A Murder on London Bridge (42 page)

Chaloner looked sharply at him. ‘When was this?’

‘Last Saturday morning. Were you not listening to the charges that were read out before he swung? It was at half-past eight exactly, and he was unlucky that the Spymaster happened to be passing with a few of his soldiers.’

Unlucky indeed, thought Chaloner, because he knew for a fact that Edward had been in White Hall at that particular time. It was indelibly fixed in his mind, because it was when he had escorted the Earl to the King’s Presence Chamber, and all four Penderels had refused to let him pass.

His mind a whirl of confusion, he watched the hangman cut the bodies down. Friends and relatives were waiting to collect them – three women for the witch, a buxom lady for her husband, and two men for Edward, although neither were his brothers. Chaloner frowned. Both wore large hats that concealed their faces, but their postures were familiar . . .

His mind focused sharply for the first time since he had seen Thurloe climb into the carriage with Goff and Herring. Angrily, he decided he had had enough of being buffeted this way and that by an investigation that made no sense, and it was high time he had some answers. He crawled beneath the gibbet and emerged on the other side, standing quickly to press his dagger into Swaddell’s side before either he or Spymaster Williamson realised what was happening.

‘There is no need for that,’ cried Williamson, when he saw his henchman’s predicament. ‘Swaddell is unwell – he should not even be out of bed. He is no threat to you, so put down your knife.’

The Spymaster was a tall, aloof man, who had a reputation for being ruthless and greedy. Swaddell was his favourite assassin, a small, dark fellow who always wore black, and whose eyes were never still. Swaddell was an extremely dangerous man, and Chaloner had no intention of following the order to disarm. Then he frowned.

‘Is Swaddell unwell because the Penderel brothers trounced him?’ he asked.

Swaddell grimaced, obviously disgusted with himself. ‘They caught me unawares.’

‘Is that why you arranged to have Edward hanged?’ asked Chaloner. ‘To repay them for besting you?’

‘No, we did that because I am not in a position to dispatch him more discreetly,’ said Swaddell sullenly. ‘Williamson is right about the fragile state of my health.’

Slowly, he raised his hand and removed his hat. His face was so swollen that it was all but unrecognisable. He nodded his gratitude when Chaloner, seeing he was in no state to cause trouble, stepped back and sheathed his blade.

‘And why should you want Edward dead?’ Chaloner asked.

‘Because he was a killer,’ replied Williamson coldly. ‘And how do I know? Well, first, Phillippes the dial-maker saw a Penderel stab Blue Dick. Second, Swaddell searched their house and found Edward’s bloodstained clothes. And third, I heard him brag about the crime with my own ears – to a whore, when he was in his cups. It was as black and white a case as I have ever encountered.’

‘Then why not charge him with it?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Why invent accusations of burglary?’

‘It is better this way.’

Chaloner was about to demand a more enlightening answer, when all became clear. ‘Blue Dick was working for you!’ he exclaimed in understanding. ‘You recruited him to spy on his fellow iconoclasts. My God! You must have some remarkable powers of persuasion, because such men tend to be deeply committed to their causes.’

Williamson smirked. ‘He proved very valuable to me for several weeks. Unfortunately, my other spies are unsettled by his murder, so I decided to make Edward an example. Now my people see what happens to those who harm them, they know I take their welfare seriously.’

There was a certain shabby plausibility about his explanation – Williamson did
not
care about his intelligencers, with the possible exception of Swaddell, but he would not want them too frightened to work for him. Edward might well have been used to make them feel better about their master.

‘And the tale about Edward’s theft of gold from Chapel House?’ Chaloner asked. ‘Is there any truth in it at all?’

‘Not really,’ replied Swaddell. ‘Blue Dick told us that Edward visited the place on occasion, but we were unable to ascertain why. We settled on saying Edward stole gold, because what else can one remove from an empty house?’

‘So, this vile killer is dead,’ said Williamson, regarding Edward’s body contemptuously. ‘But unfortunately, he murdered Blue Dick before I could learn what these damned fanatics are planning to do. I am in the dark and very worried.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. It went against the grain to share intelligence with Williamson, but he could not avert a catastrophe on his own. Besides, it was the Spymaster’s job to prevent trouble. So, he told him about the arms cache in St Mary Overie, his suspicion that Lord Bristol was in the city, the populace’s growing objection to the Clarendon Code, and the possibility that deadly fireworks were waiting to be ignited. He named Luckin as his chief suspect, but said nothing about Herring and Will Goff, lest they led to Thurloe.

‘I shall arrange for the Bridge and the Drury Lane theatre to be searched today,’ promised Williamson when he had finished. ‘Of course, I shall have to fabricate an excuse that will not have half of London baying for Catholic blood.’

‘Blame it on a sect devoted to the Prophet Elijah,’ suggested Chaloner.

The Spymaster looked puzzled. ‘I have never heard of such a faction.’

‘It does not exist,’ explained Chaloner, a little impatiently. ‘That is the point – no one will be held accountable and attacked because of it.’

Williamson nodded assent. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest you look in Somerset House for these fireworks. My spies saw a lot of green salad being delivered there yesterday. Now, I know the Dowager is having a ball tomorrow, but there is a limit to the amount of green salad that can be consumed, and this went well past it.
Ergo
, I surmise something was hidden beneath the stuff.’

‘
You
look,’ objected Chaloner. ‘Preventing explosions is your responsibility, not mine.’

Williamson’s expression hardened. ‘I cannot do everything myself. How many spies do you think I have?
You
tackle Somerset House;
I
will take the Bridge and Drury Lane.’

‘But Somerset House is full of my master’s enemies,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘I cannot just march in and ask to poke through her green salad. It will be much better if you do it.’

‘Better for whom?’ demanded Williamson archly. ‘The intelligence may be faulty, and I do not want to incur the wrath of that rabble, thank you very much. It is different for you – they hate you already.’

‘You should talk to the Penderel brothers first though,’ said Swaddell, before Chaloner could argue further. ‘Our sources say they arrived back in London late last night. Perhaps Luckin has finally confided in them, and they will be able to tell you precisely what is being planned.’

‘Me?’ asked Chaloner, not liking the way the assignments were being allocated. ‘
You
do it.’

Swaddell shot him a reproachful glance. ‘In my condition?’

‘And I cannot manage it, either,’ added Williamson. ‘You may think Luckin’s uprising is important, but it is not the only devilry currently in progress, and my hands are extremely full at the moment. You speak to the Penderels – and send me word if you learn anything pertinent.’

‘There is one other thing you may find useful,’ said Swaddell, cutting through Chaloner’s objections a second time. ‘The Dowager’s devotion to St Thomas Becket is significant. Unfortunately, we do not know why.’

Williamson shot Chaloner a nasty little smile as he began to walk away. ‘This is a very dangerous business. I do hope you will be careful.’

Chaloner watched them go, feeling that he was just as much alone as he had been before he had told the Spymaster General and his most dedicated henchman everything he had learned.

Chapter 11

Chaloner decided to follow Swaddell’s recommendation and visit the surviving Penderels straight away, lest they disappeared again. He flagged down a hackney to take him to Tothill Street, and when he arrived, his knock was answered by Oliver, who grinned evilly and gestured with one of his scarred fists that he was to enter their house. Chaloner declined.

‘I came to bring you news,’ he said quietly, when Rupert and Neville came to stand with their brother on the doorstep. ‘Edward is dead.’

‘You lie!’ cried Oliver. He started to reach for Chaloner, but Rupert stopped him with a look.

‘How do you know?’ Rupert asked.

‘I have just seen his body.’

‘No!’ snarled Oliver. This time Rupert’s glare was to no avail, and Neville was obliged to leap forward and restrain him. The knife from Chaloner’s sleeve slipped into his hand.

‘Enough,’ barked Rupert. He lowered his voice when Oliver stopped struggling and fixed him with a stricken expression. ‘Edward has been gone too long, Oliver, and we guessed something dreadful had happened. He would have come home, had he been able.’

‘You are all in very deep trouble,’ said Chaloner. ‘But you may yet save yourselves from a traitors’ death, if you answer some questions.’

‘We are not telling you anything,’ shouted Oliver, trying to break free of Neville’s hold.

‘Yes, we are,’ said Rupert softly. Oliver gaped at him, and he continued. ‘Neville was right all along – we are out of our depth in this place, and we should not have come. It is time to cut our losses and do what we can to extricate ourselves.’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Neville, sagging in relief. ‘Sense at last!’

Rupert turned to Chaloner. ‘Do you
promise
that talking to you will save us from the scaffold?’ Chaloner nodded, although it was hardly in his power to make such an arrangement. ‘Very well, then. Ask your questions, and let us be done with it.’

‘The evidence for Edward’s guilt is overwhelming,’ Chaloner began. ‘He
did
kill Blue Dick—’

‘Yes!’ bellowed Oliver, tears of anguish and rage beginning to flow down his cheeks. ‘Yes, he did stab that vile iconoclast and I am glad he did his duty. I am proud of him!’

‘Take him inside,’ Rupert ordered Neville. ‘We will work with the Earl’s man, but we do not have to dig ourselves into a deeper hole with foolish defiance.
I
will do the talking.’

Neville did as he was told, although Oliver fought him every step of the way. When they had gone, Rupert turned to Chaloner, his expression haunted.

‘As you have probably surmised – there are enough rumours circulating about it – there is a plan afoot to rally anyone who disagrees with the Clarendon Code. It is an unpopular set of laws, so the number of people expected to take part in the demonstration will be enormous. The problem is . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘The problem is . . . Luckin told us last night that the protest will not stop with the Clarendon Code. Some people dislike other things about the government, too.’

‘So insurgents plan to hijack a peaceful protest, and transform it into something it was never intended to be? A rebellion?’

‘In essence,’ agreed Rupert unhappily. ‘Anyone who has lived through the wars knows how easy it is to turn a passive crowd into a horde of vengeful zealots. All it needs are a few explosions and some rumours, and the thing will take on a life of its own.’

‘Explosions?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Where will these be?’

‘We have not been told. I thought at first that Luckin planned to sabotage Winter’s firework display, but now I am not so sure. There is a rumour that Drury Lane will be attacked, and Luckin has never liked theatres. Or perhaps he will pick on Clarendon House – everyone is appalled that your Earl should be building himself such a fancy new mansion at tax-payers’ expense.’

‘I thought you were a Royalist,’ said Chaloner in disgust. ‘Yet you see a plot like this in the making, and you do nothing to stop it?’

‘I
am
a Royalist,’ objected Rupert. ‘We would never do anything to harm the King. But Luckin says this is not about the King, it is about his government—’

‘You think the King will emerge unscathed if his government is deposed? That is not how these things work.’

‘But we did not know who we could trust!’ cried Rupert desperately. ‘It would not do to go to the wrong person, and I cannot read anyone at White Hall – cannot tell traitors from loyalists. Besides, I am Catholic. Why
should
I help to prevent an event that may see my religion benefit?’

‘Because you do not condone bloodshed? Or the vengeful slaughter of your co-religionists when this misguided plot fails? Jesus wept, man! How could you go along with such dark mischief?’

Rupert looked away. ‘It started out as a simple plot to give your Earl a bit of a fright. But suddenly, other people were involved – killers, zealots and rabble-rousers, with whom we would never normally associate.’ He turned back to Chaloner, holding out his hands in entreaty. ‘We are guilty of following stupid orders in return for money, but we are not traitors.’

There was no point wasting time by continuing to point out the folly of what they had done.

‘I am sure killing Blue Dick was not Edward’s idea,’ said Chaloner instead. ‘So who ordered the murder?’

‘I do not know. The instruction came in a letter – the culprit took care to keep his identity secret. Edward was well rewarded, though, so it was someone wealthy. The message said Blue Dick was a traitor to the cause. Well, that was true – we have since learned that he was telling our secrets to the Spymaster.’

‘Tell me what happened on the day Blue Dick was stabbed. He visited Chapel House briefly . . .’

‘He was monitoring it for Williamson, and he often slipped in to poke around, although I do not know why. When he came out, Edward killed him. Unfortunately, you saw the whole thing.’

‘He fled to St Mary Overie. Were you among the masked men I fought there?’