The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4)

by Susanna Gregory

  Langston lay next to Chetwynd, identifiable by his large nose and plump body – Chaloner recalled that Vine had already been buried, and so was spared the humili ation of being turned into an exhibition. He was devoid of all clothing except a strategically placed handkerchief, and the spy shuddered, not liking the notion that anyone who happened to die in Westminster could expect to be laid out and exposed to all and sundry. It was undignified, and for a moment, he had a disturbing vision of his own violent demise, and the Earl coming to gawp at his naked corpse. He took a deep breath, to clear his mind of such dark thoughts, and turned his attention to Langston.

  A quick glance at the mouth and lips revealed blisters that were reminiscent of the poison used on Chetwynd and Vine, which came as no surprise. Surreptitiously he looked for signs of other injuries, but there was nothing he could see. He was on his way out when a familiar figure strode through the door. Kersey opened his mouth to demand an admission fee, but closed it again when he recognised the newcomer.

  ‘Good God!’ boomed Wiseman, red robes billowing around him as he regarded the spectators in distaste. ‘Can you find nothing better to do than drool over the corpses of your colleagues?’

  ‘You are a fine one to talk,’ flashed a courtier named Peters. His expression was malicious: Wiseman’s blunt tongue had made him unpopular at Court. ‘I hear that you have recently taken to hefting heavy objects about with a view to acquiring larger muscles. If that is not a damned peculiar way of carrying on, then I do not know what is.’

  ‘I do it for the benefit of my health,’ replied Wiseman imperiously. ‘And I feel ten years younger, so it is certainly working. I firmly believe that exercise is the best way to prolong life and promote wellbeing, and anyone who does not agree with me is a fool.’

  ‘You will not live a long life, no matter how fit you think these odd habits are making you,’ sneered Peters contemptuously. ‘And why? Because someone will dispatch you, on the grounds that you are conceited, arrogant and rude, and no one likes you.’

  Wiseman regarded him in silence for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘I can see from here that you are afflicted with the French pox, so I shall not take your words to heart – I am a surgeon, and know how these diseases can rob a man of his wits. However, you may like to know that I have identified the source of the current outbreak: it is Lady Muskerry.’

  Chaloner was not the only one to be taken aback by this announcement. There was a collective gasp of astonishment and shock, and then people began to edge away from the woman in question. They edged away from Peters, too, who was gaping in disbelief, staggered that the surgeon should stoop to such low tactics just in order to win a petty spat.

  ‘I have devised a cure, though,’ Wiseman continued, relishing his opponent’s mortification. ‘It works like a charm, and will save sufferers from the embarrassment of unwelcome sores – and from the embarrassment of making unwarranted verbal assaults on fellow members of Court, too. I recommend you try it, Peters – French pox can be fatal, if left untreated.’

  He was going to add more, but Peters shouldered past him and headed for the door, determined to leave before any more of his intimate secrets could be brayed to the world at large. The other courtiers followed, all careful not to meet the surgeon’s eye, lest they be singled out for a tongue-lashing, too. When they had gone, Wiseman turned to the spy. Chaloner took a step away from him, not sure he wanted his company when he was in such a bellicose frame of mind.

  ‘Colonel Turner told me you were here, so I came to see if I could help you. Bulteel says the Earl will dismiss you if you do not find this killer, and I do not want you gone from White Hall. You are one of the few people there who are acceptable to me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner warily, wondering whether the surgeon’s temper was spent or whether he had yet more vitriol to expel. He braced himself, ready to follow Peters’s example and leave if he did – he had better things to do than exchange insults with the razor-tongued Wiseman.

  But the surgeon’s expression had gone from haughty to troubled. ‘Is it true?’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘Is what true?’

  ‘What Peters said – that no one likes me.’

  Chaloner was inclined to tell him the truth, in the hope that it might imbue him with a little humility, but when he saw the genuine anguish in the man’s eyes, he found he could not do it. He flailed around for a noncommittal answer. ‘The Earl likes you,’ he managed eventually.

  ‘And you?’ asked Wiseman, regarding him intently. ‘What do you think of me?’

  Chaloner was not sure how to reply. He did not want to make an enemy of Wiseman by answering honestly, but he did not want to lie, either. ‘I think you are an innovative surgeon,’ he hedged. But a glance at Wiseman’s agonised expression told him this was not enough. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the discussion. ‘And you are one of the few people who are acceptable to me.’

  It seemed to satisfy the surgeon, because he smiled briefly, and then waved a hand towards the two corpses. ‘Langston, like Vine and Chetwynd, died when a virulent toxin seared the membranes of his mouth and throat. It caused immediate swelling that restricted the flow of air to his lungs. In essence, he suffocated. I imagine I would see bleeding in his stomach, too, were I to slice him open.’

  Chaloner winced. He was not unduly squeamish, but there was something about Wiseman’s grisly enthusiasm he had always found unsettling. ‘Do you know the nature of this poison yet? You said you would find out.’

  ‘That was assuming I had a corpse to dissect, but the kin of Vine, Chetwynd and Langston have refused me permission. However, there are many such substances in the modern pharmacopoeia, and I doubt knowing a name will help you catch your killer. Most have perfectly innocent applications, such as scouring drains, making glue or cleaning glass.’

  ‘So I will be wasting my time if I try to track it down?’

  Wiseman nodded. ‘Although I intimated to Turner that it was worth doing. However, I can tell you that all three men were killed by the same potion – there is no question about that – and they probably died quickly. And, as I said the other night, the poison’s odour was disguised by brandywine.’

  ‘Do you still think Greene is innocent? You have not discovered anything to suggest otherwise?’

  ‘Greene does not have the strength of mind for killing, and the Earl is a fool for thinking he does. But we shall ensure he does not embarrass himself.’

  ‘Shall we now?’ murmured Chaloner.

  ‘We shall,’ declared Wiseman, ‘because I am not working with that popinjay Turner – not on this case, and not in the future, either. So, I have a clue to share with you, something I discovered when I examined the bodies: namely that the purses of all three victims were missing, along with any jewellery they might have owned. I am surprised Mrs Vine did not comment on it.’

  ‘Perhaps she did not notice.’

  Wiseman snorted his derision. ‘She would have noticed. And so would her snivelling son.’

  Chaloner nodded his thanks, but thought it did not help much to know he was dealing with a killer who stripped his victims of valuables – the Court was full of avaricious people. He tried to set the ‘clue’ in context. Did it mean the ruby ring had belonged to Vine, dropped as the killer had looted the corpse? It was obviously worth a lot of money, so why had Vine’s wife denied him owning it? Or had she sent a train-band to retrieve it when she realised it was missing? With a sigh, Chaloner realised Wiseman’s information posed more questions than answers.

  Chapter 5

  As Chaloner left the charnel house it was more desperation than any real expect ation of finding answers that drove him to the Painted Chamber. He was surprised to find it deserted – it was usually busy during the day – but then he realised it was the time when folk went for their midday meals. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked, and he noticed that the tapestry used to incapacitate him had already been rehung.

  A
dark, sticky stain on the floor indicated where something had been spilled. He knelt to inspect it, and saw the edges were slightly frothy, while the bulk smelled of brandy-wine. It was almost certainly the remains of whatever had killed Langston, although Bulteel had told him that – like the first two murders – there had been no sign of a cup. He could only surmise that the killer had taken it with him when he had left. Of course, it did not explain why Langston should have accepted a drink in a place where two of his colleagues had died doing the same thing. The only answer was that all three had known the killer, and trusted him.

  ‘Taste it,’ urged a soft voice from behind him. ‘Swallow some, to see if it contains poison.’

  Chaloner was not so engrossed in the stain that he had dropped his defences, and knew perfectly well that someone had been slinking towards him. The knife he carried in his sleeve was in his hand, and he could have had it in the fellow’s heart in an instant, had he wanted. He stood and turned, feigning surprise to see someone behind him – it was Spymaster Williamson, and he was loath to antagonise the man by informing him that elephants could have effected a more stealthy approach.

  Williamson was tall, impeccably dressed and an expression of lofty disdain was permanently etched into his face. He had been an Oxford academic before embarking on a career on politics, and there was no question that he possessed a formidable intellect. Unfortunately, his unattractive personality – he was vengeful, condescending and greedy – meant he was unlikely to be awarded the promotions he doubtless thought he deserved. Chaloner was not the only man to have earned his dislike, although he was the only one still living in London – the others had either run for their lives or had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. In other words, people crossed the Spymaster at their peril.

  ‘According to our records, your family were late paying their taxes again this year,’ Williamson said. His voice was low and full of pent up malevolence. ‘They supported Cromwell during the wars, so I imagine depriving the government of its revenues is their way of continuing to fight against us.’

  ‘Then you imagine wrong,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘The taxes imposed on old Parliamentarians are colossal, and my kin are not the only ones struggling to pay what is being demanded from them.’

  ‘If they default, then they are traitors, as far as I am concerned,’ said Williamson silkily.

  ‘Them and half of England,’ retorted Chaloner. He was appalled by the discussion – shocked to learn that the Spymaster was the kind of man to strike at an enemy through his relations. Chaloner’s siblings were peaceful, gentle folk, who lived quietly on their Buckinghamshire estates; they should not have to suffer more hardship, just because their youngest brother had antagonised someone in London.

  ‘I could prosecute them,’ Williamson went on, casually examining his fingernails. ‘Or do you think I should leave them alone? Of course, if I do, you will have to make it worth my while.’

  Chaloner was ready to do virtually anything to protect his brothers and sisters, but was careful to keep his expression neutral, aware that the Spymaster would exploit any sign of weakness. ‘I doubt the Earl pays me enough to satisfy a man of your standing.’

  Williamson gave what Chaloner supposed was a smile, although it did not touch his eyes. ‘I am not thinking about money – I am more interested in you doing me a service. You see, I am aware that the Earl has ordered you to explore these clerk-killings, despite the fact that they come under my remit.’

  ‘You want me to stop?’ It would mean his dismissal for certain, but Chaloner was willing to do it.

  ‘I want you to continue,’ came the unexpected reply. ‘The city is full of treasonous talk at the moment, and my spies are hard-pressed to monitor it all. Moreover, I want to be the one to find the King’s missing statue and earn his undying gratitude, so I must expend manpower on that, too. I do not have the resources to catch a killer, as well.’

  ‘But the victims were government officials,’ said Chaloner, puzzled by the Spymaster’s priorities. ‘And their deaths may be an attempt to destabilise the Royalist administration. Surely, finding the killer is more important than locating a piece of art?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ replied Williamson smoothly. ‘Stealing from the King is a very serious matter.’

  But Chaloner did not believe it, and was sure there was another reason for the Spymaster’s curious position. ‘I do not suppose the King ordered you to find the statue, to prove yourself, did he?’ He could tell from Williamson’s pained expression that he was on the right track. ‘What did he say? That if you cannot do that, then how can you be trusted with the nation’s security?’

  Williamson glowered. ‘He did not put it in quite those terms, but, as it happens, I have been asked to demonstrate my agency’s efficacy by tracing the bust. So, I am loath to waste my time on murder.’

  ‘And you want me to do it instead?’

  ‘Yes, because you are right – finding the killer is important. However, it is not as important as me keeping my job. So, do we have an agreement? I will overlook your family’s persistent late-payment of taxes, and you will hunt down the villain who is murdering officials?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Chaloner stiffly. He disliked the notion of entering a pact with such a man.

  ‘Good, although I should warn you that I will prosecute them if you fail to solve the case – and I mean solve it properly, not just present me with Greene because your Earl believes him to be guilty.’

  ‘You think Greene is innocent?’

  ‘Let us say I am sceptical, although my opinion is based solely on the fact that I have met Greene, and he does not seem the murdering type. But before I ordered my spies to concentrate on the statue, I heard their reports on the crimes. They uncovered three facts that may help you. First, Chetwynd, Vine and Langston had public arguments with your Earl in the last few weeks.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chaloner, struggling to mask his unease. Had Williamson joined the Earl’s enemies, and intended to use the case to help topple him from power? The Spymaster had so far declined to pick a side, although his neutrality had nothing to do with professionalism or fair play: he was just waiting to see who would win before committing himself. ‘He told me.’

  Williamson ignored him. ‘Second, all three frequented John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden, as does Sir Nicholas Gold. You might want to speak to him in the course of your enquiries.’

  ‘I know this, too. They also met Greene, Neale, Hargrave, Tryan, Jones, and several others.’

  Williamson ignored him again. ‘And third, the three dead men used to be regular and enthusiastic members of prayer meetings held at the home of a man named Henry Scobel.’

  ‘Scobel?’ echoed Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, who died a few months after the Restoration. Why would he entertain Royalists in his home?’

  ‘I have no idea, but entertain them he did, right up until his death. I heard the testimony of reliable witnesses – men with no reason to lie – with my own ears.’

  Chaloner would make up his own mind about whether these ‘reliable witnesses’ had no reason to lie – being interrogated by Williamson alone might have been enough to send them into a frenzy of fabrication. ‘Why do you think this is important? Scobel died more than three years ago.’

  Williamson shrugged. ‘Perhaps it isn’t important. I am merely reporting facts – interpreting them is your business, and you may pursue or dismiss them as you see fit.’

  ‘It was just four of them at Scobel’s meetings?’ asked Chaloner, trusting neither the Spymaster nor his information. It was not inconceivable that he was trying to sabotage the Earl’s investigation by muddying the waters with untruths. ‘Scobel himself, Vine, Chetwynd and Langston?’

  ‘No, there were many others, including the men you listed as enjoying each other’s company at John’s Coffee House – Greene, Jones, Neale, Gold, Hargrave and Tryan. In addition, Will Symons went, and so did an old Roundhea
d soldier called Doling. And the Lea brothers.’

  Chaloner kept his expression blank, but his thoughts were racing. What did it mean? That this eclectic collection of men had prayed together in Scobel’s home during Cromwell’s reign, and had moved their devotions to a coffee house after his death? And that one of them had decided to kill some of the others? But why?

  ‘Will Symons is Scobel’s nephew,’ Williamson was saying. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, too, but lost his post at the Restoration. So did Doling, and both are bitter. Like you, I imagine. You must be disappointed that I decline to employ you in Holland, after all your efforts to integrate yourself so seamlessly into that country – speaking their language, adopting their customs, learning their politics.’

  Chaloner shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. ‘I am happy here.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Williamson softly. ‘Then I must see what I can do about that.’

  Chaloner was resentful as he left the Painted Chamber. He disliked his family being used as pawns to secure his cooperation, and he distrusted Williamson with every fibre of his being. However, if the Earl was connected to the murders, as Williamson obviously suspected, then Chaloner did not blame him for keeping his distance from the investigation – the King would not thank him for revealing that his Lord Chancellor was involved in something sinister. And the statue? Chaloner had no intention of giving up his enquiries on that, just so Williamson could prove the efficacy of his intelligence service. He would have to be careful, but he took orders from no man except the one who paid his wages. And that was the Earl – for the time being, at least.