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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘Enough, friends, enough,’ said the King good-naturedly, when he felt the joke had run its course. ‘The Lord of Misrule has played a clever trick, but let us return to more serious matters. What will our guests think? We promised them tennis, not japes.’

  Tryan and Hargrave were smiling, but their expressions were strained, while the other merchants were openly disapproving. The King sighed, but did not seem overly concerned that there would be more damaging rumours about his Court circulating by morning. He turned his attention to the game.

  ‘Good play, Your Majesty,’ called the Earl after the first serve. It was unfortunate timing, because the King had just made a mistake, and the remark made him sound facetious. His smile was fixed as he muttered to Chaloner, ‘I hate this game. It is all rushing about in sweaty shirts, like peasants.’

  After a while, the Queen arrived, and her reception was almost as chilly as the one that had been afforded the Earl. She maintained her composure, though, nodding greetings to people, even when they barely acknowledged her. No one offered her a seat, and it was left to Barbara Chiffinch to scowl at her husband until he obliged; he did so with ill grace, and ignored the Queen’s shy murmur of thanks.

  ‘Why does the King permit such low manners, sir?’ asked Chaloner, itching to box a few ears.

  ‘I imagine because the Lady will make trouble for him if he complains,’ replied the Earl. ‘It is easier to pretend nothing is wrong, and he always was a man for choosing the least demanding option.’

  ‘She is the Queen,’ said Chaloner angrily. ‘They should pay her proper respect.’

  ‘Yes, they should,’ said the Earl, struggling to his gouty feet. ‘So I shall go and bid her good afternoon. I know what it is like to be shunned.’

  He engaged the Queen in meaningless conversation, and Chaloner was sorry that even the prim, overly formal attentions of the Lord Chancellor brought a rush of gratitude to her wan face.

  ‘I want Bath,’ she said in her low, deep voice. ‘You help?’

  The Earl blushed furiously. ‘I think your ladies-in-waiting are better equipped to assist you with your private ablutions, ma’am. And I am a married man.’

  ‘She wants to take the healing waters, sir,’ explained Chaloner. ‘In Bath. And she needs funds.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ breathed the Earl, relieved. He smiled at her, then started speaking loudly, as if he thought her English might improve if the words were bellowed. ‘Unfortunately, there is no money left in your household account, ma’am. I have inspected the books, but cannot tell what happened to it – I can only assume it was diverted to some other account when you failed to use it. In other words, there is no money available for travelling.’

  ‘He speaks too fast!’ cried the Queen in Portuguese. Her eyes were full of anguished tears as she turned to Chaloner. ‘But tell him I must go. It is my only hope. People may not hate me so much when I have a son.’

  The Earl waited until she had finished speaking, then immediately started to talk about the weather, unwilling to pursue a subject that might see him asked to pay for the venture himself. He did not let Chaloner translate what she had said, although the spy was sure he had understood the desperation in her voice well enough. The Queen listened intently to his monologue, but it was clear she understood little of it. There was hope in her eyes, though, suggesting she thought the Earl’s chatty, friendly tone meant he approved of her intention to visit a spa, and that he might help to facilitate the matter. Chaloner looked away, unable to watch.

  Lady Castlemaine had arrived with the Queen’s party, but did not stay with them for long. She began to strut about, tossing glances at past, present and future lovers that told of all manner of shared secrets. Her presence was a distraction to both the King and Buckingham. They started to play poorly, and their game degenerated into chaos when she descended to the court and tried to catch the ball. Eager to be on her good side, others rushed to assist her. Lady Muskerry fell, and landed with her legs in the air. There was a cheer of manly appreciation, so Lady Castlemaine contrived to do the same. And then there was a forest of naked calves being waved this way and that.

  ‘I am not staying here to witness such an unedifying spectacle,’ announced the Earl, surveying the scene in open disgust. ‘Haddon’s dogs are better mannered than this rabble!’

  It did seem unsuitable behaviour from people who were supposed to be running the country, and the merchants were aghast. Chaloner was relieved to leave the place, and escort his master home.

  Haddon was waiting in Worcester House when the Earl and Chaloner arrived there, his dogs curled around his feet. There was to be a dinner for a few of the Earl’s closest friends that night, mostly pompous clergymen and high-ranking lawyers, and the steward wanted to check one or two last-minute details.

  ‘All is ready, sir,’ he said, almost falling into the Earl’s arms when one of his pooches tripped him. He made sure it was unharmed before he resumed his report. ‘I cancelled the viols, as you asked, and arranged for violins instead.’

  ‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Viols sound so crude when one is used to the lighter tones of the violin. Do you not agree, Thomas?’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. To his mind, nothing could compare to a consort of viols, and he thought the Earl did not deserve to hear one if he was incapable of appreciating its haunting beauty.

  The Earl shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Then it is just as well you are not invited.’

  He bustled away to change his clothes before his guests arrived, and Haddon took the opportunity to pull the spy to one side.

  ‘You asked me to listen for rumours pertaining to the murders, but I am afraid there is little point in repeating what I have heard, because it is all nonsense. However, there is one snippet that you may find interesting. Do you recall Turner saying he had arranged a midnight tryst with a lover when he stumbled upon Vine’s body?’

  ‘With Meg the laundress. She has not been seen since.’

  Haddon smiled. ‘Ah, but she has! You see, I complimented Alderman Tryan on his beautifully clean lace today, and we got talking. Boastfully, he told me that his laundry is done by the same lass who does the King’s. Then he said Meg had delivered him a batch of clean shirts only last night.’

  Chaloner was pleased, because he had been certain she was dead. ‘Are you sure?’

  Haddon nodded. ‘She has been away, visiting kin in Islington. But now she is back, so you can interview her about what she saw on the night of Vine’s death. Perhaps she spotted the killer slinking out of the Painted Chamber, and can describe him for you. If so, then it is good news for Greene.’

  ‘Did she tell Tryan anything about the murder?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the Westminster poisoner would not hear about her return and move to ensure she did not provide investigators with clues.

  ‘Not that he shared with me. I have a friend – a fellow dog-lover – who works in the laundries, and he is going to find out where she lives. The moment I hear from him, I shall let you know.’

  Chaloner thanked him and left Worcester House, intending to track Meg down himself, but he had not taken many steps before he collided heavily with someone. Symons reeled from the impact, which had been entirely his fault – the spy had done his best to move out of the way, but Symons had been so preoccupied that he had ploughed ahead like a runaway cart. He mumbled an apology, bowed his orange head as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and continued on up The Strand.

  Chaloner’s first instinct was to call him back, to ask about his uncle’s prayer meetings and the curious combination of men they had attracted. But Symons was moving very purposefully, so he started to follow him instead. Once past the New Exchange, Symons turned left, threading through a maze of lanes until he reached Covent Garden. By then, Chaloner knew exactly where he was going: to John’s Coffee House, perhaps for one of the assemblies Greene had mentioned. It seemed as good a time as any to find out whether the gatherings had any bearing on his investigation, so
Chaloner decided to eavesdrop.

  John’s had once been a tavern, and still looked like one. It was a great sprawling place, with upper storeys that overjetted the street like a looming drunk. It was run by John Ravernet, a thin, sallow-faced man who liked to tell everyone he had been a Royalist hero during the wars. Unfortunately for his credibility, Chaloner recalled visiting the place a decade before, and hearing Ravernet talk about his bravery when he was serving in Cromwell’s army. It was hard to blame anyone for embroidering their past in the current climate of unease, although it occurred to the spy that there might be less mistrust if everyone just told the truth.

  He followed Symons inside, and took a seat near the back of the room, where thick shadows and a lack of natural light rendered him virtually invisible. Symons went to a table where several men already sat. They greeted him with friendly calls of ‘what news?’ so he told them about the King’s tennis, although his voice was flat and dull, as if the Court’s antics were of no interest to him. They were of interest to his companions, though: they shook their heads in salacious disgust. After a while, some left, making room for new arrivals. Chaloner frowned thoughtfully when he saw his suspects turn up one by one, as and when they managed to escape from the Tennis Court.

  Within an hour, they were all there – Symons, Greene, Gold, Neale, Hargrave and Tryan. Chaloner wondered whether Doling and the Lea brothers might appear, too, but then recalled that although they had attended Scobel’s prayers, they did not seem to belong to the coffee-house set. Four seats were ominously empty, and the spy noticed several of the gathering glance sadly at the places that had presumably been occupied by Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and Jones.

  Others arrived to join the assembly, too, and Chaloner was disconcerted to see Turner among them. The colonel wore a disguise, but his confident swagger and the hole in his earlobe gave him away. He was not the only one who had tried to conceal his identity. So did two more men: hats shielded their faces, and they did not remove them, even when Ravernet arrived with a tray of coffee and they all took a dish. Chaloner studied them hard. Did he know them? Unfortunately, their shape and size told him nothing, and he suspected he could stare at them all day and still have no answers.

  Eventually, Symons said something that resulted in them all huddling together with their heads bowed and their hands clasped together. Their voices dropped, and Chaloner found he could not hear a word. He edged closer, but it made no difference. He watched with a puzzled frown: it looked as though they were praying. It did not seem very likely, especially in a coffee house, but he could not imagine what else they could be doing.

  After a while, Greene went to order more drinks. As he did so, the man next to him glanced up, and Chaloner finally caught a glimpse of the fellow’s face. It was heavily bearded and dominated by a large nose; the nose looked artificial and Chaloner knew he had never seen it before. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the rest of the face. It took Chaloner a moment, but then recognition came. Swaddell’s disguise was excellent, and the spy might have been deceived had he not been trained to notice such details – Swaddell’s restless black eyes were distinctive.

  So what was the Spymaster’s assassin doing in such company? Clearly, Williamson did not know what Swaddell was up to, or he would not have asked Chaloner to look into the man’s disappearance. Or was the Spymaster playing a complex game that entailed convincing everyone that his agent was missing? Chaloner frowned, feeling his investigation had just taken a distinctly sinister turn, if Williamson and his favourite henchman were involved.

  It was not much longer before Symons stood to leave, which brought the meeting to an end. Chaloner followed the participants outside, and found himself faced with three choices. He could trail Symons home, and interview him and his wife. He could attempt to find out what Swaddell was doing. Or he could concentrate on the last man of the group, the one whose face he had been unable to see, and try to learn his identity. Unfortunately, the last man had used a different door from the others, and had already disappeared, so Chaloner waited just long enough to satisfy himself that Symons was heading in the right direction for his house, then set off after Swaddell.

  The Spymaster’s man did not go far before ducking into a doorway. Chaloner crept forward cautiously, aware that if Swaddell was half as dangerous as everyone claimed, then he would know he was being followed and would react with his knife. He waited until the assassin’s attention was fixed on removing his nose, then stepped up behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck.

  ‘Your master is worried about you,’ he said softly. ‘He thinks you are drowned.’

  Swaddell’s instinctive struggles ceased abruptly when he felt the spy’s dagger against his throat. ‘Chaloner? Yes, it is you – I recognise your voice. What do you think you are doing, assaulting me like this? Let me go at once!’

  ‘I will consider it, when you have answered some questions.’

  ‘And what if I refuse?’

  ‘Do you really want to find out?’

  Swaddell was silent, weighing his options. He strained briefly against Chaloner’s arm, testing its strength, then gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Very well. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Why were you with those people?’

  ‘That is none of your business.’

  It was not an auspicious start, and Chaloner moved the dagger slightly, to remind him it was still there. ‘They are suspects for killing Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, so it is my business.’

  Swaddell sighed again, impatiently this time. ‘Then why do you think I was there? I am also trying to find the villain who is killing government officials.’

  ‘Why? Williamson said he has ordered all his people to concentrate on finding the King’s statue.’

  Swaddell grimaced. ‘Yes, he has, but where does that leave me? Vulnerable to accusations, that’s where – I am an assassin, and here are three men poisoned. How long do you think will it be before folk put these two “facts” together? To my mind, solving this case is a matter of self-preservation.’

  ‘You are afraid you will be blamed for committing these crimes?’ Chaloner was bemused.

  ‘It would not be the first time. And while Williamson is generous with his pay, I am not sure he can be relied upon to stand by me should certain matters come to light. You are a spy, so you understand what I mean. Thurloe would have denied knowing you, if you had been caught … breaking the rules.’

  Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And does “breaking the rules” entail dispatching the killer when you catch him? Is that why you attended this meeting?’

  ‘No!’ objected Swaddell. He sounded indignant. ‘I may be an assassin, but I do not spend all my time stabbing people – I have other duties, too. And if you must know, I infiltrated this group some weeks ago, because Williamson was suspicious of its combination of government officials, ex-Commonwealth clerks and wealthy merchants. He thought they might be plotting something dangerous.’

  ‘And are they?’

  Swaddell made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. ‘I have rarely met a band of men less interested in politics. All they do is pray, plan their next prayers, or debate whether the past ones were sufficiently devout. And occasionally, they talk about what is reported in the newsbooks.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘It is a religious assembly, then?’

  ‘It is – and tedious in the extreme. When Chetwynd was killed, I wondered whether one of these pious fellows might have done it, because Chetwynd was secretly corrupt, while they are all nauseatingly honest. So I have continued to attend their meetings, to see what I could find out.’

  ‘And what have you learned?’

  ‘Nothing!’ spat the assassin, clearly exasperated. ‘I have probed, hedged, blithered, done everything in my power to encourage the culprit to say something incriminating, but my efforts have gone nowhere. I am beginning to think these men might be innocent.’

  ‘What is the name of the person who did
not remove his hat? Not Turner – the other one.’

  ‘He calls himself John Reeve, but it is probably an alias. I have bumped against him, spilled his coffee, sneezed at him, dropped my pipe in his lap, but even when I do glimpse his face, it is so plastered with pastes and paints that it is impossible to identify. He is not the only one to disguise himself, though. Chetwynd used to do it, and so does Hargrave, on occasion.’

  ‘Why, if all they do is pray?’

  ‘You tell me – I am damned if I understand. Now let me go. Standing like this is hurting my back.’

  ‘What happened to you on Tuesday?’ asked Chaloner, not relinquishing his hold. ‘Jones chased you with a sword, but then you disappeared.’

  Swaddell had been trying to ease himself into a more comfortable position, but he stopped moving abruptly. ‘Were you following me?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  It was no kind of answer, and Swaddell knew it, but he did not demean himself by asking for a better one. He winced when the dagger nicked his throat. ‘All right! I was trying to listen to what Jones and the others were saying, but I tripped over some rubbish. Jones heard, and came after me like a rampaging bull. The alley I ran down leads nowhere but the river, and I found myself trapped.’

  ‘Did you push him in the water?’

  ‘No! Basically, he was such a fat man that he could not stop once he was on the move, and he managed to knock us both in, although I seriously doubt it was deliberate. He sank like a stone, and I managed to climb out. I was sorry for it, but it was hardly my fault.’