A Murder on London Bridge (26 page)

‘I do not think that particular gathering will—’ he began.

‘I do not care what you think,’ snapped the Earl peevishly. ‘You will go.’

Chaloner frowned. He accepted that the Earl had good reason to be concerned about Somerset House soirees so close to his dinner, but that was no excuse for recklessness. ‘It is a bad idea to—’

‘
You will go
,’ repeated the Earl vehemently. ‘That is a direct order. If you disobey it, you can look for a new post. And the moment you have finished your duties in Somerset House, you will come to tell me what you have learned. Do you understand?’

Chaloner nodded, wondering why he should be so insistent. But the Earl waved a hand to indicate he was dismissed, so he turned and walked away, unhappy and full of questions.

Chaloner had two people to interview as a matter of urgency: Phillippes and Edward Penderel. He was distinctly more uneasy about Phillippes, lest he was recognised as the man who had been chased out of Chapel House. He did not think the dial-maker had seen his face, but decided to take a gun with him when he went, anyway. He disliked firearms, because they were heavy and unpredictable, but not carrying one would put him at a serious disadvantage.

To postpone what would probably be a trying confrontation, he decided to tackle Edward first.

He knew Rupert, Neville and Oliver would not be at their Tothill Street home, because they were taking the Dowager to Winchester Palace, so he picked the lock on their front door, and let himself in. He did not seriously expect to find Edward hiding there, but it would be remiss not to check.

The house was even more unkempt than the last time he had broken in, and he was disgusted by the squalor. He was not the most assiduous of housekeepers himself, but he did not leave dirty dishes until they turned hairy with mould, or toss soiled laundry into corners until it reeked.

He found several notes the brothers had left for each other, which told him they had been searching hard for Edward. Oliver had been trawling taverns, Neville had looked in brothels, while Rupert made enquires at Court. The scribbled messages told Chaloner that they genuinely had no idea where he might have gone.

Disappointed, he left, stopping at Fetter Lane to collect a handgun he had acquired during a previous investigation. It was not a very good one, and he had not used it in weeks, so he spent a few moments with an oily rag, cleaning its moving parts. Then he loaded it and tucked it into his belt, hoping the thing would not go off of its own accord and emasculate him.

He walked to the Bridge, and found Phillippes not in his rooms, but fiddling with a box that was attached to some wooden railings outside. Several wires emerged from the bottom of it, disappearing into the water below. Hussey was watching him, accompanied by five of his fat children. Chaloner edged closer. The brats were making a nuisance of themselves by poking the mechanism, and Phillippes was distracted by them. This was good, because it meant Chaloner was less likely to be noticed as he eavesdropped.

‘I told Scarlet to be here,’ Hussey was saying irritably. ‘But he did not arrive for work again this morning. Still, I suppose it is understandable, under the circumstances. What can you tell me?’

‘Yesterday’s tide was unusually low,’ replied Phillippes, studying his equipment. ‘But the one on Monday was peculiarly high. Perhaps the rumours are right, and they
are
an omen of evil to come.’

‘Never mind that,’ declared Hussey worriedly. ‘What about shipping?’

‘Shipping?’ echoed Phillippes, swivelling around to regard him askance.

‘Yes, shipping. Boats’ captains might lose control in turbulent water, and collide with the Bridge. It could cause untold damage. Robert! Stop that at once! It is not genteel.’

The last remarks were bellowed at a volume that brought the entire street to a standstill, and caused the hapless Robert to blush to the roots of his hair. Then Hussey strode away, his face full of concern over Phillippes’s news, leaving his brats to waddle after him.

‘When I see his brood, it makes me glad I am childless,’ remarked Phillippes to Chaloner, who was pretending to stroll past. The dial-maker did not seem to recognise him as an adversary, so Chaloner stopped to talk. He kept his hand firmly on the gun, though, ready to pull it out.

‘He does have rather a lot of them.’

‘Dozens,’ agreed Phillippes. ‘All extremely large. Are you here to ask about the Lord Chancellor’s tide-ring? If so, you can tell him it will be ready in a week. The extra money he gave me made all the difference.’

‘Extra money?’ Could this be the source of the sudden wealth Sarah Tyus had talked about?

Phillippes nodded. ‘It served to focus my mind, and allowed me to bribe certain craftsmen.’

‘I am sure he will be pleased. But I wonder if you might help him another way.’ Chaloner took a deep breath and plunged on, deciding the time for games was over. ‘He has asked me to look into Blue Dick Culmer’s murder, and wonders whether you might know anything about the culprit. He will be very grateful for any intelligence. And he has connections to the Royal Society.’

Phillippes eyed him intently. ‘You think he might get me elected?’

‘He is an influential man.’ Chaloner leaned against the railing and looked at the swirling brown water below. A drowned cat had been washed up, and gulls were squabbling over the carcass.

‘I saw the crime with my own eyes,’ declared Phillippes. ‘And I reported it to Spymaster Williamson, who ordered me not to discuss it with anyone else. However, if the Earl can arrange my membership of the Royal Society, I shall tell you anything he wants to know.’

‘How did you come to witness the attack?’

‘I was reading in my rooms, when I happened to glance out of the window. I saw a man lurking near the cockle stall. His hat and face-scarf told me he meant to disguise himself, and that aroused my suspicions. So I stopped work and watched him.’

‘Did you think he might commit murder?’

‘Of course not, or I would have stopped him. To be honest, I thought he was just going to steal some cockles. He hovered for about an hour. Unfortunately for him, the wind took his hat off at one point, and I saw part of his face. He was a Penderel brother.’

‘Which one?’

‘Now there I cannot help you, because they all look the same to me. Anyway, suddenly, he became taut and watchful. Then, in the flash of an eye, he had leapt forward and driven his knife into Blue Dick Culmer. I saw a fellow give chase, but Penderel had too great a lead on him.’

‘How did you recognise Blue Dick? Did you know him?’

‘I most certainly did not! I only learned later that he was the iconoclast who had ravaged Canterbury Cathedral. Personally, I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for him, but murder is murder, and the culprit should answer for his crime.’

‘Indeed,’ said Chaloner, noting that Phillippes looked away when he spoke his sanctimonious words. ‘I heard Blue Dick visited Chapel House shortly before—’

‘I doubt it,’ said Phillippes briskly. ‘It is empty at the moment, because it is being renovated. But that is all I can tell you about the murder, I am afraid. Is it enough to satisfy Clarendon? When can I expect my invitation from the Royal Society?’

‘Why is the house being restored?’ asked Chaloner. ‘It does not look shabbier than—’

‘I have no idea,’ said Phillippes impatiently. ‘Perhaps it suffers from dry rot or rising damp. I would not know, because I have never been inside.’

‘Have you not?’ asked Chaloner, sensing he was going too far but persisting anyway. ‘I wish I had. There is a tale that gold is buried in its cellars. Do you think it is true?’

Phillippes’s head came up sharply. ‘Who told you that?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘White Hall is always full of rumours.’

‘Of course,’ said Phillippes, although there was a glitter of suspicion in his eyes, and Chaloner knew he would get no more out of the man. At least, not without coercion. But a busy thoroughfare was no place to shove a knife against the dial-maker’s throat and demand to know what he had been doing in Chapel House two nights before.

Chapter 7

Frustrated that he had been unable to exact more information from Phillippes, Chaloner went to the Bear tavern to consider what he
had
learned. He was inclined to believe Phillippes’s testimony regarding Blue Dick, because his description of the killer’s clothing and demeanour matched what he has witnessed himself. So that, combined with what the Earl had seen, meant Edward probably had stabbed Blue Dick. And Thurloe had been right about Kaltoff’s drawing – even if it did depict Blue Dick, it meant nothing other than that Kaltoff had thought him a good subject to caricature.

He rubbed his chin. So Phillippes – and Kaltoff by extension – were innocent of Blue Dick’s murder, and it was for some other business that they had not wanted to be watched in the Beggar’s Bush. Was it the gold in Chapel House? He recalled Phillippes’s words to Kaltoff: ‘you know what is at stake’ and ‘you know what we stand to lose, should we be found out’. He might well have been referring to the discovery of a fortune, and his nervousness derived from that fact that the Dowager was probably after the same thing. In other words, he did not want her to know that he and Kaltoff intended to have it first.

Thoughts of Chapel House led Chaloner to consider Junior Warden Scarlet and Jane. Was treasure the reason the Dowager had ordered the building’s refurbishment, obliging them to take lodgings elsewhere? Did the couple know what was in their home, and Jane had been assaulted because they refused to share the secret?

Knowing he had been remiss in not speaking to Scarlet sooner, Chaloner left the tavern, and headed for Bridge House. But his journey was in vain, because not only was Scarlet not at his place of work, he was not at home, either – Hussey had sent a servant to find out why he had failed to arrive that morning. No one knew where he was, although Chaloner learned from the Bridge clerks that the hapless man had taken to wandering off alone since the attack on his wife.

Feeling the need to discuss the case with someone whose opinion he valued more than any other, Chaloner headed for Lincoln’s Inn and Thurloe. He nodded a friendly greeting to the porter on the gate, then made his way to Chamber XIII.

He loved the ex-Spymaster’s rooms. They overlooked a pretty yard called Dial Court, and had a familiar, comforting odour of beeswax and wood smoke. Full of oak panels, sturdy furniture and books, they were the one place in London that Chaloner felt truly safe.

He knocked on the door, but Thurloe took a long time to answer, and when he did, he opened it only a crack. The ex-Spymaster’s face was flushed, and he had abandoned his customary sober browns for a suit of pale blue. Usually, he preferred the simpler styles of the Commonwealth, but that day, his falling band boasted an impressive amount of frill, and the lace at his cuffs was pure elegance. Chaloner had never seen him looking so debonair, and found himself at a loss for words.

‘Have you come to tell me who killed Blue Dick?’ whispered Thurloe, glancing furtively behind him. ‘Or the identities of the masked men you fought in St Mary Overie?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner, rather taken aback by the bald questions. ‘I came to ask—’

‘Then not now, Tom,’ interrupted Thurloe softly. ‘I am indisposed.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘You mean you are unwell?’

Thurloe lowered his voice further still. ‘I mean I am unavailable.’

He started to close the door, but Chaloner stopped him, alarmed. ‘What is wrong?’

‘Please go,’ said Thurloe in a low but firm voice. ‘I am busy.’

‘You can spare me a moment,’ insisted Chaloner, easing to one side to see whether someone had a knife to Thurloe’s ribs. He could not think of another reason why his friend should refuse to let him in. But no one was there. ‘I need to know whether you have decoded those ciphers.’

‘Not yet,’ replied Thurloe, trying to close the door a second time. He sighed when Chaloner inserted his foot. ‘I will send word when I have something. But now you must excuse—’

Chaloner took the bull by the horns. ‘You met Herring the iconoclast in Rider’s Coffee House, where you were seen by a reliable witness. Are you insane?’

Thurloe regarded him coolly. ‘We have already discussed this, Thomas. I told you: I shall do as my conscience dictates. Besides, I decline to talk about it with you.’

Chaloner was dismayed that the ex-Spymaster had not immediately offered an explanation that would justify what he had done. ‘I cannot stand by while you indulge yourself in a rebellion that will almost certainly fail,’ he cried. ‘And that may see you executed as a traitor.’

Thurloe winced at the volume of his voice. ‘Please, Thomas! There is no need to bawl. And while I appreciate your care for my wellbeing, I assure you, it is quite unnecessary.’

Chaloner had excellent hearing, and he stiffened when he detected a rustle from within. Someone
was
there! Was it Herring, or someone else associated with the upsurge of Thurloe’s ‘displeased majority’? Or had the ex-Spymaster’s chambers been invaded by enemies, who had ordered him to be rid of whoever came knocking so inconveniently?

Before Thurloe could stop him, Chaloner shoved open the door and dashed into the room, sword in one hand and dag in the other. And then he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a visitor, and she was sitting by the fire.

Chaloner gaped in astonishment. Lady Castlemaine was the last person he would have expected to see in Thurloe’s chambers. As a Puritan, the ex-Spymaster deplored the immorality the King’s mistress brought to the Court, while she would have no time for disgraced Commonwealth ministers. She squealed her alarm when she found herself looking down the barrel of a gun. Chaloner glanced around quickly, ascertained she was alone, and lowered his weapons, thoughts reeling in utter confusion.

When she saw she was not going to be shot, the Lady leaned back in her chair, laced her fingers together and looked Chaloner up and down. She had made some effort to disguise herself, by donning a thick cloak and a veil, but even these unflattering garments could not hide the fact that she was a very beautiful woman. Loyally, though, Chaloner decided she could not hold a candle to Hannah, especially when the hard eyes and sly mouth were taken into account.