The King’s Evil. Andrew Taylor

of buildings. Gradually, though, I had realized that there was a certain logic to the place. At its core were the Royal Apartments, the King’s and Queen’s, both public and private. From these, two long ranges extended at right angles to each other, enclosing two sides of the Privy Garden. The old Privy Gallery ran westwards to the Banqueting Hall and the Holbein Gate. Here were many of the offices and chambers of government, such as the Council Chamber and Lord Arlington’s offices. The Stone Gallery, with the Matted Gallery above, ran south towards Westminster. The apartments of many favoured courtiers clustered about it. Those of the Duke of York were at the far end.

      On this wet morning, the gallery was crowded with courtiers, officials and visitors. Gentlemen strolled up and down, and the air was full of whispered conversations and smothered laughter. It was a popular place of resort, a place to see and be seen, especially when the weather was bad. It had the added convenience of giving access to so many private apartments.

      Today there was an air of suppressed excitement. The story was circulating that the Duke of Buckingham, one of Lord Clarendon’s greatest enemies, had been restored to his many offices yesterday and was once again riding high in the King’s favour. Buckingham was a hero to the common people and had wide support in Parliament. He had been the King’s intimate friend since childhood, having been brought up with the royal family, and he was extraordinarily rich. Nevertheless, until recently he had been held in the Tower: it had been alleged by his enemies that he had commissioned an astrologer to cast the King’s horoscope, which was a form of treason since predicting the King’s future inevitably imagined the possibility of his death.

      I was waiting for Mr Chiffinch again. He had sent a note to the office this morning, summoning me to attend him here on the King’s business. Mr Williamson had let me go with reluctance, muttering that the Gazette would not publish itself. While I waited, I could not help thinking of Cat Lovett and Lady Quincy. They were not happy thoughts. They matched the weather.

      There was a sudden stir by the entrance to the King’s private apartments. The doors were flung open. The guards straightened themselves, and the crowd fell silent. The Duke of York, the King’s brother, strode into the gallery, flanked by two of his advisers.

      Ignoring the bows of courtiers, who bent towards him like corn in the wind, he marched towards his own apartments. The Duke was a fine-looking man, but today his face was red and his features were twisted with rage. When he left the gallery, the whispers began again, with an edge of excitement that they had previously lacked.

      I moved from the window and instead examined a painting of a lady that hung nearby. She wore a richly embroidered silk black gown with ballooning sleeves and a gold chain around her neck. She stared past me, over my right shoulder, at something only she could see. The embroidery of the gown looked like writhing snakes. Behind her, a group of women were entering her suite of rooms through a distant doorway.

      Ten or fifteen minutes slipped past before the King’s doors opened again. This time it was Chiffinch who emerged, pink-faced like a well-fed baby, nodding and smiling to those nearby whom he considered worth cultivating. He didn’t linger, however. He came over to me.

      ‘How interesting to find you here,’ he said, his eyes sliding past me to the painting.

      ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

      ‘That lady you were looking at. The widow in her black gown. She has a look of Lady Quincy, don’t you think?’

      I shrugged. ‘Perhaps a little, sir. But her ladyship is not so sallow, I think.’

      It disturbed me that Chiffinch had mentioned her. He had a genius for finding a man’s weak spots. I wondered if he had sensed my interest in Lady Quincy.

      ‘Her ladyship’s lips are fuller,’ Chiffinch said, pursing his own.

      ‘Who is it?’

      ‘I’ve no idea. Some long-dead Italian princess, probably. The Dutch gave it to the King at the Restoration.’ He turned away from the painting. ‘Come with me.’ He led me into the Privy Gallery and took me into a closet by the King’s laboratory, which overlooked the garden.

      ‘Close the door,’ he ordered. ‘Sit.’

      He pointed at a chair by a small table underneath the window. He sat opposite me and leaned over the table, bringing our heads close together.

      ‘I’ve a commission for you, Marwood. Do you remember Edward Alderley?’

      I was so surprised I couldn’t speak.

      ‘Alderley,’ Chiffinch said irritably. ‘For God’s sake, man, you can’t have forgotten. That affair you were mixed up in after the Fire with my Lady Quincy’s second husband. Edward Alderley was the son by his first wife. He used to be at court a great deal.’

      ‘Yes, sir. Of course I remember him.’

      ‘He’s dead.’ He paused, fiddling with the wart on his chin. ‘I daresay no one will shed many tears.’

      I felt shock, swiftly followed by relief. What a stroke of luck for Cat. ‘How did he die?’

      ‘Drowned. But it’s not that he is dead that matters. It’s where his body was found.’ Chiffinch’s forefinger abandoned the wart and tapped the table between us. ‘In Lord Clarendon’s well.’

      I began to understand why the Duke of York had been in such a rage. Lord Clarendon was the Duke’s father-in-law. ‘In my lord’s house?’

      ‘In his garden. Which comes to the same thing. But mark: this is a confidential matter. Breathe a word of it to anyone, and you will regret it. Do you understand?’

      ‘Yes, sir. But are you sure that I am the man best suited to a matter of such delicacy?’

      ‘You wouldn’t be my choice for the job, I can tell you that. It’s by the King’s command. I suppose he chose you because you know a little of the man and his family.’

      Then there was no hope for me. ‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked.

      ‘Go to Clarendon House and look into the circumstances of Alderley’s death. The body is under lock and key. Lord Clarendon knows, of course, and so does one of his gentlemen, Mr Milcote. Alderley was discovered this morning by a servant, who has been sworn to secrecy. We don’t want the news made public yet. Not until we know more. That is essential.’

      ‘Was the death accidental, sir?’

      Chiffinch flung up his arms. ‘How in God’s name would I know? That’s for you to find out. Report back to me as soon as you can.’

      ‘Mr Williamson—’

      ‘May go to the devil for all I care. But I shall see he’s informed that the King has given you a commission. He can hardly object.’ Chiffinch glanced piously in the direction of heaven. ‘After God, our duty is to serve the King. We would all agree on that, I hope.’

      I nodded automatically. The more I thought about this, the less I liked it. I had been long enough at Whitehall to know that when the great ones of our world squabbled among themselves, it was the little ones who tended to be hurt.

      Chiffinch drew a paper from his pocket. ‘Here’s your authority, with the King’s signature.’ He held the paper in his hand, but did not give it to me. ‘Remember. My Lord Clarendon is no longer Lord Chancellor, but he still has many friends who would like to see him restored to the King’s favour. And one of them is the Duke.’ He paused, which gave me time to reflect on the fact that the Duke of York was the King’s heir presumptive, and that the Duke’s daughters – Clarendon’s grandchildren – were next in line to the throne. ‘So for God’s sake, Marwood, go carefully. And if you see my lord himself, try not to anger him. He has had much to cope with lately. Bear in mind that his wife has hardly been a month in her grave.’

      He sent me away. With my mind heavy with foreboding, I walked slowly through the public apartments, through the Guard Chamber and down into the Pebble Court. It was still raining, even more heavily than before.

      I