Bells were ringing all across the city to announce more Sunday services, and the bustle meant it was easy for Chaloner to follow his quarry unseen. Jones and Strange walked down Ludgate Hill towards the greasy, foul-smelling Fleet River, then aimed for Thames Street. Eventually, they reached a narrow lane called Garlick Hill, where they entered a pretty little house with ivy trailing attractively over the porch.
Chaloner waited a moment, then approached it. The door was unlocked, so he stepped inside. The house was clean, obsessively neat and sweetly scented with the rose petals that had been left in a bowl on a chest. There was a flight of stairs in front of him, and as he could hear Strange and Jones clattering about in a pantry at the back, he decided to check the rest of the house before attempting to eavesdrop on them. There were two pleasantly furnished bedrooms on the upper floor, both smelling faintly of lavender.
He searched them quickly, but discovered nothing of value – and nothing to indicate that anyone other than Jones or Strange occupied them. He crept back downstairs, and when he heard them chatting in an easy, conversational way together he explored the ground floor, too.
There was a parlour near the stairs, evidently for formal use, because it contained solid furniture and paintings that screamed of staid respectability. There was a harpsichord in one corner, a heavy, stocky item that had been chosen because its paintwork contrasted nicely with the wallpaper – a comparatively new fad from France – and some unusually fine Dutch chairs. On the mantelpiece was a small box of the same powder that Jones had wanted delivered to Manning, suggesting that he had filched a bit before handing it over. There was not enough to do much damage, but it was still not the sort of thing Chaloner would have kept in his drawing room.
He stood by the harpsichord as he looked around, and his fingers naturally strayed to the keys. He touched them lightly, but they were oddly stiff. Bemused, he pressed harder and heard a muted twang: something was preventing the strings from sounding. He opened the lid to discover a package. He shoved it in his coat, then crept along the corridor towards the pantry, where he was startled to see a scene of extraordinary domesticity: Jones was chopping vegetables, his clothes protected by the kind of lacy apron that Chaloner’s mother used to wear, while Strange knelt at the hearth with a pair of bellows.
‘…dreadfully expensive,’ Strange was saying. ‘Thou wouldst not believe the cost of butter. Then I went to the costermonger for peas, until I remembered that thou dost not like them.’
‘I do not,’ said Jones. ‘Would you prefer one onion or two? I recommend two, because Ursula gave us this piece of beef a week ago, and they will help with the flavour.’
‘Two it is, then,’ replied Strange, more amiable than he was in other company. Once he had the fire blazing to his satisfaction, he sat back on his heels and glanced at Jones. ‘I am glad Quelch is gone. He was a liability.’
‘It is a pity you were seen quarrelling with him in the Westminster tavern, though. It has made everyone think that you had something to do with his demise.’
‘I cannot help the asinine thoughts of fools,’ replied Strange shortly. ‘But never mind him. How dost thou feel our business is going?’
‘Not as well as I might have hoped, but I think we shall prevail. The money Chaloner gave us will certainly expedite matters.’
Chaloner grimaced: he had intended to save Leving’s life, not give the uprising a financial boost that might see it succeed. He listened a while longer, but heard nothing to help with his enquiries, and when they began comparing recipes for plum jam, he realised he was wasting his time. He left, and went to the nearest coffee house to examine the package.
The Stillyard on Thames Street was a small, dingy place with greasy benches, stained tables and an insalubrious clientele. Chaloner recognised some patrons as belonging to the criminal gang called the Hectors, and had he not been adept at looking after himself, he would have gone elsewhere. As it was, he ignored them and they ignored him, an arrangement that suited everyone.
The package had been wrapped in oiled cloth and tied with so many careful knots that it was clear the contents were important. He cut them quickly, then peeled away layer after layer of protective covering until he reached two reports, one in Dutch and the other in French. Both had identical diagrams of a cannon, along with notes that gave technical details of its making. He peered at the words in the yellow light of a lamp that was too far away to be helpful. However, it was not long before he began to understand their significance.
Most artillery was made of brass, as it was one of few materials that could withstand the powerful forces generated by hurling missiles over long distances, yet the documents in his hand gave details of cannon that could be made of iron. This was innovative, as iron normally became too hot and blew up. He recalled the argument he had overheard between Rupert and Lawson in the club, when they had debated which metal was better. Rupert had argued for iron, and the documents Chaloner held described a process whereby guns could be made with it. The invention was attributed to ‘PR’ and references to Court and the Royal Society made it perfectly clear that this was Prince Rupert. Chaloner and Thurloe had been half right: the Prince had devised not a new weapon, but a new way to manufacture them.
So this was how Rupert used his creative talents, thought Chaloner, as a number of answers snapped clear in his mind. He studied the reports more closely. In both French and Dutch were phrases that could be translated as ‘turned and annealed’, terms he had heard Rupert throw at Lawson. And when Buckingham had asked whether Rupert had devised a ‘candle’ that was less prone to explode, he had actually been asking after the Prince’s experiments with iron guns.
Chaloner pondered the implications of what Rupert had done. Iron was lighter than brass, so would be easier to transport. It was also cheaper. The invention would be worth a fortune – more than a fortune, because it would give one fighting force an advantage over another, and no price could be put on that. If the Dutch knew the secret, and the documents Chaloner had found said they either did or were about to, it might affect the outcome of the war.
So why did Jones and Strange have the reports? Were they going to sell them and use the proceeds to fund their rebellion? Were Rupert’s guns the ‘silver cannon’ mentioned in the speech of the three rebels who had been hanged at Tyburn? Did Jones intend to turn these weapons on London?
Regardless of the answers, it explained why Rupert was keen for the High Holborn Plot to be crushed – and crushed so completely that not one of its members would be left free to talk. It was not an uprising he feared so much as someone making off with his secret. And that was why Rupert had been following Scott, both at Hannah’s party and Buckingham’s – Scott was not a Fifth Monarchist, but Manning was, and the pair of them were partners.
At last, Chaloner felt as though he was in a position to move forward with his enquiries.
Acting on impulse, Chaloner went to Middle Row. He knew Jones had not confided in Ursula – she would not have been his first choice of a co-conspirator either – but perhaps she had overheard something that would make sense now that he understood what was involved. She took a long time to answer the door, and when she did, her hair was rumpled and her face flushed.
‘It is only Mr Chaloner,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘He must have smelled the soup we are about to eat. My broths are famous all over London, so it is to be expected.’
She was speaking to Atkinson, who emerged shyly from the parlour.
‘I came to bring her some yarn,’ the stockinger said, although Chaloner could tell from the cosy layout of the rugs between the fire and the virginals that neither soup nor thread had featured in what they had been doing.
‘You must eat with us,’ gabbled Ursula, blushing scarlet when she realised where Chaloner was looking. ‘I shall bring bowls, while John tidies up the mess my neighbour’s children made of the mats when they visited earlier.’
Chaloner followed Atkinson into the parlour, where the stockinge
r hastily toed the offending items into a less incriminating arrangement.
‘Do not tell Jones,’ begged Atkinson, when he saw Chaloner was not deceived by their explanations. ‘He already thinks I only joined the Fifth Monarchists because of her, and if he learns that we have become close … well, he will assume I do not care about the Cause.’
‘And do you?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Oh, yes! I should very much like to live in a just and ethical republic, where all men and women are equal, and where everyone is gainfully employed. I think I shall ask her to marry me on Easter Sunday, once all this has come to pass.’
Ursula arrived with the soup at that point, sparing Chaloner the need to comment. She served it with fresh bread and generous slices of cheese, simple but wholesome fare that was a world away from pickled ling pie and orange-rind comfits.
‘Do you like it?’ Ursula asked pointedly. Both men had been too busy eating to pay her the compliments she considered her due.
They hastened to oblige, although the fact that they had not immediately sung her praises meant it was a while before she was satisfied. Chaloner let Atkinson do most of the talking, feeling the stockinger needed the practice if he was going to spend the rest of his life with her.
‘Why did Clarendon really dismiss you?’ Ursula asked of Chaloner, when Atkinson eventually stuttered into silence, his store of flattery spent. ‘Because I do not believe you mislaid the Tsar’s treasure. That would have been careless, and you do not strike me as a silly man.’
Chaloner hoped the rest of the Sanhedrin did not share her scepticism, and wished again that the Earl had devised a better excuse for their ‘falling out’.
‘The ship chartered to take me to Russia sank,’ he explained. ‘And the hold containing the jewels flooded before I could reach them.’
‘Heavens!’ breathed Atkinson, agog. ‘Did you know that the philosophers Aristippos and Zeno were shipwrecked? I taught myself Greek in order to read great masters like them. And Latin, of course. Have you studied Cicero? His De Legibus states that the law should promote good and forbid evil – a simple tenet, but one that our judicial system seems to have overlooked.’
‘All will be set right at the Last Millennium,’ said Ursula soothingly.
Chaloner seized the opportunity to put the questions he had come to ask. ‘Do you think Jones is so eager to see it installed that he will make a pact with the Dutch? Or the French?’
‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Ursula, shocked. ‘We are at war with the Dutch. And the French are not particularly nice either.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Atkinson. ‘It would be terribly wrong. Besides, we shall be a lot more stable after our uprising than we are now, so the Dutch will gain nothing from helping us.’
‘You may not believe it, but Mr Jones is a very gentle man at heart,’ said Ursula. She was right: Chaloner did not believe it. ‘He wept when I sang “Flow my Tears” by Dowland.’
The investigation flew from Chaloner’s mind at the mention of one of his favourite pieces. ‘Will you sing it for us?’
She regarded him uncertainly. ‘What, now?’
Chaloner nodded, and as it was a song that was meant to be accompanied, he went to the virginals and played the opening chords. The viol was his first love, but he was perfectly proficient with several other instruments, too. Smiling, Ursula began to sing, and although her voice was not the best he had ever heard, it was perfectly creditable and her diction was excellent. Atkinson was full of praise, of course.
‘Wonderful!’ he cried, when they had finished. ‘I would ask for a little Palestrina, but he is best performed in multiple parts. How about Gibbons instead? You take the virginals again, Chaloner, while Ursula and I warble a duet.’
Never one to refuse an opportunity for music, Chaloner obliged, and although he was aware that time was passing, he played on anyway. It was Ursula who eventually indicated that she had had enough, although he could have continued much longer.
‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile. ‘I have not enjoyed singing so much since my sister visited last year. She plays the virginals, too, although not as well as you.’
‘I am glad she is not here,’ said Atkinson. He shrugged at Ursula’s surprise. ‘Our rebellion would not please her. It is too mysterious, and she would dislike the way Jones declines to tell us what is happening. I know he is worried about betrayal, but he should trust his Sanhedrin.’
The remark allowed Chaloner to ask a number of questions about the Fifth Monarchists and the possibility that Jones had acquired the secret of Rupert’s iron guns, but it did not take him long to ascertain that Ursula and Atkinson knew even less than he did. The names of the Sanhedrin they confided were probably aliases, and neither could tell him why Jones and Quelch had been to speak to Admiral Lawson at Temperance’s club.
‘I hope they have not invited him to join in,’ said Atkinson. ‘I know he professes to be one of us, but he is more interested in smiting God’s enemies than in establishing an equitable society.’
‘And it is odd that all his sailors died when HMS London blew up, yet his family survived,’ added Ursula. ‘What are the chances of that happening? I do not believe that all his kin can swim and all his sailors cannot. I am not accusing him of anything untoward, you understand, but my mind is uneasy.’
So was Chaloner’s, although he doubted putting questions to Lawson again would be any more successful than it had been the last time he had tried. A sudden clamour from the street made Ursula wince.
‘The Fleece tavern,’ she explained. ‘It attracts some terribly noisy patrons.’
‘Speaking of taverns, have you ever been to the Swan with Two Necks?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he might as well see whether they knew anything about the peculiar business that took place nearby.
‘No,’ said Atkinson stiffly. ‘It is the haunt of very dubious people. Necromancers, no less.’
‘Necromancers?’
‘Witches who commune with the dead. One was hanged at Tyburn on Thursday, and the devil came along and saved her.’
‘Moreover, a woman named Eliza Hatton frequents the Swan,’ added Ursula with pursed lips, ‘but she has been dead these last forty years. A necromancer raised her up to walk among us, but her hands are like ice, and she is deathly pale because there is no blood in her veins.’
Eliza’s hands were cold, thought Chaloner, remembering their touch when she had grabbed one of his own. Then he recalled that Wiseman was treating her for some medical condition that caused an unnatural chilling of the extremities, and could only suppose she was putting her affliction to good use by allowing such rumours to circulate about her – people might be more inclined to buy her witchy services if they thought she was special.
‘I have met her,’ he said. ‘She is not dead.’
‘But that just demonstrates the skill of the necromancers,’ said Ursula sagely. ‘They can make even the most decayed of corpses look fresh. And if you do not believe me, visit her tomb in St Andrew’s Church. Her painting is above it – that will prove I am right.’
The clocks were striking eight as Chaloner left Middle Row. His mind was full of answers and questions in equal measure, and he wanted to discuss them with someone he trusted. He headed for Lincoln’s Inn, but Thurloe was out and the porter said he was not expected back until the following day. Disappointed, he took a hackney to Clarendon House, supposing he had better report to the Earl. It was very dark along Piccadilly, with no moon and unusually heavy clouds.
‘There you are at last!’ cried Kipps in relief. ‘The Earl expected you at six, and is vexed to have been kept waiting so long. So watch your tongue – even a hint of insolence tonight might see you clapped in irons.’
He had bundled Chaloner into My Lord’s Lobby before Chaloner could tell him that he had no idea what he was talking about. He had certainly received no summons, and would not have been pleased if he had, given that he and the Earl were supposed to be estranged. The door closed behind him wit
h a snap, so he made his way across the vast expanse of Turkey carpet to where a monstrous fire burned in the hearth. The Earl was not alone, as ‘Mr Smith’ and ‘Mr Lee’ were visiting him again.
‘About time,’ said the Earl crossly. ‘We were beginning to think you were not coming.’
‘I hope you have something to tell us,’ growled Rupert, who was sprawled opposite, dirty boots leaving indelible marks on an exquisite silk rug that would have cost Chaloner a month’s salary. ‘I should not like to think that we have been kicking our heels here for nothing.’
‘The Earl sent his letter to your house this afternoon,’ said Williamson coolly. ‘Asking you to meet us here at six. Six, not eight.’
Chaloner looked at them. Williamson and Rupert were angry, and the Earl had never liked him very much. Kipps was right: incautious replies would indeed be unwise. ‘My apologies, sirs. I have been out all day, monitoring Fifth Monarchists. I did not receive the—’
‘Then let us hope you have something useful to report,’ interrupted Rupert curtly.
Aiming to appease, Chaloner provided a detailed account of the rebels’ meetings, along with Jones’s bald declaration that Easter Sunday would see the King assassinated, the Tower seized and London put to the torch. However, when Rupert demanded the names of the Sanhedrin, Chaloner provided several fictitious ones among the likes of Jones, Strange and Tucker, unwilling to sacrifice misguided fools like Atkinson and Ursula until he knew how far they were prepared to go in their efforts to usher in a better society. He saved the best part until last.
‘And they have learned about a new kind of weapon,’ he said, presenting the reports he had found to the Earl. ‘Which I believe they intend to sell overseas – if they have not done so already.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 23