The Westminster Poisoner (47 page)

‘The Earl thinks the same,’ confided Haddon. ‘And he said so when Gold visited him the other day. Gold has asked him to guard
Bess when he dies, you see, but the Earl maintains she is more than capable of looking after herself.’

Chaloner recalled seeing the old man in the Earl’s chamber a few days before – and the Earl lying about being alone. Gold
must have requested secrecy, so the Earl’s fib must have been to oblige him. ‘His frailty is not an act after all, then?’
he asked. ‘He really is ailing?’

‘Yes, but he is a long way from being harmless,’ replied Haddon. ‘I have seen him draw his sword and wield it in a way that
would put many of these youngsters to shame.’

‘Whom did he threaten?’ asked Hannah curiously. ‘Neale?’

‘Vine,’ replied Haddon. ‘Not George, but his father. I happened to be in John’s Coffee House, at the time and I witnessed
the incident myself. Gold said their gatherings had gone from the honourable business of praising God, to the superstitious
nonsense of praying for their own good fortunes. He wanted to end them, but Vine was afraid that if that happened, he would
start to experience bad luck. Vine was being stubborn, so Gold hauled out his weapon to make his point.’

‘You have not mentioned this before,’ said Chaloner, rather accusingly.

‘Because I knew it would lead you to assume Gold was Vine’s killer,’ replied Haddon evenly. ‘And I am sure he is not. I had
five pounds riding on you solving the case, so I did not want you wasting your time on false leads. Of course, my ploy was
all for nothing, because Turner won anyway.’

‘These prayer meetings caused a lot of trouble,’ said Hannah, speaking before Chaloner could inform the steward that he was
quite capable of making up his own mind about what constituted a false lead. ‘Scobel instituted something that should have
been worthy, but that transpired to be distasteful.’

‘So it would seem,’ said Haddon. He grinned with sudden mischief. ‘I told Turner about Gold’s fight with Vine, though. He
spent two days learning that Gold has alibis for all three murders.’

‘Do you know what they are?’ asked Chaloner, not sure they could be trusted.

‘He was with the Queen when Chetwynd and Langston died—’ began Haddon.

‘He was,’ agreed Hannah. ‘I was not there myself, because Her Majesty had sent me home for the night. But the other ladies
mentioned it the following day.’

‘And he was with the Earl when Vine was killed,’ finished Haddon. ‘At Worcester House.’

Chaloner supposed the alibis were as solid as any he had heard, although that still left the possibility that Gold had hired
someone else to do the killing. He rubbed his head wearily, and it occurred to him that he was wasting time at the soirée
– and there was not even any music, as Hannah had promised. Perhaps he should be out hunting Greene, or re-interviewing the
guards who had been on duty when the statue had gone missing. He looked at Hannah’s sweet, happy face, and realised he did
not want to leave London because the Earl no longer had a post for him. He wanted to stay.

His gloomy thoughts were broken by a sudden commotion. People began to gather around Gold, who sat in a great fireside chair.
Bess was on his lap and his face was
oddly serene. But Bess was screaming, because her dress was caught on some item of his jewellery, and she could not escape.
It took a moment for Chaloner to understand why she was so determined to be away from him.

Gold was dead.

The party broke up once its host was no longer in the world of the living. Outside, Brodrick bemoaned the fact that it was
so early, then launched into a sulky diatribe against Temperance for electing to close her club on an evening when not much
else was on offer. And how dare she organise a private get-together and not invite him, her most faithful customer? He turned
towards his carriage with the defiant declaration that he would find something better to do. After a moment of indecision
– to go with Brodrick or stay to see if any inroads could be made on Bess – Neale followed. Hannah watched him through narrowed
eyes.

‘If he really cared for her, he would not be thinking about his own pleasures tonight. Sir Nicholas was right to elicit the
help of a powerful baron to keep the vultures away. Unfortunately, it will be like trying to stop this snow from falling –
you may catch a few flakes, but hundreds will get past.’

‘Come with us,’ Brodrick called jovially over his shoulder, one foot on the bottom step of his coach. He saw Hannah gird herself
up for an acidly worded refusal, and added hastily, ‘No, not you, madam. The invitation was intended for Thomas and Colonel
Turner only. The kind of fun I have in mind will be unsuitable for a lady.’

‘You mean you plan to visit whores?’ asked Hannah, very coldly.

‘Actually, I was thinking of serious music,’ replied
Brodrick, equally icy. ‘Of the kind that is beyond the female mind to comprehend. Thomas is an excellent violist, while the
colonel played for the king of Sweden during the celebrations surrounding the Treaty of Roskilde, so he should be up to my
exacting standards, too. Your squawking flageolet would be anathema to us, madam.’

‘Will you let him insult me, Tom?’ demanded Hannah, but Chaloner’s thoughts were elsewhere. He had been at Roskilde, spying
for Thurloe, but did not remember Turner among the entertainers. Being a music lover, he had paid more attention to the performers
than he should have done, and that part of the occasion was etched vividly in his mind. Yet again, the colonel had lied.

But Turner spoke before Chaloner could challenge him. ‘Not tonight, Brodrick. I am tired after hunting the statue all day,
and would make a poor addition to your consort. I am going home.’

A number of women were openly crestfallen at this announcement, and he hastened to console them. Hannah glared at Chaloner
for failing to defend her, but then snow began to fall in larger, harder flakes, driven by a cruel, north-easterly wind, and
she declared it was no time for lingering. Brodrick clattered away with Neale, while Turner bade fond farewells to his entourage
and started to walk towards his lodgings. Chaloner hailed a hackney, intending to see Hannah home, then spend the night looking
for Greene and the King’s bust. He was exhausted, but he would only have to keep going until the following noon – at which
point he would probably be able to rest for longer than he would like.

‘Nicholas died happy,’ said Hannah, once she was settled in the carriage. The snow was so thick that the
driver could not tear along at the usual breakneck speed, and the ride was pleasantly sedate. ‘Although I imagine Bess will
think twice before sitting on anyone’s knee again!’

‘It preceded her inheriting a fortune,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Perhaps she will think it was worth it.’

‘I am surprised Turner has not made more of a play for her,’ said Hannah, making a moue of distaste. ‘He is a fortune-seeker,
and Bess is foolish enough to fall for his shallow charms. The man is a snake, and I would not trust him with a … a coffee
bean!’

‘He does have a habit of stretching the truth,’ acknowledged Chaloner, recalling that Turner had presented Bess with a crucifix,
which suggested some kind of play had already been made.

‘Stretching?’ echoed Hannah in disbelief. ‘He elongates it to the point where it is no longer recognisable. And he is brazen.
Tonight, right in front of me, he told Bess that he hailed from Ireland, then turned around and told some other simpering
fool that he was from Yorkshire. He even uses different names. He is not Colonel Turner to all his hopeful conquests.’

‘No?’ Chaloner was not really listening, thinking instead about which of the palace guards he should tackle regarding the
stolen statue.

‘No. He called himself Julius Grey when he was introduced to Margaret Symons, but then had to admit to the lie when someone
called him “Turner” in front of her.’

That made Chaloner look up sharply. ‘
Julius
Grey?’

‘No, that is not right,’ Hannah frowned in thought, then brightened. ‘
James
Grey. That was it!’

‘Are you sure? Only Temperance is in love with a man called James Grey. But it cannot be Turner.’

Hannah shrugged deeper inside her cloak; it was bitterly cold in the carriage. ‘Why not?’

‘Because she could not introduce us the night she told me about him, owing to the fact that he was not there. Turner
was
there, though.’

Hannah patted his knee, rather patronisingly. ‘You have said before that she dislikes the way you condemn her lifestyle, so
she probably wanted to give you time to get used to the idea, lest shock lead you to storm up to Turner and call him out for
a rake.’

‘You think she lied to me?’ Why not? he thought. She had done it before.

‘I have never met her, so I cannot say. Did she tell you anything about this James Grey?’

‘Only that he played the viol.’

‘Well, there you are, then. Turner plays the viol – you just heard him and Brodrick talking about it.’

‘But Turner does
not
play the viol. Violists have toughened skin on the tips of their left-hand fingers, from pressing on the strings, but his
fingers are soft. And he was not at Roskilde, either.’ Chaloner frowned, as something else occurred to him. ‘Grey gave Temperance
a token – a piece of red silk that she wears in her bodice.’

‘Turner has red silk in the lining of his coat,’ pounced Hannah. ‘It is newly sewn, because a couple of pins have not yet
been removed, and I recall thinking that some poor lady was likely to feel a prick before the night was out. So to speak.
He must have had a kerchief made of the scraps, and gave it to her as a keepsake. He does hand out keepsakes, although he
usually confines himself to lockets.’

‘I know he gave lockets to several ladies at Court.’

Hannah nodded. ‘At least five that I have seen swooning over the things. I suppose he must have a ready supply.’

A sense of deep unease began to wash over Chaloner. ‘Temperance said they were going to be married, but …’ He trailed
off, not knowing how to finish without sounding disloyal.

‘But Turner has been frolicking with Lady Castlemaine, Lady Muskerry, Bess and several other very wealthy women,’ supplied
Hannah. ‘So why would he deign to wed a brothel-keeper? Is that what you mean to say?’

‘Actually, Temperance is probably richer than any of them, because her money is her own, and she is not obliged to rely on
others to dole it out. I was thinking more of her … her …’

‘Her looks,’ finished Hannah, when he faltered a second time. ‘Brodrick told me she is plain and fat. Why would Turner settle
for an drab wife, when he can have a Court beauty?’

Chaloner looked away, watching the snow falling outside. Where there were lights, he could see it slanting down thickly. It
was settling, and by morning, London would be covered in a blanket of white.

‘You should warn her,’ said Hannah, when he made no reply. ‘You cannot stand by and let her make a fool of herself. Or worse.
It would not be the first time a lonely girl snatched too eagerly at the prospect of a handsome darling, and lost everything
to him.’

Chaloner did not think Temperance was lonely, but she did not confide in him any more, so who knew what she was really feeling?
‘She will resent my interference,’ he said uncomfortably.

‘Of course she will, but that is what friendship entails
on occasion. You say she invited you to dine this evening, but you sent word asking to be excused. Go – say you changed your
mind. When she introduces you to “James Grey”, Turner will at least be shamed into telling her his real name. Perhaps that
alone will be enough to make her wary.’

‘He said he was going home,’ Chaloner began lamely. ‘And—’

‘Because he wanted to avoid being exposed as a fraud when Brodrick put a viol in his hands,’ said Hannah impatiently. ‘I wager
anything you please that he is on his way to Temperance as we speak.’

‘You seem very keen for me to leave,’ said Chaloner, wondering why she should encourage him to meddle in the affairs of a
woman she had never met.

‘I do not want you to feel guilty for letting down a friend.’ Hannah hammered on the hackney roof. ‘Driver! There has been
a change of plan. Take us to Hercules’ Pillars Alley instead.’

‘Actually, I am letting you out here,’ called the driver, and the coach came to a sudden stop. ‘The weather is getting worse
by the minute, and I am not risking my horse any longer.’

Chaloner could see his point: the snow was almost halfway up the wheels. He peered out of the window, and saw they were near
Bishopsgate Street, where there were several respectable inns. Hannah would be safe there while he went about his business
– he did not want her with him when he confronted Turner, and he did not have time to walk her all the way home.

‘Can you reach the Mitre?’ he asked.

The driver gave a reluctant nod, and it was not long before Hannah was installed in the best room the tavern
could offer, with a roaring fire, mulled wine and clean blankets.

‘That hackneyman exaggerated the severity of the storm,’ she declared dismissively. ‘If you keep to the smaller roads, you
will find the drifts are much more manageable. But you must go now, Tom – by tomorrow, Turner’s claws might be too deeply
embedded for us to extract.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ muttered Chaloner, casting one last, longing glance at the fire before heading on to the streets again.
It seemed colder than ever, and contrary to Hannah’s assurances, the snow was knee-deep even in the narrowest of lanes. It
was impossible to walk normally, and his leg hurt. Only the thought of Temperance drove him on. She might be slipping away
from him as a friend, but he still felt a modicum of responsibility towards her, no matter how much she had changed.

Snowflakes whirled around him so thickly that he could not see, and he had reached St Mary Axe before he realised he was walking
in the wrong direction. With a muffled curse, he turned down Lymestrete, where the blizzard drove directly into his face.
He put his head down, and ploughed on, so tired now that he did not notice someone coming towards him until it was too late.
His hand dropped to his sword, but a shoulder sent him crashing into a wall before he could draw it.