.
The fellow saw he was not believed, and became indignant. ‘Ask Kersey. He hears them, too. You can see him today, and view the new corpse at the same time. After all, threepence is not much for a bit of light entertainment — less than the price of a night at the theatre, and a lot more memorable.’
‘Who drowned last night?’ asked Chaloner, loath to offend him. He might have to use the fellow’s boat again in the future, and did not want to be ‘accidentally’ tipped in the water.
‘Kersey said it was a clerk,’ replied the boatman, gratified by the interest.
Chaloner regarded him sharply. ‘What was his name?’
‘He did not say — he just mentioned that it was the fifth government official to die since Christmas Day. Dangerous place, Westminster.’
Chaloner could not agree more. He walked briskly along Canning Street, although even the smart pace he set himself did not dispel the cold, unsettled feeling that had seeped deep inside him. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need for the company of a friend, and although he knew he should visit Kersey as a matter of urgency, he stopped at Lincoln’s Inn first.
His search of Greene’s house had taken much longer than he had anticipated, and the daylight was fading as he walked across the yard, heading for Chamber XIII. The journey to Wapping had yielded some clues, but the ring had only served to deepen the mystery, while learning about Greene’s association with Lady Castlemaine was interesting, but would probably not help in identifying the killer. Chaloner felt he had wasted the best part of yet another day, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs he was in a melancholy frame of mind. His spirits plunged further still when Thurloe opened the door to reveal packed chests and sheet-draped furniture.
‘Ah, Tom.’ Thurloe was dressed for travel in heavy cloak, woollen hat and sturdy boots. ‘I am glad you came. I am leaving in a few moments, and did not like to disappear without bidding you farewell.’
Chaloner struggled to mask his dismay. ‘You are going now? But surely, no carriage will venture out onto the King’s highways at night. It would be madness!’
‘Robbers were never a problem in the Commonwealth,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘A military dictatorship knows how to secure safe roads.’
‘Actually, I was thinking about the more immediate danger of floods, broken wheels and getting lost. No self-respecting driver travels a road he cannot see.’
‘I shall sleep at an inn in Aldersgate this evening, and be ready take the coach at first light tomorrow. You are very wet. What have you been doing?’
‘Squandering time on the river,’ replied Chaloner despondently.
Unfortunately, repeating what he had learned did not help him this time. The ex-Spymaster asked several intelligent questions, but was also unable to make any sense of the confusion of facts.
‘And I am afraid I have gleaned nothing of any great use, either,’ he said apologetically. ‘At least, nothing you have not already discovered for yourself. Greene and Langston did work for Lady Castlemaine, although only as agents for organising her various trysts — they were not entrusted with anything politically significant. And I have found no one who admits to owning a ruby ring.’
‘Does this look valuable to you?’ Chaloner passed him the one he had found in Greene’s house.
Thurloe did not take long to assess it. ‘No. In fact, there is a shop that sells dozens just like it in the New Exchange. Your killer would not have hired a train-band to retrieve this bauble, so I can only assume you are right: someone left it in Greene’s house to incriminate him. And the culprit has done a good job — if I were your Earl, I would have issued a warrant for Greene’s arrest days ago.’
‘Then why does he hold back?’
‘I imagine because of you. You have been proven right on a number of occasions, and it is enough to make him stay his hand. Clearly, he trusts your judgement, even if he is unwilling to admit it. However, he is beginning to lose patience with the ponderous pace of your investigation, so you had better find him some answers fast.’
‘It is too late. I am almost certain the drowned clerk in the charnel house will transpire to be Greene, and I cannot see answers appearing by Tuesday.’
He knelt next to the fire, trying to thaw his frozen hands. Was it his fault Greene was dead? Would the clerk still be alive if he had worked harder to find the killer? He sighed, thinking of how much he would miss Thurloe’s calm logic — he knew from previous Oxfordshire expeditions that his friend was unlikely to be back before spring, and was glad he had made his peace with Temperance. At least he would have one friend in the city. Thinking of her reminded him of the man she claimed to love.
‘James Grey,’ he said, looking up at Thurloe. ‘Have you met him?’
‘No. I asked Temperance to bring him to me, but he declined to come — said he could not risk his reputation by drinking ale with ex-Commonwealth spymasters. I suppose I cannot blame him.’
‘She intends to wed him, which surprises me. I thought she was against marriage.’
‘I may be responsible for her change of heart,’ said Thurloe sheepishly. ‘I told her marriage was a blissful state — that I would not be without Ann for the world. If ever I am sad, I just think of her sweet face, and all unhappiness vanishes, like mist in the sun.’
‘Really?’ asked Chaloner. He vaguely remembered feeling that way about his own wife, but they had only been married a year, so he had no way of knowing whether the affection would have lasted.
Thurloe nodded, rather dreamily. ‘However, I am uncommonly blessed, and I hope I have not led Temperance to imagine that all matches are perfect.’
‘Have you investigated him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Ascertained whether he is suitable?’
Thurloe smiled. ‘And what kind of man do you think is “suitable” for a brothel-keeper?’
Chaloner grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’
Thurloe patted his shoulder. ‘I do. But she guessed what I might do, and came to tell me not to — she does not want him thinking she has overly protective friends. I agreed to comply, although not happily. Perhaps you will learn something when you meet him on Twelfth Night eve.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Did you know Margaret Symons is dead? She breathed her last at the exact hour she predicted. Apparently, as soon as she had her premonition, she wrote out a list of tasks for her husband, to keep him occupied during the first few weeks of his bereavement. She was wise, because he is the kind of man to mourn over-deeply.’