The Westminster Poisoner (46 page)

‘What is wrong with that? Anatomy is a fascinating subject, worthy of discussion at any social gathering.’

‘Actually, I have been asked to two dinners tonight.’ Chaloner had only a few hours left before the Earl dismissed him, and
while he had hopes that Gold’s soirée might lead him to answers, the same was not true of Temperance’s. He was sure she would
understand why he could not go when he explained the situation. He smiled rather wickedly at the notion of sending the haughty
surgeon to a brothel. ‘The other is due to begin at midnight, but I have work to do. I do not suppose you would—’

‘Where is it?’ demanded Wiseman eagerly. ‘I shall take your place.’

‘Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’ Chaloner regarded him quizzically. ‘You do not mind accepting second-hand invitations?’

‘Not when they are the only ones I ever get,’ replied Wiseman ruefully. He grinned suddenly, clearly delighted by the prospect
of a night out. ‘Now, what shall I wear? Will red be suitable, do you think?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner innocently.

*

There was no time to go home before setting out for Gold’s mansion in Aldgate, so Chaloner went straight to Hannah’s house.
She still had some clothes that belonged to her husband, and was more than happy to see them worn. Most were in better condition
than Chaloner’s own, and far more suitable for attending elegant receptions in fashionable parts of the city. She was horrified
when she saw the state he was in, and insisted that he washed, despite his objections that they would be late. Then she selected
a handsome blue coat with ruffles down the front, a well-laced shirt, and a pair of ‘petticoat’ breeches. They were not
au courant
– her spouse had died three years before – but the spy still felt quite respectable as he stepped outside and flagged down
a hackney.

Nightfall had heralded a change in the weather. Clouds had raced in from the north, and there was snow in the air. It was
bitter, far colder than it had been during the day, and puddles were beginning to turn to ice. The wind cut through clothes,
straight to the bone, and Chaloner was tempted to forget the whole business and spend the evening indoors. The roof-top chase
had exhausted him, and although the soirée would provide a chance to learn whether Gold was involved in the curious events
that had seen so many people die, he was not sure his wits were sharp enough to capitalise on it. But he would be dismissed
for certain if he failed to provide the Earl with some sort of solution by the following day, so he forced himself to rally
his flagging energies. He glanced at Hannah, who was using his bulk to shield herself from the draught that whistled in through
the hackney’s badly fitting windows.

‘Would you consider leaving London, and going to live in the New World?’

He felt her shudder in the darkness. ‘I would not! I have heard it is a desolate place, full of Puritans and big snakes. And
I like London, especially now I have you to keep me company.’

It was a long way from Tothill Street to Gold’s home near the Tower, and Chaloner might have dozed off, had he not been so
cold. The wind buffeted the carriage, making it rock furiously. Outside, the streets were almost empty, and those who were
obliged to be out huddled deep inside their cloaks.

Eventually, the hackney rolled to a standstill outside a large house with a gravelled courtyard. Light blazed from every window,
and Hannah murmured that she could not imagine the number of lamps required to produce such a dazzling display. Once inside,
she disappeared to greet people she knew, flitting from group to group, while Chaloner kept to the edge of the festivities,
watching and listening. Gold and Bess were at the centre of an appreciative crowd, and when the spy looked for Neale, he saw
him, as expected, not far away, with his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the object of his aspirations.

A number of Chaloner’s other suspects were present, too. Symons and the surviving Lea stood together, looking miserable. Lea
was impeccably dressed, but Symons was wearing the same clothes had had worn the night Margaret had died. They were soiled
and crumpled, and his ginger hair was dull with dirt, as though he cared nothing about any of it.

By contrast, George and Mrs Vine were part of a lively, laughing throng that included Turner, Barbara Chiffinch and Brodrick.
Meanwhile, Hargrave and Tryan sat with other prosperous merchants, and their serious faces suggested they were discussing
business. Chaloner
watched them all, noting who spoke to whom, or ignored whom, and trying to understand the intricate social ballet that was
being played out in front of him. He wished he was more alert, because he was sure it would have yielded clues, had his mind
been agile enough to interpret them.

‘Someone said it is snowing,’ said Hannah chattily to Gold, when she dragged the spy to pay their respects to their host.
Bess wore a fluffy white garment that looked like a fleece, while her hair had been arranged into woolly ringlets. Chaloner
wondered whether the Lord of Misrule had bribed her maids to dress her like a sheep. It was, after all, Brodrick’s last night
in power – the Twelve Days would be over by the following morning – and the spy was sure he intended to make the most of it.

‘You are going?’ bawled Gold. ‘But you have only just arrived. Stay and have some brawn.’

‘There are pastries, too, made in the shape of angels,’ added Bess, clapping her hands in childish delight. ‘And the cook
made a special one for me in the shape of a lamb.’

‘Brawn is better for you than chocolate,’ asserted Gold loudly. All around him, sycophants nodded simpering agreement. ‘While
coffee makes you bald. Surgeon Wiseman said so.’

‘It is a bit late for
you
to be worrying about hair loss,’ muttered Neale, gazing pointedly at Gold’s expensive wig. ‘Vain old dog.’

‘Here comes your friend Turner,’ said Hannah to Chaloner, as they walked away. She sounded disapproving. ‘He has probably
come to gloat, because he solved the case and you did not.’

The colonel looked magnificent that evening, in a black suit with scarlet frills that complemented his dark good
looks. He had an adoring lady on each arm; they hung on his every word, and he was in his element. There were pouts when he
asked them to fetch him some wine so he could speak to Chaloner in private, but they did as they were told. The moment they
were out of earshot, he started to turn his oily charm on Hannah, but she stopped him with a look that said he might suffer
serious bodily harm if he persisted.

‘Lord!’ he breathed in admiration, as she stalked away. ‘There is one fiery wench! Does she have all her teeth?’

‘Yes, and she is not afraid to use them,’ replied Chaloner coolly, seeing the colonel was fully intent on adding her to his
list of potential conquests. ‘What do you want, Turner? The Earl tells me you have amassed enough evidence to prove Greene
is the killer, so you no longer need my help.’

‘But unfortunately, the wretched man vanished before I could arrest him. Do you have any idea where he might be? I promised
His Portliness I would produce him by tomorrow.’

‘That was rash. If he is in the river, it might be weeks before he surfaces.’

‘He is not dead,’ said Turner confidently. ‘He has absconded. Incidentally, you gave the Earl some of Greene’s documents earlier,
and he, Haddon and Bulteel spent the afternoon studying them. Apparently, they are very revealing.’

‘They were household accounts,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘What can be “revealing” about the fact that His Majesty’s cellarer
spent forty pounds on decanters last year?’

‘The fact that Munt kept his own records, which say he only spent ten. But here
is
Haddon. Ask him for yourself.’

Chaloner supposed it was not surprising that Haddon had been invited –
sans
dogs – to the soirée, but Bulteel had not: Haddon carried himself in a way that said he was a gentleman, whereas Bulteel
was socially inept.

‘It is true,’ said the steward, when Turner ordered that he verify the tale. ‘In essence, these records show that the sum
of forty pounds was
granted
to pay for decanters, but only ten pounds was actually spent. Thus thirty is unaccounted for. And that is only one entry
out of hundreds.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘You mean Greene was embezzling from the government?’

‘It looks that way,’ said Turner gleefully, speaking before the steward could reply. ‘We shall be asking him about it when
he is arrested.’

‘There is another possibility,’ said Haddon quietly. ‘Which is that Greene was gathering evidence to expose the real thief
– that his motives are honourable.’

‘And I am the Pope,’ sneered Turner derisively.

Chaloner was thinking about the Queen. ‘Her Majesty lost thirty-six thousand pounds this year. The money was put in an account
for her use, but when she went to claim it, it had all gone.’

‘Greene’s documents contain a number of references to her so-called expenditures,’ acknowledged Haddon. ‘So I imagine they
do
explain what happened to her missing fortune, although she will not be pleased by the news – basically, they tell us that
her money is irretrievably lost.’

‘Thieves are everywhere these days,’ said Turner in distaste. Then he grinned, unable to resist the opportunity to revel
in his recent success. ‘I am delighted to have solved these clerk murders to the Earl’s satisfaction, even
if it does mean sending a man to the gallows. Now all I have to do is find the King’s statue, and my future with him will
be assured.’

‘The King’s statue?’ asked Hargrave, coming to join them. Tryan was with him, bandy legs clad in fine silk breeches. ‘Are
you still looking for that? I would have thought you had given up by now.’

‘Do not give up,’ said Tryan, rather wistfully. ‘It was by Bernini, so no effort is too great to find it, as far as I am concerned.
He is a genius, and I would love to own one of his pieces.’

‘They are too expensive,’ stated Hargrave authoritatively. ‘And bankers do not like their customers removing vast sums all
at once for costly bits of art, because it upsets their books.’

‘I would never put my money in a bank,’ declared Tryan. ‘Look what happened to the fools who invested with Backwell’s. Poor
Langston was still waiting to be repaid, and the robbery was months ago. No, my friends, a man’s money is safer in his own
home. I have a box specially made for the purpose, and it is impossible to break into.’

Chaloner seriously doubted it – he had not met a box yet that could keep him out. ‘Are you not afraid of burglars?’ he asked
politely, seeing the merchant expected some sort of response to his statements. ‘Especially when you are out at night?’

‘I am rarely out at night,’ replied Tryan. ‘Today is an exception – and I have been invited to join the dean of St Paul’s
later, too. But I am usually at home, and I have a gun. I am fully prepared to use it, too, should any vagabond dare tread
uninvited in my property.’

‘We had better not rob him, then,’ remarked Turner
to Chaloner, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. ‘We do not want to be shot.’

The evening wore on. Symons came to confide to Hannah that he would rather be anywhere than at such a happy gathering, given
his recent loss, but Margaret had written a list of tasks that she wanted him to fulfil, and attending Gold’s soirée was one
of them. Another was dining with his old friend Samuel Pepys the following week.

‘You have my sympathy,’ said Hannah. In a motherly way, she reached out to smooth down some of the wilder ends of his orange
hair. The gesture brought tears to his eyes, and Chaloner wondered whether it was something his wife had done, too. ‘Pepys
is such a smug little fellow.’

Symons nodded miserably. ‘He is sure to gloat over his fine house, his success at the Admiralty, his new upholstery and his
pretty wife. It will be difficult not to punch the man.’

‘Then perhaps you should indulge yourself,’ suggested Hannah wickedly. ‘It might do him good.’

Symons gave a wan smile, then handed Chaloner a sheet of paper. ‘Our maid wanted me to give you this. She said you were asking
about it, and thought it might answer your questions – and we owe you something for persuading the surgeon to waive his fee
when he came to tend Margaret.’

It was the letter offering the Bernini bust for a very reasonable sum. The handwriting was neat and familiar, and Chaloner
knew immediately who had penned it. He put it in his pocket. It was certainly a clue, but unfortunately, it pointed him
in a direction he would rather not look. He decided to put it from his mind and deal with it in the morning.

When Symons left, Haddon took up station at Hannah’s side. The steward chatted amiably, mostly about dogs and the Queen, which
he seemed to hold in equal regard. Chaloner half-listened, most of his attention on George Vine, who was talking to Hargrave.
The spy was reasonably adept at reading lips, and knew George was regaling the merchant with a drunken monologue about old
Dreary Bones’ reaction when he had discovered his son’s plan to assassinate Cromwell with an exploding leek.

‘Did you know Gold is dying?’ Haddon was saying to Hannah. Chaloner turned around in surprise. ‘He will be in his grave in
a matter of weeks. It is a sharpness of the blood, apparently.’

‘The poor man,’ said Hannah with quiet compassion. ‘He should be in bed, not giving parties. But I think I can guess the reason
why he organised this one: he is hoping to find a good match for that silly Bess – someone who will not marry her for the
money she will inherit.’

‘You are right,’ said Haddon. ‘He told me as much himself. He will leave her a fortune, and every wolf in the country will
circle around, hoping for a bite of the prize. But he loves her, despite her faults, and wants her properly cared for.’

‘Do you know what I think?’ asked Hannah. ‘That Neale has poisoned him. See how he looks at Bess – all avarice and lust? And
she is too stupid to know him for what he is.’

‘I suspect she has more wits than you think,’ said Chaloner. He shrugged when Hannah started to tell him he was wrong. ‘I
am not saying she should be elected to the Royal Society, but she owns a certain innate cunning that will ensure she is no
one’s victim.’