The Earl was in a foul mood when the spy went to his office. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of vomit. He mentioned neither his undignified tumble nor dismissing Chaloner, and the spy wondered whether he remembered them. Or perhaps he just did not want to think about an episode that was so painfully embarrassing. He barely looked up from his work when Chaloner made his report, and when the spy asked whether he had any specific instructions, he made an impatient gesture with his hand and grunted something inaudible.
Haddon smiled warmly when they met on the stairs, though, evidently feeling the danger shared as they faced the mob together had created a special bond between them. Bulteel regarded Chaloner with reproachful eyes when he saw the exchange, clearly thinking this represented a betrayal of their own friendship. To mollify him, Chaloner took him to a coffee house.
They had not been there many moments when Williamson arrived. He selected a table at which to sit, then raised his eyebrows in astonishment when the men already there promptly made their excuses and left. At the remaining tables, conversations began to revolve around the weather and the state of St Paul’s Cathedral — no one was foolish enough to talk about politics or religion when the Spymaster was listening. He saw Chaloner and Bulteel and waved, inviting them to join him. But the secretary was listening to a sail-maker hold forth about the recent gales and did not see the gesture, while the spy pretended not to notice it.
For a while, the status quo continued, but the Spymaster soon grew tired of being ignored. He stood, and began to stroll from table to table, greeting men who responded with suspicious nods or insincere smiles. While his attention was taken by two surly bakers, Chaloner took the opportunity to slip through the back door. He hid in the darkness of the hall beyond, just out of sight, listening.
‘Where is your friend?’ Williamson asked, when his perambulation brought him to Bulteel.
‘He is-’ The secretary stopped speaking in surprise when he realised Chaloner had disappeared. ‘He was here a moment ago. Where could he have gone?’
‘You tell me,’ said Williamson drily. ‘I wanted to talk to him. Tell him to come and see me at his earliest convenience. I am sure he knows what happened to Swaddell.’
‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bulteel, swallowing nervously. ‘He is not acquainted with Swaddell.’
‘He is acquainted well enough to appreciate that Swaddell is important to me,’ said Williamson. His voice was cold. ‘And I will have answers about my spy’s disappearance. Will you pass Chaloner my message? To come to my offices?’
‘I will tell him,’ replied Bulteel uncomfortably. ‘But that does not mean he will do it.’
Williamson gave a smile that made him look like a crocodile. ‘Then he will wish he was more sociable and so will his treacherous family. You can tell him that, too.’
He had stalked out before Bulteel could respond. The secretary finished his coffee, then left himself. Chaloner joined him in the street, making him jump by falling into step at his side.
‘Did you overhear my exchange with the Spymaster?’ Bulteel asked. ‘You really should do as he says. It is better to visit of your own accord, rather than to have him drag you there.’
Chaloner supposed he would just have to stay out of Williamson’s way, because he had no intention of entering the man’s lair — voluntarily or otherwise. ‘I met Swaddell last night, as it happens, but he refuses to return to White Hall. Perhaps he is afraid of Williamson, too.’
‘Too?’ echoed Bulteel. ‘You mean as well as you? Good. You should be frightened of him.’
‘I mean as well as you. He does not worry me.’ But that was untrue: the Spymaster worried Chaloner a great deal when he started threatening his family.
The rest of the morning was spent in a fruitless search for Greene, because the spy wanted to ask him about Langston’s skill in penning saucy plays. He gave up at noon when one of Greene’s colleagues was able to tell him that the clerk had gone to Southwark.
‘He does charitable work there,’ the fellow elaborated. ‘But I do not know the details.’
The afternoon was devoted to Jones, in an effort to discover more about his personal finances. It was not easy, because Chaloner did not want anyone to know he had found the gold, but his carefully phrased questions yielded nothing of value anyway. And although he learned that Jones had indeed owned a fine ruby ring, he was unable to determine whether it was the same as the one retrieved by the train-band in the Painted Chamber.
At dusk he returned to Meg’s lodgings, but the laundress was still out. He went to see Thurloe instead, only to be told the ex-Spymaster had retired to bed with a headache. Loath to disturb him, Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn feeling as though he had wasted an entire day. He only hoped the evening would be more profitable, because it was time he visited his friend Temperance North.
Temperance’s gentleman’s club was a stylishly tasteful establishment in Hercules’ Pillars Alley. It was just beginning its operations, and several coaches were outside, disgorging customers. The club catered primarily for men, but a few liberal-minded women sometimes came to enjoy its witty conversation, professional musicians and French cuisine. Lady Castlemaine was often one of them.
It was unusually busy that evening, because the Twelve Days of Christmas meant people were in the mood for fun. At its door, ready to refuse entry to anyone who looked as if he could not pay, was a man named Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who saw nothing incongruous in the fact that he earned his living in a brothel at night, then went out to condemn such places during the day. Chaloner had warned Temperance against employing someone whose poisonous tongue might cause trouble for her, but she remained doggedly loyal to the man who had been friends with her dead parents. When the spy approached the door, Hill grabbed him by the arm.
‘This is a respectable place,’ he declared, although ‘respectable’ was not a word Chaloner would have used to describe a brothel, even a fashionable one like Temperance’s. ‘So you cannot come in.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner dangerously, shrugging him off. It had been a frustrating day, and he was not in the mood for Hill. ‘And who is going to stop me?’
Despite his bluster, Hill was frightened of Chaloner. He pretended to reconsider, determined not to lose face by backing down too readily. ‘All right — I will let you in this time, but you had better behave yourself. I have a lot of brawny friends, and if you make trouble, I will see you are sorry.’
Chaloner treated the threat with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. He stepped across the threshold and looked around in awe. More money had been spent on the club since he was last there, and the entrance hall was now opulent, with mural-covered walls and curtains screening the stairs. Maude, the formidable matron who was Temperance’s helpmeet, sat at a desk at the bottom of the steps, ensuring no one gained access to the ladies on the upper levels without her say-so. Everything was managed with the utmost decorum, so there were never unsightly queues as patrons waited their turn — if a man wanted a woman, he passed word to Maude, and was escorted to a bedroom only when the previous client had gone and the occupant was properly ready for him.
The main room, or parlour, was another glorious affair, with tapestries on the walls, works of art set on marble plinths around the edges, and Turkish carpets on the floor. A separate antechamber held a consort of musicians, usually professionals good enough to hold Court appointments, who played medleys of popular tunes. It was background music, designed to complement the genteel conversation in the parlour, although they were often drowned out in the early hours when the atmosphere became rather less refined. But it was early by club standards, and only novices or youths were drunk so far.