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

by Susanna Gregory

  Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘You have been seen laughing with them.’

  ‘They are cheery company, and always greet me kindly. I have grown to like them, so yes, we laugh together. It makes for a pleasant change, because I seldom have cause to laugh with anyone else.’

  ‘Then what about the three purses you tossed in the river on Thursday morning? Explain those.’

  Greene looked unutterably weary. ‘Again, your witnesses have misconstrued an innocent act. I did not throw three purses in the river – I threw ten. They belonged to Jones, and he left them at my house after Langston and I entertained him for dinner once. We always meant to return them to him, but we kept forgetting. They were a painful reminder of an evening with good friends, so I disposed of them.’

  ‘Why hurl them in the Thames? Why not in a gutter? Or why not give them to your cheerful harlots? I am sure they would never refuse a free gift.’

  ‘Because for me, dropping them in the river was a symbolic act,’ whispered Greene miserably. ‘Jones drowned, so it seemed fitting to … But I was not thinking clearly. I see now it was a stupid thing to have done, but that did not occur to me when I did it.’

  There was a pitiful plausibility about the explanations, and Chaloner found he was not sure what to think. ‘Then what about the brandywine?’ he demanded. ‘You told me you do not touch strong drink, yet you begged some from Munt on two occasions; and Turner found a secret supply in your office.’

  Greene was close to tears. ‘Damn! I was hoping no one would find out about Munt, because I knew how it would look. I asked him not to mention it, but I should have known he could not be trusted.’

  ‘So, you lied to me,’ said Chaloner flatly. ‘The hidden brandywine was yours.’

  ‘No! I do not drink brandywine, and I have no idea how those flasks came to be in my office. But I did ask Munt for some – on Thursday and then on Saturday. I told him I needed its stimulation, because I planned to work late. However, the real reason is because my vicar has a liking for it.’

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’

  ‘Ask him. He will tell you how I give him some most weeks. But Brodrick bought every last drop in London for his Babylonian punch, and I did not want to disappoint, so I inveigled some from Munt instead. So much for trying to be nice! But can you not see what is happening? Someone wants me accused, and is twisting innocent facts to trap me. I have explanations, but no one is listening.’

  Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Perhaps the vicar of Wapping really did rely on Greene to provide him with a weekly dose of brandywine – and Chaloner knew from Wiseman that Brodrick had bought all the available supplies for his punch. It sounded ludicrous, but sometimes the truth was absurd.

  ‘Who would do such a thing to you?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘You have asked me that before, and the answer is the same now as it was then: I do not know. I wish I did, because it must be a misunderstanding. I have lived a simple and godly life, and I cannot imagine why anyone should hate me so. All I can do is put my trust in God – and in you.’

  Confused and uncertain, Chaloner decided to visit the Dog and Duck. He took a boat to the London Bridge, then made his way through the cramped, sunless alleys that formed the area known as the Bankside Stews. Mean houses, dirty taverns and filthy streets characterised that part of Southwark, and it teemed with life. The noise was deafening, with tradesmen declaring the virtues of their wares, carts clattering along cobbled streets, and a cacophony arising from an escaped and furious bull.

  The Dog and Duck was famous for its willing ladies, and Chaloner supposed it was an obvious target for anyone wanting to save fallen women. He entered its vast, smelly interior, and found a seat in a corner at the back, intending to sit quietly and watch the prostitutes in action before selecting one he thought might answer his questions. But the lasses were used to men lurking in the shadows, and he was approached almost immediately by a sallow-faced girl who told him her name was Alice.

  ‘Are you from Court?’ she asked with a coquettish smile. ‘You are very well dressed.’

  Chaloner placed a coin on the table. ‘Will you answer some questions?’

  ‘For a silver shilling, I will do anything you like. Shall we go upstairs?’

  Chaloner watched a rat strut boldly across the festering rushes on the floor, and did not like to imagine the state of the beds. He was not particularly fastidious, but nothing would be gained from rolling around among fleas. ‘I would prefer to stay here.’

  ‘Very well, as long as you promise not to do anything embarrassing. I got my reputation, see.’

  ‘I shall do my best. Do you know a Westminster clerk called Greene?’

  ‘Mr Greene? Of course! He visits us almost every week. Are you his friend? I am glad he got one, because he is a lovely man. He took us to St Paul’s Cathedral on Christmas Day.’

  ‘Did he? What for?’

  ‘He said we deserved to see something beautiful. We got dressed in our best clothes, and he paid for a carriage and a nice dinner afterwards. Bless him.’

  ‘Does he avail himself of your services?’ asked Chaloner bluntly.

  Alice’s lips tightened in disapproval. ‘That’s none of your business, and—’

  Chaloner removed the coin from the table. ‘Then I shall ask someone else.’

  She reached out to grab his hand, revealing black teeth in an ingratiating smile. ‘No need to be hasty, sir. You cannot blame a girl for being wary of someone what comes in asking questions about her friends. Why do you want to know anyway? Is it about the trouble he is in? He told us about that – some Court bastard is after his blood. But he is a good man, so they should leave him alone.’

  ‘I am trying to help him. And you can help him, too, by answering my questions honestly. So, I repeat: does Greene frolic with you?’

  Alice prised the money from his fingers and shook her head. ‘No. He comes to ask after our health, and he tries to persuade us to do other jobs. He paid for Meg to train as a washerwoman.’

  ‘He told me,’ lied Chaloner. He had actually failed to make this connection, but supposed it made sense. Of course, Meg had not moved too far from her old trade, if she was enjoying late-night trysts with the likes of Colonel Turner in the Painted Chamber.

  ‘She is over there,’ said Alice, pointing. ‘She came back, because White Hall is too debauched.’

  Chaloner looked to where she gestured, and saw a small, pretty woman with bright blue eyes. She was laughing with some of her colleagues, and he was not surprised that Turner had taken a fancy to her. She had all her own teeth, her skin was smooth and white, and she had more yellow curls than the Lord Chancellor’s best wig. Alice beckoned her over.

  ‘Dear Mr Greene,’ said Meg sadly, after Chaloner had been introduced as the clerk’s friend. ‘The villains at White Hall are accusing him of murder, but he would never hurt a fly. He is gentle and kind, and that is the reason they hate him – his goodness makes them ashamed of themselves.’

  Extraordinary though it might seem, Chaloner saw Greene had been telling the truth about his clandestine visits to Southwark. More probing told him the clerk had never taken advantage of any woman in the brothel, although all had offered him their services free of charge. He also gave them money when they were ill, tired or distressed. They looked on him as a father, and it was not long before Chaloner was surrounded by prostitutes, all eager to convince him that Greene was next in line for sainthood. Moreover, Meg confirmed the tale about Greene’s fallen sister, and said that he and Langston had indeed hosted a dinner for Jones, at which the fat man had accidentally left behind ten leather purses. She had been employed to wash the dishes afterwards, and had seen them.

  Chaloner tuned out the chattering voices and thought about what he had learned. If Greene had been honest about Southwark, then there was no reason to doubt his other claims, either. And that suggested he was right: someone was trying to have him wrongfully accus
ed of murder. But who? Someone who disliked his integrity? Or someone who thought the Southwark harlots did not deserve a friend?

  By the time he left the Dog and Duck, dusk was fast approaching, bringing with it a bitter, sleety drizzle that turned Southwark’s streets more dismal than ever. Meg begged a ride in the hackney he took back to the city, saying she had laundry to deliver to Tryan the merchant in Lymestrete. Chaloner was going to Hercules’ Pillars Alley, because he wanted to apologise to Temperance, so Lymestrete was not far out of his way.

  ‘People have been worried about you,’ he said, as they thundered across the Bridge. The driver’s recklessly selfish speed reminded him of why he did not like walking across it.

  ‘About me?’ asked Meg, startled. ‘That is nice. Who?’

  Chaloner looked at her in the fading daylight, and found he could not answer. Her housemate had not been overly concerned when she had failed to return home, assuming – doubtless on account of her previous occupation – that she was with a man. Turner had been anxious, but only because he thought he might have lost out on a romp. Or was he doing the colonel an injustice?

  ‘Turner,’ he replied, for want of anyone better.

  Her pretty face split into a hopeful grin. ‘Really? I thought he did not care about me when he failed to turn up for our tryst. I waited until nightfall on Saturday, but there was no sign of him.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘Nightfall? I was under the impression that he expected you much later.’

  ‘He told me to meet him at the witching hour.’

  ‘That is midnight.’

  ‘No, it is dusk. Everyone knows witches come out when daylight fades, so the witching hour is between sunset and total darkness. Why? Are you saying he thinks it was another time?’

  ‘It is another time, Meg. He expected you at twelve o’clock.’

  Meg’s eyes were huge. ‘Lord! He will think I abandoned him! The dear man! I should have known better than to question his love for me. He said he adores me, and he does. And I was so angry with him! I kept thinking he had deserted me, after all I had done for him – all that smuggling him in and out of the palace on my laundry cart every time he had a meeting with Lady Castlemaine.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how on earth Turner had managed to persuade one lover to facilitate his visits to another.

  ‘Because she needs him to protect her from that awful Earl of Clarendon,’ explained Meg, earnestly ingenuous. ‘The Earl keeps foisting his attentions on her, see. But that was before he hired my colonel as his spy – now my dearest has an official post, he can come and go as he pleases.’

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to be more impressed by her absolute credulity or Turner’s colourful lies.

  ‘You have made me so happy with this news! I should have known he thought I was special, or he would not have met me so often. Did I tell you that we have enjoyed secret assignations in the Painted Chamber every Monday and Thursday for the past two months?’

  ‘Even last week?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was significant: Chetwynd had died on a Thursday, and Langston on a Monday. And both bodies had been found in the Painted Chamber.

  She nodded, smiling gleefully. ‘That was when he gave me one of his ear-strings.’

  ‘How long do these sessions last?’

  Meg’s grin broadened. ‘From dusk until dawn. We meet in the Painted Chamber, and then he takes me to an inn in Chelsey. But our last tryst was arranged for a Saturday, at a different time than usual, which explains my silly confusion. So, now you have cleared that up, all I have to worry about is Mr Greene. I must do something to get him out of trouble. I owe it to him, after all he has done for me.’

  Chaloner did not think the interference of a harlot would do Greene much good. ‘May I come with you to Lymestrete? Tryan is a friend of Greene’s, and might know something that will help him.’

  ‘I will do anything for Mr Greene,’ said Meg gamely. ‘Even be seen in company with a rogue from White Hall. You will have to carry the washing, though. I feel an aching back coming on.’

  Lymestrete was an ancient road full of buildings that did not really go together. Precarious hovels rubbed shoulders with wealthy merchants’ homes, while shops that sold expensive jewellery sat next to ones that hawked cheap candles. Tryan’s house was near St Dionis Backchurch, a handsome fifteenth-century chapel with a lofty spire.

  Meg and Chaloner – the latter toting a sack of clothes – were shown into Tryan’s parlour. It was a pleasant room, with a roaring fire, chestnuts roasting in a tray, and books everywhere. There was a chest under the window, armed with three heavy locks that suggested valuables were within. The spy wondered why Tryan did not conceal it with a cloth – as it stood, most would-be thieves would view it more of a challenge than a deterrent.

  ‘Meg!’ cried Tryan in pleasure. ‘I was beginning to think you had made off with my shirts. You are not usually late with your deliveries.’

  The bandy-legged merchant was sitting at a large, polished table, surrounded by papers. A brief glance at one of the ledgers revealed some staggering sums of money, indicating business was booming. He was not alone, because Hargrave was with him, dividing his attention between finance and relieving his itching scalp with the sharp end of a quill.

  Meg began to dance around with Tryan’s shirts, explaining what she had done to render them so pristine. He was captivated by her youthful exuberance, and Chaloner was sure she was earning herself a handsome bonus by taking the time to charm him. Meanwhile, Hargrave frowned at the spy.

  ‘You have a curious way of spending your time,’ he said suspiciously. ‘I would have thought the Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers have better things to do than carry laundry for harlots.’

  ‘And how many Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers do you know?’ asked Chaloner, amused.

  ‘Two: you and Turner. I might have known three, had Langston chosen to accept the commission. He was outraged when the Earl first approached him, but I told him he should have taken it.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

  ‘Because your Earl was a good man, but White Hall is beginning to turn him wicked. However, he is probably redeemable, and I felt Langston was the fellow to save him.’

  ‘You are in no position to criticise another man’s virtue,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘I understand you provide materials for Langston’s dramas, but, judging from the rehearsal I saw today, they are hardly morality plays.’

  Hargrave’s face flushed red. He shot an uneasy glance at Tryan, but Tryan’s attention was fixed on the cavorting Meg, and he would not have noticed an earthquake. ‘Langston did ask me to help him,’ he muttered uncomfortably. ‘As a favour to a friend. But I had no idea of the lewd content of his—’

  ‘You must have done,’ interrupted Chaloner, tired of lies, ‘because of the manner of props required. I saw some this morning, and you cannot possibly have been ignorant of what they are required to do.’

  Hargrave shot a second uneasy glance in his colleague’s direction. ‘Can we discuss this later?’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps in a tavern? Tryan has a high opinion of me, and I do not want that to change. And I am sure we can come to some arrangement – you will keep a silent tongue, and I will provide you with a little something in return. What do you say to five pounds?’

  Chaloner hated it when people tried to bribe him; it told him they held no regard for his integrity. ‘I do not want your money.’

  Hargrave winced when the spy made no effort to lower his voice. ‘What then?’ he asked, a little desperately. ‘Information? Such as that the Lea brothers knew about Langston’s obscene dramatics – they wrote out the different parts for the actors to learn.’

  ‘What about Greene?’ asked Chaloner, to see whether Hargrave would confirm what the hapless clerk had claimed. ‘Did he know what these plays entailed?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it. He is a prudish fellow and would have been deeply shocked.’
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  ‘Then tell me about the prayer meetings you attended with Scobel.’

  Hargrave blinked at him. ‘Scobel? But he died years ago. What can possibly interest you about—’ He saw Chaloner’s expression, and hurried on quickly. ‘They took place in his home, and comprised a group of men who joined together to thank God for His goodness.’

  ‘I do not believe you. I think there was more.’

  ‘I could lie, and so end this embarrassing interview,’ said Hargrave quietly, ‘but we really did meet for prayers. Scobel felt not enough people were thanking God for their good fortune, and set out to rectify the matter. And, for a while, it did seem that we – the grateful men – enjoyed better success than those who just kept asking for things. Obviously, once we realised it, we were keen to continue.’

  ‘So, it went from being a religious occasion to one of superstition?’

  Hargrave winced. ‘You put it bluntly, but yes. Personally, I feel it is time to move on – to end these gatherings and stand on our own two feet. But the others are afraid their luck will change if we stop. They point out that when Langston left, his bank was robbed. Then there is Doling, who renounced us because he objected to what he called our pagan slavishness to Lady Fortune – he lost all at the Restoration, and has continued to lose since.’

  ‘He certainly lost the court case that came before Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner. ‘Although I imagine your bribe of a cottage had something to do with that.’

  Hargrave’s eyes bulged in horror, and he shot another uncomfortable glance at Tryan. ‘I admit I gave Chetwynd a small property, but it had nothing to do with Doling’s claim for fishing rights. The two incidents are entirely unrelated. Perhaps my colleagues are right, and that if Doling had not abandoned our prayer meetings …’ He let the suggestion hang in the air.

  Chaloner regarded him in silence for a moment. ‘I do not believe that everyone who attends these gatherings enjoys good fortune.’