Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  A fire glowed in the hearth and a lantern hung from the ceiling. There was only one occupant: Sherwin was slumped on a bench, his chin on his chest. There was a half-finished jug of ale in front of him, and a bottle of claret on the mantelpiece, presumably for later.

  Chaloner listened carefully, but there was nothing to say that anyone else was in the building. Determined to have answers once and for all, Chaloner grabbed Sherwin’s shoulder and shook it, but Sherwin slipped to one side, and he saw the man would never answer questions again.

  He was dead.

  Moving quickly, Chaloner searched the body and discovered two letters. Both offered vast rewards for Sherwin’s expertise. One bore a seal that Chaloner recognised from his spying days: Georges Pellissary of the French navy. The other was unsigned, but had quirks of grammar that told him it had been written by a Dutchman. If he had not been so tense, Chaloner might have laughed at the knowledge that Sherwin had gone behind Scott and Manning’s backs.

  ‘What have you done!’

  Chaloner whipped around to see Scott and Manning standing in the doorway, both holding guns – he had been so engrossed in Sherwin’s letters that he had not heard them approach. He swore under his breath. He did not have time for complex explanations.

  ‘He was dead when I arrived.’ It sounded lame even to his ears.

  Manning glared accusingly at Scott. ‘You said Sherwin would be safe here, with a bottle and no one to bother him.’

  ‘I thought he would,’ said Scott tightly. He nodded towards Chaloner. ‘Search him.’

  Sensing that Scott would not scruple to shoot, Chaloner stood still while Manning removed every last item from his personal arsenal. They, along with the contents of his pockets, were tossed on the table next to Sherwin’s belongings.

  ‘How did you kill poor Sherwin?’ asked Scott coldly. ‘Poison?’

  ‘It must have been,’ said Manning, opening the packet containing the stockings that Ursula had made for Chaloner, and whistling his appreciation at their quality. Then he sat on the bench, pulled off his own hose and donned the new ones. ‘Lovely! They will make a big difference to my chilblains.’

  ‘I did not kill him,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I cannot stay to debate it. There is a plot afoot to—’

  ‘You are not going anywhere,’ snapped Scott. ‘You have deprived me … us of a fortune by dispatching Sherwin, and I aim to make you pay.’

  ‘Too right,’ growled Manning. ‘Ouch! There are still pins in these things!’

  Chaloner appealed to Scott. ‘You will not be Cartographer Royal if Jones succeeds on Sunday, and—’

  ‘Shut up,’ snarled Scott. ‘I need to think.’

  He leaned against the doorframe, scowling. Manning picked up Sherwin’s ale, sniffed it cautiously and put it down again, wiping his hands on his breeches as he muttered about toxins. Then his eye lit on the bottle on the mantelpiece.

  ‘If you think Sherwin was poisoned, should you be drinking that?’ asked Chaloner, watching him take a long, deep swallow.

  ‘The bottle was sealed.’ Manning took another swig in churlish defiance. ‘Besides, I imagine you put the poison in his ale. It was his favourite, after all.’

  Chaloner turned back to Scott. ‘You know we share a master, so let me go. I must warn him that an atrocity is in the making.’

  ‘It is very hot in here,’ muttered Manning, wiping his forehead. ‘Don’t you think?’

  Ignoring Chaloner’s appeal, Scott came to a decision. ‘We shall visit your home, and see what you have in the way of valuables. The place is closed up, there are no servants to challenge us.’

  ‘I do not feel well,’ said Manning, sudden alarm in his voice. ‘My innards…’

  ‘It is your imagination,’ said Scott dismissively. He returned to the subject that interested him more. ‘We can still sell Sherwin’s secret, of course. I know most of the particulars died with him, but we can always make them up.’

  ‘Neither the French nor the Dutch are easily deceived,’ warned Chaloner.

  ‘I own no Dutch connections,’ said Scott. ‘However, I have very good ones in France, while Williamson is putty in my hands. Two interested parties should drive up the price nicely.’

  ‘I feel sick.’ Manning sat heavily on the bench. ‘Really, I do.’

  ‘The club,’ said Chaloner, as something became clear about Scott. ‘When I went once, you were playing cards with Lawson, Rupert and Lambe. Lambe was irrelevant, but you and the other two were playing a curious game – and not lanterloo either.’

  Scott smirked. ‘Then what was it?’

  ‘Lawson was watching Rupert, hoping to learn something about his iron artillery; Rupert was watching you, because he does not trust you; and you were watching Lawson, to ensure he did not tell Rupert that you had shared with him the location of the gun factory.’

  ‘Rupert would have killed me had Lawson blathered,’ said Scott with a shrug. ‘I tried very hard not to fleece him at cards, lest he spoke up out of spite, but he was more interested in monitoring the Prince, and I could not help myself.’

  ‘You are in trouble,’ said Chaloner. The New Englander was not the only one who could lie, and it was high time Scott had a taste of his own medicine. ‘You bribed Commissioner Pett to delay HMS London until she could be blown up. Williamson wants answers, and so do the others I told about it.’

  Scott’s composure slipped. ‘Who?’ he demanded.

  ‘More people than you can silence. And Pett will not protect you. He gave you up almost eagerly. Why did you do it? For money?’

  Scott shrugged again. ‘A bag of gold in exchange for having a word with Pett. How could I refuse?’

  ‘A bag of gold from whom?’

  ‘Someone who will kill me if I betray him, so I decline to say. Open the cellar, Manning.’

  One hand to his stomach, Manning staggered to the middle of the floor, where he kicked aside a rug to reveal a trapdoor with a metal ring. He tugged it open, and Chaloner’s heart sank when he saw what had been exposed: it looked like a dungeon.

  He braced himself to resist when Scott came towards him, but Scott had his own way of subduing awkward customers. He drew a knife and stabbed at Chaloner, jumping back with an angry curse when blood spurted across his fine white stockings.

  Chapter 15

  Chaloner was as startled as Scott when blood gushed through his coat and sprayed in a wide and impressive arc: he had pressed too hard on the bladder he had taken from Wallingford House, and learned too late that there was a skill to using them that he had not appreciated.

  ‘Damn!’ cried Scott, gazing down at his ruined hose. His expression hardened as he levelled the gun. Step by step, he forced Chaloner backwards until they were at the edge of the hole, then made a darting move. It was a feint, but it caught Chaloner off balance just long enough for Manning to give him the shove that sent him tumbling down into the cellar.

  He lay stunned, dimly aware of an argument taking place above his head, after which something landed heavily beside him. There was a pause, then another thud followed by a crack. He forced himself to open his eyes. The cellar was pitch black, and he realised the last sound had been the trapdoor slamming closed. He experienced a moment of panic, but forced it down. There was no time for it. He struggled to his knees.

  ‘I am dying,’ came a soft whisper. ‘I should not have touched that claret.’

  It was Manning, breathing in a shallow, unhealthy way. Chaloner clambered to his feet and made his way towards the voice, but tripped over another body en route.

  ‘Sherwin – Scott threw him in here after me.’ Manning laughed bitterly. ‘You will keep company with the corpses of your victims until you die yourself.’

  ‘We shall shout for help,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Someone will hear.’

  ‘Not so. The taverner is evicted, and a legal wrangle will keep this place empty for weeks. There will be no rescue for you.’

  ‘Then I will climb out and—’

&n
bsp; ‘How? The trapdoor is impossible to open from the inside.’

  It was not what Chaloner wanted to hear, and he set about exploring their prison to prove Manning wrong. The chamber was roughly ten feet square, and empty except for a barrel. He rolled it under the faint rectangle of light that was just visible above, clambered on top of it, and heaved with all his might. The trapdoor did not budge.

  ‘Jones warned that Scott would turn against me,’ came Manning’s voice again. ‘But I thought I could control him, fool that I am. Oh, Lord! I cannot move my legs!’

  ‘Maybe Jones killed Sherwin,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than Manning. ‘To ensure he passes his secret to no one else.’

  ‘Jones was never here. He had forgotten the place was closing today, and when I reminded him, he changed his meeting to the Talbot.’

  Panic was gnawing at Chaloner. Being locked in an underground cell was bad enough, but the prospect was far worse with corpses. ‘Tell me about Sherwin,’ he ordered, to take his mind off it. ‘I know he worked in Rupert’s gun factory and was dismissed for drunkenness.’

  ‘I was going to sell him to Jones…’

  ‘Sell him?’

  ‘Have you ever made a clay pot? The principle is simple, but it takes years of practice to produce a good one. It is the same with guns. You could follow a set of instructions to the letter, but your cannon would never work, because you need know-how. And Sherwin had it. Not only could he turn and anneal to perfection, but he was skilled at creating exactly the right balance of metals.’

  ‘No wonder he was so sure of his worth.’

  ‘Oh, yes! But there is a secret that Rupert is even more keen to keep quiet: namely that his guns are very expensive to manufacture.’

  Chaloner frowned. ‘I thought the main appeal was that they are cheaper than brass.’

  Manning laughed hollowly. ‘Everyone does, but they take months to construct and need all manner of pricey equipment. According to Sherwin, they cost three times more than their brass equivalents. But Rupert thinks they are marvellous, which has convinced people that they must be worth having. It is a lie.’

  ‘Why did you choose to deal with Jones?’ Chaloner was not sure what to think.

  ‘I knew him through the Fifth Monarchists, and I am not exactly awash with contacts who want to purchase artillery.’ Manning’s voice turned bitter. ‘I only joined for Ursula’s cakes. And Jones lost interest once I sold him the recipe for gunmetal, almost as if he had what he really wanted. Maybe that is why he started sending Leving to deal with me, instead of coming himself.’

  ‘You must have sold him a cannon as well,’ said Chaloner, thinking of HMS London’s sorry fate.

  ‘He borrowed the one that Sherwin stole from Temple Mills – said he wanted to test it. He brought it back very dirty.’

  ‘With sand and marsh mud, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Manning in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  Time passed slowly. Chaloner slumped in a corner, listening to Manning’s laboured breathing and the distant chants of bellmen, who ambled along Fleet Street calling the time. He clenched his fists in an agony of frustration, wishing he was anywhere but trapped uselessly underground. Then the bellmen’s voices were replaced by the rumble of traffic as the day began – heavier than usual, because it was Lady Day and carts, carriages and horses were pouring into the city at a tremendous rate. He sat up sharply when he heard footsteps on the floor above.

  With nothing to lose, he yelled at the top of his voice, and was rewarded moments later by the sound of the trapdoor being unbolted. Light flooded into the cellar, making him squint. Leving peered down at him.

  ‘Where are Jones and the Sanhedrin?’ Chaloner demanded, hearing Leving draw breath to ask what was likely to be the first of many questions. He did not have time for them.

  ‘Well, they held a meeting at the Talbot last night, but it was just more empty promises and hot air. Then they all went home. Why?’

  Chaloner climbed on the barrel and gripped the edge of the hole. ‘We must find them.’

  Leving prised his fingers off the rim, ‘Not so fast. I do not want to be on Williamson’s side if the Divine Authority does appear tomorrow, so I intend to wait and see what happens. And that means I would rather you stayed down there.’

  Chaloner glared at him. ‘What will happen is that Williamson will kill you. He is not very gentle with those who offer to work for him and then renege.’

  When he tried a second time to haul himself out, Leving trod on his hands. ‘But he will not know, will he? You are hardly in a position to tell him. And I have to think of myself.’

  The selfish admission made something click clear in Chaloner’s mind. ‘Jones claimed he never gave you letters for Manning. He was telling the truth – you have been dealing with Manning behind his back. No wonder you refused to let me open them! You pretended to be shocked by the notion, but the reality was that you did not want me to know they were from you.’

  ‘I have to make ends meet,’ shrugged Leving. ‘Williamson does not pay me very well.’

  ‘I will pay you,’ offered Manning in a hoarse whisper. ‘Help me, and I will give you Rupert’s secret. I do not care that you deceived me by pretending to be Jones…’

  Leving considered for a moment, then grabbed the empty claret bottle and lobbed it into the cellar. Chaloner ducked, and whether by design or accident, it struck Manning’s head. Leving giggled in a way that suggested Wiseman’s diagnosis was right: he was unhinged.

  ‘Now all I have to do is kill Scott, and Sherwin will be mine,’ said Leving in an oddly sing-song voice. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

  Chaloner knew he would never escape if Leving learned that Sherwin was dead. ‘Let me out, and I will take you to him.’

  ‘No. Tell me where he is, or I will shoot you.’

  He pulled a gun from his pocket, and as he did so, a piece of paper fluttered out. Instinctively, Chaloner caught it. It was only a note reminding Leving to visit his tailor later that afternoon, but the spy stared at it in horror.

  ‘Is this your writing?’

  ‘Yes,’ acknowledged Leving cautiously. ‘Why?’

  ‘You pen distinctive capital letters, and I have seen them twice now: once on the packet you delivered to Manning the day we met, but more tellingly in a note sent to Wallingford House, which said you had much to report and begged for more money. Williamson is not your only master: you are in Buckingham’s pay, too!’

  Leving scowled. ‘That is none of your concern. Now where is Sherwin?’

  ‘I should have guessed in the Talbot,’ Chaloner went on, ‘when I noticed that your purse was embroidered with a crest – Buckingham’s crest. He hired you to learn Sherwin’s secret.’

  Leving waggled the gun in a way that made Chaloner flinch. ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he and Rupert hate each other, and he probably wants the venture to fail.’

  Leving grinned suddenly. ‘You are quite right, of course. But I much prefer Buckingham to Williamson. He is more generous and does not threaten me with execution every time we meet.’

  ‘You really are insane,’ said Chaloner wonderingly. ‘You spy on Fifth Monarchists, meddle in spats between powerful barons, and deceive a dangerous spymaster.’

  Yes,’ chuckled Leving. ‘And no one has suspected a thing. I have also infiltrated five other sets of rebels. I am invincible! You, however, are not.’

  He took aim with the gun, and Chaloner gazed up at him steadily, unwilling to demean himself by looking away.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ came a soft voice that made Leving jump. The dag went off, showering Chaloner with splinters from the wooden edge of the hatch. ‘So you are the rogue who has been betraying us.’

  Chaloner saw Leving’s eyes go wide with astonishment as Jones stalked towards him, while his own heart sank. How would he defeat the Fifth Monarchists now? Jones nodded an order, and two of his Sanhedrin hurried forward to seize Leving’s arms. Then
he leaned down and offered Chaloner his hand. Warily, Chaloner took it, and was hauled upwards.

  ‘You misunderstood whatever you heard,’ declared Leving, as Chaloner scrambled clear of the hole and backed away from everyone. ‘I am no traitor.’

  ‘We followed you here,’ hissed Jones, softly sibilant. ‘We heard almost everything you said. And we arrived just in time. You murdered Manning, but we managed to save our gunpowder expert.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Leving. ‘I only dropped in to see whether the landlord had left anything worth salvaging. I had no idea Chaloner and Manning were here until I heard them yelling.’

  ‘I wondered why Chaloner did not attend our meeting last night,’ Jones went on coolly. ‘You not only failed to inform him of the change of venue, but you imprisoned him in that cellar—’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ flashed Leving. ‘And do you know why? Because he is the traitor. I did the Cause a considerable favour by shutting him away.’

  Jones eyed him with rank disdain. ‘I should have known that you were too stupid to escape from gaol after the Northern Plot collapsed. You had help – Williamson’s help.’

  ‘No,’ shouted Leving. ‘I have never met the Spymaster. Chaloner, on the other hand, plays the viol for him three times a week. They are close friends.’

  ‘Your lying tongue betrays you,’ said Jones in distaste. ‘Williamson hates music and he does not have friends.’

  ‘Perhaps that bit was untrue,’ admitted Leving. ‘But Chaloner is a traitor. He never lost the Tsar’s jewels, and he is still in Clarendon’s employ. I agreed to work for Williamson just to expose him for you. And look! He is covered in blood – it must be Sherwin’s.’

  ‘There is no reason to think any harm has befallen Sherwin,’ said Jones. ‘But Chaloner is limping, so I hope you have not hurt him. We shall need his expertise today.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Chaloner, trying to disguise his alarm.