‘That is an odd question,’ snapped Behn. ‘It sounds as if you think I might have killed him.’
‘Why would I do that?’ asked Chaloner, who had thought nothing of the kind – although Behn’s overly defensive comment certainly made him consider the possibility. ‘I was just wondering whether he had argued with anyone at this Guinea Company dinner, and the wrong men sit in Newgate Gaol.’
Behn’s eyes flicked towards Eaffrey in a way that made it obvious he was hiding something. ‘I cannot discuss Company business with outsiders,’ he declared. ‘The subject is closed.’
‘You opened it,’ Chaloner pointed out.
‘I think Lady Castlemaine wants us, Johan,’ said Eaffrey, hastily cutting across the indignant response Behn would have made. ‘Look, she is waving.’
‘She obviously means to ask you where she left her clothes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because she does not appear to be wearing them.’
Behn swivelled around quickly, and his mouth fell open. The lady in question strutted towards the Duke of Buckingham in what appeared to be a shift. The material was outrageously thin, and every detail of her elegant figure could be seen through it. Chaloner glanced around, and saw that at least thirty men were watching her, ranging from the Bishop of London, whose small eyes were transfixed in glittering admiration, to the King, who frowned in a way that suggested he objected to sharing.
‘Gott in Himmel!’ breathed Behn, transfixed. ‘What a magnificent pair of onions!’
‘Speaking of onions, here is Bristol,’ said Eaffrey, placing herself between Behn and the glorious apparition as a black carriage with a scarlet trim rattled into the courtyard. ‘I can smell him from here.’
‘And I can smell Lady Castlemaine’s perfume,’ said Behn, ducking around her to resume his ogling. ‘It makes a man heady with delight.’
Chaloner had wasted enough time on Behn, and was keen to get on with his investigation into the death of Fitz-Simons. ‘Can you introduce me to any surgeons, Eaffrey? I understand the Court has several.’
‘Suffering from a recurrence of your French pox, are you?’ asked Behn with mock sympathy, only turning towards him when Lady Castlemaine had disappeared inside Bristol’s carriage.
‘Stiff knee,’ replied Chaloner, leaning down to rub his left leg. A twinge told him he would have a real one if he was obliged to spend too long hobbling around as the arthritic Dutchman.
‘Sore joints are a symptom of syphilis,’ said Behn in his native tongue. ‘The disease fills the bones with pus, which eventually addles the brain. Perhaps that is why you have forgotten your German.’
‘Or perhaps I just do not choose to speak it with oafs,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled at last. Surely Eaffrey could not expect him to endure insult after insult without making some defence?
‘There is Lord Clarendon,’ said Eaffrey tiredly. ‘You had better go and introduce yourself, Mr Vanders, since you said he is expecting you.’
Chaloner bowed and abandoned the happy couple. He heard Eaffrey asking, in a somewhat strained voice, whether Lady Castlemaine’s onions were really all that special, but did not catch the merchant’s response. He put Eaffrey out of his mind as he made his way to where Clarendon, clad in a glorious coat of deep pink, was talking to a pale, thin fellow with broken blood vessels in his nose and a shabby, dissipated air. The man was Clarendon’s favourite cousin, Sir Alan Brodrick.
Everyone knew Clarendon had great ambitions for Brodrick, but most people also knew the hopes were unlikely to be realised, because of Brodrick himself. He drank too much, attended too many wild soirées and, although he was intelligent enough to hold high office, he was also lazy and careless. The Earl was the only person who thought he owned any virtues, and dismissed the tales of his kinsman’s debauchery as spiteful rumour. Chaloner would have despised Brodrick with the rest, were it not for the fact that the man was an accomplished violist. They had enjoyed several evenings of duets and chamber music together – and Chaloner was willing to forgive a great deal where music was concerned.
‘My Lord Chancellor,’ said Chaloner, effecting the kind of bow favoured by the Dutch. ‘I am–’
‘Assassins!’ screeched the Earl, when he turned to see the squalid fellow bobbing at his side.
Chaloner stood his ground. ‘It is me, sir,’ he whispered, aware that soldiers were responding to the alarm and hurrying towards him, weapons drawn. Behn was among them. ‘Heyden.’
But the Earl was not listening, and flung out a chubby arm to protect himself. Chaloner ducked to avoid being slapped, and was off balance when Behn made a flying tackle that saw them both crash to the ground. In a desperate attempt to preserve his disguise, Chaloner clutched his wig, not wanting his brown hair to spill from underneath it. It meant he landed awkwardly with the full weight of the Brandenburger on top of him, and he felt something twist in his left arm.
‘I have him,’ yelled Behn, gripping Chaloner by the scruff of his neck and hauling him to his feet. Chaloner’s hand was numb and he could not feel whether his dagger had dropped from his sleeve into his palm – although it would have done him scant good if it had, since he could hardly stab Behn in the middle of White Hall. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Shall I slit his throat?’
‘No!’ cried Brodrick, catching on to the situation far more quickly than his bemused kinsman and stepping forward to prevent Behn from following through with his kind offer. ‘This is Mr Vanders the upholsterer. Unhand him immediately, sir.’
‘Oh,’ said Clarendon sheepishly, finally realising what had happened. ‘That Vanders.’
‘It was your own fault,’ said the Earl accusingly, as he sat with Chaloner and Holles in his White Hall office. ‘You should have warned me. And the incident has done neither of us any good, because now people think I bully old men – and I can imagine what Bristol will make of that.’
Chaloner drank more of the wine Holles had poured him, and made no reply. He was more angry with himself than with Clarendon, disgusted that he had allowed Behn, of all people, to knock him to the ground. He comforted himself with the knowledge that at least his disguise was still intact. The wig had remained in place, and Behn had not managed to smudge any of his carefully crafted wrinkles.
‘Do not worry,’ said Holles kindly. ‘The surgeon will be here soon, and he will put all to rights.’
Chaloner did not need the services of a medicus, but it was too good an opportunity to miss by saying so. He was not sure which of the bone-setters – Lisle, Wiseman or Johnson – would answer the summons, but he intended to make full use of whoever arrived by asking whether they knew why their colleague Fitz-Simons had been so desperate to speak to Spymaster Williamson. His wrist was sore, but it was nothing that would not be better by morning, and he was actually in more discomfort from jarring his lame leg, although he was not going to admit that particular weakness to anyone in White Hall.
The door opened to admit Brodrick, who had offered to fetch the surgical help. He was alone, and Chaloner assumed he had allowed himself to become side-tracked by the copious bowls of wine that had been placed in every public corridor. These were to ensure the ball got off to a good start.
‘The rumours have started, cousin,’ said Brodrick to the Earl, trying to keep the amusement from his voice as he leaned against the wall, goblet in one hand and smoking pipe in the other. ‘Everyone is talking about how you felled an insolent Dutchman with a vicious punch to the nose.’
‘I did nothing of the kind!’ cried Clarendon, appalled. ‘I flung out an arm, but no contact was made. It was Behn who bowled Heyden from his feet. Is it Bristol who is telling these lies?’