The Westminster Poisoner (49 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ Turner demanded uneasily. ‘Temperance will be hurt when she learns you declined her invitation
to dine, just so you could use the opportunity to sneak into her home and help yourself to her things.’

‘I am not the thief here,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘I do not break in to the houses of elderly merchants when I think they
are at church, and batter them half to death when I discover they are not.’

‘What is this?’ demanded Turner, struggling to feign bemusement. ‘What elderly merchant?’

Chaloner pointed to the sack. ‘The one you almost killed to get that. Do not deny it, Turner. Your ear-string dropped off
during the attack, and identifies you as the culprit.’

Turner’s hand flew to his empty lobe in horror. Seeing he was trapped, he dropped the pretence of innocence, and tried another
tactic. ‘This is not how it looks. I was worried about him keeping such a large sum in his house, so I decided to put it in
a bank, where it will be safe. But he came back unexpectedly, and went for his gun. I panicked. I am not proud of myself,
but it is what happened. It is all a terrible misunderstanding.’

‘If you say so,’ said Chaloner, too tired to argue with him. ‘But that is for a judge to decide.’

Turner shook his head in stunned disbelief. ‘This cannot be happening, not now! I have a job I love, wealthy ladies shower
me with gifts, and Temperance is on the verge of giving me half her club. Those meetings at John’s Coffee House work! You
ask for success with like-minded men, and lo and behold, success is yours.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the claim. ‘You attribute your recent rise in fortune to prayers?’

Turner shrugged. ‘Well, something caused my luck to change. I joined originally to gain Tryan’s confidence – to find out whether
he really did have a fortune in his parlour. But when I realised prayers might be the key to my various triumphs, I decided
I had better keep going. Do you want to enrol? I can get you in – in exchange for your silence about tonight’s little episode,
naturally.’

Chaloner regarded him in disdain. ‘You are a callous dog, Turner. Or is your real name Grey?’

He drew his sword when Turner did not reply, glancing down when the hilt made a peculiar grating sound and something small
and metallic fell from it and skittered across the floor. The blade was held in place by a thread, and would not survive the
first parry. He cursed himself for not borrowing a better one from Tryan, because he should have anticipated how an encounter
with Turner would end. At some point during his frantic race – probably when he had been knocked off his feet as Turner had
been fleeing from Lymestrete – he had also lost the daggers he kept secreted about his person. Fortunately, the colonel noticed
neither his lack of handy weapons nor the state of his sword. He began to back away.

‘Please!’ he cried, alarmed. ‘I am sure we can work this out without resorting to violence.’

‘We can,’ agreed Chaloner evenly. ‘And it entails you putting up your weapon and turning around.’

‘No!’ Turner’s face was as white as the snow that was falling outside. ‘They will execute me, and you know how I feel about
hanging.’

Chaloner was unmoved. ‘Then you should have thought of that before you broke the law.’

Turner swallowed hard, clearly loath to engage in a skirmish he thought he was unlikely to win. Then he closed his eyes in
weary resignation, and slowly reached out to place his sword on the nearest crate. Unfortunately, Chaloner’s blade chose that
moment to drop out of its hilt. The colonel’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment, but his reactions were fast. He snatched up
his weapon again, even as Chaloner darted towards it, and the spy was lucky to avoid the lunge that was aimed in his direction.

‘And you berated
me
for poor weapon maintenance the other night,’ Turner crowed, his confidence flooding back now he had the advantage. ‘Hypocrite!’

‘You are still not leaving this cellar a free man,’ warned Chaloner.

Turner laughed derisively. ‘And who will stop me? Not you, because you will be dead. You seem to know rather too much about
me, and I do not want you telling tales to His Portliness.’

Chaloner grabbed an old broom that had been left lying on the floor. Turner might have the upper hand at that precise moment,
but the spy had faced worse odds. All he needed to do was even them out a little. He looked around quickly, and a plan began
to form in his mind.

‘I appreciate that the King’s statue posed an irresistible temptation for you,’ he said, jigging away from the stabbing blade.
‘But I will never forgive you for involving Temperance. Or Meg, although I cannot imagine she knew why you needed her cart.’

‘Meg would have demanded a share,’ said Turner, watching Chaloner with narrowed eyes as the spy weaved between the crates.
‘So I kept her in the dark. But how do you know I involved Temperance?’

The question took Chaloner by surprise, given where
they were. ‘Other than the stolen bust being hidden in her cellar? Well, there is the note offering to sell it to Margaret
Symons, which is in her handwriting. You persuaded her to scribe it, lest someone recognised your own scrawl.’

Turner grinned slyly. ‘It suits me to be cautious. She had no idea what she was scribbling about, though – I doubt her affection
for me runs deep enough to defraud the King on my account.’

Chaloner was not so sure about that. He moved further behind the sculpture as Turner continued to speak. His ploy to distract
the man by encouraging him to gloat was working – like many criminals, he could not resist bragging about his achievements.

‘I assumed some wealthy Royalist would buy it, but the King made such a fuss about its loss that I dared not approach any.
I had no idea he would miss it so much. God knows why – it is ugly.’

‘It is of his father,’ said Chaloner, astounded not only by the man’s ignorance of art, but by his lack of understanding for
his victim. ‘Of course he will miss it.’

‘I tried selling it to artists in the end,’ Turner went on, waving his free hand to indicate Chaloner did not know what he
was talking about. ‘And I even offered it to Greene, thinking he might exchange it for a pardon. He was a fool to refuse,
because I do not see how else he will evade the noose.’

‘You think he is guilty?’ Chaloner stumbled when Turner managed to land a sly jab with his sword. It did no harm, but the
colonel had moved fast, and Chaloner knew he would have to be careful. His lame leg was slowing him down, and the trek through
the snow had taken too great a toll on his strength – unlike Turner, he
did not have the exhilaration of a successful burglary to fuel him.

The colonel nodded. ‘I wanted to believe he was the victim of a monstrous conspiracy, as you suggested, but there are too
many inexplicable coincidences. He must have killed those three clerks because they were more successful than him, and he
was jealous.’

One more jig put Chaloner in the position he had been aiming for – with Turner trapped between two tall boxes where he would
be unable to make full use of his sword. He took a firmer grip on the broom, readying himself for attack. Turner was still
chattering.

‘I thought it would be easy to make a tidy profit from the statue, because everyone here is so fabulously gullible. For example,
selling those lockets to swooning women has been child’s play.’

The confession made Chaloner falter. ‘You
sold
those keepsakes?’ he asked, astounded by the man’s audacity. ‘I thought you dispensed them to make each lady think she was
special.’

Turner’s smug grin was back. ‘I did – I just wheedled a small donation from her at the same time. They are wealthy lasses,
and do not mind lending me money for my poor sick mother.’

‘And then you make bets with men like me, saying you can charm these lockets away from their owners. But, of course, you do
no such thing. Belle is still wearing hers, and the one you showed me this morning is a duplicate.’

‘I keep a supply in my hat,’ confided Turner, winking. ‘I almost lost them when Lady Castlemaine demanded I hand it over –
I had to pretend I wanted to keep it because it was a gift from Bess.’

‘You could have returned the statue to the Earl,’ said
Chaloner, aiming to disconcert him by turning the discussion to the crime that had transpired to be something of a disaster.
‘He would have been far too delighted to ask awkward questions, and you could have secured his good graces permanently.’

Turner sneered. ‘And what would he have given me for it? Nothing! However, I am beginning to see there is no alternative,
so I shall make him a gift of it after I kill you. I will tell him
you
stole it.’

Chaloner dived forward, startling the colonel with the speed of his attack. Turner tried to fight back, but found he had insufficient
room to manoeuvre. The spy met each feeble thrust with the broom, then jabbed hard, catching Turner a painful blow on the
ribs. But Turner recovered quickly, and reciprocated by slashing at Chaloner’s legs. He missed, but the move caused the spy
to stagger, and Turner took the opportunity to dart around a crate and tip Nero off his pedestal. Chaloner hurled himself
backwards to avoid being crushed, and fell awkwardly. Turner grinned when he saw the spy sprawled on the floor
sans
broom, and prepared to make an end of him.

Chaloner looked around desperately for some kind of weapon – anything that would slow Turner’s relentless advance – but there
was nothing. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the stroke that would end his life. But suddenly, there was a thud
and Turner gave a sharp yelp of pain – someone had lobbed a wine decanter that had hit him square in the back. Temperance
was on the stairs.

Turner whipped around, then started to stride towards her. Chaloner struggled to his feet, sure Turner was going
to kill her, but his legs were like rubber, and he could not move nearly fast enough. The colonel reached her first.

‘Dearest,’ he said with one of his most winning smiles. ‘Chaloner stole the King’s bust, and hid it in your cellar. But he
has been unable to sell the thing, so hopes to secure his future with the Earl by blaming you for the crime.’

‘He is lying,’ said Chaloner, although with scant hope of being believed. Why would she take his word over that of an adored
lover?

‘We have been fighting,’ continued Turner, ignoring him. ‘But I won, and it will not take a moment to finish him off. Go upstairs,
love. You do not want to see this.’

‘I heard you,’ said Temperance in a low, broken voice. ‘I was hard on your heels when you came down here. I heard everything
you said.’

Unabashed, Turner winked at her. ‘You heard me confounding him with a false confession. It is a technique I have used to corner
felons before, and you should not worry your pretty head with it.’

While Turner was talking, Chaloner summoned the strength for a final assault. He tore across the room, and crashed into the
man, bowling him from his feet. The sword flew from Turner’s hand, and by the time he had gathered his wits, the spy was sitting
astride him and his own dagger was being held to his throat. Turner regarded it in astonishment, as if he could not imagine
how he had lost the encounter.

‘Stand up,’ ordered Chaloner, grabbing the sword. He was aware of Temperance’s bitter weeping behind him, and it tore at his
heart. For two pins, he would have run Turner through there and then.

‘Do not let him take me,’ Turner begged, climbing to his feet and stretching a pleading hand towards Temperance. ‘I will be
hanged. And anyway, I stole the bust for us, so we could—’

‘No more lies, James,’ Temperance sobbed. ‘Do not talk to me.’

Turner was shrewd enough to recognise a lost cause when he saw one. He turned to Chaloner instead. ‘If you let me go, I will
tell you where to find Greene – or rather where Greene will be at dawn. The whores in the Dog and Duck have been sheltering
him, but I met Meg earlier, and she could not resist confiding in me.’

Chaloner indicated that Turner was to precede him up the stairs. Temperance followed.

‘He plans to visit the Painted Chamber at first light,’ continued Turner, rather desperately. ‘According to Meg, he wants
to collect a few things before fleeing to France. You can go there and arrest him. It will delight His Portliness, and save
you your job.’

‘And why should I believe you?’

‘Because I do not want to hang,’ said Turner. His voice was unsteady. ‘So I am offering you valuable information in exchange
for an hour to leave the city. Besides, I suspect you think I am the clerk-killer – you seem to be blaming me for everything
else – and I want to prove my innocence by giving you the real villain. Greene.’

‘There is no need,’ said Chaloner. They reached the top of the stairs, and Temperance stepped around them to open the door.
‘You have an alibi for Chetwynd’s murder: Meg said you and she meet each Monday and Thursday and stay together from dusk until
dawn. You were with her when he died.’

He heard Temperance catch her breath, but did not
take his eyes off Turner. She tugged open the door, then stood aside for the colonel to pass. As he went, Turner reached out
to touch her cheek. She ducked away violently, unwittingly placing herself between him and Chaloner’s sword. As quick as lightning,
Turner shoved her hard, so she toppled towards the cellar stairs. Chaloner tried to catch her, but she was a large woman and
represented a lot of weight. She fell, dragging the spy down the steps with her. Then the door slammed, and Chaloner heard
the key turn in the lock.

‘Tom?’ asked Temperance softly in the silence that followed. ‘Are you all right?’

Chaloner was unable to answer until she had removed herself from his chest. Then he lurched up the stairs and hauled furiously
at the door, disgusted with himself for letting Turner escape. By the time he had picked the lock, the colonel was long gone.
He did not feel equal to a chase, so he limped back to the kitchen instead. Temperance was sitting at the table, sobbing so
hard he was not sure how to comfort her. He said nothing, and knelt by her side, waiting until she was ready to talk. He was
aware of the minutes ticking away, but nothing seemed more important than his friend at that moment.