The Westminster Poisoner (28 page)

As Chaloner scanned the spectators, alert for any hint of mischief, he saw a number of familiar faces, some of which he would
have expected to see at such an occasion, and some he would not. Gold was asleep on a bench at the back, while Neale sat closer
than was decorous to Bess. Bess, however, was more interested in Turner, who was surrounded by so many ladies that all that
could be seen of him was the top of his hat. They were all laughing merrily, paying no attention at all to the tennis.

Not far away, Symons’s ginger head could be seen with Hargrave’s bald one; they sat with Tryan, Greene and several merchants.
When Chaloner asked the Earl why tradesmen should be present, he was told the King had invited them – his Majesty had heard
what had happened when Jones had closed the New Exchange, and had been unsettled by the fact that so many Londoners had taken
against him. So, he had decided
to win back their affection by issuing the kind of invitation reserved for his intimates, to beguile them into thinking
he considered them friends. Chaloner almost laughed: showing off the Court in all its unbridled, dissolute glory was unlikely
to make anyone think restoring the monarchy was a good idea, or to make them eager to pay the taxes that funded it.

He narrowed his eyes when Greene slunk up to Symons and whispered in his ear. Symons nodded, but did not take his eyes off
the game. His orange hair stood in unkempt spikes across his head, and his face was unnaturally pale; Chaloner wondered
whether he was ill. Then Greene glanced up and saw the spy was watching them. The clerk immediately darted through the nearest
door. Chaloner would have chased him, had he not been afraid to leave the Earl unattended. Therefore, he was surprised when
Greene materialised breathlessly in the entrance behind him, and indicated that he wanted to speak.

‘I have just heard about Jones,’ Greene whispered, speaking softly so the Earl would not turn around and see him. ‘And I wanted
to tell you that I was with Gold, Bess and Neale the night he went missing.
I
did not kill him.’

‘I know.’

‘Does your Earl know, too? Or am I still the arch-villain in his eyes?’

‘There must be some reason why he has taken against you,’ said Chaloner, most of his attention still on the spectators. ‘Have
you argued with him? Defied him? Done something to make him think you are corrupt or debauched?’

‘No! I cannot imagine why
anyone
should hate me. Or do you think your Earl is the killer, and I am just a
convenient scapegoat? Perhaps Turner put the brandy-wine in my office, on his orders.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He is not that kind of man.’

Or was he? The Earl had changed since his political rivals had tried to impeach him that summer, and had become harder and
more bitter. Chaloner was no longer sure to what lengths he might go to fight the people who were so determined to see him
fall from grace.

Greene forced a smile, which served to make his gloomy face more morose than ever. ‘If you say so. But the afternoon is wearing
on, and I have a lot to do – I take pride in my work, and want everything in order, so that if I am arrested, my successor
will …’ He trailed off miserably.

‘You seem very certain this affair will end unhappily,’ observed Chaloner, regarding him curiously.

Greene’s expression was glum. ‘Of course it will end unhappily – for me, at least. I have never been blessed with good luck,
but it is God’s will, so I shall not complain.’ He hesitated, then grabbed Chaloner’s hand, eyes glistening with tears. ‘But
if by some remote chance you
do
prove my innocence, it would be rather nice. Please do not give up on me yet.’

Chaloner was moved by the clerk’s piteous entreaty, but there was no time to think about it, because something was happening
on the court. Buckingham had taken a new ball from the box, and the spy could tell from the way he handled it that something
was amiss. The Duke weighed it in his palm for a moment, then turned and lobbed it directly at the Earl, who shrieked in alarm.
But Chaloner was ready. His sword was drawn and he used it like a racquet, to hit the missile as hard as he could.
There was a dull clang as the two connected, and the ball shot back the way it had come.

It did not go far. It exploded mid-air with a sharp report, releasing a cloud of pink dust. It was coloured flour. Buckingham
took another ball and hurled it, rather more playfully this time, at Bess. Her jaw was hanging open so far that Chaloner wondered
whether she might catch it with her teeth. It dropped into her lap, where a second crack saw her enveloped in blue powder.
Gold woke with a start, and people howled with laughter when they saw the old man’s shock at Bess’s azure appearance. More
balls followed, and although Chaloner was ready to field any that came in the Earl’s direction, none did. Buckingham knew
it would be a waste of a missile, and there were plenty more targets available.

‘Enough, friends, enough,’ said the King good-naturedly, when he felt the joke had run its course. ‘The Lord of Misrule has
played a clever trick, but let us return to more serious matters. What will our guests think? We promised them tennis, not
japes.’

Tryan and Hargrave were smiling, but their expressions were strained, while the other merchants were openly disapproving.
The King sighed, but did not seem overly concerned that there would be more damaging rumours about his Court circulating by
morning. He turned his attention to the game.

‘Good play, Your Majesty,’ called the Earl after the first serve. It was unfortunate timing, because the King had just made
a mistake, and the remark made him sound facetious. His smile was fixed as he muttered to Chaloner, ‘I hate this game. It
is all rushing about in sweaty shirts, like peasants.’

After a while, the Queen arrived, and her reception
was almost as chilly as the one that had been afforded the Earl. She maintained her composure, though, nodding greetings to
people, even when they barely acknowledged her. No one offered her a seat, and it was left to Barbara Chiffinch to scowl at
her husband until he obliged; he did so with ill grace, and ignored the Queen’s shy murmur of thanks.

‘Why does the King permit such low manners, sir?’ asked Chaloner, itching to box a few ears.

‘I imagine because the Lady will make trouble for him if he complains,’ replied the Earl. ‘It is easier to pretend nothing
is wrong, and he always was a man for choosing the least demanding option.’

‘She is the Queen,’ said Chaloner angrily. ‘They should pay her proper respect.’

‘Yes, they should,’ said the Earl, struggling to his gouty feet. ‘So
I
shall go and bid her good afternoon. I know what it is like to be shunned.’

He engaged the Queen in meaningless conversation, and Chaloner was sorry that even the prim, overly formal attentions of the
Lord Chancellor brought a rush of gratitude to her wan face.

‘I want Bath,’ she said in her low, deep voice. ‘You help?’

The Earl blushed furiously. ‘I think your ladies-in-waiting are better equipped to assist you with your private ablutions,
ma’am. And I am a married man.’

‘She wants to take the healing waters, sir,’ explained Chaloner. ‘In Bath. And she needs funds.’

‘Oh, I see,’ breathed the Earl, relieved. He smiled at her, then started speaking loudly, as if he thought her English might
improve if the words were bellowed. ‘Unfortunately, there is no money left in your household
account, ma’am. I have inspected the books, but cannot tell what happened to it – I can only assume it was diverted to some
other account when you failed to use it. In other words, there is no money available for travelling.’

‘He speaks too fast!’ cried the Queen in Portuguese. Her eyes were full of anguished tears as she turned to Chaloner. ‘But
tell him I
must
go. It is my only hope. People may not hate me so much when I have a son.’

The Earl waited until she had finished speaking, then immediately started to talk about the weather, unwilling to pursue a
subject that might see him asked to pay for the venture himself. He did not let Chaloner translate what she had said, although
the spy was sure he had understood the desperation in her voice well enough. The Queen listened intently to his monologue,
but it was clear she understood little of it. There was hope in her eyes, though, suggesting she thought the Earl’s chatty,
friendly tone meant he approved of her intention to visit a spa, and that he might help to facilitate the matter. Chaloner
looked away, unable to watch.

Lady Castlemaine had arrived with the Queen’s party, but did not stay with them for long. She began to strut about, tossing
glances at past, present and future lovers that told of all manner of shared secrets. Her presence was a distraction to both
the King and Buckingham. They started to play poorly, and their game degenerated into chaos when she descended to the court
and tried to catch the ball. Eager to be on her good side, others rushed to assist her. Lady Muskerry fell, and landed with
her legs in the air. There was a cheer of manly appreciation, so Lady Castlemaine contrived to do the same. And then there
was a forest of naked calves being waved this way and that.

‘I am not staying here to witness such an unedifying spectacle,’ announced the Earl, surveying the scene in open disgust.
‘Haddon’s dogs are better mannered than this rabble!’

It did seem unsuitable behaviour from people who were supposed to be running the country, and the merchants were aghast. Chaloner
was relieved to leave the place, and escort his master home.

Haddon was waiting in Worcester House when the Earl and Chaloner arrived there, his dogs curled around his feet. There was
to be a dinner for a few of the Earl’s closest friends that night, mostly pompous clergymen and high-ranking lawyers, and
the steward wanted to check one or two last-minute details.

‘All is ready, sir,’ he said, almost falling into the Earl’s arms when one of his pooches tripped him. He made sure it was
unharmed before he resumed his report. ‘I cancelled the viols, as you asked, and arranged for violins instead.’

‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Viols sound so crude when one is used to the lighter tones of the violin. Do you not agree, Thomas?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. To his mind, nothing could compare to a consort of viols, and he thought the Earl did not deserve
to hear one if he was incapable of appreciating its haunting beauty.

The Earl shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Then it is just as well you are not invited.’

He bustled away to change his clothes before his guests arrived, and Haddon took the opportunity to pull the spy to one side.

‘You asked me to listen for rumours pertaining to the
murders, but I am afraid there is little point in repeating what I have heard, because it is all nonsense. However, there
is one snippet that you may find interesting. Do you recall Turner saying he had arranged a midnight tryst with a lover when
he stumbled upon Vine’s body?’

‘With Meg the laundress. She has not been seen since.’

Haddon smiled. ‘Ah, but she has! You see, I complimented Alderman Tryan on his beautifully clean lace today, and we got talking.
Boastfully, he told me that his laundry is done by the same lass who does the King’s. Then he said Meg had delivered him a
batch of clean shirts only last night.’

Chaloner was pleased, because he had been certain she was dead. ‘Are you sure?’

Haddon nodded. ‘She has been away, visiting kin in Islington. But now she is back, so you can interview her about what she
saw on the night of Vine’s death. Perhaps she spotted the killer slinking out of the Painted Chamber, and can describe him
for you. If so, then it is good news for Greene.’

‘Did she tell Tryan anything about the murder?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the Westminster poisoner would not hear about her return
and move to ensure she did not provide investigators with clues.

‘Not that he shared with me. I have a friend – a fellow dog-lover – who works in the laundries, and he is going to find out
where she lives. The moment I hear from him, I shall let you know.’

Chaloner thanked him and left Worcester House, intending to track Meg down himself, but he had not taken many steps before
he collided heavily with someone. Symons reeled from the impact, which had been entirely his fault – the spy had done his
best to move out of the
way, but Symons had been so preoccupied that he had ploughed ahead like a runaway cart. He mumbled an apology, bowed his orange
head as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and continued on up The Strand.

Chaloner’s first instinct was to call him back, to ask about his uncle’s prayer meetings and the curious combination of
men they had attracted. But Symons was moving very purposefully, so he started to follow him instead. Once past the New Exchange,
Symons turned left, threading through a maze of lanes until he reached Covent Garden. By then, Chaloner knew exactly where
he was going: to John’s Coffee House, perhaps for one of the assemblies Greene had mentioned. It seemed as good a time as
any to find out whether the gatherings had any bearing on his investigation, so Chaloner decided to eavesdrop.

John’s had once been a tavern, and still looked like one. It was a great sprawling place, with upper storeys that overjetted
the street like a looming drunk. It was run by John Ravernet, a thin, sallow-faced man who liked to tell everyone he had been
a Royalist hero during the wars. Unfortunately for his credibility, Chaloner recalled visiting the place a decade before,
and hearing Ravernet talk about his bravery when he was serving in Cromwell’s army. It was hard to blame anyone for embroidering
their past in the current climate of unease, although it occurred to the spy that there might be less mistrust if everyone
just told the truth.

He followed Symons inside, and took a seat near the back of the room, where thick shadows and a lack of natural light rendered
him virtually invisible. Symons went to a table where several men already sat. They
greeted him with friendly calls of ‘what news?’ so he told them about the King’s tennis, although his voice was flat and dull,
as if the Court’s antics were of no interest to him. They were of interest to his companions, though: they shook their heads
in salacious disgust. After a while, some left, making room for new arrivals. Chaloner frowned thoughtfully when he saw his
suspects turn up one by one, as and when they managed to escape from the Tennis Court.