Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘May I help you?’ she asked icily. ‘If so, perhaps you would wait in the drawing room. I shall send Gram to tend you.’

  ‘Gram?’ queried Chaloner. ‘I thought the footman was Robert.’

  ‘I dismissed Robert for smoking, and we have Jacob now. However, he is polishing the mistress’s shoes, so you will have to make do with our page.’

  The page, who appeared to be at least seventy and whose chief qualification for the post seemed to be his diminutive size, hobbled forward. ‘I can see to you here,’ he offered. ‘What do you want?’

  It was hardly the most deferential of approaches, but that was not what enraged Joan. ‘See to him in the drawing room,’ she snapped. ‘It is inappropriate for an employer to enter our domain.’

  As Hannah was made welcome in there when she was ‘cooking’, Chaloner could only suppose the stricture applied to him alone. But he liked the kitchen with its blazing fire and comforting smell of bread and spices, and he objected to being told there were areas he could not go in his own home. He ignored Joan, and went to the pantry, aiming to take what he wanted to eat, not what Joan thought she could spare.

  There were plates of raw meat, several live eels in a bucket, and jars of pickled fruit that had been laid up the previous autumn, although as Hannah had been in charge of the operation, a number had already exploded while others released a foul smell. Nothing was suitable for an early morning snack, and the oatmeal for the servants’ breakfast was not yet ready. Then his eye lit on a jug of milk. He drank some, aware of Joan’s quiet pleasure – cold milk was generally deemed to be poisonous. Chaloner, raised on a country estate, always associated it with the happy, carefree days of his childhood, although the kind Joan bought was thin and watery. He set the empty cup on the table, and left the house with relief.

  A steady drizzle rendered the streets soggier than ever, and the filth was so deep that he wondered whether the city would ever be rid of it – or if Londoners would be doomed to wade through calf-deep muck for eternity. It reeked, too, comprising as it did a noxious mix of sewage, vegetable parings, butchers’ waste and rotting straw. City folk were used to it, so could easily be distinguished from Lady Day visitors, who wrinkled their noses and tried to preserve their shoes by placing each foot with care.

  Chaloner was just raising his hand to knock on the club’s front door when it was whipped open and he found himself facing Preacher Hill. He braced himself for the usual exchange of insults, but the porter only smiled thinly at him.

  ‘Temperance told me that you are going to catch the villain who murdered Mr Ferine,’ he said, although it was clearly an effort to be cordial to a man he disliked. ‘And that I should answer any questions you might have. Well, I can tell you right now that the culprit was an intruder. It will not have been a guest, because they are not killers.’

  As Hill’s compliance was unlikely to last, Chaloner hastened to make use of it. ‘Temperance said Ferine had detractors. Do you know who they are?’

  ‘Folk who disapprove of the fact that he was not a Christian, probably. I should not have let him in here, I suppose, but he was generous with tips. Or perhaps he was killed by someone from the Swan with Two Necks or the Antelope on High Holborn. Both are dens of iniquity, which I know, because I sermonise outside them, and its patrons never listen to me.’

  The only people who did listen to Hill were either lunatics or people with too much time on their hands, so Chaloner did not think a refusal to heed his rants proved anything.

  ‘The Swan is especially disreputable,’ Hill went on. ‘And everyone who visits wears a disguise. I might not have recognised Mr Ferine, but his bucket-topped boots are distinctive.’

  Chaloner was thoughtful. So Ferine had been involved in business that had necessitated hiding his identity. ‘What do you think he was doing there?’

  Hill’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Being seduced by the devil. Satan likes High Holborn, which is why I preach there: to remind him that there are godly men in this wicked city.’

  Chaloner decided to visit High Holborn later, to see if he could learn what Ferine had really been doing. ‘Will you tell me what happened last night?’

  ‘Ferine came at nine, the same time as Dr Lambe, who is the Duke of Buckingham’s physician. Or should I say his sorcerer?’ Hill hissed the last word, giving it a sinister timbre.

  ‘Ferine and Lambe were friends?’

  ‘They knew each other. After all, a pagan and a warlock are likely bedfellows.’

  ‘How did Ferine seem to you?’

  ‘Cheerful, noisy, drunk. He played two games of Blind-Man’s Buff and one of Chase the Lady before retiring upstairs with Snowflake. Earlier, he had told me that a personal disaster was in the offing for the thirteenth, and said that he intended to be home before midnight in the hope of avoiding it. He must have lost track of time.’

  ‘I need a list of everyone who was here – staff and guests.’

  ‘I cannot,’ said Hill shortly. ‘Our guests’ privacy must be respected. But you will be wasting your time if you pester them anyway. I told you, the villain is an intruder, a stranger who broke in for mischief. I will stake my soul on it.’

  Chaloner entered the club cautiously – on previous occasions he had narrowly escaped being hit with lobbed food, not all of it removed from its serving dishes. But there was nothing to fear that morning, because the place was unusually quiet. Maude nodded a greeting from her desk at the foot of the stairs, and made a gesture with her hand to say that business was slow. He stood in the hall and looked into the parlour. Four patrons were playing a card game called lanterloo, while half a dozen more were enjoying desultory conversation with some of the girls. He had never seen the club so empty. Temperance came to greet him, grey smudges of worry under her eyes.

  ‘Williamson sent us a note saying that you will be looking into what happened to Ferine. Thank God! I was afraid he might use Doines, and that would have been the end of us for certain. As it is, rumours have started to circulate, and precious few of our regulars came last night.’

  ‘Courtiers have short memories,’ said Chaloner comfortingly. ‘They will soon forget.’

  Temperance’s expression was bleak. ‘Will they? Reputation is everything, and ours has been compromised. You must find the killer, Tom. We shall not recover until you do.’

  ‘Then tell Hill to give me a list of everyone who was here when Ferine died. Your patrons are potential witnesses, and might have seen something useful.’

  ‘We cannot.’ Temperance handed him a piece of paper. ‘This explains why.’

  It was the letter from Williamson, informing her that Chaloner would be investigating Ferine’s murder, and going on to say that there would be dire consequences if members of the government, Court, the Church or the mercantile community were harassed in any way. Its tone was darkly menacing, and Chaloner was not surprised that Temperance was keen to comply. He was irked, though. How was he supposed to solve the case when he was forbidden to speak to witnesses?

  ‘May I interview your staff, or are they off limits, too?’ he asked coolly.

  Temperance patted his arm. ‘I shall assemble them for you now. Wait in the parlour until they are ready and help yourself to a glass of wine.’

  It was far too early in the day for drinking, so Chaloner studied the guests instead. The four men at lanterloo were Admiral Lawson, Dr Lambe, Prince Rupert and John Scott. Scott’s face was aglow with triumph – he was on a winning streak. However, it did not take long for Chaloner to determine that his success owed more to sleights of hand than to skill.

  ‘I should pull out if I were you, Lawson,’ advised Rupert, as more of the Admiral’s money went across the table. ‘Or Scott will make a pauper of you.’

  ‘I shall be rich again when I take Dutch prizes at sea,’ growled Lawson, indicating with a nod that Scott was to deal another hand. ‘God will give them to me, because He likes me smiting His enemies. Besides, no landlubber is going to bring me to a lee sh
ore at cards.’

  Chaloner suspected that Scott had already done it, and it was sheer bloody-mindedness that drove Lawson to persist.

  ‘Are you calling me a landlubber?’ demanded Rupert. The Prince was notoriously quick to take offence, so was something of a liability in normal conversations.

  ‘The London’s sinking was a sad business.’ Scott quickly changed the subject, clearly afraid that a row might stop him from winning the rest of Lawson’s cash. ‘I understand you had family on board, Admiral.’

  ‘I did,’ growled Lawson. ‘It was meant to be a pleasant jaunt from Chatham to Queenhithe, but they ended up with an experience they are unlikely to forget, poor devils. Fortunately, they can swim, so they survived. Unlike my poor mariners. Three hundred souls…’

  ‘I teach all my soldiers how to swim,’ said Rupert provocatively. ‘You should have done the same with your sailors, then they might still be alive.’

  ‘I understand you want the vessel raised from the seabed,’ said Lambe, as Lawson’s expression went from haunted to angry. The sorcerer was a figure who commanded attention, partly because he possessed charisma in abundance, and partly because of his height and striking attire – he was wearing his star-spangled coat again, and the inked symbols on his skin were dark and mysterious in the half-light. His entry into the discussion meant Lawson ignored the Prince’s shrewish remark.

  ‘Weighed, not raised,’ corrected Lawson. ‘And yes, I do. We cannot afford to lose a ship of London’s calibre, not to mention the fact that she carried eighty brass cannon.’

  ‘Brass!’ scoffed Rupert. ‘An antiquated metal for artillery. Iron is much better.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ countered Lawson. ‘They explode after two rounds, because they overheat.’

  ‘Not if they are turned and annealed,’ argued the Prince with lofty condescension. ‘I would never allow brass guns on my ships.’

  ‘Your ships?’ spluttered Lawson indignantly. ‘You do not have any. And what is this “turning” and “annealing”? Describe how it—’

  ‘I shall soon command a fleet,’ interrupted Rupert smugly. ‘The King promised. And I will be senior to you, so take that, you coarse northern upstart!’

  Lawson responded in language so ripe that even Chaloner was taken aback. Rupert’s reaction was more vigorous. He sprang to his feet and whipped out his sword. Lawson did likewise and they circled each other like jackals. Lambe and Scott hastily scrambled to a safe distance, although Scott swept his winnings into his purse first. The sound of rapiers whistling through the air alerted Maude to the trouble; she raced in from the hall and began imploring them to disarm.

  ‘Help me!’ she cried, appealing to the onlookers.

  Chaloner was about to oblige but Lambe was there before him.

  ‘Stop,’ he ordered in a voice that held considerable authority. ‘The stars are not right for a skirmish today. You will bring bad luck on yourselves if you persist.’

  ‘Stars!’ sneered Lawson, although he lowered his weapon. ‘The only stars I hold in faith are the ones you can navigate by. The rest is hocus-pocus, and only fools are led by such nonsense.’

  ‘They are a potent force,’ argued Lambe. ‘And if you do not believe me, look at Ferine. If he had followed the advice they offered, he would still be alive.’

  ‘That bastard!’ spat Lawson. ‘Do you know what he said to my crew? That London was an unlucky ship. What sort of blackguard does that on the eve of a war?’

  ‘But she was an unlucky ship,’ Lambe pointed out. ‘Three hundred corpses prove it.’

  Lawson opened his mouth to argue, but could apparently think of nothing to say, so he closed it again. Contempt in his every move, Rupert sheathed his sword, collected his cloak and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘No wonder he lost the Battle of Naseby,’ said Lawson sullenly. ‘What soldier would obey orders from a coxcomb like him?’

  ‘He should learn from you, Admiral,’ said Scott fawningly. His purse was so heavy that it threatened to tear off his belt. ‘I imagine your men would follow you anywhere.’

  ‘Into hell itself,’ agreed Lawson. ‘Not that I shall ever see such a place, of course, being favoured by God. Did I tell you that He likes me to smite His enemies?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ replied Scott. ‘But I am not averse to boastful remarks where they are justified. I also like to—’

  ‘I do not boast; I speak the truth.’ Lawson jabbed a thick forefinger at the door, scowling as he did so. ‘Seafaring men will never fight under that foreign peacock, and if he is put in charge of a fleet, we may as well start learning Dutch. He is not fit to command a barge.’

  ‘That will not stop the Privy Council from appointing him, though,’ said Lambe softly. ‘It is as inevitable as Clarendon’s new mansion being renamed Dunkirk House by the masses.’

  ‘The sale of Dunkirk was a wicked affair,’ said one patron sourly. ‘We should have been able to get double the price paid by those thieving French, and it is obvious that some corrupt hand was at work. And Clarendon was in charge of the negotiations…’

  The port of Dunkirk had been British ever since Cromwell had bought it during the Commonwealth, but the Restoration government had hawked it in order to raise some quick cash. Unfortunately, Clarendon had agreed on a price that was far too low, giving rise to rumours that the French had bribed him. The sale had been unpopular at the time, but now people were livid – it could have been a haven for British warships, but instead the Dutch were using it as a base.

  ‘Dunkirk House,’ intoned Lambe. ‘Clarendon’s home will soon be known by no other name. I predict it, and my prophecies are never wrong.’

  Chaloner rolled his eyes. People had been using ‘Dunkirk House’ for months, and if it did pass into common usage, it would be because the likes of Lambe kept harping on it. Others were impressed by the sorcerer’s declaration, however.

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Scott. ‘What else do you know about the future? Can you predict the outcome of the war?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Lambe sibilantly. ‘Yet the matter is complex and—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ spat Lawson. ‘No one can. And anyone who claims otherwise is a liar.’

  Lambe’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘My Lord Buckingham says—’

  ‘Another idle bugger,’ interrupted Lawson scornfully. ‘I do not care to hear his opinions. Now get out of my way. I am going home.’

  ‘Would you like a ride in my coach?’ asked Scott pleasantly. ‘I know you do not have one of your own. Neither do I actually, despite being Cartographer Royal, so I decided to hire one for a few days in the hope that the King will see my sad predicament and arrange for me to have one at government expense.’

  ‘God gave me two feet,’ said Lawson, shoving past him. ‘I do not need wheels.’

  Scott scurried after him, his persistence in the face of such rank discourtesy giving the impression that he was loath to let the Admiral go while there was still money in his pockets. As Lambe was alone, Chaloner took the opportunity to corner him.

  ‘Temperance says you are kin to the Dr Lambe who served Buckingham’s father,’ he began, aiming to see what he could learn about a man who clearly meant Clarendon harm.

  Lambe smiled serenely. ‘Yes, my sire served his sire, and now I serve the son.’ He made a sudden gesture with his hand and for one shocking instant Chaloner thought he saw sparks on Lambe’s fingertips. ‘But dawn approaches, and I am a creature of the night. I must be away.’

  He spun around so abruptly that his coat billowed behind him, accentuating his height and commanding mien. Chaloner stared after him for a moment, then followed, aiming to finish the discussion, but when he reached the door, the courtyard and the lane beyond were empty. He turned to see Hill lounging nearby, smoking a pipe.

  ‘Did Lambe just come out?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ replied the preacher. ‘Only Admiral Lawson and John Scott. Why?’

  Supposing the sorcerer must poss
ess a very stealthy tread if he could slip past Hill, Chaloner returned to the parlour, where Temperance was waiting for him.

  ‘Lambe is a sinister fellow,’ she whispered. ‘Especially given that so many of his predictions come true. However, I hope he is right about Dunkirk House. It will serve that fat old villain right for taking bribes from the French.’

  Chaloner knew there was no point in telling her that Clarendon was innocent, and they stood in silence until she nodded towards a bald, bony, middle-aged man who was enjoying a final paw at the ladies.

  ‘That is John Duncombe, Ferine’s particular friend. You can question him if you like. He will not remember any impertinences later, because he is too drunk.’

  Chaloner recalled Hannah’s remark about Ferine and Duncombe’s friendship. ‘Who is the man with him?’ he asked. ‘The fat, grave fellow.’

  ‘Edward Manning, who says it is his chilblains that make him limp so badly. I hope he is telling the truth – that he does not have some nasty disease he will pass to my girls.’

  Chaloner blinked. ‘Why on Earth would you think that? And why let him stay if you fear—’

  ‘Because we had so few guests tonight that I told Hill to admit anyone, just to make the place look less empty. Not that it worked. But you can see why I dislike Manning. He is a sly, slovenly creature, not the kind of person who should keep company with admirals and princes.’

  From what Chaloner had seen of Lawson and Rupert, he suspected it was Manning who had lowered his standards. He took her at her word and went to sit with Duncombe.

  ‘You knew Ferine,’ he said, taking one look at the courtier and deciding that the man was far too inebriated for a subtler approach.

  Duncombe promptly burst into tears. ‘He was the best friend who ever lived! He said something vile would happen to him on the thirteenth, but neither of us imagined it would be his murder. If only he had watched the time!’