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.’
‘I do say so,’ said Bulteel firmly. ‘But I am glad you came tonight, because there is something I want to ask you. Will you stand as godfather to my son?’
Chaloner stared at him, certain he had misheard. ‘What?’
‘My boy means more to me than life itself, and I want him to have the best godfather I can procure. Will you oblige? It would make me very happy.’
Chaloner was at a loss for words, astonished to learn that Bulteel liked him well enough to extend such an offer. No one had asked him to be godfather to their children before, not even his siblings.
‘But I have no money and no influence at Court,’ he said, aware that Bulteel was waiting for an answer. ‘I will not be able to help him in the way he will need.’
‘You will be able to teach him decency, though,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘And there are not many who can do that in this place. I would rather have him virtuous and poor, than rich and rakish.’
‘You may not think so when he comes of age and needs a patron. I am not a good choice, Bulteel. My life is dangerous – there are not many elderly spies in London, in case you have not noticed.’
‘But you are more careful than others, more experienced,’ persisted Bulteel stubbornly. He laid a thin hand on Chaloner’s arm. ‘And do not refuse me without giving my request proper consideratio
n. Come to share our Twelfth Night dinner, and see the baby. Then decide.’
Chaloner smiled back. ‘Thank you. It is an honour. My hesitation only stems from my own shortcomings – the fear of letting you down.’
‘You will not,’ stated Bulteel firmly. ‘Not ever.’
The sausages arrived on huge platters, one for each table. They comprised tubes of seasoned meat stuffed into the intestines of a sheep, and the combination of gristle and rubbery guts provided a serious challenge for even the sharpest of teeth. Once scullions had slapped down the plates, the noise level dropped dramatically as people struggled to chew. The sausages were criminally hot, and more than one man was obliged to cool a burned mouth with gulps of ale. Chaloner was just wondering how Bulteel had managed to finish his before anyone else, when his teeth were by far the worst in the tavern, when the door opened and a vast figure materialised. It was Jones, the obese Yeoman of the Household Kitchen who had closed the New Exchange.
‘Am I too late?’ he cried, dismayed. ‘Buckingham delayed me on a matter concerning the Lord of Misrule, and was unsympathetic when I told him I did not want to miss Sausage Night in Hell.’
Voices assured him that there was plenty left, although no one seemed keen on him joining their particular group. Men spread out along to benches to repel him, reluctant to share with someone who was likely to eat too much. Eventually, he arrived at Greene’s table. Because most people were now chewing rather than talking, Chaloner found he was able to hear what was said.
‘Make room for a little one,’ ordered Jones, sliding his vast posterior along the wood with grim determination. Protesting men were crushed into each other, and Greene dropped off the far end.
‘I will sit elsewhere, then,’ said the clerk in his gloomy, resigned voice as he picked himself up. ‘It was draughty there, in any case, and breezes around the ankles predispose a man to gout.’
‘I never gloat,’ declared Gold, looking up from his repast in surprise. ‘It is bad manners.’
‘That does not stop people from doing it, though,’ said Symons, shooting Jones a look that could only be described as resentful. ‘Folk gloat over me all the time.’
‘My Nicky has good cause to gloat,’ said Bess, running her fingers down her husband’s sleeve. She looked particularly ovine that evening, because her dress was the colour of undyed wool, and she had dressed her white-blonde hair into tight little ringlets. ‘He has earned lots of lovely money, and tells me I will be a wealthy widow one day.’
‘Do not wish it too soon,’ said Margaret softly. She looked at her husband, and her thin, wan face softened into a smile. ‘If you have a good man, I recommend you keep him alive for as long as possible.’
‘There are plenty of fish on the beach,’ countered Bess carelessly. ‘I shall find another one I like.’
‘Fish in the sea,’ corrected Neale, to remind her that he was at her side. She had been flirting with Peters – French pox notwithstanding – and Neale did not like it.
‘I adore tea,’ said Gold, flinging a couple of sausages at his rivals, ostensibly to ensure they did not miss out now the gluttonous Jones had arrived, but one fell in Neale’s lap, leaving a greasy stain that necessitated the use of a damp cloth. Chaloner thought he saw the old man smirk. ‘The Queen quaffs it every day, and what is good enough for Her Majesty is good enough for me.’
‘I have never had any,’ said Greene miserably. ‘No one has ever offered it to me. Although there was once a man from Barrington who—’
‘The Earl of Clarendon?’ demanded Gold aggressively. ‘I did not take tea with him today, and anyone who claims otherwise is a damned liar!’
Chaloner regarded him in surprise. Was it the ritual of tea-drinking that had elicited such a vehement denial, or was it his conference with the Earl? The spy was just trying to imagine why Gold should object to people knowing about either, when he became aware that Swaddell was also listening to the exchange – he was nodding at Bulteel’s monologue about a batch of bad ink, but Chaloner was too experienced an eavesdropper himself to be deceived.
But Swaddell was wasting his time, and so was Chaloner. The rest of the discussion around Greene’s table could not have been more innocuous, and the most contentious subject raised was whether the sausage casings came from a sheep or a pig.
Eventually, Gold stood to leave, hauling Bess away from Peters and Neale, who were vying for her attention in a way that was beginning to be uncouth. It was the cue for a general exodus as, food eaten, people began to make their farewells. Outside, patrons waited for each other – crime was rife in Westminster, and only a fool walked there alone after dark. They began to wander away in groups of three or four, while a gaggle of about two dozen headed along St Margaret’s Lane. Chaloner followed when he saw Greene, Jones and the Symons couple were among the throng, with Gold, Bess, Peters and Neale trailing along behind them.
When the company reached Old Palace Yard, most began to climb into the hackney carriages that were for hire there, but Greene and his companions lingered, talking in low voices. Chaloner eased closer, but stopped short of the alley he had been aiming for when he saw someone was already in it. It was Swaddell, listening intently to what was being said.
‘… not meet for a while,’ Jones was suggesting. ‘It is the most sensible thing to do.’
‘I disagree,’ said Symons. He sounded almost tearful. ‘Now is the time we need it most, and I refuse to countenance what you are proposing. It is wrong!’
‘My husband has a point,’ said Margaret quietly. ‘You should not allow—’
‘It is only for a while,’ interrupted Jones. ‘Just until this blows over. Then we can resume, if you feel we must, although I believe it is unnecessary. What do you say, Gold?’
But Gold’s eyes were on Bess. ‘Did Peters just put his hand on my wife’s rump?’
‘On her hips,’ corrected Greene. He stiffened suddenly when Swaddell’s foot clinked against something metal that had been left in the alley. ‘What was that? Is someone spying on us?’
Jones drew his sword, and so did Gold. Swaddell promptly beat a hasty retreat down the lane. His footsteps rang out, and Jones immediately waddled off in pursuit. Meanwhile, Gold gave a howl of outrage, and dived after Peters with his naked blade. Suddenly, he was not a feeble old man, and Symons, Neale and Greene were hard-pressed to restrain him. Peters ran for his life, Bess pouted, and Gold’s friends bundled him into a coach before he could do any harm.
‘Impertinent dog!’ Gold roared. ‘Get in the coach, friends. We shall hunt him down like vermin!’
‘What about Jones?’ asked Greene uneasily. ‘He heard someone in that lane, so we should wait for him to come back and tell us—’
‘It was probably a rat,’ said Bess, shooting her husband a sulky look. ‘There are a lot of them about at this time of night. Great big ones that spoil a person’s fun.’
‘Symons! Greene! Neale! Get in the carriage,’ yelled Gold, still incensed. ‘You, too, Margaret. I am sure you know how to deal with Court cockerels. When we catch him, you shall chop off his—’
‘I am taking Margaret home,’ interrupted Symons. ‘It is too cold for her to be out. But Jones knows how to look after himself, and if he did hear someone, it will only be a beggar. He can deal with one of those without our help. He was once a soldier, after all, and distinguished himself during the wars.’
‘You are probably right,’ said Greene, although he did not look happy. ‘He should be able to manage a beggar.’
Chaloner watched them leave, then turned towards the alley, which he knew led to a wharf – a gloomy, ramshackle dock that was used by the fuel barges that came from Newcastle. He moved cautiously, ready to hide in the shadows when Jones and Swaddell came back – which he knew they would, because it was a dead end, and there was nowhere else for them to go.
But they did not return, and eventually he arrived at the pier. It was lit by a lantern on a pole, which swung gently in the breeze. He wondered why an
yone would bother to illuminate the place, when fuel was expensive and the lamp itself was likely to be stolen by anyone who knew it was there. He looked around, and saw the wharf was bounded on three sides by high walls, while the fourth was open to the river. There were no doorways, alcoves or sheds, and the only way out was the way he had come. Thus he was astonished to find no sign of Swaddell or Jones.
Puzzled, he walked to the wharf ’s edge, and looked into the water. The only place for them to have gone was the river, but it was bitterly cold and he did not see either eager to take a dip. Yet he could see something bobbing there, and was about to kneel for a closer look, when he heard a sound. He spun around, and saw half a dozen figures converging on him from the alley. All carried swords.
‘Never meddle in matters that do not concern you,’ said one softly. Like his companions, he wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed his face, and he moved with an easy confidence. Chaloner knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they were members of the train-band from the Painted Chamber.
‘What matters?’ he demanded, drawing his own weapon as they advanced on him.
‘Murders and rings,’ replied the leader in the same low whisper. ‘It will be the end of you.’
His sudden attack forced Chaloner to jerk away, and his colleagues lunged forward before the spy had regained his balance. Chaloner fought hard, using every trick he had ever learned, but they were experienced warriors, and although he managed to score hits on two, he was no match for so many. He was going to be killed unless he did something fast. He drove them all back with a wild, undisciplined swipe that took them off guard, then turned and leapt into the river.
Water roared in Chaloner’s ears, and seaweed brushed his face as he sank. The tide was in, and the river ran deep and agonisingly cold. His downward progress ended when his feet sank into a layer of silt. It clung to his legs, and he could not kick himself free. He strugged violently, but the mud was reluctant to relinquish its prize. It was not long before his lungs began to burn from the lack of air, but just when he thought he might drown, one foot came free, followed by the other. He propelled himself upwards, emerging next to one of the wharf ’s thick wooden struts. A light above his head told him that his attackers had removed the lamp from its post, and were using it to search. He paddled under the pier and tried to control his ragged breathing, aware that he was a sitting duck if they had guns. Suddenly, a great, whale-like form surfaced next to him in a violent explosion of spray.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 16