‘Would you consider leaving London, and going to live in the New World?’
He felt her shudder in the darkness. ‘I would not! I have heard it is a desolate place, full of Puritans and big snakes. And I like London, especially now I have you to keep me company.’
It was a long way from Tothill Street to Gold’s home near the Tower, and Chaloner might have dozed off, had he not been so cold. The wind buffeted the carriage, making it rock furiously. Outside, the streets were almost empty, and those who were obliged to be out huddled deep inside their cloaks.
Eventually, the hackney rolled to a standstill outside a large house with a gravelled courtyard. Light blazed from every window, and Hannah murmured that she could not imagine the number of lamps required to produce such a dazzling display. Once inside, she disappeared to greet people she knew, flitting from group to group, while Chaloner kept to the edge of the festivities, watching and listening. Gold and Bess were at the centre of an appreciative crowd, and when the spy looked for Neale, he saw him, as expected, not far away, with his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the object of his aspirations.
A number of Chaloner’s other suspects were present, too. Symons and the surviving Lea stood together, looking miserable. Lea was impeccably dressed, but Symons was wearing the same clothes had had worn the night Margaret had died. They were soiled and crumpled, and his ginger hair was dull with dirt, as though he cared nothing about any of it.
By contrast, George and Mrs Vine were part of a lively, laughing throng that included Turner, Barbara Chiffinch and Brodrick. Meanwhile, Hargrave and Tryan sat with other prosperous merchants, and their serious faces suggested they were discussing business. Chaloner watched them all, noting who spoke to whom, or ignored whom, and trying to understand the intricate social ballet that was being played out in front of him. He wished he was more alert, because he was sure it would have yielded clues, had his mind been agile enough to interpret them.
‘Someone said it is snowing,’ said Hannah chattily to Gold, when she dragged the spy to pay their respects to their host. Bess wore a fluffy white garment that looked like a fleece, while her hair had been arranged into woolly ringlets. Chaloner wondered whether the Lord of Misrule had bribed her maids to dress her like a sheep. It was, after all, Brodrick’s last night in power — the Twelve Days would be over by the following morning — and the spy was sure he intended to make the most of it.
‘You are going?’ bawled Gold. ‘But you have only just arrived. Stay and have some brawn.’
‘There are pastries, too, made in the shape of angels,’ added Bess, clapping her hands in childish delight. ‘And the cook made a special one for me in the shape of a lamb.’
‘Brawn is better for you than chocolate,’ asserted Gold loudly. All around him, sycophants nodded simpering agreement. ‘While coffee makes you bald. Surgeon Wiseman said so.’
‘It is a bit late for you to be worrying about hair loss,’ muttered Neale, gazing pointedly at Gold’s expensive wig. ‘Vain old dog.’
‘Here comes your friend Turner,’ said Hannah to Chaloner, as they walked away. She sounded disapproving. ‘He has probably come to gloat, because he solved the case and you did not.’
The colonel looked magnificent that evening, in a black suit with scarlet frills that complemented his dark good looks. He had an adoring lady on each arm; they hung on his every word, and he was in his element. There were pouts when he asked them to fetch him some wine so he could speak to Chaloner in private, but they did as they were told. The moment they were out of earshot, he started to turn his oily charm on Hannah, but she stopped him with a look that said he might suffer serious bodily harm if he persisted.
‘Lord!’ he breathed in admiration, as she stalked away. ‘There is one fiery wench! Does she have all her teeth?’
‘Yes, and she is not afraid to use them,’ replied Chaloner coolly, seeing the colonel was fully intent on adding her to his list of potential conquests. ‘What do you want, Turner? The Earl tells me you have amassed enough evidence to prove Greene is the killer, so you no longer need my help.’
‘But unfortunately, the wretched man vanished before I could arrest him. Do you have any idea where he might be? I promised His Portliness I would produce him by tomorrow.’
‘That was rash. If he is in the river, it might be weeks before he surfaces.’
‘He is not dead,’ said Turner confidently. ‘He has absconded. Incidentally, you gave the Earl some of Greene’s documents earlier, and he, Haddon and Bulteel spent the afternoon studying them. Apparently, they are very revealing.’
‘They were household accounts,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘What can be “revealing” about the fact that His Majesty’s cellarer spent forty pounds on decanters last year?’
‘The fact that Munt kept his own records, which say he only spent ten. But here is Haddon. Ask him for yourself.’
Chaloner supposed it was not surprising that Haddon had been invited — sans dogs — to the soirée, but Bulteel had not: Haddon carried himself in a way that said he was a gentleman, whereas Bulteel was socially inept.
‘It is true,’ said the steward, when Turner ordered that he verify the tale. ‘In essence, these records show that the sum of forty pounds was granted to pay for decanters, but only ten pounds was actually spent. Thus thirty is unaccounted for. And that is only one entry out of hundreds.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘You mean Greene was embezzling from the government?’
‘It looks that way,’ said Turner gleefully, speaking before the steward could reply. ‘We shall be asking him about it when he is arrested.’
‘There is another possibility,’ said Haddon quietly. ‘Which is that Greene was gathering evidence to expose the real thief — that his motives are honourable.’
‘And I am the Pope,’ sneered Turner derisively.
Chaloner was thinking about the Queen. ‘Her Majesty lost thirty-six thousand pounds this year. The money was put in an account for her use, but when she went to claim it, it had all gone.’
‘Greene’s documents contain a number of references to her so-called expenditures,’ acknowledged Haddon. ‘So I imagine they do explain what happened to her missing fortune, although she will not be pleased by the news — basically, they tell us that her money is irretrievably lost.’
‘Thieves are everywhere these days,’ said Turner in distaste. Then he grinned, unable to resist the opportunity to revel in his recent success. ‘I am delighted to have solved these clerk murders to the Earl’s satisfaction, even if it does mean sending a man to the gallows. Now all I have to do is find the King’s statue, and my future with him will be assured.’
‘The King’s statue?’ asked Hargrave, coming to join them. Tryan was with him, bandy legs clad in fine silk breeches. ‘Are you still looking for that? I would have thought you had given up by now.’
‘Do not give up,’ said Tryan, rather wistfully. ‘It was by Bernini, so no effort is too great to find it, as far as I am concerned. He is a genius, and I would love to own one of his pieces.’
‘They are too expensive,’ stated Hargrave authoritatively. ‘And bankers do not like their customers removing vast sums all at once for costly bits of art, because it upsets their books.’
‘I would never put my money in a bank,’ declared Tryan. ‘Look what happened to the fools who invested with Backwell’s. Poor Langston was still waiting to be repaid, and the robbery was months ago. No, my friends, a man’s money is safer in his own home. I have a box specially made for the purpose, and it is impossible to break into.’