It was a large building, perhaps eighty feet long by twenty-five wide, and showed signs of serious long-term neglect. The great tapestries depicting the Trojan Wars were grey with filth, and the ceiling was black from years of smoking candles. The stone tracery in the windows was crumbling, and the floorboards needed replacing – there were gaps between some that could swallow a small foot.
He walked to the far end, and gazed at the place where the bodies had been found. The first victim, Chetwynd, had been working at his desk. So what had happened? Had the killer arrived, amiably offering to share a cup of wine with him? If so, then Chetwynd must have known his murderer, because government officials did not accept refreshments from just anyone in the depths of night. The fact that no cup was anywhere to be found when the chamber was later searched told Chaloner that the culprit had been careful to leave nothing in the way of clues.
And Vine? The building where he worked adjoined the Painted Chamber, so perhaps he, like Greene, had run out of ink, and hoped to borrow some from Chetwynd’s well-supplied table. Or perhaps the killer had invited him there, offering to share his deadly brew on the pretence that it was a toast to a dead colleague. And that meant the killer knew both his victims – knew them well enough that Vine was not suspicious, despite almost certainly being aware of what had happened to Chetwynd.
The spy took the lamp and began to examine the floor, although not with much hope of finding anything useful – the hall had been graced by too many visitors that day. He was on the verge of giving up and going home, when he spotted something gleaming faintly between two floorboards. It was a ring, but when he tried to pick it up, he found it was solidly wedged. There was a smear of mud on it, which told him someone – possibly its owner – had trodden on it, probably by accident, crushing it even more firmly into the slit. New scratches on the floor around it indicated someone had tried to prise it out, but had given up. Chaloner saw why when his dagger proved too unwieldy for the task, and he was obliged to use one of his lock-picking probes. It was not easy, but he succeeded eventually.
The ring was small – too tiny to fit even his little finger – and beautiful in its simplicity. It comprised a plain gold band with a clasp that held a deep-red ruby. The size of the gem and the quality of the workmanship told him it was valuable. Did it belong to one of the ghouls who had visited the Painted Chamber that day? He did not think so, because they would not have abandoned their efforts to retrieve it – they would have fetched a more suitable implement with which to lever it out.
Had it belonged to Vine, then, and his attempts to rescue it had been interrupted when the killer had arrived? It would have been too small to fit his fingers, but there was a current fashion for wearing rings suspended from cuff-strings, so its size meant nothing. Or was Chaloner holding something that belonged to the murderer, ripped away as Vine thrashed around in his death throes? He was sure of one thing, though: it was not Greene’s. The clerk was something of a Puritan, and favoured clothes devoid of extravagant accessories, jewellery included.
There was no more to be learned from the Painted Chamber, so he decided to go home. He was halfway down the hall when he heard a creak over the racket being made by the storm. It sounded like the main door being opened. Instinctively, he slipped into the shadows and watched it intently – so intently that he made a basic mistake. The room had other entrances, one of which was directly behind him. He spun around the moment he detected the rustle of clothing, but it was too late – a cudgel was descending towards his head. He managed to deflect it by throwing up his arm, but it was a violent blow, and sent him staggering backwards.
There were six of them – three had entered through the main door, and three from the entrance behind Chetwynd’s desk – and they meant business. Chaloner whipped out his sword to parry a thrust that was obviously intended to disembowel him, then was obliged to retreat fast when the rest came at him in a tight phalanx of flashing blades. His left arm was numb, and the ring slid from his nerveless fingers. He barely noticed it go: all his attention was focussed on staying alive.
He fought furiously, using every trick and feint he knew in an effort to gain an advantage. But it was an unequal battle, and although he injured two who were reckless enough to come within his range, they were simply too many for him. Moreover, they wielded their weapons with an easy confidence that said they were professional soldiers, and he could tell, from the way they anticipated each other’s moves, that they had been fighting together for years – they operated like a well-oiled machine, one stepping forward the moment another fell back. A detached part of his mind knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered, because he could not fend them off indefinitely – he was already tiring.
‘I’ve found it,’ said one, bending to retrieve something from the floor. ‘We can go.’
Immediately, a warrior tried to manoeuvre his way behind Chaloner, who was forced to back up against the wall. Then three attacked at once, and he was hard-pressed to repel them. He was aware of movement on either side of him, but did not realise what was happening until someone gave a yell and started to haul on something. He glanced up in time to see the tapestry tear free from its moorings. The soldiers leapt away, but Chaloner was knocked from his feet as the heavy material enveloped him. He was encased in darkness, and completely helpless. He was aware of blades stabbing into the floor around him, then something struck his head, hard enough to knock him out of his senses. The last thing he heard was retreating footsteps.
When Chaloner opened his eyes, his nose and mouth were full of dust, his head hurt, and he could not see. It was several minutes before he remembered what had happened, and several more before he was able to struggle free of the suffocating tapestry. The soldiers had gone, and a quick search revealed that the ring had gone, too. He removed his hat and ran his fingers across the crown, to discover a vicious jab from a blade had caused a substantial dent in the metal lining. Once again, it had saved his life, and he gave silent thanks to Isabella, his brief but passionate Spanish amore, who had given it to him. He was sure the soldiers had not expected him to survive.
He had no idea how much time had passed since the attack, but he peered carefully around the main door anyway, just in case the men were still there. They were not, for which he was grateful, because he was in no state to tackle them again, and they were unlikely to let him live a second time. So, who were they? The killers of Vine and Chetwynd? He doubted it – why waste time with toxins when they had swords to hand? He recalled one soldier bending to pick something up from the floor, telling his colleagues that he had ‘found it’. Clearly, he referred to the ring, but why? Had the killer charged them to retrieve it, because it was evidence that would trap him? Chaloner rubbed his aching head as he thought about it. The Painted Chamber had been busy all day, right up until the ghouls had gone to Brodrick’s ball. So, like Chaloner, it would have been the soldiers’ first opportunity to enter unseen.
So what did that tell him? That the killer controlled an elite gang of warriors, as well as having access to deadly potions? They had reminded him of the ‘train-bands’ of the civil wars – a group of friends or neighbours who had learned their martial skills together, and who could be mobilised at a moment’s notice. Did it mean their leader – or their master – was rich and powerful? Or did it mean the killer was a woman, because while she might be capable of handing goblets of poison to her victims, tackling armed investigators was a different proposition entirely?
He became aware that he was standing directly underneath the lamp that lit the Painted Chamber’s entrance, providing a perfect target for anyone who meant him harm. Disgusted, he tried to pull himself together, taking a deep breath in the hope that it would clear his wits. It did not, and he reeled dizzily, forcing him to wait for the weakness to pass. Then he started walking, but had not taken many steps before he was obliged to stop and steady himself against a wall.
‘Too much Babylonian punch?’ came a familiar voice. ‘I w
arned people to treat it with caution, but did anyone listen? No! I only hope it does not put the King in a deadly stupor, because he has an important meeting with the Swedish ambassador tomorrow. Perhaps I should remain on hand tonight, lest my services are needed.’
Chaloner whipped around in alarm. The combin ation of noisy gale and befuddled senses had let Wiseman approach to almost within touching distance, and he had not heard a thing. He knew he needed to be a lot more careful, or the train-band would easily finish what they had started.
The surgeon, clad in his trademark red, was with a courtier, a plump man whom Chaloner had seen before – it was the fellow Greene had met in the Dolphin tavern the previous evening. The two men had shared a meal, talked amiably for a while, then parted ways. And they had done something else, too, but the memory was just out of Chaloner’s reach, no matter how hard he struggled to recall it.
‘Babylonian punch?’ he asked dully, aware that Wiseman was waiting for a response.
‘Brodrick’s unique concoction of ale, limejuice, brandy-wine and spices,’ elaborated Wiseman. ‘I recommended he omit the brandywine, but he said Babylonians downed barrels of the stuff with no ill-effects. They did nothing of the kind, of course – it was only invented recently.’
‘Actually, brandywine is what made them so famously garrulous,’ countered his companion authoritatively. He was a bland-looking fellow, and his only outstanding feature was a very long nose. ‘Babylonians babbled a lot – and they babbled because they were drunk on brandy-wine. It is a well-known fact. Brandywine made them wildly licentious, too – another well-known fact.’
Wiseman shot him an arch look. ‘Not that well known, because I was unaware of it. But I am forgetting my manners. Langston, meet the Lord Chancellor’s man. Chaloner, this is Francis Langston, one of the officials who works in the Royal Household.’
Chaloner started to bow, but changed his mind when the movement made the ground tip and he thought he might be sick. He wanted to ask what they were doing in a dark alley so late at night, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and Langston began to speak before he could form the words.
‘I am a great admirer of your master – I wrote a play about him once, but it turned out badly. He is a fine, upright fellow, but literary heroes need more than morality to make them great – he came over as a pompous, overbearing bigot, so I thought it best not to present him with a copy.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Wiseman curtly. He looked enormous in the darkness, all barrel chest and powerful arms. ‘I have something important to say. As I watched folk swigging Brodrick’s brew with gay abandon earlier this evening, it occurred to me that brandywine might have been used in the potion that killed Chetwynd and Vine.’
‘So we went to visit Kersey, to find out,’ said Langston, taking up the story. ‘Wiseman sniffed Chetwynd’s corpse – his kin refused the offer of dissection, but they said nothing about sniffing – and brandywine was indeed one of the ingredients.’
‘No doubt it was added to disguise the taste of the toxin,’ added Wiseman. ‘Plain wine would have been unequal to the task. Unfortunately, Brodrick bought vats of it for his punch – all that was in London, apparently – and the cellar staff say it is impossible to tell whether any is missing.’
‘Who is Kersey?’ asked Chaloner, struggling to understand what they were trying to tell him.
‘The Corpse Keeper.’ Wiseman frowned when he saw Chaloner’s blank look. ‘Do you know nothing? Everyone has heard of Kersey.’
‘Well, I have not,’ snapped Chaloner, his aching head making him irritable.
Wiseman sighed, and began to speak in a way that could only be described as patronising. ‘When people die in Westminster – and thousands live and work here, so there is always someone breathing his last – their bodies go to Kersey until they are either buried or claimed by kin.’
‘His charnel house is near here,’ added Langston. ‘It is not a place I like to visit, but needs must. Chetwynd and Vine were colleagues, and I do not like the notion of them being murdered.’
‘Greene is your colleague, too,’ said Chaloner, recalling what he had seen the previous night.
Langston shook his head. ‘Greene is a friend, not a colleague. I am very fond of him, which is why I agreed to visit a charnel house with Wiseman – to see if we could prove his innocence.’
‘And how does brandywine do that?’ asked Chaloner, becoming confused. He wished he was home, lying in bed, not trying to talk to two men whose conversation was making no sense.
Wiseman peered at him. ‘You are slow on the uptake tonight. Are you unwell? Perhaps you should go home, and I will explain my clever theory tomorrow. I do not want to have to repeat myself.’
‘Have you seen any soldiers?’ asked Chaloner tiredly. He raised a hand to his head, which felt as if it might explode. ‘Not the palace guards, but a train-band, like the ones from the wars. They—’
Langston looked alarmed. ‘You were attacked! Is that why you are swaying like a drunk? They knocked you out of your wits? I heard a gang of villains has taken to infesting these parts, so we had better leave while we can. Come. We shall walk to the Great Hall together.’
He took Chaloner’s arm, and it was not many moments before they reached the light and noise of the ball. The music that wafted through the open door was curious and not entirely pleasant, as if someone had decided that the best way to emulate the tunes of the Ancient Near East was to take familiar melodies and play them sharp. Langston immediately disappeared inside, muttering something about it being safer than streets crawling with train-bands.
‘Go home and rest,’ ordered Wiseman, when he had gone. ‘I shall stay here and eavesdrop. And if I hear anything useful about these killings, I shall tell you tomorrow.’
Chaloner stared at him. ‘You want to help me?’
‘I want to help the Earl,’ corrected Wiseman. ‘I refuse to stand by and watch him make a fool of himself by persisting with his irrational belief that Greene is the killer. Do not worry about me. I am a surgeon, and my lofty intelligence is more than a match for any mere poisoner.’
Chaloner could not think of anything to say in the light of such hubris.
Chapter 3
The wind blew hard all night, whistling through the loose windowpanes in Chaloner’s room, bellowing down the chimney, and ripping across the roof. Exhausted though he was, it was not conducive to restful sleep, and he woke every time there was an unfamiliar bump, scrape or rattle. And each time he did, he found himself reaching for the dagger under his pillow, which reminded him unpleasantly of his recent mission to Spain, where constant and unrelenting danger had forced him into a similar state of high vigilance. He sincerely hoped London was not about to become the same.
It was not just the sounds of the storm that made him uneasy. An explosion in the neighbouring house the previous year had rendered his own building unstable. His landlord claimed there was nothing wrong, but cracks in the walls, window frames that suddenly did not fit, and a distinct list to the floor indicated otherwise. Chaloner was acutely aware that a high wind might tear the destabilised roof from its moorings, and as he lived in the attic, this would be a problem. He considered going to visit Hannah, but their courtship was very new – they had graduated to the bedchamber only the previous week, upon his return from Oxford – and he did not think she would appreciate being woken in the small hours by a lover whose sole intention was to secure a good night’s sleep.
It was four o’clock before the gale blew itself out. Chaloner dozed for another hour, then reluctantly prised himself out of bed. He lit a lamp, and saw water had seeped under cracked and missing tiles to dribble through the ceiling and down the walls; green stains indicated it was not the first time this had happened. Most men would have abandoned the place and found better accommodation, but the garret in Fetter Lane suited Chaloner for a number of reasons. Firstly, the structural hiccups meant it was leased at an attractively low rate, an important considerati
on for a man whose master did not always pay him on time. Secondly, Fetter Lane was a reasonably affluent street, and its residents kept it lit at night – a spy always liked to see who was going past his home in the dark. And finally, it was convenient for White Hall.
After positioning bowls to catch the worst of the drips, he sat on his bed and stared into space, feeling drowsy and sluggish. His head ached, his arm was bruised, and at some point during the skirmish, he had jarred his leg – an exploding cannon during the Battle of Naseby had left him slightly lame. In all, he felt decidedly shabby. He closed his eyes, and was almost asleep again when his cat jumped into his lap, jolting him awake. He had not known it was home, but was pleased to see it. He fed it some salted herring, which it devoured greedily. Then it left without so much as a backwards glance, its cool independence a far cry from Haddon’s fawning lapdogs.
Despite his weariness, Chaloner knew he could not afford to waste the day. He shaved quickly – it was cold in the room, and the water was icy – then donned a clean linen shirt, black breeches and stockings, and a blue ‘vest’ – a knee-length, collarless coat with loose-fitting sleeves. Unwilling to risk another blow to the head, he wore Isabella’s metal-lined hat again. Thoughts of her made him smile, and he wished there was a way they could have been together. Unfortunately, their blossoming romance had come to an abrupt end when he had been exposed as a spy, leading to his arrest, imprisonment and an escape so narrow that it still haunted his dreams.
And now there was Hannah. Her father had been a favourite of the old king, and the new one had drafted her into the Queen’s service after the death of her husband. Chaloner was not sure why he had been attracted to her – or her to him – because they had little in common, and he wondered whether it was an affection born of mutual loneliness. Yet he hoped the relationship would develop into something meaningful even so, assuming he did not ruin it by being reticent about his personal life – he had learned through bitter experience that most women did not like uncommunicative men.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 7
