The Westminster Poisoner

Book 4: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

After the Puritan ban on Christmas festivities Restoration London is awash with excess between Christmas Eve and Twelfth Night, but the two men found in Westminster Hall had not died from a surfeit of gluttony, but from poison. The Lord Chancellor appoints Chaloner as his investigator into the killiings, believing them to be of scant importance to the affairs of state he deals with. But Chaloner reveals a stinking seam of corruption in the Palace of White Hall, where even the Queen is a victim to the greed of courtiers and functionaries. And the pickings are so rich that men are prepared to go to any lengths to save their own skins and their stolen fortunes.

Release date: December 2, 2010

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 478

Sample

Threadneedle Street, London, October 1660

Henry Scobel, Clerk of the House of Lords, was dying. His physician had confidently informed him that he was afflicted with a ‘sharpness of the blood’, a painful ailment from which few recovered. Scobel had always lived a clean, decent and sober life, and had no idea why his blood should so suddenly have become sharp, but he was unwilling to waste his last hours pondering on it. He was a religious man, and if God had decided it was time for him to die, then who was he to argue? And, if the truth be told, he no longer had much appetite for life, anyway – he had liked England under Cromwell, but detested it under the newly restored Charles II. The King and his Court had only been installed for a few months, but already they were showing themselves to be corrupt, debauched and treacherous. Scobel was appalled by them, and deplored the notion of such men ruling his country.

‘You will be better soon, uncle,’ said Will Symons, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He loved his kinsman dearly, and hated to see him suffering. ‘And in the spring, we shall ride out together to see the cherry trees at Rotherhithe, just like we do every year.’

Scobel was sorry to be the cause of his nephew’s distress: Symons was a good man, who was hard-working, honest and reliable, and Scobel thought it disgraceful that he had recently been ousted from his government post, just because the Royalists wanted it for one of their cronies. Of course, Symons was not the only one to be shabbily treated – honourable men all over the country were facing hardship and ruin for no reason other than that they had worked for the Commonwealth. It made Scobel furious, especially as the newcomers were not only unqualified for the jobs they were being given, but many were brazenly corrupt, too.

‘Do not worry,’ said Symons kindly, when his uncle began to voice his concerns. ‘Have you forgotten our last prayer meeting? Everyone promised – swore sacred oaths – to live righteous and godly lives, no matter how wicked the world becomes. Others will follow their example, and evil will never triumph.’

Scobel was not so sure about that, but he summoned a smile when he thought of his friends. ‘They are decent souls, but these are difficult times. It would not be the first time an upright man fell by the wayside, and I fear for their—’

‘They are successful and happy,’ said Symons firmly, to quell the dying man’s growing agitation. ‘And they know it is God’s reward to them for being good. They also know He might take it all away again if they let themselves be seduced by sin. Do not fret, uncle: they will not stray.’

Scobel’s expression was pained. ‘But I do not want them to uphold their principles because they are afraid their luck will change if they transgress. I want them to do it because they love God and desire to do His will.’

‘They will,’ said Symons soothingly. ‘I will see they do.’

Scobel closed his eyes wearily, and hoped the younger man was right. He could feel his life ebbing away faster now, and had no energy for debate. All he hoped was that his beloved country would survive the corruption that was taking hold in Westminster and White Hall, and that good people, like the men who attended his prayer meetings, would stand firm against sin and encourage others to do likewise. A tear rolled down his cheek when he thought about what might happen if they failed. Poor England! Would her suffering never end?

Westminster, Christmas Day 1663

The Palace of Westminster was an eerie place after dark. It was full of medieval carvings that gazed down from unexpected places, and when the lantern swayed in his hand, it made some of the statues look as though they were moving. The killer was sure he had just seen Edward the Confessor reach for his sword, while a few moments before he had been equally certain that a gargoyle had winked at him. He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together, increasing his stride so he could complete his business and go home. It was no night to be out anyway, with a fierce storm blowing in from the east, carrying with it needles of rain that hurt when they hit bare skin.

He walked towards the building called the Painted Chamber, which was a long, draughty hall hung with tapestries so old they were grey with dust. Ancient kings had once used it to receive important guests; nowadays it was where the two Houses of Parliament met when they needed to confer. However, as Commons and Lords rarely had much to say to each other, a few high-ranking government officials had taken it over. Desks were placed at irregular intervals along its length, while around its edges were chests full of documents, writs and books.

The Painted Chamber was empty now, of course, because it was eight o’clock on Christmas night, and the clerks had gone home early, eager to gorge themselves on rich seasonal foods, sing carols and enjoy visits from friends and family. Cromwell’s Puritans had done their best to curb the revelries associated with the Twelve Days of Christmas, but December was a dark, cold, dreary month, and people needed something to cheer themselves up – the Puritans’ efforts had never had gained much support, and the Restoration had seen the festival revived in all its pagan glory. Christmas was more popular now than it had ever been.

The killer nodded to himself when he opened the Painted Chamber’s door and saw a lamp gleaming at the far end. Most clerks had gone home early: James Chetwynd was still at his desk, chin resting on his left hand while he wrote with his right. The killer did not blame the man – Chetwynd’s kin were quite open about the fact that they cared nothing for him, and that they hoped he would die so they could inherit his money; he would have to be insane to want to spend Christmas with them. The killer took a deep breath, and supposed they were going to be rich sooner than they had anticipated, because tonight was going to be Chetwynd’s last on Earth.

He advanced stealthily. Chetwynd was engrossed in his papers, so certain he was safe inside the great hall that he did not once look up. The killer wondered if the clerk preferred the stillness of evening to the commotion of daylight hours – if he was able to think more clearly when there were no distractions. Regardless, the killer was glad he was there, because what better place for a murder than a deserted room in a palace that had been all but abandoned for the night? It afforded both privacy and space, allowing him to take his time and ensure he left no clues behind him. His smug musings meant he did not concentrate on where he was going, and he stumbled over a loose floorboard, a sound that made Chetwynd’s head jerk up in surprise.

‘Is anyone there?’ the clerk called, peering into the darkness beyond the halo of light around his desk. ‘Show yourself!’

There was no fear in his voice – he assumed anyone entering the Painted Chamber would be a friend, and did not for a moment imagine he might be in danger. The killer did not reply. He waited until Chetwynd’s attention drifted back to his documents, and then he made his move.

Westminster, 27 December 1663

There was a belief, common among many folk, that an unusually high wind was a sign that a great person would die. Thomas Chaloner was not superstitious, but even he could not deny that it was the second time in as many days that a gale had descended on the nation’s capital with a terrifying savagery, and that an eminent man had died on each occasion. He would not have said James Chetwynd or Christopher Vine were ‘great’ exactly, but they were high-ranking officials, and that alone was enough to attract the Lord Chancellor’s attention. And when the Lord Chancellor expressed an interest, it was Chaloner’s responsibility, as his spy, to provide him with information.

He stared at the body that lay on the floor of the Painted Chamber, listening to the wind rattling the windows and howling down the chimney. The lamp he held cast eerie shadows, and when a draught snaked behind the tapestries on the walls, the ghostly grey figures swayed and danced in a way that was unsettling. Beside him, the Lord Chancellor, created Earl of Clarendon at the Restoration, regarded it nervously, then shivered in the night’s deep chill.

‘Why is it called the Painted Chamber, sir?’ Chaloner asked, breaking the silence that had been hanging between them for the last few minutes, as they had pondered Chetwynd’s mortal remains. ‘There is no artwork here.’

The Earl almost leapt out of his skin at the sudden sound of his voice, although Chaloner had not spoken loudly. He rested a plump hand over his heart and scowled, to indicate he did not appreciate being startled. Chaloner bowed an apology. He was uneasy in the hall, too – and he knew how to defend himself, thanks to active service during the civil wars, followed by a decade of spying on hostile foreign governments.

‘There were frescos,’ replied the Earl shortly, flapping chubby fingers towards the ceiling. ‘Up there, but they have been plastered over. How can you live in London and not know this?’

Chaloner did not answer. His overseas duties had made him a virtual stranger in his own country, and he was acutely aware that he needed to remedy the situation – a spy could not be effective in a place he did not understand. Unfortunately, he kept being dispatched on missions abroad, so never had the opportunity to familiarise himself with England’s biggest city.

‘You are supposed to be telling me what happened to Vine, not quizzing me about architecture,’ the Earl continued waspishly, when there was no reply. ‘I need to know whether his death was natural, or whether you have a second murder to investigate – this one, as well as Chetwynd’s.’

Chaloner dragged his attention away from the ceiling, and knelt next to the corpse. Vine had not been dead long, because he was still warm to the touch. The spy glanced around, feeling his unease intensify. The Painted Chamber was so huge and dark that it was impossible to see far, and a killer – or killers – might still be there. The dagger he always carried in his sleeve dropped into the palm of his hand as he stood.

‘What is wrong?’ The Earl sensed his disquiet, and scanned the shadows with anxious eyes. ‘Is someone else in here? Turner told me the place was deserted.’

‘Turner?’ Chaloner began to prowl, taking the lamp with him. Loath to be left alone in the dark, the Earl followed. He wore fashionably tight shoes with smart red heels, which made his feet look disproportionately small under his portly frame. Their hard leather soles pattered on the floor as he scurried after his spy, short, fat legs pumping furiously.

‘Colonel James Turner,’ he panted, tugging on Chaloner’s sleeve to make him slow down. ‘You must know him – he declared himself for the King during the wars, and championed our cause all through the Commonwealth.’ There was a hint of censure in his voice: Chaloner’s family had been Parliamentarians, while the spy himself had fought for Cromwell in several major battles. In other words, Turner had chosen the right side, Chaloner had not. ‘It was Turner who found Vine’s body.’

The spy frowned. The Painted Chamber was not a place that would attract most people on such a wild night, so what had Turner been doing there? Besides being vast, dark and full of disquieting noises, it was bitterly cold. But the colonel had been right about one thing: it was deserted, and it was not long before Chaloner had satisfied himself to that effect. He returned to the body.

‘He said he saw a light as he was walking home from church,’ the Earl elaborated, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. ‘So he came to investigate. He found Vine, and, knowing my interest in Chetwynd’s murder, he came to tell me that a second prominent official lies dead.’

‘How did he know about your interest in Chetwynd?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously. Sudden deaths among government employees were for the Spymaster General to investigate, and the Earl had no business commissioning his own enquiry. So, when he had ordered his spy to look into the affair, he had promised to keep it a secret, to avoid unnecessary trouble – the Spymaster hated meddlers.

The Earl looked sheepish. ‘I may have mentioned to one or two people that I dislike the notion of our officials being murdered in Westminster, and that I have a man asking questions about the matter. Turner probably heard it from them.’

Chaloner stifled a sigh, and wished his master knew how to keep a still tongue in his head – he was always sharing information he should have kept to himself. But what was done was done, and there was no point in remonstrating, not that the Earl would take notice anyway. ‘Where is Turner now?’

‘I sent him to fetch Surgeon Wiseman.’ The Earl held up a hand when Chaloner opened his mouth to object. ‘I know you dislike Wiseman – and his gleeful penchant for gore is disconcerting – but he is good at distilling information from corpses. Turner must be having trouble finding him – I expected them to arrive before you, given that you have had to travel all the way from Wapping.’

‘I was there shadowing Greene,’ said Chaloner, keeping his voice carefully neutral. ‘The man you suspect of killing Chetwynd.’

‘But Greene did murder Chetwynd,’ declared the Earl uncompromisingly. ‘I know a scoundrel when I see one, and I was right to order you to watch his every move.’

Chaloner made no reply. He had been tailing Greene for two days now – ever since Chetwynd’s body had been found – but felt it was a complete waste of his time. Moreover, it was unreasonable to expect one man to follow another for twenty-four hours a day without help. He was exhausted, and had been relieved when the Earl’s steward had arrived to tell him he was needed urgently at Westminster.

‘Where is Haddon?’ demanded the Earl, seeming to realise for the first time that the steward was not with them. ‘Did he go home after delivering you my message?’

‘You said you wanted Greene under constant surveillance,’ explained Chaloner. ‘So Haddon offered to monitor him while I came here.’

The Earl smiled smugly. ‘He is a dedicated soul, and I am glad I hired him. He will do anything for me – even lurk around outside on foul-weathered nights.’

Chaloner nodded, not mentioning that Greene’s house was mostly visible from a nearby tavern, and Haddon was comfortably installed there with a jug of ale and a piece of plum pudding. Just then an especially violent gust of wind hurled something against one of the windows, hard enough to shatter the glass. Chaloner whipped around fast, sword in his hand, and the Earl released a sharp yelp of fright.

‘Where is Wiseman?’ he demanded unsteadily, peering out from behind the spy: being in a deserted hall with a corpse was taking a heavy toll on his nerves. ‘What is keeping him? Perhaps you should examine the body. I know you are no surgeon, trained to recognise foul play in the dead, but you spotted the signs readily enough on Chetwynd two days ago. So do the same for Vine now.’

Chaloner obliged, performing a perfunctory examination that entailed inspecting the inside of Vine’s mouth to look for tell-tale burns. They were there, as he had known they would be the moment he had set eyes on the man’s peculiarly contorted posture – it had been this that had alerted him to the fact that Chetwynd’s death was not natural some two days before.

‘Poison,’ he said, looking up at his master. ‘Just like Chetwynd.’

The gale showed no signs of abating, and when the Earl opened the door to leave the Painted Chamber, he was almost bowled over by the force of the wind. It hurled a sheet of rain into his face, too, and deprived him of his wig. Without it, he looked older, smaller and more vulnerable. Chaloner retrieved it for him, then shoved him backwards quickly when several tiles tore from the roof and smashed to the ground where he had been standing.

‘I should have stayed home, let you report to me in the morning,’ said the Earl shakily, tugging the wig into position on his shaven pate. ‘But I was worried. The government has many enemies, and we cannot have folk running around killing our clerks. I needed to see for myself what we are up against.’

‘At least we know Greene is not responsible,’ said Chaloner, careful to keep any hint of triumph from his voice. ‘I have been watching him all day, and he is currently at home in bed. He cannot have killed Vine.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried the Earl. ‘You are letting his meek manners and plausible tongue cloud your judgement – clearly, he found a way to slip past you. You argued against arresting him on Thursday, and I bowed – reluctantly – to your judgement. But it has cost Vine his life.’

Chaloner was not sure how to refute such rigidly held convictions, but was saved from having to try, because a bobbing lantern heralded the arrival of the surgeon.

Wiseman was enormous, both tall and broad, and it was said at Court that he had recently acquired a peculiar habit: he liked to tone his muscular frame by performing a series of vigorous exercises every morning. His eccentricity was also reflected in his choice of clothes: he always wore flowing scarlet robes, which he claimed were the uniform of his profession, although no other surgeon seemed to own any. His hair was red, too, and fell in luxurious curls around his shoulders. His whimsical unconformity might have been charming, had he not been one of the most opinionated, arrogant, obnoxious men in London. As far as Chaloner was concerned, Wiseman had only one redeeming character: his steadfast, unquestioning loyalty to the Earl.

‘Where is the cadaver?’ demanded the surgeon, never a man to waste time on idle chatter when there was work to be done. ‘At the far end of the hall, like the last one you summoned me to inspect?’

‘Good evening to you, too,’ muttered Chaloner, as Wiseman shoved past him, hard enough to make him stagger. The surgeon was accompanied by another man, one whom the spy had seen at Court.

‘Thank you for bringing Wiseman to me, Turner,’ said the Earl, smiling pleasantly at the fellow. ‘You have been of great service tonight, and I shall not forget it.’

Turner was tall, dark haired and devilishly handsome. He had a narrow moustache like the King’s, and he wore an ear-string – an outmoded fashion that entailed threading strands of silk through a piercing in the earlobe, and leaving them to trail stylishly across one shoulder. Because the rest of his clothes were the height of fashion, the ear-string looked oddly out of place, and drew attention to the fact that the lobe had an unnatural hole in it. Chaloner had been told that it had been made by a Roundhead musket-ball, but was sceptical – the injury was too small and neat to have been caused by any firearm he knew. But no one else seemed to share his suspicions, and the colonel was always surrounded by doting admirers.

‘It is a pleasure, sir,’ gushed Turner with a courtly bow. ‘And if I can be of further assistance, you only need ask. I have long held you in my humble esteem, and I am at your command any time.’

‘What a charming gentleman,’ said the Earl, watching him strut away. Chaloner said nothing, but thought Turner would go far in White Hall, if he was able to produce such nauseating sycophancy at the drop of a hat. ‘But come back inside, Thomas. We had better hear Wiseman’s verdict.’

The surgeon was humming when they reached him, suggesting he had not minded too much being dragged out to inspect corpses. His abrasive character meant he did not have many friends, so murder scenes were important social occasions for him. Chaloner’s occupation meant he did not have many friends, either, and Wiseman’s solitary lifestyle was a constant reminder as to why he needed to make some. It was not easy, though: his uncle had been one of the men who had signed the old king’s death warrant, and people were still wary about fraternising with the family of a regicide. Indeed, it was only in the last few weeks that he had felt able to tell people his real name, instead of using an alias. He knew he was lucky the Earl was willing to overlook his connections – along with the fact that he had spent a decade spying for Cromwell – because employment was not easy to come by for old Parliamentarians, especially in espionage. And Chaloner was qualified to do very little else.

‘Like Chetwynd, Vine has swallowed something caustic,’ Wiseman announced, not looking up. ‘It burned the skin of his throat and caused convulsions, which accounts for his contorted posture.’

‘Poison,’ said the Earl, nodding. ‘Thomas was right.’

Wiseman regarded him haughtily. ‘Since when did he become a surgeon, pray? However, in this case, his opinion happens to be correct, because it coincides with my own. Of course I can go one step further: I suspect both these men died from ingesting the same substance.’

‘What substance?’ asked Chaloner, hoping it would be something unusual that would allow him to trace it – and its purchaser – by making enquiries among the apothecaries.

Wiseman shrugged. ‘There is no way to tell from a visual inspection alone. Vine’s kin will have to let me anatomise him.’ His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

‘Thomas will try to get their permission,’ said the Earl. Chaloner’s heart sank; it was bad enough telling a family that a loved one was dead, without being obliged to put that sort of request, too. ‘But do not hold your breath – Chetwynd’s kin cared nothing for him, but even so, they were loath to let you loose on his corpse. So, I cannot imagine Vine’s wife and son leaping to accept your offer. Now, is there anything else we should know? Any clues that prove Greene is the killer?’

‘You asked me that when you found Chetwynd,’ said Wiseman, climbing to his feet. ‘And the answer now is the same as it was then: no. There is nothing that will help you trace the culprit. Dissection is the only way forward.’

‘I suppose we should be thankful he did not carve Vine up right here in front of us,’ whispered the Earl, watching him stride away. ‘Escort me home, Thomas. I have had enough of corpses and their vile secrets for one night. The wind seems to be dropping, so I should be safe from falling tiles now.’

Chaloner was acutely uneasy as he accompanied the Earl to his waiting coach. The gale had abated, but it was still blowing hard, and the racket it made as it whipped through trees and around buildings meant it was difficult to hear anything else. Unfortunately, darkness and driving rain meant he could not see very well, either. He disliked the notion that he might not have adequate warning of an attack, and although he was not afraid for himself, the Earl had accumulated a lot of enemies since the Restoration, and this was the perfect opportunity for an ambush.

‘You should not have come, sir,’ he said, as he helped his master into the carriage and climbed in after him. He banged on the ceiling with his fist, to tell the driver to move off. ‘It is not safe for you to wander about so late at night.’

‘So you have said before, but I refuse to let anyone dictate where I can and cannot go.’ The Earl looked anxious, though, despite his defiant words. ‘I have no idea why I am so unpopular – I seem to attract new enemies with every passing day.’

‘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 decorated 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