The Westminster Poisoner (14 page)

‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Why?’

Mrs Vine grinned slyly. ‘For two reasons. First, because the three of them were in the habit of meeting mutual friends every
week at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden – perhaps they had some kind of falling out there. And second, because I understand
Langston has also been poisoned.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure I follow—’

‘Then think about it. Where did Langston live? With Greene in Wapping. Obviously, Greene killed Chetwynd and my husband, then
Langston discovered something incriminating. So Greene was obliged to murder him, too.’

‘We had better travel to Wapping and interview Greene immediately,’ said Thurloe, when Chaloner returned to the carriage and
told him what he had learned. ‘The Earl will certainly be suspicious when he finds out that Greene’s tenant is the poisoner’s
latest victim, and might order his arrest. So, if Greene has an alibi, you should check it as soon as possible, to prevent
your master from making a fool of himself.’

‘He tried to hire Langston as a spy,’ said Chaloner, banging on the roof of the hackney with his fist to tell the driver to
go. ‘Although it seems his offer was rejected in no uncertain terms. Why would he recruit the housemate of the man he is so
intent on destroying?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine he was unaware of the connection. He does tend to be ignorant about such matters – unless someone
like you chooses to enlighten him. Unfortunately for him, you are not very good value as a scandal-monger. You listen and
analyse, but you fail to pass on.’

‘Did your mother never teach you that gossiping is wrong?’

‘You had no problem passing me information when I sent you to spy overseas, so why do you baulk at keeping your Earl abreast
of happenings in the place where he lives and works? If you obliged him with Court chatter from time to time, he might be
more inclined to continue employing you. After all, no one wants an intelligencer who keeps all the interesting tittle-tattle
to himself.’

If keeping his post at White Hall meant turning into a rumour-monger, then Chaloner supposed he had better start planning
his voyage to the New World, because there were some depths to which he would not sink. He said nothing, and stared out of
the window, watching the familiar landmarks whip past – the Royal Mews and the New Exchange, the latter of which had a large
and angry crowd outside it. He wondered what was happening there, but there was no time to stop and indulge his curiosity.

It was a long way to Wapping, so Thurloe used the time to effect a disguise, in an effort to alleviate Chaloner’s concerns
about him meddling in government business. From supplies he kept in his pockets, he donned a cap and wig that hid his hair,
slathered his face in a paste that made him look sickly, and attached a remarkably authentic false beard. Chaloner was impressed
at the speed with which he changed his appearance, and although it would not fool someone who knew him well, no casual observer
would recognise him.

Wapping was separated from the city by the grounds of St Catherine’s Hospital – Langston’s favourite charitable concern
– and had the scent of the sea about it. Greene’s house was on the edge of the village, looking across farmland to the north
and the river to the south. The spy was about to knock on the door when it was opened and the clerk himself stepped out, apparently
ready to go to work. He sighed when he saw Chaloner and his ‘servant’, and wearily gestured that they were to enter.

Greene did not look like a killer. He was stooped, thin and always seemed ready to burst into tears, although, in his defence,
Chaloner had only ever met him when he had had good cause to be distressed. His plain, Puritan clothes were of decent quality,
because his government post was a well-paid one, and he wore a wig that would not have been cheap. After watching him for
the best part of two days and nights, Chaloner suspected there was little about him that would raise any eyebrows. Greene
was a dull, uninteresting man, who lived a predictable, unexciting life, and the spy could not imagine why the Earl had taken
against him so violently.

The clerk’s front parlour was large, but cold without a fire, and there was not much furniture in it, so their voices echoed
when they spoke. There was a table in the window, which was covered in papers; an open ink-bottle suggested that someone had
recently been working there.

‘Langston,’ said Greene, as Chaloner picked up one of the sheets. It was a page from a play. ‘He liked to see the river when
he was writing. Are you here because he is dead? I heard the news at dawn this morning. However, I assure you I had nothing
to do with it.’

‘Where were you last night?’ asked Chaloner.

Greene blinked back tears. ‘So, the Earl
does
think I am responsible. But I am not! I went to the Dolphin for some ale and a pie after I finished work, and then I came
home. I went to church at four o’clock this morning, and was praying there when Swaddell arrived to tell me what had happened.’

‘Who is Swaddell?’

‘A fellow clerk. It was good of him to come, because Wapping is hardly on his way. However, this time I
can
prove my innocence, beyond the shadow of a doubt.’

‘You can?’ Chaloner hoped so, for his sake.

‘Swaddell told me Langston was still alive at four o’clock this morning – he was seen by Lady Castlemaine – but I was with
my vicar at that time. Go and talk to him, if you do not believe me.’

Chaloner nodded to Thurloe, who immediately left to do so. ‘Why were you with a priest at such an odd hour?’ he asked, when
the ex-Spymaster had gone.

‘I always pray before work – I am a religious man. Four o’clock is not an odd hour for me.’

Chaloner knew that was true, because he had watched him at his devotions. ‘You did not mention Langston sharing your house
when I questioned you before.’

‘It did not occur to me to do so. Why would it, when neither of us could have predicted that he would become this fiend’s
next victim?’ Tears began to fall, great salty drops that rolled unheeded down his face. ‘Why is this happening? What have
I done to incur the Earl’s hatred?’

‘I wish I knew. Tell me again what happened when you found Chetwynd.’

Greene closed his eyes in despair, but he did as he was told. ‘I was working late, and went to the Painted Chamber to borrow
ink. When I arrived, Chetwynd was dead on the floor. I was frightened – it was dark and that gale was raging. I ran away,
but you caught me at the door. I should not have panicked, but it is easy to be wise with hindsight.’

‘You met Langston in the Dolphin on Saturday, and you gave him money. Why?’

Greene’s eyes snapped open to gaze at the spy in
astonishment. ‘Have you been spying on me?’ He sighed miserably. ‘But of course you have – the Earl would have demanded it.
The answer to your question is that I lent Langston ten pounds. He did not say why he wanted it, and I did not ask. We were
friends, and friends do not quiz each other.’

‘Ten pounds?’ It was a good deal of money, and men had been killed for far less.

‘It was not unusual – he often borrowed from me, but he always paid me back. But surely, this is a reason for me
not
harming him? Now he is dead, I am ten pounds poorer.’

Chaloner looked hard at Greene, trying to understand what it was that had turned the Earl against him so zealously, but could
see nothing, as he had seen nothing the other times he had done it. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ he asked eventually.
‘I cannot help you unless you are honest with me.’

‘I cannot think of anything,’ replied Greene wearily. ‘But I
am
innocent. As you pointed out when Chetwynd died, there was no poisoned cup in the Painted Chamber or on my person. That should
have been enough to exoner ate me straight away. Meanwhile, I have an alibi for Langston’s death – and perhaps I have one
for Vine’s murder, too, if you have been watching me. But I shall put my trust in God. If He wants me to hang, then I shall
face my death with courage and fortitude.’

‘Right.’ Chaloner had forgotten Greene’s peculiar belief that everything happened according to some great and immutable divine
plan. ‘Did you know Chetwynd took bribes?’

Greene gaped at him. ‘He did not! He was a good man, and if you think to help me by tarnishing
his reputation, then I would rather hang. I have my principles.’

He would find out the truth soon enough, thought Chaloner. ‘Mrs Vine told me you met her husband regularly at a coffee house
in Covent Garden. Is it true?’

Greene nodded. ‘Yes, I mentioned it when you first interrogated me. A group of like-minded men often gather to discuss religion
and scripture. Besides Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and me, there are Nicholas Gold, Hargrave and Tryan the merchants, Edward
Jones, Neale and a number of others.’

Chaloner had met Neale, and he knew Gold was the elderly husband of Bess. Meanwhile, Jones was a Yeoman of the Household Kitchen
– he was the enormously fat fellow who ate so much that the Earl had ordered him to tighten his belt. But Chaloner had never
heard of Hargrave or Tryan. Or had he? He frowned when he recalled the dour Doling mentioning someone called Hargrave – he
had given Chetwynd a cottage after the lawyer had taken ten minutes to decide a complex legal case. He frowned at the connections
that were forming, unable to make sense of them.

‘What was Langston like?’ he asked, changing the subject when answers continued to elude him.

Greene shrugged. ‘Kind, generous, but a little secretive. Yet who does not have things he would never tell another? Do not
tell me
you
share everything with friends!’

Chaloner ignored the challenge in the clerk’s voice. ‘Do you own a ruby ring?’

Greene blinked at the question, then held up his hands, to show they were bereft of baubles. ‘Jewellery is for courtesans
and Court fops, not Puritan clerks.’

‘What about Langston?’

‘If he did, then I never saw it. Search his rooms if you like.’

It was too good an invitation to decline, regardless of the fact that the soldiers had taken the ring and it was not going
to be in Wapping. While Greene watched listlessly, Chaloner went carefully through all Langston’s belongings. Unfortunately,
his efforts were wasted, because he found nothing of interest, except a letter from Backwell’s Bank. It said robbers had been
in their vault, but they fully intended to honour the three hundred pounds he had deposited with them – just not for a few
months. It was dated in the summer of the previous year.

‘I know,’ said Greene, when Chaloner showed it to him. ‘A lot of people were inconvenienced by that crime, and the bank was
so shaken that it hired a man to overhaul its security – Doling.’

There was no more to be learned, so Chaloner took his leave. Thurloe was still talking to the priest, who insisted on repeating
to Chaloner what he had told the ex-Spymaster – that Greene had come to the chapel at roughly four o’clock that morning. Greene
had prayed for help with his predicament, while the vicar had prayed for the roof, which he had been certain was going to
blow away.

‘Greene is a melancholy fellow,’ said Thurloe, as they left Wapping. ‘I believe God looks after His own, too, but that does
not mean we should sit back and do nothing to help ourselves. His belief in predestination will see him hang, unless he pulls
himself together and stops feeling sorry for himself.’

‘If I asked
you
for money, as Langston did Greene, would you hand it over?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or would you want to know what it was for?’

‘Both. But Greene’s gloomy nature means he does not have many friends. Perhaps he did not want to lose one by asking awkward
questions. You may never know why Langston needed ten pounds.’

It was late afternoon by the time Chaloner left Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn and headed towards White Hall. It was warmer than
it had been earlier, and a greyish-yellow sun gleamed in the smoke above the city. As he walked past the New Exchange on The
Strand, he could not help but notice how shabby it looked that day. Its gothic façade was dark with soot, and the Christmas
garlands that had been hung along its eaves were torn and limp.

Outside it, Chaloner was surprised to see that the fracas he had observed earlier was still in full swing. It had attracted
a mass of spectators, some of whom had simply ordered their carriages to stop in the middle of the road so they could watch,
causing a serious impediment to traffic. He listened to the yells of the protagonists as he threaded his way through the mêlée,
aiming to be past it as soon as possible and about his own business.

‘The King ordered it closed – and I have been charged to ensure it remains that way,’ one man was shouting. Chaloner smiled
wryly when he recognised the voice of Edward Jones, thinking it odd that he should encounter the Yeoman of the Household Kitchen
so soon after he had been mentioned by Greene as someone who met him and the three murdered men in Convent Garden.

Jones was a contender for the title of Fattest Man in London – he verged on the grotesque, and there was a rumour that Surgeon
Wiseman had arranged for him to be measured, only to discover that he weighed precisely three times as much as the King.

‘But half the city does business here,’ objected an elderly merchant. He had impressively bandy legs, and his handsome clothes
said he was very rich. ‘His Majesty
cannot
close the New Exchange!’

‘He can do what he likes, Alderman Tryan,’ replied Jones soberly. ‘He is the King.’

‘But he no longer wields that sort of power,’ argued Tryan. ‘And rightly so, if he is the kind of man to shut down important
places of commerce on a whim. We went to war for this, and if he has not learned his place, then we shall have to fight him
all over again. Is that not so, Hargrave?’

Hargrave, thought Chaloner, stopping dead in his tracks to look at the man who had given Chetwynd a cottage in exchange for
a speedy verdict on his dispute with Doling – and who had rented Chetwynd his house. Hargrave and Tryan, like Jones, were
also among those Greene had met at the Covent Garden coffee house. The spy decided to loiter instead of returning immediately
to White Hall, to watch the three men and see what he might learn.