A Murder on London Bridge (50 page)

‘I wish you had not come, Chaloner,’ he whispered. ‘I have no wish to kill a violist. But I cannot let you stop me, not when Father Stephen and I have worked so hard to plan this day.’

As the weapon descended, Chaloner reached up and grabbed it. As they struggled, he was aware of the Earl waddling into the cellar, Leigh and Goff at his heels, and heard his exclamation of horror when he saw the amount of gunpowder that had been smuggled into his home.

‘Get out, sir!’ he managed to gasp. ‘Now!’

In a massive display of strength, Winter ripped away the sword, but Chaloner leapt at him before he could regain his balance, and then they were both rolling on the floor. Chaloner heard the Earl shouting, but could not make out the words. Then Winter scored a lucky punch, and Chaloner’s senses began to darken. He was going to lose the fight, and Worcester House and all the bishops were going to be destroyed.

Then there was a distant boom, followed immediately by another. Thurloe was too late! Luckin’s firework-bombs were igniting, and Hannah . . .

The notion that lunatics were going to kill her filled Chaloner with a white, burning fury, and he found a reserve of strength he did not know he had. He lashed out wildly, and felt his fist connect once, and then twice. He thought he heard Winter howl, but sounds had become a meaningless buzz and his vision was blurred. He struck out a third time, but his arm was as heavy as lead, and he knew there was no power in the blow. Then darkness overtook him.

Slowly, Chaloner’s wits cleared. He was lying on his back on a cold stone floor, and someone was kneeling next to him. He blinked trying to focus. It was Thurloe.

‘It is over, Tom,’ the ex-Spymaster said gently. ‘Winter is arrested, and the bishops are safe.’

‘Hannah?’ gasped Chaloner, struggling to sit up. ‘Somerset House?’

‘The Dowager cancelled her ball when Phillippes told her there were no relics to be had. She did not feel like celebrating, apparently. Everyone was being turned away when I arrived.’

‘I heard explosions—’

‘That was Buckingham. He decided the best way to render the fireworks safe was to ignite them all by shooting at them. And in the streets outside, a lot of people removed black blindfolds to coo appreciatively at the resulting display.’

‘Thurloe says the enhanced ones have made rather a mess of the Dowager’s parterres.’ It was the Earl speaking, a spiteful grin plastered on his chubby face. ‘And her box hedges will never be the same again.’

‘They were placed so as to cause the greatest injury to spectators,’ said Thurloe in distaste. ‘There would have been a bloodbath, had the plan succeeded.’

Chaloner became aware that other people were in the cellar, too – Will Goff, Leigh, Bulteel and several servants. ‘They should not be here,’ he said urgently,trying to stand. Thurloe helped him. ‘The gunpowder . . .’

‘Far too damp to explode,’ said Goff cheerfully. ‘It has been down here too long. Winter should be ashamed of himself for not realising it straight away.’

Chaloner was not sure he believed him. ‘The fuse burned well enough.’

‘That was from a new barrel,’ explained Goff. ‘And Clarendon did the right thing anyway: he kicked a gap in its trail, which is far more effective than stamping or lying on it.’

The Earl preened at the praise. ‘I had better return to my guests. They will be wondering what is going on, but I do not think I shall tell them. I shall invent a tale about a kitchen fire.’

‘That is probably wise,’ agreed Goff. ‘The news that religious fanatics tried to murder every bishop in the country is not the sort of thing that will help the cause of peace.’

The Earl regarded him balefully. ‘The King should have told
me
that he had ordered you and Thurloe to infiltrate these villains. Then I could have told Chaloner, and the affair need never have gone so far.’

‘His Majesty told no one,’ said Thurloe. ‘Not even his own Spymaster. And he swore us to secrecy, so we had no choice but to keep our silence.’

‘He swore Herring to secrecy, too, but that did not stop him from betraying us,’ said Goff bitterly. ‘Damned zealot! But, Lord, I shall be glad to leave this country! No one tells a man how to pray in New England. This has been a dirty business, and I am glad it is over.’

‘Is it over?’ asked Chaloner unhappily. ‘We prevented these massacres, but how long will it be before the next band of lunatics stirs itself up? Especially if the government persists with its policy of intolerance. And some of the plotters are still free – Lord Bristol, for example.’

‘But they are not for us to fight,’ said Thurloe kindly. ‘At least, not today.’

Epilogue

Two men stood on Botolph’s Wharf and watched the ship unfurl her sails as she started her journey towards the sea. It was early morning, and fog shifted on the silvery surface of the river like a veil. The Bridge loomed above them, strong and timeless.

‘Will Goff will do well in New England,’ said Thurloe, as the vessel gathered momentum. ‘He is a hero there, a man who stood against the oppression of the state.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, glancing around uneasily. It was not the sort of statement he wanted anyone else to hear. ‘But I am glad he has gone. It was dangerous for you to hide him in Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘It was not his fault the tides prevented him from leaving sooner,’ said Thurloe. ‘But your fears were groundless. The King would have protected us, had he been discovered.’

‘Would he? I do not think I have ever known an affair to be so completely covered up. There has not been so much as a whisper about it in the coffee houses, which is amazing, given that it involved such a large number of people.’

‘All of whom are glad to have escaped unscathed. Folk like Buckingham, Progers and the Lady have learned it is unwise to dabble with fanatics, and Bristol has slithered across to Holland. They will not dabble in such deadly business again.’

Chaloner was not so sure. The Earl’s enemies had been openly disappointed when they had learned that their plot to harm him had failed, and had not cared who had seen it.

‘The Clarendon Code will cause a lot of trouble before it is repealed,’ Thurloe went on. ‘But repealed it will be. Popular opinion is against Catholics and nonconformists at the moment, but that will not last for ever. Tolerance will come, although I doubt it will be in our lifetimes.’

‘It is amazing how religion can turn sane men into lunatics. And Stedman’s pranks did not help – the old king’s ghost started all manner of panicky rumours.’

‘Not just Stedman,’ said Thurloe. ‘Phillippes also added to the unease by telling folk that the Thames was disturbed. But the reality is that his tide-ring is not very accurate, and he was reporting greater variation than was actually the case.’

‘St Paul’s Cathedral really is falling to pieces, though. It will not be long before it collapses completely. Like my house. And there is another story that has been misreported. People believe it fell down because it was unstable, despite witnesses reporting a loud bang before it went. There has not been the slightest whisper that gunpowder might have helped it along.’

‘It is better that way,’ said Thurloe, as they began to walk back towards Thames Street. ‘But you have been subdued since all this happened. Is something wrong?’

‘The Earl has still not forgiven me for the fact that there was no gold in Chapel House. Past investigations uncovered money that went into his coffers, but this one did not. He feels cheated.’

‘That is hardly your fault,’ said Thurloe, indignant on his behalf.

‘He is angry about Winter, too. I rescued him from Nonesuch House and . . .’

‘And he promptly tried to blow up the Bishops’ Dinner,’ finished Thurloe. ‘But again, that was not your fault. You thought he was going to warn Williamson, and that all would be well.’

‘He
did
warn Williamson – he did not want Somerset House or St Paul’s destroyed. But the assembled bishops represented far too attractive a target, and he agreed readily when Father Stephen invited him to finish what the last Green Man had started.’

‘The last Green Man,’ mused Thurloe, ‘who smuggled enough powder inside Worcester House to flatten half The Strand, and tried to ignite it on Bonfire Night.’ He turned, and stared intently at Chaloner. ‘But the case is not all that is worrying you. Do you still have questions about
my
actions? You are vexed that I did not confide in you sooner?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘It was exasperating, but I know now that your hands were tied.’

‘I wish we could have worked together, but the King made me swear to shun everyone’s allegiance. I felt terrible about taking advantage of you.’

‘You took advantage of me?’ asked Chaloner, surprised. He had not noticed.

‘I was eager to learn the identity of Blue Dick’s killer, because I thought it might help me understand the rebels’ plans. I kept asking you about it, but gave you nothing in return.’

Chaloner smiled ruefully. ‘Even when I did find the answer, it came too late to help.’

‘Well, we averted disaster, regardless, so all’s well that ends well. I am sorry about your home, by the way, although the place was dismal, and you must be far more comfortable with Hannah.’

‘My second-best viol was in it,’ said Chaloner gloomily. And so was the jug from his mother and the cracked mirror from his dead wife, although he had not felt able to mention these to anyone.

Thurloe frowned, concerned. ‘But the loss of a much-loved musical instrument is not the cause of your despondency, either. Tell me what ails you, Tom. I may be able to help.’

‘I am beyond help with this,’ said Chaloner. ‘Hannah has invited Temperance and Wiseman to dine tonight, because our previous arrangement had to be cancelled. I cannot imagine a worse combination of people. And she is going to make one of those appalling pickled ling pies.’

‘Wiseman is a decent soul, and he likes you. Do not reject his friendship, because he is a better man than Bulteel. You are aware that Bulteel grows ever closer to Spymaster Williamson, and that everything you say and do is reported to him, are you not?’

They had discussed Thurloe’s reservations about Bulteel on several occasions, but the reality was that Chaloner liked the shy secretary a lot more than he did the arrogant surgeon. He changed the subject, not wanting to argue.

‘Will you come tonight?’ he asked hopefully. ‘That would make it bearable.’

Thurloe regarded him askance. ‘I do not think a Court Catholic, a brothel-keeper and a man who loves anatomy are the kind of company an honest ex-Spymaster should keep. But do not worry. It will not go on too late, because Temperance will need to open her brothel. Besides, you will have to acquire a taste for pickled ling pies if you are to marry Hannah. It is all she can cook.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. It was not an appealing prospect for his stomach, although his heart was content with the arrangement.

‘Incidentally, Bishop Morley claims the Earl’s pickled ling pie was the best he has ever eaten,’ said Thurloe, amused. ‘He wants the name of the supplier, so he can order a regular supply.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘And I am running out of excuses not to tell him.’

‘Perhaps you should confess. Life as a bishop’s baker cannot be any worse than life as an earl’s spy. At least there will not be any explosives involved.’

Hannah had decorated her parlour beautifully, and it looked cosy and welcoming. Temperance was ill-at-ease at first, and clung to Wiseman’s arm for moral support, but soon began to relax. The surgeon was in his element, though, with two ladies hanging on his every word. Listening to the grisly stories with growing revulsion, Chaloner thought the evening would never end.

‘I owe you a great deal,’ Wiseman said, when Temperance had gone to help Hannah prepare the syllabub. ‘I was lonely and miserable before you introduced me to Temperance, but now my life is a round of unending happiness. How is yours?’

‘The Earl is sending me to Holland tomorrow, to hunt for Lord Bristol. I have not told Hannah yet. Still, I imagine Buckingham will be ready to step in and comfort her while I am away.’

‘Buckingham will not bother Hannah. The King has suggested an extended stay in the country for him, until all danger of repercussions from the recent Somerset House debacle has faded.’

‘The debacle no one knows about,’ said Chaloner flatly.

Wiseman nodded. ‘I find myself a little confused about the details, and while common sense tells me that I should keep it that way, my scientific curiosity is piqued. Will you go through it with me?’

Chaloner obliged. ‘There were a large number of plotters, but because they were such a disparate group – fervent Catholics, dedicated Puritans and hedonistic mischief-makers – they were all pulling in different directions. They owed each other no loyalty, and they had different objectives.’

‘Which is why Father Stephen had no compunction in shooting his fellow-conspirator Herring – an iconoclast who liked smashing the popish images that Stephen revered,’ surmised Wiseman.

Chaloner nodded. ‘Father Stephen was the most complex. He enlisted Winter to blow up the Bishops’ Dinner, he joined Luckin and Herring in their plan to destroy St Paul’s and Somerset House, and he was quite happy to assist the Lady and Buckingham in their petty tricks to harm the Earl. He spied on them all, and played each against the other.’

‘An evil villain,’ mused Wiseman. ‘Or perhaps just insane. Like my wife, he belongs in Bedlam. So did Luckin, by all accounts. I heard he assembled a small army, and ordered them to shoot innocent demonstrators. And he tried to kill you because he thought you had kidnapped his nephews.’

‘There was spying and treachery galore,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘Will Goff and Thurloe looked to be rebels, but were actually agents of the King; Blue Dick was a reformed iconoclast who agreed to watch his former associates for Williamson; and Kaltoff betrayed Phillippes, by planning to take the credit for finding Becket’s bones.’