‘She is over there,’ said Alice, pointing. ‘She came back, because White Hall is too debauched.’
Chaloner looked to where she gestured, and saw a small, pretty woman with bright blue eyes. She was laughing with some of her colleagues, and he was not surprised that Turner had taken a fancy to her. She had all her own teeth, her skin was smooth and white, and she had more yellow curls than the Lord Chancellor’s best wig. Alice beckoned her over.
‘Dear Mr Greene,’ said Meg sadly, after Chaloner had been introduced as the clerk’s friend. ‘The villains at White Hall are accusing him of murder, but he would never hurt a fly. He is gentle and kind, and that is the reason they hate him — his goodness makes them ashamed of themselves.’
Extraordinary though it might seem, Chaloner saw Greene had been telling the truth about his clandestine visits to Southwark. More probing told him the clerk had never taken advantage of any woman in the brothel, although all had offered him their services free of charge. He also gave them money when they were ill, tired or distressed. They looked on him as a father, and it was not long before Chaloner was surrounded by prostitutes, all eager to convince him that Greene was next in line for sainthood. Moreover, Meg confirmed the tale about Greene’s fallen sister, and said that he and Langston had indeed hosted a dinner for Jones, at which the fat man had accidentally left behind ten leather purses. She had been employed to wash the dishes afterwards, and had seen them.
Chaloner tuned out the chattering voices and thought about what he had learned. If Greene had been honest about Southwark, then there was no reason to doubt his other claims, either. And that suggested he was right: someone was trying to have him wrongfully accused of murder. But who? Someone who disliked his integrity? Or someone who thought the Southwark harlots did not deserve a friend?
By the time he left the Dog and Duck, dusk was fast approaching, bringing with it a bitter, sleety drizzle that turned Southwark’s streets more dismal than ever. Meg begged a ride in the hackney he took back to the city, saying she had laundry to deliver to Tryan the merchant in Lymestrete. Chaloner was going to Hercules’ Pillars Alley, because he wanted to apologise to Temperance, so Lymestrete was not far out of his way.
‘People have been worried about you,’ he said, as they thundered across the Bridge. The driver’s recklessly selfish speed reminded him of why he did not like walking across it.
‘About me?’ asked Meg, startled. ‘That is nice. Who?’
Chaloner looked at her in the fading daylight, and found he could not answer. Her housemate had not been overly concerned when she had failed to return home, assuming — doubtless on account of her previous occupation — that she was with a man. Turner had been anxious, but only because he thought he might have lost out on a romp. Or was he doing the colonel an injustice?
‘Turner,’ he replied, for want of anyone better.
Her pretty face split into a hopeful grin. ‘Really? I thought he did not care about me when he failed to turn up for our tryst. I waited until nightfall on Saturday, but there was no sign of him.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Nightfall? I was under the impression that he expected you much later.’
‘He told me to meet him at the witching hour.’
‘That is midnight.’
‘No, it is dusk. Everyone knows witches come out when daylight fades, so the witching hour is between sunset and total darkness. Why? Are you saying he thinks it was another time?’
‘It is another time, Meg. He expected you at twelve o’clock.’
Meg’s eyes were huge. ‘Lord! He will think I abandoned him! The dear man! I should have known better than to question his love for me. He said he adores me, and he does. And I was so angry with him! I kept thinking he had deserted me, after all I had done for him — all that smuggling him in and out of the palace on my laundry cart every time he had a meeting with Lady Castlemaine.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how on earth Turner had managed to persuade one lover to facilitate his visits to another.
‘Because she needs him to protect her from that awful Earl of Clarendon,’ explained Meg, earnestly ingenuous. ‘The Earl keeps foisting his attentions on her, see. But that was before he hired my colonel as his spy — now my dearest has an official post, he can come and go as he pleases.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to be more impressed by her absolute credulity or Turner’s colourful lies.
‘You have made me so happy with this news! I should have known he thought I was special, or he would not have met me so often. Did I tell you that we have enjoyed secret assignations in the Painted Chamber every Monday and Thursday for the past two months?’
‘Even last week?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was significant: Chetwynd had died on a Thursday, and Langston on a Monday. And both bodies had been found in the Painted Chamber.
She nodded, smiling gleefully. ‘That was when he gave me one of his ear-strings.’
‘How long do these sessions last?’
Meg’s grin broadened. ‘From dusk until dawn. We meet in the Painted Chamber, and then he takes me to an inn in Chelsey. But our last tryst was arranged for a Saturday, at a different time than usual, which explains my silly confusion. So, now you have cleared that up, all I have to worry about is Mr Greene. I must do something to get him out of trouble. I owe it to him, after all he has done for me.’
Chaloner did not think the interference of a harlot would do Greene much good. ‘May I come with you to Lymestrete? Tryan is a friend of Greene’s, and might know something that will help him.’
‘I will do anything for Mr Greene,’ said Meg gamely. ‘Even be seen in company with a rogue from White Hall. You will have to carry the washing, though. I feel an aching back coming on.’
Lymestrete was an ancient road full of buildings that did not really go together. Precarious hovels rubbed shoulders with wealthy merchants’ homes, while shops that sold expensive jewellery sat next to ones that hawked cheap candles. Tryan’s house was near St Dionis Backchurch, a handsome fifteenth-century chapel with a lofty spire.
Meg and Chaloner — the latter toting a sack of clothes — were shown into Tryan’s parlour. It was a pleasant room, with a roaring fire, chestnuts roasting in a tray, and books everywhere. There was a chest under the window, armed with three heavy locks that suggested valuables were within. The spy wondered why Tryan did not conceal it with a cloth — as it stood, most would-be thieves would view it more of a challenge than a deterrent.
‘Meg!’ cried Tryan in pleasure. ‘I was beginning to think you had made off with my shirts. You are not usually late with your deliveries.’
The bandy-legged merchant was sitting at a large, polished table, surrounded by papers. A brief glance at one of the ledgers revealed some staggering sums of money, indicating business was booming. He was not alone, because Hargrave was with him, dividing his attention between finance and relieving his itching scalp with the sharp end of a quill.
Meg began to dance around with Tryan’s shirts, explaining what she had done to render them so pristine. He was captivated by her youthful exuberance, and Chaloner was sure she was earning herself a handsome bonus by taking the time to charm him. Meanwhile, Hargrave frowned at the spy.
‘You have a curious way of spending your time,’ he said suspiciously. ‘I would have thought the Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers have better things to do than carry laundry for harlots.’
‘And how many Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers do you know?’ asked Chaloner, amused.
‘Two: you and Turner. I might have known three, had Langston chosen to accept the commission. He was outraged when the Earl first approached him, but I told him he should have taken it.’