A Murder on London Bridge (2 page)

As his carriage passed under the arch, there was a sudden violent thud that made him jump and set his heart racing. Immediately, people started to shout, then laugh. It did not take the Earl long to realise what had happened. One of the heads had come off its pike, and had landed on the roof of his coach. The vile things dropped not infrequently, especially during windy weather, but the Earl was seized by the immediate and unshakable sense that it was an omen of evil to come.

He could not prevent a shudder as the head was brandished outside his window by a grinning apprentice. He told himself he was being fanciful – that the falling skull was a chance event, and meant nothing at all. But his stomach continued to roil, and gradually he accepted what he knew to be true, deep in his heart – it
was
an omen, and it boded ill for him, for the people who knew him, and for London.

Everything about ‘Blue Dick’ Culmer said he was about to do something illegal. He slunk along Thames Street in a way that could only be described as furtive, stopping every so often to duck into a doorway or lurk behind a stationary cart. Then he would peer back the way he had come, to see whether he was being followed.

Thomas Chaloner, spy for the Earl of Clarendon, was better able than most to melt invisibly into a crowd, but even he was struggling to stay out of sight. Unfortunately, the man who had been assigned to work with him that day was worse than hopeless, and Chaloner thought Blue Dick would have to be blind not to know Humphrey Leigh was on his tail.

‘I am getting tired of this,’ grumbled Leigh, as Chaloner hauled him out of sight behind a dray. He staggered slightly; Chaloner’s exasperation – with Leigh’s ineptitude as well as their quarry’s antics – had made him heavy handed. ‘We do not even know what he is supposed to have done.’

Leigh was the Earl’s Sergeant at Arms, a small, trim, truculent martinet, who had seen fit to wear an eye-catching scarlet coat that day. It was a spectacularly inappropriate choice of garment for surveillance work, and Chaloner could only suppose he was new to the business. Chaloner’s own clothes were an unmemorable shade of grey, and his brown hair was tucked under a nondescript wig – he had learned years before that intelligencers tended to live longer if no one noticed them, and he attributed reaching the grand old age of thirty-four to having perfected the art of ordinariness.

‘Well?’ demanded Leigh irritably, while they waited for their target to begin moving again. ‘Why did our Earl order us to follow him? It is a filthy morning, not fit for a dog to be out.’

Leigh was right about the weather. It was one of those dark, dreary, dank days Chaloner had come to associate with London. The sky was an unbroken dome of grey, and drizzle fell in a misty pall. It was cold, too, and the shallower puddles were turning to ice around the edges.

‘I imagine because he was one of William Dowsing’s cronies.’ Chaloner saw Leigh’s blank look, and elaborated. ‘Dowsing was the man appointed by Oliver Cromwell to destroy images of—’

‘Oh,
that
Dowsing,’ interrupted Leigh. ‘The iconoclast, who ruined our best churches by knocking the heads off statues, slashing paintings, and setting fire to altar rails and pulpits.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Blue Dick was responsible for despoiling Canterbury Cathedral.’

‘Was he, by God?’ Leigh’s eyes flashed with righteous indignation. ‘Then why are we skulking behind him? We should be chopping off his villainous hands. Damned fanatic!’

Chaloner also deplored what Dowsing and his zealous comrades had done, but there was no time to discuss the matter, because their target was on the move again. Chaloner began to follow, indicating with a wave of his hand that Leigh was to cross the street. Leigh either did not see the gesture, or chose to ignore it, because he fell into step at Chaloner’s side instead.

‘I know the iconoclasts have not plied their nasty trade in years, but they still deserve to hang,’ he declared. ‘So why does the Earl not order Blue Dick’s arrest? Is it because he is a vicar?’

‘The Earl did not say,’ replied Chaloner shortly, wishing Leigh would shut up and concentrate on the task in hand. The road was busy, and they would lose their quarry if they did not pay attention.

‘
I
would arrest him, if I were the Earl,’ Leigh went on, worrying at the subject like a dog with a bone. ‘Fanatics should not be allowed to wander around London as they please. It is not right.’

Chaloner was spared from having to comment, because Blue Dick had turned into Fish Street Hill, a wide thoroughfare with Leadenhall Market at one end and London Bridge at the other. The noise there was deafening – traders yelling, iron-shod wheels rattling on cobbles, and above it all, the river roaring under the Bridge like a never-ending roll of thunder. The racket was amplified by the tall houses that lined either side of the road. The assault on their ears was rivalled only by the one on their noses – unwashed bodies, horses, sewage, stagnant water, and the fish that was for sale in the line of makeshift booths that ran from one end of the road to the other.

‘He is going over the Bridge.’ Leigh was forced to bawl in Chaloner’s ear to make himself heard. ‘He must have business in Southwark, which does not surprise me. It is the place of choice for dark dealings.’

He and Chaloner joined the stream of folk aiming for the city’s only crossing of the mighty Thames. There was an unspoken, but universally agreed, law that kept everyone to the left. It did not always work. Sometimes a stranger or an obstreperous local ignored the rule, which invariably resulted in chaos. That dismal winter morning, however, traffic was moving fairly smoothly, and although the Bridge and its approach were tightly packed with pedestrians, livestock and vehicles of all descriptions, there was still forward momentum.

‘I dislike the Bridge,’ Leigh declared, stopping dead in his tracks to regard it in distaste. He ignored the jostles and resentful mutters of the people who were obliged to funnel around him. ‘So, I shall hire a boat and meet you on the other side. Blue Dick is less likely to spot us if we separate.’

It was a little late to be worrying about that, thought Chaloner acidly, but he nodded agreement, relieved to be rid of the irascible little soldier. He walked on alone. The ground rose sharply, and then he was on the Bridge itself. The roar of water was louder here, and he fancied he could feel the stones reverberating under his feet, shaking with the sheer raw power of it.

Londoners were proud of their Bridge. It spanned a river that was both wide and deep, and boasted nineteen arches, each a different shape and size, which stood on boat-shaped feet called starlings. Above the starlings were houses, some five storeys tall. As the city imposed no restriction on size or style, the result was a chaotic jumble of rooftops and chimneys. Many leaned towards each other, and structures called ‘haut-pas’ had been built between them, serving not only to shore them up, but providing additional rooms, too.

The northern end of the Bridge was devoid of buildings though, because a fire some thirty years before had destroyed them, and they had not yet been rebuilt. Traders had set up in the open space – Londoners called it ‘the Square’ – their stalls perilously close to the great cartwheels that lumbered past. Chaloner blinked when he reached the first of the houses, and their looming shadows turned the road from broad daylight into a murky gloom.

About halfway across, Blue Dick ducked into a building – a sign nailed to the wall outside declared it to be Chapel House. It was surrounded by scaffolding, which was a problem, because the bulky wooden struts did not leave enough room for two large vehicles to pass each other – one would need to yield, and no self-respecting London driver liked to demean himself with gratuitous courtesy. Chaloner glanced casually at it as he passed. The door was ajar, and he saw Blue Dick lurking in the shadows beyond. Feigning disinterest, he walked on.

After a few moments, he turned and retraced his steps. He passed Chapel House again, but the door was now closed. When he reached the Square, he stopped and pretended to inspect a display of dolphin tongues, keeping the building at the periphery of his vision. It was not long before his quarry emerged and began to head back towards the Square. Chaloner tensed. Had he been spotted, despite all his care, and Blue Dick was coming to confront him?

The iconoclast was pale and nervous, eyes darting everywhere. But they did not linger on Chaloner. Relieved, Chaloner let him pass, and was about to set off in pursuit again when the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. Something was wrong! He stayed put for a moment, and then saw it: Blue Dick was being followed by a man swathed in a dark cloak.

As if he sensed he had company, Blue Dick stopped and peered behind him. It was then that the cloaked man made his move. A knife flashed. Horrified, Chaloner broke cover and raced towards them. But it was too late. Blue Dick was toppling forwards with an agonised expression on his face. He was dead before he hit the ground.

There was nothing Chaloner could do for the hapless Blue Dick, so he turned to follow the killer instead. The man was moving at a rapid clip towards Southwark. Carters and carriage-drivers yelled angrily as he cut in front of them, startling their horses and making them swerve. The killer ignored them all, careful to keep his face hidden beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

Chaloner moved more discreetly, fast enough to keep up with his new quarry, but not so quick as to draw attention to himself. The killer broke into a run, but to leave the Bridge, he had to pass through the Stone Gate, and the Stone Gate was a bottleneck – not just because it constricted the road, but because pedestrians and drivers alike enjoyed slowing down to admire its display of traitors’ heads. Chaloner did not. Most of the skulls belonged to regicides – men who had signed the old king’s death warrant – and some had been friends of his family.

The killer was brought to a virtual standstill as the crowd filed through the narrow opening, but his agitated jostling did nothing to hasten his progress. Indeed, people stopped walking to shove him back, retarding the flow even further. But he managed to squeeze through eventually, racing ahead the moment he was free of the press. Chaloner was not far behind.

Leigh was on the far side of the gate, brazenly scanning the faces of those who passed. Chaloner supposed it was just as well Blue Dick was beyond caring, because Leigh would have given the game away in an instant. The scrutiny made the killer uneasy, too, because he edged away, to avoid passing the little soldier too closely.

‘Where is Blue Dick?’ Leigh demanded, when he saw Chaloner alone. ‘Did you lose him?’

‘Dead.’ Chaloner indicated the killer with a nod of his head. ‘Stabbed by him.’

Leigh’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘What? But why would—’

‘That is what we need to find out.’ Chaloner began to run, aware of Leigh turning to follow. He skidded to a standstill when the killer darted into a nearby church, and was almost bowled from his feet when Leigh barrelled into the back of him. He regained his balance without taking his eyes off the place. It was impressive, with a lofty central tower and elegant tracery in its Gothic windows.

‘That is St Mary Overie,’ mused Leigh. ‘Perhaps he is going to pray for forgiveness.’

Chaloner recalled the purposeful way the villain had moved before striking, and knew remorse had no part in his plans. ‘I suspect he is either going to divest himself of his killing clothes, or he is going to report to an accomplice. Either way, we need to—’

‘All right,’ said Leigh grimly, and began to stride towards the door before any sort of strategy could be discussed. ‘No one commits murder on
my
watch, not even of iconoclasts.’

Chaloner sighed, and wished the Earl employed more sensible men to serve him – or, if he did insist on populating his household with simpletons and lunatics, that he did not force him to work alongside them.

Leigh had moved fast, and was inside the church by the time Chaloner caught up with him. There was no sign of the killer, and Chaloner grabbed Leigh’s arm to prevent him from storming up the aisle to look for him.

‘What?’ demanded the little soldier irritably, freeing himself with a scowl. ‘Do you want to lay hands on this scoundrel or not? If you dally, he might escape.’

‘But if we arrest him and he refuses to talk, what then?’ asked Chaloner with quiet reason. ‘We need to tell the Earl
why
Blue Dick is murdered. And the best way to do that is by seeing where the culprit goes and who he meets.’

Leigh stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well. We shall sneak around like thieves then, if that is what you want. Follow me. I am a skilled soldier, decorated in battle. I know what I am doing.’

Chaloner refrained from remarking that if Leigh was among the best the Royalist army had to offer, then it was small wonder they had lost the civil wars.

‘No, we need to separate,’ he said, struggling for patience as he seized the man’s wrist a second time. ‘Watch him from two different angles, to ensure we do not miss anything. So you take the south side, and I will take the north.’

Leigh rolled his eyes at the need for such tactics, but obligingly strode towards the area Chaloner had indicated, booted feet slapping on the flagstones. The racket he made obviated any need for stealth, but Chaloner moved silently anyway, out of habit, as he made his way through the northern part of the church.

St Mary Overie was an attractive place, full of yellow-grey pillars that soared up to a yellow-grey roof. It smelled of damp plaster and the decorative greenery that had been placed in the windows by parishioners. Because the day was overcast, the light filtering through the soot-coated windows was dim, and the building was full of shadows.

The killer was in the north transept, and Chaloner reached him before Leigh. But the fellow was not alone. He was with six others, all clad in wide-brimmed hats and anonymous cloaks. Their lower faces were covered by the kind of scarves designed to protect the wearer from London’s foul air, but which were also favoured as disguises by the criminal fraternity.