Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

‘Do you?’ Chaloner immediately wished he had not asked, because he knew exactly why his master had more opponents than friends. The Court libertines despised him because he was prim, dour and something of a killjoy, while he had made political enemies by adopting uncompromising stances on religion and the looming war with Holland.

‘It is because no one else knows what they are talking about,’ stated the Earl. ‘At least, not as far as politics, food, religion, art, horses, ethics, fashion or sport are concerned. I have been arguing all week, and I am tired of it. Why does no one ever agree with me about anything?’

‘Who have you been arguing with, sir?’ asked Chaloner politely. A list of sparring partners promised to be far less objectionable than being treated to a diatribe of the Earl’s controversial — and sometimes odious — opinions.

‘Well, the Lady, naturally.’ So intense was the Earl’s dislike for the King’s mistress that he refused to say her name: Lady Castlemaine was always just ‘the Lady’. ‘And the Duke of Buckingham, who encourages the King to play cards instead of listening to me, his wise old advisor.’

‘Who else?’

The Earl began to count them off on chubby fingers. ‘Sir Nicholas Gold told me I was a fool for advising caution when declaring war on the Dutch. His young wife Bess, who has fewer wits than a sheep, told me my wig was unfashionable. Then that disgustingly fat Edward Jones accused me of cheating him out of the food allowance that goes with his post as Yeoman of the Household Kitchen.’

‘You would never do that,’ said Chaloner, indignant on his behalf. The Earl had many faults, but brazen dishonesty was not one of them.

‘He is entitled to dine at White Hall, but his monstrous girth means he is eating more than his due. So I told him to tighten his belt, and take the same amount as everyone else. He objected vehemently.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, supposing he would. ‘That is hardly the same as accusing you of cheat-’

‘Then Barbara Chiffinch took issue with my reaction to that practical joke — the one that saw White Hall decor ated with nether garments .’ The Earl lowered his voice at the mention of such a lewd subject. ‘I ordered the offending items burned, and she called me an ass.’

‘Because the prankster stole them from servants,’ explained Chaloner. He liked Barbara, who was a rock of common sense in a sea of silly people. ‘You should penalise the Lord of Misrule, not the poor scullions who cannot afford to lose their-’

‘I hate that custom,’ spat the Earl, grabbing Chaloner’s arm as the carriage lurched violently to one side; Westminster’s roads were notorious for potholes. ‘Electing a “king of mischief ” to hold sway over White Hall for the entire Twelve Days of Christmas is stupid. And I am always the butt of at least one malicious prank. Who is the Lord of Misrule this year, do you know?’

‘No,’ lied Chaloner, not about to tell him that the dissipated Sir Alan Brodrick had been responsible for the undergarment incident. Brodrick was the Earl’s cousin, and for some unaccountable reason, the Earl was fond of him. He steadfastly refused to believe anything bad about him, despite Brodrick’s growing reputation as one of the greatest debauchees in London.

‘Then there was that horrible youth Neale,’ the Earl went on, going back to the list of people who had annoyed him. ‘He said I have poor taste in music.’

‘Did he?’ The spy started to think about his investigation, tuning out the Earl’s tirade. He knew few of the people who were being mentioned, so the monologue was not particularly interesting to him.

‘And finally, Francis Tryan charged me too much interest on a loan. How dare he! Does he think my arithmetic lacking? That I am a halfwit, who cannot do his sums?’

‘I interviewed Chetwynd’s heirs yesterday,’ said Chaloner, when he thought the Earl had finished. ‘Thomas and Matthias Lea. They work in the same building as Greene, so I was able to question them and watch him at the same time. Unfortunately, they have no idea why their kinsman-’

‘And there was another idiot,’ interrupted the Earl. ‘Chetwynd attacked my stance on religion.’

The spy was not a devout man, but he disliked his master’s attempts to impose Anglicanism on the entire country, and thought Catholics and nonconformists were justified when they said they wanted to pray as they, not the state, thought fit. ‘Many people would agree with him,’ he said carefully.

‘Then many people are wrong,’ snapped the Earl in a tone that said further debate was futile. He was silent for a moment, then resumed his list yet again. ‘Did you know Vine criticised me for wanting to build myself a nice house in Piccadilly? Why should I not have a palace? I am Lord Chancellor of England, and should live somewhere grand.’

Chaloner found himself agreeing with Vine, too, although he said nothing. He knew, with all his heart, that the Earl’s projected mansion was a bad idea — it was too ostentatious, and was sure to cause resentment. He had urged him to commission something more modest, but the Earl refused to listen.

‘But enough of my troubles,’ said the Earl, seeming to sense that his complaints were falling on unsympathetic ears. ‘We should discuss these murders while we are alone.’

‘So you knew Vine as well, sir?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You told me on Thursday that you knew Chetwynd.’

The Earl nodded. ‘They were both high-ranking clerks — Vine in the Treasury, and Chetwynd in Chancery. Each had a reputation for being decent and honest, and it is a shame that two good men lie dead, when so many scoundrels remain living.’

By ‘scoundrels’, Chaloner supposed he referred to his various enemies at Court. ‘Yes, sir.’

But the Earl knew a noncommittal answer when he heard one. He narrowed his eyes and went on the offensive. ‘I have just one question for you: how did Greene kill Vine when you were supposed to be watching him? Or were you deliberately careless with your surveillance, because you refuse to see the obvious and accept that he is the culprit?’

Chaloner bit back an acid retort at the slur on his professionalism, knowing he would be doing himself no favours by offending the man who paid his wages. ‘It is difficult to follow a suspect full-time, sir. Not only is he more likely to spot you if you are always there, but you cannot watch back doors and front ones at the same time.’

‘Are you blaming me for the fact that Greene eluded you and went a-killing?’

‘No.’ Chaloner struggled for patience. ‘I did not see Greene leave after he returned home this evening, but I suppose it is possible — his house has three exits, and I could not guard them all. However, I think it unlikely. He had no reason to kill Chetwynd, and I imagine we will find he has none to kill Vine, either.’

‘So you say,’ snapped the Earl. ‘But let us review the tale he spun when he discovered Chetwynd’s corpse. He claims he was working late, although it was Christmas Day and he should have been at home. Then he says he ran out of ink, so he went to the Painted Chamber to borrow some. But it was almost ten o’clock at night, which is an odd time to go rooting about for office supplies. And when he arrived, he maintains he found Chetwynd, dead on the floor.’

‘He raised the alarm-’

‘But only because you and I happened to be walking past, and we saw him dashing out,’ interrupted the Earl.

For the past week, Chaloner had been hunting for a statue that had been stolen from the King, and the Earl had heard a rumour that it was hidden in a nearby stable. The pair had been on their way to see whether the tale was true. Fortunately for the Earl, Chaloner had suspected a trick the moment he had been told the ‘news’ and he had been right to be sceptical — his wariness in entering the stable had prevented his master from being doused with a bucket of paint. It was a jape typical of the Season of Misrule.