A Murder on London Bridge (30 page)

‘I dislike all this stupid prancing around,’ grumbled Clarendon, sitting with his gouty ankle propped on a stool in front of him. ‘Moreover, I have eaten too much, and it has made me queasy. Incidentally, are those Penderel devils scowling at me or you? I cannot tell.’

They were glaring at Chaloner. Fortunately, the Dowager had ordered them to stay by her side, so they were not at liberty to wreak vengeance on the man who had knocked one of them senseless. It did not stop them from looking as though they wanted to try, though. Then Progers approached, and the glowering turned to smirks. The fact that they all then studiously avoided looking at the Earl made Chaloner sure some plan was about to swing into action.

‘You should leave, sir,’ he said urgently. ‘Now, if possible.’

He was surprised when the Earl held out his hand to be helped to his feet. Clarendon did not often listen to his retainers’ advice.

‘I would much rather be working on the arrangements for my Bishops’ Dinner, anyway,’ he said snappishly. ‘I shall inform His Majesty that I am unwell and must lie down.’

Leigh escorted him to the King, and Chaloner saw the flash of disappointment in Progers’s eyes when he saw his victim was leaving. The Earl hobbled through the door, leaning heavily on Leigh’s arm, although the limp eased dramatically the moment he was outside the main hall and in the vestibule. Chaloner bundled him quickly into his carriage when he saw Progers make his way to the door, too. The ugly courtier was not alone – Luckin had arrived at some point, and was with him. The vicar’s clothes were mud-splattered, suggesting he had spent his day riding.

‘Where did Clarendon go?’ demanded Progers, looking around in dismay. He was tipsy, and Chaloner suspected that the bulging bag he carried so carefully might be full of the bad eggs. Progers’ eyes narrowed when he spotted the spy, and he jabbed an imperious finger. ‘You! Take me to your master.’

Chaloner bowed obligingly, and started to walk down the stairs that led to the undercroft. Progers sniggered as he and Luckin followed, but his mirth did not last long. Chaloner pretended to stumble, knocking into him so he dropped his bag. There was a dull cracking sound. Progers squeaked in alarm, and stumbled back up the steps. Within moments, a foul stench began to pervade the air. Gagging, Luckin turned to leave, too, but Chaloner grabbed his arm and kept him there.

‘I understand you have something in mind for Shrove Tuesday,’ Chaloner said softly. ‘So you have two choices: you can tell me what it is now, or you can die as a traitor later. The government is not very sympathetic to rebels, so I strongly recommend confession.’

Luckin shook himself free; he was stronger than he looked. ‘I am no traitor,’ he spat. ‘Unlike you, who works for a man whose laws are plunging our country into bitter turmoil. Moreover, the King trusts
me
, because his mother tells him he can. Who will tell His Majesty that he can trust you? The Earl of Clarendon, who is fast losing royal favour?’

‘The King will believe me,’ Chaloner blustered, unwilling to admit that Luckin had a good point. ‘And he will not allow you to—’

‘The Dowager is holding a ball,’ snarled Luckin, pushing his face close to Chaloner’s. ‘I do not hold with such occasions personally, but she is a wealthy woman, and wants to entertain her friends.
That
is what is being planned for Shrove Tuesday. Organising balls is not treason.’

‘I have evidence to say there is more to your—’

‘You have nothing,’ hissed Luckin furiously. ‘Because there is nothing to find. Our activities are innocent, and if you persist with these outrageous claims, you will be sorry. The Dowager has many powerful friends, and it would be a pity if you had an accident.’

He turned and stalked away, his sleeve over his nose against the poisonous reek of the eggs. Chaloner followed, painfully aware that the interview had not gone exactly according to plan. While he had not expected Luckin to confess all, he had anticipated that the threat of treason would shake something loose. As it was, he had learned nothing, except for the fact that Luckin was not an easy man to intimidate. Worse, the vicar had been warned to be on his guard from now on.

Chaloner walked outside, taking deep breaths to clear the stench from his lungs. After a few moments, one of the Capuchins approached. His name was Brother Pascal, and he had spoken to Chaloner before.

‘I am glad Clarendon escaped with his dignity intact today,’ he said quietly.

‘Are you?’ asked Chaloner coldly. He was angry with himself for handling Luckin so badly, and not in the mood for chatter. ‘I thought everyone at Somerset House hated him.’

‘I despise what he stands for,’ acknowledged Pascal. ‘Intolerance is not an attractive trait, and unworthy in any Christian. But I mean him no harm, and I am glad Progers’s trick was foiled.’

‘
This
one was foiled,’ said Chaloner acidly. ‘But what about the next? And what about whatever is planned for Shrove Tuesday? I imagine that involves more than just bad eggs.’

Pascal regarded him in confusion. ‘I doubt the Dowager will have any of those at her ball! She intends it to be a glittering occasion, where her guests will be provided with the best of everything. It will be noisy, though, and Progers, the Penderels and Luckin will try to ensure it disturbs the erudite conversation at the bishops’ table next door. But that is the full extent of their schemes.’

‘It will be more than that,’ persisted Chaloner sullenly. ‘There are rumours of rebellion.’

‘Well, yes, there are,’ agreed Pascal. ‘But they have nothing to do with the Dowager’s ball. She would never embroil herself in anything that would harm the King.’

‘It is not the King she is aiming to harm,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘It is the Earl.’

‘You are muddling two completely separate issues,’ stated Pascal firmly. ‘The Dowager’s ball has nothing –
nothing
– to do with whatever insurgency is bubbling. I will stake my life on it.’

‘But Lord Bristol is rumoured to be in the country, and the Dowager is planning some sort of celebration with him. Perhaps with fireworks, which are made from gunpowder, and—’

‘There will be fireworks at her ball,’ interrupted Pascal. ‘Sir John Winter has been asked to make them. And yes, they will contain gunpowder – they would not go off without it, which would defeat the purpose somewhat. But the rumours about Bristol are just that: rumours. No one has actually
seen
him – and I am not sure I believe these tales about his so-called conversion back to Anglicanism. We Catholics do not take our religion lightly.’

Chaloner was not sure what to believe. He had known, with every fibre of his being, that Luckin’s denials were lies, but Pascal was much harder to read.

‘It must be difficult for you, living here,’ he said eventually, feeling some sort of response was necessary. ‘The Dowager’s friends are hardly suitable company for priests.’

Pascal smiled. ‘It is God’s will. And good men hurry to help us when matters turn nasty, as you did at the theatre the other day.’

‘How long do you think you will stay in London?’

Pascal shrugged. ‘For as long as the Dowager demands. But we
are
doing some good. We urge her wilder followers to moderation, and while we do not succeed every time, we have some impact. So does Father Stephen, who is a sane and sensible man. Between us, we shall prevail, never fear.’

But Chaloner did fear, and it was with a heavy heart that he watched the Capuchin leave.

Chapter 8

Brother Pascal’s claims had left Chaloner confused and uncertain. Desperate for more information, he spent the rest of the evening at the Banqueting House, eavesdropping on anyone who frequented the Dowager’s home. But he heard nothing useful and, frustrated and tired, he took his leave when the clocks chimed nine. It was time to go to Chapel House and hunt for buried treasure – he had been trained to locate things that had been hidden, and was confident that he would be better at it than Phillippes, Kaltoff or the Dowager. He met the Queen near the door.

‘My guards have disappeared,’ she said in Portuguese. ‘Will you escort me home?’

Chaloner nodded, so she indicated he was to fall into step at her side. Hannah followed, but the other ladies-in-waiting were enjoying themselves far too much for such an early night, and were nowhere to be seen.

‘Have you made use of that information I gave you?’ the Queen whispered, taking his arm for balance when they reached the cobbled courtyard. ‘The business about fireworks on the Bridge?’

‘We should not discuss it, ma’am. It is not safe for you.’ Chaloner flailed around for a tactful way to change the subject. ‘Do you like dancing?’

‘Oh, yes!’ He was startled by the sudden passion in her voice – he had never heard her so animated. ‘My husband the King hired me a dancing tutor last year, and he says I have quite an aptitude for it.’

Then it was a pity, thought Chaloner sourly, that His Majesty had not invited her to partner him in a jig. It would have cost him nothing, and the pleasure to the Queen would have been immeasurable. She chattered on as they walked, listing the various dances she had learned since her lessons had started. When they reached her chambers, she was reluctant to stop, and it was only the chill of the night that eventually drove her indoors.

‘What did you learn today?’ whispered Hannah, before she followed her mistress.

‘Nothing important.’ Chaloner’s mind was spinning from descriptions of gavottes, sarabandes and gigues. ‘Luckin was uncooperative, and I could not trace the masked men.’

Hannah’s eyes shone in the lamplight. ‘Well,
I
have had a very successful day. Something is definitely brewing at Somerset House, and I have been told that details of it will be given to a select few on Saturday night – at the soiree to which I have already been invited. We shall discuss tomorrow how best to get you inside.’

‘Why not tonight?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘Because it will take me an age to settle the Queen now you have started her off talking about dancing. Besides, you look exhausted. Go home and get some sleep.’

But Chaloner could not afford to rest, and took a hackney to the Bridge. It was late enough that the streets were empty, and most homes were in darkness. He picked the lock on Chapel House’s front door and let himself in. Then he stood still and listened intently. He heard the river roaring beneath his feet, and the night was cold enough to make the timbers creak as they contracted.

When he was satisfied he was alone, he lit a lamp and made for the cellar. The vault where Phillippes and Kaltoff had been digging was covered by a rectangular trapdoor. He pulled it open, and saw a ladder leading to a small, stone-sided chamber. It looked like a bottle-dungeon, and he baulked. He hated prisons, and the notion of climbing into one made his blood run cold. In an effort to avoid doing so, he tied his lamp to a piece of rope, and let it down. He saw pits in the floor where Kaltoff had been hacking, but it was not enough – he needed to inspect the place more closely.

He set his foot on the uppermost rung of the ladder, and forced himself to descend, gritting his teeth and breathing deeply to control his rising revulsion. His hands were shaking when he reached the bottom, and when the house gave one of its periodic creaks, it took every ounce of his self-control not to bolt.

The chamber was not very wide, but it was long, with enormously thick walls. He thought it an odd place, until he recalled that it had once been part of a chapel. Then it began to make sense. He saw lancet windows, now bricked in, and the ceiling was vaulted. It looked like a crypt. A grave.

To take his mind off such bleak thoughts, he concentrated on his search. The vault contained several barrels and a number of wooden crates. The barrels had been sealed with lead, and his knife was unequal to prising them open. They looked as though they would contain salted fish – he had seen similar casks on ships when he had spied on the Dutch navy.

The crates were more easy to search, because their lids were only held in place by nails. He prised them off, then frowned in bemusement when he found them full of religious statues, all carefully packed in straw. Some of the statues were broken, and he wondered whether iconoclasts had been responsible. Was this the reason Blue Dick had visited Chapel House before he had been killed – he had heard a rumour that popish works of art were being stored there, and he wanted to know whether his destructive services were required?

When the house creaked again, Chaloner’s resolve crumbled, and he told himself that if one of the barrels did contain gold, then he was not going to recover it that night. He would inform the Earl the following morning, and then Leigh could investigate, hopefully armed with the right kind of tools for cracking lead seals. He shot up the ladder in relief.

By the time he stepped into the street, his heart-rate had slowed and his breathing had returned to normal. His legs felt rubbery, though, and he walked unsteadily towards Thames Street. He was just skirting St Paul’s Cathedral when he became aware of a grating sound above his head. He flung himself backwards instinctively.

A moment later, there was a crash that made the ground tremble. Dust rose in a cloud, and through it, he saw a heavy stone gargoyle, now reduced to rubble. He stared upwards, stomach churning, but could see nothing in the darkness. Had it dropped by chance, or had it been pushed? He found it was impossible to tell.

The narrow miss with the gargoyle had put Chaloner on his guard, so when he heard his name being called from a passing carriage a few moments later, his hand went instinctively to his sword. Was it Luckin, intent on ensuring he had the ‘accident’ he had threatened earlier? The coach rattled to a standstill, and Chaloner was relieved when it was only Wiseman who leaned out.

‘Jane Scarlet has summoned me,’ the surgeon said, opening the door and indicating Chaloner should climb in beside him. ‘As it is on my way, I shall give you a ride home. What are you doing out so late, anyway? Do you not know it is dangerous to walk about on your own at such an hour?’