A Murder on London Bridge (18 page)

When the service was over, Hannah went to join the other ladies-in-waiting, who were talking about Jane Scarlet. Chaloner overheard one say that Wiseman had announced an improvement, but Jane was still allowed no visitors, lest overexertion should disturb her humours.

Meanwhile, her devotions completed, the Queen stood to leave. Unfortunately, her ladies were more interested in their discussion than their obligations, and did not notice. Hannah was usually dutiful in that respect, but her back was to the door. Then Katherine saw Chaloner, and her forlorn, haunted face broke into a smile. It transformed her, and Chaloner looked around uneasily, afraid someone else would see the expression and assume something inappropriate was going on.

‘Thomas Chaloner,’ she said, beckoning him forward. ‘Where is your Earl these days? He used to visit me regularly, but I have barely seen him in weeks.’

She spoke Portuguese, a language Chaloner knew from his duties overseas, and he suspected her pleasure at seeing him was largely because he represented a respite from her struggles with English.

‘He is busy organising his Bishops’ Dinner, ma’am,’ he explained. ‘He thinks of little else.’

‘He thinks about these horrible religious laws – the Clarendon Code,’ said the Queen unhappily. ‘I wish he would distance himself from them and refuse the villains who devise them permission to use his name. Not only do they suppress my fellow Catholics, but they are causing division among Anglicans – between those who think they are too harsh, and those who think they are not harsh enough. The whole business will end in tears, I fear, and he will be blamed.’

Chaloner was acutely uncomfortable with the discussion. While he liked the Queen, it was not a good idea to criticise government policy with her. Not for either of them.

The Queen saw his unease, and tactfully changed the subject. She nodded towards her ladies. ‘They are chatting about Jane Scarlet, although they speak too fast for me to understand. Is she ill?’

‘She was attacked by men who broke into her house.’ Chaloner was unsure how much detail to provide; the Queen was easily distressed, and Hannah would be furious if he said anything to give her nightmares. ‘Her husband was unable to fend them off.’

The Queen’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, how terrible! I did not know her well, but I met her at Somerset House on several occasions. She was with her husband, the Junior Warden.’

‘You visit Somerset House?’ Chaloner could not imagine why, because it was likely to be full of people who would not be very nice to her, such as Buckingham and Lady Castlemaine.

‘The Dowager invites me there. I sit in a corner, ignored, while her cronies chat to each other. They think I cannot understand them, but I do. I know Lord Bristol is not in France, for example.’

‘He is in London?’ Katherine’s English was improving slowly, so Chaloner supposed she might have caught something the Dowager’s friends would rather have kept secret. Then he realised he was interrogating her like one of his suspects. Fortunately, she did not seem to notice.

‘I am not sure whether he is actually in
London
, because they gabbled that part. However, I think they said that when he appears, they will mark his return by holding a celebration on the Bridge.’

‘What sort of celebration?’ asked Chaloner, surmising it would be at Nonesuch House. Winter, like Bristol, was Catholic, and the pair might well be friends.

‘A religious one, something to do with St Thomas Becket. They mentioned his bones.’

‘His bones?’ asked Chaloner sceptically. Perhaps her English was not as good as she thought.

She nodded fervently. ‘Holy relics.’

Chaloner frowned. Becket’s remains had been destroyed during the Reformation. Of course, the Bridge’s old oratory – demolished and rebuilt as Chapel House – had been dedicated to the saint, so he supposed that lay at the root of the Queen’s misunderstanding.

‘Sir John Winter is going to make some fireworks for the occasion,’ she went on when he made no reply. ‘He is something of an expert on them, apparently.’

‘You should be careful, ma’am,’ warned Chaloner. While he doubted the Somerset House folk had let her overhear anything overtly seditious, it was unwise for a Catholic queen to be party to discussions involving things that exploded. ‘You might learn something you wish you had not – something that may be dangerous for you. Perhaps you should decline these invitations in future.’

‘But they are the only ones I ever receive!’ cried Katherine. ‘A barren queen is not someone people rush to befriend, you know.’

Chaloner winced. ‘Can you not ask the Dowager to visit you instead?’

Katherine looked as if she might cry. ‘Yes, but then I will never leave White Hall!’

Chaloner did not know what to say, and his heart bled for her as she walked away. Her ladies were still chatting, but broke off when he announced in a ringing voice that the Queen was leaving. Hannah ran to catch up with her mistress, but the others followed at their own pace.

Chaloner lingered in the chapel when the royal entourage had gone, waiting for Father Stephen to emerge from the vestry. He wondered whether he should have kept his advice to himself, but on reflection, he knew he had done the right thing. Katherine was an innocent where Court politics were concerned, and was in an acutely vulnerable position. It was not safe for her to go around reporting half-understood conversations about explosives.

It was not long before Father Stephen appeared. He was flanked by the Dowager’s henchmen, Doucett and Martin, and when Chaloner stepped forward to speak, Doucett shoved him away.

‘Piss off,’ he said in his highly accented English. He rounded on Stephen when the priest started to object. ‘We promised to take you back to the Dowager as soon as the Queen’s mass was over. There is no time for chatting with . . .’ He flicked a dismissive hand at Chaloner.

Fortunately, there was no recognition in his pugilistic features, and Chaloner supposed it had been too dark for the pair to know he was the intruder they had chased two nights before.

‘I need to speak to Father Stephen,’ he said. ‘On a personal matter. It will not take long.’

‘I told you to piss off,’ snarled Doucett shoving him again, harder this time. Martin began to draw his sword. ‘Or do you
want
to die?’

With a sigh of resignation, because he had no desire to resort to violence, Chaloner leapt forward and slammed Doucett’s head into Martin’s before either realised what he was going to do. Both dropped to the floor, stunned. Father Stephen gaped at him.

‘Are you here to murder me?’ The priest looked terrified, but made no effort to run. ‘Because I am Catholic and in the service of an unpopular woman? I suppose I should not be surprised. People hate me – they are always yelling abuse and throwing things at me in the streets.’

‘I just want to talk.’ Chaloner raised his hands to show he meant no harm. ‘A friend sent me.’

Stephen did not look reassured. ‘What did you want to talk about?’ he asked shakily. ‘But before you start, I swear I have already passed on all there is to know about the gunpowder.’

‘What gunpowder?’ asked Chaloner. Perhaps the Queen had not misheard after all.

Stephen became flustered. ‘The gunpowder I have already discussed with Spymaster Williamson. You
are
one of his men?’ His hands flew to his mouth. ‘You are not! Oh, Lord!’

‘I am in the Lord Chancellor’s retinue. My name is Thomas Chaloner.’

Stephen gaped at him, then closed his eyes and crossed himself in relief. ‘Chaloner? Thank God! The Earl told me about you and your fighting skills. I should have known it was you by the way you dealt with Doucett and Martin.’

Chaloner was not amused. How could he operate as an intelligencer, if the Earl discussed him with strangers? ‘You mentioned gunpowder,’ he prompted, a little curtly.

‘I mentioned there is no more to learn about it. You see, the Earl found out that Winter had acquired some from the Master of Ordnance, but it is just for fireworks. The Dowager is holding a ball on Shrove Tuesday, and these fireworks will form part of her celebrations.’

‘I heard they were going to be ignited on the Bridge.’

Stephen regarded him askance. ‘I sincerely doubt it! Its houses are made of wood, and they would catch fire. Besides, the wardens would never agree to it, and rightly so.’

‘You told the Earl about the iconoclasts gathering, too,’ said Chaloner, turning to another matter. Doucett and Martin were stirring, and he wanted to be gone before they regained their senses.

Father Stephen lowered his voice and began to speak quickly, pulling Chaloner away from the groaning bodyguards. ‘I spotted Blue Dick Culmer, Herring and several other one-time church-smashers in Southwark a few days ago. I
had
to inform someone about the matter, because if they intend to make trouble, they must be stopped.’

‘Why choose the Earl?’

‘Because we have been friends for years, and I trust him. Besides, who else is there? People will say I am trying to make trouble for Anglicans if I report that sort of thing to just anyone.’

‘But you are taking an enormous risk, passing intelligence to the Dowager’s enemy. Then there is the fact that you are Catholic – the Earl is busily trying to suppress your religion.’

Stephen fixed him with agonised eyes. ‘Do you think I do not know all that? I live in constant fear of being caught, and the Clarendon Code is one of the most wicked pieces of legislation ever to be written. But I cannot sit by while my poor country is plunged into yet more civil unrest.’

‘Civil unrest that may see Catholics emerge with greater freedom,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘No freedom is worth death and violence,’ argued Stephen passionately. ‘Moreover, I love my Church, and do not want it stained with the loss of a single life. If there is a way to prevent bloodshed, then I shall do my utmost to pursue it.’

It was a noble stance, and one Chaloner applauded, but it was clear that it was costing Stephen dear – his nails were bitten to the quick, and his hands shook even as he stood talking. Chaloner hoped the priest would not snap under the very considerable strain.

‘One more question,’ said Chaloner urgently, glancing at the Frenchmen. ‘Your brother Will—’

‘My brother no more,’ interrupted Stephen sadly but firmly. ‘What Will did was unconscionable, and he brought shame to our family. He fled to New England when he realised his misdeeds were about to catch up with him, and I hope he stays there for ever. I bear him no malice – he had his own twisted reasons for murdering God’s anointed – but I am finished with him.’

‘Perhaps so, but have you heard whether he is—’

‘I have heard nothing about him, and nor will I,’ declared Stephen. ‘As far as I am concerned, he is dead. Now, we shall say no more on the matter, if you do not mind. The subject is too painful.’

‘I am sorry, I—’

‘Go,’ urged Stephen, when Doucett started to sit up. ‘I will tell this pair that you wanted to confide your sins, and they will not press me about it – they are Catholic, and appreciate the sanctity of confession. If I have more information for the Earl, I will find a way to send it. But please do not approach me yourself. It is too dangerous – for both of us.’

Chapter 5

The next day was bright and clear, and London sparkled, as if the rain had washed away some of its grime. Chaloner woke when his cat jumped on his bed, and the creature was lucky not to be skewered when his dagger slipped into his hand before he was properly cognisant.

He stood, stretched, and walked to the window. The dawn sky was tinged pink and orange, and he recalled his friend Will Leybourn once telling him that such hues were caused by light reflecting off dust particles in the atmosphere. Chaloner had not been sure whether to believe him – science under Charles II was being given rather a free rein, and all sorts of eccentric theories were being aired. He heard one shortly thereafter, when he went to the Rainbow Coffee House.

‘What news?’ called the owner, James Farr, as he entered. It was the traditional coffee-house greeting, but Chaloner was spared from having to reply, because someone was behind him. It was Joseph Thompson, the gentle rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West.

‘The men at Gresham College weighed London’s air on Saturday,’ Thompson announced. He sounded impressed. ‘And now they are going to Tenerife, which we all know is the highest point on Earth, where they will repeat the experiment. They expect the two airs to weigh different amounts.’

‘Of course they will be different,’ declared Farr scornfully. ‘London’s will be heavier because it is full of soot. What news?’

The last remark was addressed to the next patron through his door, a man Chaloner recognised from previous visits to the Rainbow as a cheerful young printer named Fabian Stedman.

‘A pinnacle dropped off St Paul’s Cathedral last night,’ replied Stedman, wedging himself on the bench between Chaloner and Thompson. ‘It caused a horse to bolt, throwing the rider.’

‘We already know that,’ said Farr, setting three dishes on the table and pouring a dense black sludge into them. Chaloner regarded it without enthusiasm, wondering what it was about the beverage that was so popular. ‘The rider was Progers, the King’s procurer of whores and one of the Dowager’s creatures. But he was unharmed, more is the pity.’

‘Now, now,’ admonished Thompson sternly. ‘That is not a Christian thing to say.’

‘Progers is not a Christian,’ countered Farr. ‘He is Catholic. And rumour has it that the papists are planning something terrible for our city. They resent the sensible laws in the Clarendon Code, you see, and are determined to have their revenge on us.’

‘Stop,’ ordered Thompson sharply. ‘That kind of talk does no one any good.’

‘It does
me
good,’ countered Farr. ‘I am tired of turning a blind eye to the danger they represent. And something bad
is
about to happen, because there have been omens. The old king’s ghost was seen outside the Banqueting House last night, weeping for his lost crown. And Phillippes, who invented the tide-ring, says something peculiar is happening to the Thames. It is disturbed.’