A Murder on London Bridge (14 page)

The doorman’s name was Preacher Hill, a nonconformist fanatic who bawled rabid sermons about sin in the day, and earned his bread at the brothel during the night. Chaloner was amazed that the man never seemed to realise that this made him something of a hypocrite.

‘What do
you
want?’ Hill snarled. He had never liked Chaloner, and the spy was seldom allowed past without some sort of insult being hurled. ‘You have not been here in weeks, and I was beginning to hope you had met an unpleasant end.’

Chaloner regarded him coolly. He had never understood why Temperance insisted on employing such a surly brute, although he had been told that Hill was exceptionally skilled at identifying trouble-makers. He wondered what that said about him, given the preacher’s repeated and dogged attempts to keep him out. He opened his mouth to reply in kind, but Wiseman was there before him.

‘Now, now,’ admonished the surgeon. ‘Is that any way to speak to your mistress’s friend? Let us past, or you and I will have a falling out.’

Wiseman represented a formidable figure with his rippling muscles and impressive height, and Hill gulped in alarm as he stood aside. The surgeon thrust past him, into the house beyond.

‘Temperance!’ he cried, surging towards the object of his desire like a great red galleon.

Customers and working girls alike were knocked out of his way, and Chaloner was astonished when Temperance flung away the handful of cards she had been holding, and rushed to meet him. She did not forsake games for Chaloner, obliging him to wait until she had finished before deigning to greet him. He watched in amazement as they flew into each others’ arms. Temperance’s expression was one of unbridled delight, and it was clear that Wiseman’s affections were fully reciprocated. So, Chaloner thought, wondering what they saw in each other, his brotherly protection was not required after all.

Temperance had gained more weight since Chaloner had last seen her, and her dress did nothing to disguise the fact. It did not suit her, and made her look sluttish. Her cheeks had been slathered with some sort of paste to give them a fashionable pallor, and the black ‘face patches’ currently popular at Court were stark against it. She gave Chaloner a cool, disinterested wave, then took Wiseman’s arm and led him to her table.

‘You are not in as high favour as you once were,’ said Hill, watching the scene with a spiteful smirk. ‘It is only a matter of time before she lets me eject you.’

Chaloner suspected that was true. It was barely a year since the demure teenager had shocked everyone by opening her club, and she had been drifting away from him ever since.

‘What do you think about Dowsing and his associates?’ Chaloner asked the preacher, mostly to change the subject from one that was hurtful, but also because it was an opportunity to quiz a man who had made religion the centre of his life. ‘Blue Dick Culmer and Herring?’

Hill’s eyes glittered. ‘They are great men, who understand that chapels stuffed with papist trinkets are bad for the soul. They did the work of God when they smashed those statues.’

‘Have you heard any rumours that they plan to— to
cleanse
any more churches?’ Chaloner asked, stopping himself from saying ‘despoil’ at the last minute.

‘No, why? Have you?’ asked Hill eagerly. ‘Because if so, I would like to join them.’

Chaloner was sure he would. ‘Herring is probably plotting something. If I agree to tell you what I learn about him, will you reciprocate? Pass me anything you happen to hear?’

‘No,’ said Hill firmly. ‘Because
your
intention will be to stop his holy work. So, I shall not pass you anything. And that is a pity for you, because I have a snippet of information that you would probably find
very
interesting. But I am not going to give it to you.’

Casually, Chaloner drew his dagger from its sheath, and began to inspect the blade. ‘No?’

Hill regarded it uneasily. ‘You would not stab me. Not in here.’

‘You will remain in all night, will you? You will not go outside during the course of your duties?’

The preacher regarded him with a glittering hatred, but there was something in Chaloner’s quiet words that convinced him that it would be better to comply.

‘All right, there is no need for that sort of talk. My news is that there is something momentous in the offing. And the reason I know is because of omens – the old king’s ghost seen walking along Fleet Street, parts of St Paul’s Cathedral falling down, changes in the tides. These all mean one thing: that a great catastrophe is about to befall the city.’

Chaloner was disappointed. ‘I have been listening to this kind of speculation all week. It is the talk of the coffee houses.’

‘You interrupted me, I had not finished.’ Hill pursed his lips, then leaned forward confidentially. ‘When you are a doorman, people tend to ignore you, and you hear things. I learned last night that Lord Bristol has been seen visiting the Dowager Queen at Somerset House.’

This was a piece of intelligence Chaloner
was
interested to hear. ‘When?’

‘It is because he is Catholic,’ Hill went on, ignoring the question, almost certainly because he did not know the answer. ‘And so is she. It is obvious that the papists are planning something terrible, and brave men like Herring are flocking to London to prevent it.’

He scuttled away when Chaloner made no reply, apparently nervous that his information might be insufficient to prevent him from being speared. Chaloner watched him go. Was he right? Was Thurloe’s ‘dissatisfied majority’ part of the same rebellion, or was the city in such a turmoil of discontent that revolts and plots were springing up like mushrooms?

And where should Chaloner stand on the issue? With the Earl who paid his wages, lending his sword to protect the inept, dissolute band of hedonists who ran the country? Or with decent, honourable men like Thurloe? Chaloner rubbed his head wearily, and hoped to God that folk came to their senses before the situation went that far.

Chapter 4

While he waited for Temperance to finish her game of cards, Chaloner passed the time by listening to the King’s Private Musick, although the performers had been given too much wine and the bowing of the bass violist was beginning to deteriorate. Chaloner played the bass viol, or viola da gamba, himself, and music was important to him. It cleared his mind when he was anxious, helped him to think clearly, and gave him more pleasure than he could express. One of the things he liked about Hannah was that she – and he by extension – was often invited to soirees where there were creditable amateur ensembles for him to join.

When he could no longer bear the sour notes, he moved to the other end of the room, and took up station in the shadows cast by a large statue. The lacklustre performance was making him itch to upbraid the musicians – he knew for a fact that they could do better – but that would have attracted attention to himself, and he was glad he had exercised restraint when he saw several people he recognised, all from his spying mission to Somerset House the previous night.

The Dowager’s Frenchmen – Doucett and Martin – were pawing a couple of Temperance’s ladies near the wine fountain. Chaloner listened to their banter for a while, but they said nothing of substance, and their sole concern seemed to be which of the two women had the biggest bust. They were drinking heavily, and Chaloner imagined it would not be long before there was trouble.

A short distance away was Winter, the Catholic gunpowder expert, his enormous moustache carefully waxed for the occasion. He was with the four Penderel brothers, who were bellowing with laughter. The source of their amusement was Father Stephen, who had evidently been coaxed into the place as a practical joke. The poor man was mortified, and sat rigidly in his chair, staring fixedly at his feet. He looked to be on the verge of tears. Winter was not smiling, either.

‘You should be ashamed of yourselves,’ he snapped, taking Father Stephen’s arm and hauling him to his feet. ‘The man is a Catholic priest, for God’s sake. What is wrong with you?’

The brother Chaloner thought was called Edward drew his dagger, sudden anger suffusing his face at the reprimand, but Rupert stepped forward to lay a calming hand on his arm. Winter shot them both a sneer of disdain, then escorted Father Stephen to the door. Chaloner heard the priest informing his rescuer exactly what he thought of men who played low tricks on hapless clerics.

‘Let me escort you home, Father,’ Winter said quietly. ‘It was a cruel jape, and I apologise on their behalf. They will be sorry tomorrow, when wine is not befuddling their senses.’

Stephen sniffed. ‘I doubt it. They are horrible men, and I fail to understand why the Dowager tolerates them. And do not tell me it is because she might take one as a husband. She will never remarry – she told me so herself.’

‘I suppose they must have their uses,’ said Winter with a sigh. ‘Although I cannot imagine what they might be. But here is the carriage. Let me help you inside.’

‘If you take me home, you will miss the revelries.’ The priest looked pointedly at Winter’s pristine moustache and fine clothes. ‘And I suspect you planned to enjoy yourself tonight.’

‘Then I shall see it as penance. Come, Father. Let us get you away from this place.’

When Chaloner turned his attention back to the Penderels, they were looking for someone else to torment. For a brief moment, he thought they were going to pick on him. Did they recognise him, he wondered, from their encounter at White Hall earlier that day, and considered one of the Earl’s retainers fair game for their teasing? But if they did recall him, they did not deem him worthy of attention, because they soon moved on.

They descended on Wiseman in the end, asking him silly, impertinent questions about his Public Anatomy. Chaloner smirked when Wiseman began to answer in gory detail, gratified to see Edward pale suddenly, obliging his brothers to sit him down and press his head between his knees.

He was on the verge of leaving – there was only so long he was prepared to wait for Temperance – when the brothel-mistress finished her card game and came towards him.

‘Have you been away, Thomas?’ she asked coolly. ‘I do not think I have seen you for a while.’

‘You cannot remember?’ he asked, a little hurt.

Temperance shrugged. ‘I am always so busy these days, especially since you introduced me to Mr Wiseman.’ She turned, saw the surgeon looking at her, and waved. He waved back, a coquettish little gesture that was grotesque on a man of his bulk. ‘He is such a dear man.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner weakly. He changed the subject. ‘I have been in Wimbledon these last—’

She rounded on him before he could finish. ‘I hope you were not after poor Lord Bristol. Your horrible old Earl is determined to see him in the Tower, because he is afraid Bristol will rally support against these nasty religious laws he supports so vigorously – the Clarendon Code. Well, if Bristol does manage to do it, then good luck to him.’

‘Is it true that Lord Bristol is back in the country, then?’ asked Chaloner casually.

Temperance’s clients often gossiped, and as her club was patronised by men from Somerset House, he was hopeful she might have heard something useful. And there was no point trying to defend the Earl’s enthusiasm for the Clarendon Code, when Chaloner was unhappy with it himself.

‘Oh, yes, although no one knows where, precisely.’ Temperance smiled suddenly, and pointed at the floor. ‘What do you think of my new rugs? I made so much money last month that I decided to get rid of all the old ones.’

She must be earning a fortune, Chaloner thought in amazement, if she could afford to squander her profits so carelessly. Perhaps Hill was right, and the place
would
soon be too exclusive for him.

‘How much does one of your ladies cost?’ he asked, purely from idle curiosity.

She regarded him in surprise. ‘You want one? I thought you had a sweetheart in Tothill Street – a lady you have never introduced to me, incidentally.’

Chaloner was not sure what to say. Hannah was liberal-minded, but he imagined that even she would baulk at being presented to a brothel-keeper. ‘I have only been back a few days,’ he mumbled awkwardly.

But Temperance was not listening to him anyway. ‘Does she make you happy?’ she asked, looking wistfully in Wiseman’s direction.

Chaloner regarded her uneasily. ‘What do you mean by “happy”?’

‘It is time I met her,’ said Temperance, abruptly turning to face him. ‘You must invite me to dine with you both. I shall bring Richard, too.’

‘Richard? You mean
Wiseman
?’ Chaloner was horrified. It would be bad enough managing Hannah and Temperance, and he could not cope with the irascible surgeon being added to the mix, too. It would be the soiree from Hell.

Temperance’s expression was belligerent. ‘Yes, Wiseman! I want him with me when I meet this paragon of virtue who has captured your heart. So, when shall we come? How about tomorrow?’

Chaloner saw he was trapped. ‘How about a week next Wednesday?’

That was in eleven days time, when, hopefully, he would have thwarted whatever the Dowager and her cronies were planning for Shrove Tuesday, arrested Blue Dick’s killer and persuaded Thurloe against joining the pending rebellion. And if past experience was anything to go by, the Earl would then send him out of the city on some errand, and he would be able to cancel.

‘Ash Wednesday,’ mused Temperance. ‘The first day of Lent, and the day after the Dowager’s ball and your Earl’s ecclesiastical dinner. Well, why not? It is as good a time as any.’

It was bitterly cold when Chaloner left Hercules’ Pillars Alley, and he walked at a rapid clip, hoping the brisk pace would warm him. He maintained a fairly comfortable temperature along The Strand and King Street, but once into the more open area around Hannah’s home, the wind cut through him like a knife – Tothill Street was bordered by St James’s Park to the north and open fields to the south, and although it had a pleasantly rural feel in summer, it could be bleak in winter.