The Westminster Poisoner (16 page)

‘Eh?’ said Gold. ‘Speak up.’

‘It is not a crucifix,’ objected Bess. The object in question hung around her neck, and she fingered it possessively. ‘It
is a cross with a figure of Jesus on it. And it was a special gift from Colonel Turner, so you cannot have it.’

‘You should not wear rubies to confession, anyway,’ said Buckingham, grabbing the Lady’s arm and attempting to haul her away.
She flashed her teeth at him, apparently threatening to bite, and he released her hastily. ‘The priest would demand them for
the poor, and, as a “faithful daughter of the Church”, you will be obliged to hand them over for the Pope’s coffers.’

‘Bess is not my daughter,’ declared Gold loudly. ‘She is my wife. And I would rather you did not mention coffins in my presence,
not when I am fast approaching the day when I shall be in one.’

‘I shall buy you a nice casket when the time comes,’ offered Bess brightly. ‘Although it should not be too expensive, given
that you will only be using it the once.’

All four turned when one of the hovering courtiers, braver than his fellows, strode towards them. It was the cherub-faced
Neale. ‘What seems to be the trouble, Bess?’ he asked. ‘May I help?’

‘You may not,’ snapped Lady Castlemaine, giving him
a shove that was hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Go away and mind your own business, boy. You are not wanted here.’

‘You may not want him, but I do,’ said Bess, with something of a leer. Fortunately for Neale, Gold’s ancient legs were tiring,
and his attention was fixed on holding himself upright by hanging on to Buckingham, so he did not see her expression. The
Duke grimaced and tried to extricate himself, but Gold’s gnarled fingers were stronger than they looked.

‘I shall accompany you home, Bess,’ declared Neale gallantly. ‘Away from this place.’

‘It is a disgrace,’ agreed Gold loudly, shifting so the hapless Duke bore almost his entire weight. ‘Uneven cobbles should
be banned by royal decree – a man could break his neck in this yard.’

Lady Castlemaine ignored him and put her hands on her hips. ‘Excuse me,’ she snarled at Neale. ‘But I just told you to mind
your own business. You had better oblige or Buckingham will run you through. He can do it, you know. He has a rapier.’

‘Not with me, though,’ said Buckingham with a grimace, struggling to stay upright under Gold’s dead weight. ‘So it will have
to be later. Tomorrow at dawn, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields? That is where such matters are usually settled.’

‘That is very kind, Buckingham,’ bellowed Gold. ‘I would be honoured to be your guest at Field’s tomorrow. I understand it
is one of the more exclusive coffee houses, patronised by members of Court and parliament. Dawn is too early, though, and
a man of my mature years needs his sleep. Midday would be much more convenient, so I shall see you then.’

He grabbed the arm Neale was proffering to Bess, and leaned on it so heavily that the young man was hard-pressed to keep his
balance. As Bess and Neale escorted him away, Gold began a litany of compliments about Buckingham’s gracious manners. Chaloner
laughed when he saw the stunned expressions on the faces of the Duke and the Lady, although not loudly enough for them to
hear him.

‘It was a paltry crucifix anyway,’ said Buckingham, when he had regained his composure. ‘And those were not rubies, but coloured
glass. I shall buy you a much nicer one.’

‘For my priest to steal?’ asked the Lady icily. ‘No, thank you! Perhaps I will return to Anglicanism, if papists are going
to prove miserly. I am bored of the religion, anyway, and only converted to annoy the Queen. She wallows in her Catholic devotions,
and I wanted to show her that I can wallow just as prettily. I can produce royal children prettily, too. Unlike her.’

‘You can produce royal bastards,’ corrected Buckingham tartly. ‘Only a queen can produce royal children, but our dear Lord
Chancellor has ensured that we shall never see any. He did England a grave disservice by foisting a barren wife on our King.’

Chaloner was spared from having to report his progress – or lack thereof – to the Earl, because his master was at a meeting
of the Privy Council, and so unavailable. He ate some seedcake made by Bulteel’s wife, listened to Haddon wax lyrical about
the delights of owning a dog, and spent the first part of the evening in the Banqueting House, where the Court had gathered
for a performance of the King’s Musick. He made a few desultory enquiries,
but Locke was one of his favourite composers, and it was not long before he became lost in the exquisite harmonies. Afterwards,
guilty that he had squandered so much time – especially as Turner was busily darting from woman to woman, looking as though
he was gathering intelligence aplenty – he went to the kitchens, hoping the servants would be in the mood to gossip. They
were, but he learned nothing useful anyway.

He was on the verge of giving up when he saw Hannah, who had come to fetch warm milk for the Queen. Hannah was small, fair
and her face was more interesting than pretty. Unlike the Lady, she could be witty without resorting to cruelty, and one of
the things Chaloner liked best about her was her ability to make him laugh. He loitered, waiting for her to finish her duties,
then escorted her to the pleasant cottage in Tothill Street where she lived. The road was bounded by the rural Tothill Fields
to the south, and the landscaped splendour of St James’s Park to the north, and was a quiet, peaceful place. It smelled of
damp earth and dew, and owls could be heard hooting in the woods nearby.

Hannah was livid, because one of Buckingham’s footmen had made some impolitic remark about the Queen’s failure to produce
children. She had left the fellow in no doubt as to what would happen if she heard him utter such treasonous statements again,
but his stammering apology had done nothing to appease her: she remained incandescent.

‘How can people be so heartless?’ she raged as they walked. Her voice was loud enough to cause a few residents to peer through
their curtains, and Chaloner supposed it was no surprise that word had spread about their blossoming friendship. ‘The Queen
is doing her
best to achieve what is expected of her, but these … these
pigs
are implacable.’

‘It is unfair,’ agreed Chaloner.

‘It is more than unfair – it is a scandal! They exclude her from their revelries – she was not even invited to the King’s
Musick tonight – they shun her when she speaks to them, and they laugh at her attempts to learn English. She is the Queen,
but they treat her with rank disrespect.’

She continued to rail while Chaloner lit a fire and warmed some wine, so he listened patiently and without interruption until
her temper burned out. Then he spent the night, and was tired enough after several nights of poor sleep that he did not wake
until an hour after dawn the following day. Alarmed by the loss of time, he slipped out of bed, dressed and walked briskly
to White Hall. The weather had continued to improve, and patches of blue let shafts of sunlight dance across the winter-bare
ground.

He climbed the stairs to the Earl’s office slowly, wondering what he could say about his progress. To postpone the inevitable
reprimand for his lack of success – when the unctuous Turner was probably on the brink of a solution – he went to speak to
Bulteel first. The secretary was good at gathering information, and now they had a formal pact to help each other, Chaloner
was hopeful that he might have learned something useful. Unfortunately, he had nothing with which to reciprocate.

He met Haddon first, in the hallway outside Bulteel’s little domain. His dogs were with him, straining against their leashes
and making breathless, gagging sounds.

‘I thought I would bring my darlings to work today,’ the steward said beaming merrily, ‘The Earl is having a
soirée tonight, which means a lot of running about to arrange food, guests and music, and my beauties like a bit of exercise.’

‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘What manner of music?’

‘Viols, I believe, although stringed instruments sound like a lot of screeching cats to me. Give me a trumpet any day. A trumpet
is like a dog – loud, clear and commanding of respect.’

Chaloner looked at the glossy, pampered creatures that panted and gasped at his feet. ‘Is that so?’

‘Come along, my lovers,’ trilled Haddon. ‘The Earl wants us to hire Greeting’s consort because Brodrick’s is unavailable.
Shall we look for Greeting in the chapel first, or his coffee house?’

‘His coffee house,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He will not be in the chapel at this time of day.’

‘I was talking to the dogs, actually,’ said Haddon jovially. ‘But your advice is welcome, and we shall do as you suggest,
although my sweethearts dislike coffee houses. They tell me the smell of burned beans irritates their little noses.’

‘They talk to you?’ asked Chaloner, regarding him warily. Men had been taken to the lunatic house at Bedlam for less.

‘Of course they do! Surely you converse with your cat?’ Haddon smiled at the spy’s bewildered expression, then patted him
on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should try it. It keeps the loneliness at bay, and animals are a great comfort to those who
live a solitary life.’

He bounced away whistling, openly delighted at the prospect of a day with his canine companions. Chaloner watched him go,
and supposed he had better spend more time with Hannah or Thurloe, lest his isolated lifestyle
drove him to imagine his cat might have something worthwhile to say. He would not be able to do his job if he was mad, and
then he would starve.

Bulteel leapt in alarm when Chaloner tapped him on the shoulder, not having heard him approach. He clutched his chest and
regarded the spy balefully, then gave a reluctant grin and offered him a piece of his wife’s Christmas gingerbread. Chaloner
sat on the desk while he ate it. It was excellent, as usual, and he wondered how the secretary had managed to capture himself
such a talented cook. He found himself thinking about Hannah, but their relation ship was at such an early stage that he did
not know if she could bake. He decided he had better find out.

‘Did you hear about the third poisoning?’ asked Bulteel in a low voice, so the Earl would not hear and come to find out why
he was chatting when he should be at his ledgers. ‘Langston – the plump fellow with the long nose – is dead.’

Chaloner brushed crumbs from his coat. ‘What was Langston like? I met him with Surgeon Wiseman the other night, but only briefly.
And I was not really in any condition to take his measure.’

Bulteel shrugged. ‘Honest, kind and considerate. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill him. Kersey has him in the
charnel house, so you should inspect him before you see the Earl – he is sure to ask whether this death is the same as the
others. And you should examine the Painted Chamber, where Langston died, too. Perhaps the killer left a clue this time. Williamson
told me …’

He faltered, and Chaloner frowned. ‘You have been talking to the Spymaster? Why?’

Bulteel grimaced, angry with himself. ‘Damn! That slipped out because I am frightened.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Frightened by what? These murders? But why? Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were all government-appointed
officials, but you are an earl’s private secretary. I doubt the killer will regard you as a suitable victim.’

But Bulteel disagreed. ‘It is well known that I refuse bribes, and the three dead men had one thing in common: their integrity.’

Chaloner hastened to reassure him. ‘Chetwynd was not as honest as he liked people to think, so I doubt probity is the motive
for their murders. Is that why you were talking to Williamson? You are afraid, and think he might be able to protect you?’

Bulteel looked miserable. ‘Williamson has had his claws in me for a lot longer than that. A few months ago, he came to me
and said that unless I provide him with the occasional report on the Earl, he would start rumours that would see me dismissed.’

‘Rumours about what? I doubt you have ever done anything unsavoury.’

Bulteel shot him a wan smile. ‘Your confidence is generous, but unfounded. You see, during the Common-wealth I worked for
a bookseller who believed Cromwell was a hero. I told Williamson I did not think the same way, but he said it was irrelevant.
He left me with no choice but to do as he asked.’

Chaloner thought Bulteel was a fool for letting Williamson use such a paltry excuse to intimidate him. He shrugged. ‘A spymaster
should
have eyes all over White Hall, to keep him appraised of what is happening. But I am sure you never impart information that
shows the Earl in a bad light.’

Bulteel was indignant. ‘Of course not! I like this job, and a steady income is important for a man with a new
baby. But it is not easy. Williamson is always after me for snippets, and now Haddon is here, it is only a matter of time
before I am ousted. I do not suppose you have learned anything that may give me an advantage over him?’

Chaloner shot him an apologetic look. ‘But he will never displace you – he is a steward, not a secretary, and he could never
manage the Earl’s accounts like you do.’

Bulteel did not look comforted, although he produced another of his sickly smiles. To anyone who did not know him, it was
a sinister expression, and one that would have most men reaching to secure their purses. ‘You
must
catch this killer, Tom – I shall not feel safe until you have tracked him down. Did you know the Earl invited Langston to
work as his spy, but he refused?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘That would have made three of us, with Turner. What does he want, an army?’

‘Yes, actually. He is worried that his enemies will start accusing him of ordering these deaths, because all three victims
were men with whom he has had arguments over the last few weeks.’

Chaloner recalled the Earl ranting about his detractors after they had inspected Vine’s body, when the spy had escorted him
home in his carriage. He had put the incident from his mind, because it had seemed more of a diatribe than a flow of information,
but now he understood. Without admitting that he had done anything wrong, the Earl had been telling his spy about his own
uncomfortable association with the victims – and with others who had crossed him.