Chaloner searched it, going through the standard procedures to identify secret hiding places, aiming to discover anything that might prove Hyde was the author of the letters. He was aware of Hannah watching some of his checks in astonishment, no doubt wondering how he had come to learn them, but she grinned her delight when he located a secret drawer in a bureau. It was not a novel hiding place, but one in keeping with Hyde’s unimaginative but overconfident character.
Unfortunately, it contained nothing but sketches of Lady Castlemaine sans clothes. The Earl would be unimpressed to think of his son poring over such images, but it was irrelevant as far as Chaloner was concerned. Hannah picked up one of the drawings and studied it disparagingly.
‘Her knees are too big.’
‘If Hyde is responsible for writing the letters, then he has left no evidence here,’ said Chaloner, replacing all as he had found it. ‘Who else has access to Her Majesty’s wardrobe?’
‘All her ladies-in-waiting, along with a host of maids, laundresses and seamstresses — some twenty or thirty women in all. No men, of course — that would be unseemly. You interviewed them when you were last here. Clearly none struck you as sly, or you would have said something.’
‘What happens when letters arrive for the Queen?’ While Chaloner did not believe the staff would have initiated such a plot of their own volition, most would have planted the missives in exchange for money. Loyalty was cheap at White Hall, where wages were low and often paid late.
‘They are given to Captain Appleby downstairs, and he brings them to Hyde.’
‘And Hyde reads them all?’
‘He opens them all, but the ones that are personal he is supposed to pass on without perusing. Of course, he is a nosy fellow and scans the lot. Except the ones in Portuguese, which are beyond him.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then, if he thinks she should see them, he places them on this silver platter, and conveys them to her. He deals with the routine correspondence, of course — petitions, bills and so forth.’
Chaloner had learned nothing helpful, and was about to leave when a door opened and the Queen stepped through it. Meneses was with her, along with several ladies-in-waiting, who scampered away with indecent haste when they saw that Hannah was available to take over as chaperon.
‘I hope he does not stay long,’ Hannah whispered resentfully to Chaloner, ‘because there is nothing more tedious than listening to conversations in a language you do not know.’
‘Hannah tells me you have been in Tangier, Thomas,’ said Katherine pleasantly. She spoke Portuguese, and Chaloner suspected the pleasure she always exhibited when she met him derived from the fact that she was not obliged to struggle in English. ‘I hope you liked it. It was part of my dowry, and the King says it will soon become one of England’s most prized possessions.’
‘Perhaps, Your Majesty,’ Chaloner replied evasively, wanting neither to lie nor hurt her feelings.
Meneses regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘Who are you? You speak our language like a Spaniard, but you do not look like one.’
‘He is Hannah’s husband,’ explained Katherine. ‘I suppose he does sound like a Spaniard, now that you mention it. I have never noticed that before.’
As Spain and Portugal were mortal enemies, speaking Portuguese with a Spanish accent was clearly undesirable, and Chaloner would have to remedy the matter when he had time.
‘Meneses has been to Tangier, too,’ said Katherine conversationally. ‘In fact, he was one of its governors, before it was handed to the English. I am sure you will enjoy talking to each other.’
Meneses’ smile was tight. ‘Alas, my sojourn there was brief, so I have little to say about it.’
‘Come, My Lady,’ said Hannah, taking the Queen’s arm and clearly intent on separating her from the man she did not like. ‘You promised to show me the new dances you have learned — the ones you will use at tomorrow’s ball.’
The Queen laughed, a pleasant sound that was rarely heard, and allowed herself to be led away. She loved dancing, and could nearly always be diverted by it.
‘The Queen is a dear, sweet creature, but easily confused,’ said Meneses, when they had gone. ‘You will ignore her chatter. She does not know what she is talking about.’
‘You mean you were not Governor of Tangier?’
‘I have never been there,’ replied Meneses smoothly. ‘But if it amuses her to think I held the title of governor, then where is the harm in letting her dream?’
He bowed and set off after her before Chaloner could ask more. The man was lying, but about what? Had he awarded himself fictitious titles to gain her favour? Or was he reluctant for anyone other than her — whose poor English did not permit her to gossip — to know of his Tangier connections, especially given his association with Fitzgerald and the Piccadilly Company?
As Meneses turned to close the door behind him, he caught Chaloner staring, and a combination of unease and anger flitted across his face. Chaloner looked away, but too late. Meneses knew he was suspicious, and Chaloner had a very bad feeling that might prove to be dangerous.
The next day was Sunday, and Chaloner awoke long before dawn when two cats elected to hold a brawl under his bedroom window. The moment he opened his eyes, he was aware of an immediate sense of frustration.
He had collected Thurloe after leaving the Queen’s lodgings, and the two of them had spent the evening being thwarted at every turn. First, Reverend Addison had been out. Second, Harley had declined to answer his door and Thurloe had baulked at breaking in. Third, they had been unable to locate Jacob’s house in Covent Garden. Fourth, Leighton had taken a number of Adventurers for a jaunt on the river; his guests included Kitty and O’Brien, so none of the three were available to describe what had happened to Newell. And finally, enquiries in the Piccadilly taverns had failed to yield a single shred of useful information.
Hannah had not been home when Chaloner had returned, and he was not sure how long he had been asleep before she had arrived. He had snapped awake with a dagger in his hand when she slid into bed beside him, although he had managed to shove it under the pillow before she saw it. Exhausted, he had dozed again, and had not woken until the cats had started yowling.
He rose quietly and went into the dressing room to hunt for fresh clothes. Then, because his stomach was tender and acidic from days of missed or hastily snatched meals, he went to the kitchen, to see whether there was anything nice to eat.
‘It is far too early for breakfast,’ stated Joan, the moment she saw him. She was still wearing nightclothes, although Nan was dressed. There was no sign of George or Susan. ‘The mistress gave strict instructions that nothing was to be served before ten o’clock on a Sunday.’
‘Well, I am not the mistress,’ replied Chaloner coolly, going to the larder. There was a pie, but remembering his injunction to George about the possibility of poison, he settled for a cup of milk instead.
‘Do not drink that,’ ordered Joan. ‘Cold milk is dangerous.’
Chaloner took a larger gulp than he might otherwise have done, and stalked past her, wishing he had stayed in Long Acre. He went to the drawing room and retrieved the singed document he had hidden in the skirting board — the one he had found in the Piccadilly Company’s rooms in the Crown. Then he opened his pen-box, and was unimpressed to note that it had been searched a second time — a pot of violet ink, which he liked for its unusual colour, had been moved. There was nothing significant in the box for the culprit to find, but it was unsettling nevertheless.
He settled down to work, trying all manner of exotic formulae, and using reams of paper in the process, but he met with no success. Bored, he leaned back in his chair to ease the cramped muscles in his shoulders, and his eye lit on his second-best viol, which he had neglected to put away the last time he had played it. He walked over to it and ran his fingers across its cool, silky wood. Then he took a sheet of music and began to go through it in his mind. A draught on the back of his neck told him someone was watching. He whipped around to see Nan.