Murder on High Holborn (47 page)

‘Hey!’ came a loud, indignant voice. ‘Someone is shooting at a palace guard.’

‘No!’ shouted Chaloner, as several courtiers hurried towards him with drawn swords, drunk enough to imagine that blades were a match for firearms. ‘Stay back!’

But the Catherine Wheel was making too much noise, and they kept coming. With a surge of horror, he saw Wiseman join them. Then a fourth shot rang out, causing them to scatter in alarm. Four bullets – by Chaloner’s calculation, it was time for Ursula and Atkinson to reload. He raced back to the storeroom, aiming to be there before they could do it. Dagger in hand, he flung open the door, only to find the place empty.

‘What was that about?’ demanded Rupert, making him jump by speaking close behind him. Unlike the other guests, he carried a no-nonsense handgun, which he began to load with deftly practised movements. ‘Who are they, and what do they mean by spoiling the King’s fireworks?’

‘Fanatics,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘Did you speak to Williamson? Tell him what—’

‘Are they on the list you promised to give me today?’ The Prince rammed the shot home with a vigorous jab, clearly not in the mood for answering questions.

‘Oh, yes. They are by far the most dangerous Fifth Monarchists still alive.’

‘Then get after them while I fetch help.’ Rupert shoved the primed dag into Chaloner’s hand. ‘Take my gun – you will not defeat them with a knife. They will be aiming for the river. Hurry!’

Chaloner set off at a run. He reached the water gate, and opened it warily. Rupert was right – Atkinson and Ursula were indeed intending to escape on the Thames. They had a boat, and Atkinson was manoeuvring it into the water. Chaloner started to run towards them, but Ursula had managed to reload with impressive speed. He flung himself sideways as she fired at him, hearing the bullet ricochet off the stones where he had been standing.

Atkinson jumped into the little craft and turned to help Ursula. Then he grabbed the oars while she aimed at Chaloner a second time. From his prone position, Chaloner fired Rupert’s dag, but his faith in the Prince’s competence with firearms was misplaced: it had been poorly primed, and the missile it spat out was ineffective. Ursula’s was not, though, and it snapped into the mud just inches from his face. He leapt to his feet and ran again, hoping she had not had time to reload the other two guns as well.

In his panic, Atkinson could not make the oars bite, which allowed Chaloner time to plunge into the water and wade after them. Silt sucked at his legs, slowing him down, while Ursula screamed at the stockinger to row, struggling to prime another gun at the same time. Atkinson twisted the paddles into a more effective hold, and suddenly the boat was on the move. Chaloner strained forward with every fibre of his being, and managed to grasp the stern.

Atkinson heaved for all he was worth when he felt his speed checked, tugging Chaloner off balance. Chaloner fought to regain his footing, and had just succeeded when Ursula started to batter him with the gun, hammering at the hands that were preventing their escape. Chaloner let go with one, and caught the flailing weapon with the other.

But Ursula still had her needle, and her eyes flashed with fury as she swiped at him. Fortunately, the leather jerkin saved him from serious harm.

‘You will be the first to see hell when the Kingdom of Christ comes!’ she raved. ‘You are a traitor to the Cause, and I will stand with Jesus to denounce you.’

‘Stop!’ Chaloner urged. ‘It is over. Give up and—’

With a shriek of rage, she stabbed at his head, her face unrecognisable as belonging to the woman who liked knitting and baking. He jerked backwards, still clutching her other hand, and the abrupt movement tugged her out of the boat.

Atkinson released a wail of anguish when she disappeared beneath the surface. Abandoning the oars, he scrambled towards her and managed to grab one of her legs. Meanwhile, Chaloner had an arm, but there was something wrong: she was limp, and blood washed around her.

‘She is hurt,’ Chaloner shouted. ‘Let her go. I will help her.’

‘She spoke the truth!’ Atkinson howled, tugging on her leg as hard as he could. ‘All corrupt and evil men will perish and only the righteous will—’

‘You are keeping her head under the water,’ yelled Chaloner. ‘Stop! She is drowning!’

‘You let go!’ Atkinson screeched. ‘You let go.’

Chaloner did, but so suddenly that the stockinger fell back with a crash, Ursula flying out of the river to land top of him. The boat shot forward, and Chaloner struggled after it again.

‘No!’ cried Atkinson, his face twisted with distress as he held his beloved. The deadly needle was embedded in her chest. He rocked back and forth, sobbing. Then, with chilling abruptness, his expression went from grief to rage.

Chaloner released the boat and tried to move away, but it was too late. Blind with fury, the stockinger leapt off the boat and fastened his hands around Chaloner’s neck. Chaloner went under. He forced himself upwards, but could not take a breath, because Atkinson’s hands gripped him too tightly. This was the man who had throttled the massive Strange, Chaloner thought distantly, hearing wild shrieks about a perfect society before he was forced under again, his world nothing but dirty brown bubbles.

He drew the knife in his belt and lashed out, but Atkinson was impervious to pain, and the killing hold did not ease so much as a fraction. The weapon slipped from his fingers as darkness clawed at the edges of his vision. Brown water turned black, and the roaring in his ears faded.

Then the pressure around his throat eased, and he felt himself being pulled towards the shore. He opened his eyes to see the sky bright above him. Someone was pounding on his chest, hard enough to hurt. His first breath made him choke, and it was some time before he had recovered sufficiently to take stock of his surroundings. Wiseman sat with him until his breathing returned to normal, then patted his shoulder in an awkward but sincere gesture of friendship before wandering away.

‘You should have shot them,’ said Spymaster Williamson, coming to loom. ‘Rupert told me you had a gun.’

‘Not one that worked,’ rasped Chaloner. ‘Atkinson?’

‘He was dead when Wiseman pulled him off you – dead with his hands fixed around your neck.’ Williamson shuddered. ‘It is not a sight I shall forget very quickly, I can tell you! But what of the plot? What else will they do today? Or tomorrow?’

‘There is no plot,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘There never was – at least not one that will amount to much. A few misguided lunatics might stage an assault the Tower, and I imagine there will be a fire or two, but nothing serious.’

Williamson sighed his relief. ‘Then all that remains is for you to provide me with a complete list of these insurgents, and we shall do the rest. But tomorrow will suffice, no matter what Rupert says. He is distracted, anyway, because there is plague in the city.’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘Plague? Lambe’s prediction came true?’

‘It would seem so. Two or three houses are already sealed up. God save us all.’

The steady rain of the past two weeks seemed to have blown over, and Easter Day dawned bright and clear. The sun shone gently in a sky that was flecked with white fluffy clouds, and the sound of birdsong had taken the place of dripping, gushing, trickling and gurgling. The gardens at Lincoln’s Inn smelled of damp earth and spring blossom as Chaloner strolled around them with Thurloe at his side.

‘I hear Temperance’s club is back in favour,’ said Thurloe. ‘Last night, it was so packed that some guests were turned away. Apparently, Buckingham persuaded the King to visit, and where His Majesty goes, the rest of the Court follows. I imagine it will survive now that His Majesty has graced it with his presence.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner with a satisfied smile. ‘It will.’

Thurloe shot him a sidelong glance. ‘You play a dangerous game, Tom. Bullying a man like Buckingham to do what you want is hardly wise. He is unlikely to forget it.’

‘I did not bully him. I merely pointed out that his sorcerer was ultimately responsible for Ferine’s murder, so he should at least try to put matters right for Temperance.’

‘Well, it worked. I could hear them carousing from here!’

Chaloner was thinking about Lambe. ‘The Court has already forgotten that Paul and Grace Ferine, Hubbert and Duncombe were murdered to give credence to that sorcerer’s so-called prophecies. All they talk about is the plague, and how he predicted that it would come.’

Thurloe shuddered. ‘So far, the sickness has been confined to a few houses. Pray God that it stays that way.’

‘Buckingham really does believe in the Philosopher’s Stone, you know,’ said Chaloner, reluctant to dwell on what was happening in the crowded tenements not far from where they walked. ‘How can he be so gullible?’

‘People have hankered after it for centuries. And he is intelligent, has money to buy costly ingredients, and is prepared to dabble in dangerous waters. He thinks these factors confer an advantage that was denied other seekers, so that he will succeed where they have failed.’

Chaloner yawned. He had slept badly the previous night, waking several times to imagine himself being drowned by determined hands. Hannah had not helped by arriving home from Richmond in the small hours, and seizing him in an enthusiastic hug before he was fully awake. It was fortunate that there had been no weapons to hand or he might now be a widower.

‘So many lies and betrayals,’ he said. ‘I do not think I met an honest person in the entire affair. Lawson transpired to be on the right side in the end, but even he lied to the Fifth Monarchists in order to acquire Rupert’s guns, and he was quite happy to cheat Jones and Quelch by dealing directly with Scott.’

‘He will live, by the way. He claims it is because God needs him to smite the Dutch on His behalf. Regardless of the reason, he will soon be at sea to command the Channel Fleet.’

‘And Scott was another liar,’ Chaloner went on. ‘Perhaps the most accomplished one I have ever met. He was never Cartographer Royal, and I seriously doubt he told the King anything that enabled Britain to take New Amsterdam from the Dutch.’

‘He has disappeared, and the suspicion is that he will run to Georges Pellissary. I told Williamson to let him go. Jones has already sold those reports, and I doubt Scott can tell Pellissary anything he does not already know. Besides, it is in our interests that foreign governments are keen to probe the matter now.’

‘It is?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘As Manning told you, Rupert’s secret is worthless without an experienced man to direct operations, and they will waste time and money trying to produce their own iron guns. It will be years before they realise they will never do it.’

Chaloner thought about Manning’s admission that Rupert’s cannon were more costly than brass ones, and wondered what Scott would do when the French found out. Then he grimaced. Scott would slither out of trouble, just as he always did.

‘He is a slippery devil,’ he said aloud.

Thurloe agreed. ‘So is Leving, who tells anyone who will listen that everything he did was on Buckingham’s orders. The Duke denies it, of course, but Rupert believes Leving, and there are deep divisions on the Privy Council. Your Earl is pleased – it has driven Rupert into
his
camp.’

‘And there is another injustice,’ said Chaloner sourly. ‘Rupert shot Lambe in cold blood, but the King has declared the case closed. The Fifth Monarchists are right to rail against a legal system that lets a prince murder an unarmed man without so much as a reprimand.’

‘Hush,’ said Thurloe mildly. ‘It is not for us to question His Majesty’s decisions. Incidentally, Wiseman was right about Eliza. Her real name
was
Alice Fanshaw.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘I went to Hatton House this morning, and found the panel that allowed her to disappear in the chapel. It was well hidden, but I took a torch. I am sure there are similar devices in Ferine’s home and St Andrew’s churchyard. She is just a woman with a passing resemblance to an ancient painting and an ability to scare people out of their wits.’

‘Probably. She will not do it again, though – she killed herself in prison last night.’

‘That is very convenient,’ said Chaloner suspiciously. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Williamson is,’ replied Thurloe flatly. ‘He found her body himself.’

The bells of St Dunstan-in-the-West began to ring, a joyous sound announcing Easter Day. They joined the dozens of other peals across the city, although they failed to raise Chaloner’s spirits. He felt soiled by the entire affair.

‘I was correct in my assessment of the Fifth Monarchists,’ said Thurloe eventually. ‘There was no rebellion, and my description of them as worms who think they can thresh mountains was apt.’

‘I disagree. Most are decent folk who want fair laws and gainful employment. I do not blame them for thinking that the Kingdom of Christ is preferable to what we have now – a society governed by rogues like Buckingham, Rupert and Williamson.’

‘If they were truly decent, they would not have been contemplating rebellion,’ said Thurloe tartly. ‘Your “decent folk” have a nasty edge, and perhaps Jones was right to highlight the menace they pose.’

‘By having them blamed for sinking HMS
London
, an act of which they were innocent?’

‘Nat Strange and Scarface Roberts were not innocent. They carried out the atrocity.’

‘But Jones’s list will see housewives, millers, labourers and farmers charged with treason,’ argued Chaloner. ‘That is grossly unfair.’

‘Well, no one will ever see it, so do not concern yourself unduly.’

Chaloner regarded him warily. ‘You seem very sure.’

‘I am sure. One of my old spies was charged with searching Jones’s house, and that particular document is currently in my chambers. I shall work on it later, and substitute Fifth Monarchy names with some of London’s nastier felons. That will keep Williamson busy and purge our streets at the same time.’

‘Lord!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Do you think it will work?’

Thurloe nodded, and moved to another subject. ‘I cannot say I am sorry Jones is dead. So many people died on his account, just because he wanted to bring about a “perfect” society on his terms – one where we would have been inundated with his own lunatic discourses.’