‘A great person has died,’ announced Landlord Ellis, when he saw his tenant descend the rickety stairs and aim for the front door. Chaloner was surprised to see him, because dawn was still some way off, and Ellis was not an early riser. ‘One always does when there is a strong wind. Did you hear about Chetwynd, who perished during that terrible blow we had on Christmas Day?’
Chaloner nodded, but declined to say he was one of those charged to find the man’s killer.
‘Chetwynd was not what I would have called great, though,’ Ellis went on, standing in front of the tin mirror in the hallway and attempting to straighten his wig. ‘You cannot be great if you are corrupt, in my humble opinion.’
Chaloner blinked in surprise. ‘Chetwynd was corrupt? I thought he was one of the few honest men at Westminster – devout, hard-working and upright.’
‘He was a lawyer,’ countered Ellis tartly. ‘And a Chancery clerk into the bargain. Of course he was corrupt. And if you do not believe me, ask Thomas Doling. And that young rascal Neale, who was rendered penniless by Chetwynd’s duplicitous manoeuvrings.’
‘Who are Doling and Neale?’
‘Doling was a Commonwealth clerk, and Neale is a penniless courtier. They both haunt the Angel Inn on King Street, although not together obviously – Roundhead henchmen and Cavalier fops do not befriend each other, even if they are both victims of the same crooked lawyer. The man who died during the latest gale was great, though. No one can argue with that.’
‘Was he?’ asked Chaloner. A number of people had remarked on Vine’s innate decency, so he supposed the fellow really had been a paragon of virtue.
Ellis nodded. ‘I heard all about it this morning, when I went to my coffee house.’
‘You must have gone very early,’ said Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘It is not yet light.’
Ellis looked sheepish. ‘I could not sleep with all that rattling and howling, so I went out at midnight. I dislike storms, and there is nothing like coffee-house discourse to take one’s mind off one’s worries.’
As he spoke, he moved furtively to one side, and Chaloner saw he was trying to stand in front of a strongbox, to hide it from sight. It had a substantial lock, and was clearly for transporting valuables.
‘You mean you were afraid the house would tumble about your ears, so you took your gold and spent the night somewhere safe. Why did you not warn your tenants to do likewise?’
Ellis became indignant. ‘My house is safe – I was just not in the mood for taking chances. But we were talking about gales. The wind blew for Chetwynd on Thursday, and then it blew until a second great man died – a fat one, this time. “Great” can mean fat, you know.’
Chaloner frowned: Vine had not been fat. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Francis Langston,’ replied Ellis. ‘He was murdered last night.’
‘Langston?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the plump fellow with the long nose he had met with Wiseman outside the Painted Chamber. Could it be the same man? ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes – the storm died out at four o’clock, precisely when he was said to have breathed his last.’
‘How do you know all this?’ Chaloner estimated it was not quite six, so the news must have travelled very fast, even for London.
‘One of the palace guards is a regular in my coffee house, and he told us the tale. The story is that Langston’s corpse was found by the Lord Chancellor, who is said to be in a state of high agitation about it. And who can blame him? Apparently, he was going to hire Langston to be his personal spy.’
The news of Langston’s death – and the unsettling notion that the Earl was expanding his intelligence network without telling him – was enough to drive Chaloner to White Hall immediately. He walked as fast as his sore leg would let him. As he limped across the Palace Court, he saw the day was not quite advanced enough for the King and his Court to have retired to bed, and the rumpus emanating from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments suggested an extension of the Babylonian escapade was still in full swing. He heard the King’s distinctive laugh, followed by the bleat of a goat, and then something that sounded like a musical instrument being smashed. He did not like to imagine what they were doing, but suspected that whatever it was would transpire to be expensive for the taxpayer.
He was just walking up the stairs to the Lord Chancellor’s offices, when he heard a scream. It was his master, and he sounded terrified. Chaloner broke into a run, ignoring the protesting twinge in his leg as he took the steps three at a time. When he reached the Earl’s door, he threw it open with a resounding crack, sword in his hand. The Earl knelt precariously on top of his desk, while his steward stood on a chair next to him. They were clutching each other, white-faced and frightened, and Chaloner was immediately struck by how old and vulnerable they both looked.
‘Help me!’ cried the Earl, when the spy edged into the room, every sense alert for danger. It appeared to be deserted, and there was no sign of assassins or anything else that might have driven the Lord Chancellor and his steward to take refuge atop the furniture. Chaloner took a step towards the window, but was brought up short when he cracked his head on the inconveniently placed chandelier.
‘Help you with what?’ he asked, hand to his scalp. Once again, he was grateful for Isabella’s hat, because he suspected he would have knocked himself insensible without it – the fixture seemed to be made of especially unyielding metal.
‘Look, man, look!’ screeched the Earl, pointing unsteadily at a chest in the corner, where he kept a few changes of clothes and a spare hairpiece or two. ‘It is the Devil’s work!’
Assuming some sort of explosive device was hidden there, Chaloner gestured that his master was to walk towards him, intent on getting him out before anything detonated. ‘Come,’ he said, a little impatiently, when the Earl merely shook his head and refused to move. ‘You must leave now.’
‘I am not jumping down while that … that thing is there!’ declared the Earl vehemently.
Bemused, Chaloner studied the chest more closely, and saw a wig on the floor next to it. It was one of the larger ones, a magnificent creation of golden curls that hung well past the Earl’s shoulders. They were rumoured to have come from a Southwark whore, who was currently in the process of growing a new set for the Duke of York. As he looked, Chaloner became aware that it was twitching. Then it began to slide along the floor of its own volition, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed as it approached the desk. The Earl howled again, and so did Haddon. Chaloner started to laugh.
‘Do something!’ shrieked the Earl. ‘Before it races up the table and attaches itself to my person.’
‘Or mine,’ added Haddon fearfully. ‘There is witchery in that periwig, and I am not sure such spells are very discerning. The evil may be meant for him, but it might harm me instead.’
Struggling to control his amusement, Chaloner jabbed the tip of his sword into the wig as it slithered past him. It stopped dead, although he could feel it tugging as it tried to continue its journey.
‘Do not damage the hair!’ squawked the Earl, watching him in horror. ‘Do you know how much those things cost? More than you earn in a year!’
‘Perhaps I should ask for a pay-rise, then,’ muttered Chaloner, keeping the sword where it was until he had reached down to grab the wig. It squeaked as he picked it up. Then it bit him. With a yelp of his own, he dropped it, and it was off again, skittering towards the window.
‘It has teeth,’ wailed Haddon, clutching the Earl so hard that he threatened to have them both on the floor. ‘It is truly a demon sent by the Devil!’
The Earl closed his eyes and intoned a prayer of deliver ance. ‘Stab it again, Thomas,’ he ordered. ‘But without spoiling the wig, if you please. Then you can stay here and guard it, while Haddon and I fetch a priest. We shall have to exorcise this vile fiend, since it seems determined to do violence.’
Flexing his smarting hand, Chaloner went after the wig, which sensed him coming and began
to move faster still. It shot under a chest, and emerged at high speed through the other side. Then it whipped across the floor, aiming for the door and the freedom beyond. Chaloner slammed the door shut before it could effect its escape, ignoring the Earl’s furious reprimands for not letting it become someone else’s problem. Eventually, he managed to pin it down on one of the Turkish carpets. When he picked it up a second time, he was rather more careful.
‘A ferret,’ he said, examining the wriggling creature within. ‘I thought it would be a rat.’
The Earl peered at it, still holding on to Haddon. His expression was already turning from fearful to indignant. ‘A ferret? You mean an animal dares to make its nest inside my favourite headpiece?’
‘It is tied there,’ explained Chaloner, using his dagger to cut through the knots. The little creature was incensed by its rough treatment, and squirmed vigorously, making his task more difficult. ‘I imagine this comes courtesy of the Lord of Misrule.’
‘A trick?’ demanded the Earl, anger growing. ‘I have been driven on top of my desk by a trick?’
Haddon climbed off his chair, his lips tight with fury. ‘I fail to see the humour in torturing an animal. It is a despicable thing to do, and they should be ashamed of themselves. Have they hurt it?’
Chaloner shook his head. ‘It is just frightened – but not nearly as much as you two were.’
The Earl glared at him. ‘This situation is not amusing. And if you tell another living soul about this, I shall … I do not know what I shall do, but suffice to say I shall not be pleased.’
Chaloner held the ferret by the scruff of the neck, so it could neither bite him nor escape. Haddon took it from him, and began to soothe it by rubbing the soft fur on its head. Beady eyes regarded him crossly at first, but then it snuggled into the crook of his arm.
‘It is tame,’ the steward said, touched. ‘It will be someone’s companion. Poor thing!’
‘I will take it to St James’s Park and release it,’ offered Chaloner. ‘It will—’
‘No!’ cried Haddon, cradling the animal protectively. ‘You will not! A dog or a fox will have it. It probably belongs to one of the kitchen boys, who will be heartbroken to find it missing.’
‘Go and find him, then,’ said the Earl tiredly. ‘There is no need for a child to suffer, just because the Lord of Misrule – whom I suspect is that vile Chiffinch – sees fit to mock his Lord Chancellor. We shall put it about that his trick was discovered before my periwig started racing about the floor. I do not want him to know it worked, because he might try it again with something larger.’
Haddon covered the ferret with his hat, to protect it from the cold, and went to do as he was told. Uncomfortable with the notion that someone had entered the offices illicitly, Chaloner searched them, to ensure no other pranks were waiting to unfold. The Earl watched uneasily, and only relaxed when his spy assured him that all was in order.
‘I have had a terrible day,’ he said mournfully, flopping into a chair and mopping his brow with a piece of lace. ‘And it is not even light yet. Did you know I found Langston dead earlier?’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘It is true? I hoped it was just coffee-house gossip.’
‘You heard it in a coffee house?’ The Earl was aghast. ‘Is nothing sacred? I suppose the guards must have blathered. It gave me a terrible fright, you see, and my cries of alarm brought them running.’
‘What were you doing at Westminster so early, sir?’ asked Chaloner, trying to keep the reproach from his voice. ‘You know it is not safe.’
‘I had important business there – urgent missives for France, which were scribed overnight and required my seal before being dispatched to Dover today.’
‘Could these documents not have been brought to your home?’
‘I grew anxious waiting for them, and Haddon and Turner were to hand, so I told them to accompany me. Turner is good with a sword, so I felt quite safe. We were cutting through the Painted Chamber, when we discovered Langston. Dead.’
‘Poisoned?’
‘Turner thinks so. It was just like the first two: a corpse lying on the floor, with no sign of a cup or a jug. He has gone to find out where Greene was at the salient time, even though he was exhausted – he spent all last night at that ridiculous Babylonian ball, listening for gossip about the murders. He is a diligent fellow, working on my behalf. Where were you last night? Asleep in bed?’
Chaloner was tempted to say he had been resting after an attack intended to kill him, but managed to hold his tongue. The Earl could not be trusted to keep the tale to himself, and Chaloner did not want the train-band learning they had left a survivor just yet. He addressed another issue instead.
‘I also heard you had asked Langston to be your spy. Did you?’
The Earl glowered at him. ‘You spend too much time in coffee-houses, and too little on your duties. Turner would never waste his energies listening to gossip.’
‘You just said he spent all last night doing exactly that, at the Babylonian ball,’ Chaloner pointed out before he could stop himself. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes, wishing he had not spoken. Aggravating the Earl was not a wise thing to do.
‘You presume too much on my patience,’ said the Earl coldly. ‘Either find evidence that shows Greene is the killer, or find yourself another employer. Do you understand me?’
Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure. Are you ordering me to look only for evidence that proves Greene is guilty, and ignore anything that might point to another culprit?’
The Earl flung up his hands in exasperation. ‘What is wrong with you today? Can you not string two words together without abusing me? Of course Greene is guilty, and I cannot imagine why you refuse to believe it – the Lady is going around declaring his innocence, for a start. Did you know that? That is as good as screaming his culpability from the rooftops as far as I am concerned. The King’s mistress does not demean herself by taking the side of insignificant clerks without good reason.’
Chaloner gazed uneasily at him. ‘Lady Castlemaine has taken Greene’s side? I did not know.’
‘Well, you do now,’ snapped the Earl.
Chaloner left the Earl with his thoughts in a whirl of confusion. He looked in Bulteel’s little office, hoping to obtain some confirmation of their master’s claims, but it was too early for the secretary, and his desk was empty. Why would Lady Castlemaine take Greene’s side? Was it because she hated the Lord Chancellor with a passion, and tended to support anyone he disliked, as a matter of principle? Or was she involved in the murders somehow? Chaloner could not imagine why she should stoop to such dark and dangerous business, but she was an incorrigible meddler, so perhaps she could not help herself. The Lady was not someone he wanted to confront, though – at least, not until he had more information.
It was still dark when he reached the bottom of stairs and stepped outside, and there was not the slightest glimmer in the eastern sky to herald the arrival of dawn. The lights in Lady Castlemaine’s rooms were being doused, indicating her soirée was at an end. Her guests spilled into the Privy Garden, laughing and shouting as they went, careless of the fact that most White Hall residents would still be sleeping. Chaloner thought he saw a face peer out of the Queen’s window, then withdraw quickly. When he looked back to the garden, he saw the King weaving across it, arm around someone dressed as a concubine. The slender perfection of the near-naked limbs led him to suppose it was the Lady, but she wore a mask, and he could not be sure. He loitered until he spotted Brodrick.
‘I am sure no harm will befall the Earl in the coming week,’ he said, approaching soundlessly, and speaking just as his master’s cousin was about to relieve himself against a statue of Prince Rupert.
‘God’s blood!’ cried Brodrick, spinning around so fast he almost lost his balance. He scrabbled with his clothing, mortified. ‘Must you sneak up behind a man when he is engaged in personal business? As Lord of Misrule, I could fine you for— Damn my loose tongue! I did not
want anyone in my kinsman’s retinue to know it is me who is elected this year.’
‘I am sure you do not. But I repeat: no harm will come to the Earl.’
Brodrick looked pained. ‘I shall have to make him the subject of one or two japes, because people expect it, and it is more than my life is worth to disappoint. But I will not do anything that will hurt him physically, or anything that will allow his enemies to score points against him politically. Beyond that, my hands are tied. You will just have to trust my judgement.’
Chaloner eyed him. Brodrick looked debauched when he was sober and properly dressed, but that morning he was neither. He had lost his pantaloons during the night, leaving him in his undergarments, and his turban had unravelled at the back. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of strong drink.
‘Your judgement,’ Chaloner repeated, not bothering to hide his disdain.
Brodrick’s expression turned spiteful. ‘Why do you care about him, anyway? He is hiring new staff as though there is no tomorrow, and it is only a matter of time before you are displaced. He already prefers Turner to you, and I learned last night that he wants Langston to be his spy, too. But Langston refused outright – he told me so himself.’
Chaloner recalled Langston heading for the ball after visiting the charnel house with Wiseman, so supposed it was not inconceivable that he had chatted to Brodrick there. ‘Why did he refuse?’
‘Because spying is sordid,’ replied Brodrick, taking the opportunity to fling out an insult of his own. ‘Langston is honourable and, like any decent man, wants nothing to do with a profession that is so indescribably disreputable. Although, to be frank, I suspect my cousin’s real aim is to populate his household with upright souls, and he did not think that offering to hire Langston as an intelligencer might be deemed offensive.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 8
