Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

‘Greene told us Chetwynd was dead,’ the Earl went on. ‘So we went to investigate. You took one look at the corpse’s peculiar contortions, and declared a case of foul play. Poison.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘A liquid toxin, which would have been delivered in a cup or a bottle. We searched, but found no vessel of any kind — not in the hall and not on Greene’s person. There is only one logical conclusion: the real killer took it away with him when he left.’

But the Earl was not about to let an inconvenient fact get in the way of his theory. He ignored it, and continued with his summary. ‘After Spymaster Williamson’s men had finished taking Greene’s statement, they let him go home, and I ordered you not to let him out of your sight.’

Chaloner had taken the opportunity to interrogate the clerk on the journey to Wapping. Greene had been shocked and deeply frightened, both from stumbling over a corpse in the dark and by the fact that a powerful noble thought him guilty of murder. He had been shaking almost uncontrollably, and Chaloner knew he was not the brazen slaughterer of the Earl’s imagination.

‘I watched his house for the rest of the night,’ he said. ‘The next day, he went to church, then took a boat to his office in Westminster. He went home at dusk, then followed exactly the same routine today — only he stopped to dine at the Dolphin on his way home. He is probably in bed as we speak.’

‘But you cannot say for certain,’ stated the Earl. ‘You said yourself that it is impossible to watch three doors at once. He must have slipped past you.’

‘It is possible, but unlikely, because-’

‘You need a colleague,’ said the Earl, somewhat out of the blue. ‘And I know just the fellow. Colonel Turner is said to be looking for something useful to do. I shall hire him.’

‘Turner?’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that if Greene was to be branded a killer because he had found Chetwynd, then why was Turner rewarded with employment when he had found Vine? It made no sense. Not that he expected sense from the Earl in matters of intelligence: the man might be a fine politician and a skilled diplomat, but he was a menace when it came to investigations.

‘He is a likeable fellow, and I am sure you will get along famously.’ The Earl beamed, pleased with himself. ‘Engaging Turner is an excellent notion, and I should have thought of it sooner. My enemies multiply daily, and you are unequal to the task of monitoring them all — not to mention catching killers and hunting down stolen statues.’

Chaloner was not sure what he was suggesting. ‘You want us to work together?’

The Earl shook his head as the carriage pulled up outside Worcester House on The Strand, where he lived. ‘Separately — but on the same cases. A little healthy competition never did anyone any harm, and we shall see which of you is the most efficient.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘We will be falling over each other, asking the same people identical questions. It will almost certainly impede-’

‘Nonsense! You are just afraid Turner will transpire to be better than you. I want this case solved, and Greene brought to justice. You have until Twelfth Night — ten days — to prove him guilty.’

‘And if he is innocent?’

‘He is not,’ said the Earl firmly, allowing Chaloner to help him down the carriage steps. Without another word, he stalked inside his house and nodded to the footman to close the door behind him.

The bell in Westminster’s medieval clock tower was chiming midnight by the time Chaloner had escorted Christopher Vine’s body to the nearest church, and was free to break the news to the man’s family. He had been the bearer of bad tidings many times before, and knew how to do it gently, but it was not a task he relished even so. He walked slowly to New Palace Yard, where Vine had lived, and spent a few moments bracing himself before knocking on the door. Then he did not know whether to be relieved or shocked when Vine’s wife informed him that it was the best news she had had in weeks.

‘Since word came that Queen Katherine was ailing,’ she elaborated, when the spy found himself at a loss for words. ‘The woman is barren, and I prayed she would die, so the King can marry a fertile Protestant instead. He should never have wed a Catholic.’

Aware that people were seldom themselves after being told their spouses were dead, Chaloner did not take her to task for maligning a lady he liked. ‘The King’s marriage alliance with Portugal was-’

‘Portugal!’ sneered Mrs Vine. ‘Who cares about Portugal? All they do is fight Spaniards and eat olives. But I did not drag myself out of bed at such an hour to discuss royal matches with the likes of you. What happened to Christopher? Did he die of shock, because he heard someone swearing? Or did he spend so long at prayer that God grew tired of listening and struck him down?’

Vine’s only son, George, snickered. He was in his mid-twenties, and looked like his father in that he was tall and thin, but there the resemblance ended. George’s eyes were bloodshot from high living, and he reeked of brothel perfume. He was a far cry from his respectable sire, and Chaloner did not believe the rumour that said he had once tried to assassinate Cromwell — George simply did not have the mettle.

‘Perhaps he died of shame, because he found an inconsistency in his accounting,’ the young man said with a smirk. ‘And he was afraid folk would find out that he had wantonly mislaid a whole groat.’

Mrs Vine cackled with laughter, then went to pour two cups of wine. She gave one to her son, and raised it in salute. ‘To a future without old Dreary Bones!’

‘You did not like him, then,’ said Chaloner drily.

Mrs Vine snorted. ‘The man was a bore, with his prayers and his sickly goodness — always helping the poor and the sick, weeping every time he saw an injured dog …’

‘And then there was the Lord of Misrule,’ added George resentfully. ‘We all know the tradition is great fun, but father said it was cruel, and forbade me to have anything to do with it. Well, he cannot stop me now, and I shall offer my services as soon as I wake up tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Your father was poisoned,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether they had heard what had happened to Chetwynd, and had conspired to duplicate the crime in order to be rid of a hated kinsman. But then would they be so openly gleeful at the news of his death? He decided they would, on the grounds that people would know relations within the family were strained, and to feign grief would certainly arouse suspicion. Or was that attributing them with too much intelligence?

Mother and son were exchanging a glance he found impossible to interpret. ‘Then we demand an investigation,’ said Mrs Vine slyly, ‘with a view to claiming compensation for our loss. If Christopher died in the service of his country, I shall demand a pension.’

George emitted a sharp squeal of delight, and clapped his hands together. ‘Yes, yes! He earned a princely living, and his family cannot be expected to endure poverty just because he has been murdered. Oh, this is tremendous news!’

‘Do you have any idea who might want to harm him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Other than you two?’

‘Us?’ asked George, the glee fading quickly from his eyes. He shot his mother an uneasy look. ‘We had nothing to do with his death. You heard us — we thought it was natural until you said he was murdered. You cannot blame us for what has happened.’

‘The villain will be someone at White Hall,’ added Mrs Vine hastily. ‘Perhaps a colleague who wanted his government post — it is a lucrative one, and lots of folk are jealous of his success.’

‘Or maybe someone did not like the fact that he was so revoltingly honest,’ mused George. ‘The Court understands that corruption is a necessary part of modern life, but Father never did. I will be more tolerant, when I take over his duties.’