The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 4

‘We had better travel to Wapping and interview Greene immediately,’ said Thurloe, when Chaloner returned to the carriage and told him what he had learned. ‘The Earl will certainly be suspicious when he finds out that Greene’s tenant is the poisoner’s latest victim, and might order his arrest. So, if Greene has an alibi, you should check it as soon as possible, to prevent your master from making a fool of himself.’

‘He tried to hire Langston as a spy,’ said Chaloner, banging on the roof of the hackney with his fist to tell the driver to go. ‘Although it seems his offer was rejected in no uncertain terms. Why would he recruit the housemate of the man he is so intent on destroying?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘I imagine he was unaware of the connection. He does tend to be ignorant about such matters — unless someone like you chooses to enlighten him. Unfortunately for him, you are not very good value as a scandal-monger. You listen and analyse, but you fail to pass on.’

‘Did your mother never teach you that gossiping is wrong?’

‘You had no problem passing me information when I sent you to spy overseas, so why do you baulk at keeping your Earl abreast of happenings in the place where he lives and works? If you obliged him with Court chatter from time to time, he might be more inclined to continue employing you. After all, no one wants an intelligencer who keeps all the interesting tittle-tattle to himself.’

If keeping his post at White Hall meant turning into a rumour-monger, then Chaloner supposed he had better start planning his voyage to the New World, because there were some depths to which he would not sink. He said nothing, and stared out of the window, watching the familiar landmarks whip past — the Royal Mews and the New Exchange, the latter of which had a large and angry crowd outside it. He wondered what was happening there, but there was no time to stop and indulge his curiosity.

It was a long way to Wapping, so Thurloe used the time to effect a disguise, in an effort to alleviate Chaloner’s concerns about him meddling in government business. From supplies he kept in his pockets, he donned a cap and wig that hid his hair, slathered his face in a paste that made him look sickly, and attached a remarkably authentic false beard. Chaloner was impressed at the speed with which he changed his appearance, and although it would not fool someone who knew him well, no casual observer would recognise him.

Wapping was separated from the city by the grounds of St Catherine’s Hospital — Langston’s favourite charitable concern — and had the scent of the sea about it. Greene’s house was on the edge of the village, looking across farmland to the north and the river to the south. The spy was about to knock on the door when it was opened and the clerk himself stepped out, apparently ready to go to work. He sighed when he saw Chaloner and his ‘servant’, and wearily gestured that they were to enter.

Greene did not look like a killer. He was stooped, thin and always seemed ready to burst into tears, although, in his defence, Chaloner had only ever met him when he had had good cause to be distressed. His plain, Puritan clothes were of decent quality, because his government post was a well-paid one, and he wore a wig that would not have been cheap. After watching him for the best part of two days and nights, Chaloner suspected there was little about him that would raise any eyebrows. Greene was a dull, uninteresting man, who lived a predictable, unexciting life, and the spy could not imagine why the Earl had taken against him so violently.

The clerk’s front parlour was large, but cold without a fire, and there was not much furniture in it, so their voices echoed when they spoke. There was a table in the window, which was covered in papers; an open ink-bottle suggested that someone had recently been working there.

‘Langston,’ said Greene, as Chaloner picked up one of the sheets. It was a page from a play. ‘He liked to see the river when he was writing. Are you here because he is dead? I heard the news at dawn this morning. However, I assure you I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Where were you last night?’ asked Chaloner.

Greene blinked back tears. ‘So, the Earl does think I am responsible. But I am not! I went to the Dolphin for some ale and a pie after I finished work, and then I came home. I went to church at four o’clock this morning, and was praying there when Swaddell arrived to tell me what had happened.’

‘Who is Swaddell?’

‘A fellow clerk. It was good of him to come, because Wapping is hardly on his way. However, this time I can prove my innocence, beyond the shadow of a doubt.’

‘You can?’ Chaloner hoped so, for his sake.

‘Swaddell told me Langston was still alive at four o’clock this morning — he was seen by Lady Castlemaine — but I was with my vicar at that time. Go and talk to him, if you do not believe me.’

Chaloner nodded to Thurloe, who immediately left to do so. ‘Why were you with a priest at such an odd hour?’ he asked, when the ex-Spymaster had gone.

‘I always pray before work — I am a religious man. Four o’clock is not an odd hour for me.’

Chaloner knew that was true, because he had watched him at his devotions. ‘You did not mention Langston sharing your house when I questioned you before.’

‘It did not occur to me to do so. Why would it, when neither of us could have predicted that he would become this fiend’s next victim?’ Tears began to fall, great salty drops that rolled unheeded down his face. ‘Why is this happening? What have I done to incur the Earl’s hatred?’

‘I wish I knew. Tell me again what happened when you found Chetwynd.’

Greene closed his eyes in despair, but he did as he was told. ‘I was working late, and went to the Painted Chamber to borrow ink. When I arrived, Chetwynd was dead on the floor. I was frightened — it was dark and that gale was raging. I ran away, but you caught me at the door. I should not have panicked, but it is easy to be wise with hindsight.’

‘You met Langston in the Dolphin on Saturday, and you gave him money. Why?’

Greene’s eyes snapped open to gaze at the spy in astonishment. ‘Have you been spying on me?’ He sighed miserably. ‘But of course you have — the Earl would have demanded it. The answer to your question is that I lent Langston ten pounds. He did not say why he wanted it, and I did not ask. We were friends, and friends do not quiz each other.’

‘Ten pounds?’ It was a good deal of money, and men had been killed for far less.

‘It was not unusual — he often borrowed from me, but he always paid me back. But surely, this is a reason for me not harming him? Now he is dead, I am ten pounds poorer.’

Chaloner looked hard at Greene, trying to understand what it was that had turned the Earl against him so zealously, but could see nothing, as he had seen nothing the other times he had done it. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ he asked eventually. ‘I cannot help you unless you are honest with me.’

‘I cannot think of anything,’ replied Greene wearily. ‘But I am innocent. As you pointed out when Chetwynd died, there was no poisoned cup in the Painted Chamber or on my person. That should have been enough to exoner ate me straight away. Meanwhile, I have an alibi for Langston’s death — and perhaps I have one for Vine’s murder, too, if you have been watching me. But I shall put my trust in God. If He wants me to hang, then I shall face my death with courage and fortitude.’

‘Right.’ Chaloner had forgotten Greene’s peculiar belief that everything happened according to some great and immutable divine plan. ‘Did you know Chetwynd took bribes?’

Greene gaped at him. ‘He did not! He was a good man, and if you think to help me by tarnishing his reputation, then I would rather hang. I have my principles.’

He would find out the truth soon enough, thought Chaloner. ‘Mrs Vine told me you met her husband regularly at a coffee house in Covent Garden. Is it true?’

Greene nodded. ‘Yes, I mentioned it when you first interrogated me. A group of like-minded men often gather to discuss religion and scripture. Besides Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and me, there are Nicholas Gold, Hargrave and Tryan the merchants, Edward Jones, Neale and a number of others.’

Chaloner had met Neale, and he knew Gold was the elderly husband of Bess. Meanwhile, Jones was a Yeoman of the Household Kitchen — he was the enormously fat fellow who ate so much that the Earl had ordered him to tighten his belt. But Chaloner had never heard of Hargrave or Tryan. Or had he? He frowned when he recalled the dour Doling mentioning someone called Hargrave — he had given Chetwynd a cottage after the lawyer had taken ten minutes to decide a complex legal case. He frowned at the connections that were forming, unable to make sense of them.

‘What was Langston like?’ he asked, changing the subject when answers continued to elude him.

Greene shrugged. ‘Kind, generous, but a little secretive. Yet who does not have things he would never tell another? Do not tell me you share everything with friends!’

Chaloner ignored the challenge in the clerk’s voice. ‘Do you own a ruby ring?’

Greene blinked at the question, then held up his hands, to show they were bereft of baubles. ‘Jewellery is for courtesans and Court fops, not Puritan clerks.’

‘What about Langston?’

‘If he did, then I never saw it. Search his rooms if you like.’

It was too good an invitation to decline, regardless of the fact that the soldiers had taken the ring and it was not going to be in Wapping. While Greene watched listlessly, Chaloner went carefully through all Langston’s belongings. Unfortunately, his efforts were wasted, because he found nothing of interest, except a letter from Backwell’s Bank. It said robbers had been in their vault, but they fully intended to honour the three hundred pounds he had deposited with them — just not for a few months. It was dated in the summer of the previous year.

‘I know,’ said Greene, when Chaloner showed it to him. ‘A lot of people were inconvenienced by that crime, and the bank was so shaken that it hired a man to overhaul its security — Doling.’

There was no more to be learned, so Chaloner took his leave. Thurloe was still talking to the priest, who insisted on repeating to Chaloner what he had told the ex-Spymaster — that Greene had come to the chapel at roughly four o’clock that morning. Greene had prayed for help with his predicament, while the vicar had prayed for the roof, which he had been certain was going to blow away.

‘Greene is a melancholy fellow,’ said Thurloe, as they left Wapping. ‘I believe God looks after His own, too, but that does not mean we should sit back and do nothing to help ourselves. His belief in predestination will see him hang, unless he pulls himself together and stops feeling sorry for himself.’

‘If I asked you for money, as Langston did Greene, would you hand it over?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Or would you want to know what it was for?’

‘Both. But Greene’s gloomy nature means he does not have many friends. Perhaps he did not want to lose one by asking awkward questions. You may never know why Langston needed ten pounds.’

It was late afternoon by the time Chaloner left Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn and headed towards White Hall. It was warmer than it had been earlier, and a greyish-yellow sun gleamed in the smoke above the city. As he walked past the New Exchange on The Strand, he could not help but notice how shabby it looked that day. Its gothic façade was dark with soot, and the Christmas garlands that had been hung along its eaves were torn and limp.

Outside it, Chaloner was surprised to see that the fracas he had observed earlier was still in full swing. It had attracted a mass of spectators, some of whom had simply ordered their carriages to stop in the middle of the road so they could watch, causing a serious impediment to traffic. He listened to the yells of the protagonists as he threaded his way through the mêlée, aiming to be past it as soon as possible and about his own business.

‘The King ordered it closed — and I have been charged to ensure it remains that way,’ one man was shouting. Chaloner smiled wryly when he recognised the voice of Edward Jones, thinking it odd that he should encounter the Yeoman of the Household Kitchen so soon after he had been mentioned by Greene as someone who met him and the three murdered men in Convent Garden.

Jones was a contender for the title of Fattest Man in London — he verged on the grotesque, and there was a rumour that Surgeon Wiseman had arranged for him to be measured, only to discover that he weighed precisely three times as much as the King.

‘But half the city does business here,’ objected an elderly merchant. He had impressively bandy legs, and his handsome clothes said he was very rich. ‘His Majesty cannot close the New Exchange!’

‘He can do what he likes, Alderman Tryan,’ replied Jones soberly. ‘He is the King.’

‘But he no longer wields that sort of power,’ argued Tryan. ‘And rightly so, if he is the kind of man to shut down important places of commerce on a whim. We went to war for this, and if he has not learned his place, then we shall have to fight him all over again. Is that not so, Hargrave?’

Hargrave, thought Chaloner, stopping dead in his tracks to look at the man who had given Chetwynd a cottage in exchange for a speedy verdict on his dispute with Doling — and who had rented Chetwynd his house. Hargrave and Tryan, like Jones, were also among those Greene had met at the Covent Garden coffee house. The spy decided to loiter instead of returning immediately to White Hall, to watch the three men and see what he might learn.

‘He and his Court are all rakes,’ declared Hargrave. He was not an attractive specimen. Savage red marks on his shaven pate suggested he had recently enjoined a major battle with fleas or ringworm, and wigs were not recommended until the skin had had time to heal; it was not only the poor who had trouble with parasites. ‘They do nothing but drink, frolic with whores and play cards. Why should we be taxed to support them?’

There was a rumble of agreement from his fellow merchants, and Chaloner was appalled to see how far from favour the King had fallen. It was only three years since he had been welcomed into the capital with cheering crowds and showers of roses. Now his people deplored the way he lived, and resented the cost of maintaining him and his Court.

‘The bishops get all,’ chanted Tryan, beginning a popular ditty that could be heard in London’s streets with increasing frequency. It was not just merchants who sang it, but apprentices, children and even clerics, too. ‘The courtiers spend all, the citizens pay for all, the King neglects all, and the Devil takes all.’

Jones blew out his chubby cheeks in a sigh. ‘I understand your frustration, Alderman Tryan, but one of His Majesty’s coachmen lost an eye in the fight here this morning, and traders from the New Exchange cheered for his opponent. Now the King believes it is full of traitors.’

‘Traitors?’ demanded Tryan angrily. ‘We love our country, but what does he do for it? Or does sleeping until noon, and waking only to cavort with his mistress count as patriotic service?’

‘We are not debauchees, who care only for our own comforts,’ added Hargrave. ‘We are hard-working men, and it is on our labour that this fine country is built. So open the damned Exchange!’

‘I cannot,’ said Jones, clearly uncomfortable with the position he had been forced to take. ‘His Majesty wants it to remain closed until further notice, and I am duty-bound to obey. Soldiers from White Hall will be here soon, and it would be better for everyone if you all just went home.’

There was a menacing growl from the people. Free Londoners had never appreciated being ordered about by the military, and Chaloner could see the apprentices readying themselves for battle.

‘You can try to keep it shut,’ challenged Hargrave, aware that he had the crowd’s support. ‘But we will have it open — no matter whose blood is spilled.’

While Hargrave and Tryan basked in their colleagues’ approbation for their brave stance, Chaloner approached Jones, who was wringing his fat hands in dismay.

‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but the road is blocked by carriages, and the guards will be unable to get through. So do not expect reinforcements any time soon.’

‘Chaloner,’ breathed Jones, recognising him. ‘Thank God for a friendly face! You must be right about the soldiers, because they should have been here ages ago. I was a fool to have tackled these rebels alone.’

‘They are not rebels,’ said Chaloner, not liking to think what might happen if that description of the crowd reached the nervous ears at White Hall. ‘Just angry citizens.’

But Jones was not interested in splitting hairs. ‘What am I to do? I cannot disobey a direct order from the King, but I do not love him so much that I am willing to be torn limb from limb. And if you ever repeat that, I shall deny saying it.’

‘Then turn the situation to His Majesty’s advantage,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking the solution should have been obvious. ‘Tell these merchants that you have just received word from the King, who has decided to reopen the Exchange as a mark of affection for his loyal subjects.’

Jones gazed at him. ‘But that would be untrue! He hates these upstarts.’

Chaloner was surprised Jones had managed to secure a Court post, if he baulked at telling lies. ‘The alternative is to keep the place closed and increase the King’s unpopularity — and risk losing your life. There must be upwards of five hundred people here, with more flocking to join them by the moment.’

Jones hesitated until someone threw a clod of mud that narrowly missed his tent-sized coat. ‘I have just received word from the King,’ he shouted, raising a plump hand to gain attention. ‘He orders that the Exchange be opened for business immediately. And he sends warm greetings to all his people, whom he loves like his own children.’

‘Steady!’ murmured Chaloner in alarm. Londoners were not stupid.

‘He does not have any children,’ said Hargrave, bemused. ‘The Queen is barren.’

‘She is not,’ declared Chaloner, stepping forward before he could stop himself. He liked the Queen, and objected to anyone abusing her. His quiet words, the expression on his face, and the confident stance of a man who knew how to handle himself made Hargrave scuttle back in alarm.

‘Actually, the King has plenty of children,’ countered Jones. ‘The only problem being that none of them are legitimate. But time is passing, and I have much to do. Good afternoon, gentlemen. God save the King, and so forth.’

‘God save the King,’ echoed Tryan mechanically. A few others joined in, but not many and none were very enthusiastic.

‘God might prefer saving the Devil to that scoundrel on the throne,’ muttered Hargrave. He cleared his throat and raised his voice. ‘And now let us to business. Too much time has been wasted today.’

‘Thank God that is over,’ breathed Jones, watching the mob disperse. Many went reluctantly, giving the impression that they would rather have had a skirmish; it underlined what a volatile place the city could be. ‘But what shall I tell the King? He will ask why the Exchange is open.’

‘Say his people appreciated his magnanimity in permitting the resumption of trade,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And that money made today can be taxed tomorrow. That should mollify him.’

Jones invited Chaloner to ride with him to White Hall. The carriage listed heavily to one side, leaving Chaloner gripping the window in order to prevent himself from sliding into the large courtier’s lap.

‘I understand you have competition in the form of one Colonel Turner,’ said Jones conversationally as they jolted along. ‘The Earl has appointed him as his new spy, and he is doing rather well with his investigation into these murders.’

‘Is he?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He told me he is coming close to a solution. Little Bulteel follows him around in the hope of finding out what he has learned, because he is determined that you should win the contest. You should let Bulteel befriend you, Chaloner, because his wife makes excellent cakes.’

‘Always a good reason for developing relationships,’ said Chaloner facetiously, before realising that for an obese man like Jones, it probably was.

‘Do not develop one with Turner, though,’ advised Jones, leaning towards him confidentially. ‘He is a liar — he told me he has twenty-eight legitimate children, and that he intends to increase his brood the moment he finds himself another wife. And would you believe that women are eager to be considered for the honour — even those who are already married?’

‘I heard he attracted the attentions of Lady Castlemaine last night. In a mud bath.’

Jones shuddered as he nodded. ‘It was rather horrible, if you want the truth. He will cavort with anyone. That poor young Meg from the laundry is under the impression that he is going to wed her, but of course he will do no such thing. Perhaps that is why she has not been seen since Saturday — she has learned his intentions are less than honourable towards her.’

Chaloner frowned, recalling that Turner had been due to meet Meg for a midnight tryst, but the colonel had been unable to fulfil his obligations, on account of him finding Vine’s body. ‘She is missing?’

‘Yes. It is a pity, because she is a pretty little piece.’

Chaloner’s frown deepened. Had the laundress arrived early for the assignation, and seen the killer at work? And had she then fled, to ensure she was not his next victim? Or had she screamed or announced her presence in some other way, and so was lying dead somewhere? The Painted Chamber was not far from the river, which was an excellent repository for corpses. He supposed he would have to ask the charnel-house keeper whether any bodies had been washed ashore. Of course, all this assumed Turner was telling the truth. What if he was the killer, and he had been obliged to ‘find’ Vine because Meg had caught him in the act of dispatching his victim? Either way, Chaloner did not hold much hope that the laundress was still alive.

When they reached White Hall, they paid the driver and were just walking through the gates, when two people hurtled towards them, intent on a game that involved a ball and two curved sticks. One stick caught Jones a painful blow on the shin, causing him to howl and jump about in agony. Lady Castlemaine put her hand over her mouth when she saw what she had done, but her remorse did not last long: she took one look at the fat man’s undulating jig, and immediately burst into laughter. Her partner in crime, the Duke of Buckingham, ignored Jones altogether as he took aim and hit the ball as hard as he could, sending it whizzing towards a fountain. Whooping and shrieking, he and the Lady hared after it. They appeared a little too intimate together, indicating their relationship was probably sexual, as well as one of coconspirators against the Lord Chancellor.

Chaloner watched them disapprovingly. The Lady reminded him of a cat — smug, sensual and vain, with claws ever at the ready. She was still young, but lines of spite and bad-temper were beginning to etch their way around her mouth and eyes, and the spy had never understood why so many men found her irresistible. Meanwhile, Buckingham was a tall, athletic fellow in his mid-thirties, who should have known better than to play rough games in a place where people might be hurt. Chaloner turned to Jones, offering an arm for balance as the fat man bent to inspect the damage to his leg.

‘I have been looking for you, Jones,’ came a voice from behind them. ‘I have a message: the King wants you to re-open the Exchange as soon as possible. Apparently, keeping it shut entails too much paperwork.’

The speaker was a clerk, and Jones straightened up to stare at him. ‘What?’

‘He realised it was more trouble than it was worth shortly after he dispatched you to The Strand. He apologises for not sending word sooner, but says he has been engrossed in a game of blind man’s buff, and forgot about you. Indeed, it was only by chance that he happened to mention the matter to Williamson, who then ordered me to look for you and tell you of the decision.’

‘I see,’ said Jones. He looked deflated, hurt by the revelation that the unpleasant episode outside the New Exchange had all been for nothing.

‘You work for Williamson?’ asked Chaloner of the clerk. He had not seen the man before, and was curious about his relationship to the Spymaster. The fellow was clad in black from head to toe, with the exception of his spotlessly white neck-band. The effect might have been smart on another person, but on the clerk it was sinister, although Chaloner could not have said why. Perhaps it was something to do with the dark, close-set eyes, which never seemed to settle on anything.

Jones remembered his manners. ‘This is John Swaddell, Williamson’s new secretary, whom he says is indispensable.’ He gestured to Chaloner. ‘And this is-’

‘I know,’ interrupted Swaddell. ‘The Lord Chancellor’s intelligencer, and the current beau of Hannah Cotton. My master has mentioned him on several occasions.’

Chaloner was uncomfortable with the notion that he — and his friendship with Hannah — had been the subject of discussions involving Williamson. ‘What did he say?’

Swaddell shrugged. ‘Only that he dislikes you, and that I am to ensure you do not harm him.’

‘Harm him?’ echoed Chaloner in disbelief. ‘He is Spymaster General, with an army of highly trained men at his command. I would not dare go anywhere near him!’

This was not entirely true, because Court security was so lax that Chaloner knew he could ‘harm’ anyone he pleased. However, he did not want Williamson thinking him dangerous, and was keen for Swaddell to report there was nothing to worry about. Enemies of Williamson were apt to disappear, and Chaloner did not want to be stabbed in a dark alley just because the Spymaster was uneasy.

Swaddell was about to add more, but was distracted by a sudden screech of rage. It came from the Lady, who was given to abrupt displays of temper. This time her ire was focussed on a couple who had just alighted from a splendid carriage. It was Bess Gold and her elderly husband. A number of male courtiers were beginning to converge, eager to offer Bess an arm across the cobbles — a young woman with an ageing and very rich husband was an attractive target for the fortune-hunters who haunted White Hall. However, the moment they realised she was engaged in an altercation with Lady Castlemaine, they melted away like frost in the sun.

‘I said I like it,’ the Lady was yelling, eyes flashing as she fixed Bess with a glare that held poison. ‘That means I want it, and you should give it to me. Do I have to spell it out, you stupid child?’

Buckingham was trying to calm her, although his impatient manner was doing little to ease the situation. ‘It is just a bauble,’ he snapped irritably. ‘I will buy you another. But you cannot have this one, because its owner is unwilling to part with it.’

‘You are right, kind sir,’ simpered Bess, batting her eyelashes at him. ‘I am.’

Chaloner watched with interest as the scene unfolded. Gold was cocking his head in a way that suggested he could not hear a word that was being said, while Buckingham was itching to get back to his game. Bess beamed at the Duke, and seemed wholly unaware that she was playing with fire by refusing a ‘request’ by the Lady — and by flirting with her handsome playmate.

‘I am a Catholic,’ the Lady announced in a ringing voice. ‘A secret one, it is true, but I am a faithful daughter of the Church, and I do not yet have a crucifix. Yours has rubies in it, which would look nice with the gown I intend to wear to confession. I want it, and you will give it to me.’

‘Eh?’ said Gold. ‘Speak up.’

‘It is not a crucifix,’ objected Bess. The object in question hung around her neck, and she fingered it possessively. ‘It is a cross with a figure of Jesus on it. And it was a special gift from Colonel Turner, so you cannot have it.’

‘You should not wear rubies to confession, anyway,’ said Buckingham, grabbing the Lady’s arm and attempting to haul her away. She flashed her teeth at him, apparently threatening to bite, and he released her hastily. ‘The priest would demand them for the poor, and, as a “faithful daughter of the Church”, you will be obliged to hand them over for the Pope’s coffers.’

‘Bess is not my daughter,’ declared Gold loudly. ‘She is my wife. And I would rather you did not mention coffins in my presence, not when I am fast approaching the day when I shall be in one.’

‘I shall buy you a nice casket when the time comes,’ offered Bess brightly. ‘Although it should not be too expensive, given that you will only be using it the once.’

All four turned when one of the hovering courtiers, braver than his fellows, strode towards them. It was the cherub-faced Neale. ‘What seems to be the trouble, Bess?’ he asked. ‘May I help?’

‘You may not,’ snapped Lady Castlemaine, giving him a shove that was hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Go away and mind your own business, boy. You are not wanted here.’

‘You may not want him, but I do,’ said Bess, with something of a leer. Fortunately for Neale, Gold’s ancient legs were tiring, and his attention was fixed on holding himself upright by hanging on to Buckingham, so he did not see her expression. The Duke grimaced and tried to extricate himself, but Gold’s gnarled fingers were stronger than they looked.

‘I shall accompany you home, Bess,’ declared Neale gallantly. ‘Away from this place.’

‘It is a disgrace,’ agreed Gold loudly, shifting so the hapless Duke bore almost his entire weight. ‘Uneven cobbles should be banned by royal decree — a man could break his neck in this yard.’

Lady Castlemaine ignored him and put her hands on her hips. ‘Excuse me,’ she snarled at Neale. ‘But I just told you to mind your own business. You had better oblige or Buckingham will run you through. He can do it, you know. He has a rapier.’

‘Not with me, though,’ said Buckingham with a grimace, struggling to stay upright under Gold’s dead weight. ‘So it will have to be later. Tomorrow at dawn, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields? That is where such matters are usually settled.’

‘That is very kind, Buckingham,’ bellowed Gold. ‘I would be honoured to be your guest at Field’s tomorrow. I understand it is one of the more exclusive coffee houses, patronised by members of Court and parliament. Dawn is too early, though, and a man of my mature years needs his sleep. Midday would be much more convenient, so I shall see you then.’

He grabbed the arm Neale was proffering to Bess, and leaned on it so heavily that the young man was hard-pressed to keep his balance. As Bess and Neale escorted him away, Gold began a litany of compliments about Buckingham’s gracious manners. Chaloner laughed when he saw the stunned expressions on the faces of the Duke and the Lady, although not loudly enough for them to hear him.

‘It was a paltry crucifix anyway,’ said Buckingham, when he had regained his composure. ‘And those were not rubies, but coloured glass. I shall buy you a much nicer one.’

‘For my priest to steal?’ asked the Lady icily. ‘No, thank you! Perhaps I will return to Anglicanism, if papists are going to prove miserly. I am bored of the religion, anyway, and only converted to annoy the Queen. She wallows in her Catholic devotions, and I wanted to show her that I can wallow just as prettily. I can produce royal children prettily, too. Unlike her.’

‘You can produce royal bastards,’ corrected Buckingham tartly. ‘Only a queen can produce royal children, but our dear Lord Chancellor has ensured that we shall never see any. He did England a grave disservice by foisting a barren wife on our King.’

Chaloner was spared from having to report his progress — or lack thereof — to the Earl, because his master was at a meeting of the Privy Council, and so unavailable. He ate some seedcake made by Bulteel’s wife, listened to Haddon wax lyrical about the delights of owning a dog, and spent the first part of the evening in the Banqueting House, where the Court had gathered for a performance of the King’s Musick. He made a few desultory enquiries, but Locke was one of his favourite composers, and it was not long before he became lost in the exquisite harmonies. Afterwards, guilty that he had squandered so much time — especially as Turner was busily darting from woman to woman, looking as though he was gathering intelligence aplenty — he went to the kitchens, hoping the servants would be in the mood to gossip. They were, but he learned nothing useful anyway.

He was on the verge of giving up when he saw Hannah, who had come to fetch warm milk for the Queen. Hannah was small, fair and her face was more interesting than pretty. Unlike the Lady, she could be witty without resorting to cruelty, and one of the things Chaloner liked best about her was her ability to make him laugh. He loitered, waiting for her to finish her duties, then escorted her to the pleasant cottage in Tothill Street where she lived. The road was bounded by the rural Tothill Fields to the south, and the landscaped splendour of St James’s Park to the north, and was a quiet, peaceful place. It smelled of damp earth and dew, and owls could be heard hooting in the woods nearby.

Hannah was livid, because one of Buckingham’s footmen had made some impolitic remark about the Queen’s failure to produce children. She had left the fellow in no doubt as to what would happen if she heard him utter such treasonous statements again, but his stammering apology had done nothing to appease her: she remained incandescent.

‘How can people be so heartless?’ she raged as they walked. Her voice was loud enough to cause a few residents to peer through their curtains, and Chaloner supposed it was no surprise that word had spread about their blossoming friendship. ‘The Queen is doing her best to achieve what is expected of her, but these … these pigs are implacable.’

‘It is unfair,’ agreed Chaloner.

‘It is more than unfair — it is a scandal! They exclude her from their revelries — she was not even invited to the King’s Musick tonight — they shun her when she speaks to them, and they laugh at her attempts to learn English. She is the Queen, but they treat her with rank disrespect.’

She continued to rail while Chaloner lit a fire and warmed some wine, so he listened patiently and without interruption until her temper burned out. Then he spent the night, and was tired enough after several nights of poor sleep that he did not wake until an hour after dawn the following day. Alarmed by the loss of time, he slipped out of bed, dressed and walked briskly to White Hall. The weather had continued to improve, and patches of blue let shafts of sunlight dance across the winter-bare ground.

He climbed the stairs to the Earl’s office slowly, wondering what he could say about his progress. To postpone the inevitable reprimand for his lack of success — when the unctuous Turner was probably on the brink of a solution — he went to speak to Bulteel first. The secretary was good at gathering information, and now they had a formal pact to help each other, Chaloner was hopeful that he might have learned something useful. Unfortunately, he had nothing with which to reciprocate.

He met Haddon first, in the hallway outside Bulteel’s little domain. His dogs were with him, straining against their leashes and making breathless, gagging sounds.

‘I thought I would bring my darlings to work today,’ the steward said beaming merrily, ‘The Earl is having a soirée tonight, which means a lot of running about to arrange food, guests and music, and my beauties like a bit of exercise.’

‘Music?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘What manner of music?’

‘Viols, I believe, although stringed instruments sound like a lot of screeching cats to me. Give me a trumpet any day. A trumpet is like a dog — loud, clear and commanding of respect.’

Chaloner looked at the glossy, pampered creatures that panted and gasped at his feet. ‘Is that so?’

‘Come along, my lovers,’ trilled Haddon. ‘The Earl wants us to hire Greeting’s consort because Brodrick’s is unavailable. Shall we look for Greeting in the chapel first, or his coffee house?’

‘His coffee house,’ replied Chaloner. ‘He will not be in the chapel at this time of day.’

‘I was talking to the dogs, actually,’ said Haddon jovially. ‘But your advice is welcome, and we shall do as you suggest, although my sweethearts dislike coffee houses. They tell me the smell of burned beans irritates their little noses.’

‘They talk to you?’ asked Chaloner, regarding him warily. Men had been taken to the lunatic house at Bedlam for less.

‘Of course they do! Surely you converse with your cat?’ Haddon smiled at the spy’s bewildered expression, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should try it. It keeps the loneliness at bay, and animals are a great comfort to those who live a solitary life.’

He bounced away whistling, openly delighted at the prospect of a day with his canine companions. Chaloner watched him go, and supposed he had better spend more time with Hannah or Thurloe, lest his isolated lifestyle drove him to imagine his cat might have something worthwhile to say. He would not be able to do his job if he was mad, and then he would starve.

Bulteel leapt in alarm when Chaloner tapped him on the shoulder, not having heard him approach. He clutched his chest and regarded the spy balefully, then gave a reluctant grin and offered him a piece of his wife’s Christmas gingerbread. Chaloner sat on the desk while he ate it. It was excellent, as usual, and he wondered how the secretary had managed to capture himself such a talented cook. He found himself thinking about Hannah, but their relation ship was at such an early stage that he did not know if she could bake. He decided he had better find out.

‘Did you hear about the third poisoning?’ asked Bulteel in a low voice, so the Earl would not hear and come to find out why he was chatting when he should be at his ledgers. ‘Langston — the plump fellow with the long nose — is dead.’

Chaloner brushed crumbs from his coat. ‘What was Langston like? I met him with Surgeon Wiseman the other night, but only briefly. And I was not really in any condition to take his measure.’

Bulteel shrugged. ‘Honest, kind and considerate. I cannot imagine why anyone would want to kill him. Kersey has him in the charnel house, so you should inspect him before you see the Earl — he is sure to ask whether this death is the same as the others. And you should examine the Painted Chamber, where Langston died, too. Perhaps the killer left a clue this time. Williamson told me …’

He faltered, and Chaloner frowned. ‘You have been talking to the Spymaster? Why?’

Bulteel grimaced, angry with himself. ‘Damn! That slipped out because I am frightened.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘Frightened by what? These murders? But why? Chetwynd, Vine and Langston were all government-appointed officials, but you are an earl’s private secretary. I doubt the killer will regard you as a suitable victim.’

But Bulteel disagreed. ‘It is well known that I refuse bribes, and the three dead men had one thing in common: their integrity.’

Chaloner hastened to reassure him. ‘Chetwynd was not as honest as he liked people to think, so I doubt probity is the motive for their murders. Is that why you were talking to Williamson? You are afraid, and think he might be able to protect you?’

Bulteel looked miserable. ‘Williamson has had his claws in me for a lot longer than that. A few months ago, he came to me and said that unless I provide him with the occasional report on the Earl, he would start rumours that would see me dismissed.’

‘Rumours about what? I doubt you have ever done anything unsavoury.’

Bulteel shot him a wan smile. ‘Your confidence is generous, but unfounded. You see, during the Common-wealth I worked for a bookseller who believed Cromwell was a hero. I told Williamson I did not think the same way, but he said it was irrelevant. He left me with no choice but to do as he asked.’

Chaloner thought Bulteel was a fool for letting Williamson use such a paltry excuse to intimidate him. He shrugged. ‘A spymaster should have eyes all over White Hall, to keep him appraised of what is happening. But I am sure you never impart information that shows the Earl in a bad light.’

Bulteel was indignant. ‘Of course not! I like this job, and a steady income is important for a man with a new baby. But it is not easy. Williamson is always after me for snippets, and now Haddon is here, it is only a matter of time before I am ousted. I do not suppose you have learned anything that may give me an advantage over him?’

Chaloner shot him an apologetic look. ‘But he will never displace you — he is a steward, not a secretary, and he could never manage the Earl’s accounts like you do.’

Bulteel did not look comforted, although he produced another of his sickly smiles. To anyone who did not know him, it was a sinister expression, and one that would have most men reaching to secure their purses. ‘You must catch this killer, Tom — I shall not feel safe until you have tracked him down. Did you know the Earl invited Langston to work as his spy, but he refused?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘That would have made three of us, with Turner. What does he want, an army?’

‘Yes, actually. He is worried that his enemies will start accusing him of ordering these deaths, because all three victims were men with whom he has had arguments over the last few weeks.’

Chaloner recalled the Earl ranting about his detractors after they had inspected Vine’s body, when the spy had escorted him home in his carriage. He had put the incident from his mind, because it had seemed more of a diatribe than a flow of information, but now he understood. Without admitting that he had done anything wrong, the Earl had been telling his spy about his own uncomfortable association with the victims — and with others who had crossed him.

‘He said Chetwynd disapproved of his unbending stance on religion,’ he mused, thinking about what had been confided. ‘And Vine objected to his gaudy house.’

‘And Langston was deeply offended by his offer of employment — a lot of people heard him call the Earl a villain. I imagine it will not be long before our master’s opponents notice that men who disagree with him end up being poisoned in the Painted Chamber. And then they will start braying about it.’

‘He is not a murderer,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He may not be a saint, but he has his principles.’

And yet, he thought, the Earl was inexplicably determined to see an innocent man hang. Perhaps he had decided principles were putting him at a disadvantage in a place where no one else had any. It would not be the first time a good man had attempted to combat wickedness on its own terms.

Chaloner decided to take Bulteel’s advice and inspect Langston’s body before it was either moved to a church or shoved in the ground, depending on how well he had been loved by his next of kin. The Earl was ensconced with Brodrick anyway, and said he was not to be disturbed, not even to be briefed about murder or lost busts.

He walked to Westminster, and was halfway across New Palace Yard when he was sidetracked by a spectacle. Colonel Turner had dressed for the ladies that day, eschewing the current taste for lace, and opting instead for a plain blue suit with a silver sash and matching ear-string. The attire made him look martial and manly, and he was surrounded by women, all clamouring for his attention. He stood among them like a god.

Bess Gold was at the edge of the gathering. She fingered her crucifix, and simpered in a way that was brazenly provocative. Her husband clung to her arm, but his attention was on his feet, to ensure he did not stumble on the uneven ground. The cherub-faced Neale was hovering nearby, full of envious resentment that Turner should be the object of Bess’s admiration. He tried to slip around Gold to speak to her, but the old man grabbed him as he passed, ostensibly to hold himself up. Chaloner frowned. Was it a deliberate ploy to keep Neale away from his wife, or simple bad timing on Neale’s part? But there was nothing in Gold’s demeanour to suggest he objected to the young man’s presence. On the contrary, he seemed grateful for another source of physical support.

The remaining women were members of the Queen’s bedchamber, although Chaloner recognised only two. There was Lady Muskerry, reputed to be a willing partner for any man, but not overly endowed with wits; like Bess, she fingered a trinket that hung around her neck. And there was Hannah.

‘Did I dream you were with me last night?’ Hannah asked in a low voice, detaching herself from the throng to talk to him. Her face was serious, but her eyes danced with mischief. ‘I must have done, because I am sure you would not have sneaked off before dawn without a parting kiss.’

‘It was not before dawn. The sun was up and half the morning was gone.’

‘Why the rush? Was it because I did not stop chattering last night — did not draw breath to ask after your day — making you eager to escape? Or is it just that you are trying to solve these recent murders?’

Chaloner’s immediate inclination was to evade her question with a comment about Lady Muskerry’s necklace. But it had been his reluctance to talk about himself that had driven wedges between him and several previous lovers, and he was determined not to repeat the mistake. Unfortunately, it was difficult to break the practice that had kept him alive for so many years, and he much preferred the times when Hannah did all the talking.

‘The Earl has hired Turner and me to look into them,’ he forced himself to say.

Her expressive face crumpled into a grimace. ‘Then be sure you do not do all the work, while he steps in to take the credit. He thrives on adulation, and will be keen to secure your Earl’s good graces.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows, surprised — and gratified — that she could see through the colonel’s flamboyant charm. ‘Every other lady at Court seems to think him a gift from God.’

‘Oh, he is a gift, all right. I am told — by several impressed friends — that there is no one like him for making a girl feel special in the bedchamber. However, a pretty face and a perfect body are not high on my list of requirements in a man.’

‘That is a relief.’

She nudged him playfully. ‘You will suffice.’ Then her impish smile faded, to be replaced by an expression of concern as her attention was caught by something else. ‘Look — there is Margaret Symons! I am sure she is ill — do you see the taut way she holds herself, as if every step hurts?’

Chaloner glanced to where she pointed. A woman was walking slowly from the direction of the abbey, leaning heavily on the arm of a man. She was thin and pale, and did appear to be unwell; her companion was conspicuous for his mane of spiky ginger hair. Both wore respectable clothes, but ones that had seen better days, indicating they had once been much wealthier. London was full of people just like them — folk who had prospered during the Commonwealth, but who were now suspect to the new regime. No one would do business with them, and some were finding themselves reduced to desperate poverty.

‘Her husband — the man with her — is Will Symons,’ Hannah went on. ‘He was a government clerk until the Restoration, at which point he was ousted to make room for Royalists. He is a pleasant man. Margaret is a sculptress — my husband liked statues and commissioned one from her.’

‘From a woman?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He shrugged at Hannah’s indignant expression. ‘You do not hear of many female artists. I am not saying Mrs Symons is not good, just that it is unusual.’

Hannah sniffed, not entirely mollified. ‘My husband almost cancelled the work when he learned “M. Symons” was a lady, but I informed him that he had better think again. And I was right to force him to reconsider, because the piece she made for us is exquisite.’

‘But you think she is ill?’ Chaloner knew he was drawing out the discussion, so Hannah would have less time to ask him questions about his work, but he could not help himself.

‘Yes — you can see from here that Will is being very solicitous of her. They are a devoted couple, and it grieves me to see him look so worried. I should go to talk to them.’ She started to move away, but then turned back. ‘Will you visit me again soon? I enjoyed your company last night.’

He said he would try, and had not taken many steps towards the charnel house when he heard his name being called. It was Turner, who had managed to extricate himself from his adoring throng. He was adjusting his clothing, as though leaving had involved the prising off of fingers.

‘There is scant information about murder to be had from those lasses,’ he declared, smoothing down his moustache, ‘but their company is a delight — I shall be doubling my tally of children, at this rate! But while we are speaking of ladies, have you heard anything of Meg the laundress? I have not seen her since we failed to meet for our midnight tryst — the night I found Vine murdered.’

‘Has it occurred to you that she might have stumbled across the killer, and he has ensured she will not be around to provide a description of him?’

Turner shook his head. ‘It is more likely that she has found out about my growing affection for Barbara — that is Lady Castlemaine to you — and is jealous. Damn! I was growing fond of Meg, too.’

‘You should find her,’ advised Chaloner, feeling the man should not need to be told. ‘If she is alive, she might be in danger, or frightened and in need of your protection.’

Turner brightened. ‘Oh, I can do protection. I am good at gallantry. Where shall I start looking?’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘How should I know? Try her home, or the place where she works. Does she have family in the city?’

‘I have no idea. I want to bed her, not marry her, for God’s sake — I am not interested in her kin. But perhaps I will have a bit of a hunt for her tonight, when I am done with His Portliness’s affairs.’

‘You think you will have solved the case by then?’ Chaloner wondered whether Turner intended to present Greene as a culprit, simply because it was the easiest option and would please the Earl.

But Turner shook his head again. ‘Unfortunately, it is proving more complex than I imagined. Incidentally, His Portliness says I can have a permanent post with him if I beat you to the answer, and he and Haddon have taken bets on which one of us will win.’

Chaloner was disgusted. ‘Murder is hardly a subject for wagers.’ And neither was his future.

‘That is what I thought — I was under the impression they had more decorum. But Haddon believes you will succeed, while His Portliness is backing me. However, both agree that neither of us has a hope in Hell of locating this missing figurine — the one by Barocci.’

‘Bernini. And it is a bust, not a figurine.’

Turner flapped a hand, to indicate details were irrelevant. ‘Suffice to say it cost the old king’s wife a diamond ring, which was valued at a thousand pounds.’

‘You do not know the sculptor’s name, but you know what he was paid?’ Chaloner was amused.

Turner grinned back. ‘I know what is important. Where are you going? To see Langston’s corpse? I have already done that, but it yielded nothing in the way of clues. And it cost me threepence, too.’

‘What did?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled.

‘Viewing the corpse,’ explained Turner. ‘Because there has been such a demand to see it, Kersey has opened his mortuary to spectators, and is making a fortune in entry fees. But I had better talk to Bess Gold, before her husband takes her away. She was one of the last people to see Langston alive, and might have something useful to impart.’

But Chaloner had interviewed Bess at the King’s Musick the previous evening, and had discovered that her powers of observation were negligible — she barely recalled what she had been wearing, let alone anything to solve a murder. He watched Turner strut away, but did not tell him he would be wasting his time. The tale about the Earl’s wager had annoyed him, and he found himself determined to prove his master wrong. And if that meant not sharing information with his rival, then so be it.

The charnel house was located near the river, sandwiched between a granary and a coalhouse. As Turner had warned, it was full of spectators — it was not often three clerks were murdered in the same week, and people were eager to view the victims. They handed over their coins and disappeared into the mortuary’s dark interior, pomanders pressed to noses. None lingered long, so although there was a queue, it moved quickly. Chaloner loitered, waiting for the horde to dissipate, because there was no point going inside if he could not see Langston for sightseers.

The first person he recognised among the ghoulish throng was the grim-faced Doling, who stamped out looking as black as thunder. Chaloner might have assumed the fellow had seen something to enrage him, but then recalled the way he had scowled at his ale in the Angel the previous day: Doling was just one of those men who frowned at everything. His expression blackened further still when the wind caught the lace at his throat and whisked it off to reveal skin that was old, red and wrinkled, like that of a turkey. The lace was retrieved by Hargrave, whose flea-ravaged head was wrapped in a scarf that made him look like a fishwife, and who was in company with the elderly Tryan. The three exchanged a few words, then walked away together, Tryan’s bandy legs pumping nineteen to the dozen as he struggled to keep up with his younger companions.

Moments later, George Vine reeled out, a Lea brother on either side. He lurched to a doorway and was promptly sick, although Chaloner could not tell whether it was at the sight of a man who had suffered the same fate as his father, or his stomach rebelling at the amount of wine that had been poured into it the previous night. The Leas were spitefully amused by his misery, and were still sniggering when they helped him into a hackney carriage some time later.

They were watched in rank disapproval by a number of courtiers, among whom was the obese Jones, still limping from his encounter with Lady Castlemaine’s gaming stick. He grimaced, and pointedly leaned down to rub the afflicted limb when she and Buckingham arrived a few moments later. It was then that Chaloner saw he was not the only one observing the proceedings: so was Williamson’s clerk, who skulked in the shadows of a nearby doorway, almost invisible in his black clothes.

Eventually, the queue dwindled to nothing. Chaloner prised a stone from the road, and lobbed it at the glass window of a nearby warehouse. Immediately, the owner tore out, and began to accuse a departing courtier of the crime. While Swaddell’s attention was fixed on the resulting fracas, Chaloner left his hiding place and slipped inside the charnel house unseen.

Kersey’s domain was larger than it looked from the outside, and the main section comprised a long, windowless hall with lamps hanging at irregular intervals from the ceiling. There were a dozen wooden tables, each graced with either a cadaver, or a neatly folded sheet. Kersey — a dapper, well-dressed little man — was holding forth to the last of his visitors, informing them that on a good week, he might have as many as twenty corpses to mind. His audience, however, was more interested in clucking over his charges than listening to him. Chaloner waited until they were all gaping at the remains of a drowned apprentice, then turned to inspect the poisoner’s most recent victim.

Langston lay next to Chetwynd, identifiable by his large nose and plump body — Chaloner recalled that Vine had already been buried, and so was spared the humili ation of being turned into an exhibition. He was devoid of all clothing except a strategically placed handkerchief, and the spy shuddered, not liking the notion that anyone who happened to die in Westminster could expect to be laid out and exposed to all and sundry. It was undignified, and for a moment, he had a disturbing vision of his own violent demise, and the Earl coming to gawp at his naked corpse. He took a deep breath, to clear his mind of such dark thoughts, and turned his attention to Langston.

A quick glance at the mouth and lips revealed blisters that were reminiscent of the poison used on Chetwynd and Vine, which came as no surprise. Surreptitiously he looked for signs of other injuries, but there was nothing he could see. He was on his way out when a familiar figure strode through the door. Kersey opened his mouth to demand an admission fee, but closed it again when he recognised the newcomer.

‘Good God!’ boomed Wiseman, red robes billowing around him as he regarded the spectators in distaste. ‘Can you find nothing better to do than drool over the corpses of your colleagues?’

‘You are a fine one to talk,’ flashed a courtier named Peters. His expression was malicious: Wiseman’s blunt tongue had made him unpopular at Court. ‘I hear that you have recently taken to hefting heavy objects about with a view to acquiring larger muscles. If that is not a damned peculiar way of carrying on, then I do not know what is.’

‘I do it for the benefit of my health,’ replied Wiseman imperiously. ‘And I feel ten years younger, so it is certainly working. I firmly believe that exercise is the best way to prolong life and promote wellbeing, and anyone who does not agree with me is a fool.’

‘You will not live a long life, no matter how fit you think these odd habits are making you,’ sneered Peters contemptuously. ‘And why? Because someone will dispatch you, on the grounds that you are conceited, arrogant and rude, and no one likes you.’

Wiseman regarded him in silence for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘I can see from here that you are afflicted with the French pox, so I shall not take your words to heart — I am a surgeon, and know how these diseases can rob a man of his wits. However, you may like to know that I have identified the source of the current outbreak: it is Lady Muskerry.’

Chaloner was not the only one to be taken aback by this announcement. There was a collective gasp of astonishment and shock, and then people began to edge away from the woman in question. They edged away from Peters, too, who was gaping in disbelief, staggered that the surgeon should stoop to such low tactics just in order to win a petty spat.

‘I have devised a cure, though,’ Wiseman continued, relishing his opponent’s mortification. ‘It works like a charm, and will save sufferers from the embarrassment of unwelcome sores — and from the embarrassment of making unwarranted verbal assaults on fellow members of Court, too. I recommend you try it, Peters — French pox can be fatal, if left untreated.’

He was going to add more, but Peters shouldered past him and headed for the door, determined to leave before any more of his intimate secrets could be brayed to the world at large. The other courtiers followed, all careful not to meet the surgeon’s eye, lest they be singled out for a tongue-lashing, too. When they had gone, Wiseman turned to the spy. Chaloner took a step away from him, not sure he wanted his company when he was in such a bellicose frame of mind.

‘Colonel Turner told me you were here, so I came to see if I could help you. Bulteel says the Earl will dismiss you if you do not find this killer, and I do not want you gone from White Hall. You are one of the few people there who are acceptable to me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner warily, wondering whether the surgeon’s temper was spent or whether he had yet more vitriol to expel. He braced himself, ready to follow Peters’s example and leave if he did — he had better things to do than exchange insults with the razor-tongued Wiseman.

But the surgeon’s expression had gone from haughty to troubled. ‘Is it true?’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Is what true?’

‘What Peters said — that no one likes me.’

Chaloner was inclined to tell him the truth, in the hope that it might imbue him with a little humility, but when he saw the genuine anguish in the man’s eyes, he found he could not do it. He flailed around for a noncommittal answer. ‘The Earl likes you,’ he managed eventually.

‘And you?’ asked Wiseman, regarding him intently. ‘What do you think of me?’

Chaloner was not sure how to reply. He did not want to make an enemy of Wiseman by answering honestly, but he did not want to lie, either. ‘I think you are an innovative surgeon,’ he hedged. But a glance at Wiseman’s agonised expression told him this was not enough. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the discussion. ‘And you are one of the few people who are acceptable to me.’

It seemed to satisfy the surgeon, because he smiled briefly, and then waved a hand towards the two corpses. ‘Langston, like Vine and Chetwynd, died when a virulent toxin seared the membranes of his mouth and throat. It caused immediate swelling that restricted the flow of air to his lungs. In essence, he suffocated. I imagine I would see bleeding in his stomach, too, were I to slice him open.’

Chaloner winced. He was not unduly squeamish, but there was something about Wiseman’s grisly enthusiasm he had always found unsettling. ‘Do you know the nature of this poison yet? You said you would find out.’

‘That was assuming I had a corpse to dissect, but the kin of Vine, Chetwynd and Langston have refused me permission. However, there are many such substances in the modern pharmacopoeia, and I doubt knowing a name will help you catch your killer. Most have perfectly innocent applications, such as scouring drains, making glue or cleaning glass.’

‘So I will be wasting my time if I try to track it down?’

Wiseman nodded. ‘Although I intimated to Turner that it was worth doing. However, I can tell you that all three men were killed by the same potion — there is no question about that — and they probably died quickly. And, as I said the other night, the poison’s odour was disguised by brandywine.’

‘Do you still think Greene is innocent? You have not discovered anything to suggest otherwise?’

‘Greene does not have the strength of mind for killing, and the Earl is a fool for thinking he does. But we shall ensure he does not embarrass himself.’

‘Shall we now?’ murmured Chaloner.

‘We shall,’ declared Wiseman, ‘because I am not working with that popinjay Turner — not on this case, and not in the future, either. So, I have a clue to share with you, something I discovered when I examined the bodies: namely that the purses of all three victims were missing, along with any jewellery they might have owned. I am surprised Mrs Vine did not comment on it.’

‘Perhaps she did not notice.’

Wiseman snorted his derision. ‘She would have noticed. And so would her snivelling son.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks, but thought it did not help much to know he was dealing with a killer who stripped his victims of valuables — the Court was full of avaricious people. He tried to set the ‘clue’ in context. Did it mean the ruby ring had belonged to Vine, dropped as the killer had looted the corpse? It was obviously worth a lot of money, so why had Vine’s wife denied him owning it? Or had she sent a train-band to retrieve it when she realised it was missing? With a sigh, Chaloner realised Wiseman’s information posed more questions than answers.