A Murder on London Bridge (27 page)

‘I have seen you before,’ she said, licking her lips. ‘At White Hall. Who are you?’

‘I work in the Accompting House,’ lied Chaloner, selecting the most tedious occupation he could think of, in the hope that it would prevent her from asking questions about it.

‘Is that so? Do all accompters burst into the rooms of ex-spymasters with drawn weapons, then?’

‘Like many dutiful Royalists, he likes to amuse himself at the expense of hapless old Roundheads,’ explained Thurloe tightly. He turned to Chaloner with a pained expression, making it clear that his friend had seriously overstepped the mark. ‘Now please leave.’

‘Please stay,’ countered Lady Castlemaine, eyeing Chaloner from under her lashes. It made her look wanton. ‘John and I are discussing the Clarendon Code, a most wicked piece of mischief.’

‘
John?
’ echoed Chaloner, scarcely believing his ears. Even he did not address Thurloe with such familiarity. ‘And the Clarendon Code is hardly a suitable subject for—’

‘John makes no secret of his disdain for it,’ interrupted Lady Castlemaine, clearly enjoying his discomfiture. ‘He denounces it in coffee houses and—’

‘He does not,’ declared Chaloner hotly. ‘He gave up politics when the Commonwealth fell, and spends his time . . .’ How
did
Thurloe spend his time? Chaloner realised he was not exactly sure.

‘No one gives up politics in London,’ said the Lady, favouring him with a slow, lazy smirk. ‘It would be like giving up air. But join us by the fire, and prepare to have your eyes opened in a way you never imagined possible.’

Chaloner was not sure he liked the sound of that, and saw there was nothing for it but to bow to her and take his leave. Thurloe accompanied him to the door.

‘I am sorry,’ Chaloner said, as he was ushered out. ‘I thought there was someone inside with a gun to your head. I was trying to—’

‘If there had been, your dramatics would have seen my brains spattered across half of Lincoln’s Inn,’ Thurloe remarked drily. ‘Besides, do I
look
as if I need your help?’

‘Well, no,’ admitted Chaloner uncomfortably. ‘Are you . . .’

He hesitated, not sure how to phrase the question. He had always assumed Thurloe was faithful to his wife, not only because of his religious principles, but because he loved her. And yet Chaloner had always been surprised that he should spend so much time in London while Ann stayed in Oxfordshire. However, to pick the King’s mistress for a dalliance was rash, to say the least.

‘Hurry up, John,’ came Lady Castlemaine’s sultry voice. ‘I am bored on my own. Either send the fellow away, or let him come back and entertain me. He looks like a man who—’

‘Go,’ ordered Thurloe, elbowing Chaloner through the door. ‘And the next time you come, perhaps you might wait for an invitation before bursting in.’

Mind reeling, Chaloner left Lincoln’s Inn. It was dusk, and he wanted nothing more than to be with Hannah. As he passed the Penderel brothers’ house, he heard raised voices, although the words were too muffled to make out. He was tempted to keep walking – he had had enough for one day – but his sense of duty prevailed. He knocked on the door, thinking that although he had already ascertained that they did not know Edward’s whereabouts, they still might be able to tell him
why
their brother had killed Blue Dick. And whether they were among the masked men at St Mary Overie.

He jumped back smartly when the door was whipped open. Rupert, the oldest and biggest, held a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. He peered at Chaloner.

‘The Earl of Clarendon’s henchman,’ he said in distaste. ‘My brothers and I did not recognise you earlier today when Progers took a tumble, or we might have run you through for your poor choice of masters. What do you want?’

‘Edward was seen with bloodstained hands shortly after a murder,’ said Chaloner, deciding on a blunt approach. ‘In the gardens of Winchester Palace. And there is a witness who saw him commit the crime. I would like to hear Edward’s side of the story.’

For a moment, Rupert did nothing but stare. Then he stood aside, and indicated Chaloner was to enter the house. Chaloner hesitated, although he understood why Rupert was loath to discuss such a matter in the street. Reluctantly, he stepped inside, then watched uneasily as Oliver and Neville approached from the kitchen, trapping him between them. He rested his hand on the butt of his gun, but did not draw it, preferring to see what he could learn peaceably before resorting to violence.

‘You want Edward’s side of the story?’ demanded Oliver, scarred hands clenched into angry fists at his sides. ‘Well, here it is: he is innocent.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I think the courts will need a little more than that to convince them.’

‘Spymaster Williamson sent one of his creatures to see us last night,’ snarled Oliver. ‘Swaddell. He told us there was a witness in the form of Phillippes the dial-maker. But Phillippes is lying.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner quietly.

‘For many reasons,’ replied Rupert, gesturing that Oliver was to leave him to do the talking. ‘Perhaps he was paid to lie – the Dowager likes us, because our brave cousins helped the King escape all those years ago, but some folk are jealous of her affection for us. Then there is a tale that one of us intends to marry her, which we cannot do if the family is discredited. Take your pick.’

But Neville was more astute than his older brothers. He narrowed his eyes as he considered what Chaloner had said. ‘Swaddell did not mention that Edward was seen with bloodstained hands. That means there is a
second
witness. Who is it?’

‘Yes, who?’ demanded Oliver, drawing a knife. ‘Then we can pay
him
a visit, and teach
him
what happens to those who fabricate nasty tales about the Penderels.’

‘Wait,’ ordered Rupert, raising a hand to prevent Oliver from lunging. ‘Our visitor might volunteer the information willingly – there may be no need for further bloodshed.’

‘
Further
bloodshed?’ echoed Chaloner. The dagger from his sleeve was in the palm of one hand, while the fingers of the other gripped the dag. Oliver would come nowhere near him.

‘Swaddell,’ explained Rupert. ‘
He
will make no more vile, spiteful accusations to slander Edward’s good name. Oliver saw to that. He trounced him thoroughly.’

Chaloner was astounded. Swaddell was Williamson’s best agent, a vicious, efficient assassin, who would not have been easy to overcome.

‘If you did assault Swaddell, there will be trouble,’ he said warningly. ‘Williamson has a long memory, and access to criminals who will kill anyone for a shilling.’

‘We can best any of them,’ bragged Oliver confidently.

‘No, we cannot,’ said young Neville. He shrugged when Oliver regarded him in surprise. ‘We know how to wield an honest sword, but we are no match for the kind of villain
he
is talking about. We should leave London, as I have been telling you this last hour. I said from the start that it was not a good idea to come here, and I was right. Let us go, while we still can.’

‘Not without Edward,’ said Rupert. ‘Besides, there is more to be had from White Hall yet.’

Chaloner was disgusted by his brazen rapacity. ‘If your brother is innocent, he will not prove it by hiding. He needs to tell the authorities his version—’

‘He has been missing since Sunday,’ interrupted Neville shortly. ‘We do not know where he is. I only wish we did, because we are worried sick!’

‘So we shall have the name of your second witness,’ said Oliver, fingering his dagger threateningly. ‘Perhaps he knows Edward’s whereabouts.’

‘He does not, because it is me,’ said Chaloner, loath for them to guess it was the Earl. ‘I saw Blue Dick murdered, and I followed the culprit to St Mary Overie, where he met with six others. I fought them, but they escaped.’

‘Well, it was not us,’ said Oliver dangerously.

‘Then help me find the truth,’ urged Chaloner. ‘Tell me who might benefit from seeing Edward – and perhaps the rest of you, too – implicated in a capital crime.’

There was an uncomfortable exchange of glances, then Rupert indicated Oliver was to sheath his dagger. Oliver glowered, making it clear he thought his brothers were making a mistake by talking to the Earl’s man, but he lowered the weapon. He did not put it away, however.

‘We have so many enemies that I barely know where to start,’ Neville began, and the expression on his face said he was appalled by the situation in which he found himself. ‘We are hated for our Catholicism
and
for the favour the Dowager shows us.’

‘Then who are your friends?’ asked Chaloner, coming at the problem from another angle. In White Hall, not everyone who smiled was an ally, something the brothers had yet to learn.

‘We have lots,’ declared Oliver sullenly. ‘The most important being the King.’

But Neville shook his head. ‘He found us amusing at first, because he likes to recount the tale of his escape after the Battle of Worcester. But we were not the ones who helped him, and he is disappointed when we cannot supply the details he has forgotten.’

‘Perhaps so,’ acknowledged Rupert reluctantly. ‘But what about Buckingham, Progers and Lady Castlemaine? They are great companions, and we are always carousing with them.’

‘They tolerate us,’ said Neville flatly. ‘But I think it is time we cut our losses and left. God only knows what has happened to Edward, but I do not want to be the next to disappear.’

‘He will turn up,’ said Oliver, although he did not sound convinced. ‘And why should we leave when our pockets are only half-full? If we go now, we will spend the rest of our lives regretting it.’

‘Besides,’ added Rupert, ‘we are not going anywhere until we find Edward.’

‘Find him
where
?’ cried Neville, exasperated. ‘He would not go away without sending us word, so something terrible has happened to him. It pains me to say it, but he is dead. They needed a scapegoat for Blue Dick, and he fitted the bill.’

‘But what about his bloody hands?’ asked Chaloner. ‘What explanation can you offer for that?’

‘Perhaps he had been cockfighting,’ suggested Rupert lamely. ‘Or he cut himself. There are all kinds of explanations.’

Oliver bristled when he saw Chaloner’s doubtful expression. ‘You are not here to help Edward! You are here to damage him – and damage us, too. And I will not let that happen.’

Chaloner drew his gun before the man could reach him. ‘You had better stand back.’

Unfortunately, Oliver was too stupid to know when he was overmatched. He lurched forward anyway, and Chaloner was obliged to resort to gutter tactics to avoid shooting him. He waited until Oliver had closed, then kicked him in the shins, cracking the butt of the gun on his head when he doubled over. Oliver dropped to the floor, stunned.

‘If you have any sense, you will do what Neville recommends,’ said Chaloner, backing away before the other two could come at him. ‘And leave London before you are dragged any deeper into whatever is fermenting here.’

Once outside, Chaloner resumed his journey to Hannah’s house. He had learned little from his confrontation with the Penderels, although he suspected that he had probably just increased the number of men who meant him harm. He thought about their claims as he walked. Their explanation for Edward’s bloody hands was feeble, to say the least, and he was much more inclined to believe the testimonies of Phillippes and the Earl. Had Edward acted independently of his brothers, then, and killed Blue Dick without telling them? Chaloner sighed: he really had no idea.

When he arrived at Hannah’s house, he found her reading poetry by the fire. The book was one of his own – one of two mementos he had from his dead wife. The other was a cracked mirror he could not bring himself to throw away.

‘John Donne,’ explained Hannah, indicating the tome. ‘The Duke suggested I might like it.’

‘And do you?’ asked Chaloner. He was not sure how he felt about her using Aletta’s book. It caused a sudden surge of emotions that he could not begin to understand.

Hannah grimaced. ‘Not really. It is rather turgid, to be frank. But never mind that. You sneaked out this morning without saying a word. Why?’

Her voice had turned accusing, and the way she folded her arms told Chaloner that he was in trouble. He frowned in confusion. Sneaking out was something he did on a regular basis, because of the odd hours he kept.

‘You expected me to wake you? But I left very early.’

‘Very early on the day after we had agreed to marry,’ retorted Hannah coolly. ‘I expected to see you when I opened my eyes.’

‘Oh.’ Chaloner was not sure why this should make any difference. He smiled, in an effort to placate her. ‘Then tomorrow, I shall wake you long before dawn.’

He winced. It was not quite what he had intended to say, and had sounded rather threatening. He opened his mouth to rephrase it, to assure her that he would not leave without saying goodbye in future if that was what she wanted, but she chose that moment to toss the book on the floor, and the words did not come.

‘You plan to leave before dawn?’ she demanded, hands on hips. ‘Why? What can possibly be happening at such an hour? Most people – normal, sane, decent people – are in bed then.’

‘Exactly,’ said Chaloner. ‘I do not deal with “normal, sane, decent people” much of the time.’

‘Well, you will not tonight, and that is for sure,’ said Hannah grimly. ‘Because you must go to Somerset House.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Must I? I was hoping to spend the evening with you. Did the Earl send—’

‘No,’ said Hannah, cutting him off. ‘That villain knows better than to leave messages with me ordering you on dubious assignments. This is something
I
have decided you must do.’

Chaloner stared at her. ‘I do not understand. You know Somerset House is full of the Earl’s enemies. Why would you encourage me to visit a place that might be dangerous?’