Free The Westminster Poisoner by Susanna Gregory Page A

Policy might be decided in White
     Hall, but the documents and writs to make it legal came from Westminster.
    At the heart of Westminster, in the open area knownas New Palace Yard, was the medieval Great Hall. As Chaloner walked past it, he paused to stare up at the severed heads that
     had been placed on poles outside. Cromwell’s was there, although the spy had no idea which of the blackened, almost inhuman
     objects belonged to the man who had ruled the Commonwealth. Some had long hair that waved in the wind, but most were bald,
     picked clean by crows. They had a tendency to blow down in rough weather, and he could see at least two on the ground. People
     were giving them a wide berth, because Spymaster Williamson’s men were in the habit of lurking nearby, ready to arrest anyone
     who attempted to rescue the pathetic objects and give them a decent burial.
    Chaloner cut through a series of alleys until he reached the narrow lane that gave access to the Painted Chamber, intending
     to inspect it more thoroughly than he had been able to the previous night. He was unimpressed to find it very busy, not only
     with the clerks who had turned it into their personal office space, but with spectators who wanted to see the spot where two
     men had been murdered. A search was out of the question, so he lingered unobtrusively near the tapestries, eavesdropping on
     the discussions of the ghouls. It did not take him long to realise that he was wasting his time, and that the chances of overhearing
     anything relevant were negligible, so he left.
    Unfortunately, he had no clear idea of how else to proceed, so he spent the rest of the day lurking in the kitchens, cook-houses
     and public areas of both palaces. But although there was a lot of talk about the murders – the statue was not mentioned, because
     it was old news and no longer of interest – it was all gossip andspeculation, and nothing was based in fact. And the Lord of Misrule was being unusually close-lipped about his plans, so the
     spy made no headway there, either. He did learn that an event was planned for that evening in the Great Hall, though – it
     was something to do with Babylon, and necessitated the preparation of vast platters of a glutinous, rose-flavoured jelly.
    The daylight faded and darkness fell. People began to dissipate, either to go home, or – if they were important enough to
     be invited – head for the Great Hall to enjoy whatever Near Eastern extravaganza Brodrick had devised. Among the latter was
     George Vine, who wore a bizarre combination of clothes meant to make him look like a sultan. The wind caught his turban and
     sent it cart-wheeling across the courtyard; Chaloner stopped it with his foot, and handed it back to him.
    ‘What do you think?’ asked George, twirling around then grabbing Chaloner’s arm when a combination of wine and a sudden gust
     of wind made him stagger. ‘I am a Babylonian prince.’
    ‘Very pretty. Have you made arrangements for your father’s funeral yet?’
    ‘Do not think to berate me for merrymaking while he lies above ground, because old Dreary Bones was buried this morning.’
     George smirked at Chaloner’s surprise. ‘I wanted to make sure Surgeon Wiseman did not get him, so time was of the essence.’
    ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering why George was so determined to prevent an examination that might yield clues. It was clearly
     nothing to do with filial love. ‘Can you tell me anything about his last day? What time did he leave home?’
    ‘At dawn. I remember, because we met at the door,and argued over the fact that he was going to work, while I had not yet been to bed. He was like that, always criticising
     me for having fun.’
    ‘And what did his work at the Treasury entail, exactly?’
    ‘He dealt with large quantities of money. I suppose I shall have to find out more, given that I intend to take over his duties.
     But I refuse to work as hard as he did –
    I
am no bore.’ ‘I am