Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

Many folk had marked the Twelve Days of Christmas by tying wreaths of holly, bay and yew to their doors. Most had been torn away, and sat in sodden heaps in corners, or blocked the drains that ran down the sides of the main streets. With indefatigable spirit, children were collecting them together, shaking out the water and filth, and pinning them back up again. Their noisy antics brought back happy memories of Chaloner’s own boyhood in Buckinghamshire, making him smile.

He walked along The Strand, then up Chancery Lane until he reached the building known as the Rolls Gate, next to which stood Rider’s Coffee House. Rider’s was not the most comfortable of establishments, because it was poky, dimly lit and badly ventilated. It did, however, roast its beans without burning them, so the resulting potion was better than that served in most other venues.

Chaloner was not overly fond of the beverage that was so popular in the capital; he found it muddy, bitter and it made his heart pound when he drank too much of it. It was, however, better than tea, which he thought tasted of rotting vegetation. And tea was infinitely preferable to chocolate, which was just plain nasty, with its rank, oily consistency and acrid flavour. That day, though, it was not coffee he wanted in Rider’s, but the companionship of the only man in London he considered a true friend.

He smiled when he opened the door and saw John Thurloe sitting at a table near the back. The place was busy with black-garbed lawyers from the nearby courts, all perched on benches and puffing on pipes as they discussed religion, current affairs and whatever had been reported in the most recent newsbooks. The spy was greeted with the traditional coffee-house cry of ‘what news’ as he aimed for Thurloe, but shook his head apologetically to say he had none.

Thurloe, who had run Cromwell’s spy network with such cool efficiency, was a slight, brown-haired man with large blue eyes that had led more than one would-be traitor to underestimate him. He was softly spoken, slow to anger and deeply religious. He could also be ruthless and determined, and his sharp mind was the reason why men like Spymaster Williamson continued to fear him, even after he had been stripped of his government posts. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have lasted as long as it had without Thurloe, and Chaloner was inclined to agree, despite the man’s quiet and almost diffident manner.

As usual, Thurloe sat alone. At first, Chaloner had assumed no one wanted to hobnob with a man who had been a powerful member of a deposed regime, but it had not taken him long to learn that the choice was Thurloe’s. Would-be table-companions were repelled with a glacial glare, and now the regulars left him to enjoy his coffee in peace. But he beamed in genuine pleasure when Chaloner slid on to the bench next to him.

‘Tom! Where have you been these last few weeks? You told me your Earl was sending you to Oxford, to investigate a theft in his old College, but I did not imagine you would be gone so long. When did you come home?’

‘Last week,’ replied Chaloner, knowing he should have visited sooner. One reason he had not was Hannah, who had claimed a disproportionate amount of his time — and he found himself willing to let her. ‘I have been looking for a missing statue ever since.’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows. ‘The Bernini bust? That is unfortunate. Everyone is talking about how it was a perfect crime, because the thief left nothing in the way of clues. I suspect there may be some truth to these claims, because you do not look exactly flushed with victory.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner ruefully.

‘I do not suppose you visited our friend Will Leybourn on your way home from Oxford, did you?’ asked Thurloe, when the spy said no more. ‘To see how life in the country is suiting him?’

‘He seemed all right,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. The ex-Spymaster did not need to hear that the mathematician-surveyor had taken up two new pastimes since leaving the city: one was watching his neighbour’s wife through a binocular-telescope in the attic; the other was visiting her when her husband was out. Chaloner sincerely hoped he would come to his senses before there was trouble.

‘Are you well?’ asked Thurloe, when he saw that was all the news he could expect of their erstwhile companion. ‘You are very pale.’

As a man obsessed with the state of his own health, Thurloe tended to assume there was something wrong with most people, even when they were blooming. He claimed he had a fragile constitution, although Chaloner suspected that he had nothing of the kind, and was as robust as the next man.

The spy smiled. ‘It is dark in here. You cannot tell what shade I am.’

‘I can see well enough,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘Perhaps you should take one of my tonics.’

Chaloner was saved from having to devise an excuse — Thurloe’s tonics had a reputation for turning even strong men into invalids — by the arrival of the coffee-boy, who slapped a bowl of dark-brown liquid down in front of him, then demanded to know whether he wanted green-pea tart or sausages. Coffee houses did not usually sell food, but Rider disliked the way his patrons disappeared for dinner at noon, so he provided victuals between twelve and one o’clock in an attempt to keep them there. Chaloner opted for the pie. A second servant flung it on the table as he passed, so carelessly that the spy was obliged to grab the flying platter before it upended in his lap. It transpired to be a pastry case filled with dried peas, sugar, spices and enough butter to render the whole thing hard and greasy.

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner in distaste. ‘No wonder the King prefers French food.’

‘You should have had the sausages,’ remarked Thurloe unhelpfully. ‘Only a lunatic orders something called green-pea tart.’

Chaloner sipped the coffee and winced — even when the beans were not burned, the beverage did not make for pleasant drinking. He swallowed the rest quickly, like medicine, then set the bowl down, repelled by the thick, sandy residue that remained at the bottom. He glanced up and was disconcerted to see Thurloe eating his sludge with a spoon.

‘Are you sure that is good for you?’ he asked uneasily, certain it was not.

‘Coffee grit is a digestive aid — it helps grind up food in the stomach, allowing it to pass more easily through the gut. At least, that is what my old friend Chetwynd told me, when he was still alive.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘You are losing your touch, because that was not a subtle way of learning whether the Earl has charged me to investigate Chetwynd’s murder. Three years ago, you would have been aghast at such transparency.’

Thurloe set his dish back on the table with a moue of distaste. ‘I am not sure Chetwynd knew what he was talking about, and my delicate constitution may take harm from following the advice of the ignorant. What do you think?’

‘About what? The possibility of you being harmed by coffee grounds, Chetwynd’s competence in medical matters, or the manner of his death?’

Thurloe opened a small box, the label of which proudly claimed the contents to be Stinking Pills, guaranteed to purge phlegm, clear the veins, and cure gout and leprosy . Chaloner hoped his friend knew what he was doing when he took a handful and began to chew them.

‘The answer to any question would be acceptable, Thomas. You have volunteered virtually nothing since you arrived, avoiding even my innocuous enquiries about your health. If this is what happens to a man when I train him to spy, then I am sorry for it.’

‘So am I,’ said Chaloner, supposing that working at Court, moving among people who were subjects for investigation rather than friendship, was beginning to take an unpleasant toll on his manners. If he could not hold a normal conversation with his closest friend, then it was not surprising that he often felt lonely in London. He tried to explain. ‘I am forced to be constantly on my guard at White Hall — against being told lies, against physical attack, and against harm to my master.’