The Westminster Poisoner (40 page)

The chamber was almost Spartan in its neatness. It contained a bed, two chests, and a shelf of books. The tomes were almost
entirely devotional tracts – with the curious exception of Michel Millot’s
L’Ecole des Filles
, widely condemned as pornographic, although it was tame by Langston’s standards. Chaloner opened it, and was surprised to
see an inscription in the front, written in a flowing hand he recognised as Lady Castlemaine’s. It directed the reader to
the particularly juicy sections, although there was no indication that the recommendations were aimed at Greene. Chaloner
frowned. Had Greene stolen it? Or was it actually Langston’s, and Greene had borrowed it out of salacious curiosity? There
was one explanation he refused to entertain, though: that the Lady had given it to Greene herself. She would simply not waste
her time on a lowly official, especially one who was unlikely to please her in the bedchamber. He put it back and resumed
his search.

He was about to give up, when he realised that although the curtains were drawn, they did not quite meet in the middle. He
stood on a stool and ran his hand along the top of the rail. His groping fingers encountered a small box, no bigger than the
length of his hand. He took it down, and opened it to find it full of papers.

The first document he inspected was an oath, and its brownish colour led him to wonder whether it had been written in blood.
The language was Latin, and promised the reader that God’s commandments would be followed and a righteous life led. It was
signed with Greene’s name, and was so well worn that Chaloner suspected it had been taken out and read a lot. So, he thought,
the vow sworn by members of Scobel’s prayer group had included a written declaration, as well as a verbal one. The man had
obviously done his utmost to prevent his flock from straying, although, as Doling and Hargrave had said, he had reckoned without
the corruptive influence of White Hall.

The remaining papers were lists of various expenditures. Chaloner sat on the bed and studied them carefully, but they seemed
to be exactly what they appeared: household accounts for the previous year. He read that purchases of ale, wine, coal, cloth,
utensils and barley had been made, and the cost was carefully recorded each week. They were dull and uninteresting, and he
could not imagine why Greene should have considered them important enough to hide. He slipped them in his pocket
anyway, and was about to leave when he became aware that the bottom of the doorframe was glittering slightly. He crouched
down, and saw a tiny hole made by a knot in the wood. Something had been pressed inside it, and it was not many moments before
he had prised it out.

It was a ruby ring.

He gazed at it in confusion. Was the Earl right after all, and Greene
was
the killer? His first reaction was disgust at himself: he was a professional spy, and should not have been deceived like
some inexperienced novice. But then questions flooded into his mind, and he forced himself to stop leaping to conclusions
and analyse the evidence logically, as Thurloe had trained him to do.

He had inspected the ring only briefly before the train-band had reclaimed it, but he had a good memory, and was fairly sure
that the bauble he held now was not the one from the Painted Chamber – it felt lighter and cheaper, and lacked the quality
of the other. So, had someone left it to incriminate Greene, because that person knew Chaloner was aware of the ring’s existence
and the implications of owning it? Uncomfortably, he wondered whether the Earl had contrived to plant it there, because he
was tired of his spy’s unwillingness to accept his point of view.

He swore softly when it occurred to him that he had asked virtually everyone he had met about the ring – not just his suspects,
but anyone he thought might recognise it.
Ergo
, his questions had ensured that a huge number of people knew it was central to his investigation. He had even told Hannah
about it. The upshot was that anyone wanting to incriminate Greene would know that hiding a red-stoned ring among the man’s
possessions would do the trick.

He continued to stare at it, wishing there was some way it could tell him its story. But gawking was not going to provide
him with answers – he needed to find Greene, and fast. He stuffed it in his breast pocket, next to the documents, and headed
for Wapping church, recalling its vicar saying that Greene was a regular and punctilious visitor.

‘Greene,’ he said without preamble, when the cleric gave him a wary smile, recognising him from the last time he was there.
‘Where is he?’

‘I wish I knew. He failed to return home last night, and this morning he missed dawn prayers for the first time since the
Restoration. I am worried, because there have been some very nasty characters asking after him of late.’ The priest swallowed
uneasily when he realised what he had said. ‘Not you, of course—’

‘Turner?’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘A handsome man with an ear-string?’

‘Yes, he was here, but he was all smiles and good manners. I refer to the group of men who look like soldiers. Their commander
treated me like dirt, and I do not mind admitting that he terrified me.’

‘Describe him.’

The vicar shuddered. ‘Rough, brutish and bullying. He and his louts asked me question after question, but it was more of an
interrogation than a conversation.’

‘What did they want to know?’

‘Details of Greene’s activities, where he kept his valuables, whether he had secret hiding places.’

‘And does he?’ asked Chaloner, to see whether Greene had trusted him enough to mention the little box above the curtains.
Or the hole in the doorframe.

‘Not that I know of. We only ever talk about God.
Poor Greene! They terrified me into telling them about his daily visits to church, and now he is missing. How could I have
blathered about him, when he has been nothing but kind to me? He knows my weakness for brandywine – it is difficult to buy,
but he never fails to provide me with a weekly flask. And what do I do? Repay him with betrayal!’

Chaloner was not sure what to think about the brandy-wine. ‘Was there anything about these soldiers that will allow me to
identify them?’

‘They wore masks to conceal their faces, but the commander has a scar on his neck. It will not be obvious unless you stand
close to him, but it is there.’ The priest regarded Chaloner thoughtfully. ‘Greene tells me you are the only one who believes
his innocence, so I shall confide something I managed to keep from those ruffians: he has an understanding with Lady Castlemaine.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘You mean he is one of her lovers?’ It did not sound very likely, given that Greene was an
unattractive specimen, but with the Lady, anything was possible.

The vicar was horrified. ‘Lord, no! I mean that Langston and Greene worked for her. Secretly. They ran errands, although I
have no idea what kind. Greene never said, and I never asked. I would rather not know anything that involves
her
.’

Chaloner was beginning to see the glimmer of a solution at last: Lady Castlemaine knew Langston from his ribald writing, and
he must have introduced Greene to her as a dependable sort. Perhaps she
had
made Greene a gift of
L’Ecole des Filles
, or one of his ‘errands’ was to deliver it to someone else. It certainly explained why she
had challenged the Earl’s belief that Greene was the killer – it was not just to oppose an enemy, as everyone assumed, but
because she did not want to lose a servant. Chaloner recalled the way she had nodded to Greene when their paths had crossed
at White Hall, and how he had been puzzled by it, given that she never acknowledged minions. But trustworthy staff were
not easy to find, and she must have been keen to retain Greene’s goodwill. And Greene was clearly among the best, because
Chaloner had detected no hint of his association with her, despite more than a week of interviewing his closest friends and
associates.

The priest had nothing else to add, so Chaloner boarded a skiff and headed back to the city. The boatman was the garrulous
sort, who insisted on regaling his fare with a list of men who had drowned in the Thames. The depressing monologue, along
with the fact that the wind rocked the little craft in a way that made him seasick, meant Chaloner was relieved to arrive
back in the city.

‘There was a corpse washed up just this morning,’ the boatman continued, as the spy rummaged in his purse for coins to pay
him. ‘Kersey will keep it in his charnel house, and if no one claims it within a week, it will be buried in St Margaret’s.
There are hundreds of drowned men in that churchyard, and they wail whenever there is an especially high tide. I have heard
them myself.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner, his mind more on where to find Greene than the dismal stories.

The fellow saw he was not believed, and became indignant. ‘Ask Kersey. He hears them, too. You can see him today, and view
the new corpse at the same time. After
all, threepence is not much for a bit of light entertainment – less than the price of a night at the theatre, and a lot more
memorable.’

‘Who drowned last night?’ asked Chaloner, loath to offend him. He might have to use the fellow’s boat again in the future,
and did not want to be ‘accidentally’ tipped in the water.

‘Kersey said it was a clerk,’ replied the boatman, gratified by the interest.

Chaloner regarded him sharply. ‘What was his name?’

‘He did not say – he just mentioned that it was the fifth government official to die since Christmas Day. Dangerous place,
Westminster.’

Chaloner could not agree more. He walked briskly along Canning Street, although even the smart pace he set himself did not
dispel the cold, unsettled feeling that had seeped deep inside him. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need for the company
of a friend, and although he knew he should visit Kersey as a matter of urgency, he stopped at Lincoln’s Inn first.

His search of Greene’s house had taken much longer than he had anticipated, and the daylight was fading as he walked across
the yard, heading for Chamber XIII. The journey to Wapping had yielded some clues, but the ring had only served to deepen
the mystery, while learning about Greene’s association with Lady Castlemaine was interesting, but would probably not help
in identifying the killer. Chaloner felt he had wasted the best part of yet another day, and by the time he reached the top
of the stairs he was in a melancholy frame of mind. His spirits plunged further still when Thurloe opened the door to reveal
packed chests and sheet-draped furniture.

‘Ah, Tom.’ Thurloe was dressed for travel in heavy
cloak, woollen hat and sturdy boots. ‘I am glad you came. I am leaving in a few moments, and did not like to disappear without
bidding you farewell.’

Chaloner struggled to mask his dismay. ‘You are going now? But surely, no carriage will venture out onto the King’s highways
at night. It would be madness!’

‘Robbers were never a problem in the Commonwealth,’ agreed Thurloe grimly. ‘A military dictatorship knows how to secure safe
roads.’

‘Actually, I was thinking about the more immediate danger of floods, broken wheels and getting lost. No self-respecting driver
travels a road he cannot see.’

‘I shall sleep at an inn in Aldersgate this evening, and be ready take the coach at first light tomorrow. You are very wet.
What have you been doing?’

‘Squandering time on the river,’ replied Chaloner despondently.

Unfortunately, repeating what he had learned did not help him this time. The ex-Spymaster asked several intelligent questions,
but was also unable to make any sense of the confusion of facts.

‘And I am afraid I have gleaned nothing of any great use, either,’ he said apologetically. ‘At least, nothing you have not
already discovered for yourself. Greene and Langston
did
work for Lady Castlemaine, although only as agents for organising her various trysts – they were not entrusted with anything
politically significant. And I have found no one who admits to owning a ruby ring.’

‘Does this look valuable to you?’ Chaloner passed him the one he had found in Greene’s house.

Thurloe did not take long to assess it. ‘No. In fact, there is a shop that sells dozens just like it in the New Exchange.
Your killer would not have hired a train-band
to retrieve this bauble, so I can only assume you are right: someone left it in Greene’s house to incriminate him. And the
culprit has done a good job – if I were your Earl, I would have issued a warrant for Greene’s arrest days ago.’

‘Then why does he hold back?’

‘I imagine because of you. You have been proven right on a number of occasions, and it is enough to make him stay his hand.
Clearly, he trusts your judgement, even if he is unwilling to admit it. However, he is beginning to lose patience with the
ponderous pace of your investigation, so you had better find him some answers fast.’

‘It is too late. I am almost certain the drowned clerk in the charnel house will transpire to be Greene, and I cannot see
answers appearing by Tuesday.’

He knelt next to the fire, trying to thaw his frozen hands. Was it his fault Greene was dead? Would the clerk still be alive
if he had worked harder to find the killer? He sighed, thinking of how much he would miss Thurloe’s calm logic – he knew from
previous Oxfordshire expeditions that his friend was unlikely to be back before spring, and was glad he had made his peace
with Temperance. At least he would have one friend in the city. Thinking of her reminded him of the man she claimed to love.

‘James Grey,’ he said, looking up at Thurloe. ‘Have you met him?’

‘No. I asked Temperance to bring him to me, but he declined to come – said he could not risk his reputation by drinking ale
with ex-Commonwealth spymasters. I suppose I cannot blame him.’

‘She intends to wed him, which surprises me. I thought she was against marriage.’

‘I may be responsible for her change of heart,’ said Thurloe sheepishly. ‘I told her marriage was a blissful state – that
I would not be without Ann for the world. If ever I am sad, I just think of her sweet face, and all unhappiness vanishes,
like mist in the sun.’