‘But we are not doing anything wrong,’ objected Long Nose, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘Well, not really. We just transfer money here and there, so the government’s auditors find it difficult to track – and what they cannot track, they cannot tax. It is not our fault the Treasury Department cannot keep up with the ways of modern commerce.’
‘Hear, hear!’ cried the silversmith, apparently less bothered by the ethics of the situation. ‘Our plan is working perfectly, just as Hay envisioned when he first mooted the notion, and we are all the richer for it. And that being said, how could anyone want to put a stop to it? Everyone here benefits.’
Chaloner glanced at York, who raised his hands defensively. ‘It would have looked suspicious if I had refused to invest in their tax-free accounts,’ he whispered. ‘Besides, why should I not benefit? The government takes far too big a cut of an honest man’s income.’
Chaloner did not deign to answer and turned his attention back to Hay.
‘A sea captain came to see me this afternoon, eager to join our ranks,’ the shipping magnate was saying. ‘However, I suspect his real intention is to expose us.’
‘Then arrange for him to visit Jamaica,’ said the silversmith with a careless shrug. ‘As you did to the Archers. I do not see why a mere sailor should concern us.’
‘Garsfield is not the problem,’ said Parr. ‘The real issue is that someone gave him details about our operation, and that man is the traitor. I suspect he is sitting among us, here in this very room.’
There was immediate consternation.
‘I found this today,’ said Hay, brandishing the letter he had recovered from the wall. ‘It is in cipher, and addressed to Spymaster Williamson. And it is not the first, either. There have been four just like this in the past month alone.’
There was a collective gasp of horror, and then a clamour of voices as questions were yelled. Some men were on their feet, while others huddled deeper inside their hoods and appeared to be regarding their neighbours with wariness and distrust.
The silversmith’s voice was louder than the others. He pointed to Parr. ‘There is our traitor. He claims he is not interested in money, only in serving God. But it is unnatural, and I do not believe it.’
‘Parr would never betray us,’ said Hay, although he shot the preacher an uncomfortable glance.
The silversmith folded his arms and looked triumphant. ‘Then tell me why Strutt lies in a pool of blood in the corridor near my room – I almost fell over him on my way here. The answer is because Parr killed him! I know he is the culprit, because I saw them together just moments before.’
Hay glanced at Parr in shock. ‘They were together, but—’
‘It was not me!’ shouted Parr, outraged both by the accusation and by the fact that people seemed rather willing to believe it. ‘It must have been the real traitor—’
‘You are the real traitor,’ bellowed the silversmith.
‘No!’ yelled Parr. ‘I am innocent, a man of God, and—’
‘The traitor will be a stranger to us,’ interrupted Long Nose, breaking impatiently into the altercation. ‘We come here cloaked and hooded, but we all know each other, so let us end the pretence here and now. If everyone abandons his disguise, we shall see who we do not recognize.’
Chaloner began to ease towards the door. Here was an outcome he had not anticipated.
‘Yes!’ cried the silversmith, hauling his robe from his face. ‘Here I am. You all know me – Jonas Evans, from Southwark.’
Chaloner shot to his feet as more hoods fell back and snatched a lamp from the wall. Immediately, hands tried to grab him, but he jigged and twisted, and no one kept hold of him for long. He hurled the torch into the niche that contained the gunpowder, then turned and raced towards the door. It was blocked by the silversmith, whose face was pale with outrage. He could not defeat Chaloner in a fight – the spy was naturally experienced in such matters – but he could delay him for vital seconds until he could be overwhelmed by others. Chaloner turned and headed for the tunnel instead, but Evans dived full length and managed to drag him to the floor. Then the flames from the torch reached the scattered gunpowder, which blazed and ignited the straw. Puzzled, Hay went to see what was happening.
‘Gunpowder!’ he yelled, backing away fast. ‘With flames all over it! Run for your lives!’
In the event the fire did not last long enough to burn through the thick wood of the powder barrel, so there was no explosion. It was just as well, Chaloner thought as he punched his way free of the silversmith, given that the whole mansion might have collapsed had it gone off. The panic created by Hay’s announcement had produced the effect the spy had wanted anyway. There was an abrupt and immediate stampede – which included Hay and York – for the stairs, and no one was very interested in lingering to lay hold of traitors. All except Parr. The preacher’s face was a mask of rage, and Chaloner saw he cared little for his own safety. He did care about what he saw as his duty to God, though. He gave chase, screaming for others to help him. Evans the silversmith was the only one who obliged.
Chaloner reached the tunnel’s entrance and dragged open the trap door. It was not easy ascending the narrow, cramped slope at speed, and the faster he tried to go the more he skidded and slipped. He could hear Parr gaining on him. It felt like an age before he reached the pantry and clambered out, and when he did the preacher was almost on him. He slammed the opening shut just as Parr was stretching out to grab him. Parr released a frustrated howl and began to batter the barrier with his fists. Chaloner grinned at the foul language that peppered the curses and headed for the door and freedom. He was shocked to find his way barred by Castell, who wore a hooded cloak and carried a pair of handguns.
‘You are one of these conspirators?’ he blurted, astonished that the plotters should consider admitting such a man to their ranks. A dissipated gambler was unlikely to make for a reliable ally. ‘I thought you only wanted the money they paid you.’
‘I despise the government,’ declared Castell, staggering slightly. He was still drunk from dinner. ‘Its ministers shun me at the gaming tables, and I am sick of it. Death to the lot of them, I say. Stay where you are, or I will kill you. I am not afraid to dispense a little justice.’
He aimed the weapon with a hand that was surprisingly steady for a man in his cups, and Chaloner stopped dead in his tracks. Then there was a yell of triumph from Parr – his assault on the panel was beginning to pay off, because, like the rest of the house, it was rotten and weak. It began to splinter, and Chaloner saw he was going to be caught. He took a step towards the door, tensing when Castell’s finger tightened on the trigger. But the spy could see powder spilling from the pan; the weapon had been badly loaded and was more danger to its user than to its target. There was a flash, a sharp report and a brief silence. Then Castell started to scream.
Meanwhile, Parr began to emerge from the tunnel. Chaloner ran for the pantry door, and as he glanced back he saw Parr seize Castell’s second gun. He suspected it was no better primed than the first, but he was unwilling to bet his life on it by lingering. He hurtled through the door and slammed it behind him. He turned left, but found himself in an unfamiliar hallway that led to a dead end. He was trapped. Parr and Evans were out of the tunnel, and he could hear them thundering towards him.
‘This way,’ hissed an urgent voice from behind an opening that had been cleverly concealed in the wall panels. It was Margaret. ‘Do not stand there gaping. Hurry!’
With no other choice, Chaloner did as he was told. He found himself in a dark, musty room that had once been a library, judging from the number of shelves along its walls. Margaret hurried towards the fireplace, where she hauled on a lever. Chaloner closed the door and secured it by jamming a chair under the handle. Unfortunately, Parr seemed to know about the room, too, because he immediately started to hurl himself against the door, and the chair began to give way.
‘Come on,’ whispered Margaret, indicating with an impatient
flick of her head that Chaloner was to climb through a tiny hatch she had opened. The spy baulked when he saw she held a stone in her gnarled hands. She raised it, as if readying herself to put it to good use. Suddenly something became perfectly clear.
‘You killed Tivill! Why?’
She grimaced. ‘I suspect you already know why – because he attempted blackmail.’
‘But there was nothing to blackmail anyone about – Walduck did kill Browne, as you know full well, given that it was you who provided me with the information to work it out.’
‘That did not make Tivill any less of a nuisance, though.’
Chaloner thought aloud as he leaned on the chair, trying to brace it against Parr’s furious onslaught. ‘Tivill believed Walduck’s protestations of innocence – although they were lies – and when his ship returned to London he came to see what he could find out. Instead of learning about the murder, he discovered what Hay and his associates were doing and threatened to tell. Am I right?’
‘I dispatched him with a rock to the head and was going to drop his corpse in the fish pond. But Hay found it before I could fetch a cart. He has no idea what really happened; I suspect he thinks Parr is responsible. And speaking of Parr, are you going to go through this hole or stay and face his fury?’
Chaloner jerked backwards when a sword plunged through the worm-ridden door, missing him by no more than the width of a finger. If the preacher continued his onslaught, it would not be many moments before he was inside – and Chaloner had heard Evans offer to reload the gun in a way that would not blow off its user’s hand. At such close range, Parr could not fail to hit his target, and yet the spy was loath to put himself at the mercy of the rock-wielding grandmother by climbing into what appeared to be a very small space.
‘You had better hurry,’ said Margaret, watching him hesitate. ‘As I said earlier, Parr is a fanatic and will stop at nothing to do what he believes is right. He will kill you without a second thought.’
Chaloner indicated the stone. ‘What are you going to do? Brain me and leave my body for Hay?’
The sword crashed through the door a second time, showering him with splinters. At this rate the preacher would not need to smash the whole thing – he would be able to take aim through one of the great holes he was making.
Margaret reclaimed his attention with a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Is that what you think? You could not be more wrong. My intention was to brain Parr.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he intends to bring down the government – the others are just silly men who want to evade their taxes. However, he has almost broken through that door, and I am not in the mood for dying today. So I shall escape instead.’
‘Escape?’ Chaloner watched her clamber into the hole with astonishing agility for one so old. It was clear she had done it many times before. He heard her voice echo eerily back to him.
‘Yes, escape. Either come with me or face Parr’s righteous rage. But close the panel regardless.’
When the sword jabbed through the door a third time, Chaloner abandoned it and scrambled after her, pulling shut the hatch behind him. He found himself in a narrow tunnel, so small that the only way to move forward was by crawling on his stomach. Behind him, he heard Parr’s victorious yell turn to a scream of fury when he discovered the library empty. Echoes and thumps sounded as the preacher began to hunt for the secret exit. In front, Margaret was making rapid progress, scuttling along like a crab. Chaloner marvelled at her nimbleness and concluded that she was a remarkable lady. Very remarkable.
‘You are the traitor,’ he called softly. ‘I assumed it was York, because he brought Browne and then me to Hay’s meetings. But I was forgetting the message hidden in the wall. You are sending information to Spymaster Williamson.’
Margaret laughed. ‘An elderly lady like me? What a thing to say!’
The tunnel forked, and she turned left, opening an iron gate to emerge in a dusty chamber that looked as though it had not been used in decades. She locked it behind them, then led the way through a maze of corridors until they reached a pleasant, comfortable room that was far nicer than anything else Chaloner had seen in Bermondsey House. The woodwork smelled of honeyed beeswax, the furniture was handsome and there was glass in every window. Margaret Castell was indeed a woman of many surprises, and Chaloner knew he had been foolish not to have seen through her sooner.
‘Williamson knows a decent spy when he sees one,’ he said. ‘And you have been keeping him appraised ever since your grandson first started to lend Bermondsey House to plotters and rebels.’
Flattered, Margaret’s eyes twinkled as she walked to a table and poured wine into two exquisite silver cups. ‘Well, someone had to do it.’
‘I thought Hay was a dangerous dissident, but all he is doing is cheating the Treasury.’
Margaret wagged a finger at him. ‘It is still treason, and the government is partial to money.’
‘Your grandson cannot know what you are doing. He believes in Hay’s cause.’
‘And that is what has allowed me to maintain my cover all this time. Hay assumes I will never do anything to betray the “rebels”, because my grandson is a fervent member of his cabal. However, I have an arrangement with the government, and a pardon was written long ago. After all, I cannot spy without my foolish kinsman’s “assistance”, so it is only fair that he should be spared.’
‘You said you lease your house to government ministers who want to assassinate old Cromwellians too. Do you?’
She nodded with a smile. ‘Overzealous supporters can be just as dangerous as enemies, as you doubtless know. Do not pretend you do not understand what I am talking about. I recognize a fellow spy when I see one – just as you did with me. Why do you think I rescued you from Parr?’
‘He will scour the house until he finds me, and if I am discovered here he will know you helped.’
‘I do not think we should worry about that.’ She sank in a chair with a sigh of contentment and gestured that he should sit opposite. ‘You see, a week ago Spymaster Williamson decided that Hay’s next meeting should be his last – mostly because Parr is growing too dangerous. That vile fanatic has encouraged Hay to purchase muskets and gunpowder, which takes the “rebellion” to a completely new level. I sent Williamson a message to tell him the time of the gathering, and I am expecting him and his men at any moment.’
‘Unfortunately, Hay found it. Hidden in the cellar wall.’
She laughed. ‘Credit me with some cunning, boy! I sent Williamson several notes, but the letter in the wall is actually the story of Bermondsey’s ghosts, as Hay will discover when he decodes it. It will give him something to read when he is in prison, and perhaps he will blame them for his misfortune.’
‘If Williamson is coming, then I have done you a disservice, ma’am. My actions ended the meeting sooner than expected, and some of the conspirators will have escaped before he arrives.’
Margaret grinned, rather diabolically. ‘But I am quite fond of some, and do not want them imprisoned – or worse. Williamson will catch Hay and Parr, and they are the ringleaders. I am happy at the way matters have been resolved, though Williamson will be less pleased, I imagine. Perhaps we should not tell him your role in the affair – he can be a bit vengeful when his plans are foiled, and we do not want him thinking you did it on purpose.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner fervently. ‘We do not.’
III
The unveiling of a wicked plot at Bermondsey House was written up with glee in the newsbooks and gossiped about in every tavern. Chaloner was startled to read that its ringleader was the Rector of Bermondsey, who had hanged himself before the spymaster’s troops could catch him. There was no mention of Hay’s involvement, though Chaloner did hear a few weeks later that the Hay’s Wharf Company had offered to finance the building of new offices for the Treasury Department – the old ones, he said, were terribly cramped for the poor auditors. Despite public interest, most of the conspirators were
never named. The following year, however, several wealthy Bermondsey merchants admitted to substantial losses on their annual profits.
Chaloner met Hannah at Jamaica House and told her all he had learned about Browne’s murder. She listened carefully to his explanation, then nodded her acceptance of it. She was distressed to learn about the dislike her husband had engendered among his crew but vehemently denied that he would have cheated Walduck over prize money. Chaloner knew she was right, and he supposed Walduck had allowed hatred to blind him when he had grabbed the stone and brought it down on his captain’s head.
‘So justice was done when Walduck was hanged,’ concluded Chaloner. ‘He thought he could convince people that your husband’s death was an accident due to falling masonry, but no one believed him. And those who did believe him – you and York – misjudged him. In desperation, he claimed he was in his cups, because he thought there was a chance that drunkenness might grant him a reprieve. He was wrong.’
‘He was wrong,’ echoed Hannah softly. She took his hand in hers. ‘Thank you, Thomas. And now I have something to tell you. Captain York has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted his offer for my children’s sake – I cannot let them starve, and we have no money of our own. He says he feels guilty about what happened to John and wants to make amends.’
‘I see,’ said Chaloner noncommittally, supposing that the offer of marriage did not also come with a confession of York’s role in losing the Browne family fortune.
Hannah was lost in her own thoughts. ‘He is not John, but he will suffice. Besides, he will be at sea most of the time.’
Chaloner hoped so, for both their sakes.
The following week he went to visit Margaret Castell. In recognition of her services to the king, she had been rewarded with a fine house near Winchester Palace. Further, her grandson’s debts had been paid in full, on condition that he joined the navy. He had recovered from his ‘accident’ and was serving under York aboard Rosebush, where the captain taught him the proper way to load guns. Unhappily, York’s attempts to educate his new lieutenant were wasted, because a few months later he drank too much dinner wine and fell off the back of the ship. His body was never recovered.
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