Murder on High Holborn (20 page)

Chaloner stirred his coffee to mask his dismay. He did not want Lester cut in two by a Dutch cannonball, or drowned, shot or dead of gangrenous wounds. He had known the decision to go to war would mean casualties, but the reality of a friend taking part drove it home with a nasty jab.

‘I am happy for you,’ he managed to say. ‘Is
Swiftsure
a good command?’

Lester grinned. ‘The best! We shall see action for certain, because Admiral Lawson has the Channel Fleet and he likes a good battle.’

‘Lawson,’ said Chaloner. ‘I need some information about him.’

‘An outstanding seaman. He has had the Channel Fleet for years – first for Parliament, and now for the King. He was dismissed at the Restoration, but his men threatened to mutiny unless he was reinstated, so the government was forced to oblige. His enemies were livid, of course.’

‘He has enemies?’

‘There is no one like him for seamanship, but he is a fool on land. He is probably a Fifth Monarchist, and has the peculiar notion that God has appointed him to smite His foes.’

‘How do you know he is a Fifth Monarchist?’

‘Sailors gossip, and he has been seen at their meetings. But a man’s creed is his own affair, as far as I am concerned, and none of anyone else’s business.’

‘I beg to differ. Fifth Monarchists are dangerous radicals, so should one really be put in control of a lot of powerful warships?’

‘His beliefs will not affect his skill in battle,’ argued Lester. ‘So what does it matter if they are a little eccentric?’

‘Well, there is the fact that his flagship blew up for a start. Perhaps that can be laid at the door of his unorthodox religious convictions.’

‘What a terrible thing to say!’ cried Lester, loudly enough to make several of his cronies glance towards him. He lowered his voice. ‘Three hundred prime seamen died in that incident. It was a terrible tragedy, and we are still reeling from the shock of it.’

‘
Incident
,’ pounced Chaloner, regarding him intently. ‘Not
accident
?’

Lester looked away. ‘The official explanation is that someone was preparing cannon-charges using old papers, and there was a mishap. Yet even the most inane fellow knows that gunpowder and naked flames must be kept apart, and it was not a task that would have been delegated to a stupid man, anyway.’

‘So what do you think happened?’

Lester’s expression was troubled. ‘I am not sure, but look at the facts.
London
was sailing up the estuary towards the city for which she was named, where she would have received a rapturous welcome. All hands would have been on deck, either to help shorten sail as she reached narrower waters, or to bask in the glory. No one would have been below.’

‘It would only take one man with a candle to do the damage – the purser, perhaps, making an inventory, or a novice not knowing where he should be.’

‘We do not allow novices to wander around unsupervised, while I knew the purser – he would have been on deck watching seabirds. Moreover, we always keep powder magazines locked and guarded. The matter reeks, Tom, and I suspect sabotage – although I cannot believe that Lawson’s religious views had anything to do with it.’

‘The Dutch, then? They are the ones who will benefit.’

‘Perhaps. I have been quizzing the survivors, but I have learned nothing as yet.’

‘Maybe you will have answers on Wednesday, when she is weighed.’ Chaloner thought about Dr Lambe’s prediction. ‘Unless the attempt fails, of course.’

‘It will fail, and I cannot imagine why Lawson, who is the driving force behind the scheme, wants to try. Jeffrey Dare had command of her when she sank, and I hope he never finds out what is planned. He is devastated by what happened, and if he ever learns that they aim to disturb the tomb that
London
has become…’

‘How did he survive when so many of his crew did not?’

‘Because he was at the top of the foremast when the explosion occurred, although he does not consider himself fortunate. No captain likes to live while his ship and crew go down, as I told you when we had our own disaster in the ice recently.’

Night had fallen by the time Chaloner left the Folly. He was walking along the Strand towards home, wondering if Hannah’s pickled ling pie would be waiting for him, when a carriage splashed to a halt at his side. It was an unusually fine one, with the crest of the Barber-Surgeons emblazoned on the door.

‘You are very elusive,’ said Wiseman crossly. ‘I have been looking for you all day. Snowflake has something to tell you, and you are to visit the club to hear it. Are you free now?’

‘I was about to go home.’

‘This will not take long, and Snowflake said it was urgent. Do you like this carriage, by the way? A private conveyance is one of the perks of being Master.’

Wiseman talked the entire way to Hercules’ Pillars Alley, mostly about a sudden demand for his services at White Hall. He was pleased and annoyed in equal measure.

‘I like the additional work, as it means more money. However, most people want me to prescribe preventatives for various ailments: boils, toothache, canker, plague. But I am a surgeon – I prefer it when they actually
have
those things.’

‘You wish ill health on your customers?’ asked Chaloner in distaste.

‘Of course! A healthy body is of no use to me, and averting trouble means less work in the future, so I am faced with a quandary. Shall I do as they ask, knowing it is cutting my own throat financially, or refuse and risk them taking their custom to another
medicus
?’

‘A difficult choice indeed,’ murmured Chaloner.

The club looked warm and welcoming with its lamps shining through the gloom of the wet winter evening, but inside the atmosphere was strained – Temperance was putting far too much effort into pretending that all was well when it was clearly not. None of her favourite guests were there, and the few clients who had deigned to appear did not know how to create the air of joyous frivolity for which the place was famous. She came to talk to him, Belle at her heels.

‘I was wrong when I said our clients would flock back once you had proved that none of them killed Ferine,’ Temperance whispered. She was pale, and some of the brightness had gone from her eyes. ‘They still keep their distance.’

‘It is as dead as a tomb,’ added Belle unhappily. ‘Snowflake’s stepbrother wrote, asking her to help him sew new stockings, and when she declined to leave in case you came, Maude went instead – something that would have been impossible on a normal night.’

‘Where is Snowflake?’ asked Chaloner.

‘In the stable,’ replied Temperance. ‘She has a way with horses, and always goes there when she is troubled. You see, her father told her something when he stopped by for a chat earlier, but she refuses to share what he said with anyone but you. She says it is important.’

‘Her father did not come to see
her
,’ said Belle in disgust. ‘He came for a free meal and the chance to hold forth. And he asked for money.’

‘He is a perfumer, who lives at Temple Mills in Hackney Marsh,’ explained Temperance. ‘It is not a very suitable place for that sort of trade, and he is always on the verge of ruin. Are you close to exposing the culprit, Tom? I do not think I can bear many more evenings like this.’

‘I have made some progress,’ said Chaloner, following her into the yard. ‘For example, there are connections linking Ferine to Dr Lambe, who was here that night.’

‘He was,’ agreed Temperance. ‘But he is not the killer, thank God – the Duke would never forgive me if we deprived him of his sorcerer! Fortunately, Dr Lambe has an alibi in me: he was telling my fortune when Ferine died.’

‘Are you sure?’ Chaloner was disappointed. It would have been an easy solution, and the Earl would have been delighted to learn that his arch-enemy Buckingham had recruited a murderer to his household.

‘Quite sure. He did not leave the parlour all evening, and any number of girls will confirm it. He was having too much fun showing off his witchy skills to an admiring audience.’ She opened the stable door and unclipped the lamp from the sconce. ‘Snowflake? Tom is here at last.’

There was no answer, so Chaloner took the lantern and began to hunt for her in the stalls, wondering if she had grown tired of waiting and had slipped off to do a little moonlighting in a tavern. He was wrong. Snowflake was lying on the floor, her eyes open but unseeing, and it was clear that she had been dead for some time.

Sobbing brokenly, Temperance hurried away to fetch Wiseman, but when Chaloner turned the body over, he did not need a surgeon to tell him that Snowflake had been stabbed. He sat back on his heels and considered what might have happened. Anyone could walk into the yard from the lane, so it would have been easy for an assailant to reach her. Splatters of blood told him where she had been standing when she was attacked – near a large bay gelding, bought solely to impress the club’s customers. It was agitated, so he soothed it with gentle words, rubbing its velvety nose.

‘If you crooned as lovingly to Hannah, your marriage would be more of a success,’ remarked Wiseman, arriving in a flurry of swirling red cloak. His grin faded when he knelt next to Snowflake. ‘Damn! She was only a child. Curse the villain who did this vile thing!’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner soberly.

Wiseman began his examination. ‘She was killed with something long and sharp – not a knife, but some other implement. A single blow, expertly delivered. Death would have been all but instant.’

Chaloner searched the stable, but there was nothing in it that matched the description of the murder weapon.

‘I should have bought her a horoscope,’ wept Temperance. ‘Lambe – or better yet, Ferine – would have predicted what was going to happen, and we could have avoided it.’

‘I am not sure that is how horoscopes work,’ said Chaloner, but Belle was already leading her away to be comforted in the kitchen.

‘Lambe would disagree,’ said Wiseman. ‘He claims that future misfortunes
can
be averted if appropriate precautions are taken – which is why so many courtiers have been after me for prophylactics of late.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘In other words, he forecasts things that never come to pass?’

‘Not entirely, because two people failed to follow his advice and have lived to regret it: Hubbert was punched in an altercation with a servant, while Odowde fell down the Banqueting House stairs and hurt his arm. He screamed most piteously, although there was barely a bruise.’

‘Was Lambe nearby when it happened?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of sly elbows.

‘No, he was with the King, discussing comets. Why?’

‘Odowde just fell? No one pushed him?’

Wiseman’s expression hardened. ‘He was acting the goat, imitating Clarendon’s waddle while the Court cackled its amusement. No one was near him – he simply stumbled and fell. I was there and I saw it all.’

Chaloner was perplexed.
Did
Lambe possess an ability to see the future, or had it just been a lucky guess? If Odowde was in the habit of fooling around, then perhaps he had fallen over before, and Lambe’s ‘prediction’ was based on probability. Wiseman cut across his thoughts.

‘What are you going to do about Snowflake? Clearly, her murder is connected to Ferine’s – someone does not want it solved, and killed her lest she remembered something to help you.’

‘Ferine died days ago, and she would have been dispatched long before now if that were the case. She must have been stabbed to prevent her from revealing whatever she had learned from her father – the information she refused to share with anyone but me. However, I doubt a perfumer living in Hackney Marsh knows anything about Ferine.’

Wiseman stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting that she knew about a second matter that warranted her being stabbed? That does not sound very likely!’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Are you sure she did not confide in anyone else?’

‘Positive.’ Wiseman shrugged. ‘You will have to visit Temple Mills and speak to her sire. You can take this wicked bay horse and exercise it at the same time.’

‘I cannot leave London. I have investigations that—’

‘Yes, and one of them is Snowflake,’ interrupted Wiseman shortly. ‘I would offer to go with you, but the sudden demand for my services at Court means I am too busy.’

Before Chaloner could say that
he
was too busy as well, there was a commotion and Atkinson entered the stable at a run. Maude was gasping at his heels, indicating with an apologetic shrug that she had been unable to stop him. Atkinson faltered when he saw his stepsister’s body.

‘When Temperance’s note arrived, I thought it was a horrible joke. I did not believe … But who could have done such a terrible thing?’

‘Chaloner will find out,’ promised Wiseman; Chaloner shot him a pained glance. ‘Her murder will
not
go unpunished.’

‘I sat sewing stockings all day,’ gulped Atkinson unsteadily, ‘while she was stalked by a fiend! How can I live with myself now? She needed me and I failed her.’

‘You were not to know,’ said Maude kindly, patting his arm. ‘Neither was I, or I would not have sat sewing stockings with you. But Tom will catch her killer, never fear.’

Chaloner muttered a few awkward words of sympathy and slipped away, glad to leave the grieving stockinger in Maude’s matronly hands. It was cowardly, but his skills lay in other areas, and he decided he
would
do whatever was necessary to bring Snowflake’s killer to justice, hopefully without travelling to Hackney Marsh. He had liked Snowflake, and was sorry she was dead.

He considered where best to start. The obvious way forward was to continue monitoring the Fifth Monarchists, given that Snowflake had been one of them. Perhaps she had been eliminated because someone did not want a prostitute on the books when the New Kingdom dawned. He was reluctant to approach the Sanhedrin directly, knowing they would deny all knowledge of the crime, and that would be that. He wondered who else he could ask. Then he remembered Admiral Lawson, who was counted among their number. A discussion with
him
would not go amiss, regardless. He said as much to Wiseman, who had followed him out into Hercules’ Pillars Alley.