The Westminster Poisoner (38 page)

‘Where have you been?’ she murmured drowsily, nestling against him. ‘You smell of smoke.’

Remembering her response the last time he had admitted to visiting Temperance’s club, he was uncertain how to reply. He flailed
around for something that was true, but that she would believe.

‘Not again,’ she said with a groan, when he took too long. ‘Surely, you cannot have been engaged in secret business
all
day? Or is the Earl getting every last penny’s worth out of you?’

‘Yes, he is,’ said Chaloner, feeling this at least was something that could not be disputed. ‘I think I have finally eliminated
Greene as a suspect for the murders, but I have made no progress in identifying the real killer. Or in locating the King’s
statue.’

She climbed out of the bed, and went to prod the fire. He supposed his answer had not been to her liking, but did not know
what else to say. It was not a good idea to lie every time the truth was unacceptable, because there was a danger that he
might forget what he had told her, and contradict himself later. Thurloe had taught him that liars needed very good memories,
and he had always preferred avoiding questions to fabricating replies. But he did not want to do either with Hannah.

‘I talked to my cat this morning,’ he gabbled, rather desperately. ‘It had caught a pigeon.’

She turned to look at him, but her face was backlit by the fire and he could not see her expression. ‘Did it answer back?’

‘It made a noise,’ replied Chaloner cagily. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘That poor animal,’ said Hannah. He could hear laughter in her voice. ‘Attached to a man who is so unforthcoming that it takes
a captured pigeon to elicit a reaction from him.’

Chaloner struggled to make her understand why the incident had unsettled him. ‘It is because of Haddon. He converses with
his dogs out of loneliness. He is quite peculiar over them.’

She stared at him. ‘And you think that by passing the occasional fond remark to your cat you may become as odd as him? That
is foolish, Thomas! You are not lonely – you have lots of friends.’

‘In London, I have two: Temperance and Thurloe.’

‘And not me?’ She sounded hurt. ‘Or Barbara Chiffinch, who, for all her faults, is fond of you. Or Bulteel, who has asked
you to stand as godfather to his only son? Or even Haddon, who will not let the Earl say anything bad about you? We are nothing,
are we? And here I was about to suggest that you come to sit next to me at the fire, and allow me to help you solve your mysteries.’

‘Now?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘Yes, now,’ she said impatiently. ‘Why do you think I have been stoking it up? You sound tired and dispirited, and I thought
you might appreciate some help. It is what
friends
do for each other.’

‘I see. But how—’

‘You will tell me everything you have learned, and I shall see if I can spot connections you may have missed. You look suspicious.
Why? Do you imagine
I
am the killer, and I am trying to ascertain how much you have found out about me?’

It was not easy for Chaloner to put aside his natural reticence and confide his discoveries – he could do it with Thurloe,
but Thurloe had been his spymaster, and was different – and discussing his work with Hannah felt very wrong. But images of
Haddon’s eccentricity kept flooding into his mind, so he ignored the clamouring instincts that urged him to silence, and began.

‘Greene is not the killer,’ he said, speaking slowly to give himself time to assemble his thoughts in a sensible manner. ‘Which
means someone else is the culprit.’

‘Impeccable logic,’ said Hannah, beckoning him to sit next to her. ‘Is there anything else, or is that the sole conclusion
you have reached?’

He knelt by the fire and prodded it absently. ‘The obvious suspects are the men who attend these prayer meetings. For example,
Hargrave – he wants the occasions to end, so perhaps he killed the three clerks because they did not.’

But, he thought, Tryan did not want them to end, either, and
he
was not dead. Did that mean Hargrave was innocent? Or was Tryan spared because he was Hargrave’s friend, and murdering mere
acquaintances was not the same as dispatching a man he obviously liked and respected?

‘Who else is on your list?’ asked Hannah, when he faltered into silence.

‘Gold.’

‘Sir Nicholas? No! He has asked us to his soirée on Monday – in two days time – and a killer would not do that. Besides, he
is too old to go a-murdering.’

Chaloner smiled at the notion that issuing invitations to parties should be considered an exonerating factor.
‘He is not as frail as he looks. I saw him attack a man who assaulted Bess the other night.’

‘Neale!’ pounced Hannah. ‘Now there
is
a man who would not hesitate to kill by poison.’

Chaloner inclined his head to acknowledge it was possible. ‘Meanwhile, Doling left the prayer group after the Restoration.
Perhaps envy drove him to kill three men who have been very successful. The same is true of Symons. Or perhaps I am over-complicating
matters, and the Lea brothers or one of the Vines are the culprits – killing an unloved kinsman in order to secure an inheritance.’

‘And dispatching two more in an attempt to lead you astray,’ mused Hannah, nodding. ‘Do not forget George Vine devised a plot
to assassinate Cromwell, either – that shows him to be murderous. Are there any other suspects?’

‘A corn-chandler called Reeve, who wears a disguise when he goes to John’s Coffee House.’

There were also Turner and Swaddell, both of whom had infiltrated the meetings to spy. Could one of them be the killer? There
was certainly more to Turner than the amiable buffoon he liked to project, while Swaddell was a spymaster’s assassin. And,
of course, there was Williamson himself. But Hannah did not need to be told about any of them – the knowledge might prove
dangerous to her.

‘Was there any other link between the victims?’ she asked. ‘Besides these religious assemblies?’

‘They all argued publicly with my Earl. And they all appeared to be virtuous, but transpired to have the usual human flaws
– dishonesty, corruption, licentiousness.’

‘So your killer dispatched not good men, but sinners? Are there any vicars among your suspects?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘I should visit John’s Coffee House tomorrow, and talk to the owner. So far, only the people who
actually take part in the meetings have told me what transpires in them.’

‘So, I
have
helped,’ announced Hannah with satisfaction. ‘I have given you a new direction to follow. Now, let me see what else I can
accomplish. Tell me what you know of the culprit himself.’

‘He used poison to kill his victims. And he may have dropped a ruby ring – a small one, like a woman’s – then sent members
of an elite train-band to retrieve it for him.’

‘A woman’s? Then it will be irrelevant,’ declared Hannah immediately. ‘The killer is not a lady, and you had better ignore
this bauble, or it will mislead you.’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, although he had no intention of doing so. He wondered why she was so vehement, and recalled Temperance’s
words about the same clue: that he should bear in mind that a lady
could
be responsible. It was odd to hear two such different views within a short space of time.

‘What about the statue?’ asked Hannah, changing the subject rather abruptly. ‘Any progress there?’

‘None,’ replied Chaloner gloomily.

Hannah was silent for a moment, then started to speak. ‘When Bernini finished the bust, a courtier was charged to escort it
from Rome. It took him three months of dangerous travel to bring it to London. His name was Thomas Chambers, and he was my
father.’

Chaloner stared at her, asking himself why she had not mentioned it sooner. Was this why the Queen had elected not to share
with her the tale about it being offered to Greene and Margaret Symons? Because
Hannah had a curious and unique connection to the thing? ‘I see.’

‘I was a child at the time, but I remember him coming home, and telling my mother and me about his adventures. The other thing
I recall is that the bust was very heavy.’

‘Large pieces of marble usually are.’

Hannah pulled a face at the coolness of his voice. ‘I am trying to help, Tom, so do not be acerbic with me. If the Bernini
bust was weighty, then a thief cannot have shoved it under his arm and walked off with it. He would have needed transport.
Or a large and very strong sack.
Ergo
, there will be a witness to the crime. You just need to find him.’

‘I have asked virtually everyone in the palace, and if there is a witness, then he is not talking. And the area around the
Shield Gallery is deserted at night, anyway, and security is minimal. I could steal anything I like, and no one would be any
the wiser.’

‘That is not a good thing to claim – it could see you in trouble. But you should sleep.’ Hannah ended the discussion by jumping
back into bed. ‘You will need your wits about you tomorrow, if you are to fathom any sense into these mysteries.’

It was raining hard when Chaloner woke the next morning, and windy, too. He wondered what state his Fetter Lane rooms were
in, and was glad to be in Hannah’s cosy home. She toasted bread over the fire for breakfast, smearing it thickly with a marmalade
of quinces. She chattered happily as she worked, asking about his plans for the day, and demanding to know how he intended
to prove he was a better investigator than
Turner. He gave monosyllabic answers, most of his attention on the statue of Venus that Margaret Symons had carved. It really
was exquisite, and he thought it a pity she had died before achieving the recognition she had so clearly deserved.

‘You will have to find time for church, too,’ Hannah babbled on, handing him a cup of warmed ale. ‘It is Sunday, and you do
not want to be on a list that says you are a Catholic. Like me.’

‘You are on a list?’

‘No, I am Catholic. I converted when I was appointed to serve the Queen. Does that shock you?’

‘Oh, deeply.’ He saw her wince, and hastened to be serious. ‘Of course not. Besides, the crucifix by your bed is something
of a giveaway, and so are the specific times you tend the Queen.’

She regarded him curiously. ‘You are not going to suggest I change back again?’

‘Why would I do that? Your devotions are your own business.’

‘That is an unusually enlightened attitude, especially from a man who serves the Earl. I suppose it comes from spending so
much time overseas.’

Or from seeing the trouble religious dissent could cause, thought Chaloner, as he and Hannah set out for White Hall together.
He abandoned her when he saw their path was going to intersect that of Williamson, and went to lurk in an alley near the Tennis
Court until the Spymaster had gone. As he peered out from his hiding place, he saw Williamson and Hannah stop to talk to each
other. The exchange appeared to be cordial, and Chaloner frowned, wondering why she should deign to associate with such a
fellow.

Knowing the Spymaster was loose in White Hall made Chaloner decide to go to Westminster instead. He went a second time to
look at the lane where Jones had died, but it was jammed tight with carts, all waiting to be loaded with coal from a barge
that was docked at the pier, and there were too many people around to permit useful skulking. He decided to come back when
it was less busy. He met Symons in Old Palace Yard, and offered his condolences for Margaret’s death, but the man barely acknowledged
him before shuffling away with his spiky orange head bowed.

‘Poor Margaret,’ said Doling, appearing suddenly at Chaloner’s elbow. The spy jumped, astonished that anyone should be able
to come so close without him hearing. All his senses were on full alert, because he was determined to avoid Williamson, which
meant the surly ex-Commonwealth official possessed a very stealthy tread. ‘And poor Symons, too. They were a devoted couple.’

‘She seemed a decent woman.’ Chaloner did not like the way Doling was standing so close to him, and the knife in his sleeve
dropped into the palm of his hand.

‘She was the best,’ replied Doling with one of his scowls. ‘And it is a pity she is gone. She will not be properly mourned,
though, except by Symons and me.’

It was a curious thing to say. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the acquisitive vultures who gather in Covent Garden do not appreciate her goodness, even though she was a shining
light at the meetings in Scobel’s house. Of course, that was before he died. Once he was gone, they effectively banished her
from the gatherings by electing to hold them in a coffee house, where women are not permitted to tread. It broke her heart,
poor soul.’

‘She wanted to be there?’

‘Yes.’ Doling clenched his fists, as if he was considering thumping someone. ‘She told me that if she had been allowed to
pray with them, her husband might have enjoyed greater success. Of course, it is all superstitious nonsense. Scobel was wrong
to make us take that vow.’

‘You swore it, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘And then broke it?’

Doling grimaced. ‘The others say that is why I have been unlucky, but I disagree – God does not reward people for praying
in a specific place or with specific people.’

‘I suppose not.’

Doling’s expression was distant, almost as if he was talking to someone else. ‘Scobel thought he could keep his friends godly
by making them promise to pray with each other, but he reckoned without White Hall. All of them – Chetwynd, Vine, Langston,
Jones, Gold and others – used to be decent, upright souls, but White Hall has sucked the goodness out of them. Now they are
just like everyone else.’

‘Except you? You have retained your lofty principles?’

Doling glowered at him, and for a moment, Chaloner thought the man was going to swing a punch. He braced himself to duck,
but Doling took a deep breath and it seemed to calm him.

‘I am not perfect, but I have done my best. I wish Scobel was still alive – if ever his sober, gentle guidance was needed,
it is now. Did you ever meet him?’