‘Poor Margaret,’ said Doling, appearing suddenly at Chaloner’s elbow. The spy jumped, astonished that anyone should be able to come so close without him hearing. All his senses were on full alert, because he was determined to avoid Williamson, which meant the surly ex-Commonwealth official possessed a very stealthy tread. ‘And poor Symons, too. They were a devoted couple.’
‘She seemed a decent woman.’ Chaloner did not like the way Doling was standing so close to him, and the knife in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand.
‘She was the best,’ replied Doling with one of his scowls. ‘And it is a pity she is gone. She will not be properly mourned, though, except by Symons and me.’
It was a curious thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the acquisitive vultures who gather in Covent Garden do not appreciate her goodness, even though she was a shining light at the meetings in Scobel’s house. Of course, that was before he died. Once he was gone, they effectively banished her from the gatherings by electing to hold them in a coffee house, where women are not permitted to tread. It broke her heart, poor soul.’
‘She wanted to be there?’
‘Yes.’ Doling clenched his fists, as if he was considering thumping someone. ‘She told me that if she had been allowed to pray with them, her husband might have enjoyed greater success. Of course, it is all superstitious nonsense. Scobel was wrong to make us take that vow.’
‘You swore it, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘And then broke it?’
Doling grimaced. ‘The others say that is why I have been unlucky, but I disagree — God does not reward people for praying in a specific place or with specific people.’
‘I suppose not.’
Doling’s expression was distant, almost as if he was talking to someone else. ‘Scobel thought he could keep his friends godly by making them promise to pray with each other, but he reckoned without White Hall. All of them — Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Jones, Gold and others — used to be decent, upright souls, but White Hall has sucked the goodness out of them. Now they are just like everyone else.’
‘Except you? You have retained your lofty principles?’
Doling glowered at him, and for a moment, Chaloner thought the man was going to swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Doling took a deep breath and it seemed to calm him.
‘I am not perfect, but I have done my best. I wish Scobel was still alive — if ever his sober, gentle guidance was needed, it is now. Did you ever meet him?’
Chaloner tried to recall what Thurloe had said about the man, but found he could only remember one thing. ‘He looked as though his head was on upside down.’
Doling’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, and Chaloner wondered whether the remark might induce him to react with violence, but then, unexpectedly, the dour Parliamentarian cracked a smile. ‘I suppose he did, with his thick beard and bald head. That has never occurred to me before. Dear Scobel!’
Still smiling, Doling stamped away.
Great sheets of rain were gusting across the courtyard when Chaloner arrived in White Hall, and no one ventured across the middle of it, preferring instead to take advantage of the scanty protection around the edges. Gold, Neale and Bess were among the cowering throng, and, as they walked, Bess’s hat was ripped from her head and went skittering through the mud. She bleated her dismay, so Gold elbowed Neale and indicated he was to retrieve it. Obligingly, Neale hurried into the rain, golden curls whipping about his face, but each time he came close to the headpiece, the wind tugged it away again. Chaloner saw Gold snigger, confirming his suspicions about the man: he was not the feeble ancient he wanted people to see.
Eventually, Neale snagged the hat by jumping on it, and hurried back to present Bess with a soggy, dented mess of wet material and broken feathers. She simpered her appreciation before jamming it on her head, apparently oblivious of the fact that it was well past salvation. Then she gaped blankly when Lady Castlemaine asked if it was worn by decree of the Lord of Misrule.
‘Stupid woman,’ muttered Munt, who had stopped next to Chaloner to watch the incident unfold. ‘I cannot imagine what possessed a sane fellow like Gold to marry her — she looks like a sheep. But he made his fortune in wool, so perhaps she reminds him of the beasts that set him on the road to riches.’
‘I have been told his success is the result of prayers with his friends,’ said Chaloner.
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Munt. ‘I went to a few meetings myself, when Scobel was alive, but then he asked me to sign an oath, promising to be virtuous, so I left. We live in an uncertain world, and no man should swear vows that might hinder him later.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was un certain indeed, if people were unwilling to commit to a future where they might be asked to uphold their principles.
‘Did you hear Greene did it again last night?’ asked Munt. His expression was indignant. ‘At about eight o’clock, he came to my cellar and asked for brandywine, spinning some wild tale about it being for his vicar. I told him where to take his lies, but, like last time, when I did an inventory, I found a flask of the stuff was missing. I wager you anything it was him.’
‘His vicar does like brandywine,’ said Chaloner, thinking Greene was a fool to indulge his priest’s penchant for strong liquor at such a time. Theft from the King’s cellars was a serious charge, and he was doing himself no favours. Or had someone else stolen the flask, knowing what Greene had asked of Munt, with the express purpose of seeing him in even deeper water? Still pondering the question, he made his way to the Earl’s office, nodding to Bulteel and Haddon as he passed. Haddon was looking thoroughly dejected, while Bulteel wore a smile that was uncharacteristically vengefuclass="underline" clearly, one had scored a victory over the other. Chaloner stifled a sigh. Their squabble was ridiculous, and beginning to be annoying.
He stepped into the Earl’s office, and was making his way towards the desk when he tripped over one of Haddon’s dogs. He stumbled forward, and his head connected sharply with the chandelier. He staggered, seeing stars — he was not wearing his metal-lined hat this time. The Earl grinned when he turned to see the spy gripping his head with both hands.
‘That will teach you to try to sneak up on me,’ he said spitefully. ‘Incidentally, Turner has been to see me twice this morning already. He came to say he has almost enough evidence to arrest Greene. I said Greene was the killer, and should never have listened when you said he was not. And Haddon was wrong to take your side against me, too, although he will pay for his folly with five pounds.’
‘It is unfortunate,’ said Chaloner, fighting the urge to voice a few pithy objections to the Earl’s dangerously placed ceiling fixture.
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded the Earl suspiciously. ‘What is unfortunate?’
Chaloner had meant it was unfortunate that the Earl might be about to look foolish, given that the ‘evidence’ was not as solid as Turner had probably led him to believe. However, he had blurted it out because he was in pain, and wished he had been in sufficient control of his wits to say nothing. ‘What is that noise?’ he asked.
The Earl raised his eyebrows. ‘I hear nothing. And you owe me an apology — you were stupid to champion Greene, and your unwillingness to accept the truth has cost the lives of two men. Vine and Langston were not particularly good men, it would seem, but they did not deserve to be poisoned.’
‘There is a snuffling sound.’ Chaloner glanced around the Earl’s sumptuous chamber, but could see nothing amiss.
‘Haddon’s dogs. Why do you keep trying to change the subject? Are you knocked out of your senses? Turner would never walk into a chandelier. He is a fine fellow: tall, strong, and obedient.’
Chaloner supposed his unwarranted assault on the light fitting was the final straw, and the Earl had decided he was inferior to the colonel in every way: he was about to be dismissed. Absently, he wondered whether he had enough money to buy a berth on a ship to the New World, or whether he would have to acquire some illicitly. There was always Jones’s hoard, which no one had stepped forward to claim. He brought himself up sharply when he realised what he was contemplating — he had stolen in the past, but only in the course of his duties, and never for his own benefit. Were Hargrave and Doling right, and there was a poison at White Hall that sapped the goodness out of people?