The Westminster Poisoner (19 page)

‘I know this, too. They also met Greene, Neale, Hargrave, Tryan, Jones, and several others.’

Williamson ignored him again. ‘And third, the three dead men used to be regular and enthusiastic members of prayer meetings
held at the home of a man named Henry Scobel.’

‘Scobel?’ echoed Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, who died a few months after the
Restoration. Why would he entertain Royalists in his home?’

‘I have no idea, but entertain them he did, right up until his death. I heard the testimony of reliable witnesses – men with
no reason to lie – with my own ears.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about whether these ‘reliable witnesses’ had no reason to lie – being
interrogated by Williamson alone might have been enough to send them into a frenzy of fabrication. ‘Why do you think this
is important? Scobel died more than three years ago.’

Williamson shrugged. ‘Perhaps it isn’t important. I am merely reporting facts – interpreting them is your business, and you
may pursue or dismiss them as you see fit.’

‘It was just four of them at Scobel’s meetings?’ asked Chaloner, trusting neither the Spymaster nor his information. It was
not inconceivable that he was trying to sabotage the Earl’s investigation by muddying the waters with untruths. ‘Scobel himself,
Vine, Chetwynd and Langston?’

‘No, there were many others, including the men you listed as enjoying each other’s company at John’s Coffee House – Greene,
Jones, Neale, Gold, Hargrave and Tryan. In addition, Will Symons went, and so did an old Roundhead soldier called Doling.
And the Lea brothers.’

Chaloner kept his expression blank, but his thoughts were racing. What did it mean? That this eclectic collection of men had
prayed together in Scobel’s home during Cromwell’s reign, and had moved their devotions to a coffee house after his death?
And that one of them had decided to kill some of the others? But why?

‘Will Symons is Scobel’s nephew,’ Williamson was saying. ‘He was a Commonwealth clerk, too, but lost his post at the Restoration.
So did Doling, and both are bitter. Like you, I imagine. You must be disappointed that I decline to employ you in Holland,
after all your efforts to integrate yourself so seamlessly into that country – speaking their language, adopting their customs,
learning their politics.’

Chaloner shrugged, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right. ‘I am happy here.’

‘Are you?’ asked Williamson softly. ‘Then I must see what I can do about that.’

Chaloner was resentful as he left the Painted Chamber. He disliked his family being used as pawns to secure his cooperation,
and he distrusted Williamson with every fibre of his being. However, if the Earl
was
connected to the murders, as Williamson obviously suspected, then Chaloner did not blame him for keeping his distance from
the investigation – the King would not thank him for revealing that his Lord Chancellor was involved in something sinister.
And the statue? Chaloner had no intention of giving up his enquiries on that, just so Williamson could prove the efficacy
of his intelligence service. He would have to be careful, but he took orders from no man except the one who paid his wages.
And that was the Earl – for the time being, at least.

He thought about the new information. Three years before, Thurloe had written him a letter, expressing his deep grief at Scobel’s
death – Scobel was gentle and kind, and Thurloe had liked him. Had there been something suspicious about his demise, too?
Thurloe had not mentioned anything amiss, but perhaps it had not occurred to him to look. Chaloner rubbed his head as he walked
across New Palace Yard. What had the Earl let him in for this time, if the enquiry necessitated peering back into the mists
of time?

Confused and a little bewildered, he reviewed all he had learned. He knew the three victims had been killed by the same poison
and thus probably by the same person. They had been robbed of purses and jewellery. All had
died in the Painted Chamber. They had prayed in the home of a Parliamentarian official, and after Scobel’s death had continued
to meet at a coffee house in Covent Garden. Chetwynd had pretended to be upright, but had been corrupt, although Vine and
Langston were said to be decent men. And that was all he knew – the rest was speculation and theory.

Frustrated, he turned his thoughts to the missing statue. No one had admitted to seeing anything suspicious the night it disappeared,
and there had been no sightings of it since. But who would steal a bust of the old king? It was valuable, but hardly something
that could be hawked on the black market – too many people knew it was stolen, so buyers were unlikely to be lining up. Had
it been acquired for someone’s private collection then, because to own a work of art by Bernini was its own reward? Should
he start investigating wealthy men, to ascertain whether any had a penchant for sculpture? Merchants, perhaps? Or some of
the more affluent courtiers? But that represented a lot of people, and with disgust, Chaloner acknowledged that he was no
further along with that enquiry than he was with the murders.

He arrived at the Earl’s offices, treading lightly as was his wont, and was rather surprised to catch Haddon in the act of
rummaging through Bulteel’s desk – the secretary was out delivering letters. Haddon stopped what he was doing, and gave the
spy a sickly, unconvincing smile. His dogs were with him, and Chaloner supposed they had not been trained to bark a warning
as someone approached.

‘I was looking for a pen,’ explained the steward, straightening up furtively.

Chaloner pointed to the box of quills that stood in plain view. ‘What is wrong with those?’

Haddon grimaced. ‘I know what you are thinking – that I am searching Bulteel’s drawers because I intend to see him ousted
and me appointed in his place. He accuses me of it every time we meet.’

‘Perhaps he has a point.’

Haddon winced. ‘But I do not
want
his post. I would hate being cooped up in this dismal hole all day, writing letters and making dull little entries in ledgers.
The reason I am invading his domain is because I do not trust him. I think he may have drawn that map of the Earl’s rooms
I showed you. Unfortunately, he is too clever to have left any clues that will allow me to prove it.’

‘Bulteel did not make that sketch,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Brodrick did, as you first assumed – you said you found the drawing
after he had been to visit. I imagine it has something to do with his plan, as Lord of Misrule, to decorate the Earl’s offices
in the manner of a Turkish brothel.’

Haddon gazed at him, then sighed in relief. ‘Is that what he intends to do? Then it is not as bad as I feared! It will be
inconvenient, but we can cope with that. I shall have to take the Earl away for a few hours, to ensure they have enough time
to accomplish their mischief, but that should be no problem.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘You will let them proceed?’

Haddon regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course! If I thwart him, Brodrick might devise something much worse – and
better the devil you know. Not a word to the Earl, though. He will refuse to play along, and that would be unfortunate, because
I
know
it will be better for him if he just lets matters run their course.’

Chaloner left thinking the steward was wiser than he looked, and that the Earl was fortunate in his servants.
It was a pity Bulteel and Haddon disliked each other, because together they would make a formidable team, and would increase
the Earl’s chances of besting his enemies permanently.

He tapped at the door to the Earl’s offices, expecting to be reprimanded for taking so long to report his findings. The Earl
opened it furtively, and when he recognised Chaloner, he slipped out and led his spy a short distance down the corridor, evidently
intending to have the discussion there. Chaloner was bemused, because the hallway was draughty, which the Earl always said
was bad for his gout. His mystification intensified when he glanced behind him, through the door that had been left ajar,
and glimpsed a visitor. It was Sir Nicholas Gold.

‘I am sorry to take you away from your company, sir,’ he said, apologetically.

‘I am alone,’ said the Earl rather too quickly. ‘But I have confidential papers out on my desk – ones I cannot let anyone
else see.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback. He had never known the Earl to lie quite so brazenly before. Uncharitably, he wondered
whether he was asking Gold about the murders, and planned to pass any clues to Turner. Then Turner would solve the case, and
the Earl would win his bet with Haddon.

‘Well?’ demanded the Earl, when the spy said no more. ‘Have you proved Greene’s guilt yet?’

‘No, I came to report that—’

The Earl raised a plump hand to stop him. ‘I want a culprit, not a résumé of your discoveries. And while you waste time here,
Turner is in the charnel house, watching those who gawk at Langston’s corpse – he tells me killers
often gloat over their handiwork. He knows a lot about such matters.’

‘Does he?’ asked Chaloner curiously. ‘How? I thought he was a soldier.’

‘Like you, he has enjoyed a colourful career, although
he
was never a Parliamentarian spy or an officer in Cromwell’s New Model Army.’

There was no answer to a statement like that, and Chaloner did not try to think of one. ‘How violently did Chetwynd oppose
your stance on religion, sir?’ he asked instead. It was a blunt question, but he was beginning to think the Earl would hire
Turner in preference to him no matter what he did, and felt he had nothing to lose by impertinence.

The Earl regarded him through narrowed eyes. ‘I hope you are not intimating that I might have wanted Chetwynd dead because
he attacked me in public! Or that I had designs on Vine’s life, because he condemned my new house.’

Not to mention your ire when Langston declined to become your spy, thought Chaloner. He shook his head. ‘Of course not, sir.
I ask because I need to be ready to answer any accusations from your enemies. That will be difficult, if I do not have all
the facts.’

The Earl mulled this over. ‘My disputes with Vine and Chetwynd did turn nasty,’ he conceded reluctantly. ‘I was furious when
they presumed to question my judgement. And I was angry with Langston for refusing to work for me, so yes, I had reason to
dislike all three. But anyone who thinks I had anything to do with their deaths is a fool. Damn Vine! Why did
he
have to be a victim?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Why do you single out him in particular?’

The Earl jutted out a defiant chin. ‘I do not want to talk about it.’

Chaloner would find out anyway, although it would save time if he did not have to. ‘I would rather hear it from you, than
from one of your detractors, sir,’ he said reasonably.

The Earl eyed him balefully. ‘You really are a disrespectful rogue! No wonder Thurloe kept you overseas all those years
– he would have been compelled to slit your throat, had you worked here.’

Chaloner was growing tired of the Earl’s reluctance to trust him. Why could he not be more like Thurloe? Not for the first
time, the Spy wished Cromwell had not died, the Commonwealth had not fallen, and Thurloe was still in charge of the intelligence
services. ‘Then I will ask Vine’s family—’

‘No,’ snapped the Earl. He sighed irritably, and went to close the door to his office. He lowered his voice when he returned.
‘If you must know, Vine was black mailing me.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I doubt
you
have ever done anything worthy of extortion.’

For the first time in weeks, the Earl smiled at him. ‘A compliment! There is a rare event – I was under the impression you
consider me something of a villain. But your good opinion is misplaced, I am afraid. Vine knew a terrible secret about me,
which he threatened to make public. He said he would hold his tongue only if I agreed not to build my home in Piccadilly.’

‘Did he think it too grand?’

‘Yes, but that was not his main complaint. Raising Clarendon House will necessitate the destruction of some woods. Nightingales
sing in these woods, apparently, and he did not want their song silenced.’

Chaloner struggled to understand. He liked birds himself, and the haunting sound of nightingales was a source of great delight
to him, but there were other trees nearby, and the ones that would be felled to make way for the mansion were something of
a jungle. Then he considered the geography.

‘Did his objections arise from the fact that he could hear these birds from his house?’

The Earl nodded. ‘It took me rather longer to grasp the selfish rationale behind his demands, but you are right. He said it
was a crime against God to render nightingales homeless, but the reality was that
he
liked them. His family hated him, and listening to these birds was the only thing that made being at home with them tolerable.
And now I had better tell you what Vine knew about me – my awful secret.’

Chaloner doubted he was about to hear anything overtly shocking. ‘It might help, sir.’

‘It involves something that happened a few months ago, when the Lady was moving from her old rooms in the Holbein Gate to
fabulous new quarters overlooking the Privy Gardens. To furnish them, she looted works of art from the King, from public rooms,
and from any White Hall resident too intimidated to oppose her plunder.’

‘I remember. She put White Hall in a frenzy of chaos for about a week.’

‘One night, just before she moved in, I found myself with an opportunity to inspect her new domain alone. When I saw the beautiful
things she had appropriated for herself, I was overcome with a deep and uncontrollable anger. I did something of which I am
deeply ashamed.’

‘And Vine saw you?’

‘Yes. He was also taking the opportunity to admire what the Lady had accumulated, and was standing quietly in the shadows,
so I did not see him until it was too late. Needless to say, he was shocked when I … did what I did. He said he understood
the reasons for my uncharacteristically loutish behaviour, and promised to overlook the matter like any decent man – until
the matter of the nightingales arose, and he threatened to tell everyone.’