The Westminster Poisoner

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Henry Scobel, Clerk of the House of Lords, was dying. His physician had confidently informed him that he was afflicted with a ‘sharpness of the blood’, a painful ailment from which few recovered. Scobel had always lived a clean, decent and sober life, and had no idea why his blood should so suddenly have become sharp, but he was unwilling to waste his last hours pondering on it. He was a religious man, and if God had decided it was time for him to die, then who was he to argue? And, if the truth be told, he no longer had much appetite for life, anyway — he had liked England under Cromwell, but detested it under the newly restored Charles II. The King and his Court had only been installed for a few months, but already they were showing themselves to be corrupt, debauched and treacherous. Scobel was appalled by them, and deplored the notion of such men ruling his country.

‘You will be better soon, uncle,’ said Will Symons, trying to control the tremor in his voice. He loved his kinsman dearly, and hated to see him suffering. ‘And in the spring, we shall ride out together to see the cherry trees at Rotherhithe, just like we do every year.’

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