‘You heard what Silence said.’ Leybourn was puzzled by the diversion. ‘He will be long gone – frightened someone will accuse him of deliberately neglecting to fetch Webb so others could kill him.’
Chaloner opened the door and saw Silence’s note, unopened on the table. The room reeked, badly enough to make Leybourn back out with his hand over his mouth. There was a cupboard in the thickness of one wall, used for storage. Chaloner broke the lock, stepping back quickly when something large and heavy toppled towards him.
‘Stabbed,’ he said, kneeling to inspect the corpse. It still wore its orange and green uniform. ‘He has probably been dead since Webb’s murder. Someone wanted Webb to walk home alone, which means his death was no casual robbery, but a planned assassination.’
‘Does this mean Dillon is exonerated?’
‘It does not exonerate anyone – including Silence herself.’
‘She would not kill Webb. He was her husband.’
‘And now she is a very wealthy widow.’
Although Chaloner disliked the notion of asking Scot whether it was his name on the list sent to Bristol – however he phrased the question, it would sound like an accusation, and he did not have so many friends that he could afford to lose them over misunderstandings – he knew he had no choice. He walked to the Chequer, a large coaching inn at Charing Cross, where Scot always stayed when he was in London. But Scot’s room was empty, and the landlord said he had not seen him since noon. Because it might be hours before Scot returned, and he was loath to waste time waiting, Chaloner went to White Hall, to update the Earl on his progress.
The clouds had thinned since the morning’s drizzle, and a glimmering of sunshine raised London’s spirits. Traders yelled brazen lies about their wares, masons sang as they repaired a building that had collapsed during recent heavy rains, horses whinnied, wheels rattled, and everywhere was clamour. A blacksmith was making horseshoes, a knife-sharpener keened blades against his whet-stone, children yelped and screeched over a hoop, and street preachers were out in full force, warning against the dangers of sin. Two men ran an illicit cock-fight in an alley, accompanied by frenzied cheers, barking dogs and the angry screeches of the birds.
As usual, White Hall thronged with clerks, servants, soldiers and courtiers. In addition, labourers had been drafted in to clean the gardens, which were still a mess of litter, trampled flowers and discarded food after the ball two nights before. Further confusion came from the fact that Lady Castlemaine was moving from the west side of the Privy Garden to more sumptuous accommodation on the east, which put her considerably closer to the King. Her possessions – along with innumerable items looted from people too frightened to stop her – were being transferred to her new domain, while she stood in the midst of the chaos and snapped impractical orders. She swore viciously at one servant for putting a bowl in the wrong place, and kicked another for dropping a box of wigs.
‘She is not very patient,’ Chaloner remarked to Holles, who had come to walk with him.
‘Good body, though,’ remarked the colonel, leering appreciatively as they passed. ‘Did you see her in her shift the other day? What a treat for sore eyes! She is even better than the whores at Hercules’s Pillars Alley – and that is saying something. Do you not agree?’
‘Have you heard any rumours about Webb?’ asked Chaloner, changing the subject. Temperance’s girls had made no impression on him one way or the other. He supposed his lack of interest stemmed from the fact that the woman he had hoped would become his wife had died the previous year, and he had not felt much like looking at anyone else since.
‘No, but there have been plenty about your fictional upholsterer. The most common is that he lies at death’s door and that it is Lord Clarendon’s fault.’
Chaloner gazed across the garden as Lady Castlemaine howled abuse at a groom, battering him about the head and shoulders with a fan. The implement was made of thin wood and paper, but she wielded it with sufficient force to draw blood nonetheless. ‘Is her beauty really enough to compel His Majesty to condone that sort of behaviour? It is hardly dignified.’
Holles laughed, drawing the attention of several retainers. Some wore Buckingham’s livery while Chaloner had seen the others serving Bristol at the ball. ‘She is in a good mood today, because she is getting what she wants – the most desirable lodgings in White Hall.’
‘Holles!’ shouted one of Bristol’s men. ‘Who is he, and where are you taking him?’
Chaloner recognised Willys, the thin, yellow-legged fellow who had searched Clarendon’s office. He also recalled that a ‘Willys’ had been on the letter Bristol had been sent. It was a common name, but he wanted to ask the man about it even so – although preferably not when he was surrounded by armed cronies.
‘We are on Lord Clarendon’s business,’ responded Holles tartly. ‘And it is none of yours.’
‘You are not allowed to bring just anyone into White Hall,’ said Willys nastily. ‘There are too many villains around these days. You are lucky May was alert over that beggar business, or you would have been blamed for the King’s murder. His Majesty was under your protection and you failed him.’
‘Piffle,’ said Holles. ‘Go and find someone else to bleat your stupid accusations at. I am busy.’
Willys’s sword started to come out of its scabbard and his companions prepared themselves for a skirmish, but Holles was too experienced a campaigner to be provoked into a fight where he would be so heavily outnumbered. He sneered his disdain at Willys and strode away, leaving the man spluttering in frustrated indignation.
‘Willys is Bristol’s aide,’ said Holles to Chaloner when they were out of earshot. ‘Loyal to his master, but deeply stupid. He has been trying to goad me to do battle with him for days now – he probably thinks it will please Bristol to see Clarendon with one fewer supporter.’
‘He is right. Clarendon will be less safe without you watching out for him.’
Holles cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry I could not protect you from that Brandenburg ape on Saturday. He flew at you like a madman, and you were down before I could draw my pistol. I had no idea such a lumbering brute could move so fast.’
‘Neither had I,’ said Chaloner with a sigh.
Chaloner took a circuitous route to the Lord Chancellor’s chambers, hoping to see Scot on the way, but he was out of luck. He met Brodrick, though, who told him ‘Peter Terrell’ had been invited to speak to the Royal Society on his botanical theories, and that the lecture and meal that followed were likely to take most of the day. He smiled ruefully at the spy.
‘I am afraid Greeting played well last night, especially the Locke, and the Queen professed herself enchanted. She has asked us to perform for the Portuguese ambassador tomorrow, and Greeting has agreed to join us. It is unfortunate, because I prefer your company to his – all he wants is a chance to hobnob with high-ranking courtiers – but it cannot be helped.’
‘It is only temporary,’ said Chaloner, dismayed. ‘The splint will be off on Saturday.’
‘Perhaps so, but Lisle told me these dressings often cause permanent damage. However, you may be lucky. When you are well again, I shall talk to some friends and see if they have any vacancies. Musical consorts are all the rage these days, so it should not be too difficult to find you something … suited to your reduced abilities.’