‘The staff would never kill anyone,’ agreed Snowflake, while Ann nodded at her side. ‘We all make a good living here, and no one is stupid enough to risk it.’
Chaloner was tempted to point out that if the staff were innocent then the culprit had to be a guest, but he did not want to argue. Feeling he had indulged his curiosity quite long enough, and that it was time to put the matter into official hands, he told Temperance to contact the Spymaster.
Once a note to Williamson had been sent off with a fleet-footed servant, Chaloner settled down to wait. He would rather have gone home, but he did not want to annoy a dangerously powerful spymaster by leaving the scene of the crime without permission. Unfortunately, it was not Williamson who appeared an hour or so later, but one of his agents, a slow, ponderous man named Doines, who was better at intimidation and coercion than conducting politically sensitive investigations. He refused to hear the statements of witnesses, preferring instead to drink wine and leer at the girls, which he claimed was background research.
It was nearing dawn before Doines finally deigned to speak to Chaloner and Wiseman, but his note-taking was perfunctory, and they were soon dismissed. Chaloner was glad to be away. He had to be at Clarendon House at eight, and his Earl was unlikely to be impressed if he arrived late with the excuse of being interrogated about a murder in a brothel. However, he had not taken many steps along the hallway before he heard a sudden exclamation.
‘Tom Chaloner! Good God! I thought you would be dead by now.’
It took a moment for Chaloner to place the speaker, a handsome fellow with shiny black hair, bright brown eyes and a confident swagger. The voice carried a colonial drawl.
‘John Scott,’ he said, as the face clicked into place in his mind. They had met some years ago in New Amsterdam, where he had been tracking a dangerous spy and Scott had been paid to help him. They had shared a number of adventures, and he had never met anyone, before or since, who could lie with such effortless ease.
‘The very same,’ grinned Scott. ‘From Scott Hall in Kent.’
Chaloner nodded politely, although the family who lived there vigorously denied all knowledge of this particular ‘kinsman’. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘You once told me that you could never return to England, because you had been convicted of insurgency.’
Scott’s dismissive wave told Chaloner that the ‘confession’ had been one of his stories, an invention designed to make himself sound more interesting. ‘I came to tell our King that the time was ripe to snatch New Amsterdam from the Dutch. It is because of me that it is no longer ruled by Hollanders, but is now the British-owned Province of New York.’
The Dutch had recently been ousted from their American territories, but Chaloner doubted Scott had had anything to do with it – the man was spinning him yarns already. He recalled conversations they had had in the past, and repeated them rather wickedly. ‘You often said that you admire Holland more than any other country in the world. Have you visited it yet?’
‘You remember falsely.’ Scott cast a furtive glance around him, to ensure no one had heard. ‘I have never been there and I never will.’
He turned abruptly, leaving Chaloner to note his stylishly expensive clothes as he flashed a wide but insincere smile at the women who were waiting to escort him out. This was a courtesy rarely extended to other guests, and meant he had charmed them, no mean feat with Temperance’s prematurely cynical lasses.
Chaloner reached the door where the porter, Preacher Hill, was alert and bristling with anger that murder should have been committed in the building he was paid to protect. Hill did not like Chaloner, because the spy made no effort to disguise the fact that he considered him a hypocrite of the first order – Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, whose night work at the club left him free to spout sermons about the perils of sin during the day; he genuinely failed to see that earning his bread in a bordello sat poorly with his moralising.
‘The Kingdom of Christ will be here soon,’ he said tightly. ‘I shall stand at Jesus’s side, naturally, but the rogue who killed Mr Ferine will be cast into hell.’
Chaloner was not surprised to hear Hill expounding millenarian views. A small but vocal minority had been predicting the end of the world for as long as he could remember, its beliefs fuelled by the upheaval of the civil wars and the execution of King Charles I. Before he could reply, Hill was addressing the patron behind him.
‘Mr Jones! How did you get in? You know you are not welcome here.’
Jones was a small, dark-featured man with pale, unblinking eyes. He did not look like the kind of fellow who belonged in the club – his clothes were too plain, and a lack of aristocratic swagger suggested he was not rich enough to pay its exorbitant prices.
‘I should not have bothered,’ said Jones coolly. ‘I was bored. You do not even provide newsbooks to help visitors while away the time.’
‘If you want to read, go to a coffee house.’ Hill glowered as Jones walked away without responding, then turned back to Chaloner. ‘One of the girls must have sneaked him in. She should not have done, because we do not want his type in here. The same might be said for your Mr Scott. I did not take to him, but that is not surprising – not if he is your friend.’
‘What do you know about Scott?’ asked Chaloner, electing to ignore the insult.
‘Nothing,’ replied Hill sullenly. ‘Other than that he is the new Cartographer Royal. Good evening, Admiral Lawson. Shall I summon your coach? Where did you leave it?’
‘He does not have one,’ sneered Buckingham, who was behind the mariner. ‘He prefers to ride about in hackney carriages.’ The last two words were pronounced in a fastidious hiss.
‘I do not hold with fancy nonsense,’ retorted Lawson shortly. ‘There is no room for it at sea, and there should be no room for it on land either.’
‘A private coach is a necessity, not a nonsense,’ declared Buckingham. ‘And every man of breeding would agree.’
‘Breeding!’ jeered Lawson. ‘Any cur can sire a litter. I judge a man by his mettle, not by his damned ancestors.’
Hill interposed himself between them, spouting some tale about the latest addition to Temperance’s stables. The skill with which he did so led Chaloner to surmise that it was something he did on a regular basis, when clients had had too much to drink and old animosities surfaced. Keeping up a steady monologue that gave neither the chance to take issue, Hill escorted them off the premises.
Chaloner stepped back smartly as the remaining customers trooped out in a noisy rabble. They would snatch a few hours’ sleep before arriving at their places of work – government offices, consulates, White Hall, episcopal palaces. Or perhaps, he thought sourly, they would go to them straight away, and make wine-muddled decisions that would plunge the country into even greater chaos.
He began to walk up the lane, but had not gone far before someone grabbed his arm. It was Wiseman, who suggested a restorative draught in the Hercules’ Pillars tavern, a place famous for all-night card games and gargantuan portions of roasted meat. There was still time before Chaloner was expected at Clarendon House, so he followed the surgeon inside, where they were met by a powerful aroma of spilled ale and burned fat.
‘I know you have no authority to investigate Ferine’s death,’ Wiseman said, once they were seated. ‘But you cannot abandon Temperance to Doines. He is a bumbling fool who will not be discreet, and the incident may be used to close the club and force her to leave London – which I should not like at all. Besides, she has been a good friend to you in the past.’
‘What can I do?’ Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Government officials, churchmen and wealthy merchants will not talk to me without a warrant. Indeed, I imagine most will deny even being in Hercules’ Pillars Alley.’
‘The villain will not be a patron,’ averred Wiseman. ‘So they are irrelevant.’
‘On the contrary, they are potential witnesses and probably the only way the culprit will ever be caught, given
that there are no other leads to follow. But I cannot meddle, Wiseman. You will have to put your trust in Doines.’
‘Lord!’ breathed Wiseman, appalled. ‘Poor Temperance! I think I had better visit Williamson to see what can be done. He is improving as Spymaster, because he has learned to heed suggestions. Unfortunately, he is still nowhere near as efficient as the one Cromwell had.’
Chaloner said nothing, because Wiseman was a committed Royalist, and he did not want to draw attention to the fact that they had been on opposite sides during the wars. However, Wiseman was right: Cromwell’s Spymaster had been the talented John Thurloe, a man who was now Chaloner’s closest friend.
Wiseman peered at him in the flickering firelight. ‘You are very pale. Is anything amiss?’
‘Nothing sleep will not cure. Unfortunately, I seem destined not to have any – my wife kept me talking the first night I was back; Clarendon wanted some letters written in Dutch during the second; and Temperance’s summons came in the early hours of this morning.’
‘You will survive,’ said Wiseman unsympathetically. ‘Incidentally, did I tell you that I have been appointed Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons? It is a great honour, you know.’
He had mentioned it at least three times in as many days. Unfortunately, Chaloner knew that Wiseman had been elected not because he was popular, but because he was the only senior member of the Guild who had not had a stab at the post. The truth was that his colleagues were dreading what he might do during his incumbency.
‘I shall make changes that will make them sit up,’ he vowed, a determined gleam in his eye. ‘I am tired of surgeons being a poor second to physicians, and I intend to put matters right. By this time next year we shall be as respected as any other medical profession.’
Chaloner eyed the tattered, bloodstained bag of implements that sat at Wiseman’s side, and thought his friend would have his work cut out for him.
It was not far from Hercules’ Pillars Alley to Clarendon House, but Chaloner took a hackney anyway. It was drizzling, and London was never pleasant in the wet. Its major streets were said to be cobbled, although he had never seen evidence of it, overlain as they were by a thick carpet of filth. Moreover, it had been raining for days, and the roads had degenerated into refuse-laden rivers of mud and liquid manure.
Despite the darkness and the early hour, the city was busy. It was a Monday, so businesses were opening after the enforced break – theoretically, at least. In reality, Sunday was much like any other day, with shops open and traders doing business. It was a bone of contention with the fanatics, who thought the Sabbath should be as it had been under Cromwell’s Puritans, where even wearing lace, singing or playing musical instruments was deemed anathema.
Along the Strand, the wheels of carts and carriages sprayed up thick deluges of reeking mud, horses skidded, and pedestrians swore as they tried to keep their balance in the gloom. Alehouses and taverns were open for pre-work tipples, and many were already full. Bakeries and cook-shops were doing a brisk trade, and the streets rang with the calls of vendors hawking lily-white vinegar, pale-hearted cabbages and fresh asses’ milk.
The city was also packed with visitors, because it was less than two weeks until Lady Day – one of four dates in the year when taxes and tithes were settled. People poured into London to pay or be paid, and many took the opportunity to conduct other business or buy supplies while they were there. Every bed in every inn was taken; lawyers and clerks were working to capacity; and farmers and tenants from the provinces explored the capital with open mouths, putting themselves and others in danger with their reckless disregard for London’s traffic.
Chaloner’s carriage rolled to a halt when it reached the New Exchange – the stately but soot-stained building that housed dozens of expensive shops – and he leaned out of the window to see that a coach had overturned not far ahead. It was a large one with six horses, and he could tell that the resulting ‘stop’ would take an age to clear, especially when the driver began a series of violent arguments with other road users. Loath to be late for his appointment with the Earl, Chaloner paid his hackneyman and continued on foot.
He almost fell as he traversed the open space of Charing Cross, when one foot sank into mud so deep that he staggered trying to pull it free. Street cleaners were doing their best to create paths for pedestrians by laying down bundles of straw, but their efforts were hampered by horsemen and carters, who careened across them with selfish disregard.
The Earl’s mansion stood on the semi-rural lane known as Piccadilly, and Chaloner was relieved to leave the noisy chaos of London behind as he splashed along it. The track was just as deeply rutted with mud, but it was good to be away from the worst of the traffic. He inhaled air that smelled of wet earth and soggy leaves, and the rumble of wheels and hoofs gradually gave way to the chirrup of sparrows and the caw of crows.
Clarendon House was a sprawling, showy monstrosity that had only been finished in the last few weeks. Chaloner hated it, feeling its glittering ostentation would do his Earl no favours. Unfortunately, the Earl did not agree, and nothing delighted him more than showing it off to visitors, especially if they happened to be people he wanted to lord it over.
However, while the house was ready, its grounds were not, and comprised a sea of wet dirt and discarded building supplies. Trees had been planted, but it would be years before they grew to maturity, and their slender, leafless limbs lent the house a rather temporary air. The scrawny shrubs by the gate did not help either, dwarfed as they were by a pair of soaring pillars that were topped by sculptures that looked like flying pigs.
Chaloner was halfway up the drive when a coach arrived, spraying muck in all directions as it clattered towards him. He tried to jump out of the way, but the ground was far too treacherous for such a manoeuvre, so not only did he end up drenched in mud, but he also stepped in a pothole that slopped water over the top of his left boot. The carriage rolled to a standstill not far ahead, and he was about to give its driver a piece of his mind when the curtain was pulled aside and a familiar face looked out.
It was Joseph Williamson. Gushing apologies, the Spymaster insisted on giving Chaloner a ride to the house. The distance was hardly worth the bother, but Williamson refused to take no for an answer, and Chaloner was too tired to argue.
Williamson was a haughty, aloof man who had been an Oxford academic before deciding to try his hand at politics. He and Chaloner had fallen foul of each other almost immediately, which was unfortunate, because Chaloner would have liked to continue his work spying in foreign countries; Williamson had refused to hire him, and Chaloner’s situation had been desperate until the Earl had stepped in with an offer. The antagonism between them had eased slightly since, although wariness and distrust persisted on both sides.
‘I have an appointment with your master,’ said Williamson, to explain his presence at Clarendon House. He took care to sit well away, so his own finery would not be soiled by Chaloner’s splattered coat. ‘It is unconscionably early, but he works very hard.’
Chaloner agreed. ‘Does your meeting concern the Dutch situation? I know he still hopes to broker a peaceful solution before blood is spilled.’
‘Unfortunately, there are too many warmongers on the Privy Council, so he will not succeed. Incidentally, I hear you were summoned to Hercules’ Pillars Alley this morning.’
So the offer of a lift had been to elicit information, thought Chaloner, not to make amends for the coachman’s inconsiderate driving. Moreover, it had not escaped his notice that the Spymaster had failed to reveal why he was meeting Clarendon. The two did not usually do business together.
‘Only because Temperance was unsure of the protocol,’ he explained. ‘She sent for you as soon as Wiseman deemed Ferine’s death suspicious.’
The Spymaster smiled. ‘Wiseman told me as much when our paths crossed just now. But as it happens, I am glad you were there, because it will give you an edge when you investigate.’
Chaloner
blinked. ‘The Earl would never allow me to explore a death in a brothel. Besides, such matters come under your remit, and—’
‘I should like to pursue the matter myself, believe me, but my budget has been cut to raise money for this foolish Dutch war,’ interrupted Williamson. He grimaced. ‘Although the Privy Council still expects me to provide the intelligence that will help us win, of course. However, the upshot is that I have no one available to explore Ferine’s death. Except Doines, and he is hardly the thing.’
‘No, but—’
‘It is your patriotic duty,’ Williamson went on. ‘Have you not heard the news? The Dutch have taken three of our ships and killed one of our captains in a sea battle. The war has started, and I cannot afford to be distracted by courtiers getting themselves dispatched. Help me, and you help your country.’
It was not Chaloner’s idea of patriotic service, but he nodded acquiescence.
Chapter 2
Chaloner entered Clarendon House through the back door, although his position as a gentleman usher meant he could have used the front one had he wanted. He aimed for the poky chamber that served as an informal common room for the Earl’s senior staff, where the first person he met was Thomas Kipps, the Lord Chancellor’s Seal Bearer. Kipps was an amiable, friendly fellow, who was never less than perfectly attired. He winced when he saw Chaloner’s coat, and advanced purposefully with a damp cloth.
‘How was Russia?’ he asked as he set about the mess with determined vigour.
Before Chaloner could reply, they were joined by Humphrey Leigh, the Earl’s Sergeant at Arms, a small, truculent martinet with a massive moustache.
‘I have heard it is nothing but windswept plains and bogs,’ Leigh said. ‘And its people are brutish and stupid.’
‘Worse, there is not a single inn in the entire country.’ Kipps spoke in a shocked whisper. ‘I cannot imagine life without ale. Indeed, I am surprised it is possible.’
‘Were you right about Archangel, Chaloner?’ asked Leigh. ‘I recall you saying before you left that the port would be closed by ice, and that no ship would be able to get through.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 3