The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 2

The Earl’s White Hall offices comprised a suite of rooms overlooking the Privy Garden. They were sumptuously furnished and snug, with the exception of one: Secretary John Bulteel occupied a bleak, windowless cupboard that was so cold during winter he was obliged to wear gloves with the fingers cut out. He glanced up as Chaloner walked past and gave him a friendly wave, baring his rotten teeth in a smile as he did so. He was a slight, timid man, who was not popular among his colleagues, although Chaloner liked him well enough. His wife baked excellent cakes, and he often shared them with the spy — a diffident, shy gesture of friendship that no one else at White Hall ever bothered to extend.

Bulteel took a moment to blow on his frozen hands, then turned back to his ledgers, looking like a scarecrow in badly fitting, albeit decent quality, clothes. Chaloner often wondered why the Earl treated him so shabbily, when he was scrupulously honest, hard-working and loyal, and could only conclude it was because Bulteel was so singularly unprepossessing — that the Earl could not bring himself to show consideration for someone who was not only physically unattractive, but socially inept, too.

In contrast to his secretary’s chilly domain, the Earl’s chambers were sweltering, heated not only by massive braziers, but by open fires, too. They had recently been redecorated, although Chaloner thought the man responsible should be shot. A massive chandelier now hung from the main ceiling, and while the Earl was short enough to pass underneath it without mishap, anyone taller could expect to be brained. Meanwhile, the walls were crammed with paintings from the newly retrieved collections of the King’s late father — Cromwell had sold these after the execution of the first Charles, and the Royalists were currently in the process of getting them all back again. Chaloner found the sheer number of masterpieces in such a small space vulgar, although no one else seemed bothered by it.

He walked through the open door, ducked to avoid the chandelier, and approached the desk. The Earl leapt violently when he became aware that his spy was standing behind him.

‘How many more times must I tell you not to sneak up on me like that?’ he snapped angrily, hand to his chest. ‘I cannot cope with you frightening the life out of me at every turn.’

‘I am sorry, sir. It is these thick rugs — they muffle footsteps.’

‘They are for my gout. Wiseman says soft floor coverings are kinder on the ankles than marble. He also said I would be more comfortable if I was thinner. I confess I was hurt. Do you think me fat?’

‘I have seen fatter,’ replied Chaloner carefully. He did not want to lie, but suspected the Earl would not appreciate the truth. He changed the subject before the discussion could become awkward. ‘I interviewed Vine’s family last night. They do not seem overly distressed by his death.’

‘That does not surprise me. Young George is a nasty creature, and I do not believe he tried to assassinate Cromwell, as he claims. I suspect he made up the tale, to curry favour with us Royalists.’

‘There was no love lost between father and son. They-’

‘George did not dispatch his father,’ interrupted the Earl, seeing where the conversation was going. ‘Vine was killed in an identical manner to Chetwynd — with poison. Since there cannot be two murderers favouring the same method of execution, we must assume a single culprit: Greene. Besides, while George may be delighted to lose his sire, he has no reason to want Chetwynd dead.’

‘Perhaps that is what he hopes you will think. Chetwynd might be a decoy victim.’

‘Why must you always look for overly complex solutions?’ demanded the Earl. ‘Greene killed Chetwynd, as I have told you dozens of times. And now he has attacked Vine.’

‘But I was watching his house when Vine was killed. He cannot be-’

‘He hired an accomplice. He can afford it, because his job pays him a handsome salary. But I fail to understand why you cannot see his guilt. He “discovered” Chetwynd’s body, and you once told me yourself that the discoverer of a murdered corpse should always be considered a suspect until he can prove his innocence. Moreover, Greene and Chetwynd worked in adjoining buildings and were acquaintances, if not friends. I know Chetwynd ranked higher than Greene, but that is irrelevant.’

‘Irrelevant?’ Chaloner was unable to stop himself from pointing out an inconsistency. ‘But when we caught Greene running away from Chetwynd’s body, you said it was relevant, because it was Greene’s motive for murder: jealousy.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘You really are an insolent dog! But you should watch your tongue from now on, because if Turner transpires to be better than you, I shall appoint him in your place and dispense with your services. There are those who think I am rash to employ a man who was a member of Cromwell’s secret service, and I am beginning to think they may have a point.’

‘You mean Williamson?’ The government’s most recent spymaster held Chaloner responsible for the death of a friend earlier that year, and hated him intensely. It was unfortunate, because Chaloner had hoped to continue spying in Holland after the Restoration — the King needed experienced men to watch the Dutch just as much as Cromwell had, and his record was impeccable. Moreover, he had only ever provided reports on alien nations, never on the exiled King. But he would never be sent to the Netherlands as long as Williamson was in charge of intelligence.

The Earl nodded. ‘He says that hiring ex-Parliamentarian agents may make folk question my loyalty to the King. And he is right — I have many enemies at Court, and one might well use my employing of you to harm me.’

‘But none of them know about my past,’ objected Chaloner. ‘Unless you have told them?’

‘I have not,’ said the Earl firmly. ‘Do you think me a fool, to provide them with ammunition? And Williamson knows better than to tell them, too, because he is afraid of your mentor. Cromwell’s old spymaster may have lost his government posts and a good slice of his wealth when the Royalists returned, but he still wields enough power to make him dangerous.’

Unfortunately, though, the fear in which men had once held Thurloe was beginning to wane as time passed. Chaloner was not worried about what that meant for himself, although the prospect of an unleashed Williamson was not something he relished, but about the repercussions for his friend. There were those who thought Cromwell’s chief advisor had no right to be living in peaceful retirement, and should suffer a traitor’s death.

‘Greene, sir,’ Chaloner prompted, supposing he would have to prove his loyalty yet again to the Earl and the new government — and keep proving it until he was fully trusted. It was a miserable situation, because there was little about the Earl or the work that he liked, but he needed to earn a crust, and no one else was lining up to hire him.

The Earl pursed his lips. ‘When Greene came slithering out of the Painted Chamber, just as you and I happened to be walking past, he behaved very suspiciously.’

‘He was frightened,’ said Chaloner reasonably. ‘He had just found a dead senior official, and then the Lord Chancellor accused him of murder. I would have been frightened, too.’

‘But you would not have tried to run away. You would have stayed and explained yourself.’

‘He panicked — it could happen to anyone under such circumstances.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared the Earl, with a note of finality that told Chaloner any further debate would be a waste of time. ‘But I told Colonel Turner that I want this killer — whether it is Greene or someone else — behind bars by Twelfth Night. He assures me that it will be done. What will you promise?’

‘To do my best. I will not lie to you, or make pledges I may not be able to fulfil.’

The Earl stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well. Go and do your best then, and let us see where it leads. However, I see no point in continuing to watch Greene — he slipped past you to murder Vine, after all — so give up the surveillance and concentrate on other leads instead. And incidentally, these deaths do not mean you can forget about the previous task I set you.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What previous task? Finding out what the Lord of Misrule plans to do over the next ten days?’

The Earl grimaced in distaste. ‘You had better not waste your time on that nonsense! No, I mean the King’s missing statue. He remains grieved by its loss, and I would like to be the one to hand it back to him. You will be busy, because I give both these enquiries equal status.’

The Earl of Clarendon was not normally a stupid man, and Chaloner could not help but wonder whether there was more to his dislike of Greene than he was willing to share. It would not be the first time he had been less than honest with his spy before sending him off on an investigation, and Chaloner knew from bitter experience that this could prove dangerous. But such subterfuge was the Earl’s way, and Chaloner had come to expect lies and half-truths, so he resigned himself to fathoming out the mystery without his master’s cooperation. It was a wicked waste of his time, especially given that he had two other enquiries to conduct, but it could not be helped, and there was no point in wasting energy by railing against it.

‘He is in a bad mood this morning,’ said Bulteel, following the spy down the stairs with some letters to post. ‘His gout must be aggravating him.’

‘He is always in a bad mood,’ Chaloner replied tartly. ‘So goutiness must be his permanent state.’

‘Do not be too hard on him,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘He is under a lot of pressure, what with the bishops demanding new laws to suppress nonconformists, the Court popinjays clamouring for war with the Dutch, and people muttering that the Queen — the wife he chose for His Majesty — is barren.’

‘How is your family?’ Chaloner was loath to discuss the Earl’s concerns, because he and Bulteel held diametrically opposite views on most of them. Bulteel tended to accept whatever the Earl told him, whereas Chaloner had seen enough of the world to make up his own mind.

Bulteel blinked at the abrupt enquiry. ‘Well, we would like to provide our little son with a sibling, but I fear for my future employment. Haddon has only been here a few months, but the Earl already prefers him to me — he is taking over duties that should be mine.’

‘But that is why he was hired,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘You were overwhelmed, struggling to keep up, and Haddon is meant to be taking some of your work. The Earl expects you to be grateful, not nervous.’

‘Well, I am nervous,’ snapped Bulteel, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘This job is important to me. And I do not like Haddon, anyway. He smells of dog and is always smiling at people. It is not natural.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, not sure what else to say. Haddon did smile at people, but no more than was necessary for normal social intercourse, and the spy had not noticed any particular odour of pooch. He changed the subject before the discussion went any further — he did not want to take sides when he had to work with both secretary and steward. ‘I do not suppose you have heard any rumours about these murders, have you? About potential culprits?’

‘I am afraid not,’ replied Bulteel. ‘All I know is that neither victim will be mourned by his kin, although London will be a poorer place without them. They were good men.’

‘You knew them well?’

‘No, but I wish I had — they were gentle and kind. And Vine funded a hospice for stray dogs. Perhaps that is why they were killed — the Court is so full of vice that decency is considered a fault.’

‘Is Greene the kind of man to despise goodness?’

‘I do not know him well, either, but I would not have thought so. He is very devout, by all accounts — attends church most mornings, and does charitable work in Southwark.’

‘Then what about the missing statue? There must be some gossip regarding its whereabouts?’

‘Not that I have heard. Colonel Turner has been told to make enquiries, too, but I would rather you were the one to find it.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It does not matter which of us succeeds, only that the King has it back. He is said to be very distressed about its disappearance.’

Bulteel was silent for a moment, then began to speak. ‘Turner is a danger to your future. And Haddon is a danger to mine. You and I have worked together before to our mutual advantage, so what do you say to renewing our alliance? You tell me if Haddon confides any plot that might prove detrimental to me; I tell you anything I hear about the statue or the murders. Agreed?’

‘Very well,’ said Chaloner, confident that the steward would confide nothing of the kind, so betraying one colleague to another would not be a quandary he would ever be obliged to face.

Bulteel smiled. ‘Good. And to seal our agreement, I shall go with you to the Shield Gallery. Turner should be gone by now, because we both know there is nothing to find — you have already looked.’

‘So why should I go there with you now?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘Because I have been thinking about the theft, and I have a theory. It involves keys.’

The ease with which the thief had entered the Shield Gallery on the night the statue had gone missing was something that had troubled Chaloner from the start, and he was more than willing to listen to Bulteel’s ideas on the subject. The secretary had a sharp mind, and might well have an insight into how the crime had been committed — and Chaloner needed all the help he could get now he was in competition with another investigator. He nodded assent, and they began to walk in that direction.

The Shield Gallery was a long hall, so named because trophies won during tournaments in the nearby Tilt Yard had once hung there. No such chivalrous pursuits took place now, though — Chaloner thought there was more likely to be a tally of sexual conquests pinned to the walls.

The gallery was on the upper floor of an Elizabethan section of the palace, and at one end was a large, mullioned window that overlooked the river. On the ground floor, directly beneath the window, were the so-called Privy Stairs, which were basically a private wharf for the King and Queen. It was convenient for them to jump into a boat there, because the Queen’s quarters were through a door in the gallery’s northern end, while the King’s lay to the south. The gallery was handsomely appointed — its floor was tiled in black and white granite, and paintings by great masters hung along its length, interspersed with sculptures on plinths.

As it was so close to the royal apartments, the chamber was usually kept locked. Bulteel opened it with a key, and Chaloner saw Turner had not been exaggerating when he had mentioned a leaking roof: there were puddles on the floor and water-stains on the walls. There was no sign of the colonel, although there was a lot of noise coming from Her Majesty’s rooms — squeals, giggles and bantering conversation. The spy was impressed: it was not easy for a man to inveigle his way into that Holy of Holies. But there was work to be done, and Chaloner had more important concerns than Turner’s silver tongue. He turned his attention to the matter in hand.

‘The statue was there,’ he said, pointing to the one plinth that was bereft of its masterpiece.

Bulteel ran wistful fingers across the empty marble. ‘Bernini captured the old king’s likeness to perfection when he carved that bust. Did you know it was one of the pieces Cromwell hawked, because he needed money to pay off his army? You, in other words.’

Chaloner was taken aback by what sounded like an accusation. ‘Hardly! I fought in the wars, but was never in the peacetime militia — I was overseas by the time the old king’s goods were sold.’ He frowned. ‘I did not know you were a connoisseur of art.’

Bulteel shrugged. ‘You have never asked. But I do like sculpture. When the King decided to reassemble his late father’s collection, I was one of those employed to make a list of what had gone, so the commissioners would know what to hunt for. I hope you find the Bernini, because it would be a crying shame if that disappeared into some private vault.’

‘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?’

‘Yes. He was a minor nuisance during the Common-wealth — he liked breaking into the Post Office and stealing letters. He never laid hold of anything import ant, but it was an annoyance, regardless.’

‘He says you put a price on his head.’

‘Then he is lying — he would not have been worth the expense.’

‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘Only that he has twenty-eight children, and he trained as a solicitor. And that he could never match your expertise as an intelligencer, and the Earl is an ass if he thinks otherwise.’

But the Earl was an ass in matters of espionage, thought Chaloner dejectedly, and might well dismiss him in favour of a flamboyant Cavalier. And then what? The spy could not foist himself on his family, because, as fervent supporters of Cromwell, they were being taxed into poverty by vengeful Royalists. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he should abandon England, and go to live in the New World. The only problem was that he had been there once, and had not liked it.

‘What do you know about the victims?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Vine and Chetwynd?’

‘Just that they were pillars of decency in a government that seethes with corruption. It was not like that when Cromwell was in charge — as absolute ruler, he had the power to dismiss or arrest anyone he deemed less than honest. As I have said before, a military dictatorship is the best form of govern-’

‘What about their families?’ asked Chaloner, interrupting before they could argue. He did not share Thurloe’s views on the joys of repressive regimes. ‘George Vine told me he tried to assassinate Cromwell. Is it true?’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘I did have wind of a plot, but it transpired to be so outlandish that I did not bother with a prosecution. He planned to give the Lord Protector an exploding leek, but failed to take into account that most men are not in the habit of devouring raw vegetables presented to them by strangers. And we all know you cannot pack enough gunpowder inside a leek to kill anyone.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘You would need a cabbage, at the very least.’

Religion was a contentious issue in England, and as far as the bishops were concerned, a person was either a devout Anglican who attended his weekly devotions, or a fanatic who should be treated with suspicion. Some churches kept registers of which parishioners stayed away, and because Chaloner had been trained never to attract unnecessary attention, he always tried to make an appearance at St Dunstan-in-the-West on those Sundays when he was home. He did not usually mind, because the old building was a haven of peace amid the clamour of the city, and the rector’s rambling sermons gave him a chance to sit quietly and think of other matters.

But he resented the wasted time that day. There was too much to do, and Rector Thompson was holding a sheaf of notes that suggested his congregation might be trapped for hours while he ploughed through them all. Chaloner exchanged amiable greetings with him in the nave, ensured his name was recorded on the attendance list, then escaped through the vestry door when no one was looking. Once in the street, he headed for Westminster, walking with one hand on his hat to prevent the wind from tearing it from his head. It had been a gift from a lady in Spain, and its crown was cunningly reinforced with a metal bowl. It had saved his life on several occasions, and he did not want to lose it.

Westminster was different from White Hall, despite the fact that both were medieval palaces. White Hall was brazenly secular, alive with the colours of Court — the reds, golds, oranges and purples of balls and banquets. Its larger buildings were built of brick, although most were in desperate need of painting, and fountains and statues adorned its open spaces. By contrast, Westminster was dominated by its abbey and Norman hall, and had a monastic feel. Its buildings were characterised by lancet windows, stained glass and pinnacles, and there was an atmosphere of sobriety and business. Policy might be decided in White Hall, but the documents and writs to make it legal came from Westminster.

At the heart of Westminster, in the open area known as New Palace Yard, was the medieval Great Hall. As Chaloner walked past it, he paused to stare up at the severed heads that had been placed on poles outside. Cromwell’s was there, although the spy had no idea which of the blackened, almost inhuman objects belonged to the man who had ruled the Commonwealth. Some had long hair that waved in the wind, but most were bald, picked clean by crows. They had a tendency to blow down in rough weather, and he could see at least two on the ground. People were giving them a wide berth, because Spymaster Williamson’s men were in the habit of lurking nearby, ready to arrest anyone who attempted to rescue the pathetic objects and give them a decent burial.

Chaloner cut through a series of alleys until he reached the narrow lane that gave access to the Painted Chamber, intending to inspect it more thoroughly than he had been able to the previous night. He was unimpressed to find it very busy, not only with the clerks who had turned it into their personal office space, but with spectators who wanted to see the spot where two men had been murdered. A search was out of the question, so he lingered unobtrusively near the tapestries, eavesdropping on the discussions of the ghouls. It did not take him long to realise that he was wasting his time, and that the chances of overhearing anything relevant were negligible, so he left.

Unfortunately, he had no clear idea of how else to proceed, so he spent the rest of the day lurking in the kitchens, cook-houses and public areas of both palaces. But although there was a lot of talk about the murders — the statue was not mentioned, because it was old news and no longer of interest — it was all gossip and speculation, and nothing was based in fact. And the Lord of Misrule was being unusually close-lipped about his plans, so the spy made no headway there, either. He did learn that an event was planned for that evening in the Great Hall, though — it was something to do with Babylon, and necessitated the preparation of vast platters of a glutinous, rose-flavoured jelly.

The daylight faded and darkness fell. People began to dissipate, either to go home, or — if they were important enough to be invited — head for the Great Hall to enjoy whatever Near Eastern extravaganza Brodrick had devised. Among the latter was George Vine, who wore a bizarre combination of clothes meant to make him look like a sultan. The wind caught his turban and sent it cart-wheeling across the courtyard; Chaloner stopped it with his foot, and handed it back to him.

‘What do you think?’ asked George, twirling around then grabbing Chaloner’s arm when a combination of wine and a sudden gust of wind made him stagger. ‘I am a Babylonian prince.’

‘Very pretty. Have you made arrangements for your father’s funeral yet?’

‘Do not think to berate me for merrymaking while he lies above ground, because old Dreary Bones was buried this morning.’ George smirked at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘I wanted to make sure Surgeon Wiseman did not get him, so time was of the essence.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering why George was so determined to prevent an examination that might yield clues. It was clearly nothing to do with filial love. ‘Can you tell me anything about his last day? What time did he leave home?’

‘At dawn. I remember, because we met at the door, and argued over the fact that he was going to work, while I had not yet been to bed. He was like that, always criticising me for having fun.’

‘And what did his work at the Treasury entail, exactly?’

‘He dealt with large quantities of money. I suppose I shall have to find out more, given that I intend to take over his duties. But I refuse to work as hard as he did -

I am no bore.’ ‘I am sure the King will be impressed by your dedication.’

George curled his lip, jammed his turban on his head and began to totter away. He called back over his shoulder as he went. ‘The wind is picking up again, and we all know what that means.’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What?’

‘That a great person will die. People said it blew for my father, but it persists, so obviously it gusts for someone else — old Dreary Bones was not a “great person” after all. You had better make sure the Lord Chancellor is tucked up safe in his bed.’

Chaloner darted after him, gripping his shoulder hard enough to make him squeal as he jerked him to a standstill. ‘Are you threatening my Earl?’

George was frightened — by the spy’s speed, strength and the expression on his face. ‘No! I was just blathering. I did not mean anything by it, I swear!’ His bloodshot eyes lit on a nearby lane, and he jabbed a desperate finger at it. ‘Look, there are Thomas and Matthias Lea. Go and interrogate them — they also benefited from the murder of a kinsman, and I am not the only one who is suddenly rich.’

Chaloner peered into the gloom, and saw Chetwynd’s heirs climbing into a hackney. They were looking in his direction, but when he released George and took a few steps towards them, one said something to the driver and they rattled away. He could have caught them, had he run, but it was not worth the effort. They had left abruptly because they did not want to deal with him, and chasing them was not going to change that fact. He would simply have to wait for a more opportune moment.

He lingered a while longer, standing in the shadows of White Hall’s largest courtyard, and watching gaggles of courtiers set off towards Westminster together. Most wore costumes that showed they had not the faintest idea of what Babylon had been like. Eventually, only the stragglers remained. One trio comprised a girl with woolly hair who wore nothing around her midriff and bells on her ankles, a youth dressed as a genie, and an old man whose sole concession to the occasion was a fez. He appeared to be deaf, and kept turning questioningly to his companions, who made no effort to speak at a volume that would help him. Chaloner knew they were rich when a coach came to collect them, although it was too dark to make out the insignia on its side. He could tell from their gestures that the youngsters were annoyed about being late, while the ancient gave the impression that he would rather be at home with a good book and a cup of warm milk.

But then even they had gone. There was no point in remaining, so Chaloner set off for Westminster himself, not to spy on the ball, but to see whether the Painted Chamber was empty at last.

When he reached New Palace Yard, the twang of foreign-sounding music and a cacophony of voices emanated from the Great Hall. A few revellers spilled into the street, one or two to vomit up the unpalatable mixture of wine and rose-flavoured jellies, and others to snatch kisses and fondles in the darkness outside. Several enterprising businesses had stayed open in the hope of attracting late trade, although Chaloner could not imagine many courtiers being interested in legal books or porpoise tongues, which seemed to be the two main commodities on offer.

The area around the Painted Chamber was deserted, though. It was illuminated by the odd lantern, but not many, because fuel was expensive and the government saw no point in spending money on a part of the complex that was usually abandoned at night. The occasional clerk risked life and limb to work late — the Palace of Westminster was surrounded by tenements and hovels, so violent crime was rife — but they were not many. One shadow sidled up to Chaloner with the clear intention of relieving him of his purse, but it melted away when he started to draw his sword.

The Painted Chamber was unlocked, and he supposed the guards had yet to make their rounds and secure the building for the night. He opened the door to its lobby, then ascended the wide stone steps to the main hall. He paused by the entrance, listening intently for any sound from within, more from habit than any expectation of detecting anything amiss. But George had been right when he said the wind was picking up again — it screamed down the chimney and roared across the roof, and Chaloner could barely hear his own footsteps, let alone anyone else’s. He scanned the shadows for any flicker of movement that might tell him someone was there, but the place appeared to be empty. It was lit by a lamp at its far end, near the spot where Vine and Chetwynd had died, but was otherwise in darkness.

It was a large building, perhaps eighty feet long by twenty-five wide, and showed signs of serious long-term neglect. The great tapestries depicting the Trojan Wars were grey with filth, and the ceiling was black from years of smoking candles. The stone tracery in the windows was crumbling, and the floorboards needed replacing — there were gaps between some that could swallow a small foot.

He walked to the far end, and gazed at the place where the bodies had been found. The first victim, Chetwynd, had been working at his desk. So what had happened? Had the killer arrived, amiably offering to share a cup of wine with him? If so, then Chetwynd must have known his murderer, because government officials did not accept refreshments from just anyone in the depths of night. The fact that no cup was anywhere to be found when the chamber was later searched told Chaloner that the culprit had been careful to leave nothing in the way of clues.

And Vine? The building where he worked adjoined the Painted Chamber, so perhaps he, like Greene, had run out of ink, and hoped to borrow some from Chetwynd’s well-supplied table. Or perhaps the killer had invited him there, offering to share his deadly brew on the pretence that it was a toast to a dead colleague. And that meant the killer knew both his victims — knew them well enough that Vine was not suspicious, despite almost certainly being aware of what had happened to Chetwynd.

The spy took the lamp and began to examine the floor, although not with much hope of finding anything useful — the hall had been graced by too many visitors that day. He was on the verge of giving up and going home, when he spotted something gleaming faintly between two floorboards. It was a ring, but when he tried to pick it up, he found it was solidly wedged. There was a smear of mud on it, which told him someone — possibly its owner — had trodden on it, probably by accident, crushing it even more firmly into the slit. New scratches on the floor around it indicated someone had tried to prise it out, but had given up. Chaloner saw why when his dagger proved too unwieldy for the task, and he was obliged to use one of his lock-picking probes. It was not easy, but he succeeded eventually.

The ring was small — too tiny to fit even his little finger — and beautiful in its simplicity. It comprised a plain gold band with a clasp that held a deep-red ruby. The size of the gem and the quality of the workmanship told him it was valuable. Did it belong to one of the ghouls who had visited the Painted Chamber that day? He did not think so, because they would not have abandoned their efforts to retrieve it — they would have fetched a more suitable implement with which to lever it out.

Had it belonged to Vine, then, and his attempts to rescue it had been interrupted when the killer had arrived? It would have been too small to fit his fingers, but there was a current fashion for wearing rings suspended from cuff-strings, so its size meant nothing. Or was Chaloner holding something that belonged to the murderer, ripped away as Vine thrashed around in his death throes? He was sure of one thing, though: it was not Greene’s. The clerk was something of a Puritan, and favoured clothes devoid of extravagant accessories, jewellery included.

There was no more to be learned from the Painted Chamber, so he decided to go home. He was halfway down the hall when he heard a creak over the racket being made by the storm. It sounded like the main door being opened. Instinctively, he slipped into the shadows and watched it intently — so intently that he made a basic mistake. The room had other entrances, one of which was directly behind him. He spun around the moment he detected the rustle of clothing, but it was too late — a cudgel was descending towards his head. He managed to deflect it by throwing up his arm, but it was a violent blow, and sent him staggering backwards.

There were six of them — three had entered through the main door, and three from the entrance behind Chetwynd’s desk — and they meant business. Chaloner whipped out his sword to parry a thrust that was obviously intended to disembowel him, then was obliged to retreat fast when the rest came at him in a tight phalanx of flashing blades. His left arm was numb, and the ring slid from his nerveless fingers. He barely noticed it go: all his attention was focussed on staying alive.

He fought furiously, using every trick and feint he knew in an effort to gain an advantage. But it was an unequal battle, and although he injured two who were reckless enough to come within his range, they were simply too many for him. Moreover, they wielded their weapons with an easy confidence that said they were professional soldiers, and he could tell, from the way they anticipated each other’s moves, that they had been fighting together for years — they operated like a well-oiled machine, one stepping forward the moment another fell back. A detached part of his mind knew it was only a matter of time before he was skewered, because he could not fend them off indefinitely — he was already tiring.

‘I’ve found it,’ said one, bending to retrieve something from the floor. ‘We can go.’

Immediately, a warrior tried to manoeuvre his way behind Chaloner, who was forced to back up against the wall. Then three attacked at once, and he was hard-pressed to repel them. He was aware of movement on either side of him, but did not realise what was happening until someone gave a yell and started to haul on something. He glanced up in time to see the tapestry tear free from its moorings. The soldiers leapt away, but Chaloner was knocked from his feet as the heavy material enveloped him. He was encased in darkness, and completely helpless. He was aware of blades stabbing into the floor around him, then something struck his head, hard enough to knock him out of his senses. The last thing he heard was retreating footsteps.

When Chaloner opened his eyes, his nose and mouth were full of dust, his head hurt, and he could not see. It was several minutes before he remembered what had happened, and several more before he was able to struggle free of the suffocating tapestry. The soldiers had gone, and a quick search revealed that the ring had gone, too. He removed his hat and ran his fingers across the crown, to discover a vicious jab from a blade had caused a substantial dent in the metal lining. Once again, it had saved his life, and he gave silent thanks to Isabella, his brief but passionate Spanish amore, who had given it to him. He was sure the soldiers had not expected him to survive.

He had no idea how much time had passed since the attack, but he peered carefully around the main door anyway, just in case the men were still there. They were not, for which he was grateful, because he was in no state to tackle them again, and they were unlikely to let him live a second time. So, who were they? The killers of Vine and Chetwynd? He doubted it — why waste time with toxins when they had swords to hand? He recalled one soldier bending to pick something up from the floor, telling his colleagues that he had ‘found it’. Clearly, he referred to the ring, but why? Had the killer charged them to retrieve it, because it was evidence that would trap him? Chaloner rubbed his aching head as he thought about it. The Painted Chamber had been busy all day, right up until the ghouls had gone to Brodrick’s ball. So, like Chaloner, it would have been the soldiers’ first opportunity to enter unseen.

So what did that tell him? That the killer controlled an elite gang of warriors, as well as having access to deadly potions? They had reminded him of the ‘train-bands’ of the civil wars — a group of friends or neighbours who had learned their martial skills together, and who could be mobilised at a moment’s notice. Did it mean their leader — or their master — was rich and powerful? Or did it mean the killer was a woman, because while she might be capable of handing goblets of poison to her victims, tackling armed investigators was a different proposition entirely?

He became aware that he was standing directly underneath the lamp that lit the Painted Chamber’s entrance, providing a perfect target for anyone who meant him harm. Disgusted, he tried to pull himself together, taking a deep breath in the hope that it would clear his wits. It did not, and he reeled dizzily, forcing him to wait for the weakness to pass. Then he started walking, but had not taken many steps before he was obliged to stop and steady himself against a wall.

‘Too much Babylonian punch?’ came a familiar voice. ‘I warned people to treat it with caution, but did anyone listen? No! I only hope it does not put the King in a deadly stupor, because he has an important meeting with the Swedish ambassador tomorrow. Perhaps I should remain on hand tonight, lest my services are needed.’

Chaloner whipped around in alarm. The combin ation of noisy gale and befuddled senses had let Wiseman approach to almost within touching distance, and he had not heard a thing. He knew he needed to be a lot more careful, or the train-band would easily finish what they had started.

The surgeon, clad in his trademark red, was with a courtier, a plump man whom Chaloner had seen before — it was the fellow Greene had met in the Dolphin tavern the previous evening. The two men had shared a meal, talked amiably for a while, then parted ways. And they had done something else, too, but the memory was just out of Chaloner’s reach, no matter how hard he struggled to recall it.

‘Babylonian punch?’ he asked dully, aware that Wiseman was waiting for a response.

‘Brodrick’s unique concoction of ale, limejuice, brandy-wine and spices,’ elaborated Wiseman. ‘I recommended he omit the brandywine, but he said Babylonians downed barrels of the stuff with no ill-effects. They did nothing of the kind, of course — it was only invented recently.’

‘Actually, brandywine is what made them so famously garrulous,’ countered his companion authoritatively. He was a bland-looking fellow, and his only outstanding feature was a very long nose. ‘Babylonians babbled a lot — and they babbled because they were drunk on brandy-wine. It is a well-known fact. Brandywine made them wildly licentious, too — another well-known fact.’

Wiseman shot him an arch look. ‘Not that well known, because I was unaware of it. But I am forgetting my manners. Langston, meet the Lord Chancellor’s man. Chaloner, this is Francis Langston, one of the officials who works in the Royal Household.’

Chaloner started to bow, but changed his mind when the movement made the ground tip and he thought he might be sick. He wanted to ask what they were doing in a dark alley so late at night, but his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and Langston began to speak before he could form the words.

‘I am a great admirer of your master — I wrote a play about him once, but it turned out badly. He is a fine, upright fellow, but literary heroes need more than morality to make them great — he came over as a pompous, overbearing bigot, so I thought it best not to present him with a copy.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Wiseman curtly. He looked enormous in the darkness, all barrel chest and powerful arms. ‘I have something important to say. As I watched folk swigging Brodrick’s brew with gay abandon earlier this evening, it occurred to me that brandywine might have been used in the potion that killed Chetwynd and Vine.’

‘So we went to visit Kersey, to find out,’ said Langston, taking up the story. ‘Wiseman sniffed Chetwynd’s corpse — his kin refused the offer of dissection, but they said nothing about sniffing — and brandywine was indeed one of the ingredients.’

‘No doubt it was added to disguise the taste of the toxin,’ added Wiseman. ‘Plain wine would have been unequal to the task. Unfortunately, Brodrick bought vats of it for his punch — all that was in London, apparently — and the cellar staff say it is impossible to tell whether any is missing.’

‘Who is Kersey?’ asked Chaloner, struggling to understand what they were trying to tell him.

‘The Corpse Keeper.’ Wiseman frowned when he saw Chaloner’s blank look. ‘Do you know nothing? Everyone has heard of Kersey.’

‘Well, I have not,’ snapped Chaloner, his aching head making him irritable.

Wiseman sighed, and began to speak in a way that could only be described as patronising. ‘When people die in Westminster — and thousands live and work here, so there is always someone breathing his last — their bodies go to Kersey until they are either buried or claimed by kin.’

‘His charnel house is near here,’ added Langston. ‘It is not a place I like to visit, but needs must. Chetwynd and Vine were colleagues, and I do not like the notion of them being murdered.’

‘Greene is your colleague, too,’ said Chaloner, recalling what he had seen the previous night.

Langston shook his head. ‘Greene is a friend, not a colleague. I am very fond of him, which is why I agreed to visit a charnel house with Wiseman — to see if we could prove his innocence.’

‘And how does brandywine do that?’ asked Chaloner, becoming confused. He wished he was home, lying in bed, not trying to talk to two men whose conversation was making no sense.

Wiseman peered at him. ‘You are slow on the uptake tonight. Are you unwell? Perhaps you should go home, and I will explain my clever theory tomorrow. I do not want to have to repeat myself.’

‘Have you seen any soldiers?’ asked Chaloner tiredly. He raised a hand to his head, which felt as if it might explode. ‘Not the palace guards, but a train-band, like the ones from the wars. They-’

Langston looked alarmed. ‘You were attacked! Is that why you are swaying like a drunk? They knocked you out of your wits? I heard a gang of villains has taken to infesting these parts, so we had better leave while we can. Come. We shall walk to the Great Hall together.’

He took Chaloner’s arm, and it was not many moments before they reached the light and noise of the ball. The music that wafted through the open door was curious and not entirely pleasant, as if someone had decided that the best way to emulate the tunes of the Ancient Near East was to take familiar melodies and play them sharp. Langston immediately disappeared inside, muttering something about it being safer than streets crawling with train-bands.

‘Go home and rest,’ ordered Wiseman, when he had gone. ‘I shall stay here and eavesdrop. And if I hear anything useful about these killings, I shall tell you tomorrow.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘You want to help me?’

‘I want to help the Earl,’ corrected Wiseman. ‘I refuse to stand by and watch him make a fool of himself by persisting with his irrational belief that Greene is the killer. Do not worry about me. I am a surgeon, and my lofty intelligence is more than a match for any mere poisoner.’

Chaloner could not think of anything to say in the light of such hubris.