‘They talk to you?’ asked Chaloner, regarding him warily. Men had been taken to the lunatic house at Bedlam for less.
‘Of course they do! Surely you converse with your cat?’ Haddon smiled at the spy’s bewildered expression, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should try it. It keeps the loneliness at bay, and animals are a great comfort to those who live a solitary life.’
He bounced away whistling, openly delighted at the prospect of a day with his canine companions. Chaloner watched him go, and supposed he had better spend more time with Hannah or Thurloe, lest his isolated lifestyle drove him to imagine his cat might have something worthwhile to say. He would not be able to do his job if he was mad, and then he would starve.
Bulteel leapt in alarm when Chaloner tapped him on the shoulder, not having heard him approach. He clutched his chest and regarded the spy balefully, then gave a reluctant grin and offered him a piece of his wife’s Christmas gingerbread. Chaloner sat on the desk while he ate it. It was excellent, as usual, and he wondered how the secretary had managed to capture himself such a talented cook. He found himself thinking about Hannah, but their relation ship was at such an early stage that he did not know if she could bake. He decided he had better find out.
‘Did you hear about the third poisoning?’ asked Bulteel in a low voice, so the Earl would not hear and come to find out why he was chatting when he should be at his ledgers. ‘Langston – the plump fellow with the long nose – is dead.’
Chaloner brushed crumbs from his coat. ‘What was Langston like? I met him with Surgeon Wiseman the other night, but only briefly. And I was not really in any condition to take his measure.’
Bulteel shrugged. ‘Honest, kind and considerate. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill him. Kersey has him in the charnel house, so you should inspect him before you see the Earl – he is sure to ask whether this death is the same as the others. And you should examine the Painted Chamber, where Langston died, too. Perhaps the killer left a clue this time. Williamson told me …’
He faltered, and Chaloner frowned. ‘You have been talking to the Spymaster? Why?’
Bulteel grimaced, angry with himself. ‘Damn! That slipped out because I am frightened.’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Frightened by what? These murders? But why? Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were all government-appointed officials, but you are an earl’s private secretary. I doubt the killer will regard you as a suitable victim.’
But Bulteel disagreed. ‘It is well known that I refuse bribes, and the three dead men had one thing in common: their integrity.’
Chaloner hastened to reassure him. ‘Chetwynd was not as honest as he liked people to think, so I doubt probity is the motive for their murders. Is that why you were talking to Williamson? You are afraid, and think he might be able to protect you?’
Bulteel looked miserable. ‘Williamson has had his claws in me for a lot longer than that. A few months ago, he came to me and said that unless I provide him with the occasional report on the Earl, he would start rumours that would see me dismissed.’
‘Rumours about what? I doubt you have ever done anything unsavoury.’
Bulteel shot him a wan smile. ‘Your confidence is generous, but unfounded. You see, during the Common-wealth I worked for a bookseller who believed Cromwell was a hero. I told Williamson I did not think the same way, but he said it was irrelevant. He left me with no choice but to do as he asked.’
Chaloner thought Bulteel was a fool for letting Williamson use such a paltry excuse to intimidate him. He shrugged. ‘A spymaster should have eyes all over White Hall, to keep him appraised of what is happening. But I am sure you never impart information that shows the Earl in a bad light.’
Bulteel was indignant. ‘Of course not! I like this job, and a steady income is important for a man with a new baby. But it is not easy. Williamson is always after me for snippets, and now Haddon is here, it is only a matter of time before I am ousted. I do not suppose you have learned anything that may give me an advantage over him?’
Chaloner shot him an apologetic look. ‘But he will never displace you – he is a steward, not a secretary, and he could never manage the Earl’s accounts like you do.’
Bulteel did not look comforted, although he produced another of his sickly smiles. To anyone who did not know him, it was a sinister expression, and one that would have most men reaching to secure their purses. ‘You must catch this killer, Tom – I shall not feel safe until you have tracked him down. Did you know the Earl invited Langston to work as his spy, but he refused?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘That would have made three of us, with Turner. What does he want, an army?’
‘Yes, actually. He is worried that his enemies will start accusing him of ordering these deaths, because all three victims were men with whom he has had arguments over the last few weeks.’
Chaloner recalled the Earl ranting about his detractors after they had inspected Vine’s body, when the spy had escorted him home in his carriage. He had put the incident from his mind, because it had seemed more of a diatribe than a flow of information, but now he understood. Without admitting that he had done anything wrong, the Earl had been telling his spy about his own uncomfortable association with the victims – and with others who had crossed him.
‘He said Chetwynd disapproved of his unbending stance on religion,’ he mused, thinking about what had been confided. ‘And Vine objected to his gaudy house.’
‘And Langston was deeply offended by his offer of employment – a lot of people heard him call the Earl a villain. I imagine it will not be long before our master’s opponents notice that men who disagree with him end up being poisoned in the Painted Chamber. And then they will start braying about it.’
‘He is not a murderer,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He may not be a saint, but he has his principles.’
And yet, he thought, the Earl was inexplicably determined to see an innocent man hang. Perhaps he had decided principles were putting him at a disadvantage in a place where no one else had any. It would not be the first time a good man had attempted to combat wickedness on its own terms.
Chaloner decided to take Bulteel’s advice and inspect Langston’s body before it was either moved to a church or shoved in the ground, depending on how well he had been loved by his next of kin. The Earl was ensconced with Brodrick anyway, and said he was not to be disturbed, not even to be briefed about murder or lost busts.
He walked to Westminster, and was halfway across New Palace Yard when he was sidetracked by a spectacle. Colonel Turner had dressed for the ladies that day, eschewing the current taste for lace, and opting instead for a plain blue suit with a silver sash and matching ear-string. The attire made him look martial and manly, and he was surrounded by women, all clamouring for his attention. He stood among them like a god.
Bess Gold was at the edge of the gathering. She fingered her crucifix, and simpered in a way that was brazenly provocative. Her husband clung to her arm, but his attention was on his feet, to ensure he did not stumble on the uneven ground. The cherub-faced Neale was hovering nearby, full of envious resentment that Turner should be the object of Bess’s admiration. He tried to slip around Gold to speak to her, but the old man grabbed him as he passed, ostensibly to hold himself up. Chaloner frowned. Was it a deliberate ploy to keep Neale away from his wife, or simple bad timing on Neale’s part? But there was nothing in Gold’s demeanour to suggest he objected to the young man’s presence. On the contrary, he seemed grateful for another source of physical support.
The remaining women were members of the Queen’s bedchamber, although Chaloner recognised only two. There was Lady Muskerry, reputed to be a willing partner for any man, but not overly endowed with wits; like Bess, she fingered a trinket that hung around her neck. And there was Hannah.
‘Did I dream you were with me last night?’ Hannah asked in a low voice, detaching herself from the throng to talk to him. Her face was serious, but her eyes danced with m
ischief. ‘I must have done, because I am sure you would not have sneaked off before dawn without a parting kiss.’
‘It was not before dawn. The sun was up and half the morning was gone.’
‘Why the rush? Was it because I did not stop chattering last night – did not draw breath to ask after your day – making you eager to escape? Or is it just that you are trying to solve these recent murders?’
Chaloner’s immediate inclination was to evade her question with a comment about Lady Muskerry’s necklace. But it had been his reluctance to talk about himself that had driven wedges between him and several previous lovers, and he was determined not to repeat the mistake. Unfortunately, it was difficult to break the practice that had kept him alive for so many years, and he much preferred the times when Hannah did all the talking.
‘The Earl has hired Turner and me to look into them,’ he forced himself to say.
Her expressive face crumpled into a grimace. ‘Then be sure you do not do all the work, while he steps in to take the credit. He thrives on adulation, and will be keen to secure your Earl’s good graces.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows, surprised – and gratified – that she could see through the colonel’s flamboyant charm. ‘Every other lady at Court seems to think him a gift from God.’
‘Oh, he is a gift, all right. I am told – by several impressed friends – that there is no one like him for making a girl feel special in the bedchamber. However, a pretty face and a perfect body are not high on my list of requirements in a man.’
‘That is a relief.’
She nudged him playfully. ‘You will suffice.’ Then her impish smile faded, to be replaced by an expression of concern as her attention was caught by something else. ‘Look – there is Margaret Symons! I am sure she is ill – do you see the taut way she holds herself, as if every step hurts?’
Chaloner glanced to where she pointed. A woman was walking slowly from the direction of the abbey, leaning heavily on the arm of a man. She was thin and pale, and did appear to be unwell; her companion was conspicuous for his mane of spiky ginger hair. Both wore respectable clothes, but ones that had seen better days, indicating they had once been much wealthier. London was full of people just like them – folk who had prospered during the Commonwealth, but who were now suspect to the new regime. No one would do business with them, and some were finding themselves reduced to desperate poverty.
‘Her husband – the man with her – is Will Symons,’ Hannah went on. ‘He was a government clerk until the Restoration, at which point he was ousted to make room for Royalists. He is a pleasant man. Margaret is a sculptress – my husband liked statues and commissioned one from her.’
‘From a woman?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He shrugged at Hannah’s indignant expression. ‘You do not hear of many female artists. I am not saying Mrs Symons is not good, just that it is unusual.’
Hannah sniffed, not entirely mollified. ‘My husband almost cancelled the work when he learned “M. Symons” was a lady, but I informed him that he had better think again. And I was right to force him to reconsider, because the piece she made for us is exquisite.’
‘But you think she is ill?’ Chaloner knew he was drawing out the discussion, so Hannah would have less time to ask him questions about his work, but he could not help himself.
‘Yes – you can see from here that Will is being very solicitous of her. They are a devoted couple, and it grieves me to see him look so worried. I should go to talk to them.’ She started to move away, but then turned back. ‘Will you visit me again soon? I enjoyed your company last night.’
He said he would try, and had not taken many steps towards the charnel house when he heard his name being called. It was Turner, who had managed to extricate himself from his adoring throng. He was adjusting his clothing, as though leaving had involved the prising off of fingers.
‘There is scant information about murder to be had from those lasses,’ he declared, smoothing down his moustache, ‘but their company is a delight – I shall be doubling my tally of children, at this rate! But while we are speaking of ladies, have you heard anything of Meg the laundress? I have not seen her since we failed to meet for our midnight tryst – the night I found Vine murdered.’
‘Has it occurred to you that she might have stumbled across the killer, and he has ensured she will not be around to provide a description of him?’
Turner shook his head. ‘It is more likely that she has found out about my growing affection for Barbara – that is Lady Castlemaine to you – and is jealous. Damn! I was growing fond of Meg, too.’
‘You should find her,’ advised Chaloner, feeling the man should not need to be told. ‘If she is alive, she might be in danger, or frightened and in need of your protection.’
Turner brightened. ‘Oh, I can do protection. I am good at gallantry. Where shall I start looking?’
Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘How should I know? Try her home, or the place where she works. Does she have family in the city?’
‘I have no idea. I want to bed her, not marry her, for God’s sake – I am not interested in her kin. But perhaps I will have a bit of a hunt for her tonight, when I am done with His Portliness’s affairs.’
‘You think you will have solved the case by then?’ Chaloner wondered whether Turner intended to present Greene as a culprit, simply because it was the easiest option and would please the Earl.
But Turner shook his head again. ‘Unfortunately, it is proving more complex than I imagined. Incidentally, His Portliness says I can have a permanent post with him if I beat you to the answer, and he and Haddon have taken bets on which one of us will win.’
Chaloner was disgusted. ‘Murder is hardly a subject for wagers.’ And neither was his future.
‘That is what I thought – I was under the impression they had more decorum. But Haddon believes you will succeed, while His Portliness is backing me. However, both agree that neither of us has a hope in Hell of locating this missing figurine – the one by Barocci.’
‘Bernini. And it is a bust, not a figurine.’
Turner flapped a hand, to indicate details were irrelevant. ‘Suffice to say it cost the old king’s wife a diamond ring, which was valued at a thousand pounds.’
‘You do not know the sculptor’s name, but you know what he was paid?’ Chaloner was amused.
Turner grinned back. ‘I know what is important. Where are you going? To see Langston’s corpse? I have already done that, but it yielded nothing in the way of clues. And it cost me threepence, too.’
‘What did?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.
‘Viewing the corpse,’ explained Turner. ‘Because there has been such a demand to see it, Kersey has opened his mortuary to spectators, and is making a fortune in entry fees. But I had better talk to Bess Gold, before her husband takes her away. She was one of the last people to see Langston alive, and might have something useful to impart.’
But Chaloner had interviewed Bess at the King’s Musick the previous evening, and had discovered that her powers of observation were negligible – she barely recalled what she had been wearing, let alone anything to solve a murder. He watched Turner strut away, but did not tell him he would be wasting his time. The tale about the Earl’s wager had annoyed him, and he found himself determined to prove his master wrong. And if that meant not sharing information with his rival, then so be it.
The charnel house was located near the river, sandwiched between a granary and a coalhouse. As Turner had warned, it was full of spectators – it was not often three clerks were murdered in the same week, and people were eager to view the victims. They handed over their coins and disappeared into the mortuary’s dark interior, pomanders pressed to noses. None lingered long, so although there was a queue, it moved quickly. Chaloner loitered, waiting for the horde to dissipate, because there was no point going inside if he could not see Langston for sightseers.
The first person he recognised among the ghoulish throng was the grim-faced Dolin
g, who stamped out looking as black as thunder. Chaloner might have assumed the fellow had seen something to enrage him, but then recalled the way he had scowled at his ale in the Angel the previous day: Doling was just one of those men who frowned at everything. His expression blackened further still when the wind caught the lace at his throat and whisked it off to reveal skin that was old, red and wrinkled, like that of a turkey. The lace was retrieved by Hargrave, whose flea-ravaged head was wrapped in a scarf that made him look like a fishwife, and who was in company with the elderly Tryan. The three exchanged a few words, then walked away together, Tryan’s bandy legs pumping nineteen to the dozen as he struggled to keep up with his younger companions.
Moments later, George Vine reeled out, a Lea brother on either side. He lurched to a doorway and was promptly sick, although Chaloner could not tell whether it was at the sight of a man who had suffered the same fate as his father, or his stomach rebelling at the amount of wine that had been poured into it the previous night. The Leas were spitefully amused by his misery, and were still sniggering when they helped him into a hackney carriage some time later.
They were watched in rank disapproval by a number of courtiers, among whom was the obese Jones, still limping from his encounter with Lady Castlemaine’s gaming stick. He grimaced, and pointedly leaned down to rub the afflicted limb when she and Buckingham arrived a few moments later. It was then that Chaloner saw he was not the only one observing the proceedings: so was Williamson’s clerk, who skulked in the shadows of a nearby doorway, almost invisible in his black clothes.
Eventually, the queue dwindled to nothing. Chaloner prised a stone from the road, and lobbed it at the glass window of a nearby warehouse. Immediately, the owner tore out, and began to accuse a departing courtier of the crime. While Swaddell’s attention was fixed on the resulting fracas, Chaloner left his hiding place and slipped inside the charnel house unseen.
Kersey’s domain was larger than it looked from the outside, and the main section comprised a long, windowless hall with lamps hanging at irregular intervals from the ceiling. There were a dozen wooden tables, each graced with either a cadaver, or a neatly folded sheet. Kersey – a dapper, well-dressed little man – was holding forth to the last of his visitors, informing them that on a good week, he might have as many as twenty corpses to mind. His audience, however, was more interested in clucking over his charges than listening to him. Chaloner waited until they were all gaping at the remains of a drowned apprentice, then turned to inspect the poisoner’s most recent victim.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 13
