The Westminster Poisoner (3 page)

‘Then Barbara Chiffinch took issue with my reaction to that practical joke – the one that saw White Hall decor ated with
nether garments
.’ The Earl lowered his voice at the mention of such a lewd subject. ‘I ordered the offending items burned, and she called
me an ass.’

‘Because the prankster stole them from servants,’ explained Chaloner. He liked Barbara, who was a rock of common sense in
a sea of silly people. ‘You should penalise the Lord of Misrule, not the poor scullions who cannot afford to lose their—’

‘I
hate
that custom,’ spat the Earl, grabbing Chaloner’s arm as the carriage lurched violently to one side; Westminster’s roads were
notorious for potholes. ‘Electing a “king of mischief ” to hold sway over White Hall for the entire Twelve Days of Christmas
is stupid. And I am always the butt of at least one malicious prank. Who is the Lord of Misrule this year, do you know?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner, not about to tell him that the dissipated Sir Alan Brodrick had been responsible for the undergarment
incident. Brodrick was the Earl’s cousin, and for some unaccountable reason, the Earl was fond of him. He steadfastly refused
to believe anything bad about him, despite Brodrick’s growing reputation as one of the greatest debauchees in London.

‘Then there was that horrible youth Neale,’ the Earl went on, going back to the list of people who had annoyed him. ‘He said
I have poor taste in music.’

‘Did he?’ The spy started to think about his investigation, tuning out the Earl’s tirade. He knew few of the people who were
being mentioned, so the monologue was not particularly interesting to him.

‘And finally, Francis Tryan charged me too much interest on a loan. How dare he! Does he think my arithmetic lacking? That
I am a halfwit, who cannot do his sums?’

‘I interviewed Chetwynd’s heirs yesterday,’ said Chaloner, when he thought the Earl had finished. ‘Thomas and Matthias Lea.
They work in the same building as Greene, so I was able to question them and watch him at the same time. Unfortunately, they
have no idea why their kinsman—’

‘And there was another idiot,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘Chetwynd attacked my stance on religion.’

The spy was not a devout man, but he disliked his master’s attempts to impose Anglicanism on the entire country, and thought
Catholics and nonconformists were justified when they said they wanted to pray as they, not the state, thought fit. ‘Many
people would agree with him,’ he said carefully.

‘Then many people are wrong,’ snapped the Earl in a tone that said further debate was futile. He was silent for a moment,
then resumed his list yet again. ‘Did you know Vine criticised me for wanting to build myself a nice house in Piccadilly?
Why should I not have a palace? I am Lord Chancellor of England, and should live somewhere grand.’

Chaloner found himself agreeing with Vine, too, although he said nothing. He knew, with all his heart,
that the Earl’s projected mansion was a bad idea – it was too ostentatious, and was sure to cause resentment. He had urged
him to commission something more modest, but the Earl refused to listen.

‘But enough of my troubles,’ said the Earl, seeming to sense that his complaints were falling on unsympathetic ears. ‘We should
discuss these murders while we are alone.’

‘So you knew Vine as well, sir?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You told me on Thursday that you knew Chetwynd.’

The Earl nodded. ‘They were both high-ranking clerks – Vine in the Treasury, and Chetwynd in Chancery. Each had a reputation
for being decent and honest, and it is a shame that two good men lie dead, when so many scoundrels remain living.’

By ‘scoundrels’, Chaloner supposed he referred to his various enemies at Court. ‘Yes, sir.’

But the Earl knew a noncommittal answer when he heard one. He narrowed his eyes and went on the offensive. ‘I have just one
question for you: how did Greene kill Vine when you were supposed to be watching him? Or were you deliberately careless with
your surveillance, because you refuse to see the obvious and accept that he is the culprit?’

Chaloner bit back an acid retort at the slur on his professionalism, knowing he would be doing himself no favours by offending
the man who paid his wages. ‘It is difficult to follow a suspect full-time, sir. Not only is he more likely to spot you if
you are always there, but you cannot watch back doors and front ones at the same time.’

‘Are you blaming
me
for the fact that Greene eluded you and went a-killing?’

‘No.’ Chaloner struggled for patience. ‘I did not see Greene leave after he returned home this evening, but I suppose it is
possible – his house has three exits, and I could not guard them all. However, I think it unlikely. He had no reason to kill
Chetwynd, and I imagine we will find he has none to kill Vine, either.’

‘So you say,’ snapped the Earl. ‘But let us review the tale he spun when he discovered Chetwynd’s corpse. He
claims
he was working late, although it was Christmas Day and he should have been at home. Then he says he ran out of ink, so he
went to the Painted Chamber to borrow some. But it was almost ten o’clock at night, which is an odd time to go rooting about
for office supplies. And when he arrived, he maintains he found Chetwynd, dead on the floor.’

‘He raised the alarm—’

‘But only because you and I happened to be walking past, and we saw him dashing out,’ interrupted the Earl.

For the past week, Chaloner had been hunting for a statue that had been stolen from the King, and the Earl had heard a rumour
that it was hidden in a nearby stable. The pair had been on their way to see whether the tale was true. Fortunately for the
Earl, Chaloner had suspected a trick the moment he had been told the ‘news’ and he had been right to be sceptical – his wariness
in entering the stable had prevented his master from being doused with a bucket of paint. It was a jape typical of the Season
of Misrule.

‘Greene told us Chetwynd was dead,’ the Earl went on. ‘So we went to investigate. You took one look at the corpse’s peculiar
contortions, and declared a case of foul play. Poison.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘A liquid toxin, which would have
been delivered in a cup or a bottle. We searched, but found no vessel of any kind – not in the hall and not on Greene’s person.
There is only one logical conclusion: the real killer took it away with him when he left.’

But the Earl was not about to let an inconvenient fact get in the way of his theory. He ignored it, and continued with his
summary. ‘After Spymaster Williamson’s men had finished taking Greene’s statement, they let him go home, and I ordered you
not to let him out of your sight.’

Chaloner had taken the opportunity to interrogate the clerk on the journey to Wapping. Greene had been shocked and deeply
frightened, both from stumbling over a corpse in the dark and by the fact that a powerful noble thought him guilty of murder.
He had been shaking almost uncontrollably, and Chaloner knew he was not the brazen slaughterer of the Earl’s imagination.

‘I watched his house for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘The next day, he went to church, then took a boat to his office
in Westminster. He went home at dusk, then followed exactly the same routine today – only he stopped to dine at the Dolphin
on his way home. He is probably in bed as we speak.’

‘But you cannot say for certain,’ stated the Earl. ‘You said yourself that it is impossible to watch three doors at once.
He must have slipped past you.’

‘It is possible, but unlikely, because—’

‘You need a colleague,’ said the Earl, somewhat out of the blue. ‘And I know just the fellow. Colonel Turner is said to be
looking for something useful to do. I shall hire him.’

‘Turner?’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that if Greene was to be branded a killer because he had found Chetwynd, then
why was Turner rewarded with
employment when he had found Vine? It made no sense. Not that he expected sense from the Earl in matters of intelligence:
the man might be a fine politician and a skilled diplomat, but he was a menace when it came to investigations.

‘He is a likeable fellow, and I am sure you will get along famously.’ The Earl beamed, pleased with himself. ‘Engaging Turner
is an excellent notion, and I should have thought of it sooner. My enemies multiply daily, and you are unequal to the task
of monitoring them all – not to mention catching killers and hunting down stolen statues.’

Chaloner was not sure what he was suggesting. ‘You want us to work together?’

The Earl shook his head as the carriage pulled up outside Worcester House on The Strand, where he lived. ‘Separately – but
on the same cases. A little healthy competition never did anyone any harm, and we shall see which of you is the most efficient.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘We will be falling over each other, asking the same people identical questions. It
will almost certainly impede—’

‘Nonsense! You are just afraid Turner will transpire to be better than you. I want this case solved, and Greene brought to
justice. You have until Twelfth Night – ten days – to prove him guilty.’

‘And if he is innocent?’

‘He is not,’ said the Earl firmly, allowing Chaloner to help him down the carriage steps. Without another word, he stalked
inside his house and nodded to the footman to close the door behind him.

The bell in Westminster’s medieval clock tower was chiming midnight by the time Chaloner had escorted
Christopher Vine’s body to the nearest church, and was free to break the news to the man’s family. He had been the bearer
of bad tidings many times before, and knew how to do it gently, but it was not a task he relished even so. He walked slowly
to New Palace Yard, where Vine had lived, and spent a few moments bracing himself before knocking on the door. Then he did
not know whether to be relieved or shocked when Vine’s wife informed him that it was the best news she had had in weeks.

‘Since word came that Queen Katherine was ailing,’ she elaborated, when the spy found himself at a loss for words. ‘The woman
is barren, and I prayed she would die, so the King can marry a fertile Protestant instead. He should never have wed a Catholic.’

Aware that people were seldom themselves after being told their spouses were dead, Chaloner did not take her to task for maligning
a lady he liked. ‘The King’s marriage alliance with Portugal was—’

‘Portugal!’ sneered Mrs Vine. ‘Who cares about Portugal? All they do is fight Spaniards and eat olives. But I did not drag
myself out of bed at such an hour to discuss royal matches with the likes of you. What happened to Christopher? Did he die
of shock, because he heard someone swearing? Or did he spend so long at prayer that God grew tired of listening and struck
him down?’

Vine’s only son, George, snickered. He was in his mid-twenties, and looked like his father in that he was tall and thin, but
there the resemblance ended. George’s eyes were bloodshot from high living, and he reeked of brothel perfume. He was a far
cry from his respectable sire, and Chaloner did not believe the rumour that said he had
once tried to assassinate Cromwell – George simply did not have the mettle.

‘Perhaps he died of shame, because he found an inconsistency in his accounting,’ the young man said with a smirk. ‘And he
was afraid folk would find out that he had wantonly mislaid a whole groat.’

Mrs Vine cackled with laughter, then went to pour two cups of wine. She gave one to her son, and raised it in salute. ‘To
a future without old Dreary Bones!’

‘You did not like him, then,’ said Chaloner drily.

Mrs Vine snorted. ‘The man was a bore, with his prayers and his sickly goodness – always helping the poor and the sick, weeping
every time he saw an injured dog …’

‘And then there was the Lord of Misrule,’ added George resentfully. ‘We all know the tradition is great fun, but father said
it was cruel, and forbade me to have anything to do with it. Well, he cannot stop me now, and I shall offer my services as
soon as I wake up tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Your father was poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether they had heard what had happened to Chetwynd, and had conspired
to duplicate the crime in order to be rid of a hated kinsman. But then would they be so openly gleeful at the news of his
death? He decided they would, on the grounds that people would know relations within the family were strained, and to feign
grief would certainly arouse suspicion. Or was that attributing them with too much intelligence?

Mother and son were exchanging a glance he found impossible to interpret. ‘Then we demand an investigation,’ said Mrs Vine
slyly, ‘with a view to claiming compensation for our loss. If Christopher died in the service of his country, I shall demand
a pension.’

George emitted a sharp squeal of delight, and clapped his hands together. ‘Yes, yes! He earned a princely living, and his
family cannot be expected to endure poverty just because he has been murdered. Oh, this is tremendous news!’

‘Do you have any idea who might want to harm him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Other than you two?’

‘Us?’ asked George, the glee fading quickly from his eyes. He shot his mother an uneasy look. ‘We had nothing to do with his
death. You heard us – we thought it was natural until you said he was murdered. You cannot blame us for what has happened.’

‘The villain will be someone at White Hall,’ added Mrs Vine hastily. ‘Perhaps a colleague who wanted his government post –
it is a lucrative one, and lots of folk are jealous of his success.’

‘Or maybe someone did not like the fact that he was so revoltingly honest,’ mused George. ‘The Court understands that corruption
is a necessary part of modern life, but Father never did. I will be more tolerant, when
I
take over his duties.’

Chaloner was bemused – Vine’s post was not hereditary. ‘You intend to step into his shoes?’

George shrugged. ‘Why not? I will be better at it than he was, because I shall not offend people by rejecting their bribes.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I was thinking more in terms of your safety. Your mother has just said Vine might have been killed
by someone who wants his job. If you are appointed, you will be at risk from poison, too – unless you are the culprit, of
course.’