A Murder on London Bridge (35 page)

Chaloner regarded her blankly. ‘A demonstration of what?’

‘A rally, in which right-minded people will stage a peaceful protest against the Clarendon Code. It is to take place on Shrove Tuesday.’

‘Shrove Tuesday? Then
this
is what Somerset House has been planning!’

‘No,’ interrupted Hannah. ‘The Dowager’s people
are
plotting something evil, but the rally is just a gathering of decent people who want their voices heard. The Duke is organising it – I
told
you he has nothing to do with the other business – and he just paid me a visit, to ask me to join him.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘I hope you declined.’

To his horror, she shook her head. ‘Someone must take a stand against these nasty laws, and—’

‘But surely you can see what will happen? Your “peaceful rally” will transpire to be anything but, especially if Buckingham is involved. Then everything you feared will come to pass – innocent Catholics will be blamed for what Somerset House has done.’

‘No!’ stated Hannah vehemently. ‘The Duke would never entice me into danger. Besides, he explained his motives. He said his conscience is urging him to act, because the Clarendon Code is such a wicked piece of legislation, and it is a matter of honour to see it repealed.’

Chaloner gaped at her, wondering how she could believe such nonsense. Then he reminded himself that she had known Buckingham for years, and the two were friends. Incomprehensibly naïve though it seemed to him, it had not occurred to her that friends might lie.

‘The Code
is
unjust,’ he acknowledged, forcing himself to be patient. ‘But a rally will not see it repealed. On the contrary, it is likely to be tightened, so similar events cannot take place in future.’

‘You are right.’ Hannah smiled when she saw his confusion. ‘I would have made the point myself, but you started maligning the Duke before I had a chance. You sidetracked me.’

Chaloner rubbed his head. ‘So what are we arguing about?’

‘I am wholly convinced that the Duke’s demonstration is innocent.’ Hannah raised her hand when Chaloner began to disagree. ‘Let me finish! However, he frequents Somerset House, and others there are less scrupulous. I think they will use his rally as a vehicle for their own means – that they will attempt to turn it into something wicked.’

‘So why did you agree to go?’

‘Because it is a way to earn their confidence. To learn something that will let you thwart them.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner. ‘These are dangerous men, and if they realise you are spying—’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah, equally firm. ‘You are not the only one who will do anything to avert a catastrophe, and I am ready to do my part. You cannot stop me, so do not try.’ He could see from the determined jut of her chin that she meant it. ‘And there is the meeting at Somerset House tomorrow night. I intend to spy for you there, too.’

Chaloner swallowed hard, feeling the stakes had just been raised rather higher than he was willing to pay. He
was
eager to avert a crisis and protect his Earl, but not at the expense of exposing Hannah to such terrible danger. Unhappily, he listened as she began to outline her plans.

By the time Chaloner left Hannah, it was so late that most decent citizens were in bed, and only those with devious business were about. Two men materialised in the darkness ahead of him when he crossed Covent Garden, one holding a knife, but they melted away when he drew his sword.

He had been inside Lord Bristol’s Great Queen Street house before – he had broken in then, too, he recalled – so he knew its layout. A wall separated its rear garden from the road, which he scaled quickly. There was an onion patch on the other side, and he remembered Bristol had a liking for that particular vegetable. He noticed the ground around them had been recently disturbed. Did it mean Bristol
was
in London, and had been sampling the home-grown produce?

The building itself was in darkness, and its shuttered windows lent it an abandoned air. However, the laundry on a line near the pantry was damp and smelled fresh. He picked the lock on the back door, and heard voices coming from the front of the house, so he crept towards them, careful not to give himself away with creaking floorboards. Eventually, he reached a parlour. Its door was badly warped, so he was able to see directly into the room through a crack in one of the panels.

Five people sat around a table, but Bristol was not among them. One was Luckin, who slumped disconsolately with his head on his arms. Another was Rupert Penderel. The rest were men Chaloner had never seen before. A pile of face-scarves lay on a chair – the same kind that the St Mary Overie men had worn. They had stopped speaking, and were sitting in silence. After a while, Chaloner backed away, loath to waste time eavesdropping on men who were not saying anything.

He recalled that Bristol had an office overlooking the garden, so he went there first. It was clean, neat and a pile of dustsheets were folded on a chest – if the master was not back already, then it was clear he was expected soon. There were no documents to read or steal, so Chaloner prowled on. A handsome bedchamber was next door, and warming pans had been placed on the mattress to air it.

As he explored, he became aware that there was something odd about the place: one wall was too thick and the adjoining room too short. He regarded them thoughtfully. Bristol was Catholic. Was there a priest-hole in his home? He began to search, and it was not long before he discovered the secret chamber. Here, a bed had been slept in, and clothes were draped across a chair. Someone had been hiding there, and he could only suppose it was the missing nobleman.

He retraced his steps to the parlour, where the five men still sat in gloomy silence.

‘I will kill the villain who took them,’ said Luckin, raising his head from his arms. ‘I will!’

‘I wonder if they were stolen by the same scoundrel who has Edward,’ mused Rupert. ‘Or do you think your lads are just off sampling the brothels. I know
I
did, when I first arrived in London.’

‘My nephews are good boys,’ snapped Luckin with an angry scowl. ‘And I taught them Christian virtues.
They
do not go about whoring like common louts.’

Rupert bristled. ‘I am sure they are veritable cherubs. However, red-blooded lads—’

‘Clarendon has them,’ snarled Luckin, overriding him. ‘We all know his spy has been asking questions.
He
ordered them snatched, because he thinks it will deter me. But it will not.’

‘Deter you from what?’ asked Rupert innocently. ‘We still do not know what—’

‘I will tell you when the time is right,’ snapped Luckin. ‘And not before.’

Chaloner pulled back into the shadows. What should he do? Storm the place, and hope he had better luck than the last time they had fought? He
might
win – there had been more of them at St Mary Overie, and he had been hampered by Leigh’s bungling presence. But then the back door opened, and voices began to echo along the corridor. More people were coming. Chaloner ducked into an under-stairs cupboard and held his breath as at least ten men filed past.

‘We cannot find them,’ announced one testily, pulling off his face-scarf and flopping into a chair. It was Oliver. Neville was with him, and so were several more minor courtiers from Somerset House. ‘We have looked everywhere.’

‘Perhaps the others will have better luck,’ said Rupert encouragingly.

Chaloner listened in alarm. Others? How many were there? As if to answer his question, more men began to dribble back in twos and threes, until the number exceeded forty. Clearly, Chaloner was not going to be doing any single-handed storming that night.

It was drizzling when Chaloner awoke the following morning. He stared into the wet street outside, and experienced a surge of anxiety for Hannah. And for Thurloe, too, assuming the ex-Spymaster had also thrown in his lot with Buckingham’s ‘peaceful demonstration’.

He frowned. But
were
they on the same side? Resentment against the Clarendon Code was so widespread that who knew how many revolts were fermenting? Perhaps there were several, and they would all fall over each other in their eagerness to do the right thing.

He yawned as he dressed. The two hours sleep he had managed to snatch were scarcely enough, and had left him far from refreshed. On leaving Great Queen Street, he had run all the way to White Hall, to tell the Palace Guard that rebels were massing and should be apprehended before they could do any harm. But there was only a skeleton squad on duty, and they would neither go with him to assess for themselves what was happening, nor wake their fellows. Curtly, he had been ordered to return in the morning, when his request could be put through the proper channels.

Proper channels! Chaloner thought in disgust. Did they
want
the rebellion to succeed? Still fuming, he walked across the road to the Golden Lion tavern, where he drank a jug of breakfast ale as he considered the day to come. First, he needed to arrange the raid on Great Queen Street, and at one o’clock, he had to attend Winter’s soiree, to see if he could learn more about whatever was fermenting on the Bridge. And in the evening, the Earl wanted him to invade Somerset House. His stomach lurched when he recalled that Hannah intended use the occasion to do some spying, too.

When he reached White Hall, it was so early that the Earl had not yet arrived for work. Chaloner paced the corridor outside, fretting at the lost time. When his master did appear, he was hobbling with gout and was in a foul mood. Moreover, Chaloner had forgotten Leigh’s injunction to keep a low profile, and the Earl greeted him with considerable hostility.

‘You misled me,’ he said accusingly, before Chaloner could speak. Leigh was with him, and rolled his eyes when he saw his advice had been ignored. ‘And you caused Leigh to waste a good part of his day. There was no gold in Chapel House.’

‘I heard,’ said Chaloner sheepishly. ‘I am sorry, sir.’

‘Sorry is not good enough. I expect more from my people. What are you doing here, anyway? Have you found Edward Penderel? Learned the plans of my foes? No? Then you had better get to work. It is Saturday today, so you have only three days left – and if my Bishops’ Dinner is disrupted by villains, I am holding
you
personally responsible.’

‘Will you be having pickled ling pie?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the promise he had made to the Bishop of Winchester. It was something of a non-sequitur, but he was tired and not thinking clearly.

The Earl was taken off guard by the question. ‘I sincerely hope not. Why?’

‘Bishop Morley wants one.’

‘Does he?’ breathed the Earl in distaste. ‘There is no accounting for taste. Still, I suppose we had better accommodate him. You can buy me one this morning. And I want it delivered by sunset.’

‘Lord Bristol is hiding in Great Queen Street,’ said Chaloner. There were more important issues at stake than food, and he realised he should not have initiated the subject. ‘There were—’

‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted the Earl, eyes flashing dangerously. ‘Are you telling me you
went
there? I thought I told you to stay away from the place.’

‘You did, but—’

‘No buts!’ exploded the Earl, beside himself with rage. ‘I issued a direct order, and you disobeyed it. And how do you know he is there, anyway? Did you
see
him? In person?’

‘No, but there are signs that someone has been sleeping in a—’

‘Then did you spot any item that is definitely his? Something that indicates, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that
he
is there?’

Chaloner considered the question carefully. All the signs pointed to the fact that someone was hiding. But direct evidence that it was Bristol? He was obliged to shake his head.

‘Then I refuse to squander valuable resources on another of your wild theories,’ snarled the Earl. ‘I
know
Bristol. He will
not
be in Great Queen Street. He is not a fool. Unlike you, it seems.’

‘But men who played a role in Blue Dick’s murder were there. They must be arrested and—’

‘Then
you
do it,’ shouted the Earl. ‘It is what I pay you for.’

‘I cannot tackle forty men on my own,’ objected Chaloner, beginning to lose patience himself. ‘I need Leigh to—’

‘Leigh’s men are needed elsewhere today,’ yelled the Earl. ‘I am
not
sending them on another frivolous mission. You were wrong about the gold, and you will be wrong about whatever is going on in Bristol’s house. Besides, I cannot invade his property on a whim. What would the King say?’

‘You invaded it when you sent me to Wimbledon,’ Chaloner pointed out, finally driven to insolence. Leigh screwed his eyes shut in a wince, preparing for fireworks.

But the Earl was too angry to notice. ‘That was different! Wimbledon is a long way from London, but Great Queen Street is a stone’s throw from White Hall. If you are wrong, I shall appear petty and vengeful, and I refuse to take that risk, not when you cannot be certain that he is there.’

‘Even if he is not, the St Mary Overie men still need to be interrogated,’ persisted Chaloner stubbornly. ‘You said you wanted Blue Dick’s murder solved, and they are—’

‘Then interrogate them,’ bellowed the Earl. ‘But you will not do it in Bristol’s house, and you cannot have Leigh’s troops. However, first you will buy me a pickled ling pie. That is far more important than following dubious avenues of enquiry.’

‘It is not dubious, sir. Forty men represents a sizeable fighting force, and—’

‘Enough!’ roared the Earl, his plump face turning from white to scarlet. ‘Why must you always argue? Now do as I say, or you can look for another post.
Leave Bristol’s house alone
!’

He turned on his heel and stalked away, slamming his office door so hard that a painting dropped off the wall and all the glass rattled in the windows.