Read Online The Westminster Poisoner by Susanna Gregory - Free Book Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
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left the Shield Gallery. He had known from the start that the theft was the work of someone
familiar with the palace, but he had been working on the premise that it was some greedy nobody. Bulteel’s theory made sense,
though, and he supposed he would have to tread warily from now on.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Bulteel, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Go to discuss the problem with an old friend.’
London had not fared well in the recent gales. Trees had blown over, and several had fallen on buildings and smashed through
their roofs. Bits of twig and broken tilelittered the ground, and people were struggling to repair the damage with hammers and nails. The rhythmic clatter could barely
be heard over the noise of the street – iron-shod cartwheels rattling across cobbles, the insistent hollers of tradesmen,
and the jangling peals of church bells. The dying wind could barely be heard, either, although it made the hanging signs above
doorways swing violently enough to be unsafe, and played a dangerous game with the creaking branches of some elderly oaks.
Many folk had marked the Twelve Days of Christmas by tying wreaths of holly, bay and yew to their doors. Most had been torn
away, and sat in sodden heaps in corners, or blocked the drains that ran down the sides of the main streets. With indefatigable
spirit, children were collecting them together, shaking out the water and filth, and pinning them back up again. Their noisy
antics brought back happy memories of Chaloner’s own boyhood in Buckinghamshire, making him smile.
He walked along The Strand, then up Chancery Lane until he reached the building known as the Rolls Gate, next to which stood
Rider’s Coffee House. Rider’s was not the most comfortable of establishments, because it was poky, dimly lit and badly ventilated.
It did, however, roast its beans without burning them, so the resulting potion was better than that served in most other venues.
Chaloner was not overly fond of the beverage that was so popular in the capital; he found it muddy, bitter and it made his
heart pound when he drank too much of it. It was, however, better than tea, which he thought tasted of rotting vegetation.
And tea was infinitely preferable to chocolate, which was just plain nasty, with its rank, oily consistency and acrid flavour.
That day, though, it was not coffee he wanted in Rider’s, but thecompanionship of the only man in London he considered a true friend.
He smiled when he opened the door and saw John Thurloe sitting at a table near the back. The place was busy with black-garbed
lawyers from the nearby courts, all perched on benches and puffing on pipes as they discussed religion, current affairs and
whatever had been reported in the most recent newsbooks. The spy was greeted with the traditional coffee-house cry of ‘what
news’ as he aimed for Thurloe, but shook his head apologetically to say he had none.
Thurloe, who had run Cromwell’s spy network with such cool efficiency, was a slight, brown-haired man with large blue eyes
that had led more than one would-be traitor to underestimate him. He was softly spoken, slow to anger and deeply religious.
He could also be ruthless and determined, and his sharp mind was the reason why men like Spymaster Williamson continued to
fear him, even after he had been stripped of his government posts. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have
lasted as long as it had without Thurloe, and Chaloner was inclined to agree, despite the man’s quiet and almost diffident
manner.
As usual, Thurloe sat alone. At first, Chaloner had assumed no one wanted to hobnob with a man who had been a powerful member
of a deposed regime, but it had not taken him long to learn that the choice was Thurloe’s. Would-be table-companions were
repelled with a glacial glare, and now the regulars left him to enjoy his coffee in peace. But he beamed in genuine pleasure
when Chaloner slid
familiar with the palace, but he had been working on the premise that it was some greedy nobody. Bulteel’s theory made sense,
though, and he supposed he would have to tread warily from now on.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Bulteel, breaking into his thoughts.
‘Go to discuss the problem with an old friend.’
London had not fared well in the recent gales. Trees had blown over, and several had fallen on buildings and smashed through
their roofs. Bits of twig and broken tilelittered the ground, and people were struggling to repair the damage with hammers and nails. The rhythmic clatter could barely
be heard over the noise of the street – iron-shod cartwheels rattling across cobbles, the insistent hollers of tradesmen,
and the jangling peals of church bells. The dying wind could barely be heard, either, although it made the hanging signs above
doorways swing violently enough to be unsafe, and played a dangerous game with the creaking branches of some elderly oaks.
Many folk had marked the Twelve Days of Christmas by tying wreaths of holly, bay and yew to their doors. Most had been torn
away, and sat in sodden heaps in corners, or blocked the drains that ran down the sides of the main streets. With indefatigable
spirit, children were collecting them together, shaking out the water and filth, and pinning them back up again. Their noisy
antics brought back happy memories of Chaloner’s own boyhood in Buckinghamshire, making him smile.
He walked along The Strand, then up Chancery Lane until he reached the building known as the Rolls Gate, next to which stood
Rider’s Coffee House. Rider’s was not the most comfortable of establishments, because it was poky, dimly lit and badly ventilated.
It did, however, roast its beans without burning them, so the resulting potion was better than that served in most other venues.
Chaloner was not overly fond of the beverage that was so popular in the capital; he found it muddy, bitter and it made his
heart pound when he drank too much of it. It was, however, better than tea, which he thought tasted of rotting vegetation.
And tea was infinitely preferable to chocolate, which was just plain nasty, with its rank, oily consistency and acrid flavour.
That day, though, it was not coffee he wanted in Rider’s, but thecompanionship of the only man in London he considered a true friend.
He smiled when he opened the door and saw John Thurloe sitting at a table near the back. The place was busy with black-garbed
lawyers from the nearby courts, all perched on benches and puffing on pipes as they discussed religion, current affairs and
whatever had been reported in the most recent newsbooks. The spy was greeted with the traditional coffee-house cry of ‘what
news’ as he aimed for Thurloe, but shook his head apologetically to say he had none.
Thurloe, who had run Cromwell’s spy network with such cool efficiency, was a slight, brown-haired man with large blue eyes
that had led more than one would-be traitor to underestimate him. He was softly spoken, slow to anger and deeply religious.
He could also be ruthless and determined, and his sharp mind was the reason why men like Spymaster Williamson continued to
fear him, even after he had been stripped of his government posts. There were those who said the Commonwealth would not have
lasted as long as it had without Thurloe, and Chaloner was inclined to agree, despite the man’s quiet and almost diffident
manner.
As usual, Thurloe sat alone. At first, Chaloner had assumed no one wanted to hobnob with a man who had been a powerful member
of a deposed regime, but it had not taken him long to learn that the choice was Thurloe’s. Would-be table-companions were
repelled with a glacial glare, and now the regulars left him to enjoy his coffee in peace. But he beamed in genuine pleasure
when Chaloner slid
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