A Murder on London Bridge (21 page)

Assuming from his dress that he had legitimate business, a clerk conducted him to Hussey’s private parlour. It was full of fat children, and when they saw Chaloner, they swarmed towards him. The eldest looked to be about twelve, a portly lad whose face was sticky with the sweetmeat he had been scoffing; the youngest was kicking and gurgling in a crib. The rest were impossible to count, because they did not keep still long enough, but Chaloner estimated there were at least ten. They clamoured at him, grabbing his clothes and urging him to join them in a game.

‘Now, now, children,’ said Hussey, scrambling out from beneath a table. His wig was askew, and the mask he hauled off suggested he had been pretending to be a lion. ‘Do not besiege our visitor like Dutchmen after territory. Give him time to announce himself.’

Playfully, Chaloner picked up one of the brats and swung him around, eliciting a squeal of delight. It was a mistake, because then they all wanted a turn, even the larger ones. By the time he had complied, Chaloner was gasping for breath, and some time had passed. He realised he was not making very good progress with his investigations that day, what with playing the viol for Winter and fooling around with Hussey’s youngsters.

Eventually, a servant brought a plate of biscuits, and the children abandoned him to mob her, their chubby fingers reaching for the treats before the plate was even set on the table. Chaloner did not think he had ever seen food disappear so quickly. Hussey chuckled at the sight.

‘I like to see a decent appetite, and my brood is the fattest and sleekest in Southwark. I have eighteen in all. The older ones are away serving their apprenticeships, while the younger ones live here. My good wife has presented me with a new baby almost every year for the past two decades.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, sorry for her. His own mother thought she had done more than her share when she had had produced seven.

‘If you want to discuss business, you had better take advantage of the lull,’ advised Hussey. ‘They will be after you again the moment they have finished eating, and that will not be long.’

Chaloner was sure it would not, given the rate at which the treats were disappearing. ‘Do you not have a nurse?’ he asked, sure a senior warden should be able to afford one.

‘She left because of what happened to Jane Scarlet – she said she did not want to be the next victim. I am sure you heard about the attack. It has been the talk of all the coffee houses.’

‘It has,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘I hope your wife—’

‘Safely in the country, about to produce Number Nineteen. What did you say you name was?’

‘Chaloner.’ Seeing the food almost gone, he began to speak more quickly, fabricating a tale that would allow him to bring the subject around to Chapel House. ‘The Dowager would like to—’

‘The Dowager is an interfering old busybody,’ interrupted Hussey. He lowered his voice, so the children would not hear. ‘And I am tired of her. She ordered the renovation of Scarlet’s house, because she said it was shabby – we disagreed, but did as she ordered – and now she meddles in
every
aspect of the work. What is the place to her? She has never shown any interest in it before.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘It was the Dowager who ordered the—’

‘Yes!’ snapped Hussey. His face was red, and it was clearly a subject that vexed him. ‘She said she wants it to look pretty for when the French court visits her in the summer.’

Chaloner was bemused. Most of the Bridge’s buildings were ‘shabby’ because they were coated with soot, and many had suffered some sort of damage from passing carts, whether it was scratches, dents or bits knocked off. Why had she picked Chapel House as exceptional?

‘Scarlet has been obliged to move out until the work is finished,’ Hussey went on, his voice thick with disapproval. ‘Because the Dowager wants it virtually gutted and rebuilt. It will be very nice when it is done, but it is a wretched inconvenience. Scarlet rented a cottage in Turnstile, and it was there that Jane was attacked. I thought the area was safe, and I am shocked to learn it is not.’

‘Was much stolen?’ asked Chaloner innocently.

‘Not a single thing. Spymaster Williamson believes the culprits took fright before they could search the place properly, but I am not so sure. There have been so many odd incidents of late . . .’

‘The tides have certainly been strange,’ agreed Chaloner encouragingly.

Hussey nodded fervently. ‘Yes! And the Dowager and her friends have recently taken to using the Bridge, whereas they always used to travel by boat. And to top it all, the old king’s ghost rode across it at the witching hour last night, with his head tucked under his arm.’

Chaloner regarded him askance, wondering whether he was joking, but the Senior Warden’s face held no trace of humour. ‘Did you see him?’

‘Not personally, no,’ admitted Hussey. ‘I was asleep – looking after children is very tiring. But three apprentices came out of the Bear, and saw him quite distinctly.’

Chaloner imagined the apprentices were either drunk or had invented the tale for attention. Regardless, he was astonished that Hussey should take it seriously. ‘Do you and Scarlet ever use cipher to communicate?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘When I send messages to—’

‘Of course we do not!’ exclaimed Hussey. ‘Why would we, when we see each other every day? Besides, we have no secrets at Bridge House – anyone can inspect our accounts at any time. It is the way we assure folk that we are trustworthy.’

Chaloner would have been surprised if that were true, given the revenues that were changing hands in the hall below, because they represented too great a temptation. Or was he maligning honest men – had he spent too long at Court, and now assumed everyone was corrupt?

He took his leave when the children began to waddle towards him. He did not want his arms to be so fatigued that he could not draw his sword, and he had the feeling he might need it that night, because he had decided to break in to Chapel House, to find out why the Dowager had taken such an interest in the place. And while he was there, he would try to establish why Blue Dick Culmer should have slipped into it just moments before he was killed, too.

It was almost dark when Chaloner left Hussey. The Bridge was crowded with people going home, and traffic was so slow that it was almost at a standstill. Chapel House was causing its usual obstruction, and he saw some of the scaffolding was askew, where a cart had hit it. He grabbed the door-handle as he passed, but it was locked, and the place was in darkness. Next to the door was a window, mostly shielded from view by a piece of tarpaulin. Chaloner crossed to the haberdasher’s shop opposite, spent a few moments ensuring he had not been followed, then retraced his steps.

He was lucky. A cart had been forced to stop outside Chapel House, because a large vehicle was trundling the other way. It concealed him while he slipped behind the tarpaulin and fiddled with the window latch. Moments later, he was standing in a spacious parlour on the ground floor. It was in darkness, but, in accordance with the dictates of the City Fathers, a lamp had been left burning above the door outside. It allowed some illumination of the interior, albeit not much.

Chaloner stood for a moment, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom and his ears to the sounds of the house – the creak of timber as the temperature dropped, the ever-present rumble of rushing water, and traffic. But there was another noise, too: a faint but rhythmic banging. It was coming from downstairs, and he supposed some conscientious craftsman must be working late.

He decided to search the upper floors first. There were three of them, each larger than the one below, as it over-jettied the street or the river. But there was nothing to find, because every chamber had been stripped bare for the renovation. He returned to the main parlour.

A flight of stairs led to the lower floor, from which still came the sound of knocking. Curious as to why workmen should consider cellars worthy of beautification, he headed towards them.

Unlike the rest of the building, the cellar was made of stone. It was low-ceilinged, barely high enough for a man to stand, and was, in effect, little more than a space hollowed out of the starling. It felt damp, and the roar of the river was louder than in the upper storeys.

It was empty, though, and the thudding was coming from an even deeper room – one that was more like a vault, and that was accessed via a trapdoor and a ladder. Chaloner supposed someone was effecting repairs to the foundations. He approached and peered down. One man was hacking at the floor with a pickaxe, while another watched. As Chaloner bent to look more closely, a few particles of grit pattered to the floor below. Suddenly, there was a gun in the watching man’s hand.

Chaloner registered it was being held by Phillippes at exactly the same moment as the dial-maker squeezed the trigger. The crack was deafening, and wood flew as the ball grazed the trapdoor. Cursing when he saw he had missed, Phillippes started to scramble up the ladder. He paused briefly, to grab a second loaded dag from Kaltoff, giving Chaloner just enough time to whip around and bolt back up the cellar steps – the spy had his sword, but blades were no match for firearms.

When Chaloner reached the top of the stairs, he turned, intending to bar the door, but he had reckoned without the renovation. The door had been removed from its hinges and was leaning against the wall. He took a moment to twist it around, so Phillippes would be forced to move it, but knew it would not slow him down for long.

He aimed for the front door, but when he hauled it open, he was met by the side of a cart: the Bridge was in the grip of one of its traffic jams, and the vehicle was so close to the house that a cat could not have squeezed between the gap. He dropped to his hands and knees, intending to crawl beneath it, but it was too low. He was trapped inside the house.

With no alternative, he raced up the stairs to the upper floors. He could hear Phillippes behind him, and Kaltoff’s agitated cries. He reached the top storey and locked himself inside one of the bedrooms, knowing it was only a matter of moments before they realised where he had gone – and as soon as they did, they would batter down the door and shoot him. But he had faced worse odds in his life, and there was a window. He ran towards it and tugged it open.

Below, in the darkness, he could just make out the boat-shaped starling, with frothy white water roaring along either side of it. The tide was in full spate, and jumping into the maelstrom was out of the question. He would drown. He glanced upwards, but clambering over the outside of the building would be a dangerous strategy, because it would make him a sitting duck.

He peered back down at the starling and saw it had a platform, presumably for unloading supplies that could then be winched directly inside the house – a sort of private wharf. He would be exposed to gunfire if he stood on it, but the platform continued in a narrow ledge that disappeared under the Bridge. If he could reach it, he would be out of sight. It was not an ideal solution to his predicament, but it was better than any other option available.

He had to work quickly, because Phillippes and Kaltoff were already outside the door, and were beginning to kick it. Fortunately, the workmen had left plenty of rope lying around. He knotted several lengths together, then tied one end around a ceiling beam, and dropped the rest out of the window. He worked coolly, his training preventing him from panicking as the door slowly disintegrated under the increasingly furious assault.

He scrambled on to the windowsill, grabbed the rope and started to slither down it. He had not gone far when he heard the door fly open and footsteps hammer across the wooden floor. They would see the rope and know where he had gone, so he had only seconds to reach safety.

His hands burned as friction scorched them. Above, he could see two heads etched against the darkening sky. Then the rope jerked. They were cutting it, so he would fall to his death. He increased his downward pace, and had perhaps ten feet to go when the rope gave way. He landed with a thud that drove the breath from his body.

The starling was slick with spray, and his momentum carried him towards the roaring water. Desperately, he clawed at the slippery stones, coming to a halt at the very edge of the platform, so close to the water that spray all but blinded him. Then there was a sharp crack and he felt something punch through the lace on his sleeve. The second shot came so close to his head that shards of stone grazed his cheek.

He glanced up. Phillippes and Kaltoff had gone, and he supposed they were reloading. Sure they would not miss the next time, he struggled towards the narrow ledge that disappeared under the arch. It was treacherous going, and when he reached it, he found it was smaller than he had anticipated, barely wide enough for his feet. Moreover, a profusion of algae meant it was like standing on ice, and one false move would see him skid into the raging river.

The next shot made him jump, a movement that caused his foot to slip, sending him to one knee. He flailed with his hands, relieved when his fingers encountered metal. It was a mooring ring. He used it to haul himself to safety. Unfortunately, it was ancient, rusty and on the verge of tearing away from its fastenings, but he gripped it gratefully, and took stock of his situation.

He was out of sight from above, but his feet threatened to lose purchase each time he tried to ease into a more comfortable position, and unnerving grating sounds from the ring indicated it was unlikely to hold him for long. How was he going to escape from what was essentially an island in the middle of the Thames? Should he let himself drop into the water, and hope he would survive what would be a very turbulent ride? But then what? The river was powerful, and he doubted he could break free of the midstream current to swim ashore.

He leaned towards the wall, to ease the weight on the ring. His feet skidded, but eventually he found a position that was, if not comfortable, then relatively secure. If he kept still, he might stay there until low tide the following morning, when he could summon help from a passing skiff.