‘You promised to protect him,’ said Williamson, startled. ‘That was the agreement.’
‘What agreement?’ asked Rupert slyly. ‘I signed nothing. And Privy Council meetings will be a lot more fun without him whining for peace at every turn. I cannot abide pacifists.’
‘You do surprise me,’ said Williamson drily.
When they had gone, Chaloner mulled over what he had heard. Who was John Browne, and how was he associated with whatever was unfolding? Should the Earl be warned that Rupert had no intention of honouring whatever arrangement had been made, or was he politician enough to know it? Chaloner certainly hoped so, because it would not be easy to say that the King’s cousin was a duplicitous scoundrel with no honour.
Because so many people wanted to see The Parson’s Dream, the Privy Gallery was crowded, and virtually everyone was gossiping. Much of the talk was about HMS London – Catholics were to blame, of course, as they always were when something exploded. There was chat about Ferine, too, and amused whispers about Lambe’s new name for Clarendon House. There was, however, nothing about thirty fanatics forming a Sanhedrin and planning something nasty for Easter Day.
Kipps was there, so Chaloner asked him to point out Odowde and Hubbert. The Seal Bearer directed him to two unexceptional men in brown wigs and dowdy clothes. The only thing that made them distinct was that Hubbert had a black eye. They were with several people who had gathered near the window, and Chaloner saw they were listening in rapt attention to Dr Lambe. The sorcerer was wearing his star-spangled coat, and was speaking in a low hiss that had his audience straining forward to hear.
‘…of Venus. And that is always a bad sign.’
‘Oh,’ breathed silly Lady Muskerry, her eyes huge in her bovine face. ‘That is worrisome. The last time you mentioned Venus, the ship London sank.’
‘Yes, I predicted it,’ said Lambe smugly. ‘And I predict that the engineers will fail when they try to pull her from the seabed next week. Lawson is wrong to say the venture will succeed.’
His voice assumed an eerie timbre as he pronounced these words, and a frisson of fear rippled through his audience. He seemed to grow in size as he spoke, and although Chaloner knew it was a trick, he had to admit that Lambe did it very well.
‘I intend to watch,’ said Buckingham, who was standing next to his protégé in a slightly possessive manner. ‘No matter what happens, it promises to be a spectacle.’
‘Because of the bodies?’ asked Lady Muskerry ghoulishly. ‘They will have been in the water for nigh on a fortnight by then, and will not be a pretty sight.’
A wave of excitement ran through the listeners, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to stay in the shadows and not surge forward to tell them what he thought of their unseemly fascination with the disaster. He was glad when the discussion moved to other matters.
‘What does the new comet mean, Lambe?’ asked Will Chiffinch, a man whose main function at Court was to furnish the King with whores when his mistress was unavailable. ‘What disasters loom for us in the future?’
‘Perhaps the war,’ said Lambe, making a sudden peculiar motion with his hand that had Lady Muskerry scooting back with a shriek of alarm. Giggling at herself, she edged closer again.
‘What about the war?’ pressed Chiffinch. ‘Will we win?’
‘Possibly.’ Lambe folded his hands inside his sleeves and bent his head in a curious and disconcerting imitation of a medieval monk. ‘Or we will lose.’
Chaloner smothered a smirk as the listeners exchanged awed glances, thinking even the dimmest halfwit should know that it would be one or the other. But Lambe possessed charisma in abundance, and it was this that made people accept his pronouncements without stopping to analyse them first. At that moment Odowde stepped forward.
‘I do not believe in fortune telling,’ he declared. ‘Why should we accept what you say?’
Lambe looked up slowly, an expression on his face that unnerved even Chaloner. Those standing near Odowde eased away. Then the sorcerer raised a finger and pointed.
‘An ill will soon befall you,’ he intoned. The finger dropped to touch Odowde’s arm. ‘A tumble perhaps, or an assault. Regardless, it will be broken.’
Hubbert lifted a tentative hand to his bruised eye. ‘Take heed, Odowde. I ignored Dr Lambe’s prophecy and look what happened to me – punched by my own footman in a dispute over pay.’
Lambe inclined his head in acknowledgement, then spun on his heel and stalked away, his coat billowing behind him. It was a dramatic exit, and Chaloner was impressed by his skilful use of the theatrical.
‘He is quite a man,’ said Buckingham, gazing after him proudly. ‘The son of the fellow my father hired, who was viciously murdered by a mob some forty years ago. I am lucky to have him helping me.’
‘Helping you do what?’ asked Lady Muskerry in a hoarse whisper.
‘Discover the Philosopher’s Stone,’ replied Buckingham grandly. Chaloner looked for some indication that he was joking, but there was none.
‘What is the Philosopher’s Stone?’ breathed Lady Muskerry, agog.
‘The thing that turns base metal into gold,’ explained Buckingham. He spoke a little impatiently, as it was not something most people needed explaining. ‘I hired him to assist me with my experiments, but his ability to foresee the future is an added bonus. There are those who say that Ferine was better, but they are wrong. Lambe is by far the superior of the two.’
Lady Muskerry gulped. ‘Dr Lambe predicted that I would be with child by the end of the month, but I thought he was joking. Perhaps I should take heed, because my husband is away at the moment, and awkward questions would be asked…’
‘He forecast that I would die of plague,’ whispered Chiffinch. ‘Then he recommended a course of potions to make me immune. I have not missed a single dose, I can tell you! But we should move nearer the door or we shall be at a disadvantage in the race for seats.’
Most of the party hastened to do as he suggested, although Odowde and Hubbert were too lowly to claim a place at the front of the queue, so held back deferentially. Chaloner was about to approach them when someone else arrived. It was Duncombe, well on the way to being drunk despite the early hour. Even better, thought Chaloner, advancing with purpose.
‘We have met before,’ said Duncombe, peering at him. He craned forward too far, and Chaloner was obliged to catch him before he toppled over. ‘Now where was it?’
‘Here, I expect,’ replied Chaloner, unwilling to mention the club.
‘We were just talking about Ferine,’ said Hubbert conversationally. ‘The poor man who predicted his own death.’
‘Actually, he just forecast something unpleasant,’ corrected Duncombe. ‘Not murder. Yet there are a lot of dangerous people around these days. Perhaps they will kill me, too.’
‘Come, Duncombe,’ said Hubbert briskly. ‘You let grief interfere with your reason.’
‘I do grieve,’ said Duncombe tearfully. ‘So did Ferine, because he was never the same after that ghost pushed Grace down the stairs. He locked up his house and forbade anyone to enter it ever again. He said it is infested with evil spirits, and he was right.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Odowde shortly. ‘She probably fell when she was drunk.’
‘Then how do you explain the fact that there are at least three other haunted buildings on High Holborn?’ demanded Duncombe. ‘Wickedness is unfolding up there, and nasty people inhabit that road and the surrounding area.’
‘What nasty people?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘Fifth Monarchists?’
Duncombe blinked, while Odowde and Hubbert seemed equally bemused.
‘Fifth Monarchists?’ echoed Odowde, frowning. ‘Do they still exist? I thought they had either been executed or locked in Bedlam as lunatics.’
Chaloner questioned the trio a little longer, but learned nothing useful, and was on his way out when his attention was caught by Rupert. This time, the Prince was engaged in conversation with Buckingham, who was entitled t
o at least a veneer of civility when they were in public, despite their mutual and very obvious antipathy towards each other. Buckingham was holding forth, so Chaloner loitered nearby to listen.
‘…new comet,’ Buckingham was saying enthusiastically. ‘Lambe thinks it presages the downfall of an unpopular politician. Clarendon, with any luck.’
‘I hope the thing has not appeared to tell us that we will lose the war,’ said Rupert gloomily. ‘I know I encouraged an opening of hostilities, but Clarendon is right as it happens – the Dutch navy is better than ours.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Buckingham, safe in the knowledge that he would not be called upon to fight it. ‘We shall win handily.’
Chaloner started to edge away. Nothing was being said that he did not know already.
‘How is your candle factory?’ asked the Duke, and there was something in the sly tone of his voice that made Chaloner stop. ‘Have you managed to invent one that is less prone to exploding?’
Chaloner frowned. Candles were not prone to exploding at all, so was it a euphemism for something else?
‘The project is coming along nicely, thank you,’ replied Rupert stiffly. ‘Although I wish we were further ahead. I wanted them installed on all our ships, to give us an edge.’
‘There were none on HMS London, were there?’ asked Buckingham snidely. ‘Because something made her ignite with the loss of three hundred lives.’
‘Not my candles,’ said Rupert sharply. ‘They are safer than any others. But since you mention London, can you verify the whereabouts of your sorcerer when she exploded? He did predict the disaster, and I have always been wary of seers whose prophecies come true.’
‘I can, actually,’ said Buckingham icily. ‘He was with me in Wallingford House, working on the Philosopher’s Stone. He is no charlatan. Like his father, he is a man of extraordinary power.’
‘Can he prove he is kin to the first Lambe?’ Rupert did not bother to conceal his scepticism.
‘I have a painting of his sire, and the likeness is unmistakeable,’ replied Buckingham frostily. ‘However, what convinced me most is his skill with alchemy.’
The King arrived at that point, mistress on his arm. He aimed straight for the theatre, and his courtiers rushed to follow. Those who failed to secure seats inside soon disappeared on other business, and the Privy Gallery emptied rapidly. It was not long before only a handful of people remained, along with a few members of the Tangier Committee, which was meeting that morning. Chaloner was on his way out when he saw Sir Alan Brodrick, the Earl’s favourite cousin.
‘I dined with Prince Rupert last night,’ Brodrick whispered, hand to his head. Unlike his prim kinsman, he liked nothing better than a wild party. ‘He told me there would be music, but it transpired to be marches played on flageolets.’ He shuddered and so did Chaloner – they shared a love of good music, which allowed each to forgive a good deal in the other. ‘Afterwards, I felt so low that I went to Temperance’s club.’
‘It is back in fashion again?’
‘Alas, no. It was as dead as a tomb, so I took it upon myself to cheer her up. It was hard work, and I swallowed too much wine in the process. Ah, Mr Pepys! Congratulations on your election to the Royal Society! Is it true that it boasts the finest minds in the country?’
Samuel Pepys was a navy clerk and a member of the Tangier Committee – probably the only one who understood the complex issues discussed. He nodded earnestly at Brodrick’s question.
‘Indeed it does. The King is a member, and so are the Duke of York and Prince Rupert.’
Chaloner would not have said the King possessed a fine mind, while York was reputed to be actively stupid. However, he was interested to know that Rupert had been elected, especially after the discussion concerning non-exploding candles. The Royal Society was famous for its experiments and inventions, so had the Prince been accepted as a member on the basis of something he had done with explosions that had impressed them? Or had he, like York, simply been able to afford the entrance fee?
‘Rupert likes to dabble in alchemy,’ said Brodrick, diplomatically not commenting on the other two. ‘Have you seen his glass beads that blow up when the tail is broken? Very entertaining, although I should not like to wear a necklace of them.’
Chaloner excused himself and left but did not get far: someone stepped out of the shadows by the door to intercept him.
‘Why are you here?’ asked Williamson irritably. ‘You should be investigating Fifth Monarchists.’
Chaloner did not bother to remind him that he had Ferine’s murder to solve, too, which necessitated time spent in White Hall.
‘I would investigate them far more efficiently if you told me what is really happening,’ he said, equally tart. ‘There is more to it than mere rebellion.’
‘Jones and Strange’s last “mere rebellion” damn near succeeded,’ growled Williamson.
‘Rupert is making candles,’ Chaloner persisted. ‘Does that have anything to do with it?’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ said Williamson scornfully. ‘Now go and thwart these conspirators before they have London awash with blood.’
‘I will try, but it would be easier if you removed Leving. Jones and his cronies will see through him soon, at which point they will kill him. And possibly me, too.’
‘Then you will just have to be careful,’ said Williamson, unmoved.
Chapter 6
Chaloner’s first port of call after leaving White Hall was the Talbot, to ask questions about the meetings and those who attended them, so he was disconcerted to discover some fifteen or so of the Sanhedrin already there. They had taken over one of the smaller and more private chambers, where Jones held forth in a sibilant whisper. His words were received with eager appreciation by the others, except Atkinson and Ursula, who sat apart, knees touching under the table. She was showing him a pair of hose she had knitted, paying no attention at all to the hissing, treasonous talk at her side. Also present was Manning, ridiculous in a large hat and oversized cloak.
As he had been eavesdropping all morning, Chaloner decided a little more would not go amiss. He walked outside and identified the window of the conspirators’ room. A cart stood nearby, and no one took any notice as he rolled it forward to provide a crude but effective screen while he crouched down to listen. The Sanhedrin really were rank amateurs, he thought in disgust, unimpressed that they should plot next to a window with badly fitting panes. Not only was he able to hear with perfect clarity, but he could see them, too.
‘…almost ready,’ Manning was saying. ‘And then we shall strike.’
‘I hope thou art right.’ Strange sounded angry and sullen. ‘Or thou shalt pay the price. It is imperative that Sherwin does what hath been promised.’
‘He will,’ averred Manning. ‘He is too interested in money to let us down.’
‘Such delicate cross-stitching,’ murmured Atkinson. ‘Much finer than mine.’
‘I wish Scott were not involved, though,’ said Quelch disagreeably. ‘I distrust him intensely.’
‘You are wise to be suspicious,’ said Manning, nodding vehemently. ‘I hate the way he has imposed himself on me. Sherwin is mine, and he had no right to insinuate himself into my plans.’
‘So why did you let him?’ asked Jones.
‘I had no choice. We were both staying in the Pope’s Head, which is cheap now that the taverner will be evicted on Lady Day, and he noticed how solicitous I was of Sherwin. One night, when I was out, he bought Sherwin enough ale to make him garrulous and got the whole story out of him. When I returned, Scott said I could either go into business with him as a partner or he would take the matter to Spymaster Williamson.’
And he was in a position to do it, thought Chaloner. Assuming he had been telling the truth about being in Williamson’s pay, of course.
‘I prefer to work in silk,’ Ursula confided to Atkinson. ‘But it is expensive now that war has been declared, like all foreign imports.’
‘Why did you
not kill him?’ Quelch asked of Manning. ‘I would have done.’
‘Kill the Cartographer Royal? I hardly think that would have been sensible, even if he is a sly, manipulative charlatan who would cheat his own mother. I urge you again – do not deal with Scott for any reason. Send all your correspondence to me.’
‘Very well,’ said Jones. ‘But are you sure he is not in secret negotiations with the French? Or even the Dutch?’
Manning made a dismissive sound at the back of his throat. ‘Even he would not dare to collaborate with enemy states. But I must be off. I dare not leave him with Sherwin for long, lest he poisons him against me – which would be disastrous for the Cause.’
He pulled his hat over his eyes, wrapped his cloak around him, and left by the back door. Chaloner held his breath as the fellow tiptoed past the cart, but Manning did not so much as glance in its direction. When he had gone, Chaloner edged closer to the window, confident now that the Sanhedrin were so inept that they had not even considered the possibility that someone might be watching them. Indeed, he could not recall ever monitoring anyone who paid less heed to security.
‘I have penned another pamphlet,’ Jones was saying with palpable pride. ‘It is about the huge sums of money that were squandered in creating a permanent theatre in White Hall. The Court will watch lewd dramas in it, and it is an abomination.’
‘I shall enjoy reading thy thoughts,’ declared Strange. He sounded sincere.
‘You should not have wasted your time,’ countered Quelch. ‘This playhouse will not exist after Easter Day, so your thoughts will never be known.’
‘Of course they will,’ said Jones testily. ‘I shall publish them in the Last Millennium.’
‘Then you will be squandering good money,’ flashed Quelch. ‘Pamphlets will be costly, even in the Kingdom of Christ, and there is no point wasting funds on issues that will be redundant.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 14