‘You must ride Lady,’ said Maude, before Chaloner could explain that they would be taking different roads. ‘Our new bay horse. She will be the fastest. Here is some money for your expenses. No, do not refuse, or we shall be vexed.’
Chaloner was glad of the funds, given that his own reserves were spent. He saddled Lady, sorry the animal had owners who did not know enough about horses to tell that ‘she’ was a gelding. He was just leading him into the yard when he saw Wiseman sneaking in through the back gate. The surgeon was wearing a black cloak over his scarlet robes, holding part of it over his face like the arch-villain of children’s stories.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ asked Chaloner.
‘Visiting Temperance incognito,’ explained Wiseman in a hoarse whisper. ‘I am obliged to be more discreet now that I am Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons.’
‘I would have thought your post as Surgeon to the King would demand discretion, yet you have never felt obliged to practise it before.’
‘His Majesty is very liberal; my medical colleagues are not. Incidentally, I saw a letter on Williamson’s desk an hour ago.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You read the private correspondence of spymasters?’
‘Not as a rule, but this one caught my eye because it looked to have been written in blood, although a closer inspection revealed that it was only red ink. It was from someone who has infiltrated the Fifth Monarchists and signs himself as Trojan Horse – hardly original. I did not recognise the writing, although it was not yours and not Will Leving’s.’
‘How do you know Leving?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the man’s status as ‘turned’ was not common knowledge.
‘Williamson thinks he is insane and asked me to examine him. Some of the tests I performed necessitated writing. He has a very distinctive hand.’
‘And is Leving insane?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he should have guessed that Williamson would have a third agent in place. Obviously, a madman and a former Parliamentarian spy would not be deemed sufficient for so important a matter.
‘Oh, yes, quite unhinged. Anyway, this letter said that Easter Day may be marked with some major explosions, and I thought you should know. And while I am blabbing secrets, I should also mention that there has been another death connected to Ferine.’
Chaloner nodded. ‘Hubbert. I heard. I do not suppose you examined him, did you?’
‘I did, but there was no evidence of foul play. However, his demise was predicted, and not even my superior skills can detect every poison.’
‘What are you saying? That he was fed a toxin?’
‘I have no grounds for making such a claim. I merely point out that Lambe foretold that Hubbert would die, and die Hubbert did – which is damned convenient for Lambe. I do not like him, even if he is the Court’s current darling.’
Chaloner recalled the conversation he had had with Lambe, when the sorcerer had smugly declared that he would welcome a surgeon investigating Hubbert. Was it because Wiseman was not the only one who knew that some poisons were undetectable?
‘You look tired,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Have you had a hard night?’
Wiseman nodded. ‘First, several clients were after me for remedies recommended by Lambe, and then Williamson called me to the Westminster charnel house to examine the body of a rebel. He did not have the courtesy to remain there while I worked, which is why I had to visit his office afterwards – to tell him my findings.’
Chaloner did not blame the Spymaster for not wanting to watch what Wiseman did; he disliked it himself. ‘Did this dead rebel have a name?’
‘A Fifth Monarchist called Nat Strange.’
‘Damn!’ breathed Chaloner. ‘He was my main suspect for killing Quelch.’
‘You mean the other insurgent? Williamson asked me to look at him, too. He was stunned with a blow to the head and then strangled. But not by Strange, whose hands would have been far too large to make the marks on Quelch’s neck. You will have to revise your theory about that particular solution.’
‘How did Strange die?’
‘Stabbed,’ replied Wiseman. ‘A violent end for a violent man.’
Chaloner thought about the ambush outside Clarendon House the previous night. Had Strange been among the attackers, and been killed by a wild blow in the dark, when no one had been able to see what was what?
Chaloner rode past St Paul’s, then followed a complex series of turns that took him to the Shoreditch road. He had intended to use the time to think about his investigations, but his attention was taken by Lady, who was delighted to be out and itched to gallop. He was an evil-tempered brute, and Chaloner wondered what had possessed Temperance to buy him.
It was a miserable day for riding, and the volume of traffic using the London roads had turned them into rivers of rutted mud. Sometimes the track was contained between rows of houses, sodden and drab in the unrelenting drizzle, but elsewhere it had expanded ever wider as horsemen, pedestrians and drivers had attempted to find a less boggy route. Chaloner lost count of the carts and carriages that were stuck, some abandoned, some guarded by disgruntled owners, and others in the process of being levered free.
The mud was as foul as any he had seen, and Lady made heavy weather of it. In the end, Chaloner abandoned the road and set off across the countryside. It was easier riding, but he was obliged to fight his way through hedges and jump swollen streams. The hours ticked away fast, and it was afternoon before he reached Hackney Marsh, a low-lying region of sedge, bog and alder interspersed with the occasional farm, windmill or hamlet. Curlews wheeled overhead, and the land smelled of wet vegetation and stagnant water. It was a clean scent, though, and a pleasant change to the rank stench of London.
Temple Mills was a tiny village centred around an ancient watermill that straddled the River Lea. A new mill had been raised a short distance from the first, and it throbbed with the hum and hiss of industry. Unusually for such structures, it was surrounded by a wooden palisade, as if the owner was afraid of being burgled, although Chaloner could not imagine that thieves were much of a problem in such a remote and desolate place.
He dismounted and entered a dingy inn to ask after Snowflake’s father. The landlord pointed out a modest but well-maintained house at the end of what passed for the high street. As the inn had a stable, Chaloner left Lady there, shrugging apologetically at the alarmed expressions of the grooms who would have to tend the creature.
He knocked on Pate’s door and was answered by a man in his sixties on an accompanying waft of something sweet. Pate was a perfumer, he recalled, although Hackney Marsh seemed an odd place to base such an enterprise. No wonder Snowflake had said the business was on the brink of failure – it was unlikely to attract much passing trade. Then, for the first time, it occurred to him that the family may not have heard about her death, and he might have to break the news himself.
‘I have come about Snow—I mean Consti,’ he began, suddenly uneasy.
‘My stepdaughter,’ said Pate, beaming. ‘The second child of my fifth wife. Or was it the first of my sixth? I cannot recall now. I am on my ninth, you see, so it is difficult to keep track. Unfortunately, they do not seem to last very long, and I am always having to replace them.’
Chaloner took a deep breath to blurt, ‘I am sorry to tell you that Consti is dead.’
‘Is she?’ asked Pate, with more disapproval than distress. ‘I told her she would come to a bad end if she followed a career in strumpetry. What took her? A pox?’
‘She was murdered.’
‘By a client, I suppose,’ said Pate grimly. ‘That club is nice, as far as whore-houses go, but it still attracts scoundrels – rich ones, perhaps, but scoundrels nonetheless. Do you work there?’
‘No. I am not pretty enough.’
As soon as the words were out, Chaloner wished he could retract them: flippancy was hardly the best way to win the man’s good graces. Pate stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed
heartily, slapping his thighs and declaring it the finest joke he had heard since the parson’s nose had been savaged by his pet turkey.
‘Come in, come in,’ he managed to gasp eventually. ‘You must repeat that witty nugget to my children. They all love a joke.’
Alarmed, Chaloner tried to back away, but Pate seized his arm and hauled him to a spacious parlour, bawling for his family. Immediately, people of all shapes and sizes began to assemble, forming neat ranks with the small ones at the front and the taller ones behind. They ranged from a man who was well into his eighties to a babe in arms. All guffawed appreciatively when Pate repeated the ‘joke’, and only when the last chortle had died away were introductions made.
‘These are my children and stepchildren,’ Pate explained. He gestured to the elderly gentleman. ‘Henry here has twenty years on me, but that is what happens when one weds an older woman.’ Then he smiled fondly at a girl who could not have been more than eighteen. ‘And this is wife number nine, who came with two youngsters from a previous marriage.’
Chaloner tried to imagine the worldly Snowflake in the homely parlour, but the image would not come – she had travelled too far beyond her origins. However, he could certainly envisage Atkinson there, perhaps bouncing one of the toddlers on his knee, or laughing in his affable way.
‘Consti is dead,’ announced Pate baldly. ‘Are any of you her siblings?’
There was a rumble to say none of them were, and someone added helpfully that Consti’s sister had died at the same time as their mother Martha, of marsh fever, some years before.
‘Martha!’ breathed Pate, lust gleaming in his eyes. ‘She of the flaxen hair. Now there was a fine lass. Perhaps it is as well that she is in her grave, because she would have wept and wailed at the news we have had today. And I do not hold with weeping and wailing.’
There was a muted mutter to say that the ‘children’ did not hold with it, either.
‘Does John know?’ asked Pate of Chaloner. ‘John Atkinson, I mean, another of my stepsons. He is a dear, sweet fellow who did his best to keep her decent. He will be devastated when he hears, so you must tell him, because I could not bring myself to do it. You will be well rewarded, though – he is a lovely man, and your life will improve on making his acquaintance.’
The chorus of agreement almost deafened Chaloner. When he could make himself heard, he started to ask his questions.
‘You told Snow—Consti something when you last visited, but she died before she could pass it on. I need to know what it was, because it may help me catch her killer.’
‘Did I?’ Pate was startled. ‘Lord! I have no idea what it might have been. It was days ago, and I have seen a lot of people since then. I know we talked about the village, and she was keen to hear about the animals. She loved animals, especially horses.’
Chaloner sat forward. ‘Would you mind thinking carefully, sir? It is important.’
‘Heavens!’ breathed Pate. ‘I only went to see her because I had spent all my money on ambergris, and I wanted something to eat. That Temperance may be a whoremonger, but she always treats me very kindly, and her cook bakes lovely pies.’
The family murmured to say that this was true.
‘Please,’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Anything you can remember would help.’
Pate frowned in thought, and even the baby seemed to be holding its breath as everyone waited. The silence stretched on and on, broken only by the distant rattle of the mill.
‘Damn!’ said Pate, shaking his head. ‘It will not come! I do not recall what else we said to each other, except her reminding me to warm a little porridge for the chickens on cold mornings. I do, and our hens are very appreciative.’
It was a moment of pathos for Chaloner, learning that the jaded prostitute had been concerned for the family birds. He stood, feeling he had wasted a day for nothing – a glance out of the window told him it would be dark soon.
‘Surely you are not thinking of riding back to London now?’ cried Pate. ‘You will ruin your horse – assuming he does not ruin you by taking a tumble. Stay here and leave in the morning.’
A growl of consensus from the family said that this was certainly the best option. Chaloner declined, but they were insistent, and that evening was one of the most bizarre he could ever recall spending. First ale was provided, although he and Pate were the only ones to partake, the others looking on anxiously, then smiling when the brew was complimented. Next it was cakes, and finally stew. Chaloner was unused to eating in front of an audience, and wondered how the King could bear it – watching His Majesty dine was one of the Court’s most popular pastimes.
Pate did most of the talking, holding forth on subjects as diverse as cooking, sport, philosophy and agriculture. Each time he made a statement, his family would murmur deferential agreement. At first, Chaloner assumed it was because no one wanted to risk being disinherited, or that Pate was a bully who ruled with a rod of iron, but there was no evidence to support either notion, and the reverence they afforded their patriarch was obviously inspired by genuine affection.
‘That new mill is a nuisance,’ said Pate, after providing Chaloner with an exhaustive account of the hamlet’s history, right from its first mention in a document dating to the thirteenth century. ‘It clunks and clatters all night.’
‘Grinding corn?’ asked Chaloner, aware that he was expected to prompt the speaker.
‘Corn?’ cried Pate. ‘Here in the marshes?’ There was a gale of unrestrained laughter from the family, which he joined in, wiping the tears from his eyes. ‘You are a wit, and I am glad Consti knew you. You must have kept her laughing from morning to night. Or should I say from night to morning, bearing in mind her chosen profession?’
Amusement exploded yet again, and Chaloner began to wish he was riding home to London, because even sleeping under a hedge would be better than the Pates and their odd sense of humour. When the merriment had finally died away, Pate resumed his diatribe on the mill.
‘It makes buttons, not flour,’ he said. ‘A prodigious amount of them, given the hours it works. It is never still, from one sunrise to the next. I never use them, of course. Call me a Puritan if you will, but there is nothing wrong with good honest laces.’
There followed a detailed vilification of buttons and why they must surely delight the devil. Chaloner’s mind wandered to ways he might escape, and he had just decided to use checking on Lady as an excuse when Pate’s sudden yell made him and the entire family start in alarm.
‘I remember now! I discussed the mill with Consti! I told her about the delivery of an enormous wheel. We have no idea what it might be for, but she said “I must tell Tom”. Those were her exact words. She meant you, do you see?’
Chaloner blinked. Why had she thought he would be interested in that? ‘Did she say anything else?’
‘No,’ replied Pate. ‘But I recall the conversation quite clearly now I have had a chance to reflect. It was my report of the wheel that intrigued her.’
When Pate decided it was time to sleep, the house became a flurry of activity, and straw mattresses appeared from nowhere. They covered every inch of the floor, and the residents lay down wherever there was space, while Pate and his latest wife had the luxury of a private room upstairs. Chaloner was allocated a spot in the parlour, along with a dozen others of both sexes. Exhausted, he fell asleep immediately, but he did not stay that way for long. His roommates snorted, shuffled, scratched and whispered, and when two people began a series of sloppy kisses in the corner, he gave up trying to doze and went outside.
He sat on the doorstep. It had stopped raining, although the air was damp and cold. A dog whined farther down the street, while Pate’s latest child was grizzling somewhere at the back of the house. Pate himself was snoring gustily, vying for dominance with the stentorian grunts emanating from three burly sons who had bedded down in the kitchen.
As Chaloner pondered Snowflake and the wheel, it occurred to him that he might understand why she had wanted to
tell him about it if he actually saw the thing. The small hours of the morning was not a time he would normally have visited such a place, but the mill was ablaze with lights, and a rhythmic thumping emanated from within. The workers were busy with their buttons, but might spare a few moments to talk to him.
He stood and walked to the end of the street, where the building was huddled on the river bank. The wooden wall that surrounded it was taller than he had first supposed – too high to see over. He located the gate, intending to knock, but it was unusually sturdy, and through a gap in the wood he could see guards patrolling with dogs.
He watched thoughtfully. These were precautions far in excess of what was needed for button-making, so clearly something else was being manufactured. And the mill’s taut security confirmed what he had suspected for some time now. He backed away from the gate and walked around the fence until he found a spot where it was possible to climb over. He straddled the top, and looked around.
The mill comprised a large yard protected by the palisade on three sides and the river on the fourth. There were six buildings in the compound – the mill itself, which was larger than any he had ever seen, and five sturdy sheds. It did not take him long to note that the guards followed specific routes, which they repeated at set intervals. He waited until they were all farthest away from him, then jumped down and padded towards the mill.
It had been built with very thick wood, presumably to mute some of the racket produced by the machinery, and its only door – large enough to accommodate a sizeable wagon – was secured from the inside by a bar. He put his eye to a crack, but although he could see a number of men labouring there, he could not tell what they were doing.
He stepped back and considered. He could probably jiggle the bar out of the door from where he stood, but then he would be seen by the workmen – and it was clearly not a place that welcomed visitors. Then he saw that someone had been considerate enough to site the building next to a large oak with spreading boughs, presumably to shield some of the structure from sight.
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 25