Free The Westminster Poisoner by Susanna Gregory

anything import ant, but it was an annoyance, regardless.’
    ‘He says you put a price on his head.’
    ‘Then he is lying – he would not have been worth the expense.’
    ‘What else can you tell me about him?’
    ‘Only that he has twenty-eight children, and he trained as a solicitor. And that he could never match your expertise as an
     intelligencer, and the Earl is an ass if he thinks otherwise.’
    But the Earl
was
an ass in matters of espionage, thought Chaloner dejectedly, and might well dismiss him in favour of a flamboyant Cavalier.
     And then what? The spy could not foist himself on his family, because, as fervent supporters of Cromwell, they were being
     taxed intopoverty by vengeful Royalists. He wondered, not for the first time, whether he should abandon England, and go to live in the
     New World. The only problem was that he had been there once, and had not liked it.
    ‘What do you know about the victims?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Vine and Chetwynd?’
    ‘Just that they were pillars of decency in a government that seethes with corruption. It was not like that when Cromwell was
     in charge – as absolute ruler, he had the power to dismiss or arrest anyone he deemed less than honest. As I have said before,
     a military dictatorship is the best form of govern—’
    ‘What about their families?’ asked Chaloner, interrupting before they could argue. He did not share Thurloe’s views on the
     joys of repressive regimes. ‘George Vine told me he tried to assassinate Cromwell. Is it true?’
    Thurloe grimaced. ‘I did have wind of a plot, but it transpired to be so outlandish that I did not bother with a prosecution.
     He planned to give the Lord Protector an exploding leek, but failed to take into account that most men are not in the habit
     of devouring raw vegetables presented to them by strangers. And we all know you cannot pack enough gunpowder inside a leek
     to kill anyone.’
    ‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘You would need a cabbage, at the very least.’
    Religion was a contentious issue in England, and as far as the bishops were concerned, a person was either a devout Anglican
     who attended his weekly devotions, or a fanatic who should be treated with suspicion. Some churches kept registers of which
     parishioners stayed away, and because Chaloner had been trained never to attractunnecessary attention, he always tried to make an appearance at St Dunstan-in-the-West on those Sundays when he was home.
     He did not usually mind, because the old building was a haven of peace amid the clamour of the city, and the rector’s rambling
     sermons gave him a chance to sit quietly and think of other matters.
    But he resented the wasted time that day. There was too much to do, and Rector Thompson was holding a sheaf of notes that
     suggested his congregation might be trapped for hours while he ploughed through them all. Chaloner exchanged amiable greetings
     with him in the nave, ensured his name was recorded on the attendance list, then escaped through the vestry door when no one
     was looking. Once in the street, he headed for Westminster, walking with one hand on his hat to prevent the wind from tearing
     it from his head. It had been a gift from a lady in Spain, and its crown was cunningly reinforced with a metal bowl. It had
     saved his life on several occasions, and he did not want to lose it.
    Westminster was different from White Hall, despite the fact that both were medieval palaces. White Hall was brazenly secular,
     alive with the colours of Court – the reds, golds, oranges and purples of balls and banquets. Its larger buildings were built
     of brick, although most were in desperate need of painting, and fountains and statues adorned its open spaces. By contrast,
     Westminster was dominated by its abbey and Norman hall, and had a monastic feel. Its buildings were characterised by lancet
     windows, stained glass and pinnacles, and there was an atmosphere of sobriety and business.