Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

Chaloner was bemused — Vine’s post was not hereditary. ‘You intend to step into his shoes?’

George shrugged. ‘Why not? I will be better at it than he was, because I shall not offend people by rejecting their bribes.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I was thinking more in terms of your safety. Your mother has just said Vine might have been killed by someone who wants his job. If you are appointed, you will be at risk from poison, too — unless you are the culprit, of course.’

George opened his mouth, but then seemed unable to think of a suitable response, so snapped it shut again. It was left to his mother to protest his innocence. Chaloner listened to her list of alternative suspects, but it soon became clear she was naming everyone and anyone in an effort to divert attention from her son.

‘The Court surgeon wants to examine your husband’s remains more carefully,’ he said, interrupting her tirade, and supposing there was no harm in putting Wiseman’s request. After all, they were hardly prostrate with grief. ‘May he have your permission to-’

‘No,’ interrupted George. He shot his mother another unreadable glance. ‘I have seen Wiseman in action, and it is disgusting. Dreary Bones might have been a trial, but I will not see him hacked to pieces by that ghoul. He will go in the ground whole, with all his entrails where they are meant to be.’

‘Why was your father working so late tonight?’ Chaloner asked, not sure what to make of the refusal. ‘Everyone else had gone home.’

Mrs Vine shrugged. ‘Christopher and I live separate lives, which suits us both. To be frank, I thought he was upstairs asleep, and had no idea he was out.’

‘Did he know a clerk called Chetwynd?’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Vine. ‘Why do you ask? Is it because Chetwynd was poisoned, too?’

‘The news is all over London,’ said George, before Chaloner could ask how she knew. ‘Everyone is talking about it, because it is not every day that government officials are unlawfully slain.’

‘No, it is every other day,’ quipped his mother. ‘Chetwynd on Thursday, and Christopher tonight. We shall dine on this for months, because everyone will want to befriend the kin of a murdered man.’

‘I imagine that depends on who is revealed as the killer,’ said Chaloner, aiming for the door. He had had enough of the Vines for one night. ‘And the authorities will catch him. You can be sure of that.’

‘Why bother?’ asked George, going to refill his goblet. ‘Dreary Bones will not be missed.’

Although the wind was not as fierce as it had been earlier, it was still strong enough to make the trees in nearby Tothill Fields roar. The air was full of flying debris — mostly twigs, dead leaves and dust, but also human rubbish, including discarded rags, sodden bits of paper and even scraps of food. Chaloner was disgusted when a rotting cabbage leaf slapped into his face, and was relieved when he finally managed to flag down a carriage to take him back to Wapping.

It was a long way to Greene’s house, which, at sixpence a mile, delighted the hackneyman. The coach was determinedly basic, with a wooden seat bristling with splinters and a mass of squelching straw on the floor. It stank of horse and vomit, and there were no covers on the windows to protect passengers from inclement weather — the owner was apparently of the belief that if he was obliged to sit outside, then so should his fares. The vehicle lurched along the empty streets at a furious lick, forcing Chaloner to cling on tight or risk being tossed out. By the time he reached the tavern where Haddon was waiting, he was cold, tired and wet.

‘It is still raining, then,’ said Haddon, when the spy slipped into the seat next to him. The steward was a slight man of about sixty, whose baggy skin made him look as though he had once been much larger, and he wore a wig to conceal his hairless pate. He had a pleasant face, with laughter lines around his mouth and eyes, and he owned a passion for dogs that verged on the obsessive. He had been appointed the previous year, when the Earl had complained that his current staff could no longer cope with the volume of work, and so had been granted funds to expand his retinue.

‘It is always raining in this godforsaken country,’ grumbled Chaloner, weariness making him irritable. ‘It makes me wish I was back in Spain — and the last time I was there, I was almost killed.’

Haddon raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you realise that is the first information about yourself you have ever volunteered to me? The Earl must have driven you to distraction with his demands to prove Greene is the killer, because you are usually far more guarded.’

Chaloner supposed he was right. He had been trained never to yield personal details, which was a considerable stumbling block in making new friends. It was a problem for his latest relationship, too, because Hannah Cotton was eager to learn all about her new lover, but he found himself reluctant to tell her what she wanted to know. Secrecy was not so important now he was no longer a foreign spy in a hostile country, but it was a difficult habit to break after so many years regardless.

‘You should go home,’ he said to Haddon. ‘I heard a rumour that the Lord of Misrule plans some sort of attack on the Earl soon, and you cannot defend him if you are half asleep.’

‘What about you?’ asked Haddon. ‘How will you find Chetwynd’s real killer after a third night spent out here? You will be too tired to catch a cold, let alone a murderer.’

‘You do not think Greene is the culprit, then?’ Chaloner asked, intrigued by Haddon’s use of ‘real’.

‘Of course not,’ said Haddon scornfully. ‘I have known him for years, and he would not harm a fly. You have talked to him — you must see the Earl is wrong about the poor fellow.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I thought Vine’s death would give the Earl pause for thought, but it has only convinced him that Greene managed to outwit me — slipped past when my attention wavered.’

Haddon grimaced. ‘Vine was a decent soul — kind to stray dogs. Was he poisoned, too?’

‘Wiseman thinks so.’

‘Then it must be true.’ Haddon was silent for a moment. ‘After you left, I walked around Greene’s house, and learned that there are three different ways he can leave it, only two of which are visible by one pair of eyes. So, perhaps he did go to the Painted Chamber tonight without you noticing.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘I thought you just said he is no killer.’

‘I genuinely believe Greene is innocent of these heinous crimes, but I am not such a fool as to ignore facts that do not support my theory. Of course, there is a way to determine once and for all whether he is involved in this nasty business.’

‘There is?’

‘If Greene has indeed been out a-killing, then his coat and shoes will be wet. Agreed? It is a filthy night, and no one can move about without a drenching, not even if he hires a hackney. The Earl’s secretary tells me you own some skill at breaking into houses, so break into Greene’s. If his clothes are dry, then it means he has been nowhere, and we can abandon this ridiculous vigil.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows in surprise. It was an eminently sensible idea, and one he should have thought of himself. He might have done, had he not been so unutterably tired.

Haddon smiled when he saw the spy’s reaction. ‘Stewards can be relied upon to provide intelligent notions occasionally, so do not look so startled. Come, we shall do it together.’

‘I had better go alone.’ Chaloner disliked company when he was committing burglary, especially that of amateurs. ‘Although it is good of you to offer.’