Susanna Gregory is a Cambridge academic and the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew medieval series. She has previously been a police officer and now lives in Wales with her husband, also a writer.
Visit the author’s website at www.susannagregory.co.uk
Also by Susanna Gregory
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A Plague on Both your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Devil’s Disciples
A Vein of Deceit
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
The Butcher of Smithfield
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12455-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 Susanna Gregory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Copyright
Also by Susanna Gregory
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Historical Note
For Carolyn and Craig
Prologue
Threadneedle Street, London, October 1660
Henry Scobel, Clerk of the House of Lords, was dying. His physician had confidently informed him that he was afflicted with a ‘sharpness of the blood’, a painful ailment from which few recovered. Scobel had always lived a clean, decent and sober life, and had no idea why his blood should so suddenly have become sharp, but he was unwilling to waste his last hours pondering on it. He was a religious man, and if God had decided it was time for him to die, then who was he to argue? And, if the truth be told, he no longer had much appetite for life, anyway – he had liked England under Cromwell, but detested it under the newly restored Charles II. The King and his Court had only been installed for a few months, but already they were showing themselves to be corrupt, debauched and treacherous. Scobel was appalled by them, and deplored the notion of such men ruling his country.
‘You will be better soon, uncle,’ said Will Symons, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He loved his kinsman dearly, and hated to see him suffering. ‘And in the spring, we shall ride out together to see the cherry trees at Rotherhithe, just like we do every year.’
Scobel was sorry to be the cause of his nephew’s distress: Symons was a good man, who was hard-working, honest and reliable, and Scobel thought it disgraceful that he had recently been ousted from his government post, just because the Royalists wanted it for one of their cronies. Of course, Symons was not the only one to be shabbily treated – honourable men all over the country were facing hardship and ruin for no reason other than that they had worked for the Commonwealth. It made Scobel furious, especially as the newcomers were not only unqualified for the jobs they were being given, but many were brazenly corrupt, too.
‘Do not worry,’ said Symons kindly, when his uncle began to voice his concerns. ‘Have you forgotten our last prayer meeting? Everyone promised – swore sacred oaths – to live righteous and godly lives, no matter how wicked the world becomes. Others will follow their example, and evil will never triumph.’
Scobel was not so sure about that, but he summoned a smile when he thought of his friends. ‘They are decent souls, but these are difficult times. It would not be the first time an upright man fell by the wayside, and I fear for their—’
‘They are successful and happy,’ said Symons firmly, to quell the dying man’s growing agitation. ‘And they know it is God’s reward to them for being good. They also know He might take it all away again if they let themselves be seduced by sin. Do not fret, uncle: they will not stray.’
Scobel’s expression was pained. ‘But I do not want them to uphold their principles because they are afraid their luck will change if they transgress. I want them to do it because they love God and desire to do His will.’
‘They will,’ said Symons soothingly. ‘I will see they do.’
Scobel closed his eyes wearily, and hoped the younger man was right. He could feel his life ebbing away faster now, and had no energy for debate. All he hoped was that his beloved country would survive the corruption that was taking hold in Westminster and White Hall, and that good people, like the men who attended his prayer meetings, would stand firm against sin and encourage others to do likewise. A tear rolled down his cheek when he thought about what might happen if they failed. Poor England! Would her suffering never end?
Westminster, Christmas Day 1663
The Palace of Westminster was an eerie place after dark. It was full of medieval carvings that gazed down from unexpected places, and when the lantern swayed in his hand, it made some of the statues look as though they were moving. The killer was sure he had just seen Edward the Confessor reach for his sword, while a few moments before he had been equally certain that a gargoyle had winked at him. He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together, increasing his stride so he could complete his business and go home. It was no night to be out anyway, with a fierce storm blowing in from the east, carrying with it needles of rain that hurt when they hit bare skin.
He walked towards the building called the Painted Chamber, which was a long, draughty hall hung with tapestries so old they were grey with dust. Ancient kings had once used it to receive important guests; nowadays it was where the two Houses of Parliament met when they needed to confer. However, as Commons and Lords rarely had much to say to each other, a few high-ranking government officials had taken it over. Desks were placed at irregular intervals along its length, while around its edges were chests full of documents, writs and books.
The Painted Chamber was empty now, of course, because it was eight o’clock on Christmas night, and the clerks had gone home early, eager to gorge themselves on rich seasonal foods, sing carols and enjoy visits from friends and family. Cromwell’s Puritans had done their best to curb the revelries associated with the Twelve Days of Christmas, but December was a dark, cold, dreary month, and people needed something to cheer themselves up – the Puritans’ efforts had never had gained much support, and the Restoration had seen the festival revived in all its pagan glory. Christmas was more popular now than it had ever been.
The killer nodded to himself when he opened the Painted Chamber’s door and saw a lamp gleaming at the far end. Most clerks had gone home early: James Chetwynd was still at his desk,
chin resting on his left hand while he wrote with his right. The killer did not blame the man – Chetwynd’s kin were quite open about the fact that they cared nothing for him, and that they hoped he would die so they could inherit his money; he would have to be insane to want to spend Christmas with them. The killer took a deep breath, and supposed they were going to be rich sooner than they had anticipated, because tonight was going to be Chetwynd’s last on Earth.
He advanced stealthily. Chetwynd was engrossed in his papers, so certain he was safe inside the great hall that he did not once look up. The killer wondered if the clerk preferred the stillness of evening to the commotion of daylight hours – if he was able to think more clearly when there were no distractions. Regardless, the killer was glad he was there, because what better place for a murder than a deserted room in a palace that had been all but abandoned for the night? It afforded both privacy and space, allowing him to take his time and ensure he left no clues behind him. His smug musings meant he did not concentrate on where he was going, and he stumbled over a loose floorboard, a sound that made Chetwynd’s head jerk up in surprise.
‘Is anyone there?’ the clerk called, peering into the darkness beyond the halo of light around his desk. ‘Show yourself!’
There was no fear in his voice – he assumed anyone entering the Painted Chamber would be a friend, and did not for a moment imagine he might be in danger. The killer did not reply. He waited until Chetwynd’s attention drifted back to his documents, and then he made his move.
Chapter 1
Westminster, 27 December 1663
There was a belief, common among many folk, that an unusually high wind was a sign that a great person would die. Thomas Chaloner was not superstitious, but even he could not deny that it was the second time in as many days that a gale had descended on the nation’s capital with a terrifying savagery, and that an eminent man had died on each occasion. He would not have said James Chetwynd or Christopher Vine were ‘great’ exactly, but they were high-ranking officials, and that alone was enough to attract the Lord Chancellor’s attention. And when the Lord Chancellor expressed an interest, it was Chaloner’s responsibility, as his spy, to provide him with information.
He stared at the body that lay on the floor of the Painted Chamber, listening to the wind rattling the windows and howling down the chimney. The lamp he held cast eerie shadows, and when a draught snaked behind the tapestries on the walls, the ghostly grey figures swayed and danced in a way that was unsettling. Beside him, the Lord Chancellor, created Earl of Clarendon at the Restoration, regarded it nervously, then shivered in the night’s deep chill.
‘Why is it called the Painted Chamber, sir?’ Chaloner asked, breaking the silence that had been hanging between them for the last few minutes, as they had pondered Chetwynd’s mortal remains. ‘There is no artwork here.’
The Earl almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound of his voice, although Chaloner had not spoken loudly. He rested a plump hand over his heart and scowled, to indicate he did not appreciate being startled. Chaloner bowed an apology. He was uneasy in the hall, too – and he knew how to defend himself, thanks to active service during the civil wars, followed by a decade of spying on hostile foreign governments.
‘There were frescos,’ replied the Earl shortly, flapping chubby fingers towards the ceiling. ‘Up there, but they have been plastered over. How can you live in London and not know this?’
Chaloner did not answer. His overseas duties had made him a virtual stranger in his own country, and he was acutely aware that he needed to remedy the situation – a spy could not be effective in a place he did not understand. Unfortunately, he kept being dispatched on missions abroad, so never had the opportunity to familiarise himself with England’s biggest city.
‘You are supposed to be telling me what happened to Vine, not quizzing me about architecture,’ the Earl continued waspishly, when there was no reply. ‘I need to know whether his death was natural, or whether you have a second murder to investigate – this one, as well as Chetwynd’s.’
Chaloner dragged his attention away from the ceiling, and knelt next to the corpse. Vine had not been dead long, because he was still warm to the touch. The spy glanced around, feeling his unease intensify. The Painted Chamber was so huge and dark that it was impossible to see far, and a killer – or killers – might still be there. The dagger he always carried in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand as he stood.
‘What is wrong?’ The Earl sensed his disquiet, and scanned the shadows with anxious eyes. ‘Is someone else in here? Turner told me the place was deserted.’
‘Turner?’ Chaloner began to prowl, taking the lamp with him. Loath to be left alone in the dark, the Earl followed. He wore fashionably tight shoes with smart red heels, which made his feet look disproportionately small under his portly frame. Their hard leather soles pattered on the floor as he scurried after his spy, short, fat legs pumping furiously.
‘Colonel James Turner,’ he panted, tugging on Chaloner’s sleeve to make him slow down. ‘You must know him – he declared himself for the King during the wars, and championed our cause all through the Commonwealth.’ There was a hint of censure in his voice: Chaloner’s family had been Parliamentarians, while the spy himself had fought for Cromwell in several major battles. In other words, Turner had chosen the right side, Chaloner had not. ‘It was Turner who found Vine’s body.’
The spy frowned. The Painted Chamber was not a place that would attract most people on such a wild night, so what had Turner been doing there? Besides being vast, dark and full of disquieting noises, it was bitterly cold. But the colonel had been right about one thing: it was deserted, and it was not long before Chaloner had satisfied himself to that effect. He returned to the body.
‘He said he saw a light as he was walking home from church,’ the Earl elaborated, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. ‘So he came to investigate. He found Vine, and, knowing my interest in Chetwynd’s murder, he came to tell me that a second prominent official lies dead.’
‘How did he know about your interest in Chetwynd?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously. Sudden deaths among government employees were for the Spymaster General to investigate, and the Earl had no business commissioning his own enquiry. So, when he had ordered his spy to look into the affair, he had promised to keep it a secret, to avoid unnecessary trouble – the Spymaster hated meddlers.
The Earl looked sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned to one or two people that I dislike the notion of our officials being murdered in Westminster, and that I have a man asking questions about the matter. Turner probably heard it from them.’
Chaloner stifled a sigh, and wished his master knew how to keep a still tongue in his head – he was always sharing information he should have kept to himself. But what was done was done, and there was no point in remonstrating, not that the Earl would take notice anyway. ‘Where is Turner now?’
‘I sent him to fetch Surgeon Wiseman.’ The Earl held up a hand when Chaloner opened his mouth to object. ‘I know you dislike Wiseman – and his gleeful penchant for gore is disconcerting – but he is good at distilling information from corpses. Turner must be having trouble finding him – I expected them to arrive before you, given that you have had to travel all the way from Wapping.’
‘I was there shadowing Greene,’ said Chaloner, keeping his voice carefully neutral. ‘The man you suspect of killing Chetwynd.’
‘But Greene did murder Chetwynd,’ declared the Earl uncompromisingly. ‘I know a scoundrel when I see one, and I was right to order you to watch his every move.’
Chaloner made no reply. He had been tailing Greene for two days now – ever since Chetwynd’s body had been found – but felt it was a complete waste of his time. Moreover, it was unreasonable to expect one man to follow another for twenty-four hours a day without help. He was exhausted, and had been relieved when the Earl’s steward had arrived to tell him he was needed urgently at Westminster.
‘W
here is Haddon?’ demanded the Earl, seeming to realise for the first time that the steward was not with them. ‘Did he go home after delivering you my message?’
‘You said you wanted Greene under constant surveillance,’ explained Chaloner. ‘So Haddon offered to monitor him while I came here.’
The Earl smiled smugly. ‘He is a dedicated soul, and I am glad I hired him. He will do anything for me – even lurk around outside on foul-weathered nights.’
Chaloner nodded, not mentioning that Greene’s house was mostly visible from a nearby tavern, and Haddon was comfortably installed there with a jug of ale and a piece of plum pudding. Just then an especially violent gust of wind hurled something against one of the windows, hard enough to shatter the glass. Chaloner whipped around fast, sword in his hand, and the Earl released a sharp yelp of fright.
‘Where is Wiseman?’ he demanded unsteadily, peering out from behind the spy: being in a deserted hall with a corpse was taking a heavy toll on his nerves. ‘What is keeping him? Perhaps you should examine the body. I know you are no surgeon, trained to recognise foul play in the dead, but you spotted the signs readily enough on Chetwynd two days ago. So do the same for Vine now.’
Chaloner obliged, performing a perfunctory examination that entailed inspecting the inside of Vine’s mouth to look for tell-tale burns. They were there, as he had known they would be the moment he had set eyes on the man’s peculiarly contorted posture – it had been this that had alerted him to the fact that Chetwynd’s death was not natural some two days before.
‘Poison,’ he said, looking up at his master. ‘Just like Chetwynd.’
The gale showed no signs of abating, and when the Earl opened the door to leave the Painted Chamber, he was almost bowled over by the force of the wind. It hurled a sheet of rain into his face, too, and deprived him of his wig. Without it, he looked older, smaller and more vulnerable. Chaloner retrieved it for him, then shoved him backwards quickly when several tiles tore from the roof and smashed to the ground where he had been standing.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 1
