A Murder on London Bridge (13 page)

Chaloner knocked on the door, and a servant conducted him to the visitors’ room. Kersey was not alone, and Chaloner braced himself for trouble when he recognised the vast frame, scarlet robes and red hair of Richard Wiseman. The escapade with Herring meant it was much later than the appointed five o’clock, and he knew the Court Surgeon was unlikely to be very understanding about his tardiness. In fact, he had hoped the man would have given up on him and gone home.

Wiseman was an impossible person – arrogant, opinionated and overbearing, and was highly unpopular at Court. He was rarely invited out, mostly due to his unappealing personality, but also because he liked to describe grisly surgical techniques while people were eating. It meant he had plenty of time on his hands, which he filled by devising new and bizarre medical theories, and honing his already-powerful frame with a regime of lifting heavy weights. Given the number of enemies his acid tongue had earned him, Chaloner supposed it was not surprising that Wiseman needed to be able to defend himself, and the exercises had turned him into a formidable opponent.

‘You are late, Chaloner,’ declared Wiseman, speaking from Kersey’s most comfortable chair. ‘Or did you hope to avoid me by coming after dark?’

He roared with laughter at the notion, although Chaloner was sure he would not find it quite so amusing if he knew it was true. Most people who had met Wiseman were prepared to go to considerable lengths to dodge an encounter with him.

‘Traffic is heavy at this time of night,’ Chaloner replied evasively. ‘It was a bad time to choose.’

‘It was Clarendon’s idea,’ said Wiseman, slightly dangerously. For some inexplicable reason, he had decided the Earl was worthy of his devotion, and his unwavering loyalty was his one redeeming feature, as far as Chaloner was concerned. ‘And I shall thank you not to question his judgement.’

Hastily, Chaloner bowed an apology. He was cold, tired, his shoulder hurt and he was not equal to exchanging hostile words with the likes of Wiseman. He shook his head when Kersey offered him wine, because Wiseman was in the habit of using Kersey’s goblets when he performed some of his dubious – and certainly illegal – anatomical examinations of those victims not claimed by kin.

‘Wiseman has been telling me about the charming ladies he knows in Hercules’ Pillars Alley,’ said Kersey amiably. ‘He has offered to introduce me to them.’

‘You mean Temperance North’s brothel?’ asked Chaloner, hoping to put the charnel-house keeper off with his blunt description. Temperance was a friend, and he did not like the notion of her establishment being frequented by the likes of Wiseman and Kersey. He knew she entertained worse – the rakes from Court, for example – but for reasons he could not explain, they seemed more acceptable, somehow.

‘It is a
gentleman’s club
,’ corrected Wiseman curtly. ‘A place where a fellow can relax and enjoy pleasant female company in an atmosphere of genteel hospitality. Half the Court’s musicians are paid to play there, so the entertainment is very fine. And there is not much fighting.’

‘I had not taken you for a bawdy-house man,’ said Chaloner, somewhat baldly. He knew the surgeon was lonely, but he was surprised to learn he sought solace in bordellos.

‘It is
not
a bawdy-house,’ snapped Wiseman irritably. ‘There is a world of difference between the brothels of Fleet Alley and Temperance’s concern. She is a lovely lady, and I like visiting her and her entertaining friends.’

That was one way of describing them, thought Chaloner, but he held his tongue.

‘Is she beautiful, then?’ asked Kersey, rather wistfully. ‘This Temperance?’

Chaloner loved Temperance like a sister, but even to his fond eyes she was plain and fat. He decided it was more tactful to say nothing.

‘She is perfect,’ declared Wiseman. Chaloner looked at him sharply, wondering if he was making a joke, but the surgeon appeared to be perfectly serious. ‘Her fine eyes, lovely body—’

‘You are enamoured with
Temperance
?’ blurted Chaloner, seeing the oddly dreamy expression on the surgeon’s face. He could scarcely believe it, because while she had some excellent qualities as a person, she was hardly someone who should have sane men swooning.

The surgeon blushed. ‘Let us say I enjoy her company.’

Chaloner was tempted to tease him about it, in revenge for several inconvenient medical experiments that had been conducted on him in the past, but found he could not do it. If Wiseman felt for Temperance what Chaloner was beginning to feel for Hannah, then it was not something to be mocked.

‘Have you looked at Blue Dick?’ he asked, hoping the answer would be yes, so he could listen to the report and then spend the rest of the evening with the woman who was becoming so important to him.

‘No – I have been waiting for you,’ came the disappointing reply. ‘There is no point in examining a corpse if no one is around to appreciate my expertise.’

Stifling a sigh of resignation, Chaloner watched Wiseman finish his wine and begin to prepare himself for his work by rolling up his sleeves and donning a leather apron, like the ones worn by fishmongers. It already bore ominous stains.

‘An apron is a good idea,’ said Kersey approvingly. ‘Blood is difficult to remove from one’s clothes. Even yours, which are all red anyway.’

‘I know,’ said Wiseman. ‘And Temperance told me she did not like it.’

With the sense that he was about to be subjected to an experience he could well do without, Chaloner followed Wiseman and Kersey into the mortuary. Ever thrifty, Kersey lit only one lamp. It sent eerie shadows into the deeper recesses of the room, and for one unnerving moment, Chaloner thought he saw one of the bodies move.

‘I heard you have been in Wimbledon these last few weeks,’ said Wiseman conversationally. ‘In the hope that the villainous Lord Bristol will show his face.’

‘It was a waste of time,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘However, I am beginning to suspect that there might be some truth in the rumours after all – that he has indeed returned to England. I would like to visit his Great Queen Street house, but the Earl has forbidden me to go.’

‘The Earl is right – Lord Bristol is not in Great Queen Street,’ said Wiseman with great conviction. He saw Chaloner’s raised eyebrows and went on to explain. ‘I thought he might be there, too, so I went along and hammered on his door. No one answered.’

Chaloner would not have answered
his
door, if
he
had looked out of his window to see the likes of Wiseman waiting to come in. And Bristol was not a fool: he knew Wiseman was one of the Earl’s supporters, and would make every effort to avoid him. Thus the lack of a reply meant nothing one way or the other.

‘I have never had an iconoclast in my care before,’ said Kersey, pulling the cover from one of his charges to expose Blue Dick’s body. ‘I cannot say I approve of what they did.’

‘I thought they had the right idea,’ countered Wiseman, always argumentative. ‘Some of our churches are very cluttered, and they looked better once they had been cleared out a bit.’

‘But the iconoclasts did not “clear them out a bit”,’ Kersey pointed out. ‘They knocked statues into dust, threw paint over pictures, ripped the pages out of Bibles, and pissed on shrines. It all made a terrible mess, and most chapels look the worse for their attentions.’

Wiseman sniffed, and did not deign to discuss the matter. He had already stripped off the dead man’s clothes, and stood back for a moment, inspecting the naked corpse through gleaming eyes. Chaloner watched him in distaste, not sure how he could take such obvious enjoyment in his work.

‘What do you think about that rape, which occurred over Turnstile way?’ asked Kersey, averting his eyes quickly as Wiseman produced a small knife. Chaloner looked away, too, never comfortable with what the surgeon did in the name of science. ‘I heard a torch was used – a lighted one.’

‘It is true,’ said Wiseman grimly. ‘And her husband was bound hand and foot, and made to watch. I was summoned to tend them. Sometimes I wonder what sort of monsters walk our streets.’

‘Will she die?’ asked Kersey.

‘I hope not,’ said Wiseman. His voice was gruff, and Chaloner was surprised to see the incident had upset him. As the surgeon rarely empathised with the plight of his patients, Chaloner could only assume the attack had been unusually disturbing.

‘I heard the old king’s ghost has been walking along Fleet Street,’ said Kersey, after a moment’s silence, changing the topic again. ‘And the river’s tides have been wrong for weeks now. It is an omen, you know.’

‘An omen for what?’ asked Chaloner.

‘For bad things to come. Everyone says it is the Court’s fault, because it is so debauched. But when you have crimes like the one committed against that poor woman, you must wonder whether there is not a greater evil prowling our city.’

Chaloner was not particularly sensitive to atmospheres, but Kersey’s words sent a shiver down his spine. Perhaps it was the fact that he was in a dark mortuary with two men he considered rather sinister, and Wiseman’s knife was making unpleasant squelching sounds as he probed his victim’s innards. Or perhaps he was still shaken from his encounter with Herring. Regardless, he wished he was at home with Hannah.

‘What can you tell me?’ he asked briskly, wanting the business over, so he could be on his way.

‘Culmer was stabbed in the heart,’ replied Wiseman, ‘which is not an easy thing to do, because bone tends to get in the way. Of course, I imagine you know how to avoid that particular problem.’

‘Was it a professional strike or a lucky hit?’ asked Chaloner, deciding to ignore the remark.

‘There is no way to know. But the Earl tells me you witnessed the attack, so what do
you
think?’

‘Professional,’ replied Chaloner, recalling the confident way the killer had moved. Yet again, it occurred to him that Phillippes or Kaltoff were perfect candidates – not only were they the right size to have been the cloaked man, but their pursuit of Chaloner outside the Beggar’s Bush indicated they were skilled at clandestine manoeuvres, too.

‘Death was instant,’ Wiseman went on. ‘And that is all I can tell you, I am afraid. Unless you want to know what he ate for his last meal?’

Chaloner regarded him in horror. ‘You mean to examine the contents of his stomach?’

Wiseman nodded gleefully. ‘I am becoming quite skilled at identifying half-digested slime in—’

‘Are you going to search his garments, Chaloner?’ interrupted Kersey, indicating that even the robust charnel-house keeper was unsettled by Wiseman’s grisly suggestion.

With relief, Chaloner turned his attention to the task. As he would have expected from a man who liked destroying great works of art, the iconoclast’s clothes were almost crude in their simplicity. And every item was blue. The only exception was his white ‘falling band’ – a square of material that hung from the neck like a bib.

‘There is something hidden here,’ said Chaloner, feeling a slight irregularity in the falling band’s hem. He took his knife and cut some tiny stitches to reveal a scrap of paper. It was about the size of his little finger, and was covered in minuscule writing. Kersey brought the lamp closer, but it was still a struggle to read.

‘It is cipher,’ Chaloner said eventually. ‘I shall have to take it home, and examine it properly.’

‘You understand such things?’ asked Kersey. He sounded more dubious than impressed.

Chaloner shrugged. ‘If it is a simple code, I should be able to break it, but if it is based on some book known only to the writer and recipient, then the chances of unravelling it are slim.’

‘Well, I am glad
I
do not have to deal with it,’ said Wiseman, rolling down his sleeves and brushing himself down. ‘I have more interesting things to do. I am going to see Temperance.’

Despite feeling tired and out of sorts, Chaloner decided to go with Wiseman when he visited Hercules’ Pillars Alley. He had not seen Temperance since he had returned from Wimbledon, and did not want her to feel slighted. He knew Hannah would be waiting in her little cottage on Tothill Street, but the excursion would not take more than an hour, and then he could go to bed with a clear conscience – he wanted to ensure that Temperance did not mind Wiseman foisting himself on her, and that she did not need help escaping an unwelcome admirer. He had been the one to introduce them to each other, so he felt a certain responsibility for the situation.

They hired a hackney carriage, which rattled along at a furious lick towards its destination. Chaloner did not mind, because the rocking and bucking prevented Wiseman from regaling him with too vivid a description of the latest Public Anatomy he had performed. Apparently, the King had come to watch him slice up some hapless cadaver, and Wiseman was still riding high on the royal praise that had been lavished on him afterwards.

Hercules’ Pillars Alley was a small lane off Fleet Street, named for the tavern that stood on the corner. The inn was a disreputable place, famous for gambling and serving large portions of meat. Loud voices emanated from within, followed by a piercing squeal. Chaloner grimaced in distaste, suspecting a game involving rats was in progress.

By contrast, Temperance’s establishment was a model of discretion. Railings and a small courtyard separated it from the street, and elegant music wafted out. It was a piece composed by Matthew Locke, and because it was being played by members of the King’s Private Musick, it was exquisite. Chaloner stopped to listen, closing his eyes to appreciate the harmonies. He opened them abruptly when Wiseman shoved him hard enough to make him stagger.

‘I want to see Temperance,’ the surgeon declared robustly. ‘Come with me if you will, but do not stand blocking my path.’

Chaloner followed him inside. It was still early, so the guests were not too unruly, although he knew it was only a matter of time before that changed – the club was patronised by courtiers, and any place containing
them
was unlikely to remain genteel for long. However, as Temperance hired a doorman to exclude any obvious undesirables – essentially anyone who could not pay her inflated prices – her neighbours could rest assured that their slumbers were going to be disturbed only by members of the aristocratic elite. In other words, by a higher class of lout.