The Westminster Poisoner

Chapter 7

The Lord Chancellor was standing at the window when Chaloner entered his office, and the spy saw immediately why he was loath to be at his desk. His chamber still bore evidence of Brodrick’s practical joke, with scraps of bright silk dangling from the ceiling, and lewd murals daubed on the walls. An attempt had been made to wipe them off, but the pranksters had used waterproof pigments, so some serious scrubbing would be required to remove them. The place reeked of cheap perfume, and there was a brazenly feminine undergarment entangled in the chandelier. Chaloner used his sword to hook it down.

‘Thank you,’ said the Earl, not looking around. ‘Toss it on the fire, if you please. I cannot do it myself, because I decline to soil my hands by touching such a filthy article.’

Chaloner did as he was told, then joined him at the window. He was watching the Queen with her ladies-in-waiting in the Privy Garden, and Chaloner smiled when he saw Hannah among the throng. The Earl grimaced when Lady Castlemaine glided to join them, but not nearly as much as the Queen. Katherine had objected furiously when the King had appointed his mistress to Her Majesty’s Bedchamber, but she had been no match for the combined might of husband and paramour. They had won the battle handily, and the Lady attended the Queen when she felt like it and ignored her when she had more interesting things to do.

‘I heard the Lady has converted to Catholicism,’ said the Earl, making it sound as though she had made a pact with the Devil. Of course, Chaloner thought grimly, he doubtless thought she had, given his narrow-minded views on religion. ‘It is supposed to be a secret, but everyone knows.’

‘Probably because she is going around demanding crucifixes from people. She almost had Bess Gold’s the other day.’

The Earl shook his head in disgust. ‘The woman has no shame.’

The ladies were skipping and cavorting happily, while the Queen moved more slowly, as if exercise was still an effort after her illness. She did not join in the laughter when Lady Castlemaine made some quip that had the other women doubled over, and Chaloner was pleased to note that Hannah did not, either. She went and slipped her arm through the Queen’s, whispering something that brought a reluctant smile to the thin, wan face.

‘The Lady is telling everyone that the Queen is barren,’ said the Earl unhappily. ‘And I fear she may be right, because the King has no trouble siring brats with other lasses. The consequences for me are dire, given that it was I who arranged the match.’

‘I suppose they are, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking they were a lot more dire for the Queen.

‘There is no need to agree quite so readily,’ snapped the Earl, turning to face him with a scowl. ‘If you were any kind of diplomat, you would rush to offer words of comfort.’

‘That would be disingenuous.’

The Earl sighed miserably. ‘Yes, it would, and deceit is something of which I could never accuse you. You are later than I expected. Is it because you have been busy arresting Greene?’

Chaloner smothered his exasperation. ‘I was watching his house when Vine died, sir. He cannot be the killer. Meanwhile, he was with his parish priest when Langston was dispatched. He is-’

‘You do not need to be with someone when they drink the poison you provide,’ the Earl shot back. ‘You told me that yourself.’

‘The victims were not fools, sir — they would not have accepted wine from some hireling in a dark hall after everyone had gone home. The killer is someone who knew them, someone Vine and Langston trusted enough to drink with, despite knowing what had happened to Chetwynd. Greene does not have the strength of character to persuade such a man to kill on his behalf.’

‘But the Lady is going around telling people that he is innocent. What greater proof of his guilt can you want than that?’

Chaloner tried to make him see sense. ‘I could arrest Greene, but what happens when the killer claims his next victim? Everyone will know we have made a mistake. And Greene may sue you for making damaging allegations,’ he added, resorting to a financial argument to make his point.

The tactic worked, because the Earl rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Very well. We shall leave Greene for now, although I want you to keep an eye on him. He is one of those sanctimonious Puritan types, for a start, and I dislike them. What is wrong with the Church of England, for God’s sake? Why must people insist on following these bizarre sects?’

‘They do as their consciences dictate — just as you remained an Anglican, even though you were in Catholic countries when you shared the King’s exile.’

The Earl gaped at him. ‘You overstep the mark, man! A fellow’s religion is his own affair, not to be remarked upon by others.’

The Catholics, Baptists and Quakers would agree, thought Chaloner — that was their point exactly. He changed the subject before it saw him in trouble. ‘I spoke to Greene about Langston, and-’

‘Yes — tell me how he reacted to the news that his housemate was poisoned,’ ordered the Earl.

‘He seemed distressed, although I did not tell him about it. Williamson’s clerk did.’

‘Swaddell? Then Greene is lucky not to have had a blade shoved between his ribs. Swaddell is a deadly assassin, although he tells everyone he is a clerk. Did you hear he is missing? There is a rumour that he tried to steal Jones’s purse, and they both fell in the Thames during the ensuing skirmish. It is nonsense, of course: Swaddell is an experienced killer, and would not have bungled a simple robbery.’

‘Was Jones rich enough to warrant Swaddell attacking him, then?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

The Earl nodded. ‘Yes he was, but men do not carry their worldly goods about on their person — they invest it in banks, or they hide it in their houses. Ergo, Jones must have been killed by some low villain, who thinks a few pennies is worth a man’s life.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner, declining to comment.

The Earl became animated — he liked talking about money. ‘Do you know a bandy-legged merchant called Tryan? He is said to have a fortune in coins and jewels, all locked up in his front parlour.’

‘Swaddell may still be alive,’ said Chaloner, to steer the discussion back to the missing assassin.

‘Williamson certainly hopes so,’ said the Earl, clearly disappointed that a chat about fiscal matters was to be cut short for something rather less interesting. ‘He has come to rely on him, and they are one of a kind — ruthless, ambitious, greedy and cruel. But it will take more than a river to be rid of Swaddell, just as it will take more than a river to be rid of you.’

Chaloner looked at him sharply, wondering what was meant by the remark. Did he know about his spy’s last encounter with the train-band, and was surprised to see him alive? Or was he just complimenting him on his survival skills? Chaloner had no idea, but did not appreciate being likened to a man who was ‘ruthless, ambitious, greedy and cruel’, regardless.

‘The rumours that you argued with the three victims are spreading,’ he said, after a short and slightly uncomfortable pause. ‘It is-’

‘Yes,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘I know what people are saying, because Turner came today — rather earlier than you deigned to appear — and gave me a full report. I am well aware that my disagreements with Chetwynd, Vine and Langston are common knowledge, and that the Lady is using them to make me a villain. Turner understands the urgency of the situation, and has promised me a speedy solution.’

Chaloner said nothing, but thought Lady Muskerry’s carriage and Lady Castlemaine’s boudoir were not places he would have gone to investigate the murders. Perhaps Turner did intend to take the easy way out, and have Greene blamed for the crimes.

‘I understand Bulteel has asked you to be his son’s godfather,’ said the Earl, breaking the silence that followed his remarks. ‘I confess I am astonished, because I assumed I would be his first choice.’

‘Perhaps he thought you would consider it beneath you,’ suggested Chaloner.

The Earl nodded. ‘Well, it would be, of course. But you should accept. You are unlikely to be in a position where you can help the brat with influence or money, but you are good with a sword.’

‘You mean I should teach him how to fight?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘I doubt that is what his father has in mind. I imagine he expects him to become a clerk or a secretary.’

‘Actually, I was thinking that you could use your skills to keep him alive. We shall be doing battle with the Dutch soon, while rebels and fanatics itch to overthrow the monarchy and plunge us into another civil war. You will be able to protect the boy in a way that I never could.’

Chaloner was unsettled, because he had never heard the Earl issue such a bleak forecast for their country’s future before. ‘You think Bulteel wants a bodyguard?’

The Earl shrugged. ‘I would, if I were a new father. But time is passing, and it is already noon. Come with me to the Tennis Court.’

‘The Tennis Court?’ echoed Chaloner. He had not imagined the Earl fit or lithe enough to engage in that sort of activity. Tennis was strenuous.

‘Not to play,’ explained the Earl testily, seeing what he was thinking. ‘The King has challenged Buckingham, and I should be there to cheer him on. Everyone else will be, and I cannot have him thinking I do not care.’

‘But I need to visit Symons,’ objected Chaloner, loath to waste time. ‘And your household guard-’

‘My household guard is away practising for the King’s Twelfth Night military parade,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘But Jones’s death makes the fourth in a week, and that is a lot, even for White Hall. I do not feel safe, so you will escort me.’

‘Now you want me for a bodyguard?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether his White Hall acquaintances thought he was good for nothing else.

The Earl nodded, unabashed. ‘If you would be so kind.’

Chaloner understood exactly why the Earl was keen to have a guardian when they entered the newly refurbished Tennis Court. Word had spread that His Majesty had challenged Buckingham, and all the Court sycophants were in attendance. They included a large number of people who disliked the Earl, and when he stepped into the spectators’ gallery, everyone stopped what they were doing to glare. The response was so unanimous that Chaloner half-expected the ball to freeze in mid-flight, too. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he glanced around apprehensively, alert for trouble.

‘Do not fret, Thomas,’ whispered the Earl, patting his arm. ‘I am used to icy atmospheres. It is when these stares turn to more naked hostility that I shall be worried.’

Chaloner thought the hostility was more than naked enough for him, and wondered why the Earl put himself through it, especially as it did not look as though the King cared whether he was there or not. Indeed, he had been distracted by the abrupt silence, and was scowling.

Buckingham, sulky and petulant because he was losing, mimicked the Earl’s waddling gait, and the tense hush among the spectators was shattered by a burst of spiteful laughter. The King’s frown deepened, but he made no attempt to defend his Lord Chancellor. He retrieved the ball and hit it, catching the Duke off-guard and forcing him to scramble.

The Earl sat on a bench, but the people nearby immediately moved away, leaving him isolated. Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable: so many enemies had crowded into the place that there would be little he could do, should they decide to attack en masse. He reminded himself that this was London, and that courtiers did not rush in shrieking mobs to murder their ministers. But then he remembered what had happened to the old king, and the bloody executions that had followed the new one’s coronation, and was not so sure.

‘I do not understand this game at all,’ declared the Earl, when Chaloner came to stand behind him; at least the spy could make sure that no one stabbed him in the back. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

The Earl swivelled around to give him a look. ‘And do you care to explain it to me, or shall we just leave it that you know the rules and I do not?’

‘Brodrick, Chiffinch and Jermyn are plotting something. They keep looking at you.’

‘And you do not wish to be distracted by chatting to me about sport. Very well. However, bear in mind that my cousin will not harm me, although I cannot say I approve of the company he keeps. Do you think Jermyn is the Lord of Misrule? Filling my office with women of ill repute is exactly the kind of low trick I would expect from that foul-minded villain.’

Chaloner did not reply. He watched the trio leave the gallery, and appear a few minutes later on the court itself. Brodrick had donned a suit designed to make him look like a chicken, and he strutted on to the playing field amid a chorus of laughter. The King pursed his lips, disliking his concentration broken by foolery, but Buckingham guffawed heartily. Chaloner, however, was more interested in Brodrick’s companions, who were doing something to the box of spare balls. Whatever it was did not take long, and, as soon as they had finished, Brodrick bowed and retired from the court to a standing ovation. Then the King and Buckingham resumed their game, and for a while nothing happened.

As Chaloner scanned the spectators, alert for any hint of mischief, he saw a number of familiar faces, some of which he would have expected to see at such an occasion, and some he would not. Gold was asleep on a bench at the back, while Neale sat closer than was decorous to Bess. Bess, however, was more interested in Turner, who was surrounded by so many ladies that all that could be seen of him was the top of his hat. They were all laughing merrily, paying no attention at all to the tennis.

Not far away, Symons’s ginger head could be seen with Hargrave’s bald one; they sat with Tryan, Greene and several merchants. When Chaloner asked the Earl why tradesmen should be present, he was told the King had invited them — his Majesty had heard what had happened when Jones had closed the New Exchange, and had been unsettled by the fact that so many Londoners had taken against him. So, he had decided to win back their affection by issuing the kind of invitation reserved for his intimates, to beguile them into thinking he considered them friends. Chaloner almost laughed: showing off the Court in all its unbridled, dissolute glory was unlikely to make anyone think restoring the monarchy was a good idea, or to make them eager to pay the taxes that funded it.

He narrowed his eyes when Greene slunk up to Symons and whispered in his ear. Symons nodded, but did not take his eyes off the game. His orange hair stood in unkempt spikes across his head, and his face was unnaturally pale; Chaloner wondered whether he was ill. Then Greene glanced up and saw the spy was watching them. The clerk immediately darted through the nearest door. Chaloner would have chased him, had he not been afraid to leave the Earl unattended. Therefore, he was surprised when Greene materialised breathlessly in the entrance behind him, and indicated that he wanted to speak.

‘I have just heard about Jones,’ Greene whispered, speaking softly so the Earl would not turn around and see him. ‘And I wanted to tell you that I was with Gold, Bess and Neale the night he went missing. I did not kill him.’

‘I know.’

‘Does your Earl know, too? Or am I still the arch-villain in his eyes?’

‘There must be some reason why he has taken against you,’ said Chaloner, most of his attention still on the spectators. ‘Have you argued with him? Defied him? Done something to make him think you are corrupt or debauched?’

‘No! I cannot imagine why anyone should hate me. Or do you think your Earl is the killer, and I am just a convenient scapegoat? Perhaps Turner put the brandy-wine in my office, on his orders.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘He is not that kind of man.’

Or was he? The Earl had changed since his political rivals had tried to impeach him that summer, and had become harder and more bitter. Chaloner was no longer sure to what lengths he might go to fight the people who were so determined to see him fall from grace.

Greene forced a smile, which served to make his gloomy face more morose than ever. ‘If you say so. But the afternoon is wearing on, and I have a lot to do — I take pride in my work, and want everything in order, so that if I am arrested, my successor will …’ He trailed off miserably.

‘You seem very certain this affair will end unhappily,’ observed Chaloner, regarding him curiously.

Greene’s expression was glum. ‘Of course it will end unhappily — for me, at least. I have never been blessed with good luck, but it is God’s will, so I shall not complain.’ He hesitated, then grabbed Chaloner’s hand, eyes glistening with tears. ‘But if by some remote chance you do prove my innocence, it would be rather nice. Please do not give up on me yet.’

Chaloner was moved by the clerk’s piteous entreaty, but there was no time to think about it, because something was happening on the court. Buckingham had taken a new ball from the box, and the spy could tell from the way he handled it that something was amiss. The Duke weighed it in his palm for a moment, then turned and lobbed it directly at the Earl, who shrieked in alarm. But Chaloner was ready. His sword was drawn and he used it like a racquet, to hit the missile as hard as he could. There was a dull clang as the two connected, and the ball shot back the way it had come.

It did not go far. It exploded mid-air with a sharp report, releasing a cloud of pink dust. It was coloured flour. Buckingham took another ball and hurled it, rather more playfully this time, at Bess. Her jaw was hanging open so far that Chaloner wondered whether she might catch it with her teeth. It dropped into her lap, where a second crack saw her enveloped in blue powder. Gold woke with a start, and people howled with laughter when they saw the old man’s shock at Bess’s azure appearance. More balls followed, and although Chaloner was ready to field any that came in the Earl’s direction, none did. Buckingham knew it would be a waste of a missile, and there were plenty more targets available.

‘Enough, friends, enough,’ said the King good-naturedly, when he felt the joke had run its course. ‘The Lord of Misrule has played a clever trick, but let us return to more serious matters. What will our guests think? We promised them tennis, not japes.’

Tryan and Hargrave were smiling, but their expressions were strained, while the other merchants were openly disapproving. The King sighed, but did not seem overly concerned that there would be more damaging rumours about his Court circulating by morning. He turned his attention to the game.

‘Good play, Your Majesty,’ called the Earl after the first serve. It was unfortunate timing, because the King had just made a mistake, and the remark made him sound facetious. His smile was fixed as he muttered to Chaloner, ‘I hate this game. It is all rushing about in sweaty shirts, like peasants.’

After a while, the Queen arrived, and her reception was almost as chilly as the one that had been afforded the Earl. She maintained her composure, though, nodding greetings to people, even when they barely acknowledged her. No one offered her a seat, and it was left to Barbara Chiffinch to scowl at her husband until he obliged; he did so with ill grace, and ignored the Queen’s shy murmur of thanks.

‘Why does the King permit such low manners, sir?’ asked Chaloner, itching to box a few ears.

‘I imagine because the Lady will make trouble for him if he complains,’ replied the Earl. ‘It is easier to pretend nothing is wrong, and he always was a man for choosing the least demanding option.’

‘She is the Queen,’ said Chaloner angrily. ‘They should pay her proper respect.’

‘Yes, they should,’ said the Earl, struggling to his gouty feet. ‘So I shall go and bid her good afternoon. I know what it is like to be shunned.’

He engaged the Queen in meaningless conversation, and Chaloner was sorry that even the prim, overly formal attentions of the Lord Chancellor brought a rush of gratitude to her wan face.

‘I want Bath,’ she said in her low, deep voice. ‘You help?’

The Earl blushed furiously. ‘I think your ladies-in-waiting are better equipped to assist you with your private ablutions, ma’am. And I am a married man.’

‘She wants to take the healing waters, sir,’ explained Chaloner. ‘In Bath. And she needs funds.’

‘Oh, I see,’ breathed the Earl, relieved. He smiled at her, then started speaking loudly, as if he thought her English might improve if the words were bellowed. ‘Unfortunately, there is no money left in your household account, ma’am. I have inspected the books, but cannot tell what happened to it — I can only assume it was diverted to some other account when you failed to use it. In other words, there is no money available for travelling.’

‘He speaks too fast!’ cried the Queen in Portuguese. Her eyes were full of anguished tears as she turned to Chaloner. ‘But tell him I must go. It is my only hope. People may not hate me so much when I have a son.’

The Earl waited until she had finished speaking, then immediately started to talk about the weather, unwilling to pursue a subject that might see him asked to pay for the venture himself. He did not let Chaloner translate what she had said, although the spy was sure he had understood the desperation in her voice well enough. The Queen listened intently to his monologue, but it was clear she understood little of it. There was hope in her eyes, though, suggesting she thought the Earl’s chatty, friendly tone meant he approved of her intention to visit a spa, and that he might help to facilitate the matter. Chaloner looked away, unable to watch.

Lady Castlemaine had arrived with the Queen’s party, but did not stay with them for long. She began to strut about, tossing glances at past, present and future lovers that told of all manner of shared secrets. Her presence was a distraction to both the King and Buckingham. They started to play poorly, and their game degenerated into chaos when she descended to the court and tried to catch the ball. Eager to be on her good side, others rushed to assist her. Lady Muskerry fell, and landed with her legs in the air. There was a cheer of manly appreciation, so Lady Castlemaine contrived to do the same. And then there was a forest of naked calves being waved this way and that.

‘I am not staying here to witness such an unedifying spectacle,’ announced the Earl, surveying the scene in open disgust. ‘Haddon’s dogs are better mannered than this rabble!’

It did seem unsuitable behaviour from people who were supposed to be running the country, and the merchants were aghast. Chaloner was relieved to leave the place, and escort his master home.

Haddon was waiting in Worcester House when the Earl and Chaloner arrived there, his dogs curled around his feet. There was to be a dinner for a few of the Earl’s closest friends that night, mostly pompous clergymen and high-ranking lawyers, and the steward wanted to check one or two last-minute details.

‘All is ready, sir,’ he said, almost falling into the Earl’s arms when one of his pooches tripped him. He made sure it was unharmed before he resumed his report. ‘I cancelled the viols, as you asked, and arranged for violins instead.’

‘Good,’ said the Earl. ‘Viols sound so crude when one is used to the lighter tones of the violin. Do you not agree, Thomas?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly. To his mind, nothing could compare to a consort of viols, and he thought the Earl did not deserve to hear one if he was incapable of appreciating its haunting beauty.

The Earl shot him an unpleasant look. ‘Then it is just as well you are not invited.’

He bustled away to change his clothes before his guests arrived, and Haddon took the opportunity to pull the spy to one side.

‘You asked me to listen for rumours pertaining to the murders, but I am afraid there is little point in repeating what I have heard, because it is all nonsense. However, there is one snippet that you may find interesting. Do you recall Turner saying he had arranged a midnight tryst with a lover when he stumbled upon Vine’s body?’

‘With Meg the laundress. She has not been seen since.’

Haddon smiled. ‘Ah, but she has! You see, I complimented Alderman Tryan on his beautifully clean lace today, and we got talking. Boastfully, he told me that his laundry is done by the same lass who does the King’s. Then he said Meg had delivered him a batch of clean shirts only last night.’

Chaloner was pleased, because he had been certain she was dead. ‘Are you sure?’

Haddon nodded. ‘She has been away, visiting kin in Islington. But now she is back, so you can interview her about what she saw on the night of Vine’s death. Perhaps she spotted the killer slinking out of the Painted Chamber, and can describe him for you. If so, then it is good news for Greene.’

‘Did she tell Tryan anything about the murder?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the Westminster poisoner would not hear about her return and move to ensure she did not provide investigators with clues.

‘Not that he shared with me. I have a friend — a fellow dog-lover — who works in the laundries, and he is going to find out where she lives. The moment I hear from him, I shall let you know.’

Chaloner thanked him and left Worcester House, intending to track Meg down himself, but he had not taken many steps before he collided heavily with someone. Symons reeled from the impact, which had been entirely his fault — the spy had done his best to move out of the way, but Symons had been so preoccupied that he had ploughed ahead like a runaway cart. He mumbled an apology, bowed his orange head as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders, and continued on up The Strand.

Chaloner’s first instinct was to call him back, to ask about his uncle’s prayer meetings and the curious combination of men they had attracted. But Symons was moving very purposefully, so he started to follow him instead. Once past the New Exchange, Symons turned left, threading through a maze of lanes until he reached Covent Garden. By then, Chaloner knew exactly where he was going: to John’s Coffee House, perhaps for one of the assemblies Greene had mentioned. It seemed as good a time as any to find out whether the gatherings had any bearing on his investigation, so Chaloner decided to eavesdrop.

John’s had once been a tavern, and still looked like one. It was a great sprawling place, with upper storeys that overjetted the street like a looming drunk. It was run by John Ravernet, a thin, sallow-faced man who liked to tell everyone he had been a Royalist hero during the wars. Unfortunately for his credibility, Chaloner recalled visiting the place a decade before, and hearing Ravernet talk about his bravery when he was serving in Cromwell’s army. It was hard to blame anyone for embroidering their past in the current climate of unease, although it occurred to the spy that there might be less mistrust if everyone just told the truth.

He followed Symons inside, and took a seat near the back of the room, where thick shadows and a lack of natural light rendered him virtually invisible. Symons went to a table where several men already sat. They greeted him with friendly calls of ‘what news?’ so he told them about the King’s tennis, although his voice was flat and dull, as if the Court’s antics were of no interest to him. They were of interest to his companions, though: they shook their heads in salacious disgust. After a while, some left, making room for new arrivals. Chaloner frowned thoughtfully when he saw his suspects turn up one by one, as and when they managed to escape from the Tennis Court.

Within an hour, they were all there — Symons, Greene, Gold, Neale, Hargrave and Tryan. Chaloner wondered whether Doling and the Lea brothers might appear, too, but then recalled that although they had attended Scobel’s prayers, they did not seem to belong to the coffee-house set. Four seats were ominously empty, and the spy noticed several of the gathering glance sadly at the places that had presumably been occupied by Chetwynd, Vine, Langston and Jones.

Others arrived to join the assembly, too, and Chaloner was disconcerted to see Turner among them. The colonel wore a disguise, but his confident swagger and the hole in his earlobe gave him away. He was not the only one who had tried to conceal his identity. So did two more men: hats shielded their faces, and they did not remove them, even when Ravernet arrived with a tray of coffee and they all took a dish. Chaloner studied them hard. Did he know them? Unfortunately, their shape and size told him nothing, and he suspected he could stare at them all day and still have no answers.

Eventually, Symons said something that resulted in them all huddling together with their heads bowed and their hands clasped together. Their voices dropped, and Chaloner found he could not hear a word. He edged closer, but it made no difference. He watched with a puzzled frown: it looked as though they were praying. It did not seem very likely, especially in a coffee house, but he could not imagine what else they could be doing.

After a while, Greene went to order more drinks. As he did so, the man next to him glanced up, and Chaloner finally caught a glimpse of the fellow’s face. It was heavily bearded and dominated by a large nose; the nose looked artificial and Chaloner knew he had never seen it before. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about the rest of the face. It took Chaloner a moment, but then recognition came. Swaddell’s disguise was excellent, and the spy might have been deceived had he not been trained to notice such details — Swaddell’s restless black eyes were distinctive.

So what was the Spymaster’s assassin doing in such company? Clearly, Williamson did not know what Swaddell was up to, or he would not have asked Chaloner to look into the man’s disappearance. Or was the Spymaster playing a complex game that entailed convincing everyone that his agent was missing? Chaloner frowned, feeling his investigation had just taken a distinctly sinister turn, if Williamson and his favourite henchman were involved.

It was not much longer before Symons stood to leave, which brought the meeting to an end. Chaloner followed the participants outside, and found himself faced with three choices. He could trail Symons home, and interview him and his wife. He could attempt to find out what Swaddell was doing. Or he could concentrate on the last man of the group, the one whose face he had been unable to see, and try to learn his identity. Unfortunately, the last man had used a different door from the others, and had already disappeared, so Chaloner waited just long enough to satisfy himself that Symons was heading in the right direction for his house, then set off after Swaddell.

The Spymaster’s man did not go far before ducking into a doorway. Chaloner crept forward cautiously, aware that if Swaddell was half as dangerous as everyone claimed, then he would know he was being followed and would react with his knife. He waited until the assassin’s attention was fixed on removing his nose, then stepped up behind him and wrapped an arm around his neck.

‘Your master is worried about you,’ he said softly. ‘He thinks you are drowned.’

Swaddell’s instinctive struggles ceased abruptly when he felt the spy’s dagger against his throat. ‘Chaloner? Yes, it is you — I recognise your voice. What do you think you are doing, assaulting me like this? Let me go at once!’

‘I will consider it, when you have answered some questions.’

‘And what if I refuse?’

‘Do you really want to find out?’

Swaddell was silent, weighing his options. He strained briefly against Chaloner’s arm, testing its strength, then gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Very well. What do you want to know?’

‘Why were you with those people?’

‘That is none of your business.’

It was not an auspicious start, and Chaloner moved the dagger slightly, to remind him it was still there. ‘They are suspects for killing Chetwynd, Vine and Langston, so it is my business.’

Swaddell sighed again, impatiently this time. ‘Then why do you think I was there? I am also trying to find the villain who is killing government officials.’

‘Why? Williamson said he has ordered all his people to concentrate on finding the King’s statue.’

Swaddell grimaced. ‘Yes, he has, but where does that leave me? Vulnerable to accusations, that’s where — I am an assassin, and here are three men poisoned. How long do you think will it be before folk put these two “facts” together? To my mind, solving this case is a matter of self-preservation.’

‘You are afraid you will be blamed for committing these crimes?’ Chaloner was bemused.

‘It would not be the first time. And while Williamson is generous with his pay, I am not sure he can be relied upon to stand by me should certain matters come to light. You are a spy, so you understand what I mean. Thurloe would have denied knowing you, if you had been caught … breaking the rules.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘And does “breaking the rules” entail dispatching the killer when you catch him? Is that why you attended this meeting?’

‘No!’ objected Swaddell. He sounded indignant. ‘I may be an assassin, but I do not spend all my time stabbing people — I have other duties, too. And if you must know, I infiltrated this group some weeks ago, because Williamson was suspicious of its combination of government officials, ex-Commonwealth clerks and wealthy merchants. He thought they might be plotting something dangerous.’

‘And are they?’

Swaddell made a disgusted sound at the back of his throat. ‘I have rarely met a band of men less interested in politics. All they do is pray, plan their next prayers, or debate whether the past ones were sufficiently devout. And occasionally, they talk about what is reported in the newsbooks.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘It is a religious assembly, then?’

‘It is — and tedious in the extreme. When Chetwynd was killed, I wondered whether one of these pious fellows might have done it, because Chetwynd was secretly corrupt, while they are all nauseatingly honest. So I have continued to attend their meetings, to see what I could find out.’

‘And what have you learned?’

‘Nothing!’ spat the assassin, clearly exasperated. ‘I have probed, hedged, blithered, done everything in my power to encourage the culprit to say something incriminating, but my efforts have gone nowhere. I am beginning to think these men might be innocent.’

‘What is the name of the person who did not remove his hat? Not Turner — the other one.’

‘He calls himself John Reeve, but it is probably an alias. I have bumped against him, spilled his coffee, sneezed at him, dropped my pipe in his lap, but even when I do glimpse his face, it is so plastered with pastes and paints that it is impossible to identify. He is not the only one to disguise himself, though. Chetwynd used to do it, and so does Hargrave, on occasion.’

‘Why, if all they do is pray?’

‘You tell me — I am damned if I understand. Now let me go. Standing like this is hurting my back.’

‘What happened to you on Tuesday?’ asked Chaloner, not relinquishing his hold. ‘Jones chased you with a sword, but then you disappeared.’

Swaddell had been trying to ease himself into a more comfortable position, but he stopped moving abruptly. ‘Were you following me?’

‘Why would I do that?’

It was no kind of answer, and Swaddell knew it, but he did not demean himself by asking for a better one. He winced when the dagger nicked his throat. ‘All right! I was trying to listen to what Jones and the others were saying, but I tripped over some rubbish. Jones heard, and came after me like a rampaging bull. The alley I ran down leads nowhere but the river, and I found myself trapped.’

‘Did you push him in the water?’

‘No! Basically, he was such a fat man that he could not stop once he was on the move, and he managed to knock us both in, although I seriously doubt it was deliberate. He sank like a stone, and I managed to climb out. I was sorry for it, but it was hardly my fault.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, not about to contradict him and reveal his own role in the incident.

‘The place is deserted at night,’ Swaddell went on. ‘So there was no one about to help me save him. However, it is a rough part of the city, so I do not recommend going there to confirm my tale. No, on second thoughts, do go. There are no ruffians to beat you to a pulp for poking around their domain. None at all.’

Chaloner processed the information. Perhaps Jones had careened on to the wharf too fast to be able to stop, but had Swaddell really been carried in with him? If he had, then it meant he must have been in the water when Chaloner had arrived, because not enough time had passed for him to have climbed out. Moreover, the train-band had been watching the pier hours later, which meant Swaddell must either have swum away, like Chaloner had done, or had waited for the tide to drop. The latter was unlikely, because the cold would have killed him. Or did Swaddell know the soldiers, and they had turned a blind eye when he had scrambled to safety?

The other alternative was that Swaddell had not fallen in the river at all. But then where had he gone? There were no other ways to leave the alley, and he had not been on the pier, because Chaloner would have seen him. The spy was about to demand a more honest explanation when it occurred to him that either scenario meant Swaddell would have seen or heard the train-band fighting with him. Did the fact that he had neglected to mention the incident mean he did not know it was Chaloner who had been doing the battling? Of course, he would know if Chaloner revealed his role by asking questions about it, and as the spy was keen for the train-band to assume he was dead, he decided that learning how Swaddell had extricated himself from his predicament was not as important as staying alive. He went back to the murders.

‘What have you learned about the three victims?’

Swaddell seemed relieved to be talking about something else. ‘Vine had a nasty habit of blackmailing people and Chetwynd seldom gave honest verdicts in the cases he heard, so neither were the saints they would have had you believe. And Langston was just as bad.’

‘In what way?’

Swaddell shrugged. ‘I am not sure, but there was something amiss. I suspect it has something to do with Hargrave and the Lea brothers, because I have seen them glancing at each other when Langston is mentioned. Everyone else leaps to say he was a virtuous man, but they do not.’

Chaloner was not sure what to believe. Some of Swaddell’s answers were plausible, while others were clearly lies or half-truths. ‘Perhaps you are the poisoner,’ he said. ‘And you have gone into hiding so you can continue to murder at will.’

He felt Swaddell wince. ‘There! You see? You cannot find the real killer, so who do you blame? The poor assassin! I knew it would only be a matter of time before fingers started to be pointed. Of course, I happen to have an alibi for all three murders, but has anyone bothered to ask about it? No!’

‘Your indignation is hardly warranted,’ said Chaloner, amused. ‘You are a self-professed killer who has disguised himself to spy on three men who have been murdered — four, if we count Jones. But what is your alibi?’

‘I was with Williamson when Chetwynd, Vine and Langston died. Ask him, if you do not believe me. But I have answered enough of your questions. Let me go.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, feeling an alibi from the Spymaster was less than worthless, as far as he was concerned. ‘You are coming to White Hall with me. Your master thinks I killed you and dropped you in the river, and I would rather he did not hold me responsible for the death of one of his creatures.’

‘I am afraid that is out of the question. You see, I had the misfortune to witness Lady Castlemaine commit an indiscretion with a certain gentleman, and she offered to cut out my tongue if I show my face there again. She will forget me eventually, but I intend to keep a low profile until she does. The rumours about my death suit me very nicely.’

‘They will not be rumours if you refuse to come with me.’

‘You cannot march all the way to White Hall holding me like this, and I will not go willingly. You will have to find another way to convince Williamson that you have not murdered his best man.’

‘Then tell me your password — all intelligencers have a code that only they and their Spymaster know.’

‘That is a clever idea! Unfortunately, we do not. Take my brooch instead — he will recognise it as mine.’

Chaloner laughed softly. ‘And then he will arrest me for stealing it from your corpse! Keep it. It will be more trouble than it is worth — and so are you.’

He released his captive suddenly, shoving him so hard that Swaddell stumbled into a pile of rubbish. The moment he regained his balance, the assassin whipped out his dagger, an expression of deadly purpose on his face. But Chaloner had already melted into the shadows, and was nowhere to be seen.

Symons had not travelled far while Chaloner had been interrogating Swaddell. He had wasted time trying to flag down a hackney, but it was raining, and other people had the same idea, so carriage after carriage had rolled past with shakes of the head from the driver. After a lot of futile waving, Symons accepted it would be quicker to walk, and began to plod along with his head down and his shoulders slumped. Eventually, he reached Axe Yard, a small cul-de-sac off King Street, which boasted twenty-eight houses of varying levels of grandeur. He headed towards one of the smaller homes, which was neat and clean, but in obvious need of fresh paint and new window shutters. It was exactly what Chaloner would have expected from a respectable clerk who had lost all at the Restoration.

A lamp hung above the door, and its unsteady light showed Symons’s clothes were greasy and unwashed, while his carrot-coloured hair had not seen a brush in days. Moreover, he had been crying — his eyes were red-rimmed and his cheeks were puffy. Chaloner frowned as he approached. What was wrong with him?

‘I have no money,’ blurted Symons, assuming the sudden appearance of a stranger in the dark meant only one thing. ‘Take my purse, if you will, but it is empty.’

‘I am not here for your money.’

Symons peered at him. ‘I know you! Greene spoke to you at the Tennis Court today. Surely he has not sent you to call me to yet another prayer meeting? We have only just finished the last one.’

Chaloner was not sure what to make of this assumption, but was prepared to take advantage of it. ‘Does he often send you summonses, then?’

A flicker of suspicion crossed Symons’s face, but quickly faded, leaving Chaloner with the impression that he did not really care why anyone should be asking him such questions. He wondered again what ailed the man.

‘Yes, he does,’ replied Symons. ‘The others, being employed by the Royalist government, have the luxury of telling each other when to meet. I, being ousted, must wait for messengers.’

‘You go to these meetings to pray?’

‘I go to pray. The others are obsessed by these murders at the moment, although I suppose that is understandable — the victims were our friends.’

‘I find it strange that you — a dismissed clerk from the Commonwealth — should count Royalist officials among your acquaintances.’

Symons shrugged. ‘I do not begrudge them their success. They are all good men, unlike the Lea brothers whose prosperity derives from corruption. Well, I assume they are all good men. Before he died, my uncle Scobel said he suspected Chetwynd was a rogue, but I did not believe him. However, Greene told me today that he was right.’

‘I met your uncle once,’ lied Chaloner. He tried to recall what Thurloe had written in his letters. He did not think remarking that the man’s bald pate and beard made him look as if his head was on upside down would endear him to his nephew, so he thrashed around for something else. ‘At a firework display he funded, in the grounds of St Catherine’s Hospital.’

Symons leaned against the door, oblivious to the rain that dripped from the eaves, and smiled for the first time. ‘He often did things like that, to cheer folks’ lives. He was a wonderful man.’

‘How did he die?’

‘A sharpness of the blood. People say I benefited from his death, because I was his heir. But first, I did not inherit much of his estate — the bulk went to pay debts. And second, I miss him horribly and wish he was still alive.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Chaloner, hearing the genuine grief in his voice. ‘It is never easy to lose kin.’

Symons regarded him curiously. ‘You speak from personal experience?’

Chaloner did not reply. There were some depths to which he would never plunge, and using dead loved ones to elicit information was one of them.

‘Everything went wrong three years ago, and it has stayed that way,’ Symons said bitterly when there was no response. ‘After the Restoration, I lost my job, my uncle died, my wife became ill, and now the prayer meetings — once such a source of strength for me — have turned into occasions for trite social chatter. Some of our number even go as far as to say the gatherings have become a chore, and they want to withdraw. Of course, they never will.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Why not? Is attendance obligatory, then?’

‘No, but most of them are afraid that their luck will change if they resign. After all, look what happened to Langston when he left us last summer. Do you know Langston? He is the plump man with the long nose — the third of the poisoner’s victims. He pretended to be virtuous, but he was not. He wrote plays.’

Chaloner was bemused by the disjointed chain of confidences. ‘Do you object to the stage, then?’

Symons shook his head. ‘But I object to the kind of filth Langston penned. His dramas were obscene, all about unnatural forms of love and … things I cannot bring myself to mention. They could never be performed in public, but he wrote them for the Court, which has an appetite for lewdness — especially Lady Castlemaine, who is said to have paid him a fortune for them.’

‘How do you know what he wrote?’

‘Because he accidentally left a manuscript behind once, after one of my uncle’s meetings. We were deeply shocked. Langston came to retrieve it, but not before we had seen what sort of mind he had.’

‘Did he know you read it?’

‘No! I put on an innocent face, and my uncle pretended to be asleep, so he would not have to speak to him. And they never met again anyway, because my uncle died a few days later.’ Symons saw Chaloner was sceptical. ‘If you do not believe me, then ask the Lea brothers — they made copies for Langston’s actors. And ask Hargrave, too, because his apprentices built the sets at White Hall.’

Chaloner thought about what Swaddell had said — that the Leas and Hargrave had exchanged meaningful glances whenever Langston was mentioned, and that they, unlike everyone else, declined to proclaim his virtue. So, the assassin had been telling the truth about that, at least. ‘You said something happened to Langston last summer,’ he prompted.

Symons nodded. ‘I am coming to that. He withdrew from our gatherings, because he said our beliefs were obsolete and silly. But within days, disaster struck — his bank was robbed, and all the money he had earned from his plays was stolen.’

‘You think the robbery occurred because he left your meetings?’ asked Chaloner, unconvinced.

Symons shrugged. ‘Why not? He stopped praying for success, and immediately he lost his fortune. Backwell’s have pledged to repay their customers eventually, but in the interim, Langston was penniless. He came back to us with his tail between his legs, and he is lucky our friends are open-hearted, because they welcomed him like a prodigal son. They also lend him money, to tide him over until Backwell’s make good.’

‘Why should he need to borrow?’ asked Chaloner, supposing it explained why Langston had taken ten pounds from Greene. ‘Was his White Hall pay insufficient?’

‘I believe he spent a lot of money visiting brothels, to gain inspiration for his writing — and I am told the higher sorts of establishment are expensive.’

‘Did Greene know what kind of plays he wrote?’

Symons hesitated. ‘He invited Langston to live in his house after the robbery. I visited them there once, and Langston was using the parlour in which to write. Perhaps Greene never looked at the papers scattered about his table, but I find that hard to believe.’

‘He seems to keep some very dubious company,’ Chaloner remarked. There was an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach, which told him he might have made a mistake — that perhaps he had been wrong to champion Greene’s cause.

Symons looked hurt. ‘Actually, he keeps very good company. Chetwynd, Vine and Langston may have strayed from the straight and narrow, but most of the men who meet in John’s Coffee House are above reproach — Francis Tryan, John Reeve, Nicholas Gold. Do not tar us all with the same brush.’

‘I do not know Reeve.’

‘He is a corn-chandler, who insists on wearing a disguise to our meetings. So does Swaddell, the Spymaster’s man, although we guessed his identity the first time he joined us. Langston and Jones wanted him expelled, but the rest of us felt sorry for him. It cannot be easy for assassins to make friends, and we hope that praying with us might encourage him to adopt a gentler profession.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You keep saying that you meet to pray. Is it the sole function of these gatherings?’

‘It used to be, to thank God for our good fortunes. My uncle believed that too many folk ask Him for favours, and too few are grateful for what they already have. But these days we spend most of the time chatting to each other. And since Chetwynd died, we have done little but talk about murder.’

‘You clearly disapprove, so why do you continue to go?’

‘Because I told my uncle I would. He thought I would be able to keep the others from sin, but I have failed miserably — just as I have failed in everything else. But a promise is a promise, and I have some honour left, so I head for John’s Coffee House each time I am summoned. I imagine that is why Greene sent you now — one of them has learned something new about these horrible deaths, and we are all beckoned forth to hear about it.’

‘Greene did not send me. I am investigating the murders for the Lord Chancellor.’

Symons closed his eyes. ‘Then you should not have let me waste your time with my blather. My wife is dying, and if I appear unhinged, it is because I do not know how to cope with the calamity.’

He spoke so softly that Chaloner thought he might have misheard. ‘She seemed all right yesterday.’

‘She has the same sharpness of the blood that took my uncle. She told me she would die tonight.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Then why are you not with her?’

‘Because I needed the others to pray for her recovery. My own petitions have gone unanswered, and I thought theirs might do better. They did pray, but now I find myself too frightened to go inside and see whether … I do not suppose you would come with me, would you?’

Symons opened the door, and indicated the spy was to follow him inside. He started to cry the moment his eye lit on an unfinished piece of embroidery, so Chaloner fetched a cloth from the kitchen and indicated he was to wipe his face. When he had regained control of himself, he led the spy up a narrow staircase to a bedchamber. Margaret was lying in a fever, while a servant held her hand.

‘It is the same sickness that took Mr Scobel,’ the maid whispered to Symons. ‘I am sure of it. She has been talking nonsense, just like he did.’

‘Have you summoned a physician?’ asked Chaloner. It occurred to him that if Scobel had indeed been poisoned, as he suspected, then perhaps someone was attacking Margaret, too.

‘They will not come, because they know we cannot pay,’ said Symons miserably.

Chaloner told the maid to fetch Wiseman, whom he knew would be at White Hall. The surgeon was usually there of an evening, because he did not like being alone at home — and he had no friends to invite him out. When she had gone, Margaret opened her eyes and looked at the spy.

‘Visitors?’ she asked in a weak voice. ‘I must scrub the floor, or he will think us slovenly.’

‘It is perfectly clean,’ said Chaloner gently, not sure he was ruthless enough to ask about the statue. He wanted answers, but there were limits to what he was prepared to do to get them.

Margaret drowsed a while, then spoke again. ‘Do you like our fine mansion? My husband is a government clerk, and works very hard, while our uncle Scobel often buys us beautiful paintings.’

‘She thinks we are in my uncle’s house, before the Restoration,’ explained Symons in a whisper. ‘He used to purchase art for her.’

‘I do not suppose he owned a bust by Bernini, did he?’

Symons shook his head. ‘There were no sculptures, just pictures. They were in the room where he held his prayer meetings, so people could see them and reflect on the glory of God. As I said, he was a devout man, who believed prayer can bring happiness, wealth and success.’

‘Actually, you told me the opposite — that he thought there was not enough thanking going on, and that too many people were demanding favours.’

Symons made a dismissive gesture. ‘You are splitting hairs. He believed that prayer lay at the heart of his achievements, and felt that God had been exceptionally good to him. He had a position of power, a family who loved him, and he was forever smiling. People asked for his secret, and he always told them it was his communications with God.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that why people flocked to his gatherings? They saw his accomplishments, and thought that if they prayed with him, they would share his luck?’

Symons nodded reluctantly. ‘Although my uncle did not realise it. Of course, most of the men who came to these meetings have found a measure of personal triumph — Langston, Vine, Jones and Chetwynd flourished while they were alive. Tryan, Hargrave and Gold are all fabulously rich, while even young Neale is on the brink of securing himself a wealthy widow.’

‘But not Greene. He told me himself that he is unlucky.’

Symons grimaced. ‘He has done well enough, despite his melancholy nature. He was a penniless nobody at the Restoration, but now he owns a pleasant house and has a decent post in government.’

There was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and Wiseman’s bulk loomed in the doorway. Chaloner braced himself for strident declarations about superior medical skills, but the surgeon simply perched on the edge of the bed and began a silent examination. Margaret stirred as he touched her, and he whispered something that soothed her back to sleep. Eventually, he stood and indicated the maid was to go to the kitchen with him, where they would concoct a potion together.

‘You can cure her?’ asked Symons, eyes burning with sudden hope.

‘I am sorry,’ said Wiseman quietly. ‘Sharpness of the blood is usually fatal, and there is nothing I can do. My medicine will ease her passing, no more.’

Chaloner pulled the surgeon to one side, so Symons and the maid would not hear. ‘Are you sure it is a disease that is killing her? Not poison?’

‘It is impossible to say. Many toxins mimic the symptoms of natural illnesses, and this may well be one of them. However, I shall explore the kitchen while I brew this medicine, and perhaps remove one or two items for analysis.’

‘Will you send me word if you reach any conclusions?’

‘I will send it with my bill, although I doubt you earn enough to pay the princely sums I charge. However, I am prepared to accept an evening of your company in lieu of silver.’

Chaloner thought that price was rather too high, and wondered how he could lay his hands on some money to settle the debt. Wiseman disappeared, and a while later the maid came with the potion they had prepared. It was green, smelled of drains, and Chaloner would not have swallowed it to save his life. Margaret gulped it thirstily, and claimed it to be excellent wine.

‘Uncle Scobel was here earlier,’ she said. The servant shook her head, but Margaret was insistent. ‘He was! He stood at the end of the bed and told me he liked roses. Then he sang a hymn.’

‘Was he well, love?’ asked Symons, forcing a bright smile. It emerged as a grimace.

‘You know I will die tonight, Will? You say I will not, but I am quite certain. I am not afraid, so you should not be, either.’

Chaloner edged towards the door. He had no place in the sickroom, and it reminded him too acutely of the family he had lost in Holland. The maid followed him down the stairs, to see him out.

‘Scobel has been in his grave these last three years,’ she said, more to herself than Chaloner. ‘It frightens me to hear her talking like that.’

‘You say he died of the same ailment?’

‘The medical men call it a sharpness of the blood, but I think it is a melancholy. It happens when good people see the wickedness of the world. They despair, then they sicken and die.’

‘Margaret is good?’

‘A saint, sir. She is honest, kind and sweet. Did you know she was offered a statue for next to nothing the other day? But she said it was sure to be stolen, and refused to buy it, even though she has a great love for such things. She is a talented carver herself.’

Chaloner’s hopes rose. ‘Were you with her when this happened?’

The maid nodded. ‘A man came with a letter, but he wore one of those plague masks, to keep us from seeing his face. He waylaid us in Westminster Abbey, as we were passing through it. He waited until she read it, then asked for a reply to take to his master. He did not say who his master was.’

‘Do you know why was she chosen?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because she is a sculptress. The letter said she could either keep the bust as a work of art, or refashion it into something of her own. He only wanted five pounds, which is cheap for marble.’

And there was the problem, thought Chaloner: the thief had committed a brilliantly successful crime, but was unable to turn it to his advantage. He suspected it would not be long before Bernini’s masterpiece was furtively disposed of in the Thames.