The Westminster Poisoner (27 page)

But Bulteel’s attention was on the money. ‘I wonder if Jones was drowned deliberately – someone knew he had a fortune and
wanted him dead, so he could get it for himself.’

‘If that were the case, the killer would have removed the purses before abandoning the body,’ said Chaloner, choosing his
words with care.

Bulteel gave a crafty smile and wagged a finger at him. ‘But that assumes the culprit knew where Jones kept them, and you
must admit that carrying such a vast sum in hidden pockets is an odd thing to do – you cannot blame a killer for not thinking
to search the corpse. Or perhaps the weight of the gold meant Jones sank so fast that the killer had no chance to grab him.’

Chaloner did not want to discuss it. ‘Do not tell Williamson about this,’ he warned, watching the secretary load the money
into the plinth of a statue.

Bulteel regarded him askance. ‘Do you think me a lunatic? He would have it away from us before you could say “corrupt spymaster”,
and it would never be seen again. He has a weakness for yellow metal. And silver metal. And glittering stones of all colours.
He would kill to lay his hands on this.’

The Lord Chancellor was standing at the window when Chaloner entered his office, and the spy saw immediately why he was loath
to be at his desk. His chamber still bore evidence of Brodrick’s practical joke, with scraps of bright silk dangling from
the ceiling, and lewd murals daubed on the walls. An attempt had been made to wipe them off, but the pranksters had used waterproof
pigments, so some serious scrubbing would be required to remove them. The place reeked of cheap perfume, and there was a brazenly
feminine undergarment entangled in the chandelier. Chaloner used his sword to hook it down.

‘Thank you,’ said the Earl, not looking around. ‘Toss it on the fire, if you please. I cannot do it myself, because I decline
to soil my hands by touching such a filthy article.’

Chaloner did as he was told, then joined him at the window. He was watching the Queen with her ladies-in-waiting in the Privy
Garden, and Chaloner smiled when he saw Hannah among the throng. The Earl grimaced when Lady Castlemaine glided to join them,
but not nearly as much as the Queen. Katherine had objected
furiously when the King had appointed his mistress to Her Majesty’s Bedchamber, but she had been no match for the combined
might of husband and paramour. They had won the battle handily, and the Lady attended the Queen when she felt like it and
ignored her when she had more interesting things to do.

‘I heard the Lady has converted to Catholicism,’ said the Earl, making it sound as though she had made a pact with the Devil.
Of course, Chaloner thought grimly, he doubtless thought she had, given his narrow-minded views on religion. ‘It is supposed
to be a secret, but everyone knows.’

‘Probably because she is going around demanding crucifixes from people. She almost had Bess Gold’s the other day.’

The Earl shook his head in disgust. ‘The woman has no shame.’

The ladies were skipping and cavorting happily, while the Queen moved more slowly, as if exercise was still an effort after
her illness. She did not join in the laughter when Lady Castlemaine made some quip that had the other women doubled over,
and Chaloner was pleased to note that Hannah did not, either. She went and slipped her arm through the Queen’s, whispering
something that brought a reluctant smile to the thin, wan face.

‘The Lady is telling everyone that the Queen is barren,’ said the Earl unhappily. ‘And I fear she may be right, because the
King has no trouble siring brats with other lasses. The consequences for me are dire, given that it was I who arranged the
match.’

‘I suppose they are, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking they were a lot more dire for the Queen.

‘There is no need to agree quite so readily,’ snapped the
Earl, turning to face him with a scowl. ‘If you were any kind of diplomat, you would rush to offer words of comfort.’

‘That would be disingenuous.’

The Earl sighed miserably. ‘Yes, it would, and deceit is something of which I could never accuse you. You are later than I
expected. Is it because you have been busy arresting Greene?’

Chaloner smothered his exasperation. ‘I was watching his house when Vine died, sir. He cannot be the killer. Meanwhile, he
was with his parish priest when Langston was dispatched. He is—’

‘You do not need to be with someone when they drink the poison
you
provide,’ the Earl shot back. ‘You told me that yourself.’

‘The victims were not fools, sir – they would not have accepted wine from some hireling in a dark hall after everyone had
gone home. The killer is someone who knew them, someone Vine and Langston trusted enough to drink with, despite knowing what
had happened to Chetwynd. Greene does not have the strength of character to persuade such a man to kill on his behalf.’

‘But the Lady is going around telling people that he is innocent. What greater proof of his guilt can you want than that?’

Chaloner tried to make him see sense. ‘I could arrest Greene, but what happens when the killer claims his next victim? Everyone
will know we have made a mistake. And Greene may sue you for making damaging allegations,’ he added, resorting to a financial
argument to make his point.

The tactic worked, because the Earl rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Very well. We shall leave Greene for now, although I want
you to keep an eye on him. He is one
of those sanctimonious Puritan types, for a start, and I dislike them. What is wrong with the Church of England, for God’s
sake? Why must people insist on following these bizarre sects?’

‘They do as their consciences dictate – just as you remained an Anglican, even though you were in Catholic countries when
you shared the King’s exile.’

The Earl gaped at him. ‘You overstep the mark, man! A fellow’s religion is his own affair, not to be remarked upon by others.’

The Catholics, Baptists and Quakers would agree, thought Chaloner – that was their point exactly. He changed the subject before
it saw him in trouble. ‘I spoke to Greene about Langston, and—’

‘Yes – tell me how he reacted to the news that his housemate was poisoned,’ ordered the Earl.

‘He seemed distressed, although I did not tell him about it. Williamson’s clerk did.’

‘Swaddell? Then Greene is lucky not to have had a blade shoved between his ribs. Swaddell is a deadly assassin, although he
tells everyone he is a clerk. Did you hear he is missing? There is a rumour that he tried to steal Jones’s purse, and they
both fell in the Thames during the ensuing skirmish. It is nonsense, of course: Swaddell is an experienced killer, and would
not have bungled a simple robbery.’

‘Was Jones rich enough to warrant Swaddell attacking him, then?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

The Earl nodded. ‘Yes he was, but men do not carry their worldly goods about on their person – they invest it in banks, or
they hide it in their houses.
Ergo
, Jones must have been killed by some low villain, who thinks a few pennies is worth a man’s life.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner, declining to comment.

The Earl became animated – he liked talking about money. ‘Do you know a bandy-legged merchant called Tryan? He is said to
have a fortune in coins and jewels, all locked up in his front parlour.’

‘Swaddell may still be alive,’ said Chaloner, to steer the discussion back to the missing assassin.

‘Williamson certainly hopes so,’ said the Earl, clearly disappointed that a chat about fiscal matters was to be cut short
for something rather less interesting. ‘He has come to rely on him, and they are one of a kind – ruthless, ambitious, greedy
and cruel. But it will take more than a river to be rid of Swaddell, just as it will take more than a river to be rid of you.’

Chaloner looked at him sharply, wondering what was meant by the remark. Did he know about his spy’s last encounter with the
train-band, and was surprised to see him alive? Or was he just complimenting him on his survival skills? Chaloner had no idea,
but did not appreciate being likened to a man who was ‘ruthless, ambitious, greedy and cruel’, regardless.

‘The rumours that you argued with the three victims are spreading,’ he said, after a short and slightly uncomfortable pause.
‘It is—’

‘Yes,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘I know what people are saying, because Turner came today – rather earlier than you deigned to
appear – and gave me a full report. I am well aware that my disagreements with Chetwynd, Vine and Langston are common knowledge,
and that the Lady is using them to make me a villain. Turner understands the urgency of the situation, and has promised me
a speedy solution.’

Chaloner said nothing, but thought Lady Muskerry’s
carriage and Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir were not places
he
would have gone to investigate the murders. Perhaps Turner did intend to take the easy way out, and have Greene blamed for
the crimes.

‘I understand Bulteel has asked you to be his son’s godfather,’ said the Earl, breaking the silence that followed his remarks.
‘I confess I am astonished, because I assumed
I
would be his first choice.’

‘Perhaps he thought you would consider it beneath you,’ suggested Chaloner.

The Earl nodded. ‘Well, it would be, of course. But you should accept. You are unlikely to be in a position where you can
help the brat with influence or money, but you are good with a sword.’

‘You mean I should teach him how to fight?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘I doubt that is what his father has in mind. I imagine
he expects him to become a clerk or a secretary.’

‘Actually, I was thinking that you could use your skills to keep him alive. We shall be doing battle with the Dutch soon,
while rebels and fanatics itch to overthrow the monarchy and plunge us into another civil war. You will be able to protect
the boy in a way that I never could.’

Chaloner was unsettled, because he had never heard the Earl issue such a bleak forecast for their country’s future before.
‘You think Bulteel wants a bodyguard?’

The Earl shrugged. ‘I would, if I were a new father. But time is passing, and it is already noon. Come with me to the Tennis
Court.’

‘The Tennis Court?’ echoed Chaloner. He had not imagined the Earl fit or lithe enough to engage in that sort of activity.
Tennis was strenuous.

‘Not to play,’ explained the Earl testily, seeing what he
was thinking. ‘The King has challenged Buckingham, and I should be there to cheer him on. Everyone else will be, and I cannot
have him thinking I do not care.’

‘But I need to visit Symons,’ objected Chaloner, loath to waste time. ‘And your household guard—’

‘My household guard is away practising for the King’s Twelfth Night military parade,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘But Jones’s death
makes the fourth in a week, and that is a lot, even for White Hall. I do not feel safe, so you will escort me.’

‘Now
you
want me for a bodyguard?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether his White Hall acquaintances thought he was good for nothing
else.

The Earl nodded, unabashed. ‘If you would be so kind.’

Chaloner understood exactly why the Earl was keen to have a guardian when they entered the newly refurbished Tennis Court.
Word had spread that His Majesty had challenged Buckingham, and all the Court sycophants were in attendance. They included
a large number of people who disliked the Earl, and when he stepped into the spectators’ gallery, everyone stopped what they
were doing to glare. The response was so unanimous that Chaloner half-expected the ball to freeze in mid-flight, too. His
hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he glanced around apprehensively, alert for trouble.

‘Do not fret, Thomas,’ whispered the Earl, patting his arm. ‘I am used to icy atmospheres. It is when these stares turn to
more naked hostility that I shall be worried.’

Chaloner thought the hostility was more than naked enough for him, and wondered why the Earl put himself through it, especially
as it did not look as though the
King cared whether he was there or not. Indeed, he had been distracted by the abrupt silence, and was scowling.

Buckingham, sulky and petulant because he was losing, mimicked the Earl’s waddling gait, and the tense hush among the spectators
was shattered by a burst of spiteful laughter. The King’s frown deepened, but he made no attempt to defend his Lord Chancellor.
He retrieved the ball and hit it, catching the Duke off-guard and forcing him to scramble.

The Earl sat on a bench, but the people nearby immediately moved away, leaving him isolated. Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable:
so many enemies had crowded into the place that there would be little he could do, should they decide to attack
en masse
. He reminded himself that this was London, and that courtiers did not rush in shrieking mobs to murder their ministers. But
then he remembered what had happened to the old king, and the bloody executions that had followed the new one’s coronation,
and was not so sure.

‘I do not understand this game at all,’ declared the Earl, when Chaloner came to stand behind him; at least the spy could
make sure that no one stabbed him in the back. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

The Earl swivelled around to give him a look. ‘And do you care to explain it to me, or shall we just leave it that you know
the rules and I do not?’

‘Brodrick, Chiffinch and Jermyn are plotting something. They keep looking at you.’

‘And you do not wish to be distracted by chatting to me about sport. Very well. However, bear in mind that my cousin will
not harm me, although I cannot say I approve of the company he keeps. Do you think Jermyn
is the Lord of Misrule? Filling my office with women of ill repute is exactly the kind of low trick I would expect from that
foul-minded villain.’

Chaloner did not reply. He watched the trio leave the gallery, and appear a few minutes later on the court itself. Brodrick
had donned a suit designed to make him look like a chicken, and he strutted on to the playing field amid a chorus of laughter.
The King pursed his lips, disliking his concentration broken by foolery, but Buckingham guffawed heartily. Chaloner, however,
was more interested in Brodrick’s companions, who were doing something to the box of spare balls. Whatever it was did not
take long, and, as soon as they had finished, Brodrick bowed and retired from the court to a standing ovation. Then the King
and Buckingham resumed their game, and for a while nothing happened.