The Westminster Poisoner (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Resentful enough to kill Royalists in revenge?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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