The Westminster Poisoner (6 page)

He walked through the open door, ducked to avoid the chandelier, and approached the desk. The Earl leapt violently when he
became aware that his spy was standing behind him.

‘How many more times must I tell you not to sneak up on me like that?’ he snapped angrily, hand to his chest. ‘I cannot cope
with you frightening the life out of me at every turn.’

‘I am sorry, sir. It is these thick rugs – they muffle footsteps.’

‘They are for my gout. Wiseman says soft floor coverings are kinder on the ankles than marble. He also said I would be more
comfortable if I was thinner. I confess I was hurt. Do you think me fat?’

‘I have seen fatter,’ replied Chaloner carefully. He did not want to lie, but suspected the Earl would not appreciate the
truth. He changed the subject before the
discussion could become awkward. ‘I interviewed Vine’s family last night. They do not seem overly distressed by his death.’

‘That does not surprise me. Young George is a nasty creature, and I do not believe he tried to assassinate Cromwell, as he
claims. I suspect he made up the tale, to curry favour with us Royalists.’

‘There was no love lost between father and son. They—’

‘George did
not
dispatch his father,’ interrupted the Earl, seeing where the conversation was going. ‘Vine was killed in an identical manner
to Chetwynd – with poison. Since there cannot be two murderers favouring the same method of execution, we must assume a single
culprit: Greene. Besides, while George may be delighted to lose his sire, he has no reason to want Chetwynd dead.’

‘Perhaps that is what he hopes you will think. Chetwynd might be a decoy victim.’

‘Why must you always look for overly complex solutions?’ demanded the Earl. ‘
Greene
killed Chetwynd, as I have told you dozens of times. And now he has attacked Vine.’

‘But I was watching his house when Vine was killed. He cannot be—’

‘He hired an accomplice. He can afford it, because his job pays him a handsome salary. But I fail to understand why you cannot
see his guilt. He “discovered” Chetwynd’s body, and you once told me yourself that the discoverer of a murdered corpse should
always be considered a suspect until he can prove his innocence. Moreover, Greene and Chetwynd worked in adjoining buildings
and were acquaintances, if not friends. I know Chetwynd ranked higher than Greene, but that is irrelevant.’

‘Irrelevant?’ Chaloner was unable to stop himself from
pointing out an inconsistency. ‘But when we caught Greene running away from Chetwynd’s body, you said it
was
relevant, because it was Greene’s motive for murder: jealousy.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘You really are an insolent dog! But you should watch your tongue from now on, because if Turner transpires
to be better than you, I shall appoint him in your place and dispense with your services. There are those who think I am
rash to employ a man who was a member of Cromwell’s secret service, and I am beginning to think they may have a point.’

‘You mean Williamson?’ The government’s most recent spymaster held Chaloner responsible for the death of a friend earlier
that year, and hated him intensely. It was unfortunate, because Chaloner had hoped to continue spying in Holland after the
Restoration – the King needed experienced men to watch the Dutch just as much as Cromwell had, and his record was impeccable.
Moreover, he had only ever provided reports on alien nations, never on the exiled King. But he would never be sent to the
Netherlands as long as Williamson was in charge of intelligence.

The Earl nodded. ‘He says that hiring ex-Parliamentarian agents may make folk question my loyalty to the King. And he is right
– I have many enemies at Court, and one might well use my employing of you to harm me.’

‘But none of them know about my past,’ objected Chaloner. ‘Unless you have told them?’

‘I have not,’ said the Earl firmly. ‘Do you think me a fool, to provide them with ammunition? And Williamson knows better
than to tell them, too, because he is afraid of your mentor. Cromwell’s old spymaster may have lost his government posts and
a good slice of his wealth when the Royalists returned, but he still wields enough power to make him dangerous.’

Unfortunately, though, the fear in which men had once held Thurloe was beginning to wane as time passed. Chaloner was not
worried about what that meant for himself, although the prospect of an unleashed Williamson was not something he relished,
but about the repercussions for his friend. There were those who thought Cromwell’s chief advisor had no right to be living
in peaceful retirement, and should suffer a traitor’s death.

‘Greene, sir,’ Chaloner prompted, supposing he would have to prove his loyalty yet again to the Earl and the new government
– and keep proving it until he was fully trusted. It was a miserable situation, because there was little about the Earl
or
the work that he liked, but he needed to earn a crust, and no one else was lining up to hire him.

The Earl pursed his lips. ‘When Greene came slithering out of the Painted Chamber, just as you and I happened to be walking
past, he behaved very suspiciously.’

‘He was frightened,’ said Chaloner reasonably. ‘He had just found a dead senior official, and then the Lord Chancellor accused
him of murder. I would have been frightened, too.’

‘But you would not have tried to run away. You would have stayed and explained yourself.’

‘He panicked – it could happen to anyone under such circumstances.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared the Earl, with a note of finality that told Chaloner any further debate would be a waste of time. ‘But
I told Colonel Turner that I want this killer – whether it is Greene or someone else – behind bars by Twelfth Night. He assures
me that it will be done. What will you promise?’

‘To do my best. I will not lie to you, or make pledges I may not be able to fulfil.’

The Earl stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well. Go and do your best then, and let us see where it leads. However, I see no
point in continuing to watch Greene – he slipped past you to murder Vine, after all – so give up the surveillance and concentrate
on other leads instead. And incidentally, these deaths do not mean you can forget about the previous task I set you.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What previous task? Finding out what the Lord of Misrule plans to do over the next ten days?’

The Earl grimaced in distaste. ‘You had better
not
waste your time on that nonsense! No, I mean the King’s missing statue. He remains grieved by its loss, and I would like
to be the one to hand it back to him. You will be busy, because I give both these enquiries equal status.’

The Earl of Clarendon was not normally a stupid man, and Chaloner could not help but wonder whether there was more to his
dislike of Greene than he was willing to share. It would not be the first time he had been less than honest with his spy before
sending him off on an investigation, and Chaloner knew from bitter experience that this could prove dangerous. But such subterfuge
was the Earl’s way, and Chaloner had come to expect lies and half-truths, so he resigned himself to fathoming out the mystery
without his master’s cooperation. It was a wicked waste of his time, especially given that he had two other enquiries to conduct,
but it could not be helped, and there was no point in wasting energy by railing against it.

‘He is in a bad mood this morning,’ said Bulteel, following the spy down the stairs with some letters to post. ‘His gout must
be aggravating him.’

‘He is always in a bad mood,’ Chaloner replied tartly. ‘So goutiness must be his permanent state.’

‘Do not be too hard on him,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘He is under a lot of pressure, what with the bishops demanding new laws
to suppress nonconformists, the Court popinjays clamouring for war with the Dutch, and people muttering that the Queen – the
wife
he
chose for His Majesty – is barren.’

‘How is your family?’ Chaloner was loath to discuss the Earl’s concerns, because he and Bulteel held diametrically opposite
views on most of them. Bulteel tended to accept whatever the Earl told him, whereas Chaloner had seen enough of the world
to make up his own mind.

Bulteel blinked at the abrupt enquiry. ‘Well, we would like to provide our little son with a sibling, but I fear for my future
employment. Haddon has only been here a few months, but the Earl already prefers him to me – he is taking over duties that
should be mine.’

‘But that is why he was hired,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘You were overwhelmed, struggling to keep up, and Haddon is meant to
be taking some of your work. The Earl expects you to be grateful, not nervous.’

‘Well, I
am
nervous,’ snapped Bulteel, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘This job is important to me. And I do not like Haddon, anyway.
He smells of dog and is always smiling at people. It is not natural.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, not sure what else to say. Haddon did smile at people, but no more than was necessary for normal social
intercourse, and the spy had not noticed any particular odour of pooch. He changed the subject before the discussion went
any further – he did not want to take sides when he had to work with both secretary and steward. ‘I do not suppose you have
heard
any rumours about these murders, have you? About potential culprits?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied Bulteel. ‘All I know is that neither victim will be mourned by his kin, although London will be
a poorer place without them. They were good men.’

‘You knew them well?’

‘No, but I wish I had – they were gentle and kind. And Vine funded a hospice for stray dogs. Perhaps
that
is why they were killed – the Court is so full of vice that decency is considered a fault.’

‘Is Greene the kind of man to despise goodness?’

‘I do not know him well, either, but I would not have thought so. He is very devout, by all accounts – attends church most
mornings, and does charitable work in Southwark.’

‘Then what about the missing statue? There must be
some
gossip regarding its whereabouts?’

‘Not that I have heard. Colonel Turner has been told to make enquiries, too, but I would rather you were the one to find it.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It does not matter which of us succeeds, only that the King has it back. He is said to be very distressed
about its disappearance.’

Bulteel was silent for a moment, then began to speak. ‘Turner is a danger to your future. And Haddon is a danger to mine.
You and I have worked together before to our mutual advantage, so what do you say to renewing our alliance? You tell me if
Haddon confides any plot that might prove detrimental to me; I tell you anything I hear about the statue or the murders. Agreed?’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, confident that the steward would confide nothing of the kind, so betraying one
colleague to another would not be a quandary he would ever be obliged to face.

Bulteel smiled. ‘Good. And to seal our agreement, I shall go with you to the Shield Gallery. Turner should be gone by now,
because we both know there is nothing to find – you have already looked.’

‘So why should I go there with you now?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘Because I have been thinking about the theft, and I have a theory. It involves keys.’

The ease with which the thief had entered the Shield Gallery on the night the statue had gone missing was something that had
troubled Chaloner from the start, and he was more than willing to listen to Bulteel’s ideas on the subject. The secretary
had a sharp mind, and might well have an insight into how the crime had been committed – and Chaloner needed all the help
he could get now he was in competition with another investigator. He nodded assent, and they began to walk in that direction.

The Shield Gallery was a long hall, so named because trophies won during tournaments in the nearby Tilt Yard had once hung
there. No such chivalrous pursuits took place now, though – Chaloner thought there was more likely to be a tally of sexual
conquests pinned to the walls.

The gallery was on the upper floor of an Elizabethan section of the palace, and at one end was a large, mullioned window that
overlooked the river. On the ground floor, directly beneath the window, were the so-called Privy Stairs, which were basically
a private wharf for the King and Queen. It was convenient for them to jump into a boat there, because the Queen’s quarters
were through a door in the gallery’s northern end, while
the King’s lay to the south. The gallery was handsomely appointed – its floor was tiled in black and white granite, and paintings
by great masters hung along its length, interspersed with sculptures on plinths.

As it was so close to the royal apartments, the chamber was usually kept locked. Bulteel opened it with a key, and Chaloner
saw Turner had not been exaggerating when he had mentioned a leaking roof: there were puddles on the floor and water-stains
on the walls. There was no sign of the colonel, although there was a lot of noise coming from Her Majesty’s rooms – squeals,
giggles and bantering conversation. The spy was impressed: it was not easy for a man to inveigle his way into that Holy of
Holies. But there was work to be done, and Chaloner had more important concerns than Turner’s silver tongue. He turned his
attention to the matter in hand.

‘The statue was there,’ he said, pointing to the one plinth that was bereft of its masterpiece.

Bulteel ran wistful fingers across the empty marble. ‘Bernini captured the old king’s likeness to perfection when he carved
that bust. Did you know it was one of the pieces Cromwell hawked, because he needed money to pay off his army? You, in other
words.’

Chaloner was taken aback by what sounded like an accusation. ‘Hardly! I fought in the wars, but was never in the peacetime
militia – I was overseas by the time the old king’s goods were sold.’ He frowned. ‘I did not know you were a connoisseur of
art.’

Bulteel shrugged. ‘You have never asked. But I do like sculpture. When the King decided to reassemble his late father’s collection,
I was one of those employed to make a list of what had gone, so the commissioners would know what to hunt for. I hope you
find the Bernini,
because it would be a crying shame if that disappeared into some private vault.’