Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

The gale showed no signs of abating, and when the Earl opened the door to leave the Painted Chamber, he was almost bowled over by the force of the wind. It hurled a sheet of rain into his face, too, and deprived him of his wig. Without it, he looked older, smaller and more vulnerable. Chaloner retrieved it for him, then shoved him backwards quickly when several tiles tore from the roof and smashed to the ground where he had been standing.

‘I should have stayed home, let you report to me in the morning,’ said the Earl shakily, tugging the wig into position on his shaven pate. ‘But I was worried. The government has many enemies, and we cannot have folk running around killing our clerks. I needed to see for myself what we are up against.’

‘At least we know Greene is not responsible,’ said Chaloner, careful to keep any hint of triumph from his voice. ‘I have been watching him all day, and he is currently at home in bed. He cannot have killed Vine.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried the Earl. ‘You are letting his meek manners and plausible tongue cloud your judgement — clearly, he found a way to slip past you. You argued against arresting him on Thursday, and I bowed — reluctantly — to your judgement. But it has cost Vine his life.’

Chaloner was not sure how to refute such rigidly held convictions, but was saved from having to try, because a bobbing lantern heralded the arrival of the surgeon.

Wiseman was enormous, both tall and broad, and it was said at Court that he had recently acquired a peculiar habit: he liked to tone his muscular frame by performing a series of vigorous exercises every morning. His eccentricity was also reflected in his choice of clothes: he always wore flowing scarlet robes, which he claimed were the uniform of his profession, although no other surgeon seemed to own any. His hair was red, too, and fell in luxurious curls around his shoulders. His whimsical unconformity might have been charming, had he not been one of the most opinionated, arrogant, obnoxious men in London. As far as Chaloner was concerned, Wiseman had only one redeeming character: his steadfast, unquestioning loyalty to the Earl.

‘Where is the cadaver?’ demanded the surgeon, never a man to waste time on idle chatter when there was work to be done. ‘At the far end of the hall, like the last one you summoned me to inspect?’

‘Good evening to you, too,’ muttered Chaloner, as Wiseman shoved past him, hard enough to make him stagger. The surgeon was accompanied by another man, one whom the spy had seen at Court.

‘Thank you for bringing Wiseman to me, Turner,’ said the Earl, smiling pleasantly at the fellow. ‘You have been of great service tonight, and I shall not forget it.’

Turner was tall, dark haired and devilishly handsome. He had a narrow moustache like the King’s, and he wore an ear-string — an outmoded fashion that entailed threading strands of silk through a piercing in the earlobe, and leaving them to trail stylishly across one shoulder. Because the rest of his clothes were the height of fashion, the ear-string looked oddly out of place, and drew attention to the fact that the lobe had an unnatural hole in it. Chaloner had been told that it had been made by a Roundhead musket-ball, but was sceptical — the injury was too small and neat to have been caused by any firearm he knew. But no one else seemed to share his suspicions, and the colonel was always surrounded by doting admirers.

‘It is a pleasure, sir,’ gushed Turner with a courtly bow. ‘And if I can be of further assistance, you only need ask. I have long held you in my humble esteem, and I am at your command any time.’

‘What a charming gentleman,’ said the Earl, watching him strut away. Chaloner said nothing, but thought Turner would go far in White Hall, if he was able to produce such nauseating sycophancy at the drop of a hat. ‘But come back inside, Thomas. We had better hear Wiseman’s verdict.’

The surgeon was humming when they reached him, suggesting he had not minded too much being dragged out to inspect corpses. His abrasive character meant he did not have many friends, so murder scenes were important social occasions for him. Chaloner’s occupation meant he did not have many friends, either, and Wiseman’s solitary lifestyle was a constant reminder as to why he needed to make some. It was not easy, though: his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and people were still wary about fraternising with the family of a regicide. Indeed, it was only in the last few weeks that he had felt able to tell people his real name, instead of using an alias. He knew he was lucky the Earl was willing to overlook his connections — along with the fact that he had spent a decade spying for Cromwell — because employment was not easy to come by for old Parliamentarians, especially in espionage. And Chaloner was qualified to do very little else.

‘Like Chetwynd, Vine has swallowed something caustic,’ Wiseman announced, not looking up. ‘It burned the skin of his throat and caused convulsions, which accounts for his contorted posture.’

‘Poison,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Thomas was right.’

Wiseman regarded him haughtily. ‘Since when did he become a surgeon, pray? However, in this case, his opinion happens to be correct, because it coincides with my own. Of course I can go one step further: I suspect both these men died from ingesting the same substance .’

‘What substance?’ asked Chaloner, hoping it would be something unusual that would allow him to trace it — and its purchaser — by making enquiries among the apothecaries.

Wiseman shrugged. ‘There is no way to tell from a visual inspection alone. Vine’s kin will have to let me anatomise him.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

‘Thomas will try to get their permission,’ said the Earl. Chaloner’s heart sank; it was bad enough telling a family that a loved one was dead, without being obliged to put that sort of request, too. ‘But do not hold your breath — Chetwynd’s kin cared nothing for him, but even so, they were loath to let you loose on his corpse. So, I cannot imagine Vine’s wife and son leaping to accept your offer. Now, is there anything else we should know? Any clues that prove Greene is the killer?’

‘You asked me that when you found Chetwynd,’ said Wiseman, climbing to his feet. ‘And the answer now is the same as it was then: no. There is nothing that will help you trace the culprit. Dissection is the only way forward.’

‘I suppose we should be thankful he did not carve Vine up right here in front of us,’ whispered the Earl, watching him stride away. ‘Escort me home, Thomas. I have had enough of corpses and their vile secrets for one night. The wind seems to be dropping, so I should be safe from falling tiles now.’

Chaloner was acutely uneasy as he accompanied the Earl to his waiting coach. The gale had abated, but it was still blowing hard, and the racket it made as it whipped through trees and around buildings meant it was difficult to hear anything else. Unfortunately, darkness and driving rain meant he could not see very well, either. He disliked the notion that he might not have adequate warning of an attack, and although he was not afraid for himself, the Earl had accumulated a lot of enemies since the Restoration, and this was the perfect opportunity for an ambush.

‘You should not have come, sir,’ he said, as he helped his master into the carriage and climbed in after him. He banged on the ceiling with his fist, to tell the driver to move off. ‘It is not safe for you to wander about so late at night.’

‘So you have said before, but I refuse to let anyone dictate where I can and cannot go.’ The Earl looked anxious, though, despite his defiant words. ‘I have no idea why I am so unpopular — I seem to attract new enemies with every passing day.’