‘He seemed all right,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. The ex-Spymaster did not need to hear that the mathematician–surveyor had taken up two new pastimes since leaving the city: one was watching his neighbour’s wife through a binocular-telescope in the attic; the other was visiting her when her husband was out. Chaloner sincerely hoped he would come to his senses before there was trouble.
‘Are you well?’ asked Thurloe, when he saw that was all the news he could expect of their erstwhile companion. ‘You are very pale.’
As a man obsessed with the state of his own health, Thurloe tended to assume there was something wrong with most people, even when they were blooming. He claimed he had a fragile constitution, although Chaloner suspected that he had nothing of the kind, and was as robust as the next man.
The spy smiled. ‘It is dark in here. You cannot tell what shade I am.’
‘I can see well enough,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘Perhaps you should take one of my tonics.’
Chaloner was saved from having to devise an excuse – Thurloe’s tonics had a reputation for turning even strong men into invalids – by the arrival of the coffee-boy, who slapped a bowl of dark-brown liquid down in front of him, then demanded to know whether he wanted green-pea tart or sausages. Coffee houses did not usually sell food, but Rider disliked the way his patrons disappeared for dinner at noon, so he provided victuals between twelve and one o’clock in an attempt to keep them there. Chaloner opted for the pie. A second servant flung it on the table as he passed, so carelessly that the spy was obliged to grab the flying platter before it upended in his lap. It transpired to be a pastry case filled with dried peas, sugar, spices and enough butter to render the whole thing hard and greasy.
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner in distaste. ‘No wonder the King prefers French food.’
‘You should have had the sausages,’ remarked Thurloe unhelpfully. ‘Only a lunatic orders something called green-pea tart.’
Chaloner sipped the coffee and winced – even when the beans were not burned, the beverage did not make for pleasant drinking. He swallowed the rest quickly, like medicine, then set the bowl down, repelled by the thick, sandy residue that remained at the bottom. He glanced up and was disconcerted to see Thurloe eating his sludge with a spoon.
‘Are you sure that is good for you?’ he asked uneasily, certain it was not.
‘Coffee grit is a digestive aid – it helps grind up food in the stomach, allowing it to pass more easily through the gut. At least, that is what my old friend Chetwynd told me, when he was still alive.’
Chaloner laughed. ‘You are losing your touch, because that was not a subtle way of learning whether the Earl has charged me to investigate Chetwynd’s murder. Three years ago, you would have been aghast at such transparency.’
Thurloe set his dish back on the table with a moue of distaste. ‘I am not sure Chetwynd knew what he was talking about, and my delicate constitution may take harm from following the advice of the ignorant. What do you think?’
‘About what? The possibility of you being harmed by coffee grounds, Chetwynd’s competence in medical matters, or the manner of his death?’
Thurloe opened a small box, the label of which proudly claimed the contents to be Stinking Pills, guaranteed to purge phlegm, clear the veins, and cure gout and leprosy. Chaloner hoped his friend knew what he was doing when he took a handful and began to chew them.
‘The answer to any question would be acceptable, Thomas. You have volunteered virtually nothing since you arrived, avoiding even my innocuous enquiries about your health. If this is what happens to a man when I train him to spy, then I am sorry for it.’
‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, supposing that working at Court, moving among people who were subjects for investigation rather than friendship, was beginning to take an unpleasant toll on his manners. If he could not hold a normal conversation with his closest friend, then it was not surprising that he often felt lonely in London. He tried to explain. ‘I am forced to be constantly on my guard at White Hall – against being told lies, against physical attack, and against harm to my master.’
Thurloe regarded him thoughtfully. ‘But that has always been the case. When you were working for me in Holland, France and Portugal, the strain must have been even greater, given that a careless slip would have cost you your life. White Hall cannot be as bad as that.’
Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Williamson is proving to be an unforgiving enemy.’
Thurloe’s expression was one of disgust. ‘Williamson is a fool! If he had hired you as his spy in The Hague, as I recommended, we would not be nearing the brink of war with Holland now. You would have provided him with information that would have averted the crisis.’
Chaloner was astonished by the claim. ‘I sincerely doubt it! The government thinks we can win an encounter with the Dutch, and no spy will convince them otherwise. I cannot imagine where their bravado comes from, given that they have dismissed the standing army, and the navy is full of unpaid criminals who will desert at the first cannonball.’
‘The Royalists are like children, playing games of war. But they will learn, although not before English blood is needlessly spilled. I only hope none of it is yours. The situation is now so dangerous that I would urge you to refuse, should the Earl order you to gather intelligence in Holland. Look what happened when you went to Spain and Portugal earlier this year. You barely escaped with your life.’
‘He is more concerned with the missing statue than with the Dutch,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject, because he did not want to think about his harrowing experiences in Iberia.
Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘So, you are not investigating what happened to Chetwynd?’
‘I am expected to do both.’ Chaloner hesitated uncertainly. ‘I would not mind telling you all I have learned about the murders, to see if you can think of any way forward. The Earl is determined to see Greene hanged for killing Chetwynd and Vine, but I am sure he is innocent.’
Thurloe listened without interruption as the spy outlined all he had discovered. ‘I met Greene once,’ he said when Chaloner had finished. ‘He is a nonentity – an unassuming fellow without the vigour to kill two men. Why does the Earl dislike him so intensely?’
‘I do not know – and I suspect I never will. He has never really trusted me, and I think he intends to replace me soon, with a man called Colonel Turner. Have you heard of him?’
‘Yes. He was a minor nuisance during the Common-wealth – he liked breaking into the Post Office and stealing letters. He never laid hold of anything import ant, but it was an annoyance, regardless.’
‘He says you put a price on his head.’
‘Then he is lying – he would not have been worth the expense.’
‘What else can you tell me about him?’
‘Only that he has twenty-eight children, and he trained as a solicitor. And that he could never match your expertise as an intelligencer, and the Earl is an ass if he thinks otherwise.’
But the Earl was an ass in matters of espionage, thought Chaloner dejectedly, and might well dismiss him in favour of a flamboyant Cavalier. And then what? The spy could not foist himself on his family, because, as fervent supporters of Cromwell, they were being taxed into poverty by vengeful Royalists. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he should abandon England, and go to live in the New World. The only problem was that he had been there once, and had not liked it.
‘What do you know about the victims?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Vine and Chetwynd?’
‘Just that they were pillars of decency in a government that seethes with corruption. It was not like that when Cromwell was in charge – as absolute ruler, he had the power to dismiss or arrest anyone he deemed less than honest. As I have said before, a military dictatorship is the best form of govern—’
‘What about their families?’ asked Chaloner, interrupting before they could argue. He did not share Thurloe’s views on the joys of repressive regimes. ‘George V
ine told me he tried to assassinate Cromwell. Is it true?’
Thurloe grimaced. ‘I did have wind of a plot, but it transpired to be so outlandish that I did not bother with a prosecution. He planned to give the Lord Protector an exploding leek, but failed to take into account that most men are not in the habit of devouring raw vegetables presented to them by strangers. And we all know you cannot pack enough gunpowder inside a leek to kill anyone.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘You would need a cabbage, at the very least.’
Religion was a contentious issue in England, and as far as the bishops were concerned, a person was either a devout Anglican who attended his weekly devotions, or a fanatic who should be treated with suspicion. Some churches kept registers of which parishioners stayed away, and because Chaloner had been trained never to attract unnecessary attention, he always tried to make an appearance at St Dunstan-in-the-West on those Sundays when he was home. He did not usually mind, because the old building was a haven of peace amid the clamour of the city, and the rector’s rambling sermons gave him a chance to sit quietly and think of other matters.
But he resented the wasted time that day. There was too much to do, and Rector Thompson was holding a sheaf of notes that suggested his congregation might be trapped for hours while he ploughed through them all. Chaloner exchanged amiable greetings with him in the nave, ensured his name was recorded on the attendance list, then escaped through the vestry door when no one was looking. Once in the street, he headed for Westminster, walking with one hand on his hat to prevent the wind from tearing it from his head. It had been a gift from a lady in Spain, and its crown was cunningly reinforced with a metal bowl. It had saved his life on several occasions, and he did not want to lose it.
Westminster was different from White Hall, despite the fact that both were medieval palaces. White Hall was brazenly secular, alive with the colours of Court – the reds, golds, oranges and purples of balls and banquets. Its larger buildings were built of brick, although most were in desperate need of painting, and fountains and statues adorned its open spaces. By contrast, Westminster was dominated by its abbey and Norman hall, and had a monastic feel. Its buildings were characterised by lancet windows, stained glass and pinnacles, and there was an atmosphere of sobriety and business. Policy might be decided in White Hall, but the documents and writs to make it legal came from Westminster.
At the heart of Westminster, in the open area known as New Palace Yard, was the medieval Great Hall. As Chaloner walked past it, he paused to stare up at the severed heads that had been placed on poles outside. Cromwell’s was there, although the spy had no idea which of the blackened, almost inhuman objects belonged to the man who had ruled the Commonwealth. Some had long hair that waved in the wind, but most were bald, picked clean by crows. They had a tendency to blow down in rough weather, and he could see at least two on the ground. People were giving them a wide berth, because Spymaster Williamson’s men were in the habit of lurking nearby, ready to arrest anyone who attempted to rescue the pathetic objects and give them a decent burial.
Chaloner cut through a series of alleys until he reached the narrow lane that gave access to the Painted Chamber, intending to inspect it more thoroughly than he had been able to the previous night. He was unimpressed to find it very busy, not only with the clerks who had turned it into their personal office space, but with spectators who wanted to see the spot where two men had been murdered. A search was out of the question, so he lingered unobtrusively near the tapestries, eavesdropping on the discussions of the ghouls. It did not take him long to realise that he was wasting his time, and that the chances of overhearing anything relevant were negligible, so he left.
Unfortunately, he had no clear idea of how else to proceed, so he spent the rest of the day lurking in the kitchens, cook-houses and public areas of both palaces. But although there was a lot of talk about the murders – the statue was not mentioned, because it was old news and no longer of interest – it was all gossip and speculation, and nothing was based in fact. And the Lord of Misrule was being unusually close-lipped about his plans, so the spy made no headway there, either. He did learn that an event was planned for that evening in the Great Hall, though – it was something to do with Babylon, and necessitated the preparation of vast platters of a glutinous, rose-flavoured jelly.
The daylight faded and darkness fell. People began to dissipate, either to go home, or – if they were important enough to be invited – head for the Great Hall to enjoy whatever Near Eastern extravaganza Brodrick had devised. Among the latter was George Vine, who wore a bizarre combination of clothes meant to make him look like a sultan. The wind caught his turban and sent it cart-wheeling across the courtyard; Chaloner stopped it with his foot, and handed it back to him.
‘What do you think?’ asked George, twirling around then grabbing Chaloner’s arm when a combination of wine and a sudden gust of wind made him stagger. ‘I am a Babylonian prince.’
‘Very pretty. Have you made arrangements for your father’s funeral yet?’
‘Do not think to berate me for merrymaking while he lies above ground, because old Dreary Bones was buried this morning.’ George smirked at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘I wanted to make sure Surgeon Wiseman did not get him, so time was of the essence.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering why George was so determined to prevent an examination that might yield clues. It was clearly nothing to do with filial love. ‘Can you tell me anything about his last day? What time did he leave home?’
‘At dawn. I remember, because we met at the door, and argued over the fact that he was going to work, while I had not yet been to bed. He was like that, always criticising me for having fun.’
‘And what did his work at the Treasury entail, exactly?’
‘He dealt with large quantities of money. I suppose I shall have to find out more, given that I intend to take over his duties. But I refuse to work as hard as he did –
I am no bore.’ ‘I am sure the King will be impressed by your dedication.’
George curled his lip, jammed his turban on his head and began to totter away. He called back over his shoulder as he went. ‘The wind is picking up again, and we all know what that means.’
Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What?’
‘That a great person will die. People said it blew for my father, but it persists, so obviously it gusts for someone else – old Dreary Bones was not a “great person” after all. You had better make sure the Lord Chancellor is tucked up safe in his bed.’
Chaloner darted after him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to make him squeal as he jerked him to a standstill. ‘Are you threatening my Earl?’
George was frightened – by the spy’s speed, strength and the expression on his face. ‘No! I was just blathering. I did not mean anything by it, I swear!’ His bloodshot eyes lit on a nearby lane, and he jabbed a desperate finger at it. ‘Look, there are Thomas and Matthias Lea. Go and interrogate them – they also benefited from the murder of a kinsman, and I am not the only one who is suddenly rich.’
Chaloner peered into the gloom, and saw Chetwynd’s heirs climbing into a hackney. They were looking in his direction, but when he released George and took a few steps towards them, one said something to the driver and they rattled away. He could have caught them, had he run, but it was not worth the effort. They had left abruptly because they did not want to deal with him, and chasing them was not going to change that fact. He would simply have to wait for a more opportune moment.
He lingered a while longer, standing in the shadows of White Hall’s largest courtyard, and watching gaggles of courtiers set off towards Westminster together. Most wore costumes that showed they had not the faintest idea of what Babylon had been like. Eventually, only the stragglers remained. One trio comprised a girl with woolly hair who wore nothing around her midriff and bells on her ankles, a youth dressed as a genie, and an old man whose sole concession to the occasion was a fez. He appeared to
be deaf, and kept turning questioningly to his companions, who made no effort to speak at a volume that would help him. Chaloner knew they were rich when a coach came to collect them, although it was too dark to make out the insignia on its side. He could tell from their gestures that the youngsters were annoyed about being late, while the ancient gave the impression that he would rather be at home with a good book and a cup of warm milk.
But then even they had gone. There was no point in remaining, so Chaloner set off for Westminster himself, not to spy on the ball, but to see whether the Painted Chamber was empty at last.
When he reached New Palace Yard, the twang of foreign-sounding music and a cacophony of voices emanated from the Great Hall. A few revellers spilled into the street, one or two to vomit up the unpalatable mixture of wine and rose-flavoured jellies, and others to snatch kisses and fondles in the darkness outside. Several enterprising businesses had stayed open in the hope of attracting late trade, although Chaloner could not imagine many courtiers being interested in legal books or porpoise tongues, which seemed to be the two main commodities on offer.
The area around the Painted Chamber was deserted, though. It was illuminated by the odd lantern, but not many, because fuel was expensive and the government saw no point in spending money on a part of the complex that was usually abandoned at night. The occasional clerk risked life and limb to work late – the Palace of Westminster was surrounded by tenements and hovels, so violent crime was rife – but they were not many. One shadow sidled up to Chaloner with the clear intention of relieving him of his purse, but it melted away when he started to draw his sword.
The Painted Chamber was unlocked, and he supposed the guards had yet to make their rounds and secure the building for the night. He opened the door to its lobby, then ascended the wide stone steps to the main hall. He paused by the entrance, listening intently for any sound from within, more from habit than any expectation of detecting anything amiss. But George had been right when he said the wind was picking up again – it screamed down the chimney and roared across the roof, and Chaloner could barely hear his own footsteps, let alone anyone else’s. He scanned the shadows for any flicker of movement that might tell him someone was there, but the place appeared to be empty. It was lit by a lamp at its far end, near the spot where Vine and Chetwynd had died, but was otherwise in darkness.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 6
