‘Please!’ he cried, alarmed. ‘I am sure we can work this out without resorting to violence.’
‘We can,’ agreed Chaloner evenly. ‘And it entails you putting up your weapon and turning around.’
‘No!’ Turner’s face was as white as the snow that was falling outside. ‘They will execute me, and you know how I feel about hanging.’
Chaloner was unmoved. ‘Then you should have thought of that before you broke the law.’
Turner swallowed hard, clearly loath to engage in a skirmish he thought he was unlikely to win. Then he closed his eyes in weary resignation, and slowly reached out to place his sword on the nearest crate. Unfortunately, Chaloner’s blade chose that moment to drop out of its hilt. The colonel’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment, but his reactions were fast. He snatched up his weapon again, even as Chaloner darted towards it, and the spy was lucky to avoid the lunge that was aimed in his direction.
‘And you berated me for poor weapon maintenance the other night,’ Turner crowed, his confidence flooding back now he had the advantage. ‘Hypocrite!’
‘You are still not leaving this cellar a free man,’ warned Chaloner.
Turner laughed derisively. ‘And who will stop me? Not you, because you will be dead. You seem to know rather too much about me, and I do not want you telling tales to His Portliness.’
Chaloner grabbed an old broom that had been left lying on the floor. Turner might have the upper hand at that precise moment, but the spy had faced worse odds. All he needed to do was even them out a little. He looked around quickly, and a plan began to form in his mind.
‘I appreciate that the King’s statue posed an irresistible temptation for you,’ he said, jigging away from the stabbing blade. ‘But I will never forgive you for involving Temperance. Or Meg, although I cannot imagine she knew why you needed her cart.’
‘Meg would have demanded a share,’ said Turner, watching Chaloner with narrowed eyes as the spy weaved between the crates. ‘So I kept her in the dark. But how do you know I involved Temperance?’
The question took Chaloner by surprise, given where they were. ‘Other than the stolen bust being hidden in her cellar? Well, there is the note offering to sell it to Margaret Symons, which is in her handwriting. You persuaded her to scribe it, lest someone recognised your own scrawl.’
Turner grinned slyly. ‘It suits me to be cautious. She had no idea what she was scribbling about, though – I doubt her affection for me runs deep enough to defraud the King on my account.’
Chaloner was not so sure about that. He moved further behind the sculpture as Turner continued to speak. His ploy to distract the man by encouraging him to gloat was working – like many criminals, he could not resist bragging about his achievements.
‘I assumed some wealthy Royalist would buy it, but the King made such a fuss about its loss that I dared not approach any. I had no idea he would miss it so much. God knows why – it is ugly.’
‘It is of his father,’ said Chaloner, astounded not only by the man’s ignorance of art, but by his lack of understanding for his victim. ‘Of course he will miss it.’
‘I tried selling it to artists in the end,’ Turner went on, waving his free hand to indicate Chaloner did not know what he was talking about. ‘And I even offered it to Greene, thinking he might exchange it for a pardon. He was a fool to refuse, because I do not see how else he will evade the noose.’
‘You think he is guilty?’ Chaloner stumbled when Turner managed to land a sly jab with his sword. It did no harm, but the colonel had moved fast, and Chaloner knew he would have to be careful. His lame leg was slowing him down, and the trek through the snow had taken too great a toll on his strength – unlike Turner, he did not have the exhilaration of a successful burglary to fuel him.
The colonel nodded. ‘I wanted to believe he was the victim of a monstrous conspiracy, as you suggested, but there are too many inexplicable coincidences. He must have killed those three clerks because they were more successful than him, and he was jealous.’
One more jig put Chaloner in the position he had been aiming for – with Turner trapped between two tall boxes where he would be unable to make full use of his sword. He took a firmer grip on the broom, readying himself for attack. Turner was still chattering.
‘I thought it would be easy to make a tidy profit from the statue, because everyone here is so fabulously gullible. For example, selling those lockets to swooning women has been child’s play.’
The confession made Chaloner falter. ‘You sold those keepsakes?’ he asked, astounded by the man’s audacity. ‘I thought you dispensed them to make each lady think she was special.’
Turner’s smug grin was back. ‘I did – I just wheedled a small donation from her at the same time. They are wealthy lasses, and do not mind lending me money for my poor sick mother.’
‘And then you make bets with men like me, saying you can charm these lockets away from their owners. But, of course, you do no such thing. Belle is still wearing hers, and the one you showed me this morning is a duplicate.’
‘I keep a supply in my hat,’ confided Turner, winking. ‘I almost lost them when Lady Castlemaine demanded I hand it over – I had to pretend I wanted to keep it because it was a gift from Bess.’
‘You could have returned the statue to the Earl,’ said Chaloner, aiming to disconcert him by turning the discussion to the crime that had transpired to be something of a disaster. ‘He would have been far too delighted to ask awkward questions, and you could have secured his good graces permanently.’
Turner sneered. ‘And what would he have given me for it? Nothing! However, I am beginning to see there is no alternative, so I shall make him a gift of it after I kill you. I will tell him you stole it.’
Chaloner dived forward, startling the colonel with the speed of his attack. Turner tried to fight back, but found he had insufficient room to manoeuvre. The spy met each feeble thrust with the broom, then jabbed hard, catching Turner a painful blow on the ribs. But Turner recovered quickly, and reciprocated by slashing at Chaloner’s legs. He missed, but the move caused the spy to stagger, and Turner took the opportunity to dart around a crate and tip Nero off his pedestal. Chaloner hurled himself backwards to avoid being crushed, and fell awkwardly. Turner grinned when he saw the spy sprawled on the floor sans broom, and prepared to make an end of him.
Chaloner looked around desperately for some kind of weapon – anything that would slow Turner’s relentless advance – but there was nothing. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the stroke that would end his life. But suddenly, there was a thud and Turner gave a sharp yelp of pain – someone had lobbed a wine decanter that had hit him square in the back. Temperance was on the stairs.
Turner whipped around, then started to stride towards her. Chaloner struggled to his feet, sure Turner was going to kill her, but his legs were like rubber, and he could not move nearly fast enough. The colonel reached her first.
‘Dearest,’ he said with one of his most winning smiles. ‘Chaloner stole the King’s bust, and hid it in your cellar. But he has been unable to sell the thing, so hopes to secure his future with the Earl by blaming you for the crime.’
‘He is lying,’ said Chaloner, although with scant hope of being believed. Why would she take his word over that of an adored lover?
‘We have been fighting,’ continued Turner, ignoring him. ‘But I won, and it will not take a moment to finish him off. Go upstairs, love. You do not want to see this.’
‘I heard you,’ said Temperance in a low, broken voice. ‘I was hard on your heels when you came down here. I heard everything you said.’
Unabashed, Turner winked at her. ‘You heard me confounding him with a false confession. It is a technique I have used to corner felons before, and you should not worry your pretty head with it.’
While Turner was talking, Chaloner summoned the strength for a final assault. He tore across the room, and crashed into the man, bowling him from his feet.
The sword flew from Turner’s hand, and by the time he had gathered his wits, the spy was sitting astride him and his own dagger was being held to his throat. Turner regarded it in astonishment, as if he could not imagine how he had lost the encounter.
‘Stand up,’ ordered Chaloner, grabbing the sword. He was aware of Temperance’s bitter weeping behind him, and it tore at his heart. For two pins, he would have run Turner through there and then.
‘Do not let him take me,’ Turner begged, climbing to his feet and stretching a pleading hand towards Temperance. ‘I will be hanged. And anyway, I stole the bust for us, so we could—’
‘No more lies, James,’ Temperance sobbed. ‘Do not talk to me.’
Turner was shrewd enough to recognise a lost cause when he saw one. He turned to Chaloner instead. ‘If you let me go, I will tell you where to find Greene – or rather where Greene will be at dawn. The whores in the Dog and Duck have been sheltering him, but I met Meg earlier, and she could not resist confiding in me.’
Chaloner indicated that Turner was to precede him up the stairs. Temperance followed.
‘He plans to visit the Painted Chamber at first light,’ continued Turner, rather desperately. ‘According to Meg, he wants to collect a few things before fleeing to France. You can go there and arrest him. It will delight His Portliness, and save you your job.’
‘And why should I believe you?’
‘Because I do not want to hang,’ said Turner. His voice was unsteady. ‘So I am offering you valuable information in exchange for an hour to leave the city. Besides, I suspect you think I am the clerk-killer – you seem to be blaming me for everything else – and I want to prove my innocence by giving you the real villain. Greene.’
‘There is no need,’ said Chaloner. They reached the top of the stairs, and Temperance stepped around them to open the door. ‘You have an alibi for Chetwynd’s murder: Meg said you and she meet each Monday and Thursday and stay together from dusk until dawn. You were with her when he died.’
He heard Temperance catch her breath, but did not take his eyes off Turner. She tugged open the door, then stood aside for the colonel to pass. As he went, Turner reached out to touch her cheek. She ducked away violently, unwittingly placing herself between him and Chaloner’s sword. As quick as lightning, Turner shoved her hard, so she toppled towards the cellar stairs. Chaloner tried to catch her, but she was a large woman and represented a lot of weight. She fell, dragging the spy down the steps with her. Then the door slammed, and Chaloner heard the key turn in the lock.
‘Tom?’ asked Temperance softly in the silence that followed. ‘Are you all right?’
Chaloner was unable to answer until she had removed herself from his chest. Then he lurched up the stairs and hauled furiously at the door, disgusted with himself for letting Turner escape. By the time he had picked the lock, the colonel was long gone. He did not feel equal to a chase, so he limped back to the kitchen instead. Temperance was sitting at the table, sobbing so hard he was not sure how to comfort her. He said nothing, and knelt by her side, waiting until she was ready to talk. He was aware of the minutes ticking away, but nothing seemed more important than his friend at that moment.
While she wept, he thought about Turner’s claim. Was he telling the truth about Greene being in the Painted Chamber at dawn? Or was it yet another lie? And how far off was daybreak anyway? He had lost all sense of time. In the parlour, he could hear Wiseman’s voice, and the sound of women laughing. At least someone was having a good time.
‘No!’ exclaimed Temperance suddenly, brushing away her tears. She sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, no!’
‘What?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. It was not a reaction he had been anticipating.
She leapt to her feet and began to bundle him towards the door. ‘James – I have just realised what he is going to do. He will see us as the only thing standing between him and the fulfilment of his nefarious plans. He will run straight to your Earl and spin a web of lies that will see us blamed for robbing Tryan and stealing the statue.’
Chaloner disengaged his arm. Turner had just had a very narrow escape, and would be halfway to the coast by now, thanking his lucky stars for his deliverance. ‘Even he is not audacious enough to—’
She punched his shoulder, hard, to express her exasperation. ‘He is, Tom! He is the most plausible liar in London – he must be, if he can deceive me. And who do you think your Earl will believe? A Royalist colonel who solves murders, or you, who keeps to the shadows and insults him at every turn?’
‘But you heard him confess,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘You will bear witness that—’
‘You think the Earl will listen to a brothel-keeper, do you?’
She had a point. ‘But it is not—’
‘You do not know James like I do,’ she snapped. ‘He loves money, and we have just deprived him of five thousand pounds. He will be livid – itching for revenge. And what better way, than to see us accused of the crimes he committed? I cannot believe I have been such a fool.’
Neither could Chaloner. ‘It could happen to anyone,’ he began lamely.
‘He used me to mislead you,’ she went on bitterly. ‘He encouraged me to think Brodrick stole the bust, in his capacity as Lord of Misrule. And then he urged me to share my so-called theory with you – to throw you off his own scent. He is a villain to the core! But do not stand there looking bewildered, Tom! Go! Take my horse.’
‘You have a horse?’
‘I did,’ said Temperance grimly, when she led the way across the yard and saw the stable door ajar. Footprints in the snow showed where someone had dashed in and a nag had galloped out. ‘You will have to run. Your life – and mine – depends on you reaching the Earl in time to refute James’s lies.’
Chaloner tried to do as she ordered, but he was exhausted, and every inch was a struggle. The blizzard had dwindled to the occasional flurry, but the temperature had plummeted, and there was a crust of ice on top of the snow. Every step involved crunching knee-deep into it, and hauling the other leg out behind him. It would have been gruelling exercise had he been fresh, but his energy reserves were almost entirely depleted, and his leg ached badly.
He laboured along The Strand with his breath coming in sharp bursts. He began to sweat from the effort, but did not dare stop to remove his coat, afraid he would never start again if he did. When he reached Charing Cross, he was tempted to give up, and hope the Earl would be prepared to listen to him regardless of what Turner had said in the interim. But there was Temperance to consider. The Earl was not going to champion a woman who ran a bordello, whether she was innocent or not.
The city was eerily quiet, sounds being muffled by the blanketing snow. He heard the clocks strike five, and was surprised it was so late; it felt earlier, because most of London still slept. He did not imagine the Earl would be at his offices at such an hour, so he stopped at Worcester House, hammering on the door with a ferocity that hurt his hands. But the servant who answered it told him the Earl was not there – he had already gone to White Hall. Chaloner had miscalculated, and had lost valuable moments doing so.
He reached the palace after what seemed liked an age, and stumbled through the gate. He was able to put on a spurt of speed once he was inside, but knew it was too little, too late – when he arrived and placed his ear against the office door, he could hear Turner speaking. The monologue was occasionally punctuated by the Earl, and once by Haddon. Chaloner rested his forehead against the wall in weary despair. The colonel had already spun his tale, and he was elegant, plausible and charming. Temperance was right: the Earl would never believe Chaloner over his new darling.
So what should he do now? Slip away before he was arrested? But then what would happen to Temperance? He took a deep breath, and tried to hear what was being said.
‘… Greene in the Painted Chamber,’ Turner was declaring.
‘Is he?’ asked the Earl. ‘Then why have you not arrested him?’
‘I would have done, sir,’ said Tu
rner patiently. ‘But, as I just told you, I have only just escaped from Chaloner and his friend the brothel-keeper. They locked me in their cellar all night, and I am lucky to escape with my life. It was they who stopped me from apprehending Greene.’
‘I do not believe you,’ said Haddon indignantly. ‘Thomas would never do such terrible things. You are just trying to have him dismissed, so you can be appointed in his place.’
‘Dismissed?’ echoed Turner. ‘I want him thrown into your deepest dungeon! He stole from the King, not to mention battering poor Tryan to within an inch of his life. And he told me he felt sorry for Greene, because he is a fellow criminal. A man like that cannot be allowed his freedom.’
‘Put up your weapon, colonel,’ ordered the Earl. ‘I do not feel safe with you waving it about.’
Chaloner reached for his own sword, not liking the notion of Turner being in the Earl’s company with a naked blade, only to realise he did not have one. The only remotely sharp implement to hand was Bulteel’s paper-knife. He grabbed it, and had just put his ear to the door again when there was a shriek.
‘Stop!’ cried the Earl. ‘I command you to disarm!’
‘You do not believe me,’ hissed Turner. ‘You think I am lying.’
‘We can talk about this like civilised men,’ came Haddon’s unsteady voice. ‘But putting your sword at the Lord Chancellor’s throat is not the best way to make your case.’
Chaloner had heard enough. He threw open the door and burst in, paper-knife at the ready.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 38
