The Westminster Poisoner by Susanna Gregory

murder. I would have been frightened, too.’
    ‘But you would not have tried to run away. You would have stayed and explained yourself.’
    ‘He panicked – it could happen to anyone under such circumstances.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ declared the Earl, with a note of finality that told Chaloner any further debate would be a waste of time. ‘But
     I told Colonel Turner that I want this killer – whether it is Greene or someone else – behind bars by Twelfth Night. He assures
     me that it will be done. What will you promise?’
    ‘To do my best. I will not lie to you, or make pledges I may not be able to fulfil.’
    The Earl stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well. Go and do your best then, and let us see where it leads. However, I see no
     point in continuing to watch Greene – he slipped past you to murder Vine, after all – so give up the surveillance and concentrate
     on other leads instead. And incidentally, these deaths do not mean you can forget about the previous task I set you.’
    Chaloner regarded him blankly. ‘What previous task? Finding out what the Lord of Misrule plans to do over the next ten days?’
    The Earl grimaced in distaste. ‘You had better
not
waste your time on that nonsense! No, I mean the King’s missing statue. He remains grieved by its loss, and I would like
     to be the one to hand it back to him. You will be busy, because I give both these enquiries equal status.’
    The Earl of Clarendon was not normally a stupid man, and Chaloner could not help but wonder whether there was more to his
     dislike of Greene than he was willing to share. It would not be the first time he had been less than honest with his spy before
     sending him off on an investigation, and Chaloner knew from bitter experience that this could prove dangerous. But such subterfuge
     was the Earl’s way, and Chaloner had come to expect lies and half-truths, so he resigned himself to fathoming out the mystery
     without his master’s cooperation. It was a wicked waste of his time, especially given that he had two other enquiries to conduct,
     but it could not be helped, and there was no point in wasting energy by railing against it.
    ‘He is in a bad mood this morning,’ said Bulteel, following the spy down the stairs with some letters to post. ‘His gout must
     be aggravating him.’
    ‘He is always in a bad mood,’ Chaloner replied tartly. ‘So goutiness must be his permanent state.’
    ‘Do not be too hard on him,’ said Bulteel quietly. ‘He is under a lot of pressure, what with the bishops demanding new laws
     to suppress nonconformists, the Court popinjays clamouring for war with the Dutch, and people muttering that the Queen – the
     wife
he
chose for His Majesty – is barren.’
    ‘How is your family?’ Chaloner was loath to discuss the Earl’s concerns, because he and Bulteel held diametrically opposite
     views on most of them. Bulteel tended to accept whatever the Earl told him, whereas Chaloner had seen enough of the world
     to make up his own mind.
    Bulteel blinked at the abrupt enquiry. ‘Well, we would like to provide our little son with a sibling, but I fear for my future
     employment. Haddon has only been here a few months, but the Earl already prefers him to me – he is taking over duties that
     should be mine.’
    ‘But that is why he was hired,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘You were overwhelmed, struggling to keep up, and Haddon is meant to
     be taking some of your work. The Earl expects you to be grateful, not nervous.’
    ‘Well, I
am
nervous,’ snapped Bulteel, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘This job is important to me. And I do not like Haddon, anyway.
     He smells of dog and is always smiling at people. It is not natural.’
    ‘Right,’ said Chaloner, not sure what else to say. Haddon did smile at people, but no more than was necessary for normal social
     intercourse, and the spy had not noticed any particular odour of pooch. He changed the subject before the discussion went
     any