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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, backing against a wall so they could not outflank him.

  ‘You should have gone to Oxfordshire.’ Chaloner recognised the voice of the leader from the last time they had met. ‘It is a pity you stayed.’

  The spy’s stomach lurched at the notion that they knew Thurloe. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You think Greene killed those officials,’ the leader went on. ‘You have been listening to the Lord Chancellor and that idiot Turner, and you let them convince you. You are a fool!’

  Chaloner’s thoughts reeled in confusion. ‘How did you—’

  ‘Our orders were to kill him, not engage him in conversation,’ muttered a soldier who was bigger than the others. ‘You are too fond of your own tongue, Payne.’

  Payne was clearly irked by the reprimand, but was too professional to start an argument when there was work to be done. He nodded to his comrades, who began to advance. Chaloner was heavily outnumbered, but was not about to go down without a fight. He launched himself at Payne, taking the man off-guard with the ferocity of his attack. Even so, Payne managed a thrust that punched a hole through his coat, although the wad of documents he had taken from Greene saved him from injury.

  Then the big man was on him. Chaloner fended him off, then attacked Payne again. Backing away fast, Payne missed his footing, and stumbled into his larger colleague, so they both fell. And suddenly, there was no one between Chaloner and the road leading to Old Palace Yard. If he reached it, he might yet escape, because he did not think the train-band would kill him in front of witnesses – and there was always someone about in Westminster’s busiest square, even on a dark, filthy night like this one.

  He began to sprint towards it. Payne released an angry yell and started to follow, his comrades streaming at his heels. Chaloner did not look around, but powered on, dropping his sword because holding it was losing him speed. Ahead, he could see that some kind of function had just ended in Parliament House, and carriages were converging there to take the participants home. Chaloner tore towards them. He gained the edge of Old Palace Yard, and heard several of the soldiers skid to a hasty standstill, clearly loath to enter such a well-lit area.

  Unfortunately, no such reservations hampered Payne. He ran harder, single-mindedly determined that his quarry should not escape a third time. By contrast, Chaloner’s leg was starting to hurt, and it was slowing him down. Payne was gaining on him, and he knew it would only be a matter of moments before he was caught – and he had thrown away his sword, so would be unable to defend himself. Payne would strike him down the moment he was in range, then disappear into the night.

  He was vaguely aware of a coach bearing down on him, travelling far too fast. The driver gave a warning yell when he saw Chaloner, and the spy only just managed to jig to one side, narrowly avoiding the thundering hoofs. Lightning quick, he reached up to grab the door-handle as the carriage hurtled past. The manoeuvre almost ripped his arm from its socket, and for one agonising moment, he thought he was going to be dragged under the wheels. But he managed to gain a toehold on one of the coach’s steps, and then he was being carried along as the vehicle charged towards St Margaret’s Street.

  The driver did not see what had happened, but the coach’s occupant had heard the thump of someone landing on his private conveyance. Outraged, he stuck his head through the window to see what was going on. It was Brodrick. His eyes widened in astonishment when he saw Chaloner, and they widened even more when Payne leapt up beside the spy and tried to stab him.

  It was not easy clinging to a speeding carriage with one hand while trying to defend himself against a flailing dagger with the other, and Chaloner was struggling to hold his own. But with unexpected aplomb, the Earl’s cousin produced a sword and poked Payne in the shoulder. More startled than hurt, Payne dropped away, hitting the ground and rolling several times. Amazingly, he staggered to his feet and tried to give chase, but managed only a few faltering steps before collapsing. Chaloner saw his comrades surround him quickly, and bundle him down a quiet lane, away from curious eyes. Relief slackened the spy’s grip on the door, but Brodrick grabbed him before he fell, and supported him until they had cleared Westminster and were cantering along King Street. Only then did he shout to the driver to stop.

  ‘You lead an exciting life,’ he said drily, watching the spy climb to the ground. ‘Fighting bears, tackling mobs, indulging in reckless chases. What next? Seducing Lady Castlemaine?’

  ‘I am not that brave,’ said Chaloner, brushing himself down and feigning nonchalance. The truth was that his heart was pounding and his legs were wobbly.

  ‘May I offer you a ride somewhere? To Hercules’ Pillars Alley, perhaps? Or would you prefer the more tender ministrations of Hannah Cotton?’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Chaloner sincerely. ‘I am in your debt.’

  ‘Really?’ Brodrick looked sly. ‘Then how about saying nothing to my cousin about my involvement in the bear incident? You were right this morning – it was a stupid thing to have done.’

  ‘So why did you do it?’

  Brodrick looked pained. ‘The bear was supposed to wander into his office and eat some nuts we had left it. The damned thing was not supposed to start swiping about with its claws. I knew I should not have accepted the Lady’s advice for a jape. Well? Will you be discreet about my role in the affair? You owe me something for saving your life.’

  Chaloner gave his promise, then watched the carriage rattle away. When he turned, he saw two members of the train-band running towards him. He melted into the shadows, and when the soldiers arrived moments later, he was nowhere to be found.

  The next day was so foggy that when Chaloner opened the door of Hannah’s house, he could not see the opposite side of the street. It made London dangerous, because hackneys still raced along at a furious lick, hoping the clatter of their wheels and the occasional yell would be enough to warn pedestrians of their approach. Those on horseback were almost as bad, and Chaloner only just managed to haul Hannah out of the path of one pack of snorting stallions. It was Buckingham, Chiffinch and their cronies, riding home after a night of debauchery at Temperance’s club.

  ‘Buckingham is such a scamp,’ said Hannah indulgently, as the cavalcade galloped on. ‘London would be so dull without him. Speaking of fun, you have not forgotten that we are to dine with Sir Nicholas Gold this evening, have you?’

  ‘No,’ lied Chaloner. He brightened at the prospect. ‘You said there would be music.’

  ‘And food,’ added Hannah wryly. ‘And perhaps even conversation. What will you do today?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he said, before he could stop himself.

  She gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘Because you listened to me for hours last night – virtually my entire life story – and it is only right that I reciprocate by enquiring after you in return.’

  ‘Visit the charnel house, to view Greene’s body.’ Chaloner had not felt up to breaking into Kersey’s domain and inspecting corpses after his encounter with the train-band the previous evening. He had not really felt up to listening to Hannah, either, but had forced himself to pay attention. When she had finally gone to sleep, he had been restless and uneasy. Questions whirled about in his mind, and he had spent most of the night sitting by the window, staring into the street as he tried to reason some sense into all he had learned. Dawn had found him tired, haggard and frustrated by the lack of answers.

  Hannah heard the unhappiness in his voice. ‘It is not your fault he is dead, Tom. You tried to prove him innocent. But people – including Greene himself – were not honest with you, so how could you be expected to solve the mystery under those circumstances?’

  ‘Would you mind telling my Earl that? Of course, it does not explain why I have neglected to locate the stolen statue, as he is sure to point out.’

  ‘Then he is a fool,’ she declared. ‘You have done your best, and he has no right to expect more. What will you do after you have stared at Greene, and bl
amed yourself for the fact that he is dead?’

  ‘Speak to his colleagues and show them a ring I found. Visit John’s Coffee House, to ask its owner about the prayer meetings that take place there. Return to the wharf where the train-band seems to lurk – I need to learn more about them if I am to survive our next encounter.’

  Hannah regarded him uneasily. ‘What next encounter? Surely, it is better to stay away from them?’

  ‘That may not be possible – I did not exactly seek them out yesterday. And I cannot avoid them if they are involved in the clerk murders – at least, not today. It will not matter tomorrow, because the Earl’s deadline will have passed, and I will either be victorious or dismissed.’

  ‘Then why not go to the Queen, and tell her you will look into her missing money? It would be a lot safer than risking your life for a man who keeps threatening you with unemployment.’

  ‘I wish I could – she is worth ten of him – but her loss is one of embezzlement, and the only way to find out who cheated her is to comb through dozens of palace accounts.’

  ‘Then comb.’

  ‘I cannot, I am not qualified. Only someone with accounting experience will catch the culprit.’

  Hannah looked as if she did not believe him, but he did not know what more he could say to convince her. They parted at the Court Gate, where he decided to visit John’s Coffee House first, hoping to catch the proprietor before his establishment became busy. Greene could wait – he was not going anywhere, and Chaloner was not sure what he could accomplish by looking at a corpse anyway.

  ‘What news?’ the coffee-house owner called, as the spy walked in. John Ravernet did not look up from his perusal of The Intelligencer, and the greeting was automatic rather than a genuine request for information. As Chaloner had hoped, the place was virtually empty, and the only customer was a morose-looking fellow with a wart between his eyes.

  ‘A body was washed up near Westminster yesterday,’ replied Chaloner.

  ‘That is not news,’ said the customer disdainfully. ‘That is an everyday occurrence.’

  ‘Not in this case,’ argued Ravernet, folding the news-book and going to give his roasting coffee beans a stir. ‘Because word is that the corpse was yet another of the King’s clerks. It seems to be a bad time for them, because not only were three hapless souls poisoned, but poor Jones drowned last week, too. Unfortunately, no one is quite sure how it happened.’

  ‘And no one is asking, either,’ said the customer, fixing him with a meaningful look. ‘Jones was a high-ranking official, and he ended up in the Thames, but no one is curious to learn why. And after three of his colleagues were murdered, you would think someone would be looking into the matter. But no one is, not even Spymaster Williamson.’

  ‘You see conspiracy everywhere, Hawley,’ said Ravernet. ‘However, in this instance, you are right. No one is investigating, which means someone is glad he is dead. Someone important.’

  With a start, Chaloner realised it was true, and wondered why it had not occurred to him before. Other than the ghoulish curiosity common to all violent deaths, no one had asked why Jones had drowned, not even his colleagues from the prayer meetings. Of course, it had worked to Chaloner’s advantage, because an investigation might have uncovered the fact that he had followed Swaddell and Jones down the alley, and he could imagine what Williamson would make of that small fact. Had Jones’s death gone unremarked because the Spymaster’s men were too busy hunting the statue? Or was there a more sinister reason – which seemed eminently likely, given that Jones had been loaded down with stolen gold when he had died?

  ‘Mr Greene recommended your coffee house to me,’ he said, intending to lead the discussion around to the gatherings. He could not afford to waste time on Jones when he had only one day left to solve the murders of Chetwynd, Vine and Langston. ‘And so did Sir Nicholas Gold.’

  Ravernet looked pleased. ‘They have been loyal customers for years. They used to meet at Scobel’s home, but when he died, they elected to come here instead. They are an amiable crowd.’

  ‘But sadly depleted by death,’ said Hawley. ‘Jones was the fourth of their number to perish. Now there is only a handful left: Greene, Tryan, Hargrave, that angel-faced Neale. Swaddell comes in disguise, but we all know he is the Spymaster’s assassin. Colonel Turner attends the odd meeting these days, too.’

  ‘And do not forget Reeve,’ added Ravernet. ‘He never misses.’

  ‘I do not know him,’ said Chaloner.

  ‘Neither do we,’ said Hawley ruefully, ‘although I have done my best to penetrate his cover – I like a challenge. Personally, I think he is a woman, because of the slight mince he has when he walks. And his beard is patently false.’

  Chaloner stared at him. Could ‘Reeve’ be Bess Gold? Was she sufficiently clever to carry off a convincing disguise? Or was it Margaret Symons, whom Doling said was heartbroken to be excluded from the meetings by virtue of her sex? But that was not possible: Margaret had been at home dying when Chaloner had seen Reeve with his companions. Or was it Lady Castlemaine, determined to secure herself a prosperous future by spending the occasional hour with devout men? Mrs Vine could not be forgotten, either. She had, after all, been suspiciously vehement in her denials that her husband had owned a ruby ring, and the spy did not trust her or her testimony.

  ‘They used to pray a lot,’ Ravernet was saying. ‘But they are just like any other group of friends these days. They talk about the news and the weather, and Symons is the only one who tries to impose religion on them. They oblige, but with increasing reluctance.’

  ‘Then perhaps they should have listened to him,’ suggested Hawley soberly. ‘Because if they had, God might have watched over them, and four of their number might not be dead.’

  Unwilling to spend the day without a sword, Chaloner borrowed one from his landlord, who had a large collection. None were very good, because Ellis was in the habit of using them as tools to effect repairs around the home, but they were better than nothing. Chaloner picked one, then set off towards Westminster, knowing he could postpone inspecting Greene’s body no longer. He was just crossing New Palace Yard, alert for any sign of the train-band, when he met Haddon. The steward looked out of sorts, and his usually kindly face was angry and flustered.

  ‘Bulteel fed pepper cake to my dogs,’ he explained bitterly, as their paths converged. ‘The poor darlings do not know what to do with themselves for the pain. How could he do such a cruel thing?’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. ‘His wife’s cakes are usually—’

  ‘Brodrick commissioned it, to feed to Lady Muskerry as a joke,’ interrupted Haddon. ‘And some was left over. A man who harms a dog is a low creature, as I told Bulteel to his face. Perhaps I should work to see him ousted, since he believes I am doing it anyway. Hateful fellow!’

  ‘I am sure he did not mean to hurt them,’ said Chaloner, although he was not sure at all. Bulteel, like Chaloner himself, was not very keen on the yappy little lapdogs. Nonetheless, he hoped they would recover from their ordeal, because Haddon would be devastated if one died.

  Haddon shot him a look that said he knew better. ‘They are resting by the Earl’s fire at the moment. He has been very kind.’ Tears sparkled in his eyes briefly, and he brushed them away, embarrassed.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ asked Chaloner curiously. They were walking towards the charnel house, which seemed an odd destination for the steward.

  ‘The Earl wants me to view the corpse that was found yesterday, given that you have not been in to tell him about it. He tried to send Bulteel, but the villain fabricated some sly excuse to get himself exempted.’

  ‘Turner could not oblige?’

  ‘He has been ordered to concentrate on the stolen statue now he has solved the murders to the Earl’s satisfaction. So, which clerk do you think lies in Kersey’s horrible mortuary? It would be good to be able to brace myself. I am not very good with corpses – they make me feel queasy.’
/>   ‘Greene has been missing since Saturday night.’

  Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure? Only I saw him on Saturday night myself, here in Westminster. He was working – or so he told me when I asked him what he was doing out so late.’

  ‘When we last spoke about him, you said you thought he was innocent. Do you still believe that?’

  Haddon took a moment to reply. ‘Turner has amassed a lot of evidence that says he is guilty, but Greene has always seemed a decent sort to me. It is hard to see him as a ruthless slaughterer.’

  But Chaloner knew the most unlikely of people were capable of doing terrible things, and being a ‘decent sort’ meant nothing, as far as he was concerned. He followed the steward inside the mortuary, where Kersey bustled forward to greet them, holding out his hand for the requis ite fee. The charnel-house keeper was clad in a set of brand new clothes, and was smoking a pipe.

  ‘People are very interested in these clerk-killings,’ he said gleefully, counting the coins carefully before adding them to his bulging purse. ‘Will there be many more, do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps he is the killer,’ murmured Haddon to Chaloner in distaste. ‘He is the one who is benefitting from the deaths – they are making him a fortune!’

  Kersey’s domain was crowded. The only poison victim to have been buried was Vine, hastily shoved in the ground before Wiseman could ignore his family’s wishes and dissect him anyway. The others remained in Kersey’s tender care. Chetwynd lay between Jones and Langston, and the charnel-house keeper said there had been three stabbings that week, too. Before Chaloner or Haddon could stop him – neither wanted to view more corpses than necessary – he had whisked away some sheets, to reveal two men and a woman. The shapes of the wounds were more indicative of swords than daggers, and Chaloner recalled Wiseman’s claim that the trio had asked questions about the train-band.

  Then Kersey whipped the cover off his most recent acquisition. But it was not the gloomy clerk who lay naked on the table.