The Westminster Poisoner (24 page)

Chaloner was grateful for the warning, because investigating the train-band was exactly how he had planned to spend the
morning. So, because he did not feel equal to tackling dangerous men again that day, he concentrated instead on trying to
learn more about Chetwynd, Vine and Langston from the men who had worked with them. He also made discreet enquiries about
ruby rings, but was disheartened to learn that they were rather common, and that at least a dozen people had a penchant for
them. Wearily, he followed as many leads as he could, eliminating suspects where possible, but his efforts led nowhere. Occasionally,
an opening occurred when he could ask obliquely about the train-band, but he found that either people had no idea what he
was talking about or, like Wiseman, they had heard that discussing the mysterious soldiers was bad for the health and declined
to do it.

He met Turner, who was surrounded by women as usual. The colonel broke away from them to inform the spy that he had just conducted
a search of Greene’s Westminster office, and had discovered a large supply of brandywine hidden beneath a window.

‘Perhaps he was drunk when he murdered his colleagues, and does not remember anything,’ he suggested. ‘He denied the stuff
was his, but who knows whether he is telling the truth? Meg is still missing, by the way, and I spent ages hunting for her
this morning. But, look! There is Lady Muskerry. I must pay my respects.’

And he was gone before Chaloner could tell him that Surgeon Wiseman thought brandywine had disguised the taste of the poison
fed to the three dead clerks.

The spy had wanted to talk to Greene anyway, to question him about Scobel’s prayer meetings and being offered the stolen statue.
He went in search of him, and found him still in his office. The clerk was pale and drawn, and had lost weight over the past
few days. He sat at his desk sorting documents into piles. Chaloner watched, bemused. If he had been in Greene’s position,
he would have been out looking for evidence that would exonerate him. Or, if he was guilty, then he would be halfway to France.
But here was Greene doing paperwork.

‘I put my trust in God,’ replied the clerk, when Chaloner questioned him about it. ‘Besides, I have alibis for the murders
of Vine and Langston, and that should be enough to deliver me from the Earl.’

‘It should,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But he does not believe Lady Castlemaine saw Langston alive when you were with your vicar in
Wapping, and nor does he trust me when I say you were home when Vine died. We shall have to find something else to prove your
innocence.’

‘Then God will provide it,’ said Greene quietly. ‘Or not. What will be will be, and there is nothing you or I can do to change
the outcome.’

His passivity was incomprehensible to Chaloner. He shook his head, and began to ask his questions. ‘I understand you once
attended prayer meetings with the three dead men in the house of a man called Scobel, and that you later met them in John’s
Coffee House in Covent Garden. Is it true?’

Greene sighed. ‘Yes. I have already told you about the coffee-house gatherings. However, the prayer meetings
were years ago, and it did not occur to me that they might be relevant. I went to a morality play with them all once, before
the old king was beheaded, and we sometimes attended the same church during the wars. Do you want to know all that, too?’

Chaloner had no idea what he needed to solve the case, and addressed another matter. ‘I am told you were invited to buy a
certain piece of art recently.’

Greene looked pained. ‘Yes, but I refused to have anything to do with it. Will the Earl hold that against me now? It was hardly
my fault someone approached me with a suspicious offer.’

‘Who was this someone?’

‘A go-between, who declined to tell me the identity of his master. I followed him, to see where he went, but I am no spy and
I lost him within moments. And do you know why I was singled out for this honour? Because it is common knowledge that your
Earl hates me, and this villain said I could use the statue to buy back his favour.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘In return for virtually everything I own, I would get the bust. Then I could take it to the Earl, and offer it up in exchange
for a pardon for these murders. But I am innocent – I should not need a pardon. And I would not buy a stolen masterpiece anyway,
especially one that belongs to the King.’

Chaloner felt sorry for him. Greene was right: it was not his fault the thief had picked him. ‘Did you notice anything that
may allow me to trace this go-between?’

Greene thought hard. ‘He kept his face hidden with one of those plague masks, but his dirty clothes told me he was a labourer.
He was taller than the average man, and a bit more broad.’

Chaloner grimaced: the description was worse than useless. He was disappointed, because it was another dead end. He turned
to the last of the subjects he wanted to air.

‘Turner said you keep a supply of brandywine hidden here. Why?’

‘It is not mine – I dislike the stuff. I have no idea who hid it here, but I assure you it was not me.’

‘Brandywine was used to disguise the poison that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston,’ said Chaloner to see what sort of reaction
that particular snippet of information would provoke.

Greene’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘No! Will you tell the Earl? He will have me hanged for certain!’

Chaloner inspected the place where the drink had been found, but a number of people had already told him the office was never
locked, so Greene was right in his insistent claims that anyone could have put it there.

‘Who dislikes you enough to want you accused of murder?’ Chaloner asked, sitting back on his heels. He was disgusted with
himself – he should have discovered the cache when he first explored the room. Was it a sign that Turner was a better investigator?

‘No one,’ replied Greene, white-faced. ‘I am not popular, but I am not hated, either. I imagine most people barely know I
exist.’

Chaloner suspected he was right, and left him reciting prayers for deliverance from his troubles, although his dull, resigned
expression suggested he did not think there was much chance of his petitions being granted.

By the evening, Chaloner had asked so many questions but received so few useful answers in return, that he was tired and dispirited,
and knew he would be sullen
company for Hannah. He decided to go home instead, but she met him as he was leaving White Hall. Buckingham was with her,
intent on escorting her home – he claimed he was concerned for her safety, but Chaloner saw the lustful gleam in the man’s
eye. The Duke was loath to relinquish her at first, but then Lady Castlemaine appeared, and he excused himself with unseemly
haste. Hannah did not see the reason for his abrupt departure, and extolled his virtues all the way home.

‘He is a wonderful man,’ she said dreamily, unlocking her front door. ‘His wife is a lucky lady.’

Chaloner did not think so. ‘Can you cook?’ he asked, mostly to change the subject before they argued, but also because he
was hungry and experienced a sudden hankering for cakes.

She regarded him in surprise. ‘I can manage a pickled ling pie, but not much else. Why?’

Chaloner shuddered at the notion of pickled fish in pastry, and supposed he would have either to maintain his friendship with
Bulteel or forgo cakes in future – unless he learned how to bake them himself.

Chaloner awoke the next morning feeling rested and much more optimistic about his investigations. While Hannah freshened his
shirt and lace collar with a hot iron, he went to buy bread for their breakfast. He also purchased the latest newsbook, although
The Newes
contained no reports from foreign correspondents, nothing of domestic affairs, and its editorial was a rant on the poor workmanship
to be found in viols made anywhere other than England.

‘That is untrue,’ he said to Hannah, pacing back and
forth as he read. ‘There are excellent viol makers in Florence.’

‘We shall have some nice music on Twelfth Night eve,’ said Hannah. ‘I forgot to tell you last night, but Sir Nicholas Gold
has invited me to dine at his home, and said I might bring a guest. Bess sings and he plays the trumpet. With your viol and
my flageolet, we shall have a lovely time.’

The combination of instruments was worthy of a wince as far as Chaloner was concerned, but he was not often asked out, so
any opportunity to play his viol was to be seized with alacrity. Of course, Gold was deaf, which did not bode well for the
quality of the music, but the spy was willing to take the chance. When Hannah had finished primping his clothes, he walked
to Lincoln’s Inn, to ask what Thurloe recalled of Scobel’s death – and whether the ex-Spymaster knew anything about prayer
meetings with men who had later became Royalist clerks.

When he arrived, Thurloe was at a meeting of the ‘benchers’ – the Inn’s ruling body. They were a verbose crowd, who felt cheated
unless they had repeated themselves at least three times before any decision was reached. Used to the trim efficiency of the
Commonwealth, Thurloe found the occasions a chore, and was more than happy to use a visitor as an excuse to escape.

‘I checked Doling’s claims about Chetwynd with several informants,’ the ex-Spymaster said, walking with Chaloner in the Inn’s
garden. Winter should have rendered it bleak and unwelcoming, but the benchers had hired professional landscapers to design
an arbour that was a delight in any season. Gravel paths prevented expensive footwear from getting wet, while evergreen shrubs
supplied year-long colour.

‘What did they say?’ asked Chaloner, hoping Thurloe knew what he was doing when he removed three bright blue pills from a
tin and ate them.

‘That Hargrave
did
bribe Chetwynd by gifting him a cottage. I am disappointed, because I respected Chetwynd. He hid his corruption well.’

‘And Neale’s accusations?’

Thurloe’s expression was pained. ‘There is irrefutable evidence that Neale gave Chetwynd a substantial sum to secure himself
a favourable verdict. Unfortunately for Neale, his brother paid more. Chetwynd accepted both bribes, then refused Neale a
refund. And what could Neale do? Nothing! Bribing government officials is a criminal offence, so he could hardly make a formal
complaint. No wonder he is bitter.’

‘Meanwhile, Vine was in the habit of blackmailing people. He was not a virtuous man, either.’

Thurloe shook his head sadly. ‘I had no idea. However, I heard there was some great falling out between him and Gold not long
ago. I shall endeavour to find out what it was about.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner. ‘It is unwise for prominent Parliamentarians to explore the embarrassing failings of Royalists.’

Thurloe shot him a reproachful glance. ‘I am quite capable of asking my questions anonymously. You need not fear for me.’

‘But I
do
fear for you. You are an excellent master of intelligence, able to see patterns in half-formed facts, but that is not the
same as going out to gather the data yourself.’

‘You underestimate my skills,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Why do you think I am still alive, when, as Cromwell’s chief
advisor, my head should be on a pole outside Westminster Hall, next to his? I do not suppose you have noticed whether it is
still there, have you? I cannot bring myself to look.’

‘It is impossible to tell. But please do not meddle in—’

‘I shall do as I think fit,’ interrupted Thurloe, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘And I shall be gone from London soon, anyway,
so if I make a mistake, it will be forgotten by the time I return. These affairs never last long in people’s memories.’

‘I disagree. Royalists seem to have extremely long memories, and they are bitter and vengeful. Ask Doling and Symons. They
lost everything when—’

‘That is different,’ snapped Thurloe impatiently. He changed the subject, to prevent a quarrel. ‘Why did you come to see me?
Just for confirmation of Chetwynd’s corruption?’

Chaloner was tempted to say yes, because he did not want his friend involved any further, but Thurloe fixed him with steely
blue eyes, and the spy knew better than to lie to him.

‘Scobel,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He hosted meetings – for prayers, apparently – which all three murder victims attended. So
did a number of other people, including Greene, Jones, Doling, Symons, Gold, the Lea brothers, Hargrave and another merchant
called Tryan.’

‘But Scobel died three years ago,’ said Thurloe doubtfully. ‘How can these gatherings be important now? Moreover, there are
probably other connections between these men, too – such as a shared interest in poetry, or a liking for pigeons. Are you
sure these meetings are relevant?’

‘No, but it is a lead I feel compelled to follow. According
to Williamson, they convened in John’s Coffee House after Scobel died, so it looks as though the men involved thought the
assemblies were important. What can you tell me about him?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Not much. He was clerk to both Houses of Parliament during Cromwell’s reign, and did well for himself.
He died of a sharpness of the blood. Very nasty.’

Chaloner had never heard of this particular affliction, but was not surprised Thurloe had, obsessed as he was by matters of
health. ‘What is a sharpness of the blood?’

‘It entails aching pains, shortness of breath and violent shuddering. As I said, very nasty.’

‘Poison can produce those symptoms,’ said Chaloner, wondering what was going on. ‘It will not be the same toxin that killed
Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, because that was caustic, but there are plenty of others. I will confirm it with Wiseman, but
I am sure I am right.’

‘Why would anyone kill Scobel?’ asked Thurloe. ‘He spoke out against the Court when it first arrived in London – saw it as
a nest of corruption and vice – but no one took issue with him, because everyone knew he was right. His was not a lone voice
– many people felt the same. Most still do.’

‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘That his nephew, Will Symons, inherited all his worldly goods. Symons lost his job at the Restoration, and if it had not
been for Scobel’s bequest, he and his sculptress wife would have starved. Scobel was also friends with Doling and the Lea
brothers, but dropped his association with the latter when they turned Royalist – you may recall they were the only clerks
to retain their positions.’