The Westminster Poisoner (33 page)

His eyes started to close, so Chaloner kicked his foot, knowing he did not have much time before wine won the battle for what
remained of the young man’s wits. ‘What do you discuss at John’s?’

Neale jerked awake. ‘Mostly we pray for good fortune – for money, happiness and success. I am not averse to having those,
so I do not mind spending the odd evening on my knees. And we exchange news about people we know, the weather, the King’s
skill at tennis. But we never debate politics. The others always override me if I try to bring up anything contentious, the
boring old …’ He waved an expressive hand, his vocabulary apparently having deserted him.

‘You misled me the last time we spoke,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘You neglected to mention that you had bribed Chetwynd.’

Neale slid a little lower in the chair, and his voice became bitter. ‘You think I should have told a stranger how I corrupted
a royal official? I may be young, but I am not a fool! But it was a rotten business, if you must know – Chetwynd took the
last of my money, then found in my brother’s favour. Bastard! So, here I am, forced to make eyes at a sheep, so I can marry
her when Gold dies.’

Chaloner regarded him with distaste. ‘What else did you tell Turner?’ He kicked Neale’s foot a second time when the young
man’s eyelids drooped.

‘What? Nothing. No, wait. I told him about the river.’

‘What about the river?’ Chaloner hated interviewing drunks; it was like drawing blood from a stone.

‘I saw Greene throw something in it on Thursday morning. Something leathery. Purses, I think.’

‘Purses?’

‘Three purses. But they were empty. I could tell by the way they hit the water. No splash, see.’

Three purses, three robbed corpses, thought Chaloner uneasily, as Neale finally descended into a snoring stupor. For the second
night in a row, he wondered whether he had been right to champion Greene’s innocence. But how could the clerk be guilty, when
he had alibis for two of the crimes? Engrossed in his thoughts, Chaloner lifted Neale into a position where he would not choke,
and placed an empty bowl at his elbow. Neale would need it when he woke, and Chaloner did not see why Temperance should have
to clean up the mess.

The music was louder than it had been, to make itself heard above the rising clamour of people having a good time. Women shrieked,
men laughed, and there was a constant chink of coins changing hands and goblets being refilled. Belle excused herself to confer
with Maude, which left Turner at a loose end for a while. The colonel rolled his eyes when he saw the state of Neale, but
did not seem unduly concerned that his informant would not be doing any more talking that night.

‘Working for His Portliness is fun, is it not?’ he remarked jovially to Chaloner. ‘I mean, what other employer leaves a man
to his own devices day and night, and reimburses his expenses in the morning?’

‘Not yours,’ said Chaloner. ‘He will be horrified if he thinks you frequent brothels – whether you do it on his
behalf or not – and if you present him with a bill for women, he will dismiss you.’

Turner regarded him uncertainly. ‘You jest. He is not
that
prudish.’

‘Try him, and see.’

Turner grimaced. ‘Then I had better curtail my spending. Neale can pay for his own whore.’

Chaloner doubted the lad would be needing one that night. ‘Has he been worth the expense?’

‘He provided me with a snippet or two. What about you? What have you learned so far?’

‘Not nearly enough,’ replied Chaloner gloomily.

Turner looked pleased with himself. ‘I, on the other hand, have done rather well – with the murders, at least. I have had
no luck at all with the statue. The thief is clever. He removed it with no one seeing – no mean feat, considering its weight
– and has contrived to make it disappear completely.’

Chaloner disagreed. ‘He is not clever, or he would have stolen a piece that is less famous. Everyone knows the old king’s
bust is stolen, and he will never sell it for what it is really worth.’

Turner raised his eyebrows. ‘
Is
it famous? I thought it was just one in a whole room of similar tripe – worthy and full of artistic merit, to be sure, but
not something you would want in your own house.’

Chaloner was surprised he should be so dismissive. ‘Bernini is the greatest living sculptor in the world.’

Turner grimaced. ‘Well, perhaps he was having a bad day when he made that one.’

Chaloner did not want to discuss art with someone who knew even less about it than he did. ‘What have you learned about the
murders?’ he asked instead.

Turner preened. ‘I have uncovered evidence that points to Greene’s guilt. I know you do not share His Portliness’s suspicions,
but it seems the old goat
was
right. In fact, it was because he seemed so certain that I decided to concentrate all my efforts on Greene, to see what I
could learn about him.’

It was not a bad strategy, and Chaloner wondered whether he should have done the same. It would have pleased the Earl, and
might even have secured his future employment. ‘What did you find out?’

Turner’s expression was amused. ‘Is this to be a one-way exchange of intelligence, or do you intend to reciprocate? I do not
want you to claim all the credit for solving the case, because I enjoy spying for His Portliness and would like to carry on
working for him.’

‘I doubt he has the resources to hire us both long-term. I know he was recently awarded additional funds to expand his staff,
but that was for administration, not the kind of work that we do.’

‘Shall we be rivals, then?’ asked Turner, fingering his ear-string.

Chaloner shook his head tiredly. ‘That might mean more murders. If the best way to catch this villain is by pooling our resources,
then that is what we must do. So, you can tell me what you have learned about Greene, and I will tell you what I have learned
about the victims.’

‘You first, then,’ said Turner slyly.

‘I devised a list of common acquaintances – not casual ones, such as might be made by working in the same place, but more
meaningful ones. They include Neale, Gold and his wife Bess, Doling, the Lea brothers, Hargrave, Tryan and of course Greene.
And Jones, who is dead, too.’

He omitted Swaddell because of the assassin’s connections to the Spymaster – Chaloner did not understand what Swaddell was
doing, but it seemed wise to keep his suspicions to himself – and Symons because he did not want Margaret disturbed during
her final hours. Of course, Turner already knew the names of the men Chaloner had listed, because he had inveigled himself
into their society when they had met at John’s Coffee House.

The colonel waved a dismissive hand, unimpressed. ‘If Greene is the killer, then these other “suspects” are irrele vant. Tell
me something useful, or I shall keep my own information to myself.’

‘Is Greene the killer? He was in Wapping with his priest when Langston was killed, and I was watching his house when Vine
died.’

‘And we know what time Langston breathed his last, because of Lady Castlemaine’s testimony,’ mused Turner. ‘She saw him alive
just before four o’clock in the morning – and the Earl found the body not long after that. However, what if the Lady is mistaken?
And what if Greene managed to slip past you the other night? Neither alibi is perfect.’

‘But
why
would Greene kill these men? All had dark pasts that may have earned them enemies: Chetwynd was corrupt, Vine blackmailed
people, and Langston wrote bawdy plays. However, these are not reasons for
Greene
to kill them.’

Turner frowned. ‘I do not follow you.’

‘The culprit will be someone who was a victim of Chetwynd’s corruption or Vine’s penchant for blackmail. And he will be someone
who was shocked by Langston’s bawdy plays – Greene may well have enjoyed them, given what Neale says about his liking for
brothels.’

He ignored the clamouring voice in his head that demanded to know why Greene should have been throwing three leather purses
in the Thames.

Turner’s expression was doubtful. ‘You have made this very complicated. But let me tell you what I have found out. On Thursday
and Saturday evenings – the nights when Chetwynd and Vine were murdered – Greene went to the cellars and begged for brandywine.
He told the man in charge, a fellow called Munt, that he was working late and needed refreshment. But Munt passed Greene’s
office later, and said it was in darkness
both times
.’

Chaloner had been watching Greene on Saturday, but had not seen him visit the cellars. However, the building in which Greene
worked had far too many doors for a lone man to monitor, so he supposed it was possible the clerk had eluded him.

‘Are you sure Munt is telling the truth?’

‘Yes, because he was indignant about being played for a fool – Greene preyed on his sympathy as a man obliged to slave long
hours, then sloped off. And he did it not once, but twice. But I know what really happened: Greene added poison to this brandywine
and fed it to his victims.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Is Munt certain about the days – Thursday and Saturday?’

‘Ask him yourself. And let us not forget the brandy-wine I found hidden in Greene’s office, either. It all adds up to something
suspicious.’

‘If you are so certain Greene is the killer, then why have you not arrested him? That is what the Earl wants, and he will
certainly continue to hire you if you prove him right.’

For the first time, Turner’s cheery confidence wavered. He frowned uneasily. ‘Because arresting Greene will lead
to a speedy conviction and death at the end of a rope. If I am to be instrumental in sending a man to the gallows, then I
must be certain of his guilt.’

Chaloner regarded him quizzically. The colonel did not seem like the kind of man who would allow scruples to interfere with
his plans for a comfortable future.

‘You do not believe me,’ said Turner, seeing what he was thinking. ‘But it is quite true. I was obliged to break the law during
the Commonwealth, when self-declared Royalists like me struggled to earn a living, and I might have been executed myself.
So, I shall tell His Portliness my findings only when I am
sure
Greene is guilty, and not a moment before. That is where you come in.’

Chaloner smothered a smile. ‘It is, is it?’

‘I want you to confirm what I have learned. Then we can share responsibility for Greene’s death.’

‘It will also mean we shall share credit for a case you have solved.’

‘Yes, but at least I shall be able to sleep at night – and the importance of guilt-free slumber should never be underestimated.
However, I do not plan on doing much dozing this evening. I shall have Belle first, but then who else? Which of these lovely
lasses will best appreciate my company, do you think?’

‘Whoever you pay the most, I imagine.’

Turner gazed at him in astonishment. ‘Pay? I have never paid for a woman in my life.’

‘Perhaps so, but this is a brothel. These women are not here for their health.’

Turner waved a dismissive hand. ‘You underestimate my charms. Oh, I shall hand a few coins to that fierce matron in the hall,
but the ladies I choose to accompany me upstairs will give me keepsakes that will be worth ten
times that amount. Did you notice that locket around Belle’s throat? Ten shillings says that will be mine tomorrow.’

‘How will I know you have not stolen it?’

Turner was shocked. ‘I am no thief! Besides, you will be able to ask her whether she parted with it willingly. Well, what
do you say? Will you accept my wager?’

Chaloner nodded. He had known Belle for some time, and she was not the kind of woman to hand hard-earned wealth to a customer,
no matter how pretty he thought himself. Turner, he thought, was not a good judge of character.

Temperance was still engrossed in her game of cards, and the stakes were now more than Chaloner earned in a year. He was staggered
by the amount of silver and jewellery that was being tossed on the table as bets were made, and was reminded that she now
inhabited a very different world from his own. Eventually, she stood, offering her seat to Chiffinch. Brodrick objected to
losing her company, but she ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on the top of his head to appease him.

‘Chaloner!’ he shouted, as she went to join the spy. ‘Have you come to play the viol? I wish you would. Greeting is drunk
and keeps bowing sharp. It hurts the ears, and you have such a lovely touch.’

‘I have heard the same,’ drawled Chiffinch. ‘My wife says he has exquisite fingerwork.’

There was a gust of manly laugher, accompanied by nudges and winks, so those of slower wits would appreciate that a lewd joke
had been made.

‘She would say no such thing,’ said Chaloner coolly, disliking the notion that Barbara should be the subject
of conversation among such depraved company. ‘She has too much decency.’

Chiffinch’s eyebrows shot up, and he leaned back in his chair. ‘You accuse me of being indecent? I should call you out, and
teach you a lesson with my sword.’

Chaloner wished he would, so he might rid Barbara of the man who had brought her nothing but trouble and unhappiness for the
last forty years, but Temperance stepped in before he could reply.

‘You are
very
indecent, Mr Chiffinch,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Which is just how we like you.’

There was another manly cheer, and Chaloner allowed her to bundle him out of the room while the laughter lasted. She ushered
him down the corridor and into the kitchen. This had always been a warm, quiet place, but since his last visit it had become
the domain of a shrieking Frenchman, who screamed orders at his bewildered assistants in an anarchic mixture of Latin and
Spanish. There was a lot of confusion, and Chaloner was not surprised his soufflés had collapsed.

‘He is telling you to use butter,’ he said to the cooks as he passed. ‘You used lard, apparently. He wants you to start again.’

There was an immediate sigh of understanding and work resumed, although the Frenchman’s squawks remained just as frenzied.
Temperance led Chaloner to the little office where she and Maude counted their nightly takings. As usual, there was coffee
simmering in a pan over the hearth, while a pair of cushion-loaded chairs provided somewhere the two ladies could rest, should
the carousing in the parlour become too much for them. The room stank of pipe smoke and expensive perfume.