Murder on High Holborn (30 page)

Chaloner seized the opportunity to put the questions he had come to ask. ‘Do you think Jones is so eager to see it installed that he will make a pact with the Dutch? Or the French?’

‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Ursula, shocked. ‘We are at war with the Dutch. And the French are not particularly nice either.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Atkinson. ‘It would be terribly wrong. Besides, we shall be a lot more stable after our uprising than we are now, so the Dutch will gain nothing from helping us.’

‘You may not believe it, but Mr Jones is a very gentle man at heart,’ said Ursula. She was right: Chaloner did not believe it. ‘He wept when I sang “Flow my Tears” by Dowland.’

The investigation flew from Chaloner’s mind at the mention of one of his favourite pieces. ‘Will you sing it for us?’

She regarded him uncertainly. ‘What, now?’

Chaloner nodded, and as it was a song that was meant to be accompanied, he went to the virginals and played the opening chords. The viol was his first love, but he was perfectly proficient with several other instruments, too. Smiling, Ursula began to sing, and although her voice was not the best he had ever heard, it was perfectly creditable and her diction was excellent. Atkinson was full of praise, of course.

‘Wonderful!’ he cried, when they had finished. ‘I would ask for a little Palestrina, but he is best performed in multiple parts. How about Gibbons instead? You take the virginals again, Chaloner, while Ursula and I warble a duet.’

Never one to refuse an opportunity for music, Chaloner obliged, and although he was aware that time was passing, he played on anyway. It was Ursula who eventually indicated that she had had enough, although he could have continued much longer.

‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile. ‘I have not enjoyed singing so much since my sister visited last year. She plays the virginals, too, although not as well as you.’

‘I am glad she is not here,’ said Atkinson. He shrugged at Ursula’s surprise. ‘Our rebellion would not please her. It is too mysterious, and she would dislike the way Jones declines to tell us what is happening. I know he is worried about betrayal, but he should trust his Sanhedrin.’

The remark allowed Chaloner to ask a number of questions about the Fifth Monarchists and the possibility that Jones had acquired the secret of Rupert’s iron guns, but it did not take him long to ascertain that Ursula and Atkinson knew even less than he did. The names of the Sanhedrin they confided were probably aliases, and neither could tell him why Jones and Quelch had been to speak to Admiral Lawson at Temperance’s club.

‘I hope they have not invited
him
to join in,’ said Atkinson. ‘I know he professes to be one of us, but he is more interested in smiting God’s enemies than in establishing an equitable society.’

‘And it is odd that all his sailors died when HMS
London
blew up, yet his family survived,’ added Ursula. ‘What are the chances of that happening? I do not believe that all his kin can swim and all his sailors cannot. I am not accusing him of anything untoward, you understand, but my mind is uneasy.’

So was Chaloner’s, although he doubted putting questions to Lawson again would be any more successful than it had been the last time he had tried. A sudden clamour from the street made Ursula wince.

‘The Fleece tavern,’ she explained. ‘It attracts some terribly noisy patrons.’

‘Speaking of taverns, have you ever been to the Swan with Two Necks?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he might as well see whether they knew anything about the peculiar business that took place nearby.

‘No,’ said Atkinson stiffly. ‘It is the haunt of very dubious people. Necromancers, no less.’

‘Necromancers?’

‘Witches who commune with the dead. One was hanged at Tyburn on Thursday, and the devil came along and saved her.’

‘Moreover, a woman named Eliza Hatton frequents the Swan,’ added Ursula with pursed lips, ‘but she has been dead these last forty years. A necromancer raised her up to walk among us, but her hands are like ice, and she is deathly pale because there is no blood in her veins.’

Eliza’s hands
were
cold, thought Chaloner, remembering their touch when she had grabbed one of his own. Then he recalled that Wiseman was treating her for some medical condition that caused an unnatural chilling of the extremities, and could only suppose she was putting her affliction to good use by allowing such rumours to circulate about her – people might be more inclined to buy her witchy services if they thought she was special.

‘I have met her,’ he said. ‘She is not dead.’

‘But that just demonstrates the skill of the necromancers,’ said Ursula sagely. ‘They can make even the most decayed of corpses look fresh. And if you do not believe me, visit her tomb in St Andrew’s Church. Her painting is above it – that will prove I am right.’

The clocks were striking eight as Chaloner left Middle Row. His mind was full of answers and questions in equal measure, and he wanted to discuss them with someone he trusted. He headed for Lincoln’s Inn, but Thurloe was out and the porter said he was not expected back until the following day. Disappointed, he took a hackney to Clarendon House, supposing he had better report to the Earl. It was very dark along Piccadilly, with no moon and unusually heavy clouds.

‘There you are at last!’ cried Kipps in relief. ‘The Earl expected you at six, and is vexed to have been kept waiting so long. So watch your tongue – even a hint of insolence tonight might see you clapped in irons.’

He had bundled Chaloner into My Lord’s Lobby before Chaloner could tell him that he had no idea what he was talking about. He had certainly received no summons, and would not have been pleased if he had, given that he and the Earl were supposed to be estranged. The door closed behind him with a snap, so he made his way across the vast expanse of Turkey carpet to where a monstrous fire burned in the hearth. The Earl was not alone, as ‘Mr Smith’ and ‘Mr Lee’ were visiting him again.

‘About time,’ said the Earl crossly. ‘We were beginning to think you were not coming.’

‘I hope you have something to tell us,’ growled Rupert, who was sprawled opposite, dirty boots leaving indelible marks on an exquisite silk rug that would have cost Chaloner a month’s salary. ‘I should not like to think that we have been kicking our heels here for nothing.’

‘The Earl sent his letter to your house this afternoon,’ said Williamson coolly. ‘Asking you to meet us here at six.
Six
, not eight.’

Chaloner looked at them. Williamson and Rupert were angry, and the Earl had never liked him very much. Kipps was right: incautious replies would indeed be unwise. ‘My apologies, sirs. I have been out all day, monitoring Fifth Monarchists. I did not receive the—’

‘Then let us hope you have something useful to report,’ interrupted Rupert curtly.

Aiming to appease, Chaloner provided a detailed account of the rebels’ meetings, along with Jones’s bald declaration that Easter Sunday would see the King assassinated, the Tower seized and London put to the torch. However, when Rupert demanded the names of the Sanhedrin, Chaloner provided several fictitious ones among the likes of Jones, Strange and Tucker, unwilling to sacrifice misguided fools like Atkinson and Ursula until he knew how far they were prepared to go in their efforts to usher in a better society. He saved the best part until last.

‘And they have learned about a new kind of weapon,’ he said, presenting the reports he had found to the Earl. ‘Which I believe they intend to sell overseas – if they have not done so already.’

‘What?’ Rupert leapt up to snatch the documents from Clarendon’s hand. He scanned them quickly. ‘French and what seems to be Dutch. Where did you get these?’

‘From Jones’s house in Garlick Row,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Hidden in a harpsichord.’

Rupert was white, although whether from rage or horror was difficult to say. Williamson was impassive, and the Earl looked confused – clearly he had not been told about the guns.

‘You speak French and Dutch,’ said Rupert, brandishing the papers in Chaloner’s face. ‘So tell me, have you read these?’

‘Of course,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Or I would not have known they were important.’

‘He makes a valid point,’ said Williamson quickly, as Rupert girded himself up for a tantrum.

‘What do they say?’ asked the Earl curiously.

‘They are designs for a new kind of cannon,’ replied Chaloner, speaking over Rupert, who began to claim they were nothing. He forged on, suspecting he would be safer once the matter was in the open. ‘Iron ones that have been “turned and annealed”. They will be cheaper, lighter and safer than brass.’

He glanced at the Prince, wondering whether he would have the decency to confess that the invention was his, and that his chief interest in the matter was fiscal.

‘How interesting,’ said Williamson in the silence that followed.

‘I have done what you asked and learned the Fifth Monarchist’s plans,’ said Chaloner, when no one added anything else. ‘Nothing will be gained from letting them progress further, so I suggest you arrest the leaders without delay.’

And spare ten thousand farmers, tradesmen and labourers from showing their hands, he thought. Men and women who wanted no more than reasonable taxes and a fair legal system.

‘No,’ said Rupert, and Chaloner saw a flicker of annoyance in Williamson’s eyes at the presumption – such decisions were the Spymaster’s to make. ‘We want to snare the entire movement, not just a few officers.’

‘Why?’ challenged Chaloner. ‘The foot-soldiers are nothing, and will slip back into oblivion once the ringleaders have gone. They will be no trouble.’

‘I disagree – they have tasted treason, which is a heady cup,’ argued Rupert. ‘They can never be trusted again, and we must purge the country of the lot of them. We will arrest no one yet, but let the matter run its course and strike nearer the time. You will continue to earn their trust, and produce a list of every man, woman and child who dares to move against us.’

‘But—’ began Chaloner.

‘Do as I tell you,’ snapped Rupert. ‘And say nothing about these documents to anyone. Do I make myself clear?’ Then he hesitated, uncertain for the first time. ‘Have you heard anyone talk about Hackney Marsh or Temple Mills during your enquiries?’

Chaloner was tempted to remind him that Snowflake hailed from there, and that Rupert had discussed the place with her at the club, claiming to know her father. When Snowflake had first mentioned the conversation, Chaloner had assumed that Rupert had lied, to inveigle himself into her good graces. Now the mystery had thickened and Snowflake was dead, he suspected it had been the truth. He regarded the Prince narrowly, thinking that if Rupert had been complicit in her murder, he would pay the price, member of the royal family or no.

‘Yes,’ he replied carefully. ‘A young woman I know came from there. She was friends with Ferine and was stabbed three days ago. I plan to ride there tomorrow to visit her family.’

‘Do not go,’ ordered Rupert. ‘You have more important matters to attend here.’

He stalked out, taking the reports with him. The Earl, disconcerted by the Prince’s sour temper, went to the table to pour himself more wine. Williamson took the opportunity to whisper to Chaloner when his host’s back was turned.

‘He is right. Any malcontent escaping this purge will race to join another revolt at the first opportunity. We cannot afford to be merciful to people who seek to destabilise our country.’

‘Yet their demands are not unreasonable,’ Chaloner muttered back. ‘And arresting them will win the sympathy of the entire nation. Then there really
will
be trouble.’

A short while later, Chaloner walked down Clarendon House’s drive, weary now and ready for bed. It was still raining, a light, airy drizzle carried by a gusting breeze. His hackney had gone, so he resigned himself to walk, no pleasant task in the wet and pitch dark.

He had not taken many steps along Piccadilly before the sound of someone skidding warned him that he was not alone. He reached for his sword, but too late: someone crashed into him, knocking him from his feet, although he could tell by the way his assailant staggered that it had not been intentional. He struggled to his knees, but was hit a second time from behind.

There followed a desperate struggle. As he flailed with his sword, Chaloner sometimes glimpsed the shadowy outlines of his assailants, but it was too dark to count them, so he had no idea how many he was fighting. The dense blackness worked to his advantage, though: it meant his attackers struck each other more often than him.

Yet he was losing ground even so. There were too many opponents, and each time he fell or was knocked down, it was harder to rise. He lunged with his blade, only to meet empty air, which made him stumble. A unlucky punch completed the rest, and he went down again, this time falling a good deal farther than he should have done. With alarm, he realised he was slithering into one of the great ditches that ran along the edge of the road.

He reached the bottom, and immediately began to scramble upwards, disliking the notion of being trapped in such a place, but it was difficult to gain his footing. Then he heard a punch and a grunt. The fight was still in progress, as his assailants had yet to discover that he was no longer there.

It was his chance to escape. Paddling silently through icy, calf-deep water, he headed away from the skirmish. When he felt he had put enough distance between him and his attackers, he clambered out. He listened intently, but the only sounds were the patter of rain and the whisper of wind in the trees. He waited until he was sure he had not been followed, then cut across the open fields towards Tothill Street. It was a muddy, miserable journey, but he arrived eventually, letting himself in through a window at the back lest someone was watching the house from the road.

Inside, the place felt cold and abandoned, and Joan had placed sheets over the furniture, stopped the clocks and set mouse-traps in every corner. He washed in the dark, unwilling to light a candle lest it was seen.

Feeling better in a clean shirt and an old woollen jacket, he raided the pantry for food. Not surprisingly, nothing perishable had been left, but there were several bottles of pears and a jar of pickled eggs – ones that had been prepared by Joan, rather than Hannah, and so were edible. He washed them down with the dregs of some wine he found in the cellar, and went to bed.