Murder on High Holborn (13 page)

About thirty men had gathered at the front of the hall, and these were another matter entirely. They were dour, grim-faced individuals who spoke in strident voices about the Kingdom of Christ and ‘smiting work’; several brayed prayers in a way that suggested they thought the Almighty might be deaf. Among them were Strange and Quelch.

‘Where are your disguises?’ hissed Jones angrily, when he spotted Leving and Chaloner. ‘If you are recognised by the Spymaster’s men, it could mean the end of our plans.’

‘What plans?’ asked Leving keenly. ‘You have not told me yet, and—’

‘Go and stand where no one can see you,’ snapped Jones. He caught Chaloner’s arm as the spy passed. ‘You are wiser than him. Keep him in check, or I will hold you accountable.’

‘I am not his keeper,’ said Chaloner, freeing himself with more vigour than was necessary. He disliked being manhandled.

Jones’s pale eyes bored into him. ‘You are now.’

Chaloner did not think his opinion of the Fifth Monarchists’ operation could sink much lower, but it did. A number of genuine lawyers were intrigued by the peculiarly clad ‘colleagues’ and were asking what was going on. Atkinson explained that it was a meeting of people who had invested in a certain type of government bond. Clearly, he thought he had chosen a subject too dull to warrant further enquiry, but lawyers were immune to tedium. Their interest was piqued, and they hovered until Strange appeared and threatened to run them through unless they shifted.

‘Really, Strange,’ chided Atkinson. ‘There was no need to be rude.’

‘Thou art a milksop,’ retorted Strange. ‘And rudeness will be as nothing when we sweep away the vile corruption of their iniquitous legal system.’

‘They
are
corrupt, but that does not give us licence to be unmannerly,’ said Ursula coolly, so quick to support Atkinson that Chaloner wondered at it.

Strange relented, revealing that he had a soft spot for Mrs Adman – or for her baking. ‘My apologies, lady. I am so eager to see the New Kingdom that I forget myself. I ask thee to forgive my intemperate words.’

Ursula inclined her head and changed the subject. ‘I do not think we have enough seedcake. Shall I run out and buy some? It will not be as good as my own, but it is better than nothing.’

‘I shall go with thee,’ declared Strange. A flash of disappointment in Atkinson’s eyes told Chaloner that the shy stockinger would have liked to the opportunity to be alone with her himself.

When they had gone, Chaloner watched the remaining Fifth Monarchists in growing disbelief. The atmosphere was more like that of a wedding party than a plot to overthrow the government, and he wondered how many of them really knew what they were doing. He spotted someone he recognised, and made his way through the throng towards her.

‘Lord!’ gulped Snowflake in alarm when she saw him. ‘Please do not tell Temperance what I do in my spare time. She would not approve.’

‘Nor would your customers,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘They belong to the established order, and will not appreciate you consorting with those who aim to bring it down.’

Snowflake waved a dismissive hand. ‘If they are ousted other wealthy men will take their places, and
they
will hire my services – it is a fact of life. But Temperance is a nice lady, and I do not want to upset her. Besides, I am only here because my stepbrother John invited me.’

She pointed to Atkinson, who waved gaily. Chaloner tried to imagine the bookish stockinger and the worldly prostitute plotting in darkened rooms to topple the monarchy together. The image would not come.

‘I wanted to speak to you anyway,’ he said. ‘To ask why you smuggled Jones and Quelch into the club on Sunday night.’

Snowflake gaped in dismay. ‘How did you find out? They promised not to tell anyone.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Because John said they needed to speak to one of our patrons, and they did not know how else to do it. They did not fit in very well, though – Jones is a cold fish, while Quelch was vulgar.’

‘Which patron?’

‘Well, they both spent a while with Admiral Lawson, but Quelch nattered to a number of other guests, including the Duke, Rupert, Scott, Dr Lambe and Duncombe. Jones concentrated on the girls – he asked them questions and made a note of their answers. He probably intends to quote them in one of his nasty pamphlets.’

‘You should have told me,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Jones and Quelch are violent men and one of them might have murdered Ferine.’

Snowflake favoured him with a haughty glance. ‘Do you think I let them wander around unsupervised? All the girls watched them, and neither Jones nor Quelch left the parlour all night. Would you like me to swear it on a Bible?’

As Chaloner doubted the Good Book held much significance for her, he shook his head. Yet he believed her tale. Reluctantly, because a Fifth Monarchist as Ferine’s killer would have been a tidy solution, he mentally crossed Jones and Quelch off his list of suspects.

‘Who else did you let in?’ he asked.

‘No one! It is not very easy to do, and I only arranged it as a special favour to John. It will not happen again, though. I do not want Temperance to find out and send me packing.’

Again, Chaloner believed her. ‘Have you heard any rumours about Ferine’s death?’ he asked.

‘No, because no one is coming to the club any more. Well, that handsome John Scott visited, and brought a drunken sot named Sherwin with him. He told me to make the fellow happy. I did my best, but Sherwin was more interested in the wine than me, and he was very drunk. He kept mumbling about something being turned.’

‘Could he have said some
one
being turned?’ asked Chaloner, hoping Sherwin had not been referring to Leving.

‘Possibly, but he was slurring so much that he was difficult to understand.’

Atkinson arrived then, bringing her an especially large piece of cake, and the smile they gave each other made it clear there was genuine affection between them.

‘We are not really related,’ Snowflake told Chaloner. ‘Our widowed mothers married our current stepfather, although not at the same time, obviously. John has always been good to me. He wanted to train me to be a stockinger, but I had grander plans.’

‘You may
have
to work in my shop when the Last Millennium dawns,’ warned Atkinson. ‘I doubt brothels will be allowed then.’

Snowflake pushed him playfully. ‘Of course they will, silly! Men will not stop being men just because of a new ruler. Besides, I imagine King Jesus will be too busy smiting lawyers to bother with the likes of us. They are where the
real
source of corruption lies.’

‘True,’ agreed Atkinson. ‘That is why I became a Fifth Monarchist – to abolish corruption in the courts, and introduce a system that will deliver equal justice for rich and poor. We also expound equality for women and gainful employment for all.’

‘Here is Ursula, back with the cakes,’ said Snowflake, clearly bored with the discussion. ‘The meeting can start now.’

Once the door had been barred to prevent several very interested lawyers from coming in, Jones walked to the front of the hall and began to address the throng. There was an immediate hush, which was just as well, as Jones spoke in a sibilant hiss that was difficult to hear from the back.

‘Brothers and sisters in Christ – thank you for coming. We shall start by reciting the oath.’

‘Oath?’ whispered Chaloner to Atkinson. ‘I thought Fifth Monarchists refused to take them, on the grounds that it is a misuse of God’s name.’

‘We do,’ replied the stockinger. ‘Usually. But Jones insists.’

Chaloner was puzzled. Did it mean that Jones was not a true Fifth Monarchist, and had simply hijacked the movement when his Northern Plot had failed? While he pondered, the audience held their right hands aloft, and chanted a promise never to reveal the Cause’s secrets. When it was done, the thirty dour fanatics took seats at a long table at the front, while everyone else stood in the body of the hall, shuffling their feet until they were comfortable.

‘Our day draws near,’ whispered Jones once the fidgeting had stopped. It sounded like a snake speaking. ‘We shall soon have what we have striven for all these years.’

‘About time,’ declared Quelch loudly. ‘Jesus will not wait for ever.’

‘He might,’ countered Strange. ‘Eternity is nothing to the Supreme Authority.’

‘Plans have been laid, and you will soon be allotted specific tasks,’ Jones continued. ‘Our operation will begin two Sundays hence – an auspicious time, as I think you will agree.’

‘Easter Day!’ whooped Strange with a wild grin that made him look deranged. ‘King Jesus will oust the Stuart usurper on the anniversary of His glorious Resurrection, and will take up His rightful throne in White Hall.’

‘What happens if the throne is dirty?’ asked Ursula. She flushed when everyone turned to look at her, but persisted with her point. ‘That Court has disgusting habits, and I should not like to think of Him faced with a soiled seat.’

‘He will not use the one in White Hall,’ asserted Quelch. ‘He will bring His own.’

Chaloner was struggling to keep a straight face, although Quelch’s proclamation had the grim men at the front nodding earnest agreement. But Ursula had other concerns, too.

‘Then what about St Paul’s Cathedral? It is falling to pieces, and I should not like it to collapse just as He steps through its doors.’

‘Unless you can devise a way to rebuild it in ten days, we shall just have to trust Him to keep it standing,’ said Jones, a little impatiently. ‘But you are right about the Court. It is full of profligate villains who squander public money. I could cite a dozen instances of their selfish greed, starting with the Lady Day fireworks, which are a wicked waste of taxpayers’ money.’

‘Perhaps we should strike sooner then,’ suggested one of the men at the front. ‘Today, before our enemies have wind of what we intend to do, and try to stop us.’

‘They cannot – not now,’ stated Jones. ‘We have the support of the entire country – honest, decent folk who are tired of the dissipated libertines in White Hall. The wicked coal tax has brought them flocking to us, while there have been omens…’

‘Comets, a profusion of ghosts, Mrs Trapnel’s visions,’ listed Strange. ‘All signs that King Jesus is coming. One only needs to glance at the Bible to see it is all ordained.’

‘I would publish a pamphlet explaining it all, but the printing presses are too closely watched by the forces of tyranny,’ said Jones. ‘But that will not be a problem in the Last Millennium, when I shall write dozens of tracts for your edification and enjoyment.’

Snowflake chose that moment to give a bored sigh, which made a number of people turn to look at her. Atkinson shot her a warning glance, but she only grinned engagingly at him.

‘She always could wrap me around her little finger,’ he whispered ruefully to Chaloner. ‘No wonder I could not persuade her to settle for the staid life of a stockinger. I am far too dull!’

‘You are not dull,’ whispered Ursula warmly. ‘Unlike this meeting. I fear that rather too many people have been promised an opportunity to rant.’

She was right: at least a dozen men were pulling notes from their pockets, ready to treat the gathering to their religious and political reflections. Strange was first, stepping forward to aver that Easter Day would see heavenly hosts marching down High Holborn and seraphim taking over the Banqueting House; Quelch interrupted to say it would be the other way around. It was tedious stuff, and by the sixth speaker, Chaloner had had enough. So had most of the audience, which began to shuffle and fuss.

The speeches finished eventually, and Jones asked if anyone had questions. There was a tense silence, lest someone did, thus causing the pontificating to start again. After a closing prayer and a piece of cake, the rebels drifted away, sidling past the curious lawyers who still milled outside the door. Chaloner lingered, watching the people he knew – Strange and Quelch, quarrelling as usual; Ursula pressing extra cake on hungry apprentices; Atkinson laughing with Snowflake; and Leving, who had taken out pen and paper and was brazenly making notes for Williamson. Then he became aware of someone standing at his side. It was Jones.

‘Leving has been different since the Northern Plot,’ he said. ‘If it were anyone else, I would suspect he had been turned, but not even Williamson would stoop to using such a low creature.’

‘If you think there is a spy in your midst, you will have to manage without me,’ said Chaloner quickly, lest the remark was a test. ‘There are plenty of other ways to avenge myself on Clarendon – ones that will not see me on a scaffold.’

Jones’s reptilian eyes glittered. ‘Leving knows nothing. Even if he is a traitor – and I cannot see him having the courage or the wits, to be frank – he cannot harm us.’

He indicated that Chaloner was to accompany him to the front of the hall, where the thirty dour men still sat around the table. Atkinson joined them there after bidding an affectionate farewell to Snowflake.

‘We are the Sanhedrin,’ Atkinson explained. ‘The leaders of the Fifth Monarchy movement.’

‘We named ourselves after the courts of ancient Israel,’ added Jones. ‘We are men of choicest light and spirit, imbued with judgement, righteousness and understanding – men of truth and integrity, fearing God and hating covetousness, being filled with the fruits of righteousness, full of mercy and good works, without partiality or hypocrisy.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, thinking they did not look like paragons of virtue to him, and that the Last Millennium would be in trouble if they were allowed to run it. He glanced at Jones, and thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in the cold eyes, which again made him wonder whether the man was as committed to the Cause as he would have everyone believe.

‘I made enquiries about thee, Chaloner,’ said Strange. ‘About thy service in the wars and in Holland. And I have decided that thou wouldst make an excellent gunpowder man.’

‘No,’ snapped Quelch immediately. ‘I do not trust him.’

‘I care nothing for what thou thinkest – thou art a fool.’ Strange turned back to Chaloner and gave one of his wild grins. ‘Welcome. Thou art now our brother.’