House of Shadows (42 page)

‘Gentlemen,' he said, going to stand at the front of the assembly, near the wall where the encoded letter had been left. ‘You know why we are here, so I shall not waste your time with preliminaries. Does anyone have anything to report?'

‘There is going to be a new tax on wool,' called a man from the front row. When he raised his head to speak, Chaloner glimpsed a long nose. ‘And there is talk of it being extended to cloth – to reimburse the navy's unpaid sailors, allegedly.'

‘The navy will see none of it,' sneered Preacher Parr. ‘It will go towards funding the government's vice. God will strike them down for their wickedness – with a little help from us, His faithful servants.'

‘I suppose we might be seen as agents of justice,' mused Long Nose thoughtfully. ‘By devising ways to avoid these iniquitous taxes, we are saving dissipated ministers from themselves.'

‘John White hanged himself on Sunday,' said a man who sat directly in front of Chaloner. He leaned forward as he spoke, and the spy saw fingers that were marred with small burns. He had seen such scars before, on the hands of silversmiths. ‘He was taxed to death – literally.'

‘We are all being bled dry by the government,' said Hay sorrowfully. ‘It is very wrong.'

‘What is wrong is our government's love affair with sin,' countered Parr, using the same stentorian tones he might employ when addressing a congregation. He raised his hands, so his hood fell back and revealed his face. No one seemed surprised, and Chaloner was under the impression it had happened before. ‘God is on our side, and we are right to oppose this evil regime. Long live the Commonwealth!'

There was a smattering of applause, but not nearly as much as Chaloner would have expected.

‘The Commonwealth taxed us too,' remarked Hay. ‘But not nearly as much as the king's men. Long live free trade and a government that does not grow fat on the toil of honest merchants.'

This time the support was considerably more enthusiastic.

‘And long may we continue to move money between accounts,' called Long Nose. ‘It has already saved us a fortune in revenue – by keeping it out of the government's sticky hands.'

The cellar rang with whistles, stamps and approving yells, and slowly it dawned on Chaloner that the conspirators were not aiming to overthrow the king and usher in a new Commonwealth – their main objective was devising ways to avoid paying their taxes. He almost laughed aloud, but his amusement faded when he realized that greed was a powerful compulsion, and the fact that the rebellion's aim was vaguely ridiculous did not render its instigators any less dangerous.

‘And now
I
have something to report,' said Hay. ‘There is evidence that we have been betrayed.'

‘You mean the Archer brothers?' asked the silversmith. ‘We knew they wanted to tell Spymaster Williamson about the way we manage our accounts, but you said they had thought better of it and had gone to Jamaica instead. How can they still be a problem?'

‘It is not them,' replied Hay smoothly. ‘They are beyond hurting us now. It is someone else.'

‘But we are not doing anything wrong,' objected Long Nose, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘Well, not really. We just transfer money here and there, so the government's auditors find it difficult to track – and what they cannot track, they cannot tax. It is not
our
fault the Treasury Department cannot keep up with the ways of modern commerce.'

‘Hear, hear!' cried the silversmith, apparently less bothered by the ethics of the situation. ‘Our plan is working perfectly, just as Hay envisioned when he first mooted the notion, and we are all the richer for it. And that being said, how could anyone want to put a stop to it? Everyone here benefits.'

Chaloner glanced at York, who raised his hands defensively. ‘It would have looked suspicious if I had refused to invest in their tax-free accounts,' he whispered. ‘Besides, why should I not benefit? The government takes far too big a cut of an honest man's income.'

Chaloner did not deign to answer and turned his attention back to Hay.

‘A sea captain came to see me this afternoon, eager to join our ranks,' the shipping magnate was saying. ‘However, I suspect his real intention is to expose us.'

‘Then arrange for him to visit Jamaica,' said the silversmith with a careless shrug. ‘As you did to the Archers. I do not see why a mere sailor should concern us.'

‘Garsfield is not the problem,' said Parr. ‘The real issue is that
someone
gave him details about our operation, and
that
man is the traitor. I suspect he is sitting among us, here in this very room.'

There was immediate consternation.

‘I found this today,' said Hay, brandishing the letter he had recovered from the wall. ‘It is in cipher, and addressed to Spymaster Williamson. And it is not the
first, either. There have been four just like this in the past month alone.'

There was a collective gasp of horror, and then a clamour of voices as questions were yelled. Some men were on their feet, while others huddled deeper inside their hoods and appeared to be regarding their neighbours with wariness and distrust.

The silversmith's voice was louder than the others. He pointed to Parr. ‘
There
is our traitor. He claims he is not interested in money, only in serving God. But it is unnatural, and I do not believe it.'

‘Parr would never betray us,' said Hay, although he shot the preacher an uncomfortable glance.

The silversmith folded his arms and looked triumphant. ‘Then tell me why Strutt lies in a pool of blood in the corridor near my room – I almost fell over him on my way here. The answer is because
Parr
killed him! I know he is the culprit, because I saw them together just moments before.'

Hay glanced at Parr in shock. ‘They were together, but—'

‘It was not me!' shouted Parr, outraged both by the accusation and by the fact that people seemed rather willing to believe it. ‘It must have been the real traitor—'

‘
You
are the real traitor,' bellowed the silversmith.

‘No!' yelled Parr. ‘I am innocent, a man of God, and—'

‘The traitor will be a stranger to us,' interrupted Long Nose, breaking impatiently into the altercation. ‘We come here cloaked and hooded, but we all know each other, so let us end the pretence here and now. If everyone abandons his disguise, we shall see who we do not recognize.'

Chaloner began to ease towards the door. Here was an outcome he had not anticipated.

‘Yes!' cried the silversmith, hauling his robe from his face. ‘Here
I
am. You all know me – Jonas Evans, from Southwark.'

Chaloner shot to his feet as more hoods fell back and snatched a lamp from the wall. Immediately, hands tried to grab him, but he jigged and twisted, and no one kept hold of him for long. He hurled the torch into the niche that contained the gunpowder, then turned and raced towards the door. It was blocked by the silversmith, whose face was pale with outrage. He could not defeat Chaloner in a fight – the spy was naturally experienced in such matters – but he could delay him for vital seconds until he could be overwhelmed by others. Chaloner turned and headed for the tunnel instead, but Evans dived full length and managed to drag him to the floor. Then the flames from the torch reached the scattered gunpowder, which blazed and ignited the straw. Puzzled, Hay went to see what was happening.

‘Gunpowder!' he yelled, backing away fast. ‘With flames all over it! Run for your lives!'

 

In the event the fire did not last long enough to burn through the thick wood of the powder barrel, so there was no explosion. It was just as well, Chaloner thought as he punched his way free of the silversmith, given that the whole mansion might have collapsed had it gone off. The panic created by Hay's announcement had produced the effect the spy had wanted anyway. There was an abrupt and immediate stampede – which included Hay and York – for the stairs, and no one was very interested in lingering to lay hold of traitors. All except Parr. The preacher's face was a mask of rage, and Chaloner saw he cared little for his own safety. He did care about what he saw as his duty to God, though. He gave chase, screaming for others to
help him. Evans the silversmith was the only one who obliged.

Chaloner reached the tunnel's entrance and dragged open the trap door. It was not easy ascending the narrow, cramped slope at speed, and the faster he tried to go the more he skidded and slipped. He could hear Parr gaining on him. It felt like an age before he reached the pantry and clambered out, and when he did the preacher was almost on him. He slammed the opening shut just as Parr was stretching out to grab him. Parr released a frustrated howl and began to batter the barrier with his fists. Chaloner grinned at the foul language that peppered the curses and headed for the door and freedom. He was shocked to find his way barred by Castell, who wore a hooded cloak and carried a pair of handguns.

‘
You
are one of these conspirators?' he blurted, astonished that the plotters should consider admitting such a man to their ranks. A dissipated gambler was unlikely to make for a reliable ally. ‘I thought you only wanted the money they paid you.'

‘I despise the government,' declared Castell, staggering slightly. He was still drunk from dinner. ‘Its ministers shun me at the gaming tables, and I am sick of it. Death to the lot of them, I say. Stay where you are, or I will kill you. I am not afraid to dispense a little justice.'

He aimed the weapon with a hand that was surprisingly steady for a man in his cups, and Chaloner stopped dead in his tracks. Then there was a yell of triumph from Parr – his assault on the panel was beginning to pay off, because, like the rest of the house, it was rotten and weak. It began to splinter, and Chaloner saw he was going to be caught. He took a step towards the door, tensing when Castell's finger tightened on the trigger. But the spy could see powder spilling from the pan; the weapon had been badly loaded and was
more danger to its user than to its target. There was a flash, a sharp report and a brief silence. Then Castell started to scream.

Meanwhile, Parr began to emerge from the tunnel. Chaloner ran for the pantry door, and as he glanced back he saw Parr seize Castell's second gun. He suspected it was no better primed than the first, but he was unwilling to bet his life on it by lingering. He hurtled through the door and slammed it behind him. He turned left, but found himself in an unfamiliar hallway that led to a dead end. He was trapped. Parr and Evans were out of the tunnel, and he could hear them thundering towards him.

‘This way,' hissed an urgent voice from behind an opening that had been cleverly concealed in the wall panels. It was Margaret. ‘Do not stand there gaping. Hurry!'

With no other choice, Chaloner did as he was told. He found himself in a dark, musty room that had once been a library, judging from the number of shelves along its walls. Margaret hurried towards the fireplace, where she hauled on a lever. Chaloner closed the door and secured it by jamming a chair under the handle. Unfortunately, Parr seemed to know about the room, too, because he immediately started to hurl himself against the door, and the chair began to give way.

‘Come on,' whispered Margaret, indicating with an impatient flick of her head that Chaloner was to climb through a tiny hatch she had opened. The spy baulked when he saw she held a stone in her gnarled hands. She raised it, as if readying herself to put it to good use. Suddenly something became perfectly clear.

‘
You
killed Tivill! Why?'

She grimaced. ‘I suspect you already know why – because he attempted blackmail.'

‘But there was nothing to blackmail anyone about –
Walduck
did
kill Browne, as you know full well, given that it was you who provided me with the information to work it out.'

‘That did not make Tivill any less of a nuisance, though.'

Chaloner thought aloud as he leaned on the chair, trying to brace it against Parr's furious onslaught. ‘Tivill believed Walduck's protestations of innocence – although they were lies – and when his ship returned to London he came to see what he could find out. Instead of learning about the murder, he discovered what Hay and his associates were doing and threatened to tell. Am I right?'

‘I dispatched him with a rock to the head and was going to drop his corpse in the fish pond. But Hay found it before I could fetch a cart. He has no idea what really happened; I suspect he thinks Parr is responsible. And speaking of Parr, are you going to go through this hole or stay and face his fury?'

Chaloner jerked backwards when a sword plunged through the worm-ridden door, missing him by no more than the width of a finger. If the preacher continued his onslaught, it would not be many moments before he was inside – and Chaloner had heard Evans offer to reload the gun in a way that would not blow off its user's hand. At such close range, Parr could not fail to hit his target, and yet the spy was loath to put himself at the mercy of the rock-wielding grandmother by climbing into what appeared to be a very small space.

‘You had better hurry,' said Margaret, watching him hesitate. ‘As I said earlier, Parr is a fanatic and will stop at nothing to do what he believes is right. He will kill you without a second thought.'

Chaloner indicated the stone. ‘What are you going to do? Brain
me
and leave
my
body for Hay?'

The sword crashed through the door a second time,
showering him with splinters. At this rate the preacher would not need to smash the whole thing – he would be able to take aim through one of the great holes he was making.

Margaret reclaimed his attention with a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Is that what you think? You could not be more wrong. My intention was to brain
Parr
.'