The Westminster Poisoner (21 page)

‘I do say so,’ said Bulteel firmly. ‘But I am glad you came tonight, because there is something I want to ask you. Will you
stand as godfather to my son?’

Chaloner stared at him, certain he had misheard. ‘What?’

‘My boy means more to me than life itself, and I want him to have the best godfather I can procure. Will you oblige? It would
make me very happy.’

Chaloner was at a loss for words, astonished to learn that Bulteel liked him well enough to extend such an offer. No one had
asked him to be godfather to their children before, not even his siblings.

‘But I have no money and no influence at Court,’ he said, aware that Bulteel was waiting for an answer. ‘I will not be able
to help him in the way he will need.’

‘You will be able to teach him decency, though,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘And there are not many who can do that in this place.
I would rather have him virtuous and poor, than rich and rakish.’

‘You may not think so when he comes of age and needs a patron. I am not a good choice, Bulteel. My life is dangerous – there
are not many elderly spies in London, in case you have not noticed.’

‘But you are more careful than others, more experienced,’ persisted Bulteel stubbornly. He laid a thin hand on Chaloner’s
arm. ‘And do not refuse me without giving my request proper consideration. Come to share our Twelfth Night dinner, and see
the baby. Then decide.’

Chaloner smiled back. ‘Thank you. It is an honour. My hesitation only stems from my own shortcomings – the fear of letting
you down.’

‘You will not,’ stated Bulteel firmly. ‘Not ever.’

The sausages arrived on huge platters, one for each table. They comprised tubes of seasoned meat stuffed into the intestines
of a sheep, and the combination of gristle and
rubbery guts provided a serious challenge for even the sharpest of teeth. Once scullions had slapped down the plates, the
noise level dropped dramatically as people struggled to chew. The sausages were criminally hot, and more than one man was
obliged to cool a burned mouth with gulps of ale. Chaloner was just wondering how Bulteel had managed to finish his before
anyone else, when his teeth were by far the worst in the tavern, when the door opened and a vast figure materialised. It was
Jones, the obese Yeoman of the Household Kitchen who had closed the New Exchange.

‘Am I too late?’ he cried, dismayed. ‘Buckingham delayed me on a matter concerning the Lord of Misrule, and was unsympathetic
when I told him I did not want to miss Sausage Night in Hell.’

Voices assured him that there was plenty left, although no one seemed keen on him joining their particular group. Men spread
out along to benches to repel him, reluctant to share with someone who was likely to eat too much. Eventually, he arrived
at Greene’s table. Because most people were now chewing rather than talking, Chaloner found he was able to hear what was said.

‘Make room for a little one,’ ordered Jones, sliding his vast posterior along the wood with grim determination. Protesting
men were crushed into each other, and Greene dropped off the far end.

‘I will sit elsewhere, then,’ said the clerk in his gloomy, resigned voice as he picked himself up. ‘It was draughty there,
in any case, and breezes around the ankles predispose a man to gout.’

‘I never gloat,’ declared Gold, looking up from his repast in surprise. ‘It is bad manners.’

‘That does not stop people from doing it, though,’ said
Symons, shooting Jones a look that could only be described as resentful. ‘Folk gloat over me all the time.’

‘My Nicky has good cause to gloat,’ said Bess, running her fingers down her husband’s sleeve. She looked particularly ovine
that evening, because her dress was the colour of undyed wool, and she had dressed her white-blonde hair into tight little
ringlets. ‘He has earned lots of lovely money, and tells me I will be a wealthy widow one day.’

‘Do not wish it too soon,’ said Margaret softly. She looked at her husband, and her thin, wan face softened into a smile.
‘If you have a good man, I recommend you keep him alive for as long as possible.’

‘There are plenty of fish on the beach,’ countered Bess carelessly. ‘I shall find another one I like.’

‘Fish in the
sea
,’ corrected Neale, to remind her that he was at her side. She had been flirting with Peters – French pox notwithstanding
– and Neale did not like it.

‘I adore tea,’ said Gold, flinging a couple of sausages at his rivals, ostensibly to ensure they did not miss out now the
gluttonous Jones had arrived, but one fell in Neale’s lap, leaving a greasy stain that necessitated the use of a damp cloth.
Chaloner thought he saw the old man smirk. ‘The Queen quaffs it every day, and what is good enough for Her Majesty is good
enough for me.’

‘I have never had any,’ said Greene miserably. ‘No one has ever offered it to me. Although there was once a man from Barrington
who—’

‘The Earl of Clarendon?’ demanded Gold aggressively. ‘I did not take tea with him today, and anyone who claims otherwise is
a damned liar!’

Chaloner regarded him in surprise. Was it the ritual of tea-drinking that had elicited such a vehement denial, or was it his
conference with the Earl? The spy was just
trying to imagine why Gold should object to people knowing about either, when he became aware that Swaddell was also listening
to the exchange – he was nodding at Bulteel’s monologue about a batch of bad ink, but Chaloner was too experienced an eavesdropper
himself to be deceived.

But Swaddell was wasting his time, and so was Chaloner. The rest of the discussion around Greene’s table could not have been
more innocuous, and the most contentious subject raised was whether the sausage casings came from a sheep or a pig.

Eventually, Gold stood to leave, hauling Bess away from Peters and Neale, who were vying for her attention in a way that was
beginning to be uncouth. It was the cue for a general exodus as, food eaten, people began to make their farewells. Outside,
patrons waited for each other – crime was rife in Westminster, and only a fool walked there alone after dark. They began to
wander away in groups of three or four, while a gaggle of about two dozen headed along St Margaret’s Lane. Chaloner followed
when he saw Greene, Jones and the Symons couple were among the throng, with Gold, Bess, Peters and Neale trailing along behind
them.

When the company reached Old Palace Yard, most began to climb into the hackney carriages that were for hire there, but Greene
and his companions lingered, talking in low voices. Chaloner eased closer, but stopped short of the alley he had been aiming
for when he saw someone was already in it. It was Swaddell, listening intently to what was being said.

‘… not meet for a while,’ Jones was suggesting. ‘It is the most sensible thing to do.’

‘I disagree,’ said Symons. He sounded almost tearful.
‘Now is the time we need it most, and I refuse to countenance what you are proposing. It is wrong!’

‘My husband has a point,’ said Margaret quietly. ‘You should not allow—’

‘It is only for a while,’ interrupted Jones. ‘Just until this blows over. Then we can resume, if you feel we must, although
I believe it is unnecessary. What do you say, Gold?’

But Gold’s eyes were on Bess. ‘Did Peters just put his hand on my wife’s rump?’

‘On her hips,’ corrected Greene. He stiffened suddenly when Swaddell’s foot clinked against something metal that had been
left in the alley. ‘What was that? Is someone spying on us?’

Jones drew his sword, and so did Gold. Swaddell promptly beat a hasty retreat down the lane. His footsteps rang out, and Jones
immediately waddled off in pursuit. Meanwhile, Gold gave a howl of outrage, and dived after Peters with his naked blade. Suddenly,
he was not a feeble old man, and Symons, Neale and Greene were hard-pressed to restrain him. Peters ran for his life, Bess
pouted, and Gold’s friends bundled him into a coach before he could do any harm.

‘Impertinent dog!’ Gold roared. ‘Get in the coach, friends. We shall hunt him down like vermin!’

‘What about Jones?’ asked Greene uneasily. ‘He heard someone in that lane, so we should wait for him to come back and tell
us—’

‘It was probably a rat,’ said Bess, shooting her husband a sulky look. ‘There are a lot of them about at this time of night.
Great big ones that spoil a person’s fun.’

‘Symons! Greene! Neale! Get in the carriage,’ yelled Gold, still incensed. ‘You, too, Margaret. I am sure
you
know how to deal with Court cockerels. When we catch him, you shall chop off his—’

‘I am taking Margaret home,’ interrupted Symons. ‘It is too cold for her to be out. But Jones knows how to look after himself,
and if he did hear someone, it will only be a beggar. He can deal with one of those without our help. He was once a soldier,
after all, and distinguished himself during the wars.’

‘You are probably right,’ said Greene, although he did not look happy. ‘He should be able to manage a beggar.’

Chaloner watched them leave, then turned towards the alley, which he knew led to a wharf – a gloomy, ramshackle dock that
was used by the fuel barges that came from Newcastle. He moved cautiously, ready to hide in the shadows when Jones and Swaddell
came back – which he knew they would, because it was a dead end, and there was nowhere else for them to go.

But they did not return, and eventually he arrived at the pier. It was lit by a lantern on a pole, which swung gently in the
breeze. He wondered why anyone would bother to illuminate the place, when fuel was expensive and the lamp itself was likely
to be stolen by anyone who knew it was there. He looked around, and saw the wharf was bounded on three sides by high walls,
while the fourth was open to the river. There were no doorways, alcoves or sheds, and the only way out was the way he had
come. Thus he was astonished to find no sign of Swaddell or Jones.

Puzzled, he walked to the wharf ’s edge, and looked into the water. The only place for them to have gone was the river, but
it was bitterly cold and he did not see either eager to take a dip. Yet he could see something bobbing there, and was about
to kneel for a closer look,
when he heard a sound. He spun around, and saw half a dozen figures converging on him from the alley. All carried swords.

‘Never meddle in matters that do not concern you,’ said one softly. Like his companions, he wore a wide-brimmed hat that concealed
his face, and he moved with an easy confidence. Chaloner knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they were members of the
train-band from the Painted Chamber.

‘What matters?’ he demanded, drawing his own weapon as they advanced on him.

‘Murders and rings,’ replied the leader in the same low whisper. ‘It will be the end of you.’

His sudden attack forced Chaloner to jerk away, and his colleagues lunged forward before the spy had regained his balance.
Chaloner fought hard, using every trick he had ever learned, but they were experienced warriors, and although he managed to
score hits on two, he was no match for so many. He was going to be killed unless he did something fast. He drove them all
back with a wild, undisciplined swipe that took them off guard, then turned and leapt into the river.

Water roared in Chaloner’s ears, and seaweed brushed his face as he sank. The tide was in, and the river ran deep and agonisingly
cold. His downward progress ended when his feet sank into a layer of silt. It clung to his legs, and he could not kick himself
free. He strugged violently, but the mud was reluctant to relinquish its prize. It was not long before his lungs began to
burn from the lack of air, but just when he thought he might drown, one foot came free, followed by the other. He propelled
himself upwards, emerging next to one of the wharf ’s thick
wooden struts. A light above his head told him that his attackers had removed the lamp from its post, and were using it to
search. He paddled under the pier and tried to control his ragged breathing, aware that he was a sitting duck if they had
guns. Suddenly, a great, whale-like form surfaced next to him in a violent explosion of spray.

‘Help!’ Jones gurgled in a voice that was full of water. ‘Help me!’

Instinctively, Chaloner moved towards him, intending to direct one of the flailing arms towards the weed-encrusted pillar,
so Jones could keep himself afloat. But the fat man grabbed him, and they both went under. Chaloner tried to punch his way
free, but Jones’s grip was made powerful by terror. The spy’s feet touched the river’s sticky bottom a second time, and he
was aware of mud sucking at his ankles.

He fought harder, and felt his knuckles graze against something hard: it was one of the pier’s legs. He grasped it, and used
it as an anchor to tear free of Jones’s panicked clutch. The move seemed to weaken Jones, enabling Chaloner to spin him around,
to prevent him from grabbing his rescuer a second time, then kick upwards, keeping a firm grip on the man’s collar as he did
so. It was like dragging lead, and there was a moment when he thought Jones was just going to be too heavy for him – that
he would have to let him go. But then he glimpsed light shimmering down through the black water, and seeing it so close gave
him the strength he needed to swim the last few feet.

‘There!’ snapped the train-band leader, as spy and Yeoman of the Household Kitchen surfaced at last and took great gasps of
sweet air. ‘Shoot him!’

Immediately, something zipped past Chaloner’s face. They were using a crossbow, presumably because the discharge of firearms
on government property would attract unwanted attention.

‘Save me!’ screamed Jones, oblivious to the danger. ‘I cannot swim!’

‘Quickly,’ hissed the leader. ‘Make an end of this before someone hears.’

Jones was thrashing furiously, creating great spumes of foam that made it difficult for Chaloner to see. He lunged for the
spy again, but missed. Was this what had happened to Swaddell? He had been ensnared by a drowning man, and had been unable
to escape? Suddenly, there was a crack as the crossbow was fired again, audible even over Jones’s noisy splashes. Then the
fat man was gone. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of lapping water and the distant barking of dogs.