A Murder on London Bridge (39 page)

‘We will go home,’ acknowledged Hannah, glancing at him. ‘So you can change your clothes – it is not a good idea to wander about in the Dowager’s livery. But then I am coming with you.’ She raised her hand to quell the objection he started to make. ‘
You
need help, and
I
am determined to prevent Catholics from being blamed for the work of fanatics. So we shall work together.’

Chaloner had no intention of letting her join him, and saw he would have to find a way to make her think she was helping while keeping her out of danger. When they arrived at Tothill Street, and he exchanged the uniform for some of his own clothes, she questioned him about his investigations, and he found he was glad to answer, because it consolidated the answers – and the remaining questions – in his mind.

‘I still do not know for certain what Phillippes and Kaltoff hope to find in Chapel House,’ he said. ‘But now I think it must be gunpowder. The formulae for making the enhanced fireworks are Phillippes’s, and perhaps he does not want to be blamed for whatever is going to be done with them.’

‘That assumes he is not part of the plot,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘But he might be – he bears a grudge for not being elected to the Royal Society, and bitter men often turn vicious. However, do not forget that Father Stephen said there is gold buried there. Perhaps he was after that.’

Chaloner tugged on a coat and aimed for the door. ‘Everything is beginning to merge,’ he said, beginning to walk towards Drury Lane. Hannah fell in at his side, trotting every few steps to keep up with him. ‘The Earl told me to look into plots fermenting at Somerset House and learn the whereabouts of Lord Bristol. But they are connected.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hannah. ‘It would seem that
some
of the Dowager’s cronies have summoned Bristol home for the purposes of rebellion. Of course, the Duke will know nothing about it.’

Chaloner would reserve judgement on that. ‘And a few of the same cronies are implicated in Blue Dick Culmer’s death,’ he continued. ‘Namely Luckin and his masked friends, who include the Penderel brothers.’

‘Moreover,’ Hannah continued, ‘Junior Warden Scarlet is linked to Blue Dick by ciphered messages, and the more I think about it, the more I become certain that the attack on Jane was anything but random. You are right: all your enquiries do seem to be part of the same whole.’

The streets were deserted as they walked, but they were just passing the New Exchange on The Strand, when Chaloner heard scuffling in a nearby alley. He grabbed Hannah’s hand and slipped into a recessed doorway, all his senses on high alert. But the rustling gave way to muted sniggers, and he forced himself to relax. Some drunken jape was in progress.

For a few moments, nothing happened. Then three portly merchants emerged from a nearby tavern called the Sun. Immediately, a pale figure materialised from the alley and undulated towards them. Hannah gulped in terror, and Chaloner could feel her trembling against him.

‘It is the old king’s ghost!’ she said in a strangled whisper.

There was an instant when Chaloner thought she was right, because the wan features, elaborate dress and pointed beard did indeed look like those of the executed monarch. But then he saw the face had been made up with pastes, and the beard was false.

The merchants took to their heels with howls of fright. Two accomplices lurched from the alley to join the prankster, and all three collapsed with helpless laughter. Indicating that Hannah was to stay where she was, Chaloner abandoned his hiding place and stood in front of the ‘apparition’.

‘Oh, Christ!’ muttered the prankster when he saw Chaloner. His crown slipped, obliging him to make a grab for it before it fell. It put him in the light shining from the tavern, and with a shock Chaloner recognised the youthful features beneath the face paints. It was the printer from the Rainbow Coffee House, and the two apprentices with whom he had ‘shot’ the Bridge a few days before.

‘
You
are responsible for all these ghostly sightings, Stedman?’ asked Chaloner, stunned.

Stedman was unable to suppress a grin. ‘We have been doing it for more than a week now, and no one has even mentioned the possibility that the “ghost” might be a hoax. It is incredible!’

‘And brilliant fun,’ added one of his cronies. ‘We have a few beers in a tavern, then Stedman emerges from the shadows when some likely victims come past.’

Chaloner was amazed they had not been caught – most of their pranks had been in front of witnesses, which was why the tales had gained so much credence. He doubted they had been careful, so he could only suppose they had been incredibly lucky.

‘It has been fun,’ agreed the other lad. He regarded Chaloner uncomfortably. ‘But now we have been seen, and if this fellow tells anyone, we will be in trouble for certain.’

Stedman regarded Chaloner through bloodshot eyes. ‘Chaloner will not give us away. He likes a joke as much as the next man, or he would not spend so much time listening to the ridiculous opinions spouted in the Rainbow Coffee House.’

‘You are likely to get yourself killed if you persist with this charade,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Some of your victims may decide to respond to your spectre with their swords.’

Stedman’s grin faded and he looked uneasy. ‘You are not one of them, are you?’

‘Go home,’ said Chaloner, struggling not to smile. ‘You have successfully hoodwinked an entire city, so abandon the game while you are still winning.’

‘It is probably good advice,’ said the friend, when Stedman looked ready to argue. ‘If we quit now, no one will ever know the truth, and shall be able to gloat about it for years to come.’

They flung their arms around each others’ shoulders and lurched off, laughing and full of lively good spirits. Hannah stepped out of the shadows, and came to stand next to Chaloner.

‘What a wonderful jape!’ she exclaimed in admiration. ‘They certainly had me convinced. But we are wasting time here, and there is a great hoard of gunpowder to locate. We had better hurry.’

Most of London was sleeping, so it did not take Chaloner and Hannah long to reach the theatre in Drury Lane. When they arrived, a party was in full swing, complete with a lot of raucous laughter and womanly shrieks. Chaloner deposited Hannah in a secluded alley, ostensibly to keep watch, then picked the lock on the theatre’s door, and slipped inside.

A few moments of eavesdropping told him that Buckingham had provided the troupe with wine, to express his admiration for
The Indian Queen
. There was still a lot left, and Chaloner was under the impression that no one was going anywhere until the last cask was dry.

He sighed. The sensible thing would have been to solicit the actors’ help to look for hidden fireworks – theatres were a jumble of cupboards, crates and awkward spaces, and it would take more time than he had to explore them all. But drunks were hardly ideal companions to go hunting explosives with, so he decided it would be safer if he did it alone.

It did not take him long to realise the task was impossible, though: the area beneath the stage alone was an enormous storage facility. He started to crawl through it, but someone had stowed spare curtains there, and it was impossible to conduct a proper search without first hauling them out. He tried, but they were too heavy, and the noise he made brought several people lurching to see what was happening. They did not find him, but he decided to leave when they went for reinforcements.

While they were summoning their comrades, he took a bucket of paint, and daubed a message on the wall – a threat saying the building would be blown up unless its players abandoned their sinful lives and became followers of the Prophet Elijah. There was no such sect, as far as he knew, so no one was likely to be blamed for the damage, but hopefully the words would serve to frighten everyone off the premises until they could be secured.

He left the theatre when the performers discovered the warning, and there was a concerted dash for the exits. Then he flagged down a lone hackney carriage that happened to be passing, and directed the driver to take him and Hannah to the Bridge.

‘What happened?’ asked Hannah as they went. ‘Did you tell them the place might be full of explosives? Is that why they all came racing outside? Did you find anything amiss?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘So if the gunpowder is not in Chapel House, we shall have to return there tomorrow and search it properly. In daylight.’

‘But I thought you said you had already searched Chapel House, and it was empty.
And
you said such large quantities of powder will not be easy to conceal, so it is not as if it is going to be slipped between the floorboards.’

‘Actually, it might. False floors and artificial walls are not unknown, and the place has been full of builders for the last couple of weeks. And if we have no luck in Chapel House, there is only one other place I can think of: St Mary Overie, the masked men’s erstwhile meeting place.’

Reluctant to leave Hannah alone on the Bridge, Chaloner took her with him when he forced the lock on Chapel House’s front door. Once inside, she wrinkled her nose at the foul smell that pervaded the place. They soon discovered the source – the barrels of salted fish Leigh’s men had opened in their hunt for gold. Trying not to breathe too deeply, they searched the place from top to bottom, measuring and tapping walls, and even prising up the floorboards. But there was no concealed cavity, and they were forced to admit defeat.

The trapdoor that led to the vault was open, though, and someone had been digging down there again. The statues in the crates had been decanted, too, and left scattered across the floor. Chaloner inspected one. It was a carving of a bishop, holding a Bible in one hand and a model church in the other. It was old, weathered and, to his mind, unremarkable.

‘Why would anyone go to the trouble of storing this?’ he demanded, frustration with their lack of progress making him irritable. ‘It is damaged, ugly and poorly made.’

‘I like it,’ said Hannah, reaching down to touch the ancient features. ‘It was carved in a time when England was Catholic, and artisans knew how to build
proper
churches. Not like these modern things, which are all white walls, silly domes and plain glass windows.’

‘Becket,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘Could this be a statue of St Thomas Becket?’

Hannah studied it carefully. ‘Yes, I suppose it might. He was an archbishop, and they were often depicted with Bibles and models of their cathedrals in their hands. But if it is him, then so what? How does that knowledge help you?’

‘I am not sure, only that it is another connection. The Dowager visits Winchester Palace to pray in the room where Becket was supposed to have stayed, and she has taken an obsessive interest in this house, which stands on the site of his chapel. Perhaps it is significant that these statues might depict him. But perhaps it is not.’

Aware that time was passing, he led Hannah at a brisk trot to St Mary Overie. They roused the vicar, and Hannah concocted a very convincing tale about a much-loved ring that had fallen through a grate into the crypt below. A little bemused that this should warrant a pre-dawn search, but sympathetic to her tears, Feake conducted them down the stairs to a damp, cobweb-draped vault. It was full of broken benches, mouldering altar clothes and ancient tables that no one seemed inclined to throw away. But there was no gunpowder.

There was, however, a large pile of muskets and swords, all carefully wrapped in blankets. Feake stared at them in horror. ‘Those are not mine!’

‘When were you last down here?’ asked Chaloner coolly.

Feake shook his head helplessly, white-faced with shock. ‘Months ago. These must belong to . . .’ He trailed off and shot Chaloner an uneasy glance.

‘To the men who used your church for meetings? The ones who said they would not be back?’

‘They have not been back,’ whispered Feake. There was an agonised expression on his face.

‘No? Then you must take responsibility for these weapons yourself. I would not have taken you for a rebel, but in these uncertain times—’

‘I am not a rebel!’ cried Feake, appalled. ‘And neither are they. At least, they do not seem like rebels. But if they are, then it is nothing to do with me. I did it for the poor . . . the money . . .’

‘So they bought your silence, as well as your church,’ said Chaloner coldly. Hannah was signalling for him to ease off, sorry for the agitated cleric, but the situation was far too urgent for a gentler approach, and they needed information. ‘And you turned a blind eye as they amassed an armoury. That is treason.’

Feake was terrified. ‘No! I admit they paid me to say nothing about their meetings, but I had no idea they were stockpiling weapons. Please! You
must
believe me!’

Chaloner did believe him, although he thought the man was guilty of just as grave a crime – namely looking the other way while something flagrantly untoward was going on. It was obvious the men were no angels, and Feake should have had the sense to refuse their bribes.

‘Lock the crypt,’ he ordered curtly. ‘And go about your business as if nothing has happened. Do as I say, and you may yet redeem yourself.’

Feake began to cry, but Chaloner was not thinking about the vicar as he strode from the church, Hannah in tow. He was considering the implications of the cache.

‘There is going to be some kind of armed uprising,’ he said sharply, when Hannah began to berate him for his harsh treatment of a man who was, when all was said and done, a priest. ‘And we must do whatever is necessary to stop it. If that involves upsetting Feake, then so be it.’

He expected her to argue, but she was silent. ‘Do you think this uprising is going to coincide with the ignition of these deadly fireworks?’ she asked eventually. ‘You said the masked men include members of the Dowager’s retinue.’

‘I imagine so, yes.’

‘Blue Dick,’ said Hannah. ‘Do you think Edward Penderel murdered him because he stumbled across their plot? He was killed to ensure he did not tell anyone?’