‘Do you think they had anything to do with the explosion?’
Norris shook his head. ‘It was not gunpowder that was in them – the balance would have been different. Maybe it was money – coins. But you should be asking Commissioner Pett all this, not me. Come. I will show you his house.’
While they walked, he confided that the Pett family had had control of the shipyard for generations, clawing power and influence through a range of sly and dishonest dealings. Their home was a lavish affair, a gem of glory in an area that was otherwise functional and dirty. Through one of its windows, Chaloner saw Pett sitting at dinner, despite the lateness of the hour, with a woman who was obviously his daughter. Pett was an ugly, moustachioed man with untrustworthy brown eyes, and his daughter looked much the same. She wore a pearl necklace of such length that half of it was submerged in her soup.
Knowing that no deceitful official liked answering questions, and that if he knocked on the door and asked for an audience he would be refused, Chaloner broke in, padding along a hallway that was full of fine furniture, much of it French and very new. There was a range of expensive clocks, none of them showing the same time, and their clangs, tings and gongs rang out in a constant medley of noise. They disguised any sound he might have made as he tiptoed towards the dining room and opened the door.
‘I am not here to harm you,’ he said, locking it behind him and making a sign to warn them against howling for help. ‘I just want to talk.’
‘I know nothing about that shipment of lead sheathing,’ squeaked Pett, frightened. ‘If it has gone missing, it has nothing to do with me.’
‘The ship London,’ said Chaloner. ‘I have been charged to find out what happened to her.’
Pett gulped. ‘A terrible tragedy. We had fitted her with a new timber hull, a taller foremast and eighty brass cannon. I am told the guns may be retrieved, but Lawson is mad if he thinks she can be weighed. He was going to try today – him and the Navy Board engineers.’
‘What do you think happened to her?’
Pett swallowed hard. ‘Well, perhaps some of the cartridges we supplied were a bit old, but that should not have caused her to explode. If you ask me – and I do know ships – I would say that a cannonball crashed through her amidships, igniting the powder magazine. Although obviously that cannot have happened – the Dutch have not invaded yet.’
‘Tell me about the two chests that were carried aboard. What was in them?’
‘Admiral Lawson told everyone it was musical instruments, but he confided the truth to me: it was soil from his estate in Yorkshire.’
‘What?’ That was not an answer Chaloner had expected.
‘To make him feel at home,’ explained Pett. ‘And he said it is useful for scattering across the decks before a battle, to soak up the blood.’
‘You believed him?’
‘Of course. Blood is a nuisance during a skirmish, as it makes the decks slippery. Seamen losing their footing can mean the difference between success and victory at sea.’
‘I meant why would he go to the trouble and expense of bringing dirt onboard?’
Pett shrugged. ‘Admirals are peculiar men, and Lawson is odder than most.’
‘Why did you delay London’s sailing?’
Pett licked dry lips. ‘I did not delay it – there was paperwork to be completed. Captain Dare had neglected to obtain certain permits, and his departure was postponed because of it.’
Chaloner rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘The truth, Pett.’
‘All right, I was paid,’ bleated the Commissioner, cringing away. ‘A substantial sum, as it happens. But what else was I supposed to do?’
‘Refuse the bribe and warn Captain Dare that something was amiss?’ suggested Chaloner coolly. ‘It is what a decent man would have done.’
Pett released a startled burst of laughter. ‘You do not refuse a bribe! It would not be right!’
Chaloner blinked. ‘And allowing the destruction of one of His Majesty’s warships is?’
Pett shook his head in vigorous denial, but Chaloner could see that the notion was not new to him – he had asked himself the same question. ‘You cannot prove the delay had anything to do with that,’ he blustered. ‘It—’
‘I think I can. And unless you tell me everything about whoever paid you, I will make sure the King knows it. You will be executed as a traitor, and your family will never live down the disgrace.’
Pett opened his mouth to plead his innocence again, but something in Chaloner’s angry demeanour warned him against it. He sagged in defeat. ‘The fellow wore a hooded cloak, so I did not see his face, but I do not believe I have met him before. I wish I could describe him to you, but I cannot.’
‘There is one other thing, Father.’ The woman spoke for the first time. ‘He said you were the kind of man who would prosper in New York, and he sold you a lovely map of the place.’
John Scott, thought Chaloner sourly.
Chaloner felt he now had more than enough information to prove the Fifth Monarchists – and Scott – were involved in the sinking of London. He left Pett’s house quickly, melting into the shadows when he heard the Commissioner bellowing for his servants to rouse themselves and hunt for the dangerous felon that had broken in and menaced him with a sword.
It was too dark to begin the journey home that night, and it would be self-defeating to risk Lady needlessly, especially as he would be riding bareback, so Chaloner found a hedge on a quiet farm and crawled beneath it, wrapped in his coat. He did not think he would sleep, given that it was cold and his mind raced with questions, but he started awake some hours later when a cart trundled past. Dawn was still some way off, but there was enough light for him to lead Lady along the road and knock four or five miles off the journey.
After, he rode hard through the brown, rainswept countryside, feeling time slipping inexorably away from him. It was Maundy Thursday, his third day away from the city, and the Fifth Monarchists’ uprising would start in less than seventy-two hours. Would the arrest of the ringleaders be enough to stop it?
He rested Lady at noon, and continued again until a grey-yellow haze on the horizon told him that he was nearing London. Slowly, the silence of the countryside gave way to the distant thunder of wheeled vehicles, the clank of machinery and the hubbub of the markets. He fancied he could smell the great city, too, mostly the acrid stench of coal fires, but also the earthier aroma from the laystalls – deep trenches where dung and other rubbish was dumped – that formed a reeking halo around the outskirts. Traffic was heavier as well, and he chafed at the decreased pace.
It was almost dark by the time he crossed the Fleet River on Holborn, and it was then that he saw Eliza Hatton. Her face gleamed palely under her hood, and her cloak billowed as she glided along, attracting more than one uneasy glance from passers-by. As she drew level with Chaloner, she stared at him, an unearthly glower that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
He pulled himself together irritably. He was cold, wet and tired, but that was no reason to let his imagination run away with him. He rode on, but as he was passing St Andrew’s, he recalled Ursula’s challenge, issued days ago, to look at the painting of Eliza Hatton above what was alleged to be her tomb. He dismounted and walked towards the church.
The door was open, ready to receive the faithful who wanted to keep vigil in preparation for Good Friday. It did not take him long to find the Hatton tomb – a large Elizabethan monstrosity picked out in red and gold. A man and a woman had been carved under a garish canopy, he wearing a massive neck-ruff and she with a child’s body and pathologically proportioned hands. Their faces were stylised, and might have been anyone. A painting had been hung above the memorial, but the church was too dark for Chaloner to see it.
He fetched a lamp from the back of the church and held it up. It illuminated the portrait perfectly, and he gaped at it in astonishment. It was Eliza Hatton! Alone in the dark building, with shadows leaping eerily all around him,
a small voice at the back of his mind asked whether the woman who inhabited Holborn might indeed be a spectre.
Then his common sense returned to him. Eliza was probably a descendant of the lady in the painting, as she had told him, and that was why they looked so disconcertingly similar. And even if she was Alice Fanshaw, as Wiseman believed, much could be achieved with face-paints, wigs and carefully selected clothing.
He felt, rather than saw, someone behind him, and whipped around to see Eliza standing there. She was wearing the same long, dark cloak as the woman in the picture, and had an identical half-smile. A chill air seemed to emanate from her and the lantern went out. He reminded himself firmly that St Andrew’s was a draughty building, and that the icy wind had nothing to do with the breath of the grave. The breeze grew stronger, so he abandoned the lamp and stepped forward, but Eliza had gone.
‘Wait!’ he called. ‘I need to talk to you.’
There was no reply, but the cold current became chillier still as he groped his way forward. He followed it to a door, which was ajar, and pushed it open to see it led to the cemetery. His stomach did an unpleasant flip when he saw her among the graves, illuminated by the lantern she was holding. A low mist rose from the ground, which served to give her a distinctly other-worldly appearance. He started to walk towards her, but voices made him turn. A family was approaching, taking a short-cut through the churchyard as they aimed for Holborn.
‘It is the ghost!’ screeched one of the children, stabbing a chubby finger. ‘Look!’
Eliza turned very slowly to look at him, and the smile she gave was so chillingly evil that even Chaloner was unnerved. With terrified wails, the adults grabbed their brats and raced away. Chaloner looked back to where Eliza had been standing, only to see she had disappeared again. He closed his eyes and listened: his eyes might play tricks, but his ears would not. Yet there were no footsteps or muffled curses as Eliza made her way across uneven ground in the dark. There was nothing but silence – an eerie one given that bustling Holborn lay so close.
Something lay on the ground near where she had been standing, and he stooped to pick it up. It was a piece of paper covered with the same symbols as were inked on Lambe’s neck and hands, and that the sorcerer had drawn on the walls of Buckingham’s observatory. Chaloner began a systematic search of the area, but Eliza had vanished into the night.
Wearily, he rode to the club, where he rubbed Lady down and settled him in a clean, dry stall. Then he prepared a warm mash of oats, and stayed with him while he ate, talking in a low, soft voice. The gelding had endured two long, hard journeys and an unpleasant jaunt across an estuary, so he deserved a little consideration.
‘Lord!’ breathed Temperance, when Chaloner walked into her parlour some time later. Maude was there, too, and they were drinking and smoking. ‘What have you been doing?’
He glanced down at himself. His clothes were thick with splattered mud, and badly rumpled from hours spent in the saddle and sleeping under hedges. He flopped into a chair, and smiled gratefully when Maude brought him mulled wine and a slice of venison pastry.
‘Have you discovered who murdered Ferine and Snowdrop?’ asked Temperance. She tried to keep the tremor of anxiety from her voice, but did not succeed.
‘I believe so,’ he replied. ‘Although I still have questions about—’
‘Thank God!’ she breathed. ‘Who is it?’
‘It would be better not to say until he is in custody.’
He expected her to insist on an answer, but she only nodded, and he saw what a strain the whole affair had been on her, draining her of the strength to argue.
‘There are tales now about Ferine’s wife,’ said Maude. ‘That he murdered her, which is why he shut up his High Holborn house. Now her ghost haunts it.’
‘Superstitious nonsense,’ said Chaloner dismissively. ‘Perhaps Ferine did push her down the stairs, but there is no such thing as ghosts.’
He fully believed what he said. His quiet time with Lady had allowed him to analyse the incident in St Andrew’s churchyard, and he was fairly sure he understood what had happened. The same was true of Hatton House and Ferine’s home. None had anything to do with the supernatural – there was a human hand at work, and he knew exactly to whom it belonged.
Maude inclined her head, although he could see she did not believe him. ‘You were gone a long time. I suppose you were caught in the floods, like the rest of Court. We have heard such tales of abandoned coaches, highway-men, nasty accidents…’
Chaloner frowned. ‘What floods?’
‘The ones north of Canvey Island,’ explained Temperance. ‘It has rained so much that the roads are virtually impassable. Only those courtiers on horseback have been able to return, while those in carriages have to be dug out every few miles. The King says he is glad he stayed home.’
‘And it was all for nothing, apparently,’ added Maude. ‘They were promised the spectacular sight of a drowned ship rising from the deep, and all they got was mud, rain and tedium.’
‘They should have come here instead,’ said Temperance in a feeble attempt at jollity, while Chaloner thought it no wonder that people were disillusioned if they had gone to Prittlewell with that sort of expectation. ‘We offer fine entertainment without the need to be cold, wet or inconvenienced.’
‘We have bad news, though,’ sighed Maude. ‘Duncombe is dead. Of a seizure, apparently, but he was another of our patrons, and people are beginning to say we are cursed. They will say it even more if that prediction of Lambe’s comes true, and Buckingham does die tomorrow.’
Chaloner frowned. ‘Buckingham will die? I thought he was just to suffer some bad luck.’
‘That is what the Duke believes, but Lambe told Brodrick the real truth, and Brodrick told me,’ explained Temperance. ‘Buckingham will die tomorrow – Good Friday.’
‘What a pity,’ said Chaloner flatly. ‘His country will miss him.’
‘He is a friend to the club,’ said Temperance sharply. ‘And a friend to Hannah. Can you imagine how devastated she will be if he passes away? You will have to save him.’
‘I imagine you would rather I caught Snowflake’s killer.’
Temperance regarded him balefully. ‘No, I would rather you did both.’
It was too late to do anything that night, so Chaloner accepted the offer of a bed in Hercules’ Pillars Alley. There were plenty of spare rooms now there were no clients, and Temperance had even sent some of the girls to visit their families, so as to avoid having hordes of them sitting around doing nothing but eat, drink and quarrel.
As he had not been in a proper bed since Sunday – and that had been after the ambush outside Clarendon House, which had rendered him too unsettled for restful repose – Chaloner fell into a deep, dreamless sleep the moment his head touched the pillow. He woke an hour before dawn the following morning, Good Friday, refreshed and ready to tackle whatever the city’s murderers and rebellious fanatics threw at him.
He felt even better when he discovered hot water available for washing and shaving, and that Maude had thought to lay out clean clothes for him – ones that had been abandoned by clients, it was true, but carefully laundered and pressed. He would have liked to wear his new stockings, but they were blue and the breeches were green, so he put them in his pocket instead, along with the buttons Grisley Pate had given him.
He left the club before anyone was awake, listing in his mind all that needed to be done that day. Most pressing was to visit Atkinson and Ursula, to see if they had learned anything new while he had been in Chatham. He also had to find out Jones’s plans, and warn Buckingham to be on his guard.
He walked briskly to Middle Row, but a quick prowl inside Ursula’s house told him that no one had been there for several days. He supposed the coach carrying her and Atkinson was caught in the floods, and was torn between relief that they were away from trouble, and alarm because even their amateur help would have been better than none.
He went to Garlick Hill
next. Despite the early hour, the streets were busy, as more people poured into the city for Lady Day, now less than twenty-four hours away. Tradesmen were opening their stalls sooner than usual to catch more business, and the atmosphere was one of excited anticipation. Worriedly, Chaloner realised that he would never know if an uprising was in the offing, because he could not distinguish between eager Fifth Monarchists and folk who had come for legitimate business.
Lamps were lit at Jones’s house, just visible beneath shutters that were still closed against the night, and there was a black wreath on the door to indicate a house in mourning. Chaloner was surprised – he had not imagined Jones to be a sentimental man, even if Strange had been a friend.
He drilled with his dagger until he had made a hole in the soft, rotten wood of a window frame that had spent too many years battered by rain, and was rewarded by the sight of Jones serving breakfast ale to Leving, Manning and some of the Sanhedrin. He was using silver goblets on a matching tray, and his clothes were protected from accidental spillages by the incongruously lacy apron. Leving was chattering like a monkey, while Manning was glowering at someone on the other side of the table. It was Scott, who leaned back in his chair with his feet on the table. They did not stay there long: Jones fixed him with a look of extraordinary malevolence, and the chair came to rest on all four legs with a thump.
Chaloner could only suppose that Scott had bludgeoned Manning into inviting him to the Fifth Monarchists’ meeting, but what would the New Englander do with what he learned? Tell Williamson? Use the information to extort more money from whoever wanted to buy the secret of Rupert’s cannon? Or was he a secret Fifth Monarchist himself, and had played the Spymaster for a fool? Regardless, Chaloner knew his presence there spelled trouble for everyone concerned.
Then the door opened, and Atkinson and Ursula stumbled in, travel-stained, rumpled and grey with exhaustion. Ursula was limping badly, and both were nervous, causing Jones to regard them sharply. Chaloner winced – they were going to give themselves away with their guilty faces!
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 29