A Murder on London Bridge (25 page)

‘I do not suppose he wants Blue Dick’s murder solved without being obliged to squander his own resources, does he? Or perhaps without soiling his hands? Some very influential people seem to be involved, ones he will not want as enemies.’

‘You do him a disservice!’ cried Bulteel, stung. ‘He is not the villain you think, not once you come to know him.’

Chaloner doubted he would ever find out, because neither he nor Williamson had the slightest desire to become more closely acquainted.

‘Tell me what Williamson said,’ he suggested with a placatory smile. It was clear they were not going to agree, and he did not want to quarrel.

But Bulteel was seriously piqued, and for a moment, Chaloner thought he was going to refuse. Fortunately, the desire to share what he had learned was strong, and he began to speak eventually, albeit reluctantly.

‘He believes that Blue Dick’s murder and the Dowager’s Shrove Tuesday plans are all part of the same case,’ he began. ‘You see, Lady Castlemaine, the Penderel brothers, Progers and Lord Bristol – all members of the Dowager’s cabal – are Catholic. And they all hate the Earl, and have vowed to see him fall from grace.’

This was not news. ‘I know. He has given them plenty of cause by supporting laws that make their religion all but illegal. However, I do not see what it has to do with Blue Dick.’

Bulteel smiled triumphantly. ‘But Williamson and I do! You see, Blue Dick was murdered by the Dowager’s cronies. As an iconoclast, he smashed their sacred images, which incurred their wrath. So they took measures to ensure he would never do it again.’

Chaloner regarded him doubtfully. The iconoclasts’ time had come and gone, and there was nothing to suggest Blue Dick had intended to resume his activities.

‘Do you have evidence for this, or is it supposition?’ he asked.

‘We have evidence,’ said Bulteel. His expression was smug now he saw he had Chaloner’s complete attention. ‘Because there is a witness to Blue Dick’s murder.’

‘More than one,’ muttered Chaloner, thinking
he
had been a witness, too, but had seen nothing to allow him to identify the killer.

‘This witness saw the culprit lurking
before
the crime,’ Bulteel went on. ‘He watched him, because he thought his behaviour odd. He saw him approach Blue Dick, stab him and run away. He also saw a man – you, although he does not know it and neither does Williamson – give chase.’

‘Do you or Williamson have a name for this witness?’ asked Chaloner hopefully.

‘Yes, we do. It is the dial-maker called Henry Phillippes.’

‘I see,’ mused Chaloner. Was it true, or was this Phillippes’s way of deflecting suspicion from himself? Reluctantly – he was not happy about losing his prime suspect – Chaloner conceded that there
may
be truth in the tale. Phillippes lived on the Bridge, so perhaps he
had
noticed the masked assassin lurking as he gazed out of his window. However, it was curious that he had not mentioned it to anyone else. ‘And who does he say is the murderer?’

Bulteel’s smile verged on the gloating. ‘A Penderel. But he cannot be sure which one.’

Chaloner thought about it. The man he saw stab Blue Dick
might
have been one of the brothers. It was not Rupert, who was too large, but it could have been Oliver, Neville or Edward.

‘I see,’ he said noncommittally, unwilling to let Bulteel – and by extension Williamson – know the intelligence might be useful; he did not want to be in the Spymaster’s debt.

Bulteel grimaced at his lack of enthusiasm. ‘Do you want me to tell you why the Earl ordered the murder investigated, when he should be more concerned with the arrangements for his Bishops’ Dinner? I did not get
that
from Williamson – it is something I discovered all on my own.’

‘I assume someone told him what Phillippes saw,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Leigh, perhaps.’

Bulteel looked scornful. ‘All Leigh cares about is the security arrangements for the Bishops’ Dinner.
He
did not tell the Earl about the Penderel connection.’

‘Then who did?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘No one,’ said Bulteel, aggravatingly obtuse. ‘The Earl saw something himself. Namely Edward Penderel just an hour after the murder, with blood on his hands.’

‘He did not mention this to me,’ said Chaloner, not sure whether to believe Bulteel.

‘He did not mention it to me, either – I overheard him telling his wife. He was saying he wanted you to identify the culprit
independently
of his own testimony for two reasons. First, because he does not fancy being called as a witness in any trial that might ensue. And second, because his silence about what he saw means he cannot be accused of pointing you towards his enemies, thus blinding you to other possibilities.’

‘Those are inane reasons!’ Chaloner exploded. ‘And I seriously doubt this will ever come to trial, anyway. Edward is the Dowager’s man, and we all know the matter will be quietly swept under the carpet. The Court will not want people to know that some of its members are killers.’

Bulteel raised his hands defensively. ‘Do not snap at me. I am merely passing you facts – that Phillippes has tentatively identified a Penderel as the murderer, and that the Earl saw a Penderel with blood on his hands not long after the crime. You can make of them what you will.’

Edward was missing, thought Chaloner, and his kinsmen did not know where he had gone. Had he committed murder and fled? Chaloner swore under his breath. Why did the Earl insist on playing these games? The case might have been solved days ago, had he deigned to confide.

Angry and frustrated, Chaloner knocked on Clarendon’s door and entered his office. It was baking hot, as usual, and the Earl was sitting with one foot resting on a stool, a sure sign that the weather was exacerbating his gout. It was also a warning that he was likely to be irritable, and needed to be treated with additional care. Aware that telling him he was a blithering idiot whose absurd decisions had wasted time and put lives in danger would not be taken kindly, Chaloner reined in his temper.

‘I hope you are not unwell, sir,’ he said politely, gesturing to the foot.

The Earl grimaced. ‘Gout is a terrible condition, and I would not wish it on my worst enemy. Well, I might make an exception for Bristol. I do not suppose you have learned his whereabouts, have you? I do not feel safe, thinking he might be close.’

‘There are rumours that he is in England. You ordered me not to visit his London house in Great Queen Street, but it may be worth—’

‘He will not be there! He is not stupid, and I forbid you to waste time watching it. There are far more important things for you to be doing. For example, my Bishops’ Dinner is in less than a week, and I heard this morning that Gloucester can come. That means all of them will be here.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Chaloner, supposing the Earl intended to pull him away from Blue Dick’s murder and join Leigh in ensuring the event ran as smoothly as possible.

‘I want you to do your job,’ snapped the Earl. ‘To foil any attempts to ruin the occasion. To watch Somerset House and expose any plots that are hatching. To locate Bristol. And to catch whoever murdered that wretched iconoclast. In that order. So far, you have done nothing useful.’

‘I have made some headway on the latter, sir,’ said Chaloner coolly. ‘For example, I know a witness has identified a Penderel brother as the killer. Meanwhile, another witness claims to have seen Edward washing his bloodstained hands shortly after the crime was committed.’

The Earl regarded him warily. ‘Good. Interview this first witness, but do not bother with the second. Edward will have an excuse for the state he was in, and the testimony will be irrelevant.’

‘If you had mentioned earlier that you saw him smothered in blood not long after Blue Dick was killed, it would have saved a lot of time,’ said Chaloner, unable to help himself. ‘Now he is missing – fled probably – and it will be difficult to track him down.’

He knew he had spoken bluntly, and braced himself for a cutting reprimand. But it did not come, and for a long time, the Earl did nothing but stare at him. Uncomfortably, Chaloner wondered whether he had been insolent once too often, and the Earl was entertaining himself by devising different ways of telling him he was dismissed.

‘I did not confide in you, because I wanted you to discover his guilt for yourself – independently of what I saw,’ the Earl said eventually. ‘He is the Dowager’s creature, and everyone knows I loathe the lot of them, and would love to see them accused of a serious crime.
Ergo
, it was better for me to distance myself from it, to let you find evidence that did not include my testimony.’

Chaloner stared back at him. Was he telling the truth? He was usually good at knowing when people were lying, but the Earl was a politician, and so was almost impossible to read.

‘So what do
you
believe, sir?
Did
Edward Penderel stab Blue Dick?’

The Earl nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think so. He is Catholic, with an open hatred of iconoclasts, and I saw him skulking with bloody hands within an hour of the murder. But no one would have believed me if I had announced what I saw – it would have been seen as an accusation made from spite.’

It was a sorry state of affairs, Chaloner thought, when politics prevented a senior member of a government from speaking out against a capital crime.

‘You ordered me to start watching Blue Dick several days before he was killed,’ he observed. ‘Did you suspect there might be an attack of this nature, and—’

‘That is a dreadful thing of which to accuse me!’ interrupted the Earl indignantly. ‘You think I predicted a man’s life was in danger, but did nothing to warn him?’

Chaloner supposed he did think that. ‘I am only wondering what led you to order him followed.’

The Earl’s expression was cold. ‘I ordered him followed because I am weary of fanatics. So, when Father Stephen told me that Blue Dick was meeting other like-minded men, I was worried. I wanted to know what, if anything, they were planning.’

Chaloner supposed the explanation was plausible. Just. ‘Who else knows you witnessed Edward with bloody hands?’

‘No one!’ The Earl was appalled by the notion. ‘The only person I have told is my wife. I cannot imagine how
you
come to be party to it, and I am shocked that you are.’

Chaloner was not about to tell him that Bulteel was responsible for that. ‘Will you describe what you saw?’

The Earl took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I went to visit my friend Bishop Morley in Winchester Palace. Unfortunately, he was out, but his manservant insisted that I rest by the fire before going home again. I accepted the hospitality, and was gazing idly out into the courtyard, when I saw Edward, cleaning his hands in the fountain there.’

‘Edward was washing in a prelate’s garden?’ asked Chaloner warily. It did not sound very likely.

‘The fountain runs with clean water,’ explained the Earl. ‘And it is secluded, especially if you know the owner of the house is out. It is the perfect place to scrub off. He did not see me, and I hid behind the curtains the moment I realised what he was doing.’

Chaloner suspected he had been wise to stay out of sight. He considered the tale. Winchester Palace was not far from the Bridge, so it was certainly possible that Edward had stabbed Blue Dick, run to his associates in St Mary Overie, then stopped to scour his hands after he and his cronies had escaped from their encounter with him and Leigh. He thought about the masked men: did they include the other Penderel brothers, or had Edward acted independently? But no matter how carefully he reviewed the brief but intense battle in the church, there was nothing to provide him with answers regarding the warriors’ identity.

The Earl rubbed his eyes. ‘I hope what I saw does not become common gossip, because his brothers might take umbrage. You had better send for Leigh, to protect me.’

‘I will stay with you,’ offered Chaloner.

‘No. I need you to pursue your other enquiries.’

Chaloner nodded, then turned to another matter. ‘I understand you discovered that Sir John Winter has asked the Master of Ordnance for some gunpowder – although the request is innocent, because he wants it to make the Dowager’s fireworks. But would you mind telling me how you came by the information?’

‘God’s blood, Chaloner!’ cried the Earl. ‘Is nothing I do secret from you? And yes, I
do
mind revealing my sources. It will be safer for them if I keep the matter to myself.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ said Chaloner stiffly, wishing the man was a better judge of what should be kept private and what should be shared. He supposed it came of the Earl hiring an intelligencer he did not really trust. The Earl glared at him for a moment, but then the expression softened a little.

‘Incidentally, I did not believe Leigh’s tale,’ he said.

‘What tale, sir?’

‘About you throwing yourself off the Bridge. Hannah told me today that you will be married soon, so I imagine you are the happiest man alive. You have no reason to kill yourself.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner.

‘I want you to go to Somerset House on Saturday night,’ said the Earl, when Chaloner made no other comment. ‘The Dowager is holding a soiree, and I have a feeling they intend to discuss their plans to spoil my Bishops’ Dinner. You will have to break in, as you did last time, although please take care not to be caught. If you are, you must lie – say you work for someone else.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. Most of the Dowager’s friends knew exactly who he was, so lying would be futile. Moreover, Somerset House would have tightened its security after the last incident, and breaking in would not be easy. He could do it, but the risk of capture – and subsequent embarrassment for the Earl – would be enormous. Then he recalled Hannah telling him she had been asked to Somerset House on Saturday night, and relaxed. Hannah was not going to be invited to take part in plots to spoil ecclesiastical repasts.