‘Langston is dead,’ said Chaloner, watching him closely for a reaction.
Brodrick gaped. ‘Dead? No, you are mistaken! I was talking to him not long ago. You did not swallow any of that Babylonian punch, did you? Surgeon Wiseman told me it might be dangerous, and my head tells me I should have listened to him. I have rarely felt so fragile after a drinking bout.’
‘Did you notice whether anyone took an unusual or sinister interest in Langston last night?’ Chaloner asked, although not with much hope of a sensible answer.
Brodrick shook his head apologetically. ‘I was more concerned with my own pleasures than in observing what others were doing. I recall him regaling me with his indignation about the Earl, but that is about all.’
Chaloner tried another line of questioning. ‘Does Lady Castlemaine ever employ Greene?’
‘You want to know why she is going around telling everyone he is innocent, when my cousin is so adamant he is guilty.’ Brodrick shrugged, grabbing Chaloner’s arm when the gesture threatened to tip him over. ‘I suspect she is just taking the opportunity to oppose an enemy. I doubt it is significant.’
The discussion ended abruptly when Brodrick slumped to the ground and closed his eyes. Supposing he should not leave him there to freeze, although it was tempting, Chaloner summoned the palace guards and ordered them to carry him indoors. Then, craving the company of someone who would not fall into a drunken stupor in the middle of a conversation, or accuse him of negligence, disloyalty and choosing an unsavoury career, the spy set off for Lincoln’s Inn.
When he arrived, Lincoln’s Inn was still mostly in darkness, although lamps gleamed in the occasional room, showing its lawyer-occupant was already hard at work. White Hall had put Chaloner in a sullen mood, and he did not feel like exchanging pleasantries with the porter at the gate, so he walked to the back of the building and scrambled over a wall. His temper was not improved when he misjudged the drop and jarred his bad leg. He hobbled to the courtyard called Dial Court, then climbed the stairs to Chamber XIII, aware of the familiar, comforting scent of wood-smoke and beeswax polish.
Thurloe was sitting at a table in the room he used as an office, poring over documents and sipping one of his infamous tonics. The spy shook his head when he was offered a draught, but accepted a slice of mince pie. It had been made by the Inn’s cook, and contained chopped tongue, as well as apples, dried fruit and spices. The taste transported Chaloner back to his Buckinghamshire childhood, when he had been safe and happy. He recalled singing Christmas carols with his brothers and sisters, and watching his parents hold hands in the ridiculously affectionate way they had with each other. He experienced a sharp pang of sadness for an age and a contentment that were lost to him forever.
‘Well?’ prompted Thurloe after several minutes, during which the spy’s only words were a greeting so terse it was barely civil. ‘Did you come just to stare into space and devour the best part of my pie?’
Chaloner saw the plate was indeed a good deal emptier than it had been when he had arrived. ‘It is a very good pie.’
‘But not as fine as my wife’s. Come home with me and try some – you look in need of a rest. I plan to leave for Oxfordshire at the end of the week, and will probably be gone for several months.’
Chaloner struggled to conceal his dismay. London would be a bleak place without Thurloe. ‘I see.’
The ex-Spymaster gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Ann and the children like me home on Twelfth Night, to give them presents and join the festivities. Come, too – they would love to see you.’
Chaloner was sorely tempted, but shook his head. ‘Greene might hang if I do not find the real culprit. And my Earl will not escape unscathed if he sends an innocent man to the gallows, either. His enemies will use it to destroy him.’
‘Your devotion does you credit, but is it worth it? The Earl will not thank you for proving him wrong, especially now I hear Lady Castlemaine has joined the affray, and is championing Greene’s cause. You are effectively taking her side, and he will not appreciate that.’
‘No, but what sort of retainer would I be, if I let him make a fool of himself ? Besides, I cannot leave now – he is hiring more spies, and if I go to Oxfordshire, he may use the opportunity to replace me permanently. Then I shall have to take a ship to the New World, and try to earn a living there, although it is a terrible place – full of frozen rivers, tangled woods and dangerous animals. I would rather go to Spain, and that …’ He faltered, not wanting to talk about Spain.
Thurloe gazed at him. ‘You are in a dark mood this morning! But do not worry – I shall help you with your investigation before I leave. Do you have any questions I might be able to answer? Or would you like me to help you interview suspects?’ He misunderstood Chaloner’s rising alarm and grimaced. ‘I was a Spymaster General, Thomas. I do know what I am doing.’
‘But I do not want you involved!’ Chaloner stood abruptly. ‘I should not have come. It was selfish.’
‘It was nothing of the kind,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘And I shall be hurt and offended if you decline to confide in me because of some misguided notion that I need to be protected. So sit down and ask me your questions, before I become annoyed with you. What do you need to know?’
‘Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner, relenting when he saw the determined set of Thurloe’s chin. ‘You said he was your friend, but my landlord told me he was corrupt.’
‘There were claims that he was crooked. But he was a Chancery clerk – his chief duty was to dispense rulings in those cases where a plaintiff felt common law was not up to the task – and the folk he ruled against were invariably bitter. Ergo, accusations of misconduct were an occupational hazard.’
‘So he was not corrupt?’
‘I do not believe so. And you must remember that the two men who were most vocal in their allegations bore him a grudge.’
‘Doling and Neale?’ asked Chaloner, thinking about the names Landlord Ellis had mentioned.
‘Yes. They were furious when he ruled against them. But I read those particular cases myself, and I would have come to the same conclusion: they should have lost.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Why did you read them?’
‘Because of the rumours that Chetwynd had been less than even-handed – I was curious. Moreover, both cases were heard in the summer, when you were in Iberia, and I was bored and lonely without you to cheer me. I did it to pass the time.’
As always when Thurloe made references to the depth of their friendship, Chaloner was surprised, not sure what he had done to earn the affection. He was grateful, though, to have secured the amity of a man he respected, admired and trusted. He found himself telling Thurloe all he had learned and surmised since they had last spoken.
‘And Langston is the third man to be poisoned,’ said Thurloe, turning the new information over in his mind. ‘Langston knew Chetwynd and Vine – he told you so when you met him last night.’
‘He said he was a friend of Greene’s, too.’
‘More than a friend – I happen to know that he rented rooms in Greene’s house. He fancied himself a playwright, and wanted a peaceful place to pen his masterpieces. He told me himself that Wapping fitted the bill perfectly.’
‘But I did not see Langston when I was watching Greene’s house,’ said Chaloner doubtfully.
‘Langston was a busy man with lots of friends at Court,’ explained Thurloe. ‘You not spotting him means nothing. And I imagine he spent more time there during the day, when Greene was out at work and the place was quiet.’
Suddenly, a connection snapped into place in Chaloner’s mind, and he remembered what he had been struggling to recall the previous night, when the blow to his head had scrambled his wits. Greene had visited the Dolphin tavern on his way home from work on Saturday, and he had met Langston there. But what the spy had failed to recollect was a detail of their meeting – namely that Greene had given Langston a purse, a heavy one that looked as if it contained a substantial amount of mo
ney.
‘So Greene paid Langston for something, and now Langston is poisoned,’ mused Thurloe, when Chaloner told him. ‘Of course, there are dozens of perfectly innocent explanations for what you saw. Perhaps Greene was making a charitable donation – Langston was on the board of St Catherine’s Hospital, so it is not impossible. Or maybe he was repaying a debt. You say they made no attempt to hide what they were doing, so I doubt the transaction involved anything untoward.’
‘Perhaps they made no attempt to hide because they did not know a spy was watching.’ Chaloner was angry with himself. ‘I should have questioned Langston about it last night, but I was too befuddled. Now he is dead, and the opportunity is gone. I suppose I shall have to talk to Greene instead.’
‘However,’ said Thurloe, ignoring the interruption, ‘the incident should not be discounted, either. You think Greene is being victimised by the Earl, but do not let sympathy cloud your judgement.’
‘It is not sympathy – it is caution. There is something odd about this case, and I am unwilling to jump to conclusions before having all the facts.’
Thurloe stood. ‘Then we had better find you some. I knew all three victims, albeit not intimately, but I may be able to wheedle something useful from their heirs on your behalf.’ He sighed as he donned his cloak. ‘Why can people not see that a military dictatorship has so much to offer? We never had all these horrible murders under Cromwell’s iron fist.’
It was not far from Chancery Lane to Westminster, where Chetwynd and Vine had lived, but Thurloe insisted on taking a hackney, claiming there was so much debris on the roads from the storm that there was a danger of stepping in something nasty. Chaloner climbed in the vehicle after him wondering whether he had been so oddly fastidious when he had had weighty affairs of state to occupy his mind.
It was light at last, and bells were ringing to announce it was eight o’clock. London was wide awake now – with the notable exception of White Hall’s debauchees – and the city was alive with noise and colour. Daylight showed that some of the houses along The Strand had been washed clean of soot for the Christmas season, and their reds, yellows and blues were bright in the sunshine. A group of players was performing a mime in the open area around Charing Cross, and the audience that had gathered to watch was obstructing the flow of traffic. Carters and hackneymen objected vociferously, and in one or two places, fights had broken out. Thurloe’s lips compressed into a disapproving line, and Chaloner supposed he was thinking that Cromwell’s repressive regime would not have countenanced such unseemly public behaviour.
As the coach drew closer to Westminster, the spy’s misgivings about involving Thurloe intensified. Talking to his friend had helped him see connections he would otherwise have missed, but the price was too high – and the previous night’s attack weighed heavily on his mind. Thurloe might be full of good ideas and logical conclusions, but he was no fighter, and the spy did not like the notion of putting him in danger. It would only be a matter of time before word spread that Cromwell’s chief minister was visiting the kin of murdered clerks, and the spy did not like to imagine what Thurloe’s enemies would make of that – if Thurloe was less feared now than he was at the beginning of the Restoration, then he should be keeping a low profile, not jaunting around with one of his former intelligencers. It was not long before Thurloe grew tired of the litany of objections.
‘How many more times do I need to remind you of who I was?’ he snapped. ‘You, of all people, should know I have been enmeshed in far more serious – and deadly – matters in the past. Besides, I am not visiting these folk as an investigator, but as an acquaintance concerned for their welfare. But if it makes you feel better, we can call on them separately, and pretend not to know each other.’
It was an improvement on arriving together. ‘You go ahead, then. I need to stop at the Angel tavern first, to see if Doling and Neale are there.’
‘They might be having breakfast, I suppose,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘But they will not be doing it together. Neale is a fey youth, in London to make his fortune; Doling is a dour old Roundhead who hates everything about the new regime. He clerked for Cromwell’s government, and resents the fact that he was ousted so a Royalist could have his job.’
‘Resentful enough to kill Royalists in revenge?’
‘Possibly, although I imagine he is more of a knife-man than a poisoner. I doubt Neale killed Chetwynd, though. He would never be sober enough. I shall come with you, to point them out.’
The Angel was a small, cramped place. It comprised a single chamber with benches near the hearth, and a table in the window. It was not very busy – thanks to the smelly rushes on the floor and the over-friendly pig that charged forward to greet newcomers – but it had its share of patrons. The air was dense with smoke, mostly from a badly swept chimney, but also from pipes.
‘Doling is near the fire,’ said Thurloe, wiping his streaming eyes. ‘He is the one glaring at his ale as though he would like to strangle it. And Neale seems to have persuaded Sir Nicholas Gold’s wife to join him; they are together in the window seat. What in God’s name are they wearing? Is it legal?’
Chaloner regarded the young couple with interest. He had seen them in White Hall the previous evening, waiting for a coach to take them to the ball. Lady Gold still wore nothing around her middle and bells on her ankles, while Neale was the genie. Both costumes were ripped and soiled, and he wondered what they had been doing; he could only surmise that it had involved time spent on the floor.
Neale possessed a mop of golden curls that would not have looked out of place on a cherub, and his youthful face was more pretty than handsome, like an overgrown choirboy. Meanwhile, Lady Gold was a plain girl, with pale, tightly curled hair and vacant eyes that put Chaloner in mind of a sheep.
Leaving Thurloe in the shadows, Chaloner identified himself to Neale as the man investigating the clerk murders on behalf of the government. He declined to mention the Earl, on the grounds that the case was Spymaster Williamson’s to explore, and his master should have had nothing to do with it.
‘Call me Bess,’ simpered Lady Gold, when Neale introduced her. ‘Everyone else does, and “Lady Gold” makes me sound boring. Besides, you might confuse me with Nicky’s previous wives and I would not like that. They were old, whereas I am only nineteen.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner. ‘Are you recently wed, then?’
‘Oh, no! Nicky and I have been married for three months now, which is absolutely ages.’
‘Where is your husband now?’ Chaloner was perfectly aware that courtiers did not let a small thing like marriage interfere with their fun, but he was astonished that Gold was willing to let his wife sit half-naked with a youth who was quite so obviously intent on bedding her.
‘He went home at ten o’clock last night,’ replied Bess, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. ‘That is his bedtime, and he said he was not going to change it on account of Babylon. He missed a treat, though, because the ball was lovely – except the bit when Brodrick made us all jump in a vat of mud to wrestle with each other. Lady Castlemaine did not mind, though – she was in like a shot.’
‘That was because Colonel Turner was already there,’ remarked Neale snidely. ‘She wanted to make a grab for him under the surface, where no one could see what she was doing.’
‘I would have taken the plunge for Colonel Turner,’ said Bess with an adoring sigh. ‘He is very handsome. He gave me this.’ She brandished a crucifix, which, given the current unpopularity of Catholicism, was not the wisest of objects to be toting around. ‘Is it not pretty?’
Neale regarded it disparagingly before turning to Chaloner. Clearly, he both disliked and disapproved of the competition. ‘You said you wanted to talk about Chetwynd. What do you want to know? About his corrupt verdict on my legal case?’ His tone was petulant.
‘Chetwynd was dull,’ declared Bess. ‘He used to visit my husband, and they sat in our parlour for hours, praying together. When I told Nicky I would rathe
r go to the theatre, he sent me to my room.’
‘I am not sorry Chetwynd was poisoned,’ said Neale defiantly. ‘Personally, I think it serves him right. You see, I was hoping to inherit my grandfather’s fortune, but he decided it should go to my older brother instead. It was a stupid decree – I would have put the money to good use, whereas John will squander it all on drink and gambling.’
Chaloner was bemused by Neale’s resentment, because primogeniture was law, and the moral character of an heir was irrelevant – Chetwynd would have had no choice but to find in favour of the older brother. Thurloe was right: Neale disliked Chetwynd purely because he had lost his claim, and his accusations had no basis in fact. He stood to leave, feeling he was wasting his time.
Thurloe accompanied him when he went to talk to Doling, because the two had been colleagues during the Commonwealth, and he felt his presence might work to the spy’s advantage. Doling was a squat, dark-haired, powerful man with an unsmiling face. He reminded Chaloner of the tough, cynical soldiers he had served with during the wars, and nodded when the spy asked if he had seen active service.
‘Naseby,’ he replied. ‘You are too young to remember, but it was a glorious victory.’
Chaloner remembered it all too well, as did his leg. And he should have been too young, but his regicide uncle had taken him away from his studies at Cambridge, because he said Parliament needed every able body it could get. By the time the two opposing armies had assembled at Naseby, Chaloner had been a seasoned warrior, despite being only fifteen.
‘General Fairfax noticed me at Naseby,’ Doling went on, eyes gleaming at the distant memories. ‘And later, he got me a post in government. But I was rudely dismissed when the Cavaliers strutted back to take over the country, and for a while I was destitute.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 9
