The Westminster Poisoner (42 page)

‘What news?’ the coffee-house owner called, as the spy walked in. John Ravernet did not look up from his perusal of
The Intelligencer
, and the greeting was automatic rather than a genuine request for information. As Chaloner had
hoped, the place was virtually empty, and the only customer was a morose-looking fellow with a wart between his eyes.

‘A body was washed up near Westminster yesterday,’ replied Chaloner.

‘That is not news,’ said the customer disdainfully. ‘That is an everyday occurrence.’

‘Not in this case,’ argued Ravernet, folding the news-book and going to give his roasting coffee beans a stir. ‘Because word
is that the corpse was yet another of the King’s clerks. It seems to be a bad time for them, because not only were three hapless
souls poisoned, but poor Jones drowned last week, too. Unfortunately, no one is quite sure how it happened.’

‘And no one is asking, either,’ said the customer, fixing him with a meaningful look. ‘Jones was a high-ranking official,
and he ended up in the Thames, but no one is curious to learn why. And after three of his colleagues were murdered, you would
think
someone
would be looking into the matter. But no one is, not even Spymaster Williamson.’

‘You see conspiracy everywhere, Hawley,’ said Ravernet. ‘However, in this instance, you are right. No one is investigating,
which means someone is glad he is dead. Someone important.’

With a start, Chaloner realised it was true, and wondered why it had not occurred to him before. Other than the ghoulish curiosity
common to all violent deaths, no one had asked why Jones had drowned, not even his colleagues from the prayer meetings. Of
course, it had worked to Chaloner’s advantage, because an investigation might have uncovered the fact that
he
had followed Swaddell and Jones down the alley, and he could imagine
what Williamson would make of that small fact. Had Jones’s death gone unremarked because the Spymaster’s men were too busy
hunting the statue? Or was there a more sinister reason – which seemed eminently likely, given that Jones had been loaded
down with stolen gold when he had died?

‘Mr Greene recommended your coffee house to me,’ he said, intending to lead the discussion around to the gatherings. He could
not afford to waste time on Jones when he had only one day left to solve the murders of Chetwynd, Vine and Langston. ‘And
so did Sir Nicholas Gold.’

Ravernet looked pleased. ‘They have been loyal customers for years. They used to meet at Scobel’s home, but when he died,
they elected to come here instead. They are an amiable crowd.’

‘But sadly depleted by death,’ said Hawley. ‘Jones was the fourth of their number to perish. Now there is only a handful left:
Greene, Tryan, Hargrave, that angel-faced Neale. Swaddell comes in disguise, but we all know he is the Spymaster’s assassin.
Colonel Turner attends the odd meeting these days, too.’

‘And do not forget Reeve,’ added Ravernet. ‘He never misses.’

‘I do not know him,’ said Chaloner.

‘Neither do we,’ said Hawley ruefully, ‘although I have done my best to penetrate his cover – I like a challenge. Personally,
I think he is a woman, because of the slight mince he has when he walks. And his beard is patently false.’

Chaloner stared at him. Could ‘Reeve’ be Bess Gold? Was she sufficiently clever to carry off a convincing disguise? Or was
it Margaret Symons, whom Doling said
was heartbroken to be excluded from the meetings by virtue of her sex? But that was not possible: Margaret had been at home
dying when Chaloner had seen Reeve with his companions. Or was it Lady Castlemaine, determined to secure herself a prosperous
future by spending the occasional hour with devout men? Mrs Vine could not be forgotten, either. She had, after all, been
suspiciously vehement in her denials that her husband had owned a ruby ring, and the spy did not trust her or her testimony.

‘They used to pray a lot,’ Ravernet was saying. ‘But they are just like any other group of friends these days. They talk about
the news and the weather, and Symons is the only one who tries to impose religion on them. They oblige, but with increasing
reluctance.’

‘Then perhaps they should have listened to him,’ suggested Hawley soberly. ‘Because if they had, God might have watched over
them, and four of their number might not be dead.’

Unwilling to spend the day without a sword, Chaloner borrowed one from his landlord, who had a large collection. None were
very good, because Ellis was in the habit of using them as tools to effect repairs around the home, but they were better than
nothing. Chaloner picked one, then set off towards Westminster, knowing he could postpone inspecting Greene’s body no longer.
He was just crossing New Palace Yard, alert for any sign of the train-band, when he met Haddon. The steward looked out of
sorts, and his usually kindly face was angry and flustered.

‘Bulteel fed pepper cake to my dogs,’ he explained bitterly, as their paths converged. ‘The poor darlings do not know what
to do with themselves for the pain. How could he do such a cruel thing?’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully. ‘His wife’s cakes are usually—’

‘Brodrick commissioned it, to feed to Lady Muskerry as a joke,’ interrupted Haddon. ‘And some was left over. A man who harms
a dog is a low creature, as I told Bulteel to his face. Perhaps I
should
work to see him ousted, since he believes I am doing it anyway. Hateful fellow!’

‘I am sure he did not mean to hurt them,’ said Chaloner, although he was not sure at all. Bulteel, like Chaloner himself,
was not very keen on the yappy little lapdogs. Nonetheless, he hoped they would recover from their ordeal, because Haddon
would be devastated if one died.

Haddon shot him a look that said he knew better. ‘They are resting by the Earl’s fire at the moment.
He
has been very kind.’ Tears sparkled in his eyes briefly, and he brushed them away, embarrassed.

‘Where are you going now?’ asked Chaloner curiously. They were walking towards the charnel house, which seemed an odd destination
for the steward.

‘The Earl wants me to view the corpse that was found yesterday, given that you have not been in to tell him about it. He tried
to send Bulteel, but the villain fabricated some sly excuse to get himself exempted.’

‘Turner could not oblige?’

‘He has been ordered to concentrate on the stolen statue now he has solved the murders to the Earl’s satisfaction. So, which
clerk do you think lies in Kersey’s horrible mortuary? It would be good to be able to brace myself. I am not very good with
corpses – they make me feel queasy.’

‘Greene has been missing since Saturday night.’

Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you sure? Only I
saw him on Saturday night myself, here in Westminster. He was working – or so he told me when I asked him what he was doing
out so late.’

‘When we last spoke about him, you said you thought he was innocent. Do you still believe that?’

Haddon took a moment to reply. ‘Turner has amassed a lot of evidence that says he is guilty, but Greene has always seemed
a decent sort to me. It is hard to see him as a ruthless slaughterer.’

But Chaloner knew the most unlikely of people were capable of doing terrible things, and being a ‘decent sort’ meant nothing,
as far as he was concerned. He followed the steward inside the mortuary, where Kersey bustled forward to greet them, holding
out his hand for the requis ite fee. The charnel-house keeper was clad in a set of brand new clothes, and was smoking a pipe.

‘People are very interested in these clerk-killings,’ he said gleefully, counting the coins carefully before adding them to
his bulging purse. ‘Will there be many more, do you think?’

‘Perhaps
he
is the killer,’ murmured Haddon to Chaloner in distaste. ‘He is the one who is benefitting from the deaths – they are making
him a fortune!’

Kersey’s domain was crowded. The only poison victim to have been buried was Vine, hastily shoved in the ground before Wiseman
could ignore his family’s wishes and dissect him anyway. The others remained in Kersey’s tender care. Chetwynd lay between
Jones and Langston, and the charnel-house keeper said there had been three stabbings that week, too. Before Chaloner or Haddon
could stop him – neither wanted to view more corpses than necessary – he had whisked away some sheets, to reveal two men and
a woman. The shapes of the wounds
were more indicative of swords than daggers, and Chaloner recalled Wiseman’s claim that the trio had asked questions about
the train-band.

Then Kersey whipped the cover off his most recent acquisition. But it was not the gloomy clerk who lay naked on the table.

Haddon turned accusingly to Chaloner. ‘You led me to believe it would be Greene!’

‘I thought it
was
,’ said Chaloner, equally astonished. ‘I do not understand!’

Kersey puffed contentedly on his pipe. ‘You are obviously looking for intrigue, because so many government clerks have died
of late. But the simple fact is that people sometimes just fall in the river and drown. Perhaps this is one of those occasions.’

‘So, who is this man?’ asked Haddon tiredly.

‘Matthias Lea,’ replied Chaloner, staring down at the body. ‘One of Chetwynd’s heirs.’

‘His brother was missing a kinsman,’ elaborated Kersey. ‘And he came to look when he heard I had charge of an unidentified
cadaver. He was very upset when he discovered it was indeed Matthias.’

While Kersey described in ghastly detail how most drowned men were bloated beyond recognition if the Thames did not give them
up immediately, Chaloner stared at Jones’s massive bulk, thinking about Ravernet and Hawley’s contention that no one had bothered
to investigate his death.

‘How many people have been to see him?’ he asked, cutting across the grisly exposition and nodding towards Jones. Haddon,
who had been listening with increasing horror, breathed his relief.

‘Lots,’ replied the charnel-house keeper smugly. ‘He has
been popular because of his mighty girth. We do not get such vast specimens in very often, and he is impressive.’

‘Has anyone asked any questions about him?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Other than about his size.’

Kersey shook his head, then grinned. ‘His kin said I could keep his clothes, and I am thinking of creating a display out of
some of the more unusual items I have collected through the years. His massive drawers will provide the centrepiece. People
will pay handsomely to see
them
.’

Haddon put his hand over his mouth, and his face was so pale, that Chaloner took his arm and led him outside, afraid he might
faint. When he had recovered, they began to walk towards White Hall together, and were almost there when they met Wiseman.
In a rather piercing whisper, the surgeon confided that Lady Castlemaine had strained a groin muscle during the night. Neither
Chaloner nor Haddon cared to ask how, but Wiseman was ready with the information anyway.

‘She was following a special exercise regime devised by me. If she pursues it diligently, she will develop limbs a man will
die for.’

‘She already has those,’ said Haddon, rather wistfully. ‘Of course, they are nothing compared to those of my dogs, whose legs
are an example of God’s perfection.’

‘Did you hear about Matthias Lea?’ asked Wiseman, regarding the steward dubiously before changing the subject. ‘Yet another
government official gone. Perhaps we should defect to another employer while we are still alive.’

‘Defection is a young man’s game, and I am past sixty,’ said Haddon, taking him seriously, although Chaloner suspected Wiseman
was just being flippant. ‘However, I
take sensible precautions – I try to stay in at night, I have not touched wine since Chetwynd was killed, and my sweethearts
bark at any uninvited visitors to my home. Of course, if they are sick from pepper cake, they may not be as vigilant as usual.’

He went to report to the Earl, walking rather more slowly than was his wont; Chaloner was not sure whether the mistreatment
of his pets or the sights in the charnel house had distressed him more.

‘Did Kersey tell you Matthias had drowned?’ asked Wiseman, when the steward had gone.

Chaloner nodded grimly, recalling the beginnings of the vivid lecture.

‘Then he has made an erroneous assumption,’ asserted Wiseman pompously. ‘Just because a corpse is found in the river, does
not mean it perished there.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘What are you saying? That Matthias was thrown in the water
after
he died?’

‘Yes, because the cause of his death was poison, not drowning,’ announced Wiseman, relishing Chaloner’s surprise. ‘The blisters
in his mouth indicate he swallowed a corrosive substance.’

‘The same corrosive substance that killed the other three?’

‘I cannot say with certainty, but my informed guess would be yes.’

‘Do you have any idea
when
he might have died?’

‘He was last seen alive on Saturday, at about nine o’clock in the evening, and his body was found yesterday morning – Sunday
– just before dawn. Obviously, he died between those two times.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. He saw Wiseman regarding him quizzically and hastened to explain. ‘The cellarer
said Greene asked for brandywine on Saturday night. It was refused, but a flask was later found missing.’

‘And now we have Matthias dead of poison, which we know has been delivered in brandywine in the past,’ mused Wiseman. ‘As
a scientific man, I find the evidence against Greene compelling.’

Chaloner was not sure what to think, but the nagging worry that he might have made a terrible mistake had returned. He had
known from the start that Greene could have slipped out of the back door of his house to go and kill Vine, while Lady Castlemaine
had good reason to lie about the timing of her last sighting of Langston.

So, where
was
Greene? Chaloner had been so certain he was dead, that he had given no consideration to where the clerk might have gone.
Or was this the line of reasoning the real killer hoped people would take – to wrap the noose even more tightly around an
innocent man’s neck?