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

by Susanna Gregory

For a while, the status quo continued, but the Spymaster soon grew tired of being ignored. He stood, and began to stroll from table to table, greeting men who responded with suspicious nods or insincere smiles. While his attention was taken by two surly bakers, Chaloner took the opportunity to slip through the back door. He hid in the darkness of the hall beyond, just out of sight, listening.

  ‘Where is your friend?’ Williamson asked, when his perambulation brought him to Bulteel.

  ‘He is—’ The secretary stopped speaking in surprise when he realised Chaloner had disappeared. ‘He was here a moment ago. Where could he have gone?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Williamson drily. ‘I wanted to talk to him. Tell him to come and see me at his earliest convenience. I am sure he knows what happened to Swaddell.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bulteel, swallowing nervously. ‘He is not acquainted with Swaddell.’

  ‘He is acquainted well enough to appreciate that Swaddell is important to me,’ said Williamson. His voice was cold. ‘And I will have answers about my spy’s disappearance. Will you pass Chaloner my message? To come to my offices?’

  ‘I will tell him,’ replied Bulteel uncomfortably. ‘But that does not mean he will do it.’

  Williamson gave a smile that made him look like a crocodile. ‘Then he will wish he was more sociable and so will his treacherous family. You can tell him that, too.’

  He had stalked out before Bulteel could respond. The secretary finished his coffee, then left himself. Chaloner joined him in the street, making him jump by falling into step at his side.

  ‘Did you overhear my exchange with the Spymaster?’ Bulteel asked. ‘You really should do as he says. It is better to visit of your own accord, rather than to have him drag you there.’

  Chaloner supposed he would just have to stay out of Williamson’s way, because he had no intention of entering the man’s lair – voluntarily or otherwise. ‘I met Swaddell last night, as it happens, but he refuses to return to White Hall. Perhaps he is afraid of Williamson, too.’

  ‘Too?’ echoed Bulteel. ‘You mean as well as you? Good. You should be frightened of him.’

  ‘I mean as well as you. He does not worry me.’ But that was untrue: the Spymaster worried Chaloner a great deal when he started threatening his family.

  The rest of the morning was spent in a fruitless search for Greene, because the spy wanted to ask him about Langston’s skill in penning saucy plays. He gave up at noon when one of Greene’s colleagues was able to tell him that the clerk had gone to Southwark.

  ‘He does charitable work there,’ the fellow elaborated. ‘But I do not know the details.’

  The afternoon was devoted to Jones, in an effort to discover more about his personal finances. It was not easy, because Chaloner did not want anyone to know he had found the gold, but his carefully phrased questions yielded nothing of value anyway. And although he learned that Jones had indeed owned a fine ruby ring, he was unable to determine whether it was the same as the one retrieved by the train-band in the Painted Chamber.

  At dusk he returned to Meg’s lodgings, but the laundress was still out. He went to see Thurloe instead, only to be told the ex-Spymaster had retired to bed with a headache. Loath to disturb him, Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn feeling as though he had wasted an entire day. He only hoped the evening would be more profitable, because it was time he visited his friend Temperance North.

  Temperance’s gentleman’s club was a stylishly tasteful establishment in Hercules’ Pillars Alley. It was just beginning its operations, and several coaches were outside, disgorging customers. The club catered primarily for men, but a few liberal-minded women sometimes came to enjoy its witty conversation, professional musicians and French cuisine. Lady Castlemaine was often one of them.

  It was unusually busy that evening, because the Twelve Days of Christmas meant people were in the mood for fun. At its door, ready to refuse entry to anyone who looked as if he could not pay, was a man named Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, who saw nothing incongruous in the fact that he earned his living in a brothel at night, then went out to condemn such places during the day. Chaloner had warned Temperance against employing someone whose poisonous tongue might cause trouble for her, but she remained doggedly loyal to the man who had been friends with her dead parents. When the spy approached the door, Hill grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘This is a respectable place,’ he declared, although ‘respectable’ was not a word Chaloner would have used to describe a brothel, even a fashionable one like Temperance’s. ‘So you cannot come in.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner dangerously, shrugging him off. It had been a frustrating day, and he was not in the mood for Hill. ‘And who is going to stop me?’

  Despite his bluster, Hill was frightened of Chaloner. He pretended to reconsider, determined not to lose face by backing down too readily. ‘All right – I will let you in this time, but you had better behave yourself. I have a lot of brawny friends, and if you make trouble, I will see you are sorry.’

  Chaloner treated the threat with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. He stepped across the threshold and looked around in awe. More money had been spent on the club since he was last there, and the entrance hall was now opulent, with mural-covered walls and curtains screening the stairs. Maude, the formidable matron who was Temperance’s helpmeet, sat at a desk at the bottom of the steps, ensuring no one gained access to the ladies on the upper levels without her say-so. Everything was managed with the utmost decorum, so there were never unsightly queues as patrons waited their turn – if a man wanted a woman, he passed word to Maude, and was escorted to a bedroom only when the previous client had gone and the occupant was properly ready for him.

  The main room, or parlour, was another glorious affair, with tapestries on the walls, works of art set on marble plinths around the edges, and Turkish carpets on the floor. A separate antechamber held a consort of musicians, usually professionals good enough to hold Court appointments, who played medleys of popular tunes. It was background music, designed to complement the genteel conversation in the parlour, although they were often drowned out in the early hours when the atmosphere became rather less refined. But it was early by club standards, and only novices or youths were drunk so far.

  Temperance sat at a large gaming table, holding a hand of cards. At first Chaloner thought she was someone else, because he barely recognised her. She had always been plump, but her tight purple gown made her look fat, and the neckline was low enough to be indecent. A formal wig masked her beautiful chestnut curls, and her fresh, pink skin was smothered in a paste intended to give her a fashionable pallor. With a stab of sorrow, Chaloner realised the demure teenager he had befriended barely eighteen months before no longer existed.

  She spotted Chaloner, and gestured to say she would speak to him when her game was over – gone were the days when she would have exclaimed her delight and dropped everything to greet him. While he waited, he wandered through the parlour. Several more card games were in progress, while other men preferred flirting to gambling, and were enjoying the company of the girls who had draped themselves at strategic intervals about the place. He was not surprised to see Turner there, but he was surprised to see him in company with Neale, whose cherubic face was flushed with wine and whose golden curls were in wild disarray. When he saw the spy, Turner came to talk.

  ‘I am sorry about last night,’ he said with an apologetic grin. ‘It was that wine His Portliness fed me. He said it came from the Bishop of London, although the Bishop denies making any such gift. However, it was unusually powerful stuff, and I think it might have been tampered with.’

  ‘You mean it was poisoned?’ asked Chaloner in alarm. No wonder the Earl had looked shabby that morning, and he sincerely hoped it was not a toxin that had long-term effects.

  ‘No, I mean it was dosed with something to make it stronger. All I can say is that he is lucky he shared it, because if he had swallowed the whole jug
himself, he would still be insensible tonight. I know it is no excuse for not being able to draw my sword, but I feel I owe you some explanation.’

  Chaloner nodded acceptance of the tale, although Turner had not seemed that drunk to him. He looked to where Neale was pawing a woman named Belle. She was unimpressed by the lad’s clumsy gropes, and was having trouble fending him off. Turner followed Chaloner’s glance and grimaced.

  ‘We had better rescue her – I shall escort her somewhere to recover, while you deal with Neale.’ He shot Chaloner a conspiratorial grin. ‘Last time I was here, she waived her fee for the romp we enjoyed, and I have hopes for a repeat performance tonight. You are a man of the world – you understand.’

  ‘Understand what?’ asked Chaloner, but Turner was already in motion. With one smooth, suave movement, he had plucked the prostitute from Neale’s gauche embraces and had whisked her away. The young man tried to follow, tripped, and was only saved from falling face-first across one of the gaming tables because Chaloner caught him. The spy half-carried him to a chair near the window, and gave him a cup of water. Petulantly, Neale flung it away and grabbed a jug of wine instead. He took a gulp, and Chaloner stepped back smartly when Neale’s hand shot to his mouth in a way that presaged vomiting. When he had fought off the nausea, Neale inspected his rescuer through bleary eyes.

  ‘The Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he slurred. ‘Investigating Chetwynd’s poisoning. You asked me about it in the Angel tavern, when I was trying to charm Bess Gold.’

  ‘She will not be very charmed if she learns you frequent this sort of place,’ remarked Chaloner.

  ‘But she is the one who drove me here,’ said Neale, full of sullen self pity. ‘You see, she refuses to lie with me while that deaf old turkey still breathes – and I am a red-blooded man with needs. Still, the old bird cannot last much longer, and then I shall have her body and her widow’s fortune.’

  Chaloner was taken aback by the bluntness of the confession. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

  ‘Enough to know I shall have a sore head tomorrow. But where has Colonel Turner gone? He has been plying me with wine in exchange for information all night, but the moment I want him – I need some silver if I am to win Belle – he is nowhere to be found.’

  ‘What sort of things did he want to know?’

  Neale peered at him through glazed eyes. ‘He was asking about Greene, so I told him how I often meet the fellow at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Have you been there? It is very nice.’

  ‘Is Greene a friend of yours, then?’

  ‘Not really. He is too religious for my taste, although he does share my taste for whores.’

  ‘Whores?’ Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him, because Greene had not seemed that kind of man, and he had certainly visited no bawdy-houses when the spy had been following him.

  Neale nodded vigorously. ‘He likes the ones that do not cost much, such as can be got in Southwark. He entertains several at a time. I saw him myself once, when I was out with Brodrick and Chiffinch, and he was obviously a regular, because they all knew him by name. They were laughing and joking together, like old friends.’

  His eyes started to close, so Chaloner kicked his foot, knowing he did not have much time before wine won the battle for what remained of the young man’s wits. ‘What do you discuss at John’s?’

  Neale jerked awake. ‘Mostly we pray for good fortune – for money, happiness and success. I am not averse to having those, so I do not mind spending the odd evening on my knees. And we exchange news about people we know, the weather, the King’s skill at tennis. But we never debate politics. The others always override me if I try to bring up anything contentious, the boring old …’ He waved an expressive hand, his vocabulary apparently having deserted him.

  ‘You misled me the last time we spoke,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘You neglected to mention that you had bribed Chetwynd.’

  Neale slid a little lower in the chair, and his voice became bitter. ‘You think I should have told a stranger how I corrupted a royal official? I may be young, but I am not a fool! But it was a rotten business, if you must know – Chetwynd took the last of my money, then found in my brother’s favour. Bastard! So, here I am, forced to make eyes at a sheep, so I can marry her when Gold dies.’

  Chaloner regarded him with distaste. ‘What else did you tell Turner?’ He kicked Neale’s foot a second time when the young man’s eyelids drooped.

  ‘What? Nothing. No, wait. I told him about the river.’

  ‘What about the river?’ Chaloner hated interviewing drunks; it was like drawing blood from a stone.

  ‘I saw Greene throw something in it on Thursday morning. Something leathery. Purses, I think.’

  ‘Purses?’

  ‘Three purses. But they were empty. I could tell by the way they hit the water. No splash, see.’

  Three purses, three robbed corpses, thought Chaloner uneasily, as Neale finally descended into a snoring stupor. For the second night in a row, he wondered whether he had been right to champion Greene’s innocence. But how could the clerk be guilty, when he had alibis for two of the crimes? Engrossed in his thoughts, Chaloner lifted Neale into a position where he would not choke, and placed an empty bowl at his elbow. Neale would need it when he woke, and Chaloner did not see why Temperance should have to clean up the mess.

  The music was louder than it had been, to make itself heard above the rising clamour of people having a good time. Women shrieked, men laughed, and there was a constant chink of coins changing hands and goblets being refilled. Belle excused herself to confer with Maude, which left Turner at a loose end for a while. The colonel rolled his eyes when he saw the state of Neale, but did not seem unduly concerned that his informant would not be doing any more talking that night.

  ‘Working for His Portliness is fun, is it not?’ he remarked jovially to Chaloner. ‘I mean, what other employer leaves a man to his own devices day and night, and reimburses his expenses in the morning?’

  ‘Not yours,’ said Chaloner. ‘He will be horrified if he thinks you frequent brothels – whether you do it on his behalf or not – and if you present him with a bill for women, he will dismiss you.’

  Turner regarded him uncertainly. ‘You jest. He is not that prudish.’

  ‘Try him, and see.’

  Turner grimaced. ‘Then I had better curtail my spending. Neale can pay for his own whore.’

  Chaloner doubted the lad would be needing one that night. ‘Has he been worth the expense?’

  ‘He provided me with a snippet or two. What about you? What have you learned so far?’

  ‘Not nearly enough,’ replied Chaloner gloomily.

  Turner looked pleased with himself. ‘I, on the other hand, have done rather well – with the murders, at least. I have had no luck at all with the statue. The thief is clever. He removed it with no one seeing – no mean feat, considering its weight – and has contrived to make it disappear completely.’

  Chaloner disagreed. ‘He is not clever, or he would have stolen a piece that is less famous. Everyone knows the old king’s bust is stolen, and he will never sell it for what it is really worth.’

  Turner raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it famous? I thought it was just one in a whole room of similar tripe – worthy and full of artistic merit, to be sure, but not something you would want in your own house.’

  Chaloner was surprised he should be so dismissive. ‘Bernini is the greatest living sculptor in the world.’

  Turner grimaced. ‘Well, perhaps he was having a bad day when he made that one.’

  Chaloner did not want to discuss art with someone who knew even less about it than he did. ‘What have you learned about the murders?’ he asked instead.

  Turner preened. ‘I have uncovered evidence that points to Greene’s guilt. I know you do not share His Portliness’s suspicions, but it seems the old goat was right. In fact, it was because he seemed so certain that I decided to concentrate all my efforts on Greene, to se
e what I could learn about him.’

  It was not a bad strategy, and Chaloner wondered whether he should have done the same. It would have pleased the Earl, and might even have secured his future employment. ‘What did you find out?’

  Turner’s expression was amused. ‘Is this to be a one-way exchange of intelligence, or do you intend to reciprocate? I do not want you to claim all the credit for solving the case, because I enjoy spying for His Portliness and would like to carry on working for him.’

  ‘I doubt he has the resources to hire us both long-term. I know he was recently awarded additional funds to expand his staff, but that was for administration, not the kind of work that we do.’

  ‘Shall we be rivals, then?’ asked Turner, fingering his ear-string.

  Chaloner shook his head tiredly. ‘That might mean more murders. If the best way to catch this villain is by pooling our resources, then that is what we must do. So, you can tell me what you have learned about Greene, and I will tell you what I have learned about the victims.’

  ‘You first, then,’ said Turner slyly.

  ‘I devised a list of common acquaintances – not casual ones, such as might be made by working in the same place, but more meaningful ones. They include Neale, Gold and his wife Bess, Doling, the Lea brothers, Hargrave, Tryan and of course Greene. And Jones, who is dead, too.’

  He omitted Swaddell because of the assassin’s connections to the Spymaster – Chaloner did not understand what Swaddell was doing, but it seemed wise to keep his suspicions to himself – and Symons because he did not want Margaret disturbed during her final hours. Of course, Turner already knew the names of the men Chaloner had listed, because he had inveigled himself into their society when they had met at John’s Coffee House.

  The colonel waved a dismissive hand, unimpressed. ‘If Greene is the killer, then these other “suspects” are irrele vant. Tell me something useful, or I shall keep my own information to myself.’

  ‘Is Greene the killer? He was in Wapping with his priest when Langston was killed, and I was watching his house when Vine died.’