‘And I am sorry, too,’ interrupted Temperance. ‘You should have told me I am a suspect for stealing the King’s statue, but I should have explained myself when you asked. We were both at fault.’
‘You are not a suspect. At least, not to me. Spymaster Williamson might reach other conclusions, though, which is why I warned you to be wary about confiding in your patrons.’
‘You still trust me, then?’
‘Of course. I do not believe you have changed so much that you would steal.’
‘And you would be right. Reputation is everything in a place like this, and I cannot afford rumours of deceit or dishonesty. So, are you still coming to meet James on Twelfth Night eve?’
Chaloner smiled. ‘If I am still invited.’
She kissed his cheek with the sisterly affection he had missed since they had started to grow apart. ‘He is eager to meet you, and I have a feeling you will be good friends. However, there is one thing I should tell you in advance: we will not be eating pelican.’
Good, thought Chaloner. ‘Why not?’
‘Because it was delivered this morning, and it was such a sweet thing that I could not bring myself to wring its neck. Maude took it to St James’s Park instead, and released it into the company of its fellows.’
Chaloner smiled again. ‘I should go,’ he said, watching her select a bowl of syllabub for Chiffinch. He was hungry, but the thick, plum-flavoured beverage did not tempt him at all. ‘You are busy.’
‘Never too busy for you, and I owe you an explan ation about Bernini, anyway. I asked questions about him, because Brodrick and Chiffinch kept talking about his fine carving of the King’s head. They chatted about it for weeks — so long that my interest was piqued.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Do you think they stole it, perhaps because Brodrick plans to use it in one of his japes as Lord of Misrule?’
‘Yes, I do, and so does James. I told him everything last night, and he said there is no other explanation. He also told me I should confide all this to you as soon as possible.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.
‘Because he is an art-lover himself, and thinks the bust might get broken if it is used in some wild caper. He says that would be a tragedy.’ Temperance was silent for a moment, then touched his arm. ‘Chiffinch told me you asked him and Brodrick whether they owned a ruby ring. Presumably, you have reason to believe that either the clerk-killer or the statue-thief might own one. Am I right?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously, but did not elaborate.
‘If it was small, then perhaps it belonged to a lady,’ suggested Temperance tentatively. ‘There is a tendency for men to forget that we can steal and commit murder, too, so do not fall into that trap. And there are a lot of ruthless women at Court.’
Chaloner nodded, and did not tell her that the notion had already occurred to him. He did not want to risk another quarrel by being ungracious. ‘I will not forget,’ he promised.
When Chaloner returned to his rooms, the bowls he had set to catch the drips that morning were so full they had overflowed, and the floor was awash. There was a note pinned to the door from the instrument-maker who rented the room below, complaining of water streaming down his walls. Landlord Ellis had been to inspect the trouble — his muddy footprints were everywhere — but in a rare moment of self-doubt, he had apparently decided repairs were beyond him, and had not attempted any. Normally, he was only too pleased to ply his dubious skills to effect even more dubious remedies, and the fact that he was daunted by the scale of the problem did not bode well for the future.
As it stood, the place was not at all inviting, and it was raining again — Chaloner did not want to spend a second night dodging deluges, so he decided to leave. Before he went, he fed his cat with some salted meat from the pantry, although it ate only two mouthfuls before going to wash itself by the fireplace, and he supposed it had found itself something more appetising during the day. He hoped it had not been a bird. He spent a few moments teasing it with a piece of ribbon, just to prove he could be in its company without resorting to meaningless chatter — or, worse yet, a serious conversation — then left for the greater comfort of Hannah’s house. She was asleep when he arrived, but moved over so he could climb into the bed beside her.
‘Where have you been?’ she murmured drowsily, nestling against him. ‘You smell of smoke.’
Remembering her response the last time he had admitted to visiting Temperance’s club, he was uncertain how to reply. He flailed around for something that was true, but that she would believe.
‘Not again,’ she said with a groan, when he took too long. ‘Surely, you cannot have been engaged in secret business all day? Or is the Earl getting every last penny’s worth out of you?’
‘Yes, he is,’ said Chaloner, feeling this at least was something that could not be disputed. ‘I think I have finally eliminated Greene as a suspect for the murders, but I have made no progress in identifying the real killer. Or in locating the King’s statue.’
She climbed out of the bed, and went to prod the fire. He supposed his answer had not been to her liking, but did not know what else to say. It was not a good idea to lie every time the truth was unacceptable, because there was a danger that he might forget what he had told her, and contradict himself later. Thurloe had taught him that liars needed very good memories, and he had always preferred avoiding questions to fabricating replies. But he did not want to do either with Hannah.
‘I talked to my cat this morning,’ he gabbled, rather desperately. ‘It had caught a pigeon.’
She turned to look at him, but her face was backlit by the fire and he could not see her expression. ‘Did it answer back?’
‘It made a noise,’ replied Chaloner cagily. ‘Is that what you mean?’
‘That poor animal,’ said Hannah. He could hear laughter in her voice. ‘Attached to a man who is so unforthcoming that it takes a captured pigeon to elicit a reaction from him.’
Chaloner struggled to make her understand why the incident had unsettled him. ‘It is because of Haddon. He converses with his dogs out of loneliness. He is quite peculiar over them.’
She stared at him. ‘And you think that by passing the occasional fond remark to your cat you may become as odd as him? That is foolish, Thomas! You are not lonely — you have lots of friends.’
‘In London, I have two: Temperance and Thurloe.’
‘And not me?’ She sounded hurt. ‘Or Barbara Chiffinch, who, for all her faults, is fond of you. Or Bulteel, who has asked you to stand as godfather to his only son? Or even Haddon, who will not let the Earl say anything bad about you? We are nothing, are we? And here I was about to suggest that you come to sit next to me at the fire, and allow me to help you solve your mysteries.’
‘Now?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘Yes, now,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why do you think I have been stoking it up? You sound tired and dispirited, and I thought you might appreciate some help. It is what friends do for each other.’
‘I see. But how-’
‘You will tell me everything you have learned, and I shall see if I can spot connections you may have missed. You look suspicious. Why? Do you imagine I am the killer, and I am trying to ascertain how much you have found out about me?’
It was not easy for Chaloner to put aside his natural reticence and confide his discoveries — he could do it with Thurloe, but Thurloe had been his spymaster, and was different — and discussing his work with Hannah felt very wrong. But images of Haddon’s eccentricity kept flooding into his mind, so he ignored the clamouring instincts that urged him to silence, and began.
‘Greene is not the killer,’ he said, speaking slowly to give himself time to assemble his thoughts in a sensible manner. ‘Which means someone else is the culprit.’
‘Impeccable logic,’ said Hannah, beckoning him to sit next to her. ‘Is there anything else, or is that the sole conclusion you have reached?’