Murder on High Holborn (27 page)

To take his mind off it, he turned his attention to the rest of the guests. At the centre of one knot of admiring people was Scott, resplendent in a handsome new long-coat of wine-red with mother-of-pearl buttons down the front. His lace was as white as his fine, even teeth, and his dark hair was more luxuriant than any wig.

He was talking about his adventures in New Amsterdam, all highly improbable, although his audience cooed appreciatively. Then Chaloner became aware that he was not the only one watching: Williamson and Rupert were also listening intently. Chaloner took a step towards them, intending to ask why – and why Rupert had been following Scott at Hannah’s soirée, too – but Williamson indicated with a slight shake of his head that he was to keep his distance. Chaloner complied only because he sensed answers would not be forthcoming anyway.

Also present were Duncombe and Odowde. Duncombe was drinking heavily, a dissipated figure with red-rimmed eyes and a stained coat; Odowde was pale and one arm was in a sling.

‘Our friend Hubbert is dead,’ reported Duncombe miserably when Chaloner went to exchange greetings with them. ‘He had a seizure last night.’

‘Lambe said that one of us would follow Ferine,’ sighed Odowde. ‘We should have listened. I scoffed at his remarks about my arm, and now look at it – broken.’

‘I thought it was only bruised,’ said Chaloner, thinking of Wiseman’s account of the incident on the Banqueting House steps.

‘Then you thought wrong. Look.’

Odowde moved the bandage to reveal badly swollen fingers. Chaloner was surprised: Wiseman
was
in the habit of downplaying his patients’ sufferings, but he did not usually dismiss fractures as of no consequence.

‘Lambe is always right,’ slurred Duncombe. ‘Did you hear about the devil at Tyburn?’

‘I was there; Satan was not,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘There was nothing but a sudden downpour and a stampede caused by someone yelling nonsense. Indeed, the culprit may have been a friend of Ferine’s – Eliza Hatton, who haunts the Holborn taverns.’

Duncombe shuddered. ‘Yes,
haunts
is a good word for what she does. I told Ferine there was something odd about her, and I was right. She is dead, you know.’

‘Someone has killed her?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘No, he means she is a walking corpse,’ explained Odowde. ‘She died forty years ago, and someone has raised her from the grave.’

‘Dr Lambe, probably, given that he is a sorcerer,’ said Duncombe fearfully.

‘Or her name is really Alice Fanshaw, and she is staging a hoax,’ said Chaloner practically. ‘Because she is no more dead than you are. She—’

He was interrupted by a soft snore: Duncombe had fallen asleep.

Odowde gazed at him. ‘He only turned to wine after Ferine died. And Ferine only became superstitious after his wife fell down the stairs. Death can have a very peculiar effect on people.’

‘It can indeed,’ agreed Chaloner drily.

‘I told Ferine he was a fool for thinking that Grace was killed by a ghost, but now I am not so sure. Grace drank, but perhaps she did it because their house was infested by evil.’

When someone suggested a game of Blind-Man’s Buff, Chaloner left the main parlour, afraid he might be drawn into it. The laboratory was now empty, which allowed him to search it, but all he found were a lot of books about the Philosopher’s Stone, and a wide range of expensive, exotic and poisonous substances.

He was about to leave when he saw the corner of a document poking from under a bowl. It was a note, written on a tiny piece of paper that had been rolled at some point, because its corners had curled. It was in an elegant cursive with a flourish to each capital letter – the same as he had seen on the letters that Leving had delivered to Manning:

It was Jones who had ordered Leving to take the missives to Manning, so did that mean Jones was in Buckingham’s pay? But that made no sense, and the wheedling tenor of the note was not the Fifth Monarchist’s style. Chaloner stared at it, but no answers came, so he put it back and climbed the stairs to the observatory.

The King was interested in astronomy, so naturally every fashionable home had a place dedicated to studying the heavens. Indeed, Chaloner suspected it was only a matter of time before Hannah would want one, even though she had no interest in the subject and would never use it. Buckingham’s was extravagant, and comprised a chamber constructed to block out light from below. It had white walls, and books about the stars sat in a case against one wall, while cupboards holding scientific instruments were along another. At the far end was a mechanism that allowed part of the ceiling to be opened, along with a telescope.

Lambe was there, scribbling on the walls with a piece of red chalk, his face a mask of intense concentration. Chaloner looked at what had been written, but could make nothing of the complex gamut of symbols and signs.

‘Are you sure you should not put all that on a piece of paper?’ he asked, watching the sorcerer leap in alarm. ‘I cannot imagine the Duke will appreciate his home being defaced.’

‘He told me to do it,’ said Lambe, recovering quickly and giving one of his suave smiles. ‘These are calculations that will help him find the Philosopher’s Stone.’

‘He is not a fool,’ warned Chaloner. ‘He will know if you try to trick him.’

Lambe’s eyes widened. ‘I am no cheat. Everyone at White Hall knows my prophecies are uncannily accurate, which is why they clamour to buy horoscopes from me.’

‘Did Hubbert buy one when you predicted that he would die?’

Lambe smiled again. ‘No, I imparted that advice free of charge. He should have abstained from anchovies. His stars were not auspicious, and devouring so many gave him a fatal seizure.’

‘Then you will not object when the royal surgeons open him up?’

Lambe’s calm gaze did not waver. ‘I shall welcome it. It will vindicate me once and for all, and even more people will want to hire my skills.’

‘Will your friends from the Swan with Two Necks help you meet this demand?’

‘The Swan with Two Necks?’ asked Lambe with a frown. ‘Is that a tavern? I am afraid I am unfamiliar with it. The Duke keeps me very busy, and I have scant time for leisure.’

‘I have seen you there.’ Chaloner nodded to the ink-marks on the sorcerer’s hands. ‘They are distinctive, and a cloak will not hide them.’

‘You are mistaken,’ stated Lambe blandly. ‘I do not know the place.’

‘Perhaps we should ask Eliza Hatton, then.’

‘Do you refer to the woman who was brutally murdered forty years ago? I am a sorcerer, not a necromancer! I do not commune with the dead.’

‘Then perhaps you commune with Alice Fanshaw?’

‘I have never heard of her,’ said Lambe firmly. He peered closely at the spy, then recoiled theatrically. ‘Christ God! I have never seen such an aura of danger around a man! You are clearly in need of my services. I shall read your stars, but then you must leave me to my work.’

He grabbed a handle and began to wind, so that the ceiling cranked backwards to reveal the sky. Chaloner was surprised to see that it was dark: he had squandered an entire afternoon at Wallingford House. The night was not clear, but the clouds had thinned, and the occasional star could be seen twinkling through them.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Lambe, squinting upwards. ‘I see nothing good – blood, peril, misery.’

‘I place no faith in witchcraft.’

‘Then you are a fool.’ Lambe seemed to grow taller and broader as he spoke, and his eyes turned peculiarly black. ‘The devil has set his sights on your soul. Leave London, before his talons fasten into you and you cannot escape.’

Despite himself Chaloner was unsettled. Lambe’s voice had dropped to a hiss, so it echoed eerily. Then the sorcerer moved suddenly, and a small blue flame gleamed at the tips of his fingers. Chaloner knew it was a trick, but the effect was unnerving even so.

‘Heed me,’ Lambe intoned. ‘Now go. Your wife needs you.’

A sound behind him made Chaloner whip around quickly, but there was nothing to see, and when he turned back, Lambe had gone. Chaloner spent a few moments trying to work out how, but the observatory was dark, and the warning made him uneasy on Hannah’s behalf. He ran quickly down the stairs and back to the parlour.

Hannah did indeed need him, although he suspected that Lambe had watched her mix wine with some concoction of the Duke’s, and had simply guessed that the combination would make her sick. She sat in a dejected huddle as the Blind-Man’s Buff raged its raucous progress around her, and smiled gratefully when Chaloner offered to take her home. He deposited her on a chair while he paid a servant to fetch a hackney carriage, and was about to return to her when he saw a shadow in the chamber to his right. It was Buckingham’s private office, and Scott was in there alone.

‘The Duke does not take kindly to visitors pawing through his personal effects,’ he said.

If Scott was shocked or embarrassed at being caught prying, he did not show it. ‘I like London,’ he declared jauntily. ‘And I love being Cartographer Royal. It allows me to attend functions like this. And the one at your house.’

‘Do you enjoy watching people drink to excess then? I would have imagined that you had enough of that with Sherwin.’

Scott’s smile did not waver. ‘Another week should see me finished with him, and I shall be able to concentrate on furnishing His Majesty with maps.’

‘A week? Do you mean Easter? I have heard that something deadly is in the offing for then.’

Scott’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really? Then I hope you have warned Spymaster Williamson.’

Talking to Scott was like trying to catch an eel, thought Chaloner in disgust; the man was far too slippery to pin down. He tried again anyway.

‘Who is Sherwin? We both know he is no cabinet maker, and nor does he hail from Dorset.’

‘He is no one,’ said Scott. ‘We have been through this before. You are not—’

‘Then why are you and Manning so solicitous of him? What secret does he hold?’

‘I have already told you – one pertaining to a personal commercial venture.’

‘So John Browne is a merchant, is he?’

‘Christ, Chaloner, you play with fire! Back away, or you will get burned. Powerful men are involved, and one is looking at you this very minute.’

Chaloner had been aware of Rupert’s angry gaze for some time. ‘He has invented a weapon,’ he said quickly, as Scott began to sidle away. ‘Is that what this secret entails?’

Scott’s shocked expression answered the question more reliably than any words could ever have done. ‘Leave well alone, Chaloner – if you want to live.’

He stalked away before Chaloner could stop him, leaving the spy wondering how many more of the Duke’s guests were going to threaten him – Lawson, Rupert, Lambe and now Scott. Perversely, it pleased him, because it meant he was making headway. No one would bother if he was looking in the wrong direction.

The clang of Sunday bells woke Chaloner the following morning, and he stared at the ceiling as worries and questions rattled around his head. The most pressing was the state of his finances, and he reached a decision as he lay there: he would send the domestics to visit their families while Hannah was in Richmond. Running the house was by far his biggest expense, and he did not need six people to see to his needs while she was away.

Seized with enthusiasm, he wrote Hannah a note outlining his plan. When it was finished, he was not sure how to sign it. Sloppy declarations of affection would likely make her suspect he was up to no good, while it seemed absurdly formal to end with ‘Your humble servant’. In the end he scribbled something illegible, then made sure it was indecipherable by smudging the ink.

Outside, the streets were busy. People were flocking to church, many going early so that the ceremonies would not interfere with their plans for the rest of the day. Most went willingly, but others were resentful – staying away indicated a dangerous nonconformism, and registers were kept of those who missed without an excuse.

Chaloner was among the resentful ones. He was not a particularly religious man, but unless he wanted to be branded a dissenter, he was obliged to attend Morning Prayer in St Margaret’s. Normally, he would have ensured that his name was recorded and then slipped out through the vestry door, but the servants were there, and they were the kind of people to give him away. He fretted and fidgeted through a long sermon on the dangers of divination – presumably a response to the current fad at Court – with increasing impatience.

When it was over, he waylaid Joan and told her that she and the rest of the household would not be needed until Hannah came home. She scowled, Nan burst into tears and the others exchanged sullen glances.

‘You are packing us off because you cannot pay our wages,’ Joan said accusingly. ‘We are to be thrown on the streets after years of faithful service.’

‘“Years of faithful service”,’ repeated Chaloner wonderingly, thinking he had known none of them longer than six months, and not one was what he would have called loyal.

‘You will end in debtors’ gaol,’ wept Nan. ‘And it serves you right.’

Chaloner pulled out the smaller of Sherwin’s two purses, and slapped it into Joan’s hand. ‘That should cover what you are owed, and pay some of Hannah’s creditors, too.’