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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘He is a wonderful man,’ she said dreamily, unlocking her front door. ‘His wife is a lucky lady.’

  Chaloner did not think so. ‘Can you cook?’ he asked, mostly to change the subject before they argued, but also because he was hungry and experienced a sudden hankering for cakes.

  She regarded him in surprise. ‘I can manage a pickled ling pie, but not much else. Why?’

  Chaloner shuddered at the notion of pickled fish in pastry, and supposed he would have either to maintain his friendship with Bulteel or forgo cakes in future – unless he learned how to bake them himself.

  Chaloner awoke the next morning feeling rested and much more optimistic about his investigations. While Hannah freshened his shirt and lace collar with a hot iron, he went to buy bread for their breakfast. He also purchased the latest newsbook, although The Newes contained no reports from foreign correspondents, nothing of domestic affairs, and its editorial was a rant on the poor workmanship to be found in viols made anywhere other than England.

  ‘That is untrue,’ he said to Hannah, pacing back and forth as he read. ‘There are excellent viol makers in Florence.’

  ‘We shall have some nice music on Twelfth Night eve,’ said Hannah. ‘I forgot to tell you last night, but Sir Nicholas Gold has invited me to dine at his home, and said I might bring a guest. Bess sings and he plays the trumpet. With your viol and my flageolet, we shall have a lovely time.’

  The combination of instruments was worthy of a wince as far as Chaloner was concerned, but he was not often asked out, so any opportunity to play his viol was to be seized with alacrity. Of course, Gold was deaf, which did not bode well for the quality of the music, but the spy was willing to take the chance. When Hannah had finished primping his clothes, he walked to Lincoln’s Inn, to ask what Thurloe recalled of Scobel’s death – and whether the ex-Spymaster knew anything about prayer meetings with men who had later became Royalist clerks.

  When he arrived, Thurloe was at a meeting of the ‘benchers’ – the Inn’s ruling body. They were a verbose crowd, who felt cheated unless they had repeated themselves at least three times before any decision was reached. Used to the trim efficiency of the Commonwealth, Thurloe found the occasions a chore, and was more than happy to use a visitor as an excuse to escape.

  ‘I checked Doling’s claims about Chetwynd with several informants,’ the ex-Spymaster said, walking with Chaloner in the Inn’s garden. Winter should have rendered it bleak and unwelcoming, but the benchers had hired professional landscapers to design an arbour that was a delight in any season. Gravel paths prevented expensive footwear from getting wet, while evergreen shrubs supplied year-long colour.

  ‘What did they say?’ asked Chaloner, hoping Thurloe knew what he was doing when he removed three bright blue pills from a tin and ate them.

  ‘That Hargrave did bribe Chetwynd by gifting him a cottage. I am disappointed, because I respected Chetwynd. He hid his corruption well.’

  ‘And Neale’s accusations?’

  Thurloe’s expression was pained. ‘There is irrefutable evidence that Neale gave Chetwynd a substantial sum to secure himself a favourable verdict. Unfortunately for Neale, his brother paid more. Chetwynd accepted both bribes, then refused Neale a refund. And what could Neale do? Nothing! Bribing government officials is a criminal offence, so he could hardly make a formal complaint. No wonder he is bitter.’

  ‘Meanwhile, Vine was in the habit of blackmailing people. He was not a virtuous man, either.’

  Thurloe shook his head sadly. ‘I had no idea. However, I heard there was some great falling out between him and Gold not long ago. I shall endeavour to find out what it was about.’

  ‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner. ‘It is unwise for prominent Parliamentarians to explore the embarrassing failings of Royalists.’

  Thurloe shot him a reproachful glance. ‘I am quite capable of asking my questions anonymously. You need not fear for me.’

  ‘But I do fear for you. You are an excellent master of intelligence, able to see patterns in half-formed facts, but that is not the same as going out to gather the data yourself.’

  ‘You underestimate my skills,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Why do you think I am still alive, when, as Cromwell’s chief advisor, my head should be on a pole outside Westminster Hall, next to his? I do not suppose you have noticed whether it is still there, have you? I cannot bring myself to look.’

  ‘It is impossible to tell. But please do not meddle in—’

  ‘I shall do as I think fit,’ interrupted Thurloe, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘And I shall be gone from London soon, anyway, so if I make a mistake, it will be forgotten by the time I return. These affairs never last long in people’s memories.’

  ‘I disagree. Royalists seem to have extremely long memories, and they are bitter and vengeful. Ask Doling and Symons. They lost everything when—’

  ‘That is different,’ snapped Thurloe impatiently. He changed the subject, to prevent a quarrel. ‘Why did you come to see me? Just for confirmation of Chetwynd’s corruption?’

  Chaloner was tempted to say yes, because he did not want his friend involved any further, but Thurloe fixed him with steely blue eyes, and the spy knew better than to lie to him.

  ‘Scobel,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He hosted meetings – for prayers, apparently – which all three murder victims attended. So did a number of other people, including Greene, Jones, Doling, Symons, Gold, the Lea brothers, Hargrave and another merchant called Tryan.’

  ‘But Scobel died three years ago,’ said Thurloe doubtfully. ‘How can these gatherings be important now? Moreover, there are probably other connections between these men, too – such as a shared interest in poetry, or a liking for pigeons. Are you sure these meetings are relevant?’

  ‘No, but it is a lead I feel compelled to follow. According to Williamson, they convened in John’s Coffee House after Scobel died, so it looks as though the men involved thought the assemblies were important. What can you tell me about him?’

  Thurloe shrugged. ‘Not much. He was clerk to both Houses of Parliament during Cromwell’s reign, and did well for himself. He died of a sharpness of the blood. Very nasty.’

  Chaloner had never heard of this particular affliction, but was not surprised Thurloe had, obsessed as he was by matters of health. ‘What is a sharpness of the blood?’

  ‘It entails aching pains, shortness of breath and violent shuddering. As I said, very nasty.’

  ‘Poison can produce those symptoms,’ said Chaloner, wondering what was going on. ‘It will not be the same toxin that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, because that was caustic, but there are plenty of others. I will confirm it with Wiseman, but I am sure I am right.’

  ‘Why would anyone kill Scobel?’ asked Thurloe. ‘He spoke out against the Court when it first arrived in London – saw it as a nest of corruption and vice – but no one took issue with him, because everyone knew he was right. His was not a lone voice – many people felt the same. Most still do.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about him?’

  ‘That his nephew, Will Symons, inherited all his worldly goods. Symons lost his job at the Restoration, and if it had not been for Scobel’s bequest, he and his sculptress wife would have starved. Scobel was also friends with Doling and the Lea brothers, but dropped his association with the latter when they turned Royalist – you may recall they were the only clerks to retain their positions.’

  ‘So, there are four suspects for Scobel’s murder: Symons and Margaret may have wanted to inherit his money sooner rather than later, and the Leas might have objected to him rejecting their friendship.’

  Thurloe wagged a finger. ‘You are jumping ahead of yourself. First, Scobel may not have been murdered – people do die of natural causes, you know, even in London. And second, even if he was unlawfully killed, there is no evidence with which to accuse anyone.’

  ‘Those four are the ones with the motives.’

  ‘The ones with the motives tha
t you know about,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘The Leas are sly and self-serving, but I cannot see them having the courage to kill, while Symons was very fond of his uncle. Scobel was a lovely man.’

  ‘Another saint,’ said Chaloner with a weary sigh.

  Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘He was a saint, and I consider it an honour to have known him. He had a dog, which sat by his grave and howled for two weeks solid. It would probably be howling still, if someone had not shot it. Did you never meet him?’

  Chaloner shook his head. ‘But you mentioned him in your letters. Often.’

  Thurloe had been an avid correspondent, and the friendship between him and his spy had developed almost entirely through letters for the first decade of their acquaintance. He had written at length about all aspects of his life, his work, his friends and his family.

  ‘Yes, I would have done,’ he said sadly. ‘I liked him enormously. And he did hold prayer meetings in his home, although I cannot tell you who joined him. He invited me, but I prefer to meditate in private, so I never went. He gave thanks, mostly.’

  ‘Gave thanks for what?’

  ‘For everything – his success at work, his nephew, his friends, the food on his table. He sincerely believed thanking God was a vital duty, and encouraged others to do the same. You look sceptical, Tom, but you must remember that he was rather more pious than you. He went to church because he loved God, not because he did not want to be seen as a nonconformist.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring the dig. Religion was something about which they would never agree – Thurloe was a committed Puritan, while Chaloner was not sure what he believed.

  ‘A short, fat fellow, bald as an egg, who sported a huge black beard. He refused to conceal his pate with wigs, because he said God had made him hairless and he would never try to improve on His handiwork. Unfortunately, it made him look as though his head was on upside down.’

  ‘Was he tedious about religion, then? Overly zealous?’

  ‘No. People attended his meetings because they wanted to be there, not because he forced them to go – he was devout, not a fanatic. Incidentally, he foretold the exact time of his death. Did I write to you about that? It was eerie, and folk talked about it for weeks afterwards.’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘He had a premonition that he would breathe his last on a specific date, and although we all told him that sort of thing was for God to decide, he transpired to be right. He did die on the day he predicted.’

  ‘Do you think he knew someone was going to poison him?’

  ‘It did not occur to me at the time,’ replied Thurloe soberly, ‘but now I find myself wondering.’

  *

  It was mid-morning by the time Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn. He stopped to collect his spare sword on the way to White Hall, feeling naked and vulnerable without one. Most men wore them as fashion accessories, and rarely, if ever, drew them in earnest, but Chaloner’s were working weapons, and he kept both oiled and well honed.

  His cat padded to greet him when he opened the door, and he spent a few moments petting it. He was unimpressed when he found dead mice secreted in several different places, but the cat purred when he glared at it, and the show of affection made it impossible to stay angry. With a sigh of resignation, he went to the window and lobbed the bodies into the street below. He aimed for, and was pleased when he hit, the sign of the Golden Lion opposite. He ducked back inside when one of the furry corpses bounced off the board and ricocheted into a passing carriage. The coach bore the Muskerry coat of arms, and Chaloner was almost certain it was Colonel Turner who reached across the female occupant and chivalrously removed the dead rodent from her lap.

  ‘The man is insatiable,’ he remarked to the cat, then stopped abruptly. Haddon talked to his dogs as though they were people, and the spy considered it a peculiar habit. He was appalled by the notion that he might be in the process of acquiring it himself – that people might think he was short of a few wits.

  He left his garret and began to walk towards White Hall, mentally reviewing the connections that linked his three victims. All were government officials, their corpses had been stripped of valuables, they had argued with the Earl, they had attended Scobel’s prayer meetings before the Restoration, and they had met in John’s Coffee House after. Common acquaintances included Gold, Bess, Neale, Greene, Hargrave, Tryan, Scobel, Symons, Margaret, the Lea brothers, Doling and Jones. There would be others, too, but these were the names that kept cropping up, and which seemed worth exploring.

  He turned his thoughts to the missing statue. Thanks to the Queen, he now had one lead to follow – two people had been invited to buy it, which suggested the thief was getting desperate. Chaloner rubbed his chin. He knew the culprit’s reason for approaching Greene, but why Margaret? She was a sculptress, but not nearly wealthy enough to buy stolen art and keep it hidden for the rest of her life.

  So, there were several things he needed to do: ask Margaret about the statue, question her husband about his uncle’s prayer meetings, and visit John’s Coffee House to learn more about the nature of the gatherings that took place there. There was also the ruby ring, but he had asked virtually everyone in White Hall about that, and had met with no success. He decided he had taken that as far as he could, and although he would bear it in mind, he would not waste any more time on it.

  He walked through White Hall’s main gate unchallenged, because the guards were busy watching Lady Castlemaine wave a handgun at someone in the middle of the Palace Court. They were not the only ones taking the opportunity to gawk: the yard was fringed with spectators. Careful to keep a wall between him and the weapon, Chaloner went to where Haddon was standing with his dogs.

  ‘She says she will blow out Turner’s brains unless he gives her what she wants,’ explained Haddon, seeing the spy’s questioning look. ‘I dare not move from here, lest she discharges her dag, and hits one of my darlings by mistake.’

  Chaloner saw that the object of the Lady’s hostility was indeed the colonel, who looked particularly dashing that morning in a dark green suit, red ear-string and a hat with a vast white feather that trailed down his back. When Chaloner glanced across the yard, he saw the Muskerry coach, and wondered whether the sight of Turner in company with Muskerry’s wife was the cause of the Lady’s wrath.

  ‘What does she want?’ he asked. ‘His romantic services? She does not need to threaten him with death for those – I suspect they are available to anyone who asks. As long as she has teeth.’

  ‘The Lady has plenty of those, believe me. But she is after his hat. The feather belonged to an ostrich, apparently, and is the only one of its kind in London.’

  ‘How does he come to have it, then?’ asked Chaloner curiously. A man who took work as a spy was unlikely to have money to squander on fripperies, especially if he had twenty-eight children to support.

  ‘Bess Gold won it from Buckingham at cards, and I imagine it went from her to Turner in the usual manner,’ replied Haddon, a little primly. ‘The Lady is extremely jealous, and so is making a fuss.’

  ‘It was a gift, madam,’ Turner was saying softly. He smiled at her, a sweet, gentle expression that saw the gun wobble in her hands. ‘And thus an object to be cherished. You would not respect me, were I to hand tokens of affection away to anyone who asks for them.’

  He touched a brooch on his coat and treated her to a knowing wink, indicating Bess was not the only one who paid him the compliment of extravagant presents. Chaloner looked at the many baubles that adorned the colonel’s neck, wrists and fingers, and wondered how he managed to remember what came from whom. He shook his head in grudging admiration: the gifts Turner received were far more costly than the tawdry trinkets – like the coloured-glass crucifix – he dispensed to his swooning ladies.

  ‘But this is me,’ declared the Lady. Her face was bright with righteous indignation, and there was real malice in her eyes. Chaloner would not have wanted to be Turner at that
moment. ‘I shall have whatever I like. And I like that hat, so if you do not give it to me, I shall shoot you and take it from your corpse. I shall need it if I am to go riding this afternoon. The hat I mean.’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman!’ bawled Buckingham, who was watching the proceedings from the safety of the gate. ‘Use another headpiece. You have enough of the damned things.’

  ‘One never has enough,’ snapped Lady Castlemaine, rounding on him. He dived behind the door in alarm when the gun came around with her. ‘Of anything.’

  Chaloner laughed softly, and Haddon turned to him in surprise. ‘You think this is funny? We may be about to see murder committed in front of our very eyes!’

  ‘The gun is not primed. She could not kill anyone, even if she wanted to, and Turner knows it. That is why he is not unduly concerned.’

  ‘Be reasonable,’ came Buckingham’s voice from behind the gate. ‘Let the captain keep his hat.’

  ‘Colonel,’ corrected Turner, rather grandly.

  ‘Really?’ asked Buckingham. He did not sound convinced. ‘Under whom did you serve?’

  ‘Dear Lady,’ said Turner, ignoring him and focussing his attention on the King’s fuming mistress. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you to your chambers, where we can discuss this matter in private. I have something I warrant you will like a lot more than a hat.’

  It was an offer no woman with teeth could decline, and the Lady permitted Turner to take the weapon and push it into his belt. Then she strutted across the courtyard on his arm, head in the air and exuding a sense of wounded dignity. Seeing the crisis had been averted, people began to go about their business again. One was Greene, who slouched towards the Banqueting Hall with all the cheer of a man going to his execution. As their paths crossed, Lady Castlemaine nodded a greeting to him. Chaloner frowned. The Lady had a reputation for slighting people she did not like, while she considered servants so far beneath her that she never acknowledged their presence. And yet she had favoured the unprepossessing clerk from Westminster with a salutation. Why? Was it because the Earl had taken against him, and any victim of the Earl’s was a friend of hers?