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

by Susanna Gregory

  ‘And you would be right – Symons has not, despite his regular appearances. However, most of us have done extremely well, although I still feel it is time to end them. Unfortunately, Scobel made us promise to remain friends and pray together. We were stupid to have sworn sacred vows to do as he asked – it was a different world then, and we were different men.’

  ‘I am not sure I understand.’

  Hargrave clawed at the scabs on his head. ‘Scobel predicted the Restoration would bring a change in morality, and he wanted to ensure a spark of virtue remained. However, while he was right in that standards have changed since the King returned, I think it is a mistake to follow outdated principles.’

  ‘So you approve of what you saw at the Tennis Court? You prefer those values to Scobel’s?’

  ‘I would not go that far,’ said Hargrave stiffly. ‘But I am not comfortable with rabid sanctimony, either. I wish I had the courage to break away from the others, but their superstition has started to infect me – I do not want to end up like Doling, so I keep waiting for someone else to leave first.’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ asked Tryan, smiling as Meg flounced merrily through the door, clutching a full purse. She winked before she left, making him blush with pleasure.

  ‘Our prayer meetings,’ replied Hargrave quickly. ‘And how I think we should end them.’

  ‘That would be madness,’ said Tryan, turning to give him his full attention. ‘You are wealthy, blessed with a good wife and obedient children. Why would you risk all that? Besides, Scobel made you swear an oath, and you do not want God angry with you for vow-breaking.’

  The two merchants began a debate on the matter, and when he saw he would learn nothing more from listening to them, Chaloner bowed a farewell and left, thinking of how little he had achieved that day. He had reinforced his conviction that Greene was innocent, but was no further forward with identifying the real culprit. However, he was determined to put the evening to good use, so he headed for Hercules’ Pillars Alley.

  It was early by club standards, and the atmosphere in the parlour was still quietly genteel. Pipe smoke hung blue and hazy in the air, overlain by the scent of ‘burnt’ claret and orange-rind comfits. Temperance was playing cards with Chiffinch. She smiled when she saw Chaloner, and he sighed his relief – it told him she was sorry about their row, too, and was willing to make amends.

  ‘The Earl’s man,’ said Chiffinch, regarding the spy in icy disdain. There was a network of broken veins across his nose and cheeks, and the whites of his eyes were yellow, both the result of a life spent in pursuit of hedonistic pleasures. ‘I am surprised he pays you enough to let you come here.’

  ‘Tom is my personal guest,’ said Temperance, intervening before there was trouble. She need not have worried, because Chaloner was not going to let himself be needled by the likes of Chiffinch. Unless he insulted Barbara, in which case the man could expect to be punched.

  ‘I thought you would be watching the play in the Banqueting House tonight,’ Chaloner said to him amiably. ‘The one Langston wrote.’

  ‘I have seen The Prick of Love before,’ said Chiffinch sourly. ‘It is far too rude for my taste. The occasion might have been amusing, had your Earl been there, but he sent word that he is ill. He is in perfect health, of course, and I suspect Brodrick lost courage and warned him off. The man is a base coward.’

  Chaloner did not like to imagine what the Earl would have made of the performance, if the likes of Chiffinch considered it excessive.

  ‘I shall fetch you some syllabub, Mr Chiffinch,’ said Temperance, standing and indicating that Snowflake was to take her place at the table. ‘My cook tells me it is the best he has ever made. At least, I think that is what he was saying – he is not always easy to understand.’

  Chaloner followed her into the hall. ‘I am sorry about last night,’ he began, the moment they were alone. ‘I was wrong to question you about Bernini—’

  ‘And I am sorry, too,’ interrupted Temperance. ‘You should have told me I am a suspect for stealing the King’s statue, but I should have explained myself when you asked. We were both at fault.’

  ‘You are not a suspect. At least, not to me. Spymaster Williamson might reach other conclusions, though, which is why I warned you to be wary about confiding in your patrons.’

  ‘You still trust me, then?’

  ‘Of course. I do not believe you have changed so much that you would steal.’

  ‘And you would be right. Reputation is everything in a place like this, and I cannot afford rumours of deceit or dishonesty. So, are you still coming to meet James on Twelfth Night eve?’

  Chaloner smiled. ‘If I am still invited.’

  She kissed his cheek with the sisterly affection he had missed since they had started to grow apart. ‘He is eager to meet you, and I have a feeling you will be good friends. However, there is one thing I should tell you in advance: we will not be eating pelican.’

  Good, thought Chaloner. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it was delivered this morning, and it was such a sweet thing that I could not bring myself to wring its neck. Maude took it to St James’s Park instead, and released it into the company of its fellows.’

  Chaloner smiled again. ‘I should go,’ he said, watching her select a bowl of syllabub for Chiffinch. He was hungry, but the thick, plum-flavoured beverage did not tempt him at all. ‘You are busy.’

  ‘Never too busy for you, and I owe you an explan ation about Bernini, anyway. I asked questions about him, because Brodrick and Chiffinch kept talking about his fine carving of the King’s head. They chatted about it for weeks – so long that my interest was piqued.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘Do you think they stole it, perhaps because Brodrick plans to use it in one of his japes as Lord of Misrule?’

  ‘Yes, I do, and so does James. I told him everything last night, and he said there is no other explanation. He also told me I should confide all this to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.

  ‘Because he is an art-lover himself, and thinks the bust might get broken if it is used in some wild caper. He says that would be a tragedy.’ Temperance was silent for a moment, then touched his arm. ‘Chiffinch told me you asked him and Brodrick whether they owned a ruby ring. Presumably, you have reason to believe that either the clerk-killer or the statue-thief might own one. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously, but did not elaborate.

  ‘If it was small, then perhaps it belonged to a lady,’ suggested Temperance tentatively. ‘There is a tendency for men to forget that we can steal and commit murder, too, so do not fall into that trap. And there are a lot of ruthless women at Court.’

  Chaloner nodded, and did not tell her that the notion had already occurred to him. He did not want to risk another quarrel by being ungracious. ‘I will not forget,’ he promised.

  When Chaloner returned to his rooms, the bowls he had set to catch the drips that morning were so full they had overflowed, and the floor was awash. There was a note pinned to the door from the instrument-maker who rented the room below, complaining of water streaming down his walls. Landlord Ellis had been to inspect the trouble – his muddy footprints were everywhere – but in a rare moment of self-doubt, he had apparently decided repairs were beyond him, and had not attempted any. Normally, he was only too pleased to ply his dubious skills to effect even more dubious remedies, and the fact that he was daunted by the scale of the problem did not bode well for the future.

  As it stood, the place was not at all inviting, and it was raining again – Chaloner did not want to spend a second night dodging deluges, so he decided to leave. Before he went, he fed his cat with some salted meat from the pantry, although it ate only two mouthfuls before going to wash itself by the fireplace, and he supposed it had found itself something more appetising during the day. He hoped it had not been a bird. He spent a few moments teasing it with a piece of ribbo
n, just to prove he could be in its company without resorting to meaningless chatter – or, worse yet, a serious conversation – then left for the greater comfort of Hannah’s house. She was asleep when he arrived, but moved over so he could climb into the bed beside her.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she murmured drowsily, nestling against him. ‘You smell of smoke.’

  Remembering her response the last time he had admitted to visiting Temperance’s club, he was uncertain how to reply. He flailed around for something that was true, but that she would believe.

  ‘Not again,’ she said with a groan, when he took too long. ‘Surely, you cannot have been engaged in secret business all day? Or is the Earl getting every last penny’s worth out of you?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ said Chaloner, feeling this at least was something that could not be disputed. ‘I think I have finally eliminated Greene as a suspect for the murders, but I have made no progress in identifying the real killer. Or in locating the King’s statue.’

  She climbed out of the bed, and went to prod the fire. He supposed his answer had not been to her liking, but did not know what else to say. It was not a good idea to lie every time the truth was unacceptable, because there was a danger that he might forget what he had told her, and contradict himself later. Thurloe had taught him that liars needed very good memories, and he had always preferred avoiding questions to fabricating replies. But he did not want to do either with Hannah.

  ‘I talked to my cat this morning,’ he gabbled, rather desperately. ‘It had caught a pigeon.’

  She turned to look at him, but her face was backlit by the fire and he could not see her expression. ‘Did it answer back?’

  ‘It made a noise,’ replied Chaloner cagily. ‘Is that what you mean?’

  ‘That poor animal,’ said Hannah. He could hear laughter in her voice. ‘Attached to a man who is so unforthcoming that it takes a captured pigeon to elicit a reaction from him.’

  Chaloner struggled to make her understand why the incident had unsettled him. ‘It is because of Haddon. He converses with his dogs out of loneliness. He is quite peculiar over them.’

  She stared at him. ‘And you think that by passing the occasional fond remark to your cat you may become as odd as him? That is foolish, Thomas! You are not lonely – you have lots of friends.’

  ‘In London, I have two: Temperance and Thurloe.’

  ‘And not me?’ She sounded hurt. ‘Or Barbara Chiffinch, who, for all her faults, is fond of you. Or Bulteel, who has asked you to stand as godfather to his only son? Or even Haddon, who will not let the Earl say anything bad about you? We are nothing, are we? And here I was about to suggest that you come to sit next to me at the fire, and allow me to help you solve your mysteries.’

  ‘Now?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

  ‘Yes, now,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why do you think I have been stoking it up? You sound tired and dispirited, and I thought you might appreciate some help. It is what friends do for each other.’

  ‘I see. But how—’

  ‘You will tell me everything you have learned, and I shall see if I can spot connections you may have missed. You look suspicious. Why? Do you imagine I am the killer, and I am trying to ascertain how much you have found out about me?’

  It was not easy for Chaloner to put aside his natural reticence and confide his discoveries – he could do it with Thurloe, but Thurloe had been his spymaster, and was different – and discussing his work with Hannah felt very wrong. But images of Haddon’s eccentricity kept flooding into his mind, so he ignored the clamouring instincts that urged him to silence, and began.

  ‘Greene is not the killer,’ he said, speaking slowly to give himself time to assemble his thoughts in a sensible manner. ‘Which means someone else is the culprit.’

  ‘Impeccable logic,’ said Hannah, beckoning him to sit next to her. ‘Is there anything else, or is that the sole conclusion you have reached?’

  He knelt by the fire and prodded it absently. ‘The obvious suspects are the men who attend these prayer meetings. For example, Hargrave – he wants the occasions to end, so perhaps he killed the three clerks because they did not.’

  But, he thought, Tryan did not want them to end, either, and he was not dead. Did that mean Hargrave was innocent? Or was Tryan spared because he was Hargrave’s friend, and murdering mere acquaintances was not the same as dispatching a man he obviously liked and respected?

  ‘Who else is on your list?’ asked Hannah, when he faltered into silence.

  ‘Gold.’

  ‘Sir Nicholas? No! He has asked us to his soirée on Monday – in two days time – and a killer would not do that. Besides, he is too old to go a-murdering.’

  Chaloner smiled at the notion that issuing invitations to parties should be considered an exonerating factor. ‘He is not as frail as he looks. I saw him attack a man who assaulted Bess the other night.’

  ‘Neale!’ pounced Hannah. ‘Now there is a man who would not hesitate to kill by poison.’

  Chaloner inclined his head to acknowledge it was possible. ‘Meanwhile, Doling left the prayer group after the Restoration. Perhaps envy drove him to kill three men who have been very successful. The same is true of Symons. Or perhaps I am over-complicating matters, and the Lea brothers or one of the Vines are the culprits – killing an unloved kinsman in order to secure an inheritance.’

  ‘And dispatching two more in an attempt to lead you astray,’ mused Hannah, nodding. ‘Do not forget George Vine devised a plot to assassinate Cromwell, either – that shows him to be murderous. Are there any other suspects?’

  ‘A corn-chandler called Reeve, who wears a disguise when he goes to John’s Coffee House.’

  There were also Turner and Swaddell, both of whom had infiltrated the meetings to spy. Could one of them be the killer? There was certainly more to Turner than the amiable buffoon he liked to project, while Swaddell was a spymaster’s assassin. And, of course, there was Williamson himself. But Hannah did not need to be told about any of them – the knowledge might prove dangerous to her.

  ‘Was there any other link between the victims?’ she asked. ‘Besides these religious assemblies?’

  ‘They all argued publicly with my Earl. And they all appeared to be virtuous, but transpired to have the usual human flaws – dishonesty, corruption, licentiousness.’

  ‘So your killer dispatched not good men, but sinners? Are there any vicars among your suspects?’

  Chaloner shook his head. ‘I should visit John’s Coffee House tomorrow, and talk to the owner. So far, only the people who actually take part in the meetings have told me what transpires in them.’

  ‘So, I have helped,’ announced Hannah with satisfaction. ‘I have given you a new direction to follow. Now, let me see what else I can accomplish. Tell me what you know of the culprit himself.’

  ‘He used poison to kill his victims. And he may have dropped a ruby ring – a small one, like a woman’s – then sent members of an elite train-band to retrieve it for him.’

  ‘A woman’s? Then it will be irrelevant,’ declared Hannah immediately. ‘The killer is not a lady, and you had better ignore this bauble, or it will mislead you.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, although he had no intention of doing so. He wondered why she was so vehement, and recalled Temperance’s words about the same clue: that he should bear in mind that a lady could be responsible. It was odd to hear two such different views within a short space of time.

  ‘What about the statue?’ asked Hannah, changing the subject rather abruptly. ‘Any progress there?’

  ‘None,’ replied Chaloner gloomily.

  Hannah was silent for a moment, then started to speak. ‘When Bernini finished the bust, a courtier was charged to escort it from Rome. It took him three months of dangerous travel to bring it to London. His name was Thomas Chambers, and he was my father.’

  Chaloner stared at her, asking himself why she had not mentioned it sooner. Was this why the Queen had electe
d not to share with her the tale about it being offered to Greene and Margaret Symons? Because Hannah had a curious and unique connection to the thing? ‘I see.’

  ‘I was a child at the time, but I remember him coming home, and telling my mother and me about his adventures. The other thing I recall is that the bust was very heavy.’

  ‘Large pieces of marble usually are.’

  Hannah pulled a face at the coolness of his voice. ‘I am trying to help, Tom, so do not be acerbic with me. If the Bernini bust was weighty, then a thief cannot have shoved it under his arm and walked off with it. He would have needed transport. Or a large and very strong sack. Ergo, there will be a witness to the crime. You just need to find him.’

  ‘I have asked virtually everyone in the palace, and if there is a witness, then he is not talking. And the area around the Shield Gallery is deserted at night, anyway, and security is minimal. I could steal anything I like, and no one would be any the wiser.’

  ‘That is not a good thing to claim – it could see you in trouble. But you should sleep.’ Hannah ended the discussion by jumping back into bed. ‘You will need your wits about you tomorrow, if you are to fathom any sense into these mysteries.’

  It was raining hard when Chaloner woke the next morning, and windy, too. He wondered what state his Fetter Lane rooms were in, and was glad to be in Hannah’s cosy home. She toasted bread over the fire for breakfast, smearing it thickly with a marmalade of quinces. She chattered happily as she worked, asking about his plans for the day, and demanding to know how he intended to prove he was a better investigator than Turner. He gave monosyllabic answers, most of his attention on the statue of Venus that Margaret Symons had carved. It really was exquisite, and he thought it a pity she had died before achieving the recognition she had so clearly deserved.

  ‘You will have to find time for church, too,’ Hannah babbled on, handing him a cup of warmed ale. ‘It is Sunday, and you do not want to be on a list that says you are a Catholic. Like me.’

  ‘You are on a list?’

  ‘No, I am Catholic. I converted when I was appointed to serve the Queen. Does that shock you?’