Temperance sat at a large gaming table, holding a hand of cards. At first Chaloner thought she was someone else, because he barely recognised her. She had always been plump, but her tight purple gown made her look fat, and the neckline was low enough to be indecent. A formal wig masked her beautiful chestnut curls, and her fresh, pink skin was smothered in a paste intended to give her a fashionable pallor. With a stab of sorrow, Chaloner realised the demure teenager he had befriended barely eighteen months before no longer existed.
She spotted Chaloner, and gestured to say she would speak to him when her game was over — gone were the days when she would have exclaimed her delight and dropped everything to greet him. While he waited, he wandered through the parlour. Several more card games were in progress, while other men preferred flirting to gambling, and were enjoying the company of the girls who had draped themselves at strategic intervals about the place. He was not surprised to see Turner there, but he was surprised to see him in company with Neale, whose cherubic face was flushed with wine and whose golden curls were in wild disarray. When he saw the spy, Turner came to talk.
‘I am sorry about last night,’ he said with an apologetic grin. ‘It was that wine His Portliness fed me. He said it came from the Bishop of London, although the Bishop denies making any such gift. However, it was unusually powerful stuff, and I think it might have been tampered with.’
‘You mean it was poisoned?’ asked Chaloner in alarm. No wonder the Earl had looked shabby that morning, and he sincerely hoped it was not a toxin that had long-term effects.
‘No, I mean it was dosed with something to make it stronger. All I can say is that he is lucky he shared it, because if he had swallowed the whole jug himself, he would still be insensible tonight. I know it is no excuse for not being able to draw my sword, but I feel I owe you some explanation.’
Chaloner nodded acceptance of the tale, although Turner had not seemed that drunk to him. He looked to where Neale was pawing a woman named Belle. She was unimpressed by the lad’s clumsy gropes, and was having trouble fending him off. Turner followed Chaloner’s glance and grimaced.
‘We had better rescue her — I shall escort her somewhere to recover, while you deal with Neale.’ He shot Chaloner a conspiratorial grin. ‘Last time I was here, she waived her fee for the romp we enjoyed, and I have hopes for a repeat performance tonight. You are a man of the world — you understand.’
‘Understand what?’ asked Chaloner, but Turner was already in motion. With one smooth, suave movement, he had plucked the prostitute from Neale’s gauche embraces and had whisked her away. The young man tried to follow, tripped, and was only saved from falling face-first across one of the gaming tables because Chaloner caught him. The spy half-carried him to a chair near the window, and gave him a cup of water. Petulantly, Neale flung it away and grabbed a jug of wine instead. He took a gulp, and Chaloner stepped back smartly when Neale’s hand shot to his mouth in a way that presaged vomiting. When he had fought off the nausea, Neale inspected his rescuer through bleary eyes.
‘The Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he slurred. ‘Investigating Chetwynd’s poisoning. You asked me about it in the Angel tavern, when I was trying to charm Bess Gold.’
‘She will not be very charmed if she learns you frequent this sort of place,’ remarked Chaloner.
‘But she is the one who drove me here,’ said Neale, full of sullen self pity. ‘You see, she refuses to lie with me while that deaf old turkey still breathes — and I am a red-blooded man with needs. Still, the old bird cannot last much longer, and then I shall have her body and her widow’s fortune.’
Chaloner was taken aback by the bluntness of the confession. ‘How much have you had to drink?’
‘Enough to know I shall have a sore head tomorrow. But where has Colonel Turner gone? He has been plying me with wine in exchange for information all night, but the moment I want him — I need some silver if I am to win Belle — he is nowhere to be found.’
‘What sort of things did he want to know?’
Neale peered at him through glazed eyes. ‘He was asking about Greene, so I told him how I often meet the fellow at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Have you been there? It is very nice.’
‘Is Greene a friend of yours, then?’
‘Not really. He is too religious for my taste, although he does share my taste for whores.’
‘Whores?’ Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him, because Greene had not seemed that kind of man, and he had certainly visited no bawdy-houses when the spy had been following him.
Neale nodded vigorously. ‘He likes the ones that do not cost much, such as can be got in Southwark. He entertains several at a time. I saw him myself once, when I was out with Brodrick and Chiffinch, and he was obviously a regular, because they all knew him by name. They were laughing and joking together, like old friends.’
His eyes started to close, so Chaloner kicked his foot, knowing he did not have much time before wine won the battle for what remained of the young man’s wits. ‘What do you discuss at John’s?’
Neale jerked awake. ‘Mostly we pray for good fortune — for money, happiness and success. I am not averse to having those, so I do not mind spending the odd evening on my knees. And we exchange news about people we know, the weather, the King’s skill at tennis. But we never debate politics. The others always override me if I try to bring up anything contentious, the boring old …’ He waved an expressive hand, his vocabulary apparently having deserted him.
‘You misled me the last time we spoke,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘You neglected to mention that you had bribed Chetwynd.’
Neale slid a little lower in the chair, and his voice became bitter. ‘You think I should have told a stranger how I corrupted a royal official? I may be young, but I am not a fool! But it was a rotten business, if you must know — Chetwynd took the last of my money, then found in my brother’s favour. Bastard! So, here I am, forced to make eyes at a sheep, so I can marry her when Gold dies.’
Chaloner regarded him with distaste. ‘What else did you tell Turner?’ He kicked Neale’s foot a second time when the young man’s eyelids drooped.
‘What? Nothing. No, wait. I told him about the river.’
‘What about the river?’ Chaloner hated interviewing drunks; it was like drawing blood from a stone.
‘I saw Greene throw something in it on Thursday morning. Something leathery. Purses, I think.’
‘Purses?’
‘Three purses. But they were empty. I could tell by the way they hit the water. No splash, see.’
Three purses, three robbed corpses, thought Chaloner uneasily, as Neale finally descended into a snoring stupor. For the second night in a row, he wondered whether he had been right to champion Greene’s innocence. But how could the clerk be guilty, when he had alibis for two of the crimes? Engrossed in his thoughts, Chaloner lifted Neale into a position where he would not choke, and placed an empty bowl at his elbow. Neale would need it when he woke, and Chaloner did not see why Temperance should have to clean up the mess.
The music was louder than it had been, to make itself heard above the rising clamour of people having a good time. Women shrieked, men laughed, and there was a constant chink of coins changing hands and goblets being refilled. Belle excused herself to confer with Maude, which left Turner at a loose end for a while. The colonel rolled his eyes when he saw the state of Neale, but did not seem unduly concerned that his informant would not be doing any more talking that night.