Murder on High Holborn (12 page)

‘You should not be in here alone,’ said the landlord as he passed the door. ‘It is haunted. We paid a vicar to say some prayers last month, but they did not work, so we hired a sorcerer instead.’

‘Dr Lambe?’ predicted Chaloner. ‘Who works for the Duke of Buckingham?’

The landlord nodded. ‘He is said to be the best, and I do not like having a room that I cannot use. However, it is still here.’

‘What is?’

‘The ghost,’ came the reply, voice lowered. ‘This room stands on the exact spot where three Catholics were betrayed during the reign of Good Queen Bess. It is cursed. You must have noticed that it is colder than the rest of the building.’

‘Yes – because it has no fire.’

The landlord pursed his lips. ‘You can think what you like, but I know my tavern, and there is something badly amiss with this bit of it.’

Feeling he had wasted his time, Chaloner walked to the Swan with Two Necks, which was near the Fleet River. It was smaller than the Pope’s Head, although it had a sizeable yard and an impressive row of stables. The sign that swung over its door portrayed a double-necked bird, the faces of which had been rendered distinctly malevolent by the inclusion of teeth. Every Londoner knew, of course, that ‘two necks’ actually meant ‘two nicks’, and referred to the practice of annually notching swans’ beaks to identify their ownership.

He entered and immediately sensed an atmosphere. There had been a comfortable buzz of conversation as he had opened the door, but it stopped when he closed it, and he was aware of hats being pulled low to hide faces. He took a seat at an empty table.

‘We are closed,’ said the landlord shortly. ‘Try the Rose instead.’

‘I was told to come here,’ lied Chaloner. ‘By Paul Ferine.’

The landlord stared at him for a moment, then walked away without a word. Discussions resumed, although more softly than before. A quick glance around told Chaloner that most patrons were respectably dressed, some in plain country clothes and others with the lace and ribbons of high fashion. They included women as well as men, old people and young. They seemed as disparate a group as it was possible to get, but they had one thing in common: all kept their faces averted and had thick cloaks that would conceal their clothes when they left. Preacher Hill had been right to say that the folk who frequented the Swan wore disguises.

A sharp thump made him start. It sounded as though it had come from under his table, but when he looked beneath it, there was nothing to see. Others heard it, too, and there were knowing nods. He leaned back and folded his arms. Ferine might have been duped by such antics, but
he
did not believe in ghosts and was not about to be unsettled by tricks. However, it was clear that the other customers had taken the bump seriously, and understanding came in a flash: it was a belief in witchery that drew these folk together. It explained their hidden faces and their unease with strangers – such gatherings were illegal and dangerous.

A few moments later, a woman stood and glided towards him. She pushed back her hood to reveal black hair, startling blue eyes and the whitest skin he had ever seen. She was beautiful, but it was a cold loveliness, more like a statue rather than a thing of flesh and blood. As she sat, a chill breeze wafted around her, carrying with it a dank, musty scent that reminded him of a tomb.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice was deep and soft.

Chaloner was acutely aware that everyone was listening. He feigned nonchalance, although every fibre in his body was tense, and the dagger he carried in his sleeve was already in his hand. He was an experienced warrior, and doubted any individual in the Swan could best him, but there were at least forty patrons, and some might have guns. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, as it always did when he was in danger.

‘The same as Paul Ferine,’ he replied evenly.

The woman nodded slowly. ‘Very well. How many?’

While he struggled for a reply that would not reveal he had no idea what she was talking about, it occurred to Chaloner that he had spent much of that day in conversations he did not understand. ‘It depends on the price.’

‘That is non-negotiable, as we told Ferine. So are you buying or not?’

‘How long will it take to get them?’ Chaloner hoped he did not sound as baffled as he felt.

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘The same as always. Are you sure you are Ferine’s friend?’

‘I was,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Unfortunately, he is dead.’

‘Yes,’ breathed the woman. ‘It was predicted, so of course it came to pass.’

‘
He
did not think he would die.’ Chaloner seized the opportunity to discuss the murder. ‘He believed he would lose at cards or catch a cold. Are you saying that you knew differently?’

‘Give me your hand,’ ordered the woman abruptly.

Chaloner eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why?’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Why do you think? Come on, do not be shy.’

Nerves jangling, Chaloner held out his left hand – he was not about to offer up the right one when the dagger was in it. Her fingers were corpse-cold as they traced the lines on his palm, and the smell of old graves seemed suddenly stronger. She released him abruptly, for which he was inordinately grateful.

‘There is violence in your future,’ she hissed. ‘Along with uncertainty and fear.’

Chaloner did not doubt it, given his occupation. ‘Well? Are we in business or not?’

She smiled, although it was a nasty expression, and the hair went up on the back of his neck again. Irritably, he tried to pull himself together.

‘Yes, if you tell us how many,’ she replied.

‘Three,’ he replied promptly, prepared to add zeros if necessary.

‘Good!’ The smile became predatory as she held out her hand. ‘Give me the pertinent information and we will begin at once.’

‘I do not have it with me.’

The smile faded. ‘Then why did you come? You know we cannot do anything without it.’

‘I had to be sure. Ferine trusted you, but we do not know each other.’

She stared at him, eyes as hard and blue as old ice, then stood and stalked out, moving so smoothly that she appeared to be floating. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the moment she had gone the temperature around him seemed to rise.

There was no more he could do in the Swan, especially when he was on the receiving end of some very hostile, wary and fearful glances from the other patrons, whose unease made it obvious that there was no point in asking questions. Outside, he slipped into a shadowy doorway and settled down to wait. After a while, someone else arrived. He seemed familiar, but Chaloner was not sure why until he saw a hand covered in inked symbols: Lambe.

Chaloner rubbed his chin. The sorcerer had been at the club the night Ferine was murdered, and now he was visiting the same tavern. Of course, there were not many places where witches and their disciples could gather together safely, so perhaps it was no surprise that both frequented the Swan. Regardless, Chaloner would have to find out if anyone could verify where in the club Lambe had been when Ferine had been suffocated.

The sorcerer did not stay long, and was out again in moments. Chaloner tried to follow, but Lambe flagged down a hackney, which set off at a cracking pace – too fast for Chaloner to chase on foot. He returned to his shadowy doorway and waited again.

Eventually, the woman emerged. She wore a hooded cloak, but her peculiarly flowing gait gave her away. She attracted some odd glances as she glided along Holborn, and everyone gave her a wide berth, as if they sensed something amiss and did not want to be too close.

North of High Holborn was a mansion named Hatton House, which had once been inhabited by an ambitious Elizabethan courtier. It was now ruinous and due to be demolished. The woman walked up a path fringed with brambles to a lichen-dappled door, which swung open with a groan that was audible even from a distance. She stepped inside and disappeared into the gloom.

Chaloner followed, and found himself in what had once been a grand hall; now weeds grew through the floor and the walls were green with mould. The remains of a staircase stood in front of him, which had ascended in an elegant sweep to the upper floors.

There was no sign of the woman, but there was a door to his right. It opened into a dim passageway that stank of rotting wood. She was not there either, but there was another door at its far end. He went through that, but the next chamber was also empty, and so he continued, tiptoeing through a succession of sadly derelict rooms.

Eventually, he reached a chapel. It had once been exquisite – there were traces of gold leaf on what remained of the ceiling, and rails where curtains had hung. It was unmistakably Catholic, which perhaps explained why it had been so thoroughly despoiled. The woman was kneeling there, hands clasped as she prayed to the non-existent altar. A shaft of light came through the shattered roof and illuminated her face. Had it been a real church, he might have been struck with religious awe, but in the decommissioned chapel it was decidedly sinister.

‘Why are you following me?’ she asked, coming to her feet in one easy, sinuous movement.

There was no point hiding any longer, although Chaloner was surprised she had detected him – he was good at tailing people without their knowledge. ‘I wanted to talk.’

‘About what?’

‘Ferine. I would like to know more about his business if I am to engage in it.’

She regarded him oddly. ‘Why? You gave the impression that you understood and approved of what he was doing.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘A man cannot be too careful.’

‘So what do you want to know?’

‘Your name would be a start.’

‘Eliza Hatton.’

‘Hatton? Do you hail from the family who used to live here?’

‘This house was built by my grandsire, but its foundations are steeped in blood.’ Her words were hissed, and set up a disconcerting echo. ‘Five monks were executed on this very spot, and a priest was hanged here forty years later. There have been others, too. Murdered for their faith.’

‘Ferine was not murdered for his faith,’ said Chaloner. ‘And I wanted to ask—’

‘No? Can you be certain of that?’

Chaloner was not sure what happened next, only that there was a loud crack, and he only just managed to throw himself to one side as a ceiling beam fell, bringing with it a shower of plaster. He picked himself up and hurried to where Eliza had been standing, but there was no sign of her. He looked around wildly. She was not under the rafter, and she had not passed him to reach the door, yet there was no other way out – except the windows, and they were too high.

Had he been talking to a ghost? Such a notion would not usually have crossed his mind, but he had been in a ‘haunted’ tavern that day, and the chapel was dark and shadowy. Or was it just another trick? Yet despite as careful a search as he was able to make in the gloom, he could not discover how Eliza had disappeared or why the beam had fallen.

Confused and full of questions, he took his leave.

It was nearing three o’clock, the time when Chaloner was due to meet Leving in the Talbot. He trudged along Holborn, feeling new mud seep inside his boots with every step. The clouds were thick and black, and they depressed his spirits. Moreover, he was disturbed by what had happened in Hatton House – he had always disliked cases that involved the inexplicable.

He had been in the Talbot before. It was near Gray’s Inn, so was always full of lawyers, and invariably rang with loud, argumentative voices. There was no sign of Leving, so he found a table and settled down to wait. A pot-boy brought him ale that was weak and sour, of the kind that was often served in large, impersonal taverns. He was hungry, but the pickled ling pie would be waiting, so he decided he had better reserve his appetite. Eventually, a shadow fell across him.

‘The next time you contact me, leave a message at the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane,’ he said without looking up. ‘Do not visit my home.’

Leving sat down. ‘You are as bad as Williamson. He told me never to darken
his
doors again, too. Where lies the problem? Your wife was out, and there was no danger.’

‘But she does not
stay
out, does she, and you are not to go there again. Now tell me why you asked me to meet you here.’

Leving grinned. ‘Because the Fifth Monarchists are having an assembly soon, in the hall at the back. They have been rather clever, actually. This tavern is full of lawyers, all in professional garb with wigs and falling bands, so the conspirators have decided to wear the same, and thus be indistinguishable from them.’

‘You are not wearing a disguise,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Neither am I.’

‘Yes, but
we
are not being hunted by Williamson. We do not need to bother.’

Chaloner did not hide his exasperation. ‘The Fifth Monarchists do not know that, and failing to conform may arouse their suspicions.’

Leving was crestfallen. ‘Lord! I suppose it might. What shall we do, then? Ask a couple of these clerks to lend us their costumes? I am sure we can find a pair who will not mind.’

‘Perhaps you should just stand on a table and announce that we have been charged to infiltrate some rebels but have neglected to effect a disguise,’ suggested Chaloner acidly.

‘There is no need to be facetious! I made a mistake; it will not happen again. But look – people are making their way to the hall. It is time to join them.’

Chaloner regarded him balefully, giving serious thought to knocking him over the head and continuing the investigation alone. Or perhaps Williamson would return him to gaol until the rebellion was over. Regardless, something had to be done or they were both going to be killed.

The hall the Fifth Monarchists had hired was enormous and already crammed with people. Chaloner did a quick count and estimated that there were at least two hundred. All had donned wigs and robes, but as few had access to genuine legal regalia, they had improvised, with the result that most were very bizarrely attired. Many had the ruddy faces and thick hands of farmers or labourers, while others looked to be the more lowly kind of tradesmen – tanners, tallow-makers, cobblers and weavers. Conversations were about the iniquitous coal tax, the late start of the lambing season and the dreadful price of imported cloth.