The Westminster Poisoner (37 page)

Meg and Chaloner – the latter toting a sack of clothes – were shown into Tryan’s parlour. It was a pleasant room, with a roaring
fire, chestnuts roasting in a tray, and books everywhere. There was a chest under the window, armed with three heavy locks
that suggested valuables were within. The spy wondered why Tryan did not conceal it with a cloth – as it stood, most would-be
thieves would view it more of a challenge than a deterrent.

‘Meg!’ cried Tryan in pleasure. ‘I was beginning to think you had made off with my shirts. You are not usually late with your
deliveries.’

The bandy-legged merchant was sitting at a large, polished table, surrounded by papers. A brief glance at one of the ledgers
revealed some staggering sums of money, indicating business was booming. He was not
alone, because Hargrave was with him, dividing his attention between finance and relieving his itching scalp with the sharp
end of a quill.

Meg began to dance around with Tryan’s shirts, explaining what she had done to render them so pristine. He was captivated
by her youthful exuberance, and Chaloner was sure she was earning herself a handsome bonus by taking the time to charm him.
Meanwhile, Hargrave frowned at the spy.

‘You have a curious way of spending your time,’ he said suspiciously. ‘I would have thought the Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers
have better things to do than carry laundry for harlots.’

‘And how many Lord Chancellor’s intelligencers do you know?’ asked Chaloner, amused.

‘Two: you and Turner. I might have known three, had Langston chosen to accept the commission. He was outraged when the Earl
first approached him, but I told him he should have taken it.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Because your Earl
was
a good man, but White Hall is beginning to turn him wicked. However, he is probably redeemable, and I felt Langston was the
fellow to save him.’

‘You are in no position to criticise another man’s virtue,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘I understand you provide materials for
Langston’s dramas, but, judging from the rehearsal I saw today, they are hardly morality plays.’

Hargrave’s face flushed red. He shot an uneasy glance at Tryan, but Tryan’s attention was fixed on the cavorting Meg, and
he would not have noticed an earthquake. ‘Langston did ask me to help him,’ he muttered uncomfortably. ‘As a favour to a friend.
But I had no idea of the lewd content of his—’

‘You must have done,’ interrupted Chaloner, tired of lies, ‘because of the manner of props required. I saw some this morning,
and you cannot possibly have been ignorant of what they are required to do.’

Hargrave shot a second uneasy glance in his colleague’s direction. ‘Can we discuss this later?’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps in
a tavern? Tryan has a high opinion of me, and I do not want that to change. And I am sure we can come to some arrangement
– you will keep a silent tongue, and I will provide you with a little something in return. What do you say to five pounds?’

Chaloner hated it when people tried to bribe him; it told him they held no regard for his integrity. ‘I do not want your money.’

Hargrave winced when the spy made no effort to lower his voice. ‘What then?’ he asked, a little desperately. ‘Information?
Such as that the Lea brothers knew about Langston’s obscene dramatics – they wrote out the different parts for the actors
to learn.’

‘What about Greene?’ asked Chaloner, to see whether Hargrave would confirm what the hapless clerk had claimed. ‘Did
he
know what these plays entailed?’

‘I sincerely doubt it. He is a prudish fellow and would have been deeply shocked.’

‘Then tell me about the prayer meetings you attended with Scobel.’

Hargrave blinked at him. ‘Scobel? But he died years ago. What can possibly interest you about—’ He saw Chaloner’s expression,
and hurried on quickly. ‘They took place in his home, and comprised a group of men who joined together to thank God for His
goodness.’

‘I do not believe you. I think there was more.’

‘I could lie, and so end this embarrassing interview,’
said Hargrave quietly, ‘but we really
did
meet for prayers. Scobel felt not enough people were thanking God for their good fortune, and set out to rectify the matter.
And, for a while, it did seem that we – the grateful men – enjoyed better success than those who just kept asking for things.
Obviously, once we realised it, we were keen to continue.’

‘So, it went from being a religious occasion to one of superstition?’

Hargrave winced. ‘You put it bluntly, but yes. Personally, I feel it is time to move on – to end these gatherings and stand
on our own two feet. But the others are afraid their luck will change if we stop. They point out that when Langston left,
his bank was robbed. Then there is Doling, who renounced us because he objected to what he called our pagan slavishness to
Lady Fortune – he lost all at the Restoration, and has continued to lose since.’

‘He certainly lost the court case that came before Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner. ‘Although I imagine your bribe of a cottage had
something to do with that.’

Hargrave’s eyes bulged in horror, and he shot another uncomfortable glance at Tryan. ‘I admit I gave Chetwynd a small property,
but it had nothing to do with Doling’s claim for fishing rights. The two incidents are entirely unrelated. Perhaps my colleagues
are right, and that if Doling had not abandoned our prayer meetings …’ He let the suggestion hang in the air.

Chaloner regarded him in silence for a moment. ‘I do not believe that everyone who attends these gatherings enjoys good fortune.’

‘And you would be right – Symons has not, despite his regular appearances. However, most of us have done
extremely well, although I still feel it is time to end them. Unfortunately, Scobel made us promise to remain friends and
pray together. We were stupid to have sworn sacred vows to do as he asked – it was a different world then, and we were different
men.’

‘I am not sure I understand.’

Hargrave clawed at the scabs on his head. ‘Scobel predicted the Restoration would bring a change in morality, and he wanted
to ensure a spark of virtue remained. However, while he was right in that standards
have
changed since the King returned, I think it is a mistake to follow outdated principles.’

‘So you approve of what you saw at the Tennis Court? You prefer those values to Scobel’s?’

‘I would not go that far,’ said Hargrave stiffly. ‘But I am not comfortable with rabid sanctimony, either. I wish I had the
courage to break away from the others, but their superstition has started to infect me – I do not want to end up like Doling,
so I keep waiting for someone else to leave first.’

‘What are you two talking about?’ asked Tryan, smiling as Meg flounced merrily through the door, clutching a full purse. She
winked before she left, making him blush with pleasure.

‘Our prayer meetings,’ replied Hargrave quickly. ‘And how I think we should end them.’

‘That would be madness,’ said Tryan, turning to give him his full attention. ‘You are wealthy, blessed with a good wife and
obedient children. Why would you risk all that? Besides, Scobel made you swear an oath, and you do not want God angry with
you for vow-breaking.’

The two merchants began a debate on the matter, and when he saw he would learn nothing more from listening
to them, Chaloner bowed a farewell and left, thinking of how little he had achieved that day. He had reinforced his conviction
that Greene was innocent, but was no further forward with identifying the real culprit. However, he was determined to put
the evening to good use, so he headed for Hercules’ Pillars Alley.

It was early by club standards, and the atmosphere in the parlour was still quietly genteel. Pipe smoke hung blue and hazy
in the air, overlain by the scent of ‘burnt’ claret and orange-rind comfits. Temperance was playing cards with Chiffinch.
She smiled when she saw Chaloner, and he sighed his relief – it told him she was sorry about their row, too, and was willing
to make amends.

‘The Earl’s man,’ said Chiffinch, regarding the spy in icy disdain. There was a network of broken veins across his nose and
cheeks, and the whites of his eyes were yellow, both the result of a life spent in pursuit of hedonistic pleasures. ‘I am
surprised he pays you enough to let you come here.’

‘Tom is my personal guest,’ said Temperance, intervening before there was trouble. She need not have worried, because Chaloner
was not going to let himself be needled by the likes of Chiffinch. Unless he insulted Barbara, in which case the man could
expect to be punched.

‘I thought you would be watching the play in the Banqueting House tonight,’ Chaloner said to him amiably. ‘The one Langston
wrote.’

‘I have seen
The Prick of Love
before,’ said Chiffinch sourly. ‘It is far too rude for my taste. The occasion might have been amusing, had your Earl been
there, but he sent word that he is ill. He is in perfect health, of course,
and I suspect Brodrick lost courage and warned him off. The man is a base coward.’

Chaloner did not like to imagine what the Earl would have made of the performance, if the likes of Chiffinch considered it
excessive.

‘I shall fetch you some syllabub, Mr Chiffinch,’ said Temperance, standing and indicating that Snowflake was to take her place
at the table. ‘My cook tells me it is the best he has ever made. At least, I think that is what he was saying – he is not
always easy to understand.’

Chaloner followed her into the hall. ‘I am sorry about last night,’ he began, the moment they were alone. ‘I was wrong to
question you about Bernini—’

‘And I am sorry, too,’ interrupted Temperance. ‘You should have told me I am a suspect for stealing the King’s statue, but
I should have explained myself when you asked. We were both at fault.’

‘You are not a suspect. At least, not to me. Spymaster Williamson might reach other conclusions, though, which is why I warned
you to be wary about confiding in your patrons.’

‘You still trust me, then?’

‘Of course. I do not believe you have changed so much that you would steal.’

‘And you would be right. Reputation is everything in a place like this, and I cannot afford rumours of deceit or dishonesty.
So, are you still coming to meet James on Twelfth Night eve?’

Chaloner smiled. ‘If I am still invited.’

She kissed his cheek with the sisterly affection he had missed since they had started to grow apart. ‘He is eager to meet
you, and I have a feeling you will be good friends.
However, there is one thing I should tell you in advance: we will not be eating pelican.’

Good, thought Chaloner. ‘Why not?’

‘Because it was delivered this morning, and it was such a sweet thing that I could not bring myself to wring its neck. Maude
took it to St James’s Park instead, and released it into the company of its fellows.’

Chaloner smiled again. ‘I should go,’ he said, watching her select a bowl of syllabub for Chiffinch. He was hungry, but the
thick, plum-flavoured beverage did not tempt him at all. ‘You are busy.’

‘Never too busy for you, and I owe you an explan ation about Bernini, anyway. I asked questions about him, because Brodrick
and Chiffinch kept talking about his fine carving of the King’s head. They chatted about it for weeks – so long that my interest
was piqued.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Do you think
they
stole it, perhaps because Brodrick plans to use it in one of his japes as Lord of Misrule?’

‘Yes, I do, and so does James. I told him everything last night, and he said there is no other explanation. He also told me
I should confide all this to you as soon as possible.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.

‘Because he is an art-lover himself, and thinks the bust might get broken if it is used in some wild caper. He says that would
be a tragedy.’ Temperance was silent for a moment, then touched his arm. ‘Chiffinch told me you asked him and Brodrick whether
they owned a ruby ring. Presumably, you have reason to believe that either the clerk-killer or the statue-thief might own
one. Am I right?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner cautiously, but did not elaborate.

‘If it was small, then perhaps it belonged to a lady,’
suggested Temperance tentatively. ‘There is a tendency for men to forget that we can steal and commit murder, too, so do not
fall into that trap. And there are a lot of ruthless women at Court.’

Chaloner nodded, and did not tell her that the notion had already occurred to him. He did not want to risk another quarrel
by being ungracious. ‘I will not forget,’ he promised.

When Chaloner returned to his rooms, the bowls he had set to catch the drips that morning were so full they had overflowed,
and the floor was awash. There was a note pinned to the door from the instrument-maker who rented the room below, complaining
of water streaming down his walls. Landlord Ellis had been to inspect the trouble – his muddy footprints were everywhere –
but in a rare moment of self-doubt, he had apparently decided repairs were beyond him, and had not attempted any. Normally,
he was only too pleased to ply his dubious skills to effect even more dubious remedies, and the fact that he was daunted by
the scale of the problem did not bode well for the future.

As it stood, the place was not at all inviting, and it was raining again – Chaloner did not want to spend a second night dodging
deluges, so he decided to leave. Before he went, he fed his cat with some salted meat from the pantry, although it ate only
two mouthfuls before going to wash itself by the fireplace, and he supposed it had found itself something more appetising
during the day. He hoped it had not been a bird. He spent a few moments teasing it with a piece of ribbon, just to prove he
could be in its company without resorting to meaningless chatter – or, worse yet, a serious conversation – then left for the
greater comfort of Hannah’s house. She was asleep when he arrived, but moved over so he could climb into the bed beside her.