Murder on High Holborn (2 page)

The ornate clock on the bedside table showed it was well past one o’clock, but the parlour downstairs was full of customers enjoying the atmosphere of debauched jollity, while every bedroom on the upper floor was in use. Maude, the formidable matron who kept order among the guests – no easy matter with men who were more used to issuing orders than obeying them – had been too busy to do more than nod at Chaloner as he had walked past.

‘Yes, but it is very easy to lose favour. And as I said, this is Paul Ferine from High Holborn.’

The way she spoke told Chaloner that he should know Ferine, yet there was nothing remotely familiar about the fleshy, middle-aged face with its sagging jowls. However, he was the first to admit that his knowledge of London and its luminaries was lacking. After the civil wars, he had been recruited by Cromwell’s intelligence services, and had spent the next twelve years overseas. He had returned home when the Commonwealth had collapsed, and had been fortunate that the Earl of Clarendon, currently Lord Chancellor, had been willing to employ him, because opportunities for ex-Parliamentarian spies were few and far between in Restoration Britain.

‘I never met him,’ he hedged, loath for anyone, even Temperance, a friend, to know that Ferine’s name meant nothing to him. ‘Did he spend much time at White Hall?’

Temperance regarded him askance, and he could see there was a tart remark on the tip of her tongue. Then she seemed to recollect that she had summoned him to help her, and that disparaging remarks about his ignorance were not in her best interests.

‘Yes, he was Groom of the Robes.’ She shot him a sidelong glance. ‘Which means he performed the odd ceremonial duty at Court in return for a handsome salary. Obviously, the King is fond of him – His Majesty does not confer that sort of favour on just anyone.’

Chaloner gave her an irritable look. His knowledge of individuals might be lacking, but he was familiar with the Court’s workings, because he was part of it – his official title was Gentleman Usher to the Lord Chancellor. Unfortunately, his Earl kept sending him on errands overseas, never giving him the opportunity to settle down and become better acquainted with his fellow courtiers. The most recent jaunt had been to Russia, and he had only been back three days.

‘What shall I do?’ whispered Temperance tearfully, and he caught a glimpse of the vulnerable, innocent girl he had once befriended, a wholly different creature from the worldly woman she had become since an inheritance had allowed her to purchase a house and set herself up in the brothel business.

‘The first step is to find out whether you are right,’ he replied practically. ‘Neither you nor I are qualified to determine causes of death, so send for Wiseman.’

Richard Wiseman was Surgeon to the King, and was also Temperance’s lover. If there had been foul play, then Wiseman would know how to spot it. But Temperance shook her head.

‘No, Tom. He has just been elected Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, and cannot afford to be associated with scandal.’

‘And I can?’

‘You are a spy; it is different. Besides, you have dealt with far nastier matters in the past. Why do you think I sent for you now?’

‘He will be hurt if you exclude him.’ Chaloner spoke a little stiffly. He knew her affection for him had cooled since she had turned from Puritan maid to brothel-keeper, but did she have to make her disregard quite so obvious? ‘And we cannot make any decisions until we understand exactly what has happened. Or do you know another discreet
medicus
?’

Temperance was silent for a moment, then left the bedchamber without another word. He heard her ordering one of the servants in the corridor outside to fetch Wiseman, and when she returned, her face was grey with worry.

‘So what happens when Richard tells you that Ferine
has
been murdered?’

‘You tell Spymaster Williamson.’ Chaloner referred to the man who currently ran the country’s intelligence network and dealt with untoward happenings involving members of government and the Court. ‘And he will investigate.’

Temperance was horrified. ‘Then I am ruined for certain! My patrons will never visit me again if they think
he
might be here.’

‘I am afraid you have no choice. But Williamson will be discreet – the King and his cronies have never been as unpopular with the people as they are now, and he will not want to advertise the fact that courtiers haunt brothels.’

Temperance eyed him beadily. ‘This is not a brothel, Thomas. It is a gentleman’s club.’

Chaloner inclined his head in apology. ‘But my point remains: Ferine is an important man, and his death will need to be investigated by the proper authorities.’

‘Damn!’ Temperance rubbed a hand across her face. ‘Why did his killer have to choose here to ply his nasty skills?’

Chaloner regarded her curiously. ‘You seem very sure that something untoward has happened, yet there is no evidence to say that you are right.’

‘Yes there is. You see, poor Ferine had been saying for weeks that something bad would happen to him two days before the Ides of March. Well, it has.’

Chaloner frowned at the archaic way of referring to the date, and glanced at the clock. ‘I suppose it did become the thirteenth at midnight…’

‘Yes, and I saw him alive shortly before twelve, which means he died today – exactly when he predicted a calamity for himself.’

‘Predicted how?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

‘He had calculated his own horoscope,’ explained Temperance. ‘And he was quite clear about what he read in the stars. They foretold a “grave misfortune” for him – and you do not get a graver misfortune than death.’

Solicitously, Chaloner took Temperance’s arm and led her downstairs to wait for Wiseman. She pulled away as they passed the parlour, and went to check that all was well. The parlour was a large chamber with judiciously dimmed lamps and dark red decor. Pipe smoke swirled thickly, mixing with the sweet, sickly perfume he always associated with bordellos. A game was under way between the clients and some of the girls, and it took a far less vivid imagination than his to guess that the manly cheers meant someone was divesting herself of her clothes.

Several patrons scampered towards Temperance when they saw her at the door, clamouring for her attention like fractious children. She listened to the ribald poem they had composed with every semblance of enjoyment, making Chaloner marvel at her patience. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall to wait for them to finish, and a glance towards the riotous fun at the far end of the room allowed him to recognise five Members of Parliament, three churchmen, four barons, two influential businessmen and an admiral.

The most boisterous participant was the Duke of Buckingham, the King’s oldest friend and the implacable enemy of Chaloner’s employer. He was a tall, athletic man in his thirties, whose licentious ways had rendered his once-handsome face lined and puffy. He possessed a brilliant intelligence, and might have been an asset to his country if he had given as much care to affairs of state as he did to his pleasures.

Next to him was Prince Rupert, who had fought valiantly, if somewhat mercurially, in the civil wars. Now in his forties, he was a petulant dandy, displeased with everything and everyone around him. Chaloner was surprised to see him with Buckingham, as it was common knowledge that they detested each other. This was a problem: both were on the Privy Council – the body that advised the King – and as neither could bring himself to agree with the other, meetings tended to be long, bad-tempered and alarmingly lacking in sound counsel.

‘Enough!’ Rupert was snapping irritably. ‘It is late, and we should all be in bed.’

‘Yes, we should,’ leered Buckingham. ‘Which whore do you—’

‘I am going home,’ interrupted Rupert, stalking towards the door and shoving past anyone who stood in his way. Being sober, Chaloner was able to step aside, but others found themselves shunted very roughly.

‘Ignore him, Lawson,’ said Buckingham to the stout, barrel-chested fellow whose wine had been knocked from his hand. ‘He has been in a foul mood all day.’

Lawson was in his fifties, and spurned the current fashion for wigs, allowing his own yellow-grey hair to flow freely over his shoulders. He spoke with the distinctive inflection of the Yorkshireman, and replied to Buckingham’s words with a string of obscenities that had even the jaded Duke’s eyebrows shooting up in astonishment.

‘Language, Admiral,’ said another patron mildly. ‘There are ladies present, and you are not at sea now, sir.’

The speaker was tall and lean, with a face like a wax mask that had been grabbed by the nose while still molten and pulled. He wore a long black coat sewn with silver stars – an exotic garment, even by London standards – and his voice had been soft yet commanding. His hands and neck were adorned with symbols, a permanent marking with ink that Chaloner had never seen in England – and certainly not among the kind of men who frequented the club.

‘That blackguard spilled my wine,’ shouted Lawson angrily. ‘Wine should be poured down the throat, not on to the floor.’

‘Then let me refill your cup,’ said the stranger, taking the enraged mariner’s arm and thus preventing him from storming after Rupert and demanding satisfaction at dawn.

The poets finished regaling Temperance with their verses and rushed away to rejoin the undressing game – the club’s patrons tended to be easily bored, and rarely stuck with one activity for very long. She went to stand next to Chaloner, and when she saw who he was watching, she began whispering in his ear.

‘Poor Admiral Lawson suffered a terrible tragedy last week. His ship
London
blew up in the Thames Estuary.’

‘Did it?’ Chaloner was doubtful. While warships were certainly packed to the gills with guns, powder and ammunition, they did not usually explode unless under attack.

‘It was the talk of the city. Did you not hear?’ Temperance raised her hand. ‘I forgot – you have only just come home. Well, it was a dreadful business, and more than three hundred men were killed. I imagine he came here to put it out of his mind for a few hours.’

Lawson did not look particularly grief-stricken, and began to regale the gathering with a raunchy song favoured by sailors. It had jaws dropping all over the parlour, and these were men used to a bit of bawdiness.

‘Who is the fellow with him?’ asked Chaloner. ‘The one wearing the peculiar coat?’

‘Dr Lambe,’ replied Temperance disapprovingly. ‘He is a sorcerer and a physician, and is the newest member of Buckingham’s household.’

‘Buckingham’s father had a sorcerer-physician named Dr Lambe,’ recalled Chaloner. ‘He was accused of making his enemies impotent and summoning whirlwinds, although I suspect he had no such skills and was just a trickster. He was murdered forty years ago by an angry mob.’

‘This is his son, apparently. He can divine the future, and it is rumoured that his unusually accurate predictions come courtesy of the devil, who helps him with them.’

‘He did not predict Ferine’s “grave misfortune”, did he?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that if so, Lambe would probably be arrested if the courtier did transpire to be murdered. It would not be the first time a seer had manipulated events to ensure that a ‘prophecy’ came true.

‘Ferine was quite capable of calculating his own horoscope. Indeed, he was better at it than Lambe – he told me only tonight that three black cats had walked in front of him on his way to the club, while a jackdaw had cawed thirteen times from a chimney. He said there were no surer warnings that something dire was going to happen.’

‘Then why did he not go home – keep himself safe until the thirteenth was over?’

Temperance sighed unhappily. ‘I do not know, Tom. And we can hardly ask him now.’

Chaloner followed her out of the parlour and along a hallway to the private quarters at the back of the house. Near the kitchens was a cosy sitting room where she usually sat to count her nightly takings. It was a testament to her unhappiness that she barely glanced at the heaps of coins on the table. He poured her a cup of wine to steady her nerves but she waved it away and reached for her pipe instead. He studied her as she tamped it with tobacco.

She was still in her early twenties, but the decadent lifestyle she enjoyed with her clients was taking its toll. She had always been large, but access to extravagant foods had doubled her size, and her complexion had suffered from never seeing the sun. She had once owned luxuriant chestnut hair, but she had shaved it off to wear a wig. Her teeth were tobacco-stained, and too much time listening to the opinions of men like Buckingham and Rupert had turned her acerbic and petty-minded.

‘How was Russia?’ she asked as she puffed. ‘I cannot imagine you enjoyed it. It is said to be very desolate – bitterly cold, with filthy streets and superstitious citizens.’

Wryly, Chaloner thought her description applied equally well to London: the weather had been foul since he had returned; every road was a quagmire; and she had just finished telling him about one man who was a sorcerer and another who put faith in black cats and jackdaws. He saw she was waiting for a reply, but good spies did not talk about themselves and he was a master of his trade. He made an innocuous remark about the amount of snow he had seen, then changed the subject by asking whether anything interesting had happened while he had been away, knowing that she, like most people, preferred to talk than to listen anyway.

‘Well, we are now officially at war with the Dutch,’ she replied. ‘Hostilities were declared three weeks ago, and both navies are already at sea. We shall win, of course. The butter-eaters cannot defeat our brave seamen.’

Chaloner disagreed, and thought that fighting the United Provinces was a very bad idea. He had tried very hard, within his limited sphere of influence, to prevent it, but the hawks on the Privy Council had itched to flex their muscles, and so that was that.

‘We shall soon have all the best trading routes,’ Temperance went on. ‘Routes that Buckingham says should be ours anyway, because we deserve them.’

And there was the nub of the matter, thought Chaloner sadly: there was not enough room on the high seas for two powerful maritime nations. It was a war of commerce, not politics.