The sorcerer did not stay long, and was out again in moments. Chaloner tried to follow, but Lambe flagged down a hackney, which set off at a cracking pace – too fast for Chaloner to chase on foot. He returned to his shadowy doorway and waited again.
Eventually, the woman emerged. She wore a hooded cloak, but her peculiarly flowing gait gave her away. She attracted some odd glances as she glided along Holborn, and everyone gave her a wide berth, as if they sensed something amiss and did not want to be too close.
North of High Holborn was a mansion named Hatton House, which had once been inhabited by an ambitious Elizabethan courtier. It was now ruinous and due to be demolished. The woman walked up a path fringed with brambles to a lichen-dappled door, which swung open with a groan that was audible even from a distance. She stepped inside and disappeared into the gloom.
Chaloner followed, and found himself in what had once been a grand hall; now weeds grew through the floor and the walls were green with mould. The remains of a staircase stood in front of him, which had ascended in an elegant sweep to the upper floors.
There was no sign of the woman, but there was a door to his right. It opened into a dim passageway that stank of rotting wood. She was not there either, but there was another door at its far end. He went through that, but the next chamber was also empty, and so he continued, tiptoeing through a succession of sadly derelict rooms.
Eventually, he reached a chapel. It had once been exquisite – there were traces of gold leaf on what remained of the ceiling, and rails where curtains had hung. It was unmistakably Catholic, which perhaps explained why it had been so thoroughly despoiled. The woman was kneeling there, hands clasped as she prayed to the non-existent altar. A shaft of light came through the shattered roof and illuminated her face. Had it been a real church, he might have been struck with religious awe, but in the decommissioned chapel it was decidedly sinister.
‘Why are you following me?’ she asked, coming to her feet in one easy, sinuous movement.
There was no point hiding any longer, although Chaloner was surprised she had detected him – he was good at tailing people without their knowledge. ‘I wanted to talk.’
‘About what?’
‘Ferine. I would like to know more about his business if I am to engage in it.’
She regarded him oddly. ‘Why? You gave the impression that you understood and approved of what he was doing.’
Chaloner shrugged. ‘A man cannot be too careful.’
‘So what do you want to know?’
‘Your name would be a start.’
‘Eliza Hatton.’
‘Hatton? Do you hail from the family who used to live here?’
‘This house was built by my grandsire, but its foundations are steeped in blood.’ Her words were hissed, and set up a disconcerting echo. ‘Five monks were executed on this very spot, and a priest was hanged here forty years later. There have been others, too. Murdered for their faith.’
‘Ferine was not murdered for his faith,’ said Chaloner. ‘And I wanted to ask—’
‘No? Can you be certain of that?’
Chaloner was not sure what happened next, only that there was a loud crack, and he only just managed to throw himself to one side as a ceiling beam fell, bringing with it a shower of plaster. He picked himself up and hurried to where Eliza had been standing, but there was no sign of her. He looked around wildly. She was not under the rafter, and she had not passed him to reach the door, yet there was no other way out – except the windows, and they were too high.
Had he been talking to a ghost? Such a notion would not usually have crossed his mind, but he had been in a ‘haunted’ tavern that day, and the chapel was dark and shadowy. Or was it just another trick? Yet despite as careful a search as he was able to make in the gloom, he could not discover how Eliza had disappeared or why the beam had fallen.
Confused and full of questions, he took his leave.
It was nearing three o’clock, the time when Chaloner was due to meet Leving in the Talbot. He trudged along Holborn, feeling new mud seep inside his boots with every step. The clouds were thick and black, and they depressed his spirits. Moreover, he was disturbed by what had happened in Hatton House – he had always disliked cases that involved the inexplicable.
He had been in the Talbot before. It was near Gray’s Inn, so was always full of lawyers, and invariably rang with loud, argumentative voices. There was no sign of Leving, so he found a table and settled down to wait. A pot-boy brought him ale that was weak and sour, of the kind that was often served in large, impersonal taverns. He was hungry, but the pickled ling pie would be waiting, so he decided he had better reserve his appetite. Eventually, a shadow fell across him.
‘The next time you contact me, leave a message at the Golden Lion on Fetter Lane,’ he said without looking up. ‘Do not visit my home.’
Leving sat down. ‘You are as bad as Williamson. He told me never to darken his doors again, too. Where lies the problem? Your wife was out, and there was no danger.’
‘But she does not stay out, does she, and you are not to go there again. Now tell me why you asked me to meet you here.’
Leving grinned. ‘Because the Fifth Monarchists are having an assembly soon, in the hall at the back. They have been rather clever, actually. This tavern is full of lawyers, all in professional garb with wigs and falling bands, so the conspirators have decided to wear the same, and thus be indistinguishable from them.’
‘You are not wearing a disguise,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Neither am I.’
‘Yes, but we are not being hunted by Williamson. We do not need to bother.’
Chaloner did not hide his exasperation. ‘The Fifth Monarchists do not know that, and failing to conform may arouse their suspicions.’
Leving was crestfallen. ‘Lord! I suppose it might. What shall we do, then? Ask a couple of these clerks to lend us their costumes? I am sure we can find a pair who will not mind.’
‘Perhaps you should just stand on a table and announce that we have been charged to infiltrate some rebels but have neglected to effect a disguise,’ suggested Chaloner acidly.
‘There is no need to be facetious! I made a mistake; it will not happen again. But look – people are making their way to the hall. It is time to join them.’
Chaloner regarded him balefully, giving serious thought to knocking him over the head and continuing the investigation alone. Or perhaps Williamson would return him to gaol until the rebellion was over. Regardless, something had to be done or they were both going to be killed.
The hall the Fifth Monarchists had hired was enormous and already crammed with people. Chaloner did a quick count and estimated that there were at least two hundred. All had donned wigs and robes, but as few had access to genuine legal regalia, they had improvised, with the result that most were very bizarrely attired. Many had the ruddy faces and thick hands of farmers or labourers, while others looked to be the more lowly kind of tradesmen – tanners, tallow-makers, cobblers and weavers. Conversations were about the iniquitous coal tax, the late start of the lambing season and the dreadful price of imported cloth.
About thirty men had gathered at the front of the hall, and these were another matter entirely. They were dour, grim-faced individuals who spoke in strident voices about the Kingdom of Christ and ‘smiting work’; several brayed prayers in a way that suggested they thought the Almighty might be deaf. Among them were Strange and Quelch.
‘Where are your disguises?’ hissed Jones angrily, when he spotted Leving and Chaloner. ‘If you are recognised by the Spymaster’s men, it could mean the end of our plans.’
‘What plans?’ asked Leving keenly. ‘You have not told me yet, and—’
‘Go and stand where no one can see you,’ snapped Jones. He caught Chaloner’s arm as the spy passed. ‘You are wiser than him. Keep him in check, or I will hold you accountable.’
‘I am not his keeper,’ said Chaloner, freeing himself with more vigour than was necessary.
He disliked being manhandled.
Jones’s pale eyes bored into him. ‘You are now.’
Chaloner did not think his opinion of the Fifth Monarchists’ operation could sink much lower, but it did. A number of genuine lawyers were intrigued by the peculiarly clad ‘colleagues’ and were asking what was going on. Atkinson explained that it was a meeting of people who had invested in a certain type of government bond. Clearly, he thought he had chosen a subject too dull to warrant further enquiry, but lawyers were immune to tedium. Their interest was piqued, and they hovered until Strange appeared and threatened to run them through unless they shifted.
‘Really, Strange,’ chided Atkinson. ‘There was no need to be rude.’
‘Thou art a milksop,’ retorted Strange. ‘And rudeness will be as nothing when we sweep away the vile corruption of their iniquitous legal system.’
‘They are corrupt, but that does not give us licence to be unmannerly,’ said Ursula coolly, so quick to support Atkinson that Chaloner wondered at it.
Strange relented, revealing that he had a soft spot for Mrs Adman – or for her baking. ‘My apologies, lady. I am so eager to see the New Kingdom that I forget myself. I ask thee to forgive my intemperate words.’
Ursula inclined her head and changed the subject. ‘I do not think we have enough seedcake. Shall I run out and buy some? It will not be as good as my own, but it is better than nothing.’
‘I shall go with thee,’ declared Strange. A flash of disappointment in Atkinson’s eyes told Chaloner that the shy stockinger would have liked to the opportunity to be alone with her himself.
When they had gone, Chaloner watched the remaining Fifth Monarchists in growing disbelief. The atmosphere was more like that of a wedding party than a plot to overthrow the government, and he wondered how many of them really knew what they were doing. He spotted someone he recognised, and made his way through the throng towards her.
‘Lord!’ gulped Snowflake in alarm when she saw him. ‘Please do not tell Temperance what I do in my spare time. She would not approve.’
‘Nor would your customers,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘They belong to the established order, and will not appreciate you consorting with those who aim to bring it down.’
Snowflake waved a dismissive hand. ‘If they are ousted other wealthy men will take their places, and they will hire my services – it is a fact of life. But Temperance is a nice lady, and I do not want to upset her. Besides, I am only here because my stepbrother John invited me.’
She pointed to Atkinson, who waved gaily. Chaloner tried to imagine the bookish stockinger and the worldly prostitute plotting in darkened rooms to topple the monarchy together. The image would not come.
‘I wanted to speak to you anyway,’ he said. ‘To ask why you smuggled Jones and Quelch into the club on Sunday night.’
Snowflake gaped in dismay. ‘How did you find out? They promised not to tell anyone.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘Because John said they needed to speak to one of our patrons, and they did not know how else to do it. They did not fit in very well, though – Jones is a cold fish, while Quelch was vulgar.’
‘Which patron?’
‘Well, they both spent a while with Admiral Lawson, but Quelch nattered to a number of other guests, including the Duke, Rupert, Scott, Dr Lambe and Duncombe. Jones concentrated on the girls – he asked them questions and made a note of their answers. He probably intends to quote them in one of his nasty pamphlets.’
‘You should have told me,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Jones and Quelch are violent men and one of them might have murdered Ferine.’
Snowflake favoured him with a haughty glance. ‘Do you think I let them wander around unsupervised? All the girls watched them, and neither Jones nor Quelch left the parlour all night. Would you like me to swear it on a Bible?’
As Chaloner doubted the Good Book held much significance for her, he shook his head. Yet he believed her tale. Reluctantly, because a Fifth Monarchist as Ferine’s killer would have been a tidy solution, he mentally crossed Jones and Quelch off his list of suspects.
‘Who else did you let in?’ he asked.
‘No one! It is not very easy to do, and I only arranged it as a special favour to John. It will not happen again, though. I do not want Temperance to find out and send me packing.’
Again, Chaloner believed her. ‘Have you heard any rumours about Ferine’s death?’ he asked.
‘No, because no one is coming to the club any more. Well, that handsome John Scott visited, and brought a drunken sot named Sherwin with him. He told me to make the fellow happy. I did my best, but Sherwin was more interested in the wine than me, and he was very drunk. He kept mumbling about something being turned.’
‘Could he have said someone being turned?’ asked Chaloner, hoping Sherwin had not been referring to Leving.
‘Possibly, but he was slurring so much that he was difficult to understand.’
Atkinson arrived then, bringing her an especially large piece of cake, and the smile they gave each other made it clear there was genuine affection between them.
‘We are not really related,’ Snowflake told Chaloner. ‘Our widowed mothers married our current stepfather, although not at the same time, obviously. John has always been good to me. He wanted to train me to be a stockinger, but I had grander plans.’
‘You may have to work in my shop when the Last Millennium dawns,’ warned Atkinson. ‘I doubt brothels will be allowed then.’
Snowflake pushed him playfully. ‘Of course they will, silly! Men will not stop being men just because of a new ruler. Besides, I imagine King Jesus will be too busy smiting lawyers to bother with the likes of us. They are where the real source of corruption lies.’
‘True,’ agreed Atkinson. ‘That is why I became a Fifth Monarchist – to abolish corruption in the courts, and introduce a system that will deliver equal justice for rich and poor. We also expound equality for women and gainful employment for all.’
‘Here is Ursula, back with the cakes,’ said Snowflake, clearly bored with the discussion. ‘The meeting can start now.’
Once the door had been barred to prevent several very interested lawyers from coming in, Jones walked to the front of the hall and began to address the throng. There was an immediate hush, which was just as well, as Jones spoke in a sibilant hiss that was difficult to hear from the back.
‘Brothers and sisters in Christ – thank you for coming. We shall start by reciting the oath.’
‘Oath?’ whispered Chaloner to Atkinson. ‘I thought Fifth Monarchists refused to take them, on the grounds that it is a misuse of God’s name.’
‘We do,’ replied the stockinger. ‘Usually. But Jones insists.’
Chaloner was puzzled. Did it mean that Jones was not a true Fifth Monarchist, and had simply hijacked the movement when his Northern Plot had failed? While he pondered, the audience held their right hands aloft, and chanted a promise never to reveal the Cause’s secrets. When it was done, the thirty dour fanatics took seats at a long table at the front, while everyone else stood in the body of the hall, shuffling their feet until they were comfortable.
‘Our day draws near,’ whispered Jones once the fidgeting had stopped. It sounded like a snake speaking. ‘We shall soon have what we have striven for all these years.’
‘About time,’ declared Quelch loudly. ‘Jesus will not wait for ever.’
‘He might,’ countered Strange. ‘Eternity is nothing to the Supreme Authority.’
‘Plans have been laid, and you will soon be allotted specific tasks,’ Jones continued. ‘Our operation will begin two Sundays hence – an auspicious time, as I think you will agree.’
‘Easter Day!’ whooped Strange with a wild grin that made him look deranged. ‘King Jesus will oust the Stuart usurper on the anniversary of His glorious Resurrection, and will take up His rightful throne in White Hall.’
‘What happens if the throne is dirty?’ asked Ursula. She flushe
d when everyone turned to look at her, but persisted with her point. ‘That Court has disgusting habits, and I should not like to think of Him faced with a soiled seat.’
‘He will not use the one in White Hall,’ asserted Quelch. ‘He will bring His own.’
Chaloner was struggling to keep a straight face, although Quelch’s proclamation had the grim men at the front nodding earnest agreement. But Ursula had other concerns, too.
‘Then what about St Paul’s Cathedral? It is falling to pieces, and I should not like it to collapse just as He steps through its doors.’
‘Unless you can devise a way to rebuild it in ten days, we shall just have to trust Him to keep it standing,’ said Jones, a little impatiently. ‘But you are right about the Court. It is full of profligate villains who squander public money. I could cite a dozen instances of their selfish greed, starting with the Lady Day fireworks, which are a wicked waste of taxpayers’ money.’
‘Perhaps we should strike sooner then,’ suggested one of the men at the front. ‘Today, before our enemies have wind of what we intend to do, and try to stop us.’
‘They cannot – not now,’ stated Jones. ‘We have the support of the entire country – honest, decent folk who are tired of the dissipated libertines in White Hall. The wicked coal tax has brought them flocking to us, while there have been omens…’
‘Comets, a profusion of ghosts, Mrs Trapnel’s visions,’ listed Strange. ‘All signs that King Jesus is coming. One only needs to glance at the Bible to see it is all ordained.’
‘I would publish a pamphlet explaining it all, but the printing presses are too closely watched by the forces of tyranny,’ said Jones. ‘But that will not be a problem in the Last Millennium, when I shall write dozens of tracts for your edification and enjoyment.’
Snowflake chose that moment to give a bored sigh, which made a number of people turn to look at her. Atkinson shot her a warning glance, but she only grinned engagingly at him.
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 10