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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not about to contradict him and reveal his own role in the incident.

  ‘The place is deserted at night,’ Swaddell went on. ‘So there was no one about to help me save him. However, it is a rough part of the city, so I do not recommend going there to confirm my tale. No, on second thoughts, do go. There are no ruffians to beat you to a pulp for poking around their domain. None at all.’

  Chaloner processed the information. Perhaps Jones had careened on to the wharf too fast to be able to stop, but had Swaddell really been carried in with him? If he had, then it meant he must have been in the water when Chaloner had arrived, because not enough time had passed for him to have climbed out. Moreover, the train-band had been watching the pier hours later, which meant Swaddell must either have swum away, like Chaloner had done, or had waited for the tide to drop. The latter was unlikely, because the cold would have killed him. Or did Swaddell know the soldiers, and they had turned a blind eye when he had scrambled to safety?

  The other alternative was that Swaddell had not fallen in the river at all. But then where had he gone? There were no other ways to leave the alley, and he had not been on the pier, because Chaloner would have seen him. The spy was about to demand a more honest explanation when it occurred to him that either scenario meant Swaddell would have seen or heard the train-band fighting with him. Did the fact that he had neglected to mention the incident mean he did not know it was Chaloner who had been doing the battling? Of course, he would know if Chaloner revealed his role by asking questions about it, and as the spy was keen for the train-band to assume he was dead, he decided that learning how Swaddell had extricated himself from his predicament was not as important as staying alive. He went back to the murders.

  ‘What have you learned about the three victims?’

  Swaddell seemed relieved to be talking about something else. ‘Vine had a nasty habit of blackmailing people and Chetwynd seldom gave honest verdicts in the cases he heard, so neither were the saints they would have had you believe. And Langston was just as bad.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Swaddell shrugged. ‘I am not sure, but there was something amiss. I suspect it has something to do with Hargrave and the Lea brothers, because I have seen them glancing at each other when Langston is mentioned. Everyone else leaps to say he was a virtuous man, but they do not.’

  Chaloner was not sure what to believe. Some of Swaddell’s answers were plausible, while others were clearly lies or half-truths. ‘Perhaps you are the poisoner,’ he said. ‘And you have gone into hiding so you can continue to murder at will.’

  He felt Swaddell wince. ‘There! You see? You cannot find the real killer, so who do you blame? The poor assassin! I knew it would only be a matter of time before fingers started to be pointed. Of course, I happen to have an alibi for all three murders, but has anyone bothered to ask about it? No!’

  ‘Your indignation is hardly warranted,’ said Chaloner, amused. ‘You are a self-professed killer who has disguised himself to spy on three men who have been murdered – four, if we count Jones. But what is your alibi?’

  ‘I was with Williamson when Chetwynd, Vine and Langston died. Ask him, if you do not believe me. But I have answered enough of your questions. Let me go.’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner, feeling an alibi from the Spymaster was less than worthless, as far as he was concerned. ‘You are coming to White Hall with me. Your master thinks I killed you and dropped you in the river, and I would rather he did not hold me responsible for the death of one of his creatures.’

  ‘I am afraid that is out of the question. You see, I had the misfortune to witness Lady Castlemaine commit an indiscretion with a certain gentleman, and she offered to cut out my tongue if I show my face there again. She will forget me eventually, but I intend to keep a low profile until she does. The rumours about my death suit me very nicely.’

  ‘They will not be rumours if you refuse to come with me.’

  ‘You cannot march all the way to White Hall holding me like this, and I will not go willingly. You will have to find another way to convince Williamson that you have not murdered his best man.’

  ‘Then tell me your password – all intelligencers have a code that only they and their Spymaster know.’

  ‘That is a clever idea! Unfortunately, we do not. Take my brooch instead – he will recognise it as mine.’

  Chaloner laughed softly. ‘And then he will arrest me for stealing it from your corpse! Keep it. It will be more trouble than it is worth – and so are you.’

  He released his captive suddenly, shoving him so hard that Swaddell stumbled into a pile of rubbish. The moment he regained his balance, the assassin whipped out his dagger, an expression of deadly purpose on his face. But Chaloner had already melted into the shadows, and was nowhere to be seen.

  Symons had not travelled far while Chaloner had been interrogating Swaddell. He had wasted time trying to flag down a hackney, but it was raining, and other people had the same idea, so carriage after carriage had rolled past with shakes of the head from the driver. After a lot of futile waving, Symons accepted it would be quicker to walk, and began to plod along with his head down and his shoulders slumped. Eventually, he reached Axe Yard, a small cul-de-sac off King Street, which boasted twenty-eight houses of varying levels of grandeur. He headed towards one of the smaller homes, which was neat and clean, but in obvious need of fresh paint and new window shutters. It was exactly what Chaloner would have expected from a respectable clerk who had lost all at the Restoration.

  A lamp hung above the door, and its unsteady light showed Symons’s clothes were greasy and unwashed, while his carrot-coloured hair had not seen a brush in days. Moreover, he had been crying – his eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks were puffy. Chaloner frowned as he approached. What was wrong with him?

  ‘I have no money,’ blurted Symons, assuming the sudden appearance of a stranger in the dark meant only one thing. ‘Take my purse, if you will, but it is empty.’

  ‘I am not here for your money.’

  Symons peered at him. ‘I know you! Greene spoke to you at the Tennis Court today. Surely he has not sent you to call me to yet another prayer meeting? We have only just finished the last one.’

  Chaloner was not sure what to make of this assumption, but was prepared to take advantage of it. ‘Does he often send you summonses, then?’

  A flicker of suspicion crossed Symons’s face, but quickly faded, leaving Chaloner with the impression that he did not really care why anyone should be asking him such questions. He wondered again what ailed the man.

  ‘Yes, he does,’ replied Symons. ‘The others, being employed by the Royalist government, have the luxury of telling each other when to meet. I, being ousted, must wait for messengers.’

  ‘You go to these meetings to pray?’

  ‘I go to pray. The others are obsessed by these murders at the moment, although I suppose that is understandable – the victims were our friends.’

  ‘I find it strange that you – a dismissed clerk from the Commonwealth – should count Royalist officials among your acquaintances.’

  Symons shrugged. ‘I do not begrudge them their success. They are all good men, unlike the Lea brothers whose prosperity derives from corruption. Well, I assume they are all good men. Before he died, my uncle Scobel said he suspected Chetwynd was a rogue, but I did not believe him. However, Greene told me today that he was right.’

  ‘I met your uncle once,’ lied Chaloner. He tried to recall what Thurloe had written in his letters. He did not think remarking that the man’s bald pate and beard made him look as if his head was on upside down would endear him to his nephew, so he thrashed around for something else. ‘At a firework display he funded, in the grounds of St Catherine’s Hospital.’

  Symons leaned against the door, oblivious to the rain that dripped from the eaves, and smiled for the first time. ‘He often did things like that, to cheer folks’ lives. He was a wonderful man.’

>   ‘How did he die?’

  ‘A sharpness of the blood. People say I benefited from his death, because I was his heir. But first, I did not inherit much of his estate – the bulk went to pay debts. And second, I miss him horribly and wish he was still alive.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner, hearing the genuine grief in his voice. ‘It is never easy to lose kin.’

  Symons regarded him curiously. ‘You speak from personal experience?’

  Chaloner did not reply. There were some depths to which he would never plunge, and using dead loved ones to elicit information was one of them.

  ‘Everything went wrong three years ago, and it has stayed that way,’ Symons said bitterly when there was no response. ‘After the Restoration, I lost my job, my uncle died, my wife became ill, and now the prayer meetings – once such a source of strength for me – have turned into occasions for trite social chatter. Some of our number even go as far as to say the gatherings have become a chore, and they want to withdraw. Of course, they never will.’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not? Is attendance obligatory, then?’

  ‘No, but most of them are afraid that their luck will change if they resign. After all, look what happened to Langston when he left us last summer. Do you know Langston? He is the plump man with the long nose – the third of the poisoner’s victims. He pretended to be virtuous, but he was not. He wrote plays.’

  Chaloner was bemused by the disjointed chain of confidences. ‘Do you object to the stage, then?’

  Symons shook his head. ‘But I object to the kind of filth Langston penned. His dramas were obscene, all about unnatural forms of love and … things I cannot bring myself to mention. They could never be performed in public, but he wrote them for the Court, which has an appetite for lewdness – especially Lady Castlemaine, who is said to have paid him a fortune for them.’

  ‘How do you know what he wrote?’

  ‘Because he accidentally left a manuscript behind once, after one of my uncle’s meetings. We were deeply shocked. Langston came to retrieve it, but not before we had seen what sort of mind he had.’

  ‘Did he know you read it?’

  ‘No! I put on an innocent face, and my uncle pretended to be asleep, so he would not have to speak to him. And they never met again anyway, because my uncle died a few days later.’ Symons saw Chaloner was sceptical. ‘If you do not believe me, then ask the Lea brothers – they made copies for Langston’s actors. And ask Hargrave, too, because his apprentices built the sets at White Hall.’

  Chaloner thought about what Swaddell had said – that the Leas and Hargrave had exchanged meaningful glances whenever Langston was mentioned, and that they, unlike everyone else, declined to proclaim his virtue. So, the assassin had been telling the truth about that, at least. ‘You said something happened to Langston last summer,’ he prompted.

  Symons nodded. ‘I am coming to that. He withdrew from our gatherings, because he said our beliefs were obsolete and silly. But within days, disaster struck – his bank was robbed, and all the money he had earned from his plays was stolen.’

  ‘You think the robbery occurred because he left your meetings?’ asked Chaloner, unconvinced.

  Symons shrugged. ‘Why not? He stopped praying for success, and immediately he lost his fortune. Backwell’s have pledged to repay their customers eventually, but in the interim, Langston was penniless. He came back to us with his tail between his legs, and he is lucky our friends are open-hearted, because they welcomed him like a prodigal son. They also lend him money, to tide him over until Backwell’s make good.’

  ‘Why should he need to borrow?’ asked Chaloner, supposing it explained why Langston had taken ten pounds from Greene. ‘Was his White Hall pay insufficient?’

  ‘I believe he spent a lot of money visiting brothels, to gain inspiration for his writing – and I am told the higher sorts of establishment are expensive.’

  ‘Did Greene know what kind of plays he wrote?’

  Symons hesitated. ‘He invited Langston to live in his house after the robbery. I visited them there once, and Langston was using the parlour in which to write. Perhaps Greene never looked at the papers scattered about his table, but I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘He seems to keep some very dubious company,’ Chaloner remarked. There was an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach, which told him he might have made a mistake – that perhaps he had been wrong to champion Greene’s cause.

  Symons looked hurt. ‘Actually, he keeps very good company. Chetwynd, Vine and Langston may have strayed from the straight and narrow, but most of the men who meet in John’s Coffee House are above reproach – Francis Tryan, John Reeve, Nicholas Gold. Do not tar us all with the same brush.’

  ‘I do not know Reeve.’

  ‘He is a corn-chandler, who insists on wearing a disguise to our meetings. So does Swaddell, the Spymaster’s man, although we guessed his identity the first time he joined us. Langston and Jones wanted him expelled, but the rest of us felt sorry for him. It cannot be easy for assassins to make friends, and we hope that praying with us might encourage him to adopt a gentler profession.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘You keep saying that you meet to pray. Is it the sole function of these gatherings?’

  ‘It used to be, to thank God for our good fortunes. My uncle believed that too many folk ask Him for favours, and too few are grateful for what they already have. But these days we spend most of the time chatting to each other. And since Chetwynd died, we have done little but talk about murder.’

  ‘You clearly disapprove, so why do you continue to go?’

  ‘Because I told my uncle I would. He thought I would be able to keep the others from sin, but I have failed miserably – just as I have failed in everything else. But a promise is a promise, and I have some honour left, so I head for John’s Coffee House each time I am summoned. I imagine that is why Greene sent you now – one of them has learned something new about these horrible deaths, and we are all beckoned forth to hear about it.’

  ‘Greene did not send me. I am investigating the murders for the Lord Chancellor.’

  Symons closed his eyes. ‘Then you should not have let me waste your time with my blather. My wife is dying, and if I appear unhinged, it is because I do not know how to cope with the calamity.’

  He spoke so softly that Chaloner thought he might have misheard. ‘She seemed all right yesterday.’

  ‘She has the same sharpness of the blood that took my uncle. She told me she would die tonight.’

  Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Then why are you not with her?’

  ‘Because I needed the others to pray for her recovery. My own petitions have gone unanswered, and I thought theirs might do better. They did pray, but now I find myself too frightened to go inside and see whether … I do not suppose you would come with me, would you?’

  Symons opened the door, and indicated the spy was to follow him inside. He started to cry the moment his eye lit on an unfinished piece of embroidery, so Chaloner fetched a cloth from the kitchen and indicated he was to wipe his face. When he had regained control of himself, he led the spy up a narrow staircase to a bedchamber. Margaret was lying in a fever, while a servant held her hand.

  ‘It is the same sickness that took Mr Scobel,’ the maid whispered to Symons. ‘I am sure of it. She has been talking nonsense, just like he did.’

  ‘Have you summoned a physician?’ asked Chaloner. It occurred to him that if Scobel had indeed been poisoned, as he suspected, then perhaps someone was attacking Margaret, too.

  ‘They will not come, because they know we cannot pay,’ said Symons miserably.

  Chaloner told the maid to fetch Wiseman, whom he knew would be at White Hall. The surgeon was usually there of an evening, because he did not like being alone at home – and he had no friends to invite him out. When she had gone, Margaret opened her eyes and looked at the spy.

  ‘Visitors?’ she asked in a weak voice. ‘I
must scrub the floor, or he will think us slovenly.’

  ‘It is perfectly clean,’ said Chaloner gently, not sure he was ruthless enough to ask about the statue. He wanted answers, but there were limits to what he was prepared to do to get them.

  Margaret drowsed a while, then spoke again. ‘Do you like our fine mansion? My husband is a government clerk, and works very hard, while our uncle Scobel often buys us beautiful paintings.’

  ‘She thinks we are in my uncle’s house, before the Restoration,’ explained Symons in a whisper. ‘He used to purchase art for her.’

  ‘I do not suppose he owned a bust by Bernini, did he?’

  Symons shook his head. ‘There were no sculptures, just pictures. They were in the room where he held his prayer meetings, so people could see them and reflect on the glory of God. As I said, he was a devout man, who believed prayer can bring happiness, wealth and success.’

  ‘Actually, you told me the opposite – that he thought there was not enough thanking going on, and that too many people were demanding favours.’

  Symons made a dismissive gesture. ‘You are splitting hairs. He believed that prayer lay at the heart of his achievements, and felt that God had been exceptionally good to him. He had a position of power, a family who loved him, and he was forever smiling. People asked for his secret, and he always told them it was his communications with God.’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that why people flocked to his gatherings? They saw his accomplishments, and thought that if they prayed with him, they would share his luck?’

  Symons nodded reluctantly. ‘Although my uncle did not realise it. Of course, most of the men who came to these meetings have found a measure of personal triumph – Langston, Vine, Jones and Chetwynd flourished while they were alive. Tryan, Hargrave and Gold are all fabulously rich, while even young Neale is on the brink of securing himself a wealthy widow.’

  ‘But not Greene. He told me himself that he is unlucky.’

  Symons grimaced. ‘He has done well enough, despite his melancholy nature. He was a penniless nobody at the Restoration, but now he owns a pleasant house and has a decent post in government.’