‘Thomas!’ shouted the Earl in relief. Turner jerked around when the spy entered, enabling the Earl to scamper away from him. ‘Thank God! Turner has taken leave of his senses, and means to kill us.’
‘Well, why not?’ demanded Turner. His voice was cold and dangerous. ‘I have spent all night locked in a filthy basement on your behalf, and now you say you do not believe me! How can you take his side over mine? He is a killer, trained by Spymaster Thurloe, no less – and he refused to accept that you were right about Greene. He defied you.’
‘All that is true,’ said the Earl. ‘But you also said he was a thief, and that I will never believe.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Turner. ‘Go to Hercules’ Pillars Alley and see for yourself. He is—’
‘Because he has had plenty of chances to steal in the past, and he never has,’ replied the Earl. ‘His honesty is beyond question. You, on the other hand, know a suspicious amount about these crimes.’
‘Because I solved them!’ yelled Turner in exasperation. ‘You stupid, ignorant old fool! Why could you not have listened to me? We might have enjoyed a profitable partnership.’
‘Partnership?’ echoed the Earl in disbelief. ‘How dare you presume! Well, what are you waiting for, Thomas? I have had enough of this ridiculous situation. Take him into custody immediately.’
Chaloner glanced at his paper-knife, wondering how he was expected to arrest the sword-toting Turner when he was basically unarmed. But the Earl pulled the kind of face that indicated this was an irrelevancy, and that Chaloner should get on with it and stop making excuses.
‘Catch!’ shouted Haddon, tossing his ornamental dress-sword towards the spy.
Unfortunately, Chaloner could not move quickly enough, and Turner reached it first. He kicked it under a chest, then launched a fierce and determined attack, apparently knowing that to lose this time meant certain death. The spy scrambled behind the desk, and lobbed the paper-knife. Had it been a dagger, it would have killed Turner instantly, but it was too blunt to penetrate and only bounced uselessly to the floor. Outraged, Turner lunged across the table towards him, forcing him to retreat faster than his leg appreciated. Meanwhile, the Earl’s expression went from vengeful confidence to alarm when he realised his champion was not as invincible as he had thought.
Chaloner knew he was going to be skewered unless he thought of something fast. He glanced around quickly, then pretended to catch his foot in one of the Turkish rugs. The Earl gave a cry of dismay when he went sprawling. Grinning malevolently, Turner moved in for the kill. Chaloner waited for him to close, then kicked out hard, driving him backwards. There was a resounding clang as the colonel’s head connected with the precariously placed chandelier. He crashed to the floor and lay still. Climbing quickly to his feet, Chaloner ripped a sash from one of the curtains and tied Turner’s hands before he could regain his senses and create any more mischief.
‘I had a feeling he was not all he claimed,’ said Haddon, bolder now the danger was over. ‘I have a gift for sensing wickedness, and there is a lot to sense in him – he is a liar and a thief.’
But the Earl was no longer interested in Turner. ‘There is work to be done, Thomas. Greene is in the Painted Chamber, and it is time he was in custody. Go and apprehend him.’
‘I will come with you,’ offered Haddon kindly, reaching out to steady the spy when he reeled from pure exhaustion. ‘But we had better hurry, or Greene may decide to leave.’
Numbly, Chaloner followed him out, hoping he would have the strength to carry out his orders – he did not think he had ever been so tired. He was not so weary that he forgot to take Turner’s sword with him, however.
Dawn was breaking at last, a pale, distant glow in the night sky. It revealed a world that was unrecognisable, with roofs coated in a thick layer of white, and great clots of snow lodged in the branches of trees. The streets around White Hall and Westminster were used by monarchs and nobles, so labourers had been employed to shovel paths along them, which meant the journey to the Painted Chamber was much easier than the one from Hercules’ Pillars Alley. Even so, Chaloner struggled.
‘What is wrong?’ asked Haddon, eyeing him in concern. ‘Did Turner score a sly hit? I find that hard to believe. The Earl said he could never best you in a thousand years.’
‘Did he? When? Until a few moments ago, he was all for Turner.’
‘Yes and no,’ replied Haddon. ‘He is not a fool, and detected inconsistencies in the tales he was spun – in response to a few hints by me, naturally. Moreover, he was unimpressed by the fact that Turner’s sword broke when the Lord of Misrule attacked him, and asked me to investigate his military claims. I learned he was never a colonel in the Royalist army.’
‘He probably cannot cook, either,’ muttered Chaloner. He did not want Haddon with him when he arrested Greene. The steward would be in the way, and might be injured if there was a scuffle. He tried to think of an excuse to be rid of him. ‘I saw Bulteel buying more spices yesterday.’
Haddon stopped dead in his tracks and regarded him closely. ‘Did you? Do you think he might be planning a repeat performance of the pepper-cake incident? My poor darlings have still not recovered.’
‘Perhaps you should check them,’ suggested Chaloner, hoping his lies would not exacerbate the feud between secretary and steward to the point where it could never be mended.
‘Perhaps I should,’ said Haddon worriedly. ‘But what about you? You need my help.’
‘I will manage,’ said Chaloner. ‘It is only Greene – and I have a sword.’
Haddon’s face was a study in indecision, but eventually affection for his dogs won out. With a muttered apology, he slipped off in the direction of Cannon Row. Relieved to be rid of the responsibility of protecting him, Chaloner toiled on alone. He sincerely hoped Greene would not elect to fight, because he suspected that even a clerk with no experience with weapons would best him at that moment.
It felt like hours before he reached the Painted Chamber, and when he did, he was obliged to take a moment to recover – to catch his breath and wait for the burning weariness to ease from his legs. Then he pushed open the door and entered its cold, dim interior. It was empty on two counts – it was still too early for the clerks to begin their work, and Twelfth Night was a popular holiday, when men tended to stay at home with their families. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked. Daylight was just beginning to filter through the windows, ghostly and grey from the reflection of the snow outside. It did not take him many moments to see that no one was there, and he was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.
Now what? He sat heavily on a desk, uncertain what to do next. Should he hire a horse and ride to the coast, which was where any sane fugitive from justice would be heading? Or should he go to the Dog and Duck, on the off-chance that Greene had decided to remain in hiding with his prostitute friends? Unfortunately, either option required more energy than he had left.
‘What are you doing here?’
Greene’s voice was so close behind him that Chaloner leapt to his feet and spun around in alarm. He started to reach for his sword, but the clerk was holding a gun, and even in the poor light, Chaloner could see it was loaded and ready to fire. Greene did not look comfortable with the weapon, and the hand that held it shook.
‘You lied to me,’ said Chaloner, beginning to back away. ‘I believed you when you said you were innocent – and I believed your reasons for why the evidence against you should be disregarded, too.’
‘Yes, you did,’ agreed Greene quietly. ‘I cannot imagine why – I certainly would not have done. And stand still, or I shall shoot you.’
‘So the Earl was right,’ said Chaloner, doing as he was told – it was always wise to obey orders issued by men wielding firearms. By the same token, he knew it was reckless to taunt Greene with a discussion of his crimes, but he could not help himself. ‘You were running away when we caught you outside this hall. You had just murdered Chetwynd. But what did you do wit
h the cup?’
Greene smiled, although it was a pained, unhappy expression. ‘I was not alone. I was never alone.’
For a moment, Chaloner thought he was claiming some sort of divine guidance, but then realised that God was unlikely to make incriminating goblets disappear into thin air. The clerk was talking about a real accomplice, one of flesh and blood.
‘Who helped you?’ demanded Chaloner. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, and he was ready to whip it out the moment Greene lowered his guard.
The clerk made a dismissive motion: he was unwilling to say. ‘I was expecting Turner this morning, not you. He has finally grasped that I am guilty, so it was decided to entice him here and kill him. But as you are here and he is not, I suppose I shall have to poison you instead. I am sorry, but it must be what is meant to happen.’
‘He will be here soon,’ lied Chaloner. ‘What will you do then? If you kill either of us, my Earl will hunt you down.’
Greene shrugged. ‘How? He could not trap me when he had you and Turner, so how will he manage alone? Besides, I am taking a ship to the New World tomorrow, and that will be an end to the matter. My master, who has guided my hand in everything, will have to use other faithful servants to carry on his work – thanks to your Earl’s determination to unmask me, my usefulness to him is at an end.’
‘Are you saying someone told you to commit these crimes?’ asked Chaloner in disbelief. ‘How in God’s name could you let yourself be used so? I thought you were an ethical man.’
‘I have tried to be.’ Greene looked miserable, a far cry from the gloating Turner. ‘I swore an oath to be honourable, and I have followed it faithfully. You no doubt think that murder is dishonourable, but these were wicked men, and my master said God wanted them gone – that it was my destiny to dispatch them for Him. And I have always believed everything that happens is predetermined, so …’
‘I suppose your master used your association with Lady Castlemaine to persuade you to do his bidding,’ said Chaloner, more strands of the mystery coming together in his mind. ‘You ran errands for her that decent men would have declined, and he threatened to tell. She gave you a book …’
‘L’Ecole des Filles.’ Greene blushed. ‘I should not have accepted it, but I was curious and Langston said it was good. She lied about him being alive at four o’clock, by the way – I killed him at two. But she did not lie because she knows I am the killer – her sole objective was to oppose your Earl.’
‘And everything Turner and I discovered about you was true: you did beg or steal brandywine from White Hall to disguise the taste of poison.’
‘I did, although it was not my idea.’
‘Chetwynd would have been easy to kill – he would not have been suspicious of a friend offering him a warming drink on a cold night. But how did you persuade Vine and Langston? With a gun?’
‘I told them it is more pleasant than being gut-shot,’ said Greene, gesticulating with his dag in a way that might see it go off. ‘And we have all seen enough of war to know that is true. I shall offer you the same choice, but I recommend the poison. It is quick and relatively painless.’
Chaloner had no intention of swallowing anything. His fingers tightened around his sword, although Greene did not notice – he was still talking, using the flat, resigned tone that indicated he thought the whole business had been inevitable.
‘None of it was my idea: I was his puppet in everything. He told me what time I was to go out, which routes to travel, when I should approach Munt for brandywine, even which clothes to wear. And he told me to toss Jones’s purses in the river, although your witness was mistaken in what he saw, because I really did throw ten, not three.’
‘You are a fool! Can you not see what is happening? Someone left a red-stoned ring in your home and hid brandywine in your office. I suspect it is your master, and that he intends to have you blamed for these murders – you said yourself that your usefulness to him is at an end.’
Greene nodded. ‘I will be blamed, but I shall be in the New World, where it will not matter.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner. He gestured at the gun. ‘If I am going to be killed anyway, what does it matter if you tell me his name?’
Greene smiled. ‘He will be here soon, and you can see for yourself. He always comes when I kill, probably to make sure I do not weaken and show mercy.’
But the last pieces of the puzzle had snapped into place, and Chaloner knew exactly who Greene’s master was. ‘My belief in your innocence was based on the fact that I was watching your house when Vine was killed, but now I see what happened. Your master told you to leave by another door when you went to commit the crime. And he suggested you hide your wet coat and shoes, too.’
Greene inclined his head. ‘He has a mind for details.’
‘And he was on hand to advise me to look for damp clothing when I returned from Westmister. He chose his victims because they were men who pretended to be upright but were flawed – Chetwynd’s corruption, Langston’s venality, Vine’s liking for blackmail. Earlier, in the Earl’s office, Haddon said he had a gift for detecting wickedness.’
‘He told me the same. He said hypocrisy is endemic at Westminster and White Hall, and that it was necessary to take a stand against it. But here he is now.’
The door opened and the Lord Chancellor’s steward walked in. He was not alone, because the train-band were with him, led by Doling and Payne.
While Greene’s attention was taken by the new arrivals, Chaloner darted towards him. Startled, Greene raised the gun and jerked the trigger, but the weapon flashed in the pan. Chaloner snatched it from him and hurled it through a window. Perhaps someone would hear the smashing glass and send for the palace guards. Regardless, he felt better once it was no longer in Greene’s unsteady grip.
He whipped around when the soldiers started to stride towards him, weapons drawn. Their message was unmistakeable: there would be no escape this time. He glanced at Haddon. The walk through the snow had warmed the steward, and he had loosened his collar. There was a faint scar on his throat, like the one the Wapping vicar had described. Chaloner also noticed he was wearing a ruby ring on a string around his neck. Haddon saw him looking at it.
‘Vine ripped it off me in his death throes,’ he explained, tucking it back inside his coat. ‘It belonged to my wife, and I did not want to lose it. Payne retrieved it for me, although I understand you got it first.’
Chaloner gazed at him. ‘I thought you were a gentle man, but you are responsible for four murders: Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and Lea.’
‘I did what was necessary. And I am sorry it must end like this – I had hoped to spare you. My plan was to kill Turner, and have you continue to assert Greene’s innocence, but that is no longer a viable option. Lay hold of him, Doling.’
Chaloner drew his sword as Doling approached, and they exchanged a series of vicious ripostes. But Payne circled behind them, sword jabbing at the spy’s back. When Chaloner spun around to tackle him, Doling knocked the weapon from his hand, enabling the others to seize him. He struggled when he was searched for knives, but it was a token effort, and he knew he was well and truly their prisoner. He did manage to kick Payne on the shin, though, causing the man to leap away with a howl of pain.
‘Do not harm him,’ shouted Haddon urgently, when Payne prepared to exact revenge. ‘We need him unmarked if my plan is to work – Wiseman will notice any suspicious wounds.’
‘He will,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘And he will know I am not the kind of man to swallow poison—’
‘You will drink it,’ interrupted Payne with grim determination. ‘We will make you.’
Chaloner bucked, aiming to free a hand and grab a dagger from one of his captors, but they were too professional to fall for such a trick, and all he did was encourage them to hold him more tightly.
‘You cannot escape from us,’ Payne jeered, clearly delighted to have the troublesome spy at his mercy at last. His grip was hard enough to hurt. ‘Not
this time.’
Chaloner was beginning to believe he might be right. But he was not going to go without some sort of fight, and he had two weapons left to him: his tongue and his wits. He would just have to keep Haddon and his cronies talking until he could devise a solution to his predicament. Of course, his wits were like mud, and he could barely put together sensible sentences, let alone formulate a plan that might save his life. But he had to rise to the challenge, because he was determined not to give Payne the satisfaction of defeating him.
‘You are Reeve the corn-chandler,’ he said, trying to force his exhausted mind to function. ‘You disguised yourself to attend the coffee-house meetings, because you wanted to monitor the activities of your victims—’
‘He actually wanted one of us to go,’ interrupted Payne. ‘But Doling refused to be in company with such low villains, while I am not very good at subterfuge. He decided to watch them himself.’
Haddon said nothing, and for a moment there was silence. Chaloner flailed about for something else to say. ‘Why did you use Greene to kill, when you have a train-band at your disposal?’
‘Because it suited me,’ replied Haddon shortly. He turned to Doling. ‘I do not anticipate many clerks will arrive for work this morning, but we should hurry regardless. Besides, I do not want to leave my dogs alone for too long. I am sure I saw Bulteel lurking in Cannon Row when I went there just now.’
Doling did not answer, and his dour face was cold and hard as he watched the steward remove two bottles from a satchel and begin to mix them. The aroma of brandywine began to pervade the hall. It made Chaloner queasy. Payne noticed his reaction and grinned nastily.
‘Matthias Lea declined our concoction at first,’ Payne said. ‘But he drank it in the end. He was a vile creature – he betrayed his old colleagues in order to get a post with the Royalist government. So did his brother, who will shoot himself this evening, wracked by grief over the loss of his kinsman.’
‘You told me Greene was innocent when we met near your lair,’ said Chaloner, supposing he would have to keep Payne talking, given that Doling and Haddon were disinclined to be communicative. Of course, chatting would do him scant good if his wits failed to keep their side of the bargain. ‘Why?’
The Westminster Poisoner: Chaloner's Fourth Exploit in Restoration London (Thomas Chaloner Book 4) Page 39