The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 3

The wind blew hard all night, whistling through the loose windowpanes in Chaloner’s room, bellowing down the chimney, and ripping across the roof. Exhausted though he was, it was not conducive to restful sleep, and he woke every time there was an unfamiliar bump, scrape or rattle. And each time he did, he found himself reaching for the dagger under his pillow, which reminded him unpleasantly of his recent mission to Spain, where constant and unrelenting danger had forced him into a similar state of high vigilance. He sincerely hoped London was not about to become the same.

It was not just the sounds of the storm that made him uneasy. An explosion in the neighbouring house the previous year had rendered his own building unstable. His landlord claimed there was nothing wrong, but cracks in the walls, window frames that suddenly did not fit, and a distinct list to the floor indicated otherwise. Chaloner was acutely aware that a high wind might tear the destabilised roof from its moorings, and as he lived in the attic, this would be a problem. He considered going to visit Hannah, but their courtship was very new — they had graduated to the bedchamber only the previous week, upon his return from Oxford — and he did not think she would appreciate being woken in the small hours by a lover whose sole intention was to secure a good night’s sleep.

It was four o’clock before the gale blew itself out. Chaloner dozed for another hour, then reluctantly prised himself out of bed. He lit a lamp, and saw water had seeped under cracked and missing tiles to dribble through the ceiling and down the walls; green stains indicated it was not the first time this had happened. Most men would have abandoned the place and found better accommodation, but the garret in Fetter Lane suited Chaloner for a number of reasons. Firstly, the structural hiccups meant it was leased at an attractively low rate, an important consideration for a man whose master did not always pay him on time. Secondly, Fetter Lane was a reasonably affluent street, and its residents kept it lit at night — a spy always liked to see who was going past his home in the dark. And finally, it was convenient for White Hall.

After positioning bowls to catch the worst of the drips, he sat on his bed and stared into space, feeling drowsy and sluggish. His head ached, his arm was bruised, and at some point during the skirmish, he had jarred his leg — an exploding cannon during the Battle of Naseby had left him slightly lame. In all, he felt decidedly shabby. He closed his eyes, and was almost asleep again when his cat jumped into his lap, jolting him awake. He had not known it was home, but was pleased to see it. He fed it some salted herring, which it devoured greedily. Then it left without so much as a backwards glance, its cool independence a far cry from Haddon’s fawning lapdogs.

Despite his weariness, Chaloner knew he could not afford to waste the day. He shaved quickly — it was cold in the room, and the water was icy — then donned a clean linen shirt, black breeches and stockings, and a blue ‘vest’ — a knee-length, collarless coat with loose-fitting sleeves. Unwilling to risk another blow to the head, he wore Isabella’s metal-lined hat again. Thoughts of her made him smile, and he wished there was a way they could have been together. Unfortunately, their blossoming romance had come to an abrupt end when he had been exposed as a spy, leading to his arrest, imprisonment and an escape so narrow that it still haunted his dreams.

And now there was Hannah. Her father had been a favourite of the old king, and the new one had drafted her into the Queen’s service after the death of her husband. Chaloner was not sure why he had been attracted to her — or her to him — because they had little in common, and he wondered whether it was an affection born of mutual loneliness. Yet he hoped the relationship would develop into something meaningful even so, assuming he did not ruin it by being reticent about his personal life — he had learned through bitter experience that most women did not like uncommunicative men.

‘A great person has died,’ announced Landlord Ellis, when he saw his tenant descend the rickety stairs and aim for the front door. Chaloner was surprised to see him, because dawn was still some way off, and Ellis was not an early riser. ‘One always does when there is a strong wind. Did you hear about Chetwynd, who perished during that terrible blow we had on Christmas Day?’

Chaloner nodded, but declined to say he was one of those charged to find the man’s killer.

‘Chetwynd was not what I would have called great, though,’ Ellis went on, standing in front of the tin mirror in the hallway and attempting to straighten his wig. ‘You cannot be great if you are corrupt, in my humble opinion.’

Chaloner blinked in surprise. ‘Chetwynd was corrupt? I thought he was one of the few honest men at Westminster — devout, hard-working and upright.’

‘He was a lawyer,’ countered Ellis tartly. ‘And a Chancery clerk into the bargain. Of course he was corrupt. And if you do not believe me, ask Thomas Doling. And that young rascal Neale, who was rendered penniless by Chetwynd’s duplicitous manoeuvrings.’

‘Who are Doling and Neale?’

‘Doling was a Commonwealth clerk, and Neale is a penniless courtier. They both haunt the Angel Inn on King Street, although not together obviously — Roundhead henchmen and Cavalier fops do not befriend each other, even if they are both victims of the same crooked lawyer. The man who died during the latest gale was great, though. No one can argue with that.’

‘Was he?’ asked Chaloner. A number of people had remarked on Vine’s innate decency, so he supposed the fellow really had been a paragon of virtue.

Ellis nodded. ‘I heard all about it this morning, when I went to my coffee house.’

‘You must have gone very early,’ said Chaloner, immediately suspicious. ‘It is not yet light.’

Ellis looked sheepish. ‘I could not sleep with all that rattling and howling, so I went out at midnight. I dislike storms, and there is nothing like coffee-house discourse to take one’s mind off one’s worries.’

As he spoke, he moved furtively to one side, and Chaloner saw he was trying to stand in front of a strongbox, to hide it from sight. It had a substantial lock, and was clearly for transporting valuables.

‘You mean you were afraid the house would tumble about your ears, so you took your gold and spent the night somewhere safe. Why did you not warn your tenants to do likewise?’

Ellis became indignant. ‘My house is safe — I was just not in the mood for taking chances. But we were talking about gales. The wind blew for Chetwynd on Thursday, and then it blew until a second great man died — a fat one, this time. “Great” can mean fat, you know.’

Chaloner frowned: Vine had not been fat. ‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Francis Langston,’ replied Ellis. ‘He was murdered last night.’

‘Langston?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the plump fellow with the long nose he had met with Wiseman outside the Painted Chamber. Could it be the same man? ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes — the storm died out at four o’clock, precisely when he was said to have breathed his last.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Chaloner estimated it was not quite six, so the news must have travelled very fast, even for London.

‘One of the palace guards is a regular in my coffee house, and he told us the tale. The story is that Langston’s corpse was found by the Lord Chancellor, who is said to be in a state of high agitation about it. And who can blame him? Apparently, he was going to hire Langston to be his personal spy.’

The news of Langston’s death — and the unsettling notion that the Earl was expanding his intelligence network without telling him — was enough to drive Chaloner to White Hall immediately. He walked as fast as his sore leg would let him. As he limped across the Palace Court, he saw the day was not quite advanced enough for the King and his Court to have retired to bed, and the rumpus emanating from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments suggested an extension of the Babylonian escapade was still in full swing. He heard the King’s distinctive laugh, followed by the bleat of a goat, and then something that sounded like a musical instrument being smashed. He did not like to imagine what they were doing, but suspected that whatever it was would transpire to be expensive for the taxpayer.

He was just walking up the stairs to the Lord Chancellor’s offices, when he heard a scream. It was his master, and he sounded terrified. Chaloner broke into a run, ignoring the protesting twinge in his leg as he took the steps three at a time. When he reached the Earl’s door, he threw it open with a resounding crack, sword in his hand. The Earl knelt precariously on top of his desk, while his steward stood on a chair next to him. They were clutching each other, white-faced and frightened, and Chaloner was immediately struck by how old and vulnerable they both looked.

‘Help me!’ cried the Earl, when the spy edged into the room, every sense alert for danger. It appeared to be deserted, and there was no sign of assassins or anything else that might have driven the Lord Chancellor and his steward to take refuge atop the furniture. Chaloner took a step towards the window, but was brought up short when he cracked his head on the inconveniently placed chandelier.

‘Help you with what?’ he asked, hand to his scalp. Once again, he was grateful for Isabella’s hat, because he suspected he would have knocked himself insensible without it — the fixture seemed to be made of especially unyielding metal.

‘Look, man, look!’ screeched the Earl, pointing unsteadily at a chest in the corner, where he kept a few changes of clothes and a spare hairpiece or two. ‘It is the Devil’s work!’

Assuming some sort of explosive device was hidden there, Chaloner gestured that his master was to walk towards him, intent on getting him out before anything detonated. ‘Come,’ he said, a little impatiently, when the Earl merely shook his head and refused to move. ‘You must leave now.’

‘I am not jumping down while that … that thing is there!’ declared the Earl vehemently.

Bemused, Chaloner studied the chest more closely, and saw a wig on the floor next to it. It was one of the larger ones, a magnificent creation of golden curls that hung well past the Earl’s shoulders. They were rumoured to have come from a Southwark whore, who was currently in the process of growing a new set for the Duke of York. As he looked, Chaloner became aware that it was twitching. Then it began to slide along the floor of its own volition, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed as it approached the desk. The Earl howled again, and so did Haddon. Chaloner started to laugh.

‘Do something!’ shrieked the Earl. ‘Before it races up the table and attaches itself to my person.’

‘Or mine,’ added Haddon fearfully. ‘There is witchery in that periwig, and I am not sure such spells are very discerning. The evil may be meant for him, but it might harm me instead.’

Struggling to control his amusement, Chaloner jabbed the tip of his sword into the wig as it slithered past him. It stopped dead, although he could feel it tugging as it tried to continue its journey.

‘Do not damage the hair!’ squawked the Earl, watching him in horror. ‘Do you know how much those things cost? More than you earn in a year!’

‘Perhaps I should ask for a pay-rise, then,’ muttered Chaloner, keeping the sword where it was until he had reached down to grab the wig. It squeaked as he picked it up. Then it bit him. With a yelp of his own, he dropped it, and it was off again, skittering towards the window.

‘It has teeth,’ wailed Haddon, clutching the Earl so hard that he threatened to have them both on the floor. ‘It is truly a demon sent by the Devil!’

The Earl closed his eyes and intoned a prayer of deliver ance. ‘Stab it again, Thomas,’ he ordered. ‘But without spoiling the wig, if you please. Then you can stay here and guard it, while Haddon and I fetch a priest. We shall have to exorcise this vile fiend, since it seems determined to do violence.’

Flexing his smarting hand, Chaloner went after the wig, which sensed him coming and began to move faster still. It shot under a chest, and emerged at high speed through the other side. Then it whipped across the floor, aiming for the door and the freedom beyond. Chaloner slammed the door shut before it could effect its escape, ignoring the Earl’s furious reprimands for not letting it become someone else’s problem. Eventually, he managed to pin it down on one of the Turkish carpets. When he picked it up a second time, he was rather more careful.

‘A ferret,’ he said, examining the wriggling creature within. ‘I thought it would be a rat.’

The Earl peered at it, still holding on to Haddon. His expression was already turning from fearful to indignant. ‘A ferret? You mean an animal dares to make its nest inside my favourite headpiece?’

‘It is tied there,’ explained Chaloner, using his dagger to cut through the knots. The little creature was incensed by its rough treatment, and squirmed vigorously, making his task more difficult. ‘I imagine this comes courtesy of the Lord of Misrule.’

‘A trick?’ demanded the Earl, anger growing. ‘I have been driven on top of my desk by a trick?’

Haddon climbed off his chair, his lips tight with fury. ‘I fail to see the humour in torturing an animal. It is a despicable thing to do, and they should be ashamed of themselves. Have they hurt it?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘It is just frightened — but not nearly as much as you two were.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘This situation is not amusing. And if you tell another living soul about this, I shall … I do not know what I shall do, but suffice to say I shall not be pleased.’

Chaloner held the ferret by the scruff of the neck, so it could neither bite him nor escape. Haddon took it from him, and began to soothe it by rubbing the soft fur on its head. Beady eyes regarded him crossly at first, but then it snuggled into the crook of his arm.

‘It is tame,’ the steward said, touched. ‘It will be someone’s companion. Poor thing!’

‘I will take it to St James’s Park and release it,’ offered Chaloner. ‘It will-’

‘No!’ cried Haddon, cradling the animal protectively. ‘You will not! A dog or a fox will have it. It probably belongs to one of the kitchen boys, who will be heartbroken to find it missing.’

‘Go and find him, then,’ said the Earl tiredly. ‘There is no need for a child to suffer, just because the Lord of Misrule — whom I suspect is that vile Chiffinch — sees fit to mock his Lord Chancellor. We shall put it about that his trick was discovered before my periwig started racing about the floor. I do not want him to know it worked, because he might try it again with something larger.’

Haddon covered the ferret with his hat, to protect it from the cold, and went to do as he was told. Uncomfortable with the notion that someone had entered the offices illicitly, Chaloner searched them, to ensure no other pranks were waiting to unfold. The Earl watched uneasily, and only relaxed when his spy assured him that all was in order.

‘I have had a terrible day,’ he said mournfully, flopping into a chair and mopping his brow with a piece of lace. ‘And it is not even light yet. Did you know I found Langston dead earlier?’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘It is true? I hoped it was just coffee-house gossip.’

‘You heard it in a coffee house?’ The Earl was aghast. ‘Is nothing sacred? I suppose the guards must have blathered. It gave me a terrible fright, you see, and my cries of alarm brought them running.’

‘What were you doing at Westminster so early, sir?’ asked Chaloner, trying to keep the reproach from his voice. ‘You know it is not safe.’

‘I had important business there — urgent missives for France, which were scribed overnight and required my seal before being dispatched to Dover today.’

‘Could these documents not have been brought to your home?’

‘I grew anxious waiting for them, and Haddon and Turner were to hand, so I told them to accompany me. Turner is good with a sword, so I felt quite safe. We were cutting through the Painted Chamber, when we discovered Langston. Dead.’

‘Poisoned?’

‘Turner thinks so. It was just like the first two: a corpse lying on the floor, with no sign of a cup or a jug. He has gone to find out where Greene was at the salient time, even though he was exhausted — he spent all last night at that ridiculous Babylonian ball, listening for gossip about the murders. He is a diligent fellow, working on my behalf. Where were you last night? Asleep in bed?’

Chaloner was tempted to say he had been resting after an attack intended to kill him, but managed to hold his tongue. The Earl could not be trusted to keep the tale to himself, and Chaloner did not want the train-band learning they had left a survivor just yet. He addressed another issue instead.

‘I also heard you had asked Langston to be your spy. Did you?’

The Earl glowered at him. ‘You spend too much time in coffee-houses, and too little on your duties. Turner would never waste his energies listening to gossip.’

‘You just said he spent all last night doing exactly that, at the Babylonian ball,’ Chaloner pointed out before he could stop himself. He rubbed his head and closed his eyes, wishing he had not spoken. Aggravating the Earl was not a wise thing to do.

‘You presume too much on my patience,’ said the Earl coldly. ‘Either find evidence that shows Greene is the killer, or find yourself another employer. Do you understand me?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure. Are you ordering me to look only for evidence that proves Greene is guilty, and ignore anything that might point to another culprit?’

The Earl flung up his hands in exasperation. ‘What is wrong with you today? Can you not string two words together without abusing me? Of course Greene is guilty, and I cannot imagine why you refuse to believe it — the Lady is going around declaring his innocence, for a start. Did you know that? That is as good as screaming his culpability from the rooftops as far as I am concerned. The King’s mistress does not demean herself by taking the side of insignificant clerks without good reason.’

Chaloner gazed uneasily at him. ‘Lady Castlemaine has taken Greene’s side? I did not know.’

‘Well, you do now,’ snapped the Earl.

Chaloner left the Earl with his thoughts in a whirl of confusion. He looked in Bulteel’s little office, hoping to obtain some confirmation of their master’s claims, but it was too early for the secretary, and his desk was empty. Why would Lady Castlemaine take Greene’s side? Was it because she hated the Lord Chancellor with a passion, and tended to support anyone he disliked, as a matter of principle? Or was she involved in the murders somehow? Chaloner could not imagine why she should stoop to such dark and dangerous business, but she was an incorrigible meddler, so perhaps she could not help herself. The Lady was not someone he wanted to confront, though — at least, not until he had more information.

It was still dark when he reached the bottom of stairs and stepped outside, and there was not the slightest glimmer in the eastern sky to herald the arrival of dawn. The lights in Lady Castlemaine’s rooms were being doused, indicating her soirée was at an end. Her guests spilled into the Privy Garden, laughing and shouting as they went, careless of the fact that most White Hall residents would still be sleeping. Chaloner thought he saw a face peer out of the Queen’s window, then withdraw quickly. When he looked back to the garden, he saw the King weaving across it, arm around someone dressed as a concubine. The slender perfection of the near-naked limbs led him to suppose it was the Lady, but she wore a mask, and he could not be sure. He loitered until he spotted Brodrick.

‘I am sure no harm will befall the Earl in the coming week,’ he said, approaching soundlessly, and speaking just as his master’s cousin was about to relieve himself against a statue of Prince Rupert.

‘God’s blood!’ cried Brodrick, spinning around so fast he almost lost his balance. He scrabbled with his clothing, mortified. ‘Must you sneak up behind a man when he is engaged in personal business? As Lord of Misrule, I could fine you for- Damn my loose tongue! I did not want anyone in my kinsman’s retinue to know it is me who is elected this year.’

‘I am sure you do not. But I repeat: no harm will come to the Earl.’

Brodrick looked pained. ‘I shall have to make him the subject of one or two japes, because people expect it, and it is more than my life is worth to disappoint. But I will not do anything that will hurt him physically, or anything that will allow his enemies to score points against him politically. Beyond that, my hands are tied. You will just have to trust my judgement.’

Chaloner eyed him. Brodrick looked debauched when he was sober and properly dressed, but that morning he was neither. He had lost his pantaloons during the night, leaving him in his undergarments, and his turban had unravelled at the back. His eyes were bloodshot, and he reeked of strong drink.

‘Your judgement,’ Chaloner repeated, not bothering to hide his disdain.

Brodrick’s expression turned spiteful. ‘Why do you care about him, anyway? He is hiring new staff as though there is no tomorrow, and it is only a matter of time before you are displaced. He already prefers Turner to you, and I learned last night that he wants Langston to be his spy, too. But Langston refused outright — he told me so himself.’

Chaloner recalled Langston heading for the ball after visiting the charnel house with Wiseman, so supposed it was not inconceivable that he had chatted to Brodrick there. ‘Why did he refuse?’

‘Because spying is sordid,’ replied Brodrick, taking the opportunity to fling out an insult of his own. ‘Langston is honourable and, like any decent man, wants nothing to do with a profession that is so indescribably disreputable. Although, to be frank, I suspect my cousin’s real aim is to populate his household with upright souls, and he did not think that offering to hire Langston as an intelligencer might be deemed offensive.’

‘Langston is dead,’ said Chaloner, watching him closely for a reaction.

Brodrick gaped. ‘Dead? No, you are mistaken! I was talking to him not long ago. You did not swallow any of that Babylonian punch, did you? Surgeon Wiseman told me it might be dangerous, and my head tells me I should have listened to him. I have rarely felt so fragile after a drinking bout.’

‘Did you notice whether anyone took an unusual or sinister interest in Langston last night?’ Chaloner asked, although not with much hope of a sensible answer.

Brodrick shook his head apologetically. ‘I was more concerned with my own pleasures than in observing what others were doing. I recall him regaling me with his indignation about the Earl, but that is about all.’

Chaloner tried another line of questioning. ‘Does Lady Castlemaine ever employ Greene?’

‘You want to know why she is going around telling everyone he is innocent, when my cousin is so adamant he is guilty.’ Brodrick shrugged, grabbing Chaloner’s arm when the gesture threatened to tip him over. ‘I suspect she is just taking the opportunity to oppose an enemy. I doubt it is significant.’

The discussion ended abruptly when Brodrick slumped to the ground and closed his eyes. Supposing he should not leave him there to freeze, although it was tempting, Chaloner summoned the palace guards and ordered them to carry him indoors. Then, craving the company of someone who would not fall into a drunken stupor in the middle of a conversation, or accuse him of negligence, disloyalty and choosing an unsavoury career, the spy set off for Lincoln’s Inn.

When he arrived, Lincoln’s Inn was still mostly in darkness, although lamps gleamed in the occasional room, showing its lawyer-occupant was already hard at work. White Hall had put Chaloner in a sullen mood, and he did not feel like exchanging pleasantries with the porter at the gate, so he walked to the back of the building and scrambled over a wall. His temper was not improved when he misjudged the drop and jarred his bad leg. He hobbled to the courtyard called Dial Court, then climbed the stairs to Chamber XIII, aware of the familiar, comforting scent of wood-smoke and beeswax polish.

Thurloe was sitting at a table in the room he used as an office, poring over documents and sipping one of his infamous tonics. The spy shook his head when he was offered a draught, but accepted a slice of mince pie. It had been made by the Inn’s cook, and contained chopped tongue, as well as apples, dried fruit and spices. The taste transported Chaloner back to his Buckinghamshire childhood, when he had been safe and happy. He recalled singing Christmas carols with his brothers and sisters, and watching his parents hold hands in the ridiculously affectionate way they had with each other. He experienced a sharp pang of sadness for an age and a contentment that were lost to him forever.

‘Well?’ prompted Thurloe after several minutes, during which the spy’s only words were a greeting so terse it was barely civil. ‘Did you come just to stare into space and devour the best part of my pie?’

Chaloner saw the plate was indeed a good deal emptier than it had been when he had arrived. ‘It is a very good pie.’

‘But not as fine as my wife’s. Come home with me and try some — you look in need of a rest. I plan to leave for Oxfordshire at the end of the week, and will probably be gone for several months.’

Chaloner struggled to conceal his dismay. London would be a bleak place without Thurloe. ‘I see.’

The ex-Spymaster gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Ann and the children like me home on Twelfth Night, to give them presents and join the festivities. Come, too — they would love to see you.’

Chaloner was sorely tempted, but shook his head. ‘Greene might hang if I do not find the real culprit. And my Earl will not escape unscathed if he sends an innocent man to the gallows, either. His enemies will use it to destroy him.’

‘Your devotion does you credit, but is it worth it? The Earl will not thank you for proving him wrong, especially now I hear Lady Castlemaine has joined the affray, and is championing Greene’s cause. You are effectively taking her side, and he will not appreciate that.’

‘No, but what sort of retainer would I be, if I let him make a fool of himself? Besides, I cannot leave now — he is hiring more spies, and if I go to Oxfordshire, he may use the opportunity to replace me permanently. Then I shall have to take a ship to the New World, and try to earn a living there, although it is a terrible place — full of frozen rivers, tangled woods and dangerous animals. I would rather go to Spain, and that …’ He faltered, not wanting to talk about Spain.

Thurloe gazed at him. ‘You are in a dark mood this morning! But do not worry — I shall help you with your investigation before I leave. Do you have any questions I might be able to answer? Or would you like me to help you interview suspects?’ He misunderstood Chaloner’s rising alarm and grimaced. ‘I was a Spymaster General, Thomas. I do know what I am doing.’

‘But I do not want you involved!’ Chaloner stood abruptly. ‘I should not have come. It was selfish.’

‘It was nothing of the kind,’ said Thurloe sharply. ‘And I shall be hurt and offended if you decline to confide in me because of some misguided notion that I need to be protected. So sit down and ask me your questions, before I become annoyed with you. What do you need to know?’

‘Chetwynd,’ said Chaloner, relenting when he saw the determined set of Thurloe’s chin. ‘You said he was your friend, but my landlord told me he was corrupt.’

‘There were claims that he was crooked. But he was a Chancery clerk — his chief duty was to dispense rulings in those cases where a plaintiff felt common law was not up to the task — and the folk he ruled against were invariably bitter. Ergo, accusations of misconduct were an occupational hazard.’

‘So he was not corrupt?’

‘I do not believe so. And you must remember that the two men who were most vocal in their allegations bore him a grudge.’

‘Doling and Neale?’ asked Chaloner, thinking about the names Landlord Ellis had mentioned.

‘Yes. They were furious when he ruled against them. But I read those particular cases myself, and I would have come to the same conclusion: they should have lost.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Why did you read them?’

‘Because of the rumours that Chetwynd had been less than even-handed — I was curious. Moreover, both cases were heard in the summer, when you were in Iberia, and I was bored and lonely without you to cheer me. I did it to pass the time.’

As always when Thurloe made references to the depth of their friendship, Chaloner was surprised, not sure what he had done to earn the affection. He was grateful, though, to have secured the amity of a man he respected, admired and trusted. He found himself telling Thurloe all he had learned and surmised since they had last spoken.

‘And Langston is the third man to be poisoned,’ said Thurloe, turning the new information over in his mind. ‘Langston knew Chetwynd and Vine — he told you so when you met him last night.’

‘He said he was a friend of Greene’s, too.’

‘More than a friend — I happen to know that he rented rooms in Greene’s house. He fancied himself a playwright, and wanted a peaceful place to pen his masterpieces. He told me himself that Wapping fitted the bill perfectly.’

‘But I did not see Langston when I was watching Greene’s house,’ said Chaloner doubtfully.

‘Langston was a busy man with lots of friends at Court,’ explained Thurloe. ‘You not spotting him means nothing. And I imagine he spent more time there during the day, when Greene was out at work and the place was quiet.’

Suddenly, a connection snapped into place in Chaloner’s mind, and he remembered what he had been struggling to recall the previous night, when the blow to his head had scrambled his wits. Greene had visited the Dolphin tavern on his way home from work on Saturday, and he had met Langston there. But what the spy had failed to recollect was a detail of their meeting — namely that Greene had given Langston a purse, a heavy one that looked as if it contained a substantial amount of money.

‘So Greene paid Langston for something, and now Langston is poisoned,’ mused Thurloe, when Chaloner told him. ‘Of course, there are dozens of perfectly innocent explanations for what you saw. Perhaps Greene was making a charitable donation — Langston was on the board of St Catherine’s Hospital, so it is not impossible. Or maybe he was repaying a debt. You say they made no attempt to hide what they were doing, so I doubt the transaction involved anything untoward.’

‘Perhaps they made no attempt to hide because they did not know a spy was watching.’ Chaloner was angry with himself. ‘I should have questioned Langston about it last night, but I was too befuddled. Now he is dead, and the opportunity is gone. I suppose I shall have to talk to Greene instead.’

‘However,’ said Thurloe, ignoring the interruption, ‘the incident should not be discounted, either. You think Greene is being victimised by the Earl, but do not let sympathy cloud your judgement.’

‘It is not sympathy — it is caution. There is something odd about this case, and I am unwilling to jump to conclusions before having all the facts.’

Thurloe stood. ‘Then we had better find you some. I knew all three victims, albeit not intimately, but I may be able to wheedle something useful from their heirs on your behalf.’ He sighed as he donned his cloak. ‘Why can people not see that a military dictatorship has so much to offer? We never had all these horrible murders under Cromwell’s iron fist.’

It was not far from Chancery Lane to Westminster, where Chetwynd and Vine had lived, but Thurloe insisted on taking a hackney, claiming there was so much debris on the roads from the storm that there was a danger of stepping in something nasty. Chaloner climbed in the vehicle after him wondering whether he had been so oddly fastidious when he had had weighty affairs of state to occupy his mind.

It was light at last, and bells were ringing to announce it was eight o’clock. London was wide awake now — with the notable exception of White Hall’s debauchees — and the city was alive with noise and colour. Daylight showed that some of the houses along The Strand had been washed clean of soot for the Christmas season, and their reds, yellows and blues were bright in the sunshine. A group of players was performing a mime in the open area around Charing Cross, and the audience that had gathered to watch was obstructing the flow of traffic. Carters and hackneymen objected vociferously, and in one or two places, fights had broken out. Thurloe’s lips compressed into a disapproving line, and Chaloner supposed he was thinking that Cromwell’s repressive regime would not have countenanced such unseemly public behaviour.

As the coach drew closer to Westminster, the spy’s misgivings about involving Thurloe intensified. Talking to his friend had helped him see connections he would otherwise have missed, but the price was too high — and the previous night’s attack weighed heavily on his mind. Thurloe might be full of good ideas and logical conclusions, but he was no fighter, and the spy did not like the notion of putting him in danger. It would only be a matter of time before word spread that Cromwell’s chief minister was visiting the kin of murdered clerks, and the spy did not like to imagine what Thurloe’s enemies would make of that — if Thurloe was less feared now than he was at the beginning of the Restoration, then he should be keeping a low profile, not jaunting around with one of his former intelligencers. It was not long before Thurloe grew tired of the litany of objections.

‘How many more times do I need to remind you of who I was?’ he snapped. ‘You, of all people, should know I have been enmeshed in far more serious — and deadly — matters in the past. Besides, I am not visiting these folk as an investigator, but as an acquaintance concerned for their welfare. But if it makes you feel better, we can call on them separately, and pretend not to know each other.’

It was an improvement on arriving together. ‘You go ahead, then. I need to stop at the Angel tavern first, to see if Doling and Neale are there.’

‘They might be having breakfast, I suppose,’ acknowledged Thurloe. ‘But they will not be doing it together. Neale is a fey youth, in London to make his fortune; Doling is a dour old Roundhead who hates everything about the new regime. He clerked for Cromwell’s government, and resents the fact that he was ousted so a Royalist could have his job.’

‘Resentful enough to kill Royalists in revenge?’

‘Possibly, although I imagine he is more of a knife-man than a poisoner. I doubt Neale killed Chetwynd, though. He would never be sober enough. I shall come with you, to point them out.’

The Angel was a small, cramped place. It comprised a single chamber with benches near the hearth, and a table in the window. It was not very busy — thanks to the smelly rushes on the floor and the over-friendly pig that charged forward to greet newcomers — but it had its share of patrons. The air was dense with smoke, mostly from a badly swept chimney, but also from pipes.

‘Doling is near the fire,’ said Thurloe, wiping his streaming eyes. ‘He is the one glaring at his ale as though he would like to strangle it. And Neale seems to have persuaded Sir Nicholas Gold’s wife to join him; they are together in the window seat. What in God’s name are they wearing? Is it legal?’

Chaloner regarded the young couple with interest. He had seen them in White Hall the previous evening, waiting for a coach to take them to the ball. Lady Gold still wore nothing around her middle and bells on her ankles, while Neale was the genie. Both costumes were ripped and soiled, and he wondered what they had been doing; he could only surmise that it had involved time spent on the floor.

Neale possessed a mop of golden curls that would not have looked out of place on a cherub, and his youthful face was more pretty than handsome, like an overgrown choirboy. Meanwhile, Lady Gold was a plain girl, with pale, tightly curled hair and vacant eyes that put Chaloner in mind of a sheep.

Leaving Thurloe in the shadows, Chaloner identified himself to Neale as the man investigating the clerk murders on behalf of the government. He declined to mention the Earl, on the grounds that the case was Spymaster Williamson’s to explore, and his master should have had nothing to do with it.

‘Call me Bess,’ simpered Lady Gold, when Neale introduced her. ‘Everyone else does, and “Lady Gold” makes me sound boring. Besides, you might confuse me with Nicky’s previous wives and I would not like that. They were old, whereas I am only nineteen.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner. ‘Are you recently wed, then?’

‘Oh, no! Nicky and I have been married for three months now, which is absolutely ages.’

‘Where is your husband now?’ Chaloner was perfectly aware that courtiers did not let a small thing like marriage interfere with their fun, but he was astonished that Gold was willing to let his wife sit half-naked with a youth who was quite so obviously intent on bedding her.

‘He went home at ten o’clock last night,’ replied Bess, fluttering her eyelashes coquettishly. ‘That is his bedtime, and he said he was not going to change it on account of Babylon. He missed a treat, though, because the ball was lovely — except the bit when Brodrick made us all jump in a vat of mud to wrestle with each other. Lady Castlemaine did not mind, though — she was in like a shot.’

‘That was because Colonel Turner was already there,’ remarked Neale snidely. ‘She wanted to make a grab for him under the surface, where no one could see what she was doing.’

‘I would have taken the plunge for Colonel Turner,’ said Bess with an adoring sigh. ‘He is very handsome. He gave me this.’ She brandished a crucifix, which, given the current unpopularity of Catholicism, was not the wisest of objects to be toting around. ‘Is it not pretty?’

Neale regarded it disparagingly before turning to Chaloner. Clearly, he both disliked and disapproved of the competition. ‘You said you wanted to talk about Chetwynd. What do you want to know? About his corrupt verdict on my legal case?’ His tone was petulant.

‘Chetwynd was dull,’ declared Bess. ‘He used to visit my husband, and they sat in our parlour for hours, praying together. When I told Nicky I would rather go to the theatre, he sent me to my room.’

‘I am not sorry Chetwynd was poisoned,’ said Neale defiantly. ‘Personally, I think it serves him right. You see, I was hoping to inherit my grandfather’s fortune, but he decided it should go to my older brother instead. It was a stupid decree — I would have put the money to good use, whereas John will squander it all on drink and gambling.’

Chaloner was bemused by Neale’s resentment, because primogeniture was law, and the moral character of an heir was irrelevant — Chetwynd would have had no choice but to find in favour of the older brother. Thurloe was right: Neale disliked Chetwynd purely because he had lost his claim, and his accusations had no basis in fact. He stood to leave, feeling he was wasting his time.

Thurloe accompanied him when he went to talk to Doling, because the two had been colleagues during the Commonwealth, and he felt his presence might work to the spy’s advantage. Doling was a squat, dark-haired, powerful man with an unsmiling face. He reminded Chaloner of the tough, cynical soldiers he had served with during the wars, and nodded when the spy asked if he had seen active service.

‘Naseby,’ he replied. ‘You are too young to remember, but it was a glorious victory.’

Chaloner remembered it all too well, as did his leg. And he should have been too young, but his regicide uncle had taken him away from his studies at Cambridge, because he said Parliament needed every able body it could get. By the time the two opposing armies had assembled at Naseby, Chaloner had been a seasoned warrior, despite being only fifteen.

‘General Fairfax noticed me at Naseby,’ Doling went on, eyes gleaming at the distant memories. ‘And later, he got me a post in government. But I was rudely dismissed when the Cavaliers strutted back to take over the country, and for a while I was destitute.’

‘And now?’ asked Thurloe encouragingly. ‘I recall writing a testimonial for you a few months ago.’

Doling nodded. ‘For which I am grateful. It earned me a job guarding Backwell’s Bank — they were robbed last summer, and decided to upgrade their security. It is not a very interesting occupation, but I am well paid and no one tells me what to do. I am happy enough.’

He turned to his ale, glaring at it in a way that made Chaloner wonder whether he was telling the truth about his contentment. Or was he just one of those men who looked angry even when he was in high spirits? Chaloner decided Backwell’s Bank had made a good choice, though, because Doling’s saturnine visage alone would be enough to deter most would-be thieves from trying their luck.

‘My case was a complex one,’ Doling replied, when Thurloe asked him about Chetwynd. ‘It concerned fishing rights in the river that forms the boundary between my garden and estates owned by a man called Hargrave. But Chetwynd took a mere ten minutes to decide in Hargrave’s favour.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘I examined your case, too — it was complex, and took me the best part of a week to unravel. However, Chetwynd’s decision was the right one: you should not have fishing rights.’

‘I know that now. However, my grievance lies not in the fact that he ruled against me, but in the speed he took to reach his decision. And then later, I learned that he and Hargrave were friends — and that Chetwynd rented his London house from Hargrave.’

‘Really?’ asked Thurloe, troubled. ‘That is the kind of behaviour that gives lawyers a bad name. Your case should have been adjudicated by someone who was a stranger to you both.’

‘And do you know the final indignity?’ Doling went on bitterly. ‘A few weeks later, Hargrave gave Chetwynd a gift — a cottage on his estate with access to the river. Chetwynd visited it every Sunday, and never failed to catch a trout.’

‘I knew none of this,’ said Thurloe unhappily. ‘And I am shocked, because Chetwynd had a reputation for being honest.’

‘And that is why no one will listen to my complaints,’ said Doling morosely, ‘although the facts are easy enough to check. Look into the matter, Mr Thurloe. You will find I am telling the truth.’

Thurloe was keen to investigate Doling’s claims for himself, but insisted on accompanying the spy to see Chetwynd’s heirs first. When Chaloner had broken the news of their kinsman’s death on Christmas Day, the Lea brothers had been so delighted to hear they were going to inherit sooner than they had anticipated, that they had literally danced for joy. He had given up trying to elicit sensible answers while they were pirouetting around the room, and had elected to leave the interview until they were more calm. He had managed a brief word with them while he had been shadowing Greene, but that was all, and a serious discussion was now long overdue.

‘Who is investigating these poisonings for Williamson?’ asked Thurloe, as their coach rattled up King Street towards St Martin’s Lane. ‘As Spymaster General, it is his responsibility to produce a culprit.’

‘I have no idea,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But if he has appointed someone, then the fellow is keeping a very low profile, because I have not come across him.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘How odd! Most spymasters would consider poisoned government officials a priority case, and would insist on a highly visible investigation. I know I would. But I suppose Williamson knows what he is doing.’

Chaloner was not so sure, having scant respect for the man. ‘Here we are,’ he said, as the carriage came to a standstill.

‘The Lea brothers live here?’ asked Thurloe, regarding the grand house in puzzlement. ‘They were not so well paid when they worked for me — they were just minor bookkeepers then.’

‘It is Chetwynd’s home,’ explained Chaloner. ‘He had paid the rent until August, so they abandoned their own cottage in Holborn, and moved here instead. They did it the day after he died.’

Thurloe made a moue of distaste. ‘I wonder why the Royalists kept them on when they dismissed virtually every other Parliamentarian. The Lea brothers were not particularly good at their work, and I doubt they were retained for their affable personalities — they are horrible fellows. All I can think is that they must have said or done something to persuade the new government to look favourably on them.’

Chaloner had an uncomfortable feeling he might be delving in some very murky waters if he tried to find out. But find out he must, because it might have a bearing on their kinsman’s death.

‘Give me a few moments to condole them on their loss, then come in,’ ordered Thurloe, alighting from the carriage. ‘We shall pretend to be strangers, to ease your worries about my involvement.’

While he waited for a suitable amount of time to pass, Chaloner studied the house. As befitting his lofty status as a Chancery clerk, Chetwynd had opted for a residence that was imposing. It had ornate brickwork, smart window shutters and a new front door. When Chaloner eventually knocked on it, a servant conducted him to a spacious parlour, where the Leas were entertaining the ex-Spymaster with spiced wine. A fire blazed in the hearth, and woodwork gleamed under a coating of new wax. Even so, there was an underlying scent of mould, and patches of damp on the walls — Chetwynd’s mansion was not as well-maintained as its immaculate exterior suggested.

On their first meeting, Chaloner had been unable to determine which brother was Matthias and which was Thomas, because they wore identical clothes and had a disconcerting habit of finishing each other’s sentences. They were both tall, lean and leered in a way that made them look predatory. He had not taken to them at all.

‘It is the Lord Chancellor’s creature,’ said one, as Chaloner was shown in. He turned to Thurloe. ‘He came on Saturday, demanding to know who might want to kill Chetwynd. We told him to-’

‘-question someone else,’ finished the other. ‘We loved Chetwynd dearly, but this man acted as though we had killed him. We find that deeply offensive. He can close the door on his way out.’

Chaloner sat down. ‘Why did you run away from me last night? What were you afraid I might ask?’

‘We did not run,’ objected the first indignantly. ‘We drove off in a carriage. We had been invited to the Babylonian ball, and did not want you to delay us with-’

‘-impertinent questions. It is the first such invitation we have ever received — our new wealth is already working its magic — and we did not want to offend anyone by arriving late.’

It was an oddly plausible explanation, and Chaloner was inclined to believe it.

‘Are you the sole beneficiaries of your kinsman’s will?’ asked Thurloe. Both brothers nodded gleefully. ‘How marvellous for you.’

One tried to look mournful. ‘His death was a terrible blow to us both, of course.’

‘But inheriting all his money will help to soften the loss,’ added the other. He sniggered suddenly. ‘We intend to sell the cottage Hargrave gave him. Perhaps Doling will buy it from us.’

‘How did you keep your government posts after the Restoration, when everyone else lost theirs?’ Chaloner’s dislike for the Lea brothers was intensifying, and the blunt question was intended to unsettle them, hopefully enough to provide him with some truthful answers.

The first Lea glared at him. ‘Because we are good at what we do. Not everyone can count money and never make a mistake, but we can. We are indispensable.’

‘No one is indispensable, Matthias,’ said Thurloe quietly. ‘And these are dangerous times.’

His sombre words caused a flash of unease to pass between the pair, but it was quickly suppressed. ‘You know nothing of Royalist politics,’ said Matthias contemptuously. ‘Times have changed since-’

‘-you wielded power. You are compelled to live quietly now, but our fortunes are on the rise at last. Chetwynd’s death is just one more step up the ladder of success.’

‘Did you know Vine and Langston?’ asked Chaloner. The brothers were exchanging grins of pure pleasure, and he was keen to keep them talking lest they started dancing again.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Matthias. ‘We all work for the government, so we were colleagues. We used to meet socially, too — or rather religiously: we prayed together.’ He raised his eyes heavenwards, and his brother sniggered at his display of false piety.

‘What about Greene?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did you pray with him, too?’

‘There is a rumour that Greene killed Chetwynd,’ said Matthias to his kinsman. ‘So this question is designed to discover whether we hired him. But the Lord Chancellor’s creature is wasting his time, because there is nothing that can connect us to our kinsman’s murder.’

His brother’s expression was cold and hard. ‘Yes, but he will almost certainly learn that Greene was one of those with whom we once fraternised, and may draw his own — erroneous — conclusions. Personally, I never liked Greene. He is too gloomy, always saying that everything is preordained, and that nothing we say or do can change the outcome. Well, he is-’

‘-wrong. We took control of our destinies — decided to make our way with the Royalists — and look at us now. We have everything we ever wanted.’

‘Chetwynd does not,’ said Thurloe softly. Chaloner saw he was repelled by their self-congratulatory gloating. ‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to kill him? He was a decent soul, and it is hard to imagine him acquiring enemies.’

Matthias looked smug. ‘Between you and us, Mr Thurloe, he was not as scrupulous as you might think. You must have heard the rumours that say he took bribes in exchange for favourable decisions? Well, they are all true-’

‘-although we are not in a position to give any of them back,’ added his brother hastily. ‘But a more corrupt man never walked the streets of London, although he was careful to present an honest face to the world. And if you do not believe us, then look at the verdicts he gave on the cases he was asked to resolve. It will not take you long to see that he was a villain.’

Thurloe looked stricken, and Chaloner changed the subject, to spare him more of the Lea brothers’ revelations. They were only confirming what Doling and Landlord Ellis had said, but Thurloe did not need to hear them vilify a man who had been a friend. ‘Did he own a ruby ring? Or do either of you?’

Both brothers leaned forward acquisitively. ‘He might-’

‘He did,’ corrected Matthias. ‘I remember it quite clearly. I imagine it has been found, and the authorities are keen to return it to its rightful owners. You can tell them we will be happy to accept it.’

Chaloner was sure they would. ‘What did it look like?’ he asked.

‘Silver,’ said Matthias, watching the spy for a reaction that might help with the description. He was out of luck, because Chaloner was used to concealing his thoughts, and his expression was unreadable. ‘Or maybe gold. I am not very good at identifying precious metals. And it had a large ruby.’

‘But not overly large,’ said his brother. ‘Respectable. Show it to us, and we will identify it.’

Chaloner took his leave, even more revolted by them than he had been the first time he had visited. They could not describe the ring, so did that mean they were innocent of murder? Or were they more clever than they seemed?

‘So, it is true,’ said Thurloe sadly, following him out of the house. ‘Chetwynd was not the paragon of virtue he led us all to believe. This is a bitter blow — enough to shake a man’s faith in humanity.’

But Chaloner’s faith had been shaken — well and truly shattered, in fact — a long time before.

Thurloe wanted to accompany Chaloner to see the Vine family, but the spy refused to let him. George was a courtier, and would almost certainly gossip about the fact that he had received a call from the Commonwealth’s old spymaster, and the spy did not want that reaching Williamson’s ears. He was relieved when Thurloe agreed, albeit reluctantly, to wait in the carriage.

‘Do not ask about the ring,’ warned Thurloe, catching his sleeve as he started to climb out. ‘If it does belong to the poisoner, you are effectively telling him that you have a clue regarding his identity. And those soldiers wanted you dead, so you would not be a witness to them or what they were sent to retrieve. So you should not advertise the fact that they failed, because they may try again.’

‘But the ring is my only clue. If I do not ask, how will I find out who owned it?’

Thurloe looked unhappy. ‘I do not like this enquiry, Thomas. I wish you would abandon it and come to Oxfordshire with me. I will find something for you to do — clerking, perhaps.’

But Thurloe’s estates were already full of displaced friends and kin who had lost all at the Restoration, and there was no room for yet another penniless petitioner. Chaloner promised to be careful, and walked to Vine’s house.

George had only just returned from his night out, and was having a bedtime snack in the parlour — his ‘meal’ appeared to be a glass of wine with a raw egg beaten into it. His mother was with him, and Chaloner was astonished to see her wearing an outfit that would not have looked out of place on a Southwark harlot. When she said Brodrick had asked her to attend the ball as a Babylonian concubine, he thought it explained why she was dressed in such a bizarre fashion, but not why she should have accepted the invitation in the first place.

‘Why should I not go?’ she demanded, reading his thoughts. ‘Old Dreary Bones never let me do anything fun, and I am owed something for twenty-five years of boredom. Do you think I should don black and sit behind closed curtains, instead? That would make me a hypocrite!’

‘God forbid,’ said Chaloner, thinking it was not surprising Vine had kept her indoors, if her idea of entertainment was to go into high society dressed like a whore. He changed the subject when he saw her lips press together in anger — he did not want to waste time debating with her. ‘I have been told that your husband owned a ruby ring, and-’

‘He owned no rings of any description,’ interrupted Mrs Vine firmly. ‘He said they got in the way of his writing, and preferred other forms of jewellery, like lockets and brooches.’

‘Then how about you?’ asked Chaloner, noting her fingers were well adorned in that respect.

‘No,’ she said sullenly, putting her hands out of sight under the table. ‘And neither does George.’

Chaloner knew she was holding out on him, because she had not asked why he wanted to know, as most people would have done. He could not decide whether she, Vine or George had owned a ruby ring, and she was denying it because she knew it was connected to her husband’s murder, or whether she was just unwilling to commit herself until she understood the implications of his questions. He glanced at George, wondering whether she suspected him of the crime, and was trying to protect him. And was he guilty? Chaloner had no idea. However, one thing he did know was that his enquiries about the ring were going no further, so he changed the subject.

‘How well did your husband know Langston and Greene?’

‘Quite well,’ replied George. He spoke cagily, as if he was afraid that even the most innocent reply might see him in trouble. ‘He did not invite them here to dine, but then he never brought friends home. It was almost as if he was ashamed of us.’

‘I wonder why,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘You had better be frank with him, George,’ said Mrs Vine, leaning back in her chair. ‘Someone is sure to gossip about us, and I want him to hear our side of the story. Tell him what a drab bird we have lived with all these years.’

George shrugged, but his expression was uneasy. ‘My father was a vile man. He carped incessantly against wickedness and sin, but he made our lives a misery — which is a sin, is it not? To make another person unhappy? And he was furious when my mother took a lover.’

‘Well, why should I not have one?’ demanded Mrs Vine, seeing Chaloner’s startled look. ‘He never came to my bed after George was born. And George is twenty-four!’

‘His piety was disgusting,’ George went on, angry now. ‘He gave money to the poor, but refused to buy me new clothes. What kind of father deprives his son of decent clothes? He was a hypocrite, with his stupid principles and out-dated morality, and I am surprised he lasted three years at Court.’

‘We thought one of those gay libertines would have dispensed with him long before now,’ agreed Mrs Vine. She grinned suddenly. ‘The Lord of Misrule has some wonderful japes planned for the Christmas season, and this year I shall be able to enjoy them all. Did you know it was Brodrick?’

George gaped at her, grievances against his stern father forgotten. ‘Really? Everyone else is saying it is Chiffinch.’

‘Then everyone else is wrong,’ gloated Mrs Vine. ‘He is trying to keep it secret, but he talks in his sleep, and Lady Muskerry overheard. She knows about some of his plans, too. One is to decorate the Lord Chancellor’s offices in the style of a Turkish brothel — complete with concubines. Another is to send love-letters in Bess Gold’s writing to the Bishop of London.’

George giggled. ‘Gold will be furious.’

‘But unable to do anything about it,’ said Mrs Vine maliciously. ‘Feeble old fool!’

‘He did not look feeble when he threatened to run me through last week,’ said George, turning sullen again. ‘It was Bess’s fault — she should not have squealed so when we frolicked in her parlour. Do you think Neale has managed to bed her yet? I shall be vexed if he wins her affections, because I am a far better proposition — not that I need Gold’s fortune now old Dreary Bones is-’

‘Greene,’ interrupted Mrs Vine abruptly. Chaloner was under the impression that she was afraid her son might say something he would later regret, and was blurting the first thing that came into her head. ‘There is a rumour that he killed my husband — and Chetwynd, too. It is almost certainly true.’

‘Is it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Why?’

Mrs Vine grinned slyly. ‘For two reasons. First, because the three of them were in the habit of meeting mutual friends every week at John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden — perhaps they had some kind of falling out there. And second, because I understand Langston has also been poisoned.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘I am not sure I follow-’

‘Then think about it. Where did Langston live? With Greene in Wapping. Obviously, Greene killed Chetwynd and my husband, then Langston discovered something incriminating. So Greene was obliged to murder him, too.’