Murder on High Holborn (26 page)

‘Why?’

Hannah shrugged. ‘The Prince is not a very nice man. He is even rude to the Duke! He has invited us to a party tomorrow, by the way. The Duke, I mean. I would not attend a soirée given by Rupert, not if you paid me.’

Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘But you
did
attend a soirée he gave, Hannah – the one you went to tonight, to celebrate the anniversary of his—’

‘That was
work
,’ interrupted Hannah. ‘The Queen was invited, so I had to go, too.’

‘Then it is being paid to—’

‘Do not quibble. And do not try to change the subject either. I want you there tomorrow, because one of the other guests may offer you a post. All the best people are going.’

‘Lambe?’ asked Chaloner, thinking it might be a good opportunity to talk to the man.

‘Of course. And Rupert, unfortunately. The Duke does not want to invite him – they cannot abide each other – but Rupert is the King’s cousin, so he has no choice.’

‘Privy Council meetings must be a trial,’ mused Chaloner, not liking to imagine the trouble that would accrue when two such arrogantly opinionated individuals were thrust together. It would be even worse when the pompously prim Earl of Clarendon was thrown into the mix, too.

‘Admiral Lawson is also going,’ Hannah continued, ‘although the Duke cannot abide him either. Apparently, Lawson heard it was happening, and told the Duke to expect him at twelve – or a little later if no hackney is available. Huh! The fellow does not even keep a private coach!’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly, sensing what was coming next. ‘We cannot afford—’

‘We could if you had a job,’ Hannah pouted. ‘But never mind that now. Meet me in the palace at noon, and we shall
walk
to Wallingford House together. Please do not be late.’

Chaloner sat up, supposing it was as good an opportunity as any to discuss her profligacy. ‘These debts,’ he began sternly. ‘You must curtail your spending before you ruin us.’

‘But we are obliged to maintain standards,’ protested Hannah. ‘And it is hardly my fault that the Dutch war has resulted in heavier taxes.’

‘You cannot blame the war!’ Chaloner was astounded by the excuse. ‘And speaking of money, I left some behind the skirting board, but it has disappeared.’

‘I took it,’ said Hannah, with a sheepish smile. ‘I happened across it one day when I was looking for a dropped button. I needed a new gown, and I knew you would not mind. Lord, I am exhausted! You have kept me talking all night.’

She closed her eyes, and began the deep, measured breathing that told him she was asleep. Chaloner stared down at her, torn between anger and affection. The conversation had left him wide awake, so he rose, dressed and went downstairs. Joan was there.

‘The vintner came again yesterday,’ she said accusingly. ‘And unless you pay his bill within the next week, he is going to alert the bailiffs.’

Chaloner felt the two heavy purses in his pocket, and wondered how many creditors he could satisfy with their contents.

With a heavy step, he went to White Hall, where a few diehard revellers were still enjoying the remains of the wine from Rupert’s party. He waylaid several, and asked questions about Ferine, HMS
London
, Lawson, Browne, Lambe and Fifth Monarchists, but they were either too drunk to make sense or they knew nothing of import. When the Earl arrived and began to waddle up the stairs to his offices, Chaloner followed. Clarendon, however, was too busy to talk to him.

‘The Dutch ambassador is visiting today,’ he said, full of urgent agitation. ‘I still hope to negotiate a peace treaty, even if everyone else has given up. And you know what you must do, anyway: thwart the Fifth Monarchists and find Ferine’s killer. You do not need further instructions from me, and I do not have time to listen to a report.’

Seeing it was not an auspicious time to ask to be reinstated on the pay-roll before he was arrested for debt, Chaloner went to High Holborn, where he spent an unprofitable morning trying to learn more about the Fifth Monarchists. He met Ursula, who gave him a piece of gingerbread, then accompanied her and Atkinson to Snowflake’s funeral in St Dunstan-in-the-West. He shook his head when Temperance raised hopeful eyebrows, asking whether he had solved the murders, and felt guilty when he saw the disappointment in her eyes.

‘Please, Tom,’ she whispered, clinging to his arm as they stood in the rainswept graveyard together. ‘Snowflake needs justice. And the club dies a little more every night. You are my only hope.’

It was noon before the dismal ceremony had finished, so Chaloner took a hackney back to White Hall, where he ran across the Great Court to the Spares Gallery, a chamber so named because unwanted or duplicate pieces of art hung there. It was used as an unofficial common room by minor courtiers, and Hannah was waiting for him when he arrived.

‘The Queen is going to Richmond tomorrow,’ she said, as they walked towards the gate. ‘She wants me to go with her, but I told her I would rather stay here – you have only been home a few days, and it is unfair to expect me to leave you so soon. Besides, the Duke’s Astrological Soirée is next week, and I should hate to miss that.’

‘I will manage,’ said Chaloner, aware that the opportunity to spend money would be considerably reduced in Richmond. He struggled to think of something that would convince her to go. ‘The weather will be better there. Drier.’

Hannah ignored that unlikely notion, and continued to talk about Buckingham’s unusual party. ‘Apparently, Lambe is going to read the future using a bowl of blood and a human femur. I have never seen such a thing, and I confess I am curious.’

The remark gave Chaloner his solution. ‘The Catholic Church maintains that all forms of divination are heresy, and the Queen will dismiss you if she finds out.’

‘She would not! It is all perfectly innocent.’

‘It is witchcraft, Hannah. Besides, if you do not go with her to Richmond, you will condemn her to the company of someone who likes her less.’

It was a sly blow: Hannah loved the Queen, and hated the thought of her being miserable.

‘But I want to go to the Duke’s soirée,’ she objected, then added as an afterthought, ‘and to stay with you. We have barely spent five minutes together in months.’

‘I know, but if word seeps out that Buckingham is meddling with the occult, there will be all manner of trouble. You would lose your post, because the Queen will not condone that sort of thing.’

‘No, she will not,’ sighed Hannah. ‘Damn! It would have been such fun. But you are right: I had better go to Richmond. Are you sure you do not mind being by yourself?’

Chaloner smiled. ‘I would rather you were safely away when Lambe starts playing with his bones and blood.’

Hannah smiled back, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Nothing bad will happen, but the Queen
would
disapprove, and her good opinion is important to me. You can compensate me for the disappointment of missing the Duke’s party when I come home by buying me something pretty.’ Her expression turned rueful. ‘Or perhaps we should just settle for a nice walk together. Then you will not fret about the cost.’

Wallingford House was a gloriously ostentatious mansion that abutted the northern edge of White Hall, a convenient arrangement for a duke who liked to be near the centre of power but not so close that his every move could be monitored by rivals. Hannah marched up to the front door with the confident ease of someone who was a frequent visitor, and addressed the servants by name. They made a fuss of her, and Chaloner wondered waspishly whether it was because she was known for dispensing generous tips.

The Duke was married, but his wife rarely visited London. Consequently, Wallingford House was a manly place, full of heavy statues, paintings of slaughtered animals, and robust furniture. In addition to the usual array of cavernous reception rooms, there was a laboratory and an observatory, both of which were open to visitors that day. When Hannah disappeared to talk to people she knew, Chaloner prowled, looking for someone to question about his investigations, and it was not long before he found himself in the laboratory.

It was a large room with shelves to accommodate the various ingredients needed for the Duke’s experiments. The walls were stained and pockmarked, showing that trials did not always go according to plan, and the rank smell attested to the toxic and potent ingredients that were used. He was in luck, because Admiral Lawson and Prince Rupert were there, part of a small group that was listening to Buckingham hold forth about alchemy. Chaloner doubted many understood him – for all his frivolity the Duke was intelligent and his explanations were complex.

‘And that is how I shall discover the Philosopher’s Stone,’ he concluded.

‘Give me lead any day,’ declared Lawson argumentatively. ‘It makes excellent ammunition, whereas gold turns rational men into drooling fools.’

He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving Buckingham too startled to reply – a rare occurrence, as he was usually a master of the scathing riposte.

‘Well, there you have it,’ drawled Rupert. ‘The great man has spoken. Christ God! And to think that he commands the Channel Fleet. He is unequal to defeating the Dutch, and we shall all be slaughtered in our beds.’

The other courtiers murmured lukewarm agreement, then one asked the Duke whether it was true that Lambe had predicted the current fashion for calling Clarendon’s new home ‘Dunkirk House’. Rupert echoed Chaloner’s opinion – that the tendency had already been there, and the port’s current use as a haven for Dutch pirates had done the rest. Buckingham preferred to attribute the practice to his sorcerer, and Chaloner left when they began a sniping debate about it.

Bowls of wine had been provided for guests in the hall outside, and Lawson was standing next to them, drinking his fill. Chaloner went to join him.

‘If you have come to tell me to mind my tongue when addressing princes and barons, you can piss off,’ the Admiral snarled. ‘I am no simpering courtier, and I say what I like.’

‘I am sure you do.’ Chaloner wondered why Lawson had foisted himself on the gathering when he clearly despised his host, the other guests and even the house. ‘I only wanted to wish you luck with the weighing of
London
on Wednesday.’

There was a flicker of something in the pale brown eyes, but Chaloner could not read it. Was it distress? Anger? Unease?

‘Half the Court plans to watch,’ said Lawson sullenly. ‘Ghouls! I am surprised God has not asked me to smite them for their unseemly curiosity.’

‘Do you think it will succeed? Lambe has predicted failure.’

‘Lambe is a damned warlock! Poor
London
– she was a lovely ship on a bowline. I have transferred my flag to
Swiftsure
, but she is nowhere near
London
’s equal.’

‘
Swiftsure
?’ Chaloner struggled to conceal his dismay – he did not want Lawson anywhere near Captain Lester. ‘Why her?’

‘She is a weatherly craft, and will serve my purpose.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped the ‘purpose’ pertained to fighting the Dutch and not some other, darker agenda. He decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I do not believe
London
sank because someone was careless with a candle. Unless it was a very unusual one.’

Lawson glared at him. ‘You can believe what you like – the opinions of landsmen are nothing to me. And you will not regale me with your views again unless you want my sword in your goddam gizzard. Why are you interested, anyway?’

‘Everyone is interested. It was a great tragedy, not only for the country, but for the hundreds of families who lost loved ones. Its repercussions will be felt for decades to come.’

Lawson stared at him, his face drained of colour. Then he turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Chaloner pondering what it was about his words that had struck a chord.

The Admiral left Wallingford House after his conversation with Chaloner. He bawled at the servants to bring him his coat, the tone and volume of his voice more fitting for a quarterdeck in a gale than the company of courtiers. He snatched it when it was brought, and strode out, barking that no, he did
not
require them to summon his coach because private carriages were for idle buggers who could not be bothered to use the legs that God had given them.

‘You succeeded where I failed,’ came a silky voice, and Chaloner turned to see Rupert at his side. ‘I tried to make him feel unwelcome so he would leave, but he merely availed himself of more of Buckingham’s refreshments. What did you say to drive him off?’

‘I asked about his ship
London
,’ replied Chaloner evenly, ‘and the possibility that she may have blown up because of an unusual kind of candle. Perhaps one that was rigged to explode.’

Rupert’s eyes became twin points of steel. ‘Your remit is to infiltrate the Fifth Monarchists. It is not to speculate on matters that do not concern you. If you exceed your orders, you will find yourself in trouble.’

Chaloner fought down his irritation. ‘It would be a lot easier if you told me—’

‘You have all the information you need. And what are you doing here anyway? No wonder your investigation is taking so long – you spend all your time enjoying yourself.’

Chaloner was not enjoying himself at all, and resented the implication that he was slacking. ‘The High Holborn Plot is complicated, and—’

‘It is simple,’ snapped Rupert. ‘There are villains who aim to topple the monarchy and I want to know how. So go and find out before I complain to Clarendon about you.’

He whipped around and flounced away, leaving Chaloner more convinced than ever that the Prince was involved in what had happened to HMS
London
. Unsettled and unhappy, he returned to the main room, where Hannah was on her fourth glass of wine. He watched her from a corner, dismayed to note that the whites of her eyes were yellow, her skin had lost its healthy lustre, and her hair had been crimped so many times into a style it would not take that it was dry and frizzled. She had never been a beauty, but she was spoiling those looks she did have by her fondness for fashion and rakish company. It was a sad realisation, and it depressed him profoundly.