He was obliged to make a second leap when the roof along which he was crawling ended in a dizzying drop. It was not across as great a gap, but he almost did not make it regardless. For a moment, he hung in space, suspended by his hands. It was Payne’s jeering laugh that gave him the impetus to swing up his legs, and begin running again, this time along the edge of a large hall. It ended in another sheer drop, so he made a right-angled turn, heading for the distinctive mass of the Painted Chamber. Payne was hard on his heels, swearing foully, and promising all manner of reprisals for the trouble the spy was causing. Chaloner glanced behind him, wondering whether to stand and fight now Payne was alone. But a rooftop was a precarious battlefield, and there was always the danger that his bad leg would turn traitor and tip him into oblivion.
The Painted Chamber had a turret on one of its corners, and Chaloner could tell from its narrow windows that there was a spiral staircase inside. He staggered towards it, and ripped open the door. There was no way to secure it behind him, so he began to descend, hurling himself downwards three steps at a time, trying to ignore the burning pain in his knee. He could hear Payne following, breathing hard and still full of curses and threats.
Eventually, he reached the door that led to the main hall, while the staircase wound on down towards the basement. He hauled it open, then turned back, grabbed a wooden grille – placed in a window-slit to keep out birds – and hurled it down the steps. Then he darted through the door and closed it behind him, listening with baited breath to see whether Payne would fall for the ploy. He breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the soldier continue down, following the clatter made by the tumbling grille in the belief that it was his quarry.
He braced a chair under the handle, then peered out from behind a pile of chests to see he was near the spot where Chetwynd, Vine and Langston had died. The hall was full of people – clerks labouring over documents, government officials issuing orders, and members of the House of Lords in their ermine-fringed robes. A row of pegs hammered into the wall next to him held a variety of garments, so he grabbed a coat and a peculiar three-cornered hat, and donned them quickly to conceal his filthy clothes. Then he strode boldly through the throng, trying to look as though he had every right to be there. No one stopped him, and it was not many moments before he reached the main exit.
Out in the street, he saw members of the train-band everywhere, scanning the faces of passers-by. He reached Old Palace Yard undetected, but Doling blocked the way to the comparative safety of White Hall – and while Chaloner’s disguise might fool the captain from a distance, he was too dishevelled to risk passing too close. He needed somewhere to improve his disguise, so he aimed for the abbey.
Westminster Abbey was always a curious combination of busy and deserted. The makeshift booths, selling books, food and candles, that had once thronged the churchyard had gradually eased their way inside, so parts of the nave now resembled a marketplace. But there were also a number of chapels and alcoves that were away from the bustle, providing small havens of tranquillity.
Chaloner found a quiet corner, and sat for a few moments, feeling his heartbeat return to normal and the ache recede from his leg. He would have rested longer, but time was passing, and he could not afford to waste any. He stood, removed his own coat and bundled it under his arm, so the stolen one did not make him seem quite so bulky, then washed his face and hands in a puddle near a leaking window. By the time he had cleaned his shoes and donned the hat, he appeared reasonably respectable – or at least, did not look as though he had been leaping across rooftops.
He was about to leave, when he saw a familiar figure. It was the surviving Lea, sobbing as he knelt at an altar. There was no one else around, and although he knew he should respect the man’s privacy Chaloner had questions to ask and time was of the essence.
‘I really am sorry about your brother,’ he said gently, kneeling next to him.
Lea spoke with difficulty. ‘His funeral is supposed to be in St Margaret’s Church, but he died serving his country, so I want it here. In this grand abbey.’
‘How did he die serving his country?’ Chaloner raised his hands defensively when Lea turned on him, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Forgive me, but I thought he fell in the river.’
It was clearly not the time to mention that Matthias had been poisoned.
‘He could swim,’ said Lea fiercely. ‘And he should not have been near the river anyway – when we got home that night and realised we had no bread, he went to the bakery in King Street, which is a long way from the Thames. It is obvious what happened: he was taken to a quiet place and pushed in. He was murdered.’
‘Who do you suspect of the crime?’ asked Chaloner.
Lea gazed at him. ‘You believe me? No one else does. I wish we had never inherited Chetwynd’s beastly fortune, because it has brought us nothing but trouble. Hargrave is a dishonest rogue.’
‘You think Hargrave killed Matthias?’
‘He might have done. He let us move into the fine house Chetwynd rented from him – and had already paid for – but it leaks like a sieve and stinks of mould. We were better off in our old place.’
‘Is Hargrave your only suspect?’
‘Oh, no!’ said Lea bitterly. ‘There are plenty who wish us ill. There are the hypocrites who meet at John’s Coffee House to ask God to make them richer and more powerful – Gold, Neale, Tryan and Symons. They hated Matthias for writing a pamphlet about false piety, in which he named them.’
‘But you and Matthias attended these meetings, too,’ said Chaloner, not bothering to point out that the hapless Symons was neither rich nor powerful. ‘I have witnesses who will swear to it.’
‘Yes, but that was years ago, when Scobel was still alive. Then there was talk of a Restoration, and it seemed foolish to hobnob with men like Symons and Doling – faithful Commonwealth clerks. So we stopped going.’
‘Your strategy worked, because you retained your posts, while they were dismissed.’
‘No, we retained them because we took matters into our own hands. We told secrets about former colleagues, which persuaded the right people we were loyal.’ Lea saw Chaloner’s distaste. ‘Well, what else were we to do? A man has to eat! Scobel died of a sharpness of the blood soon after, but Symons said it was a broken heart, because we had betrayed him. Of course, Symons had his revenge.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He would not let us rejoin the prayer meetings when all the fuss had died down. Our fortunes have bubbled along at a constant rate, but they have not exploded, like those who continued to pray – Gold, Jones, Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Tryan and Hargrave.’
‘Do you suspect anyone else of killing your brother, other than the prayer-group men?’ asked Chaloner, wondering why so many intelligent people should be prey to such rank superstition.
‘I barely know where to begin.’ Lea’s expression was vengeful. ‘There is Spymaster Williamson, who does not like the way we earn extra pennies – the government will not fall to rebellion now, so what is the harm in penning a few manifestos?’
‘Quite a bit, if enough people agree with the sentiments expressed in them.’
Lea grimaced. ‘I doubt it. However, Williamson concurs with you, because Swaddell said he would kill us if we did not desist. Well, we did not desist, so perhaps he carried out his threat. Then there is Doling, who … But no, we should not discuss him. He is too deadly for me to cross.’
Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘You work in Westminster, near a certain alley—’
Lea’s face was a mask of fear. ‘What of it? We never saw anything that led us to …’ He trailed off.
‘You learned about the train-band,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Dangerous men, who probably have a wealthy and powerful master.’
Lea put his face in his hands. ‘I told Matthias we should pretend not to have noticed them, but he said our fortunes were on the rise at last, and we should seize every opportunity that presented itself. He left a letter, suggesting Doling
might like to pay a small sum to keep his activities secret.’
It was a misjudgement on an appalling scale, and Chaloner wondered how Matthias could have been so recklessly stupid. He took his leave of Lea, and walked outside to find it was dusk, the short winter day over almost before it had begun. The soldiers were still prowling around Old Palace Yard, discreetly scanning the faces of the people who passed, but the gathering gloom helped Chaloner to elude them. He met Wiseman as he was approaching White Hall. The surgeon was trying to hail a hackney to take him home.
‘You are limping again,’ said Wiseman, abandoning his increasingly bellicose attempts to attract a driver’s attention, and turning to assess Chaloner with a professional eye. ‘Would you like my—’
‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. ‘Have you heard whether Greene has been found?’
‘A warrant has been issued for his arrest, but the palace guards have had no luck in tracing him. His friends say he has no reason to disappear, and fear he is poisoned or adrift in the river. His detractors say he has gone into hiding, so he can continue to murder as he pleases.’
‘Then have you seen Turner?’
‘He has spent the day hunting the lost statue.’ Wiseman grabbed the spy’s shoulder suddenly, startling him with the strength of the grip – the muscle-honing was clearly paying off, because it was like being held by a vice, and Chaloner could not have broken free to save his life. ‘Have you been invited to Gold’s home for dinner and music tonight?’
‘Yes,’ replied Chaloner warily, wincing as the surgeon’s fingers tightened further still. ‘Why?’
Wiseman released him abruptly, and when he spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically bitter. ‘I knew it! Gold has invited everyone except me. I am never included in these affairs, although I cannot imagine why. I come from a respectable family, and I hold high office in the King’s Court.’
‘Perhaps it is because you describe surgical techniques while people are eating,’ suggested Chaloner, knowing from personal experience that Wiseman’s dinner-table conversation could spoil even the most resilient of appetites.
‘What is wrong with that? Anatomy is a fascinating subject, worthy of discussion at any social gathering.’
‘Actually, I have been asked to two dinners tonight.’ Chaloner had only a few hours left before the Earl dismissed him, and while he had hopes that Gold’s soirée might lead him to answers, the same was not true of Temperance’s. He was sure she would understand why he could not go when he explained the situation. He smiled rather wickedly at the notion of sending the haughty surgeon to a brothel. ‘The other is due to begin at midnight, but I have work to do. I do not suppose you would—’
‘Where is it?’ demanded Wiseman eagerly. ‘I shall take your place.’
‘Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’ Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘You do not mind accepting second-hand invitations?’
‘Not when they are the only ones I ever get,’ replied Wiseman ruefully. He grinned suddenly, clearly delighted by the prospect of a night out. ‘Now, what shall I wear? Will red be suitable, do you think?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner innocently.
*
There was no time to go home before setting out for Gold’s mansion in Aldgate, so Chaloner went straight to Hannah’s house. She still had some clothes that belonged to her husband, and was more than happy to see them worn. Most were in better condition than Chaloner’s own, and far more suitable for attending elegant receptions in fashionable parts of the city. She was horrified when she saw the state he was in, and insisted that he washed, despite his objections that they would be late. Then she selected a handsome blue coat with ruffles down the front, a well-laced shirt, and a pair of ‘petticoat’ breeches. They were not au courant – her spouse had died three years before – but the spy still felt quite respectable as he stepped outside and flagged down a hackney.
Nightfall had heralded a change in the weather. Clouds had raced in from the north, and there was snow in the air. It was bitter, far colder than it had been during the day, and puddles were beginning to turn to ice. The wind cut through clothes, straight to the bone, and Chaloner was tempted to forget the whole business and spend the evening indoors. The roof-top chase had exhausted him, and although the soirée would provide a chance to learn whether Gold was involved in the curious events that had seen so many people die, he was not sure his wits were sharp enough to capitalise on it. But he would be dismissed for certain if he failed to provide the Earl with some sort of solution by the following day, so he forced himself to rally his flagging energies. He glanced at Hannah, who was using his bulk to shield herself from the draught that whistled in through the hackney’s badly fitting windows.
‘Would you consider leaving London, and going to live in the New World?’
He felt her shudder in the darkness. ‘I would not! I have heard it is a desolate place, full of Puritans and big snakes. And I like London, especially now I have you to keep me company.’
It was a long way from Tothill Street to Gold’s home near the Tower, and Chaloner might have dozed off, had he not been so cold. The wind buffeted the carriage, making it rock furiously. Outside, the streets were almost empty, and those who were obliged to be out huddled deep inside their cloaks.
Eventually, the hackney rolled to a standstill outside a large house with a gravelled courtyard. Light blazed from every window, and Hannah murmured that she could not imagine the number of lamps required to produce such a dazzling display. Once inside, she disappeared to greet people she knew, flitting from group to group, while Chaloner kept to the edge of the festivities, watching and listening. Gold and Bess were at the centre of an appreciative crowd, and when the spy looked for Neale, he saw him, as expected, not far away, with his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the object of his aspirations.
A number of Chaloner’s other suspects were present, too. Symons and the surviving Lea stood together, looking miserable. Lea was impeccably dressed, but Symons was wearing the same clothes had had worn the night Margaret had died. They were soiled and crumpled, and his ginger hair was dull with dirt, as though he cared nothing about any of it.
By contrast, George and Mrs Vine were part of a lively, laughing throng that included Turner, Barbara Chiffinch and Brodrick. Meanwhile, Hargrave and Tryan sat with other prosperous merchants, and their serious faces suggested they were discussing business. Chaloner watched them all, noting who spoke to whom, or ignored whom, and trying to understand the intricate social ballet that was being played out in front of him. He wished he was more alert, because he was sure it would have yielded clues, had his mind been agile enough to interpret them.
‘Someone said it is snowing,’ said Hannah chattily to Gold, when she dragged the spy to pay their respects to their host. Bess wore a fluffy white garment that looked like a fleece, while her hair had been arranged into woolly ringlets. Chaloner wondered whether the Lord of Misrule had bribed her maids to dress her like a sheep. It was, after all, Brodrick’s last night in power – the Twelve Days would be over by the following morning – and the spy was sure he intended to make the most of it.
‘You are going?’ bawled Gold. ‘But you have only just arrived. Stay and have some brawn.’
‘There are pastries, too, made in the shape of angels,’ added Bess, clapping her hands in childish delight. ‘And the cook made a special one for me in the shape of a lamb.’
‘Brawn is better for you than chocolate,’ asserted Gold loudly. All around him, sycophants nodded simpering agreement. ‘While coffee makes you bald. Surgeon Wiseman said so.’
‘It is a bit late for you to be worrying about hair loss,’ muttered Neale, gazing pointedly at Gold’s expensive wig. ‘Vain old dog.’
‘Here comes your friend Turner,’ said Hannah to Chaloner, as they walked away. She sounded disapproving. ‘He has probably come to gloat, because he solved the case and you did not.’
The colonel looked magnificent that evening, in a black suit with scarlet
frills that complemented his dark good looks. He had an adoring lady on each arm; they hung on his every word, and he was in his element. There were pouts when he asked them to fetch him some wine so he could speak to Chaloner in private, but they did as they were told. The moment they were out of earshot, he started to turn his oily charm on Hannah, but she stopped him with a look that said he might suffer serious bodily harm if he persisted.
‘Lord!’ he breathed in admiration, as she stalked away. ‘There is one fiery wench! Does she have all her teeth?’
‘Yes, and she is not afraid to use them,’ replied Chaloner coolly, seeing the colonel was fully intent on adding her to his list of potential conquests. ‘What do you want, Turner? The Earl tells me you have amassed enough evidence to prove Greene is the killer, so you no longer need my help.’
‘But unfortunately, the wretched man vanished before I could arrest him. Do you have any idea where he might be? I promised His Portliness I would produce him by tomorrow.’
‘That was rash. If he is in the river, it might be weeks before he surfaces.’
‘He is not dead,’ said Turner confidently. ‘He has absconded. Incidentally, you gave the Earl some of Greene’s documents earlier, and he, Haddon and Bulteel spent the afternoon studying them. Apparently, they are very revealing.’
‘They were household accounts,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘What can be “revealing” about the fact that His Majesty’s cellarer spent forty pounds on decanters last year?’
‘The fact that Munt kept his own records, which say he only spent ten. But here is Haddon. Ask him for yourself.’
Chaloner supposed it was not surprising that Haddon had been invited – sans dogs – to the soirée, but Bulteel had not: Haddon carried himself in a way that said he was a gentleman, whereas Bulteel was socially inept.
‘It is true,’ said the steward, when Turner ordered that he verify the tale. ‘In essence, these records show that the sum of forty pounds was granted to pay for decanters, but only ten pounds was actually spent. Thus thirty is unaccounted for. And that is only one entry out of hundreds.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 35
