The Westminster Poisoner (2 page)

The spy frowned. The Painted Chamber was not a place that would attract most people on such a wild night, so what had Turner
been doing there? Besides being vast, dark and full of disquieting noises, it was bitterly cold. But the colonel had been
right about one thing: it
was
deserted, and it was not long before Chaloner had satisfied himself to that effect. He returned to the body.

‘He said he saw a light as he was walking home from church,’ the Earl elaborated, resting his hands on his knees to catch
his breath. ‘So he came to investigate. He found Vine, and, knowing my interest in Chetwynd’s murder, he came to tell me that
a second prominent official lies dead.’

‘How did he know about your interest in Chetwynd?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously. Sudden deaths among government employees were
for the Spymaster General to investigate, and the Earl had no business commissioning his own enquiry. So, when he had ordered
his spy to look into the affair, he had promised to keep it a secret, to avoid unnecessary trouble – the Spymaster hated meddlers.

The Earl looked sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned to one or two people that I dislike the notion of our officials being murdered
in Westminster, and that I have a man asking questions about the matter. Turner probably heard it from them.’

Chaloner stifled a sigh, and wished his master knew how to keep a still tongue in his head – he was always sharing information
he should have kept to himself. But what was done was done, and there was no point in remonstrating, not that the Earl would
take notice anyway. ‘Where is Turner now?’

‘I sent him to fetch Surgeon Wiseman.’ The Earl held up a hand when Chaloner opened his mouth to object. ‘I know you dislike
Wiseman – and his gleeful penchant for gore
is
disconcerting – but he is good at distilling information from corpses. Turner must be having trouble finding him – I expected
them to arrive before you, given that you have had to travel all the way from Wapping.’

‘I was there shadowing Greene,’ said Chaloner, keeping
his voice carefully neutral. ‘The man you suspect of killing Chetwynd.’

‘But Greene
did
murder Chetwynd,’ declared the Earl uncompromisingly. ‘I know a scoundrel when I see one, and I was right to order you to
watch his every move.’

Chaloner made no reply. He had been tailing Greene for two days now – ever since Chetwynd’s body had been found – but felt
it was a complete waste of his time. Moreover, it was unreasonable to expect one man to follow another for twenty-four hours
a day without help. He was exhausted, and had been relieved when the Earl’s steward had arrived to tell him he was needed
urgently at Westminster.

‘Where is Haddon?’ demanded the Earl, seeming to realise for the first time that the steward was not with them. ‘Did he go
home after delivering you my message?’

‘You said you wanted Greene under constant surveillance,’ explained Chaloner. ‘So Haddon offered to monitor him while I came
here.’

The Earl smiled smugly. ‘He is a dedicated soul, and I am glad I hired him. He will do anything for me – even lurk around
outside on foul-weathered nights.’

Chaloner nodded, not mentioning that Greene’s house was mostly visible from a nearby tavern, and Haddon was comfortably installed
there with a jug of ale and a piece of plum pudding. Just then an especially violent gust of wind hurled something against
one of the windows, hard enough to shatter the glass. Chaloner whipped around fast, sword in his hand, and the Earl released
a sharp yelp of fright.

‘Where is Wiseman?’ he demanded unsteadily, peering out from behind the spy: being in a deserted hall with a corpse was taking
a heavy toll on his nerves. ‘What is
keeping him? Perhaps
you
should examine the body. I know you are no surgeon, trained to recognise foul play in the dead, but you spotted the signs
readily enough on Chetwynd two days ago. So do the same for Vine now.’

Chaloner obliged, performing a perfunctory examination that entailed inspecting the inside of Vine’s mouth to look for tell-tale
burns. They were there, as he had known they would be the moment he had set eyes on the man’s peculiarly contorted posture
– it had been this that had alerted him to the fact that Chetwynd’s death was not natural some two days before.

‘Poison,’ he said, looking up at his master. ‘Just like Chetwynd.’

The gale showed no signs of abating, and when the Earl opened the door to leave the Painted Chamber, he was almost bowled
over by the force of the wind. It hurled a sheet of rain into his face, too, and deprived him of his wig. Without it, he looked
older, smaller and more vulnerable. Chaloner retrieved it for him, then shoved him backwards quickly when several tiles tore
from the roof and smashed to the ground where he had been standing.

‘I should have stayed home, let you report to me in the morning,’ said the Earl shakily, tugging the wig into position on
his shaven pate. ‘But I was worried. The government has many enemies, and we cannot have folk running around killing our clerks.
I needed to see for myself what we are up against.’

‘At least we know Greene is not responsible,’ said Chaloner, careful to keep any hint of triumph from his voice. ‘I have been
watching him all day, and he is currently at home in bed. He cannot have killed Vine.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried the Earl. ‘You are letting his meek manners and plausible tongue cloud your judgement – clearly, he found
a way to slip past you. You argued against arresting him on Thursday, and I bowed – reluctantly – to your judgement. But it
has cost Vine his life.’

Chaloner was not sure how to refute such rigidly held convictions, but was saved from having to try, because a bobbing lantern
heralded the arrival of the surgeon.

Wiseman was enormous, both tall and broad, and it was said at Court that he had recently acquired a peculiar habit: he liked
to tone his muscular frame by performing a series of vigorous exercises every morning. His eccentricity was also reflected
in his choice of clothes: he always wore flowing scarlet robes, which he claimed were the uniform of his profession, although
no other surgeon seemed to own any. His hair was red, too, and fell in luxurious curls around his shoulders. His whimsical
unconformity might have been charming, had he not been one of the most opinionated, arrogant, obnoxious men in London. As
far as Chaloner was concerned, Wiseman had only one redeeming character: his steadfast, unquestioning loyalty to the Earl.

‘Where is the cadaver?’ demanded the surgeon, never a man to waste time on idle chatter when there was work to be done. ‘At
the far end of the hall, like the last one you summoned me to inspect?’

‘Good evening to you, too,’ muttered Chaloner, as Wiseman shoved past him, hard enough to make him stagger. The surgeon was
accompanied by another man, one whom the spy had seen at Court.

‘Thank you for bringing Wiseman to me, Turner,’ said the Earl, smiling pleasantly at the fellow. ‘You have been of great service
tonight, and I shall not forget it.’

Turner was tall, dark haired and devilishly handsome. He had a narrow moustache like the King’s, and he wore an ear-string
– an outmoded fashion that entailed threading strands of silk through a piercing in the earlobe, and leaving them to trail
stylishly across one shoulder. Because the rest of his clothes were the height of fashion, the ear-string looked oddly out
of place, and drew attention to the fact that the lobe had an unnatural hole in it. Chaloner had been told that it had been
made by a Roundhead musket-ball, but was sceptical – the injury was too small and neat to have been caused by any firearm
he knew. But no one else seemed to share his suspicions, and the colonel was always surrounded by doting admirers.

‘It is a pleasure, sir,’ gushed Turner with a courtly bow. ‘And if I can be of further assistance, you only need ask. I have
long held you in my humble esteem, and I am at your command
any
time.’

‘What a charming gentleman,’ said the Earl, watching him strut away. Chaloner said nothing, but thought Turner would go far
in White Hall, if he was able to produce such nauseating sycophancy at the drop of a hat. ‘But come back inside, Thomas. We
had better hear Wiseman’s verdict.’

The surgeon was humming when they reached him, suggesting he had not minded too much being dragged out to inspect corpses.
His abrasive character meant he did not have many friends, so murder scenes were important social occasions for him. Chaloner’s
occupation meant he did not have many friends, either, and Wiseman’s solitary lifestyle was a constant reminder as to why
he needed to make some. It was not easy, though: his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the old king’s
death warrant, and people were still wary about fraternising with the family of a regicide. Indeed, it was only in the last
few weeks that he had felt able to tell people his real name, instead of using an alias. He knew he was lucky the Earl was
willing to overlook his connections – along with the fact that he had spent a decade spying for Cromwell – because employment
was not easy to come by for old Parliamentarians, especially in espionage. And Chaloner was qualified to do very little else.

‘Like Chetwynd, Vine has swallowed something caustic,’ Wiseman announced, not looking up. ‘It burned the skin of his throat
and caused convulsions, which accounts for his contorted posture.’

‘Poison,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Thomas was right.’

Wiseman regarded him haughtily. ‘Since when did he become a surgeon, pray? However, in this case, his opinion happens to be
correct, because it coincides with my own. Of course
I
can go one step further: I suspect both these men died from ingesting the
same substance
.’

‘What substance?’ asked Chaloner, hoping it would be something unusual that would allow him to trace it – and its purchaser
– by making enquiries among the apothecaries.

Wiseman shrugged. ‘There is no way to tell from a visual inspection alone. Vine’s kin will have to let me anatomise him.’
His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

‘Thomas will try to get their permission,’ said the Earl. Chaloner’s heart sank; it was bad enough telling a family that a
loved one was dead, without being obliged to put that sort of request, too. ‘But do not hold your breath – Chetwynd’s kin
cared nothing for him, but even so, they were loath to let you loose on his corpse. So, I cannot imagine Vine’s wife and son
leaping to accept your offer.
Now, is there anything else we should know? Any clues that prove Greene is the killer?’

‘You asked me that when you found Chetwynd,’ said Wiseman, climbing to his feet. ‘And the answer now is the same as it was
then: no. There is nothing that will help you trace the culprit. Dissection is the only way forward.’

‘I suppose we should be thankful he did not carve Vine up right here in front of us,’ whispered the Earl, watching him stride
away. ‘Escort me home, Thomas. I have had enough of corpses and their vile secrets for one night. The wind seems to be dropping,
so I should be safe from falling tiles now.’

Chaloner was acutely uneasy as he accompanied the Earl to his waiting coach. The gale had abated, but it was still blowing
hard, and the racket it made as it whipped through trees and around buildings meant it was difficult to hear anything else.
Unfortunately, darkness and driving rain meant he could not see very well, either. He disliked the notion that he might not
have adequate warning of an attack, and although he was not afraid for himself, the Earl had accumulated a lot of enemies
since the Restoration, and this was the perfect opportunity for an ambush.

‘You should not have come, sir,’ he said, as he helped his master into the carriage and climbed in after him. He banged on
the ceiling with his fist, to tell the driver to move off. ‘It is not safe for you to wander about so late at night.’

‘So you have said before, but I refuse to let anyone dictate where I can and cannot go.’ The Earl looked anxious, though,
despite his defiant words. ‘I have no
idea why I am so unpopular – I seem to attract new enemies with every passing day.’

‘Do you?’ Chaloner immediately wished he had not asked, because he knew exactly why his master had more opponents than friends.
The Court libertines despised him because he was prim, dour and something of a killjoy, while he had made political enemies
by adopting uncompromising stances on religion and the looming war with Holland.

‘It is because no one else knows what they are talking about,’ stated the Earl. ‘At least, not as far as politics, food, religion,
art, horses, ethics, fashion or sport are concerned. I have been arguing all week, and I am tired of it. Why does no one ever
agree with me about anything?’

‘Who have you been arguing with, sir?’ asked Chaloner politely. A list of sparring partners promised to be far less objectionable
than being treated to a diatribe of the Earl’s controversial – and sometimes odious – opinions.

‘Well, the Lady, naturally.’ So intense was the Earl’s dislike for the King’s mistress that he refused to say her name: Lady
Castlemaine was always just ‘the Lady’. ‘And the Duke of Buckingham, who encourages the King to play cards instead of listening
to me, his wise old advisor.’

‘Who else?’

The Earl began to count them off on chubby fingers. ‘Sir Nicholas Gold told me I was a fool for advising caution when declaring
war on the Dutch. His young wife Bess, who has fewer wits than a sheep, told me my wig was unfashionable. Then that disgustingly
fat Edward Jones accused me of cheating him out of the food allowance that goes with his post as Yeoman of the Household Kitchen.’

‘You would never do that,’ said Chaloner, indignant on his behalf. The Earl had many faults, but brazen dishonesty was not
one of them.

‘He is entitled to dine at White Hall, but his monstrous girth means he is eating more than his due. So I told him to tighten
his belt, and take the same amount as everyone else. He objected vehemently.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, supposing he would. ‘That is hardly the same as accusing you of cheat—’