Symons nodded. ‘I am coming to that. He withdrew from our gatherings, because he said our beliefs were obsolete and silly. But within days, disaster struck — his bank was robbed, and all the money he had earned from his plays was stolen.’
‘You think the robbery occurred because he left your meetings?’ asked Chaloner, unconvinced.
Symons shrugged. ‘Why not? He stopped praying for success, and immediately he lost his fortune. Backwell’s have pledged to repay their customers eventually, but in the interim, Langston was penniless. He came back to us with his tail between his legs, and he is lucky our friends are open-hearted, because they welcomed him like a prodigal son. They also lend him money, to tide him over until Backwell’s make good.’
‘Why should he need to borrow?’ asked Chaloner, supposing it explained why Langston had taken ten pounds from Greene. ‘Was his White Hall pay insufficient?’
‘I believe he spent a lot of money visiting brothels, to gain inspiration for his writing — and I am told the higher sorts of establishment are expensive.’
‘Did Greene know what kind of plays he wrote?’
Symons hesitated. ‘He invited Langston to live in his house after the robbery. I visited them there once, and Langston was using the parlour in which to write. Perhaps Greene never looked at the papers scattered about his table, but I find that hard to believe.’
‘He seems to keep some very dubious company,’ Chaloner remarked. There was an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach, which told him he might have made a mistake — that perhaps he had been wrong to champion Greene’s cause.
Symons looked hurt. ‘Actually, he keeps very good company. Chetwynd, Vine and Langston may have strayed from the straight and narrow, but most of the men who meet in John’s Coffee House are above reproach — Francis Tryan, John Reeve, Nicholas Gold. Do not tar us all with the same brush.’
‘I do not know Reeve.’
‘He is a corn-chandler, who insists on wearing a disguise to our meetings. So does Swaddell, the Spymaster’s man, although we guessed his identity the first time he joined us. Langston and Jones wanted him expelled, but the rest of us felt sorry for him. It cannot be easy for assassins to make friends, and we hope that praying with us might encourage him to adopt a gentler profession.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘You keep saying that you meet to pray. Is it the sole function of these gatherings?’
‘It used to be, to thank God for our good fortunes. My uncle believed that too many folk ask Him for favours, and too few are grateful for what they already have. But these days we spend most of the time chatting to each other. And since Chetwynd died, we have done little but talk about murder.’
‘You clearly disapprove, so why do you continue to go?’
‘Because I told my uncle I would. He thought I would be able to keep the others from sin, but I have failed miserably — just as I have failed in everything else. But a promise is a promise, and I have some honour left, so I head for John’s Coffee House each time I am summoned. I imagine that is why Greene sent you now — one of them has learned something new about these horrible deaths, and we are all beckoned forth to hear about it.’
‘Greene did not send me. I am investigating the murders for the Lord Chancellor.’
Symons closed his eyes. ‘Then you should not have let me waste your time with my blather. My wife is dying, and if I appear unhinged, it is because I do not know how to cope with the calamity.’
He spoke so softly that Chaloner thought he might have misheard. ‘She seemed all right yesterday.’
‘She has the same sharpness of the blood that took my uncle. She told me she would die tonight.’
Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Then why are you not with her?’
‘Because I needed the others to pray for her recovery. My own petitions have gone unanswered, and I thought theirs might do better. They did pray, but now I find myself too frightened to go inside and see whether … I do not suppose you would come with me, would you?’
Symons opened the door, and indicated the spy was to follow him inside. He started to cry the moment his eye lit on an unfinished piece of embroidery, so Chaloner fetched a cloth from the kitchen and indicated he was to wipe his face. When he had regained control of himself, he led the spy up a narrow staircase to a bedchamber. Margaret was lying in a fever, while a servant held her hand.
‘It is the same sickness that took Mr Scobel,’ the maid whispered to Symons. ‘I am sure of it. She has been talking nonsense, just like he did.’
‘Have you summoned a physician?’ asked Chaloner. It occurred to him that if Scobel had indeed been poisoned, as he suspected, then perhaps someone was attacking Margaret, too.
‘They will not come, because they know we cannot pay,’ said Symons miserably.
Chaloner told the maid to fetch Wiseman, whom he knew would be at White Hall. The surgeon was usually there of an evening, because he did not like being alone at home — and he had no friends to invite him out. When she had gone, Margaret opened her eyes and looked at the spy.
‘Visitors?’ she asked in a weak voice. ‘I must scrub the floor, or he will think us slovenly.’
‘It is perfectly clean,’ said Chaloner gently, not sure he was ruthless enough to ask about the statue. He wanted answers, but there were limits to what he was prepared to do to get them.
Margaret drowsed a while, then spoke again. ‘Do you like our fine mansion? My husband is a government clerk, and works very hard, while our uncle Scobel often buys us beautiful paintings.’
‘She thinks we are in my uncle’s house, before the Restoration,’ explained Symons in a whisper. ‘He used to purchase art for her.’
‘I do not suppose he owned a bust by Bernini, did he?’
Symons shook his head. ‘There were no sculptures, just pictures. They were in the room where he held his prayer meetings, so people could see them and reflect on the glory of God. As I said, he was a devout man, who believed prayer can bring happiness, wealth and success.’
‘Actually, you told me the opposite — that he thought there was not enough thanking going on, and that too many people were demanding favours.’
Symons made a dismissive gesture. ‘You are splitting hairs. He believed that prayer lay at the heart of his achievements, and felt that God had been exceptionally good to him. He had a position of power, a family who loved him, and he was forever smiling. People asked for his secret, and he always told them it was his communications with God.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that why people flocked to his gatherings? They saw his accomplishments, and thought that if they prayed with him, they would share his luck?’
Symons nodded reluctantly. ‘Although my uncle did not realise it. Of course, most of the men who came to these meetings have found a measure of personal triumph — Langston, Vine, Jones and Chetwynd flourished while they were alive. Tryan, Hargrave and Gold are all fabulously rich, while even young Neale is on the brink of securing himself a wealthy widow.’
‘But not Greene. He told me himself that he is unlucky.’
Symons grimaced. ‘He has done well enough, despite his melancholy nature. He was a penniless nobody at the Restoration, but now he owns a pleasant house and has a decent post in government.’
There was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and Wiseman’s bulk loomed in the doorway. Chaloner braced himself for strident declarations about superior medical skills, but the surgeon simply perched on the edge of the bed and began a silent examination. Margaret stirred as he touched her, and he whispered something that soothed her back to sleep. Eventually, he stood and indicated the maid was to go to the kitchen with him, where they would concoct a potion together.
‘You can cure her?’ asked Symons, eyes burning with sudden hope.