‘Good God!’ boomed Wiseman, red robes billowing around him as he regarded the spectators in distaste. ‘Can you find nothing better to do than drool over the corpses of your colleagues?’
‘You are a fine one to talk,’ flashed a courtier named Peters. His expression was malicious: Wiseman’s blunt tongue had made him unpopular at Court. ‘I hear that you have recently taken to hefting heavy objects about with a view to acquiring larger muscles. If that is not a damned peculiar way of carrying on, then I do not know what is.’
‘I do it for the benefit of my health,’ replied Wiseman imperiously. ‘And I feel ten years younger, so it is certainly working. I firmly believe that exercise is the best way to prolong life and promote wellbeing, and anyone who does not agree with me is a fool.’
‘You will not live a long life, no matter how fit you think these odd habits are making you,’ sneered Peters contemptuously. ‘And why? Because someone will dispatch you, on the grounds that you are conceited, arrogant and rude, and no one likes you.’
Wiseman regarded him in silence for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘I can see from here that you are afflicted with the French pox, so I shall not take your words to heart — I am a surgeon, and know how these diseases can rob a man of his wits. However, you may like to know that I have identified the source of the current outbreak: it is Lady Muskerry.’
Chaloner was not the only one to be taken aback by this announcement. There was a collective gasp of astonishment and shock, and then people began to edge away from the woman in question. They edged away from Peters, too, who was gaping in disbelief, staggered that the surgeon should stoop to such low tactics just in order to win a petty spat.
‘I have devised a cure, though,’ Wiseman continued, relishing his opponent’s mortification. ‘It works like a charm, and will save sufferers from the embarrassment of unwelcome sores — and from the embarrassment of making unwarranted verbal assaults on fellow members of Court, too. I recommend you try it, Peters — French pox can be fatal, if left untreated.’
He was going to add more, but Peters shouldered past him and headed for the door, determined to leave before any more of his intimate secrets could be brayed to the world at large. The other courtiers followed, all careful not to meet the surgeon’s eye, lest they be singled out for a tongue-lashing, too. When they had gone, Wiseman turned to the spy. Chaloner took a step away from him, not sure he wanted his company when he was in such a bellicose frame of mind.
‘Colonel Turner told me you were here, so I came to see if I could help you. Bulteel says the Earl will dismiss you if you do not find this killer, and I do not want you gone from White Hall. You are one of the few people there who are acceptable to me.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner warily, wondering whether the surgeon’s temper was spent or whether he had yet more vitriol to expel. He braced himself, ready to follow Peters’s example and leave if he did — he had better things to do than exchange insults with the razor-tongued Wiseman.
But the surgeon’s expression had gone from haughty to troubled. ‘Is it true?’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Is what true?’
‘What Peters said — that no one likes me.’
Chaloner was inclined to tell him the truth, in the hope that it might imbue him with a little humility, but when he saw the genuine anguish in the man’s eyes, he found he could not do it. He flailed around for a noncommittal answer. ‘The Earl likes you,’ he managed eventually.
‘And you?’ asked Wiseman, regarding him intently. ‘What do you think of me?’
Chaloner was not sure how to reply. He did not want to make an enemy of Wiseman by answering honestly, but he did not want to lie, either. ‘I think you are an innovative surgeon,’ he hedged. But a glance at Wiseman’s agonised expression told him this was not enough. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the discussion. ‘And you are one of the few people who are acceptable to me.’
It seemed to satisfy the surgeon, because he smiled briefly, and then waved a hand towards the two corpses. ‘Langston, like Vine and Chetwynd, died when a virulent toxin seared the membranes of his mouth and throat. It caused immediate swelling that restricted the flow of air to his lungs. In essence, he suffocated. I imagine I would see bleeding in his stomach, too, were I to slice him open.’
Chaloner winced. He was not unduly squeamish, but there was something about Wiseman’s grisly enthusiasm he had always found unsettling. ‘Do you know the nature of this poison yet? You said you would find out.’
‘That was assuming I had a corpse to dissect, but the kin of Vine, Chetwynd and Langston have refused me permission. However, there are many such substances in the modern pharmacopoeia, and I doubt knowing a name will help you catch your killer. Most have perfectly innocent applications, such as scouring drains, making glue or cleaning glass.’
‘So I will be wasting my time if I try to track it down?’
Wiseman nodded. ‘Although I intimated to Turner that it was worth doing. However, I can tell you that all three men were killed by the same potion — there is no question about that — and they probably died quickly. And, as I said the other night, the poison’s odour was disguised by brandywine.’
‘Do you still think Greene is innocent? You have not discovered anything to suggest otherwise?’
‘Greene does not have the strength of mind for killing, and the Earl is a fool for thinking he does. But we shall ensure he does not embarrass himself.’
‘Shall we now?’ murmured Chaloner.
‘We shall,’ declared Wiseman, ‘because I am not working with that popinjay Turner — not on this case, and not in the future, either. So, I have a clue to share with you, something I discovered when I examined the bodies: namely that the purses of all three victims were missing, along with any jewellery they might have owned. I am surprised Mrs Vine did not comment on it.’
‘Perhaps she did not notice.’
Wiseman snorted his derision. ‘She would have noticed. And so would her snivelling son.’
Chaloner nodded his thanks, but thought it did not help much to know he was dealing with a killer who stripped his victims of valuables — the Court was full of avaricious people. He tried to set the ‘clue’ in context. Did it mean the ruby ring had belonged to Vine, dropped as the killer had looted the corpse? It was obviously worth a lot of money, so why had Vine’s wife denied him owning it? Or had she sent a train-band to retrieve it when she realised it was missing? With a sigh, Chaloner realised Wiseman’s information posed more questions than answers.
Chapter 5
As Chaloner left the charnel house it was more desperation than any real expect ation of finding answers that drove him to the Painted Chamber. He was surprised to find it deserted — it was usually busy during the day — but then he realised it was the time when folk went for their midday meals. His footsteps echoed hollowly as he walked, and he noticed that the tapestry used to incapacitate him had already been rehung.
A dark, sticky stain on the floor indicated where something had been spilled. He knelt to inspect it, and saw the edges were slightly frothy, while the bulk smelled of brandy-wine. It was almost certainly the remains of whatever had killed Langston, although Bulteel had told him that — like the first two murders — there had been no sign of a cup. He could only surmise that the killer had taken it with him when he had left. Of course, it did not explain why Langston should have accepted a drink in a place where two of his colleagues had died doing the same thing. The only answer was that all three had known the killer, and trusted him.
‘Taste it,’ urged a soft voice from behind him. ‘Swallow some, to see if it contains poison.’