Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

Aware of Haddon watching through the window, he trotted across the road and made his way to the most secluded of Greene’s three doors. He picked the lock with the easy confidence of a man who had invaded other people’s property many times before, and found himself in a tiny kitchen. Beyond it was a hall, with doors leading to more rooms and a flight of stairs. Chaloner headed for the latter, knowing from his surveillance that Greene slept in an upper chamber that overlooked the street.

Through a crack in the bedroom door, he saw his quarry reading by candlelight, although the troubled expression on Greene’s face suggested his thoughts were a long way from his book. Chaloner supposed it was not surprising: he would not have been slumbering peacefully if the Lord Chancellor of England had deemed him guilty of murder, either. He crept back to the kitchen, closed the door and lit a lamp. Then he inspected the pegs on which Greene kept his outdoor clothes.

The clerk had worn a rather shabby cloak that day, and it was hanging on the hook nearest the door. It was damp, as would be expected given that it had been wrapped around him while he had travelled home from Westminster at dusk, but it was certainly not sodden: clearly, it had been drying for several hours. Chaloner knelt to look at the footwear. Greene owned two pairs of shoes and one set of boots. The boots were stuffed with paper, to prevent the leather from shrinking, but again, they were damp rather than wet. Meanwhile, the shoes had not been worn that day, because they were bone dry.

‘Well?’ asked Haddon, when Chaloner rejoined him in the tavern. ‘What did you find? Is the Earl right about Greene, or am I?’

‘You are. He has not been out since returning home this evening, so he cannot have given Vine the poison. Of course, he might have hired someone to do it for him.’

Haddon nodded slowly. ‘I cannot imagine there are many poisoners among his acquaintances, but I suppose it is something you should explore.’

‘What do you know about James Turner?’ asked Chaloner, thinking again that if the Earl regarded Greene as a suspect for discovering Chetwynd, then the flamboyant colonel should be treated likewise.

Haddon was surprised by the change of subject, but answered anyway. ‘He likes the company of ladies, and I predict hearts will be broken, because he cannot possibly please them all. He is egalitarian in his tastes — he enjoys a romp with Meg the laundress just as much as one with Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘He seems personable enough to me, although I doubt the hole in his ear was made by a musket-ball, which implies a tendency to moderate the truth. And I would not trust him with my daughters.’

‘You have daughters?’

‘It is a figure of speech. My wife died many years ago, and I have no other family — unless you count my dogs, which are like children to me. And you? Sir George Downing, with whom you worked in The Hague, told me last week that you married a Dutch lass when you first went to Holland.’

‘It was a long time ago.’ Chaloner liked Haddon, but did not feel equal to an exchange of confidences that night — although a nagging voice at the back of his mind warned him that he was never in the mood for personal conversations, not even with Hannah. How was he going to develop friendships, if he could not bring himself to confide in the people who were trying to get to know him? ‘Even if Greene is a killer, there is no point in watching him now, because I doubt he will strike twice in one night. We should both go home.’

‘It is late for travelling, so I suggest we hire rooms here,’ said Haddon, adding with an impish smile, ‘then you can tell the Earl truthfully that you remained within spitting distance of Greene all night.’

It was another good idea, and Chaloner was asleep the moment his head touched the pillow.

A lifetime of travel meant Chaloner had developed the ability to rest tolerably well in most strange beds, and the one in the Wapping tavern was surprisingly comfortable. The following morning Haddon complained that he had been kept awake by howling winds and the thunder of rain on the roof, but Chaloner had noticed none of it. There had not been much of the night left by the time they had retired, but even so, he felt reasonably well-rested when he joined the steward for a breakfast of bread and ale.

They hired a skiff to take them to White Hall, leaving as soon as it was light enough for the boatman to see. It was a bumpy ride, because the wind had churned the Thames into a confusion of waves, most of which were going against the tide. The boatman moaned about the conditions all the way, oblivious to the fact that spray from his oars drenched his passengers at almost every stroke. Haddon was shivering miserably by the time they alighted at the Westminster Stairs.

It was not a pleasant day, even once they were off the river. The sun began to flash from behind the clouds occasionally, although never for long enough do any useful warming. It was bitterly cold, and there was a wavy fringe of ice all along the beach. Because it was Sunday, bells were ringing all across the city. The wind played with the sound, making a deafening jangle one moment, and a distant tinkle the next.

Chaloner and Haddon walked up Cannon Row, a well-maintained street with gates giving access to a number of elegant mansions, as well as to the King’s private orchard in the Palace of White Hall. Haddon stopped outside a pretty cottage that had a dog-shaped weather-vane on the roof.

‘This is my humble abode. Since we are passing, I shall change my clothes before I take a chill. Come in and wait for me, and when I am warm and dry again, I would like to ask your opinion about something — a matter that is worrying me deeply.’

He had opened the door and stepped inside before the spy could demur, and immediately, two lapdogs scampered at him with frenzied yaps of delight. They were brown and white with long, silky ears. Their fur was glossy, their noses shiny, and their necks adorned with bows of silk. Haddon knelt and greeted them with professions of such love that Chaloner wondered whether he should wait outside. The spy could not have made himself speak such words to a woman, let alone an animal.

‘Do you own a dog?’ asked the steward conversationally, when the pooches were bored with affection and began to clamour for food. He fed them prime cuts of meat on solid silver platters.

‘Cat,’ Chaloner replied, grateful it was not in the habit of overwhelming him with gushing adoration every time he arrived home.

‘You should get a dog,’ advised Haddon, shooting his charges a doting glance as they ate. ‘I would not be without my little darlings for the world, and cats have too many unpleasant habits.’

Chaloner was not sure what he meant, but time was passing, and he did not want to waste the few hours of winter daylight on a debate about pets. He gestured that Haddon should hurry, and while the steward went to remove his sodden clothes, he prowled around the parlour, reading the titles of the books on the shelves — mostly religious tracts and tomes about dogs — and then picking out tunes on a virginals that stood by the window.

‘What did you want to ask me about?’ he called, frowning when he made a mistake in the music. He was an adequate virginalist, but his real love was the bass viol, which he played extremely well.

Still fastening the ‘falling band’ that went around his neck like a bib, Haddon went to a desk, and removed a piece of paper. ‘I found this lying on the floor after Brodrick visited the Earl last night.’

The spy was puzzled. ‘It is a plan of our master’s White Hall offices. But Brodrick is his cousin, and does not need a map to find his way around — he knows the place inside out.’