‘Who do you suspect of the crime?’ asked Chaloner.
Lea gazed at him. ‘You believe me? No one else does. I wish we had never inherited Chetwynd’s beastly fortune, because it has brought us nothing but trouble. Hargrave is a dishonest rogue.’
‘You think Hargrave killed Matthias?’
‘He might have done. He let us move into the fine house Chetwynd rented from him — and had already paid for — but it leaks like a sieve and stinks of mould. We were better off in our old place.’
‘Is Hargrave your only suspect?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Lea bitterly. ‘There are plenty who wish us ill. There are the hypocrites who meet at John’s Coffee House to ask God to make them richer and more powerful — Gold, Neale, Tryan and Symons. They hated Matthias for writing a pamphlet about false piety, in which he named them.’
‘But you and Matthias attended these meetings, too,’ said Chaloner, not bothering to point out that the hapless Symons was neither rich nor powerful. ‘I have witnesses who will swear to it.’
‘Yes, but that was years ago, when Scobel was still alive. Then there was talk of a Restoration, and it seemed foolish to hobnob with men like Symons and Doling — faithful Commonwealth clerks. So we stopped going.’
‘Your strategy worked, because you retained your posts, while they were dismissed.’
‘No, we retained them because we took matters into our own hands. We told secrets about former colleagues, which persuaded the right people we were loyal.’ Lea saw Chaloner’s distaste. ‘Well, what else were we to do? A man has to eat! Scobel died of a sharpness of the blood soon after, but Symons said it was a broken heart, because we had betrayed him. Of course, Symons had his revenge.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He would not let us rejoin the prayer meetings when all the fuss had died down. Our fortunes have bubbled along at a constant rate, but they have not exploded, like those who continued to pray — Gold, Jones, Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Tryan and Hargrave.’
‘Do you suspect anyone else of killing your brother, other than the prayer-group men?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why so many intelligent people should be prey to such rank superstition.
‘I barely know where to begin.’ Lea’s expression was vengeful. ‘There is Spymaster Williamson, who does not like the way we earn extra pennies — the government will not fall to rebellion now, so what is the harm in penning a few manifestos?’
‘Quite a bit, if enough people agree with the sentiments expressed in them.’
Lea grimaced. ‘I doubt it. However, Williamson concurs with you, because Swaddell said he would kill us if we did not desist. Well, we did not desist, so perhaps he carried out his threat. Then there is Doling, who … But no, we should not discuss him. He is too deadly for me to cross.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘You work in Westminster, near a certain alley-’
Lea’s face was a mask of fear. ‘What of it? We never saw anything that led us to …’ He trailed off.
‘You learned about the train-band,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Dangerous men, who probably have a wealthy and powerful master.’
Lea put his face in his hands. ‘I told Matthias we should pretend not to have noticed them, but he said our fortunes were on the rise at last, and we should seize every opportunity that presented itself. He left a letter, suggesting Doling might like to pay a small sum to keep his activities secret.’
It was a misjudgement on an appalling scale, and Chaloner wondered how Matthias could have been so recklessly stupid. He took his leave of Lea, and walked outside to find it was dusk, the short winter day over almost before it had begun. The soldiers were still prowling around Old Palace Yard, discreetly scanning the faces of the people who passed, but the gathering gloom helped Chaloner to elude them. He met Wiseman as he was approaching White Hall. The surgeon was trying to hail a hackney to take him home.
‘You are limping again,’ said Wiseman, abandoning his increasingly bellicose attempts to attract a driver’s attention, and turning to assess Chaloner with a professional eye. ‘Would you like my-’
‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘Have you heard whether Greene has been found?’
‘A warrant has been issued for his arrest, but the palace guards have had no luck in tracing him. His friends say he has no reason to disappear, and fear he is poisoned or adrift in the river. His detractors say he has gone into hiding, so he can continue to murder as he pleases.’
‘Then have you seen Turner?’
‘He has spent the day hunting the lost statue.’ Wiseman grabbed the spy’s shoulder suddenly, startling him with the strength of the grip — the muscle-honing was clearly paying off, because it was like being held by a vice, and Chaloner could not have broken free to save his life. ‘Have you been invited to Gold’s home for dinner and music tonight?’
‘Yes,’ replied Chaloner warily, wincing as the surgeon’s fingers tightened further still. ‘Why?’
Wiseman released him abruptly, and when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘I knew it! Gold has invited everyone except me. I am never included in these affairs, although I cannot imagine why. I come from a respectable family, and I hold high office in the King’s Court.’
‘Perhaps it is because you describe surgical techniques while people are eating,’ suggested Chaloner, knowing from personal experience that Wiseman’s dinner-table conversation could spoil even the most resilient of appetites.
‘What is wrong with that? Anatomy is a fascinating subject, worthy of discussion at any social gathering.’
‘Actually, I have been asked to two dinners tonight.’ Chaloner had only a few hours left before the Earl dismissed him, and while he had hopes that Gold’s soirée might lead him to answers, the same was not true of Temperance’s. He was sure she would understand why he could not go when he explained the situation. He smiled rather wickedly at the notion of sending the haughty surgeon to a brothel. ‘The other is due to begin at midnight, but I have work to do. I do not suppose you would-’
‘Where is it?’ demanded Wiseman eagerly. ‘I shall take your place.’
‘Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’ Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘You do not mind accepting second-hand invitations?’
‘Not when they are the only ones I ever get,’ replied Wiseman ruefully. He grinned suddenly, clearly delighted by the prospect of a night out. ‘Now, what shall I wear? Will red be suitable, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner innocently.
*
There was no time to go home before setting out for Gold’s mansion in Aldgate, so Chaloner went straight to Hannah’s house. She still had some clothes that belonged to her husband, and was more than happy to see them worn. Most were in better condition than Chaloner’s own, and far more suitable for attending elegant receptions in fashionable parts of the city. She was horrified when she saw the state he was in, and insisted that he washed, despite his objections that they would be late. Then she selected a handsome blue coat with ruffles down the front, a well-laced shirt, and a pair of ‘petticoat’ breeches. They were not au courant — her spouse had died three years before — but the spy still felt quite respectable as he stepped outside and flagged down a hackney.
Nightfall had heralded a change in the weather. Clouds had raced in from the north, and there was snow in the air. It was bitter, far colder than it had been during the day, and puddles were beginning to turn to ice. The wind cut through clothes, straight to the bone, and Chaloner was tempted to forget the whole business and spend the evening indoors. The roof-top chase had exhausted him, and although the soirée would provide a chance to learn whether Gold was involved in the curious events that had seen so many people die, he was not sure his wits were sharp enough to capitalise on it. But he would be dismissed for certain if he failed to provide the Earl with some sort of solution by the following day, so he forced himself to rally his flagging energies. He glanced at Hannah, who was using his bulk to shield herself from the draught that whistled in through the hackney’s badly fitting windows.