Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘What have you agreed to tell them?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no,’ slurred Sherwin, wagging a finger. ‘I cannot have a third man picking my brains. Where is Manning, by the way? Is he still fending off robbers? He suffers cruelly from chilblains, you know. He is always talking about them.’

  Chaloner wondered what Scott and Manning thought they were going to glean from Sherwin’s pickled brain when the man did not even remember that Manning had abandoned him.

  ‘Who is Browne?’ he asked.

  Sherwin pursed his lips. ‘No one you want to meet, believe me. A desperate villain, dishonest, sly and vicious. Get me a drink, will you?’

  ‘Yes, if you tell me about Browne. Refuse, and I will take you back to those thieves.’

  ‘You will not,’ predicted Sherwin confidently. ‘I am protected by important and powerful men. You would not dare harm me.’

  Chaloner started to say that he cared nothing for important and powerful men, but Sherwin’s eyes closed and he started to snore. Chaloner stared at him for a moment, then hauled him into the yard and pushed his head into a trough of cold water. Sherwin cursed and blubbered, but fell asleep again the moment Chaloner released him.

  ‘Do not waste your time,’ advised the landlord, who had come to watch. ‘He will be no good for at least twelve hours. Take it from me – I know the signs.’

  Chaloner persisted anyway, but was eventually forced to concede that the landlord was right. He bundled Sherwin into a hackney carriage and told the driver to take him to the Pope’s Head. Doubtless Manning and Scott would be glad to see his safe return.

  The Westminster charnel house was an unprepossessing building near the river, sandwiched between a granary and a coal-yard. It did not appear very large from outside, but it was unusually deep, with two handsome parlours at the front and a long hall at the back where the bodies were stored. All was kept fairly clean, and new arrivals were given a place on a scrubbed wooden table and covered with a fresh blanket.

  The place was run by a dapper little man named Kersey, who made a handsome living from dealing with the dead. He gave tours of his domain to ghoulish sightseers and ran a small museum containing some of the more unusual artefacts he had collected through the years – Chaloner was sure that Kersey earned far more than he did. The charnel-house keeper was busy that morning, with both parlours full of bereaved relatives. He looked harried.

  ‘A lot of HMS London’s victims are here,’ he explained tersely. ‘Brought upriver by the tide.’

  ‘You may have more if the ship is successfully weighed next Wednesday,’ warned Chaloner.

  ‘She will not be,’ predicted Kersey with the confidence of a man familiar with the Thames and its ways. ‘The Navy Board is wasting its money. Did you hear what happened to her, by the way? A foolish seaman was using old papers to prepare new charges for her guns, and he accidentally knocked over a candle.’

  ‘I was told that the powder magazine was locked and that all the crew would have been on deck – and would not have used a naked flame in that part of the ship anyway.’

  ‘Perhaps the fellow was drunk, then,’ suggested Kersey with a shrug. ‘The area around Chatham docks is full of taverns, and London was delayed for hours while there was wrangling over her paperwork. I imagine the crew passed the time by swilling ale. Of course, there are rumours that the candle was defective, but that is nonsense, and we should ignore it.’

  Uneasily, Chaloner recalled the discussion between Buckingham and Rupert about candles that exploded. Surely Rupert was not responsible? HMS London’s loss was a serious blow to Britain’s war effort, and for all his faults, the Prince was a patriot.

  ‘Are you here for Ferine?’ asked Kersey, cutting into Chaloner’s disquieting thoughts. ‘Wiseman said you are exploring his murder.’

  ‘Actually, I came to see Quelch.’

  ‘Really?’ Kersey seemed surprised, but then the door opened and more visitors arrived. He shot Chaloner an apologetic glance. ‘I should tend to these folk – it is their first time here. You can either find Quelch yourself or you can wait until I am free. I do not usually allow unsupervised access to my guests, but you are different.’

  He hurried away to greet the newcomers, so the spy walked to the mortuary alone. It was a dark, dismal place, as Kersey did not waste money on lights for clients who were beyond caring. Chaloner lit a lamp and looked around rather helplessly. The HMS London disaster had filled it to overflowing, and he was not sure where to start.

  ‘Boo!’

  Chaloner whipped around in alarm, and his sword was halfway out of its scabbard before he recognised Leving’s grinning face.

  ‘That made him jump!’ Leving crowed. ‘Did you see, Atkinson? He almost hit the roof!’

  ‘I am sorry, Chaloner – we thought you were that keeper fellow, so we hid,’ explained Atkinson, standing up sheepishly from behind a table. He was wearing a mourning band around his arm, and his face was white in the flickering lamplight. ‘We should not be in here, you see: we were told to wait our turn in the parlour, but I cannot – I need to get back to my shop.’

  ‘Why do you want to see Quelch’s body?’ asked Chaloner, setting the lamp down so it would not reveal how badly his hands were shaking. Leving had given him a serious start.

  ‘Jones sent me,’ replied Atkinson. He glanced at Leving. ‘I am not sure why he is here.’

  ‘Jones sent me, too,’ chirruped Leving unconvincingly. ‘He said I should do all I can to learn how Quelch died.’ He was still grinning like a lunatic, and Chaloner wished Williamson had agreed to lock him away.

  ‘I am glad Snowflake is not in here,’ said Atkinson with a shudder. ‘She is with Temperance in Hercules’ Pillars Alley. I would have taken her to my house, but Temperance thought—’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Leving briskly. ‘You are late, Chaloner. We were beginning to think you might not come. Where have you been?’

  ‘With Sherwin,’ replied Chaloner, watching for Atkinson’s reaction.

  The stockinger’s jaw tightened. ‘I do not trust him. Or his friends Manning and Scott.’

  ‘But Manning is one of us,’ said Leving in surprise. ‘A Fifth Monarchist.’

  ‘So he claims,’ said Atkinson. ‘But he is more interested in making money than in ushering in a better world, and I have always been wary of mercenaries.’

  ‘Even so, he is more reliable than Sherwin,’ said Chaloner artlessly. ‘I hope Jones does not expect me to work with him on Easter Sunday.’

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Atkinson. ‘He is a liability, and we are playing a dangerous game here. I should not like any of our number to be hanged because he does not match up to expectations.’

  ‘What is Sherwin’s role in the affair?’ asked Chaloner, heartily wishing Leving would contrive to look less avidly interested in the answer.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ sighed Atkinson. ‘Although I am afraid it might transpire to be violent, and I have always argued against the use of excessive force.’

  ‘Silver cannon,’ said Chaloner. ‘They certainly feature in Jones’s plan.’

  Atkinson raised an eyebrow. ‘Silver cannon? I had not expected to hear flowery language from you – you seem such a practical fellow. However, I hope there will not be artillery of any description, silver or otherwise. But I do not like it in here. Let us complete our business and go.’

  With great tenderness, he lifted the blanket that covered the body on the nearest table. Quelch’s face was mottled, and vivid marks on his neck showed that he had been strangled. There was blood in his hair from a head-wound: he had been stunned first.

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Strange? He and Quelch argued constantly.’

  ‘I doubt Strange would kill a fellow Fifth Monarchist so close to the Day of Judgement,’ said Leving. ‘Murder stains the soul, you know.’

  Chaloner did not bother to point out that Strange might not consider it murder, as fanatics rarely saw their actions in the sa
me light as everyone else.

  ‘Shall I tell you what happened last night?’ asked Leving, watching Chaloner inspect the rest of the body for suspicious marks; there were none. ‘Quelch failed to arrive for a meeting of the Sanhedrin, so I went to his house to make sure he was all right.’

  ‘Some of the Sanhedrin did gather,’ said Atkinson, regarding Leving warily. ‘But I was not invited and you are not a member, so how do you know Quelch missed it?’

  Leving waved an airy hand. ‘I happened to be passing, and I saw Jones and a few others assemble. Quelch was not there and I was worried – he is an important part of our plot, after all.’

  Atkinson smiled weakly. ‘You sound like Ursula – she is concerned about everyone, too.’

  ‘When I arrived at Quelch’s house, his neighbours said they had not seen him all day,’ Leving went on breezily. ‘I made a few enquiries and learned that a body answering his description had been found by the river. I went immediately to tell Jones. And when I had finished with him, I hurried to Chaloner’s home…’

  He trailed off when he remembered that he had been forbidden to go there, but Chaloner was more concerned with why Leving had reported the news to Jones and not the Spymaster. He was about to ask when Atkinson made a dash for the door, after which there came the sound of retching.

  ‘Weak stomach,’ grinned Leving. ‘And do not berate me for visiting your house again – it was an emergency.’

  ‘Who do you think killed Quelch?’ Chaloner spoke urgently, aware that Atkinson might return at any moment.

  ‘God knows. Jones, perhaps, or another of the Sanhedrin. Maybe they suspect that someone is betraying them to Williamson.’ Leving chortled softly. ‘They will feel proper fools when they find out it is us!’

  When Chaloner and Leving left the charnel house, they found Atkinson outside, leaning against a wall with his face an unhealthy shade of green. Chaloner took him to the nearest tavern for a restorative cup of wine, and Leving disappeared on business of his own.

  ‘I am glad he has gone,’ said the stockinger weakly. ‘I do not like him very much. He is always cheerful and polite, yet there is something unpleasantly slippery about him.’

  ‘He is just nervous about Easter Day,’ lied Chaloner. ‘I know I am, given that I have no idea what is to happen.’

  ‘I am not sure what Jones wants me to do, either,’ said Atkinson gloomily. ‘Nor does Ursula. But I suppose all will be revealed in time.’

  Chaloner let him talk, prompting him with the occasional question, but it soon became clear that the stockinger knew nothing of import. Then the discussion moved to Snowflake, but Grisley Pate had not visited his stepson when he had been in London, and Atkinson was dismissive of the notion that the old man might have said something that led to her death.

  ‘He lives in the marshes, where nothing ever happens. Moreover, he would never say or do anything to put Snowflake in danger. He liked her. Everyone did. She was a gentle soul, full of life and laughter.’

  He described how he had tried to interest her in the hosiery business. However, when he embarked on a description of what was involved, Chaloner was not surprised the vivacious Snowflake had opted for a more lively career. Next Atkinson moved on to Ursula.

  ‘She is my sun and stars,’ he said with a sweet smile. ‘And I think she likes me, too.’

  He regaled Chaloner with an account of her virtues, and described a scheme they intended to promote once the Last Millennium had dawned, which entailed putting the best religious and philosophical books into a public library, so that everyone might have access to them. His eyes shone with the light of his convictions.

  ‘What do you think happened to Quelch?’ asked Chaloner, when he eventually managed to steer the conversation around to the conspirators.

  Atkinson shrugged. ‘I spent all day in my shop, except for a brief foray to the club with Maude to see Snowflake’s … If anyone accuses me, I can provide alibis to prove my innocence.’

  ‘Why should you think that might be necessary?’

  Atkinson looked away. ‘I know what the rest of the Sanhedrin think of me – that I am a dull fellow who lacks their fire. They will blame me because I am dispensable, good only for keeping them in free stockings. But perhaps we read too much into Quelch’s demise. It might have been a random robbery. It happens, you know.’

  Chaloner did know, because he had just witnessed such an attack on Sherwin. Yet it seemed incredible that so dangerous a rebel should come to such a banal end, and he did not believe it.

  They parted company eventually, Atkinson to return to his shop, and Chaloner to go to White Hall, where he loitered in the public rooms listening to gossip. Most talk was about either weighing London or the devil’s appearance at Tyburn, but he also learned that the Dutch had taken another British ship at sea and that Lambe had told the King’s fortune, although His Majesty declined to reveal what had been said.

  In the evening, restless and dissatisfied, but reluctant to go home and confront Hannah about the missing money, he walked to the Swan, where he lurked in the darkness outside, waiting to see who came and went. His patience paid off eventually: after an hour Eliza arrived. He moved so he could see her through the window, and quickly became aware that he was not the only one watching. So was the man sitting at a table near the door, whose hat and cloak covered all but the tip of his nose. Then the fellow reached out to pick up a newsbook, and Chaloner saw symbols inked on his fingers.

  Lambe glanced around furtively, slid a piece of paper inside The Newes, and walked out. The moment he had gone, Chaloner grabbed the front door and slammed it twice in quick succession. While the patrons clustered excitedly around it, whispering about angry spirits, Chaloner ran to the back door and grabbed the newsbook. He tweaked out the paper, and was back in his hiding place long before the patrons had returned to their seats. He examined what he had stolen in the dim light from the window. It was blank, and smelled of onions. Writing in onion juice was an old spy trick – the letters were invisible until held near a flame, at which point they went brown. Chaloner slipped it in his pocket to read later.

  After a while, Eliza collected a lamp from the landlord, and Chaloner was disconcerted when she left the tavern to glide straight towards him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he stared into her ice-blue eyes, and she held the lantern in such a way that it cast eerie shadows on her corpse-white face. It was a disturbing visage, although he cursed himself as a fool for being unsettled by it.

  ‘Do you have the information you promised to bring?’ she asked. There was a mocking glint in her eyes, as if she knew he had not.

  He forced a smile. ‘Tomorrow. May I escort you home? It is late, and Holborn can be dangerous at night.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  With that enigmatic remark, she floated away, leaving Chaloner with the uncomfortable sense that something was wrong. The hair on his neck continued to prickle, and he felt that while she might be safe, he was not. He forced his unease to the back of his mind and set off after her, intending to follow her home and see what a search of her lair might provide in the way of clues.

  Suddenly, a figure emerged from one side, and slammed into him with such force that he stumbled. Hands reached out to steady him, and he slapped away one that fastened around the purses in his pocket. He did not, however, feel the fingers that removed the onion-juice message, and only noticed it was missing when he was halfway home. He cursed under his breath. A clue had been in his possession, and he had lost it! What sort of intelligencer allowed that to happen?

  All sensible spies kept boltholes for those times when they needed a refuge, and Chaloner’s was in Long Acre, but it was an expense he could no longer justify. With considerable regret he informed the landlord that he would not be renewing the lease. He arranged for the few belongings he kept there – most importantly his best viol – to be sent to Tothill Street, then sat in the chilly garret wishing he had married someone else. It was not just the loss of a sanc
tuary he resented, but the fact that he would have nowhere for music. Hannah disliked him practising at home, and ignoring her and doing it anyway would negate any enjoyment he might have derived from the exercise.

  Suspecting he would thoroughly depress himself if he reflected too long on his lot, he stood, took one last look around and left. He walked to Atkinson’s shop, where he waited until the stockinger went to the pantry for ale, then questioned Old Ned and Ursula, who was still helping with the work. Both confirmed that Atkinson had been with one or other of them from the meeting in the Talbot until Temperance’s note had arrived informing him about Snowflake’s death. The stockinger could certainly be eliminated as a suspect for dispatching Quelch. To be absolutely sure, Chaloner went to Hercules’ Pillars Alley to speak to Maude, who was able to say with certainty that Atkinson had been with her and Old Ned in the shop, or with Ursula hunting out more silk in the chamber at the back, for the entire evening.

  Afterwards, Chaloner wandered aimlessly along High Holborn, thinking about the plot that was brewing there. Then it started to rain heavily, so he went to Lincoln’s Inn, where he sat by the fire in Chamber XIII, grateful both for its warmth and for Thurloe’s quiet friendship.

  ‘I hope you are being careful,’ said the ex-Spymaster, after Chaloner had furnished him with an account of all that had happened since they had last met. ‘Do not squander your life on this Fifth Monarchy nonsense. It is not worth it.’

  ‘Rupert and Williamson would disagree – they think it is very important. And there is more to it than rebellion, so why will they not tell me? The Prince is an ass, but Williamson should know that I would operate more efficiently with a clear picture of what is going on.’

  Thurloe frowned. ‘I am concerned by your suggestion that Rupert might have put some kind of exploding candle on London. She was Lawson’s ship, and they have never seen eye to eye – the Prince despises Lawson’s lowly roots and crude manners, while Lawson views Rupert as an arrogant dandy. But to destroy a battleship on the eve of war over a petty quarrel…’