A Murder on London Bridge (43 page)

Rupert hesitated, but then nodded. ‘Yes. With Neville, Oliver and three courtiers from Somerset House. I wanted to shoot you, but I found I could not do it. I am not a natural killer.’

No, he was not, thought Chaloner, and was grateful that Oliver or Edward had not been holding the gun, because he suspected neither of them would have hesitated to pull the trigger.

‘Edward never told us he was going to kill Blue Dick,’ Rupert went on. ‘We were horrified when he confessed to what he had done. But killing came easier to him than the rest of us – even Oliver baulks at inflicting a fatal blow, which is why the Spymaster’s creature still lives.’

‘Nat,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject abruptly. He was not interested in Rupert’s attempts to distance himself from his brother’s excesses. ‘The beggar who was strangled and tossed in the river for asking questions. Who murdered him?’

Rupert looked away again. ‘Luckin. For a vicar, he is a turbulent soul. I think he enjoyed it.’

‘Tell me about Luckin. And about your clandestine meetings in Lord Bristol’s house.’

Rupert paled at the notion that Chaloner knew so much about his activities, and his voice was unsteady when he replied. ‘Luckin has gathered quite an army, and when St Mary Overie became unsafe, he told us to use the Great Queen Street mansion instead.’

‘Was he one of the swordsmen in St Mary Overie on the day Blue Dick was killed?’

‘No. If he had been, you and Leigh would be dead.’

‘The last I heard of him was when he galloped away intent on mischief – in company with you.’

‘That was not mischief! We were warned that there would be a raid on Great Queen Street – do not ask me by whom, because I do not know – so Luckin said it was a good time to bring some fireworks to London. That was innocent, at least. They are a surprise for the Dowager, in addition to the ones Winter is making.’

‘Did you take them to Somerset House?’

‘Well, no. Luckin took them elsewhere. Why? What is so important about a few Red Rockets?’

‘Are you sure it was Red Rockets on Luckin’s cart? Did you see them?’

‘They were covered with tarpaulin, to protect them from the rain.’ Rupert blanched as the realisation dawned that Luckin could have been transporting anything. ‘You must think us fools.’

Chaloner nodded.

Rupert gave a strained smile. ‘So what happens now? Will you arrest us?’

Chaloner did not have time. He pointed to the kitchen, which, like Hannah’s, possessed a door with a substantial bolt. Without a word, Rupert walked towards it and took a seat at the table next to Neville. Oliver leapt to his feet, scowling as he tried to work out what was happening.

‘You are facing some very dangerous and committed people,’ said Rupert, as Chaloner started to close the door. ‘And Luckin has vowed to kill you.’

‘I imagine he will have more important things to occupy his time for the next few hours,’ said Chaloner grimly.

‘Perhaps, but a man matching your description was seen in Southwark just before his nephews disappeared. Watch him, Chaloner. I have never met a man with a greater love for vengeance.’

With the warning ringing in his ears, Chaloner bolted the kitchen door, then ran to the back of the house, where he secured the rear entrance by bracing it with planks of wood. Oliver bawled obscenities all the while, but Neville and Rupert were silent. The moment Chaloner was sure they could not escape, he went to Hannah’s home, relieved to find her safe.

‘Tom!’ she exclaimed. ‘Thank God! Where have you been? I have been worried!’

‘Williamson is searching the Bridge and Drury Lane for the adapted fireworks,’ said Chaloner, sinking down on to a chair. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten a proper meal, and was hungry enough that he even took a piece of Hannah’s homemade gingerbread. He gagged on its fiery flavour. ‘And I must do the same at Somerset House.’

‘I have news for you, too,’ she said, sitting next to him. ‘The Duke came earlier, to tell me the plan for tomorrow. We are all to make black bands. Then, when he gives the signal, we are to leave the Somerset House ball, and assemble outside White Hall with these ribbons covering our eyes. It is to symbolise the government’s blind refusal to see justice.’

‘Explosions and rumours will be used to turn it into a riot,’ Chaloner explained tiredly. ‘And while troops struggle to quell the trouble, Luckin will be causing mischief elsewhere, using his army of masked men. The weapons stored in St Mary Overie will not be his only cache.
And
there are the fireworks, which we have so far failed to locate.’

Hannah swallowed hard, but then her face flooded with resolve. ‘We must stop him, Tom. He cannot get away with this! Do you see what he is doing? His vile deeds will be blamed on the poor, innocent Catholics who met at Somerset House on Saturday night. If they are not massacred immediately, there will be lynchings and persecutions for weeks to come.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘You say the rally will be at White Hall. Perhaps
that
is Luckin’s target – the firework-bombs will be ignited there.’

‘No.’ Hannah’s voice was unsteady. ‘For two reasons. First, because the demonstrators will be there, and Luckin will not kill the people he wants blamed for whatever happens. And second, it is the King’s home. Luckin’s fight is not with His Majesty.’

‘No? How do you know? I imagine fanatics like Luckin, Will Goff and Herring are more than willing to sacrifice lives to achieve whatever it is they want, including that of the King.’

Hannah’s expression was bitter. ‘These men
are
extreme, but the Earl of Clarendon is just as bad – he is the one who passed all these repressive laws to start with. And the Dowager is a fanatic, too, with her peculiar fascination for St Thomas Becket. She does not seem to care about anything else.’

‘Becket,’ said Chaloner softly, recalling Swaddell’s conviction that the Dowager’s devotion to the saint was significant.

Hannah was chattering on. ‘The Duke told me that her fixation with him started when someone sent her a message, saying that his bones had been spirited out of Canterbury Cathedral during the Reformation, and secretly buried in the chapel on the Bridge. Of course, the tale is untrue, because it is a matter of record that they were destroyed, but . . . Tom? What is wrong? What have I said?’

Chaloner was staring at her. ‘
Who
sent her the message saying Becket’s relics were on the Bridge?’

‘The letter was anonymous. The Duke was delighted, though, because as long as the Dowager has Becket’s mortal remains to occupy her, she is blind to all else, which means he can organise his rally without her interference. He said he could not have planned it better, had he sent this missive himself.’

Finally, Chaloner saw the beginnings of a solution. He stood abruptly. ‘I must speak to the Earl immediately. I will try to come back later, but if I am busy, please swear to me that you will not attend Buckingham’s demonstration tomorrow.’

Hannah regarded him askance. ‘I cannot promise that! Supposing there comes an opportunity to ask questions, or even to expose the plot before it can ignite? I would have to break my word!’

‘No!’ Chaloner took her in his arms. ‘You have done more than enough already, and if you try to interfere now, all you will do is put yourself in danger. I could not bear it if . . .’

‘I will be careful.’ Hannah patted his cheek, then kissed him in a businesslike way. ‘And so will you. Oh, do not look so horrified! Did you really expect me to sit at home while such devilry is at work? As I have said before, I shall do as my conscience dictates.’

Her and Thurloe both, thought Chaloner unhappily as he took his leave.

Dusk came early that night, because of the rain. It was not the hard, drenching stuff, but a persistent drizzle that encouraged shopkeepers to close early and people to hurry along with their hats pulled low. The dampness trapped the smoke from the thousands of homes with coal fires, and it turned the streets dull and foggy. Chaloner coughed, feeling particles of grit catch at the back of his throat.

‘Edward Penderel is dead,’ he said without preamble, as he entered the Earl’s office. Leigh was there, too, and looked up in surprise at the abrupt intrusion. ‘And you were right: he did kill Blue Dick, although he was acting on the orders of another.’

‘Who?’ demanded the Earl.

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It could be anyone. Blue Dick associated with a lot of unsavoury people, and he betrayed them. Or perhaps someone objected to what he had done in his past.’

‘It will be a fanatic,’ predicted Leigh sagely. ‘From one end of the spectrum or the other.’

‘What?’ demanded the Earl irritably. ‘What are you talking about? What spectrum?’

‘The religious spectrum,’ elaborated Leigh. ‘On the one hand, you have fervent Catholics, like Progers, the Penderels, Phillippes and Kaltoff, Junior Warden Scarlet and those Capuchins. And on the other, there are Anglican maniacs like Herring and that horrible vicar from Wimbledon. Any one of them might be responsible for ordering Blue Dick killed.’

‘Do you really think there will be an armed uprising tomorrow?’ asked the Earl uneasily, ignoring the little soldier and turning back to Chaloner. ‘I confess, I have been rather absorbed with my Bishops’ Dinner. Perhaps I should have given the matter more thought.’

‘If so, then all these religious lunatics must have banded together,’ said Leigh, before Chaloner could agree. ‘There cannot be more than one rebellion planned for the same day, so the two extremes must have united.’

Chaloner supposed it was possible, although it would take a lot of tolerance and understanding from men not normally noted for either.

‘Lord Bristol,’ said the Earl bitterly. ‘At least we know why
he
is rumoured to be home. He has wind of this plot, and is standing in the wings, ready to turn it to his advantage. Or perhaps the whole thing was his idea. God knows, he is wicked enough.’

Chaloner turned to another matter, the one that had driven him so quickly from Hannah’s house a few moments before. ‘What do you know about St Thomas Becket, sir?’

The Earl blinked at him, then looked decidedly furtive. ‘Why?’

‘Because someone sent the Dowager a letter, telling her his bones were buried on the Bridge – in the chapel dedicated to him before it was demolished. She ordered Scarlet and his wife out of their house, ostensibly so it could be renovated, but really so she could search it properly.’

The Earl smirked. ‘I cannot see the Dowager on her hands and knees with a trowel.’

‘She sent someone else to do it – the dial-makers, Phillippes and Kaltoff.’

‘You may be right,’ conceded the Earl. ‘They are Catholic, they live on the Bridge and they are sometimes invited to soirees in Somerset House. She will know them well enough to beg favours.’

‘The Dowager is determined to find these relics,’ Chaloner went on. ‘She prays in Winchester Palace, and has even started collecting old statues of him.’

The Earl nodded smugly. ‘Catholics do that sort of thing.’

Chaloner took a deep breath. ‘It was you who sent that letter, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘You did it to distract her from her campaign to damage you. Unfortunately, she has taken it rather more seriously than you anticipated.’

‘How dare you!’ cried the Earl, incensed. ‘I did nothing of the kind!’

‘Steady, Chaloner,’ breathed Leigh, also shocked. ‘You go too far.’

But Chaloner forged on. ‘Unfortunately, the deception has done more harm than good. Her obsession has rendered her oblivious to what else is going on in her household. In other words, Luckin’s plot has gained momentum because she has been too distracted to stop it. She hates the Clarendon Code, but she would never use a rebellion to see it overturned.’

The Earl’s indignation turned to disquiet. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Buckingham crowed that he could not have arranged it any better himself. In other words, you diverted the one person who might have knocked some sense into these schemers.’

The Earl’s face was ashen. ‘No! I
did
want her to stop criticising our new laws and think about something else. But I did not intend . . .’

‘I wish I had known all this last week,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because then I would not have wasted time looking into the curious happenings at Chapel House. I thought it was all part of the same plot, but it is not – the searches of that building have nothing to do with Luckin’s uprising.’

‘And if you
had
known, you could have planted a bone for her minions to find,’ said Leigh brightly. ‘Then she would have worshipped it, and turned her attention back to more important matters.’

The Earl regarded Chaloner with hopeful eyes. ‘Can you lay your hands on a few bones today?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner. ‘And even I could, it would be too late to prevent this crisis.’

‘But what about in the longer term?’ pressed the Earl. ‘You are right in that she took my letter more seriously than I anticipated, and now you have me worried. If you worked out that I am the culprit, then others might, too. She will come after me like a Fury.’

‘We cannot let that happen,’ said Leigh anxiously. ‘Send her another anonymous note, saying you were mistaken – that all Becket’s relics are accounted for, and she is wasting her time.’

‘I have already considered that,’ said the Earl miserably. ‘But it will not work. You see, she
wants
the tale to be true, and hope is a very powerful thing. I cannot dissuade her now.’

‘The King will be furious when he hears his mother was hoodwinked,’ mused Leigh tactlessly. ‘Especially on a matter concerning religion.’

‘Lord!’ groaned the Earl, covering his face. ‘What have I done?’

The Earl only had himself to blame for his predicament, thought Chaloner, and he was far more worried about Luckin than what the Dowager might say when she learned she had been the victim of a hoax. He left White Hall, aiming for Somerset House and his resumption of the search for deadly fireworks, but had not gone far before he met Wiseman. The surgeon rushed towards him and grabbed his arm urgently.