‘I am not,’ lied Chaloner, wishing Hannah would not talk about his business, especially to the likes of Buckingham. ‘Well, no more than anyone else who is intrigued as to why a courtier should be murdered in a brothel.’
‘Gossip,’ said Buckingham softly. ‘You want to be wary of that. It could prove perilous.’
Chapter 7
The following morning dawned wet and grey, and Chaloner stared out of the bedroom window as he gathered his thoughts. He was going to be busy that day, as he had a number of leads to follow and questions to ask. And if they proved unfruitful, he would travel to Hackney Marsh, to ask what Grisley Pate had told his daughter. He wondered how long such a journey would take – it was only a few miles, but the bad weather would slow him down.
First, though, he needed to corner Quelch, and make him talk about the Fifth Monarchists’ plans. He would start with a generous supply of ale, and if that did not work, move to less friendly methods of persuasion. Next, he would concentrate on ascertaining the identity of John Browne, after which he would go to the club and try to learn more about Ferine and Snowdrop.
Plying Quelch with drink would require money, so Chaloner went to the store of coins he had secreted behind the skirting-board. He prised it off, then stared in horror when he saw the recess behind was empty. He swallowed hard, dismayed not so much for himself as for the creditors he had intended to pay.
He sat back on his heels. Who had taken it? Hannah, because she knew him better than he thought? One of the servants, who had found it while cleaning? He considered waking Hannah to ask, but then recalled how much she had had to drink at the soirée the previous night. Her morning temper was likely to be toxic if exacerbated by a hangover, and a quarrel would not be productive.
Downstairs, the hall and drawing room were in chaos. The curtains were askew, lumps of ling pie lurked under every piece of furniture, and there was a sour smell of spilled wine and old tobacco. The servants were struggling to put all to rights, and shot him resentful glances as he passed, evidently holding him responsible for the mess.
Absently, he picked up a copy of the latest Newes from the floor, but a brief flip through its international summary told him nothing other than that the Pope’s nephew was ill. Domestic news revolved around the disease known as the King’s Evil – it was generally believed that this condition could be cured by the touch of a monarch, and regular sessions were held in White Hall, so that victims could avail themselves of their King’s services. His Majesty, however, had decided to take a break from these arduous duties, so sufferers were warned not to be disappointed if they arrived for an audience and were turned away.
Chaloner was about to put it down when a notice caught his eye. It was near the back, in the section where people advertised wares and services, or offered rewards for the return of stolen property. On occasion, the government used it to circulate descriptions of particularly dangerous felons. The notice was sandwiched between an advertisement for The Discoverie of Witchcraft (in sixteen volumes) and a paragraph claiming that Mr Wilcocks of Durham Yard could ‘infallibly cure all sorts of gout by Outward Application’.
Chaloner supposed he would have to ask Williamson why he was interested in Sherwin. The notice said little good about the intelligence services, though – Sherwin was not exactly keeping a low profile and should have been easy to find. Moreover, if Scott was working for Williamson, as he had claimed, then why had he not told the Spymaster where Sherwin was?
‘Is there anything in there about the new comet?’ asked Gram the page conversationally, evidently not of the opinion that respectful deference was part of his job description.
‘No,’ said Nan the cook-maid before Chaloner could reply. ‘And when The Intelligencer comes out on Monday, there will be nothing about the devil appearing at Tyburn either. The government would rather we ignored all the strange happenings of late – hauntings, odd deaths, Satan at large … The newsbooks always pretend that none of it ever took place.’
‘Hauntings?’ asked Gram keenly.
‘Several buildings in and around High Holborn are infested with spectres,’ elaborated Nan. ‘Including one where a woman was pushed down the stairs by a hostile faerie. There is also a room in the Antelope where martyrs died, not to mention Hatton House.’
‘Hatton House,’ mused Gram. ‘Eliza Hatton’s ghost lives there – when it is not gliding up and down High Holborn. Personally, I shall be glad when the place is demolished. It is sinister, with its ruined popish chapel and empty rooms.’
‘Speaking of sinister places, you will not forget the Duke of Buckingham’s party at Wallingford House tomorrow, will you, sir?’ asked Nan of Chaloner. ‘The mistress asked us to remind you about it whenever we met.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘He told me it was next Saturday.’
‘That is his Astrological Soirée,’ explained Nan. ‘Tomorrow is just a normal one, and the mistress hopes that one of his guests will offer you a job, given that no one came forward last night. Incidentally, a man called here for you yesterday evening.’
‘What man?’
‘Mr Leving, but Joan refused to let him in.’
‘Good.’ Chaloner was annoyed that Leving should have visited again after being told not to.
‘He said to tell you that a person named Quelch is dead,’ Nan went on. She screwed up her face in concentration as she repeated the message verbatim. ‘You are to go to the Westminster charnel house at nine o’clock prompt, to inspect the corpse together.’
Outside, the day was so dull that it felt like dusk, and rain fell steadily. Chaloner reached Westminster, and as he was early for his meeting with Leving, he decided to see if Williamson was at his offices in New Palace Yard. He did not enter through the front door, where two uniformed guards stood sentinel, but through a window at the back, which someone had forgotten to lock. It was unlikely that anyone was watching the place, but Chaloner did not want his visit reported to the wrong people.
The Spymaster’s domain comprised a large hall on the ground floor, where his clerks and secretaries laboured, and a suite of rooms above for himself. The basement contained a series of grim little cells used for interrogation. The hall was deserted that morning, so Chaloner walked through it unchallenged before running up the stairs to Williamson’s lair.
The Spymaster looked as though he had been at his desk all night. He was unshaven, wigless and pasty-faced as he studied a series of maps that lay on the table in front of him.
‘I would not put too much faith in those, if I were you,’ said Chaloner, watching him jump in alarm at the voice so close to his ear. ‘Amsterdam does not lie on the River Rotte, and The Hague is not ten miles inland.’
Williamson glared irritably at him. ‘How did you get in? Where are my guards? I hope you have not harmed them. I am short of people as it is.’
He went to the window to see whether his men were still at their posts, and Chaloner noticed, not for the first time, that the room afforded a fine view of the severed heads that were displayed on pikes outside Westminster Hall. These blackened, crow-pecked specimens were barely identifiable as human, yet the government refused to bury them, preferring them to stand as grim reminders of what happened to traitors.
Chaloner heard the faintest of sounds, and moved quickly, so that Williamson’s favourite operative – a clerk named Swaddell, whom everyone knew was really an assassin – could not creep up behind him and put a knife to his throat. Swaddell understood exactly why Chaloner had ducked away, and a wry smile flashed across his face. As usual, he was dressed completely in black, with the exception of a spotlessly white falling band. His dark eyes moved restlessly.
‘Have you come to report on the Fifth Monarchists?’ he asked. ‘I would have taken that enquiry myself, but I am too busy with the Dutch war.’
‘Or have you come to beg for money because your wife has spent all yours?’ remarked Williamson nastily, thus forfeiting any sympathy Chaloner might have felt for him.
; ‘Is John Scott in your employ?’ When Williamson nodded cautiously, Chaloner added, ‘Then why did he not tell you that Sherwin is lodging at the Pope’s Head? It should not have been necessary to place a notice in The Newes.’
Williamson sighed. ‘He did, but we forgot to cancel the newsbook announcement – hardly surprising, when my clerks are stretched so thin. It was not my idea to advertise anyway. Suffice to say that I am juggling the needs of my country with the demands of the powerful.’
‘And the hopeful expectations of your purse?’ asked Chaloner archly. ‘Scott informs me that when he sells Sherwin’s secret, you are to have a share of the profit.’
The blood drained from the Spymaster’s face, and Chaloner could see that his shock was genuine. ‘He said that about me? The bastard! How dare he!’
‘He will have an excuse,’ said Swaddell disapprovingly. ‘He always does. I have never met a more slippery customer, and I wish we were not obliged to use him.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Williamson tiredly. ‘But he will pay for blackening my name, even if it was only to Chaloner, who will, of course, pay no heed to such a slanderous lie.’
Chaloner inclined his head. ‘Do you know a man called John Browne?’
Williamson nodded. ‘But I cannot elaborate. Suffice to say that Browne made a mistake, and there have been … repercussions.’
‘He is in Rupert’s employ,’ pressed Chaloner, recalling the conversation he had overheard in White Hall. ‘And Rupert discussed him with Scott. There are connections here that—’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Williamson. ‘But I would not explore them if I were you. It would be inadvisable, to say the least. Concentrate on the Fifth Monarchists.’
Chaloner stifled his exasperation – the visit was transpiring to be a waste of time. ‘Very well. Their rebellion will need horses and weapons. Have you detected any mass movements of these things, not just here, but anywhere in the country?’
‘No,’ replied Williamson. He frowned. ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good, if it means nothing is happening. Bad, if it means the Fifth Monarchists have sufficient influence to keep their activities quiet.’
Williamson rubbed his eyes wearily. ‘I am sorry I am forced to keep you in the dark like this, Chaloner. I appreciate it is foolish, but I am under orders.’
‘Rupert’s,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘But why is he interested in—’
‘I have not heard from Leving in days,’ interrupted Williamson, with a glance that said the Prince was not a subject he was able to discuss. ‘I assume all is going according to plan?’
‘Not really. He is a liability.’
‘I imagine so, but he is monitoring other fanatics besides Fifth Monarchists, and I cannot risk alienating him by removing him from the case. I would never have accepted his services under normal circumstances, but I am so desperate for spies that I dared not refuse his offer.’
‘We would both be happier if I was out there with you,’ added Swaddell. ‘But I am tied to a desk, trying to make sense of all the information that is flowing in about Holland.’
‘Perhaps we should swap,’ suggested Chaloner. He was good at analysing intelligence about Holland, and it would be a lot less frustrating than Ferine and the Fifth Monarchists.
‘Now there is an idea.’ Swaddell brightened. ‘Most of these reports are in Dutch, a language I do not speak. I am far better at eliminating … at pursuing home-grown traitors.’
‘Out of the question,’ said Williamson briskly. ‘Rupert wants Clarendon to bear responsibility for the investigation.’ He shot Chaloner a wry glance. ‘So you had better succeed, or it will not be you who pays the price.’
‘Shame,’ sighed Swaddell glumly. ‘A Dutch speaker would have been a tremendous asset. Are you sure we cannot afford to hire one?’
‘Quite sure,’ said Williamson bitterly. ‘The Privy Council wants me to probe our enemy’s secrets, but insists on cutting my budget. It is a coven of ignorant fools!’
Chaloner said nothing, but thought that Williamson must be fraught indeed to make such an indiscreet remark. The Spymaster flushed when he realised what he had done, and hastened to mask his discomfiture with an attack.
‘Do you have anything to report, or did you come to interrogate us because your own enquiries have reached a dead end?’
‘I came to tell you that Quelch is dead,’ lied Chaloner.
‘Christ!’ blurted Williamson. ‘How?’
‘I will know when I see him in the charnel house.’ Chaloner tried one last question. ‘Will you tell me about Prince Rupert’s candles, or is that a secret, too?’
Williamson sighed and rubbed a hand across his face before addressing Swaddell. ‘Sometimes I wish I had never left Oxford. I was happy there, you know.’
‘But then you would never have met your wife,’ said Swaddell kindly. ‘And you often say she is the most important thing in your life.’
‘Yes, but that was when I had the opportunity to see her. She will not remember who I am by the time I finally have leave to go home.’
‘She is unlikely to forget you,’ said Chaloner, not altogether pleasantly.
It was not much lighter when Chaloner left Williamson’s den, exiting through the back door with Swaddell at his side. The assassin muttered something about meeting a Dutch informant, and slithered away. Chaloner was glad he had gone; he had never trusted Swaddell, with his ready blades and unfathomable black eyes.
He had just reached Old Palace Yard when he spotted two familiar figures, and was surprised to see Sherwin and Scott so soon after discussing them with Williamson. He smiled when he realised someone was tailing them: Manning scuttled between the shadows, so intent on his quarry that he did not notice the amused smirks of the people who saw what he was doing.
Chaloner was too far away to hear what Scott said as he pressed a fat purse into Sherwin’s hand. Sherwin peered at it, then shoved it in his pocket without a word. Scott flung his arm across Sherwin’s shoulders, and whatever he murmured next made the man grin. This was too much for Manning, who hobbled forward. Chaloner also crept closer, using a conveniently parked hay-wagon to keep himself hidden while he listened to what they said.
‘There you are,’ cried Manning, as though it was a chance encounter. ‘Where have you been? I have been looking for you all night, and my chilblains object to being out in the cold.’
Scott beamed brightly, revealing his white teeth. ‘I am sorry, Manning, but I did say that we might sample a few taverns in Westminster today. Did you forget?’
Sherwin rolled his eyes at the makings of another spat, and tottered on ahead of them. Manning glared at his partner and spoke in a low, angry voice.
‘You are trying to turn him against me. I saw you give him a purse just now.’
‘You saw me lend him a handkerchief. No money changed hands.’
Scott lied so plausibly that Manning’s offensive faltered. ‘I will take him home,’ he mumbled. ‘He should not be out in broad daylight. What would happen if he ran into Browne?’
Scott fingered his sword. ‘I would look after him. But look at us, quarrelling again. It must be because we are both tired. Thank God it is nearly over. On Easter Sunday, we shall celebrate the fruits of our labour – you with the Kingdom of Christ installed, and me with gold.’
‘I want gold, too,’ Manning reminded him sharply. ‘A life of luxury costs, even in paradise.’
‘Of course,’ said Scott smoothly. ‘Shall I accompany you back to the Pope’s Head, or can you manage alone?’
He sauntered away without waiting for a reply. Swearing under his breath, Manning turned and limped after Sherwin, where Chaloner could tell that he was asking about the purse he had been given. Sherwin simply shrugged, so the Fifth Monarchist pulled one from his own pocket. It bulged tantalisingly. Sherwin took it without a word of thanks, and began to weave his way up King Street.
Chaloner was about to break cover and waylay them when five ruffians with ha
rd, cruel faces emerged from a nearby lane. Sherwin regarded them with stupid confusion, but Manning understood the danger they were in. He whipped around and tried to run away, but the men caught him with ease and bundled both victims down the alley.
They reached a dingy yard, and Chaloner watched as the pair were ordered to hand over their valuables. Manning obliged with such frantic eagerness to please that the robbers could not take his belongings quickly enough, and some fell on the ground. Then he hauled off his wig and flung it at them before scuttling away as fast as his fat legs would carry him.
‘Leave him,’ ordered the largest thief when one of his cronies started to follow. ‘He gave us everything he got. Help me with this one.’
Frightened by the savage hands that pawed at him, Sherwin began to cry, so Chaloner pried a stone from the ground and lobbed it as hard as he could. It struck the leader, knocking him senseless. His cronies were still gaping their astonishment when Chaloner charged at them with his sword in one hand and dagger in the other. They took one look and ran, abandoning leader and plunder without so much as a backward glance.
Chaloner collected the dropped treasures, handed them to Sherwin, and then escorted him back to the comforting bustle of King Street. Shaking badly, Sherwin aimed for the nearest tavern, a cosy place named the Axe. Chaloner followed, pleased with the opportunity to corner him alone.
‘I know things,’ explained Sherwin, tapping his nose when Chaloner asked why Scott and Manning were so keen to keep his good graces. ‘About nealing, for example.’
‘Kneeling?’ Chaloner was nonplussed.
‘It means doing things with metal,’ explained Sherwin, although Chaloner was none the wiser. ‘I am worth a fortune, and Manning and Scott shower me with gifts all the time. Here, have these. They will give me more when I ask, because they can refuse me nothing.’
Chaloner did not want the purses that were thrust into his hand, but Sherwin was insistent, so he accepted. He opened one and was astounded by the number of coins it contained. The second, Manning’s, was fuller and heavier, and included a large ruby ring.
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 18