‘And do not forget Reeve,’ added Ravernet. ‘He never misses.’
‘I do not know him,’ said Chaloner.
‘Neither do we,’ said Hawley ruefully, ‘although I have done my best to penetrate his cover — I like a challenge. Personally, I think he is a woman, because of the slight mince he has when he walks. And his beard is patently false.’
Chaloner stared at him. Could ‘Reeve’ be Bess Gold? Was she sufficiently clever to carry off a convincing disguise? Or was it Margaret Symons, whom Doling said was heartbroken to be excluded from the meetings by virtue of her sex? But that was not possible: Margaret had been at home dying when Chaloner had seen Reeve with his companions. Or was it Lady Castlemaine, determined to secure herself a prosperous future by spending the occasional hour with devout men? Mrs Vine could not be forgotten, either. She had, after all, been suspiciously vehement in her denials that her husband had owned a ruby ring, and the spy did not trust her or her testimony.
‘They used to pray a lot,’ Ravernet was saying. ‘But they are just like any other group of friends these days. They talk about the news and the weather, and Symons is the only one who tries to impose religion on them. They oblige, but with increasing reluctance.’
‘Then perhaps they should have listened to him,’ suggested Hawley soberly. ‘Because if they had, God might have watched over them, and four of their number might not be dead.’
Unwilling to spend the day without a sword, Chaloner borrowed one from his landlord, who had a large collection. None were very good, because Ellis was in the habit of using them as tools to effect repairs around the home, but they were better than nothing. Chaloner picked one, then set off towards Westminster, knowing he could postpone inspecting Greene’s body no longer. He was just crossing New Palace Yard, alert for any sign of the train-band, when he met Haddon. The steward looked out of sorts, and his usually kindly face was angry and flustered.
‘Bulteel fed pepper cake to my dogs,’ he explained bitterly, as their paths converged. ‘The poor darlings do not know what to do with themselves for the pain. How could he do such a cruel thing?’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. ‘His wife’s cakes are usually-’
‘Brodrick commissioned it, to feed to Lady Muskerry as a joke,’ interrupted Haddon. ‘And some was left over. A man who harms a dog is a low creature, as I told Bulteel to his face. Perhaps I should work to see him ousted, since he believes I am doing it anyway. Hateful fellow!’
‘I am sure he did not mean to hurt them,’ said Chaloner, although he was not sure at all. Bulteel, like Chaloner himself, was not very keen on the yappy little lapdogs. Nonetheless, he hoped they would recover from their ordeal, because Haddon would be devastated if one died.
Haddon shot him a look that said he knew better. ‘They are resting by the Earl’s fire at the moment. He has been very kind.’ Tears sparkled in his eyes briefly, and he brushed them away, embarrassed.
‘Where are you going now?’ asked Chaloner curiously. They were walking towards the charnel house, which seemed an odd destination for the steward.
‘The Earl wants me to view the corpse that was found yesterday, given that you have not been in to tell him about it. He tried to send Bulteel, but the villain fabricated some sly excuse to get himself exempted.’
‘Turner could not oblige?’
‘He has been ordered to concentrate on the stolen statue now he has solved the murders to the Earl’s satisfaction. So, which clerk do you think lies in Kersey’s horrible mortuary? It would be good to be able to brace myself. I am not very good with corpses — they make me feel queasy.’
‘Greene has been missing since Saturday night.’
Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure? Only I saw him on Saturday night myself, here in Westminster. He was working — or so he told me when I asked him what he was doing out so late.’
‘When we last spoke about him, you said you thought he was innocent. Do you still believe that?’
Haddon took a moment to reply. ‘Turner has amassed a lot of evidence that says he is guilty, but Greene has always seemed a decent sort to me. It is hard to see him as a ruthless slaughterer.’
But Chaloner knew the most unlikely of people were capable of doing terrible things, and being a ‘decent sort’ meant nothing, as far as he was concerned. He followed the steward inside the mortuary, where Kersey bustled forward to greet them, holding out his hand for the requis ite fee. The charnel-house keeper was clad in a set of brand new clothes, and was smoking a pipe.
‘People are very interested in these clerk-killings,’ he said gleefully, counting the coins carefully before adding them to his bulging purse. ‘Will there be many more, do you think?’
‘Perhaps he is the killer,’ murmured Haddon to Chaloner in distaste. ‘He is the one who is benefitting from the deaths — they are making him a fortune!’
Kersey’s domain was crowded. The only poison victim to have been buried was Vine, hastily shoved in the ground before Wiseman could ignore his family’s wishes and dissect him anyway. The others remained in Kersey’s tender care. Chetwynd lay between Jones and Langston, and the charnel-house keeper said there had been three stabbings that week, too. Before Chaloner or Haddon could stop him — neither wanted to view more corpses than necessary — he had whisked away some sheets, to reveal two men and a woman. The shapes of the wounds were more indicative of swords than daggers, and Chaloner recalled Wiseman’s claim that the trio had asked questions about the train-band.
Then Kersey whipped the cover off his most recent acquisition. But it was not the gloomy clerk who lay naked on the table.
Haddon turned accusingly to Chaloner. ‘You led me to believe it would be Greene!’
‘I thought it was,’ said Chaloner, equally astonished. ‘I do not understand!’
Kersey puffed contentedly on his pipe. ‘You are obviously looking for intrigue, because so many government clerks have died of late. But the simple fact is that people sometimes just fall in the river and drown. Perhaps this is one of those occasions.’
‘So, who is this man?’ asked Haddon tiredly.
‘Matthias Lea,’ replied Chaloner, staring down at the body. ‘One of Chetwynd’s heirs.’
‘His brother was missing a kinsman,’ elaborated Kersey. ‘And he came to look when he heard I had charge of an unidentified cadaver. He was very upset when he discovered it was indeed Matthias.’
While Kersey described in ghastly detail how most drowned men were bloated beyond recognition if the Thames did not give them up immediately, Chaloner stared at Jones’s massive bulk, thinking about Ravernet and Hawley’s contention that no one had bothered to investigate his death.
‘How many people have been to see him?’ he asked, cutting across the grisly exposition and nodding towards Jones. Haddon, who had been listening with increasing horror, breathed his relief.
‘Lots,’ replied the charnel-house keeper smugly. ‘He has been popular because of his mighty girth. We do not get such vast specimens in very often, and he is impressive.’
‘Has anyone asked any questions about him?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Other than about his size.’
Kersey shook his head, then grinned. ‘His kin said I could keep his clothes, and I am thinking of creating a display out of some of the more unusual items I have collected through the years. His massive drawers will provide the centrepiece. People will pay handsomely to see them.’
Haddon put his hand over his mouth, and his face was so pale, that Chaloner took his arm and led him outside, afraid he might faint. When he had recovered, they began to walk towards White Hall together, and were almost there when they met Wiseman. In a rather piercing whisper, the surgeon confided that Lady Castlemaine had strained a groin muscle during the night. Neither Chaloner nor Haddon cared to ask how, but Wiseman was ready with the information anyway.