The Westminster Poisoner (8 page)

‘Yes. He was a minor nuisance during the Common-wealth – he liked breaking into the Post Office and stealing letters. He
never laid hold of anything import ant, but it was an annoyance, regardless.’

‘He says you put a price on his head.’

‘Then he is lying – he would not have been worth the expense.’

‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘Only that he has twenty-eight children, and he trained as a solicitor. And that he could never match your expertise as an
intelligencer, and the Earl is an ass if he thinks otherwise.’

But the Earl
was
an ass in matters of espionage, thought Chaloner dejectedly, and might well dismiss him in favour of a flamboyant Cavalier.
And then what? The spy could not foist himself on his family, because, as fervent supporters of Cromwell, they were being
taxed into
poverty by vengeful Royalists. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he should abandon England, and go to live in the
New World. The only problem was that he had been there once, and had not liked it.

‘What do you know about the victims?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Vine and Chetwynd?’

‘Just that they were pillars of decency in a government that seethes with corruption. It was not like that when Cromwell was
in charge – as absolute ruler, he had the power to dismiss or arrest anyone he deemed less than honest. As I have said before,
a military dictatorship is the best form of govern—’

‘What about their families?’ asked Chaloner, interrupting before they could argue. He did not share Thurloe’s views on the
joys of repressive regimes. ‘George Vine told me he tried to assassinate Cromwell. Is it true?’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘I did have wind of a plot, but it transpired to be so outlandish that I did not bother with a prosecution.
He planned to give the Lord Protector an exploding leek, but failed to take into account that most men are not in the habit
of devouring raw vegetables presented to them by strangers. And we all know you cannot pack enough gunpowder inside a leek
to kill anyone.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘You would need a cabbage, at the very least.’

Religion was a contentious issue in England, and as far as the bishops were concerned, a person was either a devout Anglican
who attended his weekly devotions, or a fanatic who should be treated with suspicion. Some churches kept registers of which
parishioners stayed away, and because Chaloner had been trained never to attract
unnecessary attention, he always tried to make an appearance at St Dunstan-in-the-West on those Sundays when he was home.
He did not usually mind, because the old building was a haven of peace amid the clamour of the city, and the rector’s rambling
sermons gave him a chance to sit quietly and think of other matters.

But he resented the wasted time that day. There was too much to do, and Rector Thompson was holding a sheaf of notes that
suggested his congregation might be trapped for hours while he ploughed through them all. Chaloner exchanged amiable greetings
with him in the nave, ensured his name was recorded on the attendance list, then escaped through the vestry door when no one
was looking. Once in the street, he headed for Westminster, walking with one hand on his hat to prevent the wind from tearing
it from his head. It had been a gift from a lady in Spain, and its crown was cunningly reinforced with a metal bowl. It had
saved his life on several occasions, and he did not want to lose it.

Westminster was different from White Hall, despite the fact that both were medieval palaces. White Hall was brazenly secular,
alive with the colours of Court – the reds, golds, oranges and purples of balls and banquets. Its larger buildings were built
of brick, although most were in desperate need of painting, and fountains and statues adorned its open spaces. By contrast,
Westminster was dominated by its abbey and Norman hall, and had a monastic feel. Its buildings were characterised by lancet
windows, stained glass and pinnacles, and there was an atmosphere of sobriety and business. Policy might be decided in White
Hall, but the documents and writs to make it legal came from Westminster.

At the heart of Westminster, in the open area known
as New Palace Yard, was the medieval Great Hall. As Chaloner walked past it, he paused to stare up at the severed heads that
had been placed on poles outside. Cromwell’s was there, although the spy had no idea which of the blackened, almost inhuman
objects belonged to the man who had ruled the Commonwealth. Some had long hair that waved in the wind, but most were bald,
picked clean by crows. They had a tendency to blow down in rough weather, and he could see at least two on the ground. People
were giving them a wide berth, because Spymaster Williamson’s men were in the habit of lurking nearby, ready to arrest anyone
who attempted to rescue the pathetic objects and give them a decent burial.

Chaloner cut through a series of alleys until he reached the narrow lane that gave access to the Painted Chamber, intending
to inspect it more thoroughly than he had been able to the previous night. He was unimpressed to find it very busy, not only
with the clerks who had turned it into their personal office space, but with spectators who wanted to see the spot where two
men had been murdered. A search was out of the question, so he lingered unobtrusively near the tapestries, eavesdropping on
the discussions of the ghouls. It did not take him long to realise that he was wasting his time, and that the chances of overhearing
anything relevant were negligible, so he left.

Unfortunately, he had no clear idea of how else to proceed, so he spent the rest of the day lurking in the kitchens, cook-houses
and public areas of both palaces. But although there was a lot of talk about the murders – the statue was not mentioned, because
it was old news and no longer of interest – it was all gossip and
speculation, and nothing was based in fact. And the Lord of Misrule was being unusually close-lipped about his plans, so the
spy made no headway there, either. He did learn that an event was planned for that evening in the Great Hall, though – it
was something to do with Babylon, and necessitated the preparation of vast platters of a glutinous, rose-flavoured jelly.

The daylight faded and darkness fell. People began to dissipate, either to go home, or – if they were important enough to
be invited – head for the Great Hall to enjoy whatever Near Eastern extravaganza Brodrick had devised. Among the latter was
George Vine, who wore a bizarre combination of clothes meant to make him look like a sultan. The wind caught his turban and
sent it cart-wheeling across the courtyard; Chaloner stopped it with his foot, and handed it back to him.

‘What do you think?’ asked George, twirling around then grabbing Chaloner’s arm when a combination of wine and a sudden gust
of wind made him stagger. ‘I am a Babylonian prince.’

‘Very pretty. Have you made arrangements for your father’s funeral yet?’

‘Do not think to berate me for merrymaking while he lies above ground, because old Dreary Bones was buried this morning.’
George smirked at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘I wanted to make sure Surgeon Wiseman did not get him, so time was of the essence.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering why George was so determined to prevent an examination that might yield clues. It was clearly
nothing to do with filial love. ‘Can you tell me anything about his last day? What time did he leave home?’

‘At dawn. I remember, because we met at the door,
and argued over the fact that he was going to work, while I had not yet been to bed. He was like that, always criticising
me for having fun.’

‘And what did his work at the Treasury entail, exactly?’

‘He dealt with large quantities of money. I suppose I shall have to find out more, given that I intend to take over his duties.
But I refuse to work as hard as he did –

I
am no bore.’ ‘I am sure the King will be impressed by your dedication.’

George curled his lip, jammed his turban on his head and began to totter away. He called back over his shoulder as he went.
‘The wind is picking up again, and we all know what that means.’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What?’

‘That a great person will die. People said it blew for my father, but it persists, so obviously it gusts for someone else
– old Dreary Bones was not a “great person” after all. You had better make sure the Lord Chancellor is tucked up safe in his
bed.’

Chaloner darted after him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to make him squeal as he jerked him to a standstill. ‘Are you
threatening my Earl?’

George was frightened – by the spy’s speed, strength and the expression on his face. ‘No! I was just blathering. I did not
mean anything by it, I swear!’ His bloodshot eyes lit on a nearby lane, and he jabbed a desperate finger at it. ‘Look, there
are Thomas and Matthias Lea. Go and interrogate them – they also benefited from the murder of a kinsman, and I am not the
only one who is suddenly rich.’

Chaloner peered into the gloom, and saw Chetwynd’s
heirs climbing into a hackney. They were looking in his direction, but when he released George and took a few steps towards
them, one said something to the driver and they rattled away. He could have caught them, had he run, but it was not worth
the effort. They had left abruptly because they did not want to deal with him, and chasing them was not going to change that
fact. He would simply have to wait for a more opportune moment.

He lingered a while longer, standing in the shadows of White Hall’s largest courtyard, and watching gaggles of courtiers set
off towards Westminster together. Most wore costumes that showed they had not the faintest idea of what Babylon had been like.
Eventually, only the stragglers remained. One trio comprised a girl with woolly hair who wore nothing around her midriff and
bells on her ankles, a youth dressed as a genie, and an old man whose sole concession to the occasion was a fez. He appeared
to be deaf, and kept turning questioningly to his companions, who made no effort to speak at a volume that would help him.
Chaloner knew they were rich when a coach came to collect them, although it was too dark to make out the insignia on its side.
He could tell from their gestures that the youngsters were annoyed about being late, while the ancient gave the impression
that he would rather be at home with a good book and a cup of warm milk.

But then even they had gone. There was no point in remaining, so Chaloner set off for Westminster himself, not to spy on the
ball, but to see whether the Painted Chamber was empty at last.

When he reached New Palace Yard, the twang of foreign-sounding music and a cacophony of voices emanated
from the Great Hall. A few revellers spilled into the street, one or two to vomit up the unpalatable mixture of wine and rose-flavoured
jellies, and others to snatch kisses and fondles in the darkness outside. Several enterprising businesses had stayed open
in the hope of attracting late trade, although Chaloner could not imagine many courtiers being interested in legal books or
porpoise tongues, which seemed to be the two main commodities on offer.

The area around the Painted Chamber was deserted, though. It was illuminated by the odd lantern, but not many, because fuel
was expensive and the government saw no point in spending money on a part of the complex that was usually abandoned at night.
The occasional clerk risked life and limb to work late – the Palace of Westminster was surrounded by tenements and hovels,
so violent crime was rife – but they were not many. One shadow sidled up to Chaloner with the clear intention of relieving
him of his purse, but it melted away when he started to draw his sword.

The Painted Chamber was unlocked, and he supposed the guards had yet to make their rounds and secure the building for the
night. He opened the door to its lobby, then ascended the wide stone steps to the main hall. He paused by the entrance, listening
intently for any sound from within, more from habit than any expectation of detecting anything amiss. But George had been
right when he said the wind was picking up again – it screamed down the chimney and roared across the roof, and Chaloner could
barely hear his own footsteps, let alone anyone else’s. He scanned the shadows for any flicker of movement that might tell
him someone was there, but the place appeared to be empty. It was lit by a lamp at
its far end, near the spot where Vine and Chetwynd had died, but was otherwise in darkness.

It was a large building, perhaps eighty feet long by twenty-five wide, and showed signs of serious long-term neglect. The
great tapestries depicting the Trojan Wars were grey with filth, and the ceiling was black from years of smoking candles.
The stone tracery in the windows was crumbling, and the floorboards needed replacing – there were gaps between some that could
swallow a small foot.

He walked to the far end, and gazed at the place where the bodies had been found. The first victim, Chetwynd, had been working
at his desk. So what had happened? Had the killer arrived, amiably offering to share a cup of wine with him? If so, then Chetwynd
must have known his murderer, because government officials did not accept refreshments from just anyone in the depths of night.
The fact that no cup was anywhere to be found when the chamber was later searched told Chaloner that the culprit had been
careful to leave nothing in the way of clues.

And Vine? The building where he worked adjoined the Painted Chamber, so perhaps he, like Greene, had run out of ink, and hoped
to borrow some from Chetwynd’s well-supplied table. Or perhaps the killer had invited him there, offering to share his deadly
brew on the pretence that it was a toast to a dead colleague. And that meant the killer knew
both
his victims – knew them well enough that Vine was not suspicious, despite almost certainly being aware of what had happened
to Chetwynd.

The spy took the lamp and began to examine the floor, although not with much hope of finding anything useful – the hall had
been graced by too many visitors that day.
He was on the verge of giving up and going home, when he spotted something gleaming faintly between two floorboards. It was
a ring, but when he tried to pick it up, he found it was solidly wedged. There was a smear of mud on it, which told him someone
– possibly its owner – had trodden on it, probably by accident, crushing it even more firmly into the slit. New scratches
on the floor around it indicated someone had tried to prise it out, but had given up. Chaloner saw why when his dagger proved
too unwieldy for the task, and he was obliged to use one of his lock-picking probes. It was not easy, but he succeeded eventually.