He turned his thoughts to the missing statue. Thanks to the Queen, he now had one lead to follow — two people had been invited to buy it, which suggested the thief was getting desperate. Chaloner rubbed his chin. He knew the culprit’s reason for approaching Greene, but why Margaret? She was a sculptress, but not nearly wealthy enough to buy stolen art and keep it hidden for the rest of her life.
So, there were several things he needed to do: ask Margaret about the statue, question her husband about his uncle’s prayer meetings, and visit John’s Coffee House to learn more about the nature of the gatherings that took place there. There was also the ruby ring, but he had asked virtually everyone in White Hall about that, and had met with no success. He decided he had taken that as far as he could, and although he would bear it in mind, he would not waste any more time on it.
He walked through White Hall’s main gate unchallenged, because the guards were busy watching Lady Castlemaine wave a handgun at someone in the middle of the Palace Court. They were not the only ones taking the opportunity to gawk: the yard was fringed with spectators. Careful to keep a wall between him and the weapon, Chaloner went to where Haddon was standing with his dogs.
‘She says she will blow out Turner’s brains unless he gives her what she wants,’ explained Haddon, seeing the spy’s questioning look. ‘I dare not move from here, lest she discharges her dag, and hits one of my darlings by mistake.’
Chaloner saw that the object of the Lady’s hostility was indeed the colonel, who looked particularly dashing that morning in a dark green suit, red ear-string and a hat with a vast white feather that trailed down his back. When Chaloner glanced across the yard, he saw the Muskerry coach, and wondered whether the sight of Turner in company with Muskerry’s wife was the cause of the Lady’s wrath.
‘What does she want?’ he asked. ‘His romantic services? She does not need to threaten him with death for those — I suspect they are available to anyone who asks. As long as she has teeth.’
‘The Lady has plenty of those, believe me. But she is after his hat. The feather belonged to an ostrich, apparently, and is the only one of its kind in London.’
‘How does he come to have it, then?’ asked Chaloner curiously. A man who took work as a spy was unlikely to have money to squander on fripperies, especially if he had twenty-eight children to support.
‘Bess Gold won it from Buckingham at cards, and I imagine it went from her to Turner in the usual manner,’ replied Haddon, a little primly. ‘The Lady is extremely jealous, and so is making a fuss.’
‘It was a gift, madam,’ Turner was saying softly. He smiled at her, a sweet, gentle expression that saw the gun wobble in her hands. ‘And thus an object to be cherished. You would not respect me, were I to hand tokens of affection away to anyone who asks for them.’
He touched a brooch on his coat and treated her to a knowing wink, indicating Bess was not the only one who paid him the compliment of extravagant presents. Chaloner looked at the many baubles that adorned the colonel’s neck, wrists and fingers, and wondered how he managed to remember what came from whom. He shook his head in grudging admiration: the gifts Turner received were far more costly than the tawdry trinkets — like the coloured-glass crucifix — he dispensed to his swooning ladies.
‘But this is me,’ declared the Lady. Her face was bright with righteous indignation, and there was real malice in her eyes. Chaloner would not have wanted to be Turner at that moment. ‘I shall have whatever I like. And I like that hat, so if you do not give it to me, I shall shoot you and take it from your corpse. I shall need it if I am to go riding this afternoon. The hat I mean.’
‘For God’s sake, woman!’ bawled Buckingham, who was watching the proceedings from the safety of the gate. ‘Use another headpiece. You have enough of the damned things.’
‘One never has enough,’ snapped Lady Castlemaine, rounding on him. He dived behind the door in alarm when the gun came around with her. ‘Of anything.’
Chaloner laughed softly, and Haddon turned to him in surprise. ‘You think this is funny? We may be about to see murder committed in front of our very eyes!’
‘The gun is not primed. She could not kill anyone, even if she wanted to, and Turner knows it. That is why he is not unduly concerned.’
‘Be reasonable,’ came Buckingham’s voice from behind the gate. ‘Let the captain keep his hat.’
‘Colonel,’ corrected Turner, rather grandly.
‘Really?’ asked Buckingham. He did not sound convinced. ‘Under whom did you serve?’
‘Dear Lady,’ said Turner, ignoring him and focussing his attention on the King’s fuming mistress. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you to your chambers, where we can discuss this matter in private. I have something I warrant you will like a lot more than a hat.’
It was an offer no woman with teeth could decline, and the Lady permitted Turner to take the weapon and push it into his belt. Then she strutted across the courtyard on his arm, head in the air and exuding a sense of wounded dignity. Seeing the crisis had been averted, people began to go about their business again. One was Greene, who slouched towards the Banqueting Hall with all the cheer of a man going to his execution. As their paths crossed, Lady Castlemaine nodded a greeting to him. Chaloner frowned. The Lady had a reputation for slighting people she did not like, while she considered servants so far beneath her that she never acknowledged their presence. And yet she had favoured the unprepossessing clerk from Westminster with a salutation. Why? Was it because the Earl had taken against him, and any victim of the Earl’s was a friend of hers?
‘Turner will be trapped with her for hours now,’ Haddon was saying. ‘She has a voracious appetite for pretty men. And that works to our advantage, because as long as he frolics, he cannot investigate.’
‘Our advantage?’
‘I have five pounds wagered that you will catch the killer before he does,’ explained Haddon, bending to pet his dogs. ‘The Earl believes Turner will win. However, his preference for the colonel has nothing to do with who is the better investigator — it is based on the fact that Turner is beginning to accept Greene as the killer.’
‘And the Earl wants a solution that proves him right,’ said Chaloner gloomily.
‘No — he wants a solution that is fast,’ corrected Haddon. ‘But I would rather the enquiry took longer and the real culprit is exposed, so I am backing you.’
‘Then let us hope it does not cost you five pounds.’
‘It had better not, because I cannot afford it. Incidentally, you will find the Earl in a sour mood this morning, because Brodrick played his Turkish-harem trick last night — our master arrived to find his chambers bedecked in billowing silk and forty harlots. So, let us hope the Lord of Misrule moves to other targets now. Come along, precious ones. We do not want your little paws chilled on these nasty cold stones.’
Chaloner had only taken a few steps towards the Earl’s offices when he spotted Barbara Chiffinch. He went to speak to her, wondering what it was about her that Hannah so disliked. Barbara was married to Will Chiffinch, a courtier of infamous depravity who was said to procure women for the King when his mistresses were unavailable. Barbara was not depraved, though, and led a perfectly respectable life. It was said that she and her husband had not shared the same bed in forty years.
‘I have been looking for you, Tom,’ she said as he approached. She was a comfortable, matronly woman with grey hair, an ample bosom and hazel eyes that glowed with intelligence. ‘Turner tells me your Earl has employed him as a spy. Have you been dismissed, then?’