A Murder on London Bridge (17 page)

‘And he went to Rider’s Coffee House in Chancery Lane, where he met Thurloe.’

‘I do not believe you,’ said Chaloner, although his stomach churned, and he suspected the tale was true, because even Prynne would not fabricate such a tale and repeat it to Thurloe’s friends.

‘They did not talk long,’ Prynne went on smugly. ‘Then Herring left. It may have been an innocent encounter – both worked for the Commonwealth, after all, and may have been friends. Or it may have been sinister. That is for you to decide.’

If Prynne had been a younger man, Chaloner would have grabbed him by the throat and threatened him with all manner of reprisals if he told anyone else what he claimed to have seen. Prynne seemed to sense his thoughts, because he took a step away and wagged his finger.

‘Do not worry, I will not blab to anyone else. Thurloe may be a reprobate, but he is a fellow member of Lincoln’s Inn, so I owe him the benefit of the doubt. But my eyes and ears will be open, and I will not stand by while treason is done. You can tell him that.’

‘Thurloe is no traitor,’ declared Chaloner vehemently.

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Prynne grinned again. ‘But it seems a visit to the Bridge is in order for you. Do it tomorrow, though. It will be more crowded then than on a Sunday, which will give you more cover. But be careful. I would not like the Earl of Clarendon to lose a faithful servant.’

Chaloner had every intention of being careful.

The rest of the day was spent trying to learn more about the choir in which an iconoclast, a regicide and a Royalist gunpowder expert had sung. Chaloner managed to track down several other members of the ensemble, but they all said the consort had broken up when Will Goff had fled for his life at the Restoration, and had not met since. He was surprised to learn that Prynne had been right: all three
had
set aside their religious and political convictions for music, and although they had not been friends, there was no hint of any unpleasantness between them.

Eventually, he walked across the Bridge to St Mary Overie, intending to talk to its vicar. When he arrived, he found the cleric in a state of high agitation, because three prelates had descended unannounced on his Sunday service. The bishops of Hereford, Salisbury and Rochester were in London for the Earl’s dinner, and were apparently amusing themselves by picking random churches and sitting in the front row together in full ecclesiastical regalia.

‘Rochester took notes all through my sermon,’ the vicar wailed. He was a plump, red-faced fellow by the name of John Feake. ‘Salisbury fell asleep, and Hereford kept shaking his head.’

Chaloner struggled to keep a straight face. ‘Would you have given a different homily, had you known they were coming?’

‘Well, I certainly would not have tackled the Book of Revelation, which I have never really understood anyway. Damn Clarendon and his Bishops’ Dinner!’

‘Are many prelates coming to this repast, then?’ The Earl had talked about little else since Chaloner had arrived back from Wimbledon, but, bored with it, Chaloner had stopped listening.

‘All of them, except Gloucester and Oxford – and I am told they are desperately trying to worm their way out of previous engagements, so as not to miss it.’

‘Why are they so keen?’ asked Chaloner, puzzled. ‘It is only a meal.’

‘The Bishop of London told me last year that it was the best event he had ever attended. And Clarendon promised it will be even better this year. I assure you, it is far more than just a meal.’

It was all very interesting, but not relevant to the choir that had contained Blue Dick, Winter and Will Goff. Unfortunately, Feake could tell Chaloner nothing about the ensemble that had practised in his church, other than that it had been good enough to perform at several state occasions, and that there was never trouble between its members. They left politics and religion at the door, he said, and although the three men had not been close, they had treated each other with courtesy and respect.

‘So this choir really has been disbanded,’ concluded Chaloner.

‘Yes, when Will Goff fled to New England, to avoid being executed for king-killing.’

‘Then what do you know about the armed men who use your church for covert meetings?’

Feake regarded Chaloner askance. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Oh, I think you do. They seemed quite at home when I encountered them here, and I am told they gather on a regular basis. They are unlikely to do that without your consent.’

Feake was indignant and angry. ‘How dare you make such accusations! I know nothing about any masked men. And you must leave now, because I am about to lock up.’ He rattled his keys.

‘I never said they were masked,’ pounced Chaloner. ‘I said they were armed.’

Feake became flustered. ‘Armed, masked, it is all the same. I cannot help you.’

‘The Earl of Clarendon does not take kindly to men who hinder his investigations.’

Feake regarded him in horror. ‘Clarendon sent you? But I do not
know
anything! They keep their faces covered, and I have no idea who they are. Then on Friday evening, just after Blue Dick died, their leader gave me a bag of coins for the poor, and said I would not be seeing them again.’

‘Damn!’ murmured Chaloner. ‘So they paid you to be here?’

‘They provided funds for the poor,’ corrected Feake stiffly. ‘I saw no harm in letting them use the place. They were always respectful, which is more than can be said for some of our visitors.’

‘You must have some idea of their—’

‘Well, I do not,’ snapped Feake. ‘You may think me incurious, but it is safer that way in these uncertain times. The poor were grateful for the money, and that is all I care about. I do not know their names. I do not know what they discussed. I do not even know how many of them there were, because I cannot be certain it was the same men who came each time.’

‘Then what reason did they give for wanting to be here?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Surely, a tavern would have served them better?’

‘They met mostly at night,’ said Feake, elbowing him out of the door and jabbing one of his keys in the lock. ‘Southwark taverns tend to be crowded then, and there is always a danger that Spymaster Williamson’s men might be watching. My church is usually empty after dark, and it is safe, quiet and has back doors for easy escapes.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘All that suggests you think their business was not legal.’

Feake began to walk away, calling over his shoulder. ‘I was not paid enough to think.’

Chaloner left Southwark feeling as though he had wasted a whole day. It was already dark, and a persistent drizzle made the wheels of carts swish as they drove along the streets. He trudged back across the Bridge, and paused outside Chapel House, wondering whether it might be a good time to explore it. But the door opened and Hussey stepped out. He was with Scarlet and several workmen, and they were talking about tasks to be completed the following day. Scarlet looked as though he did not care, but Hussey was arguing furiously. The debate looked set to continue for some time, and Chaloner did not feel like waiting in the wet, so he turned towards home.

He arrived to find rain coming through the roof. He set bowls to catch the drips, covered his second-best viol with the tarpaulin he kept for such a purpose, and set out for the greater comfort of Hannah’s house. He took a hackney carriage, and when he alighted, the first thing he saw was an enormous pile of rubbish that had been put outside her door for the laystall men to collect. It included four wine kegs, and he could only assume that an excellent time had been had by all.

He knocked, to let her know he was coming, then made his way inside. He was a little surprised to find two men asleep on the floor, and even more startled by the chaos – goblets and crockery strewn all about, not all of it in one piece, and discarded food everywhere. There was even, he noted with distaste, some adhering to the ceiling. He found Hannah in the kitchen.

‘You should move house,’ he recommended. ‘It will be easier than cleaning this one.’

Hannah laughed. ‘The Duke said it was one of the best soirees he has ever attended.’

‘Was that before or after he started breaking pots and lobbing syllabub?’

‘After, I think. He is always a man for fun, bless him. It is a pity you did not arrive ten minutes earlier, because you would have met him. He has only just left.’

Chaloner regarded her warily. ‘You mean he has been here since yesterday – he stayed last night and all of today?’

‘Everyone did. I slipped out to attend mass this morning, but when I came back the party was still in full swing.’ Hannah smiled fondly. ‘The Duke knows how to have a good time.’

‘Christ!’ Chaloner wondered whether the man took some sort of medicine to keep him going. He also wondered about Hannah, unsettled that he had not appreciated her to be the kind of woman who was willing and able to host a soiree of such uncommon length. It underlined to him yet again that they did not know each other very well. But then he looked at her humorous blue eyes, and the way her mouth had quirked upwards into a smile, and found his doubts evaporating. Did it really matter that they were so different, as long as she induced in him a warm feeling of contentment and an accompanying desire to cherish her?

Hannah cocked her head as bells began to chime. ‘Is it really that late? I had better go. I promised to accompany Her Majesty to church again tonight, because her own chaplain is unwell and the Dowager is lending hers. The Queen is shy with strangers, and wants me to be there.’

‘The Dowager’s chaplain?’ asked Chaloner, dragging his thoughts away from romance and its attendant complications. ‘You mean Stephen Goff?’

‘You know him?’

Chaloner shook his head, but Father Stephen was on his list of people to interview. He wanted to ask whether the priest had heard anything more about Herring’s plans, and about his brother’s musical relationship with Winter and Blue Dick.

‘I will come with you,’ he offered. ‘The streets had an unsafe feel to them tonight.’

She smiled as she grabbed her winter coat. ‘Thank you, Tom. That is very thoughtful.’

Chaloner experienced a twinge of guilt. It was hardly fair to use Hannah to gain access to witnesses. But then he recalled his wasted day, and reminded himself that he needed answers if he was to solve his mysteries. He winced when she began to extol his gallantry further.

‘Temperance and Wiseman want to meet you,’ he said, hastily changing the subject. Of course, it was not one that was any more comfortable for him – an evening with three such disparate personalities promised to be taxing, to say the least.

To his surprise, Hannah seemed pleased. ‘I like Wiseman. He is kind and gentle.’

Chaloner would not have used words like ‘kind’ or ‘gentle’ to describe the surgeon, when ‘arrogant’ and ‘prickly’ sprung more readily to mind. It reminded him that Hannah was capable of forming her own opinions, and rarely let the views of others influence her. It was something he admired, although he had a bad feeling it would lead to arguments between them in the future.

‘I am sure I shall like Temperance, too,’ Hannah went on, as they stepped over the recumbent forms of the last two revellers, and began to walk towards White Hall. ‘But you cannot entertain them in your rooms, Tom – I fed your cat when you were in Wimbledon, and plaster kept dropping off the ceiling. It would be a pity if one of us was brained as we dined.’

‘It is not that bad,’ objected Chaloner. ‘And I can—’

‘So they must come to me instead. I shall arrange for something to be cooked in the palace kitchens. Unless you think they might like a pickled ling pie? It is my speciality, as you know.’

Chaloner was all too familiar with that particular creation, but doubted whether Temperance, who was used to fine food, would be impressed, while Wiseman might well deem it a health hazard. Hannah continued to make plans, and he supposed her long hours in the company of Buckingham and his cronies had dulled the shock of Jane Scarlet’s assault, because she seemed her usual self again. But when they reached White Hall, she stopped and took his arm.

‘I have been thinking. Perhaps you should
not
look into what happened to Jane. It occurs to me that it might be dangerous, and I do not want you hurt on my account.’

‘I can look after myself.’

She touched his cheek. ‘I know, but it is not worth the risk. Not to me. Perhaps I was wrong to distrust Spymaster Williamson. As you said last night, it
is
his duty to catch the culprits.’

‘Did Buckingham tell you that?’ he asked, not sure what to make of her change of heart.

She looked vaguely offended. ‘No, he did not – although he did say that whoever carried out the attack must be exceptionally ruthless. And he said he was grateful
he
was not obliged to investigate, which made me realise I was wrong to have asked you. I would like you to forget the matter.’

Chaloner followed Hannah across White Hall’s Great Court, and then up the wide marble staircase to the Queen’s private apartments. These comprised a suite of rooms that overlooked the river, and were pleasant in summer. During the winter, they were damp and miserable.

One of the smaller chambers had been converted into a chapel, to allow Queen Katherine to practise her faith in private. She spent a lot of time in it, mostly praying for a son – it had been two years since she had married, and although Lady Castlemaine had produced a pair of royal brats in that time, the Queen remained childless. There were rumours that she was barren, or was part of a Catholic plot to deprive England of a legitimate heir. Her bewildered loneliness tore at Chaloner’s heart every time he saw her.

The mass had already started when he and Hannah slipped in at the back. Father Stephen had a good voice, and performed the rites with a deft confidence that was quite unlike the nervous, fumbling fellow Chaloner had seen at Somerset House and Temperance’s brothel.