The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4)

by Susanna Gregory

  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 mailin
g 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.’

  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 tho
ughts 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.’