The Westminster Poisoner (4 page)

George opened his mouth, but then seemed unable to think of a suitable response, so snapped it shut again. It
was left to his mother to protest his innocence. Chaloner listened to her list of alternative suspects, but it soon became
clear she was naming everyone and anyone in an effort to divert attention from her son.

‘The Court surgeon wants to examine your husband’s remains more carefully,’ he said, interrupting her tirade, and supposing
there was no harm in putting Wiseman’s request. After all, they were hardly prostrate with grief. ‘May he have your permission
to—’

‘No,’ interrupted George. He shot his mother another unreadable glance. ‘I have seen Wiseman in action, and it is disgusting.
Dreary Bones might have been a trial, but I will not see him hacked to pieces by that ghoul. He will go in the ground whole,
with all his entrails where they are meant to be.’

‘Why was your father working so late tonight?’ Chaloner asked, not sure what to make of the refusal. ‘Everyone else had gone
home.’

Mrs Vine shrugged. ‘Christopher and I live separate lives, which suits us both. To be frank, I thought he was upstairs asleep,
and had no idea he was out.’

‘Did he know a clerk called Chetwynd?’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Vine. ‘Why do you ask? Is it because Chetwynd was poisoned, too?’

‘The news is all over London,’ said George, before Chaloner could ask how she knew. ‘Everyone is talking about it, because
it is not every day that government officials are unlawfully slain.’

‘No, it is every
other
day,’ quipped his mother. ‘Chetwynd on Thursday, and Christopher tonight. We shall dine on this for months, because
everyone
will want to befriend the kin of a murdered man.’

‘I imagine that depends on who is revealed as the
killer,’ said Chaloner, aiming for the door. He had had enough of the Vines for one night. ‘And the authorities
will
catch him. You can be sure of that.’

‘Why bother?’ asked George, going to refill his goblet. ‘Dreary Bones will not be missed.’

Although the wind was not as fierce as it had been earlier, it was still strong enough to make the trees in nearby Tothill
Fields roar. The air was full of flying debris – mostly twigs, dead leaves and dust, but also human rubbish, including discarded
rags, sodden bits of paper and even scraps of food. Chaloner was disgusted when a rotting cabbage leaf slapped into his face,
and was relieved when he finally managed to flag down a carriage to take him back to Wapping.

It was a long way to Greene’s house, which, at sixpence a mile, delighted the hackneyman. The coach was determinedly basic,
with a wooden seat bristling with splinters and a mass of squelching straw on the floor. It stank of horse and vomit, and
there were no covers on the windows to protect passengers from inclement weather – the owner was apparently of the belief
that if he was obliged to sit outside, then so should his fares. The vehicle lurched along the empty streets at a furious
lick, forcing Chaloner to cling on tight or risk being tossed out. By the time he reached the tavern where Haddon was waiting,
he was cold, tired and wet.

‘It is still raining, then,’ said Haddon, when the spy slipped into the seat next to him. The steward was a slight man of
about sixty, whose baggy skin made him look as though he had once been much larger, and he wore a wig to conceal his hairless
pate. He had a pleasant face, with laughter lines around his mouth and eyes, and
he owned a passion for dogs that verged on the obsessive. He had been appointed the previous year, when the Earl had complained
that his current staff could no longer cope with the volume of work, and so had been granted funds to expand his retinue.

‘It is always raining in this godforsaken country,’ grumbled Chaloner, weariness making him irritable. ‘It makes me wish I
was back in Spain – and the last time I was there, I was almost killed.’

Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you realise that is the first information about yourself you have ever volunteered to me?
The Earl must have driven you to distraction with his demands to prove Greene is the killer, because you are usually far more
guarded.’

Chaloner supposed he was right. He had been trained never to yield personal details, which was a considerable stumbling block
in making new friends. It was a problem for his latest relationship, too, because Hannah Cotton was eager to learn all about
her new lover, but he found himself reluctant to tell her what she wanted to know. Secrecy was not so important now he was
no longer a foreign spy in a hostile country, but it was a difficult habit to break after so many years regardless.

‘You should go home,’ he said to Haddon. ‘I heard a rumour that the Lord of Misrule plans some sort of attack on the Earl
soon, and you cannot defend him if you are half asleep.’

‘What about you?’ asked Haddon. ‘How will you find Chetwynd’s real killer after a third night spent out here? You will be
too tired to catch a cold, let alone a murderer.’

‘You do not think Greene is the culprit, then?’ Chaloner asked, intrigued by Haddon’s use of ‘real’.

‘Of course not,’ said Haddon scornfully. ‘I have known
him for years, and he would not harm a fly. You have talked to him – you must see the Earl is wrong about the poor fellow.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I thought Vine’s death would give the Earl pause for thought, but it has only convinced him that Greene
managed to outwit me – slipped past when my attention wavered.’

Haddon grimaced. ‘Vine was a decent soul – kind to stray dogs. Was he poisoned, too?’

‘Wiseman thinks so.’

‘Then it must be true.’ Haddon was silent for a moment. ‘After you left, I walked around Greene’s house, and learned that
there are three different ways he can leave it, only two of which are visible by one pair of eyes. So, perhaps he
did
go to the Painted Chamber tonight without you noticing.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘I thought you just said he is no killer.’

‘I genuinely believe Greene is innocent of these heinous crimes, but I am not such a fool as to ignore facts that do not support
my theory. Of course, there is a way to determine once and for all whether he is involved in this nasty business.’

‘There is?’

‘If Greene has indeed been out a-killing, then his coat and shoes will be wet. Agreed? It is a filthy night, and no one can
move about without a drenching, not even if he hires a hackney. The Earl’s secretary tells me you own some skill at breaking
into houses, so break into Greene’s. If his clothes are dry, then it means he has been nowhere, and we can abandon this ridiculous
vigil.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was an eminently sensible idea, and one he should have thought
of himself. He might have done, had he not been so unutterably tired.

Haddon smiled when he saw the spy’s reaction. ‘Stewards can be relied upon to provide intelligent notions occasionally, so
do not look so startled. Come, we shall do it together.’

‘I had better go alone.’ Chaloner disliked company when he was committing burglary, especially that of amateurs. ‘Although
it is good of you to offer.’

Aware of Haddon watching through the window, he trotted across the road and made his way to the most secluded of Greene’s
three doors. He picked the lock with the easy confidence of a man who had invaded other people’s property many times before,
and found himself in a tiny kitchen. Beyond it was a hall, with doors leading to more rooms and a flight of stairs. Chaloner
headed for the latter, knowing from his surveillance that Greene slept in an upper chamber that overlooked the street.

Through a crack in the bedroom door, he saw his quarry reading by candlelight, although the troubled expression on Greene’s
face suggested his thoughts were a long way from his book. Chaloner supposed it was not surprising: he would not have been
slumbering peacefully if the Lord Chancellor of England had deemed
him
guilty of murder, either. He crept back to the kitchen, closed the door and lit a lamp. Then he inspected the pegs on which
Greene kept his outdoor clothes.

The clerk had worn a rather shabby cloak that day, and it was hanging on the hook nearest the door. It was damp, as would
be expected given that it had been wrapped around him while he had travelled home from Westminster at dusk, but it was certainly
not
sodden: clearly, it had been drying for several hours. Chaloner knelt to look at the footwear. Greene owned two pairs of shoes
and one set of boots. The boots were stuffed with paper, to prevent the leather from shrinking, but again, they were damp
rather than wet. Meanwhile, the shoes had not been worn that day, because they were bone dry.

‘Well?’ asked Haddon, when Chaloner rejoined him in the tavern. ‘What did you find? Is the Earl right about Greene, or am
I?’

‘You are. He has not been out since returning home this evening, so he cannot have given Vine the poison. Of course, he might
have hired someone to do it for him.’

Haddon nodded slowly. ‘I cannot imagine there are many poisoners among his acquaintances, but I suppose it is something you
should explore.’

‘What do you know about James Turner?’ asked Chaloner, thinking again that if the Earl regarded Greene as a suspect for discovering
Chetwynd, then the flamboyant colonel should be treated likewise.

Haddon was surprised by the change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘He likes the company of ladies, and I predict hearts
will be broken, because he cannot possibly please them all. He is egalitarian in his tastes – he enjoys a romp with Meg the
laundress just as much as one with Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He seems personable enough to me, although I doubt the hole in his ear was made by a musket-ball, which implies a tendency
to moderate the truth. And I would not trust him with my daughters.’

‘You have daughters?’

‘It is a figure of speech. My wife died many years ago, and I have no other family – unless you count my dogs, which are like
children to me. And you? Sir George Downing, with whom you worked in The Hague, told me last week that you married a Dutch
lass when you first went to Holland.’

‘It was a long time ago.’ Chaloner liked Haddon, but did not feel equal to an exchange of confidences that night – although
a nagging voice at the back of his mind warned him that he was never in the mood for personal conversations, not even with
Hannah. How was he going to develop friendships, if he could not bring himself to confide in the people who were trying to
get to know him? ‘Even if Greene is a killer, there is no point in watching him now, because I doubt he will strike twice
in one night. We should both go home.’

‘It is late for travelling, so I suggest we hire rooms here,’ said Haddon, adding with an impish smile, ‘then you can tell
the Earl truthfully that you remained within spitting distance of Greene all night.’

It was another good idea, and Chaloner was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

A lifetime of travel meant Chaloner had developed the ability to rest tolerably well in most strange beds, and the one in
the Wapping tavern was surprisingly comfortable. The following morning Haddon complained that he had been kept awake by howling
winds and the thunder of rain on the roof, but Chaloner had noticed none of it. There had not been much of the night left
by the time they had retired, but even so, he felt reasonably well-rested when he joined the steward for a breakfast of bread
and ale.

They hired a skiff to take them to White Hall, leaving as soon as it was light enough for the boatman to see. It was a bumpy
ride, because the wind had churned the Thames into a confusion of waves, most of which were going against the tide. The boatman
moaned about the conditions all the way, oblivious to the fact that spray from his oars drenched his passengers at almost
every stroke. Haddon was shivering miserably by the time they alighted at the Westminster Stairs.

It was not a pleasant day, even once they were off the river. The sun began to flash from behind the clouds occasionally,
although never for long enough do any useful warming. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wavy fringe of ice all along the
beach. Because it was Sunday, bells were ringing all across the city. The wind played with the sound, making a deafening jangle
one moment, and a distant tinkle the next.

Chaloner and Haddon walked up Cannon Row, a well-maintained street with gates giving access to a number of elegant mansions,
as well as to the King’s private orchard in the Palace of White Hall. Haddon stopped outside a pretty cottage that had a dog-shaped
weather-vane on the roof.

‘This is my humble abode. Since we are passing, I shall change my clothes before I take a chill. Come in and wait for me,
and when I am warm and dry again, I would like to ask your opinion about something – a matter that is worrying me deeply.’

He had opened the door and stepped inside before the spy could demur, and immediately, two lapdogs scampered at him with frenzied
yaps of delight. They were brown and white with long, silky ears. Their fur was glossy, their noses shiny, and their necks
adorned with
bows of silk. Haddon knelt and greeted them with professions of such love that Chaloner wondered whether he should wait outside.
The spy could not have made himself speak such words to a woman, let alone an animal.

‘Do you own a dog?’ asked the steward conversationally, when the pooches were bored with affection and began to clamour for
food. He fed them prime cuts of meat on solid silver platters.

‘Cat,’ Chaloner replied, grateful it was not in the habit of overwhelming
him
with gushing adoration every time he arrived home.

‘You should get a dog,’ advised Haddon, shooting his charges a doting glance as they ate. ‘I would not be without my little
darlings for the world, and cats have too many unpleasant habits.’

Chaloner was not sure what he meant, but time was passing, and he did not want to waste the few hours of winter daylight on
a debate about pets. He gestured that Haddon should hurry, and while the steward went to remove his sodden clothes, he prowled
around the parlour, reading the titles of the books on the shelves – mostly religious tracts and tomes about dogs – and then
picking out tunes on a virginals that stood by the window.