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

by Susanna Gregory

  He was about to give up, when he realised that although the curtains were drawn, they did not quite meet in the middle. He stood on a stool and ran his hand along the top of the rail. His groping fingers encountered a small box, no bigger than the length of his hand. He took it down, and opened it to find it full of papers.

  The first document he inspected was an oath, and its brownish colour led him to wonder whether it had been written in blood. The language was Latin, and promised the reader that God’s commandments would be followed and a righteous life led. It was signed with Greene’s name, and was so well worn that Chaloner suspected it had been taken out and read a lot. So, he thought, the vow sworn by members of Scobel’s prayer group had included a written declaration, as well as a verbal one. The man had obviously done his utmost to prevent his flock from straying, although, as Doling and Hargrave had said, he had reckoned without the corruptive influence of White Hall.

  The remaining papers were lists of various expenditures. Chaloner sat on the bed and studied them carefully, but they seemed to be exactly what they appeared: household accounts for the previous year. He read that purchases of ale, wine, coal, cloth, utensils and barley had been made, and the cost was carefully recorded each week. They were dull and uninteresting, and he could not imagine why Greene should have considered them important enough to hide. He slipped them in his pocket anyway, and was about to leave when he became aware that the bottom of the doorframe was glittering slightly. He crouched down, and saw a tiny hole made by a knot in the wood. Something had been pressed inside it, and it was not many moments before he had prised it out.

  It was a ruby ring.

  He gazed at it in confusion. Was the Earl right after all, and Greene was the killer? His first reaction was disgust at himself: he was a professional spy, and should not have been deceived like some inexperienced novice. But then questions flooded into his mind, and he forced himself to stop leaping to conclusions and analyse the evidence logically, as Thurloe had trained him to do.

  He had inspected the ring only briefly before the train-band had reclaimed it, but he had a good memory, and was fairly sure that the bauble he held now was not the one from the Painted Chamber – it felt lighter and cheaper, and lacked the quality of the other. So, had someone left it to incriminate Greene, because that person knew Chaloner was aware of the ring’s existence and the implications of owning it? Uncomfortably, he wondered whether the Earl had contrived to plant it there, because he was tired of his spy’s unwillingness to accept his point of view.

  He swore softly when it occurred to him that he had asked virtually everyone he had met about the ring – not just his suspects, but anyone he thought might recognise it. Ergo, his questions had ensured that a huge number of people knew it was central to his investigation. He had even told Hannah about it. The upshot was that anyone wanting to incriminate Greene would know that hiding a red-stoned ring among the man’s possessions would do the trick.

  He continued to stare at it, wishing there was some way it could tell him its story. But gawking was not going to provide him with answers – he needed to find Greene, and fast. He stuffed it in his breast pocket, next to the documents, and headed for Wapping church, recalling its vicar saying that Greene was a regular and punctilious visitor.

  ‘Greene,’ he said without preamble, when the cleric gave him a wary smile, recognising him from the last time he was there. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I wish I knew. He failed to return home last night, and this morning he missed dawn prayers for the first time since the Restoration. I am worried, because there have been some very nasty characters asking after him of late.’ The priest swallowed uneasily when he realised what he had said. ‘Not you, of course—’

  ‘Turner?’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘A handsome man with an ear-string?’

  ‘Yes, he was here, but he was all smiles and good manners. I refer to the group of men who look like soldiers. Their commander treated me like dirt, and I do not mind admitting that he terrified me.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  The vicar shuddered. ‘Rough, brutish and bullying. He and his louts asked me question after question, but it was more of an interrogation than a conversation.’

  ‘What did they want to know?’

  ‘Details of Greene’s activities, where he kept his valuables, whether he had secret hiding places.’

  ‘And does he?’ asked Chaloner, to see whether Greene had trusted him enough to mention the little box above the curtains. Or the hole in the doorframe.

  ‘Not that I know of. We only ever talk about God. Poor Greene! They terrified me into telling them about his daily visits to church, and now he is missing. How could I have blathered about him, when he has been nothing but kind to me? He knows my weakness for brandywine – it is difficult to buy, but he never fails to provide me with a weekly flask. And what do I do? Repay him with betrayal!’

  Chaloner was not sure what to think about the brandy-wine. ‘Was there anything about these soldiers that will allow me to identify them?’

  ‘They wore masks to conceal their faces, but the commander has a scar on his neck. It will not be obvious unless you stand close to him, but it is there.’ The priest regarded Chaloner thoughtfully. ‘Greene tells me you are the only one who believes his innocence, so I shall confide something I managed to keep from those ruffians: he has an understanding with Lady Castlemaine.’

  Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You mean he is one of her lovers?’ It did not sound very likely, given that Greene was an unattractive specimen, but with the Lady, anything was possible.

  The vicar was horrified. ‘Lord, no! I mean that Langston and Greene worked for her. Secretly. They ran errands, although I have no idea what kind. Greene never said, and I never asked. I would rather not know anything that involves her.’

  Chaloner was beginning to see the glimmer of a solution at last: Lady Castlemaine knew Langston from his ribald writing, and he must have introduced Greene to her as a dependable sort. Perhaps she had made Greene a gift of L’Ecole des Filles, or one of his ‘errands’ was to deliver it to someone else. It certainly explained why she had challenged the Earl’s belief that Greene was the killer – it was not just to oppose an enemy, as everyone assumed, but because she did not want to lose a servant. Chaloner recalled the way she had nodded to Greene when their paths had crossed at White Hall, and how he had been puzzled by it, given that she never acknowledged minions. But trustworthy staff were not easy to find, and she must have been keen to retain Greene’s goodwill. And Greene was clearly among the best, because Chaloner had detected no hint of his association with her, despite more than a week of interviewing his closest friends and associates.

  The priest had nothing else to add, so Chaloner boarded a skiff and headed back to the city. The boatman was the garrulous sort, who insisted on regaling his fare with a list of men who had drowned in the Thames. The depressing monologue, along with the fact that the wind rocked the little craft in a way that made him seasick, meant Chaloner was relieved to arrive back in the city.

  ‘There was a corpse washed up just this morning,’ the boatman continued, as the spy rummaged in his purse for coins to pay him. ‘Kersey will keep it in his charnel house, and if no one claims it within a week, it will be buried in St Margaret’s. There are hundreds of drowned men in that churchyard, and they wail whenever there is an especially high tide. I have heard them myself.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner, his mind more on where to find Greene than the dismal stories.

  The fellow saw he was not believed, and became indignant. ‘Ask Kersey. He hears them, too. You can see him today, and view the new corpse at the same time. After all, threepence is not much for a bit of light entertainment – less than the price of a night at the theatre, and a lot more memorable.’

  ‘Who drowned last night?’ asked Chaloner, loath to offend him. He might have to use the fellow’s boat again in the future, and did not want to be ‘accidentally’ tipped in
the water.

  ‘Kersey said it was a clerk,’ replied the boatman, gratified by the interest.

  Chaloner regarded him sharply. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘He did not say – he just mentioned that it was the fifth government official to die since Christmas Day. Dangerous place, Westminster.’

  Chaloner could not agree more. He walked briskly along Canning Street, although even the smart pace he set himself did not dispel the cold, unsettled feeling that had seeped deep inside him. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need for the company of a friend, and although he knew he should visit Kersey as a matter of urgency, he stopped at Lincoln’s Inn first.

  His search of Greene’s house had taken much longer than he had anticipated, and the daylight was fading as he walked across the yard, heading for Chamber XIII. The journey to Wapping had yielded some clues, but the ring had only served to deepen the mystery, while learning about Greene’s association with Lady Castlemaine was interesting, but would probably not help in identifying the killer. Chaloner felt he had wasted the best part of yet another day, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs he was in a melancholy frame of mind. His spirits plunged further still when Thurloe opened the door to reveal packed chests and sheet-draped furniture.

  ‘Ah, Tom.’ Thurloe was dressed for travel in heavy cloak, woollen hat and sturdy boots. ‘I am glad you came. I am leaving in a few moments, and did not like to disappear without bidding you farewell.’

  Chaloner struggled to mask his dismay. ‘You are going now? But surely, no carriage will venture out onto the King’s highways at night. It would be madness!’

  ‘Robbers were never a problem in the Commonwealth,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘A military dictatorship knows how to secure safe roads.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking about the more immediate danger of floods, broken wheels and getting lost. No self-respecting driver travels a road he cannot see.’

  ‘I shall sleep at an inn in Aldersgate this evening, and be ready take the coach at first light tomorrow. You are very wet. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Squandering time on the river,’ replied Chaloner despondently.

  Unfortunately, repeating what he had learned did not help him this time. The ex-Spymaster asked several intelligent questions, but was also unable to make any sense of the confusion of facts.

  ‘And I am afraid I have gleaned nothing of any great use, either,’ he said apologetically. ‘At least, nothing you have not already discovered for yourself. Greene and Langston did work for Lady Castlemaine, although only as agents for organising her various trysts – they were not entrusted with anything politically significant. And I have found no one who admits to owning a ruby ring.’

  ‘Does this look valuable to you?’ Chaloner passed him the one he had found in Greene’s house.

  Thurloe did not take long to assess it. ‘No. In fact, there is a shop that sells dozens just like it in the New Exchange. Your killer would not have hired a train-band to retrieve this bauble, so I can only assume you are right: someone left it in Greene’s house to incriminate him. And the culprit has done a good job – if I were your Earl, I would have issued a warrant for Greene’s arrest days ago.’

  ‘Then why does he hold back?’

  ‘I imagine because of you. You have been proven right on a number of occasions, and it is enough to make him stay his hand. Clearly, he trusts your judgement, even if he is unwilling to admit it. However, he is beginning to lose patience with the ponderous pace of your investigation, so you had better find him some answers fast.’

  ‘It is too late. I am almost certain the drowned clerk in the charnel house will transpire to be Greene, and I cannot see answers appearing by Tuesday.’

  He knelt next to the fire, trying to thaw his frozen hands. Was it his fault Greene was dead? Would the clerk still be alive if he had worked harder to find the killer? He sighed, thinking of how much he would miss Thurloe’s calm logic – he knew from previous Oxfordshire expeditions that his friend was unlikely to be back before spring, and was glad he had made his peace with Temperance. At least he would have one friend in the city. Thinking of her reminded him of the man she claimed to love.

  ‘James Grey,’ he said, looking up at Thurloe. ‘Have you met him?’

  ‘No. I asked Temperance to bring him to me, but he declined to come – said he could not risk his reputation by drinking ale with ex-Commonwealth spymasters. I suppose I cannot blame him.’

  ‘She intends to wed him, which surprises me. I thought she was against marriage.’

  ‘I may be responsible for her change of heart,’ said Thurloe sheepishly. ‘I told her marriage was a blissful state – that I would not be without Ann for the world. If ever I am sad, I just think of her sweet face, and all unhappiness vanishes, like mist in the sun.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Chaloner. He vaguely remembered feeling that way about his own wife, but they had only been married a year, so he had no way of knowing whether the affection would have lasted.

  Thurloe nodded, rather dreamily. ‘However, I am uncommonly blessed, and I hope I have not led Temperance to imagine that all matches are perfect.’

  ‘Have you investigated him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Ascertained whether he is suitable?’

  Thurloe smiled. ‘And what kind of man do you think is “suitable” for a brothel-keeper?’

  Chaloner grimaced. ‘You know what I mean.’

  Thurloe patted his shoulder. ‘I do. But she guessed what I might do, and came to tell me not to – she does not want him thinking she has overly protective friends. I agreed to comply, although not happily. Perhaps you will learn something when you meet him on Twelfth Night eve.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Did you know Margaret Symons is dead? She breathed her last at the exact hour she predicted. Apparently, as soon as she had her premonition, she wrote out a list of tasks for her husband, to keep him occupied during the first few weeks of his bereavement. She was wise, because he is the kind of man to mourn over-deeply.’

  ‘I am not convinced her death was natural. Surgeon Wiseman said it was impossible to tell whether she had a sharpness of the blood or whether she had been poisoned, although he offered to run some experiments. Regardless, her demise sounds uncannily similar to Scobel’s.’

  Thurloe regarded him sombrely. ‘I am not happy about leaving you here alone. There is plenty of room in the carriage, and I cannot see how this affair will end happily. You say the Earl was on the verge of dismissing you today. Leave him of your own accord, and come with me.’

  The prospect of spending time with a happy family, away from the scandals and intrigues of White Hall, was an appealing one. And what did London hold for him, other than a leaking garret, a master who did not like him, and a cat that had started to hunt birds? He supposed there was Hannah – and there was his self-respect. He had never abandoned a case because he was uneasy before, and he did not want to start now. Reluctantly, he shook his head.

  He escorted the ex-Spymaster to where a coach was waiting to take him to Aldersgate. But although he was sorry to see Thurloe go, there was also an element of relief. He had not liked the notion of his friend involving himself in the investigation, and now he would be safely away from the city and its myriad dangers. He watched the carriage rattle away, then turned towards Westminster. It was cold, dark, pouring with rain and not a time when most men would pay a visit to a charnel house, but if Kersey had gone home, then Chaloner would just have to break in to see Greene’s body.

  The foul weather meant the roads were essentially deserted – even the festivities for the Twelve Days of Christmas could not induce people to leave their warm homes and brave these elements. Chaloner trudged wearily along The Strand, thinking the tattered, wind-torn greenery that bedecked its buildings was more depressing than decorative. A group of beggars had been hired to sing carols outside the New Exchange, but there was no one to hear them, and their voices formed a mournful duet with the desolate sigh of the
wind.

  He reached Westminster, and left the relatively well-lit Old Palace Yard to head for the darker streets near the river, where the mortuary was located. He thought about Greene. Had the clerk been drowned by the same person who had put the ring in his house? Did the killer hope Greene’s death would mark the end of the matter – that it would be assumed he had committed suicide, sick with remorse for his crimes? The more Chaloner thought about the callous campaign waged against the hapless clerk, the more he became determined that the killer would not get away with it.

  He was so engrossed in his ruminations that he almost missed the shadow that flitted towards the wharf where Jones had died. Snapping into a state of high alert, he followed.

  He reached the alley’s entrance and peered down it. The blackness was impenetrable, and totally silent. However, it was not silent behind him, and he whipped around when he heard the unmistakeable sound of a shoe scraping on cobbles, drawing his sword as he did so. He was only just in time. Two men were bearing down on him, blades at the ready. He parried their attack, but then became aware of footsteps coming from the alley, too. Two more soldiers were emerging from the darkness, aiming to trap him in a pincer-like movement. Their confid ent manoeuvres told him they were members of the train-band. Again.