Read Murder on High Holborn Online
Authors: Susanna Gregory
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Mystery & Detective
Murder on High Holborn
Susanna Gregory was a police officer in Leeds before taking up an academic career. She has served as an environmental consultant during seventeen field seasons in the polar regions, and has taught comparative anatomy and biological anthropology.
She is the creator of the Matthew Bartholomew series of mysteries set in medieval Cambridge as well as the Thomas Chaloner books, and now lives in Wales with her husband, who is also a writer.
The Thomas Chaloner Series
A Conspiracy of Violence
Blood on the Strand
The Butcher of Smithfield
The Westminster Poisoner
A Murder on London Bridge
The Body in the Thames
The Piccadilly Plot
Death in St James’s Park
The Matthew Bartholomew Series
A Plague on Both Your Houses
An Unholy Alliance
A Bone of Contention
A Deadly Brew
A Wicked Deed
A Masterly Murder
An Order for Death
A Summer of Discontent
A Killer in Winter
The Hand of Justice
The Mark of a Murderer
The Tarnished Chalice
To Kill or Cure
The Devil’s Disciples
A Vein of Deceit
The Killer of Pilgrims
Mystery in the Minster
Murder by the Book
The Lost Abbot
COPYRIGHT
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Sphere
ISBN: 9780748121076
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 Susanna Gregory
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
Table of Contents
For Eileen and Paul French
7 March 1665
His Majesty’s Ship
London
was a magnificent sight as she sailed down the Medway from the Royal Dockyard at Chatham. Carrying some eighty guns, she was one of the largest ships in the navy, and the Admiralty expected her to play a crucial role in fighting the Dutch – war had been declared two weeks before. She was the flagship of Admiral Sir John Lawson, and would sail up the Thames to collect him from Queenhithe, after which she would join the rest of his fleet in the Channel.
HMS
London
had always enjoyed a special relationship with the city after which she was named, so the crew was looking forward to taking her there, relishing the opportunity to show off her exquisitely painted woodwork, bright new sails and gleaming brass cannon. There were three hundred seamen aboard, and those not on watch had contrived to be out on deck, proud and trim in their best embroidered jackets and snowy white trousers.
There was also a smattering of passengers – a few of the Admiral’s relations making the journey between Chatham and Queenhithe as a treat. They would disembark in the city, after which the ship would revert to a fighting machine. The festive ribbons that fluttered from her masts would be taken down, her crew would exchange their smart, shore-going rigs for working clothes, and all would be battened down ready for combat.
Captain Jeffrey Dare, in command until the Admiral boarded, ordered the mainsails set and
London
heeled over as the wind caught her, a sharp bow-wave hissing down her sides. He was glad to be away at last, although he was concerned about the failing light. He had intended to get under way at dawn, but there had been some wrangling over paperwork with the dockyard’s commissioner, and it was noon before the matter had been resolved.
Wind sang in the rigging as
London
picked up speed, a joyful sound that drove the petty frustrations of the refit from Dare’s mind. He smiled. It was good to feel the deck alive under his feet again, and although he thought the King and his Privy Council were insane to declare war on a powerful maritime nation like the Dutch, he was eager to do his duty. And at least they had had the sense to put the Channel Fleet under Lawson, not some clueless aristocrat who had never been to sea. The Admiral might be a rough-mannered, salty-tongued braggart, but at least he knew his way around a ship.
Thoughts of Lawson reminded Dare of the two large chests that had been brought aboard earlier that day. Did they really contain the Admiral’s bass viols, as Commissioner Pett had claimed? Dare had been astonished to learn that Lawson was interested in music: no matter how hard he tried, he could not imagine that gruff old seadog engaging in anything so cultured.
He had challenged Pett about the weight, too. The boxes were extremely heavy, and he was unconvinced by the explanation that Lawson had purchased a new kind of instrument made of metal, so they would not lose their tone in the damp sea-air. But the Admiral’s luggage was none of Dare’s business, especially now, when the ship was under way and he had duties to attend.
He bellowed a complex stream of orders that changed
London
’s course as she flew out of the mouth of the Medway and into the Thames Estuary. She responded immediately, like the good ship she was, and he was pleased with both her and her crew – the Dutch would not know what had hit them when HMS
London
met them in battle!
Her motion was different once she was in less sheltered waters, and she began to pitch and roll; Dare grinned when several passengers made a dash for the rail. Normally, he would have tacked immediately, but the wind was capricious that day, and to the east lay the Nore, the hidden, shifting sandbanks that had brought many an unwary ship to an ignominious end. Wisely, he deferred until he was certain the danger was past.
He happened to glance landwards as they passed the little village of Prittlewell, a low huddle of cottages strewn along a bleak, muddy shore. Fishermen and their families had gathered on the beach, tiny figures who brandished their hats and waved joyously. Some of the crew waved back, as did those passengers who were not retching. Dare felt a surge of pride, knowing what a noble sight
London
must be, with her great press of canvas billowing white against the dark pebble-grey of the sky.
The delay in leaving meant they had missed the tide, so Dare climbed up to the crosstrees – the beams that attached the rigging to the mast – wanting the better view that height would provide. From that elevated perch he could really
read
the water – interpret the ripples and changing colours that warned of currents, shoals and contrary breezes. It was an undignified thing for a captain to do, but Lawson did it, and what was good enough for that staunch old mariner was good enough for Dare.
He fixed his eyes on the course ahead, and shouted directions that would alter their bearing a fraction. It was not really necessary, but there was no harm in working the crew after so many weeks in dock. The wind made his eyes water; it was much colder aloft than it was below, with a brisk south-westerly blowing.
Suddenly, there was a tremendous crack, followed by an explosion, and the ship heeled violently to one side. The lurch was so great that it almost dislodged him from his precarious perch, and for a moment he could do nothing but flail about in a desperate attempt to regain his balance. He glanced down as soon as he was able, and was horrified to see clouds of billowing smoke and bodies in the sea, bobbing and lifeless.
With a tearing groan the mainmast behind him began to topple, taking with it a mass of sail and several shrieking sailors. Dare did not understand what was happening! They could not have run aground, because they were in the middle of a wide, deep channel. Had the powder magazine exploded then? But how? No one should have been down there, and it was locked anyway. With a shriek of protesting timbers,
London
listed farther to starboard. Dare swung in the air for a moment, then lost his grip to cartwheel sickeningly towards the churning brown water below.
On shore, the villagers of Prittlewell watched in stunned disbelief. One moment,
London
was ploughing with silent grace up the river, her sails full and fat, and the next she was tilting heavily to one side, belching smoke. Corpses littered the water around her, while tiny splashes of white showed where the occasional survivor was frantically struggling to stay afloat.
‘Launch the boats!’ bellowed Jeremiah Westcliff, Prittlewell’s oldest and most experienced fisherman, the first to recover his wits. ‘Hurry!’
He had to shove some of his shocked neighbours to bring them to their senses, but then all was action and urgency as brawny arms heaved the little crafts into the waves. Once away, the villagers rowed for all they were worth, sinews cracking and breath coming in agonised gasps. Terrified screams and a gushing fountain of water told them that
London
was going down fast. They intensified their efforts, summoning every last ounce of strength to send their boats skimming across the grey-brown water.
But their labours were in vain: by the time they arrived, the ship had gone. The fishermen leaned on their oars, panting hard as they gazed helplessly at the bodies that floated everywhere they looked. The dead would not stay long, of course: the tide was never still, and Father Thames was already tugging some of his gruesome cargo away from the scene of the disaster.
Yet there were survivors. Several clung to a mat of cordage and spars, while a few more flailed in the water. The villagers began to pull them out, but their number was pitifully small.
‘Twenty-four,’ Westcliff eventually reported to the only officer they had found, identifiable by his fine blue coat. ‘How many were aboard?’
‘More than three hundred.’ Dare’s face was grey with shock. He had no idea how he had survived his fall, although the lower half of his body was numb and he wondered whether death might claim him yet. When his eyes were drawn back to the horrible swirling wreckage and the bodies of his sailors, he hoped it would. ‘What happened?’
Westcliff shook his head uncomprehendingly. ‘One moment the ship was going along as proud as Lucifer, and the next she was blown to pieces. Were you carrying much powder?’
‘One magazine was full,’ Dale replied hoarsely. ‘But we were going to load the others in Queenhithe.’
‘Then it was an accident,’ surmised Westcliff. ‘A tragic, dreadful accident.’
‘No,’ whispered Dale. ‘It was not.’
‘Of course it was,’ said Westcliff, briskly but kindly. ‘What else could it have been?’
London, Monday 13 March 1665
It was an undignified way to die. The corpse was lying on its back with its mouth open, wearing nothing but a pair of bucket-topped riding boots and a Cavalier hat. The quality of the apparel indicated that its owner had been a man of wealth, and so did the fact that he had been enjoying the ‘gentleman’s club’ at Hercules’ Pillars Alley in the first place. It was an establishment that catered only to the extremely rich, and he would not have been allowed inside had he not belonged to the very highest echelons of society.
‘You can see why I asked you to come,’ said Temperance North, the club’s owner, in an unsteady voice. ‘This is Paul Ferine from High Holborn, and he has been murdered.’
Thomas Chaloner, intelligencer to the Lord Chancellor, regarded her in surprise. ‘What makes you think that?’
There was nothing he could see to suggest foul play, and it appeared to him that Ferine had simply expired on being entertained by one of the club’s vivacious and extremely energetic ladies. It would not be the first time it had happened, and Temperance was usually adept at handling such situations – her discretion was one of the reasons why the place was so popular. Thus he was bemused as to why he had been dragged from his bed in the small hours of the morning to ‘help’.
‘Because he was full of the joys of life an hour ago,’ she replied. ‘And now look at him. We cannot afford to be stained with the taint of murder, Tom. Business might never recover.’
‘It sounds healthy enough to me,’ said Chaloner.