‘What did he lie about?’
‘He claimed he was commissioned to organise music for the troops in Tangier, but it cannot have been true — I doubt they are interested in Italian arias. Ergo, he went there for some other purpose.’
Chaloner stared at him. He had also been sceptical of Cave’s declared mission, and Kitty O’Brien had expressed reservations, too. ‘What other purpose?’
‘Personally, I believe he was one of you — an intelligencer. Sent to Tangier to spy.’
‘What evidence do you have?’
‘None whatsoever,’ replied Brodrick airily. ‘But what else could he have been doing?’
‘Perhaps he went there for business. A lot of men are making themselves very rich from Tangier, as you will know from being an Adventurer.’
Brodrick shook his head. ‘We are thriving, but we have a monopoly. No one else is licensed to trade there — it would be illegal — and Cave was not one of us. However, I suppose he might have gone to capitalise on all the corruption surrounding the building of the sea wall.’
‘That would not be easy. You do not simply arrive and demand a cut of the profits.’
‘Well, then,’ said Brodrick, tossing the half-chewed piece of bread back into the basket as he stood. ‘My point is proven. Cave was an intelligencer. After all, he was killed when he returned by one James Elliot. And who is Elliot? Spymaster Williamson’s creature!’
Chaloner gazed after Brodrick as he shuffled away. Was that the real reason for the duel? To prevent Cave from telling anyone what he had learned in Tangier? But Cave had died more than a week after his return, by which time he would already have made his report to whoever had sent him. And who had sent him? As Elliot had done the killing, it was unlikely to have been Williamson. Did that mean the Spymaster had ordered Cave’s murder?
But from what Chaloner had seen of the spat, it had been Cave who had engineered the quarrel. He shook his head slowly, not sure what to think.
It was not easy to convert the Banqueting House into a state room after its interlude as the King’s personal playhouse, and the difficulties were compounded when the ambassador arrived early. The King, pursued by valets still fussing with his ceremonial finery, rushed into the Great Court to greet him, hoping to gain the frantic servants and their noble helpers a few more minutes to prepare.
Lady Castlemaine was hot on his heels, clad in a robe that accentuated her ample frontage and narrow waist. She expected to be admired, and her jaw dropped in astonishment when the ambassador barely spared her a glance. It was the Queen who saved the day, by engaging him in a discussion about herring, a subject that made his eyes light up. As every remark needed to be translated, the ensuing conversation took some time.
‘She is a great diplomat,’ whispered Hannah proudly. ‘She took care to learn about his interests, you see. Unlike the Lady, who assumes a display of bosom will keep him transfixed.’
‘It seems to have transfixed the King,’ said Chaloner, aware that His Majesty was far more interested in the Lady than his guest’s ramblings about salting processes.
But even the Queen could not maintain a discussion about fish indefinitely, and when it eventually faltered, the ambassador began to move towards the Banqueting House again. The King heaved a sigh of relief when Buckingham winked to say all was more or less in order, and if the emissary noticed that the interior décor was somewhat unusual, he was too polite to show it.
The occasion was a large one, and guests included virtually everyone Chaloner had met since returning from Tangier. Both Adventurers and members of the Piccadilly Company were present, rubbing shoulders with naval and military officers, clerics, courtiers, merchants, servants and even local shopkeepers. Chaloner was startled to see Joan and George there, having apparently persuaded Hannah to get them in. There was a pipe clamped between George’s teeth, and his eyes were everywhere. Chaloner watched him, thinking that while it may have been Susan who had been caught spying, there was still something very questionable about the footman.
‘Fitzgerald has been invited,’ came a voice in his ear. Chaloner turned, and it took him a moment to recognise that the choleric churchman in the orange wig was Thurloe. ‘When he arrives, leave him to me — along with Lester, who is currently talking to Kipps.’
Chaloner had not known that Lester and Kipps were acquainted, but said nothing, unwilling to fuel Thurloe’s suspicions about the captain.
‘I will corner Meneses,’ he said instead. ‘I think he was the one who planted the letters in the Queen’s purses, and he has turned cool towards her now we are on the eve of Pratt’s so-called murder. Moreover, he was strangely eager for me to be disabused of the notion that he has a connection with Tangier.’
‘But he is not an Adventurer,’ Thurloe whispered. ‘And it seems to me that they are the ones who want the Queen implicated in a treasonous plot.’
‘Perhaps he infiltrated the Piccadilly Company in order to spy. It seems Cave may have been an intelligencer, too, and I cannot help but wonder whether he was sent to discover what really happened to Teviot.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Thurloe. ‘He was not the kind of man I would have entrusted with such a difficult and dangerous mission. Who else will you monitor, besides Meneses?’
‘Leighton,’ replied Chaloner promptly. ‘And I will listen to as many Adventurers and Piccadilly Company members as I can. I do not suppose you have cracked the cipher, have you?’
‘No, but Wallis did.’ Chaloner started to smile in surprise, but the ex-Spymaster’s expression was bleak. ‘Reyner told his mother that it was a list of his enemies, but either he lied to her or he was mistaken. It was actually a description of Jews Hill in Tangier — the kind of report that a scout might send to his commanding officer, detailing dips, rises and the number of trees.’
‘So it was nothing?’ asked Chaloner, acutely disappointed. ‘All that time we spent on it …’
‘Was wasted,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘We must learn something today, Tom, or Fitzgerald will succeed tomorrow, and we shall all be the losers.’
Chaloner’s reply was drowned out by a sudden blast of trumpets. The King sat down on his great throne, his courtiers clustered around him so tightly that Buckingham’s face was full of Clarendon’s wig, and the Lady was pressed hard against the Bishop of Winchester. She gave the prelate a long, slow wink, and he recoiled in alarm.
There was another fanfare and the speeches began, unusually brief because no one had had time to prepare anything. The ambassador opened his mouth to remark on it, clearly interpreting the brevity as a diplomatic snub, but the King invited him to dine before he could do so, steering him towards the tables and chatting about the dancing that had been arranged for later. The Earl was one of the first to take his place at the table, knife in one chubby hand, and spoon in the other.
Only the elite had been asked to eat, and O’Brien’s face was a mask of disappointment when he realised he was not to be one of them. Kitty patted his hand consolingly, and led him away.
‘We were sorry you did not attend Brodrick’s soirée last night,’ she said, when their route took them past Chaloner. ‘We were hoping for some decent music, but there were only flageolets and drums. Moreover, the occasion became rather wild as the evening progressed.’
‘It was unruly,’ agreed O’Brien, in what was almost certainly an understatement. He started to add something else, but stopped when a shadow materialised at his side. It was Leighton.
‘I have just heard a rumour,’ said the Adventurers’ secretary silkily. ‘About Cave’s brother.’
‘I hope you do not intend to criticise him for burying Cave in St Margaret’s Church,’ said Kitty, regarding him with dislike. ‘The Chapel Royal choir had arranged a very expensive ceremony without consulting him, so I do not blame the fellow for taking matters into his own hands.’