The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 6

When the Queen declared she was tired at last, and was ready to try sleeping again, Hannah was released from her duties. Chaloner escorted her home, and she invited him to stay. He accepted partly because her house was always warm, but mostly because he felt a need for human companionship. The Queen’s painful loneliness had upset him, and he wished there was something he could do to help her.

‘What was she telling you?’ asked Hannah, when they lay in bed a little later. He was still chilled to the bone, and was holding her more tightly than was comfortable for either of them. ‘I had no idea you could speak Portuguese.’

Her profile was etched against the light from the fire, and Chaloner gazed at it. ‘I had no idea you could not. How can you serve her, if you do not know her native tongue?’

‘She is Queen of England, Tom. She must forget her old language and customs, and embrace the new ones — unless she wants people accusing her of spurning things English. And she has enough hatred directed at her already, for not getting pregnant. She cannot afford more.’

‘Poor Katherine,’ said Chaloner softly, his heart going out to her.

‘Did you hear her household allowance has gone missing?’ asked Hannah, full of indignation. ‘She tried to impress everyone with her frugality, using a mere fraction of what she is entitled to take, only to find someone has stolen the rest. I suspect Lady Castlemaine, personally. She probably ran up some gambling debts, and the Queen’s thirty-six thousand pounds was used to pay them off.’

‘You may be right.’

‘Did she ask you to find it? She has been petitioning everyone she knows, although she has had scant success so far. You see, until she produces an heir she has no influence, so no one is willing to waste his time by doing her favours.’

Chaloner knew that was the way things worked at Court, but was disgusted nonetheless.

‘Did you refuse her, too?’ asked Hannah. She saw his apologetic expression and grimaced. ‘That is a pity, because I have been extolling your virtues to her, although she tells me you have already been to Spain on her account. Speaking of which, why have you never mentioned it to me? It means we served the same mistress, which I would have been interested to hear.’

‘It was-’ He was about to dismiss the escapade as of no consequence, loath as always to discuss his work, but then remembered his new resolution not to drive her away with half-answers and lies, as he had previous lovers. He did not want Hannah to despair of him at quite such an early stage in their relationship. But he found he could not summon the words to explain what had happened to him. It had been one of the worst experi ences of his life, and he did not know how to begin telling another person about it.

‘It was what?’ asked Hannah, peering at him in the firelight. ‘Hot? Full of flies? Beautiful? Dull?’

‘Not dull.’

Hannah sighed. ‘Well, that is a start, I suppose. Spain is not dull. The Duke of Buckingham told me the opposite, and said he would not return there for a kingdom.’

‘You discussed Spain with Buckingham?’ Chaloner sat up, not liking the notion of such a reprobate engaging any decent woman in conversation.

‘I like him,’ said Hannah with a shrug. ‘He is kind, amusing and generous.’

‘Buckingham?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether there was more than one of them.

‘I know he has a reputation for being a libertine, but he has his virtues, too.’

Chaloner lay back down and hauled up the bedclothes. He was still freezing, and was beginning to think he would never be warm again. ‘Next you will be telling me that Lady Castlemaine is chaste.’

She gave him a jab with her elbow that was rather too hard to be playful. ‘You have friends whom I consider dubious. Barbara Chiffinch for example. She is a sharp-tongued shrew and I have never liked her, yet you and she rub along famously together. She is old enough to be your mother.’

‘She gives me information that … helps my work. And she does remind me of my mother, now you mention it. She would have liked you. My mother, I mean. She played the viol.’

Hannah laughed. ‘You are trying your best to overcome your natural reluctance to discuss private matters, and the result is a jumble of statements that are supposed to be revealing, but that make no sense whatsoever. Your mother would have liked me because she played the viol? Really, Tom!’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. ‘I cannot talk about Spain. It was too … I did not think I would be coming back.’

She regarded him silently for a moment, then patted his chest. ‘Then we shall talk about other things instead. Do you know Sir Nicholas Gold? I like him very much, although his wife is a dolt. And I deplore that vulture Neale, waiting to step in and claim her the moment she becomes a widow.’

‘Is Gold ill, then? Set to die?’

‘He is just old, although I suspect he is not as frail as he looks. But Bess is not yet twenty, and will certainly outlive him. She will be one of the richest widows in London when he dies, and Neale wants to ensure he will be the one to snare her. Of course, he has his work cut out for him, because she is inclined to be flighty, and Colonel Turner is just one of many who compete for her affections.’

‘Is that so?’ Chaloner was more than happy to let her talk.

‘He gave her a crucifix, and regards her as more special than the others. Except for Meg, perhaps.’

‘Meg the laundress?’ asked Chaloner. She nodded, and he continued. ‘He was supposed to meet her for a tryst on Saturday night, but she never arrived. Have you seen her since then?’

‘No, why? Do you think something untoward has happened to her? She is a dreadful harlot — I have seen her smuggling lovers in and out of White Hall myself, on her laundry cart.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘Do you think Turner found out she was unfaithful, and dispatched her?’

‘That would make him a hypocrite, would it not? Killing her for infidelity when he is in the process of sampling every woman at Court? But men are mysterious creatures, and who can fathom the illogical mush that passes as their minds? If he did kill her, I would be appalled, but not surprised.’

Chaloner continued to stare. ‘Has Turner … Did he … Have you …’

‘Has he made a pass at me? And did I succumb? Is that what you cannot bring yourself to say aloud? You should credit me with more taste, Tom — Turner is a rake.’

‘But a likeable one.’ He listened to the fire settling in the hearth, then said, ‘You pointed Margaret Symons out to me earlier. You said your husband commissioned a sculpture from her.’

Hannah pointed to a delicate figurine that stood near the window. ‘She made us that statue of Venus, which is as fine a piece as any in the royal collections. Why do you ask?’

‘I heard she liked art.’ Chaloner was aware that he was being less than honest, but he hesitated to confide in her for reasons he did not quite understand. It had been obvious the Queen had not told Hannah that Margaret had been invited to buy the stolen bust. Why was that? Did she not trust her with the information? Or had she just not considered the rumour worth the effort of translating into English? He closed his eyes tiredly. What was wrong with him? Why could he not give straightforward answers to the woman with whom he was trying to develop a meaningful bond?

‘You are holding back on me again,’ said Hannah, almost as if she had read his thoughts. She was smiling, but the mischievous gleam was gone from her eyes: he had hurt her feelings. ‘But no matter. You can answer some questions to make up for it. Why were you swimming in the Thames in the depths of winter?’

‘I became involved in a skirmish and fell in.’

‘You are no raconteur, are you?’ she said drily. ‘It was probably an exciting adventure, but you make it sound boring. However, it was my quick thinking with the excuse about the statue that saved you from being arrested, so you owe me some explanation.’

Briefly, Chaloner wondered why she should want to know, but he was exhausted, his defences were down and he was weary of being suspicious of everyone he met. So he struggled to supply an explanation she would accept, but that would not reveal too much about his business.

‘I was following two men down an alley. Then a pack of soldiers appeared, and jumping in the river was the only way to escape. Next time, I will settle for being skewered, because I am still freezing.’ Hannah wrapped her arms around him, although it did nothing to dispel the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He hunted for something to say that would let him change the subject without sounding as though that was what he was doing. ‘Bulteel asked to me to be godfather to his son. Should I do it?’

Hannah was silent for so long that he thought she was angry with him for not elaborating on the Thames incident. By the time she replied, he had dozed off, and her voice roused him from a dream in which he was swimming across the Painted Chamber while the Queen informed everyone that the waters would make him pregnant.

‘You should decline. There is something about Bulteel that is not entirely nice, although I have heard he is the most honest clerk in White Hall. I know it is an expression of friendship on his part, but I do not think you should accept it.’

‘Why not? You have just said he is honest.’

‘Is that all you require in a friend? Honesty? What about sharing interests? Music, for example.’

‘He does not like music,’ acknowledged Chaloner. He recalled his surprise when Bulteel had informed him of the fact. He had thought everyone liked music.

‘Think carefully before you give him your answer. Do not dwell on what you might be able to do for the child, but on what such an association means for you. You are a good man, Tom. It would be unfortunate if Bulteel dragged you down.’

It was late morning when Chaloner woke the next day, and Hannah was gone. He supposed it was her revenge on him for doing it to her, and was concerned that he had not heard anything. He was normally a light sleeper, and anyone moving about in a room where he was resting usually had him snapping into immediate wakefulness. But he did not feel well that day, and it took considerable effort to dress and walk to Westminster. His lame leg hurt from being so cold the night before, and his head ached miserably.

So, what had happened the previous night? He had been so intent on surviving the encounter, that he had given little thought to what it meant. Jones and Swaddell were dead — at least he assumed they were — but what had caused them to go into the river in the first place? Had Jones caught Swaddell and killed him for eavesdropping? Or had they fought and fallen in together?

And why had the soldiers so suddenly appeared? Had they been tracking him, aware that he had escaped alive from the Painted Chamber? He did not think so, because he was sure he would have noticed. So, that meant their appearance was coincidence — he had just happened to blunder into an area they considered their own. Did they think he was dead now, because they assumed Jones, shot and drowned, was him? It did not seem likely that they would believe a man would leap in the river to escape them one moment, then call for their help the next. But in his experience, professional warriors were an unimaginative lot, and it was entirely possible they had not stopped to question what they thought they had seen. So did that mean he was safe for a while? He did not feel safe, and decided the first thing he needed to do that day was to visit the wharf, to see what might be learned from the place where he was attacked.

The alley was a dark, sinister slit, as uninviting in daylight as it had been during the night. He was less than a quarter of the way down it when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up — something was moving in the shadows ahead. He gaped in astonishment when he saw it was the guards who had been detailed to watch the pier the previous evening — they were still at their posts, and he realised he had underestimated their determination to be thorough. Suspecting there would be nothing to see anyway — and he had no sword to let him fight his way past them to look — he left.

Wiseman was in Old Palace Yard, resplendent in a tall red hat and a new scarlet cloak that swirled about him as he walked. Both made him more imposing than ever, which Chaloner supposed was the point — the surgeon liked to be noticed. His self-imposed exercise regime obviously suited him, too, because he radiated vitality and fitness. His skin was clear, his eyes bright and although he had been walking at a rapid clip, he was not even slightly breathless. Uneasily, Chaloner saw he would be a formidable opponent in a fight, and sincerely hoped he would never decide to change sides.

‘You look as though you need my services,’ Wiseman began imperiously. ‘You are limping and-’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. He would have to be at death’s door before he let a surgeon loose on him. ‘I do not suppose you have heard rumours about a train-band lurking around here, have you?’

‘I have, as a matter of fact. A gang of soldiers has taken up residence — and their presence has virtually eradicated petty crime. Why? Was it they who attacked you the other night?’

‘Who controls them? Pays their wages, buys their equipment?’

‘No one knows. The obvious candidate is Williamson, although he has never cared about policing the area in the past. However, I can tell you that they are secretive and deadly, and that you should be wary of tackling them. Personally, I do not believe they are kindly Robin Hoods, ousting felons to protect the innocent — I think they crushed rival villains because it suited them to do so.’

‘Do you know anything else about them?’

‘Nothing — except that the charnel house currently houses the corpses of two men and a woman who were rather vocal in demanding to know who these men are. Ergo, I recommend you keep your questions to yourself, because I do not want to anatomise your cadaver just yet.’

Chaloner was grateful for the warning, because investigating the train-band was exactly how he had planned to spend the morning. So, because he did not feel equal to tackling dangerous men again that day, he concentrated instead on trying to learn more about Chetwynd, Vine and Langston from the men who had worked with them. He also made discreet enquiries about ruby rings, but was disheartened to learn that they were rather common, and that at least a dozen people had a penchant for them. Wearily, he followed as many leads as he could, eliminating suspects where possible, but his efforts led nowhere. Occasionally, an opening occurred when he could ask obliquely about the train-band, but he found that either people had no idea what he was talking about or, like Wiseman, they had heard that discussing the mysterious soldiers was bad for the health and declined to do it.

He met Turner, who was surrounded by women as usual. The colonel broke away from them to inform the spy that he had just conducted a search of Greene’s Westminster office, and had discovered a large supply of brandywine hidden beneath a window.

‘Perhaps he was drunk when he murdered his colleagues, and does not remember anything,’ he suggested. ‘He denied the stuff was his, but who knows whether he is telling the truth? Meg is still missing, by the way, and I spent ages hunting for her this morning. But, look! There is Lady Muskerry. I must pay my respects.’

And he was gone before Chaloner could tell him that Surgeon Wiseman thought brandywine had disguised the taste of the poison fed to the three dead clerks.

The spy had wanted to talk to Greene anyway, to question him about Scobel’s prayer meetings and being offered the stolen statue. He went in search of him, and found him still in his office. The clerk was pale and drawn, and had lost weight over the past few days. He sat at his desk sorting documents into piles. Chaloner watched, bemused. If he had been in Greene’s position, he would have been out looking for evidence that would exonerate him. Or, if he was guilty, then he would be halfway to France. But here was Greene doing paperwork.

‘I put my trust in God,’ replied the clerk, when Chaloner questioned him about it. ‘Besides, I have alibis for the murders of Vine and Langston, and that should be enough to deliver me from the Earl.’

‘It should,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But he does not believe Lady Castlemaine saw Langston alive when you were with your vicar in Wapping, and nor does he trust me when I say you were home when Vine died. We shall have to find something else to prove your innocence.’

‘Then God will provide it,’ said Greene quietly. ‘Or not. What will be will be, and there is nothing you or I can do to change the outcome.’

His passivity was incomprehensible to Chaloner. He shook his head, and began to ask his questions. ‘I understand you once attended prayer meetings with the three dead men in the house of a man called Scobel, and that you later met them in John’s Coffee House in Covent Garden. Is it true?’

Greene sighed. ‘Yes. I have already told you about the coffee-house gatherings. However, the prayer meetings were years ago, and it did not occur to me that they might be relevant. I went to a morality play with them all once, before the old king was beheaded, and we sometimes attended the same church during the wars. Do you want to know all that, too?’

Chaloner had no idea what he needed to solve the case, and addressed another matter. ‘I am told you were invited to buy a certain piece of art recently.’

Greene looked pained. ‘Yes, but I refused to have anything to do with it. Will the Earl hold that against me now? It was hardly my fault someone approached me with a suspicious offer.’

‘Who was this someone?’

‘A go-between, who declined to tell me the identity of his master. I followed him, to see where he went, but I am no spy and I lost him within moments. And do you know why I was singled out for this honour? Because it is common knowledge that your Earl hates me, and this villain said I could use the statue to buy back his favour.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘In return for virtually everything I own, I would get the bust. Then I could take it to the Earl, and offer it up in exchange for a pardon for these murders. But I am innocent — I should not need a pardon. And I would not buy a stolen masterpiece anyway, especially one that belongs to the King.’

Chaloner felt sorry for him. Greene was right: it was not his fault the thief had picked him. ‘Did you notice anything that may allow me to trace this go-between?’

Greene thought hard. ‘He kept his face hidden with one of those plague masks, but his dirty clothes told me he was a labourer. He was taller than the average man, and a bit more broad.’

Chaloner grimaced: the description was worse than useless. He was disappointed, because it was another dead end. He turned to the last of the subjects he wanted to air.

‘Turner said you keep a supply of brandywine hidden here. Why?’

‘It is not mine — I dislike the stuff. I have no idea who hid it here, but I assure you it was not me.’

‘Brandywine was used to disguise the poison that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston,’ said Chaloner to see what sort of reaction that particular snippet of information would provoke.

Greene’s jaw dropped in horror. ‘No! Will you tell the Earl? He will have me hanged for certain!’

Chaloner inspected the place where the drink had been found, but a number of people had already told him the office was never locked, so Greene was right in his insistent claims that anyone could have put it there.

‘Who dislikes you enough to want you accused of murder?’ Chaloner asked, sitting back on his heels. He was disgusted with himself — he should have discovered the cache when he first explored the room. Was it a sign that Turner was a better investigator?

‘No one,’ replied Greene, white-faced. ‘I am not popular, but I am not hated, either. I imagine most people barely know I exist.’

Chaloner suspected he was right, and left him reciting prayers for deliverance from his troubles, although his dull, resigned expression suggested he did not think there was much chance of his petitions being granted.

By the evening, Chaloner had asked so many questions but received so few useful answers in return, that he was tired and dispirited, and knew he would be sullen company for Hannah. He decided to go home instead, but she met him as he was leaving White Hall. Buckingham was with her, intent on escorting her home — he claimed he was concerned for her safety, but Chaloner saw the lustful gleam in the man’s eye. The Duke was loath to relinquish her at first, but then Lady Castlemaine appeared, and he excused himself with unseemly haste. Hannah did not see the reason for his abrupt departure, and extolled his virtues all the way home.

‘He is a wonderful man,’ she said dreamily, unlocking her front door. ‘His wife is a lucky lady.’

Chaloner did not think so. ‘Can you cook?’ he asked, mostly to change the subject before they argued, but also because he was hungry and experienced a sudden hankering for cakes.

She regarded him in surprise. ‘I can manage a pickled ling pie, but not much else. Why?’

Chaloner shuddered at the notion of pickled fish in pastry, and supposed he would have either to maintain his friendship with Bulteel or forgo cakes in future — unless he learned how to bake them himself.

Chaloner awoke the next morning feeling rested and much more optimistic about his investigations. While Hannah freshened his shirt and lace collar with a hot iron, he went to buy bread for their breakfast. He also purchased the latest newsbook, although The Newes contained no reports from foreign correspondents, nothing of domestic affairs, and its editorial was a rant on the poor workmanship to be found in viols made anywhere other than England.

‘That is untrue,’ he said to Hannah, pacing back and forth as he read. ‘There are excellent viol makers in Florence.’

‘We shall have some nice music on Twelfth Night eve,’ said Hannah. ‘I forgot to tell you last night, but Sir Nicholas Gold has invited me to dine at his home, and said I might bring a guest. Bess sings and he plays the trumpet. With your viol and my flageolet, we shall have a lovely time.’

The combination of instruments was worthy of a wince as far as Chaloner was concerned, but he was not often asked out, so any opportunity to play his viol was to be seized with alacrity. Of course, Gold was deaf, which did not bode well for the quality of the music, but the spy was willing to take the chance. When Hannah had finished primping his clothes, he walked to Lincoln’s Inn, to ask what Thurloe recalled of Scobel’s death — and whether the ex-Spymaster knew anything about prayer meetings with men who had later became Royalist clerks.

When he arrived, Thurloe was at a meeting of the ‘benchers’ — the Inn’s ruling body. They were a verbose crowd, who felt cheated unless they had repeated themselves at least three times before any decision was reached. Used to the trim efficiency of the Commonwealth, Thurloe found the occasions a chore, and was more than happy to use a visitor as an excuse to escape.

‘I checked Doling’s claims about Chetwynd with several informants,’ the ex-Spymaster said, walking with Chaloner in the Inn’s garden. Winter should have rendered it bleak and unwelcoming, but the benchers had hired professional landscapers to design an arbour that was a delight in any season. Gravel paths prevented expensive footwear from getting wet, while evergreen shrubs supplied year-long colour.

‘What did they say?’ asked Chaloner, hoping Thurloe knew what he was doing when he removed three bright blue pills from a tin and ate them.

‘That Hargrave did bribe Chetwynd by gifting him a cottage. I am disappointed, because I respected Chetwynd. He hid his corruption well.’

‘And Neale’s accusations?’

Thurloe’s expression was pained. ‘There is irrefutable evidence that Neale gave Chetwynd a substantial sum to secure himself a favourable verdict. Unfortunately for Neale, his brother paid more. Chetwynd accepted both bribes, then refused Neale a refund. And what could Neale do? Nothing! Bribing government officials is a criminal offence, so he could hardly make a formal complaint. No wonder he is bitter.’

‘Meanwhile, Vine was in the habit of blackmailing people. He was not a virtuous man, either.’

Thurloe shook his head sadly. ‘I had no idea. However, I heard there was some great falling out between him and Gold not long ago. I shall endeavour to find out what it was about.’

‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner. ‘It is unwise for prominent Parliamentarians to explore the embarrassing failings of Royalists.’

Thurloe shot him a reproachful glance. ‘I am quite capable of asking my questions anonymously. You need not fear for me.’

‘But I do fear for you. You are an excellent master of intelligence, able to see patterns in half-formed facts, but that is not the same as going out to gather the data yourself.’

‘You underestimate my skills,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Why do you think I am still alive, when, as Cromwell’s chief advisor, my head should be on a pole outside Westminster Hall, next to his? I do not suppose you have noticed whether it is still there, have you? I cannot bring myself to look.’

‘It is impossible to tell. But please do not meddle in-’

‘I shall do as I think fit,’ interrupted Thurloe, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘And I shall be gone from London soon, anyway, so if I make a mistake, it will be forgotten by the time I return. These affairs never last long in people’s memories.’

‘I disagree. Royalists seem to have extremely long memories, and they are bitter and vengeful. Ask Doling and Symons. They lost everything when-’

‘That is different,’ snapped Thurloe impatiently. He changed the subject, to prevent a quarrel. ‘Why did you come to see me? Just for confirmation of Chetwynd’s corruption?’

Chaloner was tempted to say yes, because he did not want his friend involved any further, but Thurloe fixed him with steely blue eyes, and the spy knew better than to lie to him.

‘Scobel,’ he said reluctantly. ‘He hosted meetings — for prayers, apparently — which all three murder victims attended. So did a number of other people, including Greene, Jones, Doling, Symons, Gold, the Lea brothers, Hargrave and another merchant called Tryan.’

‘But Scobel died three years ago,’ said Thurloe doubtfully. ‘How can these gatherings be important now? Moreover, there are probably other connections between these men, too — such as a shared interest in poetry, or a liking for pigeons. Are you sure these meetings are relevant?’

‘No, but it is a lead I feel compelled to follow. According to Williamson, they convened in John’s Coffee House after Scobel died, so it looks as though the men involved thought the assemblies were important. What can you tell me about him?’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Not much. He was clerk to both Houses of Parliament during Cromwell’s reign, and did well for himself. He died of a sharpness of the blood. Very nasty.’

Chaloner had never heard of this particular affliction, but was not surprised Thurloe had, obsessed as he was by matters of health. ‘What is a sharpness of the blood?’

‘It entails aching pains, shortness of breath and violent shuddering. As I said, very nasty.’

‘Poison can produce those symptoms,’ said Chaloner, wondering what was going on. ‘It will not be the same toxin that killed Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, because that was caustic, but there are plenty of others. I will confirm it with Wiseman, but I am sure I am right.’

‘Why would anyone kill Scobel?’ asked Thurloe. ‘He spoke out against the Court when it first arrived in London — saw it as a nest of corruption and vice — but no one took issue with him, because everyone knew he was right. His was not a lone voice — many people felt the same. Most still do.’

‘What else can you tell me about him?’

‘That his nephew, Will Symons, inherited all his worldly goods. Symons lost his job at the Restoration, and if it had not been for Scobel’s bequest, he and his sculptress wife would have starved. Scobel was also friends with Doling and the Lea brothers, but dropped his association with the latter when they turned Royalist — you may recall they were the only clerks to retain their positions.’

‘So, there are four suspects for Scobel’s murder: Symons and Margaret may have wanted to inherit his money sooner rather than later, and the Leas might have objected to him rejecting their friendship.’

Thurloe wagged a finger. ‘You are jumping ahead of yourself. First, Scobel may not have been murdered — people do die of natural causes, you know, even in London. And second, even if he was unlawfully killed, there is no evidence with which to accuse anyone.’

‘Those four are the ones with the motives.’

‘The ones with the motives that you know about,’ corrected Thurloe. ‘The Leas are sly and self-serving, but I cannot see them having the courage to kill, while Symons was very fond of his uncle. Scobel was a lovely man.’

‘Another saint,’ said Chaloner with a weary sigh.

Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘He was a saint, and I consider it an honour to have known him. He had a dog, which sat by his grave and howled for two weeks solid. It would probably be howling still, if someone had not shot it. Did you never meet him?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘But you mentioned him in your letters. Often.’

Thurloe had been an avid correspondent, and the friendship between him and his spy had developed almost entirely through letters for the first decade of their acquaintance. He had written at length about all aspects of his life, his work, his friends and his family.

‘Yes, I would have done,’ he said sadly. ‘I liked him enormously. And he did hold prayer meetings in his home, although I cannot tell you who joined him. He invited me, but I prefer to meditate in private, so I never went. He gave thanks, mostly.’

‘Gave thanks for what?’

‘For everything — his success at work, his nephew, his friends, the food on his table. He sincerely believed thanking God was a vital duty, and encouraged others to do the same. You look sceptical, Tom, but you must remember that he was rather more pious than you. He went to church because he loved God, not because he did not want to be seen as a nonconformist.’

‘What did he look like?’ asked Chaloner, ignoring the dig. Religion was something about which they would never agree — Thurloe was a committed Puritan, while Chaloner was not sure what he believed.

‘A short, fat fellow, bald as an egg, who sported a huge black beard. He refused to conceal his pate with wigs, because he said God had made him hairless and he would never try to improve on His handiwork. Unfortunately, it made him look as though his head was on upside down.’

‘Was he tedious about religion, then? Overly zealous?’

‘No. People attended his meetings because they wanted to be there, not because he forced them to go — he was devout, not a fanatic. Incidentally, he foretold the exact time of his death. Did I write to you about that? It was eerie, and folk talked about it for weeks afterwards.’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘He had a premonition that he would breathe his last on a specific date, and although we all told him that sort of thing was for God to decide, he transpired to be right. He did die on the day he predicted.’

‘Do you think he knew someone was going to poison him?’

‘It did not occur to me at the time,’ replied Thurloe soberly, ‘but now I find myself wondering.’

It was mid-morning by the time Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn. He stopped to collect his spare sword on the way to White Hall, feeling naked and vulnerable without one. Most men wore them as fashion accessories, and rarely, if ever, drew them in earnest, but Chaloner’s were working weapons, and he kept both oiled and well honed.

His cat padded to greet him when he opened the door, and he spent a few moments petting it. He was unimpressed when he found dead mice secreted in several different places, but the cat purred when he glared at it, and the show of affection made it impossible to stay angry. With a sigh of resignation, he went to the window and lobbed the bodies into the street below. He aimed for, and was pleased when he hit, the sign of the Golden Lion opposite. He ducked back inside when one of the furry corpses bounced off the board and ricocheted into a passing carriage. The coach bore the Muskerry coat of arms, and Chaloner was almost certain it was Colonel Turner who reached across the female occupant and chivalrously removed the dead rodent from her lap.

‘The man is insatiable,’ he remarked to the cat, then stopped abruptly. Haddon talked to his dogs as though they were people, and the spy considered it a peculiar habit. He was appalled by the notion that he might be in the process of acquiring it himself — that people might think he was short of a few wits.

He left his garret and began to walk towards White Hall, mentally reviewing the connections that linked his three victims. All were government officials, their corpses had been stripped of valuables, they had argued with the Earl, they had attended Scobel’s prayer meetings before the Restoration, and they had met in John’s Coffee House after. Common acquaintances included Gold, Bess, Neale, Greene, Hargrave, Tryan, Scobel, Symons, Margaret, the Lea brothers, Doling and Jones. There would be others, too, but these were the names that kept cropping up, and which seemed worth exploring.

He turned his thoughts to the missing statue. Thanks to the Queen, he now had one lead to follow — two people had been invited to buy it, which suggested the thief was getting desperate. Chaloner rubbed his chin. He knew the culprit’s reason for approaching Greene, but why Margaret? She was a sculptress, but not nearly wealthy enough to buy stolen art and keep it hidden for the rest of her life.

So, there were several things he needed to do: ask Margaret about the statue, question her husband about his uncle’s prayer meetings, and visit John’s Coffee House to learn more about the nature of the gatherings that took place there. There was also the ruby ring, but he had asked virtually everyone in White Hall about that, and had met with no success. He decided he had taken that as far as he could, and although he would bear it in mind, he would not waste any more time on it.

He walked through White Hall’s main gate unchallenged, because the guards were busy watching Lady Castlemaine wave a handgun at someone in the middle of the Palace Court. They were not the only ones taking the opportunity to gawk: the yard was fringed with spectators. Careful to keep a wall between him and the weapon, Chaloner went to where Haddon was standing with his dogs.

‘She says she will blow out Turner’s brains unless he gives her what she wants,’ explained Haddon, seeing the spy’s questioning look. ‘I dare not move from here, lest she discharges her dag, and hits one of my darlings by mistake.’

Chaloner saw that the object of the Lady’s hostility was indeed the colonel, who looked particularly dashing that morning in a dark green suit, red ear-string and a hat with a vast white feather that trailed down his back. When Chaloner glanced across the yard, he saw the Muskerry coach, and wondered whether the sight of Turner in company with Muskerry’s wife was the cause of the Lady’s wrath.

‘What does she want?’ he asked. ‘His romantic services? She does not need to threaten him with death for those — I suspect they are available to anyone who asks. As long as she has teeth.’

‘The Lady has plenty of those, believe me. But she is after his hat. The feather belonged to an ostrich, apparently, and is the only one of its kind in London.’

‘How does he come to have it, then?’ asked Chaloner curiously. A man who took work as a spy was unlikely to have money to squander on fripperies, especially if he had twenty-eight children to support.

‘Bess Gold won it from Buckingham at cards, and I imagine it went from her to Turner in the usual manner,’ replied Haddon, a little primly. ‘The Lady is extremely jealous, and so is making a fuss.’

‘It was a gift, madam,’ Turner was saying softly. He smiled at her, a sweet, gentle expression that saw the gun wobble in her hands. ‘And thus an object to be cherished. You would not respect me, were I to hand tokens of affection away to anyone who asks for them.’

He touched a brooch on his coat and treated her to a knowing wink, indicating Bess was not the only one who paid him the compliment of extravagant presents. Chaloner looked at the many baubles that adorned the colonel’s neck, wrists and fingers, and wondered how he managed to remember what came from whom. He shook his head in grudging admiration: the gifts Turner received were far more costly than the tawdry trinkets — like the coloured-glass crucifix — he dispensed to his swooning ladies.

‘But this is me,’ declared the Lady. Her face was bright with righteous indignation, and there was real malice in her eyes. Chaloner would not have wanted to be Turner at that moment. ‘I shall have whatever I like. And I like that hat, so if you do not give it to me, I shall shoot you and take it from your corpse. I shall need it if I am to go riding this afternoon. The hat I mean.’

‘For God’s sake, woman!’ bawled Buckingham, who was watching the proceedings from the safety of the gate. ‘Use another headpiece. You have enough of the damned things.’

‘One never has enough,’ snapped Lady Castlemaine, rounding on him. He dived behind the door in alarm when the gun came around with her. ‘Of anything.’

Chaloner laughed softly, and Haddon turned to him in surprise. ‘You think this is funny? We may be about to see murder committed in front of our very eyes!’

‘The gun is not primed. She could not kill anyone, even if she wanted to, and Turner knows it. That is why he is not unduly concerned.’

‘Be reasonable,’ came Buckingham’s voice from behind the gate. ‘Let the captain keep his hat.’

‘Colonel,’ corrected Turner, rather grandly.

‘Really?’ asked Buckingham. He did not sound convinced. ‘Under whom did you serve?’

‘Dear Lady,’ said Turner, ignoring him and focussing his attention on the King’s fuming mistress. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to accompany you to your chambers, where we can discuss this matter in private. I have something I warrant you will like a lot more than a hat.’

It was an offer no woman with teeth could decline, and the Lady permitted Turner to take the weapon and push it into his belt. Then she strutted across the courtyard on his arm, head in the air and exuding a sense of wounded dignity. Seeing the crisis had been averted, people began to go about their business again. One was Greene, who slouched towards the Banqueting Hall with all the cheer of a man going to his execution. As their paths crossed, Lady Castlemaine nodded a greeting to him. Chaloner frowned. The Lady had a reputation for slighting people she did not like, while she considered servants so far beneath her that she never acknowledged their presence. And yet she had favoured the unprepossessing clerk from Westminster with a salutation. Why? Was it because the Earl had taken against him, and any victim of the Earl’s was a friend of hers?

‘Turner will be trapped with her for hours now,’ Haddon was saying. ‘She has a voracious appetite for pretty men. And that works to our advantage, because as long as he frolics, he cannot investigate.’

‘Our advantage?’

‘I have five pounds wagered that you will catch the killer before he does,’ explained Haddon, bending to pet his dogs. ‘The Earl believes Turner will win. However, his preference for the colonel has nothing to do with who is the better investigator — it is based on the fact that Turner is beginning to accept Greene as the killer.’

‘And the Earl wants a solution that proves him right,’ said Chaloner gloomily.

‘No — he wants a solution that is fast,’ corrected Haddon. ‘But I would rather the enquiry took longer and the real culprit is exposed, so I am backing you.’

‘Then let us hope it does not cost you five pounds.’

‘It had better not, because I cannot afford it. Incidentally, you will find the Earl in a sour mood this morning, because Brodrick played his Turkish-harem trick last night — our master arrived to find his chambers bedecked in billowing silk and forty harlots. So, let us hope the Lord of Misrule moves to other targets now. Come along, precious ones. We do not want your little paws chilled on these nasty cold stones.’

Chaloner had only taken a few steps towards the Earl’s offices when he spotted Barbara Chiffinch. He went to speak to her, wondering what it was about her that Hannah so disliked. Barbara was married to Will Chiffinch, a courtier of infamous depravity who was said to procure women for the King when his mistresses were unavailable. Barbara was not depraved, though, and led a perfectly respectable life. It was said that she and her husband had not shared the same bed in forty years.

‘I have been looking for you, Tom,’ she said as he approached. She was a comfortable, matronly woman with grey hair, an ample bosom and hazel eyes that glowed with intelligence. ‘Turner tells me your Earl has employed him as a spy. Have you been dismissed, then?’

‘Not yet — but I will be, if I cannot catch this clerk-killer and locate the King’s stolen statue.’

Barbara was thoughtful. ‘There is all manner of gossip about both, but no one has any idea who the culprits might be. However, I can tell you one place to go for clues: to Temperance North.’

Chaloner was puzzled. Temperance — a friend of his — ran a stylish ‘gentlemen’s club’ in Hercules’ Pillars Alley, near The Strand. ‘What does she have to do with dead clerks and missing art?’

‘My husband patronises her establishment, and he was waxing lyrical about an evening he enjoyed there a couple of weeks ago, when he said something odd. Apparently, Temperance had quizzed him about Bernini — the sculptor who carved the bust. She had never expressed an interest in art before, and he was delighted with himself for feeding her a lot of bogus information.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘He told her Bernini is a Swedish hermaphrodite, whose hobbies include rope-dancing and keeping hedgehogs. But that is beside the point — which is, what prompted her questions in the first place?’

‘Perhaps she heard a Bernini masterpiece was stolen from the King,’ suggested Chaloner, still not sure what she was trying to tell him.

‘But this discussion occurred before the statue went missing. Of course, it may mean nothing, but that is for you to decide. Have you heard the news this morning? Poor Edward Jones is drowned.’

‘What about Williamson’s clerk, Swaddell?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Is he drowned, too?’

Barbara raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘No, but he is missing. I shall not ask whether you had anything to do with it, but I hope not, for your sake. Williamson is livid.’

‘Why? What does Swaddell do that his other spies cannot?’

Barbara’s eyebrows went up a second time. ‘You do not know? Swaddell is his assassin, the man who wields knives in dark alleys. Williamson is by the gate, look, interrogating people about the fellow’s whereabouts as they pass. He is speaking to Lady Muskerry at the moment, although he should not expect sensible answers from her, poor lamb. She is far too silly.’

Chaloner watched the Spymaster grab the woman by the arm and shake her. She looked frightened, and when she started to cry, he was tempted to intervene. Barbara stopped him.

‘Your gallantry is commendable but misguided. Do not worry about Muskerry — she will have forgotten Williamson exists by the time she reaches the other side of the courtyard, while he will not appreciate being berated for ungentlemanly behaviour. Damn it! Now he is coming towards us.’

‘I hoped I might run into you, Chaloner,’ said Williamson unpleasantly. ‘Swaddell is missing, and I am told you and he dined together in Hell on Tuesday — the night he disappeared. Where is he?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘I really have no idea,’ he answered truthfully. ‘And we did not dine together — we sat at opposite ends of a table, separated by a dozen clerks.’

‘I have been told that, too,’ said Williamson. ‘By Neale and Matthias Lea, who were also there.’

It was not a good idea to make free with the names of informants, and once again, Chaloner was unimpressed by the man’s approach to intelligencing; his loose tongue was likely to see people killed. But he said nothing, and it was Barbara who broke the uncomfortable silence that followed.

‘Swaddell is a loathsome fellow, and he will not be missed by decent folk.’

‘He will be missed by me,’ declared Williamson.

‘Point proven,’ said Barbara coldly. ‘But Thomas has an alibi for Tuesday, so leave him alone.’

Williamson sneered at her. ‘What alibi? You have not entertained a man in your bed for decades, so do not expect me to believe you made an exception for him.’

Chaloner regarded him with dislike. ‘Such vile remarks are hardly appropriate for a government minister to-’

But Barbara put a hand on his shoulder, to stop him. ‘His alibi is the Queen, if you must know,’ she said, addressing the angry Spymaster. ‘She told me she met him on a matter of business. Ask her, if you do not believe me.’

Williamson regarded her icily. ‘Oh, I shall. But he cannot have been with her all night, and it takes but a moment to slip a dagger in a man’s gizzard and toss his body in the river — and I should know.’

‘Then perhaps your time would be better spent questioning your own people,’ said Barbara tartly. ‘You hire some very disreputable villains, so ask them what has happened to your assassin.’

Williamson ignored her, and fixed Chaloner with glittering eyes. ‘Bring me Swaddell, or I shall assume the obvious — that you killed him.’

‘But I barely knew him,’ objected Chaloner indignantly. ‘Why would I mean him harm?’

‘So you say,’ snarled Williamson. ‘Find him, or suffer the consequences.’

‘Take no notice,’ said Barbara, as the Spymaster stalked away to interrogate someone else. ‘He is so agitated by Swaddell’s disappearance that he is threatening anyone and everyone. Of course, he is not so much afraid that Swaddell is dead, as that he might still be alive.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that Swaddell is said to have undertaken some very dark tasks for our Spymaster, tasks that Williamson will not want revealed to anyone else. He will relax when Swaddell’s corpse appears.’

‘And if it does not?’

‘Then I suspect the uncertainty will render him unpredictable and dangerous.’

Edward Jones, courtier and gourmand, was in the charnel house, awaiting collection by his next of kin. Unfortunately, his next of kin took one look at the mammoth cadaver and decided it could not be safely toted around the city, and asked Kersey to care for it until the funeral. Surgeon Wiseman offered to reduce the scale of the problem, but his services were rejected in no uncertain terms — Jones had sons, and although they had not been close to their father, they still took their filial duties seriously.

The mortuary boasted two reception rooms, as well as the long, low hall in which bodies were stored. One was Kersey’s office, and the other was a surprisingly tastefully decorated chamber used for explaining formalities to grieving relatives. Kersey introduced Jones’s sons to Chaloner in the latter, when the spy said he had come to convey the Lord Chancellor’s sympathy to them. They had just arrived from the country, and it did not take many minutes for Chaloner to ascertain that they knew virtually nothing about their father or his life in London.

‘I would not accept the post of Yeoman of the Household Kitchen for a kingdom,’ said one with a shudder. ‘I hope to God it is not hereditary, because I could never live in White Hall.’

‘It is full of rogues,’ agreed the other, blithely oblivious to the fact that such an opinion might be construed as treason. ‘All they do is eat and enjoy orgies. Father was never so fat when he lived at home.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, although he suspected that such a monstrous girth was a lot more than three years in the making, so the Royalist government could not be held solely responsible for its development. ‘I do not suppose you know if he owned any rings, do you?’

‘Oh, lots,’ replied the eldest carelessly. ‘Most are in a box at home, but Mr Kersey has just given us the ones he was wearing when he died. He had a particular penchant for green ones.’

‘They were all green,’ added his brother. ‘Except for the ones that were red.’

‘His sons cannot be suspects for pushing him in the river,’ said Kersey to Chaloner, after he had shown them out. He started to gnaw on something that looked like a stick of dried meat, although the spy could not bring himself to study it too closely. ‘They told me earlier that they have recently inherited a fortune from an uncle, which means they have no need to pick off a father.’

‘You think Jones was unlawfully killed?’ asked Chaloner uncomfortably. He hoped no one had seen him follow Jones — and Swaddell — into the alley, because fending off accusations of murder would not be easy. He did not think anyone had been watching him, but could not be certain.

Kersey jerked a thumb towards the dark recesses of his odoriferous hall, where Surgeon Wiseman could be seen hovering over a corpse like a massive red bird of prey. ‘That is the kind of question you should be asking him. Were you telling the truth when you said the Earl sent you to offer Jones’s kin his condolences? Because if you are actually here to admire the corpse, it will cost you threepence.’

Chaloner handed over the coins, which Kersey added to a bulging purse. Then the spy walked with soft-footed tread to stand behind Wiseman.

‘Damn it, Chaloner!’ cried Wiseman, whipping around in alarm at the cough so close to his shoulder. ‘That is not a wise thing to do when a fellow is holding a scalpel.’

Chaloner looked in distaste at what the surgeon was doing. ‘I thought permission to make off with parts of Jones had been denied.’

‘This is too good an opportunity to miss.’ Wiseman’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Look at the size of him! I would be negligent to let him go to his grave without furthering medical research, and I am doing no harm.’

‘I am not sure Jones would agree,’ said Chaloner uneasily. He thought, but did not say that Wiseman represented no mean specimen himself, with his height and muscular bulk. ‘You will be hanged if you are caught chopping up courtiers without the permission of their relatives. There are those who think anatomy is a dark art, and you take too much pleasure in it.’

‘There is nothing wrong with enjoying the pursuit of knowledge,’ declared Wiseman, lending a grandeur to his actions Chaloner felt was undeserved. ‘Would you like to see something interesting?’

‘Not if it has anything to do with his innards.’

‘He drowned.’ The surgeon leaned on Jones’s chest and pushed down, pointing to the foam that began to ooze from the corpse’s mouth. ‘You only ever get that when the lungs are waterlogged. And they are only waterlogged if a man is trying to breathe underwater.’

‘He was found in the river. Of course he drowned.’

‘But he did not go easily.’ Wiseman picked up a hand. ‘Look at these broken nails — he fought violently to save himself. And there is a hole in his shoulder that may have been made by a crossbow bolt.’

Chaloner already knew all this. ‘I imagine most men who fall in the Thames struggle.’

Wiseman gave his superior smile. ‘But here is the interesting part: he could have struggled all he liked and still never clawed his way to safety. He sank like a stone. And do you want to know why?’

He unbuttoned Jones’s coat and pulled aside the left-hand flap to reveal a number of pockets in the lining. Each pocket held a purse, and each purse contained ten gold pieces. Then the surgeon opened the right-hand flap, and repeated the process until a mound of bright discs lay on the table.

‘Is this interesting enough for you?’ he smirked.

Chaloner picked up a coin and weighed it in his hand. It was heavy, and he imagined it was worth a significant amount of money. ‘It is unexpected,’ he said, in something of an understatement.

The surgeon chuckled. ‘Then what about this?’

Jones was wearing a vest under his coat, and Chaloner gaped when Wiseman revealed a second lair of hidden pockets. He went to lock the door, not liking the notion that someone might come in and find them with such vast riches, then joined the search for more. There were secret pouches in Jones’s breeches, boots, the sash that held his sword, and even in the lace at his throat and wrists.

‘I am surprised he could move,’ Chaloner said when they had finished. ‘No wonder he was so heavy when I … No wonder he sank.’

‘No wonder indeed. How much do you think it is worth?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Thousands of pounds. What are you going to do with it?’

‘Me?’ Wiseman was alarmed. ‘I want no part of it! I wager anything you like that he did not come by this legally, or he would not have felt compelled to carry it about on his person. It is lucky you happened by, because I was in a quandary regarding what to do.’

‘You would not confide in Kersey? You must have some kind of understanding with him, because I doubt anyone else would let you stay in here unattended, knowing what you are likely to do.’

‘He gives me access to interesting corpses, and I invite him to dine at Chyrurgeons’ Hall on occasion — as you know, the Company of Barber-Surgeons puts on some very sumptuous feasts. That is the nature of our arrangement. However, he is not a man I would approach for advice about large sums of money.’

‘Well, this belongs to Jones’s sons, just like the jewellery that was removed from his corpse.’

‘Only if he acquired it honestly, which I seriously doubt. Besides, it would be unkind to foist this kind of fortune on those hapless bumpkins — it is likely to see them killed.’

‘Then I will give it to Bulteel to look after until we can identify its rightful owner. He has safe places for treasure, and can be trusted not to steal it — which cannot be said for many clerks at White Hall. Of course, I will have to ask him not to mention it to Williamson.’

‘Yes, we do not want him near it,’ agreed Wiseman. ‘He is an avaricious devil, and fearfully dishonest. It is hard to see him as a fellow intellectual.’

Chaloner looked around, and his eye lit on a pile of sacks — roughly made bags used for storing a corpse’s personal effects. He took one and began loading the gold into it. ‘Have you heard of anyone else being washed up by the river today? Swaddell is missing, and Williamson wants me to find him.’

‘I usually look at what the river spits out — I am always alert for decent specimens — but there was no Swaddell. Of course, Father Thames does not always relinquish his catches immediately. It might be weeks before Swaddell appears — if ever. What makes you think he drowned?’

‘He and Jones ate in the same cookhouse on Tuesday,’ replied Chaloner vaguely.

‘Perhaps Swaddell knew how Jones padded out his already-rotund figure,’ suggested Wiseman. ‘I would not put it past the little weasel. Now there is a corpse I would not touch with a bargepole. Who knows what might come slithering out once you had it open.’

It was an unsettling image, and told Chaloner that he had had enough of the surgeon’s company for one day. He left him to his illicit anatomising, and lugged the sack to the Earl’s offices, praying that the material would hold and that a fortune in gold would not suddenly burst all over the street.

Bulteel was aghast when he saw what the spy wanted him to hide. ‘Are you insane?’ he hissed angrily. ‘God alone knows how Jones laid hold of all this, but it cannot have been legitimate.’

‘No one knows we have it except Wiseman. He can be trusted to say nothing.’

Bulteel nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, he can, but my office is no longer the safe haven it was, not with Haddon prowling around. He often has his dogs with him, and one might sniff out this hoard.’

‘I think they prefer the scent of food to precious metals, and will be more likely to lead him to one of your wife’s cakes.’ Chaloner looked around hopefully. It had been a while since breakfast.

But Bulteel’s attention was on the money. ‘I wonder if Jones was drowned deliberately — someone knew he had a fortune and wanted him dead, so he could get it for himself.’

‘If that were the case, the killer would have removed the purses before abandoning the body,’ said Chaloner, choosing his words with care.

Bulteel gave a crafty smile and wagged a finger at him. ‘But that assumes the culprit knew where Jones kept them, and you must admit that carrying such a vast sum in hidden pockets is an odd thing to do — you cannot blame a killer for not thinking to search the corpse. Or perhaps the weight of the gold meant Jones sank so fast that the killer had no chance to grab him.’

Chaloner did not want to discuss it. ‘Do not tell Williamson about this,’ he warned, watching the secretary load the money into the plinth of a statue.

Bulteel regarded him askance. ‘Do you think me a lunatic? He would have it away from us before you could say “corrupt spymaster”, and it would never be seen again. He has a weakness for yellow metal. And silver metal. And glittering stones of all colours. He would kill to lay his hands on this.’