The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 1

Westminster, 27 December 1663

There was a belief, common among many folk, that an unusually high wind was a sign that a great person would die. Thomas Chaloner was not superstitious, but even he could not deny that it was the second time in as many days that a gale had descended on the nation’s capital with a terrifying savagery, and that an eminent man had died on each occasion. He would not have said James Chetwynd or Christopher Vine were ‘great’ exactly, but they were high-ranking officials, and that alone was enough to attract the Lord Chancellor’s attention. And when the Lord Chancellor expressed an interest, it was Chaloner’s responsibility, as his spy, to provide him with information.

He stared at the body that lay on the floor of the Painted Chamber, listening to the wind rattling the windows and howling down the chimney. The lamp he held cast eerie shadows, and when a draught snaked behind the tapestries on the walls, the ghostly grey figures swayed and danced in a way that was unsettling. Beside him, the Lord Chancellor, created Earl of Clarendon at the Restoration, regarded it nervously, then shivered in the night’s deep chill.

‘Why is it called the Painted Chamber, sir?’ Chaloner asked, breaking the silence that had been hanging between them for the last few minutes, as they had pondered Chetwynd’s mortal remains. ‘There is no artwork here.’

The Earl almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound of his voice, although Chaloner had not spoken loudly. He rested a plump hand over his heart and scowled, to indicate he did not appreciate being startled. Chaloner bowed an apology. He was uneasy in the hall, too — and he knew how to defend himself, thanks to active service during the civil wars, followed by a decade of spying on hostile foreign governments.

‘There were frescos,’ replied the Earl shortly, flapping chubby fingers towards the ceiling. ‘Up there, but they have been plastered over. How can you live in London and not know this?’

Chaloner did not answer. His overseas duties had made him a virtual stranger in his own country, and he was acutely aware that he needed to remedy the situation — a spy could not be effective in a place he did not understand. Unfortunately, he kept being dispatched on missions abroad, so never had the opportunity to familiarise himself with England’s biggest city.

‘You are supposed to be telling me what happened to Vine, not quizzing me about architecture,’ the Earl continued waspishly, when there was no reply. ‘I need to know whether his death was natural, or whether you have a second murder to investigate — this one, as well as Chetwynd’s.’

Chaloner dragged his attention away from the ceiling, and knelt next to the corpse. Vine had not been dead long, because he was still warm to the touch. The spy glanced around, feeling his unease intensify. The Painted Chamber was so huge and dark that it was impossible to see far, and a killer — or killers — might still be there. The dagger he always carried in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand as he stood.

‘What is wrong?’ The Earl sensed his disquiet, and scanned the shadows with anxious eyes. ‘Is someone else in here? Turner told me the place was deserted.’

‘Turner?’ Chaloner began to prowl, taking the lamp with him. Loath to be left alone in the dark, the Earl followed. He wore fashionably tight shoes with smart red heels, which made his feet look disproportionately small under his portly frame. Their hard leather soles pattered on the floor as he scurried after his spy, short, fat legs pumping furiously.

‘Colonel James Turner,’ he panted, tugging on Chaloner’s sleeve to make him slow down. ‘You must know him — he declared himself for the King during the wars, and championed our cause all through the Commonwealth.’ There was a hint of censure in his voice: Chaloner’s family had been Parliamentarians, while the spy himself had fought for Cromwell in several major battles. In other words, Turner had chosen the right side, Chaloner had not. ‘It was Turner who found Vine’s body.’

The spy frowned. The Painted Chamber was not a place that would attract most people on such a wild night, so what had Turner been doing there? Besides being vast, dark and full of disquieting noises, it was bitterly cold. But the colonel had been right about one thing: it was deserted, and it was not long before Chaloner had satisfied himself to that effect. He returned to the body.

‘He said he saw a light as he was walking home from church,’ the Earl elaborated, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. ‘So he came to investigate. He found Vine, and, knowing my interest in Chetwynd’s murder, he came to tell me that a second prominent official lies dead.’

‘How did he know about your interest in Chetwynd?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously. Sudden deaths among government employees were for the Spymaster General to investigate, and the Earl had no business commissioning his own enquiry. So, when he had ordered his spy to look into the affair, he had promised to keep it a secret, to avoid unnecessary trouble — the Spymaster hated meddlers.

The Earl looked sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned to one or two people that I dislike the notion of our officials being murdered in Westminster, and that I have a man asking questions about the matter. Turner probably heard it from them.’

Chaloner stifled a sigh, and wished his master knew how to keep a still tongue in his head — he was always sharing information he should have kept to himself. But what was done was done, and there was no point in remonstrating, not that the Earl would take notice anyway. ‘Where is Turner now?’

‘I sent him to fetch Surgeon Wiseman.’ The Earl held up a hand when Chaloner opened his mouth to object. ‘I know you dislike Wiseman — and his gleeful penchant for gore is disconcerting — but he is good at distilling information from corpses. Turner must be having trouble finding him — I expected them to arrive before you, given that you have had to travel all the way from Wapping.’

‘I was there shadowing Greene,’ said Chaloner, keeping his voice carefully neutral. ‘The man you suspect of killing Chetwynd.’

‘But Greene did murder Chetwynd,’ declared the Earl uncompromisingly. ‘I know a scoundrel when I see one, and I was right to order you to watch his every move.’

Chaloner made no reply. He had been tailing Greene for two days now — ever since Chetwynd’s body had been found — but felt it was a complete waste of his time. Moreover, it was unreasonable to expect one man to follow another for twenty-four hours a day without help. He was exhausted, and had been relieved when the Earl’s steward had arrived to tell him he was needed urgently at Westminster.

‘Where is Haddon?’ demanded the Earl, seeming to realise for the first time that the steward was not with them. ‘Did he go home after delivering you my message?’

‘You said you wanted Greene under constant surveillance,’ explained Chaloner. ‘So Haddon offered to monitor him while I came here.’

The Earl smiled smugly. ‘He is a dedicated soul, and I am glad I hired him. He will do anything for me — even lurk around outside on foul-weathered nights.’

Chaloner nodded, not mentioning that Greene’s house was mostly visible from a nearby tavern, and Haddon was comfortably installed there with a jug of ale and a piece of plum pudding. Just then an especially violent gust of wind hurled something against one of the windows, hard enough to shatter the glass. Chaloner whipped around fast, sword in his hand, and the Earl released a sharp yelp of fright.

‘Where is Wiseman?’ he demanded unsteadily, peering out from behind the spy: being in a deserted hall with a corpse was taking a heavy toll on his nerves. ‘What is keeping him? Perhaps you should examine the body. I know you are no surgeon, trained to recognise foul play in the dead, but you spotted the signs readily enough on Chetwynd two days ago. So do the same for Vine now.’

Chaloner obliged, performing a perfunctory examination that entailed inspecting the inside of Vine’s mouth to look for tell-tale burns. They were there, as he had known they would be the moment he had set eyes on the man’s peculiarly contorted posture — it had been this that had alerted him to the fact that Chetwynd’s death was not natural some two days before.

‘Poison,’ he said, looking up at his master. ‘Just like Chetwynd.’

The gale showed no signs of abating, and when the Earl opened the door to leave the Painted Chamber, he was almost bowled over by the force of the wind. It hurled a sheet of rain into his face, too, and deprived him of his wig. Without it, he looked older, smaller and more vulnerable. Chaloner retrieved it for him, then shoved him backwards quickly when several tiles tore from the roof and smashed to the ground where he had been standing.

‘I should have stayed home, let you report to me in the morning,’ said the Earl shakily, tugging the wig into position on his shaven pate. ‘But I was worried. The government has many enemies, and we cannot have folk running around killing our clerks. I needed to see for myself what we are up against.’

‘At least we know Greene is not responsible,’ said Chaloner, careful to keep any hint of triumph from his voice. ‘I have been watching him all day, and he is currently at home in bed. He cannot have killed Vine.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried the Earl. ‘You are letting his meek manners and plausible tongue cloud your judgement — clearly, he found a way to slip past you. You argued against arresting him on Thursday, and I bowed — reluctantly — to your judgement. But it has cost Vine his life.’

Chaloner was not sure how to refute such rigidly held convictions, but was saved from having to try, because a bobbing lantern heralded the arrival of the surgeon.

Wiseman was enormous, both tall and broad, and it was said at Court that he had recently acquired a peculiar habit: he liked to tone his muscular frame by performing a series of vigorous exercises every morning. His eccentricity was also reflected in his choice of clothes: he always wore flowing scarlet robes, which he claimed were the uniform of his profession, although no other surgeon seemed to own any. His hair was red, too, and fell in luxurious curls around his shoulders. His whimsical unconformity might have been charming, had he not been one of the most opinionated, arrogant, obnoxious men in London. As far as Chaloner was concerned, Wiseman had only one redeeming character: his steadfast, unquestioning loyalty to the Earl.

‘Where is the cadaver?’ demanded the surgeon, never a man to waste time on idle chatter when there was work to be done. ‘At the far end of the hall, like the last one you summoned me to inspect?’

‘Good evening to you, too,’ muttered Chaloner, as Wiseman shoved past him, hard enough to make him stagger. The surgeon was accompanied by another man, one whom the spy had seen at Court.

‘Thank you for bringing Wiseman to me, Turner,’ said the Earl, smiling pleasantly at the fellow. ‘You have been of great service tonight, and I shall not forget it.’

Turner was tall, dark haired and devilishly handsome. He had a narrow moustache like the King’s, and he wore an ear-string — an outmoded fashion that entailed threading strands of silk through a piercing in the earlobe, and leaving them to trail stylishly across one shoulder. Because the rest of his clothes were the height of fashion, the ear-string looked oddly out of place, and drew attention to the fact that the lobe had an unnatural hole in it. Chaloner had been told that it had been made by a Roundhead musket-ball, but was sceptical — the injury was too small and neat to have been caused by any firearm he knew. But no one else seemed to share his suspicions, and the colonel was always surrounded by doting admirers.

‘It is a pleasure, sir,’ gushed Turner with a courtly bow. ‘And if I can be of further assistance, you only need ask. I have long held you in my humble esteem, and I am at your command any time.’

‘What a charming gentleman,’ said the Earl, watching him strut away. Chaloner said nothing, but thought Turner would go far in White Hall, if he was able to produce such nauseating sycophancy at the drop of a hat. ‘But come back inside, Thomas. We had better hear Wiseman’s verdict.’

The surgeon was humming when they reached him, suggesting he had not minded too much being dragged out to inspect corpses. His abrasive character meant he did not have many friends, so murder scenes were important social occasions for him. Chaloner’s occupation meant he did not have many friends, either, and Wiseman’s solitary lifestyle was a constant reminder as to why he needed to make some. It was not easy, though: his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and people were still wary about fraternising with the family of a regicide. Indeed, it was only in the last few weeks that he had felt able to tell people his real name, instead of using an alias. He knew he was lucky the Earl was willing to overlook his connections — along with the fact that he had spent a decade spying for Cromwell — because employment was not easy to come by for old Parliamentarians, especially in espionage. And Chaloner was qualified to do very little else.

‘Like Chetwynd, Vine has swallowed something caustic,’ Wiseman announced, not looking up. ‘It burned the skin of his throat and caused convulsions, which accounts for his contorted posture.’

‘Poison,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Thomas was right.’

Wiseman regarded him haughtily. ‘Since when did he become a surgeon, pray? However, in this case, his opinion happens to be correct, because it coincides with my own. Of course I can go one step further: I suspect both these men died from ingesting the same substance.’

‘What substance?’ asked Chaloner, hoping it would be something unusual that would allow him to trace it — and its purchaser — by making enquiries among the apothecaries.

Wiseman shrugged. ‘There is no way to tell from a visual inspection alone. Vine’s kin will have to let me anatomise him.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

‘Thomas will try to get their permission,’ said the Earl. Chaloner’s heart sank; it was bad enough telling a family that a loved one was dead, without being obliged to put that sort of request, too. ‘But do not hold your breath — Chetwynd’s kin cared nothing for him, but even so, they were loath to let you loose on his corpse. So, I cannot imagine Vine’s wife and son leaping to accept your offer. Now, is there anything else we should know? Any clues that prove Greene is the killer?’

‘You asked me that when you found Chetwynd,’ said Wiseman, climbing to his feet. ‘And the answer now is the same as it was then: no. There is nothing that will help you trace the culprit. Dissection is the only way forward.’

‘I suppose we should be thankful he did not carve Vine up right here in front of us,’ whispered the Earl, watching him stride away. ‘Escort me home, Thomas. I have had enough of corpses and their vile secrets for one night. The wind seems to be dropping, so I should be safe from falling tiles now.’

Chaloner was acutely uneasy as he accompanied the Earl to his waiting coach. The gale had abated, but it was still blowing hard, and the racket it made as it whipped through trees and around buildings meant it was difficult to hear anything else. Unfortunately, darkness and driving rain meant he could not see very well, either. He disliked the notion that he might not have adequate warning of an attack, and although he was not afraid for himself, the Earl had accumulated a lot of enemies since the Restoration, and this was the perfect opportunity for an ambush.

‘You should not have come, sir,’ he said, as he helped his master into the carriage and climbed in after him. He banged on the ceiling with his fist, to tell the driver to move off. ‘It is not safe for you to wander about so late at night.’

‘So you have said before, but I refuse to let anyone dictate where I can and cannot go.’ The Earl looked anxious, though, despite his defiant words. ‘I have no idea why I am so unpopular — I seem to attract new enemies with every passing day.’

‘Do you?’ Chaloner immediately wished he had not asked, because he knew exactly why his master had more opponents than friends. The Court libertines despised him because he was prim, dour and something of a killjoy, while he had made political enemies by adopting uncompromising stances on religion and the looming war with Holland.

‘It is because no one else knows what they are talking about,’ stated the Earl. ‘At least, not as far as politics, food, religion, art, horses, ethics, fashion or sport are concerned. I have been arguing all week, and I am tired of it. Why does no one ever agree with me about anything?’

‘Who have you been arguing with, sir?’ asked Chaloner politely. A list of sparring partners promised to be far less objectionable than being treated to a diatribe of the Earl’s controversial — and sometimes odious — opinions.

‘Well, the Lady, naturally.’ So intense was the Earl’s dislike for the King’s mistress that he refused to say her name: Lady Castlemaine was always just ‘the Lady’. ‘And the Duke of Buckingham, who encourages the King to play cards instead of listening to me, his wise old advisor.’

‘Who else?’

The Earl began to count them off on chubby fingers. ‘Sir Nicholas Gold told me I was a fool for advising caution when declaring war on the Dutch. His young wife Bess, who has fewer wits than a sheep, told me my wig was unfashionable. Then that disgustingly fat Edward Jones accused me of cheating him out of the food allowance that goes with his post as Yeoman of the Household Kitchen.’

‘You would never do that,’ said Chaloner, indignant on his behalf. The Earl had many faults, but brazen dishonesty was not one of them.

‘He is entitled to dine at White Hall, but his monstrous girth means he is eating more than his due. So I told him to tighten his belt, and take the same amount as everyone else. He objected vehemently.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, supposing he would. ‘That is hardly the same as accusing you of cheat-’

‘Then Barbara Chiffinch took issue with my reaction to that practical joke — the one that saw White Hall decor ated with nether garments.’ The Earl lowered his voice at the mention of such a lewd subject. ‘I ordered the offending items burned, and she called me an ass.’

‘Because the prankster stole them from servants,’ explained Chaloner. He liked Barbara, who was a rock of common sense in a sea of silly people. ‘You should penalise the Lord of Misrule, not the poor scullions who cannot afford to lose their-’

‘I hate that custom,’ spat the Earl, grabbing Chaloner’s arm as the carriage lurched violently to one side; Westminster’s roads were notorious for potholes. ‘Electing a “king of mischief ” to hold sway over White Hall for the entire Twelve Days of Christmas is stupid. And I am always the butt of at least one malicious prank. Who is the Lord of Misrule this year, do you know?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner, not about to tell him that the dissipated Sir Alan Brodrick had been responsible for the undergarment incident. Brodrick was the Earl’s cousin, and for some unaccountable reason, the Earl was fond of him. He steadfastly refused to believe anything bad about him, despite Brodrick’s growing reputation as one of the greatest debauchees in London.

‘Then there was that horrible youth Neale,’ the Earl went on, going back to the list of people who had annoyed him. ‘He said I have poor taste in music.’

‘Did he?’ The spy started to think about his investigation, tuning out the Earl’s tirade. He knew few of the people who were being mentioned, so the monologue was not particularly interesting to him.

‘And finally, Francis Tryan charged me too much interest on a loan. How dare he! Does he think my arithmetic lacking? That I am a halfwit, who cannot do his sums?’

‘I interviewed Chetwynd’s heirs yesterday,’ said Chaloner, when he thought the Earl had finished. ‘Thomas and Matthias Lea. They work in the same building as Greene, so I was able to question them and watch him at the same time. Unfortunately, they have no idea why their kinsman-’

‘And there was another idiot,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘Chetwynd attacked my stance on religion.’

The spy was not a devout man, but he disliked his master’s attempts to impose Anglicanism on the entire country, and thought Catholics and nonconformists were justified when they said they wanted to pray as they, not the state, thought fit. ‘Many people would agree with him,’ he said carefully.

‘Then many people are wrong,’ snapped the Earl in a tone that said further debate was futile. He was silent for a moment, then resumed his list yet again. ‘Did you know Vine criticised me for wanting to build myself a nice house in Piccadilly? Why should I not have a palace? I am Lord Chancellor of England, and should live somewhere grand.’

Chaloner found himself agreeing with Vine, too, although he said nothing. He knew, with all his heart, that the Earl’s projected mansion was a bad idea — it was too ostentatious, and was sure to cause resentment. He had urged him to commission something more modest, but the Earl refused to listen.

‘But enough of my troubles,’ said the Earl, seeming to sense that his complaints were falling on unsympathetic ears. ‘We should discuss these murders while we are alone.’

‘So you knew Vine as well, sir?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You told me on Thursday that you knew Chetwynd.’

The Earl nodded. ‘They were both high-ranking clerks — Vine in the Treasury, and Chetwynd in Chancery. Each had a reputation for being decent and honest, and it is a shame that two good men lie dead, when so many scoundrels remain living.’

By ‘scoundrels’, Chaloner supposed he referred to his various enemies at Court. ‘Yes, sir.’

But the Earl knew a noncommittal answer when he heard one. He narrowed his eyes and went on the offensive. ‘I have just one question for you: how did Greene kill Vine when you were supposed to be watching him? Or were you deliberately careless with your surveillance, because you refuse to see the obvious and accept that he is the culprit?’

Chaloner bit back an acid retort at the slur on his professionalism, knowing he would be doing himself no favours by offending the man who paid his wages. ‘It is difficult to follow a suspect full-time, sir. Not only is he more likely to spot you if you are always there, but you cannot watch back doors and front ones at the same time.’

‘Are you blaming me for the fact that Greene eluded you and went a-killing?’

‘No.’ Chaloner struggled for patience. ‘I did not see Greene leave after he returned home this evening, but I suppose it is possible — his house has three exits, and I could not guard them all. However, I think it unlikely. He had no reason to kill Chetwynd, and I imagine we will find he has none to kill Vine, either.’

‘So you say,’ snapped the Earl. ‘But let us review the tale he spun when he discovered Chetwynd’s corpse. He claims he was working late, although it was Christmas Day and he should have been at home. Then he says he ran out of ink, so he went to the Painted Chamber to borrow some. But it was almost ten o’clock at night, which is an odd time to go rooting about for office supplies. And when he arrived, he maintains he found Chetwynd, dead on the floor.’

‘He raised the alarm-’

‘But only because you and I happened to be walking past, and we saw him dashing out,’ interrupted the Earl.

For the past week, Chaloner had been hunting for a statue that had been stolen from the King, and the Earl had heard a rumour that it was hidden in a nearby stable. The pair had been on their way to see whether the tale was true. Fortunately for the Earl, Chaloner had suspected a trick the moment he had been told the ‘news’ and he had been right to be sceptical — his wariness in entering the stable had prevented his master from being doused with a bucket of paint. It was a jape typical of the Season of Misrule.

‘Greene told us Chetwynd was dead,’ the Earl went on. ‘So we went to investigate. You took one look at the corpse’s peculiar contortions, and declared a case of foul play. Poison.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘A liquid toxin, which would have been delivered in a cup or a bottle. We searched, but found no vessel of any kind — not in the hall and not on Greene’s person. There is only one logical conclusion: the real killer took it away with him when he left.’

But the Earl was not about to let an inconvenient fact get in the way of his theory. He ignored it, and continued with his summary. ‘After Spymaster Williamson’s men had finished taking Greene’s statement, they let him go home, and I ordered you not to let him out of your sight.’

Chaloner had taken the opportunity to interrogate the clerk on the journey to Wapping. Greene had been shocked and deeply frightened, both from stumbling over a corpse in the dark and by the fact that a powerful noble thought him guilty of murder. He had been shaking almost uncontrollably, and Chaloner knew he was not the brazen slaughterer of the Earl’s imagination.

‘I watched his house for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘The next day, he went to church, then took a boat to his office in Westminster. He went home at dusk, then followed exactly the same routine today — only he stopped to dine at the Dolphin on his way home. He is probably in bed as we speak.’

‘But you cannot say for certain,’ stated the Earl. ‘You said yourself that it is impossible to watch three doors at once. He must have slipped past you.’

‘It is possible, but unlikely, because-’

‘You need a colleague,’ said the Earl, somewhat out of the blue. ‘And I know just the fellow. Colonel Turner is said to be looking for something useful to do. I shall hire him.’

‘Turner?’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that if Greene was to be branded a killer because he had found Chetwynd, then why was Turner rewarded with employment when he had found Vine? It made no sense. Not that he expected sense from the Earl in matters of intelligence: the man might be a fine politician and a skilled diplomat, but he was a menace when it came to investigations.

‘He is a likeable fellow, and I am sure you will get along famously.’ The Earl beamed, pleased with himself. ‘Engaging Turner is an excellent notion, and I should have thought of it sooner. My enemies multiply daily, and you are unequal to the task of monitoring them all — not to mention catching killers and hunting down stolen statues.’

Chaloner was not sure what he was suggesting. ‘You want us to work together?’

The Earl shook his head as the carriage pulled up outside Worcester House on The Strand, where he lived. ‘Separately — but on the same cases. A little healthy competition never did anyone any harm, and we shall see which of you is the most efficient.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘We will be falling over each other, asking the same people identical questions. It will almost certainly impede-’

‘Nonsense! You are just afraid Turner will transpire to be better than you. I want this case solved, and Greene brought to justice. You have until Twelfth Night — ten days — to prove him guilty.’

‘And if he is innocent?’

‘He is not,’ said the Earl firmly, allowing Chaloner to help him down the carriage steps. Without another word, he stalked inside his house and nodded to the footman to close the door behind him.

The bell in Westminster’s medieval clock tower was chiming midnight by the time Chaloner had escorted Christopher Vine’s body to the nearest church, and was free to break the news to the man’s family. He had been the bearer of bad tidings many times before, and knew how to do it gently, but it was not a task he relished even so. He walked slowly to New Palace Yard, where Vine had lived, and spent a few moments bracing himself before knocking on the door. Then he did not know whether to be relieved or shocked when Vine’s wife informed him that it was the best news she had had in weeks.

‘Since word came that Queen Katherine was ailing,’ she elaborated, when the spy found himself at a loss for words. ‘The woman is barren, and I prayed she would die, so the King can marry a fertile Protestant instead. He should never have wed a Catholic.’

Aware that people were seldom themselves after being told their spouses were dead, Chaloner did not take her to task for maligning a lady he liked. ‘The King’s marriage alliance with Portugal was-’

‘Portugal!’ sneered Mrs Vine. ‘Who cares about Portugal? All they do is fight Spaniards and eat olives. But I did not drag myself out of bed at such an hour to discuss royal matches with the likes of you. What happened to Christopher? Did he die of shock, because he heard someone swearing? Or did he spend so long at prayer that God grew tired of listening and struck him down?’

Vine’s only son, George, snickered. He was in his mid-twenties, and looked like his father in that he was tall and thin, but there the resemblance ended. George’s eyes were bloodshot from high living, and he reeked of brothel perfume. He was a far cry from his respectable sire, and Chaloner did not believe the rumour that said he had once tried to assassinate Cromwell — George simply did not have the mettle.

‘Perhaps he died of shame, because he found an inconsistency in his accounting,’ the young man said with a smirk. ‘And he was afraid folk would find out that he had wantonly mislaid a whole groat.’

Mrs Vine cackled with laughter, then went to pour two cups of wine. She gave one to her son, and raised it in salute. ‘To a future without old Dreary Bones!’

‘You did not like him, then,’ said Chaloner drily.

Mrs Vine snorted. ‘The man was a bore, with his prayers and his sickly goodness — always helping the poor and the sick, weeping every time he saw an injured dog …’

‘And then there was the Lord of Misrule,’ added George resentfully. ‘We all know the tradition is great fun, but father said it was cruel, and forbade me to have anything to do with it. Well, he cannot stop me now, and I shall offer my services as soon as I wake up tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Your father was poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether they had heard what had happened to Chetwynd, and had conspired to duplicate the crime in order to be rid of a hated kinsman. But then would they be so openly gleeful at the news of his death? He decided they would, on the grounds that people would know relations within the family were strained, and to feign grief would certainly arouse suspicion. Or was that attributing them with too much intelligence?

Mother and son were exchanging a glance he found impossible to interpret. ‘Then we demand an investigation,’ said Mrs Vine slyly, ‘with a view to claiming compensation for our loss. If Christopher died in the service of his country, I shall demand a pension.’

George emitted a sharp squeal of delight, and clapped his hands together. ‘Yes, yes! He earned a princely living, and his family cannot be expected to endure poverty just because he has been murdered. Oh, this is tremendous news!’

‘Do you have any idea who might want to harm him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Other than you two?’

‘Us?’ asked George, the glee fading quickly from his eyes. He shot his mother an uneasy look. ‘We had nothing to do with his death. You heard us — we thought it was natural until you said he was murdered. You cannot blame us for what has happened.’

‘The villain will be someone at White Hall,’ added Mrs Vine hastily. ‘Perhaps a colleague who wanted his government post — it is a lucrative one, and lots of folk are jealous of his success.’

‘Or maybe someone did not like the fact that he was so revoltingly honest,’ mused George. ‘The Court understands that corruption is a necessary part of modern life, but Father never did. I will be more tolerant, when I take over his duties.’

Chaloner was bemused — Vine’s post was not hereditary. ‘You intend to step into his shoes?’

George shrugged. ‘Why not? I will be better at it than he was, because I shall not offend people by rejecting their bribes.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I was thinking more in terms of your safety. Your mother has just said Vine might have been killed by someone who wants his job. If you are appointed, you will be at risk from poison, too — unless you are the culprit, of course.’

George opened his mouth, but then seemed unable to think of a suitable response, so snapped it shut again. It was left to his mother to protest his innocence. Chaloner listened to her list of alternative suspects, but it soon became clear she was naming everyone and anyone in an effort to divert attention from her son.

‘The Court surgeon wants to examine your husband’s remains more carefully,’ he said, interrupting her tirade, and supposing there was no harm in putting Wiseman’s request. After all, they were hardly prostrate with grief. ‘May he have your permission to-’

‘No,’ interrupted George. He shot his mother another unreadable glance. ‘I have seen Wiseman in action, and it is disgusting. Dreary Bones might have been a trial, but I will not see him hacked to pieces by that ghoul. He will go in the ground whole, with all his entrails where they are meant to be.’

‘Why was your father working so late tonight?’ Chaloner asked, not sure what to make of the refusal. ‘Everyone else had gone home.’

Mrs Vine shrugged. ‘Christopher and I live separate lives, which suits us both. To be frank, I thought he was upstairs asleep, and had no idea he was out.’

‘Did he know a clerk called Chetwynd?’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Vine. ‘Why do you ask? Is it because Chetwynd was poisoned, too?’

‘The news is all over London,’ said George, before Chaloner could ask how she knew. ‘Everyone is talking about it, because it is not every day that government officials are unlawfully slain.’

‘No, it is every other day,’ quipped his mother. ‘Chetwynd on Thursday, and Christopher tonight. We shall dine on this for months, because everyone will want to befriend the kin of a murdered man.’

‘I imagine that depends on who is revealed as the killer,’ said Chaloner, aiming for the door. He had had enough of the Vines for one night. ‘And the authorities will catch him. You can be sure of that.’

‘Why bother?’ asked George, going to refill his goblet. ‘Dreary Bones will not be missed.’

Although the wind was not as fierce as it had been earlier, it was still strong enough to make the trees in nearby Tothill Fields roar. The air was full of flying debris — mostly twigs, dead leaves and dust, but also human rubbish, including discarded rags, sodden bits of paper and even scraps of food. Chaloner was disgusted when a rotting cabbage leaf slapped into his face, and was relieved when he finally managed to flag down a carriage to take him back to Wapping.

It was a long way to Greene’s house, which, at sixpence a mile, delighted the hackneyman. The coach was determinedly basic, with a wooden seat bristling with splinters and a mass of squelching straw on the floor. It stank of horse and vomit, and there were no covers on the windows to protect passengers from inclement weather — the owner was apparently of the belief that if he was obliged to sit outside, then so should his fares. The vehicle lurched along the empty streets at a furious lick, forcing Chaloner to cling on tight or risk being tossed out. By the time he reached the tavern where Haddon was waiting, he was cold, tired and wet.

‘It is still raining, then,’ said Haddon, when the spy slipped into the seat next to him. The steward was a slight man of about sixty, whose baggy skin made him look as though he had once been much larger, and he wore a wig to conceal his hairless pate. He had a pleasant face, with laughter lines around his mouth and eyes, and he owned a passion for dogs that verged on the obsessive. He had been appointed the previous year, when the Earl had complained that his current staff could no longer cope with the volume of work, and so had been granted funds to expand his retinue.

‘It is always raining in this godforsaken country,’ grumbled Chaloner, weariness making him irritable. ‘It makes me wish I was back in Spain — and the last time I was there, I was almost killed.’

Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you realise that is the first information about yourself you have ever volunteered to me? The Earl must have driven you to distraction with his demands to prove Greene is the killer, because you are usually far more guarded.’

Chaloner supposed he was right. He had been trained never to yield personal details, which was a considerable stumbling block in making new friends. It was a problem for his latest relationship, too, because Hannah Cotton was eager to learn all about her new lover, but he found himself reluctant to tell her what she wanted to know. Secrecy was not so important now he was no longer a foreign spy in a hostile country, but it was a difficult habit to break after so many years regardless.

‘You should go home,’ he said to Haddon. ‘I heard a rumour that the Lord of Misrule plans some sort of attack on the Earl soon, and you cannot defend him if you are half asleep.’

‘What about you?’ asked Haddon. ‘How will you find Chetwynd’s real killer after a third night spent out here? You will be too tired to catch a cold, let alone a murderer.’

‘You do not think Greene is the culprit, then?’ Chaloner asked, intrigued by Haddon’s use of ‘real’.

‘Of course not,’ said Haddon scornfully. ‘I have known him for years, and he would not harm a fly. You have talked to him — you must see the Earl is wrong about the poor fellow.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I thought Vine’s death would give the Earl pause for thought, but it has only convinced him that Greene managed to outwit me — slipped past when my attention wavered.’

Haddon grimaced. ‘Vine was a decent soul — kind to stray dogs. Was he poisoned, too?’

‘Wiseman thinks so.’

‘Then it must be true.’ Haddon was silent for a moment. ‘After you left, I walked around Greene’s house, and learned that there are three different ways he can leave it, only two of which are visible by one pair of eyes. So, perhaps he did go to the Painted Chamber tonight without you noticing.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘I thought you just said he is no killer.’

‘I genuinely believe Greene is innocent of these heinous crimes, but I am not such a fool as to ignore facts that do not support my theory. Of course, there is a way to determine once and for all whether he is involved in this nasty business.’

‘There is?’

‘If Greene has indeed been out a-killing, then his coat and shoes will be wet. Agreed? It is a filthy night, and no one can move about without a drenching, not even if he hires a hackney. The Earl’s secretary tells me you own some skill at breaking into houses, so break into Greene’s. If his clothes are dry, then it means he has been nowhere, and we can abandon this ridiculous vigil.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was an eminently sensible idea, and one he should have thought of himself. He might have done, had he not been so unutterably tired.

Haddon smiled when he saw the spy’s reaction. ‘Stewards can be relied upon to provide intelligent notions occasionally, so do not look so startled. Come, we shall do it together.’

‘I had better go alone.’ Chaloner disliked company when he was committing burglary, especially that of amateurs. ‘Although it is good of you to offer.’

Aware of Haddon watching through the window, he trotted across the road and made his way to the most secluded of Greene’s three doors. He picked the lock with the easy confidence of a man who had invaded other people’s property many times before, and found himself in a tiny kitchen. Beyond it was a hall, with doors leading to more rooms and a flight of stairs. Chaloner headed for the latter, knowing from his surveillance that Greene slept in an upper chamber that overlooked the street.

Through a crack in the bedroom door, he saw his quarry reading by candlelight, although the troubled expression on Greene’s face suggested his thoughts were a long way from his book. Chaloner supposed it was not surprising: he would not have been slumbering peacefully if the Lord Chancellor of England had deemed him guilty of murder, either. He crept back to the kitchen, closed the door and lit a lamp. Then he inspected the pegs on which Greene kept his outdoor clothes.

The clerk had worn a rather shabby cloak that day, and it was hanging on the hook nearest the door. It was damp, as would be expected given that it had been wrapped around him while he had travelled home from Westminster at dusk, but it was certainly not sodden: clearly, it had been drying for several hours. Chaloner knelt to look at the footwear. Greene owned two pairs of shoes and one set of boots. The boots were stuffed with paper, to prevent the leather from shrinking, but again, they were damp rather than wet. Meanwhile, the shoes had not been worn that day, because they were bone dry.

‘Well?’ asked Haddon, when Chaloner rejoined him in the tavern. ‘What did you find? Is the Earl right about Greene, or am I?’

‘You are. He has not been out since returning home this evening, so he cannot have given Vine the poison. Of course, he might have hired someone to do it for him.’

Haddon nodded slowly. ‘I cannot imagine there are many poisoners among his acquaintances, but I suppose it is something you should explore.’

‘What do you know about James Turner?’ asked Chaloner, thinking again that if the Earl regarded Greene as a suspect for discovering Chetwynd, then the flamboyant colonel should be treated likewise.

Haddon was surprised by the change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘He likes the company of ladies, and I predict hearts will be broken, because he cannot possibly please them all. He is egalitarian in his tastes — he enjoys a romp with Meg the laundress just as much as one with Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He seems personable enough to me, although I doubt the hole in his ear was made by a musket-ball, which implies a tendency to moderate the truth. And I would not trust him with my daughters.’

‘You have daughters?’

‘It is a figure of speech. My wife died many years ago, and I have no other family — unless you count my dogs, which are like children to me. And you? Sir George Downing, with whom you worked in The Hague, told me last week that you married a Dutch lass when you first went to Holland.’

‘It was a long time ago.’ Chaloner liked Haddon, but did not feel equal to an exchange of confidences that night — although a nagging voice at the back of his mind warned him that he was never in the mood for personal conversations, not even with Hannah. How was he going to develop friendships, if he could not bring himself to confide in the people who were trying to get to know him? ‘Even if Greene is a killer, there is no point in watching him now, because I doubt he will strike twice in one night. We should both go home.’

‘It is late for travelling, so I suggest we hire rooms here,’ said Haddon, adding with an impish smile, ‘then you can tell the Earl truthfully that you remained within spitting distance of Greene all night.’

It was another good idea, and Chaloner was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

A lifetime of travel meant Chaloner had developed the ability to rest tolerably well in most strange beds, and the one in the Wapping tavern was surprisingly comfortable. The following morning Haddon complained that he had been kept awake by howling winds and the thunder of rain on the roof, but Chaloner had noticed none of it. There had not been much of the night left by the time they had retired, but even so, he felt reasonably well-rested when he joined the steward for a breakfast of bread and ale.

They hired a skiff to take them to White Hall, leaving as soon as it was light enough for the boatman to see. It was a bumpy ride, because the wind had churned the Thames into a confusion of waves, most of which were going against the tide. The boatman moaned about the conditions all the way, oblivious to the fact that spray from his oars drenched his passengers at almost every stroke. Haddon was shivering miserably by the time they alighted at the Westminster Stairs.

It was not a pleasant day, even once they were off the river. The sun began to flash from behind the clouds occasionally, although never for long enough do any useful warming. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wavy fringe of ice all along the beach. Because it was Sunday, bells were ringing all across the city. The wind played with the sound, making a deafening jangle one moment, and a distant tinkle the next.

Chaloner and Haddon walked up Cannon Row, a well-maintained street with gates giving access to a number of elegant mansions, as well as to the King’s private orchard in the Palace of White Hall. Haddon stopped outside a pretty cottage that had a dog-shaped weather-vane on the roof.

‘This is my humble abode. Since we are passing, I shall change my clothes before I take a chill. Come in and wait for me, and when I am warm and dry again, I would like to ask your opinion about something — a matter that is worrying me deeply.’

He had opened the door and stepped inside before the spy could demur, and immediately, two lapdogs scampered at him with frenzied yaps of delight. They were brown and white with long, silky ears. Their fur was glossy, their noses shiny, and their necks adorned with bows of silk. Haddon knelt and greeted them with professions of such love that Chaloner wondered whether he should wait outside. The spy could not have made himself speak such words to a woman, let alone an animal.

‘Do you own a dog?’ asked the steward conversationally, when the pooches were bored with affection and began to clamour for food. He fed them prime cuts of meat on solid silver platters.

‘Cat,’ Chaloner replied, grateful it was not in the habit of overwhelming him with gushing adoration every time he arrived home.

‘You should get a dog,’ advised Haddon, shooting his charges a doting glance as they ate. ‘I would not be without my little darlings for the world, and cats have too many unpleasant habits.’

Chaloner was not sure what he meant, but time was passing, and he did not want to waste the few hours of winter daylight on a debate about pets. He gestured that Haddon should hurry, and while the steward went to remove his sodden clothes, he prowled around the parlour, reading the titles of the books on the shelves — mostly religious tracts and tomes about dogs — and then picking out tunes on a virginals that stood by the window.

‘What did you want to ask me about?’ he called, frowning when he made a mistake in the music. He was an adequate virginalist, but his real love was the bass viol, which he played extremely well.

Still fastening the ‘falling band’ that went around his neck like a bib, Haddon went to a desk, and removed a piece of paper. ‘I found this lying on the floor after Brodrick visited the Earl last night.’

The spy was puzzled. ‘It is a plan of our master’s White Hall offices. But Brodrick is his cousin, and does not need a map to find his way around — he knows the place inside out.’

‘I think he drew it yesterday, but dropped it by mistake on his way out. You mentioned rumours that the Lord of Misrule intends to play a prank on the Earl …’

‘And Brodrick is the Lord of Misrule,’ finished Chaloner in understanding. ‘So he sketched the layout of the Earl’s domain to help him with whatever piece of mischief he intends to perpetrate.’

‘Brodrick is the Lord of Misrule?’ echoed Haddon in astonishment. ‘I have been trying to find that out since Thursday, but everyone keeps telling me they have been sworn to secrecy.’

They had told Chaloner the same thing, but it had not stopped him acquiring the information anyway. He handed back the paper. ‘It is a stroke of luck for the Earl, because Brodrick will never harm the one person who keeps trying to get him a high-paying post in government. Whatever Brodrick plans, I doubt it will be too terrible.’

Haddon’s expression was troubled. ‘I disagree. Libertines like Buckingham and Chiffinch have been jibing him about his affection for the Earl recently, so he might devise something especially horrid, just to prove himself to them. After all, the Lord of Misrule’s identity is a secret, so how will the Earl ever know who is to blame for whatever outrage is inflicted on him?’

‘Then you must stop it.’

‘I can only act if I know what Brodrick intends. That means I need you to make some enquiries for me.’

‘I cannot. The Earl intends to pit me against Turner, to see who can solve these murders fastest. I will not have time to-’

‘It will not matter which of you is best if our Earl’s feeble grip on power is loosened by some prank of the Lord of Misrule. You must oblige me in this, Thomas — there is no one else.’

‘There is Secretary Bulteel. He will not stand by and see our master harmed.’

‘Yes, but he hates me, because he thinks I am trying to steal his job. Meanwhile, I dislike him, because he is uncommunicative and sly. I need your help.’

Supposing he was going to be in for a busy time, Chaloner nodded reluctant agreement.

The Palace of White Hall was a sprawling affair, said to contain more than two thousand rooms in edifices that ranged from tiny medieval masterpieces to rambling Tudor monstrosities. Most had never been designed to connect with each other, but connected they were, resulting in a chaotic tangle of winding corridors, dead-ended alleys, oddly shaped yards, mysteriously truncated halls and irregularly angled houses. It was rendered even more confusing by the fact that most of its buildings were more than one storey, but the layout of their upper floors seldom corresponded to the layout at ground level. It had taken Chaloner weeks to learn his way around, and even now, there were still pockets that confounded him.

He and Haddon entered the palace via the Privy Garden, a large area of manicured splendour that was used by courtiers for gentle exercise. As they walked, Haddon happily informed the spy that he took his dogs there most evenings, and that the King found them captivating. Chaloner could not imagine His Majesty being charmed by a pair of yapping rats, but kept his thoughts to himself. He glanced up at the sky as Haddon chattered; grey clouds scudded across it at a furious rate, while trees whipped back and forth in a way that was going to damage them. Several were already at unnatural angles, and would have to be replanted.

They parted company in the main courtyard, Haddon to check on some arrangements for a state dinner, and Chaloner to see whether the Earl was in his office. The spy was just jogging up the marble staircase — the Earl’s suite was on the upper floor — when he met someone coming down. It was Turner. The colonel looked particularly dashing that morning, in a black long-coat with yellow lace frothing at the throat and wrists, colours that were reflected in his trademark ear-string. His hat was pure Cavalier, with a huge amber feather, and when he smiled, his teeth were impossibly white.

‘We were not properly introduced last night,’ he said, effecting one of his fancy bows. ‘I am James Turner. Perhaps you have heard of me?’

‘Should I have done?’ asked Chaloner.

Turner nodded cheerfully, unabashed by the spy’s less-than-friendly manner. ‘Yes — either for my valour during the wars, or my exploits during the Commonwealth. I am sure you remember how Cromwell had a clever Spymaster called Thurloe? Well, I was the bane of Thurloe’s life. In fact, I annoyed him so much that he put up a reward for anyone who could bring him my head.’

‘Does the offer still stand?’ Chaloner doubted the claim was true, because he knew Thurloe well, and he was not the type of man to provide money in exchange for body parts.

Turner laughed. ‘Why? Do you wish to claim it? If so, you will have to behead me the next time we meet, because His Portliness is keen to see you, and you should not keep him waiting. He is in a snappish mood, probably because his shoes are too tight, and they hurt his gouty ankles.’

‘You mean the Earl?’ Chaloner was a little taken aback. He would never discuss his master in such uncomplimentary terms with someone he barely knew. For a start, the Earl was sensitive about his weight, and any hint of mockery would see the joker dismissed in a heartbeat.

The merry grin was still plastered on Turner’s face. ‘He wanted us to meet each other this morning, and discuss tactics over these Westminster poisonings, but he grew tired of waiting for you, and dispatched me on a solo mission instead.’

‘What mission?’ asked Chaloner. Turner clearly liked to give the impression that he was a Court cockerel, all frills and no substance, yet there was something about him that suggested he was rather more. Chaloner supposed his affable buffoon act was an attempt to lull rivals into a state of false security, but the spy had met such men before, and knew better than to be deceived.

‘I am to go to the Shield Gallery, and inspect it for clues regarding the statue that was stolen last week — the one you have been hunting. His Portliness says the place is closed because of a leaking roof, so I shall have it to myself. Is it worth my time, do you think? Will I learn anything useful?’

‘You never know. However, I examined it very carefully the morning after the theft, but the culprit left no clues that I could find.’

Turner chuckled. ‘That is what I suspected, so I shall not waste too much time on it. However, the morning will not be a total loss, because the Shield Gallery has a passageway that leads to the Queen’s private apartments — and where there is a queen, there are ladies-in-waiting. I warrant they will be delighted to have a bit of unscheduled manly company.’ He waggled his eyebrows.

Chaloner could only admire his audacity. ‘That is probably true, but the Queen has armed guards as well as ladies-in-waiting, and I imagine they will be rather less delighted by your arrival.’

Turner treated him to a conspiratorial wink. ‘Thanks for the warning — I shall do the same for you some day. I see we will work well together, you and me.’

‘I understand you found Vine’s body,’ said Chaloner, deciding it might be a good time to pump the man for information. ‘That must have been unpleasant for you.’

‘I am a soldier,’ said Turner with a world-weary shrug. ‘So I am used to corpses. Of course, most of my experience is on the battlefield, where you tend not to encounter ones that have been poisoned. Then I come to London, and within three days, I lay eyes on two: Chetwynd and Vine.’

‘I thought Greene found Chetwynd’s body.’

‘He did,’ said Turner, rather hastily. ‘I saw it later, along with a host of other courtiers who were curious to see the mortal remains of a murdered man. I never knew Chetwynd — when I looked at his corpse, his face was unfamiliar — but I did have the misfortune to meet Vine. He was a sanctimonious old fool who called me a libertine, just because I have twenty-eight children. I assured him they are all legally begotten, but he did not believe me.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘I wonder why! Are you a bigamist, then?’

‘I married young,’ replied Turner, with another wink. ‘My illegitimate offspring are another tally altogether, but I had better keep that number to myself. How about you? How many do you have?’

‘Vine,’ prompted Chaloner, wondering whether Haddon had been gossiping about the family Chaloner had had, and lost to plague, in Holland more than a decade before. Regardless, he was not about to discuss them with a man he did not know. ‘You were telling me how you came to find his body in a part of Westminster that is usually deserted at night.’

‘Was I indeed?’ asked Turner, with one of his rakish grins. ‘Well, as we are colleagues, I suppose I can trust you with a confidence. I went to the Painted Chamber for a midnight tryst with a lady who works in the laundry. We arranged to meet there because it is usually empty at that hour. But when I arrived, I found not the lovely Meg, but Vine. Stone dead.’

‘Is the lovely Meg the kind of woman to poison someone?’

Turner shook his head vehemently. ‘She is a gentle child, and would never harm a soul.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about that when he interviewed her. After all, it was not inconceivable that Vine had happened across her while she was waiting for her lover to arrive, and had made disparaging remarks about her morality. Some women in White Hall were sensitive about that kind of accusation, and men had been killed for far less.

‘But you found Vine a long time before midnight,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Why did you arrive so early for this assignation?’

‘Because I hoped she would come a bit ahead of schedule, and I was at a loose end, with nothing else to do. Now I wish I had visited Lady Castlemaine instead, although you had better not tell her so — I doubt she will appreciate knowing I view her as somewhere to kill time between amours.’

Chaloner was sure she would not. ‘Where is Meg now?’

Turner frowned. ‘I have not seen her since we made the arrangement, and I can only assume she has decided to keep a low profile, lest someone start pointing accusing fingers. You see, it was not the first time she and I used the Painted Chamber for a nocturnal romp.’

‘When you found Vine, what were your immediate thoughts? Death by poison is rare, so I doubt it was the first thing that entered your mind.’

‘Actually, it was — because of Chetwynd. I noticed spilled wine on Vine’s chin, indicating he had been drinking when he died, but there was no sign of a goblet, which struck me as odd. It told me someone else had been there — someone who had taken the cup with him. The killer, no less.’

Chaloner studied him thoughtfully, aware that here was a man whose powers of observation equalled his own, and it reinforced his initial impression — that there was more to Turner than met the eye. ‘Do you think Greene did it?’

‘I do not. It takes courage to commit murder, and Greene is a mouse. Besides, he believes everything in life is preordained, so he never bothers to do much of anything, on the grounds that it will make no difference to the general scheme of things anyway. You have met him — you know this is true. His Portliness refuses to be convinced, though. What about you? What do you think?’

‘That Greene did not leave his house last night, so he cannot have killed Vine.’

Turner looked pleased. ‘We think alike, you and I. I imagine we share the same taste in women, too. As far as I am concerned, they only need one qualification to secure my favour: they must have teeth. I cannot abide making love to bare gums. I am sure you will agree.’

He sauntered away, whistling to himself, before Chaloner could frame a suitable answer.