A Murder on London Bridge (10 page)

‘Cromwell and I quarrelled about that,’ said Thurloe distantly. ‘Did I ever tell you? We did not disagree often, but we almost came to blows over Dowsing, Blue Dick and Herring. They despoiled several places I loved, and I have not been able to visit them since. Cromwell appreciated fine things, and I still do not understand why he let those louts loose on our beautiful churches.’

‘You do not seem surprised by what the Earl has asked me to do,’ remarked Chaloner, who knew an evasive answer when he heard one.

Thurloe shrugged. ‘A number of my former spies keep me supplied with news and gossip. They told me Blue Dick was assassinated by an unknown assailant on the Bridge.’

‘And Herring? Have they told you anything about him?’

‘Only that when the Royalists returned to power, he accepted that Puritans no longer had the upper hand, so he slipped into anonymity like all sensible men. He lives quietly now, as churchwarden of St Mary Woolchurch.’

‘What does he look like?’ Chaloner wondered whether he had seen the man and not realised it.

‘Barrel chest, short legs, and when he walks, it is as though he wants to batter his way forward with his head. Cromwell was keen for me to hire him as a spy, but he has crossed eyes, which would have made him too distinctive for disguises, so I refused. He is deeply religious, of course . . .’

‘Why would Cromwell press a fanatic on the intelligence services?’ Chaloner hated working with zealots, because their single-mindedness tended to make them dangerous allies.

‘It was at a time when we exposed a lot of traitors, and Herring’s loyalty was unwavering, which was refreshing and appreciated. But here comes Rider, to ask what you will eat. I recommend the bread and cheese. Between you and me, the creation he calls haggis is rather nasty.’

The bread was surprisingly fresh, and was made from fine white flour. But when Chaloner glanced around, he saw the other patrons had been supplied with much coarser fare: Thurloe, as a special customer, had been furnished with something better.

‘Herring,’ prompted Chaloner, when the landlord had gone.

Thurloe was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low. ‘You would be wise to walk away from this particular assignment, Tom. It will almost certainly end badly.’

‘What makes you say that?’

Thurloe set down the knife with which he had been cutting his cheese. ‘Many good men deplore the excesses of Court – its drunkenness, debauchery and unruliness. They think it is time something was done, something to bring our country back into sober, God-fearing hands.’

Chaloner stared at him, a knot of alarm tightening in his stomach. ‘You mean there is another rebellion in the making? We are going to be plunged into more civil war?’

Thurloe looked him in the eye. ‘And if we were, where would you stand? With the King and his band of empty-headed fools, who play cards when they should be attending affairs of state? Or with your honest friends, with whom you fought the last time?’

Chaloner shook his head in disbelief. ‘I cannot believe I am hearing this! You swore you would never dabble in politics again, and—’

‘I gave the best years of my life to a cause I believed to be just and good. The country was stable and prosperous under our military dictatorship, whereas now it is wild and unsettled. Did you hear what happened in Turnstile the other day? A woman was in bed with her husband, when masked men broke in and raped her. Then they abused her with a torch, which was said to be lit.’

Chaloner winced. ‘It is horrible, but your military dictatorship was no haven of peace and justice, either. Dreadful crimes were still committed, and a lot of people were dissatisfied with the regime. Why do you think they embraced the King’s return so eagerly? They were tired of despots.’

Thurloe regarded him balefully. ‘Cromwell was
not
a despot, and those who disagreed with his rule tended to be rakes and debauchees. I had not numbered you among them, Thomas.’

Chaloner declined to rise to the bait. ‘If your rebellion involves associating with one-time iconoclasts, then you should withdraw while you still have your head.’

‘You are missing the point,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘Which is that the Court’s antics have encouraged a large number of discontented folk to flock to the capital – of all political and religious persuasions. We are not talking about an eccentric sect here, but a displeased majority.’

‘I do not care,’ objected Chaloner, becoming more alarmed by the minute. ‘When the uprising fails – which it will – they will go home. But you will be tried for treason, as your enemies think you should have been more than three years ago, when the King first returned.’

Thurloe’s expression was suddenly sad. ‘I am glad you think we will fail, because it means you will not join us. It is better that way – safer for you.’

Chaloner was bewildered, not sure what to make of such enigmatic remarks. He sat back in his chair and studied Thurloe hard, but he had never been good at reading the ex-Spymaster, and he knew he could stare at him all day and learn nothing.

‘Please,’ he said eventually. ‘What you are suggesting is madness. Leave London. Go home to Ann and the children before it is too late.’

‘I cannot, Tom,’ said Thurloe softly. ‘I wish I could, believe me. But I cannot.’

There was something in his friend’s low whisper that turned the blood in Chaloner’s veins to ice, and made him wonder what new turmoil was about to overtake London.

When Thurloe stood to leave the coffee house, Chaloner accompanied him across the road to Lincoln’s Inn, where the ex-Spymaster lived while in London. The porter waved them through the great front gate. The day’s clear skies had brought with them a cracking cold, so the courtyard beyond was empty. It meant there was no one to hear them talk, except the porter, who was back inside his lodge with the door firmly closed against the winter chill.

‘I wish you would reconsider,’ said Chaloner, regarding his friend sombrely. ‘I walked under the Stone Gate on the Bridge yesterday. Some of the severed heads on display there belong to men who thought rebellion was a good idea. I do not want yours to join them.’

Thurloe was silent. He had liked and respected most of the men whose grisly remains were exhibited for all to jeer at, and some had even been friends. For a brief, hopeful moment, Chaloner thought he was going to agree to withdraw from whatever he had embroiled himself in, but then his expression hardened, and he changed the subject.

‘Why did you come today, Tom? Was it to tell me that you are ordered to investigate the murder of Blue Dick Culmer? Or to ask whether I have heard anything to help you solve the crime?’

‘Actually, it was just to see an old friend,’ replied Chaloner. Then he regarded the ex-Spymaster searchingly. ‘Why?
Have
you heard something?’

The ghost of a smile touched Thurloe’s lips. ‘I am afraid not, and although Blue Dick was the kind of fanatic who gave us Puritans a bad name, I do not condone cold-blooded slaughter. I shall be interested to know the name of his killer, when you have it.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Henry Phillippes?’ asked Chaloner. Thurloe was one of the best informed men in London, and if he was of a mind to be helpful, then Chaloner knew he should take advantage of it. ‘Or his associate, Casper Kaltoff?’

Thurloe frowned. ‘Do you mean the Catholic dial-makers? Our mutual friend Will Leybourn mentions them on occasion, usually rather scathingly. Phillippes designed something called a tide-ring, which Will informs me is extremely inaccurate. He provided a lot of arithmetic to prove his point, but I am afraid he lost me after the first page of calculations.’

‘Is that all you know about them? That their tide-ring is not all Phillippes claims?’

Thurloe frowned at him. ‘Why? Surely, you cannot suspect
them
of killing Blue Dick?’

‘Why is that so incredible? They live on the Bridge, not far from where Blue Dick was stabbed, and shortly after the murder, I overheard them discussing some dark business that they wanted kept secret.’ Chaloner repeated verbatim what he had heard. ‘They followed me into a lane afterwards, to ask why I was spying on them.’

‘But you
were
spying on them,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘So you cannot blame them for wanting to know what you were doing. Is there any other evidence to connect them to the murder?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘But I might have some after I have searched their rooms.’

Thurloe looked thoughtful. ‘Then do it now. The learned men at Gresham College plan to weigh air this afternoon, and Phillippes and Kaltoff will certainly be in the audience. Their lodgings will be empty, and you can rummage through their possessions without fear of being caught.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps I will find something that will allow them to be arrested and questioned for Blue Dick’s stabbing.’

Thurloe regarded him uneasily. ‘The link between them and the murder is tenuous, to say the least, Tom. I imagine a great many men conduct dubious business in the Beggar’s Bush, and the conversation, as you reported it to me, held absolutely nothing to say it was Blue Dick’s death they were discussing. You cannot arrest them with what you have.’

‘Then I will have to find more,’ said Chaloner, loath to abandon his only suspects. ‘Besides, even if they are innocent of murder, it was clear they are involved in something untoward, and they are making a tide-ring for the Earl. It is my duty to investigate them, to make sure that whatever it is does not rebound on him. Is there anything else I should know about them?’

Thurloe thought about it. ‘Well, both are ardent Royalists, and they are sometimes invited to Somerset House, but so are dozens of other folk. However, I did hear one snippet of gossip, although I doubt it is significant: Phillippes sometimes visits Sir John Winter.’

‘The Catholic gunpowder expert, who wants to be the next Green Man?’

Thurloe raised his eyebrows at the description. ‘Yes, although he is better known for being rich. He owns a fortune in timber and lead, and is so wealthy that he can afford to rent Nonesuch House – that great Tudor mansion on the Bridge.’

‘I know Nonesuch House.’ Chaloner’s thoughts tumbled. How many more times was the Bridge going to feature in the various mysteries that confronted him?

‘Do not read too much into it, though,’ warned Thurloe. ‘The connection between Winter and Phillippes could be innocent – they are near-neighbours, after all. Moreover, they share political and religious views, in that both are devoted Royalists who are also Catholic.’

But Chaloner was inclined to be suspicious. ‘Perhaps their association arises from this brewing discontent you have mentioned – they meet to chat about the laws that are strangling their religious freedoms. You are insane to become embroiled in whatever is hatching. It has a bad feel to it.’

‘I must do as my conscience dictates,’ said Thurloe stiffly. ‘But I refuse to discuss it with you, Tom. You are safer not knowing.’

‘I disagree,’ argued Chaloner. ‘Being in the dark has never been better than being informed. How can I work efficiently when I do not understand the dangers and—’

‘Enough!’ barked Thurloe. His voice was uncharacteristically sharp, but he lowered it when he saw Chaloner’s shock, and forced a smile. ‘We must not quarrel. It is difficult to know one’s friends in these uncertain times, but I have never doubted you. And you should never doubt me. But come to my chambers, let me prepare you a tonic. You look tired.’

‘I am tired,’ admitted Chaloner, rubbing his eyes. ‘I did not sleep last night, and my wits are like mud. And I have been bombarded with so much peculiar and contradictory information today that I am not sure what to believe about anything.’

‘I have not been contradictory,’ objected Thurloe, stung. ‘I may have refused you information about my business, but I would never lie to you.’

‘Not you – Clarendon. For example, he says he befriended a priest named Stephen Goff during his exile. But Stephen Goff is the Dowager’s chaplain, and the Dowager is Clarendon’s sworn enemy. Moreover, Stephen is the brother of Will Goff the regicide, a committed Puritan. I do not understand how a Puritan regicide comes to have a brother who is a Catholic priest, or how Stephen can maintain his friendship with Clarendon while still working for the Dowager.’

‘Clarendon is telling the truth: he and Stephen
did
become close when the King was in exile. I heard about their friendship from several of my spies. And Stephen
converted
to Catholicism, probably because he spent so much time in France. Indeed, I am surprised you did not do the same. I imagine Hannah would prefer you papist.’

‘I am sure she would. But I do not feel strongly enough about any denomination to warrant making a public statement about it.’

Thurloe grimaced. As a religious man himself, he did not understand Chaloner’s indifference towards matters of faith. He glanced up at the sky.

‘These clear winter days may be lovely, but they are brutally cold, and I am chilled to the bone. Do not keep me talking out here any longer – my feet are in desperate need of thawing.’

Chaloner took his leave, but the encounter had left him distinctly uneasy, so he lurked near the Rolls Chapel opposite, until a coach rattled out of Lincoln’s Inn. He was not surprised to glimpse Thurloe inside it. The fact that the ex-Spymaster had not spent long defrosting his toes indicated he had not been as cold as he had claimed, and it had been a ploy to escape his friend’s company.

Chaloner rubbed his chin unhappily. Should he try harder to prevent Thurloe from falling face-first into disaster? But Thurloe was a man of principle, and would do what he thought was right, regardless of the risk to himself. He would not be easy to dissuade. With a heavy heart, and the sense that something was about to go very badly wrong, Chaloner set off towards the Bridge.

The streets were busy that afternoon, and it took him some time to reach his destination. When he arrived, the Bridge was teeming with carts, pedestrians and a veritable Noah’s ark of animals – cows, geese, sheep, horses, pigs and mules. He paused at the open area called the Square, and glanced over the parapet to the river below. The tide was in full spate, roaring through the arches in frothy brown jets. Spray rose in a misty pall, carrying with it the dank aroma of dirty water.