‘Joan sent me to tell you not to make a noise,’ she said boldly. ‘It disturbs the neighbours, and the mistress is still resting.’
Chaloner had not been going to play, but the directive prompted him to bow a rather tempestuous fantasy by Henry Lawes, which expressed his feelings far more accurately than words ever could. It was not long before Joan appeared.
‘You will wake the mistress,’ she snapped, going immediately to the table where the cipher still lay. Chaloner stood quickly and went to put it in his pocket. ‘And she worked very late last night. She needs her sleep, and you are disturbing her.’
It was difficult to argue with such a remark, so Chaloner burned the useless decrypting notes in the hearth, then went to stand in the garden, craving fresh air and peace.
He was not sure of the time, but the sky was lightening in the east, and London was coming awake. It was too early for bells to summon the faithful to church, but there was a low and constant hum as carts, carriages and coaches rumbled their way along the capital’s cobbled streets. Dogs barked, a baby cried, someone was singing and there was a metallic clatter from the ironmonger’s shop three doors down. It was hardly restful, but he breathed in deeply, relishing the cool, earthy scent of the open fields that lay not far to the west.
He was not left alone to enjoy it for long. George appeared, carrying a lamp — a luxury Chaloner had certainly not considered claiming for himself. Clearly, the footman had not taken long to make himself at home in Tothill Street.
‘A smoke is the only way to start the day,’ he said, blowing great clouds of it towards the last of the season’s cabbages. He was wearing a curious combination of clothes to ward off the early morning chill, including what looked suspiciously like Chaloner’s best hat. ‘Clears the mind.’
‘Does it?’ Chaloner glanced at him, and as the footman’s fingers closed round the bowl of his pipe, he saw a smudge of violet ink on his hand, starkly visible in the lamp light. He grabbed it and inspected it more closely.
‘An accident,’ said George, freeing himself with more vigour than was appropriate between master and servant.
‘Explain,’ ordered Chaloner curtly.
‘I was cleaning the pens in your box,’ replied George, not looking at him. ‘And the ink spilled.’
‘None of my pens appeared to be clean.’
George looked him directly in the eye. ‘Then it seems I am no better at that duty then I am at most others in the stewarding line. No wonder Fitzgerald dismissed me.’
‘Speaking of Fitzgerald, did you ever sail with him on Jane?’
‘Jane? Never heard of her.’
‘Then were you with him when he traded in gravel?’
George shrugged, and produced so much smoke that it was difficult to see his face. ‘He never told me what was in his holds. And I never asked.’
A sudden screech from the kitchen made Chaloner run back inside the house in alarm, although George ignored it. He arrived to find Joan had cornered a massive rat in the pantry.
‘Fetch your gun and shoot it!’ she ordered. ‘I know you have one, because I have seen it.’
It was a brazen admission that she had been through his belongings, because he had taken care to hide the weapon at the bottom of a drawer. He stared at her, wondering whether all servants considered it their bounden duty to pry into their employers’ affairs.
‘Do not just stand there!’ she shrieked. ‘Fetch the pistol and make an end of the beast.’
‘The neighbours will complain about the noise,’ he objected. ‘Chase it out with a-’
He stopped in disgust when she swooped forward and brought a broom down on the rodent’s head. The resulting gore was far worse than death from a gun, and he was sorry for Nan, who was given the task of cleaning it up.
When he went to resume his discussion with George, the footman had gone. Was he already on his way to report the conversation to Fitzgerald — or whoever else had ordered him to spy? Chaloner finished the milk, took more because he knew it would annoy Joan, and retired upstairs, sure Hannah would be awake by now.
She was only just beginning to stir, which was impressive given the racket that had been made by the duelling cats and by Joan over the rat. He was glad he did not sleep so soundly, certain he would have been dead long ago if he had.
‘Did I hear you scraping on that horrible viol?’ she asked accusingly.
Chaloner said nothing, but wondered why his playing should have disturbed her, when all the other sounds had not.
‘I wish you had learned the flageolet instead,’ she went on. ‘Those are much nicer.’
He changed the subject quickly: they would fall out for certain if they debated the relative merits of flageolets and viols. ‘Could Meneses have hidden those letters in the Queen’s purses?’
Hannah blinked, startled by such a question out of the blue. ‘No. He is a man, and we do not allow those in Her Majesty’s dressing rooms. It would not be decent. Where are you going?’
‘Church,’ replied Chaloner, suddenly seized with the desire to be out of the house.
‘Good. You can take the servants. I want people to know we have an exotic footman.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Hannah,’ snapped Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘He is not a performing bear. He may not even be Christian.’
Hannah stared at him. He rarely lost his temper with her, not even when he was seriously angry. Her expression darkened. ‘If you cannot be civil, Thomas, it is wiser to say nothing at all.’
Chaloner rubbed his head, itching to retort that she should heed her own advice, especially in the mornings, but he was not equal to the argument that would follow. ‘You were home late last night,’ he said, changing the subject again in the interests of matrimonial harmony.
‘Because Meneses would not leave. Perhaps he did plant those letters, although I cannot imagine how. Or why, come to that — he will not gain anything if the Queen is accused of plotting to kill the vainest man in London. Incidentally, I caught Susan poking about in your pen-box when I came home last night. I hope you do not keep anything sensitive in there.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Did she explain what she was doing?’
Hannah looked away. ‘It seems you were right to distrust her. She has been accepting money from someone to spy on you. She would not say who.’
Chaloner aimed for the door. ‘Where is she?’
‘Gone. I ordered her out of the house immediately, never to return.’
Chaloner smothered a sigh. ‘It would have been better to question her first.’
‘I did question her. And I just told you all she said. Besides, I did not want her in our home a moment longer.’
There was no point quarrelling over a fait accompli, so Chaloner bowed in an absurdly formal manner and took his leave, pausing only to hide the scrap of cipher in one of his old boots, an article so grimly shabby that he was certain no one would ever be inclined to investigate within. Perhaps such a precaution was unnecessary now Susan was exposed, but he had not forgotten George’s suspicious behaviour or the fact that Joan had made a beeline for the document when it had been left on the table. As far as he was concerned, he trusted no one in his house. Not even, he realised with a pang, his wife.
Because London was terrified of religious fanatics — defined as anyone who did not follow traditional Anglican rites — Chaloner had no choice but to go to church that Sunday. The vergers made lists of absentees, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by playing truant. He could not afford to lose two hours that day, though, so he exchanged friendly greetings with the sexton in St Margaret’s porch until he was sure his name had been recorded in the register, then escaped through the vestry door before the ceremonies began.