A Murder on London Bridge (28 page)

Hannah flinched. ‘Your Earl assures me that you have a unique talent for entering perilous places and escaping unscathed. I let myself believe him, because otherwise I would spend all my time worrying. Please do not tell me he is wrong.’

‘He is not wrong. But why do you want me to go to Somerset House?’

‘Because today, I overheard those Penderel louts telling Lady Castlemaine that there was to be a meeting there tonight, to discuss the Dowager’s plans for Shrove Tuesday.’ Hannah swallowed hard and looked away. ‘When the Lady informed them that she was not interested in which bakers and musicians they had poached from the Earl, Rupert told her he meant the
other
plans.’

‘What other plans?’

‘He did not need to elaborate, because she understood his meaning immediately. But there was an expression on her face, Tom!’ Hannah came to take his hands, and he saw tears glittering. ‘It was sly and vengeful, and I
know
it bodes ill. And Catholics will be blamed for whatever she is doing, because it will come from Somerset House – from the home of the King’s papist mother.’

‘That is probably true, but—’

‘Can you not see what will happen?’ The tears began to fall in earnest. ‘If they perpetrate some mischief that sees your Earl and his bishops insulted, there will be a terrible backlash. But it will not be the Somerset House Catholics who will bear the brunt of the mob’s fury. It will be normal folk – like your tailor, the family who live by the King’s Theatre, and the man who bakes our bread.’

‘And you have no idea what these “other plans” might be? You have heard no rumours?’

‘Not specifically. But there are tales of iconoclasts gathering, and that White Hall’s wild ways are beginning to cause resentment among the people. I fear rebellion, Tom. And if that happens, we will all be the losers. None of us want more civil war.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, coils of unease writhing in his stomach when he recalled that it was not only iconoclasts who were massing, but dangerous men like Will Goff and Lord Bristol. ‘Did the Penderels give a time for this gathering?’

Hannah nodded. ‘Ten o’clock. I was about to write a note to the Duke, warning him to stay away. He is a good man, and if he is involved in this matter, it will be because he does not understand the consequences.’

‘If you do that, it will warn them that they are discovered, and it will be virtually impossible to learn what they intend to do. Send no letters. Buckingham knows how to look after himself.’

And, Chaloner thought but did not say as he took his leave, the Duke would know
exactly
what he was doing. He applauded her loyalty to a man she liked, but if there was mischief afoot in Somerset House, then it could be guaranteed that Buckingham would be at the heart of it.

Somerset House was ablaze with lights when Chaloner reached it, and the gardens were full of men carrying pitch torches. He swore under his breath when he saw the level to which security had been increased following his invasion five nights before. It would not make slipping inside easy, although he knew he could do it. He had, after all, invaded far more secure places in the past.

He was just reviewing his options when a carriage arrived, and every guard paid it minute attention when it transpired to carry a rather scantily clad Lady Castlemaine. Buckingham was with her, and was drunk enough to stagger when he handed her down the coach steps. The lurch caused her bodice to slip, and while the guards gazed admiringly at the resulting display, Chaloner took the opportunity to slip through the gate and dart towards the house.

Fortunately, an ancient oak threw its shadows across one of the windows overlooking the Great Chamber, and they concealed him nicely. Through a chink in the curtains, he could see inside, although listening was more difficult. He was reluctant to break in though, especially as he was under orders to do it again on Saturday, so he resigned himself to learning what he could from outside.

He could see the Dowager pacing back and forth, her lapdog scurrying at her heels. Progers, Luckin and Father Stephen were doing the same, and Chaloner grinned, thinking the sight an amusing one. The Dowager was agitated, and her cronies were trying to calm her. The Capuchin friars stood in a grey-robed huddle nearby, looking acutely uncomfortable. She was shouting very loudly, and he soon learned that the reason for her vexation was that they had failed to poach the Earl’s baker.

Then the Penderel brothers arrived. They were still minus Edward, and Oliver was in a foul mood. He swore at one of the guards, then aimed a kick at the Dowager’s pooch. Immediately, the two Frenchmen appeared and wrestled him against a wall. He nodded sullenly to their muttered warnings, and tried to shake himself free. They let him go eventually, although they continued to watch him for some time after. Meanwhile, Neville was pale and anxious-eyed, while Rupert’s expression was impassive. Chaloner tensed when Rupert and Luckin abandoned the main party and strolled towards his window.

‘It will be worth the wait,’ he heard Luckin say to Rupert as they sat down together. ‘The Dowager grumbles and groans at the passing time, but when our plans come to fruition, all England will reel with the enormity of it. Shrove Tuesday will be remembered for centuries to come.’

‘If you say so,’ Rupert replied. He looked sullen. ‘Will you tell me what you mean to do, exactly? All this secrecy is beginning to be annoying.’

Luckin laughed. ‘You are better off in the dark. But all will be revealed in time. Our enemies will not know what has hit them, and they will crumble away like old bones.’

At that moment, Winter exploded into the company like one of his fireworks, moustache bristling with good humour. Behind him were Phillippes and Kaltoff. Phillippes looked completely at home, elegant in a fashionable silk jacket, while Kaltoff wore a long-coat with far too much lace, and his wig was overly ostentatious.

The Dowager beckoned the dial-makers towards her, and engaged them in conversation. Phillippes began muttering in her ear, but it was clear that she did not like what she was hearing. Her face hardened, and her eyes took on the quality of gimlets. Kaltoff backed away, although Phillippes held his ground. He continued speaking, and eventually, he seemed to have mollified her. When she finally smiled, Kaltoff mopped his forehead with his sleeve, clearly relieved.

Meanwhile, Winter set about entertaining the company with a lute he had brought with him. He played for a while, then Luckin was called upon to take over. The vicar demurred, purple nose flushed with embarrassment, but capitulated when the Dowager appeared to inform him that he would oblige or experience her displeasure. Chaloner could hear Winter sing, because the man had a strong voice, but he could not hear the lute. However, judging by the rapturous applause that followed, he supposed it must have been good. Encouraged, Luckin began another piece.

After a while, the party settled down to supper. The Dowager sat at one table, with Buckingham, Progers, the Lady and Father Stephen. The Penderels and a number of lesser courtiers, including Winter, Luckin, Phillippes and Kaltoff, were at another. Once they began eating, the outside guards relaxed. They gathered together in small knots, and little flames flared as pipes were lit.

Chaloner did his best to follow the ensuing conversations by reading the diners’ lips, but no one seemed to be discussing anything contentious. The Dowager continued to hold forth about her minions’ failure to steal Clarendon’s baker, and Luckin dominated the other table with a detailed and indignant account of his time in the Tower. Lady Castlemaine, who had been alert and excited when she had arrived, had settled into a sullen slouch that indicated boredom, and the glances she kept shooting at the Penderels said she thought she had been misled. At one point, Rupert shrugged helplessly at her.

Chaloner was growing exasperated when he heard a sharp snap followed by a muffled curse. He tensed. Someone was creeping towards his tree. The person wore a black cloak and a large hat – clearly a disguise – and moved clumsily, like a pig trying to tiptoe. Was it an enemy of the Dowager, which might mean a friend to the Earl? Silently, Chaloner eased behind the oak, and watched as the fellow reached the window and put his eye to the chink in the curtain. Chaloner waited for a few moments, then stepped forward, wrapping one arm around the newcomer’s neck and putting the other across his mouth to prevent him from shouting out.

His captive struggled violently, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to keep hold of him. The man was not tall, but he was powerful, with wide shoulders and muscular arms, and he flailed furiously. Chaloner began to worry that he might give them both away to the guards.

‘Quiet!’ he hissed angrily. ‘Or I will cut your throat.’

Something in his voice convinced his prisoner that the threat was genuine, because he went rigid. When Chaloner was sure he was under control, he removed his hand from the man’s mouth.

‘What do you want?’ the fellow whispered immediately. ‘Who are you?’

‘Who are
you
?’ countered Chaloner. He shifted his grip, so he could see the man’s face in the faint light from the window. He recognised the crossed eyes instantly.

‘I am the churchwarden of St Mary Woolchurch,’ replied Herring. ‘And a loyal servant of the King.’

‘And an iconoclast,’ added Chaloner tartly.

‘I may have been one of those in my youth,’ acknowledged Herring. ‘But maturity has moderated my opinions. I am a different man now.’

‘A different man who invades the King’s mother’s garden in the dead of night?’

‘My activities are none of your affair. But we have met before, because I recognise your voice. You are the one who followed me after that puppet show in Charing Cross. My colleague caught you, but you managed to escape. What are you doing here?’

‘Who was he? Your colleague?’

Herring’s head went up defiantly. ‘I shall never reveal that.’

‘Then tell me about Blue Dick instead. He was a friend of yours. And now he is dead.’

‘Murdered,’ agreed Herring. ‘But he was not my friend, because he was an extremist who continued to believe that smashing statues was a good thing. His death is no tragedy.’

‘Did you kill him?’

Herring tried to turn and look at him, but Chaloner made sure his face remained in shadow.

‘No, I did not,’ Herring snapped, annoyed that he could not identify his captor. ‘I have not taken a life in a very long time. However, that will change if you do not release me.’

‘When were you last at St Mary Overie?’ Chaloner was grasping at straws – he had no idea whether Herring had been one of the masked men in Southwark, but there was no harm in asking.

‘I am saying nothing else,’ declared Herring haughtily. ‘Kill me if you must, but bear in mind that my murder
will
be avenged. You will never sleep soundly again, because my friends will find you.’

‘Tell me why are you here,’ ordered Chaloner. ‘And then I will let you go.’

‘I shall tell you nothing,’ hissed Herring. ‘Our discussion is over.’

Chaloner could tell by the rigid set of Herring’s body that he meant it, and that he expected to be knifed for his lack of cooperation. That he was prepared to throw away his life for whatever cause he was currently embracing told Chaloner he was not as moderate as he claimed – he was still a fanatic.

He was about to devise a way of arresting Herring – the Earl would want him questioned properly – without being caught by the Dowager’s guards, when several of the soldiers started to stroll towards them. All were armed with muskets. Herring released a small, vengeful laugh, delighted by the notion that Chaloner was about to be captured, too.

But Chaloner had other ideas. He shoved Herring as hard as he could, so the iconoclast stumbled forward on to his hands and knees. Herring gave a sharp, involuntary cry as he landed. The guards homed in on the sound. Seizing the unexpected chance to escape, Herring picked himself up and began to run.

‘There!’ yelled one of the guards, stabbing a finger. ‘After him!’

Chaloner watched the chase for a moment, then left unnoticed through the front gate.

Chaloner lingered for some time outside Somerset House, watching it from the shadows of a doorway. Eventually, the commotion died down, and the guards returned to their patrols. They were empty handed, so he supposed that either Herring had managed to elude them, or he had been quietly dispatched.

He did not have the energy to walk all the way to Hannah’s house, so he went to his own lodgings on Fetter Lane instead. His rooms were cold, damp and uninviting, and when he lay on the bed, he found he was too tense for sleep. He played his second-best viol for a while, but even music failed to soothe him, and when he did manage to doze off, it was to dream that the Earl had murdered Blue Dick, and washed the blood from his hands in Chapel House while Lady Castlemaine and Thurloe frolicked in the background.

When he woke, it was pouring with rain. Within moments, the instrument-maker who lived in the rooms below – a man named John Spong – came to hammer on his door, because water was gushing through his ceiling. There was a veritable flood across Chaloner’s floor, and it was unpleasant sloshing through it in bare feet.

‘I am leaving this place,’ Spong declared, when he saw Chaloner’s home was in a far worse state than his own. ‘Landlord Ellis says there is nothing wrong, but he is mistaken.’

Chaloner agreed. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Near St Paul’s.’ Spong shot Chaloner a rueful grin. ‘The cathedral is falling to pieces, so it will be a veritable home from home. What about you? You cannot stay here, either.’

‘I am to be married soon.’ Saying the words felt awkward. ‘My wife-to-be has a house.’

‘Congratulations!’ exclaimed Spong. ‘But I hope you are not planning a summer wedding, because this place will not survive that long. Neither will you if you stay here.’