A Murder on London Bridge (29 page)

He turned and walked away, leaving Chaloner concerned for the safety of his second-best viol.

There was a scratching at the window, so he went to let his cat in. It mewed demandingly at him from a dry perch on a chest, well away from the flood on the floor. He gave it some salted fish, which it ate quickly then disappeared the way it had come. Did it sense something was wrong with the building, and declined to be in it longer than necessary? The animal certainly spent very little time there. Of course, neither did Chaloner. He looked around, and saw it was an unprepossessing place, with little to say about its occupant. There was a small jug his mother had given him, which sat on the mantelpiece, and the cracked mirror from his dead wife, but nothing else of a personal nature.

It was depressing, and he stayed just long enough to wash in a bowl of icy water and put on a clean shirt. In view of the inclement weather, he donned a military-style jerkin and thick boots. Then he made sure all his weapons were in good working order: sword at his waist, dagger in his left boot, dagger in his sleeve, and dagger in his belt. The gun he left behind. He would not be able to keep the powder dry in the rain, and it would almost certainly be an encumbrance.

His first call was to the Rainbow Coffee House, because he thought a hot drink might serve to warm him.
The Intelligencer
was hot off the press, full of talk about the looming Dutch war. It also contained a report about the old king’s ghost, along with the editor’s opinion that the dead monarch was haunting London because he was uneasy about the number of Catholics who lived there. Chaloner flung the publication away in disgust, wishing he had not soiled his hands with it.

‘There is no need for that!’ cried Stedman, leaping to his feet as the hurled newsbook swept a dish of coffee into his lap. ‘I know the grammar is poor, but that is hardly my fault.’

‘My apologies,’ said Chaloner, insincerely. He had still not forgiven the young printer for starting the rumour about his attempted suicide.

‘Did you hear the old king rode across the Bridge last night?’ asked Stedman brightly. He seemed unaware of Chaloner’s antipathy towards him. ‘He was spotted by some of the Dowager’s Capuchins, which must have given the sly old devils a turn.’ He laughed uproariously.

Chaloner did not share his amusement. ‘I see.’

Stedman’s humour faded. ‘Do not tell me
you
are a Catholic?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly, aware that several other men were listening to the discussion.

‘Good,’ said Stedman. ‘So tell us what you think of the Clarendon Code. You listen to us debate the subject, but you never join in.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘That is because I know very little about it.’

‘So?’ demanded Stedman. ‘A lack of knowledge does not stop the rest of us from holding forth.’

‘No, but it should.’ Rector Thompson of St Dunstan-in-the-West came to sit at their table. ‘Do you
really
think the old king has risen from his grave to go wandering about London, Stedman?’

‘I do,’ said Stedman, quite seriously. ‘Clearly, he is concerned for his city, and is warning us to be on our guard against those who mean it harm – Catholics, dissenters and the like.’

‘I heard he carries his head under his arm,’ added Landlord Farr. ‘Perhaps that means he cannot see very well, and he is not so much wandering as lost.’

Chaloner left when the discussion began to range towards the ridiculous, wondering how intelligent men could believe such nonsense. He supposed the old king’s appearances had been given more credibility for being put in print, and wished the newsbooks’ editor had not done it.

It was still early, but Chaloner walked briskly to Tothill Street to wake Hannah, as he had promised. Then, before she had properly gathered her wits – she was not a morning person – he told her what had transpired at Somerset House the previous night.

‘So I was right to be worried,’ she said unhappily, blinking sleep from her eyes. ‘They
are
planning something, and that purple-nosed Luckin is at the heart of it.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Yes, but I was unable to find out what.’

‘I will help you.’ Hannah reached out her hand to Chaloner’s lips when he immediately began to object. ‘I do not mean by breaking into houses and listening at windows. Or even by interviewing dangerous men like Luckin, Progers and the Penderel brothers. But I can listen for rumours, and I can inveigle invitations – for both of us – to venues where they are likely to be.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘That is out of the question. I do not want you involved.’

‘Then that is too bad,’ she said quietly but firmly. ‘Because my conscience will not allow me to sit back while some great evil is perpetrated. And that means you have two choices. You can let me work with you in the way I have suggested. Or I can operate alone. I assume you will be happier with the former?’

Chaloner could see her mind was made up and admired her courage. Perhaps they were more alike than he had thought, because he would have given the same alternatives, had the situation been reversed. He was not happy about it, however.

‘Very well. But only if you promise to do no more than listen, even if a situation arises that provides a perfect opportunity for you to interrogate someone. Will you swear to me that you will resist?’

She scowled. ‘You drive a hard bargain, but I agree to your terms. However, in return, you must tell me all you have learned so far. You mentioned yesterday that Mr Thurloe is too busy for discussions, so perhaps you can use me to test your theories.’

Chaloner started to say no. Hannah was not Thurloe, and he doubted she would be able to throw light on the muddle of facts he had uncovered. But he saw an angry light come into her eyes when she thought he was going to refuse, so he hastened to oblige.

He was unused to sharing information with people, and did not find it easy, but he persisted, and furnished her with a clear, if somewhat condensed analysis of his findings – that Edward Penderel had murdered Blue Dick for reasons unknown; that Phillippes, Kaltoff and the Dowager were hunting for gold in Chapel House; and that some very dangerous men were gathering in London and might be readying themselves for an uprising. He also included what the Queen thought she had heard – that Lord Bristol’s return was going to be celebrated with some sort of religious ceremony on the Bridge, perhaps involving St Thomas Becket, but that Winter had denied the possibility of using fireworks there. When he had finished, Hannah was thoughtful.

‘It seems to me that the best way forward is to identify the masked men you fought at St Mary Overie,’ she said. ‘Edward fled to them after the murder, and they sound well organised and dangerous. Perhaps they are the ones who will actually carry out whatever mischief Somerset House is plotting.’

Chaloner regarded her doubtfully. ‘There is no evidence to support that.’

And, he thought to himself, Luckin had given the impression that he intended something a lot more serious than ‘mischief’. It sounded to him as though the vicar of Wimbledon had an atrocity in mind. He did not tell Hannah, but interviewing Luckin would be his main objective that day.

‘No, but it stands to reason,’ she argued. ‘Will Goff and Blue Dick sang in a choir that practised in St Mary Overie, and now you have these masked men meeting in the same place. Moreover, the Penderels are at least peripherally involved in the Somerset House plot, and one of them murdered Blue Dick. These are connections you cannot ignore.’

Chaloner supposed they were not, and saw that time spent in Southwark was as good a way as any to further his investigations. He kissed Hannah briefly, and was gone before she could make him breakfast.

Marching up to Somerset House and demanding an audience with Luckin was unlikely to be very fruitful, so Chaloner decided to waylay the vicar outside. He was just settling down for what might be a lengthy vigil, when the Penderel brothers emerged. They were pale and heavy eyed, and even though his hiding place put him some distance from them, Chaloner could still smell the stale wine on their breath. He could only suppose that the Dowager’s party had turned wild after she had retired to bed, and that a good night had been enjoyed by all.

‘I
did
ask,’ Rupert was saying in response to a question from Neville. ‘And I thought he was going to tell us last night, but he changed his mind at the last minute.’

‘He does not trust us,’ said Oliver, clenching his scarred fists resentfully. ‘Oh, we are fine to do his dirty work – the running around and all – but Luckin does not trust us. He never has.’

‘Well, I do not trust him either,’ declared Neville. ‘And I continue to think we should leave London while we still have our heads. Why should we risk ourselves, when Luckin will not even explain what he has in mind? And where is he this morning, anyway?’

‘He left the city on some errand, but will be back for the Banqueting House reception this evening,’ replied Rupert. ‘Do not ask me what he is doing, Neville, because I do not know.’

Their voices faded away, and Chaloner saw his confrontation with the vicar would have to be postponed. He abandoned his doorway, and headed for Southwark, deciding to do as Hannah had suggested, and pursue his enquiries into the masked men.

St Mary Overie was a busy church, and a good many parishioners drifted in and out. All waxed lyrical about the choir that had contained Winter, Blue Dick and Will Goff, but no one knew anything about the masked men. Evidently, the warriors who had paid the vicar for the use of his church had taken care to keep a low profile.

‘I thought
I
had answered all your questions,’ grumbled Feake resentfully, when he saw what Chaloner was doing. ‘I told you – these fellows said they would not be back. You are wasting your time.’

Chaloner suspected that was true, but Hannah was right to recommend looking into the masked men more carefully, and St Mary Overie was the only lead he had on them. Or was it? He went to find Nat, to see if the beggar had learned anything new. But Nat, still wearing Chaloner’s cap, sported a black eye, and informed Chaloner that he had decided against a career in espionage. The masked men had heard that he had been asking questions about them, and had objected with their fists.

‘As soon as I got enough money for the coach, I’m going to live with me sister in Manchester,’ he whispered, sniffing wetly. ‘I don’t like Southwark no more.’

Chaloner gave him the necessary coins, sympathetic to a man who considered the city too dangerous. He was beginning to think the same himself. ‘You should leave as soon as poss—’

‘God reward you for your kindness, sir!’ cried Nat, grabbing Chaloner’s hand and kissing it. Chaloner tugged it away, embarrassed. ‘And because you been good to me, I shall tell you one thing that might help, although they’ll kill me for certain if they find out I blathered. The coach leaves on Sunday, so promise me not to use it ’til then.’

Chaloner nodded assent. Nat took a deep breath, and for a moment, Chaloner thought he had reconsidered his offer – that he had decided it was not worth the risk. But then he began to speak.

‘They rent a cottage near Winchester Palace, I know, because I seen them going in and out. But it’s a little house, shabby and poor, so I don’t think they actually
live
there.’

Chaloner was puzzled. ‘Do they keep women there, then?’ he asked. ‘Mistresses, perhaps, that they do not want their wives to know about?’

‘None that I ever seen. I think they use it to spy on Winchester Palace.’

‘That makes no sense. The bishop spends most of his time in his See, and is rarely in London.’

Chaloner knew this for a fact, because the prelate was the Earl of Clarendon’s friend, and visited him whenever he was in the city. It did not happen very often.

‘Then I have no idea what they are doing,’ said Nat, pulling his hat down further over his ears. ‘But don’t try to find out until Sunday. Swear to me, sir.’

Chaloner promised again.

His enquiries in Southwark at a dead end, Chaloner went to White Hall, where he spent the rest of the day listening for rumours about the murder of Blue Dick, Edward Penderel’s disappearance or anything that was planned for Shrove Tuesday. He learned nothing useful, but did discover that the old king’s ghost had visited Cheapside, that more of St Paul’s Cathedral had crumbled the previous evening, and that most folk smelled rebellion in the air. Unsettled, Chaloner headed for the Banqueting House when afternoon faded to evening, intending to tackle Luckin there.

The event to which the Court’s most influential members – and its many hangers on – were flocking was a reception for the French ambassador. The event was a grand one, comprising plenty of pomp and ceremony. The Dowager and her entourage were among the first to arrive, and she made a fuss until she was given the chair that had been reserved for the Queen. Katherine’s face fell when she saw she had been ousted, but she was used to being treated shabbily and knew better than to make a scene. She sat near the back, small, lonely and unnoticed.

The Earl of Clarendon had been invited, too, and Leigh asked Chaloner to keep an eye on the Dowager’s entourage, because there was a rumour that they had been stockpiling bad eggs. When Chaloner glanced at Progers, and saw the gleefully expectant expression on his ugly face, he was sure the tale was true. Unfortunately, Luckin was not among the Dowager’s party, and Chaloner heard Progers mutter to the Penderels that the vicar had been delayed, but was expected later.

The event began with a long and rather tedious speech in Latin by Father Stephen, which was lofty enough that even Chaloner struggled to follow its arguments – and he had enjoyed a university education. Then there were a number of toasts in French, followed by a sumptuous meal. Afterwards, the tables were cleared, the King’s Private Musick arrived, and there was dancing. The Queen watched longingly as the King swept Lady Castlemaine around the room. Her feet tapped to the rhythm, and Chaloner wished someone would invite her on to the floor. No one did.