The Westminster Poisoner
Read The Westminster Poisoner Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective
Susanna Gregory is a Cambridge academic and the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew medieval series. She has previously been
a police officer and now lives in Wales with her husband, also a writer.
Visit the author’s website at
www.susannagregory.co.uk
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A Plague on Both your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Devil’s Disciples
A Vein of Deceit
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
The Butcher of Smithfield
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-748-12455-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 Susanna Gregory
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For Carolyn and Craig
Threadneedle Street, London, October 1660
Henry Scobel, Clerk of the House of Lords, was dying. His physician had confidently informed him that he was afflicted with
a ‘sharpness of the blood’, a painful ailment from which few recovered. Scobel had always lived a clean, decent and sober
life, and had no idea why his blood should so suddenly have become sharp, but he was unwilling to waste his last hours pondering
on it. He was a religious man, and if God had decided it was time for him to die, then who was he to argue? And, if the truth
be told, he no longer had much appetite for life, anyway – he had liked England under Cromwell, but detested it under the
newly restored Charles II. The King and his Court had only been installed for a few months, but already they were showing
themselves to be corrupt, debauched and treacherous. Scobel was appalled by them, and deplored the notion of such men ruling
his country.
‘You will be better soon, uncle,’ said Will Symons, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He loved his kinsman dearly,
and hated to see him suffering. ‘And in
the spring, we shall ride out together to see the cherry trees at Rotherhithe, just like we do every year.’
Scobel was sorry to be the cause of his nephew’s distress: Symons was a good man, who was hard-working, honest and reliable,
and Scobel thought it disgraceful that he had recently been ousted from his government post, just because the Royalists wanted
it for one of their cronies. Of course, Symons was not the only one to be shabbily treated – honourable men all over the country
were facing hardship and ruin for no reason other than that they had worked for the Commonwealth. It made Scobel furious,
especially as the newcomers were not only unqualified for the jobs they were being given, but many were brazenly corrupt,
too.
‘Do not worry,’ said Symons kindly, when his uncle began to voice his concerns. ‘Have you forgotten our last prayer meeting?
Everyone promised – swore sacred oaths – to live righteous and godly lives, no matter how wicked the world becomes. Others
will follow their example, and evil will
never
triumph.’
Scobel was not so sure about that, but he summoned a smile when he thought of his friends. ‘They are decent souls, but these
are difficult times. It would not be the first time an upright man fell by the wayside, and I fear for their—’
‘They are successful and happy,’ said Symons firmly, to quell the dying man’s growing agitation. ‘And they know it is God’s
reward to them for being good. They also know He might take it all away again if they let themselves be seduced by sin. Do
not fret, uncle: they will not stray.’
Scobel’s expression was pained. ‘But I do not want them to uphold their principles because they are afraid
their luck will change if they transgress. I want them to do it because they love God and desire to do His will.’
‘They will,’ said Symons soothingly. ‘I will see they do.’
Scobel closed his eyes wearily, and hoped the younger man was right. He could feel his life ebbing away faster now, and had
no energy for debate. All he hoped was that his beloved country would survive the corruption that was taking hold in Westminster
and White Hall, and that good people, like the men who attended his prayer meetings, would stand firm against sin and encourage
others to do likewise. A tear rolled down his cheek when he thought about what might happen if they failed. Poor England!
Would her suffering never end?
Westminster, Christmas Day 1663
The Palace of Westminster was an eerie place after dark. It was full of medieval carvings that gazed down from unexpected
places, and when the lantern swayed in his hand, it made some of the statues look as though they were moving. The killer was
sure he had just seen Edward the Confessor reach for his sword, while a few moments before he had been equally certain that
a gargoyle had winked at him. He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together, increasing his stride so he could
complete his business and go home. It was no night to be out anyway, with a fierce storm blowing in from the east, carrying
with it needles of rain that hurt when they hit bare skin.
He walked towards the building called the Painted Chamber, which was a long, draughty hall hung with tapestries so old they
were grey with dust. Ancient kings
had once used it to receive important guests; nowadays it was where the two Houses of Parliament met when they needed to confer.
However, as Commons and Lords rarely had much to say to each other, a few high-ranking government officials had taken it over.
Desks were placed at irregular intervals along its length, while around its edges were chests full of documents, writs and
books.
The Painted Chamber was empty now, of course, because it was eight o’clock on Christmas night, and the clerks had gone home
early, eager to gorge themselves on rich seasonal foods, sing carols and enjoy visits from friends and family. Cromwell’s
Puritans had done their best to curb the revelries associated with the Twelve Days of Christmas, but December was a dark,
cold, dreary month, and people needed something to cheer themselves up – the Puritans’ efforts had never had gained much support,
and the Restoration had seen the festival revived in all its pagan glory. Christmas was more popular now than it had ever
been.
The killer nodded to himself when he opened the Painted Chamber’s door and saw a lamp gleaming at the far end.
Most
clerks had gone home early: James Chetwynd was still at his desk, chin resting on his left hand while he wrote with his right.
The killer did not blame the man – Chetwynd’s kin were quite open about the fact that they cared nothing for him, and that
they hoped he would die so they could inherit his money; he would have to be insane to want to spend Christmas with
them
. The killer took a deep breath, and supposed they were going to be rich sooner than they had anticipated, because tonight
was going to be Chetwynd’s last on Earth.
He advanced stealthily. Chetwynd was engrossed in
his papers, so certain he was safe inside the great hall that he did not once look up. The killer wondered if the clerk preferred
the stillness of evening to the commotion of daylight hours – if he was able to think more clearly when there were no distractions.
Regardless, the killer was glad he was there, because what better place for a murder than a deserted room in a palace that
had been all but abandoned for the night? It afforded both privacy and space, allowing him to take his time and ensure he
left no clues behind him. His smug musings meant he did not concentrate on where he was going, and he stumbled over a loose
floorboard, a sound that made Chetwynd’s head jerk up in surprise.
‘Is anyone there?’ the clerk called, peering into the darkness beyond the halo of light around his desk. ‘Show yourself!’
There was no fear in his voice – he assumed anyone entering the Painted Chamber would be a friend, and did not for a moment
imagine he might be in danger. The killer did not reply. He waited until Chetwynd’s attention drifted back to his documents,
and then he made his move.
Westminster, 27 December 1663
There was a belief, common among many folk, that an unusually high wind was a sign that a great person would die. Thomas Chaloner
was not superstitious, but even he could not deny that it was the second time in as many days that a gale had descended on
the nation’s capital with a terrifying savagery, and that an eminent man had died on each occasion. He would not have said
James Chetwynd or Christopher Vine were ‘great’ exactly, but they were high-ranking officials, and that alone was enough to
attract the Lord Chancellor’s attention. And when the Lord Chancellor expressed an interest, it was Chaloner’s responsibility,
as his spy, to provide him with information.
He stared at the body that lay on the floor of the Painted Chamber, listening to the wind rattling the windows and howling
down the chimney. The lamp he held cast eerie shadows, and when a draught snaked behind the tapestries on the walls, the ghostly
grey figures swayed and danced in a way that was unsettling. Beside
him, the Lord Chancellor, created Earl of Clarendon at the Restoration, regarded it nervously, then shivered in the night’s
deep chill.
‘Why is it called the Painted Chamber, sir?’ Chaloner asked, breaking the silence that had been hanging between them for the
last few minutes, as they had pondered Chetwynd’s mortal remains. ‘There is no artwork here.’
The Earl almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound of his voice, although Chaloner had not spoken loudly. He rested
a plump hand over his heart and scowled, to indicate he did not appreciate being startled. Chaloner bowed an apology. He was
uneasy in the hall, too – and he knew how to defend himself, thanks to active service during the civil wars, followed by a
decade of spying on hostile foreign governments.
‘There were frescos,’ replied the Earl shortly, flapping chubby fingers towards the ceiling. ‘Up there, but they have been
plastered over. How can you live in London and not know this?’
Chaloner did not answer. His overseas duties had made him a virtual stranger in his own country, and he was acutely aware
that he needed to remedy the situation – a spy could not be effective in a place he did not understand. Unfortunately, he
kept being dispatched on missions abroad, so never had the opportunity to familiarise himself with England’s biggest city.
‘You are supposed to be telling me what happened to Vine, not quizzing me about architecture,’ the Earl continued waspishly,
when there was no reply. ‘I need to know whether his death was natural, or whether you have a
second
murder to investigate – this one, as well as Chetwynd’s.’
Chaloner dragged his attention away from the ceiling, and knelt next to the corpse. Vine had not been dead long, because he
was still warm to the touch. The spy glanced around, feeling his unease intensify. The Painted Chamber was so huge and dark
that it was impossible to see far, and a killer – or killers – might still be there. The dagger he always carried in his sleeve
dropped into the palm of his hand as he stood.
‘What is wrong?’ The Earl sensed his disquiet, and scanned the shadows with anxious eyes. ‘Is someone else in here? Turner
told me the place was deserted.’
‘Turner?’ Chaloner began to prowl, taking the lamp with him. Loath to be left alone in the dark, the Earl followed. He wore
fashionably tight shoes with smart red heels, which made his feet look disproportionately small under his portly frame. Their
hard leather soles pattered on the floor as he scurried after his spy, short, fat legs pumping furiously.
‘Colonel James Turner,’ he panted, tugging on Chaloner’s sleeve to make him slow down. ‘You must know him – he declared himself
for the King during the wars, and championed our cause all through the Commonwealth.’ There was a hint of censure in his voice:
Chaloner’s family had been Parliamentarians, while the spy himself had fought for Cromwell in several major battles. In other
words, Turner had chosen the right side, Chaloner had not. ‘It was Turner who found Vine’s body.’
