‘But Admiral Lawson may share their convictions, and he commands the Channel Fleet,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘You should not underestimate them.’
‘Lawson has more sense than to throw in his lot with lunatics,’ said Thurloe firmly, and the note of finality in his voice told Chaloner that the subject was closed.
Usually, Chaloner trusted his friend’s views on such matters, sometimes more than his own, but this time he was sure Thurloe was wrong. He said no more, though, and Thurloe was also silent, so the only sound was the squelching of soggy leaves underfoot.
‘So have you been accepted into the Fifth Monarchists’ cabal?’ asked Thurloe eventually.
Chaloner nodded. ‘Theoretically, at least. However, Quelch is suspicious, and the others must be, too, no matter what they say to my face. Meanwhile, I do not trust Leving, and I am not sure what is going on with Manning and Scott…’
‘Scott’s arrival does bode ill,’ Thurloe agreed. ‘And this business with “Eliza” is curious.’
‘She is definitely involved in something peculiar, given that she feels the need to disappear all the time. It is almost as if she is a ghost…’
Thurloe shot him a weary glance and declined to acknowledge the remark. ‘I have asked my contacts to listen for rumours about Ferine, but they have reported nothing yet. And I sent the letters we copied yesterday to Wallis the mathematician. If he cannot decode them, no one can. I wish I could do more, but I am busy with my own work at the moment.’
Chaloner hoped Wallis would not take long.
White Hall was the King’s main London residence, a sprawling palace said to contain more than two thousand rooms, ranging from the elegant apartments occupied by His Majesty, his family and his ministers, to the squalid, cramped quarters allocated to the army of cooks, cleaners, scullions, grooms and porters needed to keep the place running. Chaloner walked through the Great Gate and aimed for the Earl’s offices, hunched into his coat against the sheeting rain. He saw the Earl’s Seal Bearer in the Privy Garden, and changed direction to intercept him.
‘I do not believe that you made no effort to save the Tsar’s jewels when your ship went down, no matter what the scandal-mongers say,’ declared Kipps, speaking without preamble. ‘And nor do I believe that you are bankrupt. Hannah’s debts cannot be that serious.’
Chaloner was horrified that his personal finances should be the subject of gossip, but Kipps blustered on before he could reply.
‘Have you come here to look for another post? If so, loiter in the Privy Gallery. It is next to the Great Hall, as you know, which has just been converted to a permanent theatre. Its first performance is due to start at noon, but there are not many seats, so folk will hover in the Privy Gallery, ready to make a dash for them when the doors open.’
As the residents of White Hall had a penchant for lewd dramas, Chaloner suspected that the construction of a place where they could be viewed more frequently would do nothing to enhance the Court’s reputation among the people. Sourly he thought it no wonder that the radical sects who denounced them, like the Fifth Monarchists, attracted popular support.
‘The Parson’s Dream,’ continued Kipps, tight lipped. ‘I am no prude, but that goes well beyond my limits. Anyway, the King intends to see it, so every courtier and hanger-on in London will be there. One of them will want a good intelligencer, so do not worry.’
Chaloner changed the subject by gesturing to the garden, where several servants were toiling among the winter-brown shrubs. ‘What are they doing?’
‘Preparing for the Lady Day fireworks,’ replied Kipps disapprovingly. ‘Come and look at what they have done. It is all very, very wrong.’
The labourers had dug a long, waist-deep trench at the far end of the grounds, their workings carefully concealed behind a knee-high hedge of privet. Chaloner regarded it, then Kipps, blankly, not sure why this should have earned his disapprobation.
‘It is dangerous,’ the Seal Bearer explained crossly. ‘I fell in on my way home last night, and ended up covered in mud.’
‘Why do fireworks need a ditch?’
‘So that they and the fellow who ignites them – the so-called “Green Man” – can remain invisible to spectators. All we shall see is rockets blasting into the sky.’
‘Who is the Green Man this year?’ asked Chaloner conversationally.
‘The Master of Ordnance,’ replied Kipps. ‘It is a good choice, as it takes considerable skill if the event is to pass off without incident. The last fellow who did it managed to set himself alight, while the one before him killed two servants and one of the King’s dogs.’
‘I would have thought the Master of Ordnance had more important matters to consider – like organising armaments for the Dutch war.’
Kipps nodded. ‘The fireworks are an unnecessary expense, especially when the poor clamour for us to reduce taxes. Indeed, the whole thing is wicked – Lady Day is the Saturday before Easter this year, and it is inappropriate to celebrate with such extravagance while we are still in Lent.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. Kipps had never struck him as religious before.
The Seal Bearer shrugged. ‘Call me superstitious if you will, but it is asking for bad luck. There have been more than the usual number of omens of late, and ghosts along High Holborn.’
That reminded Chaloner of his investigations. ‘I have been asked to look into the murder of Paul Ferine. Did you know him?’
‘Yes. It is a pity he got himself murdered in Temperance’s club, because no man likes to take his ease in a house where assassins might lurk. Worse, the attention has divested it of its anonymity, and wives are paying attention…’
‘Was Ferine married?’
‘He was, but she died a few months ago in their house on High Holborn. Wild with grief, Ferine ordered the doors locked and the windows shuttered. No one has set foot in it since.’
‘How did she die?’ asked Chaloner, his mind racing.
‘Fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Personally, I think it was the shock of losing Grace that turned Ferine superstitious. Afterwards, he started to find comfort in odd rituals, such as not starting journeys on a Friday, and spitting whenever he saw a white horse.’
The house Eliza had visited had to be Ferine’s, thought Chaloner. High Holborn was a desirable location, and there could not be many buildings on it that were closed up. Moreover, the steps were definitely a tripping hazard, because he had stumbled on them himself.
‘The rector of St Dunstan’s told me that Ferine was a widower,’ he said. ‘But no one has mentioned Grace’s curious death. Not even Duncombe, Ferine’s particular friend.’
‘That is not surprising – Grace was Catholic, so Ferine tended to keep her quiet. Moreover, Duncombe has been drunk ever since the murder, and no one can get any sense from him. I only know about Grace because one of Ferine’s servants was the sister of one of mine.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘He was superb at horoscopes.’ Kipps’s expression was troubled. ‘He did one for me, and predicted a grave mishap. Sure enough, the next day I was “uninvited” from Lady Castlemaine’s Shrove Tuesday party, which I had been looking forward to for weeks.’
As Lady Castlemaine – the King’s mistress – was one of the Earl’s most bitter enemies, Chaloner thought Kipps had no business attending her soirées anyway, but there was no point in saying so: Kipps was a great admirer of her thighs, and thought the rest of her could do no wrong.
‘Perhaps Ferine knew beforehand that she had revised her guest list,’ he suggested.
‘No – her decision was prompted by the King telling her that he was cutting back on her allowance, which happened after Ferine and I spoke.’ Kipps sighed. ‘That prediction was accurate, so I hastened to comply when he later suggested that I purchase a human skull to keep witches at bay. It is on the mantelpiece in my bedroom, next to my spare teeth.’
‘Spare teeth?’
‘Lest I lose any o
f my own. There are rumours that the Last Millennium is nigh, and I should not like to face eternity bereft of fangs. How would I manage at heavenly feasts?’
As Lord Chancellor, the Earl of Clarendon was entitled to rooms in White Hall, and had secured himself a pleasant suite overlooking the Privy Garden. Chaloner hid behind an oversized ornamental vase in the lobby until he was sure his master was alone, then opened the door and slipped inside. The Earl was at his desk, while an inferno roared in the hearth. The fire was so loud that Chaloner approached unheard, and was obliged to cough to attract attention.
‘I wish you would not do that,’ snapped the Earl, one plump hand to his chest. ‘And you should not be here anyway. No one will believe we have fallen out if you visit me.’
‘I was careful, sir.’
The Earl regarded him with pursed lips. ‘I met your wife the night before last, at a ceremony to commemorate HMS London’s dead. And I am afraid to report that she was intoxicated.’
Chaloner’s heart sank. ‘Was she?’
‘I could not understand a word she said, although she was clearly trying to convey something of import. Perhaps you would ask her to visit me here, so she can try again when she is sober.’
Chaloner did not think that would be a very good idea. ‘She was very distressed about London, sir. I am sure that was all she was trying to say.’
The Earl frowned. ‘She sounded more angry than sad to me. But no matter. Why did you come here today? Do you have something to tell me?’
‘I thought you might like to know what I have learned about the Fifth Monarchists. They are led by a Sanhedrin, and two of them – Jones and Strange – were involved in the Northern Plot. The uprising is scheduled for Easter Day.’
‘Then you have ten days to stop it,’ said the Earl, calculating on his fingers. ‘But I am expecting visitors in a few moments, and their business concerns you, so you might as well wait here and meet them.’
Before Chaloner could point out that his cover would certainly be compromised if he attended conferences in the Earl’s chambers, there was a rap on the door, and he had only just ducked behind the curtain when Kipps entered.
‘A Mr Lee and a Mr Smith, sir,’ the Seal Bearer announced. ‘I will tell them to return later if you are busy.’
‘You will do no such thing.’ It was Rupert, who did not understand that it took more than a cloak and a false name to conceal his identity. He was with Williamson, whose disguise was not much better, although he had at least covered his face with a scarf.
Chaloner was bemused. Rupert and the Earl hated each other, while neither had much time for Williamson, so what was happening that necessitated a secret meeting between the three of them?
‘Thank you, Kipps,’ said the Earl crisply. ‘Ensure we are not disturbed, if you please.’
‘Must you keep the fire so high?’ grumbled Rupert, flinging off his cloak and going to douse it. A selfish individual, it did not occur to him that someone else might be cold.
‘Chaloner is here,’ said the Earl, pursing his lips at the Prince’s presumption, but making no effort to check him. ‘You can hear his report for yourselves.’
‘Good,’ said Rupert, as Chaloner stepped out of the shadows. ‘The Fifth Monarchists are causing the government considerable concern, so I hope you have something useful to tell us.’
Chaloner’s confusion intensified. He understood why Williamson would want to be kept informed, but why should the matter concern Rupert? He decided to be economical with the facts until they told him what was going on. ‘Not really.’
‘Why not?’ demanded Williamson waspishly. ‘You have had three days now.’
‘He has discovered that there will be trouble on Easter Day,’ said the Earl, shooting Chaloner an irritable glance for his caginess. ‘And they have a Sanhedrin that includes Jones and Strange.’
‘We knew that already,’ snapped Rupert. Williamson nodded, but Chaloner could tell from the Earl’s raised eyebrows that they had not shared the information with him. ‘What have you learned that is new?’
Chaloner regarded him levelly. ‘If you tell me what you have discovered to date, I will not waste your time by regaling you with details that you already have.’
‘Don’t you take that tone with me,’ snarled Rupert. ‘How dare you!’
‘He cannot help himself,’ explained the Earl tiredly. ‘He is even insolent to me on occasion – the man who pays his wages.’
Or not, thought Chaloner acidly. He addressed Williamson, hoping the Spymaster would listen to reason. ‘You need to allocate more men to monitor these rebels. You are right to be concerned: Jones and Strange in particular are unpredictable zealots.’
Williamson sighed. ‘I wish I could, but all my people are busy with the war.’
‘Besides, this is a sensitive business, and we cannot have half of London knowing about it,’ interposed Rupert. ‘They might decide to join these villains, and then where would we be?’
‘But half of London probably does know,’ argued Chaloner. ‘I counted two hundred people at a meeting yesterday, while there are reports of ten thousand more waiting for orders. You cannot have that many folk enrolled and expect to keep it quiet.’
‘But it is being kept quiet,’ said Williamson worriedly. ‘There has not been so much as a whisper of it in the coffee houses. And believe me, I listen for such tales.’
Chaloner turned to the Earl, although his remarks were intended for all three. ‘There is clearly more to this case than you have revealed, sir. If you were to give me the whole story, I am far more likely to find the answers you—’
‘No,’ interrupted Rupert firmly. ‘What you do not know, you cannot reveal, should you fall into the wrong hands. You must work within the limits we set.’
That instruction told Chaloner for certain that they were hiding something. Moreover, it had to be something unusually troublesome, or the three men would not have formed an alliance – especially one that necessitated donning disguises when they met. However, Chaloner could tell from the Earl’s baffled expression that he did not know the full particulars either. He was being used, and Chaloner suspected it would not be Rupert or Williamson who would pay the price should anything go wrong.
‘I am likely to discover it anyway,’ he persisted. ‘Telling me now will save time, which we cannot afford to waste if we are to prevent—’
‘I said no,’ repeated Rupert harshly. ‘All we want from you is a list of every filthy rebel who meets in these sordid taverns, and a rough idea of what they plan to do. Personally, I do not see why Leving could not have managed on his own, but Williamson said we should recruit you.’
‘I have never trusted turncoats,’ explained the Spymaster. ‘And Leving is low on wits. This affair is too important to entrust to him alone.’
‘Important?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Surely, it is just another rebellion? The same as the dozens of others that have rumbled since the Restoration.’
‘This one is more pressing,’ said Rupert tightly. ‘But that is all we are prepared to tell you. Now get out there and learn what we need to know.’
He turned on his heel and stalked out, leaving Williamson to run after him with the cloak that would provide his disguise. Wordlessly, the Earl went to stoke up the fire that Rupert had savaged, but his inept prodding threatened to extinguish it altogether, so Chaloner went to help him.
‘I am not sure I can manage this investigation on my own, sir,’ he said quietly, once the blaze had been restored. ‘Not without understanding what is really going on.’
‘You will cope,’ replied the Earl, not looking at him. ‘And I cannot afford to cross Rupert or Williamson. I stand a better chance of staying in power if they are on my side.’
‘They will not support you if I fail,’ warned Chaloner. ‘And I have a bad feeling about the whole affair. Rupert’s interest makes no sense.’
‘Not to me, either,’ admitted the Earl. ‘But we had better do as he says. I will almost certai
nly lose my position on the Privy Council without his backing, while you will be unemployed if I am ousted. It is a wretched situation, but it cannot be helped.’
Chaloner left the Earl’s offices as stealthily as he had arrived, but had not gone far before he saw two cloaked figures huddled behind a buttress. It was not a good place for a private discussion, because it was absurdly easy for anyone to approach unseen and eavesdrop. Williamson kept his voice to a discreet murmur, but Rupert was more used to bawling orders on battlefields, so although Chaloner had to strain to catch everything the Spymaster said, he had no trouble at all with the Prince’s side of the conversation.
‘…would be a catastrophe if that happened,’ Rupert was hissing. ‘A disaster.’
‘More financial than tactical, though,’ said Williamson. ‘And I cannot help but wonder whether you place too much value on it.’
‘Nonsense! It will turn the tide of this war and all wars in the future.’ The Prince lowered his voice, and Chaloner heard the greed in it. ‘Although the money is no small concern, of course.’
‘In that case, your people should have been more careful. Especially John Browne. This is a distraction I could do without – I should be concentrating on the Dutch.’
‘It is a distraction I could do without, too,’ snapped Rupert. ‘I wish to God you trusted more of your people, because Clarendon’s spy is right – we should allocate more men to this matter.’
‘Then use your influence on the Privy Council to win me more funding,’ Williamson flashed. ‘You cannot expect men to stay loyal for the pittance I am able to pay.’
‘Then are you sure Chaloner can be trusted? I doubt Clarendon is a generous paymaster.’
‘He is a bizarre exception to the rule.’
‘He will have his price,’ said Rupert bitterly. ‘Just like the men who put me in this situation in the first place. But can he stop these villains before it is too late? He did not seem to understand the urgency of the matter.’
‘Because you refused to tell him.’
‘I could not bring myself to do it – I hate spies. Still, if he fails, it will not be us who bear the blame. That will be Clarendon’s prerogative, and I shall delight in watching his fall from grace.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 13