The Westminster Poisoner (7 page)

‘Yes, it would, so we had better get to work. The Shield Gallery has four doors: one leads to the Queen’s apartments; one
leads to the King’s; the tiny one in the corner leads to a spiral staircase that exits into a lane – we just used it to come
here; and the last one leads to the Privy Stairs and the river. All are locked at night. What is your theory about keys?’

‘There was no sign of forced entry, which means the culprit had one. The King rarely uses his door – you can see from here
that it is currently blocked by a chest. By contrast, the Queen uses hers a lot, because she likes to walk in here if the
weather is damp.’

‘You think the thief is one of her ladies-in-waiting?’ Chaloner was amused. ‘She must be a very hefty one, then, because those
busts are heavy.’

‘You are mocking me,’ said Bulteel reproachfully. ‘I was going to say that the ladies can be eliminated as suspects, because
they would have stolen something more easily portable.’

Chaloner inclined his head to accept his point. ‘I know the thief did not use the Privy Stairs door, because that was barred
from the inside. So, we are left with the one that gives access to the lane. Who has a key to that? You do, for a start.’

Bulteel held it up. ‘It is the Earl’s, and one of my responsibilities is to keep it for him. It was a duty he wanted me to
pass to Haddon, but I prevaricated for so long that he has forgotten about it.’

‘Who else?’ asked Chaloner, not very interested in Bulteel’s machinations to foil his rival.

‘And
there
is your problem. I made enquiries, and was
told they were issued to at least forty nobles – women and men – at the Restoration. Brodrick has one, for example. Perhaps
he
stole the statue, and intends to make it look as though his cousin is the thief, as one of his pranks as Lord of Misrule.’

Chaloner was troubled, because it was exactly the kind of jape Brodrick might dream up. Unfortunately, what sounded like harmless
fun might have devastating consequences, because the Earl’s detractors would use it to question his probity – and England
would not want a Lord Chancellor with accusations of dishonesty hanging over his head.

‘Is that why you brought me here?’ he asked. ‘To tell me Brodrick is the guilty party?’

‘Actually, no. I brought you here because I wanted you to understand that the thief is either a courtier or a high-ranking,
well-trusted servant. It will not be a common burglar or some lowly scullion. It means you need to be careful, because the
culprit may be powerful enough to do you real harm as you close in on him.’

Chaloner was thoughtful as he left the Shield Gallery. He had known from the start that the theft was the work of someone
familiar with the palace, but he had been working on the premise that it was some greedy nobody. Bulteel’s theory made sense,
though, and he supposed he would have to tread warily from now on.

‘What will you do now?’ asked Bulteel, breaking into his thoughts.

‘Go to discuss the problem with an old friend.’

London had not fared well in the recent gales. Trees had blown over, and several had fallen on buildings and smashed through
their roofs. Bits of twig and broken tile
littered the ground, and people were struggling to repair the damage with hammers and nails. The rhythmic clatter could barely
be heard over the noise of the street – iron-shod cartwheels rattling across cobbles, the insistent hollers of tradesmen,
and the jangling peals of church bells. The dying wind could barely be heard, either, although it made the hanging signs above
doorways swing violently enough to be unsafe, and played a dangerous game with the creaking branches of some elderly oaks.

Many folk had marked the Twelve Days of Christmas by tying wreaths of holly, bay and yew to their doors. Most had been torn
away, and sat in sodden heaps in corners, or blocked the drains that ran down the sides of the main streets. With indefatigable
spirit, children were collecting them together, shaking out the water and filth, and pinning them back up again. Their noisy
antics brought back happy memories of Chaloner’s own boyhood in Buckinghamshire, making him smile.

He walked along The Strand, then up Chancery Lane until he reached the building known as the Rolls Gate, next to which stood
Rider’s Coffee House. Rider’s was not the most comfortable of establishments, because it was poky, dimly lit and badly ventilated.
It did, however, roast its beans without burning them, so the resulting potion was better than that served in most other venues.

Chaloner was not overly fond of the beverage that was so popular in the capital; he found it muddy, bitter and it made his
heart pound when he drank too much of it. It was, however, better than tea, which he thought tasted of rotting vegetation.
And tea was infinitely preferable to chocolate, which was just plain nasty, with its rank, oily consistency and acrid flavour.
That day, though, it was not coffee he wanted in Rider’s, but the
companionship of the only man in London he considered a true friend.

He smiled when he opened the door and saw John Thurloe sitting at a table near the back. The place was busy with black-garbed
lawyers from the nearby courts, all perched on benches and puffing on pipes as they discussed religion, current affairs and
whatever had been reported in the most recent newsbooks. The spy was greeted with the traditional coffee-house cry of ‘what
news’ as he aimed for Thurloe, but shook his head apologetically to say he had none.

Thurloe, who had run Cromwell’s spy network with such cool efficiency, was a slight, brown-haired man with large blue eyes
that had led more than one would-be traitor to underestimate him. He was softly spoken, slow to anger and deeply religious.
He could also be ruthless and determined, and his sharp mind was the reason why men like Spymaster Williamson continued to
fear him, even after he had been stripped of his government posts. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have
lasted as long as it had without Thurloe, and Chaloner was inclined to agree, despite the man’s quiet and almost diffident
manner.

As usual, Thurloe sat alone. At first, Chaloner had assumed no one wanted to hobnob with a man who had been a powerful member
of a deposed regime, but it had not taken him long to learn that the choice was Thurloe’s. Would-be table-companions were
repelled with a glacial glare, and now the regulars left him to enjoy his coffee in peace. But he beamed in genuine pleasure
when Chaloner slid on to the bench next to him.

‘Tom! Where have you been these last few weeks? You told me your Earl was sending you to Oxford,
to investigate a theft in his old College, but I did not imagine you would be gone so long. When did you come home?’

‘Last week,’ replied Chaloner, knowing he should have visited sooner. One reason he had not was Hannah, who had claimed a
disproportionate amount of his time – and he found himself willing to let her. ‘I have been looking for a missing statue ever
since.’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The Bernini bust? That is unfortunate. Everyone is talking about how it was a perfect crime,
because the thief left nothing in the way of clues. I suspect there may be some truth to these claims, because you do not
look exactly flushed with victory.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully.

‘I do not suppose you visited our friend Will Leybourn on your way home from Oxford, did you?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy
said no more. ‘To see how life in the country is suiting him?’

‘He seemed all right,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. The ex-Spymaster did not need to hear that the mathematician–surveyor had
taken up two new pastimes since leaving the city: one was watching his neighbour’s wife through a binocular-telescope in the
attic; the other was visiting her when her husband was out. Chaloner sincerely hoped he would come to his senses before there
was trouble.

‘Are you well?’ asked Thurloe, when he saw that was all the news he could expect of their erstwhile companion. ‘You are very
pale.’

As a man obsessed with the state of his own health, Thurloe tended to assume there was something wrong with most people, even
when they were blooming. He claimed he had a fragile constitution, although Chaloner
suspected that he had nothing of the kind, and was as robust as the next man.

The spy smiled. ‘It is dark in here. You cannot tell what shade I am.’

‘I can see well enough,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘Perhaps you should take one of my tonics.’

Chaloner was saved from having to devise an excuse – Thurloe’s tonics had a reputation for turning even strong men into invalids
– by the arrival of the coffee-boy, who slapped a bowl of dark-brown liquid down in front of him, then demanded to know whether
he wanted green-pea tart or sausages. Coffee houses did not usually sell food, but Rider disliked the way his patrons disappeared
for dinner at noon, so he provided victuals between twelve and one o’clock in an attempt to keep them there. Chaloner opted
for the pie. A second servant flung it on the table as he passed, so carelessly that the spy was obliged to grab the flying
platter before it upended in his lap. It transpired to be a pastry case filled with dried peas, sugar, spices and enough butter
to render the whole thing hard and greasy.

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner in distaste. ‘No wonder the King prefers French food.’

‘You should have had the sausages,’ remarked Thurloe unhelpfully. ‘Only a lunatic orders something called green-pea tart.’

Chaloner sipped the coffee and winced – even when the beans were not burned, the beverage did not make for pleasant drinking.
He swallowed the rest quickly, like medicine, then set the bowl down, repelled by the thick, sandy residue that remained at
the bottom. He glanced up and was disconcerted to see Thurloe eating his sludge with a spoon.

‘Are you sure that is good for you?’ he asked uneasily, certain it was not.

‘Coffee grit is a digestive aid – it helps grind up food in the stomach, allowing it to pass more easily through the gut.
At least, that is what my old friend Chetwynd told me, when he was still alive.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘You are losing your touch, because that was
not
a subtle way of learning whether the Earl has charged me to investigate Chetwynd’s murder. Three years ago, you would have
been aghast at such transparency.’

Thurloe set his dish back on the table with a moue of distaste. ‘I am not sure Chetwynd knew what he was talking about, and
my delicate constitution may take harm from following the advice of the ignorant. What do you think?’

‘About what? The possibility of you being harmed by coffee grounds, Chetwynd’s competence in medical matters, or the manner
of his death?’

Thurloe opened a small box, the label of which proudly claimed the contents to be
Stinking Pills, guaranteed to purge phlegm, clear the veins, and cure gout and leprosy
. Chaloner hoped his friend knew what he was doing when he took a handful and began to chew them.

‘The answer to any question would be acceptable, Thomas. You have volunteered virtually nothing since you arrived, avoiding
even my innocuous enquiries about your health. If this is what happens to a man when I train him to spy, then I am sorry for
it.’

‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, supposing that working at Court, moving among people who were subjects for investigation rather
than friendship, was beginning to take an unpleasant toll on his manners. If he could not hold a normal conversation with
his closest friend, then it was not surprising that he often felt lonely in London.
He tried to explain. ‘I am forced to be constantly on my guard at White Hall – against being told lies, against physical attack,
and against harm to my master.’

Thurloe regarded him thoughtfully. ‘But that has always been the case. When you were working for me in Holland, France and
Portugal, the strain must have been even greater, given that a careless slip would have cost you your life. White Hall cannot
be as bad as that.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Williamson is proving to be an unforgiving enemy.’

Thurloe’s expression was one of disgust. ‘Williamson is a fool! If he had hired you as his spy in The Hague, as I recommended,
we would not be nearing the brink of war with Holland now. You would have provided him with information that would have averted
the crisis.’

Chaloner was astonished by the claim. ‘I sincerely doubt it! The government thinks we can win an encounter with the Dutch,
and no spy will convince them otherwise. I cannot imagine where their bravado comes from, given that they have dismissed the
standing army, and the navy is full of unpaid criminals who will desert at the first cannonball.’

‘The Royalists are like children, playing games of war. But they will learn, although not before English blood is needlessly
spilled. I only hope none of it is yours. The situation is now so dangerous that I would urge you to refuse, should the Earl
order you to gather intelligence in Holland. Look what happened when you went to Spain and Portugal earlier this year. You
barely escaped with your life.’

‘He is more concerned with the missing statue than with the Dutch,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject, because he did not
want to think about his harrowing experiences in Iberia.

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘So, you are
not
investigating what happened to Chetwynd?’

‘I am expected to do both.’ Chaloner hesitated uncertainly. ‘I would not mind telling you all I have learned about the murders,
to see if you can think of any way forward. The Earl is determined to see Greene hanged for killing Chetwynd and Vine, but
I am sure he is innocent.’

Thurloe listened without interruption as the spy outlined all he had discovered. ‘I met Greene once,’ he said when Chaloner
had finished. ‘He is a nonentity – an unassuming fellow without the vigour to kill two men. Why does the Earl dislike him
so intensely?’

‘I do not know – and I suspect I never will. He has never really trusted me, and I think he intends to replace me soon, with
a man called Colonel Turner. Have you heard of him?’