At a point where the shadows were thickest, Hay opened a door to reveal a flight of steep, slime-coated stairs. Browne balked. He disliked enclosed spaces, and a cellar was not his idea of a suitable place for a meeting, seditious or otherwise. Anger began to replace nervousness. He was damned if he was going to be enticed underground in company with the likes of Thomas Strutt. He glanced behind him and saw other figures beginning to converge on the door, too, all cloaked and hooded. Evidently, other conspirators were beginning to assemble.
‘I have had enough,’ he snapped, his nerve – and temper – finally breaking as he backed away. ‘Good night, Hay. Do not contact me again.’
Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and he felt himself stumble, although there was no pain. He was aware of falling to the ground and of blurred, indistinguishable voices echoing around his head. He tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was blackness. Then the voices faded, and he knew nothing at all.
II
Late June 1663
Thomas Chaloner, spy for the Lord Chancellor of England, was pleased when Captain Browne’s widow provided him with an excuse to leave London for a few days. The weather was unseasonably hot, and the city’s sewage-splattered streets baked and sizzled under an unrelenting sun. Streams and brooks ran dry, tar melted on the ships moored along the Thames, and Chaloner’s attic rooms in Chancery Lane were like tiny furnaces. The Lord Chancellor was preoccupied with weighty affairs of state and barely looked up from his paper-strewn desk when Chaloner asked if he might spend a few days across the river on business of his own. He waved a chubby, lace-fringed hand, and said Chaloner could do what he liked, just as long as it did not involve another interruption.
So Chaloner packed a bag and left the sweltering metropolis for the cooler pastures to the south. Or so he thought. He soon learned that Bermondsey was every bit as torrid as the city, and because its inhabitants also used their streets as sewers and rubbish dumps there was no improvement on the stench, either. Furthermore, the reek of urine-soaked hides from Bermondsey’s tanneries was pungent enough to make his eyes water and mingled unpleasantly with the more earthy aroma of heat-spoiled beer from the riverside breweries.
While he walked, Chaloner thought about Hannah Browne. They had met when Hannah had accompanied her husband on one of his voyages, and Chaloner had been a passenger, en route to one of his overseas assignments. Ships demanded a lot of time from their captains, so Hannah was bored and had often sought out Chaloner’s company. To pass the time, he had taught her to play the flageolet, though she had never been very good at it. Browne had been delighted with her new skill, though, and had encouraged her to play for him almost every night. It had revealed a softer, more attractive side to that cruel and uncompromising man.
Hannah Browne’s letter had asked Chaloner to meet her at Jamaica House, a large, rambling inn with its own bowling green. He pushed open the door, then waited for his eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to the dimness of the room within. Although the window shutters had been thrown open in the vain hope of catching a cooling breeze, the tavern remained dark and gloomy. It smelled of spilled ale, smoke from its patrons’ pipes, and sweaty, unwashed bodies.
Chaloner spotted Hannah immediately. She was sitting near the empty hearth, fanning herself with one of the newsbooks that had been left on the tables for customers to read. It warned loyal citizens about the threat of a new Parliamentarian uprising, although no one in Jamaica House seemed overly concerned about the notion of rebellion. Chaloner could not help but notice that the government’s official publications had been variously used as beer mats, wedges to combat wobbly tables, and even as a plate for the large pig that obligingly disposed of any leftover food.
Hannah was staring at the ashes in the grate, grief and worry etched into her face. She was an attractive lady in her forties, with brown hair and pale blue eyes. Her flowing skirts and bodice – black, to indicate mourning – were patched and darned, albeit neatly, which was unusual for the wife of a successful and prosperous sea captain. Chaloner wondered why she was willing to be seen in garments that would normally have been passed on to the servants. Did she think she had donned some sort of disguise? If so, then the ruse had failed, because she held herself in a way that would tell anyone that she hailed from a wealthy home. She did not notice Chaloner until he was next to her.
‘Thomas!’ she exclaimed, resting a hand over her heart to indicate he had made her jump. ‘I thought working in England, instead of hostile foreign countries, might have cured you of your penchant for stealth.’
Although stealth was a talent Chaloner had honed during his decade employed as a spy, he had certainly not practised it on Hannah that day. He had approached her table openly, and it had been her own preoccupation that had led to her being startled. He was sorry she still mourned Browne so deeply, but not surprised. She had been devoted to her husband, despite his many shortcomings – the spy thought Browne gruff, impatient and opinionated, and he had not liked him at all.
‘Your letter sounded urgent,’ he said as he sat next to her. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You were John’s friend,’ she replied quietly. ‘He told me many tales that involved him ferrying you to enemy countries and landing you under cover of darkness for the purpose of spying.’
‘Did he?’ Chaloner was unimpressed. The close relationship between the captain and his lady should not have included him sharing information about government affairs – information that even now might be dangerous for Chaloner and the other intelligence officers who had used Rosebush for their work. And Chaloner would not have called Browne a friend, either, though their adventures together had made him a colleague of sorts. It was that fact which had prompted Chaloner to respond to Hannah’s summons – espionage was dangerous, and there was an unspoken agreement among spies that they would look after each other’s families in the event of a mishap.
‘John saved your life once,’ Hannah went on. ‘You were charged to steal some valuable documents in Lisbon, and he lingered offshore longer than was safe, waiting for you to return. He was obliged to use his cannons to help you escape in the end.’
Chaloner refrained from pointing out that Browne had been paid handsomely for the risks he had taken. ‘You do not need to remind me of his courage to make me help you,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I would have done it anyway – assuming it is within my power.’
Hannah looked sheepish. ‘I apologize, but I am at my wits’ end, and you are my last hope. You see, John was murdered by someone who hurled a stone at him. He lay insensible for two days, and then he died without ever waking.’
‘I heard,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘It must have been hard for you.’
Hannah regarded him oddly. ‘What did you hear exactly?’
Chaloner tried, unsuccessfully, to determine what she wanted to know. ‘Just what you said – that a drunken seaman threw a rock and knocked him out of his senses.’ He did not add that he had been sceptical of the story, because he knew from experience that it was difficult to lob such missiles with sufficient force and accuracy to kill.
‘The man alleged to be responsible was Rosebush’s cooper, Walduck. The jury was told that he killed John when in his cups, so did not know what he was doing. At the trial it emerged that John was not a popular captain and his crew disliked him.’
‘He was a strict master,’ acknowledged Chaloner carefully. This was an understatement – Browne had been a martinet who had terrorized his people, and the spy was not surprised that one had decided to exact revenge in a moment of ale-fuelled madness. Then he frowned, puzzled. ‘I have met Walduck. He is a violent lout and might well strike a superior. However, I also recall that he – unusually for a seaman – never touches strong drink. Are you sure they have the right culprit?’
Hannah slapped her hands on the table, hard. ‘At last! Someone who questions what is being passed off as the truth! No, I am not sure they have the right culprit. In fact, I am certain they have the wro
ng one. Walduck was hanged the same day that he was found guilty, and, as far as the authorities are concerned, that marked the end of the matter.’
‘The same day?’ echoed Chaloner, startled. It was very fast, even for London.
‘With what I considered unseemly haste. And there is a second inconsistency in what the jury was told – namely that John was murdered here, at Jamaica House. However, I know for a fact that he was going to meet a man called William Hay at Bermondsey House that fateful night.’
Chaloner found this evidence less compelling. ‘Perhaps Hay changed the venue at the last minute, and your husband never had the chance to tell you.’
‘Not so. The taverner is certain John was not here that night. He is an observant man, and I trust his memory. However, when he offered to testify at Walduck’s trial, he was told it was unnecessary.’
Chaloner was beginning to be unsettled. ‘Do you think your husband’s death had something to do with his involvement in intelligence work? Someone wanted his silence about a voyage he made, and murder was the best way to ensure it?’
But Hannah shook her head firmly. ‘I think it relates to his assignation with Hay. Hay does not live in Bermondsey House – it is the home of a destitute gambler called Castell. I asked around and learned that Castell will do anything for money. He often lends out his mansion for shady purposes.’
‘Your husband was meeting Hay for shady purposes?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Like many Londoners, Hay objects to the way in which the government squanders money on itself while the country is neglected. Did you know the navy has not been paid in three years? Hay thinks England would be better served by a different government.’
Chaloner regarded her in alarm, appalled that she should be confiding such matters in a crowded tavern. ‘Lower your voice! If your husband did meet Hay with the intention of joining some treasonous plot, you would be wise to pretend you knew nothing about it. The government is terrified of rebellion, and you may find yourself stripped of everything you own in retaliation—’
Hannah interrupted him with a brittle bark of laughter. ‘If only there was something for them to seize! John invested our entire fortune in a cargo he was going to transport to Jamaica, and his untimely death means we have lost everything.’
Chaloner supposed that explained her shabby clothes. ‘You think his murder is connected to this investment? Someone killed him to prevent him from profiting from it? Do you suspect Hay?’
‘Hay had nothing to do with our cargo. And before you ask, John was no rebel, either. He swore an oath of allegiance to king and country when he joined the navy, and he was a loyal servant. He went to Hay’s meeting to expose the traitors, not to join their ranks.’
Chaloner was not sure whether to believe her. ‘I see.’
‘It should have been easy – attend a gathering, learn the names of the malcontents and turn the whole lot over to the government. But John was killed before he could act.’
‘He was murdered because someone suspected his motives? One of the plotters?’
‘It seems likely: Hay is a rebel, so perhaps he killed John when he realized John was not of a like mind – and Walduck was made a scapegoat for the crime so no awkward questions would be asked.’
Chaloner considered her theory. It was only five years since Cromwell had died, and Hay would not be the only man yearning for a return of the Commonwealth. The government was its own worst enemy in that respect, because there was little in that debauched, quarrelsome, ambitious rabble that inspired confidence, and rumours of wild drinking, gambling and womanizing were rife. London objected to subsidizing its vices with taxes, and Hay might well have decided to take matters into his own hands. Dispatching suspected infiltrators would be an obvious precaution to take, because Hay and his co-conspirators would face certain execution if their plot was exposed.
‘Will you look into the matter?’ asked Hannah when Chaloner did not reply. ‘Please?’
Chaloner thought about it. Any threat to the government was a threat to its Lord Chancellor, so he, as the Lord Chancellor’s spy, was duty-bound to investigate. Unfortunately, he suspected that Browne’s intentions had not been as honourable as his wife believed. He knew for a fact that Browne had harboured anti-government sympathies, because he had confided them once during a drunken dinner at sea. Hence Browne might have been murdered because he was a rebel, not because he was attempting to unmask traitors, and if Chaloner did investigate, he might expose that fact. He was sure Hannah would not appreciate having that aspect of her husband’s character revealed and made public.
‘You owe John a favour,’ pressed Hannah when he still remained silent. ‘A debt of honour. I am asking you to repay that debt and find out who really killed him. I appreciate it is likely to be dangerous, given that you will be probing into the affairs of would-be dissidents and they will do all they can to keep their necks from the noose, but you must try.’
‘Why did you wait so long before writing to me?’ asked Chaloner, keeping his concerns about Browne to himself. ‘Your husband died in April, and it is now June. Trails will have gone cold, witnesses been bribed or silenced, and evidence destroyed. It would have been easier to explore the matter immediately.’
‘Because I had suspicions but no proof,’ explained Hannah. ‘But all that changed yesterday. John’s meeting with Hay was arranged by his friend Captain York – another man eager to expose treachery. York went to sea within days of John’s death, but he is home now. He does not think Walduck is the killer, either, and he has questions about the speed of Walduck’s trial and execution.’
‘I will need to talk to him.’
Hannah smiled for the first time. ‘You will help me, then? Thank you! York is waiting nearby, in the grounds of Bermondsey House.’
Hannah led the way through the crowded streets, travelling south. Behind them the noonday sun glinted on the river, which was sluggish and depleted by the drought upstream. Some of the houses they passed had gardens, but most were ramshackle affairs that arched across the narrow streets above their heads, so only a narrow ribbon of blue sky was visible between them. Prostitutes made lewd offers in loud, brash voices, and sailors roamed in drunken bands. Chaloner wondered whether any were from Rosebush, which was still waiting for a replacement captain to be appointed. Rumour had it that no one wanted the post – her crew was notoriously mutinous, and it was common knowledge that only hard, bullying men like Browne would be able to master them.
In a surprisingly short period of time, Hannah and Chaloner had left the houses behind and were walking along a hedge-fringed lane that boasted rolling fields to either side. The air was sweet and clean, and a soft breeze whispered through the ripening crops.
‘Bermondsey House,’ said Hannah, stopping outside a dilapidated metal gate. Her voice trembled slightly. ‘The place where John was attacked.’
At the end of an unkempt drive was a Tudor mansion that Chaloner knew had once been visited by monarchs. It was an elegant array of stocky chimneys, patterned brickwork and tiny gables, but it screamed of neglect and decay. Saplings sprouted from its roof, ivy climbed its walls and the whole edifice exuded the impression that it might give up the ghost and collapse at any moment.
Hannah opened the gate and led the way along the path that led to the main door. Halfway up it, she glanced around carefully, then ducked into a thicket of holly bushes, pulling Chaloner behind her. She followed a winding track until she emerged in a woodland glade. A man stepped out of the trees to greet her. He was portly, florid of face, and wore the kind of hard-wearing coat and breeches often favoured by sea captains. Chaloner had met him before, when York had been serving under Browne on Rosebush. The two sailors had been good friends, and the spy recalled thinking uncharitably that the fondness had probably arisen from the fact that no one else had wanted anything to do with a pair of such opinionated, arrogant tyrants. York nodded a curt greeting at him, then turned to Hannah.
‘Well? Will he do
it?’ The captain’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and Chaloner was under the impression that he might try to use it if the answer Hannah gave was not to his liking.
‘Thomas has agreed to help us,’ replied Hannah. ‘You can trust him. He is loyal to the government, and – like my poor John – eager to expose these vile traitors.’
York regarded her unhappily. ‘I sincerely hope so, because what you have told him may see me cracked over the head with a rock too.’
Hannah’s expression was not entirely friendly. ‘It is a pity you did not have the same consideration for John when you embroiled him in this nasty affair.’
The expression on York’s face was one of deep guilt. ‘I have already explained that. I would never have involved him if I thought he might be harmed. I assumed it was a case of taking names and leaving the rest to the government – in essence, I thought we could both be heroes, but without risk to ourselves. My intention was for him to share my glory in unmasking this plot, and I am appalled that he is dead when I thought I was doing him a favour.’
Hannah turned abruptly and walked away. Tears glittered, and Chaloner saw that she was torn between wanting nothing to do with the man and needing his help. York watched her for a moment, then indicated that Chaloner was to sit next to him on a fallen tree trunk.
‘She does not believe Walduck murdered her husband, and neither do I.’
‘Based on the fact that Walduck was unlikely to have been drunk at the time?’
York nodded. ‘He never took anything stronger than water. The lawyers at the trial kept harping on the fact that Browne was an unpopular captain and that most of his crew – including Walduck – would have relished the opportunity to dash out his brains. Hannah does not believe it, but it is true. You sailed with Browne, so you know I am right: he was a hard taskmaster.’
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