‘Oh, deeply.’ He saw her wince, and hastened to be serious. ‘Of course not. Besides, the crucifix by your bed is something of a giveaway, and so are the specific times you tend the Queen.’
She regarded him curiously. ‘You are not going to suggest I change back again?’
‘Why would I do that? Your devotions are your own business.’
‘That is an unusually enlightened attitude, especially from a man who serves the Earl. I suppose it comes from spending so much time overseas.’
Or from seeing the trouble religious dissent could cause, thought Chaloner, as he and Hannah set out for White Hall together. He abandoned her when he saw their path was going to intersect that of Williamson, and went to lurk in an alley near the Tennis Court until the Spymaster had gone. As he peered out from his hiding place, he saw Williamson and Hannah stop to talk to each other. The exchange appeared to be cordial, and Chaloner frowned, wondering why she should deign to associate with such a fellow.
Knowing the Spymaster was loose in White Hall made Chaloner decide to go to Westminster instead. He went a second time to look at the lane where Jones had died, but it was jammed tight with carts, all waiting to be loaded with coal from a barge that was docked at the pier, and there were too many people around to permit useful skulking. He decided to come back when it was less busy. He met Symons in Old Palace Yard, and offered his condolences for Margaret’s death, but the man barely acknowledged him before shuffling away with his spiky orange head bowed.
‘Poor Margaret,’ said Doling, appearing suddenly at Chaloner’s elbow. The spy jumped, astonished that anyone should be able to come so close without him hearing. All his senses were on full alert, because he was determined to avoid Williamson, which meant the surly ex-Commonwealth official possessed a very stealthy tread. ‘And poor Symons, too. They were a devoted couple.’
‘She seemed a decent woman.’ Chaloner did not like the way Doling was standing so close to him, and the knife in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand.
‘She was the best,’ replied Doling with one of his scowls. ‘And it is a pity she is gone. She will not be properly mourned, though, except by Symons and me.’
It was a curious thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the acquisitive vultures who gather in Covent Garden do not appreciate her goodness, even though she was a shining light at the meetings in Scobel’s house. Of course, that was before he died. Once he was gone, they effectively banished her from the gatherings by electing to hold them in a coffee house, where women are not permitted to tread. It broke her heart, poor soul.’
‘She wanted to be there?’
‘Yes.’ Doling clenched his fists, as if he was considering thumping someone. ‘She told me that if she had been allowed to pray with them, her husband might have enjoyed greater success. Of course, it is all superstitious nonsense. Scobel was wrong to make us take that vow.’
‘You swore it, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘And then broke it?’
Doling grimaced. ‘The others say that is why I have been unlucky, but I disagree – God does not reward people for praying in a specific place or with specific people.’
‘I suppose not.’
Doling’s expression was distant, almost as if he was talking to someone else. ‘Scobel thought he could keep his friends godly by making them promise to pray with each other, but he reckoned without White Hall. All of them – Chetwynd, Vine, Langston, Jones, Gold and others – used to be decent, upright souls, but White Hall has sucked the goodness out of them. Now they are just like everyone else.’
‘Except you? You have retained your lofty principles?’
Doling glowered at him, and for a moment, Chaloner thought the man was going to swing a punch. He braced himself to duck, but Doling took a deep breath and it seemed to calm him.
‘I am not perfect, but I have done my best. I wish Scobel was still alive – if ever his sober, gentle guidance was needed, it is now. Did you ever meet him?’
Chaloner tried to recall what Thurloe had said about the man, but found he could only remember one thing. ‘He looked as though his head was on upside down.’
Doling’s eyes opened wide with astonishment, and Chaloner wondered whether the remark might induce him to react with violence, but then, unexpectedly, the dour Parliamentarian cracked a smile. ‘I suppose he did, with his thick beard and bald head. That has never occurred to me before. Dear Scobel!’
Still smiling, Doling stamped away.
Great sheets of rain were gusting across the courtyard when Chaloner arrived in White Hall, and no one ventured across the middle of it, preferring instead to take advantage of the scanty protection around the edges. Gold, Neale and Bess were among the cowering throng, and, as they walked, Bess’s hat was ripped from her head and went skittering through the mud. She bleated her dismay, so Gold elbowed Neale and indicated he was to retrieve it. Obligingly, Neale hurried into the rain, golden curls whipping about his face, but each time he came close to the headpiece, the wind tugged it away again. Chaloner saw Gold snigger, confirming his suspicions about the man: he was not the feeble ancient he wanted people to see.
Eventually, Neale snagged the hat by jumping on it, and hurried back to present Bess with a soggy, dented mess of wet material and broken feathers. She simpered her appreciation before jamming it on her head, apparently oblivious of the fact that it was well past salvation. Then she gaped blankly when Lady Castlemaine asked if it was worn by decree of the Lord of Misrule.
‘Stupid woman,’ muttered Munt, who had stopped next to Chaloner to watch the incident unfold. ‘I cannot imagine what possessed a sane fellow like Gold to marry her – she looks like a sheep. But he made his fortune in wool, so perhaps she reminds him of the beasts that set him on the road to riches.’
‘I have been told his success is the result of prayers with his friends,’ said Chaloner.
‘Well, there is that, I suppose,’ acknowledged Munt. ‘I went to a few meetings myself, when Scobel was alive, but then he asked me to sign an oath, promising to be virtuous, so I left. We live in an uncertain world, and no man should swear vows that might hinder him later.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was un certain indeed, if people were unwilling to commit to a future where they might be asked to uphold their principles.
‘Did you hear Greene did it again last night?’ asked Munt. His expression was indignant. ‘At about eight o’clock, he came to my cellar and asked for brandywine, spinning some wild tale about it being for his vicar. I told him where to take his lies, but, like last time, when I did an inventory, I found a flask of the stuff was missing. I wager you anything it was him.’
‘His vicar does like brandywine,’ said Chaloner, thinking Greene was a fool to indulge his priest’s penchant for strong liquor at such a time. Theft from the King’s cellars was a serious charge, and he was doing himself no favours. Or had someone else stolen the flask, knowing what Greene had asked of Munt, with the express purpose of seeing him in even deeper water? Still pondering the question, he made his way to the Earl’s office, nodding to Bulteel and Haddon as he passed. Haddon was looking thoroughly dejected, while Bulteel wore a smile that was uncharacteristically vengeful: clearly, one had scored a victory over the other. Chaloner stifled a sigh. Their squabble was ridiculous, and beginning to be annoying.
He stepped into the Earl’s office, and was making his way towards the desk when he tripped over one of Haddon’s dogs. He stumbled forward, and his head connected sharply with the chandelier. He staggered, seeing stars – he was not wearing his metal-lined hat this time. The Earl grinned when he turned to see the spy gripping his head with both hands.
‘That will teach you to try to sneak up on me,’ he said spitefully. ‘Incidentally, Turner has been to see me twice this morning already. He came to say he has almost enough evidence to arrest Greene. I said Greene was the killer, and should never have listened when you said he was not. And Haddon was wrong to t
ake your side against me, too, although he will pay for his folly with five pounds.’
‘It is unfortunate,’ said Chaloner, fighting the urge to voice a few pithy objections to the Earl’s dangerously placed ceiling fixture.
‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded the Earl suspiciously. ‘What is unfortunate?’
Chaloner had meant it was unfortunate that the Earl might be about to look foolish, given that the ‘evidence’ was not as solid as Turner had probably led him to believe. However, he had blurted it out because he was in pain, and wished he had been in sufficient control of his wits to say nothing. ‘What is that noise?’ he asked.
The Earl raised his eyebrows. ‘I hear nothing. And you owe me an apology – you were stupid to champion Greene, and your unwillingness to accept the truth has cost the lives of two men. Vine and Langston were not particularly good men, it would seem, but they did not deserve to be poisoned.’
‘There is a snuffling sound.’ Chaloner glanced around the Earl’s sumptuous chamber, but could see nothing amiss.
‘Haddon’s dogs. Why do you keep trying to change the subject? Are you knocked out of your senses? Turner would never walk into a chandelier. He is a fine fellow: tall, strong, and obedient.’
Chaloner supposed his unwarranted assault on the light fitting was the final straw, and the Earl had decided he was inferior to the colonel in every way: he was about to be dismissed. Absently, he wondered whether he had enough money to buy a berth on a ship to the New World, or whether he would have to acquire some illicitly. There was always Jones’s hoard, which no one had stepped forward to claim. He brought himself up sharply when he realised what he was contemplating – he had stolen in the past, but only in the course of his duties, and never for his own benefit. Were Hargrave and Doling right, and there was a poison at White Hall that sapped the goodness out of people?
‘There is an odd sound, sir,’ he said, snapping out of his reverie when he heard it again. ‘It is coming from your other office.’
‘Dogs,’ repeated the Earl. ‘I asked Haddon to leave them at home, but he looked at me as though his world would end, and I did not have the heart to press the matter. Besides, I like dogs.’
Chaloner drew his sword when a low, guttural grunt emanated from the chamber in question. ‘Have you been in there today?’
‘You know I seldom use it in winter – it is too cold.’ The Earl narrowed his eyes. ‘Is this a ploy to prove your value as a bodyguard, in the hope that I will not oust you in favour of Turner?’
‘Leave,’ ordered Chaloner urgently, now certain something was wrong. He took a firmer grip on his sword and started to walk towards the door that linked the two rooms. ‘Take Haddon and Bulteel with you.’
‘How dare you tell me what to do! It is—’
Suddenly, the door swung open, and a bear shambled through it. It wore a muzzle over its grizzled nose, suggesting it was one of the performing beasts that provided Christmas entertainment. It had small, glittering eyes, and when it spotted Chaloner and the Earl, it immediately went up on its hind legs. It was enormous, and made a curious huffing sound, which the spy took to be some sort of warning. He stepped in front of the Earl, shielding him from it.
‘Walk slowly towards the door,’ he said quietly. There was no reply, and he glanced behind him to see the Earl’s mouth hanging open in mute horror. ‘Do not run, or it will—’
But the Earl was not listening. He issued a sharp shriek that made both bear and spy jump in alarm, then turned to flee. The sudden movement secured the animal’s undivided attention, and it dropped to all fours to lumber after him. Chaloner hurled himself at it, so the weight of his body knocked it away from its intended target, but it had moved faster than its shambling gait suggested, and its slashing paw missed the Lord Chancellor by less than the width of a finger. The Earl reached the door and hauled on the handle for all he was worth, but panic made him clumsy and he could not get it open. He wailed in terror as the bear stalked towards him, long claws clicking on the marble floor.
‘Hey!’ shouted Chaloner, scrambling to his feet and prodding it with his sword. The creature whipped around and snarled at him. He regarded it dispassionately, assessing the best spot for a fatal stab. He did not enjoy killing animals, but he was not about to stand by and let one maul his master.
‘Wait!’ A figure tore from the spare office and flung itself between bear and spy. ‘Do not hurt her! I should never have agreed to this – it was a ridiculous idea. Come, Barbara. We are going home.’
‘Barbara?’ echoed Chaloner, watching the man soothe the agitated beast by rubbing its ears. It whined, then strained in the direction of the windows. It wanted to be outside.
‘Named for Lady Castlemaine: strong, beautiful and proud.’ The man slipped a leash through a loop on the muzzle, and led Barbara out of the office, adding under his breath, ‘And a bit bad tempered.’
Chaloner was about to sheath his sword when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He braced himself for more trouble, but the door was thrown open and people began to pour out, all masked against recognition. At their head was a man wearing a golden cloak and a paper crown. The courtiers scampered through the Earl’s domain, shrieking with laughter and congratulating the Lord of Misrule on the success of his prank. The Earl’s fright gave way to rage, and he began to chase them, giving even more cause for amusement, because he was far too fat and slow to catch anyone.
‘You said you had finished tormenting the Earl,’ said Chaloner fiercely, grabbing Brodrick’s arm and swinging him roughly around. ‘And this prank may have seen him harmed.’
‘He was in no danger,’ objected Brodrick, trying to free himself. ‘That is why we brought its owner with us – to control it.’
‘It lashed out with its claws,’ argued Chaloner, furious with him. ‘It has been trained to dance about outside, and being penned up with all those sniggering wastrels frightened it into aggressive behaviour. It was a dangerous trick, one that came close to going badly wrong.’
‘You saved him,’ said Brodrick dismissively. ‘As I knew you would, should matters not go according to plan. Why do you think I waited until you arrived? It was not easy persuading that lot to be patient, and you came much later than I anticipated. Let go of me, man! He is looking this way, and I do not want him unmasking me.’
‘I will unmask you, if you pick on him again,’ vowed Chaloner. ‘You will leave him alone from now on. Do you understand?’
Brodrick’s eyes glittered behind the mask, although the spy could make out nothing more of his expression. Then the Earl’s cousin gave a terse nod, before spinning on his heel and heading for the door. Haddon and Bulteel were in his way, and they stood their ground as he strode towards them. He was obliged to ask them to move, and they did so in their own time, regarding him so coldly that Chaloner suspected the man would not be paying any social calls to his kinsman’s offices for a while.
‘Damn you!’ the Earl cried after him. ‘I am going to complain to the King about this. If Thomas had not been here, I might have been killed.’
‘You had better not dismiss him in favour of Turner, then, sir,’ said Bulteel with a grin that revealed his brown teeth. ‘It would not be right, not after he risked his life to rescue you. Again.’
‘Much as it pains me to agree with the likes of Bulteel, your secretary is right,’ said Haddon. ‘You cannot reward his courage by dispensing with his services.’
‘I shall dismiss whoever I feel like,’ shouted the Earl, incensed that minions should dare tell him what to do. ‘And I stand by my original deadline. It is Sunday today, and Twelfth Night is Tuesday, so Thomas has two days to prove his worth. After that … well, suffice to say I cannot maintain two spies.’
Chaloner began to wish he had let the bear have him.
Chapter 10
Time was running out for Greene, and for Chaloner, too, and had reached the point where it was necessary to stop chipping at the edges of the investigation and go for the hea
rt. And the spy could think of no better way forward than to corner Greene and demand a list of anyone with whom he had had even the slightest disagreement over the years. He walked to the clerk’s Westminster office, but was told Greene was not expected in that day – he had sent a note informing his colleagues that he planned to work at home.
The spy headed for the river, where he hired a boat to take him to Wapping. It was a miserable trek, with a spiteful wind blowing needles of rain into his face the whole way. They ‘shot’ London Bridge, something that was perilous when the tide was in full flow, but that was uneventful that morning because it was on the turn, and continued east. Chaloner huddled inside his cloak, his mood growing blacker and bleaker when he realised he was as far from solutions now as he had been ten days earlier.
He strode to Greene’s house as fast as he could, partly because he needed answers as a matter of urgency, but also because he was cold and a brisk walk was a good way to warm himself up. He hammered on Greene’s door, but there was no answer, and the building had a peculiarly abandoned feel to it. He wondered if the clerk had had enough of waiting to be arrested, and had finally run away. If he had, then Chaloner did not blame him, although the Earl was going to see it as a sign of guilt.
Glancing around to ensure he was not being watched, he picked the lock and let himself in. Then he began a systematic search, not sure what he was looking for, but determined to be thorough. And if Greene returned and caught him, then so much the better – it might make the clerk understand that he would hang unless he put his mind to identifying the person who was so determined to see him in trouble. The spy finished exploring the ground floor without learning anything useful, and turned to the upper one. He had already searched Langston’s room, so this time he concentrated on Greene’s.
The chamber was almost Spartan in its neatness. It contained a bed, two chests, and a shelf of books. The tomes were almost entirely devotional tracts – with the curious exception of Michel Millot’s L’Ecole des Filles, widely condemned as pornographic, although it was tame by Langston’s standards. Chaloner opened it, and was surprised to see an inscription in the front, written in a flowing hand he recognised as Lady Castlemaine’s. It directed the reader to the particularly juicy sections, although there was no indication that the recommendations were aimed at Greene. Chaloner frowned. Had Greene stolen it? Or was it actually Langston’s, and Greene had borrowed it out of salacious curiosity? There was one explanation he refused to entertain, though: that the Lady had given it to Greene herself. She would simply not waste her time on a lowly official, especially one who was unlikely to please her in the bedchamber. He put it back and resumed his search.
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 30