Murder on High Holborn (39 page)

Sure that tackling Jones directly would not work, Chaloner set about following him, hoping he would learn something from where the rebel went and whom he met. Carefully locking his house behind him, Jones visited the grubby Stillyard Coffee House on Thames Street, where he read the newsbooks, sipping the heady brew with every appearance of relish. Then he went to St Paul’s Cathedral, where he sat for a long time with his head bowed. At first, Chaloner thought he was asleep, but then he saw his lips moving: Jones was praying. Or talking to himself.

After an age, during which Chaloner fretted about the passing time, Jones rose and sauntered west. He ambled along Fleet Street, stopping to watch a juggler, although he was the only one who did not toss the man a coin, and then turned north, towards the market in Covent Garden, which had opened early to accommodate the increased business from Lady Day visitors.

When Jones pulled what appeared to be a list of groceries from his pocket, Chaloner decided he had had enough – he was not about to trail after the man while he did his shopping. He marched up to Jones, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him behind one of the stalls, so they could talk undisturbed.

‘Oh,’ said Jones, pulling away from him and brushing himself down. ‘It is you. I was wondering when you would deign to put in an appearance. Where have you been?’

‘Away,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘But it is Friday, and if you want me to be ready for Easter morning, you had better let me know what is expected. I do not like to be rushed.’

‘And I do not like to be manhandled.’ Jones’s eyes were gimlet hard. ‘Yet you are right: it is time you knew what was happening. Come to the Pope’s Head at midnight, and all will be revealed.’

‘I would rather know now.’

‘Then I am sorry,’ said Jones, trying to push past him. ‘The Cause is more important than its component parts, and you will just have to wait.’

‘I want answers to some questions, or you can find yourself another gunpowder expert,’ snapped Chaloner, moving to block his way. ‘Which will not be easy at this late hour.’

Jones gave an irritable sigh. ‘Very well, ask. However, I warn you now, if your questions jeopardise the Glorious Design, I shall decline to reply.’

‘Who killed Strange and Quelch?’

Jones folded his arms. ‘I should like to know that myself. I was fond of Strange in particular, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see the culprit dead – if not by my hand, then by another’s.’

Chaloner had no idea whether to believe him – or even whether this was a subtle way of inviting Chaloner to dispatch the culprit himself – but he could see that Jones would not be persuaded to say more. He moved to another matter.

‘What was in the letters you gave Leving for Manning last Tuesday?’

Jones frowned. ‘You mean the coded missives that I asked
you
to deliver to the White Hind, along with that box of powder? I tried to follow you, to ensure you did as you were told, but you slunk into the Fleet Rookery and I lost you.’

‘No, earlier than that,’ said Chaloner. ‘Before we met.’

Jones’s scowl deepened. ‘I gave Leving no letters for Manning. Why would I? Leving is barely sane, and I have more reliable messengers at my disposal.’

Chaloner regarded him sceptically.

‘I can prove it,’ said Jones testily. ‘Either you can ask Manning and
he
will tell you the truth, or you can think about the writing on the package that Leving allegedly delivered. Here is mine. It is quite distinctive, as any of my friends will tell you.’

He waved his grocery list to reveal an ugly, spiky scrawl that Chaloner recognised at once from the scrap of paper he had retrieved from the makeshift battery in Prittlewell. It was as different as it was possible to be from the documents that Leving had passed to Manning, which had been in an elegant cursive with ornate capital letters. He was about to ask more when there was a sound behind him. He turned to see three members of the Sanhedrin, all armed with guns.

‘No, Glasse,’ said Jones quietly, putting out his hand when the tailor took aim. ‘We need him for our fireworks. Let him go.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Glasse suspiciously.

Jones nodded and favoured Chaloner with one of his cold smiles. ‘Do not forget – midnight tonight at the Pope’s Head.’

Chaloner left Covent Garden even more convinced that blood would be spilled in two days. Even if the farmers and housewives saw sense, the Sanhedrin was poised to cause trouble, and he hated the notion of Rupert’s cannon in their hands. He dashed off a note to Williamson, warning him that the High Holborn Plot might involve artillery – it was true that Atkinson was doing the same, but there was no harm in telling him twice – but he had a bad feeling that the Spymaster and Rupert would be more interested in protecting the secret than in preventing an atrocity. Worried and unhappy, he went to the one place where he knew he could rely on sound, reliable counsel.

He arrived at Chamber XIII to find the ex-Spymaster surrounded by paper, charts and coded messages. Thurloe looked tired, but stood to take Chaloner’s arm and draw him towards the fire. Chaloner disengaged himself and picked up one of the maps. It was of the Dutch coast.

Thurloe took it from him and placed it face down on the table. ‘You are one of few men I allow in here while I am working, but only because I trust your discretion. Please do not make me question it.’

‘I hope you are not placing too much faith in
that
chart,’ said Chaloner tartly. ‘It contains significant errors, and on no account should it be used for military or tactical purposes.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘You are mistaken. I am told the source is very reliable.’

‘Only if you consider Scott reliable. I discussed the United Provinces with him a few days ago, and he said he had never been there. I imagine he was telling the truth for once, which means he cannot possibly have taken those coastal soundings. He probably made them up.’

‘How do you know that map is from Scott?’ asked Thurloe uneasily.

‘Because he drew one for Sherwin in the Pope’s Head, and I recognise his style. His work is pretty and contains a wealth of information, but you will never know which parts are accurate and which are imagination.’

Thurloe was aghast. ‘But these have been passed to our navy! Why would Scott do such a terrible thing? To wound us in the war? As a quick way to make money?’

‘Both, probably.’

‘Heaven help our poor sailors!’ Thurloe indicated the documents on his table. ‘All this came from a single source, and it is so extensive and complex that Williamson asked me to evaluate it for him – he should hire a professional really, but he cannot afford one, and my services are free. Are you saying that the
lot
must be treated with caution?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Scott has been negotiating to sell the French a new kind of gun, and may well have been doing the same with the Dutch. He cannot be trusted.’

Thurloe gestured impatiently for him to elaborate, so Chaloner outlined all he had learned about Rupert’s cannon, Temple Mills, HMS
London
, Ferine, Scott, Sherwin, Manning and the Fifth Monarchists. When he had finished, Thurloe gazed at the papers on his table.

‘Scott’s misinformation will hamper our fleet considerably. Do you think he was paid to provide our government with bad intelligence?’

‘Perhaps. Is there anything there about the Fifth Monarchists and their plans for Easter Day?’

‘Not a word. And my informants have heard nothing either, which means an uprising is very unlikely. Williamson is a fool to waste your time with it.’

‘I disagree. Jones
is
planning something serious for Sunday. He says he will seize the Tower, kill the King, burn London, establish the Kingdom of Christ and redistribute property.’

Thurloe regarded him lugubriously. ‘All in a day?’

‘His followers certainly think so. I tried to ask him how, but some of his Sanhedrin arrived to cut the conversation short – after I had wasted hours watching him drink coffee, read newsbooks, marvel at the antics of a juggler and stroll to Covent Garden.’

‘Then I suggest there is no rebellion,’ said Thurloe promptly. ‘If there were, he would be busy making late-minute preparations.’

‘Not if everything is already in place.’

‘And how likely is that? Moreover, there have been no mass movements of troops, horses or weapons or I would have heard about it. Nothing will happen, so you might as well arrest this foolish little cabal before they make a nuisance of themselves.’

‘They sank
London
and have the secret of Rupert’s iron cannon – with special powder to fire them,’ argued Chaloner. ‘They are more than a nuisance.’

‘Even if Rupert
has
found a way to substitute iron for brass, the weapon will require extensive testing before it is safe to use. It poses no immediate danger. And the sinking of
London
was a despicable act that should be punished accordingly. My advice is to clap Jones and his Sanhedrin in the Tower as quickly as you can.’

‘I will suggest it to Williamson, although Rupert seems to be in charge, and he wants to delay until he can be sure of snaring everyone who might have the slightest inkling of his secret. All the troops and most of the Sanhedrin have no idea that these weapons are available, of course, but Rupert does not believe me.’

‘Rupert was never a very good strategist,’ said Thurloe disdainfully. ‘As you should know from Naseby – it was thanks to him that the Royalists lost. I hope you do not intend to go to the Pope’s Head tonight, by the way – I imagine Jones intends to kill you there. It will be empty, because the taverner’s lease runs out today.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner. ‘I had forgotten.’

Thurloe glanced at the clock on the windowsill. ‘I would talk longer, but I have to go to Wapping on Lincoln’s Inn business, and I really should write to warn Williamson about this flawed intelligence before I leave. However, I have something to give you first.’

He went to the desk and removed a letter from a hidden compartment. ‘From Wallis,’ he explained. ‘He has deciphered the papers that you took from Jones’s harpsichord.’

Chaloner read the translations quickly. The first document was a draft agreement between Quelch and Manning about purchasing the secret of Rupert’s guns; there was no mention of Scott – Manning had cut him out. The second was a list of questions about the metal used to make them. And the third contained advice about how Manning might spirit Sherwin out of the country after Easter, recommending the United Provinces as a suitable refuge. Wallis had returned the originals as well, and Chaloner immediately recognised the spiky hand of the last two messages.

‘Hah! Jones does not believe the New Kingdom will dawn on Sunday, or he would not be telling Manning to make for the coast the day after. And this list of questions is odd. Why does he seem more interested in the iron than in the process to “turn and anneal”?’

‘I suggest you ask him when he is in custody,’ said Thurloe briskly. ‘And now if there is nothing else, I really must be about my own business. Listen! The clocks are striking three already.’

‘Buckingham’s Astrological Soirée will start soon,’ said Chaloner absently, still thinking about the documents. ‘I am glad Hannah will not be there, especially if the Duke is to die today.’

Thurloe stared at him. ‘What?’

‘Lambe predicted it,’ Chaloner explained. ‘Partly to enhance his standing at Court when it comes true, and partly so he will not have to produce the Philosopher’s Stone – which he has been paid to do.’

Thurloe was horrified. ‘Then you must thwart this vile deed!’

‘Clarendon will not thank me for that. The Duke is his fiercest opponent, and I imagine he will be delighted to be rid of him.’

Thurloe fixed him with a steely glare. ‘I do not like Buckingham either, but I cannot condone his murder. You must prevent it.’

Chaloner disagreed. ‘Hannah told me that Lambe aims to use bowls of blood and a human femur to divine the future. I cannot attend that sort of occasion – the Earl would never rehire me if he thought I dabbled in witchery. Besides, I do not have time. I must thwart Jones and the—’

‘There will
be
no rebellion,’ said Thurloe irritably. ‘How many more times must I say it?’

‘They have Rupert’s cannon. For all we know, they may be the most deadly weapons ever invented, and Jones is about to point them at the city.’

‘Then convince Williamson to act. Regardless, you must save Buckingham.’

‘Send him a letter,’ suggested Chaloner.

‘And if it goes astray, or he does not read it? Here is a new wig and a respectable coat. We cannot have you refused admission for looking shabby.’

Chaloner was disgusted with what he had been charged to do when he felt the matter of Jones was far more pressing. Yet as he sat in a hackney carriage bound for Wallingford House he supposed he might turn the situation to his advantage. He knew enough to confront Lambe with his crimes, and Buckingham might have invited other suspects he could interrogate, too.

The light was fading as he alighted, but the building was unusually dark because all the window shutters had been closed to prevent anyone from seeing what was happening within. There was also an unpleasant smell.

‘Burning potions, sir,’ explained the footman who answered the door; Chaloner recalled that his name was George. ‘The kind that witches like. Dr Lambe says they are always used at gatherings of this nature.’

‘Have you heard the rumour that your master will … suffer a mishap tonight?’

George nodded unhappily. ‘But Dr Lambe hopes to avert the calamity with powerful spells. However, he says that
someone
will perish today, and that is a certainty.’

‘Will he be using human bones and bowls of blood for these spells?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

George shuddered. ‘Very possibly, although I have seen him meddle with far worse. Do you know the way to the observatory, sir? That is where tonight’s party is being held.’

Chaloner climbed the stairs to the top of the house, where he discovered that Lambe had been at the walls again, because there was barely an inch that had not been daubed with symbols. Some were in chalk, but the sorcerer had clearly decided that this was not sufficiently dramatic, so the rest had been painted in blood. Chaloner sincerely hoped it had come from a butcher.