Susanna Gregory: The Westminster Poisoner

Chaloner laughed. ‘I wonder why! Are you a bigamist, then?’

‘I married young,’ replied Turner, with another wink. ‘My illegitimate offspring are another tally altogether, but I had better keep that number to myself. How about you? How many do you have?’

‘Vine,’ prompted Chaloner, wondering whether Haddon had been gossiping about the family Chaloner had had, and lost to plague, in Holland more than a decade before. Regardless, he was not about to discuss them with a man he did not know. ‘You were telling me how you came to find his body in a part of Westminster that is usually deserted at night.’

‘Was I indeed?’ asked Turner, with one of his rakish grins. ‘Well, as we are colleagues, I suppose I can trust you with a confidence. I went to the Painted Chamber for a midnight tryst with a lady who works in the laundry. We arranged to meet there because it is usually empty at that hour. But when I arrived, I found not the lovely Meg, but Vine. Stone dead.’

‘Is the lovely Meg the kind of woman to poison someone?’

Turner shook his head vehemently. ‘She is a gentle child, and would never harm a soul.’

Chaloner would make up his own mind about that when he interviewed her. After all, it was not inconceivable that Vine had happened across her while she was waiting for her lover to arrive, and had made disparaging remarks about her morality. Some women in White Hall were sensitive about that kind of accusation, and men had been killed for far less.

‘But you found Vine a long time before midnight,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Why did you arrive so early for this assignation?’

‘Because I hoped she would come a bit ahead of schedule, and I was at a loose end, with nothing else to do. Now I wish I had visited Lady Castlemaine instead, although you had better not tell her so — I doubt she will appreciate knowing I view her as somewhere to kill time between amours .’

Chaloner was sure she would not. ‘Where is Meg now?’

Turner frowned. ‘I have not seen her since we made the arrangement, and I can only assume she has decided to keep a low profile, lest someone start pointing accusing fingers. You see, it was not the first time she and I used the Painted Chamber for a nocturnal romp.’

‘When you found Vine, what were your immediate thoughts? Death by poison is rare, so I doubt it was the first thing that entered your mind.’

‘Actually, it was — because of Chetwynd. I noticed spilled wine on Vine’s chin, indicating he had been drinking when he died, but there was no sign of a goblet, which struck me as odd. It told me someone else had been there — someone who had taken the cup with him. The killer, no less.’

Chaloner studied him thoughtfully, aware that here was a man whose powers of observation equalled his own, and it reinforced his initial impression — that there was more to Turner than met the eye. ‘Do you think Greene did it?’

‘I do not. It takes courage to commit murder, and Greene is a mouse. Besides, he believes everything in life is preordained, so he never bothers to do much of anything, on the grounds that it will make no difference to the general scheme of things anyway. You have met him — you know this is true. His Portliness refuses to be convinced, though. What about you? What do you think?’

‘That Greene did not leave his house last night, so he cannot have killed Vine.’

Turner looked pleased. ‘We think alike, you and I. I imagine we share the same taste in women, too. As far as I am concerned, they only need one qualification to secure my favour: they must have teeth. I cannot abide making love to bare gums. I am sure you will agree.’

He sauntered away, whistling to himself, before Chaloner could frame a suitable answer.

The Earl’s White Hall offices comprised a suite of rooms overlooking the Privy Garden. They were sumptuously furnished and snug, with the exception of one: Secretary John Bulteel occupied a bleak, windowless cupboard that was so cold during winter he was obliged to wear gloves with the fingers cut out. He glanced up as Chaloner walked past and gave him a friendly wave, baring his rotten teeth in a smile as he did so. He was a slight, timid man, who was not popular among his colleagues, although Chaloner liked him well enough. His wife baked excellent cakes, and he often shared them with the spy — a diffident, shy gesture of friendship that no one else at White Hall ever bothered to extend.

Bulteel took a moment to blow on his frozen hands, then turned back to his ledgers, looking like a scarecrow in badly fitting, albeit decent quality, clothes. Chaloner often wondered why the Earl treated him so shabbily, when he was scrupulously honest, hard-working and loyal, and could only conclude it was because Bulteel was so singularly unprepossessing — that the Earl could not bring himself to show consideration for someone who was not only physically unattractive, but socially inept, too.

In contrast to his secretary’s chilly domain, the Earl’s chambers were sweltering, heated not only by massive braziers, but by open fires, too. They had recently been redecorated, although Chaloner thought the man responsible should be shot. A massive chandelier now hung from the main ceiling, and while the Earl was short enough to pass underneath it without mishap, anyone taller could expect to be brained. Meanwhile, the walls were crammed with paintings from the newly retrieved collections of the King’s late father — Cromwell had sold these after the execution of the first Charles, and the Royalists were currently in the process of getting them all back again. Chaloner found the sheer number of masterpieces in such a small space vulgar, although no one else seemed bothered by it.

He walked through the open door, ducked to avoid the chandelier, and approached the desk. The Earl leapt violently when he became aware that his spy was standing behind him.

‘How many more times must I tell you not to sneak up on me like that?’ he snapped angrily, hand to his chest. ‘I cannot cope with you frightening the life out of me at every turn.’

‘I am sorry, sir. It is these thick rugs — they muffle footsteps.’

‘They are for my gout. Wiseman says soft floor coverings are kinder on the ankles than marble. He also said I would be more comfortable if I was thinner. I confess I was hurt. Do you think me fat?’

‘I have seen fatter,’ replied Chaloner carefully. He did not want to lie, but suspected the Earl would not appreciate the truth. He changed the subject before the discussion could become awkward. ‘I interviewed Vine’s family last night. They do not seem overly distressed by his death.’

‘That does not surprise me. Young George is a nasty creature, and I do not believe he tried to assassinate Cromwell, as he claims. I suspect he made up the tale, to curry favour with us Royalists.’

‘There was no love lost between father and son. They-’

‘George did not dispatch his father,’ interrupted the Earl, seeing where the conversation was going. ‘Vine was killed in an identical manner to Chetwynd — with poison. Since there cannot be two murderers favouring the same method of execution, we must assume a single culprit: Greene. Besides, while George may be delighted to lose his sire, he has no reason to want Chetwynd dead.’

‘Perhaps that is what he hopes you will think. Chetwynd might be a decoy victim.’

‘Why must you always look for overly complex solutions?’ demanded the Earl. ‘ Greene killed Chetwynd, as I have told you dozens of times. And now he has attacked Vine.’

‘But I was watching his house when Vine was killed. He cannot be-’

‘He hired an accomplice. He can afford it, because his job pays him a handsome salary. But I fail to understand why you cannot see his guilt. He “discovered” Chetwynd’s body, and you once told me yourself that the discoverer of a murdered corpse should always be considered a suspect until he can prove his innocence. Moreover, Greene and Chetwynd worked in adjoining buildings and were acquaintances, if not friends. I know Chetwynd ranked higher than Greene, but that is irrelevant.’