A Murder on London Bridge (33 page)

It was intelligence Chaloner half wished he had not been given.

White Hall’s Stone Gallery was a long, sumptuously decorated chamber where people went to be seen. It was alive with gossip, rumour and speculation, and it was said that more policy was decided there than in meetings of the Privy Council. The King was present that day, which meant it was more than usually crowded. Chaloner lurked at the fringes of the company, waiting for the Dowager’s people to make their appearance, so he could eavesdrop on them. It was not the best way to garner information, but the direct approach had failed with Luckin, and he did not want to put the others on their guard by alerting them to his interest in their dealings.

While he lurked, he heard that the old king’s ghost had not been seen the previous night, and people were trying to determine whether its absence was significant. He also discovered that the Thames continued to perplex with its erratic behaviour, and that another of the cathedral’s gargoyles had been found smashed on the ground that morning.

Eventually, Luckin appeared, purple nose flaring from the cold. Rudely snubbing the people who tried to greet him, he strode the length of the room, looking for someone. Moments later, Progers arrived, pale and bleary eyed. The vicar of Wimbledon descended on him like a hawk on a sparrow.

‘You are late,’ he hissed. ‘And I cannot afford to waste time, not when there is so much to do.’

Progers took his arm and dragged him into a corner. Luckin was angry, and the King’s pimp was fragile, so neither man noticed Chaloner sidle behind the large statue that stood nearby. It made eavesdropping absurdly easy, and Chaloner thanked God that the pair were not professionals, who would never have made such a basic mistake.

‘She asks me every other minute,’ Luckin was saying. ‘She will not accept that I do not know.’

‘Well, there is nothing I can do about it,’ snapped Progers. ‘You will just have to weather it out.’

‘You could tell her that I am as much in the dark as the rest of you. She does not pester anyone else with questions about Lord Bristol’s whereabouts, so why does she insist on picking on me?’

‘Because
you
are the one who heard him renounce his faith and agree to become an Anglican again,’ replied Progers impatiently. ‘That tells her he trusts you.’

‘He
does
trust me,’ averred Luckin. ‘But not with details of his whereabouts.’

Progers hesitated, then lowered his voice. ‘Is it true? Did Lord Bristol
really
take communion with you, and swear to follow the Book of Common Prayer?’

‘Of course he did,’ replied Luckin irritably. ‘Do you think I would lie about that sort of thing? I am a vicar – I do not fabricate tales about religion.’

Progers sighed. ‘Yet I understand the Dowager’s eagerness to be certain that Bristol is to hand. We have worked hard these last few days, and it would be a pity if all our efforts were wasted because he is in France.’

Luckin allowed himself a smug smile. ‘He is not in France. When I say I do not know where he is, I speak the literal truth – I have no idea where he is hiding. However, I do know he is
very
close, and that he will be ready to appear the moment we pass the word.’

‘Thank God!’ Progers breathed. ‘Then why not tell the Dowager so?’

‘Because it is safer for Bristol if she is kept in the dark. There is a spy in her household – someone is leaking information to our enemies. Personally, I suspect the Capuchins. Brother Pascal, for example. Catholics cannot be trusted.’

‘I am Catholic,’ said Progers coolly.

‘Yes, but you are an
English
Catholic. They are foreign. But here comes another man I distrust. Quick! Discuss the weather, lest he thinks we have been plotting.’

‘You distrust Father Stephen?’ breathed Progers, looking to where Luckin pointed. ‘But he is the Dowager’s chaplain! He would never betray us – he does not have the courage for a start.’

‘Yes, the weather has been
dreadful
these last few days, Progers. Horribly cold.’

‘There you are, Luckin,’ said Stephen with a sickly smile. ‘Apparently, the Earl’s Sergeant at Arms is searching Chapel House, and the Dowager wants you to monitor the situation.’

‘Me?’ asked Luckin indignantly. ‘I am no errand boy, to be sent hither and thither.
I
am a priest!’

‘So am I, but here I am, delivering messages.’ Stephen turned to Progers. ‘Meanwhile, the costermongers have announced a sudden shortage of green salad. She wants you to find out why.’

‘And what will
you
be doing while we perform these menial tasks?’ demanded Luckin angrily.

‘Praying to St Thomas Becket on her behalf,’ replied Stephen unhappily. ‘All day.’

Luckin continued to grumble, but Progers pulled him away, muttering about it being wise to do as they were told where the Dowager was concerned. Chaloner slipped out of his hiding place and waylaid Stephen in a deserted corridor. The priest looked around in alarm.

‘Please!’ he hissed. ‘Someone may see us, and I am already under suspicion.’

‘I would not have approached you unless it was safe,’ said Chaloner. ‘Where is Bristol hiding?’

‘I do not know,’ gulped Stephen. He looked as though he might be sick; the strain of spying was clearly taking a heavy toll on his health. ‘I have tried to find out, but no one will tell me.’

‘Hannah is worried that ordinary Catholics will be blamed for whatever the Somerset House Catholics are planning to do,’ said Chaloner urgently. ‘It is a valid concern. What can you tell me about their schemes?’

‘Nothing! I am not an intimate of these people, just someone who is tolerated because I am the Dowager’s chaplain. I will try to find out, but please do not approach me again. I will send word when I have something to report.’

When he had gone, Chaloner thought about Lord Bristol. Luckin had made it sound as though he was much nearer than Wimbledon, and that meant only one place: Great Queen Street. The Earl had declared the London mansion off limits, but it was a foolish order, and it was time it was disobeyed. Chaloner decided to visit it at once, but had taken no more than a few steps before he met Leigh. The little soldier looked tired and out of sorts.

‘What a waste of time!’ he grumbled. ‘There was no gold in Chapel House. Only salted fish.’

‘Are you sure?’ Chaloner’s heart sank. The Earl was going to be disappointed when he learned he was not going to be presented with any treasure.

‘Of course I am sure,’ snapped Leigh. ‘We opened every barrel and crate, and even prised up a few floorboards. The place is empty.’

Chaloner rubbed his eyes. Had the dial-makers returned after he had left the previous night, and spirited the treasure away? Or, more likely, was there nothing to find in the first place, and the rumour of buried gold was false – everyone was scrabbling after something that did not exist?

‘Incidentally, you might want to go to the charnel house,’ Leigh was saying. ‘Some beggar from Southwark is there, and he was fished out of the river wearing a hat that Kersey says is yours.’

Chaloner stared at Nat’s pinched, water-logged features and felt anger boil inside him. Wiseman was there, too – Nat had no one to pay for his funeral, and the surgeon usually took such cases off the charnel-house keeper’s hands. Chaloner slammed down a handful of coins, and ordered Kersey to make the necessary arrangements. Wiseman was not going to have Nat.

‘I did not know he was your friend,’ began the surgeon apologetically. ‘Or I would never—’

‘He was not my friend,’ snapped Chaloner.

Wiseman and Kersey exchanged a glance. ‘Then why are you—’ began Kersey tentatively.

‘What happened to him?’ demanded Chaloner. ‘He did not kill himself. I am certain of that.’

‘No, he did not,’ agreed Wiseman. He loomed over the body, dwarfing the frail remains with his powerful bulk. ‘Do you see this line around his neck? It is consistent with strangulation.’

Chaloner stared at the mark. Had Nat been killed because someone had seen them talking together? He was suddenly sick of the whole business. It was Friday – two more days and Nat would have been safely on his way to Manchester.

‘When did he die?’ he asked tiredly.

‘I would estimate yesterday,’ replied Wiseman. ‘Probably last night.’

‘Is there anything to identify his killer?’

Wiseman shook his head. ‘I found these coins secreted in his hat –
your
hat – though. It looks as though he was hoarding them for some reason.’

Chaloner turned on his heel and left the charnel house without another word, ignoring the questions Wiseman hollered after him. There was no reason not to go to Southwark now, to look for the cottage Nat said was rented by the St Mary Overie men, so he flagged down a hackney carriage, wondering what sort of villain would strangle a beggar. Poor Nat had already been frightened into leaving his home, so why could it not have been left at that?

He looked at Chapel House as his carriage rumbled past. Labourers milled outside, and it seemed Leigh’s invasion had caused considerable consternation. Hussey was ordering them back to work, but they were downing tools and beginning to walk away. Their faces bore uneasy expressions, and it occurred to Chaloner that they sensed something untoward afoot, and wanted nothing to do with it.

Nat had said the masked men’s cottage was located near Winchester Palace, so Chaloner directed the driver there, and alighted outside it. The elegant Tudor mansion bore a stark contrast to the row of rude hovels opposite, but Southwark had always been a disparate place.

Chaloner was just assessing the shacks with a professional eye, trying to determine which looked as though it might be leased for dubious purposes, when a coach pulled up. It was a royal one, and he thought he could see the Dowager inside. He ducked into an alleyway to watch.

Within seconds, a young man darted out of one of the cottages and ran towards the carriage. The boy exchanged a few words with the vehicle’s occupants, after which it turned around and travelled back the way it had come. Chaloner frowned. What was going on?

The lad watched the coach disappear around the corner, then returned to his hovel. He was well dressed, and clearly wealthy enough to afford better accommodation. Chaloner waited until the door closed, then stalked toward it. Because his temper was up, he did not exercise his usual restraint, which would have been to watch the place and ascertain how many people were inside it. Instead, he felt like fighting, to exact revenge on the men who had murdered poor Nat and tossed his body away like so much rubbish.

He kicked the door as hard as he could, gratified when the wood flew apart under the impact. Then he whipped out his sword and strode inside, ignoring the warning voice in his head that said if all seven masked men were there, he was going to be in serious trouble, especially if they had guns.

But there were not seven, there were two, and both raised their hands the moment they saw him.

‘Please!’ cried one, terrified. ‘Do not hurt us! We are only Edwin and John Barker from Dover. We have done nothing wrong, I swear!’

They were little more than boys, with fair, floppy hair and the lacy elegance of the would-be Cavalier. Both wore swords, and there were loaded dags on the table, but it had not occurred to either to use them. They were children, thought Chaloner in disgust, knowing they had not been among the men he had fought in St Mary Overie.

‘Who employs you?’ he demanded.

‘Our uncle,’ bleated Edwin, the elder of the two. ‘He tells us what to do.’

‘And what is that, exactly?’

‘He told us never to say,’ whispered John, close to tears. ‘On pain of death.’

‘Is that what you want?’ demanded Chaloner, taking a threatening step towards them. ‘To die?’

He would do no such thing, of course, because he was not in the habit of murdering youngsters. But they did not know that, and exchanged petrified glances. Chaloner made for an unnerving figure when he was angry and armed.

‘We watch for the bishop, sir,’ gulped John. ‘And when the Dowager comes, we have to run to her coach and tell her whether he is in. If he is out, she visits his palace. If he is home, she goes away again.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him, although he recalled Nat saying much the same thing the first time they had chatted. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘We have no idea,’ said Edwin miserably. ‘All we know is that she does not like to go in when he is there.’

‘Does she take anything with her when she leaves?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether she was in the process of plundering the bishop’s palace for art or fine furnishings.

Edwin shook his head fervently. ‘Nothing! And she is never there for long.’

Chaloner could see he was telling the truth. ‘What is your uncle’s name?’

‘Thomas Luckin, sir,’ John squeaked. ‘He is the vicar of Wimbledon. He summoned us here after he was released from the Tower – he was arrested for giving Lord Bristol holy communion.’

Chaloner was not surprised to learn the purple-nosed cleric was embroiled in the affair. ‘Tell me about Luckin’s friends – the ones who swathe their faces in scarves,’ he ordered.

‘We have no idea of
their
names,’ said John. ‘They met in St Mary Overie until a few days ago, but there was some kind of trouble. Then Uncle found somewhere better. We do not know where.’

‘This is a peculiar state of affairs,’ said Chaloner warningly. ‘And one that smacks of treason and insurgency. If you want to save your necks, you must tell me what they are planning.’

‘But we do not know, sir!’ cried John, frightened. ‘They never tell us anything. The only thing I can tell you is that something big is going to happen on Shrove Tuesday. I heard Uncle say so.’

Edwin was also eager to please. ‘We think it concerns Somerset House. Uncle spends a lot of time there, despite him being Anglican and most of them being Catholic.’