‘And now?’ asked Thurloe encouragingly. ‘I recall writing a testimonial for you a few months ago.’
Doling nodded. ‘For which I am grateful. It earned me a job guarding Backwell’s Bank – they were robbed last summer, and decided to upgrade their security. It is not a very interesting occupation, but I am well paid and no one tells me what to do. I am happy enough.’
He turned to his ale, glaring at it in a way that made Chaloner wonder whether he was telling the truth about his contentment. Or was he just one of those men who looked angry even when he was in high spirits? Chaloner decided Backwell’s Bank had made a good choice, though, because Doling’s saturnine visage alone would be enough to deter most would-be thieves from trying their luck.
‘My case was a complex one,’ Doling replied, when Thurloe asked him about Chetwynd. ‘It concerned fishing rights in the river that forms the boundary between my garden and estates owned by a man called Hargrave. But Chetwynd took a mere ten minutes to decide in Hargrave’s favour.’
Thurloe frowned. ‘I examined your case, too – it was complex, and took me the best part of a week to unravel. However, Chetwynd’s decision was the right one: you should not have fishing rights.’
‘I know that now. However, my grievance lies not in the fact that he ruled against me, but in the speed he took to reach his decision. And then later, I learned that he and Hargrave were friends – and that Chetwynd rented his London house from Hargrave.’
‘Really?’ asked Thurloe, troubled. ‘That is the kind of behaviour that gives lawyers a bad name. Your case should have been adjudicated by someone who was a stranger to you both.’
‘And do you know the final indignity?’ Doling went on bitterly. ‘A few weeks later, Hargrave gave Chetwynd a gift – a cottage on his estate with access to the river. Chetwynd visited it every Sunday, and never failed to catch a trout.’
‘I knew none of this,’ said Thurloe unhappily. ‘And I am shocked, because Chetwynd had a reputation for being honest.’
‘And that is why no one will listen to my complaints,’ said Doling morosely, ‘although the facts are easy enough to check. Look into the matter, Mr Thurloe. You will find I am telling the truth.’
Thurloe was keen to investigate Doling’s claims for himself, but insisted on accompanying the spy to see Chetwynd’s heirs first. When Chaloner had broken the news of their kinsman’s death on Christmas Day, the Lea brothers had been so delighted to hear they were going to inherit sooner than they had anticipated, that they had literally danced for joy. He had given up trying to elicit sensible answers while they were pirouetting around the room, and had elected to leave the interview until they were more calm. He had managed a brief word with them while he had been shadowing Greene, but that was all, and a serious discussion was now long overdue.
‘Who is investigating these poisonings for Williamson?’ asked Thurloe, as their coach rattled up King Street towards St Martin’s Lane. ‘As Spymaster General, it is his responsibility to produce a culprit.’
‘I have no idea,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But if he has appointed someone, then the fellow is keeping a very low profile, because I have not come across him.’
Thurloe frowned. ‘How odd! Most spymasters would consider poisoned government officials a priority case, and would insist on a highly visible investigation. I know I would. But I suppose Williamson knows what he is doing.’
Chaloner was not so sure, having scant respect for the man. ‘Here we are,’ he said, as the carriage came to a standstill.
‘The Lea brothers live here?’ asked Thurloe, regarding the grand house in puzzlement. ‘They were not so well paid when they worked for me – they were just minor bookkeepers then.’
‘It is Chetwynd’s home,’ explained Chaloner. ‘He had paid the rent until August, so they abandoned their own cottage in Holborn, and moved here instead. They did it the day after he died.’
Thurloe made a moue of distaste. ‘I wonder why the Royalists kept them on when they dismissed virtually every other Parliamentarian. The Lea brothers were not particularly good at their work, and I doubt they were retained for their affable personalities – they are horrible fellows. All I can think is that they must have said or done something to persuade the new government to look favourably on them.’
Chaloner had an uncomfortable feeling he might be delving in some very murky waters if he tried to find out. But find out he must, because it might have a bearing on their kinsman’s death.
‘Give me a few moments to condole them on their loss, then come in,’ ordered Thurloe, alighting from the carriage. ‘We shall pretend to be strangers, to ease your worries about my involvement.’
While he waited for a suitable amount of time to pass, Chaloner studied the house. As befitting his lofty status as a Chancery clerk, Chetwynd had opted for a residence that was imposing. It had ornate brickwork, smart window shutters and a new front door. When Chaloner eventually knocked on it, a servant conducted him to a spacious parlour, where the Leas were entertaining the ex-Spymaster with spiced wine. A fire blazed in the hearth, and woodwork gleamed under a coating of new wax. Even so, there was an underlying scent of mould, and patches of damp on the walls – Chetwynd’s mansion was not as well-maintained as its immaculate exterior suggested.
On their first meeting, Chaloner had been unable to determine which brother was Matthias and which was Thomas, because they wore identical clothes and had a disconcerting habit of finishing each other’s sentences. They were both tall, lean and leered in a way that made them look predatory. He had not taken to them at all.
‘It is the Lord Chancellor’s creature,’ said one, as Chaloner was shown in. He turned to Thurloe. ‘He came on Saturday, demanding to know who might want to kill Chetwynd. We told him to—’
‘—question someone else,’ finished the other. ‘We loved Chetwynd dearly, but this man acted as though we had killed him. We find that deeply offensive. He can close the door on his way out.’
Chaloner sat down. ‘Why did you run away from me last night? What were you afraid I might ask?’
‘We did not run,’ objected the first indignantly. ‘We drove off in a carriage. We had been invited to the Babylonian ball, and did not want you to delay us with—’
‘—impertinent questions. It is the first such invitation we have ever received – our new wealth is already working its magic – and we did not want to offend anyone by arriving late.’
It was an oddly plausible explanation, and Chaloner was inclined to believe it.
‘Are you the sole beneficiaries of your kinsman’s will?’ asked Thurloe. Both brothers nodded gleefully. ‘How marvellous for you.’
One tried to look mournful. ‘His death was a terrible blow to us both, of course.’
‘But inheriting all his money will help to soften the loss,’ added the other. He sniggered suddenly. ‘We intend to sell the cottage Hargrave gave him. Perhaps Doling will buy it from us.’
‘How did you keep your government posts after the Restoration, when everyone else lost theirs?’ Chaloner’s dislike for the Lea brothers was intensifying, and the blunt question was intended to unsettle them, hopefully enough to provide him with some truthful answers.
The first Lea glared at him. ‘Because we are good at what we do. Not everyone can count money and never make a mistake, but we can. We are indispensable.’
‘No one is indispensable, Matthias,’ said Thurloe quietly. ‘And these are dangerous times.’
His sombre words caused a flash of unease to pass between the pair, but it was quickly suppressed. ‘You know nothing of Royalist politics,’ said Matthias contemptuously. ‘Times have changed since—’
‘—you wielded power. You are compelled to live quietly now, but our fortunes are on the rise at last. Chetwynd’s death is just one more step up the ladder of success.’
‘Did you know Vine and Langston?’ asked Chaloner. The brothers were exchanging grins of pure pleasure, and he was keen to keep them talkin
g lest they started dancing again.
‘Yes, of course,’ replied Matthias. ‘We all work for the government, so we were colleagues. We used to meet socially, too – or rather religiously: we prayed together.’ He raised his eyes heavenwards, and his brother sniggered at his display of false piety.
‘What about Greene?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did you pray with him, too?’
‘There is a rumour that Greene killed Chetwynd,’ said Matthias to his kinsman. ‘So this question is designed to discover whether we hired him. But the Lord Chancellor’s creature is wasting his time, because there is nothing that can connect us to our kinsman’s murder.’
His brother’s expression was cold and hard. ‘Yes, but he will almost certainly learn that Greene was one of those with whom we once fraternised, and may draw his own – erroneous – conclusions. Personally, I never liked Greene. He is too gloomy, always saying that everything is preordained, and that nothing we say or do can change the outcome. Well, he is—’
‘—wrong. We took control of our destinies – decided to make our way with the Royalists – and look at us now. We have everything we ever wanted.’
‘Chetwynd does not,’ said Thurloe softly. Chaloner saw he was repelled by their self-congratulatory gloating. ‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill him? He was a decent soul, and it is hard to imagine him acquiring enemies.’
Matthias looked smug. ‘Between you and us, Mr Thurloe, he was not as scrupulous as you might think. You must have heard the rumours that say he took bribes in exchange for favourable decisions? Well, they are all true—’
‘—although we are not in a position to give any of them back,’ added his brother hastily. ‘But a more corrupt man never walked the streets of London, although he was careful to present an honest face to the world. And if you do not believe us, then look at the verdicts he gave on the cases he was asked to resolve. It will not take you long to see that he was a villain.’
Thurloe looked stricken, and Chaloner changed the subject, to spare him more of the Lea brothers’ revelations. They were only confirming what Doling and Landlord Ellis had said, but Thurloe did not need to hear them vilify a man who had been a friend. ‘Did he own a ruby ring? Or do either of you?’
Both brothers leaned forward acquisitively. ‘He might—’
‘He did,’ corrected Matthias. ‘I remember it quite clearly. I imagine it has been found, and the authorities are keen to return it to its rightful owners. You can tell them we will be happy to accept it.’
Chaloner was sure they would. ‘What did it look like?’ he asked.
‘Silver,’ said Matthias, watching the spy for a reaction that might help with the description. He was out of luck, because Chaloner was used to concealing his thoughts, and his expression was unreadable. ‘Or maybe gold. I am not very good at identifying precious metals. And it had a large ruby.’
‘But not overly large,’ said his brother. ‘Respectable. Show it to us, and we will identify it.’
Chaloner took his leave, even more revolted by them than he had been the first time he had visited. They could not describe the ring, so did that mean they were innocent of murder? Or were they more clever than they seemed?
‘So, it is true,’ said Thurloe sadly, following him out of the house. ‘Chetwynd was not the paragon of virtue he led us all to believe. This is a bitter blow – enough to shake a man’s faith in humanity.’
But Chaloner’s faith had been shaken – well and truly shattered, in fact – a long time before.
Thurloe wanted to accompany Chaloner to see the Vine family, but the spy refused to let him. George was a courtier, and would almost certainly gossip about the fact that he had received a call from the Commonwealth’s old spymaster, and the spy did not want that reaching Williamson’s ears. He was relieved when Thurloe agreed, albeit reluctantly, to wait in the carriage.
‘Do not ask about the ring,’ warned Thurloe, catching his sleeve as he started to climb out. ‘If it does belong to the poisoner, you are effectively telling him that you have a clue regarding his identity. And those soldiers wanted you dead, so you would not be a witness to them or what they were sent to retrieve. So you should not advertise the fact that they failed, because they may try again.’
‘But the ring is my only clue. If I do not ask, how will I find out who owned it?’
Thurloe looked unhappy. ‘I do not like this enquiry, Thomas. I wish you would abandon it and come to Oxfordshire with me. I will find something for you to do – clerking, perhaps.’
But Thurloe’s estates were already full of displaced friends and kin who had lost all at the Restoration, and there was no room for yet another penniless petitioner. Chaloner promised to be careful, and walked to Vine’s house.
George had only just returned from his night out, and was having a bedtime snack in the parlour – his ‘meal’ appeared to be a glass of wine with a raw egg beaten into it. His mother was with him, and Chaloner was astonished to see her wearing an outfit that would not have looked out of place on a Southwark harlot. When she said Brodrick had asked her to attend the ball as a Babylonian concubine, he thought it explained why she was dressed in such a bizarre fashion, but not why she should have accepted the invitation in the first place.
‘Why should I not go?’ she demanded, reading his thoughts. ‘Old Dreary Bones never let me do anything fun, and I am owed something for twenty-five years of boredom. Do you think I should don black and sit behind closed curtains, instead? That would make me a hypocrite!’
‘God forbid,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was not surprising Vine had kept her indoors, if her idea of entertainment was to go into high society dressed like a whore. He changed the subject when he saw her lips press together in anger – he did not want to waste time debating with her. ‘I have been told that your husband owned a ruby ring, and—’
‘He owned no rings of any description,’ interrupted Mrs Vine firmly. ‘He said they got in the way of his writing, and preferred other forms of jewellery, like lockets and brooches.’
‘Then how about you?’ asked Chaloner, noting her fingers were well adorned in that respect.
‘No,’ she said sullenly, putting her hands out of sight under the table. ‘And neither does George.’
Chaloner knew she was holding out on him, because she had not asked why he wanted to know, as most people would have done. He could not decide whether she, Vine or George had owned a ruby ring, and she was denying it because she knew it was connected to her husband’s murder, or whether she was just unwilling to commit herself until she understood the implications of his questions. He glanced at George, wondering whether she suspected him of the crime, and was trying to protect him. And was he guilty? Chaloner had no idea. However, one thing he did know was that his enquiries about the ring were going no further, so he changed the subject.
‘How well did your husband know Langston and Greene?’
‘Quite well,’ replied George. He spoke cagily, as if he was afraid that even the most innocent reply might see him in trouble. ‘He did not invite them here to dine, but then he never brought friends home. It was almost as if he was ashamed of us.’
‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.
‘You had better be frank with him, George,’ said Mrs Vine, leaning back in her chair. ‘Someone is sure to gossip about us, and I want him to hear our side of the story. Tell him what a drab bird we have lived with all these years.’
George shrugged, but his expression was uneasy. ‘My father was a vile man. He carped incessantly against wickedness and sin, but he made our lives a misery – which is a sin, is it not? To make another person unhappy? And he was furious when my mother took a lover.’
‘Well, why should I not have one?’ demanded Mrs Vine, seeing Chaloner’s startled look. ‘He never came to my bed after George was born. And George is twenty-four!’
‘His piety was disgusting,’ George went on, angry now. ‘He gave money to the poor, but refused to buy me new c
lothes. What kind of father deprives his son of decent clothes? He was a hypocrite, with his stupid principles and out-dated morality, and I am surprised he lasted three years at Court.’
‘We thought one of those gay libertines would have dispensed with him long before now,’ agreed Mrs Vine. She grinned suddenly. ‘The Lord of Misrule has some wonderful japes planned for the Christmas season, and this year I shall be able to enjoy them all. Did you know it was Brodrick?’
George gaped at her, grievances against his stern father forgotten. ‘Really? Everyone else is saying it is Chiffinch.’
‘Then everyone else is wrong,’ gloated Mrs Vine. ‘He is trying to keep it secret, but he talks in his sleep, and Lady Muskerry overheard. She knows about some of his plans, too. One is to decorate the Lord Chancellor’s offices in the style of a Turkish brothel – complete with concubines. Another is to send love-letters in Bess Gold’s writing to the Bishop of London.’
George giggled. ‘Gold will be furious.’
‘But unable to do anything about it,’ said Mrs Vine maliciously. ‘Feeble old fool!’
‘He did not look feeble when he threatened to run me through last week,’ said George, turning sullen again. ‘It was Bess’s fault – she should not have squealed so when we frolicked in her parlour. Do you think Neale has managed to bed her yet? I shall be vexed if he wins her affections, because I am a far better proposition – not that I need Gold’s fortune now old Dreary Bones is—’
‘Greene,’ interrupted Mrs Vine abruptly. Chaloner was under the impression that she was afraid her son might say something he would later regret, and was blurting the first thing that came into her head. ‘There is a rumour that he killed my husband – and Chetwynd, too. It is almost certainly true.’
‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Why?’
Mrs Vine grinned slyly. ‘For two reasons. First, because the three of them were in the habit of meeting mutual friends every week at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden – perhaps they had some kind of falling out there. And second, because I understand Langston has also been poisoned.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 10