The Westminster Poisoner (29 page)

Within an hour, they were all there – Symons, Greene, Gold, Neale, Hargrave and Tryan. Chaloner wondered whether Doling and
the Lea brothers might appear, too, but then recalled that although they had attended Scobel’s prayers, they did not seem
to belong to the coffee-house set. Four seats were ominously empty, and the spy noticed several of the gathering glance sadly
at the places that had presumably been occupied by Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and Jones.

Others arrived to join the assembly, too, and Chaloner was disconcerted to see Turner among them. The colonel wore a disguise,
but his confident swagger and the hole in his earlobe gave him away. He was not the only one who had tried to conceal his
identity. So did two more men: hats shielded their faces, and they did not remove them, even when Ravernet arrived with a
tray of coffee and they all took a dish. Chaloner studied them hard. Did he know them? Unfortunately, their shape and size
told him nothing, and he suspected he could stare at them all day and still have no answers.

Eventually, Symons said something that resulted in them all huddling together with their heads bowed and their hands clasped
together. Their voices dropped, and Chaloner found he could not hear a word. He edged
closer, but it made no difference. He watched with a puzzled frown: it looked as though they were praying. It did not seem
very likely, especially in a coffee house, but he could not imagine what else they could be doing.

After a while, Greene went to order more drinks. As he did so, the man next to him glanced up, and Chaloner finally caught
a glimpse of the fellow’s face. It was heavily bearded and dominated by a large nose; the nose looked artificial and Chaloner
knew he had never seen it before. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the rest of the face. It took Chaloner a
moment, but then recognition came. Swaddell’s disguise was excellent, and the spy might have been deceived had he not been
trained to notice such details – Swaddell’s restless black eyes were distinctive.

So what was the Spymaster’s assassin doing in such company? Clearly, Williamson did not know what Swaddell was up to, or he
would not have asked Chaloner to look into the man’s disappearance. Or was the Spymaster playing a complex game that entailed
convincing everyone that his agent was missing? Chaloner frowned, feeling his investigation had just taken a distinctly sinister
turn, if Williamson and his favourite henchman were involved.

It was not much longer before Symons stood to leave, which brought the meeting to an end. Chaloner followed the participants
outside, and found himself faced with three choices. He could trail Symons home, and interview him and his wife. He could
attempt to find out what Swaddell was doing. Or he could concentrate on the last man of the group, the one whose face he had
been unable to see, and try to learn his identity. Unfortunately, the
last man had used a different door from the others, and had already disappeared, so Chaloner waited just long enough to satisfy
himself that Symons was heading in the right direction for his house, then set off after Swaddell.

The Spymaster’s man did not go far before ducking into a doorway. Chaloner crept forward cautiously, aware that if Swaddell
was half as dangerous as everyone claimed, then he would know he was being followed and would react with his knife. He waited
until the assassin’s attention was fixed on removing his nose, then stepped up behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck.

‘Your master is worried about you,’ he said softly. ‘He thinks you are drowned.’

Swaddell’s instinctive struggles ceased abruptly when he felt the spy’s dagger against his throat. ‘Chaloner? Yes, it is you
– I recognise your voice. What do you think you are doing, assaulting me like this? Let me go at once!’

‘I will consider it, when you have answered some questions.’

‘And what if I refuse?’

‘Do you really want to find out?’

Swaddell was silent, weighing his options. He strained briefly against Chaloner’s arm, testing its strength, then gave a sigh
of resignation. ‘Very well. What do you want to know?’

‘Why were you with those people?’

‘That is none of your business.’

It was not an auspicious start, and Chaloner moved the dagger slightly, to remind him it was still there. ‘They are suspects
for killing Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, so it
is
my business.’

Swaddell sighed again, impatiently this time. ‘Then
why do you
think
I was there? I am also trying to find the villain who is killing government officials.’

‘Why? Williamson said he has ordered all his people to concentrate on finding the King’s statue.’

Swaddell grimaced. ‘Yes, he has, but where does that leave me? Vulnerable to accusations, that’s where – I am an assassin,
and here are three men poisoned. How long do you think will it be before folk put these two “facts” together? To my mind,
solving this case is a matter of self-preservation.’

‘You are afraid you will be blamed for committing these crimes?’ Chaloner was bemused.

‘It would not be the first time. And while Williamson is generous with his pay, I am not sure he can be relied upon to stand
by me should certain matters come to light. You are a spy, so you understand what I mean. Thurloe would have denied knowing
you, if you had been caught … breaking the rules.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And does “breaking the rules” entail dispatching the killer when you catch
him? Is that why you attended this meeting?’

‘No!’ objected Swaddell. He sounded indignant. ‘I may be an assassin, but I do not spend
all
my time stabbing people – I have other duties, too. And if you must know, I infiltrated this group some weeks ago, because
Williamson was suspicious of its combination of government officials, ex-Commonwealth clerks and wealthy merchants. He thought
they might be plotting something dangerous.’

‘And are they?’

Swaddell made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. ‘I have rarely met a band of men less interested
in politics. All they do is pray, plan their next prayers, or debate whether the past ones were sufficiently devout. And occasionally,
they talk about what is reported in the newsbooks.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘It is a religious assembly, then?’

‘It is – and tedious in the extreme. When Chetwynd was killed, I wondered whether one of these pious fellows might have done
it, because Chetwynd was secretly corrupt, while they are all nauseatingly honest. So I have continued to attend their meetings,
to see what I could find out.’

‘And what have you learned?’

‘Nothing!’ spat the assassin, clearly exasperated. ‘I have probed, hedged, blithered, done everything in my power to encourage
the culprit to say something incriminating, but my efforts have gone nowhere. I am beginning to think these men might be innocent.’

‘What is the name of the person who did not remove his hat? Not Turner – the other one.’

‘He calls himself John Reeve, but it is probably an alias. I have bumped against him, spilled his coffee, sneezed at him,
dropped my pipe in his lap, but even when I do glimpse his face, it is so plastered with pastes and paints that it is impossible
to identify. He is not the only one to disguise himself, though. Chetwynd used to do it, and so does Hargrave, on occasion.’

‘Why, if all they do is pray?’

‘You tell me – I am damned if I understand. Now let me go. Standing like this is hurting my back.’

‘What happened to you on Tuesday?’ asked Chaloner, not relinquishing his hold. ‘Jones chased you with a sword, but then you
disappeared.’

Swaddell had been trying to ease himself into a more
comfortable position, but he stopped moving abruptly. ‘Were you following me?’

‘Why would I do that?’

It was no kind of answer, and Swaddell knew it, but he did not demean himself by asking for a better one. He winced when the
dagger nicked his throat. ‘All right! I was trying to listen to what Jones and the others were saying, but I tripped over
some rubbish. Jones heard, and came after me like a rampaging bull. The alley I ran down leads nowhere but the river, and
I found myself trapped.’

‘Did you push him in the water?’

‘No! Basically, he was such a fat man that he could not stop once he was on the move, and he managed to knock us both in,
although I seriously doubt it was deliberate. He sank like a stone, and I managed to climb out. I was sorry for it, but
it was hardly my fault.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not about to contradict him and reveal his own role in the incident.

‘The place is deserted at night,’ Swaddell went on. ‘So there was no one about to help me save him. However, it is a rough
part of the city, so I do not recommend going there to confirm my tale. No, on second thoughts,
do
go. There are no ruffians to beat you to a pulp for poking around their domain. None at all.’

Chaloner processed the information. Perhaps Jones
had
careened on to the wharf too fast to be able to stop, but had Swaddell really been carried in with him? If he had, then it
meant he must have been in the water when Chaloner had arrived, because not enough time had passed for him to have climbed
out. Moreover, the train-band had been watching the pier hours later, which meant Swaddell must either have swum away, like
Chaloner had
done, or had waited for the tide to drop. The latter was unlikely, because the cold would have killed him. Or did Swaddell
know the soldiers, and they had turned a blind eye when he had scrambled to safety?

The other alternative was that Swaddell had not fallen in the river at all. But then where
had
he gone? There were no other ways to leave the alley, and he had not been on the pier, because Chaloner would have seen him.
The spy was about to demand a more honest explanation when it occurred to him that either scenario meant Swaddell would
have seen or heard the train-band fighting with him. Did the fact that he had neglected to mention the incident mean he did
not know it was Chaloner who had been doing the battling? Of course, he would know if Chaloner revealed his role by asking
questions about it, and as the spy was keen for the train-band to assume he was dead, he decided that learning how Swaddell
had extricated himself from his predicament was not as important as staying alive. He went back to the murders.

‘What have you learned about the three victims?’

Swaddell seemed relieved to be talking about something else. ‘Vine had a nasty habit of blackmailing people and Chetwynd seldom
gave honest verdicts in the cases he heard, so neither were the saints they would have had you believe. And Langston was just
as bad.’

‘In what way?’

Swaddell shrugged. ‘I am not sure, but there was something amiss. I suspect it has something to do with Hargrave and the Lea
brothers, because I have seen them glancing at each other when Langston is mentioned. Everyone else leaps to say he was a
virtuous man, but they do not.’

Chaloner was not sure what to believe. Some of Swaddell’s answers were plausible, while others were clearly lies or half-truths.
‘Perhaps you
are
the poisoner,’ he said. ‘And you have gone into hiding so you can continue to murder at will.’

He felt Swaddell wince. ‘There! You see? You cannot find the real killer, so who do you blame? The poor assassin! I knew it
would only be a matter of time before fingers started to be pointed. Of course, I happen to have an alibi for all three murders,
but has anyone bothered to ask about it? No!’

‘Your indignation is hardly warranted,’ said Chaloner, amused. ‘You are a self-professed killer who has disguised himself
to spy on three men who have been murdered – four, if we count Jones. But what is your alibi?’

‘I was with Williamson when Chetwynd, Vine
and
Langston died. Ask him, if you do not believe me. But I have answered enough of your questions. Let me go.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, feeling an alibi from the Spymaster was less than worthless, as far as he was concerned. ‘You are coming
to White Hall with me. Your master thinks I killed you and dropped you in the river, and I would rather he did not hold me
responsible for the death of one of his creatures.’

‘I am afraid that is out of the question. You see, I had the misfortune to witness Lady Castlemaine commit an indiscretion
with a certain gentleman, and she offered to cut out my tongue if I show my face there again. She will forget me eventually,
but I intend to keep a low profile until she does. The rumours about my death suit me very nicely.’

‘They will not be rumours if you refuse to come with me.’

‘You cannot march all the way to White Hall holding me like this, and I will not go willingly. You will have to find another
way to convince Williamson that you have not murdered his best man.’

‘Then tell me your password – all intelligencers have a code that only they and their Spymaster know.’

‘That is a clever idea! Unfortunately, we do not. Take my brooch instead – he will recognise it as mine.’

Chaloner laughed softly. ‘And then he will arrest me for stealing it from your corpse! Keep it. It will be more trouble than
it is worth – and so are you.’

He released his captive suddenly, shoving him so hard that Swaddell stumbled into a pile of rubbish. The moment he regained
his balance, the assassin whipped out his dagger, an expression of deadly purpose on his face. But Chaloner had already melted
into the shadows, and was nowhere to be seen.

Symons had not travelled far while Chaloner had been interrogating Swaddell. He had wasted time trying to flag down a hackney,
but it was raining, and other people had the same idea, so carriage after carriage had rolled past with shakes of the head
from the driver. After a lot of futile waving, Symons accepted it would be quicker to walk, and began to plod along with his
head down and his shoulders slumped. Eventually, he reached Axe Yard, a small cul-de-sac off King Street, which boasted twenty-eight
houses of varying levels of grandeur. He headed towards one of the smaller homes, which was neat and clean, but in obvious
need of fresh paint and new window shutters. It was exactly what Chaloner would have expected from a respectable clerk who
had lost all at the Restoration.