A Murder on London Bridge (46 page)

Phillippes was already on his knees, levering off the crate’s lid with his dagger. Fat Roberts knelt all around him, and Wiseman had to jostle a couple aside to make room for himself.

‘These are old bones,’ the surgeon said, rubbing his hands together before beginning his inspection. Chaloner thought he looked like a fly alighting on ripe meat. ‘Very old.’

‘You mean they really do belong to Becket?’ asked Phillippes. His voice was flat, and Chaloner could not tell if he was pleased, surprised, disappointed or merely indifferent.

Wiseman began to rummage around rather roughly, like a child in a toy-box. ‘I am afraid my skills do not extend to determining a man’s name from his bones, so I cannot answer that question. Of course, that is no reflection on my brilliance as a
medicus
, and . . . But what is this?’

He inspected something he had dragged out, but then shrugged and shoved it into Chaloner’s hands, before digging back into the treasure trove in search of something more interesting.

‘It is a metal plaque,’ said Chaloner, rubbing off the dirt with his sleeve. ‘Engraved in Latin.’

‘That was on top of him, along with some rotten wood,’ supplied Robert helpfully. ‘Father said it might be a coffin plate.’

‘Tell us what it says,’ pleaded another Robert. ‘We are not very good at Latin.’

‘
Hic sepultus est
Petrus de Cole
 . . . the rest of the name is missing.
Requiescat in pace . . . Anno Domini
MCC
 . . . no, it is too corroded.’ Seeing the Roberts’ blank expressions, he translated it for them. ‘Here is buried Peter de Cole–something. May he rest in peace. And then there is part of a date.’

‘Peter de Colechurch!’ chanted the children as one. They looked at each other and giggled.

‘Who is Peter de Colechurch?’ asked Chaloner.

‘The first builder of the stone bridge, in the year twelve hundred and . . .’ Robert waved an airy hand to indicate details were unimportant. ‘It is something all wardens know. And all wardens’ sons, too. Legend says he was buried in the chapel, but that was demolished a long time ago, and no one knows what happened to his coffin. It makes sense that he should still be in the vault.’

‘Peter de Colechurch was the only person ever to be buried on the Bridge,’ added another Robert helpfully. ‘It says so in Father’s records.’

‘So these are not Becket’s relics?’ asked Phillippes. Once again, it was impossible to gauge what he was thinking.

‘It would seem not,’ said Wiseman, lifting the skull and inspecting it. ‘This is the head of a very old man. Becket was much younger when he died.’

‘When work on Chapel House is finished, we are going to put him back,’ piped Robert. ‘Father said that to do otherwise might bring the Bridge bad luck.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Phillippes, standing and brushing dust from his clothes. ‘Then see to it.’

‘And the Dowager?’ asked Wiseman doubtfully. ‘What will you tell her?’

Phillippes sighed. ‘The truth. I have no idea who wrote the letter telling her that Becket’s relics were on the Bridge, but it was a cruel thing to have done. Her disappointment will be monumental.’

‘She may decide not to believe you,’ warned Wiseman. ‘Why would she, when it means the end of all her hopes and dreams?’

‘I will tell her that the skeleton has been found, but that it cannot be Becket’s,’ said Phillippes. ‘And I shall bring her here, if she does not accept my testimony. Hussey and his boys make for convincing witnesses, and so do you. Do not worry: her relic hunt ends tonight.’

‘How do we know we can trust you?’ asked Wiseman baldly. ‘That you will not slip back later, and lay claim to these remains for your own purposes?’

Phillippes was silent for a moment, staring at his feet. When he looked up, his expression was haunted. ‘Because they have cost me a friend – Kaltoff was not a bad man, and it was the prospect of the Dowager’s reward that turned him against me. They have also brought about the deaths of her two Frenchmen and done untold harm to the Scarlets. The Dowager will not want more blood on her conscience. We Catholics try to keep that sort of thing to a minimum.’

Chaloner was relieved to be out of Bridge House and into the open air. He watched Phillippes climb into a carriage, and stood with Wiseman as it rattled towards Somerset House. Its wheels were very loud in the silence of the night.

‘Are you
sure
we can believe what he says?’ asked Wiseman worriedly. ‘Because I would not like him to renege and cause trouble for the Earl.’

Chaloner did not reply, because he had no idea whether Phillippes could be trusted. The dial-maker had seemed sincere, but who knew what he was really thinking?

Chaloner glanced up at the sky, sensing dawn was not far off. He was exhausted, and envied Wiseman when the surgeon said he was going home to bed. But it was no time to be thinking of sleep, because it was Shrove Tuesday. How many people would wake for the last time that morning? What was going to happen to Hannah and Thurloe?

He shivered as he ran towards Lincoln’s Inn. It was bitterly cold, but the chill that had settled inside him had nothing to do with the weather. He forced himself to listen outside Chamber XIII for several minutes, to ensure Thurloe was alone, then he picked the lock and let himself in. Thurloe was sitting at his table, writing, and whipped around quickly when he became aware that someone was standing behind him.

‘Tom! Thank God!’ he exclaimed. ‘I have not performed that knife manoeuvre in a very long time, and you are heavier than I remember, less easy to manipulate. I fear I hurt you.’

‘You did,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But never mind that. All my efforts to prevent trouble today have failed, and I need your help. Lives are at stake, and the only way we can save them is by working together. There is no one else I trust.’

Thurloe set his pen on the table. ‘Do you have a plan?’

‘No. But I might be able to devise one if you tell me what is going on. For a start, you can explain what has induced you to keep company with a regicide, an iconoclast and the King’s mistress.’

Thurloe regarded him soberly. ‘I have done nothing that is not for the good of my country.’

Chaloner slumped in the chair next to him. ‘I imagine hundreds of people all over the city will wake up today, and think exactly the same thing. But among them are those who do not care whether innocent blood is spilled in the process.’

‘I am not one of them,’ said Thurloe quietly.

‘I know. I also know you are loath to confide because you do not want to put me in danger. But it is too late for that. There will be a rebellion today, and I cannot stop it alone. I need your help.’

Thurloe closed his eyes, and suddenly his face was haggard. ‘The Clarendon Code is not a sensible piece of legislation, and it is causing dismay in many quarters. But because it is foolish, it will be repealed in time. It is just a question of waiting it out.’

Chaloner was bewildered by the enigmatic statement. ‘But if you know it is going to be overturned, then why have you been so vocal about it? Why make noisy declarations in coffee houses that . . .’ Understanding came in a blinding flash. ‘It was a ploy! Your outspokenness was designed to encourage dissidents to approach you – you, a high-ranking member of a former regime!’

Thurloe winced. ‘I was obliged to be embarrassingly brazen to attract them. It was painful.’

‘So, you were never a rebel, you are a spy! Do not tell me you work for Williamson?’

Thurloe made a moue of disgust. ‘Credit me with some standards, Thomas.’

‘The King,’ surmised Chaloner. Thurloe would not have dabbled in politics for anyone less.

‘I was not very happy about it, but I could not refuse a direct request from His Majesty. Not without looking like an insurgent myself.’

Chaloner was uneasy. ‘I hope you do not intend to tell him that Lady Castlemaine is among the plotters. I assume that is why she was here? To recruit you to her cause?’

‘She came to ask whether I would be interested in toppling your Earl, on the grounds that he lends his name to the Clarendon Code – the laws I have been railing against. However, she and her friends at Somerset House are not interested in the rights and wrongs of religious repression. They just want to destroy your master.’

‘That may be
her
intention,’ said Chaloner. ‘And perhaps Buckingham’s, too. But there are others whose plans are rather more wide-ranging. Luckin has armed men awaiting his instructions; most of Winter’s fireworks have been stolen; and firework-bombs have probably been manufactured. Father Stephen thinks their target is the theatre, but I still believe it is the Bridge.’

Thurloe stared at him, aghast. ‘The Bridge? But the loss of life will be appalling!’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You do not know all this? But Will Goff and Herring are deeply involved, and you have been consorting with them.’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘People tend not to trust ex-Spymasters – the King was wrong to have placed so much faith in me. Several dangerous men
have
been eager to secure my support, but I am told very little in return. You have learned far more than I, despite my best efforts.’

‘But still not nearly enough. What can you tell me about your fellow conspirators? Start with Will Goff. Did he come from New England with the express intention of leading a rebellion?’

Thurloe shook his head slowly, and Chaloner saw the wretched position he was in – caught between loyalty to old friends and his vow to support the new government. ‘He says he had wind of the trouble in letters sent to him, and is here to prevent it. I have no idea if he is telling the truth, despite my attempts to inveigle my way into his confidence.’

‘And Herring?’

‘I recruited him to work for me – to infiltrate the rebels’ ranks. He maintains the illusion that he is a radical, but his opinions have moderated since the heady days of his iconoclasm. I believe he is on our side.’

‘You
believe
? You are not sure?’

Thurloe looked tired. ‘There is so much treachery in this business that I am not sure of anything.’

‘Then who do you trust?’

‘You,’ replied Thurloe simply.

‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘Then talk to your contacts and prise as much information from them as you can, no matter what you have to do to get it. Then I suppose I had better search Somerset House. I doubt the plotters are foolish enough to hide gunpowder under green salad, but you never know with fanatics.’

‘Go to Nonesuch House first,’ suggested Thurloe. ‘Winter knows more about explosives than any man alive. He may be able to tell you how to prevent these powerful fireworks from igniting. If I discover anything, I shall send you a message.’

Chapter 12

It was just growing light when Chaloner ran into the street. One or two churches were open, inviting parishioners to pray on the last morning before Lent, but other than that, Shrove Tuesday was much like any other day of the year.

When he arrived at the Bridge, there was no sign of Williamson’s soldiers, and he assumed they had either given up their search or had finished it empty handed. He heard the residents discussing it, though. They were furious to have been disturbed in the middle of the night, just because a dangerous sect called the Followers of the Prophet Elijah were at large.

‘I have never heard of them,’ Tyus remarked to his wife as Chaloner passed. ‘But Williamson’s men said they recite incantations to interrupt the tides, and make bits of the cathedral drop off.’

‘And they called up the ghost of the old king,’ added Sarah.

Chaloner hurried on, marvelling at the power of rumour. He slowed when he reached Nonesuch House, because something was happening there. A guard had been posted on the door – he was dressed as a servant, but he carried himself like a soldier – and although lights flickered in several rooms and every chimney was smoking furiously, the curtains were drawn. Chaloner regarded the place in alarm. There had not been guards, smoke and closed draperies before. He crossed the street and approached the guard.

‘Sir John Winter asked me to tune his viols today,’ he said.

The fellow barely glanced at him. ‘Come back tomorrow.’

Was Winter being held captive inside, wondered Chaloner, seized by people who wanted to make use of his expertise?

‘Very well,’ he said, feigning nonchalance. ‘But the Dowager will be vexed when Winter arrives at her ball with discordant instruments. I would not want to be in
your
shoes later.’

The guard gulped, and promptly stood aside. ‘Top floor,’ he said gruffly. ‘Go up, do your work and come straight back down again.’

Chaloner began his search the moment the door closed behind him, knowing he would not have long before the guard came looking for him. The ground-floor was hot to the point of suffocating, and fires blazed in both hearths, although neither of the rooms were occupied. Deciding to leave the cellar for last, he headed for the upper chambers.

The door to the parlour on the first floor was closed, but voices emanated from within. He crept towards it, and pressed his ear to the wood. But it was thick, and he could not hear what was being said. Moving with the utmost care, he released the latch and eased it open. Then, not only could he hear, but he could see, too.

A dozen men sat around a table, but the one who caught his attention was Lord Bristol. The peer was thinner and paler than the last time Chaloner had seen him, but the handsome face was unmistakeable. On either side of him were Luckin and Father Stephen. Stephen looked terrified, while Luckin’s eyes flashed vengefully, as if he was glad his day had come at last. Herring was there, too, sitting at the far end of the table with his arms folded. The others Chaloner recognised as men he had seen in Great Queen Street, although Winter was not among them.

‘I do not feel comfortable here,’ Bristol was saying. He was eating a dish of onions. ‘I should have stayed longer with my brother. Or better still, remained at my own home in Great Queen Street. No one would have thought to look for me there.’