‘So have I,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Worn by a man who does the occasional bit of legal work for Tryan, and who knows his foibles — the money chest, his plans to be out, and even, probably, where he keeps his key.’
‘Turner!’ exclaimed Hill in sudden fury. ‘I knew he was a villain the moment I laid eyes on him.’
‘I wish I had,’ said Chaloner ruefully, stepping out into the blizzard.
Chapter 12
The snow was now swirling so densely that it was difficult to walk. Chaloner forced himself on, wishing he could go faster. The streets were deserted, and there was not a horse or a carriage in sight. If there had been, he would have hijacked it, so desperate was he to reach Temperance. As he struggled along, he tried to take his mind off his fears for her while he analysed what he knew of Turner.
He had known the man was a liar, but he had not imagined him to be a thief, too. However, the attack on Tryan was such an audacious, meticulously executed crime that the spy was sure it could not be his first. So what other felonies had he committed since arriving in London? He was not responsible for the business at Backwell’s Bank, because that had been Jones, and the only other significant incident was the theft of the old king’s bust. Chaloner stopped dead in his tracks.
‘No!’ he whispered into the blizzard, forgetting the frantic race to Hercules’ Pillars Alley as answers came crashing into his mind like bolts of lightning. ‘It cannot be!’
But when he reviewed the evidence, he knew he had his solution, and it was so obvious, he wondered why he had not seen it before. The clues were there, but he had not put them together.
First, Turner said Lady Muskerry had taken him to the Shield Gallery before the statue had gone astray; he must have seen the priceless works of art then, and decided one would not be missed. Second, conversations had revealed his total ignorance of sculpture, indicating he would not have made a wise choice about what to steal — and taking the Bernini had been foolish. Third, Meg had smuggled him in and out of White Hall on her laundry cart, claiming Lady Castlemaine needed protection from the Earl — a ludicrous tale that should have warned Chaloner to look into it: clearly, Turner had needed the cart to transport his ill-gotten gains. And finally, there was his odd reluctance to arrest Greene — he felt a kinship with a fellow criminal, and wanted to give him every chance to escape or be exonerated.
‘Damn!’ Chaloner breathed, aghast at himself. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’
So, where was the statue now? Turner was unlikely to have taken it home, but it was valuable, so he would have put it somewhere safe. Chaloner closed his eyes in disgust when he realised he knew the answer to that, too. ‘James Grey’ had encouraged Temperance to redecorate her brothel, purchasing sculpture rather than paintings, because her patrons were apt to be wild and carvings were more durable. The bust was not in the public rooms — someone would have recognised it — but she had spare pieces in her cellar, ready to be rotated when she grew tired of the ones on display. She knew nothing about art, either, and would not recognise Bernini’s work, so it was the perfect hiding place. And if someone should happen to stumble across it?
‘Then he would disappear and let her hang.’ Chaloner was barely aware that he spoke aloud as anger boiled up inside him. He started to move forward again, cursing when his exhausted muscles were slow to respond to the urgent clamouring of his brain.
Rage kept him ploughing towards Hercules’ Pillars Alley, allowing him to ignore the burning pain in his lame leg and the agony of frozen fingers. All he wanted to do was charge into the club and force a confession from the sly colonel with his fists. And then Temperance would see what sort of man she professed to love. But when he reached his destination, his training took over: his wild fury drained away and was replaced by the cool professionalism that had allowed him to survive ten years in espionage. So, instead of storming into the house like a lunatic, he slid into the shadows outside, and thought about what he was going to do.
Once his judgement was unimpaired by anger, he saw it would be foolish to dash into a situation that might see him killed. First, he was too tired for fighting. Second, his sword was broken. And third, Temperance might rush to her lover’s defence, and then what would he do? Exchange blows with her, too? And would Turner even be there? He had just committed a violent crime, and was now more than five thousand pounds richer; perhaps he would decide that Temperance and the bust were not worth the bother. But indentations in the snow from the road to the club’s front door told the spy that this was wishful thinking: Turner had been unable to resist the lure of easy pickings, and he was there, inside the house, plying his evil charms on the woman Chaloner loved like a sister.
The spy approached the building and tapped softly on the door, but the servants had evidently been given the evening off, because there was no reply. The door was locked, but that was no obstacle to him. His metal probe was in his hand without conscious thought, and he had it open in moments. He padded silently across the hall to the parlour, where he peered through a gap between door and wall. The snow that had caked on his coat and shoes began to melt, forming puddles on the floor.
Temperance was sitting at one end of a guest-filled table, and Turner was at the other. They held goblets, filled to the brim with wine, and were toasting each other’s health. Chaloner winced when he saw the shining adoration in her eyes, and hated himself for what he was about to do. The colonel’s face was red from his journey through the snow, and his cloak had been flung carelessly across the back of a chair. He looked remarkably lively, though, and Chaloner supposed he was buoyed up by the success of his robbery.
Turner and Wiseman were the only men present, the other guests being the ‘working girls’ and Maude. Belle was among them, and Chaloner shook his head when he saw she still wore her locket: Turner had shown him a duplicate in order to claim the ten shillings. Wiseman was relating some tale about a Public Anatomy he had performed, and his audience — a jaded group that was not easily entertained — was transfixed. The surgeon was unused to receiving such a positive reaction to his grisly anecdotes, and was happier than Chaloner had ever seen him.
While they were occupied, the spy decided to see whether his suspicions were correct. He headed for the cellar, lighting a lamp in the kitchen to take with him. As he descended the stairs, he marvelled at the size of Temperance’s collection. A dozen crates contained the most valuable items, while the more robust specimens sat out draped in sheets — with the notable exception of Nero, who glowered, uncovered, from the top of a tall box.
Chaloner began his search. The Bernini was in the third chest he opened, and he paused for a moment to admire it. He had seen the old king once, across a battlefield, but he recalled the pinched, arrogant features quite clearly. The artist had captured the hauteur and pride in the face, and yet there was also a touching vulnerability about it. He could see why Bernini was regarded as a genius.
He took a deep breath, trying to summon the energy he needed to confront Turner, and was about to walk back up the stairs, when he saw a trail of water splashes on the floor. He followed them to a sack that was heavily encrusted with snow. When he opened it, he found it full of money and jewels. He was still staring, disgusted that Turner should have beaten an old man to get it, when he heard a creak. He doused the lantern, ducked into the shadows and waited.
Turner walked into the cellar holding a lamp of his own. His eyes immediately lit on the opened box that contained the stolen masterpiece. He set the lantern on a crate and drew his sword.
‘Come out,’ he called softly. ‘I know you are here, because you have left wet marks on the floor.’