A Murder on London Bridge (22 page)

Of course, the night was bitterly cold, and he was not sure he could hold on for another hour, let alone eight or nine. Reluctantly, Chaloner began to accept that here was a position he could not escape by cunning, strength or sheer determination. It was the river he was up against this time, not a human enemy, and he found he was overmatched.

Bit by bit, the city grew darker as lights were doused and people retired to bed. Idly, Chaloner wondered whether Phillippes and Kaltoff would slide down another rope, to pick him off at their leisure. Or had they assumed he had either been hit or had fallen in the river? However, he was certain they would continue to watch for a while, just to be sure, so he could not return to the wider part of the starling just yet.

To distract himself from the growing ache in his shoulders, he reviewed his investigations. What did Phillippes and Kaltoff expect to find in Chapel House? Had Blue Dick hidden something there, perhaps something stolen from one of the churches he had despoiled? Chaloner smiled grimly. If so, then Thurloe had been wrong to dismiss his theory that Phillippes and Kaltoff were connected to the iconoclast’s murder.

The night grew colder as time ticked past, and when he snapped out of a peculiar half-doze to find himself sliding backwards, Chaloner knew he could no longer stay where he was. Surely, Phillippes and Kaltoff would have given up their vigil and gone home by now? He decided that even if they had not, then being shot was preferable to death from drowning or exposure.

With infinite care, he began to inch towards the wider part of the starling, but did not get far. All manner of objects were washed downstream when the Thames ebbed, and that night, a mass of silt-clogged branches had fetched up on the area for which he was aiming. They were too precariously lodged for him to climb over, but too heavy to be tipped into the water. He was trapped.

Suddenly, his lame leg gave a monstrous twinge, causing him to flinch. The ring squealed in protest, and he felt its rusty moorings begin to tear free. Balancing on his good leg, he leaned on the ring, to push it back into the wall. It went, but it was a temporary measure at best, and he knew it would not survive him jerking it a second time. That meant he either had to stand on one leg for what remained of the night, or admit defeat and take his chances in the water. But when he glanced behind him, at the dense black spume that was thundering past, he knew it would kill him.

When he first heard voices, he thought it was his imagination. Then he saw several boats being propelled towards him. The yells grew louder, mixed with wild laughter and screams. It took a moment for him to realise what was happening, but then he understood: some lunatics were going to try to shoot the Bridge while the tide was in full spate. They sounded drunk, and their competitive howls suggested some sort of race was in progress. One of the little crafts was lining up to pass through his arch.

Could he leap into it as it passed? And if he succeeded, would his weight throw it off balance and capsize it? But there was no time for debate, because the boat was already moving his way. He could hear the whoops and shrieks of the passengers as it was caught in the current, and the oarsman struggled to keep it midflow. Fortunately for Chaloner, the fellow could not manage, and it began to veer towards his starling. The oarsman’s white, terror-filled face said he knew his craft was going to be dashed against the stone and destroyed.

The fact that Chaloner timed his jump perfectly owed more to luck than to skill. His frozen limbs refused to obey him when he tried to turn, so he ended up flopping backwards in as ungainly a manoeuvre as he had ever performed. And his weight jerked the boat away from the pier just far enough to prevent it from being smashed into pieces. Then there was some alarming lurching, during which Chaloner could see nothing but darkness and feel nothing but flying spray. Then all was calm again, and his fellow travellers were screeching their victory.

There were four people in the boat: the oarsman and three fares. Two of the passengers were strapping lads with the short hair and clean-shaven faces of apprentices. The third was Fabian Stedman, the printer who liked to engage in lively arguments at the Rainbow Coffee House. The waterman leaned on his oars and looked as if he might be sick, aware that he had just done something very stupid and was lucky to be alive. He regarded Chaloner balefully.

‘That was a reckless thing to have done. You might have killed us all.’

Chaloner tried to shrug, but was far too cold and stiff for any such coordinated gestures. ‘You would have drowned had I
not
jumped. I did you a favour.’

‘Chaloner?’ asked Stedman, peering at him in the darkness. His cheerful face was flushed from drink, and his voice was slurred. ‘Where did you come from?’

‘He jumped off the Bridge,’ supplied the oarsman venomously. ‘Damned madman!’

‘You mean suicide?’ asked Stedman, wide-eyed. ‘That is illegal!’

‘So is playing the fool on the river,’ said Chaloner coolly.

‘Did the others make it?’ asked one of Stedman’s cronies, peering backwards into the darkness. ‘I can see the bakers, but not the butchers. And I think the fishmongers are aiming for the wharf.’

‘We had better hurry, then,’ said Stedman to the oarsman. ‘It would be a pity to lose the bet now we have done the dangerous bit. You will get nothing if we arrive second.’

The oarsman began pulling towards the shore for all he was worth, and when they reached Botolph’s Wharf, he and the two lads raced towards the nearest tavern. A large number of people were there to cheer them on, and Chaloner gathered from the jubilant shouting that the printers were currently in the lead. He alighted rather more slowly, trying to move in a way that did not make him appear drunk. Stedman watched with arched eyebrows.

‘Do you make a habit of shooting the Bridge at full tide?’ Chaloner asked, feeling the printer was hardly in a position to regard him with such censure.

Stedman hiccupped. ‘No, this is my first time. And my last. I had to swallow two pints of claret before I felt ready to try it, and now I feel a bit queasy.’

Chaloner nodded towards the tavern. ‘Go, or your friends will celebrate without you.’

Stedman winced. ‘The stench of ale would make me vomit, and that would be embarrassing. Shall we share a carriage home? It will be safer to travel as a pair – hackneymen have a reputation for robbing those they consider easy prey.’

‘Neither of us is easy prey.’ Although Chaloner was not so sure about Stedman.

‘No? Neither of us can stand upright. I would say we both represent attractive targets.’

Chaloner conceded he was right when he tried to walk up Botolph Lane, and found he could not do it – he needed Stedman’s shoulder. He was not sure who was supporting whom as they lurched towards Thames Street, where carriages could usually be found for hire, even at night.

‘Where to?’ asked Stedman. ‘You live in Fetter Lane, do you not?’

But Chaloner did not want his cold, cheerless garret. ‘Tothill Street,’ he told the driver, thinking longingly of Hannah’s cosy home, blazing fire and warm body.

It felt like an age before they reached their destination, and every jolt and lurch hurt. When they arrived, Chaloner climbed out slowly, relieved when Hannah opened the door to his knock.

‘He tried to kill himself by jumping off London Bridge,’ called Stedman from the carriage, when it did not occur to Chaloner to offer her an explanation for his bedraggled state. ‘But he landed in my boat instead.’

‘It is not true,’ said Chaloner tiredly, seeing Hannah’s shock. ‘I will explain tomorrow.’

But he knew he would do no such thing, because it was not safe for her to know about the Bridge or any of the other mysteries currently confronting him. He staggered towards the chair by the kitchen fire, and it was not long before sleep overtook him.

Chapter 6

When Chaloner woke the following day, the sun was high in the sky, and he estimated it was at least ten o’clock. He was in Hannah’s fireside chair, covered by several heavy blankets, and the flames that leapt in the hearth were high enough to risk setting the chimney alight. He was hot, and realised it was discomfort that had woken him.

He sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He was stiff all over, and when he felt his face with his fingers, there was a scratch on one cheek from where splinters had flown from one of Phillippes’s missiles. His hands were tender from sliding down the rope, and his lame leg gave a protesting twinge when he stood up. It did not stop him from hobbling towards his viol, though.

He set the bow to the strings, pleased when his fingers lost their soreness after a few moments, allowing him to play with his customary skill. It was not an inspired performance, but it was passable. He had not been playing long when Hannah came in. She regarded him warily.

‘How are you?’

‘Hungry,’ replied Chaloner, hoping she would not offer him anything she had cooked herself.

‘I thought you would never wake,’ she went on, coming to sit next to him. ‘I was on the verge of sending for Mr Wiseman.’

‘Promise me you will never do that,’ said Chaloner, alarmed. ‘I was only sleeping.’

‘Like the dead, whereas normally you wake at the slightest sound. You did not even stir when Sergeant Leigh came to visit. And that Mr Stedman told me you had jumped off the Bridge.’

‘Stedman was drunk,’ replied Chaloner, aware that self-murder was considered a mortal sin for Catholics, so Hannah would certainly disapprove. He struggled to think of a credible explanation. ‘I was exploring one of the starlings for the Earl, but became trapped by the rising tide. I
did
leap into Stedman’s boat as it passed, but suicide was never my intention.’

She did not look convinced. ‘Well, you were playing your viol prettily enough just now, so whatever black demons plagued you must have gone now. I shall make some breakfast while you change into clothes that are not matted with slime.’

He saw with distaste that she was right, and went to wash in a bucket of warm water. The water was filthy by the time he had finished, and he checked the street very carefully before he tipped it out of the window, not wanting it to land on anyone.

Hannah had sharpened the knife he used for shaving, and clean clothes had been laid out on the bed, ready for him. He smiled. It was many years since his wife had died, and he had forgotten what it was like to be looked after. It was pleasant, and he experienced a surge of affection for Hannah. Was it love, he wondered? And if so, did it mean he should ask her to marry him? Or was the question precipitous, and would destroy the precious thing they had been building?

And was she really the one for him, anyway? Ruefully, he reminded himself that his history with women was hardly radiant with success – he nearly always chose the wrong ones. Even his wife had not been a particularly wise selection, and although he had loved her at the time, he was honest enough with himself to know that their relationship would have cooled, had she lived.

But could it be different with Hannah? They had little in common, and she was as unlike him as it was possible to be. Yet there was much to admire – her integrity, optimism and humour. But would it be enough that he liked her company, even when she was tired or irritable, and that the sight of her brightened his day? Or would their disparate personalities drive them apart in time?

And would she chafe when he preferred to stay home rather than attend some wild event in White Hall? Would she tire of his reticence, and long for someone more open and lively? Moreover, what did he have to offer her? The Earl had not threatened to dismiss him for some time now, but that did not mean his job was secure, and, as the youngest son of a large family, there was no inheritance coming. All told, marriage to him was not a particularly attractive proposition, and Hannah would have to be insane to accept.

He pushed such thoughts from his mind as he walked down the stairs, where he saw the parlour had been cleansed of the soiree’s ravages, and one wall given a new coat of paint. At least two rugs were missing, though, and he supposed they were still being cleaned, probably by professionals who had substances for dealing with the kind of stubborn stains members of the Court tended to generate while celebrating.

Hannah presented him with a plate of something he assumed were cakes, but that might equally well have been ballast for ships. They were fist-sized, extremely dense and tasted of vinegar. He ate one with difficulty, and hoped he was not expected to consume them all. He was halfway through the second and struggling, when there was a knock at the door.

Chaloner had no weapons on him, but he had the cakes. He grabbed one, ready to hurl, should the caller prove to be someone who meant him harm. But it was only Leigh, his small, military frame clad in an eye-catching purple coat.

‘Chaloner!’ he barked, reaching out to grip the spy’s hand. He withdrew it hastily when the gesture saw him provided with a fistful of crushed cake. ‘Hannah has been worried about you, and so have I. There really is no need to dispatch yourself over your failure to solve your various cases.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘You think that is what happened?’

Leigh patted his shoulder. ‘It is only natural that you should deny it, but your secret is safe with me. And the Earl and Bulteel. And I may have mentioned it to—’

‘Christ!’ groaned Chaloner, supposing Hannah must have repeated Stedman’s story, and the rumour had taken a life of its own, as such tales were always wont to do. It occurred to him that it was his own fault – if he had bothered to provide her with an explanation the previous night, she might not have been inclined to listen to drunken printers with lurid imaginations.

Leigh smiled with a false cheer he probably always inflicted on those he perceived as invalids. ‘I came to tell you that the Earl wants you to spend today recovering. To be honest, he is more concerned with his prelates’ dinner than Blue Dick’s murder at the moment. He heard yesterday that the Bishop of Oxford can come, which only leaves Gloucester uncertain now.’