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

by Susanna Gregory

  Chaloner knew that was the way things worked at Court, but was disgusted nonetheless.

  ‘Did you refuse her, too?’ asked Hannah. She saw his apologetic expression and grimaced. ‘That is a pity, because I have been extolling your virtues to her, although she tells me you have already been to Spain on her account. Speaking of which, why have you never mentioned it to me? It means we served the same mistress, which I would have been interested to hear.’

  ‘It was—’ He was about to dismiss the escapade as of no consequence, loath as always to discuss his work, but then remembered his new resolution not to drive her away with half-answers and lies, as he had previous lovers. He did not want Hannah to despair of him at quite such an early stage in their relationship. But he found he could not summon the words to explain what had happened to him. It had been one of the worst experi ences of his life, and he did not know how to begin telling another person about it.

  ‘It was what?’ asked Hannah, peering at him in the firelight. ‘Hot? Full of flies? Beautiful? Dull?’

  ‘Not dull.’

  Hannah sighed. ‘Well, that is a start, I suppose. Spain is not dull. The Duke of Buckingham told me the opposite, and said he would not return there for a kingdom.’

  ‘You discussed Spain with Buckingham?’ Chaloner sat up, not liking the notion of such a reprobate engaging any decent woman in conversation.

  ‘I like him,’ said Hannah with a shrug. ‘He is kind, amusing and generous.’

  ‘Buckingham?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was more than one of them.

  ‘I know he has a reputation for being a libertine, but he has his virtues, too.’

  Chaloner lay back down and hauled up the bedclothes. He was still freezing, and was beginning to think he would never be warm again. ‘Next you will be telling me that Lady Castlemaine is chaste.’

  She gave him a jab with her elbow that was rather too hard to be playful. ‘You have friends whom I consider dubious. Barbara Chiffinch for example. She is a sharp-tongued shrew and I have never liked her, yet you and she rub along famously together. She is old enough to be your mother.’

  ‘She gives me information that … helps my work. And she does remind me of my mother, now you mention it. She would have liked you. My mother, I mean. She played the viol.’

  Hannah laughed. ‘You are trying your best to overcome your natural reluctance to discuss private matters, and the result is a jumble of statements that are supposed to be revealing, but that make no sense whatsoever. Your mother would have liked me because she played the viol? Really, Tom!’

  Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘I cannot talk about Spain. It was too … I did not think I would be coming back.’

  She regarded him silently for a moment, then patted his chest. ‘Then we shall talk about other things instead. Do you know Sir Nicholas Gold? I like him very much, although his wife is a dolt. And I deplore that vulture Neale, waiting to step in and claim her the moment she becomes a widow.’

  ‘Is Gold ill, then? Set to die?’

  ‘He is just old, although I suspect he is not as frail as he looks. But Bess is not yet twenty, and will certainly outlive him. She will be one of the richest widows in London when he dies, and Neale wants to ensure he will be the one to snare her. Of course, he has his work cut out for him, because she is inclined to be flighty, and Colonel Turner is just one of many who compete for her affections.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Chaloner was more than happy to let her talk.

  ‘He gave her a crucifix, and regards her as more special than the others. Except for Meg, perhaps.’

  ‘Meg the laundress?’ asked Chaloner. She nodded, and he continued. ‘He was supposed to meet her for a tryst on Saturday night, but she never arrived. Have you seen her since then?’

  ‘No, why? Do you think something untoward has happened to her? She is a dreadful harlot – I have seen her smuggling lovers in and out of White Hall myself, on her laundry cart.’

  Chaloner stared at her. ‘Do you think Turner found out she was unfaithful, and dispatched her?’

  ‘That would make him a hypocrite, would it not? Killing her for infidelity when he is in the process of sampling every woman at Court? But men are mysterious creatures, and who can fathom the illogical mush that passes as their minds? If he did kill her, I would be appalled, but not surprised.’

  Chaloner continued to stare. ‘Has Turner … Did he … Have you …’

  ‘Has he made a pass at me? And did I succumb? Is that what you cannot bring yourself to say aloud? You should credit me with more taste, Tom – Turner is a rake.’

  ‘But a likeable one.’ He listened to the fire settling in the hearth, then said, ‘You pointed Margaret Symons out to me earlier. You said your husband commissioned a sculpture from her.’

  Hannah pointed to a delicate figurine that stood near the window. ‘She made us that statue of Venus, which is as fine a piece as any in the royal collections. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I heard she liked art.’ Chaloner was aware that he was being less than honest, but he hesitated to confide in her for reasons he did not quite understand. It had been obvious the Queen had not told Hannah that Margaret had been invited to buy the stolen bust. Why was that? Did she not trust her with the information? Or had she just not considered the rumour worth the effort of translating into English? He closed his eyes tiredly. What was wrong with him? Why could he not give straightforward answers to the woman with whom he was trying to develop a meaningful bond?

  ‘You are holding back on me again,’ said Hannah, almost as if she had read his thoughts. She was smiling, but the mischievous gleam was gone from her eyes: he had hurt her feelings. ‘But no matter. You can answer some questions to make up for it. Why were you swimming in the Thames in the depths of winter?’

  ‘I became involved in a skirmish and fell in.’

  ‘You are no raconteur, are you?’ she said drily. ‘It was probably an exciting adventure, but you make it sound boring. However, it was my quick thinking with the excuse about the statue that saved you from being arrested, so you owe me some explanation.’

  Briefly, Chaloner wondered why she should want to know, but he was exhausted, his defences were down and he was weary of being suspicious of everyone he met. So he struggled to supply an explanation she would accept, but that would not reveal too much about his business.

  ‘I was following two men down an alley. Then a pack of soldiers appeared, and jumping in the river was the only way to escape. Next time, I will settle for being skewered, because I am still freezing.’ Hannah wrapped her arms around him, although it did nothing to dispel the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He hunted for something to say that would let him change the subject without sounding as though that was what he was doing. ‘Bulteel asked to me to be godfather to his son. Should I do it?’

  Hannah was silent for so long that he thought she was angry with him for not elaborating on the Thames incident. By the time she replied, he had dozed off, and her voice roused him from a dream in which he was swimming across the Painted Chamber while the Queen informed everyone that the waters would make him pregnant.

  ‘You should decline. There is something about Bulteel that is not entirely nice, although I have heard he is the most honest clerk in White Hall. I know it is an expression of friendship on his part, but I do not think you should accept it.’

  ‘Why not? You have just said he is honest.’

  ‘Is that all you require in a friend? Honesty? What about sharing interests? Music, for example.’

  ‘He does not like music,’ acknowledged Chaloner. He recalled his surprise when Bulteel had informed him of the fact. He had thought everyone liked music.

  ‘Think carefully before you give him your answer. Do not dwell on what you might be able to do for the child, but on what such an association means for you. You are a good man, Tom. It would be unfortunate if Bulteel dragged you down.’

  It was late morning when Chaloner woke the n
ext day, and Hannah was gone. He supposed it was her revenge on him for doing it to her, and was concerned that he had not heard anything. He was normally a light sleeper, and anyone moving about in a room where he was resting usually had him snapping into immediate wakefulness. But he did not feel well that day, and it took considerable effort to dress and walk to Westminster. His lame leg hurt from being so cold the night before, and his head ached miserably.

  So, what had happened the previous night? He had been so intent on surviving the encounter, that he had given little thought to what it meant. Jones and Swaddell were dead – at least he assumed they were – but what had caused them to go into the river in the first place? Had Jones caught Swaddell and killed him for eavesdropping? Or had they fought and fallen in together?

  And why had the soldiers so suddenly appeared? Had they been tracking him, aware that he had escaped alive from the Painted Chamber? He did not think so, because he was sure he would have noticed. So, that meant their appearance was coincidence – he had just happened to blunder into an area they considered their own. Did they think he was dead now, because they assumed Jones, shot and drowned, was him? It did not seem likely that they would believe a man would leap in the river to escape them one moment, then call for their help the next. But in his experience, professional warriors were an unimaginative lot, and it was entirely possible they had not stopped to question what they thought they had seen. So did that mean he was safe for a while? He did not feel safe, and decided the first thing he needed to do that day was to visit the wharf, to see what might be learned from the place where he was attacked.

  The alley was a dark, sinister slit, as uninviting in daylight as it had been during the night. He was less than a quarter of the way down it when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up – something was moving in the shadows ahead. He gaped in astonishment when he saw it was the guards who had been detailed to watch the pier the previous evening – they were still at their posts, and he realised he had underestimated their determination to be thorough. Suspecting there would be nothing to see anyway – and he had no sword to let him fight his way past them to look – he left.

  Wiseman was in Old Palace Yard, resplendent in a tall red hat and a new scarlet cloak that swirled about him as he walked. Both made him more imposing than ever, which Chaloner supposed was the point – the surgeon liked to be noticed. His self-imposed exercise regime obviously suited him, too, because he radiated vitality and fitness. His skin was clear, his eyes bright and although he had been walking at a rapid clip, he was not even slightly breathless. Uneasily, Chaloner saw he would be a formidable opponent in a fight, and sincerely hoped he would never decide to change sides.

  ‘You look as though you need my services,’ Wiseman began imperiously. ‘You are limping and—’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. He would have to be at death’s door before he let a surgeon loose on him. ‘I do not suppose you have heard rumours about a train-band lurking around here, have you?’

  ‘I have, as a matter of fact. A gang of soldiers has taken up residence – and their presence has virtually eradicated petty crime. Why? Was it they who attacked you the other night?’

  ‘Who controls them? Pays their wages, buys their equipment?’

  ‘No one knows. The obvious candidate is Williamson, although he has never cared about policing the area in the past. However, I can tell you that they are secretive and deadly, and that you should be wary of tackling them. Personally, I do not believe they are kindly Robin Hoods, ousting felons to protect the innocent – I think they crushed rival villains because it suited them to do so.’

  ‘Do you know anything else about them?’

  ‘Nothing – except that the charnel house currently houses the corpses of two men and a woman who were rather vocal in demanding to know who these men are. Ergo, I recommend you keep your questions to yourself, because I do not want to anatomise your cadaver just yet.’

  Chaloner was grateful for the warning, because investigating the train-band was exactly how he had planned to spend the morning. So, because he did not feel equal to tackling dangerous men again that day, he concentrated instead on trying to learn more about Chetwynd, Vine and Langston from the men who had worked with them. He also made discreet enquiries about ruby rings, but was disheartened to learn that they were rather common, and that at least a dozen people had a penchant for them. Wearily, he followed as many leads as he could, eliminating suspects where possible, but his efforts led nowhere. Occasionally, an opening occurred when he could ask obliquely about the train-band, but he found that either people had no idea what he was talking about or, like Wiseman, they had heard that discussing the mysterious soldiers was bad for the health and declined to do it.

  He met Turner, who was surrounded by women as usual. The colonel broke away from them to inform the spy that he had just conducted a search of Greene’s Westminster office, and had discovered a large supply of brandywine hidden beneath a window.

  ‘Perhaps he was drunk when he murdered his colleagues, and does not remember anything,’ he suggested. ‘He denied the stuff was his, but who knows whether he is telling the truth? Meg is still missing, by the way, and I spent ages hunting for her this morning. But, look! There is Lady Muskerry. I must pay my respects.’

  And he was gone before Chaloner could tell him that Surgeon Wiseman thought brandywine had disguised the taste of the poison fed to the three dead clerks.

  The spy had wanted to talk to Greene anyway, to question him about Scobel’s prayer meetings and being offered the stolen statue. He went in search of him, and found him still in his office. The clerk was pale and drawn, and had lost weight over the past few days. He sat at his desk sorting documents into piles. Chaloner watched, bemused. If he had been in Greene’s position, he would have been out looking for evidence that would exonerate him. Or, if he was guilty, then he would be halfway to France. But here was Greene doing paperwork.

  ‘I put my trust in God,’ replied the clerk, when Chaloner questioned him about it. ‘Besides, I have alibis for the murders of Vine and Langston, and that should be enough to deliver me from the Earl.’

  ‘It should,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But he does not believe Lady Castlemaine saw Langston alive when you were with your vicar in Wapping, and nor does he trust me when I say you were home when Vine died. We shall have to find something else to prove your innocence.’

  ‘Then God will provide it,’ said Greene quietly. ‘Or not. What will be will be, and there is nothing you or I can do to change the outcome.’

  His passivity was incomprehensible to Chaloner. He shook his head, and began to ask his questions. ‘I understand you once attended prayer meetings with the three dead men in the house of a man called Scobel, and that you later met them in John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Is it true?’

  Greene sighed. ‘Yes. I have already told you about the coffee-house gatherings. However, the prayer meetings were years ago, and it did not occur to me that they might be relevant. I went to a morality play with them all once, before the old king was beheaded, and we sometimes attended the same church during the wars. Do you want to know all that, too?’

  Chaloner had no idea what he needed to solve the case, and addressed another matter. ‘I am told you were invited to buy a certain piece of art recently.’

  Greene looked pained. ‘Yes, but I refused to have anything to do with it. Will the Earl hold that against me now? It was hardly my fault someone approached me with a suspicious offer.’

  ‘Who was this someone?’

  ‘A go-between, who declined to tell me the identity of his master. I followed him, to see where he went, but I am no spy and I lost him within moments. And do you know why I was singled out for this honour? Because it is common knowledge that your Earl hates me, and this villain said I could use the statue to buy back his favour.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘In return for virtually everything I own, I would get the bust. Then I could t
ake it to the Earl, and offer it up in exchange for a pardon for these murders. But I am innocent – I should not need a pardon. And I would not buy a stolen masterpiece anyway, especially one that belongs to the King.’

  Chaloner felt sorry for him. Greene was right: it was not his fault the thief had picked him. ‘Did you notice anything that may allow me to trace this go-between?’

  Greene thought hard. ‘He kept his face hidden with one of those plague masks, but his dirty clothes told me he was a labourer. He was taller than the average man, and a bit more broad.’

  Chaloner grimaced: the description was worse than useless. He was disappointed, because it was another dead end. He turned to the last of the subjects he wanted to air.

  ‘Turner said you keep a supply of brandywine hidden here. Why?’

  ‘It is not mine – I dislike the stuff. I have no idea who hid it here, but I assure you it was not me.’

  ‘Brandywine was used to disguise the poison that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston,’ said Chaloner to see what sort of reaction that particular snippet of information would provoke.

  Greene’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘No! Will you tell the Earl? He will have me hanged for certain!’

  Chaloner inspected the place where the drink had been found, but a number of people had already told him the office was never locked, so Greene was right in his insistent claims that anyone could have put it there.

  ‘Who dislikes you enough to want you accused of murder?’ Chaloner asked, sitting back on his heels. He was disgusted with himself – he should have discovered the cache when he first explored the room. Was it a sign that Turner was a better investigator?

  ‘No one,’ replied Greene, white-faced. ‘I am not popular, but I am not hated, either. I imagine most people barely know I exist.’

  Chaloner suspected he was right, and left him reciting prayers for deliverance from his troubles, although his dull, resigned expression suggested he did not think there was much chance of his petitions being granted.

  By the evening, Chaloner had asked so many questions but received so few useful answers in return, that he was tired and dispirited, and knew he would be sullen company for Hannah. He decided to go home instead, but she met him as he was leaving White Hall. Buckingham was with her, intent on escorting her home – he claimed he was concerned for her safety, but Chaloner saw the lustful gleam in the man’s eye. The Duke was loath to relinquish her at first, but then Lady Castlemaine appeared, and he excused himself with unseemly haste. Hannah did not see the reason for his abrupt departure, and extolled his virtues all the way home.