A Murder on London Bridge (16 page)

As he walked down the stairs, he wondered whether the Clarendon Code’s unpopularity would force the bishops to repeal some of its edicts. Perhaps naïvely, he was hoping the matter would be aired when the prelates came to the Earl’s dinner, and the moderate ones would persuade the extremists that they were doing the Church no favours with their uncompromising decrees.

When he reached St Dunstan’s, he sat at the back and used the time to work on the cipher, although with no success. Fortunately, Rector Thompson had lost the notes for his sermon, and the homily he mumbled without them was mercifully brief. Afterwards, Chaloner made sure his name was in the roster, explained that a sojourn to Wimbledon had caused him to miss the last five Sundays, and left with some relief.

Thurloe was about to attend his own devotions in Lincoln’s Inn’s chapel when Chaloner arrived. The ex-Spymaster had the look of a man who had slept badly. He was taking some small blue pills, and Chaloner wondered whether it was his penchant for dubious medicine or his involvement with rebels that was adversely affecting his health.

‘I wish you would go back to Oxfordshire,’ he said, regarding his friend with fresh concern.

Thurloe grimaced. ‘I cannot, not yet. And please do not besiege me with questions again, because I do not want you involved in my affairs.’

‘But I am already involved. I am charged with solving Blue Dick’s murder, and I am sure his presence in London had something to do with your “displeased majority”. I am also ordered to learn what Herring plans to do, and I imagine rumours of rebellion have drawn him into the open, too.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Thurloe. ‘That is pure conjecture on your part – you have not a shred of evidence to make such assertions. Besides, as I told you yesterday, you would be wise to stay away from this particular enquiry. Tell Clarendon you have taken both matters as far as you can, and offer to concentrate on ensuring his Bishops’ Dinner goes according to plan instead.’

‘He will dismiss me if I say I am giving up on a case after a day. Besides, your warning is suspicious in itself: it makes me even more certain that there is something I should know about.’

Thurloe sighed. ‘Well, I cannot confide in you, and that is that. However, if you must insist on meddling, then I strongly recommend you be on your guard.’

‘I am always on my guard,’ said Chaloner shortly, exasperated and annoyed with him.

Unexpectedly, Thurloe smiled. ‘Yes, just as I have trained you to be, although
I
find constant vigilance wearing. I think I may retire permanently to Oxfordshire when this current affair is over.’

Chaloner did not know whether to be relieved or sorry. On the one hand, he would be happier with Thurloe away from London’s simmering intrigues; on the other, he would miss him badly.

‘Did you search Phillippes’s and Kaltoff’s homes yesterday?’ asked Thurloe, when Chaloner made no reply. ‘If so, I assume you found nothing to link them with Blue Dick, because you would have mentioned it by now. I told you they were not the right culprits.’

‘I found this,’ said Chaloner defensively, handing him the caricature he had found in Kaltoff’s room. ‘It is Blue Dick.’

Thurloe studied it carefully. ‘It
might
be Blue Dick. However, it also looks like several other iconoclasts I could name.’ He handed the sketch back. ‘It it is interesting, but proves nothing one way or the other. If this is all you found, you wasted your time.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ demanded Chaloner, becoming disheartened.

‘Not a direct confrontation with them, that is for sure,’ said Thurloe. ‘From what I know of their characters, neither is the kind of man to throw up his hands and confess. I am not sure what to advise, except one thing: do not be too convinced they are your culprits, because it will blind you to alternatives. Perhaps you should ignore them for a while, and investigate other avenues.’

‘What other avenues?’ asked Chaloner disconsolately. ‘Phillippes and Kaltoff are all I have.’

‘Yes, but that does not make them guilty,’ Thurloe pointed out. ‘Incidentally, I have reflected on the conversation you overheard in the Beggar’s Bush – that Phillippes reminded Kaltoff what was at stake, and what they stood to lose should they be discovered. Perhaps he was just alluding to the fact that their tide-ring is not all they claim. In other words, maybe they are just cheats.’

‘It is possible,’ acknowledged Chaloner reluctantly. ‘They do seem to be charging a vast amount for the one they are making for the Earl. But what about the fact that they live on the Bridge?’

‘They live on the Bridge because they monitor the tides,’ said Thurloe with a shrug. ‘It is an integral part of their profession, regardless of whether or not they are good at it.’

Chaloner supposed he might be right, although there was something about the pair that made him determined to keep them in his sights until he was sure they were harmless. He watched Thurloe remove a small phial from his pocket and sip from it. Even from a distance, it smelled rank.

‘Where did you go yesterday?’ he asked curiously. ‘You left in a carriage when you said you would be warming your icy feet by the fire.’

Thurloe stared at him, and the expression was not a genial one. ‘You were watching me? Please do not do it again, Thomas. It is not seemly between friends.’

‘Neither is lying. You claimed you were cold, but it was an excuse to be elsewhere.’

Thurloe closed his eyes. ‘This matter will drive a wedge between us if we let it, so I recommend we discuss something else before things are said that will later be regretted. We shall talk about Blue Dick’s murder instead. Have you learned anything new?’

Acknowledging that perhaps he had overstepped the mark when he had spied on his old mentor, Chaloner passed Thurloe the ciphers he had recovered. ‘Can you decode these? One came from Blue Dick, and the other was in the house of Anthony and Jane Scarlet.’

Thurloe frowned as he looked at the tiny pieces of paper. ‘But they are virtually identical! What can a murdered iconoclast and the wife of a respectable official have in common?’

‘Well, there is the Bridge – Scarlet is one of its wardens, and Blue Dick died on it. And there is the fact that both are victims of violent crimes. But perhaps these papers will give us the answer. Will you decipher them yourself, or ask one of your old cryptographers to do it?’

‘I shall see to it myself. I am trying to reduce contact with old acquaintances at the moment – the fewer people who are associated with me, the better. And that includes you.’

The chapel bell began to chime at that point, and Thurloe excused himself. Chaloner watched him go, and experienced a wave of exasperation. Why was Thurloe declining to confide, and how could he stop him from walking headlong into disaster? With a sigh, Chaloner turned to leave.

He had not taken many steps before a familiar figure materialised in front of him. William Prynne was one of London’s least attractive characters, a venomous Puritan pamphleteer who railed against everything, from politics and religion, to playhouses, dancing and maypoles. His views on Quakers, Jews and Baptists were deeply repugnant, and Chaloner usually walked the other way when he saw him coming. Unfortunately, his preoccupation with Thurloe meant he had not noticed Prynne until it was too late, and now an encounter was unavoidable.

‘Any news from Court?’ Prynne asked casually, as their paths crossed.

From anyone else, this might have been an attempt at polite conversation, but Chaloner knew Prynne was fishing for gossip to use in one of his nasty tirades. As usual, Prynne wore a frayed black cloak and a quilted cap that served to hide the fact that his ears were missing – they had been lopped off in retribution for some acerbic tract he had composed in the past. He had been branded on the cheek, too, and imprisoned and fined heavily, but none of these punishments had succeeded in stemming the stream of vitriol that gushed unrepentantly from his pen.

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly, making to step around him.

‘There probably is, but you do not want to share it with me.’ Prynne sighed ruefully. ‘So you can answer another question instead. Is it true that Blue Dick Culmer has been murdered?’

Chaloner saw no reason not to confirm the tale. It was hardly a secret. ‘Yes, on Friday.’

‘Then I have something to tell
you
. You are the Earl of Clarendon’s man, and I like him. He is not one of those perverse, wretched sinners who gives himself to lewd, ungodly and heathenish—’

‘What did you want to say to me?’ interrupted Chaloner, before the man could get started on his opinions regarding the Court.

The rabid old lawyer shot him a resentful look. ‘You youngsters are all the same – all hurry and no patience. But let me ask you a question before I begin. The rumour I heard was that Blue Dick was killed on the Bridge by a man who then dashed into St Mary Overie. Is this correct?’

Chaloner nodded cautiously. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because Sir John Winter is a resident on that Bridge. He lives in Nonesuch House, and is a devious popeling, whose pedigree originates with the Devil himself, to whose honour and service all papists are devoted—’

‘I know where Winter lives,’ said Chaloner tersely. Thurloe had already mentioned it, along with the fact that the moustachioed gunpowder expert had been visited by Phillippes.

Prynne looked triumphant. ‘But did you know that Winter was friends with Blue Dick?’

Chaloner did not believe him. A respectable Catholic merchant was highly unlikely to develop a relationship with a Puritan iconoclast.

‘It is true,’ insisted Prynne, seeing the scepticism in Chaloner’s face. ‘And how do I know? Because they had a common acquaintance in Will Goff.’

‘Will Goff the regicide, who escaped to New England when the Commonwealth fell?’ asked Chaloner dubiously. Now he was sure Prynne was mistaken, because that was even less likely than Winter befriending Blue Dick. ‘And whose brother Stephen is chaplain to the Dowager?’

‘The very same,’ averred Prynne, beady eyes gleaming. ‘Will Goff fled to Connecticut, where he lives in a cave to avoid the Royalist agents sent to murder him. He is a Puritan, but a fanatical one – the kind that gives the rest of us a bad name.’

Chaloner smothered a smirk, thinking that even a regicide would have a long way to go before reaching the dizzying standards of zeal set by the poisonous Prynne.

‘Will Goff applauded the iconoclasts, and even funded some of their work,’ Prynne went on. ‘He loved Blue Dick. And he was a friend of your family. Your uncle knew him well.’

‘My dead uncle,’ Chaloner reminded him, wishing, not for the first time, that his kinsman had not played such a prominent role in murdering a king. He tried to make sense of what Prynne was saying. ‘I understand how shared religious convictions link Will Goff to Blue Dick, but what about Winter? Few Catholics approve of statue smashing, so how did Goff come into contact with
him
?’

‘A shared passion for
music
.’ Prynne put sinister emphasis on the last word, and Chaloner recalled that music was one of the many things the lawyer considered sinful and unnecessary. ‘Will Goff and Winter have unusually fine voices, and belonged to an elite choir that performed in St Mary Overie. Will Goff invited Blue Dick to join, too. He was a tenor.’

‘I know Goff liked music,’ said Chaloner, recalling the summer he had been obliged to remain indoors to accommodate the man’s insatiable demand for a viol. ‘But I cannot see him – or Blue Dick, for that matter – singing with Winter, whose political and religious convictions diverge so fundamentally from his own. They would argue, and all pleasure from the exercise would be lost.’

‘Sinful men cleave to worldly pleasures,’ began Prynne. ‘And the Devil clamours at them to abandon their convictions in order to taste these vile depravities. The common nurseries of villainy and wickedness, where sinners are seduced by the pomps and vanities of carnal desire to—’

Chaloner stopped him with a raised hand. ‘I really have no idea what you are talking about.’

Prynne grimaced his annoyance, but returned to less flowery language. ‘Music is a great leveller. You play your viol with some of the greatest rakes in the country, but you overlook their failings in exchange for good entertainment. Will Goff, Blue Dick and Winter did the same.’

‘I see.’ Chaloner was not sure whether he believed it.

‘
Winter will make music with anyone, even those scoundrels Scarlet and Hussey.’

‘Why do you call them scoundrels?’

‘Because they tax any book sold on the Bridge, and I object. Why should I contribute to the upkeep of that preposterous and misguided structure? It is a festering sore, abominable in the eyes of God. And anyone who says otherwise is a heathen!’

Chaloner could not imagine why the Bridge should have excited the old Puritan’s animosity, but was unwilling to ask for an explanation that would probably be incomprehensible anyway.

‘Thank you,’ was all he said. ‘I will tell the Earl you helped him.’

Prynne grinned. ‘That is very civil of you. And there is something else I should mention, too, although knowing your affection for that Cromwell-loving Thurloe, I do not think you will like it. But honour and duty force me to speak out.’

‘What?’ asked Chaloner coldly, wondering if the man was about to spin a yarn to see Thurloe in trouble. Thurloe had always treated Prynne with compassion and respect, but Prynne was far too steeped in his own bigotry to reciprocate in kind.

‘I happened to spot Blue Dick in a Southwark tavern a few days ago. He was in company with that fanatical Herring and several other iconoclasts, and I did not like the notion of such a gathering, so I followed Herring when he came out.’

‘And?’ prompted Chaloner, when Prynne paused for dramatic effect. The expression on the old man’s face could only be described as malevolent.