A Murder on London Bridge (20 page)

‘I do not want anything blown up,’ said Chaloner sincerely. The exploding cannon at Naseby had taught him to stay well away from anything that might ignite or combust. ‘But I heard you are planning a firework display on the Bridge, and—’

‘Then you heard wrong!’ cried Winter, clearly appalled by the notion. ‘It would be far too dangerous. One stray spark would see the whole thing ignite, and then where would we be? Besides, the wardens would never allow it. But why did you come, Mr . . . ?’

‘Chaloner,’ supplied the spy, supposing the Queen had misunderstood what she had heard, which was not surprising given her poor English. ‘And I came because we have a mutual acquaintance – I once played my viol to Will Goff’s singing.’

He did not mention that he had been ten years old at the time, or that Goff would almost certainly not remember him.

Winter’s expression went from suspicion to open pleasure. ‘Did you? Then you are a lucky man, because he was the best bass in London. I make no comment on his politics, but his singing . . .’

‘Fit for angels,’ said Chaloner, hoping the regicide’s talents had not been exaggerated.

Winter beamed. ‘If you played for him, then you must be good, because he was very particular.’

Chaloner shrugged modestly. ‘I practise a lot.’

Winter looked wistful. ‘Decent accompaniment is difficult to come by for voices these days, because instrumentalists will insist on showing off their own skills, which detracts from
our
performances. Are you one of those?’

‘I would like to think not.’

Winter smiled craftily. ‘Perhaps I should be the judge of that. I have a viol upstairs, and I am in the mood for a little entertainment. Come.’

Chaloner was taken back.
He
would not have been so blithely trusting of a stranger who called unannounced and started chatting about gunpowder and past acquaintances who were wanted for high treason. But then he recalled Prynne’s words about people being prepared to overlook a great deal for music – and Winter was obviously passionate about his muse.

He followed the man up some stairs to another grand room, this one on the top floor. The view was magnificent, with St Paul’s dominating the chaos of smaller buildings around its feet. The cathedral seemed so vast and permanent that it was difficult to believe it was falling to pieces.

‘How about a little Dowland?’ asked Winter, handing Chaloner a viol that was as fine as any he had played. ‘I adore Dowland, but I have not sung him in weeks.’

Chaloner nodded, spent a moment tuning the instrument, then indicated he was ready. Winter began to sing, and his voice transpired to be a pure, sweet countertenor, which was unexpected in so hefty a man. His high notes wrapped around the deeper, richer tones of the viol in a manner that was exquisite, and Chaloner soon realised he was in the presence of a master, a man whose skills far exceeded his own. As often happened with good music, he lost track of time, and when he glanced outside, he was horrified to see it was well into the afternoon. He stood abruptly.

‘Must you go?’ asked Winter, full of disappointment. ‘I have not enjoyed myself so much since Will Goff fled to New England, and our little choir was disbanded.’

‘Surely you still meet some of the other members for duets and trios?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘I recall Blue Dick Culmer also possessed a fine voice.’

‘Tenor,’ agreed Winter sadly. ‘But he is dead, I am sorry to say. Murdered, on this very Bridge.’

Chaloner feigned shock. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘No one with a love of music, that is for sure. It was a terrible waste! I had no idea he was in London, which is a pity, because I would have leapt at the chance to sing with him again.’

‘Why did he return, then, if not for music?’ asked Chaloner, setting his bow on the table.

‘I have no idea. We were not friends, and rarely discussed anything other than singing – with men like him, it was better to avoid politics and religion. What do
you
want?’

The last question was directed at a maid, who came to murmur in his ear. He listened for a moment, then asked Chaloner to excuse him. Chaloner made the most of the opportunity by going to the desk in the window and beginning to rummage. He was somewhat startled when his random prying revealed a note written in cipher – most people tended to be more careful with such things. It was not the same complex code used in the other two messages he had found, and Winter had already deciphered it – he had taken a pen and written the letters underneath. It read:

Chaloner stared at it. Why would Herring set up a meeting between Winter and Father Stephen when the paths of the two probably crossed in Somerset House, anyway? Or had Winter intercepted the message, and it was actually intended for someone else? If so, then did it mean Winter was a spy, working to learn what the iconoclasts intended to do in London? Or was it not
Stephen
Goff who would be in the Bear tavern, but
Will
Goff, his regicide brother? After all, the tales that said he was living in a cave in New England were only that: rumours. No one could prove them.

Chaloner frowned as he stared at the missive. There were two more interesting points to note, too: the time and the place of the assignation. The time was the day before Shrove Tuesday, when the Dowager intended to hold her ball and the Earl his Bishops’ Dinner. And the place was the Bear at the Southwark ‘foot’ of the Bridge. Why did everything revolve around the Bridge?

‘I am afraid business calls, but you must come again,’ said Winter, arriving a few moments later to find his guest standing at the window watching a ship arrive at the Customs House. ‘Will Goff knew what he was doing when he chose to sing with you, because you are very good. Perhaps you might consider attending a soiree I am holding later this week? Saturday at one o’clock.’

‘I do not suppose Mr Phillippes is coming, is he?’ asked Chaloner, feeling he should at least
try
to prise something useful from the man with whom he had spent such a large part of the day. The query was somewhat out of the blue, but Winter was obviously busy, so there was no time for a more circuitous approach. And the question needed to be put: Thurloe did not think the association between the two men was significant, but Chaloner wanted to make up his own mind about it.

Winter regarded him askance. ‘My guest list is not yet complete. Why do you ask?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘He is your neighbour, and I understand he likes music.’

‘Does he?’ asked Winter doubtfully, leading the way down the stairs. ‘He has never mentioned it to me, and we have conversed several times of late.’

‘About what, if not music?’ asked Chaloner, rather desperately.

‘Other matters,’ replied Winter vaguely, although Chaloner did not blame him for being reticent. He was, after all, talking to a stranger.

‘With Kaltoff, too?’ pressed Chaloner, aware that they had nearly reached the ground floor.

‘No. I dislike him. He is a mechanic, in essence, building instruments to the designs Phillippes gives him, yet he has ideas above his station. He thinks his association with Phillippes is sufficient reason for him to be admitted to the Royal Society.’

‘And it is not?’

‘Of course not! Any monkey can shove a few moving parts together. But will you come on Saturday? I can promise you a memorable afternoon.’

‘I will,’ said Chaloner, thinking Winter was probably wrong to belittle Kaltoff’s skills. His friend Will Leybourn had told him that instrument making was a fine art.

‘Good,’ said Winter, beaming as he opened the door.

‘I wish Will Goff could join us,’ said Chaloner. In an effort to prolong the discussion, he became inventive. ‘I heard a rumour that he has left New England, and is currently back in London.’

Winter regarded him silently for a moment, then lowered his voice. ‘The rumour is true. And New England has not blunted his voice, because it is still as exquisite as ever.’

Chaloner regarded him in astonishment, as surprised by the fact that Winter was willing to confide, as he was by the admission that a famous regicide was in the city. He had not for a moment expected his careless remark to be confirmed.

‘You met with him?’ he asked in disbelief. He could not see the Dowager being very pleased to learn that her firework-maker was dallying with one of the men who had killed her husband.

‘Just the once. I did the ethical thing, and urged him to leave the country – it would be a crime for that rich bass to be silenced by execution. You understand, given that you have heard him.’

‘When was this?’

Winter smoothed down his moustache as he considered his answer. ‘Let me think . . . two, perhaps three, weeks ago.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. Did it mean Goff was still in the city? ‘Do you know why he came back in the first place?’

‘Lord, no!’ exclaimed Winter. ‘As I said, I never discuss politics or religion with men who are likely to disagree with me. I did not ask, and Goff did not tell. We met by chance in Southwark, and he accepted an invitation to come for music. And that was the sole extent of our encounter.’

Chaloner was bemused by Winter, who seemed far too naïve to be a successful businessman. Or was it unreasonable to assume that anyone who had made a lot of money was by necessity devious? Chaloner had liked him – his friendly brown eyes, his open, bluff manner, and his passion for music – and found he was looking forward to meeting him again. Moreover, he had enjoyed being judged on his skill with the viol, rather than on his friends, family or choice of employer. There was something refreshingly egalitarian about it.

But what about the coded message? Was Winter the intended recipient, or had he intercepted a letter intended for someone else? Chaloner grimaced. If Winter
was
a spy, then he would not be one for very long – he was too willing to trust strangers, not only with information that would have been best kept to himself, but by leaving them unattended in rooms that contained ciphered missives.

Chaloner turned his thoughts from Winter, and considered Will Goff. Clearly, he would have to find out whether the regicide was still in the city, because he represented a significant threat to the government. There was no point in asking his brother: Father Stephen had made it perfectly clear that he wanted nothing to do with his sibling, and had rebuffed Chaloner’s attempts to talk about him. Or was it a front, and the priest knew exactly where he was? But Chaloner did not think so – Stephen’s rejection had seemed genuine to him.

He decided to ask Thurloe instead, but then he saw that was no good, either. Thurloe and Will Goff had been colleagues during the Commonwealth, and Thurloe was not the kind of man to betray old friends, not even regicides. Moreover, there was also the possibility that Goff had come to London to assist with the simmering rebellion – the one Thurloe considered justified.

His mind teeming with questions, Chaloner began to walk towards Southwark. It was time to visit Bridge House, to see whether its Senior Warden knew what manner of mischief seemed to be unfolding on the place of which he was in charge.

He reached the end of the Bridge, and was pondering whether to turn left or right, when he saw a familiar figure. It was Nat the beggar, trying to sell gloves to a portly merchant. Angered by his persistence, the merchant gave him a shove that sent him sprawling. Chaloner went to help him up.

‘Have you come to pay me for more gossip?’ Nat asked eagerly, wizened face breaking into a smile. ‘I been lurking around St Mary Overie, to see whether them men you asked about would come back.’

‘And have they?’

Nat stuck out his hand. ‘Money first, then I tells. Or maybe you can buy me a hat instead? I lost mine, and I been chilled to the bone ever since.’

Chaloner handed him several coins and an old grey cap that happened to be in his pocket. It was not so long ago that he had been penniless himself, and he knew what it was like to be cold and hungry. Nat grinned in pleasure as he jammed the hat on his head, then looked sheepish.

‘They’ve not been back. And I asked around, but no one else has seen them, either.’ He clutched the money hard, as if he was afraid Chaloner might demand its return.

‘I am looking for Bridge House,’ said Chaloner, not surprised by the answer: the vicar of Southwark had already told him that the masked men were not coming back. ‘Do you know it?’

‘Of course. It’s by St Olave’s Church. Follow me, and I’ll show you. The Senior Warden always lives
near
the Bridge, see, but not
on
it, in case it falls down.’

Chaloner laughed. ‘That cannot be very reassuring for his tenants.’

‘
I
would not sleep on it for a kingdom. And there’s something odd going on there, anyway – everyone in Southwark senses it. Ask the wardens why Chapel House is being pulled about, when there’s nothing wrong with it. And why men like Phillippes and Kaltoff have taken rooms nearby.’

‘I intend to,’ muttered Chaloner.

Nat scampered ahead, then stopped outside St Olave’s Church. Next to it, so clearly marked that Chaloner was disgusted with himself for not noticing it sooner, was Bridge House.

The Senior Warden’s residence was a sizeable place, comprising living accommodation for him and his family, plus a long hall and several offices in which his clerks conducted Bridge business. Chaloner did not have to knock at the door, because it was open, and people thronged in and out. There was a guard to ensure the likes of Nat could not enter, but anyone who looked affluent was allowed past without question. Chaloner, in his Court clothes, did not warrant a second glance.

Inside was a large chamber, with desks all around the edges. Clerks hunched over them, counting and recording the Bridge’s revenues. In the open space at the centre were a number of obviously wealthy merchants, all talking about money at the tops of their voices. There was no sign of Senior Warden Hussey or his junior, so Chaloner was obliged to ask where they might be.