A Murder on London Bridge (12 page)

‘May I see Phillippes’s rooms, too?’ he asked. ‘I heard him say he might take a post at the University in Cambridge, so who knows how much longer he will be here?’

Sarah regarded him dubiously. ‘I doubt they will hire him at Cambridge – their mathematicians are said to be the best in the world, and Will Leybourn thinks Mr Phillippes is not the genius he claims. Perhaps you misheard, and he was talking about Oxford. I understand they take anyone.’

‘That must have been it.’

‘I hope you are right, and he
is
leaving,’ said Sarah, leading the way up a tiny staircase. ‘I used to like him, but he has started to go out at strange times. He says it is because he is making tide-rings for the King and the Lord Chancellor, but I am not so sure.’

‘What do you think he might be doing?’

Sarah pursed her lips. ‘Some people find Mr Kaltoff’s drawings amusing, so perhaps he is selling them. He has certainly come by extra money of late – he bought himself a lot of nice new clothes.’

Chaloner stared at her. Was this evidence that Phillippes and his associate had been paid to commit murder? He followed Sarah up the stairs, his thoughts whirling.

Phillippes’s chambers were crammed to the gills with books, papers and mathematical instruments. He also had something hanging out of the window on a long piece of rope; Chaloner supposed it was a device for recording the tides. The place was chaotic and untidy, and very different from Kaltoff’s neat lair.

He tried to search the place without Sarah guessing what he was doing, but she hampered him by coming to stand very close each time he stopped moving. At first, he assumed she did not want him to touch any of Phillippes’s belongings, but hastily revised his opinion when she began to slip out of her bodice. However, while it might have been pleasant to accept what was being freely offered, it was hardly prudent to do it with her husband downstairs. Chaloner eased away.

‘Are you sure?’ whispered Sarah in a low, husky voice. ‘You will not regret it.’

‘I might, if Tyus comes looking for you.’ Or Phillippes, he thought, not liking the notion of being caught in such a vulnerable position by a man who might be dangerous. He indicated Sarah was to precede him down the stairs, which she did with some reluctance.

‘You were a long time,’ said Tyus genially, when they arrived. ‘Did you like what you saw?’

‘He declined to look at much,’ replied Sarah, pouting as she adjusted her bodice. ‘But perhaps he will find more to his liking when Mr Phillippes moves to Oxford.’

‘Mind the scaffolding when you go,’ warned Tyus, as Chaloner aimed for the door. ‘There was nothing wrong with Chapel House, but a major restoration is in progress anyway. It is a shameful waste of money, because Bridge funds could be much better spent elsewhere. For example, the starlings under Nonesuch House need replacing, while the gutters on the Stone Gate are a disgrace.’

‘Then why are they doing it?’ asked Chaloner, pausing. London was a practical city, and no one wasted money on repairs that were unnecessary.

‘God knows,’ replied Tyus. ‘Traditionally, it is the home of the Junior Warden, but Scarlet does not seem like the kind of man who would use Bridge revenues to benefit himself. Yet who knows? He and his wife have gone to live in Turnstile until the work is finished, and I do not blame them. The workmen have ripped the heart out of the place.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, wondering whether the information was significant. Had Blue Dick slipped into Chapel House because he knew it was empty, and so available to use as a vantage point to see whether he was being followed? Chaloner supposed he would have to visit it and find out. But not that day. It was past four o’clock, and nearing the time when the Earl had ordered him to go to the Westminster charnel house, to look at Blue Dick’s corpse with Surgeon Wiseman.

It was dark when Chaloner left the Bridge and began to make his way west. The streets were busy with coaches and hackney carriages, as those who could afford them rode home. He joined the flow of pedestrians, stepping over and around the rutted piles of manure that had been left by horses, cattle and donkeys. He walked along Thames Street, then crossed the Fleet River by the gloomy prison of Bridewell. He glanced up at its barred windows and dismal façade, and shuddered. He hated gaols, and one of his darkest fears was that his spying would see him incarcerated in one.

Fleet Street and The Strand were reasonably well lit, so it was not necessary to hire a linkman with a torch to light his way. Lamps gleamed in the houses of the rich merchants and nobles on the south side of the road, although the northern one was darker, on the grounds that these were owned by less-affluent traders – fuel was expensive, and was used sparingly by poorer households.

Chaloner shivered as a keen breeze cut through his clothes, and was sorry for the beggars who huddled in the porch of St Dunstan-in-the-West. Then the door opened, and the rector, looking around furtively to ensure he was not being watched, beckoned them inside. Chaloner was sure the wealthy congregation would not approve of vagrants sleeping in their fine church, but Joseph Thompson had a kind heart, and Chaloner applauded his covert charity. He stopped for a few moments, to make sure none of the recipients were the sort of men to cut their benefactor’s throat in exchange for the contents of the poor box, then continued on his way.

Eventually, he reached the great open space around Charing Cross. That evening, two puppeteers were putting on a show for the homeward-bound. He was disturbed to note that the theme of their display was the Court, and that their string-controlled hero was an apprentice who set White Hall alight, thus ridding the country of an unnecessary financial burden. Most of the crowd were cheering, although there were a few shaken heads and frowns around the fringes.

Then Spymaster Williamson’s men arrived, and the entertainment came to an abrupt end. Mallets were used to smash the little stage and the painted dolls, although the puppeteers themselves managed to escape – the size of the crowd had made it impossible for the soldiers to lay hold of them. The multitude stood silent and resentful as the officers vented their spleen on the hapless marionettes, and when people eventually dispersed, it was with angry mutters.

However, one man stood near the front of the gathering and applauded loudly as the puppets were crushed, either careless or oblivious of the fact that he was putting himself in danger from lobbed rocks – or worse. Chaloner might have dismissed him as someone not quite in control of his wits, had he not glanced at the fellow’s face and noticed the crossed eyes.

‘Michael Herring,’ supplied a butcher’s apprentice in response to Chaloner’s whispered question. ‘One-time despoiler of churches, and currently churchwarden of St Mary Woolchurch. Personally, I think the King should have hanged the lot of them. There is no place for fanatics in London.’

On the contrary, Chaloner thought to himself, London seemed to attract them in droves, because he did not think he had ever known a place that was quite so well-endowed with lunatic opinions. He regarded Herring with interest, taking care to do so in a way that ensured the iconoclast-turned-churchwarden did not see him.

Herring was a sturdy, angry-faced individual who wore brazenly Puritan clothes. Indeed, he looked as though he had stepped directly from the civil wars, because he had made no concession to the changing times with his attire – no lace or coloured thread, and he had donned an old ‘sugarloaf’ hat that had been unfashionable a decade before. Chaloner recalled that Thurloe had described him as a man who walked as if he wanted to batter his way forward with his head. It was an astute observation, and captured the man’s open belligerence perfectly.

Only when the soldiers had reduced the puppets to sawdust did Herring leave. Chaloner hesitated. Should he whisk the fellow down one of the many alleys that radiated from Charing Cross, and demand to know his future plans, as the Earl would no doubt recommend? Or should he follow him, to see where he went and who he met? It did not take Chaloner long to reach a decision. He could tell from Herring’s savage demeanour that he would not be an easy nut to crack, and suspected knives at throats were unlikely to loosen his tongue. Chaloner would learn more by watching.

Herring strode towards St Martin’s Lane, then turned down an alley to the left. Chaloner followed as quickly as he dared, not wanting to get close enough to be spotted, but aware that it would be easy to lose his quarry once away from the larger roads.

It was much darker in the alley, and he could barely see where he was putting his feet. Then he became aware that someone was behind him, and the hair on the back of his neck rose when the footsteps kept pace with his own. He turned a corner, and swore under his breath when he saw Herring had disappeared. He faltered for a moment, but then kept walking, acutely aware of the danger looming behind. Was it Phillippes or Kaltoff? If so, then he needed to shake them off quickly, because he doubted they would let him escape from a second confrontation.

He began to run, hurtling around a corner so fast that he stood no chance of avoiding the cudgel that swung towards him. He managed to protect his head, but the blow caught him on the shoulder and knocked him clean off his feet. His senses reeled – it had been like running into a stone wall – and when his vision finally cleared, it was to find himself flat on his back while someone pinned him to the ground by kneeling on his chest. Herring was standing to one side, swinging a thick piece of wood in a way that suggested he would dearly like to use it a second time.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Herring’s companion. Chaloner could not see his face, because the lane was too dark, but it was someone strong and heavy – he could barely breathe. It was not Kaltoff, because he was the wrong shape, and it was too large to be Phillippes.

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ Chaloner countered, shifting slightly in an attempt to ease some of the weight from his chest.

His captor gave a grunt, and pressed down so hard that Chaloner thought his ribs were going to break. ‘You are not in a position to make demands. Tell me your name, or I will cut your throat.’

Chaloner saw the glint of metal in the gloom, and suspected it would be cut anyway – or an attempt made, at least. He twisted his arm, so the dagger he always carried in his sleeve slid into the palm of his hand.

‘Casper Kaltoff,’ he gasped, using the first name that came into his head. ‘Now let me go.’

The man glanced up at Herring. ‘Is it true? It is too dark to see his face.’

But Herring had questions of his own. ‘Why were you following me? Who sent you?’

‘What makes you think I was sent by anyone?’ Chaloner managed to wheeze. ‘Perhaps I admired your courage . . . in standing against the mood of the mob.’

‘Did you?’ asked Herring. He sounded flattered. ‘It was a—’

‘He is lying,’ snarled his companion. He pushed the dagger against Chaloner’s throat. ‘Who are you working for?’

The blade began to bite, so Chaloner drove his own knife into the man’s leg, as hard as he could. His captor howled and jerked away, enabling Chaloner to squirm free and stagger to his feet. Immediately, Herring came at him with the cudgel, but Chaloner ducked, and pieces of wood flew when it struck a wall. Herring swore under his breath when he found himself left with a stump.

Then the other man began to fumble with something jammed in his belt, and Chaloner knew he was going to produce a gun. He turned and fled, stumbling over piles of rubbish, pieces of masonry, old wood, and something that felt suspiciously like a dead pig.

He did not go far. Finding an abandoned warehouse, he picked the lock and slid inside, fighting to silence his laboured breathing. Behind him, there were rats – claws skittered on stone, and there was a thick, rank smell, as though something large had died there.

He peered through a hole in a wall, and saw Herring and his companion tear past, the latter limping. After a moment, Chaloner slipped out and began to follow. But they knew the alleys and he did not, so, despite his best efforts, it was not many moments before he lost them. He searched for a while, but it was hopeless. With a grimace of exasperation, he accepted defeat.

Rubbing his shoulder, angry with himself for being so easily overcome, Chaloner retraced his steps to Charing Cross, then walked down King Street. Eventually, he reached the Palace of Westminster, which adjoined White Hall, and was where several government departments had their offices. Even though the evening was wearing on, the streets were busy with clerks and lawyers, some aiming for home, and others setting out for one of the many eating houses in the neighbourhood.

But Chaloner’s business was at the end of a dingy lane that led to the river, where a man named Kersey operated. The charnel house had originally been established to house bodies dredged from the river – a distressingly high number, because the Thames was deep, strong and swift. It had expanded since then, and now anyone who died a suspicious or unexpected death in Westminster or White Hall was delivered into Kersey’s care.

From the outside, Kersey’s domain did not look very big, but this was a deception. Immediately on the right as the visitor entered, was a handsome antechamber in which the charnel-house keeper entertained bereaved friends and family, and on the left was the sumptuous office in which he counted his takings. And beyond these was the mortuary itself, a large, low-ceilinged affair that was full of tables, each either occupied by a blanket-covered body, or carefully scrubbed ready to receive its next visitor.

Kersey was a wealthy man, not only because he was paid to look after his charges, but because he was entitled to keep anything not claimed by the next-of-kin. And people were curious about corpses, so he made a fortune in spectators’ fees, too. Moreover, he had recently opened an exhibition of the most interesting artefacts he had recovered over the years. It was a popular tourist attraction, and visitors flocked to it in droves.