A Murder on London Bridge (32 page)

Chaloner took a deep breath and forged on, supposing she had a right to know what Wiseman had in mind. ‘He mentioned looking for a . . . a
companion
. Someone to share his bed, I mean.’

He braced himself for indignation, but Temperance clasped her hands together and gazed adoringly at the great red bulk that was Wiseman. ‘You have made me the happiest woman alive!’

Chaloner gaped at her. ‘You are interested in such an arrangement? You will not hold out for something more . . .’ He hesitated, not sure how to phrase it.

‘I do not want to marry him, if that is what you are asking. But I would not mind taking him as a lover. He is handsome, kind and has a magnificent body. What more could a woman ask?’

‘I really have no idea,’ said Chaloner weakly. He was aware of Wiseman looking in their direction, and could tell by the surgeon’s ecstatic expression that he knew the question had been asked and a favourable reply received. He held out his arms, and Temperance flew towards them. Chaloner winced at the sound made by the collision. They were two very large people.

When Temperance had gone, Chaloner left quickly. One card game was turning rancorous, and the situation was not improved when a number of Court debauchees arrived. They exploded into the club like monkeys, grabbing women and food, and making loud demands for attention. Among them were the three Penderel brothers and Progers. Chaloner ducked behind a pillar, certain they would fight him if they knew he was there. He made his escape through the kitchens, ignoring the curious looks of labouring scullions as he weaved his way through them.

Once outside, he breathed in deeply of the cool night air. Wiseman and Maude were wrong to try to repair his friendship with Temperance, he thought sourly, because it was unsalvageable.

Chaloner slept badly for what remained of the night, because of the wind. It rattled the loose tiles on the roof, howled down the chimney, and whistled through the gap between window-frame and wall. It rained, too, and he gave up trying to place bowls under all the drips in the ceiling.

He rose before dawn, dressed, and, recalling his invitation to Winter’s soiree the following day, took his second-best viol and practised several pieces he thought the man might like. He felt his spirits lift as the music soared around him. He might be struggling to make sense of his investigations, but on the bright side, he would soon be married, and that morning he would tell the Earl about the prospect of gold in Chapel House. The tale would delight his master, who was fond of treasure.

He forced himself to stop playing after an hour. The sky was just turning light, and it was the time when Thurloe took his daily stroll in Lincoln’s Inn’s gardens. Chaloner walked there briskly.

He found the ex-Spymaster standing under a tree, staring up at the winter-bare branches. Thurloe seemed oblivious to the drops that pattered down as they swayed in the wind, which was unlike him – he disliked being wet, because he claimed it was bad for a man with a fragile constitution.

‘Did your mother never tell you not to stand around in the damp?’ asked Chaloner.

He had not meant to make his friend jump, but he had approached with his usual stealth, and Thurloe’s thoughts had been a long way off. The ex-Spymaster almost leapt out of his skin.

‘Lord, Thomas!’ he exclaimed, hand to his heart. ‘Did
your
mother never tell
you
that it is rude to creep up on a man and startle him out of his wits?’

Chaloner grinned. ‘She did, but then you came along and taught me how to do it even better.’

Thurloe smiled back, but the expression was distant. ‘You were my best student. But you look tired. Have you come for one of my tonics, to restore you to your customary vigour?’

‘Perhaps you should take one yourself,’ suggested Chaloner, studying his friend’s grey, exhausted face. ‘Or you may find yourself unable to sparkle when Lady Castlemaine comes a-visiting, and I am told she quickly becomes bored with lacklustre men.’

Thurloe shot him a pained glance. ‘I am sure I shall manage, thank you.’

They were silent for a while, watching the wind play through the upper branches of the trees. Then it occurred to Chaloner that he should mention his forthcoming marriage.

‘Hannah and I will be wed in the spring,’ he said, aware of how odd the words felt on his tongue.

Thurloe smiled again, genuinely this time. ‘Then I hope you will both be very happy. However, most prospective grooms are rather more cheerful when imparting such news. What is wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ said Chaloner, unsettled that Thurloe should read him so easily. Then he shrugged. ‘It is a second marriage for us both, and we are neither of us moonstruck youths.’

‘You mean you are marrying for convenience, not love? Is she pregnant, then?’

‘No! And I do . . . I
am
fond of her.’ Chaloner itched to change the subject to one that was less discomfiting, but it occurred to him that sharing his thoughts with Thurloe might help him understand them better, so he blurted them out. ‘But we are so different! Will we continue to make each other happy after the initial . . . enthusiasm has died away?’

Thurloe smiled kindly at him. ‘In other words, you have fallen in love with someone you consider unsuitable. Love is like that, Tom – it strikes at random, and there is nothing we can do about it. Yet it does not happen often, so do not be too ready to ignore your feelings. I had nothing in common with my Ann, and we are still happily married.’

Chaloner forbore to point out that Ann and Thurloe spent most of their lives apart, and Thurloe had recently taken to entertaining Court strumpets in his chambers. It was hardly an ideal example.

‘So you think we
should
wed?’

‘Why not?’ asked Thurloe. ‘Sometimes, one just has to take a chance, and Hannah has many virtues. You could do a lot worse.’

It was hardly a resounding endorsement, but Chaloner supposed it was the best he could expect. Thurloe’s occupation, like Chaloner’s own, had taught him to be cautious when assessing people.

‘Is that why you came this morning?’ asked Thurloe, when Chaloner could think of nothing more to say on the matter, and lapsed into silence again. ‘Or are you here to tell me you have solved Blue Dick’s murder?’

‘You ask that every time we meet,’ said Chaloner, relieved to be discussing something else. ‘Why are you so keen to know?’

‘No reason. I am merely expressing an interest in your affairs, just as I always do,’ replied Thurloe evenly. ‘There is no need to be suspicious.’

Chaloner had not been suspicious, but the remark made him wonder whether he should be. ‘I might make better progress when you decode those ciphers I gave you. Have you done it yet?’

‘I have studied them
ad nauseam
, but to no avail.’ Thurloe sounded frustrated. ‘I am not ready to give up yet, though. May I keep them a while longer?’

Chaloner nodded, then studied his friend with concern. ‘Each time we see each other, I grow more worried about you. You consort with the likes of Herring, and solicit the company of the King’s whore. And neither is doing you any good, because you look terrible.’

Thurloe closed his eyes. ‘I feel terrible, but it cannot be helped. And it will not be for much longer, anyway. By Shrove Tuesday, none of it will matter.’

‘None of what?’ asked Chaloner, confused and alarmed.

‘I cannot say,’ whispered Thurloe, although Chaloner was under the distinct impression that there was nothing he would have liked more than to unburden himself. ‘Will you promise me something? As a friend?’

‘I will not leave London and turn a blind eye to your rebellion,’ warned Chaloner, predicting what was about to come. ‘You always say you will do as your conscience dictates. Well, so must I.’

‘Pity,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘But I cannot say I am surprised.’

His mind churning with anxiety, Chaloner made his way to White Hall. Thurloe was an ethical man, so why was he willing to plunge his country into yet more civil unrest? Chaloner sighed, and reminded himself that the ex-Spymaster had played a vital role in maintaining a military dictatorship. He was hardly a stranger to dark politics and radical opinions.

It was still early, but the Earl was already in his office, issuing a stream of orders that had servants scurrying up and down the stairs at a furious rate. Bulteel was at his desk, writing feverishly, while Leigh, clad in a vivid green jacket, hovered nearby, small feet tapping impatiently.

‘He cannot talk to you, Chaloner,’ the little soldier said, indicating Bulteel with a jerk of his thumb. ‘He has letters to write – letters
I
must see delivered without the loss of a single moment.’

‘I can spare a minute,’ said Bulteel resentfully, stopping to flex cramped fingers. He moved them with difficulty, indicating he had been at his task for some time.

‘No, you cannot,’ countered the Earl, making a rare foray into the icy chill of Bulteel’s office. He shivered, and tugged up the collar of his coat. ‘Keep writing, or I shall hire someone else.’

Chaloner knew Bulteel was indispensable, and so did the Earl, but the secretary looked suitably alarmed and bent his head to his work again.

‘What do you want?’ demanded the Earl, pulling Chaloner away, so he could distract Bulteel no further. Leigh followed. ‘Is Edward Penderel behind bars yet? Have you found the masked men from St Mary Overie who helped him escape?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But—’

‘Then have you discovered what Somerset House is plotting for Shrove Tuesday?’

Chaloner shook his head slowly. ‘Not specifically, although—’

The Earl sighed noisily. ‘What about Lord Bristol? Have you located him, and you are here to ask Leigh to organise his arrest?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner tiredly.

‘Then why did you come, other than to waste the time of my secretary? But you cannot disturb him, because I have just learned that the Archbishop of Canterbury needs to leave my dinner early, so I have been obliged to bring the occasion forward by two hours. Bulteel needs to write to every prelate and explain – as a matter of urgency.’

‘
And
we have just heard that there is no green salad to be had,’ added Leigh. ‘The Dowager has bribed all the best costermongers to sell it to her instead – for her ball.’

‘Then waylay them before they can deliver it,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘A few shillings should convince them that they misheard Somerset House for Worcester House.’

The Earl pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘That would be sly.’

‘How badly do you want green salad?’ asked Chaloner.

‘See to it,’ said the Earl to Leigh. ‘We cannot have a dinner without green salad. Of course, no one ever eats it, but it adds the necessary splash of colour. Why are you still here, Chaloner?’

Chaloner stifled a sigh, wishing the man would stop issuing orders and listen. ‘I believe there is something valuable hidden in Chapel House. Gold, perhaps. I tried to locate it, but crowbars will—’

‘Gold?’ pounced the Earl. There was an acquisitive gleam in his eye. ‘Explain yourself.’

‘There are some barrels in the cellar, and it may be inside one of them.’

The Earl grabbed Leigh’s arm. ‘Forget the bishops’ letters – I will find someone else to deliver them. Go to Chapel House and lay hold of this gold before someone else does. You will need an excuse . . . Tell the Wardens that we have a villain in custody, who confesses to hiding stolen property there.’

Leigh frowned. ‘Why would a villain hide property in Chapel House, sir? I do not mean to be obtuse, but we need a story that is plausible, or people will think we are just after the money.’

Chaloner suspected they would think that anyway, unless they were totally stupid.

‘It is an empty house, and this thief was being pursued by the forces of law and order,’ said the Earl, improvising wildly. ‘He hid it there and made his escape, but was later captured by you. We want to recover what he stole and return it to its rightful owners. Well, do not stand there! Go!’

‘Come with me, Chaloner,’ said Leigh unhappily. ‘This excuse has flaws, and you are a better—’

‘He has other matters to attend,’ said the Earl sharply. ‘Now get about your business.’

And with that, he stalked away and slammed the door behind him.

Chaloner met Wiseman as he was crossing the Great Court. The surgeon was wearing a grin that made people give him a wide berth. Chaloner understood why: there was blood on his hands, and he looked as if he had been doing something grisly and probably illegal. He tried to grip Chaloner’s shoulder when their paths met, but the intelligencer managed to slither away.

‘I owe you a great deal, Chaloner,’ said Wiseman happily. ‘Temperance and I sealed our arrangement last night.’ The grin grew wider. ‘I feel as though I am walking on air.’

‘You once told me that walking on air was a symptom of the French pox.’

Wiseman’s mood was far too jubilant to be punctured by acid remarks. ‘I believe I said walking on
wool
. And now I shall do something for you in return. Name it, and it shall be yours.’

Chaloner was tempted to ask him to decline Hannah’s invitation to dine the following week, but could not bring himself to do it.

‘How about telling me any rumours you might have heard about iconoclasts, rebellion, the Dowager’s ball or the whereabouts of Edward Penderel?’ he asked instead.

Wiseman was silent for a moment, then lowered his voice. ‘One of my patients is John Rider – of Rider’s Coffee House in Chancery Lane. He summoned me to bleed him this morning, and who should I see there, sipping tea and reading the newsbooks? Herring the iconoclast!’

‘Was he alone?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, thinking of Thurloe.

‘Yes, but he looked as though he was waiting for someone, and I overheard him telling Rider that he was meeting a friend later. But there was a furtive cant to his eyes – and I do not refer to the fact that they are crossed. If he is not intending to cause mischief, I will dance naked in St Paul’s.’