The Westminster Poisoner (17 page)

‘He said Chetwynd disapproved of his unbending stance on religion,’ he mused, thinking about what had been confided. ‘And
Vine objected to his gaudy house.’

‘And Langston was deeply offended by his offer of employment – a lot of people heard him call the Earl a villain. I imagine
it will not be long before our master’s opponents notice that men who disagree with him end up being poisoned in the Painted
Chamber. And then they will start braying about it.’

‘He is not a murderer,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He may not be a saint, but he has his principles.’

And yet, he thought, the Earl was inexplicably determined to see an innocent man hang. Perhaps he had decided principles were
putting him at a disadvantage in a place where no one else had any. It would not be the first time a good man had attempted
to combat wickedness on its own terms.

Chaloner decided to take Bulteel’s advice and inspect Langston’s body before it was either moved to a church or shoved in
the ground, depending on how well he had been loved by his next of kin. The Earl was ensconced with Brodrick anyway, and said
he was not to be disturbed, not even to be briefed about murder or lost busts.

He walked to Westminster, and was halfway across New Palace Yard when he was sidetracked by a spectacle. Colonel Turner
had dressed for the ladies that day, eschewing the current taste for lace, and opting instead for a plain blue suit with a
silver sash and matching ear-string. The attire made him look martial and manly, and he was surrounded by women, all clamouring
for his attention. He stood among them like a god.

Bess Gold was at the edge of the gathering. She fingered her crucifix, and simpered in a way that was brazenly provocative.
Her husband clung to her arm, but his attention was on his feet, to ensure he did not stumble
on the uneven ground. The cherub-faced Neale was hovering nearby, full of envious resentment that Turner should be the object
of Bess’s admiration. He tried to slip around Gold to speak to her, but the old man grabbed him as he passed, ostensibly to
hold himself up. Chaloner frowned. Was it a deliberate ploy to keep Neale away from his wife, or simple bad timing on Neale’s
part? But there was nothing in Gold’s demeanour to suggest he objected to the young man’s presence. On the contrary, he seemed
grateful for another source of physical support.

The remaining women were members of the Queen’s bedchamber, although Chaloner recognised only two. There was Lady Muskerry,
reputed to be a willing partner for any man, but not overly endowed with wits; like Bess, she fingered a trinket that hung
around her neck. And there was Hannah.

‘Did I dream you were with me last night?’ Hannah asked in a low voice, detaching herself from the throng to talk to him.
Her face was serious, but her eyes danced with mischief. ‘I must have done, because I am sure you would not have sneaked off
before dawn without a parting kiss.’

‘It was not before dawn. The sun was up and half the morning was gone.’

‘Why the rush? Was it because I did not stop chattering last night – did not draw breath to ask after your day – making you
eager to escape? Or is it just that you are trying to solve these recent murders?’

Chaloner’s immediate inclination was to evade her question with a comment about Lady Muskerry’s necklace. But it had been
his reluctance to talk about himself that had driven wedges between him and several previous lovers, and he was determined
not to repeat the mistake.
Unfortunately, it was difficult to break the practice that had kept him alive for so many years, and he much preferred the
times when Hannah did all the talking.

‘The Earl has hired Turner and me to look into them,’ he forced himself to say.

Her expressive face crumpled into a grimace. ‘Then be sure you do not do all the work, while he steps in to take the credit.
He thrives on adulation, and will be keen to secure your Earl’s good graces.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows, surprised – and gratified – that she could see through the colonel’s flamboyant charm. ‘Every
other lady at Court seems to think him a gift from God.’

‘Oh, he is a gift, all right. I am told – by several impressed friends – that there is no one like him for making a girl feel
special in the bedchamber. However, a pretty face and a perfect body are not high on my list of requirements in a man.’

‘That is a relief.’

She nudged him playfully. ‘You will suffice.’ Then her impish smile faded, to be replaced by an expression of concern as her
attention was caught by something else. ‘Look – there is Margaret Symons! I am sure she is ill – do you see the taut way she
holds herself, as if every step hurts?’

Chaloner glanced to where she pointed. A woman was walking slowly from the direction of the abbey, leaning heavily on the
arm of a man. She was thin and pale, and did appear to be unwell; her companion was conspicuous for his mane of spiky ginger
hair. Both wore respectable clothes, but ones that had seen better days, indicating they had once been much wealthier. London
was full of people just like them – folk who had
prospered during the Commonwealth, but who were now suspect to the new regime. No one would do business with them, and some
were finding themselves reduced to desperate poverty.

‘Her husband – the man with her – is Will Symons,’ Hannah went on. ‘He was a government clerk until the Restoration, at which
point he was ousted to make room for Royalists. He is a pleasant man. Margaret is a sculptress – my husband liked statues
and commissioned one from her.’

‘From a woman?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He shrugged at Hannah’s indignant expression. ‘You do not hear of many female artists.
I am not saying Mrs Symons is not good, just that it is unusual.’

Hannah sniffed, not entirely mollified. ‘My husband almost cancelled the work when he learned “M. Symons” was a lady, but
I informed him that he had better think again. And I was right to force him to reconsider, because the piece she made for
us is exquisite.’

‘But you think she is ill?’ Chaloner knew he was drawing out the discussion, so Hannah would have less time to ask him questions
about his work, but he could not help himself.

‘Yes – you can see from here that Will is being very solicitous of her. They are a devoted couple, and it grieves me to see
him look so worried. I should go to talk to them.’ She started to move away, but then turned back. ‘Will you visit me again
soon? I enjoyed your company last night.’

He said he would try, and had not taken many steps towards the charnel house when he heard his name being called. It was Turner,
who had managed to extricate himself from his adoring throng. He was adjusting his
clothing, as though leaving had involved the prising off of fingers.

‘There is scant information about murder to be had from those lasses,’ he declared, smoothing down his moustache, ‘but their
company is a delight – I shall be doubling my tally of children, at this rate! But while we are speaking of ladies, have you
heard anything of Meg the laundress? I have not seen her since we failed to meet for our midnight tryst – the night I found
Vine murdered.’

‘Has it occurred to you that she might have stumbled across the killer, and he has ensured she will not be around to provide
a description of him?’

Turner shook his head. ‘It is more likely that she has found out about my growing affection for Barbara – that is Lady Castlemaine
to you – and is jealous. Damn! I was growing fond of Meg, too.’

‘You should find her,’ advised Chaloner, feeling the man should not need to be told. ‘If she is alive, she might be in danger,
or frightened and in need of your protection.’

Turner brightened. ‘Oh, I can do protection. I am good at gallantry. Where shall I start looking?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘How should I know? Try her home, or the place where she works. Does she have family in the
city?’

‘I have no idea. I want to bed her, not marry her, for God’s sake – I am not interested in her kin. But perhaps I will have
a bit of a hunt for her tonight, when I am done with His Portliness’s affairs.’

‘You think you will have solved the case by then?’ Chaloner wondered whether Turner intended to present Greene as a culprit,
simply because it was the easiest option and would please the Earl.

But Turner shook his head again. ‘Unfortunately, it is proving more complex than I imagined. Incidentally, His Portliness
says I can have a permanent post with him if I beat you to the answer, and he and Haddon have taken bets on which one of us
will win.’

Chaloner was disgusted. ‘Murder is hardly a subject for wagers.’ And neither was his future.

‘That is what I thought – I was under the impression they had more decorum. But Haddon believes you will succeed, while His
Portliness is backing me. However, both agree that neither of us has a hope in Hell of locating this missing figurine – the
one by Barocci.’

‘Bernini. And it is a bust, not a figurine.’

Turner flapped a hand, to indicate details were irrelevant. ‘Suffice to say it cost the old king’s wife a diamond ring, which
was valued at a thousand pounds.’

‘You do not know the sculptor’s name, but you know what he was paid?’ Chaloner was amused.

Turner grinned back. ‘I know what is important. Where are you going? To see Langston’s corpse? I have already done that, but
it yielded nothing in the way of clues. And it cost me threepence, too.’

‘What did?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.

‘Viewing the corpse,’ explained Turner. ‘Because there has been such a demand to see it, Kersey has opened his mortuary to
spectators, and is making a fortune in entry fees. But I had better talk to Bess Gold, before her husband takes her away.
She was one of the last people to see Langston alive, and might have something useful to impart.’

But Chaloner had interviewed Bess at the King’s Musick the previous evening, and had discovered that her powers of observation
were negligible – she barely
recalled what she had been wearing, let alone anything to solve a murder. He watched Turner strut away, but did not tell him
he would be wasting his time. The tale about the Earl’s wager had annoyed him, and he found himself determined to prove his
master wrong. And if that meant not sharing information with his rival, then so be it.

The charnel house was located near the river, sandwiched between a granary and a coalhouse. As Turner had warned, it was full
of spectators – it was not often three clerks were murdered in the same week, and people were eager to view the victims. They
handed over their coins and disappeared into the mortuary’s dark interior, pomanders pressed to noses. None lingered long,
so although there was a queue, it moved quickly. Chaloner loitered, waiting for the horde to dissipate, because there was
no point going inside if he could not see Langston for sightseers.

The first person he recognised among the ghoulish throng was the grim-faced Doling, who stamped out looking as black as thunder.
Chaloner might have assumed the fellow had seen something to enrage him, but then recalled the way he had scowled at his ale
in the Angel the previous day: Doling was just one of those men who frowned at everything. His expression blackened further
still when the wind caught the lace at his throat and whisked it off to reveal skin that was old, red and wrinkled, like that
of a turkey. The lace was retrieved by Hargrave, whose flea-ravaged head was wrapped in a scarf that made him look like a
fishwife, and who was in company with the elderly Tryan. The three exchanged a few words, then walked away together, Tryan’s
bandy
legs pumping nineteen to the dozen as he struggled to keep up with his younger companions.

Moments later, George Vine reeled out, a Lea brother on either side. He lurched to a doorway and was promptly sick, although
Chaloner could not tell whether it was at the sight of a man who had suffered the same fate as his father, or his stomach
rebelling at the amount of wine that had been poured into it the previous night. The Leas were spitefully amused by his misery,
and were still sniggering when they helped him into a hackney carriage some time later.

They were watched in rank disapproval by a number of courtiers, among whom was the obese Jones, still limping from his encounter
with Lady Castlemaine’s gaming stick. He grimaced, and pointedly leaned down to rub the afflicted limb when she and Buckingham
arrived a few moments later. It was then that Chaloner saw he was not the only one observing the proceedings: so was Williamson’s
clerk, who skulked in the shadows of a nearby doorway, almost invisible in his black clothes.

Eventually, the queue dwindled to nothing. Chaloner prised a stone from the road, and lobbed it at the glass window of a nearby
warehouse. Immediately, the owner tore out, and began to accuse a departing courtier of the crime. While Swaddell’s attention
was fixed on the resulting fracas, Chaloner left his hiding place and slipped inside the charnel house unseen.

Kersey’s domain was larger than it looked from the outside, and the main section comprised a long, windowless hall with lamps
hanging at irregular intervals from the ceiling. There were a dozen wooden tables, each graced with either a cadaver, or a
neatly folded sheet. Kersey – a dapper, well-dressed little man – was holding
forth to the last of his visitors, informing them that on a good week, he might have as many as twenty corpses to mind. His
audience, however, was more interested in clucking over his charges than listening to him. Chaloner waited until they were
all gaping at the remains of a drowned apprentice, then turned to inspect the poisoner’s most recent victim.

Langston lay next to Chetwynd, identifiable by his large nose and plump body – Chaloner recalled that Vine had already been
buried, and so was spared the humili ation of being turned into an exhibition. He was devoid of all clothing except a strategically
placed handkerchief, and the spy shuddered, not liking the notion that anyone who happened to die in Westminster could expect
to be laid out and exposed to all and sundry. It was undignified, and for a moment, he had a disturbing vision of his own
violent demise, and the Earl coming to gawp at his naked corpse. He took a deep breath, to clear his mind of such dark thoughts,
and turned his attention to Langston.