Murder on High Holborn (38 page)

He left the club before anyone was awake, listing in his mind all that needed to be done that day. Most pressing was to visit Atkinson and Ursula, to see if they had learned anything new while he had been in Chatham. He also had to find out Jones’s plans, and warn Buckingham to be on his guard.

He walked briskly to Middle Row, but a quick prowl inside Ursula’s house told him that no one had been there for several days. He supposed the coach carrying her and Atkinson was caught in the floods, and was torn between relief that they were away from trouble, and alarm because even their amateur help would have been better than none.

He went to Garlick Hill next. Despite the early hour, the streets were busy, as more people poured into the city for Lady Day, now less than twenty-four hours away. Tradesmen were opening their stalls sooner than usual to catch more business, and the atmosphere was one of excited anticipation. Worriedly, Chaloner realised that he would never know if an uprising was in the offing, because he could not distinguish between eager Fifth Monarchists and folk who had come for legitimate business.

Lamps were lit at Jones’s house, just visible beneath shutters that were still closed against the night, and there was a black wreath on the door to indicate a house in mourning. Chaloner was surprised – he had not imagined Jones to be a sentimental man, even if Strange had been a friend.

He drilled with his dagger until he had made a hole in the soft, rotten wood of a window frame that had spent too many years battered by rain, and was rewarded by the sight of Jones serving breakfast ale to Leving, Manning and some of the Sanhedrin. He was using silver goblets on a matching tray, and his clothes were protected from accidental spillages by the incongruously lacy apron. Leving was chattering like a monkey, while Manning was glowering at someone on the other side of the table. It was Scott, who leaned back in his chair with his feet on the table. They did not stay there long: Jones fixed him with a look of extraordinary malevolence, and the chair came to rest on all four legs with a thump.

Chaloner could only suppose that Scott had bludgeoned Manning into inviting him to the Fifth Monarchists’ meeting, but what would the New Englander do with what he learned? Tell Williamson? Use the information to extort more money from whoever wanted to buy the secret of Rupert’s cannon? Or was he a secret Fifth Monarchist himself, and had played the Spymaster for a fool? Regardless, Chaloner knew his presence there spelled trouble for everyone concerned.

Then the door opened, and Atkinson and Ursula stumbled in, travel-stained, rumpled and grey with exhaustion. Ursula was limping badly, and both were nervous, causing Jones to regard them sharply. Chaloner winced – they were going to give themselves away with their guilty faces!

He was on the verge of joining the party, simply to divert attention away from them, when Scott began to speak. Chaloner could not hear everything, but he caught enough to know that it was a résumé of Sherwin’s work with the cannon. Manning’s face was dark and angry as he listened – Scott was revealing details that had not been shared with him first.

When Scott had finished, others stood to make their reports. Chaloner cringed when he saw Leving surreptitiously making notes under the table and Atkinson frowning in his effort to memorise as much as possible. And none of the news was worth the risks they were taking – one man said a printer had offered to publish Jones’s pamphlets free of charge if the Last Millennium did dawn on Sunday, while a tailor named Glasse had bought a quantity of red velvet, lest the stuff in White Hall should transpire to be below par.

‘I wish Strange could see it,’ he concluded softly. ‘He would have been impressed.’

‘His killer will not escape unpunished,’ said Jones in a low yet harsh voice. ‘I shall see to that.’

‘You need not trouble yourself,’ said the one-armed soldier named Tucker. ‘King Jesus will take care of that sort of thing on Sunday.’

‘Of course,’ said Jones shortly, making it obvious that he intended to exact his own revenge anyway. The remark made Chaloner wonder yet again about the strength of Jones’s commitment to the Fifth Monarchists and their beliefs.

Scott patted Jones’s shoulder sympathetically, and Jones stood abruptly, although whether because he feared he might weep or to escape Scott’s unwelcome touch was difficult to say. He raised his right hand, and the conspirators chanted their oath, after which he began to collect the empty goblets. The meeting was over, and it was the sign for his guests to leave.

Ursula and Atkinson were first out, and Chaloner trailed them to Thames Street, glad the rest of the conspirators were lingering to chat outside Jones’s house, thus giving him the opportunity to waylay the couple unseen by the others.

‘We have spent the last two days lurching from one morass to another,’ said Atkinson, his voice hoarse with tiredness. ‘What a waste of time! And now Scott and Manning report that they
do
have special artillery to use on Sunday – you were right. What should we do about it?’

‘Tell Williamson,’ replied Chaloner promptly.

‘We asked how the guns were to be used, but Jones would only say that there will be fireworks,’ said Ursula unhappily. ‘And he asked where you were, because he will need your expertise soon.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was difficult to move heavy weapons without being noticed, and while the odd gun might have been slipped into London unseen, it would take a whole battery to defeat the Tower, take over White Hall and set the city afire. Moreover, Jones would need more than one gunpowder expert to realise his plans. Try as he might, Chaloner could make no sense of it all.

‘It was Scarface Roberts who destroyed the ship
London
,’ he said, deciding to be open with them. ‘On the orders of Jones and Strange. The evidence is indisputable. Tell Williamson that, too.’

‘Oh, God!’ groaned Atkinson. ‘And now Jones wants you to blow up something else! But what? Not White Hall, because King Jesus will want to live there. St Paul’s, perhaps?’

‘No,’ said Ursula. ‘I imagine God would like that preserved, too. It must be the Tower. Jones did say he was going to seize it.’

Chaloner made a decision. ‘It is time Jones shared his ideas with his gunpowder expert. Now – today. I am tired of being fobbed off with promises of future revelations. If he wants my services, then he is going to have to confide in me. The threat of walking out should work, because I doubt he will find a replacement at this late stage.’

‘Then be careful,’ warned Atkinson. ‘It occurs to me that
he
might have murdered Strange and Quelch. I have no idea why he would slaughter his own followers, but there is much I do not understand about this business.’

‘Strange was more than a follower – they were friends.’ Ursula sounded shocked. ‘They lived together.’

‘Even friends can disagree,’ said Atkinson. ‘And to argue with Jones might well be fatal.’

Chaloner hurried back towards Garlick Hill, ducking into an alley as a gaggle of the Sanhedrin passed. They were braying about the Last Millennium and what they planned to do when they were invested with unlimited power. Chaloner recalled what Thurloe had called them: spiritually arrogant, humourless, vociferous fanatics. The ex-Spymaster had coined them perfectly.

Behind them, Manning and Scott were engrossed in another conversation. When Manning stopped walking and leaned against a wall to ease the pain of his chilblains, Chaloner crept behind a stationary hackney carriage so he could listen to what was being said. Scott paced impatiently while he waited for Manning to recover.

‘…will cheat us,’ he was hissing. ‘We cannot trust them.’

‘I agree,’ said Manning. ‘And I have decided that I do not like the sound of their Glorious Design. To hell with gainful employment and equal distribution of wealth! I want lots of money for myself, so I can live in indolent luxury for the rest of my life.’

‘Then put your trust in me,’ urged Scott. ‘I have contacts.’

‘Like Georges Pellissary of the French navy?’ asked Manning archly. ‘I found a letter from him in your rooms, which read as though you have started negotiations with him. You should not have done, not without my consent. And for God’s sake do not approach the Dutch, or we will both swing at Tyburn.’

‘I have
negotiated
with no one,’ said Scott smoothly. ‘Just made a few enquiries about prices. You know I would never do anything without consulting you. We are partners.’

Manning started to walk again, but Chaloner decided there was no harm in letting the pair know that their discussion had been overheard. ‘It is treason to sell weapons to foreign governments,’ he said, stepping out in front of them. ‘French
or
Dutch.’

‘As if we would,’ said Scott, recovering quickly and filling his voice with hurt reproach. ‘We are patriotic men, and I am Cartographer Royal.’

Manning was less adept at hiding his terror. ‘I paid Ferine a fortune to predict whether I should persist with this venture,’ he gulped. ‘He should have warned me that it might turn deadly.’

‘It has done nothing of the kind,’ said Scott firmly. ‘Now go and make sure Sherwin is still safely in the Pope’s Head. I will join you there shortly.’

‘Why?’ asked Manning, all suspicious alarm. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘Have a word with Chaloner here, to ensure that he knows it is unwise to cross us,’ replied Scott. ‘Then I shall investigate other buyers – ones who will pay us what we deserve.’

Chaloner would not have believed him for an instant, but Manning promptly scurried away, openly relieved to be away from a conversation that carried threats of treason. Or perhaps it was the prospect of more money that had convinced him.

‘Williamson will not protect you if you sell Rupert’s secret,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Be it to overseas powers or home-grown lunatics.’

‘What a low opinion you have of me,’ chided Scott. ‘I thought we were friends.’

‘No friend of mine would bribe Commissioner Pett to delay HMS
London
’s sailing, thus allowing Strange and Jones to murder three hundred British sailors.’

For the first time, Scott’s composure slipped. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Besides, Pett is an infamous liar, and no one will believe a word he says.’

‘Regardless, I would not like to be in your shoes when Williamson—’

‘Williamson trusts me,’ snapped Scott. ‘And you would do well to remember it.’

‘So are you saying that you were not in Chatham when
London
sailed? If Williamson sends his agents to ask questions, they will find no one who saw you there?’

‘I did not say I was not there,’ hedged Scott. His eyes were cold and hard, but there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. ‘I said Pett is a liar. Doubtless he delayed
London
for reasons of his own. Everyone knows he is corrupt, and will do anything for money.’

He had a point: Pett had virtually admitted as much himself. Yet Chaloner had believed Pett, and he did not believe Scott.

‘You have sold inaccurate maps to the navy, you have conspired to destroy one of His Majesty’s warships, and you are attempting to sell military secrets to hostile foreign powers,’ he said harshly. ‘Even Williamson will not be able to save you from—’

‘You are treading a dangerous path, Chaloner,’ hissed Scott. ‘You understand nothing, and you would be wise to stay away from this business if you want to live.’

He turned on his heel and stalked away. Chaloner could have stopped him, but he decided it was not worth the bother. He was about to resume his walk to Jones’s house when he spotted Leving, who was sauntering along humming to himself. The turncoat beamed merrily when Chaloner intercepted him, and laughed when he was hauled out of sight behind the hackney carriage.

‘Lord, Chaloner, you do enjoy the dramatic! Where have you been these last few days? I was beginning to think the Oldenberg Conspirators had murdered you for infiltrating them.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner in confusion.

Leving looked blank for a moment, then chuckled. ‘I mean the Fifth Monarchists. I am monitoring so many rebellious factions that it is difficult to keep track of them all. But you and I are working together to foil Jones, Quelch and Strange. I remember now.’

‘Quelch and Strange are dead,’ said Chaloner, recalling that Wiseman had declared Leving insane. He was becoming increasingly convinced that the surgeon was right.

‘I know,’ declared Leving, a little defensively. ‘I saw them in the charnel house at Chelsey.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Tell me what you have learned since Monday.’

‘Well, the government is refusing to lift the coal tax, the Pope’s nephew has a nasty cold, and the Dutch fleet is travelling to—’

‘About the Fifth Monarchists,’ interrupted Chaloner impatiently.

Leving frowned, tapping his lips with a forefinger as he considered. ‘My list of conspirators now comprises almost seventy people – schoolmasters, housewives, haberdashers, tailors and cooks. A very deadly horde. Some of them even invited me into their homes and gave me bread, cheese and ale when I went to check their addresses. Fanatics, you see.’

‘They are not fanatics,’ snapped Chaloner. ‘And you had better be sure of their guilt before you pass that list to Williamson. If they hang because of it, their blood will be on your hands.’

‘Better than my blood on theirs,’ quipped Leving airily. ‘But why do you defend them? Have you joined them in their lunatic opinions? Shall I include
your
name on my register?’

‘You must have learned more than names in all this time?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Surely
some
of these folk discussed their plans with you?’

‘Of course,’ replied Leving happily. ‘They aim to kill the King, seize the Tower, burn the city, establish a republic and redistribute property. I thought you were there when Jones made the announcement.’

‘Go to Williamson,’ ordered Chaloner curtly. ‘Do not give him your list, but tell him all that you have learned. I am sure he will be grateful.’

And if the Spymaster was worth his salt, he would see that Leving had lost what little reason he had left, and would incarcerate him before he did any harm.