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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘And we know what time Langston breathed his last, because of Lady Castlemaine’s testimony,’ mused Turner. ‘She saw him alive just before four o’clock in the morning – and the Earl found the body not long after that. However, what if the Lady is mistaken? And what if Greene managed to slip past you the other night? Neither alibi is perfect.’

  ‘But why would Greene kill these men? All had dark pasts that may have earned them enemies: Chetwynd was corrupt, Vine blackmailed people, and Langston wrote bawdy plays. However, these are not reasons for Greene to kill them.’

  Turner frowned. ‘I do not follow you.’

  ‘The culprit will be someone who was a victim of Chetwynd’s corruption or Vine’s penchant for blackmail. And he will be someone who was shocked by Langston’s bawdy plays – Greene may well have enjoyed them, given what Neale says about his liking for brothels.’

  He ignored the clamouring voice in his head that demanded to know why Greene should have been throwing three leather purses in the Thames.

  Turner’s expression was doubtful. ‘You have made this very complicated. But let me tell you what I have found out. On Thursday and Saturday evenings – the nights when Chetwynd and Vine were murdered – Greene went to the cellars and begged for brandywine. He told the man in charge, a fellow called Munt, that he was working late and needed refreshment. But Munt passed Greene’s office later, and said it was in darkness both times.’

  Chaloner had been watching Greene on Saturday, but had not seen him visit the cellars. However, the building in which Greene worked had far too many doors for a lone man to monitor, so he supposed it was possible the clerk had eluded him.

  ‘Are you sure Munt is telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes, because he was indignant about being played for a fool – Greene preyed on his sympathy as a man obliged to slave long hours, then sloped off. And he did it not once, but twice. But I know what really happened: Greene added poison to this brandywine and fed it to his victims.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘Is Munt certain about the days – Thursday and Saturday?’

  ‘Ask him yourself. And let us not forget the brandy-wine I found hidden in Greene’s office, either. It all adds up to something suspicious.’

  ‘If you are so certain Greene is the killer, then why have you not arrested him? That is what the Earl wants, and he will certainly continue to hire you if you prove him right.’

  For the first time, Turner’s cheery confidence wavered. He frowned uneasily. ‘Because arresting Greene will lead to a speedy conviction and death at the end of a rope. If I am to be instrumental in sending a man to the gallows, then I must be certain of his guilt.’

  Chaloner regarded him quizzically. The colonel did not seem like the kind of man who would allow scruples to interfere with his plans for a comfortable future.

  ‘You do not believe me,’ said Turner, seeing what he was thinking. ‘But it is quite true. I was obliged to break the law during the Commonwealth, when self-declared Royalists like me struggled to earn a living, and I might have been executed myself. So, I shall tell His Portliness my findings only when I am sure Greene is guilty, and not a moment before. That is where you come in.’

  Chaloner smothered a smile. ‘It is, is it?’

  ‘I want you to confirm what I have learned. Then we can share responsibility for Greene’s death.’

  ‘It will also mean we shall share credit for a case you have solved.’

  ‘Yes, but at least I shall be able to sleep at night – and the importance of guilt-free slumber should never be underestimated. However, I do not plan on doing much dozing this evening. I shall have Belle first, but then who else? Which of these lovely lasses will best appreciate my company, do you think?’

  ‘Whoever you pay the most, I imagine.’

  Turner gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Pay? I have never paid for a woman in my life.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but this is a brothel. These women are not here for their health.’

  Turner waved a dismissive hand. ‘You underestimate my charms. Oh, I shall hand a few coins to that fierce matron in the hall, but the ladies I choose to accompany me upstairs will give me keepsakes that will be worth ten times that amount. Did you notice that locket around Belle’s throat? Ten shillings says that will be mine tomorrow.’

  ‘How will I know you have not stolen it?’

  Turner was shocked. ‘I am no thief! Besides, you will be able to ask her whether she parted with it willingly. Well, what do you say? Will you accept my wager?’

  Chaloner nodded. He had known Belle for some time, and she was not the kind of woman to hand hard-earned wealth to a customer, no matter how pretty he thought himself. Turner, he thought, was not a good judge of character.

  Temperance was still engrossed in her game of cards, and the stakes were now more than Chaloner earned in a year. He was staggered by the amount of silver and jewellery that was being tossed on the table as bets were made, and was reminded that she now inhabited a very different world from his own. Eventually, she stood, offering her seat to Chiffinch. Brodrick objected to losing her company, but she ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on the top of his head to appease him.

  ‘Chaloner!’ he shouted, as she went to join the spy. ‘Have you come to play the viol? I wish you would. Greeting is drunk and keeps bowing sharp. It hurts the ears, and you have such a lovely touch.’

  ‘I have heard the same,’ drawled Chiffinch. ‘My wife says he has exquisite fingerwork.’

  There was a gust of manly laugher, accompanied by nudges and winks, so those of slower wits would appreciate that a lewd joke had been made.

  ‘She would say no such thing,’ said Chaloner coolly, disliking the notion that Barbara should be the subject of conversation among such depraved company. ‘She has too much decency.’

  Chiffinch’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair. ‘You accuse me of being indecent? I should call you out, and teach you a lesson with my sword.’

  Chaloner wished he would, so he might rid Barbara of the man who had brought her nothing but trouble and unhappiness for the last forty years, but Temperance stepped in before he could reply.

  ‘You are very indecent, Mr Chiffinch,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Which is just how we like you.’

  There was another manly cheer, and Chaloner allowed her to bundle him out of the room while the laughter lasted. She ushered him down the corridor and into the kitchen. This had always been a warm, quiet place, but since his last visit it had become the domain of a shrieking Frenchman, who screamed orders at his bewildered assistants in an anarchic mixture of Latin and Spanish. There was a lot of confusion, and Chaloner was not surprised his soufflés had collapsed.

  ‘He is telling you to use butter,’ he said to the cooks as he passed. ‘You used lard, apparently. He wants you to start again.’

  There was an immediate sigh of understanding and work resumed, although the Frenchman’s squawks remained just as frenzied. Temperance led Chaloner to the little office where she and Maude counted their nightly takings. As usual, there was coffee simmering in a pan over the hearth, while a pair of cushion-loaded chairs provided somewhere the two ladies could rest, should the carousing in the parlour become too much for them. The room stank of pipe smoke and expensive perfume.

  ‘You once said you would teach me French,’ said Temperance, flopping into one of the seats and indicating he was to perch opposite. ‘The language of love.’

  ‘There is not much love in what your cook is screeching.’

  Temperance smiled dreamily. ‘I was not thinking of using it on him.’

  As Temperance rarely went out, Chaloner could only assume she had fallen for one of her patrons. ‘You have a …’ He was not quite sure how to phrase the question, given that ‘liking for a client’ was unlikely to be very well received. ‘… a friend?’ he finished lamely.

  ‘A certain person has become rather special during the last few weeks. I did not think I would ever be smitten by a ma
n, but this one is different – worthy of my affection. I think I shall marry him.’

  ‘Really?’ Chaloner was amazed: Temperance had always been of the firm opinion that matrimony was a condition to be avoided at all costs. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Someone you will like. He is not here tonight, though, or I would introduce you. But you should meet him. Come to dine with us on Twelfth Night, although you must promise to behave – no turning taciturn if he asks you questions, and no caustic remarks about the morality of the Court, either. He is a gay sort, and will think you a prude.’

  ‘I cannot,’ replied Chaloner, a little dismayed that she did not trust him to be amiable. ‘Bulteel has asked me to go to his house on Twelfth Night – he wants me to be godfather to his son.’

  ‘Bulteel? Ugh! It will be like dining with a Puritan, and you are sure to come away hungry. And you should not agree to be the godfather, either. The poor brat deserves better.’

  ‘You think I am not good enough?’ It was one thing to believe himself unequal to the task, but quite another to hear it so baldly stated from someone who was supposed to be his friend.

  ‘I mean better in terms of fun,’ elaborated Temperance. ‘You seldom have any, and he will need someone to show him the ways of the world. And I do not mean how to kill people in dark alleys, speak peculiar languages, or pick locks, either. I refer to dancing and cards.’

  ‘The important things in life.’

  Temperance shot him an unpleasant glance. ‘Quite. However, these two invitations will not conflict – Bulteel’s soirée will be during the day, while mine will be the night before – so you can attend both. Come at midnight. I will make sure you are with your dull little colleague by the following noon.’

  Chaloner should have known she was unlikely to do anything in daylight. She was seldom up before three, by which time the winter sun was already setting. ‘That is a singular time for dinner.’

  She shrugged. ‘You let yourself be too constrained by tradition, Tom, and it is turning you into a bore. You should adopt my motto: carpe notarium.’

  ‘Seize the secretary?’ translated Chaloner, bemused.

  ‘Seize the night. I thought you knew Latin. Brodrick taught me that phrase, and I rather like it.’

  Chaloner found he did not want to join her tradition-flaunting party, and tried to think of an excuse that would allow him to miss it. ‘Actually, I have also been asked to Sir Nicholas Gold’s—’

  Temperance arched her eyebrows. ‘You are a social creature these days! But Gold’s invitation will not clash with mine, either. His soirée will start at dusk and be over by ten, when he will retire to bed with a cup of warm milk. Do not look so dubious – you will enjoy being with me and James. We shall dine on mince-pies, venison sausages and a Double Codlin Tart. And I have ordered a pelican.’

  Chaloner blinked. ‘Have you? Whatever for?’

  Temperance’s expression was defiant, which told him she had probably never seen one. ‘Brodrick said it is what the King is having, so I told my butcher to get us one, too. What is good enough for His Majesty is good enough for me, and I am not having another turkey. Did you know the beast we were going to eat last year has taken up residence on Hampstead Heath, and no one dares go near it?’

  Chaloner was pleased. He liked birds, and had not relished the notion of such a fine specimen having its neck wrung. ‘What is your friend’s name?’ he asked, suspecting she would not feel the same way, so changing the subject before they could argue about it.

  ‘James Grey.’ Her hand went to her bodice, where a square of red silk had been tucked down the front of it, clearly a love token. ‘He plays the viol, which should commend him to you. You can bring yours, and we shall have music.’

  Then perhaps the occasion would not be so bad after all, thought Chaloner, watching as Temperance reached up to the mantelpiece and took down a pipe. She had only recently acquired the habit when he had last seen her, but a few weeks had turned her into a seasoned smoker – her movements were deft and confident as she tamped the bowl with tobacco. When it was lit, and she was encased in a billowing haze, she regarded him reproachfully.

  ‘You know you are always welcome here, Tom, but only if you agree not to insult my guests. They are volatile at the best of times, and I cannot afford to have you challenging them to duels.’

  ‘Chiffinch challenged me,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘All I did was defend his wife.’

  ‘They insult their wives all the time, but it means nothing. They come here to forget them, and on the whole, I do not blame them. Barbara Chiffinch is a sharp-tongued shrew with no sense of humour.’

  ‘She has an excellent sense of humour, despite being married to that worthless dog for forty years.’

  ‘You and I always disagree these days,’ said Temperance sadly. ‘You never used to be like this. You have changed, and I am glad I did not marry you.’

  Gallantly, Chaloner resisted the urge to say he had never considered asking her – and now he had seen what she had become, he was heartily glad of it. ‘It is you who have changed. A year ago, you were spending half your life in chapel, and the other half helping the poor.’

  ‘And I was deeply unhappy,’ she shot back. ‘Whereas now I run my own business, I am rich beyond my wildest dreams, James loves me, and I have a glut of wealthy and influential companions.’

  ‘Chiffinch and Brodrick are fair-weather friends,’ warned Chaloner, not liking the notion that she might think them dependable. When all was said and done, Temperance was barely twenty, and her strict Puritan upbringing meant she had little experience of the world. ‘If there is a popular uprising against debauchery and vice – and it could happen, because Londoners deplore the Court’s profligacy – they will not help you when your house is attacked.’

  Temperance puffed smoke through rouged lips. ‘That will not happen – the King will not let it, and I have James to protect me, anyway. You are beginning to sound like Thurloe – a tedious old misery.’

  ‘I should go,’ said Chaloner, standing abruptly. Thurloe had been good to Temperance after her parents had died, and he was sorry she had forgotten his kindness so soon. ‘I only came to ask after your health.’

  ‘I am well – it is you who is testy. Let me provide you with a lady, to put you in better spirits, so we can have a civilised conversation. You can have Snowflake. She knows how to make a man smile.’

  ‘I am sure she does,’ replied Chaloner coolly, ‘but I did not come to inveigle a …’ He waved his hand, not sure what was the correct term for an offer of a free whore. ‘I came to see you.’

  Temperance smiled at last. ‘Then we should set aside our differences and talk. Sit down and have some coffee. Maude made it.’

  Chaloner took a sip of the black brew, then fought the urge to spit it out. It was the most powerful thing he had ever tasted, so thick it was more syrup than beverage. Maude had a reputation for potent infusions, but this one was hearty, even by her standards. There was a rumour that her first husband had died from drinking her coffee, and Chaloner was perfectly willing to believe it.

  ‘Christ, Temperance!’ he managed eventually. ‘Who taught her to make this? The Devil?’

  Temperance laughed. ‘Have some more. You will soon acquire a taste for it.’

  But Chaloner did not want to acquire a taste for it. He pushed the dish aside, then shook his head when she offered him a pipe.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Shall I warm you some milk, then?’

  ‘You have made some improvements to your parlour since I was last here,’ he said, deciding he had better bring the conversation around to statues before they fell out in earnest.

  She grinned. ‘James suggested we commission Brodrick to purchase us a few masterpieces. We must have the best, because our patrons will notice if we opt for rubbish. And Brodrick may be an old reprobate, but he does know his way around an art gallery.’

  ‘He does,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But he also throws food about when he has had
too much to drink. I hope he and his cronies do not damage anything irreplaceable.’

  ‘That is why we decided to go for statues – Apollo was hit by a pineapple last night, but he suffered no ill effects whatsoever. I do not like sculpture, personally. Most of it seems to revolve around smug Roman emperors and fat Greek goddesses toting unlikely weapons.’

  Chaloner made no comment, although he found himself thinking, rather uncharitably, that she had recently grown a lot more portly than any Greek goddess.

  ‘But I got Brodrick to buy extras, so I can rotate them,’ she went on. ‘I do not want to be looking at the same stony visages every night for the next fifty years. The spares are in the cellar, and I gave myself such a fright the other day. You would have laughed! I went down there for wine, and glanced up to find Nero staring at me. I screamed so loud that Preacher Hill came racing to my rescue.’

  ‘Who is the artist?’

  Temperance frowned. ‘Do you mean who crafted my Nero? Some Italian, I think. Why?’

  ‘I wondered whether it was Bernini.’

  ‘I do not approve of him. Did you know he is a Swedish hermaphrodite, who likes rope-dancing and hedgehogs?’ There was a slight pause. ‘What is a hermaphrodite, Tom? I do not like to ask James, lest he think me ignorant.’

  ‘He will not think you ignorant. Are those the only reasons you do not like Bernini?’

  Temperance shot him a sideways glance. ‘Are these questions anything to do with the King’s missing statue?’

  ‘I heard you made enquiries about Bernini before his masterpiece was stolen.’

  She gaped at him. ‘You heard it from whom?’

  ‘It does not matter. But your discussion was overheard, and your courtly friends cannot keep secrets. So take warning and be careful what you say in future. But why did you ask about the sculpture?’

  ‘People were talking about it, and as I had been buying statues of my own, I had an interest. I asked Chiffinch what was so special about Bernini.’

  Chaloner regarded her sadly. ‘You would lie to me?’