The Westminster Poisoner (36 page)

Chaloner laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Of course you do.’

‘I have had two successes.’ There was something in Greene’s earnest, pleading voice that gave the spy pause for thought. ‘One
is now a cook-maid, and the other is a laundress. You may scoff, but I hope to save more young ladies in time. Of course,
I cannot do it if I am hanged …’

Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘And why should you want to rescue harlots?’

Greene swallowed hard, and looked away. ‘Because my sister … during the Commonwealth, when it was hard for Royalists to
earn a crust … It was the only way to feed her baby, her husband being killed at Naseby. I was unemployed myself then,
and had no funds to share with her.’

‘Your sister was a prostitute?’ asked Chaloner in disbelief. His own family had endured struggles as hard as any, but his
kinswomen had never resorted to those sorts of measures.

‘Hush!’ hissed Greene, distressed. ‘There is no need to tell everyone. And she was
not
a prostitute – she just made herself available to one man in return for regular payment. After she died, I vowed to help
other unfortunates. I do not know any gentlewomen in my sister’s position, so I elected to save the poorest whores instead
– the ones in the Dog and Duck, whom nobody else cares about.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. ‘You have been seen laughing with them.’

‘They are cheery company, and always greet me kindly. I have grown to like them, so yes, we laugh together. It makes for a
pleasant change, because I seldom have cause to laugh with anyone else.’

‘Then what about the three purses you tossed in the river on Thursday morning? Explain those.’

Greene looked unutterably weary. ‘Again, your witnesses have misconstrued an innocent act. I did not throw
three
purses in the river – I threw
ten
. They belonged to Jones, and he left them at my house after Langston and I entertained him for dinner once. We always meant
to return them to him, but we kept forgetting. They were a painful reminder of an evening with good friends, so I disposed
of them.’

‘Why hurl them in the Thames? Why not in a gutter? Or why not give them to your cheerful harlots? I am sure they would never
refuse a free gift.’

‘Because for me, dropping them in the river was a symbolic act,’ whispered Greene miserably. ‘Jones drowned, so it seemed
fitting to … But I was not thinking clearly. I see now it was a stupid thing to have done, but that did not occur to me
when I did it.’

There was a pitiful plausibility about the explanations, and Chaloner found he was not sure what to think. ‘Then what about
the brandywine?’ he demanded. ‘You told me you do not touch strong drink, yet you begged some from Munt on two occasions;
and Turner found a secret supply in your office.’

Greene was close to tears. ‘Damn! I was hoping no one would find out about Munt, because I knew how it would look. I asked
him not to mention it, but I should have known he could not be trusted.’

‘So, you lied to me,’ said Chaloner flatly. ‘The hidden brandywine
was
yours.’

‘No! I do not drink brandywine, and I have no idea how those flasks came to be in my office. But I did ask Munt for some –
on Thursday and then on Saturday. I told him I needed its stimulation, because I planned to work late. However, the real reason
is because my vicar has a liking for it.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’

‘Ask him. He will tell you how I give him some most weeks. But Brodrick bought every last drop in London for his Babylonian
punch, and I did not want to disappoint, so I inveigled some from Munt instead. So much for trying to be nice! But can you
not see what is
happening? Someone wants me accused, and is twisting innocent facts to trap me. I have explanations, but no one is listening.’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully. Perhaps the vicar of Wapping really did rely on Greene to provide him with a weekly dose
of brandywine – and Chaloner knew from Wiseman that Brodrick
had
bought all the available supplies for his punch. It sounded ludicrous, but sometimes the truth was absurd.

‘Who would do such a thing to you?’ he asked eventually.

‘You have asked me that before, and the answer is the same now as it was then: I do not know. I wish I did, because it must
be a misunderstanding. I have lived a simple and godly life, and I cannot imagine why anyone should hate me so. All I can
do is put my trust in God – and in you.’

Confused and uncertain, Chaloner decided to visit the Dog and Duck. He took a boat to the London Bridge, then made his way
through the cramped, sunless alleys that formed the area known as the Bankside Stews. Mean houses, dirty taverns and filthy
streets characterised that part of Southwark, and it teemed with life. The noise was deafening, with tradesmen declaring the
virtues of their wares, carts clattering along cobbled streets, and a cacophony arising from an escaped and furious bull.

The Dog and Duck was famous for its willing ladies, and Chaloner supposed it was an obvious target for anyone wanting to save
fallen women. He entered its vast, smelly interior, and found a seat in a corner at the back, intending to sit quietly and
watch the prostitutes in action before selecting one he thought might answer
his questions. But the lasses were used to men lurking in the shadows, and he was approached almost immediately by a sallow-faced
girl who told him her name was Alice.

‘Are you from Court?’ she asked with a coquettish smile. ‘You are very well dressed.’

Chaloner placed a coin on the table. ‘Will you answer some questions?’

‘For a silver shilling, I will do anything you like. Shall we go upstairs?’

Chaloner watched a rat strut boldly across the festering rushes on the floor, and did not like to imagine the state of the
beds. He was not particularly fastidious, but nothing would be gained from rolling around among fleas. ‘I would prefer to
stay here.’

‘Very well, as long as you promise not to do anything embarrassing. I got my reputation, see.’

‘I shall do my best. Do you know a Westminster clerk called Greene?’

‘Mr Greene? Of course! He visits us almost every week. Are you his friend? I am glad he got one, because he is a lovely man.
He took us to St Paul’s Cathedral on Christmas Day.’

‘Did he? What for?’

‘He said we deserved to see something beautiful. We got dressed in our best clothes, and he paid for a carriage
and
a nice dinner afterwards. Bless him.’

‘Does he avail himself of your services?’ asked Chaloner bluntly.

Alice’s lips tightened in disapproval. ‘That’s none of your business, and—’

Chaloner removed the coin from the table. ‘Then I shall ask someone else.’

She reached out to grab his hand, revealing black teeth in an ingratiating smile. ‘No need to be hasty, sir. You cannot blame
a girl for being wary of someone what comes in asking questions about her friends. Why do you want to know anyway? Is it about
the trouble he is in? He told us about that – some Court bastard is after his blood. But he is a good man, so they should
leave him alone.’

‘I am trying to help him. And you can help him, too, by answering my questions honestly. So, I repeat: does Greene frolic
with you?’

Alice prised the money from his fingers and shook her head. ‘No. He comes to ask after our health, and he tries to persuade
us to do other jobs. He paid for Meg to train as a washerwoman.’

‘He told me,’ lied Chaloner. He had actually failed to make this connection, but supposed it made sense. Of course, Meg had
not moved too far from her old trade, if she was enjoying late-night trysts with the likes of Colonel Turner in the Painted
Chamber.

‘She is over there,’ said Alice, pointing. ‘She came back, because White Hall is too debauched.’

Chaloner looked to where she gestured, and saw a small, pretty woman with bright blue eyes. She was laughing with some of
her colleagues, and he was not surprised that Turner had taken a fancy to her. She had all her own teeth, her skin was smooth
and white, and she had more yellow curls than the Lord Chancellor’s best wig. Alice beckoned her over.

‘Dear Mr Greene,’ said Meg sadly, after Chaloner had been introduced as the clerk’s friend. ‘The villains at White Hall are
accusing him of murder, but he would never hurt a fly. He is gentle and kind, and that is the
reason they hate him – his goodness makes them ashamed of themselves.’

Extraordinary though it might seem, Chaloner saw Greene had been telling the truth about his clandestine visits to Southwark.
More probing told him the clerk had never taken advantage of any woman in the brothel, although all had offered him their
services free of charge. He also gave them money when they were ill, tired or distressed. They looked on him as a father,
and it was not long before Chaloner was surrounded by prostitutes, all eager to convince him that Greene was next in line
for sainthood. Moreover, Meg confirmed the tale about Greene’s fallen sister, and said that he and Langston had indeed hosted
a dinner for Jones, at which the fat man had accidentally left behind ten leather purses. She had been employed to wash the
dishes afterwards, and had seen them.

Chaloner tuned out the chattering voices and thought about what he had learned. If Greene had been honest about Southwark,
then there was no reason to doubt his other claims, either. And that suggested he was right: someone
was
trying to have him wrongfully accused of murder. But who? Someone who disliked his integrity? Or someone who thought the
Southwark harlots did not deserve a friend?

By the time he left the Dog and Duck, dusk was fast approaching, bringing with it a bitter, sleety drizzle that turned Southwark’s
streets more dismal than ever. Meg begged a ride in the hackney he took back to the city, saying she had laundry to deliver
to Tryan the merchant in Lymestrete. Chaloner was going to Hercules’ Pillars Alley, because he wanted to apologise to Temperance,
so Lymestrete was not far out of his way.

‘People have been worried about you,’ he said, as they thundered across the Bridge. The driver’s recklessly selfish speed
reminded him of why he did not like walking across it.

‘About me?’ asked Meg, startled. ‘That is nice. Who?’

Chaloner looked at her in the fading daylight, and found he could not answer. Her housemate had not been overly concerned
when she had failed to return home, assuming – doubtless on account of her previous occupation – that she was with a man.
Turner had been anxious, but only because he thought he might have lost out on a romp. Or was he doing the colonel an injustice?

‘Turner,’ he replied, for want of anyone better.

Her pretty face split into a hopeful grin. ‘Really? I thought he did not care about me when he failed to turn up for our tryst.
I waited until nightfall on Saturday, but there was no sign of him.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Nightfall? I was under the impression that he expected you much later.’

‘He told me to meet him at the witching hour.’

‘That is midnight.’

‘No, it is dusk. Everyone knows witches come out when daylight fades, so the witching hour is between sunset and total darkness.
Why? Are you saying he thinks it was another time?’

‘It
is
another time, Meg. He expected you at twelve o’clock.’

Meg’s eyes were huge. ‘Lord! He will think
I
abandoned
him
! The dear man! I should have known better than to question his love for me. He said he adores me, and he does. And I was
so angry with him! I kept thinking he had deserted me, after all I had done for him – all
that smuggling him in and out of the palace on my laundry cart every time he had a meeting with Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Why would you do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering how on earth Turner had managed to persuade one lover to facilitate his
visits to another.

‘Because she needs him to protect her from that awful Earl of Clarendon,’ explained Meg, earnestly ingenuous. ‘The Earl keeps
foisting his attentions on her, see. But that was before he hired my colonel as his spy – now my dearest has an official post,
he can come and go as he pleases.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to be more impressed by her absolute credulity or Turner’s colourful lies.

‘You have made me
so
happy with this news! I should have known he thought I was special, or he would not have met me so often. Did I tell you
that we have enjoyed secret assignations in the Painted Chamber every Monday and Thursday for the past two months?’

‘Even last week?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether it was significant: Chetwynd had died on a Thursday, and Langston on a
Monday. And both bodies had been found in the Painted Chamber.

She nodded, smiling gleefully. ‘That was when he gave me one of his ear-strings.’

‘How long do these sessions last?’

Meg’s grin broadened. ‘From dusk until dawn. We meet in the Painted Chamber, and then he takes me to an inn in Chelsey. But
our last tryst was arranged for a Saturday, at a different time than usual, which explains my silly confusion. So, now you
have cleared that up, all I have to worry about is Mr Greene. I
must
do something to get
him out of trouble. I owe it to him, after all he has done for me.’

Chaloner did not think the interference of a harlot would do Greene much good. ‘May I come with you to Lymestrete? Tryan is
a friend of Greene’s, and might know something that will help him.’

‘I will do anything for Mr Greene,’ said Meg gamely. ‘Even be seen in company with a rogue from White Hall. You will have
to carry the washing, though. I feel an aching back coming on.’

Lymestrete was an ancient road full of buildings that did not really go together. Precarious hovels rubbed shoulders with
wealthy merchants’ homes, while shops that sold expensive jewellery sat next to ones that hawked cheap candles. Tryan’s house
was near St Dionis Backchurch, a handsome fifteenth-century chapel with a lofty spire.