The Westminster Poisoner (10 page)

After positioning bowls to catch the worst of the drips, he sat on his bed and stared into space, feeling drowsy and sluggish.
His head ached, his arm was bruised, and at some point during the skirmish, he had jarred his leg – an exploding cannon during
the Battle of Naseby had left him slightly lame. In all, he felt decidedly shabby. He closed his eyes, and was almost asleep
again when his cat jumped into his lap, jolting him awake. He had not known it was home, but was pleased to see it. He fed
it some salted herring, which it devoured greedily. Then it left without so much as a backwards glance, its cool independence
a far cry from Haddon’s fawning lapdogs.

Despite his weariness, Chaloner knew he could not
afford to waste the day. He shaved quickly – it was cold in the room, and the water was icy – then donned a clean linen shirt,
black breeches and stockings, and a blue ‘vest’ – a knee-length, collarless coat with loose-fitting sleeves. Unwilling to
risk another blow to the head, he wore Isabella’s metal-lined hat again. Thoughts of her made him smile, and he wished there
was a way they could have been together. Unfortunately, their blossoming romance had come to an abrupt end when he had been
exposed as a spy, leading to his arrest, imprisonment and an escape so narrow that it still haunted his dreams.

And now there was Hannah. Her father had been a favourite of the old king, and the new one had drafted her into the Queen’s
service after the death of her husband. Chaloner was not sure why he had been attracted to her – or her to him – because they
had little in common, and he wondered whether it was an affection born of mutual loneliness. Yet he hoped the relationship
would develop into something meaningful even so, assuming he did not ruin it by being reticent about his personal life – he
had learned through bitter experience that most women did not like uncommunicative men.

‘A great person has died,’ announced Landlord Ellis, when he saw his tenant descend the rickety stairs and aim for the front
door. Chaloner was surprised to see him, because dawn was still some way off, and Ellis was not an early riser. ‘One always
does when there is a strong wind. Did you hear about Chetwynd, who perished during that terrible blow we had on Christmas
Day?’

Chaloner nodded, but declined to say he was one of those charged to find the man’s killer.

‘Chetwynd was not what I would have called great, though,’ Ellis went on, standing in front of the tin mirror
in the hallway and attempting to straighten his wig. ‘You cannot be great if you are corrupt, in my humble opinion.’

Chaloner blinked in surprise. ‘Chetwynd was corrupt? I thought he was one of the few honest men at Westminster – devout, hard-working
and upright.’

‘He was a lawyer,’ countered Ellis tartly. ‘And a Chancery clerk into the bargain. Of course he was corrupt. And if you do
not believe me, ask Thomas Doling. And that young rascal Neale, who was rendered penniless by Chetwynd’s duplicitous manoeuvrings.’

‘Who are Doling and Neale?’

‘Doling was a Commonwealth clerk, and Neale is a penniless courtier. They both haunt the Angel Inn on King Street, although
not together obviously – Roundhead henchmen and Cavalier fops do not befriend each other, even if they
are
both victims of the same crooked lawyer. The man who died during the latest gale was great, though. No one can argue with
that.’

‘Was he?’ asked Chaloner. A number of people had remarked on Vine’s innate decency, so he supposed the fellow really had been
a paragon of virtue.

Ellis nodded. ‘I heard all about it this morning, when I went to my coffee house.’

‘You must have gone very early,’ said Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘It is not yet light.’

Ellis looked sheepish. ‘I could not sleep with all that rattling and howling, so I went out at midnight. I dislike storms,
and there is nothing like coffee-house discourse to take one’s mind off one’s worries.’

As he spoke, he moved furtively to one side, and Chaloner saw he was trying to stand in front of a strongbox, to hide it from
sight. It had a substantial lock, and was clearly for transporting valuables.

‘You mean you were afraid the house would tumble about your ears, so you took your gold and spent the night somewhere safe.
Why did you not warn your tenants to do likewise?’

Ellis became indignant. ‘My house is safe – I was just not in the mood for taking chances. But we were talking about gales.
The wind blew for Chetwynd on Thursday, and then it blew until a second great man died – a fat one, this time. “Great” can
mean fat, you know.’

Chaloner frowned: Vine had not been fat. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Francis Langston,’ replied Ellis. ‘He was murdered last night.’

‘Langston?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the plump fellow with the long nose he had met with Wiseman outside the Painted Chamber.
Could it be the same man? ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes – the storm died out at four o’clock, precisely when he was said to have breathed his last.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Chaloner estimated it was not quite six, so the news must have travelled very fast, even for London.

‘One of the palace guards is a regular in my coffee house, and he told us the tale. The story is that Langston’s corpse was
found by the Lord Chancellor, who is said to be in a state of high agitation about it. And who can blame him? Apparently,
he was going to hire Langston to be his personal spy.’

The news of Langston’s death – and the unsettling notion that the Earl was expanding his intelligence network without telling
him – was enough to drive Chaloner to White Hall immediately. He walked as fast as his sore leg would let
him. As he limped across the Palace Court, he saw the day was not quite advanced enough for the King and his Court to have
retired to bed, and the rumpus emanating from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments suggested an extension of the Babylonian escapade
was still in full swing. He heard the King’s distinctive laugh, followed by the bleat of a goat, and then something that sounded
like a musical instrument being smashed. He did not like to imagine what they were doing, but suspected that whatever it was
would transpire to be expensive for the taxpayer.

He was just walking up the stairs to the Lord Chancellor’s offices, when he heard a scream. It was his master, and he sounded
terrified. Chaloner broke into a run, ignoring the protesting twinge in his leg as he took the steps three at a time. When
he reached the Earl’s door, he threw it open with a resounding crack, sword in his hand. The Earl knelt precariously on top
of his desk, while his steward stood on a chair next to him. They were clutching each other, white-faced and frightened, and
Chaloner was immediately struck by how old and vulnerable they both looked.

‘Help me!’ cried the Earl, when the spy edged into the room, every sense alert for danger. It appeared to be deserted, and
there was no sign of assassins or anything else that might have driven the Lord Chancellor and his steward to take refuge
atop the furniture. Chaloner took a step towards the window, but was brought up short when he cracked his head on the inconveniently
placed chandelier.

‘Help you with what?’ he asked, hand to his scalp. Once again, he was grateful for Isabella’s hat, because he suspected he
would have knocked himself insensible without it – the fixture seemed to be made of especially unyielding metal.

‘Look, man, look!’ screeched the Earl, pointing unsteadily at a chest in the corner, where he kept a few changes of clothes
and a spare hairpiece or two. ‘It is the Devil’s work!’

Assuming some sort of explosive device was hidden there, Chaloner gestured that his master was to walk towards him, intent
on getting him out before anything detonated. ‘Come,’ he said, a little impatiently, when the Earl merely shook his head and
refused to move. ‘You must leave now.’

‘I am not jumping down while that … that
thing
is there!’ declared the Earl vehemently.

Bemused, Chaloner studied the chest more closely, and saw a wig on the floor next to it. It was one of the larger ones, a
magnificent creation of golden curls that hung well past the Earl’s shoulders. They were rumoured to have come from a Southwark
whore, who was currently in the process of growing a new set for the Duke of York. As he looked, Chaloner became aware that
it was twitching. Then it began to slide along the floor of its own volition, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed
as it approached the desk. The Earl howled again, and so did Haddon. Chaloner started to laugh.

‘Do something!’ shrieked the Earl. ‘Before it races up the table and attaches itself to my person.’

‘Or mine,’ added Haddon fearfully. ‘There is witchery in that periwig, and I am not sure such spells are very discerning.
The evil may be meant for him, but it might harm me instead.’

Struggling to control his amusement, Chaloner jabbed the tip of his sword into the wig as it slithered past him. It stopped
dead, although he could feel it tugging as it tried to continue its journey.

‘Do not damage the hair!’ squawked the Earl, watching
him in horror. ‘Do you know how much those things cost? More than
you
earn in a year!’

‘Perhaps I should ask for a pay-rise, then,’ muttered Chaloner, keeping the sword where it was until he had reached down to
grab the wig. It squeaked as he picked it up. Then it bit him. With a yelp of his own, he dropped it, and it was off again,
skittering towards the window.

‘It has teeth,’ wailed Haddon, clutching the Earl so hard that he threatened to have them both on the floor. ‘It is truly
a demon sent by the Devil!’

The Earl closed his eyes and intoned a prayer of deliver ance. ‘Stab it again, Thomas,’ he ordered. ‘But without spoiling
the wig, if you please. Then you can stay here and guard it, while Haddon and I fetch a priest. We shall have to exorcise
this vile fiend, since it seems determined to do violence.’

Flexing his smarting hand, Chaloner went after the wig, which sensed him coming and began to move faster still. It shot under
a chest, and emerged at high speed through the other side. Then it whipped across the floor, aiming for the door and the freedom
beyond. Chaloner slammed the door shut before it could effect its escape, ignoring the Earl’s furious reprimands for not letting
it become someone else’s problem. Eventually, he managed to pin it down on one of the Turkish carpets. When he picked it up
a second time, he was rather more careful.

‘A ferret,’ he said, examining the wriggling creature within. ‘I thought it would be a rat.’

The Earl peered at it, still holding on to Haddon. His expression was already turning from fearful to indignant. ‘A ferret?
You mean an animal dares to make its nest inside my favourite headpiece?’

‘It is tied there,’ explained Chaloner, using his dagger to cut through the knots. The little creature was incensed by its
rough treatment, and squirmed vigorously, making his task more difficult. ‘I imagine this comes courtesy of the Lord of Misrule.’

‘A trick?’ demanded the Earl, anger growing. ‘I have been driven on top of my desk by a
trick
?’

Haddon climbed off his chair, his lips tight with fury. ‘I fail to see the humour in torturing an animal. It is a despicable
thing to do, and they should be ashamed of themselves. Have they hurt it?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘It is just frightened – but not nearly as much as you two were.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘This situation is
not
amusing. And if you tell another living soul about this, I shall … I do not know what I shall do, but suffice to say
I shall not be pleased.’

Chaloner held the ferret by the scruff of the neck, so it could neither bite him nor escape. Haddon took it from him, and
began to soothe it by rubbing the soft fur on its head. Beady eyes regarded him crossly at first, but then it snuggled into
the crook of his arm.

‘It is tame,’ the steward said, touched. ‘It will be someone’s companion. Poor thing!’

‘I will take it to St James’s Park and release it,’ offered Chaloner. ‘It will—’

‘No!’ cried Haddon, cradling the animal protectively. ‘You will not! A dog or a fox will have it. It probably belongs to one
of the kitchen boys, who will be heartbroken to find it missing.’

‘Go and find him, then,’ said the Earl tiredly. ‘There is no need for a child to suffer, just because the Lord of Misrule
– whom I suspect is that vile Chiffinch – sees fit
to mock his Lord Chancellor. We shall put it about that his trick was discovered
before
my periwig started racing about the floor. I do not want him to know it worked, because he might try it again with something
larger.’

Haddon covered the ferret with his hat, to protect it from the cold, and went to do as he was told. Uncomfortable with the
notion that someone had entered the offices illicitly, Chaloner searched them, to ensure no other pranks were waiting to unfold.
The Earl watched uneasily, and only relaxed when his spy assured him that all was in order.

‘I have had a terrible day,’ he said mournfully, flopping into a chair and mopping his brow with a piece of lace. ‘And it
is not even light yet. Did you know I found Langston dead earlier?’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘It is true? I hoped it was just coffee-house gossip.’

‘You heard it in a coffee house?’ The Earl was aghast. ‘Is nothing sacred? I suppose the guards must have blathered. It gave
me a terrible fright, you see, and my cries of alarm brought them running.’

‘What were you doing at Westminster so early, sir?’ asked Chaloner, trying to keep the reproach from his voice. ‘You know
it is not safe.’

‘I had important business there – urgent missives for France, which were scribed overnight and required my seal before being
dispatched to Dover today.’

‘Could these documents not have been brought to your home?’

‘I grew anxious waiting for them, and Haddon and Turner were to hand, so I told them to accompany me. Turner is good with
a sword, so I felt quite safe. We were cutting through the Painted Chamber, when we discovered Langston. Dead.’