The Westminster Poisoner by Susanna Gregory

was going to hire Langston to be his personal spy.’
    The news of Langston’s death – and the unsettling notion that the Earl was expanding his intelligence network without telling
     him – was enough to drive Chaloner to White Hall immediately. He walked as fast as his sore leg would lethim. As he limped across the Palace Court, he saw the day was not quite advanced enough for the King and his Court to have
     retired to bed, and the rumpus emanating from Lady Castlemaine’s apartments suggested an extension of the Babylonian escapade
     was still in full swing. He heard the King’s distinctive laugh, followed by the bleat of a goat, and then something that sounded
     like a musical instrument being smashed. He did not like to imagine what they were doing, but suspected that whatever it was
     would transpire to be expensive for the taxpayer.
    He was just walking up the stairs to the Lord Chancellor’s offices, when he heard a scream. It was his master, and he sounded
     terrified. Chaloner broke into a run, ignoring the protesting twinge in his leg as he took the steps three at a time. When
     he reached the Earl’s door, he threw it open with a resounding crack, sword in his hand. The Earl knelt precariously on top
     of his desk, while his steward stood on a chair next to him. They were clutching each other, white-faced and frightened, and
     Chaloner was immediately struck by how old and vulnerable they both looked.
    ‘Help me!’ cried the Earl, when the spy edged into the room, every sense alert for danger. It appeared to be deserted, and
     there was no sign of assassins or anything else that might have driven the Lord Chancellor and his steward to take refuge
     atop the furniture. Chaloner took a step towards the window, but was brought up short when he cracked his head on the inconveniently
     placed chandelier.
    ‘Help you with what?’ he asked, hand to his scalp. Once again, he was grateful for Isabella’s hat, because he suspected he
     would have knocked himself insensible without it – the fixture seemed to be made of especially unyielding metal.
    ‘Look, man, look!’ screeched the Earl, pointing unsteadily at a chest in the corner, where he kept a few changes of clothes
     and a spare hairpiece or two. ‘It is the Devil’s work!’
    Assuming some sort of explosive device was hidden there, Chaloner gestured that his master was to walk towards him, intent
     on getting him out before anything detonated. ‘Come,’ he said, a little impatiently, when the Earl merely shook his head and
     refused to move. ‘You must leave now.’
    ‘I am not jumping down while that … that
thing
is there!’ declared the Earl vehemently.
    Bemused, Chaloner studied the chest more closely, and saw a wig on the floor next to it. It was one of the larger ones, a
     magnificent creation of golden curls that hung well past the Earl’s shoulders. They were rumoured to have come from a Southwark
     whore, who was currently in the process of growing a new set for the Duke of York. As he looked, Chaloner became aware that
     it was twitching. Then it began to slide along the floor of its own volition, slowly at first, but then with increasing speed
     as it approached the desk. The Earl howled again, and so did Haddon. Chaloner started to laugh.
    ‘Do something!’ shrieked the Earl. ‘Before it races up the table and attaches itself to my person.’
    ‘Or mine,’ added Haddon fearfully. ‘There is witchery in that periwig, and I am not sure such spells are very discerning.
     The evil may be meant for him, but it might harm me instead.’
    Struggling to control his amusement, Chaloner jabbed the tip of his sword into the wig as it slithered past him. It stopped
     dead, although he could feel it tugging as it tried to continue its journey.
    ‘Do not damage the hair!’ squawked the Earl, watchinghim in horror. ‘Do you know how much those things cost? More than
you
earn in a year!’
    ‘Perhaps I should ask for a pay-rise,