The Westminster Poisoner (11 page)

‘Poisoned?’

‘Turner thinks so. It was just like the first two: a corpse lying on the floor, with no sign of a cup or a jug. He has gone
to find out where Greene was at the salient time, even though he was exhausted – he spent all last night at that ridiculous
Babylonian ball, listening for gossip about the murders. He is a diligent fellow, working on my behalf. Where were you last
night? Asleep in bed?’

Chaloner was tempted to say he had been resting after an attack intended to kill him, but managed to hold his tongue. The
Earl could not be trusted to keep the tale to himself, and Chaloner did not want the train-band learning they had left a survivor
just yet. He addressed another issue instead.

‘I also heard you had asked Langston to be your spy. Did you?’

The Earl glowered at him. ‘You spend too much time in coffee-houses, and too little on your duties. Turner would never waste
his
energies listening to gossip.’

‘You just said he spent all last night doing exactly that, at the Babylonian ball,’ Chaloner pointed out before he could stop
himself. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes, wishing he had not spoken. Aggravating the Earl was not a wise thing to do.

‘You presume too much on my patience,’ said the Earl coldly. ‘Either find evidence that shows Greene is the killer, or find
yourself another employer. Do you understand me?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure. Are you ordering me to look
only
for evidence that proves Greene is guilty, and ignore anything that might point to another culprit?’

The Earl flung up his hands in exasperation. ‘What is wrong with you today? Can you not string two words
together without abusing me? Of course Greene is guilty, and I cannot imagine why you refuse to believe it – the
Lady
is going around declaring his innocence, for a start. Did you know that? That is as good as screaming his culpability from
the rooftops as far as I am concerned. The King’s mistress does not demean herself by taking the side of insignificant clerks
without good reason.’

Chaloner gazed uneasily at him. ‘Lady Castlemaine has taken Greene’s side? I did not know.’

‘Well, you do now,’ snapped the Earl.

Chaloner left the Earl with his thoughts in a whirl of confusion. He looked in Bulteel’s little office, hoping to obtain some
confirmation of their master’s claims, but it was too early for the secretary, and his desk was empty. Why would Lady Castlemaine
take Greene’s side? Was it because she hated the Lord Chancellor with a passion, and tended to support anyone he disliked,
as a matter of principle? Or was she involved in the murders somehow? Chaloner could not imagine why she should stoop to such
dark and dangerous business, but she was an incorrigible meddler, so perhaps she could not help herself. The Lady was not
someone he wanted to confront, though – at least, not until he had more information.

It was still dark when he reached the bottom of stairs and stepped outside, and there was not the slightest glimmer in the
eastern sky to herald the arrival of dawn. The lights in Lady Castlemaine’s rooms were being doused, indicating her soirée
was at an end. Her guests spilled into the Privy Garden, laughing and shouting as they went, careless of the fact that most
White Hall residents would still be sleeping. Chaloner thought he saw a face peer out of the Queen’s window, then withdraw
quickly. When he looked
back to the garden, he saw the King weaving across it, arm around someone dressed as a concubine. The slender perfection of
the near-naked limbs led him to suppose it was the Lady, but she wore a mask, and he could not be sure. He loitered until
he spotted Brodrick.

‘I am sure no harm will befall the Earl in the coming week,’ he said, approaching soundlessly, and speaking just as his master’s
cousin was about to relieve himself against a statue of Prince Rupert.

‘God’s blood!’ cried Brodrick, spinning around so fast he almost lost his balance. He scrabbled with his clothing, mortified.
‘Must you sneak up behind a man when he is engaged in personal business? As Lord of Misrule, I could fine you for—
Damn
my loose tongue! I did not want anyone in my kinsman’s retinue to know it is me who is elected this year.’

‘I am sure you do not. But I repeat: no harm will come to the Earl.’

Brodrick looked pained. ‘I shall have to make him the subject of one or two japes, because people expect it, and it is more
than my life is worth to disappoint. But I will not do anything that will hurt him physically, or anything that will allow
his enemies to score points against him politically. Beyond that, my hands are tied. You will just have to trust my judgement.’

Chaloner eyed him. Brodrick looked debauched when he was sober and properly dressed, but that morning he was neither. He had
lost his pantaloons during the night, leaving him in his undergarments, and his turban had unravelled at the back. His eyes
were bloodshot, and he reeked of strong drink.

‘Your judgement,’ Chaloner repeated, not bothering to hide his disdain.

Brodrick’s expression turned spiteful. ‘Why do you care about him, anyway? He is hiring new staff as though there is no tomorrow,
and it is only a matter of time before you are displaced. He already prefers Turner to you, and I learned last night that
he wants Langston to be his spy, too. But Langston refused outright – he told me so himself.’

Chaloner recalled Langston heading for the ball after visiting the charnel house with Wiseman, so supposed it was not inconceivable
that he had chatted to Brodrick there. ‘Why did he refuse?’

‘Because spying is sordid,’ replied Brodrick, taking the opportunity to fling out an insult of his own. ‘Langston is honourable
and, like any decent man, wants nothing to do with a profession that is so indescribably disreputable. Although, to be frank,
I suspect my cousin’s real aim is to populate his household with upright souls, and he did not think that offering to hire
Langston as an intelligencer might be deemed offensive.’

‘Langston is dead,’ said Chaloner, watching him closely for a reaction.

Brodrick gaped. ‘Dead? No, you are mistaken! I was talking to him not long ago. You did not swallow any of that Babylonian
punch, did you? Surgeon Wiseman told me it might be dangerous, and my head tells me I should have listened to him. I have
rarely felt so fragile after a drinking bout.’

‘Did you notice whether anyone took an unusual or sinister interest in Langston last night?’ Chaloner asked, although not
with much hope of a sensible answer.

Brodrick shook his head apologetically. ‘I was more concerned with my own pleasures than in observing what others were doing.
I recall him regaling me with his indignation about the Earl, but that is about all.’

Chaloner tried another line of questioning. ‘Does Lady Castlemaine ever employ Greene?’

‘You want to know why she is going around telling everyone he is innocent, when my cousin is so adamant he is guilty.’ Brodrick
shrugged, grabbing Chaloner’s arm when the gesture threatened to tip him over. ‘I suspect she is just taking the opportunity
to oppose an enemy. I doubt it is significant.’

The discussion ended abruptly when Brodrick slumped to the ground and closed his eyes. Supposing he should not leave him there
to freeze, although it was tempting, Chaloner summoned the palace guards and ordered them to carry him indoors. Then, craving
the company of someone who would not fall into a drunken stupor in the middle of a conversation, or accuse him of negligence,
disloyalty and choosing an unsavoury career, the spy set off for Lincoln’s Inn.

When he arrived, Lincoln’s Inn was still mostly in darkness, although lamps gleamed in the occasional room, showing its lawyer-occupant
was already hard at work. White Hall had put Chaloner in a sullen mood, and he did not feel like exchanging pleasantries with
the porter at the gate, so he walked to the back of the building and scrambled over a wall. His temper was not improved when
he misjudged the drop and jarred his bad leg. He hobbled to the courtyard called Dial Court, then climbed the stairs to Chamber
XIII, aware of the familiar, comforting scent of wood-smoke and beeswax polish.

Thurloe was sitting at a table in the room he used as an office, poring over documents and sipping one of his infamous tonics.
The spy shook his head when he was offered a draught, but accepted a slice of mince pie. It
had been made by the Inn’s cook, and contained chopped tongue, as well as apples, dried fruit and spices. The taste transported
Chaloner back to his Buckinghamshire childhood, when he had been safe and happy. He recalled singing Christmas carols with
his brothers and sisters, and watching his parents hold hands in the ridiculously affectionate way they had with each other.
He experienced a sharp pang of sadness for an age and a contentment that were lost to him forever.

‘Well?’ prompted Thurloe after several minutes, during which the spy’s only words were a greeting so terse it was barely civil.
‘Did you come just to stare into space and devour the best part of my pie?’

Chaloner saw the plate was indeed a good deal emptier than it had been when he had arrived. ‘It is a very good pie.’

‘But not as fine as my wife’s. Come home with me and try some – you look in need of a rest. I plan to leave for Oxfordshire
at the end of the week, and will probably be gone for several months.’

Chaloner struggled to conceal his dismay. London would be a bleak place without Thurloe. ‘I see.’

The ex-Spymaster gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Ann and the children like me home on Twelfth Night, to give them presents and
join the festivities. Come, too – they would love to see you.’

Chaloner was sorely tempted, but shook his head. ‘Greene might hang if I do not find the real culprit. And my Earl will not
escape unscathed if he sends an innocent man to the gallows, either. His enemies will use it to destroy him.’

‘Your devotion does you credit, but is it worth it? The Earl will not thank you for proving him wrong, especially
now I hear Lady Castlemaine has joined the affray, and is championing Greene’s cause. You are effectively taking her side,
and he will not appreciate that.’

‘No, but what sort of retainer would I be, if I let him make a fool of himself ? Besides, I cannot leave now – he is hiring
more spies, and if I go to Oxfordshire, he may use the opportunity to replace me permanently. Then I shall have to take a
ship to the New World, and try to earn a living there, although it is a terrible place – full of frozen rivers, tangled woods
and dangerous animals. I would rather go to Spain, and that …’ He faltered, not wanting to talk about Spain.

Thurloe gazed at him. ‘You are in a dark mood this morning! But do not worry – I shall help you with your investigation before
I leave. Do you have any questions I might be able to answer? Or would you like me to help you interview suspects?’ He misunderstood
Chaloner’s rising alarm and grimaced. ‘I was a Spymaster General, Thomas. I do know what I am doing.’

‘But I do not want you involved!’ Chaloner stood abruptly. ‘I should not have come. It was selfish.’

‘It was nothing of the kind,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘And I shall be hurt and offended if you decline to confide in me because
of some misguided notion that I need to be protected. So sit down and ask me your questions, before I become annoyed with
you. What do you need to know?’

‘Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner, relenting when he saw the determined set of Thurloe’s chin. ‘You said he was your friend, but my
landlord told me he was corrupt.’

‘There
were
claims that he was crooked. But he was a Chancery clerk – his chief duty was to dispense rulings in those cases where a plaintiff
felt common law was not up to the task – and the folk he ruled against were
invariably bitter.
Ergo
, accusations of misconduct were an occupational hazard.’

‘So he was not corrupt?’

‘I do not believe so. And you must remember that the two men who were most vocal in their allegations bore him a grudge.’

‘Doling and Neale?’ asked Chaloner, thinking about the names Landlord Ellis had mentioned.

‘Yes. They were furious when he ruled against them. But I read those particular cases myself, and I would have come to the
same conclusion: they
should
have lost.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Why did you read them?’

‘Because of the rumours that Chetwynd had been less than even-handed – I was curious. Moreover, both cases were heard in the
summer, when you were in Iberia, and I was bored and lonely without you to cheer me. I did it to pass the time.’

As always when Thurloe made references to the depth of their friendship, Chaloner was surprised, not sure what he had done
to earn the affection. He was grateful, though, to have secured the amity of a man he respected, admired and trusted. He found
himself telling Thurloe all he had learned and surmised since they had last spoken.

‘And Langston is the third man to be poisoned,’ said Thurloe, turning the new information over in his mind. ‘Langston knew
Chetwynd and Vine – he told you so when you met him last night.’

‘He said he was a friend of Greene’s, too.’

‘More than a friend – I happen to know that he rented rooms in Greene’s house. He fancied himself a playwright, and wanted
a peaceful place to pen his masterpieces. He told me himself that Wapping fitted the bill perfectly.’

‘But I did not see Langston when I was watching Greene’s house,’ said Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Langston was a busy man with lots of friends at Court,’ explained Thurloe. ‘You not spotting him means nothing. And I imagine
he spent more time there during the day, when Greene was out at work and the place was quiet.’

Suddenly, a connection snapped into place in Chaloner’s mind, and he remembered what he had been struggling to recall the
previous night, when the blow to his head had scrambled his wits. Greene had visited the Dolphin tavern on his way home from
work on Saturday, and he had met Langston there. But what the spy had failed to recollect was a detail of their meeting –
namely that Greene had given Langston a purse, a heavy one that looked as if it contained a substantial amount of money.