A Murder on London Bridge (15 page)

He paused as he passed the house rented by the Penderels. He was very tired, and ached to be in Hannah’s warm bed, but as the brothers were currently enjoying Temperance’s hospitality, it seemed a good opportunity to investigate four men who were hostile to his Earl. He looked around carefully. The street was deserted, so he picked the lock to their front door and let himself inside.

He was surprised to discover the house was almost identical to Hannah’s – a short corridor with doors opening to sitting room, parlour and kitchen on the ground floor, and narrow stairs leading to bedrooms above. But unlike Hannah’s home, the Penderel lair was a pigsty. Unwashed clothes were strewn across the floor, and the whole place reeked of stale food, dirty feet and pipe smoke.

Chaloner looked around in distaste, then rifled unenthusiastically through some papers in a chest. He was disappointed to find they were mostly receipts for the clothes that had been bought since the brothers’ arrival in London, along with demands for payment from exasperated tailors. Then he went upstairs, where there was plenty of evidence that the Penderels liked to entertain women, and a pool of something dark and sticky that he assumed was spilled wine.

The largest bedroom was marginally tidier than the others, and contained several items that told him it was occupied by Rupert, the eldest. Among them was a family Bible, in which someone had painstakingly drawn a family tree. Chaloner found the names of the five brothers who had helped the King escape after the Battle of Worcester, and saw that their relationship to the men currently in London was rather more distant than ‘cousin’. As he had suspected, the London Penderels were fortune-seekers, aiming to capitalise on the courage of remote kin. There was nothing else to find, though, so he left the house, taking care to secure the door behind him.

When he arrived at Hannah’s home, he was dismayed to find her entertaining. Lamps blazed in her parlour, and the sounds of merriment were loud enough to make him wonder whether she had invited half the Court. Someone was playing a trumpet, and the laughter was boisterous. He winced when he recognised Buckingham’s guffaw. Hannah was fond of the Duke, although Chaloner could not imagine why, and it was one of several things about which they disagreed vehemently.

He hesitated before going in. He had only known Hannah for a few months, and they still had a lot to learn about each other. There were occasions – and this night was one of them – when he wondered what it was that drew them together. She was lively, sociable and popular, while he was reticent with few real friends. Reviewing their relationship dispassionately, he suspected it had evolved because they were both lonely. He often asked himself whether it would last, and was always surprised to find himself hoping it would, although he could not have said why, other than the fact that he liked her. Perhaps that would be enough, and the differences in their characters would serve to unite, rather than divide them. But he wished she had not chosen that evening to have visitors, when all he wanted was to sleep. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

‘There you are,’ said Hannah, smiling as she came to meet him. She took his hand in hers. ‘You are freezing! Come and sit by the fire.’

‘There does not appear to be room,’ said Chaloner, pulling away because he was loath to be thrust into the midst of such a gay throng when he was tired and his shoulder hurt.

She grabbed his hand a second time. ‘Do not be silly, Tom! The Duke will not mind moving for you. I keep telling you that he is a lovely man.’

Chaloner was sure Buckingham
would
mind being asked to give up his fireside chair for one of his enemy’s retainers, and then there would be a scene. He disengaged himself again.

‘I cannot stay,’ he said apologetically. ‘There is something I must do. For Clarendon.’

Hannah rolled her eyes. She was small, with a face that was more striking than pretty. Like all the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, she was dressed in the height of fashion, with a tight-boned bodice that accentuated her slender figure, and long, full skirts that brushed the floor. Her fair hair was curled into ringlets, pressed flat across the top of her head and falling in coils at the sides.

‘Your Earl is a miserable old killjoy,’ she said crossly. ‘How can he order you to work so late? But at least come in for a glass of wine. There is music,’ she added, playing on his love for the viol.

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, tactfully declining to remark that it was not very good music. ‘But I really cannot stay. I just came to see if all was well with you.’

‘Actually,’ she said, easing him towards the door, so they could talk without being overheard, ‘it is not. Did you hear what happened to Jane Scarlet?’

‘Who is Jane Scarlet?’

‘The wife of Anthony Scarlet, Warden of the Bridge. Men broke into her house and raped her, forcing her husband to watch. And there was talk of a lighted torch . . .’ Hannah looked slightly sick.

Connections began to form in Chaloner’s mind. He recalled being told that the victim of the horrific assault lived in Turnstile, and that Scarlet and his wife had moved there from Chapel House while it was being renovated. Furthermore, Scarlet had been crying in St James’s Park that morning, and had looked ill and in low spirits later, when he and Senior Warden Hussey had arrived to sort out the traffic jam caused by the selfish Dowager. Now Chaloner understood why.

‘Jane and I have been friends for years,’ Hannah went on. ‘Why would anyone harm her?’

‘Perhaps because of her husband’s work?’ suggested Chaloner. There it was: the Bridge again.

Hannah wiped away the tears that had pooled in the corners of her eyes. ‘I doubt it! What can be contentious about being Warden of the Bridge?’

Chaloner had no reply.

‘Poor Jane!’ Hannah sniffed. ‘I could not bear the thought of being alone tonight, so I invited these friends over. I would not have done it, had I known you were certain to visit.’

He heard the admonition in her voice, but there was nothing he could do about the hours he was obliged to keep. He shot her a remorseful glance. ‘Do you want me to come back later?’

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘I doubt they will be gone before dawn, not if the Duke is here. Will you explore what happened to Jane? Whoever ordered the attack
must
be brought to justice.’

‘Ordered the attack?’ echoed Chaloner. ‘How do you know it was not a random act of violence, committed by men in their cups? You just said it can have nothing to do with her husband’s work.’

‘Because common robbers would have stolen something, but these villains did not,’ replied Hannah promptly, indicating that she had been mulling the matter over in her mind. ‘They broke into the house, assaulted Jane, and left. It was
not
a random act of violence. It was premeditated.’

‘Then do you think they wanted information from Scarlet, and used Jane to make him speak?’

Hannah regarded him soberly. ‘That is an unpleasant notion. Do you think that will happen to me one day, because of the work
you
do?’

It was something all spies dreaded. ‘My Earl’s most deadly enemy is in your parlour,’ Chaloner said with a smile, hoping to reassure her. It was not entirely true – Lady Castlemaine and Lord Bristol were just as dangerous, and so was the Dowager. ‘He will not let anything happen to you.’

Hannah forced a smile. ‘The Duke
is
fond of me. But will you look into the assault on Jane? Spymaster Williamson has promised to investigate, but I am not sure I trust him to do it properly.’

Chaloner was surprised. ‘Why not? It is an outrage committed against the wife of a city official. It is his responsibility
and
his duty to catch the culprits.’

Hannah lowered her voice. ‘Yes, but I did not like the expression in his eyes when he told the Duke he would do his best. It was not . . .
honest
. Do you know what I mean?’

Chaloner knew exactly what she meant. But the Spymaster would be furious if Chaloner meddled in one of his cases, and he had more than enough to do with his own enquiries.

‘Please,’ begged Hannah. ‘I want justice for Jane. Besides, you will not be doing it for her, but for all men whose occupations put their friends and families at risk. Ultimately, it will protect
me
.’

It was a sly argument, but one that had some merit. Perhaps catching and making an example of Jane’s attackers would make the point that such tactics were unacceptable, and would make London a safer place for Hannah. Reluctantly, Chaloner nodded that he would try.

‘You will need to interview her,’ she said. ‘But Surgeon Wiseman said she cannot have visitors until at least next Sunday. You had better not question her before then, lest it makes her more ill.’

‘Her husband might be a better source of information, anyway,’ said Chaloner. ‘He witnessed the attack, after all. Do you know where in Turnstile they live?’

‘In one of those small alleys that run between Holborn and Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I do not know which one precisely, but you will find it.’

Chaloner was touched by her confidence. ‘I understand Scarlet and Jane moved there because their home on the Bridge is being renovated.’

Hannah nodded. ‘The Dowager wanted Chapel House repaired, despite the fact that there is nothing wrong with it. She has taken quite an interest in the place, although no one is sure why.’

‘Do you think Jane’s rape and the renovation are connected?’ Chaloner could not see how, but it had to be more than coincidence that Chapel House was the focus of so many puzzling incidents.

Hannah shrugged. ‘I do not know. But
you
will find out if they are, and I feel much happier now I know you are looking into the matter. Safer, too.’

Chaloner kissed her, then slipped away into the night.

Bells were ringing when Chaloner awoke the next day, summoning people to their Sunday devotions. He yawned as he rose, aware of a slight stiffness in his lame leg – he had spent too much of the previous night prowling the damp, narrow lanes known as Turnstile, watching the Scarlet house and asking questions of late-night revellers as they returned to their homes.

Unfortunately, he had learned nothing to help him solve the crime. He had been too tired for such activities really, but the notion that Jane had been attacked because of her husband’s connection to the Bridge had lent a sense of urgency to the matter, and Chaloner had not returned to his rooms in Fetter Lane until well after two o’clock.

It had not taken him long to identify the Scarlet residence, because it had a new lock on the door. He had picked it with ease, and padded upstairs. A lamp was lit in one bedroom, and he had heard the Junior Warden talking to his wife within. The door to the other was firmly closed, and when Chaloner stepped inside, there was blood on the sheets and muddy footprints where a succession of people had tramped – not just the rapists, but the officials who had come to investigate afterwards.

His first task should have been to interview Scarlet, but he had heard Jane’s bitter weeping, and had felt her husband should not be dragged away from the business of comforting her. Instead, he had lit a candle and conducted a methodical search of the room where the atrocity had occurred.

He had uncovered two interesting facts. First, a crucifix nailed to the wall indicated the Scarlets were Catholic. And second, a strongbox under the bed contained legal documents, jewellery and, right at the very bottom, a small piece of paper covered in tiny writing. It was in cipher, and appeared to be identical to the note he had found in Blue Dick Culmer’s clothing.

He pondered the messages as he dressed the following morning. What could an iconoclast and a Warden of the Bridge have in common? It would not be religion, because they were at opposite ends of a spectrum – Blue Dick had destroyed the ‘papist images’ the Scarlets would revere.

Chaloner put the two papers on the table in the window, and studied them while he ate a breakfast of bread and salted fish. His cat, drawn by the smell, began to wind around his legs. He fed it, but it took only a mouthful before losing interest. He was not very good at providing it with regular meals, but it was sturdy and sleek, suggesting it was perfectly capable of fending for itself – the building’s ongoing battle with gravity meant the gap between the window and the wall was now so large that it could leave to hunt whenever it pleased.

As the sun rose, touching the rooftops with its wintry rays, the house began to make noises. Chaloner jumped when there was an especially loud creak, and found himself reaching for his sword. He glanced up, sure there were more cracks in the ceiling than there had been before he had gone to Wimbledon. There was more dust on the floor, too, and he wondered how long it would be before the place tumbled about his ears. As a precaution, he had taken his best viol and some clothes to Hannah’s house, and there was not much else he possessed of any value.

He glanced at his second-best viol, tempted to spare a few moments for music, but the day was wearing on, and he was apt to lose himself once he started playing. And he could not afford to squander time if he was to find out who killed Blue Dick, learn Herring’s plans, discover what the Dowager had in mind for Shrove Tuesday, and look into the assault on Jane Scarlet.

He turned his attention back to the two pieces of paper, then fetched pen and ink. Years ago, Thurloe had taught him the order of frequency in which letters appeared in the English language, and the list was indelibly imprinted on his mind. The most common was E, so he went through both messages, and discovered the letter most often used in them was R. Then he repeated the process for T, and so on. Unfortunately, what emerged was gibberish. Not a simple code, then, he thought, and decided to take them to Thurloe, who had a lot more experience in such matters.

When the bell in St Dunstan-in-the-West stopped chiming, Chaloner knew it was time to leave. The religious laws established by the Clarendon Code had resulted in a register being taken on Sundays, and any parishioner who absented himself was presumed to be Catholic or nonconformist. To Chaloner, who liked to keep a low profile and went to some trouble to stay off such lists, it was a nuisance. To others, it was an outrage – the state imposing its own brand of religion on citizens.