‘And if he is innocent?’
‘He is not,’ said the Earl firmly, allowing Chaloner to help him down the carriage steps. Without another word, he stalked inside his house and nodded to the footman to close the door behind him.
The bell in Westminster’s medieval clock tower was chiming midnight by the time Chaloner had escorted Christopher Vine’s body to the nearest church, and was free to break the news to the man’s family. He had been the bearer of bad tidings many times before, and knew how to do it gently, but it was not a task he relished even so. He walked slowly to New Palace Yard, where Vine had lived, and spent a few moments bracing himself before knocking on the door. Then he did not know whether to be relieved or shocked when Vine’s wife informed him that it was the best news she had had in weeks.
‘Since word came that Queen Katherine was ailing,’ she elaborated, when the spy found himself at a loss for words. ‘The woman is barren, and I prayed she would die, so the King can marry a fertile Protestant instead. He should never have wed a Catholic.’
Aware that people were seldom themselves after being told their spouses were dead, Chaloner did not take her to task for maligning a lady he liked. ‘The King’s marriage alliance with Portugal was—’
‘Portugal!’ sneered Mrs Vine. ‘Who cares about Portugal? All they do is fight Spaniards and eat olives. But I did not drag myself out of bed at such an hour to discuss royal matches with the likes of you. What happened to Christopher? Did he die of shock, because he heard someone swearing? Or did he spend so long at prayer that God grew tired of listening and struck him down?’
Vine’s only son, George, snickered. He was in his mid-twenties, and looked like his father in that he was tall and thin, but there the resemblance ended. George’s eyes were bloodshot from high living, and he reeked of brothel perfume. He was a far cry from his respectable sire, and Chaloner did not believe the rumour that said he had once tried to assassinate Cromwell – George simply did not have the mettle.
‘Perhaps he died of shame, because he found an inconsistency in his accounting,’ the young man said with a smirk. ‘And he was afraid folk would find out that he had wantonly mislaid a whole groat.’
Mrs Vine cackled with laughter, then went to pour two cups of wine. She gave one to her son, and raised it in salute. ‘To a future without old Dreary Bones!’
‘You did not like him, then,’ said Chaloner drily.
Mrs Vine snorted. ‘The man was a bore, with his prayers and his sickly goodness – always helping the poor and the sick, weeping every time he saw an injured dog …’
‘And then there was the Lord of Misrule,’ added George resentfully. ‘We all know the tradition is great fun, but father said it was cruel, and forbade me to have anything to do with it. Well, he cannot stop me now, and I shall offer my services as soon as I wake up tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Your father was poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether they had heard what had happened to Chetwynd, and had conspired to duplicate the crime in order to be rid of a hated kinsman. But then would they be so openly gleeful at the news of his death? He decided they would, on the grounds that people would know relations within the family were strained, and to feign grief would certainly arouse suspicion. Or was that attributing them with too much intelligence?
Mother and son were exchanging a glance he found impossible to interpret. ‘Then we demand an investigation,’ said Mrs Vine slyly, ‘with a view to claiming compensation for our loss. If Christopher died in the service of his country, I shall demand a pension.’
George emitted a sharp squeal of delight, and clapped his hands together. ‘Yes, yes! He earned a princely living, and his family cannot be expected to endure poverty just because he has been murdered. Oh, this is tremendous news!’
‘Do you have any idea who might want to harm him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Other than you two?’
‘Us?’ asked George, the glee fading quickly from his eyes. He shot his mother an uneasy look. ‘We had nothing to do with his death. You heard us – we thought it was natural until you said he was murdered. You cannot blame us for what has happened.’
‘The villain will be someone at White Hall,’ added Mrs Vine hastily. ‘Perhaps a colleague who wanted his government post – it is a lucrative one, and lots of folk are jealous of his success.’
‘Or maybe someone did not like the fact that he was so revoltingly honest,’ mused George. ‘The Court understands that corruption is a necessary part of modern life, but Father never did. I will be more tolerant, when I take over his duties.’
Chaloner was bemused – Vine’s post was not hereditary. ‘You intend to step into his shoes?’
George shrugged. ‘Why not? I will be better at it than he was, because I shall not offend people by rejecting their bribes.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I was thinking more in terms of your safety. Your mother has just said Vine might have been killed by someone who wants his job. If you are appointed, you will be at risk from poison, too – unless you are the culprit, of course.’
George opened his mouth, but then seemed unable to think of a suitable response, so snapped it shut again. It was left to his mother to protest his innocence. Chaloner listened to her list of alternative suspects, but it soon became clear she was naming everyone and anyone in an effort to divert attention from her son.
‘The Court surgeon wants to examine your husband’s remains more carefully,’ he said, interrupting her tirade, and supposing there was no harm in putting Wiseman’s request. After all, they were hardly prostrate with grief. ‘May he have your permission to—’
‘No,’ interrupted George. He shot his mother another unreadable glance. ‘I have seen Wiseman in action, and it is disgusting. Dreary Bones might have been a trial, but I will not see him hacked to pieces by that ghoul. He will go in the ground whole, with all his entrails where they are meant to be.’
‘Why was your father working so late tonight?’ Chaloner asked, not sure what to make of the refusal. ‘Everyone else had gone home.’
Mrs Vine shrugged. ‘Christopher and I live separate lives, which suits us both. To be frank, I thought he was upstairs asleep, and had no idea he was out.’
‘Did he know a clerk called Chetwynd?’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Vine. ‘Why do you ask? Is it because Chetwynd was poisoned, too?’
‘The news is all over London,’ said George, before Chaloner could ask how she knew. ‘Everyone is talking about it, because it is not every day that government officials are unlawfully slain.’
‘No, it is every other day,’ quipped his mother. ‘Chetwynd on Thursday, and Christopher tonight. We shall dine on this for months, because everyone will want to befriend the kin of a murdered man.’
‘I imagine that depends on who is revealed as the killer,’ said Chaloner, aiming for the door. He had had enough of the Vines for one night. ‘And the authorities will catch him. You can be sure of that.’
‘Why bother?’ asked George, going to refill his goblet. ‘Dreary Bones will not be missed.’
Although the wind was not as fierce as it had been earlier, it was still strong enough to make the trees in nearby Tothill Fields roar. The air was full of flying debris – mostly twigs, dead leaves and dust, but also human rubbish, including discarded rags, sodden bits of paper and even scraps of food. Chaloner was disgusted when a rotting cabbage leaf slapped into his face, and was relieved when he finally managed to flag down a carriage to take him back to Wapping.
It was a long way to Greene’s house, which, at sixpence a mile, delighted the hackneyman. The coach was determinedly basic, with a wooden seat bristling with splinters and a mass of squelching straw on the floor. It stank of horse and vomit, and there were no covers on the windows to protect passengers from inclement weather – the owner was apparently of the belief that if he was obliged to sit outside, then so should his fares. The vehicle lurched along the empty streets at a furious lick, forcing Chaloner to cling on
tight or risk being tossed out. By the time he reached the tavern where Haddon was waiting, he was cold, tired and wet.
‘It is still raining, then,’ said Haddon, when the spy slipped into the seat next to him. The steward was a slight man of about sixty, whose baggy skin made him look as though he had once been much larger, and he wore a wig to conceal his hairless pate. He had a pleasant face, with laughter lines around his mouth and eyes, and he owned a passion for dogs that verged on the obsessive. He had been appointed the previous year, when the Earl had complained that his current staff could no longer cope with the volume of work, and so had been granted funds to expand his retinue.
‘It is always raining in this godforsaken country,’ grumbled Chaloner, weariness making him irritable. ‘It makes me wish I was back in Spain – and the last time I was there, I was almost killed.’
Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you realise that is the first information about yourself you have ever volunteered to me? The Earl must have driven you to distraction with his demands to prove Greene is the killer, because you are usually far more guarded.’
Chaloner supposed he was right. He had been trained never to yield personal details, which was a considerable stumbling block in making new friends. It was a problem for his latest relationship, too, because Hannah Cotton was eager to learn all about her new lover, but he found himself reluctant to tell her what she wanted to know. Secrecy was not so important now he was no longer a foreign spy in a hostile country, but it was a difficult habit to break after so many years regardless.
‘You should go home,’ he said to Haddon. ‘I heard a rumour that the Lord of Misrule plans some sort of attack on the Earl soon, and you cannot defend him if you are half asleep.’
‘What about you?’ asked Haddon. ‘How will you find Chetwynd’s real killer after a third night spent out here? You will be too tired to catch a cold, let alone a murderer.’
‘You do not think Greene is the culprit, then?’ Chaloner asked, intrigued by Haddon’s use of ‘real’.
‘Of course not,’ said Haddon scornfully. ‘I have known him for years, and he would not harm a fly. You have talked to him – you must see the Earl is wrong about the poor fellow.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘I thought Vine’s death would give the Earl pause for thought, but it has only convinced him that Greene managed to outwit me – slipped past when my attention wavered.’
Haddon grimaced. ‘Vine was a decent soul – kind to stray dogs. Was he poisoned, too?’
‘Wiseman thinks so.’
‘Then it must be true.’ Haddon was silent for a moment. ‘After you left, I walked around Greene’s house, and learned that there are three different ways he can leave it, only two of which are visible by one pair of eyes. So, perhaps he did go to the Painted Chamber tonight without you noticing.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘I thought you just said he is no killer.’
‘I genuinely believe Greene is innocent of these heinous crimes, but I am not such a fool as to ignore facts that do not support my theory. Of course, there is a way to determine once and for all whether he is involved in this nasty business.’
‘There is?’
‘If Greene has indeed been out a-killing, then his coat and shoes will be wet. Agreed? It is a filthy night, and no one can move about without a drenching, not even if he hires a hackney. The Earl’s secretary tells me you own some skill at breaking into houses, so break into Greene’s. If his clothes are dry, then it means he has been nowhere, and we can abandon this ridiculous vigil.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was an eminently sensible idea, and one he should have thought of himself. He might have done, had he not been so unutterably tired.
Haddon smiled when he saw the spy’s reaction. ‘Stewards can be relied upon to provide intelligent notions occasionally, so do not look so startled. Come, we shall do it together.’
‘I had better go alone.’ Chaloner disliked company when he was committing burglary, especially that of amateurs. ‘Although it is good of you to offer.’
Aware of Haddon watching through the window, he trotted across the road and made his way to the most secluded of Greene’s three doors. He picked the lock with the easy confidence of a man who had invaded other people’s property many times before, and found himself in a tiny kitchen. Beyond it was a hall, with doors leading to more rooms and a flight of stairs. Chaloner headed for the latter, knowing from his surveillance that Greene slept in an upper chamber that overlooked the street.
Through a crack in the bedroom door, he saw his quarry reading by candlelight, although the troubled expression on Greene’s face suggested his thoughts were a long way from his book. Chaloner supposed it was not surprising: he would not have been slumbering peacefully if the Lord Chancellor of England had deemed him guilty of murder, either. He crept back to the kitchen, closed the door and lit a lamp. Then he inspected the pegs on which Greene kept his outdoor clothes.
The clerk had worn a rather shabby cloak that day, and it was hanging on the hook nearest the door. It was damp, as would be expected given that it had been wrapped around him while he had travelled home from Westminster at dusk, but it was certainly not sodden: clearly, it had been drying for several hours. Chaloner knelt to look at the footwear. Greene owned two pairs of shoes and one set of boots. The boots were stuffed with paper, to prevent the leather from shrinking, but again, they were damp rather than wet. Meanwhile, the shoes had not been worn that day, because they were bone dry.
‘Well?’ asked Haddon, when Chaloner rejoined him in the tavern. ‘What did you find? Is the Earl right about Greene, or am I?’
‘You are. He has not been out since returning home this evening, so he cannot have given Vine the poison. Of course, he might have hired someone to do it for him.’
Haddon nodded slowly. ‘I cannot imagine there are many poisoners among his acquaintances, but I suppose it is something you should explore.’
‘What do you know about James Turner?’ asked Chaloner, thinking again that if the Earl regarded Greene as a suspect for discovering Chetwynd, then the flamboyant colonel should be treated likewise.
Haddon was surprised by the change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘He likes the company of ladies, and I predict hearts will be broken, because he cannot possibly please them all. He is egalitarian in his tastes – he enjoys a romp with Meg the laundress just as much as one with Lady Castlemaine.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He seems personable enough to me, although I doubt the hole in his ear was made by a musket-ball, which implies a tendency to moderate the truth. And I would not trust him with my daughters.’
‘You have daughters?’
‘It is a figure of speech. My wife died many years ago, and I have no other family – unless you count my dogs, which are like children to me. And you? Sir George Downing, with whom you worked in The Hague, told me last week that you married a Dutch lass when you first went to Holland.’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Chaloner liked Haddon, but did not feel equal to an exchange of confidences that night – although a nagging voice at the back of his mind warned him that he was never in the mood for personal conversations, not even with Hannah. How was he going to develop friendships, if he could not bring himself to confide in the people who were trying to get to know him? ‘Even if Greene is a killer, there is no point in watching him now, because I doubt he will strike twice in one night. We should both go home.’
‘It is late for travelling, so I suggest we hire rooms here,’ said Haddon, adding with an impish smile, ‘then you can tell the Earl truthfully that you remained within spitting distance of Greene all night.’
It was another good idea, and Chaloner was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.
A lifetime of travel meant Chaloner had developed the ability to rest tolerably well in most strange beds, and the one in the Wapping tavern was surprisingly comfortable. The following morning Haddon complained that he had
been kept awake by howling winds and the thunder of rain on the roof, but Chaloner had noticed none of it. There had not been much of the night left by the time they had retired, but even so, he felt reasonably well-rested when he joined the steward for a breakfast of bread and ale.
They hired a skiff to take them to White Hall, leaving as soon as it was light enough for the boatman to see. It was a bumpy ride, because the wind had churned the Thames into a confusion of waves, most of which were going against the tide. The boatman moaned about the conditions all the way, oblivious to the fact that spray from his oars drenched his passengers at almost every stroke. Haddon was shivering miserably by the time they alighted at the Westminster Stairs.
It was not a pleasant day, even once they were off the river. The sun began to flash from behind the clouds occasionally, although never for long enough do any useful warming. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wavy fringe of ice all along the beach. Because it was Sunday, bells were ringing all across the city. The wind played with the sound, making a deafening jangle one moment, and a distant tinkle the next.
Chaloner and Haddon walked up Cannon Row, a well-maintained street with gates giving access to a number of elegant mansions, as well as to the King’s private orchard in the Palace of White Hall. Haddon stopped outside a pretty cottage that had a dog-shaped weather-vane on the roof.
‘This is my humble abode. Since we are passing, I shall change my clothes before I take a chill. Come in and wait for me, and when I am warm and dry again, I would like to ask your opinion about something – a matter that is worrying me deeply.’
He had opened the door and stepped inside before the spy could demur, and immediately, two lapdogs scampered at him with frenzied yaps of delight. They were brown and white with long, silky ears. Their fur was glossy, their noses shiny, and their necks adorned with bows of silk. Haddon knelt and greeted them with professions of such love that Chaloner wondered whether he should wait outside. The spy could not have made himself speak such words to a woman, let alone an animal.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 3
