Chaloner picked up a soggy pamphlet from the ground, and pretended to read it while he watched, wondering at the Company’s penchant for gatherings that took place so early. Was it because its members had demanding daytime jobs, so could not manage a more conducive hour? Or because it was hoped that spies would be less attentive at dawn than late at night?
Meneses was first out, although someone must have remarked on the foreignness of his clothes, because he wore a cloak to conceal them. Lydcott was next; Thurloe’s disapprobation had made no impression on him, because he was whistling happily and it was clear that he intended to ignore his kinsman’s warnings. He was followed by Harley and Newell, both grim-faced, as if whatever had been discussed had displeased them. Or perhaps they were still smarting because Reyner’s killer remained at large. Then came a lot of people Chaloner did not know, although their clothes indicated they were wealthy, and he suspected they were merchants.
One of the last to emerge was Fitzgerald, his piratical beard tucked inside his coat and a hat pulled low to disguise his eye-patch. Once everyone had gone, the woman stared across the street, directly at Chaloner. He tensed as she began to walk towards him.
‘You have had more than enough time to peruse that wet pamphlet,’ she said softly. ‘Have you come to hire my services, but cannot pluck up the courage to come to my home?’
‘Possibly,’ hedged Chaloner, angry with himself for not being more circumspect. He wondered what services she had in mind, although the way she ran her fingers down his sleeve did not leave him pondering for long.
‘My name is Brilliana,’ she said. ‘But I imagine you already know that.’
Chaloner bowed, noting that her clothes were of very high quality, and that she positively dripped jewellery. Here was no lowly strumpet, but a courtesan of some distinction, and he could only suppose she had deigned to approach him because he was dressed for visiting the Queen. Fortunately, his race to the woods had not damaged or soiled anything — at least, nothing that was noticeable on a morning where rainclouds and soot-laden smog meant the light was poor.
‘You had better come to my boudoir, then,’ she said. ‘It is too cold to do business out here.’
Wondering whether it was wise to enter her lair — he had intended to tackle her on neutral ground — Chaloner followed her across the street. Her house, which he recalled was shared with her brother Harley, was a large building on three floors. She conducted him to a pleasantly airy room at the rear, graced with furniture that would not have looked out of place in a French palace.
She sat on an embroidered chair and rang a bell that stood on a table to one side. Immediately, a footman appeared, bearing a tray with a jug of chocolate and two goblets. He poured a little of the dark liquid into each, and from the smell Chaloner suspected it had been fortified with sack.
‘I have told you my name,’ said Brilliana, when the servant had withdrawn and she and Chaloner were alone again. Her smile was coy. ‘What is yours?’
‘Do you require names from all your clients?’
Brilliana tilted her head. ‘It helps, should I want to address them with any intimacy. Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
Brilliana raised her eyebrows. ‘Do not tell me you are one of those tedious fellows who thinks abstaining makes a difference to the slaves on the plantations? You will have to change your tune soon, or you will find yourself left behind, like those poor fools who still hanker after the lost Republic. But you are not here to discuss commerce and politics. Are you?’
The sharp intelligence in her eyes told Chaloner that she knew exactly who he was, and what he wanted. Seeing no point in playing games, he decided to be blunt.
‘No, mistress. I thought we might discuss your brother and his work in Tangier.’
She regarded him coolly. ‘He will not need your help in the event of an official inquiry, because he has done nothing wrong. He did not see the Moors waiting in ambush on the day that Lord Teviot died, and no one can prove otherwise.’
‘That will not satisfy the lawyers,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Teviot is popular now he is dead, and they are looking for a scapegoat. Your brother fits the bill perfectly, so if you do not want him hanged, you should encourage him to cooperate with me.’
It was impossible to read Brilliana’s thoughts, although a gleam in her eye said her mind was working fast. ‘I shall pass the message on, but I am not his keeper. He may not listen.’
‘Then tell me when the Piccadilly Company is next meeting, and I will talk to him myself.’
‘The Piccadilly Company is certainly not your concern,’ said Brilliana icily. ‘Now drink your chocolate and then we shall both be about our own business.’
Chaloner lifted the cup, but did not put it to his lips. ‘Cave was on the ship from Tangier, too. I was with him when he died, and he mentioned you.’ It was a lie, but she was not in a position to know it.
‘Poor John,’ she said softly. ‘His death was a wicked shame, and I miss him dreadfully.’
‘Did you attend his funeral?’ He knew she had not, because Wiseman had told him as much.
‘No,’ she replied shortly. ‘Because his brother Jacob shoved him in the ground before his friends could object. I was very upset — I would have liked to say goodbye.’
‘Do you know where Jacob lives?’
‘If I did, I would visit him and give him a piece of my mind. He had no right to act so precipitately. And damn James Elliot, too! John might have started the quarrel, but James should never have fought him. Personally, I think he encouraged Jacob to opt for a hasty funeral.’
‘He cannot have done,’ said Chaloner, startled. ‘He is dead.’
‘Have you seen his body?’ she demanded. ‘No? Then how do you know he is dead? I wager anything you please that he is alive and well and telling Jacob what to do.’
‘Why would he want Cave buried quickly?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Because he is dangerous and unpredictable,’ declared Brilliana. ‘I wish I had never bestowed my favours on him. I did it because his wife is insane, and I felt sorry for him. But it was a mistake.’
‘I have taken enough of your time,’ said Chaloner, his mind full of questions he knew Brilliana was unlikely to answer. ‘Thank you for the chocolate.’
‘You have not touched it. At least take a sip before you leave. It is expensive.’
‘You have not touched yours, either,’ said Chaloner, glad a career in espionage had taught him never to partake of anything his host had not tasted first.
She smiled, although it was not a pleasant expression. ‘You must come to see me again. I always have chocolate waiting for guests like you.’
Chaloner was sure she did.
It was not far from Piccadilly to St Margaret’s Church in Westminster, but the journey yielded little in the way of information. The young curate who had conducted Cave’s funeral burst into tears when Chaloner started to ask questions about the musician’s hasty send-off.
‘I did not know! I thought he was just another pauper from the rookeries — we get lots of them in here, and it is my job to deal with them quickly so they do not distress our wealthier parishioners. His brother never said he was a courtier, and now everyone at White Hall thinks me a villain for depriving them of music by the Chapel Royal choir and a homily by the Bishop …’
‘Did Cave’s brother look like a pauper himself?’ asked Chaloner.
The curate shook his head. ‘But I did not think anything about it at the time.’
Still sniffling, he led the way to a mound in the churchyard, one in a line of several, which suggested he was telling the truth about the number of cheap and nasty interments he conducted.