***
By Sunday he had explored every path that he could follow without his assistants. Except for one.
He skipped chapel for the first time in seven years, praying that his mother would never come to hear of it. He spent a hair-raising half hour sneaking into every staircase and running up and down on tiptoe, straining his ears to catch the murmur of chanting and sniffing at gaps under doors for the scent of incense.
He was in constant dread lest someone see him. For several horrible minutes, he'd been forced to crouch in a dark corner on a second-floor landing, trembling, heart in mouth, while Sir Christopher Yelverton lumbered up to his rooms on the first floor.
What in the name of a merciful God would he say if he were caught? The last thing he needed was for irrational prying and spying to be added to the list of charges against him. And for all the risk to his reputation, he'd learned nothing. It had been a foolish idea. The conspirator, if such existed, was more likely to consort with his co-religionists after supper, when men strolled freely about the Inn visiting one another.
He needed to discover who could have known about Smythson's intelligence work. He could try some delicate probing among his colleagues during meals, braving the harm to his digestion. At this point, alas, his best hope was that his under-investigators, once Whitt's honor had been restored, would be able to turn something up.