A Murder on London Bridge (11 page)

Chaloner was still gazing at the spectacle when he became aware of a commotion up ahead. It was centred around the scaffolding-swathed Chapel House, which Blue Dick had visited before he had been stabbed. A carriage had parked outside it, bringing north-bound traffic to a standstill. Furious drivers were yelling at the coachman to move, and the coachman was bawling pithily worded refusals. Chaloner was surprised no one had hauled him from his seat and shifted the offending vehicle themselves, but soon saw why: he was being protected by two men with guns. He recognised them immediately: they were the Frenchmen, Doucett and Martin – the pair who had almost caught him spying in Somerset House the previous night.

Curious to know what was going on, Chaloner slipped into the haberdashery shop opposite, and settled down to watch, anonymous among several other customers. He did not have to feign an interest in buttons for long, because there was soon some action.

Seeing the carriage was not going to be moved by threats or force, one of the carters had gone to fetch someone in authority. He returned with two men the Earl had pointed out in St James’s Park that morning. The diminutive Junior Warden Scarlet was white-faced and red-eyed, and took no part in the ensuing discussion; Chaloner wondered whether he was ill. And Senior Warden Hussey was accompanied by four of the fattest children Chaloner had ever seen. They could barely walk, and when they stood in a row side by side, they represented a formidable obstruction all on their own.

‘What is going on?’ Hussey demanded of the offending coach. ‘You know the rules: traffic keeps moving on the Bridge, and deliveries can only be made at night.’

‘The Dowager is visiting Chapel House,’ replied the Frenchman who Chaloner thought was called Doucett. His English was thickly accented. ‘And she stops where she pleases.’

‘Oh,’ said Hussey, the wind taken out of his sails at the mention of such an august personage. ‘I see. Well, in her case, we must make an exception, but—’

Fortunately for Hussey – those trapped in the traffic did not see why the King’s mother should be treated differently to anyone else – the Dowager chose that particular moment to conclude her sightseeing. She strode out of Chapel House and stepped into her carriage without so much as a glance towards the simmering crowd. Clearly, there was to be no apology for the inconvenience she had caused.

Three of her cronies followed. The moustachioed Winter was deep in discussion with the purple-nosed vicar of Wimbledon, while trailing unhappily after them was Father Stephen. When they had all clambered into the carriage, Doucett and Martin jumped on to the footplates at the back, and the vehicle began to move away. It was followed by a hail of missiles, most derived from animal dung. One hit Martin, staining his fine coat, and for one awful moment, Chaloner thought he was going to discharge his firearm into the crowd, but Doucett said something that stopped him. Hussey breathed a sigh of relief when the coach was out of sight, and turned to his junior.

‘I wish she would not do that. It is damned inconsiderate.’

‘Write to her,’ suggested Scarlet. His voice was flat, as if he was speaking automatically and the matter did not have his full attention. ‘Tell her not to do it again.’

Hussey released a sharp bark of laughter, which was eerily echoed by the four fat children. ‘You do not issue orders to the Dowager, Scarlet! It would be more than your job is worth.’

‘I do not like this post anyway,’ said Scarlet. ‘I should never have accepted it.’

‘Now, then, lad,’ said Hussey briskly. ‘There is no need for that sort of talk. Come home with me to Bridge House, where we shall fortify your spirits with a glass of wine. And perhaps we shall have cake, too, if my children have not eaten it all.’

They set off towards the Southwark end of the Bridge, the four fat boys waddling behind them, although the lads’ oily cheeks and the crumbs on their coats made Chaloner suspect Scarlet was likely to go hungry. Meanwhile, the haberdasher, whose name was Armitage, had joined Chaloner at the window, and had also been watching the scene unfold.

‘The Dowager has taken an interest in Chapel House,’ he confided, polishing a smear from one of his panes with the sleeve of his coat. ‘It is not the first time she has visited.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. The building in question did not look any different from its neighbours – four storeys high, plus a cellar, the latter of which was built into the stone of the starling below. It was shabby and old, and he would have said there was nothing about it to excite interest.

‘I have no idea,’ replied Armitage. ‘And I am not alone in thinking it is strange, either.’

Chaloner considered the place’s name. ‘Chapel House. Does that mean there is an oratory inside it?’ He supposed the deeply religious Dowager might be interested in one of those.

‘No, it is called that because a church once stood there,’ explained Armitage. ‘Dedicated to St Thomas Becket, apparently. But it was demolished when the last King Henry broke with Rome, and was rebuilt as a private lodging. It has been secular for hundreds of years.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, declining to point out that the monarch in question had only been dead for a little more than a century.

‘The Dowager has taken to visiting Winchester Palace, too,’ Armitage went on, clearly in the mood to gossip. ‘Do you know it? It is where the Bishop of Winchester stays when he visits London, and is in Southwark, not far from the end of the Bridge. But she only goes there when he is out. It is damned suspicious, if you ask me.’

‘Perhaps she likes the view across the river,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking of what Nat had said.

‘Have you heard about the ball she is planning for Shrove Tuesday?’ asked Armitage, getting into his stride. ‘It will be attended by Catholics and rakes. Someone should take the opportunity to blow them all up, because England will be a better country without the likes of
them
running it.’

Chaloner headed for the door. He did not want to be having such a conversation, because to disagree might lead to a fight, while to concur might see him arrested – Spymaster Williamson was notorious for ordering his agents to encourage seditious discussions.

‘Personally, I wish the old hag would go back to France,’ Armitage called after him. ‘And take her brat and her Capuchins with her. London was much nicer under Cromwell.’

As he left, Chaloner saw the haberdasher’s customers nodding agreement, emphasising how far the King had fallen from favour with his wild ways and dissolute friends. In Chaloner’s opinion, there was little to choose between Cromwell and the monarchy, because both systems had their faults. But he did wonder how long the King would be able to hang on to his throne in the face of such strong public disapproval – and whether he himself would be able to change his allegiance to yet another regime, should the King follow in his father’s footsteps and end his life on the scaffold.

It did not take Chaloner long to reach the place where Phillippes and Kaltoff lodged, because Tyus the bookseller’s premises were a mere two doors from Chapel House. Before he went in, he took a moment to survey their lair.

It was a very tall building, and seemed taller still because it was unusually narrow – Chaloner had bought books there in the past, and recalled that he could almost touch both walls simultaneously by stretching out his arms. It was extraordinarily deep, though, so not only did Tyus have a shop at ground level, but a counting house and a sitting room, too. This was possible because the house jutted a long way out over the river, a notion that made Chaloner uneasy – he disliked the thought of being suspended above the raging Thames by a few floorboards.

He was not permitted to study the bookshop for long, however, because a cart was bearing down on him, and he had the distinct impression that it was not about to stop for anyone. He fumbled with the handle to Tyus’s door, and stumbled inside an instant before the thundering wheels would have crushed him. An agonised cry from outside suggested someone else had been less fortunate.

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Tyus, going to peer out of his window. ‘I swear drivers are getting worse.’

Charles Tyus was a neat man with a silver beard. He was assisted in his business by his wife Sarah, a raven-haired beauty two decades his junior. She was famous for making male customers feel very welcome, which she achieved with a battery of come-hither smiles and suggestive winks.

‘It must make people reluctant to shop here,’ said Chaloner, brushing himself down. ‘I imagine most prefer somewhere they can reach without dicing with death.’

‘Lots of
men
come here,’ said Sarah, coming to lay a convivial hand on Chaloner’s arm. ‘They think we are worth the risk.’

‘Business is booming,’ agreed Tyus cheerfully. ‘
And
I have two lodgers on my upper floors. It means Sarah and I are a little cramped, but the extra income is well worth the inconvenience.’

‘Have you come to purchase Will Leybourn’s latest book?’ asked Sarah, adjusting her neckline so it revealed more frontage. ‘We can have it printed for you in less than a week.’

Leybourn’s latest book was not high on Chaloner’s future reading list. All the mathematician–surveyor’s works were characterised by complex language and incomprehensible terminology, which made about as much sense to Chaloner as the speech of the Moors.

‘Or perhaps you came for a copy of the Clarendon Code,’ suggested Tyus. ‘It makes for fascinating reading, and it is high time these fanatics were suppressed.’

‘Oh, piffle!’ declared Sarah. ‘Most of these so-called dissenters are doing no harm, and I do not see why we cannot put aside our differences and learn to live in peace. And love,’ she added, fixing Chaloner with an eye that glistened.

‘It is not
most
dissenters I am worried about,’ argued Tyus. ‘It is the ones who are prepared to make a nuisance of themselves until they get their own way. Have we not had enough of civil strife? I say we have, and the Clarendon Code is the best way to ensure a peaceful future.’

‘Actually, I came to see whether you have any rooms to rent,’ said Chaloner, when Sarah opened her mouth to argue her point further. He was loath to be caught in the middle of a domestic dispute.

‘Unfortunately, we do not,’ said Tyus apologetically. ‘Had you asked two weeks ago, I would have been able to oblige, but I have just leased them to Casper Kaltoff, Henry Phillippes’s associate. Meanwhile, Mr Phillippes himself has the top chamber.’

‘Then let us oust Mr Kaltoff to make room for this gentleman,’ suggested Sarah eagerly. ‘Mr Kaltoff is not a very attractive specimen, and he has habits.’

‘Habits?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

‘Habits,’ repeated Sarah firmly, but declined to elaborate. She turned to her husband. ‘Well? What do you say, Charles? We do not want it said that we condone what Mr Kaltoff does up there.’

Tyus considered the suggestion, but then shook his head reluctantly. ‘We signed a rental agreement with him. I do not like his habits, either, but they do not break the terms of the lease, so we are bound by the law to keep him.’

‘Might I see the rooms anyway?’ asked Chaloner. He smiled encouragingly when Tyus hesitated. ‘Perhaps his habits will require more space in time, and he will move out. Why not have an interested replacement standing by?’

‘True,’ agreed Tyus, smiling back. ‘And you do not look like a man with habits.’

‘At least, not unpleasant ones,’ said Sarah, with one of her meaningful leers.

While Tyus served his other customers, Sarah escorted Chaloner to the rooms that had been let to Kaltoff. They were larger than the chambers on the ground floor, because the walls were not so thick, but they were narrow, even so. There were two of them, both Spartan in their décor. Not surprisingly, there was nothing lying around that indicated Kaltoff was involved in murdering iconoclasts. Or that he owned any disturbing habits, for that matter. But Sarah walked to the table, on which were piled several books, and a number of loose papers.

‘Look,’ she said, her voice dripping disapproval as she picked up a tome between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is what he does when he is up here alone of an evening. I am sure you will agree that it is not nice.’

Chaloner took it from her, and saw it was full of drawings of people. They were not classical sketches, which portrayed a person’s features accurately, but ones that distorted them to the point where they were grotesque. Yet even so, the folk they depicted were recognisable. There was one of his Earl, concentrating on the double chins, gouty feet and ridiculously tiny shoes, and one of Lady Castlemaine with an improbably large bust and calculating eyes. Chaloner had never seen anything quite like them, and was inclined to think they were more clever than ‘not nice’.

‘This is his habit?’ he asked, flicking through the pages to see dozens more people he recognised, along with many he did not. Clearly, Kaltoff liked to caricature anyone he met.

Sarah nodded, pouting. ‘He did a horrible one of me. He made me look like a whore.’

‘He is a dial-maker,’ mused Chaloner, looking at a very skilful depiction of the Dowager, all black veils, pinched mouth and disdainful eyes. ‘He will be used to producing precise drawings, and these are merely an extension of—’

‘They are cruel!’ declared Sarah. ‘Except the one of that horrible Earl of Clarendon, which is rather good. You can see immediately who it is. Mr Kaltoff has captured the jowls perfectly.’

Chaloner barely heard her. He had been rifling through some of the loose pages, and one image had leapt out at him. The drawing was in pen and ink, so there was no colour to give clues, but the little figure was busily poking glass from a church window. It had a fierce face, thin legs and an exaggerated paunch. Was this the evidence he had been looking for? Did it prove Kaltoff knew Blue Dick, and disapproved of what he had done? Or was it a generic depiction, illustrating what Kaltoff thought of iconoclasts as a whole? When Sarah looked the other way, Chaloner slipped the sketch into his pocket.