‘I am sorry,’ said Wiseman quietly. ‘Sharpness of the blood is usually fatal, and there is nothing I can do. My medicine will ease her passing, no more.’
Chaloner pulled the surgeon to one side, so Symons and the maid would not hear. ‘Are you sure it is a disease that is killing her? Not poison?’
‘It is impossible to say. Many toxins mimic the symptoms of natural illnesses, and this may well be one of them. However, I shall explore the kitchen while I brew this medicine, and perhaps remove one or two items for analysis.’
‘Will you send me word if you reach any conclusions?’
‘I will send it with my bill, although I doubt you earn enough to pay the princely sums I charge. However, I am prepared to accept an evening of your company in lieu of silver.’
Chaloner thought that price was rather too high, and wondered how he could lay his hands on some money to settle the debt. Wiseman disappeared, and a while later the maid came with the potion they had prepared. It was green, smelled of drains, and Chaloner would not have swallowed it to save his life. Margaret gulped it thirstily, and claimed it to be excellent wine.
‘Uncle Scobel was here earlier,’ she said. The servant shook her head, but Margaret was insistent. ‘He was! He stood at the end of the bed and told me he liked roses. Then he sang a hymn.’
‘Was he well, love?’ asked Symons, forcing a bright smile. It emerged as a grimace.
‘You know I will die tonight, Will? You say I will not, but I am quite certain. I am not afraid, so you should not be, either.’
Chaloner edged towards the door. He had no place in the sickroom, and it reminded him too acutely of the family he had lost in Holland. The maid followed him down the stairs, to see him out.
‘Scobel has been in his grave these last three years,’ she said, more to herself than Chaloner. ‘It frightens me to hear her talking like that.’
‘You say he died of the same ailment?’
‘The medical men call it a sharpness of the blood, but I think it is a melancholy. It happens when good people see the wickedness of the world. They despair, then they sicken and die.’
‘Margaret is good?’
‘A saint, sir. She is honest, kind and sweet. Did you know she was offered a statue for next to nothing the other day? But she said it was sure to be stolen, and refused to buy it, even though she has a great love for such things. She is a talented carver herself.’
Chaloner’s hopes rose. ‘Were you with her when this happened?’
The maid nodded. ‘A man came with a letter, but he wore one of those plague masks, to keep us from seeing his face. He waylaid us in Westminster Abbey, as we were passing through it. He waited until she read it, then asked for a reply to take to his master. He did not say who his master was.’
‘Do you know why was she chosen?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Because she is a sculptress. The letter said she could either keep the bust as a work of art, or refashion it into something of her own. He only wanted five pounds, which is cheap for marble.’
And there was the problem, thought Chaloner: the thief had committed a brilliantly successful crime, but was unable to turn it to his advantage. He suspected it would not be long before Bernini’s masterpiece was furtively disposed of in the Thames.
Chapter 8
The notion that the thief was growing desperate, and the statue might soon be destroyed, drove Chaloner to spend a good part of the night in White Hall, listening to conversations not meant for his ears. But the only thing he learned was that Lady Castlemaine was taking a rather sinister interest in the King’s oldest illegitimate son, which led him to surmise that it had been young James Croft with whom Swaddell had caught her cavorting. He was not surprised she wanted it kept quiet: the King was protective of his offspring, and would be outraged if he learned what the Lady was doing.
The Lord of Misrule had decreed that anyone in the palace grounds after dark that night should be wearing nothing but red, and courtiers disobeying his edict could expect to have the offending garments removed. Chaloner took care not to be caught, but he witnessed what happened to others who were less wary. He was obliged to rescue Haddon with his fists when a gaggle of drunken youths laid hold of him. Prudently, they slunk away when they saw their high spirits were likely to end in a trouncing.
‘Thank you,’ said the steward unsteadily. The encounter had frightened him, and he was on the verge of tears. ‘I am glad my dogs are not here — they would have raced to save me, and those vile ruffians might have hurt them.’
‘Shall I escort you home?’
Reluctantly, Haddon shook his head. ‘I had better warn the Earl, or he might suffer the same fate.’ He looked across the vast open space of the courtyard in front of him. ‘Although it is a long way to his offices. I do not suppose you would mind …’
Chaloner took him on a circuitous route that avoided the roistering mobs. While they went, Haddon said that he had managed to find out where Meg lived: with a friend on a street called Petty France.
‘She has quit her post in the White Hall laundry,’ the steward elaborated. ‘Apparently, she thinks there are too many difficult stains involved in washing for the Court. But everyone says she will have no difficulty in recruiting private customers, because she is so good at ironing.’
‘I will visit her first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Chaloner.
‘Good,’ said Haddon. ‘Let us hope it brings you one step closer to catching the killer — and me one step closer to keeping the five pounds I wagered on your success.’
When they arrived at the Earl’s offices, Turner was there, drinking wine in social bonhomie with his master. He was clad in crimson from head to toe, even down to his ear-string. The Earl was remarking on his attire with uncharacteristically good-humour, indicating he had no idea the colonel was obeying the dictates of the Lord of Misrule.
‘You should follow his example, Thomas,’ the Earl said jovially. ‘Wear pink perhaps. Or yellow.’
Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘Are you unwell, sir?’
‘I have never felt better,’ declared the Earl, standing to stretch his plump arms. The movement caused him to totter. ‘And now you will all escort me home. There is a lot of shrieking and cackling outside, and I do not want to be made the subject of some practical joke by drunken youths.’
The empty jug on his desk suggested it was not just youths who were drunk that evening.
‘Very wise, sir,’ said Turner smoothly. ‘You will be safe with us.’
Chaloner was not so sure, because the Lord Chancellor was a tempting target, and they might be overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who wanted to pick on him. He and Turner were armed, but so were many courtiers, and although most were poor swordsmen, others were highly adept. Besides, Chaloner did not want to stab influential noblemen if he could help it.
‘I will fetch your carriage, sir,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘This is not a good night to wander-’
‘No, I shall walk,’ countered the Earl. ‘I feel like some fresh air, and I refuse to let this misrule nonsense dictate my movements. Take my arm, colonel. That wine seems to have gone to my head, and I do not want to take a tumble, because I know what my enemies would make of that.’
‘Have no fear, My Lord,’ said Turner grandly, stepping forward to offer his hand. The Earl lurched, but managed to right himself. ‘I will give my life before letting harm come to a single hair on your head.’
‘That is not saying much,’ quipped the Earl merrily. ‘I am virtually bald! Incidentally, did I tell you I am invited to a play in the Banqueting House on Saturday? It is called The Prick of Love.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Chaloner, eyeing him uneasily. ‘I hope you do not intend to go.’
‘Of course I shall go! I like a good drama as much as the next man.’