Chaloner stared at him. ‘You mean Greene was embezzling from the government?’
‘It looks that way,’ said Turner gleefully, speaking before the steward could reply. ‘We shall be asking him about it when he is arrested.’
‘There is another possibility,’ said Haddon quietly. ‘Which is that Greene was gathering evidence to expose the real thief – that his motives are honourable.’
‘And I am the Pope,’ sneered Turner derisively.
Chaloner was thinking about the Queen. ‘Her Majesty lost thirty-six thousand pounds this year. The money was put in an account for her use, but when she went to claim it, it had all gone.’
‘Greene’s documents contain a number of references to her so-called expenditures,’ acknowledged Haddon. ‘So I imagine they do explain what happened to her missing fortune, although she will not be pleased by the news – basically, they tell us that her money is irretrievably lost.’
‘Thieves are everywhere these days,’ said Turner in distaste. Then he grinned, unable to resist the opportunity to revel in his recent success. ‘I am delighted to have solved these clerk murders to the Earl’s satisfaction, even if it does mean sending a man to the gallows. Now all I have to do is find the King’s statue, and my future with him will be assured.’
‘The King’s statue?’ asked Hargrave, coming to join them. Tryan was with him, bandy legs clad in fine silk breeches. ‘Are you still looking for that? I would have thought you had given up by now.’
‘Do not give up,’ said Tryan, rather wistfully. ‘It was by Bernini, so no effort is too great to find it, as far as I am concerned. He is a genius, and I would love to own one of his pieces.’
‘They are too expensive,’ stated Hargrave authoritatively. ‘And bankers do not like their customers removing vast sums all at once for costly bits of art, because it upsets their books.’
‘I would never put my money in a bank,’ declared Tryan. ‘Look what happened to the fools who invested with Backwell’s. Poor Langston was still waiting to be repaid, and the robbery was months ago. No, my friends, a man’s money is safer in his own home. I have a box specially made for the purpose, and it is impossible to break into.’
Chaloner seriously doubted it – he had not met a box yet that could keep him out. ‘Are you not afraid of burglars?’ he asked politely, seeing the merchant expected some sort of response to his statements. ‘Especially when you are out at night?’
‘I am rarely out at night,’ replied Tryan. ‘Today is an exception – and I have been invited to join the dean of St Paul’s later, too. But I am usually at home, and I have a gun. I am fully prepared to use it, too, should any vagabond dare tread uninvited in my property.’
‘We had better not rob him, then,’ remarked Turner to Chaloner, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘We do not want to be shot.’
The evening wore on. Symons came to confide to Hannah that he would rather be anywhere than at such a happy gathering, given his recent loss, but Margaret had written a list of tasks that she wanted him to fulfil, and attending Gold’s soirée was one of them. Another was dining with his old friend Samuel Pepys the following week.
‘You have my sympathy,’ said Hannah. In a motherly way, she reached out to smooth down some of the wilder ends of his orange hair. The gesture brought tears to his eyes, and Chaloner wondered whether it was something his wife had done, too. ‘Pepys is such a smug little fellow.’
Symons nodded miserably. ‘He is sure to gloat over his fine house, his success at the Admiralty, his new upholstery and his pretty wife. It will be difficult not to punch the man.’
‘Then perhaps you should indulge yourself,’ suggested Hannah wickedly. ‘It might do him good.’
Symons gave a wan smile, then handed Chaloner a sheet of paper. ‘Our maid wanted me to give you this. She said you were asking about it, and thought it might answer your questions – and we owe you something for persuading the surgeon to waive his fee when he came to tend Margaret.’
It was the letter offering the Bernini bust for a very reasonable sum. The handwriting was neat and familiar, and Chaloner knew immediately who had penned it. He put it in his pocket. It was certainly a clue, but unfortunately, it pointed him in a direction he would rather not look. He decided to put it from his mind and deal with it in the morning.
When Symons left, Haddon took up station at Hannah’s side. The steward chatted amiably, mostly about dogs and the Queen, which he seemed to hold in equal regard. Chaloner half-listened, most of his attention on George Vine, who was talking to Hargrave. The spy was reasonably adept at reading lips, and knew George was regaling the merchant with a drunken monologue about old Dreary Bones’ reaction when he had discovered his son’s plan to assassinate Cromwell with an exploding leek.
‘Did you know Gold is dying?’ Haddon was saying to Hannah. Chaloner turned around in surprise. ‘He will be in his grave in a matter of weeks. It is a sharpness of the blood, apparently.’
‘The poor man,’ said Hannah with quiet compassion. ‘He should be in bed, not giving parties. But I think I can guess the reason why he organised this one: he is hoping to find a good match for that silly Bess – someone who will not marry her for the money she will inherit.’
‘You are right,’ said Haddon. ‘He told me as much himself. He will leave her a fortune, and every wolf in the country will circle around, hoping for a bite of the prize. But he loves her, despite her faults, and wants her properly cared for.’
‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Hannah. ‘That Neale has poisoned him. See how he looks at Bess – all avarice and lust? And she is too stupid to know him for what he is.’
‘I suspect she has more wits than you think,’ said Chaloner. He shrugged when Hannah started to tell him he was wrong. ‘I am not saying she should be elected to the Royal Society, but she owns a certain innate cunning that will ensure she is no one’s victim.’
‘The Earl thinks the same,’ confided Haddon. ‘And he said so when Gold visited him the other day. Gold has asked him to guard Bess when he dies, you see, but the Earl maintains she is more than capable of looking after herself.’
Chaloner recalled seeing the old man in the Earl’s chamber a few days before – and the Earl lying about being alone. Gold must have requested secrecy, so the Earl’s fib must have been to oblige him. ‘His frailty is not an act after all, then?’ he asked. ‘He really is ailing?’
‘Yes, but he is a long way from being harmless,’ replied Haddon. ‘I have seen him draw his sword and wield it in a way that would put many of these youngsters to shame.’
‘Whom did he threaten?’ asked Hannah curiously. ‘Neale?’
‘Vine,’ replied Haddon. ‘Not George, but his father. I happened to be in John’s Coffee House, at the time and I witnessed the incident myself. Gold said their gatherings had gone from the honourable business of praising God, to the superstitious nonsense of praying for their own good fortunes. He wanted to end them, but Vine was afraid that if that happened, he would start to experience bad luck. Vine was being stubborn, so Gold hauled out his weapon to make his point.’
‘You have not mentioned this before,’ said Chaloner, rather accusingly.
‘Because I knew it would lead you to assume Gold was Vine’s killer,’ replied Haddon evenly. ‘And I am sure he is not. I had five pounds riding on you solving the case, so I did not want you wasting your time on false leads. Of course, my ploy was all for nothing, because Turner won anyway.’
‘These prayer meetings caused a lot of trouble,’ said Hannah, speaking before Chaloner could inform the steward that he was quite capable of making up his own mind about what constituted a false lead. ‘Scobel instituted something that should have been worthy, but that transpired to be distasteful.’
‘So it would seem,’ said Haddon. He grinned with sudden mischief. ‘I told Turner about Gold’s fight with Vine, though. He spent two days learning that Gold has alibis for all three murders.’
‘Do you know what they are?’ asked Chaloner, not sure they could be trusted.
‘He was with the Queen when Chetwynd and Langston died—’ began Haddon.
‘He was,’ agreed Hannah. ‘I was not there myself, because Her Majesty had sent me home for the night. But the other ladies mentioned it the following day.’
‘And he was with the Earl when Vine was killed,’ finished Haddon. ‘At Worcester House.’
Chaloner supposed the alibis were as solid as any he had heard, although that still left the possibility that Gold had hired someone else to do the killing. He rubbed his head wearily, and it occurred to him that he was wasting time at the soirée – and there was not even any music, as Hannah had promised. Perhaps he should be out hunting Greene, or re-interviewing the guards who had been on duty when the statue had gone missing. He looked at Hannah’s sweet, happy face, and realised he did not want to leave London because the Earl no longer had a post for him. He wanted to stay.
His gloomy thoughts were broken by a sudden commotion. People began to gather around Gold, who sat in a great fireside chair. Bess was on his lap and his face was oddly serene. But Bess was screaming, because her dress was caught on some item of his jewellery, and she could not escape. It took a moment for Chaloner to understand why she was so determined to be away from him.
Gold was dead.
The party broke up once its host was no longer in the world of the living. Outside, Brodrick bemoaned the fact that it was so early, then launched into a sulky diatribe against Temperance for electing to close her club on an evening when not much else was on offer. And how dare she organise a private get-together and not invite him, her most faithful customer? He turned towards his carriage with the defiant declaration that he would find something better to do. After a moment of indecision – to go with Brodrick or stay to see if any inroads could be made on Bess – Neale followed. Hannah watched him through narrowed eyes.
‘If he really cared for her, he would not be thinking about his own pleasures tonight. Sir Nicholas was right to elicit the help of a powerful baron to keep the vultures away. Unfortunately, it will be like trying to stop this snow from falling – you may catch a few flakes, but hundreds will get past.’
‘Come with us,’ Brodrick called jovially over his shoulder, one foot on the bottom step of his coach. He saw Hannah gird herself up for an acidly worded refusal, and added hastily, ‘No, not you, madam. The invitation was intended for Thomas and Colonel Turner only. The kind of fun I have in mind will be unsuitable for a lady.’
‘You mean you plan to visit whores?’ asked Hannah, very coldly.
‘Actually, I was thinking of serious music,’ replied Brodrick, equally icy. ‘Of the kind that is beyond the female mind to comprehend. Thomas is an excellent violist, while the colonel played for the king of Sweden during the celebrations surrounding the Treaty of Roskilde, so he should be up to my exacting standards, too. Your squawking flageolet would be anathema to us, madam.’
‘Will you let him insult me, Tom?’ demanded Hannah, but Chaloner’s thoughts were elsewhere. He had been at Roskilde, spying for Thurloe, but did not remember Turner among the entertainers. Being a music lover, he had paid more attention to the performers than he should have done, and that part of the occasion was etched vividly in his mind. Yet again, the colonel had lied.
But Turner spoke before Chaloner could challenge him. ‘Not tonight, Brodrick. I am tired after hunting the statue all day, and would make a poor addition to your consort. I am going home.’
A number of women were openly crestfallen at this announcement, and he hastened to console them. Hannah glared at Chaloner for failing to defend her, but then snow began to fall in larger, harder flakes, driven by a cruel, north-easterly wind, and she declared it was no time for lingering. Brodrick clattered away with Neale, while Turner bade fond farewells to his entourage and started to walk towards his lodgings. Chaloner hailed a hackney, intending to see Hannah home, then spend the night looking for Greene and the King’s bust. He was exhausted, but he would only have to keep going until the following noon – at which point he would probably be able to rest for longer than he would like.
‘Nicholas died happy,’ said Hannah, once she was settled in the carriage. The snow was so thick that the driver could not tear along at the usual breakneck speed, and the ride was pleasantly sedate. ‘Although I imagine Bess will think twice before sitting on anyone’s knee again!’
‘It preceded her inheriting a fortune,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Perhaps she will think it was worth it.’
‘I am surprised Turner has not made more of a play for her,’ said Hannah, making a moue of distaste. ‘He is a fortune-seeker, and Bess is foolish enough to fall for his shallow charms. The man is a snake, and I would not trust him with a … a coffee bean!’
‘He does have a habit of stretching the truth,’ acknowledged Chaloner, recalling that Turner had presented Bess with a crucifix, which suggested some kind of play had already been made.
‘Stretching?’ echoed Hannah in disbelief. ‘He elongates it to the point where it is no longer recognisable. And he is brazen. Tonight, right in front of me, he told Bess that he hailed from Ireland, then turned around and told some other simpering fool that he was from Yorkshire. He even uses different names. He is not Colonel Turner to all his hopeful conquests.’
‘No?’ Chaloner was not really listening, thinking instead about which of the palace guards he should tackle regarding the stolen statue.
‘No. He called himself Julius Grey when he was introduced to Margaret Symons, but then had to admit to the lie when someone called him “Turner” in front of her.’
That made Chaloner look up sharply. ‘Julius Grey?’
‘No, that is not right,’ Hannah frowned in thought, then brightened. ‘James Grey. That was it!’
‘Are you sure? Only Temperance is in love with a man called James Grey. But it cannot be Turner.’
Hannah shrugged deeper inside her cloak; it was bitterly cold in the carriage. ‘Why not?’
‘Because she could not introduce us the night she told me about him, owing to the fact that he was not there. Turner was there, though.’
Hannah patted his knee, rather patronisingly. ‘You have said before that she dislikes the way you condemn her lifestyle, so she probably wanted to give you time to get used to the idea, lest shock lead you to storm up to Turner and call him out for a rake.’
‘You think she lied to me?’ Why not? he thought. She had done it before.
‘I have never met her, so I cannot say. Did she tell you anything about this James Grey?’
‘Only that he played the viol.’
‘Well, there you are, then. Turner plays the viol – you just heard him and Brodrick talking about it.’
‘But Turner does not play the viol. Violists have toughened skin on the tips of their left-hand fingers, from pressing on the strings, but his fingers are soft. And he was not at Roskilde, either.’ Chaloner frowned, as something else occurred to him. ‘Grey gave Temperance a token – a piece of red silk that she wears in her bodice.’
‘Turner has red silk in the lining of his coat,’ pounced Hannah. ‘It is newly sewn, because a couple of pins have not yet been removed, and I recall thinking that some poor lady was likely to feel a prick before the night was out. So to speak. He must have had a kerchief made of the scraps, and gave it to her as a keepsake. He does hand out keepsakes, although he usually confines himself to lockets.’
‘I know he gave lockets to several ladies at Court.’
Hannah nodded. ‘At least five that I have seen swooning over the things. I suppose he must have a ready supply.’
A sense of deep unease began to wash over Chaloner. ‘Temperance said they were going to be married, but …’ He trailed off, not knowing how to finish without sounding disloyal.
‘But Turner has been frolicking with Lady Castlemaine, Lady Muskerry, Bess and several other very wealthy women,’ supplied Hannah. ‘So why wo
uld he deign to wed a brothel-keeper? Is that what you mean to say?’
‘Actually, Temperance is probably richer than any of them, because her money is her own, and she is not obliged to rely on others to dole it out. I was thinking more of her … her …’
‘Her looks,’ finished Hannah, when he faltered a second time. ‘Brodrick told me she is plain and fat. Why would Turner settle for an drab wife, when he can have a Court beauty?’
Chaloner looked away, watching the snow falling outside. Where there were lights, he could see it slanting down thickly. It was settling, and by morning, London would be covered in a blanket of white.
‘You should warn her,’ said Hannah, when he made no reply. ‘You cannot stand by and let her make a fool of herself. Or worse. It would not be the first time a lonely girl snatched too eagerly at the prospect of a handsome darling, and lost everything to him.’
Chaloner did not think Temperance was lonely, but she did not confide in him any more, so who knew what she was really feeling? ‘She will resent my interference,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘Of course she will, but that is what friendship entails on occasion. You say she invited you to dine this evening, but you sent word asking to be excused. Go – say you changed your mind. When she introduces you to “James Grey”, Turner will at least be shamed into telling her his real name. Perhaps that alone will be enough to make her wary.’
‘He said he was going home,’ Chaloner began lamely. ‘And—’
‘Because he wanted to avoid being exposed as a fraud when Brodrick put a viol in his hands,’ said Hannah impatiently. ‘I wager anything you please that he is on his way to Temperance as we speak.’
‘You seem very keen for me to leave,’ said Chaloner, wondering why she should encourage him to meddle in the affairs of a woman she had never met.
‘I do not want you to feel guilty for letting down a friend.’ Hannah hammered on the hackney roof. ‘Driver! There has been a change of plan. Take us to Hercules’ Pillars Alley instead.’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 36