‘I met Clarendon,’ she said, once she had gained some semblance of control. ‘I told him.’
‘Told him what?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
‘That he was an arse for dismissing you.’ Hannah giggled. ‘But he thought he had misheard.’
Chaloner sincerely hoped so: the Earl deplored bad language, and would certainly object to being called names. Such an incident might lead to Chaloner losing his post permanently.
‘Oh, and we have a problem,’ said Hannah airily, attempting a twirl. She stumbled and would have fallen had he not caught her.
‘What manner of problem?’ he asked, under the powerful impression that it was something she would not have dared mention had she been sober.
‘Debt,’ she replied crisply. ‘We owe lots of people lots of money. A hundred pounds or more.’
‘What?’ Chaloner was horrified. ‘How have you—’
‘These things happen, and it is not my fault that you do not earn a decent salary.’
Chaloner’s salary had been perfectly respectable, and he could not conceive how she had contrived to spend so much. But there was no point debating the matter while she was drunk – it was a discussion that needed both of them sober.
‘Your coat is wet,’ he said instead, the tone of his voice cool. ‘Give it to me. I will hang it in the kitchen to dry.’
She tossed it at him playfully. He caught it without a word, and took several deep breaths as he draped it over a chair, struggling to control his temper. However, by the time he returned to her she had slumped on one of the drawing room settles and was snoring softly. He carried her upstairs, and it was a testament to how much she had imbibed that she did not stir as he removed enough of her clothing to let her sleep comfortably.
She was still dead to the world the following dawn, and knowing she was unlikely to rise feeling amiable, he dressed and left the house before she woke. It was raining, but he barely noticed the weather as he trudged towards King Street, bowed down by concerns about money.
He had always felt his employment with the Earl was precarious, so he had set aside a certain amount each month for emergencies; it was hidden behind a skirting board in the bedroom. However, he resented the fact that it would have to be used to pay bills that could have been avoided, and he determined that Hannah would never put him in such a position again – they would have a serious discussion that evening, and she would keep within their means or she would find herself living with his family in rural Buckinghamshire, well away from London and its expensive charms. In the meantime, he needed to thwart the Fifth Monarchists as quickly as possible, so that the Earl would start paying him again. He thought about what he had learned thus far.
Jones and Strange were fanatics who needed the services of a gunpowder expert, and Leving thought their followers numbered ten thousand. Atkinson was a misty-eyed idealist who would probably baulk if bloody rebellion did come to pass; Quelch was a thief; and Ursula should have left insurrection to her fiery sister. Leving was an unreliable helpmeet, and Chaloner did not like the notion that John Scott was somehow involved. What was in the letters that Leving had delivered to Manning, and what secret did his associate Sherwin have that Jones wanted?
And the murder of Ferine? The man had been deeply superstitious, which had earned him enemies; he had visited taverns in disguise; and he had predicted a mishap for himself, although he had not anticipated that it would be a fatal one.
Chaloner took a deep breath and moved from reviewing evidence to making plans. First, he would visit the Pope’s Head, as Manning had mentioned taking Sherwin ‘home’ there. Sherwin would almost certainly be in bed, and sleep-befuddled men were easier to interrogate than alert ones, so it was a good time to ask him what was going on.
Next, he would follow up on Hill’s intelligence – that Ferine had visited the Antelope and the Swan with Two Necks. He would have liked to monitor Jones or Strange, but he did not know where they lived, so his best option was to loiter outside Ursula’s home in the hope that one of them would visit her to scrounge cakes. Then he would follow them and see where they went and whom they met. Finally, he would attend the meeting in the Talbot at three o’clock.
He sloshed along the Strand and Fleet Street, then picked his way up the tiny alley that led to the Pope’s Head.
The inn was a coaching tavern, so people were preparing for journeys that would begin at dawn. The place smelled of pipe smoke and warm soot, and folk stood in sleepy gaggles, sipping jugs of breakfast ale. Chaloner waylaid a pot-boy, and a penny bribe earned him the knowledge that Sherwin had spent the night drinking with an acquaintance in one of the back rooms. Both were still there.
‘Sherwin is probably our last paying tenant,’ said the lad gloomily. ‘We can’t pay the Lady Day rent, see, so we are to be evicted Saturday week.’ A sly smile crossed his face. ‘But the owners won’t benefit from making us homeless – a legal wrangle means this place will lie empty for weeks before all can be settled.’
Chaloner was not surprised to see that Sherwin’s ‘acquaintance’ was Scott, spinning some yarn about New Amsterdam when he had single-handedly foiled a raid by Dutch colonists. To give credence to his tale, Scott had sketched a map, although Chaloner thought it bore no resemblance to reality. It was prettily done, though, with attractive flourishes in the corners, and each feature painstakingly labelled.
‘I wondered how long it would be before you appeared,’ said Scott, putting his artwork away hurriedly when he saw Chaloner looking at it. ‘What do you want? Sherwin is too tired to talk to anyone, and will soon be going to bed.’
‘But not too tired to hear your stories?’ asked Chaloner, although a glance at Sherwin’s half-closed, bleary eyes did suggest that getting answers from him would be hard work.
Scott regarded him angrily, then forced a laugh, revealing white, even teeth. ‘Why are we arguing? Here we are, two friends from another world, and we snipe at each other like fishwives. Let me buy you an ale, and we can talk about old times.’
Chaloner was not in the habit of giving his past a romantic slant, and suspected his memories and Scott’s would differ so widely that there would be scant common ground. However, it was a chance to draw him and Sherwin into conversation.
‘How is your wife?’ he asked, sitting down. ‘Dorothea? Was that her name?’
‘She divorced me for desertion actually,’ said Scott tightly. ‘But I am well rid of her. My home is here now, and the King told me only yesterday that he cannot manage without my services as Cartographer Royal. He is grateful for my other advice, too.’
‘What other advice?’ asked Sherwin, snapping awake as the pot-boy brought more ale.
‘It was I who suggested that New Amsterdam should be renamed New York, in honour of the King’s brother.’
Chaloner stared at him, thinking that time had not changed Scott one bit: he was the same smoothly inveterate liar. The New Englander wore an exquisite silk suit with plenty of lace, and anyone meeting him at White Hall would believe he had every right to be there. He might even become Cartographer Royal by virtue of putting it so firmly in people’s minds.
‘And you, Sherwin?’ asked Chaloner. ‘What brings you to London?’
‘The ale,’ chuckled Sherwin, raising his jug. ‘I was kept away from it in Tem—’
‘In Dorset,’ interposed Scott quickly. ‘Where he lived before coming here.’
Sherwin blinked dully for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yes. I lived in Yeovil. Ale was banned in my particular line of work, but that John Browne is a sanctimonious fool and I hate him.’
‘What kind of work?’ asked Chaloner, offended that they should consider him stupid enough to believe such poorly crafted lies – and that he might think Yeovil was in Dorset.
‘Cabinet making,’ said Scott, speaking over whatever Sherwin started to say. ‘Drinking ale is discouraged, as chisels are sharp.’
Chaloner was about to suggest they answer his questions honestly when a shadow fell a
cross the table. It was fat, grave Manning. The Fifth Monarchist’s eyes narrowed when he saw Chaloner, and Scott hastened to explain.
‘Chaloner and I are old friends, and we have been recounting our past adventures together, but he is just leaving, and Sherwin is ready to retire to his room.’
‘You mean he has not been to bed yet?’ cried Manning, dismayed. ‘But he will need his wits about him later, and we cannot have him fuddled from lack of sleep.’
‘I told Scott what I shall tell you,’ said Sherwin, suddenly sharp. ‘I sleep when I feel like it, not when you decide I should. And I am not going anywhere until I have another ale.’
‘One more,’ said Manning irritably. ‘But it had better not affect your performance. We have a lot resting on your skills.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘Good day to you.’
There was not much Chaloner could do once he had been so summarily dismissed, but he did not go far. The confusion with Dorset and Yeovil was one mistake, but choosing cabinet making as an occupation for Sherwin was another. Chaloner had noticed before that Sherwin’s hands were flecked with old burns, and woodwork necessitated using sharp tools, but not hot ones.
He found a shadowy corner and settled down to monitor them. Scott and Manning were arguing, but in voices too low to hear, while Sherwin drank steadily. Eventually, he passed out, so they carried him to a chamber on the first floor where they put him to bed with a tenderness that underlined his importance to them. When he was settled, they fell asleep, too. Clearly, nothing else was going to happen, so Chaloner gave up his vigil and turned to his other enquiries.
It was fully light when he reached High Holborn – or as light as it was going to be with thick clouds slouching overhead and drizzle in the air. He aimed for the Antelope first, a large, rambling inn with a reputation for clean beds, wholesome food and honest staff. He bought an ale, and engaged the taverner in conversation. Unfortunately, the man was obsessed with the coal tax, and only remembered those patrons willing to discuss it with him. As Ferine had not ventured an opinion on the matter, the landlord could not say whether he had visited or not.
Chaloner turned to the customers, buying ale liberally in exchange for information, although he worried at the expense. Noon came and went, and he ate a fine venison pastry with a sad-faced man from Islington, who claimed to have seen Ferine with several companions.
‘An odd crowd,’ he recalled. ‘They huddled together in a back room, all wrapped in cloaks and big hats, and stopped talking if anyone went near. At one point I heard them chanting.’
‘Chanting?’
‘Incantations,’ whispered the man ominously. ‘That particular chamber has always attracted strange people. Go and look at it. The moment you step inside, you will know what I mean.’
Chaloner followed his directions to a small room that was conspicuously empty, although he imagined patrons might use it if the landlord lit a fire – the place was freezing. The tabletops and all four walls had been etched with runic symbols identical to the ones inked on Lambe’s neck and hands. There were three dried toads on the windowsill, the desiccated body of a crow in the hearth, and several strategically placed pouches that smelled of pungent herbs.
‘You should not be in here alone,’ said the landlord as he passed the door. ‘It is haunted. We paid a vicar to say some prayers last month, but they did not work, so we hired a sorcerer instead.’
‘Dr Lambe?’ predicted Chaloner. ‘Who works for the Duke of Buckingham?’
The landlord nodded. ‘He is said to be the best, and I do not like having a room that I cannot use. However, it is still here.’
‘What is?’
‘The ghost,’ came the reply, voice lowered. ‘This room stands on the exact spot where three Catholics were betrayed during the reign of Good Queen Bess. It is cursed. You must have noticed that it is colder than the rest of the building.’
‘Yes – because it has no fire.’
The landlord pursed his lips. ‘You can think what you like, but I know my tavern, and there is something badly amiss with this bit of it.’
Feeling he had wasted his time, Chaloner walked to the Swan with Two Necks, which was near the Fleet River. It was smaller than the Pope’s Head, although it had a sizeable yard and an impressive row of stables. The sign that swung over its door portrayed a double-necked bird, the faces of which had been rendered distinctly malevolent by the inclusion of teeth. Every Londoner knew, of course, that ‘two necks’ actually meant ‘two nicks’, and referred to the practice of annually notching swans’ beaks to identify their ownership.
He entered and immediately sensed an atmosphere. There had been a comfortable buzz of conversation as he had opened the door, but it stopped when he closed it, and he was aware of hats being pulled low to hide faces. He took a seat at an empty table.
‘We are closed,’ said the landlord shortly. ‘Try the Rose instead.’
‘I was told to come here,’ lied Chaloner. ‘By Paul Ferine.’
The landlord stared at him for a moment, then walked away without a word. Discussions resumed, although more softly than before. A quick glance around told Chaloner that most patrons were respectably dressed, some in plain country clothes and others with the lace and ribbons of high fashion. They included women as well as men, old people and young. They seemed as disparate a group as it was possible to get, but they had one thing in common: all kept their faces averted and had thick cloaks that would conceal their clothes when they left. Preacher Hill had been right to say that the folk who frequented the Swan wore disguises.
A sharp thump made him start. It sounded as though it had come from under his table, but when he looked beneath it, there was nothing to see. Others heard it, too, and there were knowing nods. He leaned back and folded his arms. Ferine might have been duped by such antics, but he did not believe in ghosts and was not about to be unsettled by tricks. However, it was clear that the other customers had taken the bump seriously, and understanding came in a flash: it was a belief in witchery that drew these folk together. It explained their hidden faces and their unease with strangers – such gatherings were illegal and dangerous.
A few moments later, a woman stood and glided towards him. She pushed back her hood to reveal black hair, startling blue eyes and the whitest skin he had ever seen. She was beautiful, but it was a cold loveliness, more like a statue rather than a thing of flesh and blood. As she sat, a chill breeze wafted around her, carrying with it a dank, musty scent that reminded him of a tomb.
‘What do you want?’ Her voice was deep and soft.
Chaloner was acutely aware that everyone was listening. He feigned nonchalance, although every fibre in his body was tense, and the dagger he carried in his sleeve was already in his hand. He was an experienced warrior, and doubted any individual in the Swan could best him, but there were at least forty patrons, and some might have guns. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, as it always did when he was in danger.
‘The same as Paul Ferine,’ he replied evenly.
The woman nodded slowly. ‘Very well. How many?’
While he struggled for a reply that would not reveal he had no idea what she was talking about, it occurred to Chaloner that he had spent much of that day in conversations he did not understand. ‘It depends on the price.’
‘That is non-negotiable, as we told Ferine. So are you buying or not?’
‘How long will it take to get them?’ Chaloner hoped he did not sound as baffled as he felt.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘The same as always. Are you sure you are Ferine’s friend?’
‘I was,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Unfortunately, he is dead.’
‘Yes,’ breathed the woman. ‘It was predicted, so of course it came to pass.’
‘He did not think he would die.’ Chaloner seized the opportunity to discuss the murder. ‘He believed he would lose at cards or catch a cold. Are you saying that you knew differently?’
‘Give me your hand,’ ordered the woman abruptly.<
br />
Chaloner eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why?’
Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Why do you think? Come on, do not be shy.’
Nerves jangling, Chaloner held out his left hand – he was not about to offer up the right one when the dagger was in it. Her fingers were corpse-cold as they traced the lines on his palm, and the smell of old graves seemed suddenly stronger. She released him abruptly, for which he was inordinately grateful.
‘There is violence in your future,’ she hissed. ‘Along with uncertainty and fear.’
Chaloner did not doubt it, given his occupation. ‘Well? Are we in business or not?’
She smiled, although it was a nasty expression, and the hair went up on the back of his neck again. Irritably, he tried to pull himself together.
‘Yes, if you tell us how many,’ she replied.
‘Three,’ he replied promptly, prepared to add zeros if necessary.
‘Good!’ The smile became predatory as she held out her hand. ‘Give me the pertinent information and we will begin at once.’
‘I do not have it with me.’
The smile faded. ‘Then why did you come? You know we cannot do anything without it.’
‘I had to be sure. Ferine trusted you, but we do not know each other.’
She stared at him, eyes as hard and blue as old ice, then stood and stalked out, moving so smoothly that she appeared to be floating. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the moment she had gone the temperature around him seemed to rise.
There was no more he could do in the Swan, especially when he was on the receiving end of some very hostile, wary and fearful glances from the other patrons, whose unease made it obvious that there was no point in asking questions. Outside, he slipped into a shadowy doorway and settled down to wait. After a while, someone else arrived. He seemed familiar, but Chaloner was not sure why until he saw a hand covered in inked symbols: Lambe.
Chaloner rubbed his chin. The sorcerer had been at the club the night Ferine was murdered, and now he was visiting the same tavern. Of course, there were not many places where witches and their disciples could gather together safely, so perhaps it was no surprise that both frequented the Swan. Regardless, Chaloner would have to find out if anyone could verify where in the club Lambe had been when Ferine had been suffocated.
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 9