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

by Susanna Gregory

  Haddon turned accusingly to Chaloner. ‘You led me to believe it would be Greene!’

  ‘I thought it was,’ said Chaloner, equally astonished. ‘I do not understand!’

  Kersey puffed contentedly on his pipe. ‘You are obviously looking for intrigue, because so many government clerks have died of late. But the simple fact is that people sometimes just fall in the river and drown. Perhaps this is one of those occasions.’

  ‘So, who is this man?’ asked Haddon tiredly.

  ‘Matthias Lea,’ replied Chaloner, staring down at the body. ‘One of Chetwynd’s heirs.’

  ‘His brother was missing a kinsman,’ elaborated Kersey. ‘And he came to look when he heard I had charge of an unidentified cadaver. He was very upset when he discovered it was indeed Matthias.’

  While Kersey described in ghastly detail how most drowned men were bloated beyond recognition if the Thames did not give them up immediately, Chaloner stared at Jones’s massive bulk, thinking about Ravernet and Hawley’s contention that no one had bothered to investigate his death.

  ‘How many people have been to see him?’ he asked, cutting across the grisly exposition and nodding towards Jones. Haddon, who had been listening with increasing horror, breathed his relief.

  ‘Lots,’ replied the charnel-house keeper smugly. ‘He has been popular because of his mighty girth. We do not get such vast specimens in very often, and he is impressive.’

  ‘Has anyone asked any questions about him?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Other than about his size.’

  Kersey shook his head, then grinned. ‘His kin said I could keep his clothes, and I am thinking of creating a display out of some of the more unusual items I have collected through the years. His massive drawers will provide the centrepiece. People will pay handsomely to see them.’

  Haddon put his hand over his mouth, and his face was so pale, that Chaloner took his arm and led him outside, afraid he might faint. When he had recovered, they began to walk towards White Hall together, and were almost there when they met Wiseman. In a rather piercing whisper, the surgeon confided that Lady Castlemaine had strained a groin muscle during the night. Neither Chaloner nor Haddon cared to ask how, but Wiseman was ready with the information anyway.

  ‘She was following a special exercise regime devised by me. If she pursues it diligently, she will develop limbs a man will die for.’

  ‘She already has those,’ said Haddon, rather wistfully. ‘Of course, they are nothing compared to those of my dogs, whose legs are an example of God’s perfection.’

  ‘Did you hear about Matthias Lea?’ asked Wiseman, regarding the steward dubiously before changing the subject. ‘Yet another government official gone. Perhaps we should defect to another employer while we are still alive.’

  ‘Defection is a young man’s game, and I am past sixty,’ said Haddon, taking him seriously, although Chaloner suspected Wiseman was just being flippant. ‘However, I take sensible precautions – I try to stay in at night, I have not touched wine since Chetwynd was killed, and my sweethearts bark at any uninvited visitors to my home. Of course, if they are sick from pepper cake, they may not be as vigilant as usual.’

  He went to report to the Earl, walking rather more slowly than was his wont; Chaloner was not sure whether the mistreatment of his pets or the sights in the charnel house had distressed him more.

  ‘Did Kersey tell you Matthias had drowned?’ asked Wiseman, when the steward had gone.

  Chaloner nodded grimly, recalling the beginnings of the vivid lecture.

  ‘Then he has made an erroneous assumption,’ asserted Wiseman pompously. ‘Just because a corpse is found in the river, does not mean it perished there.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Matthias was thrown in the water after he died?’

  ‘Yes, because the cause of his death was poison, not drowning,’ announced Wiseman, relishing Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The blisters in his mouth indicate he swallowed a corrosive substance.’

  ‘The same corrosive substance that killed the other three?’

  ‘I cannot say with certainty, but my informed guess would be yes.’

  ‘Do you have any idea when he might have died?’

  ‘He was last seen alive on Saturday, at about nine o’clock in the evening, and his body was found yesterday morning – Sunday – just before dawn. Obviously, he died between those two times.’

  ‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. He saw Wiseman regarding him quizzically and hastened to explain. ‘The cellarer said Greene asked for brandywine on Saturday night. It was refused, but a flask was later found missing.’

  ‘And now we have Matthias dead of poison, which we know has been delivered in brandywine in the past,’ mused Wiseman. ‘As a scientific man, I find the evidence against Greene compelling.’

  Chaloner was not sure what to think, but the nagging worry that he might have made a terrible mistake had returned. He had known from the start that Greene could have slipped out of the back door of his house to go and kill Vine, while Lady Castlemaine had good reason to lie about the timing of her last sighting of Langston.

  So, where was Greene? Chaloner had been so certain he was dead, that he had given no consideration to where the clerk might have gone. Or was this the line of reasoning the real killer hoped people would take – to wrap the noose even more tightly around an innocent man’s neck?

  ‘Has anyone asked you about Jones’s death?’ Chaloner asked the surgeon, wanting to think about something else. ‘Or about the gold we found?’

  ‘No. I have been listening out for rumours relating to his hoard, but there has not been so much as a whisper. It is all very mysterious.’

  ‘His gold must have come from the thefts he committed, which explains why he chose to carry it on his person. After all, he could hardly invest it with Backwell’s Bank – they are its rightful owners!’

  ‘I do not believe the tale that has Jones responsible for what happened at Backwell’s,’ began Wiseman dismissively. ‘It is—’ But then he stopped speaking abruptly. His jaw dropped, and he looked staggered. ‘Jones and I discussed that particular incident. He … Oh, Lord! Now it makes sense!’

  ‘What makes sense?’

  ‘He said Backwell’s had only themselves to blame, because they had not locked up their wares properly before closing shop for the night. I asked him how he knew, and he winked at me.’

  It was not far from the charnel house to the building the Leas had inherited from their murdered kinsman Chetwynd. When Chaloner arrived, he found the surviving brother being visited by Gold and Bess. Gold was doing his best to comfort the bereaved man, but Bess was standing in the window, happily waving at people who passed by outside. She wore a new hat – a red creation, with even more feathers in it than the one that had been damaged the previous day. She waved to Neale, who immediately decided that he should come in and console Lea, too.

  ‘I will kill him!’ Lea wept, while Gold patted his hand. ‘Whoever pushed Matthias in the river is a dead man. I will hunt him down and strangle him with my bare hands. How could he?’

  ‘Pushed him in the river?’ echoed Neale. He did not look so cherubic that morning, with bloodshot eyes, a pale complexion and a trail of dried vomit down the front of his coat.

  ‘Yes, pushed,’ howled Lea. ‘Matthias would never have gone near the Thames on his own, so some vile beast led him there and murdered him. It is someone here!’

  ‘You mean one of us?’ asked Neale, gazing around the room in confusion. Gold cocked his head, straining to hear. ‘Bess, Gold, the Lord Chancellor’s man or me?’

  ‘I mean someone at White Hall or Westminster.’ Tears gushed down Lea’s face. ‘There is slaughter everywhere these days. It is like a disease.’ The last part was de livered in a shriek that hurt the ears.

  ‘White Hall is full of disease,’ agreed Gold, entering the conversation with some relief. He had not liked being excluded. ‘It is being spread by Lady Muskerry, apparently. Wiseman says she has
an advanced case of the pox, so I stopped sleeping with her immediately.’

  Chaloner blinked, but his astonishment was not nearly as great as that of Bess. She gaped at her husband, and her eyes were suddenly full of flashing emotion. It was the first expression approaching intelligence the spy had ever seen in her, and the transformation was chilling. It was quickly masked, though, and the ovine blankness came down like a steel trap. He recalled Hawley’s theory – that Reeve the corn-chandler might be a woman. Could Bess be a contender?

  ‘Well,’ drawled Neale, smirking at her. ‘This puts a different complexion on matters, does it not?’

  ‘Do you know anyone who wanted to harm Matthias?’ asked Chaloner of Lea, interrupting before the conversation could range too far along that road.

  ‘Doling and Symons were always jealous that we kept our jobs while they lost theirs,’ wailed Lea. ‘Doling went around telling people that we were corrupt, although we never left any evidence of …’ He stopped when he realised what he was saying.

  ‘Matthias was not abrupt,’ said Gold kindly. ‘He was very patient, especially with old ladies.’

  Lea began to sob at the compassion in his voice, and Chaloner saw he was going to have no sense from the man while he was distraught – or when Gold was there to lead the discussion astray. He took his leave when Bess asked her husband whether Lady Muskerry snored. Gold did not hear, but Neale’s expression was predatory, and Chaloner suspected the young man would have her between the sheets before the day was out. He wondered whether it would be before or after the soirée Gold had planned for that evening.

  His mind was full of questions as he headed towards White Hall. It was not so full that he failed to notice Williamson bearing down on him, however. This time, though, there was nowhere to hide, and he was not inclined to run. He braced himself as the Spymaster came closer, not liking the dangerous expression on his face. Williamson raised his hands to show he was unarmed.

  ‘Do not confuse me with the rough villains with whom you usually consort,’ he said coldly, while Chaloner thought he would never insult a rough villain by mistaking him for Williamson. ‘Have you done as I ordered, and located Swaddell?’

  ‘He was at John’s Coffee House last week, in disguise and infiltrating one of the meetings you told me about. I suggested he make contact with you, although it looks as though he has not bothered.’

  Williamson stepped back, startled. ‘He is alive? I was certain you had murdered him.’

  ‘Why would I do that? I barely know him.’

  Williamson sneered. ‘Because you think it will damage me, and we are not exactly friends. Incidentally, I hear Turner has proved Greene is the clerk-killer. What will you do now? Your Earl will not keep you on his payroll when Turner is your superior in every way.’

  ‘Not every way,’ said Chaloner, recalling the colonel’s pitiful performance when threatened with the Lord of Misrule and his mob. ‘Have you found the King’s statue yet?’

  ‘No, but I will provide him with what he wants, even if it means sending to Bernini for a replacement. How much do you think it will cost?’

  ‘The last one was exchanged for a diamond ring worth a thousand pounds. But I understand Bernini prefers rubies. Do you happen to have one?’

  Williamson regarded him oddly. ‘I shall rummage in my jewellery box, and see what I can find.’

  Chaloner was still pondering what he might have meant by the enigmatic reply – if anything – when he met Turner, swaggering along King Street as if he owned it. Women called greetings to him as they passed, and he acknowledged every one of them by name. The lowest street-trader was treated to the same merry charm as the highest duchess, and Chaloner realised that Turner was just a man who adored women. Age, shape and economic status was immaterial to him, and only the toothless could expect to be shunned.

  Turner grinned as he approached the spy, brandishing something provocatively. It was a locket. ‘You owe me ten shillings! You said I could not persuade Belle to part with it, yet here it is.’

  ‘You also said I was free to ask her whether she had handed it to you willingly.’

  Turner looked hurt. ‘You think I would try to cheat you?’

  Chaloner smiled. ‘I am sure of it.’

  Turner laughed. ‘Belle will tell you the truth. Give me the ten shillings – unless you think me such a liar that you do not trust my word?’

  Chaloner supposed Turner was unlikely to fabricate tales knowing they were likely to be verified. He handed over the coins. ‘I hear you have gathered enough evidence to arrest Greene.’

  Turner’s jovial expression faded, and he began to count facts on his fingers. ‘He begged brandywine on the nights Chetwynd and Vine were murdered. He was actually found with one victim, and I am unconvinced by his tale of borrowing ink. He had a secret life in that he was an errand-boy for Lady Castlemaine – and God alone knows what she asked him to do. And if all that is not enough, I have learned that he argued with Matthias Lea, just hours before the fellow was found dead.’

  ‘He was seen? By whom?’

  ‘By His Portliness. Bulteel was with him, so it is not a figment of the old goat’s imagination.’

  ‘Do you think Greene killed Matthias?’

  ‘Matthias was not poisoned, as far as I know, but perhaps the river was to hand, so Greene just pushed him in. However, I am still uncomfortable with the whole business – I do not like the notion that my evidence will send a man to the gallows, whether he is guilty or not. It sounds womanish, but there is something about hanging that turns my stomach. You probably do not understand.’

  Chaloner understood only too well, because he felt the same way about prisons, and did not know what he would do if his spying ever saw him incarcerated again. ‘I thought Greene was dead – that the drowned clerk was him, not Matthias. He has been missing for the right amount of time.’

  ‘Of course he has,’ said Turner bitterly. ‘He killed Matthias, then decided he had better flee before the Earl decided he has stayed his hand long enough. Perhaps we should have put him behind bars when His Portliness first suggested it. Then Vine, Langston and Matthias would still be alive.’

  Chaloner was finally beginning to accept that he might be right.

  The atmosphere was strained when Chaloner arrived at the Earl’s offices. Bulteel was working in his antechamber, and had pinned a notice on his door saying dogs were not welcome. Haddon was sitting in the hallway, writing out a list of guests for the Earl’s next soirée. There was no sign of his pets, and although Chaloner did not ask, he was told they were at home, recovering. Haddon shot a reproachful glare in the secretary’s direction as he spoke, which Bulteel pointedly ignored. Before he could be drawn into the spat, Chaloner knocked on the Earl’s door and entered his domain.

  ‘I saw Greene bickering viciously with Matthias just hours before his body was found in the river,’ said the Earl when he saw his spy. ‘And now Greene is nowhere to be found. Of course, you and Turner have discovered some very nasty truths about his victims – they were not the good men they would have us believe.’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were not the only ones with dubious secrets, either – the Lea brothers probably acted as scribes, producing copies of Langston’s indecent plays.’

  ‘Really?’ The Earl’s voice dripped disapproval. ‘I did not know that. My objection to Matthias lies in another direction. He said he was loyal to the new government when we reappointed him at the Restoration, and swore all manner of oaths to “prove” it. But he was a liar.’

  ‘You mean he was a traitor, plotting rebellion?’ It did not seem very likely – treachery took hard work and sacrifice, and the Leas were far too selfish for either.

  ‘Williamson has learned that they accepted large sums of money to write seditious pamphlets. I am sure they do not applaud the sentiments themselves – they are too worldly to hold with anything that might be construed as principle – but they accepted money for their literary ta
lents. Such as they are. Still, at least Matthias did not pretend to be saintly, like the other three.’

  ‘There is a witness who believes Greene stole brandy-wine on the night Matthias died,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Just as he did on the nights Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were poisoned. You were right all along.’

  ‘And yet I still detect a note of hesitation,’ said the Earl curiously. ‘Why? Is it because you cannot believe you might have made a mistake? I had not taken you for that sort of fellow. You are stubborn, but I did not think you were a sulker.’

  The truth was that Chaloner could not rid himself of the nagging notion that someone was framing Greene. But trying to explain his concerns would be a waste of time, so he handed the Earl the ring he had found. His master had a good eye for jewellery, and might well have noticed Greene – or someone else – wearing it. ‘Have you seen this before?’

  ‘No, but it is a woman’s ring – it would be too small for a man. Why? Is it something to do with the murders? Or a clue in the mystery of the missing statue?’

  ‘I am not sure.’ Chaloner passed him the documents. ‘I also found these hidden in Greene’s house. They mean nothing to me, but you may understand their significance.’

  The Earl’s eyebrows shot up when he saw the damage they had suffered during the encounter with the train-band: Payne’s sword had punched a hole almost all the way through them. ‘I shall not ask what you did to acquire these – what I do not know cannot plague my conscience. I will review them later, after I have seen the King about this visit of the French ambassador. What will you do now?’

  ‘Try to find Greene.’

  ‘You will be wasting your time: he will be in Holland by now. So, you had better concentrate on locating the statue, because I meant what I said – you only have until tomorrow to prove yourself.’

  Haddon had gone when Chaloner left the Earl, so the spy took the opportunity to speak to Bulteel alone. Hannah and Temperance had told him to refuse the invitation to be godfather, while the Earl had recommended that he accept. He wished he had asked Thurloe, the one person whose opinion he truly respected. But Thurloe was gone, so he would have to make up his own mind. Bulteel’s face fell when Chaloner told him of his decision.