The Westminster Poisoner (50 page)

While she wept, he thought about Turner’s claim. Was he telling the truth about Greene being in the Painted Chamber at dawn?
Or was it yet another lie? And how far off was daybreak anyway? He had lost all sense of time. In the parlour, he could hear
Wiseman’s voice, and the sound of women laughing. At least someone was having a good time.

‘No!’ exclaimed Temperance suddenly, brushing away her tears. She sat bolt upright. ‘Oh, no!’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. It was not a reaction he had been anticipating.

She leapt to her feet and began to bundle him towards the door. ‘James – I have just realised what he is going to do. He will
see us as the only thing standing between him and the fulfilment of his nefarious plans. He will run straight to your Earl
and spin a web of lies that will see
us
blamed for robbing Tryan and stealing the statue.’

Chaloner disengaged his arm. Turner had just had a very narrow escape, and would be halfway to the coast by now, thanking
his lucky stars for his deliverance. ‘Even he is not audacious enough to—’

She punched his shoulder, hard, to express her exasperation. ‘He
is
, Tom! He is the most plausible liar in London – he must be, if he can deceive me. And who do you think your Earl will believe?
A Royalist colonel who solves murders, or you, who keeps to the shadows and insults him at every turn?’

‘But you heard him confess,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘You will bear witness that—’

‘You think the Earl will listen to a brothel-keeper, do you?’

She had a point. ‘But it is not—’

‘You do not know James like I do,’ she snapped. ‘He loves money, and we have just deprived him of five thousand pounds. He
will be livid – itching for revenge. And what better way, than to see us accused of the crimes
he
committed? I cannot believe I have been such a fool.’

Neither could Chaloner. ‘It could happen to anyone,’ he began lamely.

‘He used me to mislead you,’ she went on bitterly. ‘He encouraged me to think
Brodrick
stole the bust, in his capacity as Lord of Misrule. And then he urged me to
share my so-called theory with you – to throw you off his own scent. He is a villain to the core! But do not stand there looking
bewildered, Tom! Go! Take my horse.’

‘You have a horse?’

‘I did,’ said Temperance grimly, when she led the way across the yard and saw the stable door ajar. Footprints in the snow
showed where someone had dashed in and a nag had galloped out. ‘You will have to run. Your life – and mine – depends on you
reaching the Earl in time to refute James’s lies.’

Chaloner tried to do as she ordered, but he was exhausted, and every inch was a struggle. The blizzard had dwindled to the
occasional flurry, but the temperature had plummeted, and there was a crust of ice on top of the snow. Every step involved
crunching knee-deep into it, and hauling the other leg out behind him. It would have been gruelling exercise had he been fresh,
but his energy reserves were almost entirely depleted, and his leg ached badly.

He laboured along The Strand with his breath coming in sharp bursts. He began to sweat from the effort, but did not dare stop
to remove his coat, afraid he would never start again if he did. When he reached Charing Cross, he was tempted to give up,
and hope the Earl would be prepared to listen to him regardless of what Turner had said in the interim. But there was Temperance
to consider. The Earl was not going to champion a woman who ran a bordello, whether she was innocent or not.

The city was eerily quiet, sounds being muffled by the blanketing snow. He heard the clocks strike five, and was surprised
it was so late; it felt earlier, because most of London still slept. He did not imagine the Earl would
be at his offices at such an hour, so he stopped at Worcester House, hammering on the door with a ferocity that hurt his hands.
But the servant who answered it told him the Earl was not there – he had already gone to White Hall. Chaloner had miscalculated,
and had lost valuable moments doing so.

He reached the palace after what seemed liked an age, and stumbled through the gate. He was able to put on a spurt of speed
once he was inside, but knew it was too little, too late – when he arrived and placed his ear against the office door, he
could hear Turner speaking. The monologue was occasionally punctuated by the Earl, and once by Haddon. Chaloner rested his
forehead against the wall in weary despair. The colonel had already spun his tale, and he was elegant, plausible and charming.
Temperance was right: the Earl would never believe Chaloner over his new darling.

So what should he do now? Slip away before he was arrested? But then what would happen to Temperance? He took a deep breath,
and tried to hear what was being said.

‘… Greene in the Painted Chamber,’ Turner was declaring.

‘Is he?’ asked the Earl. ‘Then why have you not arrested him?’

‘I would have done, sir,’ said Turner patiently. ‘But, as I just told you, I have only just escaped from Chaloner and his
friend the brothel-keeper. They locked me in their cellar all night, and I am lucky to escape with my life. It was they who
stopped me from apprehending Greene.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Haddon indignantly. ‘Thomas would never do such terrible things. You are
just trying to have him dismissed, so you can be appointed in his place.’

‘Dismissed?’ echoed Turner. ‘I want him thrown into your deepest dungeon! He stole from the King, not to mention battering
poor Tryan to within an inch of his life. And he told me he felt sorry for Greene, because he is a fellow criminal. A man
like that cannot be allowed his freedom.’

‘Put up your weapon, colonel,’ ordered the Earl. ‘I do not feel safe with you waving it about.’

Chaloner reached for his own sword, not liking the notion of Turner being in the Earl’s company with a naked blade, only to
realise he did not have one. The only remotely sharp implement to hand was Bulteel’s paper-knife. He grabbed it, and had just
put his ear to the door again when there was a shriek.

‘Stop!’ cried the Earl. ‘I
command
you to disarm!’

‘You do not believe me,’ hissed Turner. ‘You think I am lying.’

‘We can talk about this like civilised men,’ came Haddon’s unsteady voice. ‘But putting your sword at the Lord Chancellor’s
throat is not the best way to make your case.’

Chaloner had heard enough. He threw open the door and burst in, paper-knife at the ready.

‘Thomas!’ shouted the Earl in relief. Turner jerked around when the spy entered, enabling the Earl to scamper away from him.
‘Thank God! Turner has taken leave of his senses, and means to kill us.’

‘Well, why not?’ demanded Turner. His voice was cold and dangerous. ‘I have spent all night locked in a filthy basement on
your behalf, and now you say you do not believe me! How can you take his side over mine? He is
a killer, trained by Spymaster Thurloe, no less –
and
he refused to accept that you were right about Greene. He
defied
you.’

‘All that is true,’ said the Earl. ‘But you also said he was a thief, and that I will never believe.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Turner. ‘Go to Hercules’ Pillars Alley and see for yourself. He is—’

‘Because he has had plenty of chances to steal in the past, and he never has,’ replied the Earl. ‘His honesty is beyond question.
You, on the other hand, know a suspicious amount about these crimes.’

‘Because I solved them!’ yelled Turner in exasperation. ‘You stupid, ignorant old fool! Why could you not have listened to
me? We might have enjoyed a profitable partnership.’

‘Partnership?’ echoed the Earl in disbelief. ‘How dare you presume! Well, what are you waiting for, Thomas? I have had enough
of this ridiculous situation. Take him into custody immediately.’

Chaloner glanced at his paper-knife, wondering how he was expected to arrest the sword-toting Turner when he was basically
unarmed. But the Earl pulled the kind of face that indicated this was an irrelevancy, and that Chaloner should get on with
it and stop making excuses.

‘Catch!’ shouted Haddon, tossing his ornamental dress-sword towards the spy.

Unfortunately, Chaloner could not move quickly enough, and Turner reached it first. He kicked it under a chest, then launched
a fierce and determined attack, apparently knowing that to lose this time meant certain death. The spy scrambled behind the
desk, and lobbed the paper-knife. Had it been a dagger, it would have killed Turner instantly, but it was too blunt to penetrate
and only bounced uselessly to the floor. Outraged, Turner lunged across the table towards him, forcing him to retreat faster
than his leg appreciated. Meanwhile, the Earl’s expression went from vengeful confidence to alarm when he realised his champion
was not as invincible as he had thought.

Chaloner knew he was going to be skewered unless he thought of something fast. He glanced around quickly, then pretended to
catch his foot in one of the Turkish rugs. The Earl gave a cry of dismay when he went sprawling. Grinning malevolently, Turner
moved in for the kill. Chaloner waited for him to close, then kicked out hard, driving him backwards. There was a resounding
clang as the colonel’s head connected with the precariously placed chandelier. He crashed to the floor and lay still. Climbing
quickly to his feet, Chaloner ripped a sash from one of the curtains and tied Turner’s hands before he could regain his senses
and create any more mischief.

‘I had a feeling he was not all he claimed,’ said Haddon, bolder now the danger was over. ‘I have a gift for sensing wickedness,
and there is a lot to sense in him – he is a liar and a thief.’

But the Earl was no longer interested in Turner. ‘There is work to be done, Thomas. Greene is in the Painted Chamber, and
it is time he was in custody. Go and apprehend him.’

‘I will come with you,’ offered Haddon kindly, reaching out to steady the spy when he reeled from pure exhaustion. ‘But we
had better hurry, or Greene may decide to leave.’

Numbly, Chaloner followed him out, hoping he would have the strength to carry out his orders – he did not
think he had ever been so tired. He was not so weary that he forgot to take Turner’s sword with him, however.

Dawn was breaking at last, a pale, distant glow in the night sky. It revealed a world that was unrecognisable, with roofs
coated in a thick layer of white, and great clots of snow lodged in the branches of trees. The streets around White Hall and
Westminster were used by monarchs and nobles, so labourers had been employed to shovel paths along them, which meant the journey
to the Painted Chamber was much easier than the one from Hercules’ Pillars Alley. Even so, Chaloner struggled.

‘What is wrong?’ asked Haddon, eyeing him in concern. ‘Did Turner score a sly hit? I find that hard to believe. The Earl said
he could never best you in a thousand years.’

‘Did he? When? Until a few moments ago, he was all for Turner.’

‘Yes and no,’ replied Haddon. ‘He is not a fool, and detected inconsistencies in the tales he was spun – in response to a
few hints by me, naturally. Moreover, he was unimpressed by the fact that Turner’s sword broke when the Lord of Misrule attacked
him, and asked me to investigate his military claims. I learned he was never a colonel in the Royalist army.’

‘He probably cannot cook, either,’ muttered Chaloner. He did not want Haddon with him when he arrested Greene. The steward
would be in the way, and might be injured if there was a scuffle. He tried to think of an excuse to be rid of him. ‘I saw
Bulteel buying more spices yesterday.’

Haddon stopped dead in his tracks and regarded him closely. ‘Did you? Do you think he might be planning a
repeat performance of the pepper-cake incident? My poor darlings have still not recovered.’

‘Perhaps you should check them,’ suggested Chaloner, hoping his lies would not exacerbate the feud between secretary and steward
to the point where it could never be mended.

‘Perhaps I should,’ said Haddon worriedly. ‘But what about you? You need my help.’

‘I will manage,’ said Chaloner. ‘It is only Greene – and I have a sword.’

Haddon’s face was a study in indecision, but eventually affection for his dogs won out. With a muttered apology, he slipped
off in the direction of Cannon Row. Relieved to be rid of the responsibility of protecting him, Chaloner toiled on alone.
He sincerely hoped Greene would not elect to fight, because he suspected that even a clerk with no experience with weapons
would best him at that moment.

It felt like hours before he reached the Painted Chamber, and when he did, he was obliged to take a moment to recover – to
catch his breath and wait for the burning weariness to ease from his legs. Then he pushed open the door and entered its cold,
dim interior. It was empty on two counts – it was still too early for the clerks to begin their work, and Twelfth Night was
a popular holiday, when men tended to stay at home with their families. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked. Daylight
was just beginning to filter through the windows, ghostly and grey from the reflection of the snow outside. It did not take
him many moments to see that no one was there, and he was not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Now what? He sat heavily on a desk, uncertain what
to do next. Should he hire a horse and ride to the coast, which was where any sane fugitive from justice would be heading?
Or should he go to the Dog and Duck, on the off-chance that Greene had decided to remain in hiding with his prostitute friends?
Unfortunately, either option required more energy than he had left.

‘What are you doing here?’

Greene’s voice was so close behind him that Chaloner leapt to his feet and spun around in alarm. He started to reach for his
sword, but the clerk was holding a gun, and even in the poor light, Chaloner could see it was loaded and ready to fire. Greene
did not look comfortable with the weapon, and the hand that held it shook.

‘You lied to me,’ said Chaloner, beginning to back away. ‘I believed you when you said you were innocent – and I believed
your reasons for why the evidence against you should be disregarded, too.’