The Westminster Poisoner (35 page)

‘So has mine,’ she snarled, unappeased.

He tried to make amends, recalling his vow not to alienate her by being uncommunicative, but it was too late: nothing he said
or did could placate her. Eventually, he left, although he was not impressed to find his landlord had been in his rooms to
mend the roof, and had succeeded in exacerbating the problem. Irregular drips had been transformed into steady trickles, and
Ellis had contrived to move the bed so it was directly under the worst of the holes. Chaloner woke in the night to find himself
sodden as rain hammered down outside, and he was obliged not only to fetch bowls for the new leaks, but to hunt out dry spots
for his bass viol and music chest, too. He went back to bed, and dozed fitfully until a curious combination of sounds woke
him the following day.

He listened with his eyes closed for a moment, then shot to his feet, grabbing his sword as he did so, sure someone else was
in the room. But it was only his cat. It regarded him through lazy amber eyes, then released the pigeon it had caught. The
bird immediately flapped towards the window, which it hit with a thump before flopping to the floor, stunned.

‘Oh, no!’ cried Chaloner in dismay. ‘I thought we had an understanding: rats and mice are fair game, but birds are forbidden.’

The cat meowed at him, and he sat heavily on the bed, resting his head in his hands. He was talking to the animal, and it
had answered him! Was the insidious loneliness that had been a part of his life ever since he had become a spy finally taking
its toll? Would it be only a matter of time before he ended up like Haddon, substituting animals for people? He decided to
visit Temperance that evening and apologise, because he did not have so
many friends that he could afford to squander them in petty squabbles. And the quarrel had been entirely his fault – he should
have told her why he needed to know about Bernini, not ambushed her with questions. She was right to be angry with him.

And he would see Hannah, too, and try to worm his way back into her good graces. Since arriving in London, he had met no one
who had interested him for more than a casual encounter, but he was beginning to feel Hannah was different. She was intelligent,
amusing and had shown a remarkable tolerance for his various flaws of character. He discovered with a pang that he did not
want to lose her.

When the cat meowed at him again, he ignored it and went to let the pigeon – recovered and keen to be on its way – out of
the window. When it had gone, he ran his hands over the smooth, silky wood of his viol. It had been some days since he had
had time for music, and he felt the tension begin to drain out of him as he took his bow and began to play. It was not long
before he became totally immersed, and only came to his senses when the bells chimed noon. At first, he thought he had misheard,
and then was disgusted with himself for frittering away so many hours of daylight.

He donned clean clothes, and set off to Petty France, hoping Meg would be in, but there was no reply when he knocked at her
door. He walked to the back of the house, and gained access to her room via a window. But his efforts were wasted, because
his search told him nothing, other than that she kept an ear-string in a box next to her bed. He supposed it belonged to Turner,
and the colonel had either given it to her, or she had snagged it without his knowing.

He went to Lincoln’s Inn, feeling a need for Thurloe’s companionship, but the ex-Spymaster was out, and his manservant did
not know where he had gone. Chamber XIII was full of folded clothes, ready to be packed for the journey to Oxfordshire, which
was a sharp reminder that Chaloner would soon be without his mentor. His sense of isolation intensified.

He emerged from Lincoln’s Inn to see Haddon trotting along Chancery Lane, conversing merrily with his dogs and drawing wary
looks from the people he passed. Not in the mood to be informed that a pooch could replace Thurloe, Chaloner ducked into the
Rolls Chapel, a pretty building designed by Inigo Jones as part church and part repository for legal records. He was disconcerted
when Haddon joined him there a few moments later.

‘I have never been in here before,’ said the steward, looking around appreciatively. ‘It is beautiful.’

Haddon had always been friendly to Chaloner, and the spy was already regretting the attempt to avoid him. It had been rude.
He knelt at the altar rail and pretended to pray, in the hope that Haddon would not guess he had darted into the chapel to
effect an escape. When the steward walked towards him, he smiled and indicated Haddon was to kneel at his side. He was taken
aback when the dogs followed their master’s example, resting their front paws on the rail, and their back ones on a hassock.

‘God’s creatures,’ said Haddon, beaming fondly at them. ‘Is that not so, my beauties? They know how to behave in a church
… Oh, Lord! They have never done
that
before.’

‘I think we should leave,’ said Chaloner, eyeing the mess uncomfortably.

‘But you have only just arrived, and you should not let a mishap stand between you and God. I had not taken you for a religious
man, Thomas – I am favourably impressed.’

‘I am glad someone is,’ muttered Chaloner, acutely aware that the verger was pottering nearby. If the man saw what the dogs
had done, there would be a scene, so he stood and began to walk briskly towards the door, relieved when Haddon followed. ‘Did
you have something to tell me?’

‘Yes, I have sad news to impart. Margaret Symons is dead. She foretold the exact hour of her passing, and she slipped away
precisely when she said she would.’

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ Scobel had predicted the time of his death, too, and Chaloner wondered again whether it meant someone
had helped them into their graves.

A tear sparkled in Haddon’s eye. ‘She was kind to me once, when I was ill. And she liked dogs.’

‘So did Vine,’ said Chaloner, remembering being told that the Treasury clerk had made donations to a charitable foundation
that cared for strays. It was clearly a bad week for London’s mutts.

Haddon sighed sorrowfully. ‘Yes, he did, but I doubt George will continue his father’s good work. Do you think the Earl might
spare a few shillings each month to make a puppy happy?’

Chaloner resisted the urge to laugh at the notion of the Earl parting with money for something that would not benefit himself.
‘You never know.’

‘I have something else to tell you, too,’ said Haddon. ‘Turner visited our master this morning, and I eavesdropped on their
conversation. He was in some sort of club with Brodrick last night, and they got talking.
Brodrick was drunk, and let slip a secret about fat old Jones who drowned the other day. Apparently, Jones liked robbing banks.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe Haddon’s claim – Brodrick liked to spin Temperance wild yarns, so perhaps he had
done the same to Turner, too. The colonel was not as gullible as Temperance, but the Earl’s cousin had a clever tongue and
a plausible manner, and it was not impossible that he had executed one of his practical jokes. Chaloner decided to speak to
Brodrick directly, and set off for White Hall, leaving Haddon buying expensive pastries for his pampered dogs.

The first person he saw in the palace was Williamson, who waved to indicate he wanted to talk. Chaloner pretended not to notice,
and stepped into a laundry to avoid him. The Spymaster followed, so Chaloner zigzagged through the steaming cauldrons and
slipped out through a back door, hiding behind a stack of crates until Williamson threw up his hands in exasperation and gave
up the chase. The second person he met was Barbara Chiffinch, who railed about the unkind trick that had been played on the
Queen the night before. The King was said to be livid, and the Lord of Misrule had been ordered to leave her alone.

‘Brodrick denies being the guilty party,’ said Barbara angrily. ‘But no one believes him. And quite right, too! Why else would
he decree that anyone found out after dark would be doused in green paint? There is a rumour that the whole thing was Lady
Castlemaine’s idea, but no one likes to ask her and the King’s fury means she is unlikely to confess, either.’

‘I need to speak to Brodrick,’ said Chaloner. ‘About Jones.’

‘I suppose you have heard that Jones robbed banks.’ Barbara waved away Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The tale is all over White Hall
this morning – Brodrick has a slack tongue. However, it is quite true. My husband has just confessed to me that he has known
about Jones’s illegal activities for years.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘And you believe him? I mean no disrespect, but your husband is not a reliable source of information.’

‘I believe him,’ said Barbara grimly. ‘I can tell when he is lying – and he was not lying today. Besides, he also admitted
to being Jones’s accomplice once, helping to relieve Backwell’s Bank of a thousand pounds. He knew details he could not have
done, unless he had been directly involved.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin, thinking the story certainly explained why Jones had elected to carry his wealth about on his person
– he would know from first-hand experience just how vulnerable banks could be. So, here was yet another government official
who presented a respectable face to the world, but who was really something else.

‘Why would he do such a thing?’ he asked, more of himself than Barbara. ‘He earned a good salary as Yeoman of the Household
Kitchen, and his family is not poor.’

‘It is not just a love of money that inspires men to steal.’ Barbara’s voice held a note of regret, and Chaloner supposed
she was thinking about her husband. ‘It is the thrill of playing with danger. Jones once told me he was bored with his job,
so he obviously went out and found other ways to amuse himself. The Backwell’s theft was meticulously planned – the thieves
left no clues whatsoever.’

‘Have you seen Brodrick this morning?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he had better hear the tale from the source of the gossip.

Barbara grimaced. ‘Try looking in the wine vaults. He usually visits about this time.’

Brodrick had been and gone by the time Chaloner had arrived, but the spy wanted to speak to the cellarer anyway, because of
what the fellow had told Turner about Greene begging for brandywine. Daniel Munt repeated his story, indignation in every
word.

‘The first time, Thursday, I felt sorry for him, and let him have a jug, but then I saw his offices in darkness and knew he
had played me for a fool. The second time he came, I sent him packing.’

‘So he left empty-handed on Saturday?’

‘I thought so, but after he had gone, I noticed some brandywine was missing. Now, I cannot be certain
he
took it, because a lot of men come here in the hope of a drink, and young Neale was particularly insistent that night. But
it was there at the beginning of the evening, and gone when I locked up at midnight.’

Chaloner resumed his hunt for Brodrick, eventually tracking him down in the Banqueting Hall. In his capacity as Lord of Misrule,
the Earl’s cousin had hired the King’s Players to perform a theatrical production, and was busy ensuring the set was built,
the props were in place and the costumes were ready. While Chaloner waited for him to finish a frantic consultation with the
stage-manager, he watched the actors rehearse, and the bawdy speeches told him
The Prick of Love
was probably one of Langston’s masterpieces. One thespian cheerfully informed the spy that invitations had been issued to
only a very select few, because the play was deemed too ribald for the average
ear. After enduring two scenes of silly, predictable vulgarity, Chaloner was glad he was not on the guest list, because it
was tedious stuff, and he had better things to do with his time.

‘I am not sure picking this particular play was a terribly good idea,’ confided Brodrick worriedly, as the spy approached.
‘Lady Castlemaine chose it, but I did not realise it was quite so … The King will think me desperately lewd.’

‘I am sure he has seen worse. It was unkind to invite your cousin, though.’

‘The Earl?’ Brodrick regarded him in horror. ‘
He
cannot come! He would have a seizure! My guests include His Majesty and a dozen close friends. But the Earl …’ He shuddered
at the notion.

‘You had better warn him to stay away, then. I doubt he will listen to me, not after what happened the other night. You frightened
him, Brodrick.’

Brodrick rubbed his eyes. ‘It will not happen again – I think I have satisfied my cronies that the Lord of Misrule applies
his mischief even-handedly. What did you want to ask me about?’

He confirmed what the spy already knew about Jones, adding only that Chiffinch had kept quiet about the fat man’s penchant
for theft while Jones had lived, but broke silence the moment he was dead. He had not gossiped about his own participation,
though: he had disclosed that only to Barbara.

Chaloner left Brodrick to his preparations, and was about to walk outside when he saw a familiar figure lurking behind a stack
of benches. The spy supposed he should not be surprised that Greene had wormed his way into
a building where an obscene play was being rehearsed, bearing in mind his friendship with the author and his weakness for
cheap whores. He regarded the clerk thoughtfully. Greene did not seem to be deriving any great enjoyment from the spectacle,
though, and the expression on his face could best be described as haunted.

‘I understand you have a liking for this sort of thing,’ Chaloner said softly, watching the clerk leap in alarm at the voice
so close to his ear. ‘It was an interest you and Langston shared.’

‘You are wrong,’ replied Greene hoarsely. His face was very pale. ‘I was aware that he wrote … a certain kind of verse,
but I had never heard any of them until today. I find myself appalled.’

‘I do not believe you. Witnesses say you frequent the lowest kind of brothels, and that you are well-known and popular in
them.’

Greene closed his eyes. ‘Then your witnesses have drawn conclusions from half-understood facts. Yes, I visit the Dog and Duck
in Southwark, but not to avail myself of the women. I go to give alms, in the hope that some will take the money and make
more respectable lives for themselves.’