‘He does not have any children,’ said Hargrave, bemused. ‘The Queen is barren.’
‘She is not,’ declared Chaloner, stepping forward before he could stop himself. He liked the Queen, and objected to anyone abusing her. His quiet words, the expression on his face, and the confident stance of a man who knew how to handle himself made Hargrave scuttle back in alarm.
‘Actually, the King has plenty of children,’ countered Jones. ‘The only problem being that none of them are legitimate. But time is passing, and I have much to do. Good afternoon, gentlemen. God save the King, and so forth.’
‘God save the King,’ echoed Tryan mechanically. A few others joined in, but not many and none were very enthusiastic.
‘God might prefer saving the Devil to that scoundrel on the throne,’ muttered Hargrave. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. ‘And now let us to business. Too much time has been wasted today.’
‘Thank God that is over,’ breathed Jones, watching the mob disperse. Many went reluctantly, giving the impression that they would rather have had a skirmish; it underlined what a volatile place the city could be. ‘But what shall I tell the King? He will ask why the Exchange is open.’
‘Say his people appreciated his magnanimity in permitting the resumption of trade,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And that money made today can be taxed tomorrow. That should mollify him.’
Jones invited Chaloner to ride with him to White Hall. The carriage listed heavily to one side, leaving Chaloner gripping the window in order to prevent himself from sliding into the large courtier’s lap.
‘I understand you have competition in the form of one Colonel Turner,’ said Jones conversationally as they jolted along. ‘The Earl has appointed him as his new spy, and he is doing rather well with his investigation into these murders.’
‘Is he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘He told me he is coming close to a solution. Little Bulteel follows him around in the hope of finding out what he has learned, because he is determined that you should win the contest. You should let Bulteel befriend you, Chaloner, because his wife makes excellent cakes.’
‘Always a good reason for developing relationships,’ said Chaloner facetiously, before realising that for an obese man like Jones, it probably was.
‘Do not develop one with Turner, though,’ advised Jones, leaning towards him confidentially. ‘He is a liar – he told me he has twenty-eight legitimate children, and that he intends to increase his brood the moment he finds himself another wife. And would you believe that women are eager to be considered for the honour – even those who are already married?’
‘I heard he attracted the attentions of Lady Castlemaine last night. In a mud bath.’
Jones shuddered as he nodded. ‘It was rather horrible, if you want the truth. He will cavort with anyone. That poor young Meg from the laundry is under the impression that he is going to wed her, but of course he will do no such thing. Perhaps that is why she has not been seen since Saturday – she has learned his intentions are less than honourable towards her.’
Chaloner frowned, recalling that Turner had been due to meet Meg for a midnight tryst, but the colonel had been unable to fulfil his obligations, on account of him finding Vine’s body. ‘She is missing?’
‘Yes. It is a pity, because she is a pretty little piece.’
Chaloner’s frown deepened. Had the laundress arrived early for the assignation, and seen the killer at work? And had she then fled, to ensure she was not his next victim? Or had she screamed or announced her presence in some other way, and so was lying dead somewhere? The Painted Chamber was not far from the river, which was an excellent repository for corpses. He supposed he would have to ask the charnel-house keeper whether any bodies had been washed ashore. Of course, all this assumed Turner was telling the truth. What if he was the killer, and he had been obliged to ‘find’ Vine because Meg had caught him in the act of dispatching his victim? Either way, Chaloner did not hold much hope that the laundress was still alive.
When they reached White Hall, they paid the driver and were just walking through the gates, when two people hurtled towards them, intent on a game that involved a ball and two curved sticks. One stick caught Jones a painful blow on the shin, causing him to howl and jump about in agony. Lady Castlemaine put her hand over her mouth when she saw what she had done, but her remorse did not last long: she took one look at the fat man’s undulating jig, and immediately burst into laughter. Her partner in crime, the Duke of Buckingham, ignored Jones altogether as he took aim and hit the ball as hard as he could, sending it whizzing towards a fountain. Whooping and shrieking, he and the Lady hared after it. They appeared a little too intimate together, indicating their relationship was probably sexual, as well as one of coconspirators against the Lord Chancellor.
Chaloner watched them disapprovingly. The Lady reminded him of a cat – smug, sensual and vain, with claws ever at the ready. She was still young, but lines of spite and bad-temper were beginning to etch their way around her mouth and eyes, and the spy had never understood why so many men found her irresistible. Meanwhile, Buckingham was a tall, athletic fellow in his mid-thirties, who should have known better than to play rough games in a place where people might be hurt. Chaloner turned to Jones, offering an arm for balance as the fat man bent to inspect the damage to his leg.
‘I have been looking for you, Jones,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I have a message: the King wants you to re-open the Exchange as soon as possible. Apparently, keeping it shut entails too much paperwork.’
The speaker was a clerk, and Jones straightened up to stare at him. ‘What?’
‘He realised it was more trouble than it was worth shortly after he dispatched you to The Strand. He apologises for not sending word sooner, but says he has been engrossed in a game of blind man’s buff, and forgot about you. Indeed, it was only by chance that he happened to mention the matter to Williamson, who then ordered me to look for you and tell you of the decision.’
‘I see,’ said Jones. He looked deflated, hurt by the revelation that the unpleasant episode outside the New Exchange had all been for nothing.
‘You work for Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the clerk. He had not seen the man before, and was curious about his relationship to the Spymaster. The fellow was clad in black from head to toe, with the exception of his spotlessly white neck-band. The effect might have been smart on another person, but on the clerk it was sinister, although Chaloner could not have said why. Perhaps it was something to do with the dark, close-set eyes, which never seemed to settle on anything.
Jones remembered his manners. ‘This is John Swaddell, Williamson’s new secretary, whom he says is indispensable.’ He gestured to Chaloner. ‘And this is—’
‘I know,’ interrupted Swaddell. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s intelligencer, and the current beau of Hannah Cotton. My master has mentioned him on several occasions.’
Chaloner was uncomfortable with the notion that he – and his friendship with Hannah – had been the subject of discussions involving Williamson. ‘What did he say?’
Swaddell shrugged. ‘Only that he dislikes you, and that I am to ensure you do not harm him.’
‘Harm him?’ echoed Chaloner in disbelief. ‘He is Spymaster General, with an army of highly trained men at his command. I would not dare go anywhere near him!’
This was not entirely true, because Court security was so lax that Chaloner knew he could ‘harm’ anyone he pleased. However, he did not want Williamson thinking him dangerous, and was keen for Swaddell to report there was nothing to worry about. Enemies of Williamson were apt to disappear, and Chaloner did not want to be stabbed in a dark alley just because the Spymaster was uneasy.
Swaddell was about to add more, but was distracted by a sudden screech of rage. It came from the Lady, who was given to abrupt displays of temper. This time her ire was focussed on a couple who had just alighted from a splendid carriage. It was Bess Gold and her elderly husband. A num
ber of male courtiers were beginning to converge, eager to offer Bess an arm across the cobbles – a young woman with an ageing and very rich husband was an attractive target for the fortune-hunters who haunted White Hall. However, the moment they realised she was engaged in an altercation with Lady Castlemaine, they melted away like frost in the sun.
‘I said I like it,’ the Lady was yelling, eyes flashing as she fixed Bess with a glare that held poison. ‘That means I want it, and you should give it to me. Do I have to spell it out, you stupid child?’
Buckingham was trying to calm her, although his impatient manner was doing little to ease the situation. ‘It is just a bauble,’ he snapped irritably. ‘I will buy you another. But you cannot have this one, because its owner is unwilling to part with it.’
‘You are right, kind sir,’ simpered Bess, batting her eyelashes at him. ‘I am.’
Chaloner watched with interest as the scene unfolded. Gold was cocking his head in a way that suggested he could not hear a word that was being said, while Buckingham was itching to get back to his game. Bess beamed at the Duke, and seemed wholly unaware that she was playing with fire by refusing a ‘request’ by the Lady – and by flirting with her handsome playmate.
‘I am a Catholic,’ the Lady announced in a ringing voice. ‘A secret one, it is true, but I am a faithful daughter of the Church, and I do not yet have a crucifix. Yours has rubies in it, which would look nice with the gown I intend to wear to confession. I want it, and you will give it to me.’
‘Eh?’ said Gold. ‘Speak up.’
‘It is not a crucifix,’ objected Bess. The object in question hung around her neck, and she fingered it possessively. ‘It is a cross with a figure of Jesus on it. And it was a special gift from Colonel Turner, so you cannot have it.’
‘You should not wear rubies to confession, anyway,’ said Buckingham, grabbing the Lady’s arm and attempting to haul her away. She flashed her teeth at him, apparently threatening to bite, and he released her hastily. ‘The priest would demand them for the poor, and, as a “faithful daughter of the Church”, you will be obliged to hand them over for the Pope’s coffers.’
‘Bess is not my daughter,’ declared Gold loudly. ‘She is my wife. And I would rather you did not mention coffins in my presence, not when I am fast approaching the day when I shall be in one.’
‘I shall buy you a nice casket when the time comes,’ offered Bess brightly. ‘Although it should not be too expensive, given that you will only be using it the once.’
All four turned when one of the hovering courtiers, braver than his fellows, strode towards them. It was the cherub-faced Neale. ‘What seems to be the trouble, Bess?’ he asked. ‘May I help?’
‘You may not,’ snapped Lady Castlemaine, giving him a shove that was hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Go away and mind your own business, boy. You are not wanted here.’
‘You may not want him, but I do,’ said Bess, with something of a leer. Fortunately for Neale, Gold’s ancient legs were tiring, and his attention was fixed on holding himself upright by hanging on to Buckingham, so he did not see her expression. The Duke grimaced and tried to extricate himself, but Gold’s gnarled fingers were stronger than they looked.
‘I shall accompany you home, Bess,’ declared Neale gallantly. ‘Away from this place.’
‘It is a disgrace,’ agreed Gold loudly, shifting so the hapless Duke bore almost his entire weight. ‘Uneven cobbles should be banned by royal decree – a man could break his neck in this yard.’
Lady Castlemaine ignored him and put her hands on her hips. ‘Excuse me,’ she snarled at Neale. ‘But I just told you to mind your own business. You had better oblige or Buckingham will run you through. He can do it, you know. He has a rapier.’
‘Not with me, though,’ said Buckingham with a grimace, struggling to stay upright under Gold’s dead weight. ‘So it will have to be later. Tomorrow at dawn, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields? That is where such matters are usually settled.’
‘That is very kind, Buckingham,’ bellowed Gold. ‘I would be honoured to be your guest at Field’s tomorrow. I understand it is one of the more exclusive coffee houses, patronised by members of Court and parliament. Dawn is too early, though, and a man of my mature years needs his sleep. Midday would be much more convenient, so I shall see you then.’
He grabbed the arm Neale was proffering to Bess, and leaned on it so heavily that the young man was hard-pressed to keep his balance. As Bess and Neale escorted him away, Gold began a litany of compliments about Buckingham’s gracious manners. Chaloner laughed when he saw the stunned expressions on the faces of the Duke and the Lady, although not loudly enough for them to hear him.
‘It was a paltry crucifix anyway,’ said Buckingham, when he had regained his composure. ‘And those were not rubies, but coloured glass. I shall buy you a much nicer one.’
‘For my priest to steal?’ asked the Lady icily. ‘No, thank you! Perhaps I will return to Anglicanism, if papists are going to prove miserly. I am bored of the religion, anyway, and only converted to annoy the Queen. She wallows in her Catholic devotions, and I wanted to show her that I can wallow just as prettily. I can produce royal children prettily, too. Unlike her.’
‘You can produce royal bastards,’ corrected Buckingham tartly. ‘Only a queen can produce royal children, but our dear Lord Chancellor has ensured that we shall never see any. He did England a grave disservice by foisting a barren wife on our King.’
Chaloner was spared from having to report his progress – or lack thereof – to the Earl, because his master was at a meeting of the Privy Council, and so unavailable. He ate some seedcake made by Bulteel’s wife, listened to Haddon wax lyrical about the delights of owning a dog, and spent the first part of the evening in the Banqueting House, where the Court had gathered for a performance of the King’s Musick. He made a few desultory enquiries, but Locke was one of his favourite composers, and it was not long before he became lost in the exquisite harmonies. Afterwards, guilty that he had squandered so much time – especially as Turner was busily darting from woman to woman, looking as though he was gathering intelligence aplenty – he went to the kitchens, hoping the servants would be in the mood to gossip. They were, but he learned nothing useful anyway.
He was on the verge of giving up when he saw Hannah, who had come to fetch warm milk for the Queen. Hannah was small, fair and her face was more interesting than pretty. Unlike the Lady, she could be witty without resorting to cruelty, and one of the things Chaloner liked best about her was her ability to make him laugh. He loitered, waiting for her to finish her duties, then escorted her to the pleasant cottage in Tothill Street where she lived. The road was bounded by the rural Tothill Fields to the south, and the landscaped splendour of St James’s Park to the north, and was a quiet, peaceful place. It smelled of damp earth and dew, and owls could be heard hooting in the woods nearby.
Hannah was livid, because one of Buckingham’s footmen had made some impolitic remark about the Queen’s failure to produce children. She had left the fellow in no doubt as to what would happen if she heard him utter such treasonous statements again, but his stammering apology had done nothing to appease her: she remained incandescent.
‘How can people be so heartless?’ she raged as they walked. Her voice was loud enough to cause a few residents to peer through their curtains, and Chaloner supposed it was no surprise that word had spread about their blossoming friendship. ‘The Queen is doing her best to achieve what is expected of her, but these … these pigs are implacable.’
‘It is unfair,’ agreed Chaloner.
‘It is more than unfair – it is a scandal! They exclude her from their revelries – she was not even invited to the King’s Musick tonight – they shun her when she speaks to them, and they laugh at her attempts to learn English. She is the Queen, but they treat her with rank disrespect.’
She continued to rail while Chaloner lit a fire and warmed some wine, so he listened patiently and without interrupti
on until her temper burned out. Then he spent the night, and was tired enough after several nights of poor sleep that he did not wake until an hour after dawn the following day. Alarmed by the loss of time, he slipped out of bed, dressed and walked briskly to White Hall. The weather had continued to improve, and patches of blue let shafts of sunlight dance across the winter-bare ground.
He climbed the stairs to the Earl’s office slowly, wondering what he could say about his progress. To postpone the inevitable reprimand for his lack of success – when the unctuous Turner was probably on the brink of a solution – he went to speak to Bulteel first. The secretary was good at gathering information, and now they had a formal pact to help each other, Chaloner was hopeful that he might have learned something useful. Unfortunately, he had nothing with which to reciprocate.
He met Haddon first, in the hallway outside Bulteel’s little domain. His dogs were with him, straining against their leashes and making breathless, gagging sounds.
‘I thought I would bring my darlings to work today,’ the steward said beaming merrily, ‘The Earl is having a soirée tonight, which means a lot of running about to arrange food, guests and music, and my beauties like a bit of exercise.’
‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘What manner of music?’
‘Viols, I believe, although stringed instruments sound like a lot of screeching cats to me. Give me a trumpet any day. A trumpet is like a dog – loud, clear and commanding of respect.’
Chaloner looked at the glossy, pampered creatures that panted and gasped at his feet. ‘Is that so?’
‘Come along, my lovers,’ trilled Haddon. ‘The Earl wants us to hire Greeting’s consort because Brodrick’s is unavailable. Shall we look for Greeting in the chapel first, or his coffee house?’
‘His coffee house,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He will not be in the chapel at this time of day.’
‘I was talking to the dogs, actually,’ said Haddon jovially. ‘But your advice is welcome, and we shall do as you suggest, although my sweethearts dislike coffee houses. They tell me the smell of burned beans irritates their little noses.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 12
