‘You lead an exciting life,’ he said drily, watching the spy climb to the ground. ‘Fighting bears, tackling mobs, indulging in reckless chases. What next? Seducing Lady Castlemaine?’
‘I am not that brave,’ said Chaloner, brushing himself down and feigning nonchalance. The truth was that his heart was pounding and his legs were wobbly.
‘May I offer you a ride somewhere? To Hercules’ Pillars Alley, perhaps? Or would you prefer the more tender ministrations of Hannah Cotton?’
‘Thank you for your help,’ said Chaloner sincerely. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘Really?’ Brodrick looked sly. ‘Then how about saying nothing to my cousin about my involvement in the bear incident? You were right this morning — it was a stupid thing to have done.’
‘So why did you do it?’
Brodrick looked pained. ‘The bear was supposed to wander into his office and eat some nuts we had left it. The damned thing was not supposed to start swiping about with its claws. I knew I should not have accepted the Lady’s advice for a jape. Well? Will you be discreet about my role in the affair? You owe me something for saving your life.’
Chaloner gave his promise, then watched the carriage rattle away. When he turned, he saw two members of the train-band running towards him. He melted into the shadows, and when the soldiers arrived moments later, he was nowhere to be found.
The next day was so foggy that when Chaloner opened the door of Hannah’s house, he could not see the opposite side of the street. It made London dangerous, because hackneys still raced along at a furious lick, hoping the clatter of their wheels and the occasional yell would be enough to warn pedestrians of their approach. Those on horseback were almost as bad, and Chaloner only just managed to haul Hannah out of the path of one pack of snorting stallions. It was Buckingham, Chiffinch and their cronies, riding home after a night of debauchery at Temperance’s club.
‘Buckingham is such a scamp,’ said Hannah indulgently, as the cavalcade galloped on. ‘London would be so dull without him. Speaking of fun, you have not forgotten that we are to dine with Sir Nicholas Gold this evening, have you?’
‘No,’ lied Chaloner. He brightened at the prospect. ‘You said there would be music.’
‘And food,’ added Hannah wryly. ‘And perhaps even conversation. What will you do today?’
‘Why do you ask?’ he said, before he could stop himself.
She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Because you listened to me for hours last night — virtually my entire life story — and it is only right that I reciprocate by enquiring after you in return.’
‘Visit the charnel house, to view Greene’s body.’ Chaloner had not felt up to breaking into Kersey’s domain and inspecting corpses after his encounter with the train-band the previous evening. He had not really felt up to listening to Hannah, either, but had forced himself to pay attention. When she had finally gone to sleep, he had been restless and uneasy. Questions whirled about in his mind, and he had spent most of the night sitting by the window, staring into the street as he tried to reason some sense into all he had learned. Dawn had found him tired, haggard and frustrated by the lack of answers.
Hannah heard the unhappiness in his voice. ‘It is not your fault he is dead, Tom. You tried to prove him innocent. But people — including Greene himself — were not honest with you, so how could you be expected to solve the mystery under those circumstances?’
‘Would you mind telling my Earl that? Of course, it does not explain why I have neglected to locate the stolen statue, as he is sure to point out.’
‘Then he is a fool,’ she declared. ‘You have done your best, and he has no right to expect more. What will you do after you have stared at Greene, and blamed yourself for the fact that he is dead?’
‘Speak to his colleagues and show them a ring I found. Visit John’s Coffee House, to ask its owner about the prayer meetings that take place there. Return to the wharf where the train-band seems to lurk — I need to learn more about them if I am to survive our next encounter.’
Hannah regarded him uneasily. ‘What next encounter? Surely, it is better to stay away from them?’
‘That may not be possible — I did not exactly seek them out yesterday. And I cannot avoid them if they are involved in the clerk murders — at least, not today. It will not matter tomorrow, because the Earl’s deadline will have passed, and I will either be victorious or dismissed.’
‘Then why not go to the Queen, and tell her you will look into her missing money? It would be a lot safer than risking your life for a man who keeps threatening you with unemployment.’
‘I wish I could — she is worth ten of him — but her loss is one of embezzlement, and the only way to find out who cheated her is to comb through dozens of palace accounts.’
‘Then comb.’
‘I cannot, I am not qualified. Only someone with accounting experience will catch the culprit.’
Hannah looked as if she did not believe him, but he did not know what more he could say to convince her. They parted at the Court Gate, where he decided to visit John’s Coffee House first, hoping to catch the proprietor before his establishment became busy. Greene could wait — he was not going anywhere, and Chaloner was not sure what he could accomplish by looking at a corpse anyway.
‘What news?’ the coffee-house owner called, as the spy walked in. John Ravernet did not look up from his perusal of The Intelligencer, and the greeting was automatic rather than a genuine request for information. As Chaloner had hoped, the place was virtually empty, and the only customer was a morose-looking fellow with a wart between his eyes.
‘A body was washed up near Westminster yesterday,’ replied Chaloner.
‘That is not news,’ said the customer disdainfully. ‘That is an everyday occurrence.’
‘Not in this case,’ argued Ravernet, folding the news-book and going to give his roasting coffee beans a stir. ‘Because word is that the corpse was yet another of the King’s clerks. It seems to be a bad time for them, because not only were three hapless souls poisoned, but poor Jones drowned last week, too. Unfortunately, no one is quite sure how it happened.’
‘And no one is asking, either,’ said the customer, fixing him with a meaningful look. ‘Jones was a high-ranking official, and he ended up in the Thames, but no one is curious to learn why. And after three of his colleagues were murdered, you would think someone would be looking into the matter. But no one is, not even Spymaster Williamson.’
‘You see conspiracy everywhere, Hawley,’ said Ravernet. ‘However, in this instance, you are right. No one is investigating, which means someone is glad he is dead. Someone important.’
With a start, Chaloner realised it was true, and wondered why it had not occurred to him before. Other than the ghoulish curiosity common to all violent deaths, no one had asked why Jones had drowned, not even his colleagues from the prayer meetings. Of course, it had worked to Chaloner’s advantage, because an investigation might have uncovered the fact that he had followed Swaddell and Jones down the alley, and he could imagine what Williamson would make of that small fact. Had Jones’s death gone unremarked because the Spymaster’s men were too busy hunting the statue? Or was there a more sinister reason — which seemed eminently likely, given that Jones had been loaded down with stolen gold when he had died?
‘Mr Greene recommended your coffee house to me,’ he said, intending to lead the discussion around to the gatherings. He could not afford to waste time on Jones when he had only one day left to solve the murders of Chetwynd, Vine and Langston. ‘And so did Sir Nicholas Gold.’
Ravernet looked pleased. ‘They have been loyal customers for years. They used to meet at Scobel’s home, but when he died, they elected to come here instead. They are an amiable crowd.’
‘But sadly depleted by death,’ said Hawley. ‘Jones was the fourth of their number to perish. Now there is only a handful left: Greene, Tryan, Hargrave, that angel-faced Neale. Swaddell comes in disguise, but we all know he is the Spymaster’s assassin. Colonel Turner attends the odd meeting these days, too.’