‘Do you own a dog?’ asked the steward conversationally, when the pooches were bored with affection and began to clamour for food. He fed them prime cuts of meat on solid silver platters.
‘Cat,’ Chaloner replied, grateful it was not in the habit of overwhelming him with gushing adoration every time he arrived home.
‘You should get a dog,’ advised Haddon, shooting his charges a doting glance as they ate. ‘I would not be without my little darlings for the world, and cats have too many unpleasant habits.’
Chaloner was not sure what he meant, but time was passing, and he did not want to waste the few hours of winter daylight on a debate about pets. He gestured that Haddon should hurry, and while the steward went to remove his sodden clothes, he prowled around the parlour, reading the titles of the books on the shelves – mostly religious tracts and tomes about dogs – and then picking out tunes on a virginals that stood by the window.
‘What did you want to ask me about?’ he called, frowning when he made a mistake in the music. He was an adequate virginalist, but his real love was the bass viol, which he played extremely well.
Still fastening the ‘falling band’ that went around his neck like a bib, Haddon went to a desk, and removed a piece of paper. ‘I found this lying on the floor after Brodrick visited the Earl last night.’
The spy was puzzled. ‘It is a plan of our master’s White Hall offices. But Brodrick is his cousin, and does not need a map to find his way around – he knows the place inside out.’
‘I think he drew it yesterday, but dropped it by mistake on his way out. You mentioned rumours that the Lord of Misrule intends to play a prank on the Earl …’
‘And Brodrick is the Lord of Misrule,’ finished Chaloner in understanding. ‘So he sketched the layout of the Earl’s domain to help him with whatever piece of mischief he intends to perpetrate.’
‘Brodrick is the Lord of Misrule?’ echoed Haddon in astonishment. ‘I have been trying to find that out since Thursday, but everyone keeps telling me they have been sworn to secrecy.’
They had told Chaloner the same thing, but it had not stopped him acquiring the information anyway. He handed back the paper. ‘It is a stroke of luck for the Earl, because Brodrick will never harm the one person who keeps trying to get him a high-paying post in government. Whatever Brodrick plans, I doubt it will be too terrible.’
Haddon’s expression was troubled. ‘I disagree. Libertines like Buckingham and Chiffinch have been jibing him about his affection for the Earl recently, so he might devise something especially horrid, just to prove himself to them. After all, the Lord of Misrule’s identity is a secret, so how will the Earl ever know who is to blame for whatever outrage is inflicted on him?’
‘Then you must stop it.’
‘I can only act if I know what Brodrick intends. That means I need you to make some enquiries for me.’
‘I cannot. The Earl intends to pit me against Turner, to see who can solve these murders fastest. I will not have time to—’
‘It will not matter which of you is best if our Earl’s feeble grip on power is loosened by some prank of the Lord of Misrule. You must oblige me in this, Thomas – there is no one else.’
‘There is Secretary Bulteel. He will not stand by and see our master harmed.’
‘Yes, but he hates me, because he thinks I am trying to steal his job. Meanwhile, I dislike him, because he is uncommunicative and sly. I need your help.’
Supposing he was going to be in for a busy time, Chaloner nodded reluctant agreement.
The Palace of White Hall was a sprawling affair, said to contain more than two thousand rooms in edifices that ranged from tiny medieval masterpieces to rambling Tudor monstrosities. Most had never been designed to connect with each other, but connected they were, resulting in a chaotic tangle of winding corridors, dead-ended alleys, oddly shaped yards, mysteriously truncated halls and irregularly angled houses. It was rendered even more confusing by the fact that most of its buildings were more than one storey, but the layout of their upper floors seldom corresponded to the layout at ground level. It had taken Chaloner weeks to learn his way around, and even now, there were still pockets that confounded him.
He and Haddon entered the palace via the Privy Garden, a large area of manicured splendour that was used by courtiers for gentle exercise. As they walked, Haddon happily informed the spy that he took his dogs there most evenings, and that the King found them captivating. Chaloner could not imagine His Majesty being charmed by a pair of yapping rats, but kept his thoughts to himself. He glanced up at the sky as Haddon chattered; grey clouds scudded across it at a furious rate, while trees whipped back and forth in a way that was going to damage them. Several were already at unnatural angles, and would have to be replanted.
They parted company in the main courtyard, Haddon to check on some arrangements for a state dinner, and Chaloner to see whether the Earl was in his office. The spy was just jogging up the marble staircase – the Earl’s suite was on the upper floor – when he met someone coming down. It was Turner. The colonel looked particularly dashing that morning, in a black long-coat with yellow lace frothing at the throat and wrists, colours that were reflected in his trademark ear-string. His hat was pure Cavalier, with a huge amber feather, and when he smiled, his teeth were impossibly white.
‘We were not properly introduced last night,’ he said, effecting one of his fancy bows. ‘I am James Turner. Perhaps you have heard of me?’
‘Should I have done?’ asked Chaloner.
Turner nodded cheerfully, unabashed by the spy’s less-than-friendly manner. ‘Yes – either for my valour during the wars, or my exploits during the Commonwealth. I am sure you remember how Cromwell had a clever Spymaster called Thurloe? Well, I was the bane of Thurloe’s life. In fact, I annoyed him so much that he put up a reward for anyone who could bring him my head.’
‘Does the offer still stand?’ Chaloner doubted the claim was true, because he knew Thurloe well, and he was not the type of man to provide money in exchange for body parts.
Turner laughed. ‘Why? Do you wish to claim it? If so, you will have to behead me the next time we meet, because His Portliness is keen to see you, and you should not keep him waiting. He is in a snappish mood, probably because his shoes are too tight, and they hurt his gouty ankles.’
‘You mean the Earl?’ Chaloner was a little taken aback. He would never discuss his master in such uncomplimentary terms with someone he barely knew. For a start, the Earl was sensitive about his weight, and any hint of mockery would see the joker dismissed in a heartbeat.
The merry grin was still plastered on Turner’s face. ‘He wanted us to meet each other this morning, and discuss tactics over these Westminster poisonings, but he grew tired of waiting for you, and dispatched me on a solo mission instead.’
‘What mission?’ asked Chaloner. Turner clearly liked to give the impression that he was a Court cockerel, all frills and no substance, yet there was something about him that suggested he was rather more. Chaloner supposed his affable buffoon act was an attempt to lull rivals into a state of false security, but the spy had met such men before, and knew better than to be deceived.
‘I am to go to the Shield Gallery, and inspect it for clues regarding the statue that was stolen last week – the one you have been hunting. His Portliness says the place is closed because of a leaking roof, so I shall have it to myself. Is it worth my time, do you think? Will I learn anything useful?’
‘You never know. However, I examined it very carefully the morning after the theft, but the culprit left no clues that I could find.’
Turner chuckled. ‘That is what I suspected, so I shall not waste too much time on it. However, the morning will not be a total loss, because the Shield Gallery has a passageway that leads to the Queen’s private apartments – and where there is a queen, there are ladies-in-waiting. I warrant they will be delighted to have a bit of unscheduled manly company.’ He waggled his eyebrows.
&nbs
p; Chaloner could only admire his audacity. ‘That is probably true, but the Queen has armed guards as well as ladies-in-waiting, and I imagine they will be rather less delighted by your arrival.’
Turner treated him to a conspiratorial wink. ‘Thanks for the warning – I shall do the same for you some day. I see we will work well together, you and me.’
‘I understand you found Vine’s body,’ said Chaloner, deciding it might be a good time to pump the man for information. ‘That must have been unpleasant for you.’
‘I am a soldier,’ said Turner with a world-weary shrug. ‘So I am used to corpses. Of course, most of my experience is on the battlefield, where you tend not to encounter ones that have been poisoned. Then I come to London, and within three days, I lay eyes on two: Chetwynd and Vine.’
‘I thought Greene found Chetwynd’s body.’
‘He did,’ said Turner, rather hastily. ‘I saw it later, along with a host of other courtiers who were curious to see the mortal remains of a murdered man. I never knew Chetwynd – when I looked at his corpse, his face was unfamiliar – but I did have the misfortune to meet Vine. He was a sanctimonious old fool who called me a libertine, just because I have twenty-eight children. I assured him they are all legally begotten, but he did not believe me.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘I wonder why! Are you a bigamist, then?’
‘I married young,’ replied Turner, with another wink. ‘My illegitimate offspring are another tally altogether, but I had better keep that number to myself. How about you? How many do you have?’
‘Vine,’ prompted Chaloner, wondering whether Haddon had been gossiping about the family Chaloner had had, and lost to plague, in Holland more than a decade before. Regardless, he was not about to discuss them with a man he did not know. ‘You were telling me how you came to find his body in a part of Westminster that is usually deserted at night.’
‘Was I indeed?’ asked Turner, with one of his rakish grins. ‘Well, as we are colleagues, I suppose I can trust you with a confidence. I went to the Painted Chamber for a midnight tryst with a lady who works in the laundry. We arranged to meet there because it is usually empty at that hour. But when I arrived, I found not the lovely Meg, but Vine. Stone dead.’
‘Is the lovely Meg the kind of woman to poison someone?’
Turner shook his head vehemently. ‘She is a gentle child, and would never harm a soul.’
Chaloner would make up his own mind about that when he interviewed her. After all, it was not inconceivable that Vine had happened across her while she was waiting for her lover to arrive, and had made disparaging remarks about her morality. Some women in White Hall were sensitive about that kind of accusation, and men had been killed for far less.
‘But you found Vine a long time before midnight,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Why did you arrive so early for this assignation?’
‘Because I hoped she would come a bit ahead of schedule, and I was at a loose end, with nothing else to do. Now I wish I had visited Lady Castlemaine instead, although you had better not tell her so – I doubt she will appreciate knowing I view her as somewhere to kill time between amours.’
Chaloner was sure she would not. ‘Where is Meg now?’
Turner frowned. ‘I have not seen her since we made the arrangement, and I can only assume she has decided to keep a low profile, lest someone start pointing accusing fingers. You see, it was not the first time she and I used the Painted Chamber for a nocturnal romp.’
‘When you found Vine, what were your immediate thoughts? Death by poison is rare, so I doubt it was the first thing that entered your mind.’
‘Actually, it was – because of Chetwynd. I noticed spilled wine on Vine’s chin, indicating he had been drinking when he died, but there was no sign of a goblet, which struck me as odd. It told me someone else had been there – someone who had taken the cup with him. The killer, no less.’
Chaloner studied him thoughtfully, aware that here was a man whose powers of observation equalled his own, and it reinforced his initial impression – that there was more to Turner than met the eye. ‘Do you think Greene did it?’
‘I do not. It takes courage to commit murder, and Greene is a mouse. Besides, he believes everything in life is preordained, so he never bothers to do much of anything, on the grounds that it will make no difference to the general scheme of things anyway. You have met him – you know this is true. His Portliness refuses to be convinced, though. What about you? What do you think?’
‘That Greene did not leave his house last night, so he cannot have killed Vine.’
Turner looked pleased. ‘We think alike, you and I. I imagine we share the same taste in women, too. As far as I am concerned, they only need one qualification to secure my favour: they must have teeth. I cannot abide making love to bare gums. I am sure you will agree.’
He sauntered away, whistling to himself, before Chaloner could frame a suitable answer.
Chapter 2
The Earl’s White Hall offices comprised a suite of rooms overlooking the Privy Garden. They were sumptuously furnished and snug, with the exception of one: Secretary John Bulteel occupied a bleak, windowless cupboard that was so cold during winter he was obliged to wear gloves with the fingers cut out. He glanced up as Chaloner walked past and gave him a friendly wave, baring his rotten teeth in a smile as he did so. He was a slight, timid man, who was not popular among his colleagues, although Chaloner liked him well enough. His wife baked excellent cakes, and he often shared them with the spy – a diffident, shy gesture of friendship that no one else at White Hall ever bothered to extend.
Bulteel took a moment to blow on his frozen hands, then turned back to his ledgers, looking like a scarecrow in badly fitting, albeit decent quality, clothes. Chaloner often wondered why the Earl treated him so shabbily, when he was scrupulously honest, hard-working and loyal, and could only conclude it was because Bulteel was so singularly unprepossessing – that the Earl could not bring himself to show consideration for someone who was not only physically unattractive, but socially inept, too.
In contrast to his secretary’s chilly domain, the Earl’s chambers were sweltering, heated not only by massive braziers, but by open fires, too. They had recently been redecorated, although Chaloner thought the man responsible should be shot. A massive chandelier now hung from the main ceiling, and while the Earl was short enough to pass underneath it without mishap, anyone taller could expect to be brained. Meanwhile, the walls were crammed with paintings from the newly retrieved collections of the King’s late father – Cromwell had sold these after the execution of the first Charles, and the Royalists were currently in the process of getting them all back again. Chaloner found the sheer number of masterpieces in such a small space vulgar, although no one else seemed bothered by it.
He walked through the open door, ducked to avoid the chandelier, and approached the desk. The Earl leapt violently when he became aware that his spy was standing behind him.
‘How many more times must I tell you not to sneak up on me like that?’ he snapped angrily, hand to his chest. ‘I cannot cope with you frightening the life out of me at every turn.’
‘I am sorry, sir. It is these thick rugs – they muffle footsteps.’
‘They are for my gout. Wiseman says soft floor coverings are kinder on the ankles than marble. He also said I would be more comfortable if I was thinner. I confess I was hurt. Do you think me fat?’
‘I have seen fatter,’ replied Chaloner carefully. He did not want to lie, but suspected the Earl would not appreciate the truth. He changed the subject before the discussion could become awkward. ‘I interviewed Vine’s family last night. They do not seem overly distressed by his death.’
‘That does not surprise me. Young George is a nasty creature, and I do not believe he tried to assassinate Cromwell, as he claims. I suspect he made up the tale, to curry favour with us Royalists.’
‘There was no love lost between father and son. They—’
‘George did n
ot dispatch his father,’ interrupted the Earl, seeing where the conversation was going. ‘Vine was killed in an identical manner to Chetwynd – with poison. Since there cannot be two murderers favouring the same method of execution, we must assume a single culprit: Greene. Besides, while George may be delighted to lose his sire, he has no reason to want Chetwynd dead.’
‘Perhaps that is what he hopes you will think. Chetwynd might be a decoy victim.’
‘Why must you always look for overly complex solutions?’ demanded the Earl. ‘Greene killed Chetwynd, as I have told you dozens of times. And now he has attacked Vine.’
‘But I was watching his house when Vine was killed. He cannot be—’
‘He hired an accomplice. He can afford it, because his job pays him a handsome salary. But I fail to understand why you cannot see his guilt. He “discovered” Chetwynd’s body, and you once told me yourself that the discoverer of a murdered corpse should always be considered a suspect until he can prove his innocence. Moreover, Greene and Chetwynd worked in adjoining buildings and were acquaintances, if not friends. I know Chetwynd ranked higher than Greene, but that is irrelevant.’
‘Irrelevant?’ Chaloner was unable to stop himself from pointing out an inconsistency. ‘But when we caught Greene running away from Chetwynd’s body, you said it was relevant, because it was Greene’s motive for murder: jealousy.’
The Earl glared at him. ‘You really are an insolent dog! But you should watch your tongue from now on, because if Turner transpires to be better than you, I shall appoint him in your place and dispense with your services. There are those who think I am rash to employ a man who was a member of Cromwell’s secret service, and I am beginning to think they may have a point.’
‘You mean Williamson?’ The government’s most recent spymaster held Chaloner responsible for the death of a friend earlier that year, and hated him intensely. It was unfortunate, because Chaloner had hoped to continue spying in Holland after the Restoration – the King needed experienced men to watch the Dutch just as much as Cromwell had, and his record was impeccable. Moreover, he had only ever provided reports on alien nations, never on the exiled King. But he would never be sent to the Netherlands as long as Williamson was in charge of intelligence.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 4
