‘Is that all you require in a friend? Honesty? What about sharing interests? Music, for example.’
‘He does not like music,’ acknowledged Chaloner. He recalled his surprise when Bulteel had informed him of the fact. He had thought everyone liked music.
‘Think carefully before you give him your answer. Do not dwell on what you might be able to do for the child, but on what such an association means for you. You are a good man, Tom. It would be unfortunate if Bulteel dragged you down.’
It was late morning when Chaloner woke the next day, and Hannah was gone. He supposed it was her revenge on him for doing it to her, and was concerned that he had not heard anything. He was normally a light sleeper, and anyone moving about in a room where he was resting usually had him snapping into immediate wakefulness. But he did not feel well that day, and it took considerable effort to dress and walk to Westminster. His lame leg hurt from being so cold the night before, and his head ached miserably.
So, what had happened the previous night? He had been so intent on surviving the encounter, that he had given little thought to what it meant. Jones and Swaddell were dead — at least he assumed they were — but what had caused them to go into the river in the first place? Had Jones caught Swaddell and killed him for eavesdropping? Or had they fought and fallen in together?
And why had the soldiers so suddenly appeared? Had they been tracking him, aware that he had escaped alive from the Painted Chamber? He did not think so, because he was sure he would have noticed. So, that meant their appearance was coincidence — he had just happened to blunder into an area they considered their own. Did they think he was dead now, because they assumed Jones, shot and drowned, was him? It did not seem likely that they would believe a man would leap in the river to escape them one moment, then call for their help the next. But in his experience, professional warriors were an unimaginative lot, and it was entirely possible they had not stopped to question what they thought they had seen. So did that mean he was safe for a while? He did not feel safe, and decided the first thing he needed to do that day was to visit the wharf, to see what might be learned from the place where he was attacked.
The alley was a dark, sinister slit, as uninviting in daylight as it had been during the night. He was less than a quarter of the way down it when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up — something was moving in the shadows ahead. He gaped in astonishment when he saw it was the guards who had been detailed to watch the pier the previous evening — they were still at their posts, and he realised he had underestimated their determination to be thorough. Suspecting there would be nothing to see anyway — and he had no sword to let him fight his way past them to look — he left.
Wiseman was in Old Palace Yard, resplendent in a tall red hat and a new scarlet cloak that swirled about him as he walked. Both made him more imposing than ever, which Chaloner supposed was the point — the surgeon liked to be noticed. His self-imposed exercise regime obviously suited him, too, because he radiated vitality and fitness. His skin was clear, his eyes bright and although he had been walking at a rapid clip, he was not even slightly breathless. Uneasily, Chaloner saw he would be a formidable opponent in a fight, and sincerely hoped he would never decide to change sides.
‘You look as though you need my services,’ Wiseman began imperiously. ‘You are limping and-’
‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. He would have to be at death’s door before he let a surgeon loose on him. ‘I do not suppose you have heard rumours about a train-band lurking around here, have you?’
‘I have, as a matter of fact. A gang of soldiers has taken up residence — and their presence has virtually eradicated petty crime. Why? Was it they who attacked you the other night?’
‘Who controls them? Pays their wages, buys their equipment?’
‘No one knows. The obvious candidate is Williamson, although he has never cared about policing the area in the past. However, I can tell you that they are secretive and deadly, and that you should be wary of tackling them. Personally, I do not believe they are kindly Robin Hoods, ousting felons to protect the innocent — I think they crushed rival villains because it suited them to do so.’
‘Do you know anything else about them?’
‘Nothing — except that the charnel house currently houses the corpses of two men and a woman who were rather vocal in demanding to know who these men are. Ergo, I recommend you keep your questions to yourself, because I do not want to anatomise your cadaver just yet.’
Chaloner was grateful for the warning, because investigating the train-band was exactly how he had planned to spend the morning. So, because he did not feel equal to tackling dangerous men again that day, he concentrated instead on trying to learn more about Chetwynd, Vine and Langston from the men who had worked with them. He also made discreet enquiries about ruby rings, but was disheartened to learn that they were rather common, and that at least a dozen people had a penchant for them. Wearily, he followed as many leads as he could, eliminating suspects where possible, but his efforts led nowhere. Occasionally, an opening occurred when he could ask obliquely about the train-band, but he found that either people had no idea what he was talking about or, like Wiseman, they had heard that discussing the mysterious soldiers was bad for the health and declined to do it.
He met Turner, who was surrounded by women as usual. The colonel broke away from them to inform the spy that he had just conducted a search of Greene’s Westminster office, and had discovered a large supply of brandywine hidden beneath a window.
‘Perhaps he was drunk when he murdered his colleagues, and does not remember anything,’ he suggested. ‘He denied the stuff was his, but who knows whether he is telling the truth? Meg is still missing, by the way, and I spent ages hunting for her this morning. But, look! There is Lady Muskerry. I must pay my respects.’
And he was gone before Chaloner could tell him that Surgeon Wiseman thought brandywine had disguised the taste of the poison fed to the three dead clerks.
The spy had wanted to talk to Greene anyway, to question him about Scobel’s prayer meetings and being offered the stolen statue. He went in search of him, and found him still in his office. The clerk was pale and drawn, and had lost weight over the past few days. He sat at his desk sorting documents into piles. Chaloner watched, bemused. If he had been in Greene’s position, he would have been out looking for evidence that would exonerate him. Or, if he was guilty, then he would be halfway to France. But here was Greene doing paperwork.
‘I put my trust in God,’ replied the clerk, when Chaloner questioned him about it. ‘Besides, I have alibis for the murders of Vine and Langston, and that should be enough to deliver me from the Earl.’
‘It should,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But he does not believe Lady Castlemaine saw Langston alive when you were with your vicar in Wapping, and nor does he trust me when I say you were home when Vine died. We shall have to find something else to prove your innocence.’
‘Then God will provide it,’ said Greene quietly. ‘Or not. What will be will be, and there is nothing you or I can do to change the outcome.’
His passivity was incomprehensible to Chaloner. He shook his head, and began to ask his questions. ‘I understand you once attended prayer meetings with the three dead men in the house of a man called Scobel, and that you later met them in John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Is it true?’
Greene sighed. ‘Yes. I have already told you about the coffee-house gatherings. However, the prayer meetings were years ago, and it did not occur to me that they might be relevant. I went to a morality play with them all once, before the old king was beheaded, and we sometimes attended the same church during the wars. Do you want to know all that, too?’