Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure I follow—’
‘Then think about it. Where did Langston live? With Greene in Wapping. Obviously, Greene killed Chetwynd and my husband, then Langston discovered something incriminating. So Greene was obliged to murder him, too.’
Chapter 4
‘We had better travel to Wapping and interview Greene immediately,’ said Thurloe, when Chaloner returned to the carriage and told him what he had learned. ‘The Earl will certainly be suspicious when he finds out that Greene’s tenant is the poisoner’s latest victim, and might order his arrest. So, if Greene has an alibi, you should check it as soon as possible, to prevent your master from making a fool of himself.’
‘He tried to hire Langston as a spy,’ said Chaloner, banging on the roof of the hackney with his fist to tell the driver to go. ‘Although it seems his offer was rejected in no uncertain terms. Why would he recruit the housemate of the man he is so intent on destroying?’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine he was unaware of the connection. He does tend to be ignorant about such matters – unless someone like you chooses to enlighten him. Unfortunately for him, you are not very good value as a scandal-monger. You listen and analyse, but you fail to pass on.’
‘Did your mother never teach you that gossiping is wrong?’
‘You had no problem passing me information when I sent you to spy overseas, so why do you baulk at keeping your Earl abreast of happenings in the place where he lives and works? If you obliged him with Court chatter from time to time, he might be more inclined to continue employing you. After all, no one wants an intelligencer who keeps all the interesting tittle-tattle to himself.’
If keeping his post at White Hall meant turning into a rumour-monger, then Chaloner supposed he had better start planning his voyage to the New World, because there were some depths to which he would not sink. He said nothing, and stared out of the window, watching the familiar landmarks whip past – the Royal Mews and the New Exchange, the latter of which had a large and angry crowd outside it. He wondered what was happening there, but there was no time to stop and indulge his curiosity.
It was a long way to Wapping, so Thurloe used the time to effect a disguise, in an effort to alleviate Chaloner’s concerns about him meddling in government business. From supplies he kept in his pockets, he donned a cap and wig that hid his hair, slathered his face in a paste that made him look sickly, and attached a remarkably authentic false beard. Chaloner was impressed at the speed with which he changed his appearance, and although it would not fool someone who knew him well, no casual observer would recognise him.
Wapping was separated from the city by the grounds of St Catherine’s Hospital – Langston’s favourite charitable concern – and had the scent of the sea about it. Greene’s house was on the edge of the village, looking across farmland to the north and the river to the south. The spy was about to knock on the door when it was opened and the clerk himself stepped out, apparently ready to go to work. He sighed when he saw Chaloner and his ‘servant’, and wearily gestured that they were to enter.
Greene did not look like a killer. He was stooped, thin and always seemed ready to burst into tears, although, in his defence, Chaloner had only ever met him when he had had good cause to be distressed. His plain, Puritan clothes were of decent quality, because his government post was a well-paid one, and he wore a wig that would not have been cheap. After watching him for the best part of two days and nights, Chaloner suspected there was little about him that would raise any eyebrows. Greene was a dull, uninteresting man, who lived a predictable, unexciting life, and the spy could not imagine why the Earl had taken against him so violently.
The clerk’s front parlour was large, but cold without a fire, and there was not much furniture in it, so their voices echoed when they spoke. There was a table in the window, which was covered in papers; an open ink-bottle suggested that someone had recently been working there.
‘Langston,’ said Greene, as Chaloner picked up one of the sheets. It was a page from a play. ‘He liked to see the river when he was writing. Are you here because he is dead? I heard the news at dawn this morning. However, I assure you I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Where were you last night?’ asked Chaloner.
Greene blinked back tears. ‘So, the Earl does think I am responsible. But I am not! I went to the Dolphin for some ale and a pie after I finished work, and then I came home. I went to church at four o’clock this morning, and was praying there when Swaddell arrived to tell me what had happened.’
‘Who is Swaddell?’
‘A fellow clerk. It was good of him to come, because Wapping is hardly on his way. However, this time I can prove my innocence, beyond the shadow of a doubt.’
‘You can?’ Chaloner hoped so, for his sake.
‘Swaddell told me Langston was still alive at four o’clock this morning – he was seen by Lady Castlemaine – but I was with my vicar at that time. Go and talk to him, if you do not believe me.’
Chaloner nodded to Thurloe, who immediately left to do so. ‘Why were you with a priest at such an odd hour?’ he asked, when the ex-Spymaster had gone.
‘I always pray before work – I am a religious man. Four o’clock is not an odd hour for me.’
Chaloner knew that was true, because he had watched him at his devotions. ‘You did not mention Langston sharing your house when I questioned you before.’
‘It did not occur to me to do so. Why would it, when neither of us could have predicted that he would become this fiend’s next victim?’ Tears began to fall, great salty drops that rolled unheeded down his face. ‘Why is this happening? What have I done to incur the Earl’s hatred?’
‘I wish I knew. Tell me again what happened when you found Chetwynd.’
Greene closed his eyes in despair, but he did as he was told. ‘I was working late, and went to the Painted Chamber to borrow ink. When I arrived, Chetwynd was dead on the floor. I was frightened – it was dark and that gale was raging. I ran away, but you caught me at the door. I should not have panicked, but it is easy to be wise with hindsight.’
‘You met Langston in the Dolphin on Saturday, and you gave him money. Why?’
Greene’s eyes snapped open to gaze at the spy in astonishment. ‘Have you been spying on me?’ He sighed miserably. ‘But of course you have – the Earl would have demanded it. The answer to your question is that I lent Langston ten pounds. He did not say why he wanted it, and I did not ask. We were friends, and friends do not quiz each other.’
‘Ten pounds?’ It was a good deal of money, and men had been killed for far less.
‘It was not unusual – he often borrowed from me, but he always paid me back. But surely, this is a reason for me not harming him? Now he is dead, I am ten pounds poorer.’
Chaloner looked hard at Greene, trying to understand what it was that had turned the Earl against him so zealously, but could see nothing, as he had seen nothing the other times he had done it. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ he asked eventually. ‘I cannot help you unless you are honest with me.’
‘I cannot think of anything,’ replied Greene wearily. ‘But I am innocent. As you pointed out when Chetwynd died, there was no poisoned cup in the Painted Chamber or on my person. That should have been enough to exoner ate me straight away. Meanwhile, I have an alibi for Langston’s death – and perhaps I have one for Vine’s murder, too, if you have been watching me. But I shall put my trust in God. If He wants me to hang, then I shall face my death with courage and fortitude.’
‘Right.’ Chaloner had forgotten Greene’s peculiar belief that everything happened according to some great and immutable divine plan. ‘Did you know Chetwynd took bribes?’
Greene gaped at him. ‘He did not! He was a good man, and if you think to help me by tarnishing his reputation, then I would rather hang. I have my principles.’
He would find out the truth soon enough, thought Chaloner. ‘Mrs Vine told me you met her husband
regularly at a coffee house in Covent Garden. Is it true?’
Greene nodded. ‘Yes, I mentioned it when you first interrogated me. A group of like-minded men often gather to discuss religion and scripture. Besides Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and me, there are Nicholas Gold, Hargrave and Tryan the merchants, Edward Jones, Neale and a number of others.’
Chaloner had met Neale, and he knew Gold was the elderly husband of Bess. Meanwhile, Jones was a Yeoman of the Household Kitchen – he was the enormously fat fellow who ate so much that the Earl had ordered him to tighten his belt. But Chaloner had never heard of Hargrave or Tryan. Or had he? He frowned when he recalled the dour Doling mentioning someone called Hargrave – he had given Chetwynd a cottage after the lawyer had taken ten minutes to decide a complex legal case. He frowned at the connections that were forming, unable to make sense of them.
‘What was Langston like?’ he asked, changing the subject when answers continued to elude him.
Greene shrugged. ‘Kind, generous, but a little secretive. Yet who does not have things he would never tell another? Do not tell me you share everything with friends!’
Chaloner ignored the challenge in the clerk’s voice. ‘Do you own a ruby ring?’
Greene blinked at the question, then held up his hands, to show they were bereft of baubles. ‘Jewellery is for courtesans and Court fops, not Puritan clerks.’
‘What about Langston?’
‘If he did, then I never saw it. Search his rooms if you like.’
It was too good an invitation to decline, regardless of the fact that the soldiers had taken the ring and it was not going to be in Wapping. While Greene watched listlessly, Chaloner went carefully through all Langston’s belongings. Unfortunately, his efforts were wasted, because he found nothing of interest, except a letter from Backwell’s Bank. It said robbers had been in their vault, but they fully intended to honour the three hundred pounds he had deposited with them – just not for a few months. It was dated in the summer of the previous year.
‘I know,’ said Greene, when Chaloner showed it to him. ‘A lot of people were inconvenienced by that crime, and the bank was so shaken that it hired a man to overhaul its security – Doling.’
There was no more to be learned, so Chaloner took his leave. Thurloe was still talking to the priest, who insisted on repeating to Chaloner what he had told the ex-Spymaster – that Greene had come to the chapel at roughly four o’clock that morning. Greene had prayed for help with his predicament, while the vicar had prayed for the roof, which he had been certain was going to blow away.
‘Greene is a melancholy fellow,’ said Thurloe, as they left Wapping. ‘I believe God looks after His own, too, but that does not mean we should sit back and do nothing to help ourselves. His belief in predestination will see him hang, unless he pulls himself together and stops feeling sorry for himself.’
‘If I asked you for money, as Langston did Greene, would you hand it over?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or would you want to know what it was for?’
‘Both. But Greene’s gloomy nature means he does not have many friends. Perhaps he did not want to lose one by asking awkward questions. You may never know why Langston needed ten pounds.’
It was late afternoon by the time Chaloner left Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn and headed towards White Hall. It was warmer than it had been earlier, and a greyish-yellow sun gleamed in the smoke above the city. As he walked past the New Exchange on The Strand, he could not help but notice how shabby it looked that day. Its gothic façade was dark with soot, and the Christmas garlands that had been hung along its eaves were torn and limp.
Outside it, Chaloner was surprised to see that the fracas he had observed earlier was still in full swing. It had attracted a mass of spectators, some of whom had simply ordered their carriages to stop in the middle of the road so they could watch, causing a serious impediment to traffic. He listened to the yells of the protagonists as he threaded his way through the mêlée, aiming to be past it as soon as possible and about his own business.
‘The King ordered it closed – and I have been charged to ensure it remains that way,’ one man was shouting. Chaloner smiled wryly when he recognised the voice of Edward Jones, thinking it odd that he should encounter the Yeoman of the Household Kitchen so soon after he had been mentioned by Greene as someone who met him and the three murdered men in Convent Garden.
Jones was a contender for the title of Fattest Man in London – he verged on the grotesque, and there was a rumour that Surgeon Wiseman had arranged for him to be measured, only to discover that he weighed precisely three times as much as the King.
‘But half the city does business here,’ objected an elderly merchant. He had impressively bandy legs, and his handsome clothes said he was very rich. ‘His Majesty cannot close the New Exchange!’
‘He can do what he likes, Alderman Tryan,’ replied Jones soberly. ‘He is the King.’
‘But he no longer wields that sort of power,’ argued Tryan. ‘And rightly so, if he is the kind of man to shut down important places of commerce on a whim. We went to war for this, and if he has not learned his place, then we shall have to fight him all over again. Is that not so, Hargrave?’
Hargrave, thought Chaloner, stopping dead in his tracks to look at the man who had given Chetwynd a cottage in exchange for a speedy verdict on his dispute with Doling – and who had rented Chetwynd his house. Hargrave and Tryan, like Jones, were also among those Greene had met at the Covent Garden coffee house. The spy decided to loiter instead of returning immediately to White Hall, to watch the three men and see what he might learn.
‘He and his Court are all rakes,’ declared Hargrave. He was not an attractive specimen. Savage red marks on his shaven pate suggested he had recently enjoined a major battle with fleas or ringworm, and wigs were not recommended until the skin had had time to heal; it was not only the poor who had trouble with parasites. ‘They do nothing but drink, frolic with whores and play cards. Why should we be taxed to support them?’
There was a rumble of agreement from his fellow merchants, and Chaloner was appalled to see how far from favour the King had fallen. It was only three years since he had been welcomed into the capital with cheering crowds and showers of roses. Now his people deplored the way he lived, and resented the cost of maintaining him and his Court.
‘The bishops get all,’ chanted Tryan, beginning a popular ditty that could be heard in London’s streets with increasing frequency. It was not just merchants who sang it, but apprentices, children and even clerics, too. ‘The courtiers spend all, the citizens pay for all, the King neglects all, and the Devil takes all.’
Jones blew out his chubby cheeks in a sigh. ‘I understand your frustration, Alderman Tryan, but one of His Majesty’s coachmen lost an eye in the fight here this morning, and traders from the New Exchange cheered for his opponent. Now the King believes it is full of traitors.’
‘Traitors?’ demanded Tryan angrily. ‘We love our country, but what does he do for it? Or does sleeping until noon, and waking only to cavort with his mistress count as patriotic service?’
‘We are not debauchees, who care only for our own comforts,’ added Hargrave. ‘We are hard-working men, and it is on our labour that this fine country is built. So open the damned Exchange!’
‘I cannot,’ said Jones, clearly uncomfortable with the position he had been forced to take. ‘His Majesty wants it to remain closed until further notice, and I am duty-bound to obey. Soldiers from White Hall will be here soon, and it would be better for everyone if you all just went home.’
There was a menacing growl from the people. Free Londoners had never appreciated being ordered about by the military, and Chaloner could see the apprentices readying themselves for battle.
‘You can try to keep it shut,’ challenged Hargrave, aware that he had the crowd’s support. ‘But we will have it open – no matter whose blood is spilled.’
While Hargrave and Tryan basked in their colleagues’ approbation for their b
rave stance, Chaloner approached Jones, who was wringing his fat hands in dismay.
‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but the road is blocked by carriages, and the guards will be unable to get through. So do not expect reinforcements any time soon.’
‘Chaloner,’ breathed Jones, recognising him. ‘Thank God for a friendly face! You must be right about the soldiers, because they should have been here ages ago. I was a fool to have tackled these rebels alone.’
‘They are not rebels,’ said Chaloner, not liking to think what might happen if that description of the crowd reached the nervous ears at White Hall. ‘Just angry citizens.’
But Jones was not interested in splitting hairs. ‘What am I to do? I cannot disobey a direct order from the King, but I do not love him so much that I am willing to be torn limb from limb. And if you ever repeat that, I shall deny saying it.’
‘Then turn the situation to His Majesty’s advantage,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking the solution should have been obvious. ‘Tell these merchants that you have just received word from the King, who has decided to reopen the Exchange as a mark of affection for his loyal subjects.’
Jones gazed at him. ‘But that would be untrue! He hates these upstarts.’
Chaloner was surprised Jones had managed to secure a Court post, if he baulked at telling lies. ‘The alternative is to keep the place closed and increase the King’s unpopularity – and risk losing your life. There must be upwards of five hundred people here, with more flocking to join them by the moment.’
Jones hesitated until someone threw a clod of mud that narrowly missed his tent-sized coat. ‘I have just received word from the King,’ he shouted, raising a plump hand to gain attention. ‘He orders that the Exchange be opened for business immediately. And he sends warm greetings to all his people, whom he loves like his own children.’
‘Steady!’ murmured Chaloner in alarm. Londoners were not stupid.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 11
