‘Actually, I am letting you out here,’ called the driver, and the coach came to a sudden stop. ‘The weather is getting worse by the minute, and I am not risking my horse any longer.’
Chaloner could see his point: the snow was almost halfway up the wheels. He peered out of the window, and saw they were near Bishopsgate Street, where there were several respectable inns. Hannah would be safe there while he went about his business – he did not want her with him when he confronted Turner, and he did not have time to walk her all the way home.
‘Can you reach the Mitre?’ he asked.
The driver gave a reluctant nod, and it was not long before Hannah was installed in the best room the tavern could offer, with a roaring fire, mulled wine and clean blankets.
‘That hackneyman exaggerated the severity of the storm,’ she declared dismissively. ‘If you keep to the smaller roads, you will find the drifts are much more manageable. But you must go now, Tom – by tomorrow, Turner’s claws might be too deeply embedded for us to extract.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Chaloner, casting one last, longing glance at the fire before heading on to the streets again. It seemed colder than ever, and contrary to Hannah’s assurances, the snow was knee-deep even in the narrowest of lanes. It was impossible to walk normally, and his leg hurt. Only the thought of Temperance drove him on. She might be slipping away from him as a friend, but he still felt a modicum of responsibility towards her, no matter how much she had changed.
Snowflakes whirled around him so thickly that he could not see, and he had reached St Mary Axe before he realised he was walking in the wrong direction. With a muffled curse, he turned down Lymestrete, where the blizzard drove directly into his face. He put his head down, and ploughed on, so tired now that he did not notice someone coming towards him until it was too late. His hand dropped to his sword, but a shoulder sent him crashing into a wall before he could draw it.
Winded and dazed, he pulled himself into a sitting position. His assailant was already some distance away, and his eyes focussed just in time to see him dart down an alley. The fellow was carrying a sack that was heavy enough to make him stagger. And then he was gone.
*
Slowly, Chaloner climbed to his feet, resting his hand on the wall to steady himself. He realised he needed to pay closer attention to his surroundings, because he had just learned the hard way that the instincts that normally warned him of impending danger were not functioning properly. He took a deep breath of cold air to clear his wits, then resumed his journey.
He was almost at the end of Lymestrete, when he happened to glance to his right. Most of the larger houses were owned by people wealthy enough to keep a lamp burning in their downstairs windows all night, as dictated by the city fathers, but one mansion was notable for its darkness. It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise it as Tryan’s home, and was surprised – Tryan was an alderman, and was supposed to set a good example. Then he noticed the front door was ajar.
His senses snapped into a different level of awareness. No sane person left his door open at night, so something was wrong. Temperance momentarily forgotten, he stumbled towards it. He stepped inside and listened intently. The house was eerily silent.
‘Tryan?’ he called softly.
But of course the merchant was not home – he had been asked out by the dean of St Paul’s and would be at the cathedral, shivering his way through a lengthy ceremony during which far too many clerics would be given an opportunity to speak. Tryan had bragged about the invitation several times, so doubtless all manner of folk knew about it. And someone had taken advantage of the information to burgle him, because the wood around the door was damaged, indicating a forced entry. Chaloner supposed the culprit was the man who had bowled him over, fleeing the scene of his crime with a sack of loot. It was a pity Tryan was going to return to find his home had been invaded, but there was nothing the spy could do about it. He was about to go on his way when he heard a sound.
‘Help,’ came the merest of whispers. ‘Please!’
It came from the parlour at the front of the house, and Chaloner could just make out someone lying on the floor. It was Tryan. Chaloner knelt next to him, and eased him into a more comfortable position. Then he fetched blankets and set about lighting a fire, because the room was deathly cold. As he worked, he looked around him. The heavy, iron-bound chest he had seen on his previous visit was open, and papers were scattered around its feet.
‘The rogue knew,’ rasped Tryan, his eyes huge in his white face. ‘He knew I kept the key in my desk, because he went straight to it. And I did not even have time to aim my gun before he hit me.’
‘Who have you told about the key?’ asked Chaloner, tucking a blanket more tightly around him.
‘Just my manservant and maid – I gave them the night off, because they have been so good to me.’ Tryan’s face was anguished. ‘The thief took everything! I had one thousand and fifty pounds in cash, and four thousand pounds in jewels, which I keep here because I distrust banks. But now I am ruined! What have I done to deserve this terrible thing?’
Chaloner tensed when he heard footsteps in the hall. He drew his sword and stepped behind the door, assuming the burglar had come back to see what else he could steal. The blade wobbled in the hilt, telling him he had better buy a replacement as soon as possible, because the one he had borrowed from Landlord Ellis promised to fall apart at the first riposte.
‘Hill! Susan!’ cried Tryan, when two people walked in. They wore his livery, so Chaloner assumed they were his servants, returning from their night out. ‘I have been robbed!’
The pair suddenly became aware of Chaloner standing in the shadows. Bravely, Hill raised his fists, although they would be of little use against a sword, even a defective one. Meanwhile, Susan grabbed a poker from the hearth and stood next to him, ready to protect her fallen master.
‘No!’ gasped Tryan. ‘This man saw the door open and came to help me – he is not the thief.’
‘I knew we should not have left you,’ declared Hill, lowering his hands. His voice was full of bitter self-reproach. ‘I told you it was not safe to be here alone, not when you have been telling everyone that you planned to be out this evening.’
‘Not to mention your habit of saying you distrust banks,’ scolded Susan, kneeling at Tryan’s side and inspecting his battered face. ‘It is asking for villains to come and try their luck.’
Chaloner helped Hill carry the old man to his bed, then Susan ordered them out while she tended his wounds, clicking and soothing like a mother hen. Tryan was fortunate to have such devoted staff, thought Chaloner, as the manservant escorted him towards the front door.
‘I saw the thief,’ he said, more to himself than Hill as they walked along the corridor together. ‘At least, I saw someone carrying a heavy bag. He knocked me over.’
Hill was quietly furious. ‘If I catch him, I will kill him! It is one thing to steal the old fellow’s money, but did he have to beat him, too? And how did he know about the key? My master may blather about his distrust of banks and his invitations out, but he does not tell just anyone where he keeps his key. The thief will be someone who knows him and his habits.’
‘Hargrave?’ asked Chaloner. He seemed the obvious candidate.
But Hill shook his head. ‘He is at St Paul’s – when my master decided the weather was too foul for a man of his age to be traipsing about, Hargrave offered to go in his place.’
Chaloner was about to leave, when he saw something lying on the floor, dark against the pale wood. He bent to retrieve it. It was an ear-string. Hill snatched it from him.
‘I have seen this before,’ he said, turning it over in his hands.
‘So have I,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Worn by a man who does the occasional bit of legal work for Tryan, and who knows his foibles – the money chest, his plans to be out, and even, probably, where he keeps his key.’
‘Turner!’ exclaimed Hill in sudden fury. ‘I knew he was a villain
the moment I laid eyes on him.’
‘I wish I had,’ said Chaloner ruefully, stepping out into the blizzard.
Chapter 12
The snow was now swirling so densely that it was difficult to walk. Chaloner forced himself on, wishing he could go faster. The streets were deserted, and there was not a horse or a carriage in sight. If there had been, he would have hijacked it, so desperate was he to reach Temperance. As he struggled along, he tried to take his mind off his fears for her while he analysed what he knew of Turner.
He had known the man was a liar, but he had not imagined him to be a thief, too. However, the attack on Tryan was such an audacious, meticulously executed crime that the spy was sure it could not be his first. So what other felonies had he committed since arriving in London? He was not responsible for the business at Backwell’s Bank, because that had been Jones, and the only other significant incident was the theft of the old king’s bust. Chaloner stopped dead in his tracks.
‘No!’ he whispered into the blizzard, forgetting the frantic race to Hercules’ Pillars Alley as answers came crashing into his mind like bolts of lightning. ‘It cannot be!’
But when he reviewed the evidence, he knew he had his solution, and it was so obvious, he wondered why he had not seen it before. The clues were there, but he had not put them together.
First, Turner said Lady Muskerry had taken him to the Shield Gallery before the statue had gone astray; he must have seen the priceless works of art then, and decided one would not be missed. Second, conversations had revealed his total ignorance of sculpture, indicating he would not have made a wise choice about what to steal – and taking the Bernini had been foolish. Third, Meg had smuggled him in and out of White Hall on her laundry cart, claiming Lady Castlemaine needed protection from the Earl – a ludicrous tale that should have warned Chaloner to look into it: clearly, Turner had needed the cart to transport his ill-gotten gains. And finally, there was his odd reluctance to arrest Greene – he felt a kinship with a fellow criminal, and wanted to give him every chance to escape or be exonerated.
‘Damn!’ Chaloner breathed, aghast at himself. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’
So, where was the statue now? Turner was unlikely to have taken it home, but it was valuable, so he would have put it somewhere safe. Chaloner closed his eyes in disgust when he realised he knew the answer to that, too. ‘James Grey’ had encouraged Temperance to redecorate her brothel, purchasing sculpture rather than paintings, because her patrons were apt to be wild and carvings were more durable. The bust was not in the public rooms – someone would have recognised it – but she had spare pieces in her cellar, ready to be rotated when she grew tired of the ones on display. She knew nothing about art, either, and would not recognise Bernini’s work, so it was the perfect hiding place. And if someone should happen to stumble across it?
‘Then he would disappear and let her hang.’ Chaloner was barely aware that he spoke aloud as anger boiled up inside him. He started to move forward again, cursing when his exhausted muscles were slow to respond to the urgent clamouring of his brain.
Rage kept him ploughing towards Hercules’ Pillars Alley, allowing him to ignore the burning pain in his lame leg and the agony of frozen fingers. All he wanted to do was charge into the club and force a confession from the sly colonel with his fists. And then Temperance would see what sort of man she professed to love. But when he reached his destination, his training took over: his wild fury drained away and was replaced by the cool professionalism that had allowed him to survive ten years in espionage. So, instead of storming into the house like a lunatic, he slid into the shadows outside, and thought about what he was going to do.
Once his judgement was unimpaired by anger, he saw it would be foolish to dash into a situation that might see him killed. First, he was too tired for fighting. Second, his sword was broken. And third, Temperance might rush to her lover’s defence, and then what would he do? Exchange blows with her, too? And would Turner even be there? He had just committed a violent crime, and was now more than five thousand pounds richer; perhaps he would decide that Temperance and the bust were not worth the bother. But indentations in the snow from the road to the club’s front door told the spy that this was wishful thinking: Turner had been unable to resist the lure of easy pickings, and he was there, inside the house, plying his evil charms on the woman Chaloner loved like a sister.
The spy approached the building and tapped softly on the door, but the servants had evidently been given the evening off, because there was no reply. The door was locked, but that was no obstacle to him. His metal probe was in his hand without conscious thought, and he had it open in moments. He padded silently across the hall to the parlour, where he peered through a gap between door and wall. The snow that had caked on his coat and shoes began to melt, forming puddles on the floor.
Temperance was sitting at one end of a guest-filled table, and Turner was at the other. They held goblets, filled to the brim with wine, and were toasting each other’s health. Chaloner winced when he saw the shining adoration in her eyes, and hated himself for what he was about to do. The colonel’s face was red from his journey through the snow, and his cloak had been flung carelessly across the back of a chair. He looked remarkably lively, though, and Chaloner supposed he was buoyed up by the success of his robbery.
Turner and Wiseman were the only men present, the other guests being the ‘working girls’ and Maude. Belle was among them, and Chaloner shook his head when he saw she still wore her locket: Turner had shown him a duplicate in order to claim the ten shillings. Wiseman was relating some tale about a Public Anatomy he had performed, and his audience – a jaded group that was not easily entertained – was transfixed. The surgeon was unused to receiving such a positive reaction to his grisly anecdotes, and was happier than Chaloner had ever seen him.
While they were occupied, the spy decided to see whether his suspicions were correct. He headed for the cellar, lighting a lamp in the kitchen to take with him. As he descended the stairs, he marvelled at the size of Temperance’s collection. A dozen crates contained the most valuable items, while the more robust specimens sat out draped in sheets – with the notable exception of Nero, who glowered, uncovered, from the top of a tall box.
Chaloner began his search. The Bernini was in the third chest he opened, and he paused for a moment to admire it. He had seen the old king once, across a battlefield, but he recalled the pinched, arrogant features quite clearly. The artist had captured the hauteur and pride in the face, and yet there was also a touching vulnerability about it. He could see why Bernini was regarded as a genius.
He took a deep breath, trying to summon the energy he needed to confront Turner, and was about to walk back up the stairs, when he saw a trail of water splashes on the floor. He followed them to a sack that was heavily encrusted with snow. When he opened it, he found it full of money and jewels. He was still staring, disgusted that Turner should have beaten an old man to get it, when he heard a creak. He doused the lantern, ducked into the shadows and waited.
Turner walked into the cellar holding a lamp of his own. His eyes immediately lit on the opened box that contained the stolen masterpiece. He set the lantern on a crate and drew his sword.
‘Come out,’ he called softly. ‘I know you are here, because you have left wet marks on the floor.’
Chaloner supposed he had. The snow that covered his clothes was continuing to melt, and he, like Turner’s sack, left drips wherever he went. He stepped out, and thought he saw alarm flash in the colonel’s eyes when he was recognised, but it was quickly masked.
‘What are you doing here?’ Turner demanded uneasily. ‘Temperance will be hurt when she learns you declined her invitation to dine, just so you could use the opportunity to sneak into her home and help yourself to her things.’
‘I am not the thief here,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘I do not break in to the houses of elderly merchants when I think they are at church, and batter them half to death
when I discover they are not.’
‘What is this?’ demanded Turner, struggling to feign bemusement. ‘What elderly merchant?’
Chaloner pointed to the sack. ‘The one you almost killed to get that. Do not deny it, Turner. Your ear-string dropped off during the attack, and identifies you as the culprit.’
Turner’s hand flew to his empty lobe in horror. Seeing he was trapped, he dropped the pretence of innocence, and tried another tactic. ‘This is not how it looks. I was worried about him keeping such a large sum in his house, so I decided to put it in a bank, where it will be safe. But he came back unexpectedly, and went for his gun. I panicked. I am not proud of myself, but it is what happened. It is all a terrible misunderstanding.’
‘If you say so,’ said Chaloner, too tired to argue with him. ‘But that is for a judge to decide.’
Turner shook his head in stunned disbelief. ‘This cannot be happening, not now! I have a job I love, wealthy ladies shower me with gifts, and Temperance is on the verge of giving me half her club. Those meetings at John’s Coffee House work! You ask for success with like-minded men, and lo and behold, success is yours.’
Chaloner was taken aback by the claim. ‘You attribute your recent rise in fortune to prayers?’
Turner shrugged. ‘Well, something caused my luck to change. I joined originally to gain Tryan’s confidence – to find out whether he really did have a fortune in his parlour. But when I realised prayers might be the key to my various triumphs, I decided I had better keep going. Do you want to enrol? I can get you in – in exchange for your silence about tonight’s little episode, naturally.’
Chaloner regarded him in disdain. ‘You are a callous dog, Turner. Or is your real name Grey?’
He drew his sword when Turner did not reply, glancing down when the hilt made a peculiar grating sound and something small and metallic fell from it and skittered across the floor. The blade was held in place by a thread, and would not survive the first parry. He cursed himself for not borrowing a better one from Tryan, because he should have anticipated how an encounter with Turner would end. At some point during his frantic race – probably when he had been knocked off his feet as Turner had been fleeing from Lymestrete – he had also lost the daggers he kept secreted about his person. Fortunately, the colonel noticed neither his lack of handy weapons nor the state of his sword. He began to back away.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 37
