A Murder on London Bridge (49 page)

‘You are supposed to be dead,’ cried Herring, shocked.

He started to reach for his weapon, but Chaloner did not give him the chance. He spun the iconoclast around, wrapped one arm around his neck to keep him still, and pressed the knife to his side, using him as a shield against the gun Luckin had drawn.

‘What are you looking for?’ he repeated, more forcefully.

‘Tell him,’ said Stephen with one of his sickly smiles. ‘He knows his way around Clarendon’s offices, and it will be quicker to secure his help than to hunt for it on our own.’

‘I am not telling him anything,’ snarled Luckin. ‘And he is hardly in a position to make us.’

‘He will kill Herring if we do not comply,’ said Stephen. He turned to Chaloner. ‘We are looking for information about Clarendon House. Where does your Earl keep his private papers?’

‘Why do you want to know about Clarendon House?’ asked Chaloner, bewildered.

‘We do not have time for this,’ declared Luckin. He took a second gun from his belt and tossed it towards Stephen. The priest fumbled as he caught it, and everyone in the room flinched. ‘You move to the left, I will go right. He cannot use Herring to protect himself from both of us at once.’

‘It is over, Luckin,’ said Chaloner, tightening his grip on the struggling iconoclast. ‘Spymaster Williamson knows what you intend to do, and so does the Earl. Even as I speak, troops are moving into position at Somerset House and St Paul’s Cathedral—’

‘Lies!’ cried Herring in a strangled voice. ‘No one can have guessed our plans. Ignore him, Luckin! He is trying to disconcert you.’

‘You do not need to pretend any longer, Father,’ said Chaloner, indicating Stephen was to disarm the vicar. ‘And there is no time for games, because we must prevent this pair of traitors from—’

‘Traitors, are we?’ demanded Luckin. ‘Why? Because we object to repression?’

‘Father!’ said Chaloner urgently. ‘Take the—’

‘How can you think I am on Clarendon’s side?’ snarled Stephen, rounding on him suddenly. ‘That wicked heathen who is crushing the life out of the True Church! He is a massive obstacle in the way of religious toleration, and it would be unethical
not
to stop him.’

Chaloner gaped at him. ‘But you have been passing Somerset House’s secrets to the Earl for—’

‘Wrong!’ Stephen smiled, although it was a deeply unpleasant expression. ‘I have been passing
his
secrets to
Somerset House
. I am a spy, but
he
has not been the beneficiary of my expertise.’

Chaloner gaped at the priest in disbelief, his thoughts tumbling in confusion. How could Stephen be a rebel? He had revealed too many of the conspirators’ plans.

‘I lied, too,’ said Herring smugly, sensing his captor’s bafflement. ‘I told you I had moderated my opinions, but I have not. It was Blue Dick who advocated restraint – and who acted on his new-found principles by spying for Williamson.’

But Chaloner was more concerned with Father Stephen. He noticed that the hand holding the gun was suddenly steady, and the timid, anxious expression had been replaced by something calm and purposeful. Chaloner was disgusted with himself. The man was brother to a regicide, and felt strongly enough about his convictions not only to convert to Rome, but to become one of its priests. How could he have thought such a fellow was a timorous nonentity?

‘Is this about Becket’s bones?’ he asked, shifting Herring to cover him better.

‘They do not exist,’ replied Stephen scornfully. ‘And I never believed they did. But the business had its advantages. It kept your attention divided, so you failed to learn about our work.’

‘It distracted the Dowager, too,’ added Luckin gloatingly. ‘Because she would not approve of what we are doing.’

‘You told me there was gold in Chapel House,’ said Chaloner to Stephen, more strands of the mystery beginning to make sense. ‘But it was to divert me from your real—’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Stephen, edging to his right, the gun held in front of him. ‘I lied about the theatre, too. There were never any plans to destroy it.’

Chaloner was impressed: the man had been convincing. ‘It was all an act?’ he asked. ‘This pretence of nervousness?’

‘Oh, I was nervous,’ said Stephen. ‘Of course I was – I was deceiving not only Clarendon, but the likes of Buckingham, Lady Castlemaine and Progers, too. They can be lethal when crossed, so it was not an act, I assure you.’

‘Those dissipated rogues at Somerset House are nothing,’ spat Luckin contemptuously, climbing over a desk to gain a clear shot. ‘We are
using
them – persuading them to stage a rally, which they think will turn people against Clarendon. They are blinded by their hatred for him. Fools!’

‘We will rid ourselves of the lot of them today,’ crowed Herring, still trying to wriggle free of Chaloner’s grasp. ‘And those left will think twice about inventing repressive religious laws in the future.’

‘You will not succeed,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Thanks to Father Stephen here, and the secrets he passed to the Earl, too many people know what you plan to—’

‘It makes no difference what they know,’ sneered Luckin. ‘Weapons and special fireworks are in place, and no one can stop what we have started. Do you really think the bombs in Somerset House can be made safe with a few pails of water? What we have arranged will reduce the place to rubble.’

‘Enough chatter,’ barked Stephen. He glared at Chaloner and raised the gun. ‘Where are the Clarendon House plans?’

Chaloner quickly shifted position again. ‘Why do you want them?’ They were hardly something
he
would have considered important.

‘So we can make them public after the massacre,’ replied Herring. There was a confident timbre to his voice: he fully expected his companions to defeat Chaloner and save him. ‘When people see the extent of the Earl’s greed – a vast mansion paid for by public taxes – he will be become a figure of hatred. And the Clarendon Code will fall with him.’

Suddenly, Stephen’s arm jerked and there was a deafening report. Herring gasped, then went limp. Chaloner tried to hold him, but blood was gushing, and there was no point in clutching a corpse. He let Herring fall, aiming to capitalise on the fact that Stephen would need to reload, but Luckin reacted fast, and had his own dag trained on Chaloner before his colleague’s body had hit the floor. Chaloner expected to be dispatched immediately, and braced himself, but Luckin was frowning his puzzlement.

‘Did you do that on purpose?’ he asked of Stephen, indicating that Chaloner was to drop his dagger. With no choice, Chaloner did as he was told. He felt for the one in his sleeve, but he had thrown that at Doucett in Wych Street, and had neglected to reclaim it.

‘Herring was a liability,’ replied Stephen dispassionately, turning the key on his gun to wind it. ‘Why do you think I told Clarendon about him and the other statue-smashers? You encouraged me to accept their help, but I do not approve of iconoclasm. I never wanted them involved.’

‘You gave the Earl information about the adapted fireworks, too,’ said Chaloner, hoping to cause division in the ranks. ‘Phillippes’s formulae, which—’

‘So what?’ demanded Stephen. ‘Has it allowed you to stop us? No, it has made no difference whatsoever.’ He regarded Chaloner coolly. ‘The Earl was not always an avaricious bigot, and I am sorry for what he has become. When he is dead, he will not be well remembered.’

‘Dead?’ asked Luckin, regarding him askance. ‘Unless he is in Somerset House or the cathedral, he will survive. Of course, he may be ripped limb from limb when London learns the truth about Clarendon House, but that is for the future.’

Yet Chaloner knew from the dark, malignant expression on Stephen’s face that Luckin was not party to all that would transpire that day. Then the awful truth hit him like a physical blow, and he wondered why he had not seen it before.

‘You do not care about St Paul’s and Somerset House,’ he said, appalled. ‘Your target is the Earl and his Bishops’ Dinner – the men responsible for the Clarendon Code.’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ exclaimed Luckin. He glanced at Stephen for confirmation, and his jaw dropped when he saw it was not going to be forthcoming. ‘No! How did you . . . but that would—’

‘Chaloner is not going to tell us where the Earl keeps his plans,’ interrupted Stephen shortly. ‘And we
must
have them, or people will make him a martyr and the Clarendon Code never be repealed. Shoot Chaloner before he pulls some kind of trick. We will find them without his help.’

Luckin had been gaping in astonishment, staggered by what he had just learned. But he quickly pulled himself together. ‘Oh, well,’ he said, raising his weapon and taking aim. ‘I suppose you know what you are doing.’

He could not miss at such close range, and there was nothing Chaloner could do but grit his teeth and hope the kill was a clean one.

‘Stand away, Luckin,’ came a stern voice from the door. Chaloner spun around to see Thurloe, who was holding a gun. It was levelled at the vicar.

Behind him were Will Goff and several palace guards. With a howl of fury, Stephen gave the firing mechanism one last, vicious twist and turned towards his brother. But there was a sharp crack, and he dropped to the floor. Smoke issued from the end of Thurloe’s gun. Luckin gaped in horror, and while he was distracted, Chaloner rushed him, bowling him off his feet and silencing the stream of foul curses that poured from his mouth with a punch.

‘Tom, what did they tell you?’ demanded Thurloe urgently, wasting no time on explanations.

‘That they mean to kill the bishops. And blow up Somerset House and St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘Damned fanatics!’ muttered Will Goff. ‘Have they not had enough of bloodshed and chaos?’

Chaloner raced towards The Strand, aware that he faced an agonising decision. Who should he try to save? The bishops, without whom the country might be plunged into the kind of anarchy from which it was difficult to recover? Or Hannah? But there was no real choice. He wanted to rescue the woman he was going to marry. Thurloe had other ideas, though.

‘Do your duty,’ he ordered, catching up with him. ‘See to your master. Winter has warned Williamson, who is already at the cathedral, so we do not need to worry about that.’

‘But Hannah is at the Dowager’s ball, waiting for orders to don a blindfold and—’

‘I will go to Somerset House,’ said Thurloe. ‘You and Will must save the Church.’

Chaloner wanted to argue, but Thurloe shoved him in the direction of Worcester House, and he knew the ex-Spymaster was right. Lady Castlemaine would arrange for Thurloe to be admitted to the ball, but the courtesy was unlikely to be extended to Clarendon’s spy.

‘Come,’ said Goff urgently, tugging on his arm. ‘We do not have much time, and I would rather not be blown to pieces with these prelates, if it can be avoided.’

The Bishops’ Dinner was in full swing, and the Earl’s garden was jam-packed with coaches, all bearing ecclesiastical coats of arms. Chaloner began to weave through them, wondering how long it would be before the place went up.

‘I am sorry about your brother,’ he said, aware that Goff was matching him step for step. He did not want the man to assume he was responsible for his kinsman’s death, and try to kill him while he was grappling with other fanatics.

‘I am not,’ said Goff grimly. ‘As soon as I heard the Dowager had made him a favourite, I knew it boded ill. I hurried from New England as fast as I could, and informed the King of my concerns. He drafted me into his service, but it was too late: Stephen’s plot was already in motion.’

‘I thought you were part of it,’ confessed Chaloner.

‘You were meant to – everyone was. I hoped it would encourage traitors to confide their secrets in me, but I found, as did Thurloe, that people are wary of ex-Cromwellians.’

They reached the house’s main entrance, where the guards recognised Chaloner and stood aside for him to enter. The Earl’s dining room was directly ahead, and through the door, Chaloner could see Bishop Morley tucking into his pickled ling pie. He also saw the Earl, whose jaw tightened in annoyance at his spy’s dirty, unkempt appearance. Chaloner ignored him. There was no time to do otherwise.

‘Where shall we look?’ demanded Goff, looking around breathlessly.

‘Cellar first.’ Chaloner began to head in that direction.

But the Earl had left the celebrations and was blocking his way. ‘What are you—’ he began. Then his hands flew to his mouth in horror when he recognised the tall, hawk-featured man who stood in his hallway. ‘Good God, Chaloner! What have you—’

Explaining would take too long. Chaloner dodged around him, and ran towards the basement, taking the steps three at a time. The first room he dashed into was empty, and so was the second, but the third was full of barrels. And someone was standing to one side, holding a lamp above a trail of dark powder that snaked across the floor towards them. Chaloner gazed at him, struggling to understand.

‘I thought you . . .’

‘I have nothing to do with blowing up the cathedral or Somerset House,’ said Winter quietly. ‘But this is different. These bishops are trying to eradicate my religion. I cannot let that happen.’

‘It is not different,’ said Chaloner, acutely aware that he was weaponless, but Winter had a sword. ‘Both will result in carnage followed by chaos. And if you light the fuse, you will die, too.’

Winter nodded. ‘I know. But the last man who attempted to assassinate Clarendon ran away, and the powder failed to detonate. That was on Bonfire Night. The lesson is learned, though: whoever sets flame to fuse this time must wait with it, to ensure it does not splutter out. Father Stephen has absolved me of my sins, and I am ready to face my God.’

Chaloner dived forward when Winter touched his lamp to the powder, and stamped on the flame. It flickered for a moment, but then burned on, and Chaloner’s second stamp went wide as Winter punched him. It was a clumsy blow, delivered more in exasperation than with any real intent to harm, but it knocked Chaloner to one knee. Chaloner promptly dived on top of the burning powder, and tried to smother it with his body. With a groan of despair, Winter came to skewer him.