The Westminster Poisoner (15 page)

‘He and his Court are all rakes,’ declared Hargrave. He was not an attractive specimen. Savage red marks on his shaven pate
suggested he had recently enjoined a major battle with fleas or ringworm, and wigs were not recommended until the skin had
had time to heal; it was not only the poor who had trouble with parasites. ‘They do nothing but drink, frolic with whores
and play cards. Why should we be taxed to support them?’

There was a rumble of agreement from his fellow merchants, and Chaloner was appalled to see how far from favour the King had
fallen. It was only three years since he had been welcomed into the capital with cheering
crowds and showers of roses. Now his people deplored the way he lived, and resented the cost of maintaining him and his Court.

‘The bishops get all,’ chanted Tryan, beginning a popular ditty that could be heard in London’s streets with increasing frequency.
It was not just merchants who sang it, but apprentices, children and even clerics, too. ‘The courtiers spend all, the citizens
pay for all, the King neglects all, and the Devil takes all.’

Jones blew out his chubby cheeks in a sigh. ‘I understand your frustration, Alderman Tryan, but one of His Majesty’s coachmen
lost an eye in the fight here this morning, and traders from the New Exchange cheered for his opponent. Now the King believes
it is full of traitors.’

‘Traitors?’ demanded Tryan angrily. ‘We love our country, but what does he do for it? Or does sleeping until noon, and waking
only to cavort with his mistress count as patriotic service?’

‘
We
are not debauchees, who care only for our own comforts,’ added Hargrave. ‘We are hard-working men, and it is on our labour
that this fine country is built. So open the damned Exchange!’

‘I cannot,’ said Jones, clearly uncomfortable with the position he had been forced to take. ‘His Majesty wants it to remain
closed until further notice, and I am duty-bound to obey. Soldiers from White Hall will be here soon, and it would be better
for everyone if you all just went home.’

There was a menacing growl from the people. Free Londoners had never appreciated being ordered about by the military, and
Chaloner could see the apprentices readying themselves for battle.

‘You can try to keep it shut,’ challenged Hargrave, aware that he had the crowd’s support. ‘But we will have it open – no
matter whose blood is spilled.’

While Hargrave and Tryan basked in their colleagues’ approbation for their brave stance, Chaloner approached Jones, who was
wringing his fat hands in dismay.

‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but the road is blocked by carriages, and the guards will
be unable to get through. So do not expect reinforcements any time soon.’

‘Chaloner,’ breathed Jones, recognising him. ‘Thank God for a friendly face! You must be right about the soldiers, because
they should have been here ages ago. I was a fool to have tackled these rebels alone.’

‘They are not rebels,’ said Chaloner, not liking to think what might happen if that description of the crowd reached the nervous
ears at White Hall. ‘Just angry citizens.’

But Jones was not interested in splitting hairs. ‘What am I to do? I cannot disobey a direct order from the King, but I do
not love him so much that I am willing to be torn limb from limb. And if you ever repeat that, I shall deny saying it.’

‘Then turn the situation to His Majesty’s advantage,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking the solution should have been obvious.
‘Tell these merchants that you have just received word from the King, who has decided to reopen the Exchange as a mark of
affection for his loyal subjects.’

Jones gazed at him. ‘But that would be untrue! He hates these upstarts.’

Chaloner was surprised Jones had managed to secure a Court post, if he baulked at telling lies. ‘The alternative is to keep
the place closed and increase the King’s
unpopularity – and risk losing your life. There must be upwards of five hundred people here, with more flocking to join them
by the moment.’

Jones hesitated until someone threw a clod of mud that narrowly missed his tent-sized coat. ‘I have just received word from
the King,’ he shouted, raising a plump hand to gain attention. ‘He orders that the Exchange be opened for business immediately.
And he sends warm greetings to all his people, whom he loves like his own children.’

‘Steady!’ murmured Chaloner in alarm. Londoners were not stupid.

‘He does not have any children,’ said Hargrave, bemused. ‘The Queen is barren.’

‘She is not,’ declared Chaloner, stepping forward before he could stop himself. He liked the Queen, and objected to anyone
abusing her. His quiet words, the expression on his face, and the confident stance of a man who knew how to handle himself
made Hargrave scuttle back in alarm.

‘Actually, the King has plenty of children,’ countered Jones. ‘The only problem being that none of them are legitimate. But
time is passing, and I have much to do. Good afternoon, gentlemen. God save the King, and so forth.’

‘God save the King,’ echoed Tryan mechanically. A few others joined in, but not many and none were very enthusiastic.

‘God might prefer saving the Devil to that scoundrel on the throne,’ muttered Hargrave. He cleared his throat and raised his
voice. ‘And now let us to business. Too much time has been wasted today.’

‘Thank God that is over,’ breathed Jones, watching the
mob disperse. Many went reluctantly, giving the impression that they would rather have had a skirmish; it underlined what
a volatile place the city could be. ‘But what shall I tell the King? He will ask why the Exchange is open.’

‘Say his people appreciated his magnanimity in permitting the resumption of trade,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And that money made
today can be taxed tomorrow. That should mollify him.’

Jones invited Chaloner to ride with him to White Hall. The carriage listed heavily to one side, leaving Chaloner gripping
the window in order to prevent himself from sliding into the large courtier’s lap.

‘I understand you have competition in the form of one Colonel Turner,’ said Jones conversationally as they jolted along. ‘The
Earl has appointed him as his new spy, and he is doing rather well with his investigation into these murders.’

‘Is he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He told me he is coming close to a solution. Little Bulteel follows him around in the hope of finding out what he has learned,
because he is determined that you should win the contest. You should let Bulteel befriend you, Chaloner, because his wife
makes excellent cakes.’

‘Always a good reason for developing relationships,’ said Chaloner facetiously, before realising that for an obese man like
Jones, it probably was.

‘Do not develop one with Turner, though,’ advised Jones, leaning towards him confidentially. ‘He is a liar – he told me he
has twenty-eight legitimate children, and that he intends to increase his brood the moment he finds himself another wife.
And would you believe that women
are eager to be considered for the honour – even those who are already married?’

‘I heard he attracted the attentions of Lady Castlemaine last night. In a mud bath.’

Jones shuddered as he nodded. ‘It was rather horrible, if you want the truth. He will cavort with anyone. That poor young
Meg from the laundry is under the impression that he is going to wed
her
, but of course he will do no such thing. Perhaps that is why she has not been seen since Saturday – she has learned his intentions
are less than honourable towards her.’

Chaloner frowned, recalling that Turner had been due to meet Meg for a midnight tryst, but the colonel had been unable to
fulfil his obligations, on account of him finding Vine’s body. ‘She is missing?’

‘Yes. It is a pity, because she is a pretty little piece.’

Chaloner’s frown deepened. Had the laundress arrived early for the assignation, and seen the killer at work? And had she then
fled, to ensure she was not his next victim? Or had she screamed or announced her presence in some other way, and so was lying
dead somewhere? The Painted Chamber was not far from the river, which was an excellent repository for corpses. He supposed
he would have to ask the charnel-house keeper whether any bodies had been washed ashore. Of course, all this assumed Turner
was telling the truth. What if
he
was the killer, and he had been obliged to ‘find’ Vine because Meg had caught him in the act of dispatching his victim? Either
way, Chaloner did not hold much hope that the laundress was still alive.

When they reached White Hall, they paid the driver and were just walking through the gates, when two people hurtled towards
them, intent on a game that involved a
ball and two curved sticks. One stick caught Jones a painful blow on the shin, causing him to howl and jump about in agony.
Lady Castlemaine put her hand over her mouth when she saw what she had done, but her remorse did not last long: she took one
look at the fat man’s undulating jig, and immediately burst into laughter. Her partner in crime, the Duke of Buckingham,
ignored Jones altogether as he took aim and hit the ball as hard as he could, sending it whizzing towards a fountain. Whooping
and shrieking, he and the Lady hared after it. They appeared a little too intimate together, indicating their relationship
was probably sexual, as well as one of coconspirators against the Lord Chancellor.

Chaloner watched them disapprovingly. The Lady reminded him of a cat – smug, sensual and vain, with claws ever at the ready.
She was still young, but lines of spite and bad-temper were beginning to etch their way around her mouth and eyes, and the
spy had never understood why so many men found her irresistible. Meanwhile, Buckingham was a tall, athletic fellow in his
mid-thirties, who should have known better than to play rough games in a place where people might be hurt. Chaloner turned
to Jones, offering an arm for balance as the fat man bent to inspect the damage to his leg.

‘I have been looking for you, Jones,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I have a message: the King wants you to re-open the
Exchange as soon as possible. Apparently, keeping it shut entails too much paperwork.’

The speaker was a clerk, and Jones straightened up to stare at him. ‘What?’

‘He realised it was more trouble than it was worth shortly after he dispatched you to The Strand. He apologises for not
sending word sooner, but says he has been
engrossed in a game of blind man’s buff, and forgot about you. Indeed, it was only by chance that he happened to mention the
matter to Williamson, who then ordered me to look for you and tell you of the decision.’

‘I see,’ said Jones. He looked deflated, hurt by the revelation that the unpleasant episode outside the New Exchange had all
been for nothing.

‘You work for Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the clerk. He had not seen the man before, and was curious about his relationship
to the Spymaster. The fellow was clad in black from head to toe, with the exception of his spotlessly white neck-band. The
effect might have been smart on another person, but on the clerk it was sinister, although Chaloner could not have said why.
Perhaps it was something to do with the dark, close-set eyes, which never seemed to settle on anything.

Jones remembered his manners. ‘This is John Swaddell, Williamson’s new secretary, whom he says is indispensable.’ He gestured
to Chaloner. ‘And this is—’

‘I know,’ interrupted Swaddell. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s intelligencer, and the current beau of Hannah Cotton. My master has
mentioned him on several occasions.’

Chaloner was uncomfortable with the notion that he – and his friendship with Hannah – had been the subject of discussions
involving Williamson. ‘What did he say?’

Swaddell shrugged. ‘Only that he dislikes you, and that I am to ensure you do not harm him.’

‘Harm him?’ echoed Chaloner in disbelief. ‘He is Spymaster General, with an army of highly trained men at his command. I would
not dare go anywhere near him!’

This was not entirely true, because Court security was so lax that Chaloner knew he could ‘harm’ anyone he
pleased. However, he did not want Williamson thinking him dangerous, and was keen for Swaddell to report there was nothing
to worry about. Enemies of Williamson were apt to disappear, and Chaloner did not want to be stabbed in a dark alley just
because the Spymaster was uneasy.

Swaddell was about to add more, but was distracted by a sudden screech of rage. It came from the Lady, who was given to abrupt
displays of temper. This time her ire was focussed on a couple who had just alighted from a splendid carriage. It was Bess
Gold and her elderly husband. A number of male courtiers were beginning to converge, eager to offer Bess an arm across the
cobbles – a young woman with an ageing and very rich husband was an attractive target for the fortune-hunters who haunted
White Hall. However, the moment they realised she was engaged in an altercation with Lady Castlemaine, they melted away like
frost in the sun.

‘I said I
like
it,’ the Lady was yelling, eyes flashing as she fixed Bess with a glare that held poison. ‘That means I
want
it, and you should give it to me. Do I have to spell it out, you stupid child?’

Buckingham was trying to calm her, although his impatient manner was doing little to ease the situation. ‘It is just a bauble,’
he snapped irritably. ‘I will buy you another. But you cannot have this one, because its owner is unwilling to part with it.’

‘You are right, kind sir,’ simpered Bess, batting her eyelashes at him. ‘I am.’

Chaloner watched with interest as the scene unfolded. Gold was cocking his head in a way that suggested he could not hear
a word that was being said, while Buckingham was itching to get back to his game. Bess
beamed at the Duke, and seemed wholly unaware that she was playing with fire by refusing a ‘request’ by the Lady – and by
flirting with her handsome playmate.

‘I am a Catholic,’ the Lady announced in a ringing voice. ‘A secret one, it is true, but I am a faithful daughter of the Church,
and I do not yet have a crucifix. Yours has rubies in it, which would look nice with the gown I intend to wear to confession.
I want it, and you will give it to me.’