Murder on High Holborn (29 page)

‘Well, yes, actually,’ replied Ursula, wide-eyed. ‘My sister says everyone will join us when they understand what we aim to do, so this will be a
peaceful
revolution. Now put down your blade, Mr Strange. I do not like you waving it about in such a hostile manner.’

‘Neither do I,’ whispered Leving.

‘Our uprising is too important a matter to leave to chance,’ growled Strange, scowling at his victim. ‘If thou art innocent, thou wilt rise from the dead in a week, and I shall apologise.’

‘Wait,’ said Chaloner, supposing he had better do something before a murder was committed in front of him. ‘Leving and I have been collecting money for the Cause. He would not have done that if he was betraying you.’

He pulled out the second purse that Sherwin had given him, and dropped it on the table. There was a collective gasp as coins spilled out. It was an impressive hoard, and he wondered how Manning had come by it.

‘Where did you get this?’ demanded Strange, quickly sheathing his blade so he could reach out and touch it.

‘Does it matter?’ asked Chaloner, before Leving could say something stupid.

‘It is not the Tsar’s, is it?’ asked Atkinson uneasily.

‘How can it be part of the Tsar’s treasure when Chaloner and I collected it together?’ asked Leving, grinning so idiotically that Chaloner was sure he did not appreciate the danger he was still in. ‘What a silly question, Atkinson! I had not taken
you
for an ass.’

‘How generous of you both,’ said Jones, picking up the large ruby ring and surveying it with a practised eye. ‘Thank you.’

Had Leving been remotely reliable, Chaloner would have asked for his help in following the Sanhedrin once the meeting broke up. As it was, he was relieved when Leving said he had other rebels to monitor in a different part of the city. Chaloner watched him saunter away, thinking that if the Fifth Monarchists did not eliminate him, another sect would.

‘Thank you for preventing violence,’ said Ursula with a shy smile as she limped up to him. ‘Mr Strange so desperately wants us to succeed that he is not always sensible. Likewise Mr Jones, although I am sure he does not really intend to use weapons.’

‘Of course he does,’ said Chaloner, thinking her a fool for believing that men like Jones and Strange would stay their hands when it came to implementing the Glorious Design. ‘There are rumours that silver cannon will play a role.’

Ursula blinked. ‘Silver cannon? I did not know there was such a thing. Still, no matter what means are used to bring it about, the uprising will end oppression and injustice. My sister wrote a pamphlet about it, and between you and me, it is better than anything Mr Jones has penned. Shall I look you out a copy? I have hundreds of spares.’

From that remark, Chaloner surmised that no one had wanted to buy it.

‘I shall be away from London tomorrow,’ he said, thinking it was time to visit Temple Mills and talk to Snowflake’s father. Telling Ursula his plans would hopefully ensure that the Sanhedrin was not suspicious when he disappeared.

‘Then we shall see you on your return.’ She smiled so sweetly that he felt guilty at using her, which was not something that often happened to a man who made his living with lies.

After she had gone, he loitered until Strange and Jones emerged. Atkinson was with them, talking about Mrs Trapnel’s
The Cry of a Stone
, which was an account of the visions she had experienced in a multi-day trance during the Commonwealth. Neither was listening, and it was not long before Jones bade him a curt farewell. Strange did the same, and they left the stockinger staring after them in hurt bewilderment. He shuffled off alone, and Chaloner continued after the other two.

Bells were ringing all across the city to announce more Sunday services, and the bustle meant it was easy for Chaloner to follow his quarry unseen. Jones and Strange walked down Ludgate Hill towards the greasy, foul-smelling Fleet River, then aimed for Thames Street. Eventually, they reached a narrow lane called Garlick Hill, where they entered a pretty little house with ivy trailing attractively over the porch.

Chaloner waited a moment, then approached it. The door was unlocked, so he stepped inside. The house was clean, obsessively neat and sweetly scented with the rose petals that had been left in a bowl on a chest. There was a flight of stairs in front of him, and as he could hear Strange and Jones clattering about in a pantry at the back, he decided to check the rest of the house before attempting to eavesdrop on them. There were two pleasantly furnished bedrooms on the upper floor, both smelling faintly of lavender.

He searched them quickly, but discovered nothing of value – and nothing to indicate that anyone other than Jones or Strange occupied them. He crept back downstairs, and when he heard them chatting in an easy, conversational way together he explored the ground floor, too.

There was a parlour near the stairs, evidently for formal use, because it contained solid furniture and paintings that screamed of staid respectability. There was a harpsichord in one corner, a heavy, stocky item that had been chosen because its paintwork contrasted nicely with the wallpaper – a comparatively new fad from France – and some unusually fine Dutch chairs. On the mantelpiece was a small box of the same powder that Jones had wanted delivered to Manning, suggesting that he had filched a bit before handing it over. There was not enough to do much damage, but it was still not the sort of thing Chaloner would have kept in
his
drawing room.

He stood by the harpsichord as he looked around, and his fingers naturally strayed to the keys. He touched them lightly, but they were oddly stiff. Bemused, he pressed harder and heard a muted twang: something was preventing the strings from sounding. He opened the lid to discover a package. He shoved it in his coat, then crept along the corridor towards the pantry, where he was startled to see a scene of extraordinary domesticity: Jones was chopping vegetables, his clothes protected by the kind of lacy apron that Chaloner’s mother used to wear, while Strange knelt at the hearth with a pair of bellows.

‘…dreadfully expensive,’ Strange was saying. ‘Thou wouldst not believe the cost of butter. Then I went to the costermonger for peas, until I remembered that thou dost not like them.’

‘I do not,’ said Jones. ‘Would you prefer one onion or two? I recommend two, because Ursula gave us this piece of beef a week ago, and they will help with the flavour.’

‘Two it is, then,’ replied Strange, more amiable than he was in other company. Once he had the fire blazing to his satisfaction, he sat back on his heels and glanced at Jones. ‘I am glad Quelch is gone. He was a liability.’

‘It is a pity you were seen quarrelling with him in the Westminster tavern, though. It has made everyone think that you had something to do with his demise.’

‘I cannot help the asinine thoughts of fools,’ replied Strange shortly. ‘But never mind him. How dost thou feel our business is going?’

‘Not as well as I might have hoped, but I think we shall prevail. The money Chaloner gave us will certainly expedite matters.’

Chaloner grimaced: he had intended to save Leving’s life, not give the uprising a financial boost that might see it succeed. He listened a while longer, but heard nothing to help with his enquiries, and when they began comparing recipes for plum jam, he realised he was wasting his time. He left, and went to the nearest coffee house to examine the package.

The Stillyard on Thames Street was a small, dingy place with greasy benches, stained tables and an insalubrious clientele. Chaloner recognised some patrons as belonging to the criminal gang called the Hectors, and had he not been adept at looking after himself, he would have gone elsewhere. As it was, he ignored them and they ignored him, an arrangement that suited everyone.

The package had been wrapped in oiled cloth and tied with so many careful knots that it was clear the contents were important. He cut them quickly, then peeled away layer after layer of protective covering until he reached two reports, one in Dutch and the other in French. Both had identical diagrams of a cannon, along with notes that gave technical details of its making. He peered at the words in the yellow light of a lamp that was too far away to be helpful. However, it was not long before he began to understand their significance.

Most artillery was made of brass, as it was one of few materials that could withstand the powerful forces generated by hurling missiles over long distances, yet the documents in his hand gave details of cannon that could be made of iron. This was innovative, as iron normally became too hot and blew up. He recalled the argument he had overheard between Rupert and Lawson in the club, when they had debated which metal was better. Rupert had argued for iron, and the documents Chaloner held described a process whereby guns could be made with it. The invention was attributed to ‘PR’ and references to Court and the Royal Society made it perfectly clear that this was Prince Rupert. Chaloner and Thurloe had been half right: the Prince had devised not a new weapon, but a new way to manufacture them.

So this was how Rupert used his creative talents, thought Chaloner, as a number of answers snapped clear in his mind. He studied the reports more closely. In both French and Dutch were phrases that could be translated as ‘turned and annealed’, terms he had heard Rupert throw at Lawson. And when Buckingham had asked whether Rupert had devised a ‘candle’ that was less prone to explode, he had actually been asking after the Prince’s experiments with iron guns.

Chaloner pondered the implications of what Rupert had done. Iron was lighter than brass, so would be easier to transport. It was also cheaper. The invention would be worth a fortune – more than a fortune, because it would give one fighting force an advantage over another, and no price could be put on that. If the Dutch knew the secret, and the documents Chaloner had found said they either did or were about to, it might affect the outcome of the war.

So why did Jones and Strange have the reports? Were they going to sell them and use the proceeds to fund their rebellion? Were Rupert’s guns the ‘silver cannon’ mentioned in the speech of the three rebels who had been hanged at Tyburn? Did Jones intend to turn these weapons on London?

Regardless of the answers, it explained why Rupert was keen for the High Holborn Plot to be crushed – and crushed so completely that not one of its members would be left free to talk. It was not an uprising he feared so much as someone making off with his secret. And
that
was why Rupert had been following Scott, both at Hannah’s party and Buckingham’s – Scott was not a Fifth Monarchist, but Manning was, and the pair of them were partners.

At last, Chaloner felt as though he was in a position to move forward with his enquiries.

Acting on impulse, Chaloner went to Middle Row. He knew Jones had not confided in Ursula – she would not have been
his
first choice of a co-conspirator either – but perhaps she had overheard something that would make sense now that he understood what was involved. She took a long time to answer the door, and when she did, her hair was rumpled and her face flushed.

‘It is only Mr Chaloner,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘He must have smelled the soup we are about to eat. My broths are famous all over London, so it is to be expected.’

She was speaking to Atkinson, who emerged shyly from the parlour.

‘I came to bring her some yarn,’ the stockinger said, although Chaloner could tell from the cosy layout of the rugs between the fire and the virginals that neither soup nor thread had featured in what they had been doing.

‘You must eat with us,’ gabbled Ursula, blushing scarlet when she realised where Chaloner was looking. ‘I shall bring bowls, while John tidies up the mess my neighbour’s children made of the mats when they visited earlier.’

Chaloner followed Atkinson into the parlour, where the stockinger hastily toed the offending items into a less incriminating arrangement.

‘Do not tell Jones,’ begged Atkinson, when he saw Chaloner was not deceived by their explanations. ‘He already thinks I only joined the Fifth Monarchists because of her, and if he learns that we have become close … well, he will assume I do not care about the Cause.’

‘And do you?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Oh, yes! I should very much like to live in a just and ethical republic, where all men and women are equal, and where everyone is gainfully employed. I think I shall ask her to marry me on Easter Sunday, once all this has come to pass.’

Ursula arrived with the soup at that point, sparing Chaloner the need to comment. She served it with fresh bread and generous slices of cheese, simple but wholesome fare that was a world away from pickled ling pie and orange-rind comfits.

‘Do you like it?’ Ursula asked pointedly. Both men had been too busy eating to pay her the compliments she considered her due.

They hastened to oblige, although the fact that they had not immediately sung her praises meant it was a while before she was satisfied. Chaloner let Atkinson do most of the talking, feeling the stockinger needed the practice if he was going to spend the rest of his life with her.

‘Why did Clarendon really dismiss you?’ Ursula asked of Chaloner, when Atkinson eventually stuttered into silence, his store of flattery spent. ‘Because I do not believe you mislaid the Tsar’s treasure. That would have been careless, and you do not strike me as a silly man.’

Chaloner hoped the rest of the Sanhedrin did not share her scepticism, and wished again that the Earl had devised a better excuse for their ‘falling out’.

‘The ship chartered to take me to Russia sank,’ he explained. ‘And the hold containing the jewels flooded before I could reach them.’

‘Heavens!’ breathed Atkinson, agog. ‘Did you know that the philosophers Aristippos and Zeno were shipwrecked? I taught myself Greek in order to read great masters like them. And Latin, of course. Have you studied Cicero? His
De Legibus
states that the law should promote good and forbid evil – a simple tenet, but one that our judicial system seems to have overlooked.’

‘All will be set right at the Last Millennium,’ said Ursula soothingly.