The Westminster Poisoner (32 page)

‘The Earl does not think so,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether he was going to be unemployed sooner than he had anticipated.

‘He will in the morning, when he is sober and has had a chance to reflect on what happened. I was singularly unimpressed by
Turner’s performance, though. For two pennies, he would have stepped over to Brodrick, and abandoned us. But I am glad we
survived the encounter. What would my dogs do without me? Who would sing them to sleep at night?’

‘You sing them to sleep?’ Chaloner shot him an uneasy glance.

‘The darlings would not have it any other way.’

The incident in the Palace Court had unsettled
Chaloner, and even an energetic session in Hannah’s bed did not calm him. He dressed while she slept, and slipped out into
the night. He prowled restlessly, a silent shadow that no one noticed. Just before dawn broke, he went to the address Haddon
had given him on Petty France, but was informed that Meg had not returned home the previous evening. Her housemate did not
seem unduly concerned, and said Meg often stayed out all night when she had a man.

The Earl was in a foul mood when the spy went to his office. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of vomit. He mentioned
neither his undignified tumble nor dismissing Chaloner, and the spy wondered whether he remembered them. Or perhaps he just
did not want to think about an episode that was so painfully embarrassing. He barely looked up from his work when Chaloner
made his report, and when the spy asked whether he had any specific instructions, he made an impatient gesture with his hand
and grunted something inaudible.

Haddon smiled warmly when they met on the stairs, though, evidently feeling the danger shared as they faced the mob together
had created a special bond between them. Bulteel regarded Chaloner with reproachful eyes when he saw the exchange, clearly
thinking this represented a betrayal of their own friendship. To mollify him, Chaloner took him to a coffee house.

They had not been there many moments when Williamson arrived. He selected a table at which to sit, then raised his eyebrows
in astonishment when the men already there promptly made their excuses and left. At the remaining tables, conversations began
to revolve around the weather and the state of St Paul’s Cathedral
– no one was foolish enough to talk about politics or religion when the Spymaster was listening. He saw Chaloner and Bulteel
and waved, inviting them to join him. But the secretary was listening to a sail-maker hold forth about the recent gales and
did not see the gesture, while the spy pretended not to notice it.

For a while, the status quo continued, but the Spymaster soon grew tired of being ignored. He stood, and began to stroll from
table to table, greeting men who responded with suspicious nods or insincere smiles. While his attention was taken by two
surly bakers, Chaloner took the opportunity to slip through the back door. He hid in the darkness of the hall beyond, just
out of sight, listening.

‘Where is your friend?’ Williamson asked, when his perambulation brought him to Bulteel.

‘He is—’ The secretary stopped speaking in surprise when he realised Chaloner had disappeared. ‘He was here a moment ago.
Where could he have gone?’

‘You tell me,’ said Williamson drily. ‘I wanted to talk to him. Tell him to come and see me at his earliest convenience. I
am sure he knows what happened to Swaddell.’

‘I sincerely doubt it,’ said Bulteel, swallowing nervously. ‘He is not acquainted with Swaddell.’

‘He is acquainted well enough to appreciate that Swaddell is important to me,’ said Williamson. His voice was cold. ‘And I
will
have answers about my spy’s disappearance. Will you pass Chaloner my message? To come to my offices?’

‘I will tell him,’ replied Bulteel uncomfortably. ‘But that does not mean he will do it.’

Williamson gave a smile that made him look like a crocodile. ‘Then he will wish he was more sociable and
so will his treacherous family. You can tell him that, too.’

He had stalked out before Bulteel could respond. The secretary finished his coffee, then left himself. Chaloner joined him
in the street, making him jump by falling into step at his side.

‘Did you overhear my exchange with the Spymaster?’ Bulteel asked. ‘You really should do as he says. It is better to visit
of your own accord, rather than to have him drag you there.’

Chaloner supposed he would just have to stay out of Williamson’s way, because he had no intention of entering the man’s lair
– voluntarily or otherwise. ‘I met Swaddell last night, as it happens, but he refuses to return to White Hall. Perhaps he
is afraid of Williamson, too.’

‘Too?’ echoed Bulteel. ‘You mean as well as you? Good. You
should
be frightened of him.’

‘I mean as well as
you
. He does not worry me.’ But that was untrue: the Spymaster worried Chaloner a great deal when he started threatening his
family.

The rest of the morning was spent in a fruitless search for Greene, because the spy wanted to ask him about Langston’s skill
in penning saucy plays. He gave up at noon when one of Greene’s colleagues was able to tell him that the clerk had gone to
Southwark.

‘He does charitable work there,’ the fellow elaborated. ‘But I do not know the details.’

The afternoon was devoted to Jones, in an effort to discover more about his personal finances. It was not easy, because Chaloner
did not want anyone to know he had found the gold, but his carefully phrased questions yielded nothing of value anyway. And
although he learned that Jones had indeed owned a fine ruby ring,
he was unable to determine whether it was the same as the one retrieved by the train-band in the Painted Chamber.

At dusk he returned to Meg’s lodgings, but the laundress was still out. He went to see Thurloe instead, only to be told the
ex-Spymaster had retired to bed with a headache. Loath to disturb him, Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn feeling as though he had
wasted an entire day. He only hoped the evening would be more profitable, because it was time he visited his friend Temperance
North.

Temperance’s gentleman’s club was a stylishly tasteful establishment in Hercules’ Pillars Alley. It was just beginning its
operations, and several coaches were outside, disgorging customers. The club catered primarily for men, but a few liberal-minded
women sometimes came to enjoy its witty conversation, professional musicians and French cuisine. Lady Castlemaine was often
one of them.

It was unusually busy that evening, because the Twelve Days of Christmas meant people were in the mood for fun. At its door,
ready to refuse entry to anyone who looked as if he could not pay, was a man named Preacher Hill. Hill was a nonconformist
fanatic, who saw nothing incongruous in the fact that he earned his living in a brothel at night, then went out to condemn
such places during the day. Chaloner had warned Temperance against employing someone whose poisonous tongue might cause trouble
for her, but she remained doggedly loyal to the man who had been friends with her dead parents. When the spy approached the
door, Hill grabbed him by the arm.

‘This is a respectable place,’ he declared, although ‘respectable’ was not a word Chaloner would have used
to describe a brothel, even a fashionable one like Temperance’s. ‘So
you
cannot come in.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Chaloner dangerously, shrugging him off. It had been a frustrating day, and he was not in the mood for
Hill. ‘And who is going to stop me?’

Despite his bluster, Hill was frightened of Chaloner. He pretended to reconsider, determined not to lose face by backing down
too readily. ‘All right – I will let you in this time, but you had better behave yourself. I have a lot of brawny friends,
and if you make trouble, I will see you are sorry.’

Chaloner treated the threat with the contempt it deserved by ignoring it. He stepped across the threshold and looked around
in awe. More money had been spent on the club since he was last there, and the entrance hall was now opulent, with mural-covered
walls and curtains screening the stairs. Maude, the formidable matron who was Temperance’s helpmeet, sat at a desk at the
bottom of the steps, ensuring no one gained access to the ladies on the upper levels without her say-so. Everything was managed
with the utmost decorum, so there were never unsightly queues as patrons waited their turn – if a man wanted a woman, he passed
word to Maude, and was escorted to a bedroom only when the previous client had gone and the occupant was properly ready for
him.

The main room, or parlour, was another glorious affair, with tapestries on the walls, works of art set on marble plinths around
the edges, and Turkish carpets on the floor. A separate antechamber held a consort of musicians, usually professionals good
enough to hold Court appointments, who played medleys of popular tunes. It was background music, designed to complement the
genteel conversation in the parlour, although they were
often drowned out in the early hours when the atmosphere became rather less refined. But it was early by club standards, and
only novices or youths were drunk so far.

Temperance sat at a large gaming table, holding a hand of cards. At first Chaloner thought she was someone else, because he
barely recognised her. She had always been plump, but her tight purple gown made her look fat, and the neckline was low enough
to be indecent. A formal wig masked her beautiful chestnut curls, and her fresh, pink skin was smothered in a paste intended
to give her a fashionable pallor. With a stab of sorrow, Chaloner realised the demure teenager he had befriended barely eighteen
months before no longer existed.

She spotted Chaloner, and gestured to say she would speak to him when her game was over – gone were the days when she would
have exclaimed her delight and dropped everything to greet him. While he waited, he wandered through the parlour. Several
more card games were in progress, while other men preferred flirting to gambling, and were enjoying the company of the girls
who had draped themselves at strategic intervals about the place. He was not surprised to see Turner there, but he
was
surprised to see him in company with Neale, whose cherubic face was flushed with wine and whose golden curls were in wild
disarray. When he saw the spy, Turner came to talk.

‘I am sorry about last night,’ he said with an apologetic grin. ‘It was that wine His Portliness fed me. He said it came from
the Bishop of London, although the Bishop denies making any such gift. However, it was unusually powerful stuff, and I think
it might have been tampered with.’

‘You mean it was poisoned?’ asked Chaloner in alarm.
No wonder the Earl had looked shabby that morning, and he sincerely hoped it was not a toxin that had long-term effects.

‘No, I mean it was dosed with something to make it stronger. All I can say is that he is lucky he shared it, because if he
had swallowed the whole jug himself, he would still be insensible tonight. I know it is no excuse for not being able to draw
my sword, but I feel I owe you some explanation.’

Chaloner nodded acceptance of the tale, although Turner had not seemed that drunk to him. He looked to where Neale was pawing
a woman named Belle. She was unimpressed by the lad’s clumsy gropes, and was having trouble fending him off. Turner followed
Chaloner’s glance and grimaced.

‘We had better rescue her – I shall escort her somewhere to recover, while you deal with Neale.’ He shot Chaloner a conspiratorial
grin. ‘Last time I was here, she waived her fee for the romp we enjoyed, and I have hopes for a repeat performance tonight.
You are a man of the world – you understand.’

‘Understand what?’ asked Chaloner, but Turner was already in motion. With one smooth, suave movement, he had plucked the prostitute
from Neale’s gauche embraces and had whisked her away. The young man tried to follow, tripped, and was only saved from falling
face-first across one of the gaming tables because Chaloner caught him. The spy half-carried him to a chair near the window,
and gave him a cup of water. Petulantly, Neale flung it away and grabbed a jug of wine instead. He took a gulp, and Chaloner
stepped back smartly when Neale’s hand shot to his mouth in a way that presaged vomiting. When he had fought off
the nausea, Neale inspected his rescuer through bleary eyes.

‘The Lord Chancellor’s man,’ he slurred. ‘Investigating Chetwynd’s poisoning. You asked me about it in the Angel tavern, when
I was trying to charm Bess Gold.’

‘She will not be very charmed if she learns you frequent this sort of place,’ remarked Chaloner.

‘But she is the one who drove me here,’ said Neale, full of sullen self pity. ‘You see, she refuses to lie with me while that
deaf old turkey still breathes – and I am a red-blooded man with needs. Still, the old bird cannot last much longer, and then
I shall have her body
and
her widow’s fortune.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the bluntness of the confession. ‘How much have you had to drink?’

‘Enough to know I shall have a sore head tomorrow. But where has Colonel Turner gone? He has been plying me with wine in exchange
for information all night, but the moment
I
want him – I need some silver if I am to win Belle – he is nowhere to be found.’

‘What sort of things did he want to know?’

Neale peered at him through glazed eyes. ‘He was asking about Greene, so I told him how I often meet the fellow at John’s
Coffee House in Covent Garden. Have you been there? It is very nice.’

‘Is Greene a friend of yours, then?’

‘Not really. He is too religious for my taste, although he does share my taste for whores.’

‘Whores?’ Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him, because Greene had not seemed that kind of man, and he had certainly
visited no bawdy-houses when the spy had been following him.

Neale nodded vigorously. ‘He likes the ones that do
not cost much, such as can be got in Southwark. He entertains several at a time. I saw him myself once, when I was out with
Brodrick and Chiffinch, and he was obviously a regular, because they all knew him by name. They were laughing and joking together,
like old friends.’