‘I should have stayed home, let you report to me in the morning,’ said the Earl shakily, tugging the wig into position on his shaven pate. ‘But I was worried. The government has many enemies, and we cannot have folk running around killing our clerks. I needed to see for myself what we are up against.’
‘At least we know Greene is not responsible,’ said Chaloner, careful to keep any hint of triumph from his voice. ‘I have been watching him all day, and he is currently at home in bed. He cannot have killed Vine.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried the Earl. ‘You are letting his meek manners and plausible tongue cloud your judgement – clearly, he found a way to slip past you. You argued against arresting him on Thursday, and I bowed – reluctantly – to your judgement. But it has cost Vine his life.’
Chaloner was not sure how to refute such rigidly held convictions, but was saved from having to try, because a bobbing lantern heralded the arrival of the surgeon.
Wiseman was enormous, both tall and broad, and it was said at Court that he had recently acquired a peculiar habit: he liked to tone his muscular frame by performing a series of vigorous exercises every morning. His eccentricity was also reflected in his choice of clothes: he always wore flowing scarlet robes, which he claimed were the uniform of his profession, although no other surgeon seemed to own any. His hair was red, too, and fell in luxurious curls around his shoulders. His whimsical unconformity might have been charming, had he not been one of the most opinionated, arrogant, obnoxious men in London. As far as Chaloner was concerned, Wiseman had only one redeeming character: his steadfast, unquestioning loyalty to the Earl.
‘Where is the cadaver?’ demanded the surgeon, never a man to waste time on idle chatter when there was work to be done. ‘At the far end of the hall, like the last one you summoned me to inspect?’
‘Good evening to you, too,’ muttered Chaloner, as Wiseman shoved past him, hard enough to make him stagger. The surgeon was accompanied by another man, one whom the spy had seen at Court.
‘Thank you for bringing Wiseman to me, Turner,’ said the Earl, smiling pleasantly at the fellow. ‘You have been of great service tonight, and I shall not forget it.’
Turner was tall, dark haired and devilishly handsome. He had a narrow moustache like the King’s, and he wore an ear-string – an outmoded fashion that entailed threading strands of silk through a piercing in the earlobe, and leaving them to trail stylishly across one shoulder. Because the rest of his clothes were the height of fashion, the ear-string looked oddly out of place, and drew attention to the fact that the lobe had an unnatural hole in it. Chaloner had been told that it had been made by a Roundhead musket-ball, but was sceptical – the injury was too small and neat to have been caused by any firearm he knew. But no one else seemed to share his suspicions, and the colonel was always surrounded by doting admirers.
‘It is a pleasure, sir,’ gushed Turner with a courtly bow. ‘And if I can be of further assistance, you only need ask. I have long held you in my humble esteem, and I am at your command any time.’
‘What a charming gentleman,’ said the Earl, watching him strut away. Chaloner said nothing, but thought Turner would go far in White Hall, if he was able to produce such nauseating sycophancy at the drop of a hat. ‘But come back inside, Thomas. We had better hear Wiseman’s verdict.’
The surgeon was humming when they reached him, suggesting he had not minded too much being dragged out to inspect corpses. His abrasive character meant he did not have many friends, so murder scenes were important social occasions for him. Chaloner’s occupation meant he did not have many friends, either, and Wiseman’s solitary lifestyle was a constant reminder as to why he needed to make some. It was not easy, though: his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and people were still wary about fraternising with the family of a regicide. Indeed, it was only in the last few weeks that he had felt able to tell people his real name, instead of using an alias. He knew he was lucky the Earl was willing to overlook his connections – along with the fact that he had spent a decade spying for Cromwell – because employment was not easy to come by for old Parliamentarians, especially in espionage. And Chaloner was qualified to do very little else.
‘Like Chetwynd, Vine has swallowed something caustic,’ Wiseman announced, not looking up. ‘It burned the skin of his throat and caused convulsions, which accounts for his contorted posture.’
‘Poison,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Thomas was right.’
Wiseman regarded him haughtily. ‘Since when did he become a surgeon, pray? However, in this case, his opinion happens to be correct, because it coincides with my own. Of course I can go one step further: I suspect both these men died from ingesting the same substance.’
‘What substance?’ asked Chaloner, hoping it would be something unusual that would allow him to trace it – and its purchaser – by making enquiries among the apothecaries.
Wiseman shrugged. ‘There is no way to tell from a visual inspection alone. Vine’s kin will have to let me anatomise him.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect.
‘Thomas will try to get their permission,’ said the Earl. Chaloner’s heart sank; it was bad enough telling a family that a loved one was dead, without being obliged to put that sort of request, too. ‘But do not hold your breath – Chetwynd’s kin cared nothing for him, but even so, they were loath to let you loose on his corpse. So, I cannot imagine Vine’s wife and son leaping to accept your offer. Now, is there anything else we should know? Any clues that prove Greene is the killer?’
‘You asked me that when you found Chetwynd,’ said Wiseman, climbing to his feet. ‘And the answer now is the same as it was then: no. There is nothing that will help you trace the culprit. Dissection is the only way forward.’
‘I suppose we should be thankful he did not carve Vine up right here in front of us,’ whispered the Earl, watching him stride away. ‘Escort me home, Thomas. I have had enough of corpses and their vile secrets for one night. The wind seems to be dropping, so I should be safe from falling tiles now.’
Chaloner was acutely uneasy as he accompanied the Earl to his waiting coach. The gale had abated, but it was still blowing hard, and the racket it made as it whipped through trees and around buildings meant it was difficult to hear anything else. Unfortunately, darkness and driving rain meant he could not see very well, either. He disliked the notion that he might not have adequate warning of an attack, and although he was not afraid for himself, the Earl had accumulated a lot of enemies since the Restoration, and this was the perfect opportunity for an ambush.
‘You should not have come, sir,’ he said, as he helped his master into the carriage and climbed in after him. He banged on the ceiling with his fist, to tell the driver to move off. ‘It is not safe for you to wander about so late at night.’
‘So you have said before, but I refuse to let anyone dictate where I can and cannot go.’ The Earl looked anxious, though, despite his defiant words. ‘I have no idea why I am so unpopular – I seem to attract new enemies with every passing day.’
‘Do you?’ Chaloner immediately wished he had not asked, because he knew exactly why his master had more opponents than friends. The Court libertines despised him because he was prim, dour and something of a killjoy, while he had made political enemies by adopting uncompromising stances on religion and the looming war with Holland.
‘It is because no one else knows what they are talking about,’ stated the Earl. ‘At least, not as far as politics, food, religion, art, horses, ethics, fashion or sport are concerned. I have been arguing all week, and I am tired of it. Why does no one ever agree with me about anything?’
‘Who have you been arguing with, sir?’ asked Chaloner politely. A list of sparring partners promised to be far less objectionable than being treated to a diatribe of the Earl’s controversial – and sometimes odious – opinions.
‘Well, the Lady, naturally.’ So intense was the Earl’s dislike for the King’s mistress that he
refused to say her name: Lady Castlemaine was always just ‘the Lady’. ‘And the Duke of Buckingham, who encourages the King to play cards instead of listening to me, his wise old advisor.’
‘Who else?’
The Earl began to count them off on chubby fingers. ‘Sir Nicholas Gold told me I was a fool for advising caution when declaring war on the Dutch. His young wife Bess, who has fewer wits than a sheep, told me my wig was unfashionable. Then that disgustingly fat Edward Jones accused me of cheating him out of the food allowance that goes with his post as Yeoman of the Household Kitchen.’
‘You would never do that,’ said Chaloner, indignant on his behalf. The Earl had many faults, but brazen dishonesty was not one of them.
‘He is entitled to dine at White Hall, but his monstrous girth means he is eating more than his due. So I told him to tighten his belt, and take the same amount as everyone else. He objected vehemently.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, supposing he would. ‘That is hardly the same as accusing you of cheat—’
‘Then Barbara Chiffinch took issue with my reaction to that practical joke – the one that saw White Hall decor ated with nether garments.’ The Earl lowered his voice at the mention of such a lewd subject. ‘I ordered the offending items burned, and she called me an ass.’
‘Because the prankster stole them from servants,’ explained Chaloner. He liked Barbara, who was a rock of common sense in a sea of silly people. ‘You should penalise the Lord of Misrule, not the poor scullions who cannot afford to lose their—’
‘I hate that custom,’ spat the Earl, grabbing Chaloner’s arm as the carriage lurched violently to one side; Westminster’s roads were notorious for potholes. ‘Electing a “king of mischief ” to hold sway over White Hall for the entire Twelve Days of Christmas is stupid. And I am always the butt of at least one malicious prank. Who is the Lord of Misrule this year, do you know?’
‘No,’ lied Chaloner, not about to tell him that the dissipated Sir Alan Brodrick had been responsible for the undergarment incident. Brodrick was the Earl’s cousin, and for some unaccountable reason, the Earl was fond of him. He steadfastly refused to believe anything bad about him, despite Brodrick’s growing reputation as one of the greatest debauchees in London.
‘Then there was that horrible youth Neale,’ the Earl went on, going back to the list of people who had annoyed him. ‘He said I have poor taste in music.’
‘Did he?’ The spy started to think about his investigation, tuning out the Earl’s tirade. He knew few of the people who were being mentioned, so the monologue was not particularly interesting to him.
‘And finally, Francis Tryan charged me too much interest on a loan. How dare he! Does he think my arithmetic lacking? That I am a halfwit, who cannot do his sums?’
‘I interviewed Chetwynd’s heirs yesterday,’ said Chaloner, when he thought the Earl had finished. ‘Thomas and Matthias Lea. They work in the same building as Greene, so I was able to question them and watch him at the same time. Unfortunately, they have no idea why their kinsman—’
‘And there was another idiot,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘Chetwynd attacked my stance on religion.’
The spy was not a devout man, but he disliked his master’s attempts to impose Anglicanism on the entire country, and thought Catholics and nonconformists were justified when they said they wanted to pray as they, not the state, thought fit. ‘Many people would agree with him,’ he said carefully.
‘Then many people are wrong,’ snapped the Earl in a tone that said further debate was futile. He was silent for a moment, then resumed his list yet again. ‘Did you know Vine criticised me for wanting to build myself a nice house in Piccadilly? Why should I not have a palace? I am Lord Chancellor of England, and should live somewhere grand.’
Chaloner found himself agreeing with Vine, too, although he said nothing. He knew, with all his heart, that the Earl’s projected mansion was a bad idea – it was too ostentatious, and was sure to cause resentment. He had urged him to commission something more modest, but the Earl refused to listen.
‘But enough of my troubles,’ said the Earl, seeming to sense that his complaints were falling on unsympathetic ears. ‘We should discuss these murders while we are alone.’
‘So you knew Vine as well, sir?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You told me on Thursday that you knew Chetwynd.’
The Earl nodded. ‘They were both high-ranking clerks – Vine in the Treasury, and Chetwynd in Chancery. Each had a reputation for being decent and honest, and it is a shame that two good men lie dead, when so many scoundrels remain living.’
By ‘scoundrels’, Chaloner supposed he referred to his various enemies at Court. ‘Yes, sir.’
But the Earl knew a noncommittal answer when he heard one. He narrowed his eyes and went on the offensive. ‘I have just one question for you: how did Greene kill Vine when you were supposed to be watching him? Or were you deliberately careless with your surveillance, because you refuse to see the obvious and accept that he is the culprit?’
Chaloner bit back an acid retort at the slur on his professionalism, knowing he would be doing himself no favours by offending the man who paid his wages. ‘It is difficult to follow a suspect full-time, sir. Not only is he more likely to spot you if you are always there, but you cannot watch back doors and front ones at the same time.’
‘Are you blaming me for the fact that Greene eluded you and went a-killing?’
‘No.’ Chaloner struggled for patience. ‘I did not see Greene leave after he returned home this evening, but I suppose it is possible – his house has three exits, and I could not guard them all. However, I think it unlikely. He had no reason to kill Chetwynd, and I imagine we will find he has none to kill Vine, either.’
‘So you say,’ snapped the Earl. ‘But let us review the tale he spun when he discovered Chetwynd’s corpse. He claims he was working late, although it was Christmas Day and he should have been at home. Then he says he ran out of ink, so he went to the Painted Chamber to borrow some. But it was almost ten o’clock at night, which is an odd time to go rooting about for office supplies. And when he arrived, he maintains he found Chetwynd, dead on the floor.’
‘He raised the alarm—’
‘But only because you and I happened to be walking past, and we saw him dashing out,’ interrupted the Earl.
For the past week, Chaloner had been hunting for a statue that had been stolen from the King, and the Earl had heard a rumour that it was hidden in a nearby stable. The pair had been on their way to see whether the tale was true. Fortunately for the Earl, Chaloner had suspected a trick the moment he had been told the ‘news’ and he had been right to be sceptical – his wariness in entering the stable had prevented his master from being doused with a bucket of paint. It was a jape typical of the Season of Misrule.
‘Greene told us Chetwynd was dead,’ the Earl went on. ‘So we went to investigate. You took one look at the corpse’s peculiar contortions, and declared a case of foul play. Poison.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘A liquid toxin, which would have been delivered in a cup or a bottle. We searched, but found no vessel of any kind – not in the hall and not on Greene’s person. There is only one logical conclusion: the real killer took it away with him when he left.’
But the Earl was not about to let an inconvenient fact get in the way of his theory. He ignored it, and continued with his summary. ‘After Spymaster Williamson’s men had finished taking Greene’s statement, they let him go home, and I ordered you not to let him out of your sight.’
Chaloner had taken the opportunity to interrogate the clerk on the journey to Wapping. Greene had been shocked and deeply frightened, both from stumbling over a corpse in the dark and by the fact that a powerful noble thought him guilty of murder. He had been shaking almost uncontrollably, and Chaloner knew he was not the brazen slaughterer of the Earl’s imagination.
‘I watched his house for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘The next day, he went to church, then took
a boat to his office in Westminster. He went home at dusk, then followed exactly the same routine today – only he stopped to dine at the Dolphin on his way home. He is probably in bed as we speak.’
‘But you cannot say for certain,’ stated the Earl. ‘You said yourself that it is impossible to watch three doors at once. He must have slipped past you.’
‘It is possible, but unlikely, because—’
‘You need a colleague,’ said the Earl, somewhat out of the blue. ‘And I know just the fellow. Colonel Turner is said to be looking for something useful to do. I shall hire him.’
‘Turner?’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that if Greene was to be branded a killer because he had found Chetwynd, then why was Turner rewarded with employment when he had found Vine? It made no sense. Not that he expected sense from the Earl in matters of intelligence: the man might be a fine politician and a skilled diplomat, but he was a menace when it came to investigations.
‘He is a likeable fellow, and I am sure you will get along famously.’ The Earl beamed, pleased with himself. ‘Engaging Turner is an excellent notion, and I should have thought of it sooner. My enemies multiply daily, and you are unequal to the task of monitoring them all – not to mention catching killers and hunting down stolen statues.’
Chaloner was not sure what he was suggesting. ‘You want us to work together?’
The Earl shook his head as the carriage pulled up outside Worcester House on The Strand, where he lived. ‘Separately – but on the same cases. A little healthy competition never did anyone any harm, and we shall see which of you is the most efficient.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘We will be falling over each other, asking the same people identical questions. It will almost certainly impede—’
‘Nonsense! You are just afraid Turner will transpire to be better than you. I want this case solved, and Greene brought to justice. You have until Twelfth Night – ten days – to prove him guilty.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 2
