Chaloner had no idea what he needed to solve the case, and addressed another matter. ‘I am told you were invited to buy a certain piece of art recently.’
Greene looked pained. ‘Yes, but I refused to have anything to do with it. Will the Earl hold that against me now? It was hardly my fault someone approached me with a suspicious offer.’
‘Who was this someone?’
‘A go-between, who declined to tell me the identity of his master. I followed him, to see where he went, but I am no spy and I lost him within moments. And do you know why I was singled out for this honour? Because it is common knowledge that your Earl hates me, and this villain said I could use the statue to buy back his favour.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘In return for virtually everything I own, I would get the bust. Then I could take it to the Earl, and offer it up in exchange for a pardon for these murders. But I am innocent — I should not need a pardon. And I would not buy a stolen masterpiece anyway, especially one that belongs to the King.’
Chaloner felt sorry for him. Greene was right: it was not his fault the thief had picked him. ‘Did you notice anything that may allow me to trace this go-between?’
Greene thought hard. ‘He kept his face hidden with one of those plague masks, but his dirty clothes told me he was a labourer. He was taller than the average man, and a bit more broad.’
Chaloner grimaced: the description was worse than useless. He was disappointed, because it was another dead end. He turned to the last of the subjects he wanted to air.
‘Turner said you keep a supply of brandywine hidden here. Why?’
‘It is not mine — I dislike the stuff. I have no idea who hid it here, but I assure you it was not me.’
‘Brandywine was used to disguise the poison that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston,’ said Chaloner to see what sort of reaction that particular snippet of information would provoke.
Greene’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘No! Will you tell the Earl? He will have me hanged for certain!’
Chaloner inspected the place where the drink had been found, but a number of people had already told him the office was never locked, so Greene was right in his insistent claims that anyone could have put it there.
‘Who dislikes you enough to want you accused of murder?’ Chaloner asked, sitting back on his heels. He was disgusted with himself — he should have discovered the cache when he first explored the room. Was it a sign that Turner was a better investigator?
‘No one,’ replied Greene, white-faced. ‘I am not popular, but I am not hated, either. I imagine most people barely know I exist.’
Chaloner suspected he was right, and left him reciting prayers for deliverance from his troubles, although his dull, resigned expression suggested he did not think there was much chance of his petitions being granted.
By the evening, Chaloner had asked so many questions but received so few useful answers in return, that he was tired and dispirited, and knew he would be sullen company for Hannah. He decided to go home instead, but she met him as he was leaving White Hall. Buckingham was with her, intent on escorting her home — he claimed he was concerned for her safety, but Chaloner saw the lustful gleam in the man’s eye. The Duke was loath to relinquish her at first, but then Lady Castlemaine appeared, and he excused himself with unseemly haste. Hannah did not see the reason for his abrupt departure, and extolled his virtues all the way home.
‘He is a wonderful man,’ she said dreamily, unlocking her front door. ‘His wife is a lucky lady.’
Chaloner did not think so. ‘Can you cook?’ he asked, mostly to change the subject before they argued, but also because he was hungry and experienced a sudden hankering for cakes.
She regarded him in surprise. ‘I can manage a pickled ling pie, but not much else. Why?’
Chaloner shuddered at the notion of pickled fish in pastry, and supposed he would have either to maintain his friendship with Bulteel or forgo cakes in future — unless he learned how to bake them himself.
Chaloner awoke the next morning feeling rested and much more optimistic about his investigations. While Hannah freshened his shirt and lace collar with a hot iron, he went to buy bread for their breakfast. He also purchased the latest newsbook, although The Newes contained no reports from foreign correspondents, nothing of domestic affairs, and its editorial was a rant on the poor workmanship to be found in viols made anywhere other than England.
‘That is untrue,’ he said to Hannah, pacing back and forth as he read. ‘There are excellent viol makers in Florence.’
‘We shall have some nice music on Twelfth Night eve,’ said Hannah. ‘I forgot to tell you last night, but Sir Nicholas Gold has invited me to dine at his home, and said I might bring a guest. Bess sings and he plays the trumpet. With your viol and my flageolet, we shall have a lovely time.’
The combination of instruments was worthy of a wince as far as Chaloner was concerned, but he was not often asked out, so any opportunity to play his viol was to be seized with alacrity. Of course, Gold was deaf, which did not bode well for the quality of the music, but the spy was willing to take the chance. When Hannah had finished primping his clothes, he walked to Lincoln’s Inn, to ask what Thurloe recalled of Scobel’s death — and whether the ex-Spymaster knew anything about prayer meetings with men who had later became Royalist clerks.
When he arrived, Thurloe was at a meeting of the ‘benchers’ — the Inn’s ruling body. They were a verbose crowd, who felt cheated unless they had repeated themselves at least three times before any decision was reached. Used to the trim efficiency of the Commonwealth, Thurloe found the occasions a chore, and was more than happy to use a visitor as an excuse to escape.
‘I checked Doling’s claims about Chetwynd with several informants,’ the ex-Spymaster said, walking with Chaloner in the Inn’s garden. Winter should have rendered it bleak and unwelcoming, but the benchers had hired professional landscapers to design an arbour that was a delight in any season. Gravel paths prevented expensive footwear from getting wet, while evergreen shrubs supplied year-long colour.
‘What did they say?’ asked Chaloner, hoping Thurloe knew what he was doing when he removed three bright blue pills from a tin and ate them.
‘That Hargrave did bribe Chetwynd by gifting him a cottage. I am disappointed, because I respected Chetwynd. He hid his corruption well.’
‘And Neale’s accusations?’
Thurloe’s expression was pained. ‘There is irrefutable evidence that Neale gave Chetwynd a substantial sum to secure himself a favourable verdict. Unfortunately for Neale, his brother paid more. Chetwynd accepted both bribes, then refused Neale a refund. And what could Neale do? Nothing! Bribing government officials is a criminal offence, so he could hardly make a formal complaint. No wonder he is bitter.’
‘Meanwhile, Vine was in the habit of blackmailing people. He was not a virtuous man, either.’
Thurloe shook his head sadly. ‘I had no idea. However, I heard there was some great falling out between him and Gold not long ago. I shall endeavour to find out what it was about.’
‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner. ‘It is unwise for prominent Parliamentarians to explore the embarrassing failings of Royalists.’
Thurloe shot him a reproachful glance. ‘I am quite capable of asking my questions anonymously. You need not fear for me.’
‘But I do fear for you. You are an excellent master of intelligence, able to see patterns in half-formed facts, but that is not the same as going out to gather the data yourself.’
‘You underestimate my skills,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Why do you think I am still alive, when, as Cromwell’s chief advisor, my head should be on a pole outside Westminster Hall, next to his? I do not suppose you have noticed whether it is still there, have you? I cannot bring myself to look.’