The Westminster Poisoner (20 page)

Chaloner was silent, wondering whether the Earl was the kind of man to hire an assassin to prevent the revelation of an embarrassing
secret. He would have said no a few months before, but now he found he was not so sure.

‘What did you do?’ he asked eventually.

The Earl lowered his voice to a whisper, and his eyes were huge with mortification. ‘I drew on the Lady’s portrait – the one
painted by Lely. I gave her a beard and a moustache.’

Chaloner gazed at him for a moment, then started to laugh. ‘Really?’

The Earl glared at him. ‘It is not funny! We are talking about the King’s favourite mistress here, and that portrait cost
a lot of money. I defaced it so vigorously that it is far beyond repair.’

‘You should have given her a pair of horns, too, and sketched in a pitchfork.’

That coaxed a reluctant smile. ‘I wish I had thought of it. But this unedifying tale tells you something new about Vine, this
noble, upright man, does it not? That he was willing to resort to underhand means to get his own way?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘So Vine was a blackmailer and
Chetwynd was corrupt, although they both presented godly faces to the world. I wonder what we will learn about Langston.’

‘Nothing,’ said the Earl firmly. ‘He really was a decent fellow.’

The short winter day was almost over, and dusk was falling fast. Chaloner was hungry, having eaten nothing that day except
Bulteel’s cakes. Fortunately, the Earl was in one of his conscientious phases, and had been paying his staff on time, so the
spy was currently solvent. It was not always so, which was another reason he missed working for the Commonwealth – Thurloe
had paid regularly and well, allowing Chaloner to live respectably and even invest funds for the future. It had all disappeared
at the Restoration when, for the first time in his life, he had experienced genuine poverty.

But he had money to spend that evening, so he went to New Palace Yard, on which were located three establishments called Heaven,
Hell and Purgatory. It depended on their owners’ whim whether they were taverns, coffee houses or cookshops on any particular
week, but it was usually possible to purchase victuals of some description, and he liked their dark rooms, worn benches and
convivial atmospheres. He was heading towards them when he spotted some familiar faces.

Turner was sitting on a bench near the central fountain, stretching his long legs in front of him as though he was relaxing
in the sun, rather than perching on a stone monument in the middle of winter. His trademark ear-string fluttered in the breeze.
With him were the bandy-legged Tryan, and Hargrave with his scarred and shaven head. Neither merchant looked as comfortable
as
Turner, and huddled inside their coats. The bench was protected by an awning, and at that time of night, the trio were virtually
invisible under its shadow. Intrigued as to why they felt compelled to meet in such a place, Chaloner eased his way behind
them, aiming for a position where he could eavesdrop.

‘Of course I can read the contracts for you,’ Turner was saying amiably. ‘If they are anything like the ones I did last week,
they will be easy.’

‘You are most kind,’ said Hargrave, scratching his scalp. ‘But are you sure it is no bother? I thought you were employed by
the Lord Chancellor these days, to catch him a killer.’

‘I am,’ said Turner. ‘But I am perfectly capable of helping you at the same time.’

‘We would have lost a fortune in the past, without solicitors to safeguard our interests,’ said Tryan soberly. ‘It is a sad
state of affairs when a man cannot trust a fellow merchant not to cheat him. We are indebted to you, sir.’

‘Lord, it is cold!’ exclaimed Hargrave, pulling his coat more tightly around him. ‘I rarely noticed bad weather when I had
hair, and I should never have listened to Chetwynd – it was he who suggested I cut it all off, and have it made into a wig.
But the damned thing has been nothing but trouble.’

‘You cannot blame Chetwynd for the lice, though,’ said Tryan. ‘You got them from that brothel.’ He pursed his lips disapprovingly.

‘It was not a brothel,’ objected Hargrave, stung. ‘It was a gentleman’s club. Besides, I suspect I actually picked them up
from the New Exchange – the Lea brothers have never been very scrupulous about hygiene.’

‘Do either of you know who murdered Chetwynd?’ asked Turner conversationally. ‘I hate to admit it, but my enquiries have reached
something of an impasse.’

‘Greene did it,’ replied Tryan, sounding surprised that he should need to ask. ‘The Earl told me so, when I met him in the
cathedral the other day. I confess I was astounded: Greene does not seem the type.’

Turner’s expression was pained. ‘He only
thinks
Greene is guilty – he has no evidence to prove it.’

Tryan’s face was a mask of horror. ‘No evidence? But he informed me of Greene’s culpability as though it were beyond the shadow
of a doubt. Are you saying poor Greene might be innocent?’

‘I always thought the Earl was decent,’ said Hargrave, when Turner nodded. ‘But this makes me realise he is no different from
the rest of Court – a liar and a scoundrel. We should never have invited the King back, because it is His Majesty’s fault
that there are so many villains in White Hall.’

‘Stop,’ said Turner sharply. ‘I lost part of my ear serving the old king, and I am loyal to the new one. So keep your treasonous
thoughts to yourself, if you do not mind.’

Hargrave regarded him disparagingly. ‘You were wounded for the Royalist cause, but what has the King done for you in return?
Made you his Master of Horse? A Groom of the Bedchamber? No! You are palmed off on an earl who goes around making false accusations
against hapless clerks.’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Tryan hastily, raising his hand to prevent the colonel from responding. ‘How many more times must
you argue about politics before you realise you will never agree?’

Hargrave shot Turner a conciliatory smile. ‘My apologies, friend. I mean no offence.’

Turner inclined his head graciously. ‘And no offence is taken. However, we
do
agree on one thing: it is too cold to meet out here again. Next time, we shall discuss our business in a tavern. I know tobacco
smoke makes you sneeze, Tryan, but the chill cannot be healthy, either.’

‘There will be smoke galore when you join the dean of St Paul’s for those Twelfth Night ceremonies in the cathedral,’ Hargrave
said to Tryan, as he helped his colleague to his feet and they prepared to take their leave. ‘I told you not to accept the
invitation.’

‘I could never refuse a clergyman,’ said Tryan reproachfully. ‘He might think me irreligious.’

When Turner sauntered off in the opposite direction, Chaloner caught up with him, making him jump by grabbing his shoulder.
He was disappointed that his eavesdropping had revealed nothing useful, but it was as good a time as any to exchange meaningless
pleasantries with the colonel – Turner was not the only one who wanted to lull his rival into a false sense of security.

‘God’s blood, man!’ exclaimed Turner. ‘Watch who you sneak up on! I might have run you through before I realised who you were.’

Chaloner showed him the dagger in his hand. ‘You would not have succeeded.’

Turner smiled. ‘I am glad. I have no desire to harm a fellow veteran of the wars, although His Portliness tells me we fought
on opposite sides. Have you found the missing statue yet?’

‘Not yet,’ replied Chaloner, wondering what else the Earl had said about him.

Turner grimaced. ‘Between you and me, I have reached
a dead end with it. I got Lady Muskerry to escort me to the Shield Gallery again – she took me once before, when the damned
thing was still there – and I stared at the empty plinth for ages, but no solutions occurred to me. I am fed up with espionage,
and plan to take tonight off, to renew my energies by visiting a few ladies. Bess Gold will appreciate my company, if I can
get rid of that tiresome Neale.’

‘He does pay her close attention,’ agreed Chaloner.

Turner looked disgusted. ‘Damned fortune-hunter! She will be a widow soon, and Neale intends to marry her. Gold must be worried,
to see his successor champ so hard at the bit. Still, if Gold is murdered, we shall know where to look for a suspect. Even
I will be able to solve that one.’

‘Will you visit Meg the laundress tonight, too?’

‘There is nothing I would like more, but I hunted high and low for her today, and could not find the merest trace of her.
She seems to have disappeared off the face of the Earth. I hope you are wrong, and the clerk-killer has
not
drowned her. She has the best thighs in London.’

Chaloner watched him swagger away, doffing his hat to various ladies, all of whom he seemed to know by name. Where was Meg?
The spy rubbed his chin thoughtfully when it occurred to him that it was odd that Turner should think she had been drowned,
rather than poisoned, stabbed or strangled. Did he know something he was unwilling to share with his rival investigator?

It was Hell’s turn to sell food, and delicious smells wafted from it when Chaloner opened the door. His intention was to find
a corner where he could keep his own company, but Bulteel was at a table near the fire and
waved him over. The secretary was with a dozen other White Hall officials, although he was not really one of them: they formed
a tight, comradely cluster, and he was slightly outside it. Williamson’s clerk Swaddell was part of the throng, though. He
was holding forth in an affable manner, although his dark, restless eyes were everywhere, missing nothing.

‘It is noisy this evening,’ Chaloner remarked to Bulteel, surprised to find the place so busy.

Bulteel nodded. ‘Because it is Tuesday – Sausage Night. People travel for miles to be here.’

Looking around, Chaloner realised it was true, and was amazed to see so many familiar faces. Greene was at a crowded table
near the back. He was talking to Gold – or rather he was bawling in Gold’s ear, and Gold was frowning to say he could not
hear. So hard was Gold concentrating that he was oblivious to the flirtatious activities of his wife and Neale at the other
end of the bench. Chaloner watched Greene, and wondered why the Earl should think him a killer. There was something pitiful
and limp about him, and the spy was sure he did not have the resolve to hand men cups of poison, watch them die, then calmly
hide the evidence. Besides, he had alibis for two of the crimes.

He turned his attention to Neale, who had hated Chetwynd for passing an unfavourable verdict. Did the young man’s cherubic
looks hide the dark visage of a killer? But then why kill Vine and Langston? As decoy victims, to ensure investigators looked
elsewhere for the culprit? Neale was not stupid, so it was certainly possible that he had devised such a plan. Of course,
it was equally possible that George Vine had murdered his father – and that he had killed Chetwynd and Langston to cover
his
tracks.

Also at Greene’s table were the couple Hannah had pointed out that morning – Scobel’s nephew, the orange-haired Will Symons,
and his sickly, artistic wife Margaret. Had Williamson been telling the truth when he claimed Symons had joined the three
murdered men at prayers in his uncle’s house? Did he resent all he had lost at the Restoration, and was avenging himself on
those who had done rather better? Symons looked tired and drawn, and he and Margaret appeared shabby and down-at-heel compared
to the bright company around them.

The door opened, and the spy glanced up to see the unsavoury Lea brothers enter. They exchanged boisterous greetings with
the clerks at Chaloner’s table, then squeezed themselves in at the opposite end, amid laughter and general bonhomie. Then
the door opened again, this time to admit the dour-faced Doling. Doling headed for a place near the window, but was so morose
and unfriendly that the men already sitting there soon made excuses to leave. Bulteel muttered something about Sausage Night
enticing all manner of vermin from their nests.

‘You do not like Doling?’ said Chaloner.

‘I do not like any bitter old Roundhead who holds us responsible for his misfortunes – and Doling has gone from government
official to security minion for Backwell’s Bank. Incident ally, the Earl is losing patience with you over your refusal to
see Greene as the killer. Turner is not so foolish as to oppose him – he tells the Earl he is right, and keeps any reservations
he might have to himself.’

‘How do you know he has reservations? Has he mentioned them to you?’

Bulteel looked pained. ‘No – I cannot get him to tell
me anything, although I have tried my best to worm my way into his confidence. However, do not be too ready to dismiss Greene
from your inventory of possible villains. He knew all three victims, and he was caught trying to sneak away from the scene
of Chetwynd’s murder. Of course, there are other suspects, too.’

‘Who?’ Chaloner was interested to know whether Bulteel’s list matched his own.

‘Well, the Lea brothers have expensive tastes, and wasted no time claiming Chetwynd’s fortune. Meanwhile, Neale hated Chetwynd,
George Vine hated his father, and Doling hates everyone. Then there are the victims’ so-called friends. I saw them at John’s
Coffee House about a month ago, and they were all arguing furiously – Gold, Jones, Tryan and Hargrave, to name but a few.’

It was a depressingly long list, and reminded Chaloner of the enormity of the challenge he was facing. He fell silent, listening
to Swaddell talk about the Spymaster’s new-found passion for cockfighting. Sourly, he thought it unsurprising that a man of
Williamson’s brutal temperament should take pleasure from such a barbaric activity.

‘Fine company you keep,’ he remarked acidly to Bulteel. ‘Men like the Spymaster’s toady.’

‘Hush!’ whispered Bulteel in alarm. ‘Swaddell has uncannily sharp hearing. Besides, we are all just clerks in here – it is
a place where we forget our differences, and enjoy easy company and good ale.’

Chaloner doubted Swaddell felt the same way, and was sure he would use such occasions to gather intelligence for his master.
‘If you say so.’