A Murder on London Bridge (36 page)

‘I told you to stay out of his way,’ said Leigh accusingly. ‘He had decided how to spend that gold, and I thought he was going to have a seizure when I told him there was none.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘Will you lend me a few soldiers? I
know
something dire is being planned – something that might damage the Earl. And for all his stupidity, I do not want him harmed.’

‘I cannot help you until tonight. But woe betide you if you are wrong and you waste my time again. In the meantime, buy him a pickled ling pie. It may put you back in his good graces.’

Chaloner hated the notion that the St Mary Overie men were be left to their own devices for the day, so decided he had no choice but to challenge Luckin on his own. He stopped at Bulteel’s chilly little office on his way out.

‘I do not suppose Spymaster Williamson has confided anything about Shrove Tuesday, has he?’ he asked hopefully. ‘About plots or rebellions in the making?’

Bulteel regarded him uneasily. ‘No, why? Is there something he should know? Or something that might interfere with the smooth running of the Bishops’ Dinner?’

‘Just a small army of rebels in Great Queen Street, whom no one is willing to confront.’

‘Do you mean in Lord Bristol’s mansion?’ asked Bulteel, wide-eyed. ‘Williamson will not go there! Bristol may be disgraced, but he still has powerful friends, and only a fool would risk antagonising them. And Williamson is not a fool.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner bitterly, thinking he was the only one of those, for persisting in his efforts to avert a crisis when no one else seemed to care. He changed the subject. ‘White Hall is very quiet this morning. Where is everyone?’

‘Watching the King show off at tennis. All the Court sycophants are there.’

Luckin was a Court sycophant, so Chaloner went directly to His Majesty’s tennis court. The Dowager was among the elegant throng, but there was no sign of Luckin. Within moments, she declared the building too stuffy, and rose to leave. Chaloner thought one or two of those who traipsed dutifully after her had been at Great Queen Street the night before, but was not sufficiently sure to risk waylaying them.

Next he hurried to Tothill Street, intending to prise Luckin’s possible whereabouts from the Penderel brothers, but learned from a helpfully garrulous neighbour that they had left an hour before. They had horses and saddlebags, and the fellow was under the impression that they planned to be gone for some time. A purple-nosed vicar had been with them, he added, and all four had galloped away in the direction of Hampstead.

Chaloner slumped against the wall. An hour! If he had not wasted time trying to make the Earl see sense, he would have caught them. But why had they left so abruptly? Had they sensed the net tightening around them, and fled before they were caught? Had the disappearance of Luckin’s nephews and Edward served to drive home the fact that they were playing a very dangerous game? Or had they gone on an errand to further their plot, perhaps by fetching Bristol or additional troops?

Angry and frustrated, Chaloner returned to Great Queen Street, thinking to ambush one of the masked man and force him to reveal Luckin’s whereabouts. He was sufficiently preoccupied that he almost missed the look-outs that had been posted there – they loitered in doorways and behind garden walls, and he knew he could not reach Bristol’s house undetected, at least in daylight. He hid behind a tree, looking for a weakness in their defences, but there was none that he could see: they were well-placed and vigilant.

There was no point embarking on a mission in which the odds were quite so heavily stacked against him, and he was forced to concede that he had no choice but to wait for Leigh’s help later.

Resentfully – there were so many more important things he should be doing – he went to the market in Covent Garden, supposing he had better locate a pickled ling pie. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. The traders informed him that pickled ling pie was not a commodity that was in very great demand, and they had none to hand. In despair, he sought out Hannah, who was walking with the Queen in St James’s Park.

‘You want me to make you one
now
?’ Hannah asked incredulously. ‘But I have my duties to attend. Besides, the last time I baked one, you made excuses not to eat it.’

‘It is not for me. The Earl needs one for his Bishops’ Dinner.’

Hannah regarded him askance. ‘You want me to cook a pie for the man who keeps sending my husband-to-be on missions that put his life in danger, and who has given his name to the laws that are suppressing my faith?’

Chaloner grinned ruefully at her. ‘If you would not mind.’

She put her hands on her hips. ‘Make one yourself. The recipe is nailed on the scullery wall, and it is not difficult to follow. At least that way you can be sure I do not poison it.’

Gritting his teeth with suppressed agitation, Chaloner bought the necessary ingredients, and set off back towards Tothill Street. Then, sleeves rolled up and an apron around his waist, he followed the instructions pinned in the scullery. Was this any sort of task for a spy of his experience, he thought bitterly, to bake treats for prelates whose laws were causing good people like Thurloe and Hannah to dabble in dangerous waters?

But there was something unexpectedly calming about preparing the fish and rolling the pastry, and he was surprised to find himself relaxing. Inspired to improvise, he added pepper and spices to the simmering ling, and even sculpted some decorative pastry leaves for the pie lid. The bells were striking noon by the time stood back to admire his handiwork. He pulled off the apron, rolled down his sleeves, and left the mess for Hannah to clean up.

After donning some suitably foppish clothes, he took his creation to the nearest cookshop – hoping the baker would be as good as his word and have it ready by sunset – then flagged down a hackney to take him to Winter’s home on the Bridge.

When Chaloner reached Nonesuch House, he was careful to ensure that his arrival coincided with that of several other guests. While the servants were busy taking coats and pouring cups of welcoming wine, Chaloner slipped away from the general hubbub. He liked Winter, but the man kept ciphered messages in his desk and he frequented Somerset House. It was time his home was thoroughly searched, and when better to do it than at the time the household was preoccupied with his soiree?

Despite its fancy exterior, Nonesuch House was comparatively simple on the inside. It comprised four floors, all of which had two rooms and a hallway, and a single basement. Chaloner explored the latter first, and found it low-ceilinged, full of coal, and much smaller than he would have expected given the size of the building above. Then he recalled that Nonesuch House was perched atop a starling, and there would be no space for anything bigger or deeper.

The next three storeys comprised a kitchen, parlours and bedchambers, but there was nothing in any of them to help his investigation, with the possible exception of a card propped boldly on a mantelpiece. It was a formal invitation to the gathering at Somerset House that evening. The one Hannah had also been asked to attend, Chaloner thought with a pang.

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Winter, when Chaloner eventually abandoned his explorations, and joined the party on the top floor. His moustache had been subjected to some sort of beauty treatment, because it gleamed greasily and not a hair was out of place. Chaloner hoped he would not go near any naked flames, sure it was a fire hazard. ‘You are here at last. Now we shall have some decent music!’

‘Dowland?’ asked Chaloner, examining the other guests quickly, and disappointed when he saw no one he wanted to question. Fortunately, more visitors were arriving by the minute, and he was hopeful that Winter had extended his hospitality to friends at Somerset House.

Winter’s brown eyes gleamed at the suggestion, and he set about arranging chairs and instruments. While he was occupied, Phillippes and Kaltoff walked in. Phillippes, suave, confident and dressed like an aristocrat, immediately homed in on a group of pretty young ladies, who were delighted by his attentions. Kaltoff hovered self-consciously by the door, wearing a coat that was unsuitable for a man with a stoop and a wig that was too small for his head. Hoping he would not be recognised from the chase in Chapel House, Chaloner edged towards him.

‘I know you!’ exclaimed the dial-maker immediately. Chaloner braced himself for trouble, but Kaltoff smiled. ‘We met at Clarendon House – you and Phillippes discussed the Earl’s tide-ring.’

‘Yes,’ replied Chaloner cautiously. ‘It is supposed to be ready in less than a week.’

A pained expression crossed Kaltoff’s face. ‘These instruments are delicate – it is not just a case of shoving a few bits of metal together, you know. If Clarendon wants a quality piece, then he must be patient. I may be a mere mechanic’ – here he sent a glare in Winter’s direction – ‘but I am proud of my art. The Royal Society has praised the precision of
my
instruments.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner. He saw Kaltoff girding himself up for a good grumble now he had someone to listen to him, and hastened to change the subject. ‘I was passing Chapel House the other day, and—’

‘I never go near that place,’ interrupted Kaltoff, his expression suddenly furtive. He began to move away, the opportunity to rant forgotten. ‘It is dangerous, what with all that scaffolding.’

Chaloner flailed around for a way to keep him talking. ‘Really? I would have thought—’

‘Excuse me,’ said Kaltoff, turning away. He found himself next to the Bridge’s haberdasher, and immediately began holding forth about buttons, to the man’s evident bemusement.

Chaloner considered pursuing Kaltoff, but it was clear he would not discuss Chapel House willingly, and Winter’s parlour was hardly the place for forceful interrogations. He turned to Phillippes instead, but the man was surrounded by women, and was effectively unreachable.

‘Come and choose an instrument, Chaloner,’ called Winter, opening a cupboard. ‘It is time we had a little—’

He was interrupted by the arrival of Senior Warden Hussey, who was red-faced, beaming and full of the news that his good wife had delivered him a healthy son. He was to be baptised Robert.

‘I thought he already had a son called Robert,’ said Chaloner to Winter, selecting a bow.

‘All his sons are called Robert,’ explained Winter, handing him a viol. ‘It is his own name, you see, and he wants it perpetuated. They all play the violin, too, although he will insist on teaching them himself, and he is not very good at it. Their massed practices are a foretaste of Hell.’

Hussey was a dismal player in his own right, and his fellow performers were obliged to change tempo constantly, as the Senior Warden sped up for the bits he knew, and slowed down for anything he considered difficult. Winter grimaced and winced, but was far too polite to complain.

Eventually, more guests arrived in the form of three Capuchins and Father Stephen. Stephen looked agitated, as usual, and although his eyes flashed a greeting at Chaloner, he made no other effort to communicate. Bossily, Winter inserted the friars into the little orchestra, and Chaloner was pleasantly surprised when all three transpired to be excellent violists.

Chaloner quickly lost himself in the music, and when he happened to glance at the windows some time later, he was amazed to see it was almost dark. He became acutely aware that he had neglected his duties, and it was high time he had another crack at Phillippes and Kaltoff. But the dial-makers were nowhere to be seen, and he was dismayed when Winter told him they had left the party more than an hour before.

‘No!’ cried Winter, when Chaloner set down his bow. ‘You cannot stop yet! We have not had any Gibbons!’

‘Gibbons is my favourite composer,’ said Father Stephen shyly. The music had soothed him, too, because there was colour in his cheeks and he seemed much more relaxed. ‘And it is a pleasure to see Catholics and Anglicans enjoying themselves together.’

Winter frowned his bemusement, then smiled. ‘You are right! It had not occurred to me that I had invited a combination of both. I am not a fellow who cares about another man’s religion.’

‘No, you are not,’ agreed Brother Pascal. He looked wistful. ‘If only everyone were as liberal.’

‘The fact that music transcends prejudice should not surprise you,’ said Winter. ‘I once sang with a regicide and an iconoclast, and we never had a sour word. Music can do wonders for concord. So sit down, all of you, and take up your bows again. This city needs as much peace as it can get.’

‘But I must leave, too,’ said Pascal apologetically. ‘My brethren and I are expected at Somerset House, and we must say vespers and compline first.’

‘Is there an event in Somerset House tonight?’ asked Chaloner innocently, when Winter and Father Stephen had gone to round up the other two Capuchins and he was alone with Pascal.

The friar nodded unhappily. ‘Yes, more is the pity. The Dowager’s guests behave while she is there, but she tends to retire early, and then the occasions turn debauched.’

‘Folk are saying that the old king’s ghost, oddities in the tides and the crumbling cathedral are all signs that God does not approve of such wild antics,’ said Chaloner, adding provocatively, ‘And some see it as good cause for rebellion.’

Pascal shrugged. ‘Well,
I
have heard that a lot of Puritans have started to gather – iconoclasts, no less. Perhaps these omens relate to what
they
are planning, and the Court has nothing to do with it.’

‘Do you have any idea what that might be?’

‘If I did, I would tell Spymaster Williamson, because no good can come of insurgency,’ replied the friar piously. ‘However, there is an especially odious iconoclast called Herring, and I have seen him in dubious company on several occasions. Perhaps I should report that.’

‘You mean with other iconoclasts?’

‘I mean with a high-ranking Puritan who lost all at the Restoration – namely John Thurloe. He and Herring met with a third fellow, who kept his face covered with a scarf.’