The Westminster Poisoner (31 page)

Chaloner thought that price was rather too high, and wondered how he could lay his hands on some money to settle the debt.
Wiseman disappeared, and a while later the maid came with the potion they had prepared. It was green, smelled of drains, and
Chaloner would not have swallowed it to save his life. Margaret gulped it thirstily, and claimed it to be excellent wine.

‘Uncle Scobel was here earlier,’ she said. The servant shook her head, but Margaret was insistent. ‘He was!
He stood at the end of the bed and told me he liked roses. Then he sang a hymn.’

‘Was he well, love?’ asked Symons, forcing a bright smile. It emerged as a grimace.

‘You know I will die tonight, Will? You say I will not, but I am quite certain. I am not afraid, so you should not be, either.’

Chaloner edged towards the door. He had no place in the sickroom, and it reminded him too acutely of the family he had lost
in Holland. The maid followed him down the stairs, to see him out.

‘Scobel has been in his grave these last three years,’ she said, more to herself than Chaloner. ‘It frightens me to hear her
talking like that.’

‘You say he died of the same ailment?’

‘The medical men call it a sharpness of the blood, but I think it is a melancholy. It happens when good people see the wickedness
of the world. They despair, then they sicken and die.’

‘Margaret is good?’

‘A saint, sir. She is honest, kind and sweet. Did you know she was offered a statue for next to nothing the other day? But
she said it was sure to be stolen, and refused to buy it, even though she has a great love for such things. She is a talented
carver herself.’

Chaloner’s hopes rose. ‘Were you with her when this happened?’

The maid nodded. ‘A man came with a letter, but he wore one of those plague masks, to keep us from seeing his face. He waylaid
us in Westminster Abbey, as we were passing through it. He waited until she read it, then asked for a reply to take to his
master. He did not say who his master was.’

‘Do you know why was she chosen?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because she is a sculptress. The letter said she could either keep the bust as a work of art, or refashion it into something
of her own. He only wanted five pounds, which is cheap for marble.’

And there was the problem, thought Chaloner: the thief had committed a brilliantly successful crime, but was unable to turn
it to his advantage. He suspected it would not be long before Bernini’s masterpiece was furtively disposed of in the Thames.

The notion that the thief was growing desperate, and the statue might soon be destroyed, drove Chaloner to spend a good part
of the night in White Hall, listening to conversations not meant for his ears. But the only thing he learned was that Lady
Castlemaine was taking a rather sinister interest in the King’s oldest illegitimate son, which led him to surmise that it
had been young James Croft with whom Swaddell had caught her cavorting. He was not surprised she wanted it kept quiet: the
King was protective of his offspring, and would be outraged if he learned what the Lady was doing.

The Lord of Misrule had decreed that anyone in the palace grounds after dark that night should be wearing nothing but red,
and courtiers disobeying his edict could expect to have the offending garments removed. Chaloner took care not to be caught,
but he witnessed what happened to others who were less wary. He was obliged to rescue Haddon with his fists when a gaggle
of drunken youths laid hold of him. Prudently, they slunk away when they saw their high spirits were likely to end in a trouncing.

‘Thank you,’ said the steward unsteadily. The encounter
had frightened him, and he was on the verge of tears. ‘I am glad my dogs are not here – they would have raced to save me,
and those vile ruffians might have hurt them.’

‘Shall I escort you home?’

Reluctantly, Haddon shook his head. ‘I had better warn the Earl, or he might suffer the same fate.’ He looked across the vast
open space of the courtyard in front of him. ‘Although it is a long way to his offices. I do not suppose you would mind …’

Chaloner took him on a circuitous route that avoided the roistering mobs. While they went, Haddon said that he had managed
to find out where Meg lived: with a friend on a street called Petty France.

‘She has quit her post in the White Hall laundry,’ the steward elaborated. ‘Apparently, she thinks there are too many difficult
stains involved in washing for the Court. But everyone says she will have no difficulty in recruiting private customers, because
she is so good at ironing.’

‘I will visit her first thing tomorrow morning,’ said Chaloner.

‘Good,’ said Haddon. ‘Let us hope it brings you one step closer to catching the killer – and me one step closer to keeping
the five pounds I wagered on your success.’

When they arrived at the Earl’s offices, Turner was there, drinking wine in social bonhomie with his master. He was clad in
crimson from head to toe, even down to his ear-string. The Earl was remarking on his attire with uncharacteristically good-humour,
indicating he had no idea the colonel was obeying the dictates of the Lord of Misrule.

‘You should follow his example, Thomas,’ the Earl said jovially. ‘Wear pink perhaps. Or yellow.’

Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘Are you unwell, sir?’

‘I have never felt better,’ declared the Earl, standing to stretch his plump arms. The movement caused him to totter. ‘And
now you will all escort me home. There is a lot of shrieking and cackling outside, and I do not want to be made the subject
of some practical joke by drunken youths.’

The empty jug on his desk suggested it was not just youths who were drunk that evening.

‘Very wise, sir,’ said Turner smoothly. ‘You will be safe with us.’

Chaloner was not so sure, because the Lord Chancellor was a tempting target, and they might be overwhelmed by the sheer number
of people who wanted to pick on him. He and Turner were armed, but so were many courtiers, and although most were poor swordsmen,
others were highly adept. Besides, Chaloner did not want to stab influential noblemen if he could help it.

‘I will fetch your carriage, sir,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘This is not a good night to wander—’

‘No, I shall walk,’ countered the Earl. ‘I feel like some fresh air, and I refuse to let this misrule nonsense dictate my
movements. Take my arm, colonel. That wine seems to have gone to my head, and I do not want to take a tumble, because I know
what my enemies would make of
that
.’

‘Have no fear, My Lord,’ said Turner grandly, stepping forward to offer his hand. The Earl lurched, but managed to right himself.
‘I will give my life before letting harm come to a single hair on your head.’

‘That is not saying much,’ quipped the Earl merrily. ‘I am virtually bald! Incidentally, did I tell you I am
invited to a play in the Banqueting House on Saturday? It is called
The Prick of Love
.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Chaloner, eyeing him uneasily. ‘I hope you do not intend to go.’

‘Of course I shall go! I like a good drama as much as the next man.’

With grave misgivings about the nature of the Earl’s future entertainment – and his determination to stroll around White Hall
on this particular night – Chaloner followed him down the stairs. When his master started to take a route that would lead
him directly across the middle of the Palace Court, he jumped forward to stop him, but the Earl pushed him away furiously.

‘How dare you presume to tell me where I can and cannot walk! I shall go where I please.’

‘Do not waste your breath, Thomas,’ whispered Haddon, watching the Earl weave off into the open with Turner at his side. ‘He
is drunk, which means he will not listen to you or me. Unfortunately, he
is
listening to the colonel, who is almost as inebriated as he is, so cannot be relied upon to dispense sensible advice. I have
a very bad feeling about this.’

‘He does not normally drink to excess,’ said Chaloner, setting off after them. ‘What happened?’

‘The Bishop of London sent him some wine,’ explained Haddon, trotting to keep up. He had grabbed a poker from the hearth before
he had left the Earl’s offices, and was clutching it fearfully. ‘And he has been quaffing it all night. He gave me some, but
I found it rather strong.’

Chaloner shook his head in disgust. ‘The Lord of Misrule will be behind this, providing a powerful brew in the hope that the
Earl will commit an indiscretion – or be befuddled enough to walk out dressed in something
other than red. He will lose his clothes, not to mention his dignity.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Haddon in alarm, glancing behind him. ‘You are right. Here they come!’

Upwards of thirty people had materialised from the shadows, and they began to converge on the Earl with hoots and jeers. They
wore masks that concealed the top halves of their faces, although Chaloner recognised Brodrick, Buckingham and Chiffinch by
their voices; the Lady he identified by her malicious grin. He pulled his sword from its sheath, wondering what he could do
against so many.

‘Oh, dear,’ gulped the Earl, suddenly sober enough to appreciate the danger he was in. ‘They look as though they mean business.
What shall we do?’

‘Draw,’ said Chaloner urgently to Turner. ‘They may think twice if they see they will not have him without a tussle.’ He glanced
to where the colonel was standing with his mouth hanging open. ‘Tonight would be good.’

Turner fumbled with his scabbard. ‘Damn! I cannot get it out – the hilt seems to be jammed.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I thought you were a soldier! How can you have a broken sword?’

Turner edged behind him, and began to explain in a voice that was too low for the Earl or Haddon to hear. ‘I was not a soldier
of the fighting variety. I was more of a strategist, performing behind the lines. Baking, for example. An army is nothing
without its food.’

‘God help us!’ muttered Chaloner, thinking it was not a good time to find this out. ‘I thought you were wounded in the King’s
service.’

‘I
was
wounded. Cooking is dangerous, especially if
your assistant is in the habit of brandishing skewers when he is in his cups. Besides, everyone exaggerates what he did in
the wars – do not tell me you were really at Naseby. You would have been too young.’

‘I need your help,’ said Chaloner, alarmed to see more courtiers flocking to join the mob by the moment. ‘I cannot protect
the Earl on my own.’

‘I could try to reason with them,’ offered Turner, although not with much enthusiasm. ‘I am a solicitor, which means I am
good at sly persuasion. When I first arrived in London, my intention was to practice law, but loitering around the Court was
a lot more fun. Then His Portliness invited me to—’

‘Turner!’ snapped Chaloner. It was not the time to hear the man’s life story. ‘If you cannot draw, then be ready to pull the
Earl to safety while I create a diversion. One the count of three. One, two—’

‘Wait!’ ordered Turner unsteadily. ‘We should think this through first. Give me a moment to …’

But it was too late. His hesitation had lost them the advantage, and the crowd surged around them.

‘You dare point weapons at the Lord of Misrule?’ demanded Brodrick. The Earl gulped audibly, and Haddon brandished his poker.
Several courtiers laughed when they saw how much it shook. ‘And flout his edict that all should wear red tonight?’

‘We did not know about your decree, noble sir,’ lied Turner, taking several steps to distance himself from Chaloner. ‘But
we shall fetch some crimson finery immediately. So, if you will excuse us—’

‘Your clothing is acceptable, colonel,’ declared Brodrick. ‘So
you
may join us. But your three companions must pay the price for their disobedience.’

‘And the Earl will pay for accusing innocent men of murder, too,’ hissed the Lady. ‘Poor Greene!’

Turner said nothing, and Chaloner saw he was seriously tempted to abandon his responsibilities and accept Brodrick’s invitation.
While he dithered, Chaloner stepped protectively in front of their master. Unfortunately, the Earl chose that moment to lurch
forward, and the resulting collision made him stagger. He flailed with his arms for a moment, desperately fighting for balance,
but he had swallowed far too much wine, and his equilibrium was gone. He sat down hard, legs splayed in front of him. There
was an astonished silence, and then Buckingham started to laugh. He had an infectious guffaw, and it was not many moments
before the whole mob had joined in.

‘Come, friends,’ said Brodrick, putting his arm around the Duke’s shoulders and leading him away. ‘We have had our fun here,
and I am bored. Let us find some other entertainment.’

In moments, the crowd was gone, skipping and cavorting around their Lord of Misrule, and singing a popular Christmas song.
Lady Castlemaine looked disappointed that her enemy was not to suffer further abuse, but seemed to sense there was only
so far Brodrick would go as far as his cousin was concerned. She was the last to leave, but leave she did.

‘I shall never forgive you for this, Chaloner,’ snarled the Earl, as Turner helped him to his feet. ‘You pushed me deliberately,
to make me a laughing stock. Consider yourself dismissed – and fortunate that I do not send you to the Tower for … for
treason!’

‘He was trying to save you,’ said Haddon quietly. ‘He could not have fought all those courtiers single-handed,
and would almost certainly have been killed. But he was ready to do it anyway.’

Something in the rational tone of his voice penetrated the Earl’s drink-sodden mind, and most of the rage drained out of him.
He sighed wearily.

‘Take me home. I shall reconsider my position in the morning.’

As soon as the Earl was safely inside Worcester House, Turner headed back towards White Hall, obviously intending to rejoin
the revelries. Chaloner walked Haddon to Cannon Row.

‘Brodrick would have
tried
to stop the horde from attacking us,’ the steward said. ‘But Buckingham and Chiffinch are not the kind of men to take orders
from him, Lord of Misrule or no. There would have been blood spilled tonight if the Earl had not fallen when he did – and,
as far as I am concerned, his dignity is a small price to pay for our lives.’