The Westminster Poisoner (23 page)

‘It might,’ said Chaloner gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

When the Queen declared she was tired at last, and was ready to try sleeping again, Hannah was released from her duties. Chaloner
escorted her home, and she invited him to stay. He accepted partly because her house was always warm, but mostly because he
felt a need for human companionship. The Queen’s painful loneliness had upset him, and he wished there was something he could
do to help her.

‘What was she telling you?’ asked Hannah, when they lay in bed a little later. He was still chilled to the bone, and was holding
her more tightly than was comfortable for either of them. ‘I had no idea you could speak Portuguese.’

Her profile was etched against the light from the fire, and Chaloner gazed at it. ‘I had no idea you could not. How can you
serve her, if you do not know her native tongue?’

‘She is Queen of
England
, Tom. She must forget her old language and customs, and embrace the new ones – unless she wants people accusing her of spurning
things English. And she has enough hatred directed at
her already, for not getting pregnant. She cannot afford more.’

‘Poor Katherine,’ said Chaloner softly, his heart going out to her.

‘Did you hear her household allowance has gone missing?’ asked Hannah, full of indignation. ‘She tried to impress everyone
with her frugality, using a mere fraction of what she is entitled to take, only to find someone has stolen the rest. I suspect
Lady Castlemaine, personally. She probably ran up some gambling debts, and the Queen’s thirty-six thousand pounds was used
to pay them off.’

‘You may be right.’

‘Did she ask you to find it? She has been petitioning everyone she knows, although she has had scant success so far. You see,
until she produces an heir she has no influence, so no one is willing to waste his time by doing her favours.’

Chaloner knew that was the way things worked at Court, but was disgusted nonetheless.

‘Did you refuse her, too?’ asked Hannah. She saw his apologetic expression and grimaced. ‘That is a pity, because I have been
extolling your virtues to her, although she tells me you have already been to Spain on her account. Speaking of which, why
have you never mentioned it to me? It means we served the same mistress, which I would have been interested to hear.’

‘It was—’ He was about to dismiss the escapade as of no consequence, loath as always to discuss his work, but then remembered
his new resolution not to drive her away with half-answers and lies, as he had previous lovers. He did not want Hannah to
despair of him at quite such an early stage in their relationship. But he found he could
not summon the words to explain what had happened to him. It had been one of the worst experi ences of his life, and he did
not know how to begin telling another person about it.

‘It was what?’ asked Hannah, peering at him in the firelight. ‘Hot? Full of flies? Beautiful? Dull?’

‘Not dull.’

Hannah sighed. ‘Well, that is a start, I suppose. Spain is not dull. The Duke of Buckingham told me the opposite, and said
he would not return there for a kingdom.’

‘You discussed Spain with Buckingham?’ Chaloner sat up, not liking the notion of such a reprobate engaging any decent woman
in conversation.

‘I like him,’ said Hannah with a shrug. ‘He is kind, amusing and generous.’

‘
Buckingham?
’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was more than one of them.

‘I know he has a reputation for being a libertine, but he has his virtues, too.’

Chaloner lay back down and hauled up the bedclothes. He was still freezing, and was beginning to think he would never be warm
again. ‘Next you will be telling me that Lady Castlemaine is chaste.’

She gave him a jab with her elbow that was rather too hard to be playful. ‘You have friends whom
I
consider dubious. Barbara Chiffinch for example. She is a sharp-tongued shrew and I have never liked her, yet you and she
rub along famously together. She is old enough to be your mother.’

‘She gives me information that … helps my work. And she does remind me of my mother, now you mention it. She would have
liked you. My mother, I mean. She played the viol.’

Hannah laughed. ‘You are trying your best to overcome your natural reluctance to discuss private matters, and the result is
a jumble of statements that are supposed to be revealing, but that make no sense whatsoever. Your mother would have liked
me because she played the viol? Really, Tom!’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘I cannot talk about Spain. It was too … I did not think I would be coming back.’

She regarded him silently for a moment, then patted his chest. ‘Then we shall talk about other things instead. Do you know
Sir Nicholas Gold? I like him
very
much, although his wife is a dolt. And I deplore that vulture Neale, waiting to step in and claim her the moment she becomes
a widow.’

‘Is Gold ill, then? Set to die?’

‘He is just old, although I suspect he is not as frail as he looks. But Bess is not yet twenty, and will certainly outlive
him. She will be one of the richest widows in London when he dies, and Neale wants to ensure he will be the one to snare her.
Of course, he has his work cut out for him, because she is inclined to be flighty, and Colonel Turner is just one of many
who compete for her affections.’

‘Is that so?’ Chaloner was more than happy to let her talk.

‘He gave her a crucifix, and regards her as more special than the others. Except for Meg, perhaps.’

‘Meg the laundress?’ asked Chaloner. She nodded, and he continued. ‘He was supposed to meet her for a tryst on Saturday night,
but she never arrived. Have you seen her since then?’

‘No, why? Do you think something untoward has
happened to her? She is a dreadful harlot – I have seen her smuggling lovers in and out of White Hall myself, on her laundry
cart.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘Do you think Turner found out she was unfaithful, and dispatched her?’

‘That would make him a hypocrite, would it not? Killing her for infidelity when he is in the process of sampling every woman
at Court? But men are mysterious creatures, and who can fathom the illogical mush that passes as their minds? If he did
kill her, I would be appalled, but not surprised.’

Chaloner continued to stare. ‘Has Turner … Did he … Have
you
…’

‘Has he made a pass at me? And did I succumb? Is that what you cannot bring yourself to say aloud? You should credit me with
more taste, Tom – Turner is a rake.’

‘But a likeable one.’ He listened to the fire settling in the hearth, then said, ‘You pointed Margaret Symons out to me earlier.
You said your husband commissioned a sculpture from her.’

Hannah pointed to a delicate figurine that stood near the window. ‘She made us that statue of Venus, which is as fine a piece
as any in the royal collections. Why do you ask?’

‘I heard she liked art.’ Chaloner was aware that he was being less than honest, but he hesitated to confide in her for reasons
he did not quite understand. It had been obvious the Queen had not told Hannah that Margaret had been invited to buy the stolen
bust. Why was that? Did she not trust her with the information? Or had she just not considered the rumour worth the effort
of translating into English? He closed his eyes
tiredly. What was wrong with him? Why could he not give straightforward answers to the woman with whom he was trying to develop
a meaningful bond?

‘You are holding back on me again,’ said Hannah, almost as if she had read his thoughts. She was smiling, but the mischievous
gleam was gone from her eyes: he had hurt her feelings. ‘But no matter. You can answer some questions to make up for it. Why
were
you swimming in the Thames in the depths of winter?’

‘I became involved in a skirmish and fell in.’

‘You are no raconteur, are you?’ she said drily. ‘It was probably an exciting adventure, but you make it sound boring. However,
it was my quick thinking with the excuse about the statue that saved you from being arrested, so you owe me some explanation.’

Briefly, Chaloner wondered why she should want to know, but he was exhausted, his defences were down and he was weary of being
suspicious of everyone he met. So he struggled to supply an explanation she would accept, but that would not reveal too much
about his business.

‘I was following two men down an alley. Then a pack of soldiers appeared, and jumping in the river was the only way to escape.
Next time, I will settle for being skewered, because I am still freezing.’ Hannah wrapped her arms around him, although it
did nothing to dispel the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He hunted for something to say that would let him change
the subject without sounding as though that was what he was doing. ‘Bulteel asked to me to be godfather to his son. Should
I do it?’

Hannah was silent for so long that he thought she was angry with him for not elaborating on the Thames incident. By the time
she replied, he had dozed off, and
her voice roused him from a dream in which he was swimming across the Painted Chamber while the Queen informed everyone that
the waters would make him pregnant.

‘You should decline. There is something about Bulteel that is not entirely nice, although I have heard he is the most honest
clerk in White Hall. I know it is an expression of friendship on his part, but I do not think you should accept it.’

‘Why not? You have just said he is honest.’

‘Is that all you require in a friend? Honesty? What about sharing interests? Music, for example.’

‘He does not like music,’ acknowledged Chaloner. He recalled his surprise when Bulteel had informed him of the fact. He had
thought everyone liked music.

‘Think carefully before you give him your answer. Do not dwell on what you might be able to do for the child, but on what
such an association means for
you
. You are a good man, Tom. It would be unfortunate if Bulteel dragged you down.’

It was late morning when Chaloner woke the next day, and Hannah was gone. He supposed it was her revenge on him for doing
it to her, and was concerned that he had not heard anything. He was normally a light sleeper, and anyone moving about in a
room where he was resting usually had him snapping into immediate wakefulness. But he did not feel well that day, and it took
considerable effort to dress and walk to Westminster. His lame leg hurt from being so cold the night before, and his head
ached miserably.

So, what
had
happened the previous night? He had been so intent on surviving the encounter, that he had
given little thought to what it meant. Jones and Swaddell were dead – at least he assumed they were – but what had caused
them to go into the river in the first place? Had Jones caught Swaddell and killed him for eavesdropping? Or had they fought
and fallen in together?

And why had the soldiers so suddenly appeared? Had they been tracking him, aware that he had escaped alive from the Painted
Chamber? He did not think so, because he was sure he would have noticed. So, that meant their appearance was coincidence –
he had just happened to blunder into an area they considered their own. Did they think he was dead now, because they assumed
Jones, shot and drowned, was him? It did not seem likely that they would believe a man would leap in the river to escape them
one moment, then call for their help the next. But in his experience, professional warriors were an unimaginative lot, and
it was entirely possible they had not stopped to question what they thought they had seen. So did that mean he was safe for
a while? He did not feel safe, and decided the first thing he needed to do that day was to visit the wharf, to see what might
be learned from the place where he was attacked.

The alley was a dark, sinister slit, as uninviting in daylight as it had been during the night. He was less than a quarter
of the way down it when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up – something was moving in the shadows ahead. He gaped in
astonishment when he saw it was the guards who had been detailed to watch the pier the previous evening – they were still
at their posts, and he realised he had underestimated their determination to be thorough. Suspecting there would be nothing
to see anyway – and he had no sword to let him fight his way past them to look – he left.

Wiseman was in Old Palace Yard, resplendent in a tall red hat and a new scarlet cloak that swirled about him as he walked.
Both made him more imposing than ever, which Chaloner supposed was the point – the surgeon liked to be noticed. His self-imposed
exercise regime obviously suited him, too, because he radiated vitality and fitness. His skin was clear, his eyes bright and
although he had been walking at a rapid clip, he was not even slightly breathless. Uneasily, Chaloner saw he would be a formidable
opponent in a fight, and sincerely hoped he would never decide to change sides.

‘You look as though you need my services,’ Wiseman began imperiously. ‘You are limping and—’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. He would have to be at death’s door before he let a surgeon loose on him. ‘I do not suppose you
have heard rumours about a train-band lurking around here, have you?’

‘I have, as a matter of fact. A gang of soldiers has taken up residence – and their presence has virtually eradicated petty
crime. Why? Was it they who attacked you the other night?’

‘Who controls them? Pays their wages, buys their equipment?’

‘No one knows. The obvious candidate is Williamson, although he has never cared about policing the area in the past. However,
I can tell you that they are secretive and deadly, and that you should be wary of tackling them. Personally, I do not believe
they are kindly Robin Hoods, ousting felons to protect the innocent – I think they crushed rival villains because it suited
them to do so.’

‘Do you know anything else about them?’

‘Nothing – except that the charnel house currently
houses the corpses of two men and a woman who were rather vocal in demanding to know who these men are.
Ergo
, I recommend you keep your questions to yourself, because I do not want to anatomise your cadaver just yet.’