A Murder on London Bridge (3 page)

Chaloner eased closer – they were talking, and he was keen to hear what was being said. He crouched behind a chest to eavesdrop, hoping Leigh would see him and have the sense to hold back.

‘—on the Bridge,’ the killer was whispering. There was blood on his hands; it had been an efficient attack, but not a clean one. ‘No one saw me.’

‘I wish you had consulted us first,’ murmured a man who was taller than his companions. He seemed to be in charge. ‘This may attract unwanted attention.’

‘Well, it is done now,’ said the killer, oozing defiance. ‘And I am not—’

He whipped around at the rattle of footsteps: Leigh had arrived. The little soldier baulked when he saw the killer had company, and started to back away, but it was too late: seven swords had been hauled from seven scabbards. Chaloner was begrudgingly impressed when Leigh did not run, as most men would have done when faced with such unattractive odds, but resorted to bluster.

‘I want a word with you,’ he said imperiously to the killer. ‘And the rest of you may as well show your faces, too, because I do not approve of disguises. Come on, unmask yourselves. I command you, by authority of the Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor of England!’

The leader laughed his disbelief. ‘
You
order
us
? In the name of that rogue? He belongs in the Tower, and I cannot imagine why the King does not slice off his head.’

‘You insolent dog!’ cried Leigh. He drew his sword and prepared to do battle. ‘How dare you!’

It occurred to Chaloner that if he stayed hidden until Leigh was killed, he might discover the identities of the men
and
learn why one had murdered Blue Dick – and Leigh would only have himself to blame for his predicament. But Leigh was a colleague, when all was said and done, and Chaloner supposed he owed him some support. With a sigh of resignation, he surged to his feet and had disabled two of the cloaked men before they realised that the feisty warrior was not alone.

The fighting was unexpectedly brutal, and while Chaloner took care not to inflict fatal injuries – he had no wish to kill anyone before he understood what was going on – the same was not true of his opponents. They were not particularly skilled swordsmen, but they fought with a fierce, unwavering resolve that was unnerving. It reminded him of the savage hand-to-hand combat during the civil wars, when men were protecting the things they held dear: their families and homes.

‘Who are you?’ Chaloner demanded, when he had managed to corner the killer and had a blade to his throat. ‘Tell me your name.’

‘Never!’ came the hissing reply. Eyes glittered furiously above the scarf. ‘I would sooner die.’

Chaloner was tempted to oblige – the man was a cold-blooded murderer, after all – but a sound behind caused him to whip around, and then he was obliged to fight three men at once. He grabbed the scarf of one who came too close and pulled it hard, intending to expose the fellow’s face, but it had been tied too tightly to come off. Then there was a loud crack that echoed around the church, and set up a wild squawking of gulls outside.

‘Stop!’ came the commanding voice of the leader. He held a second gun, and was pointing it at Chaloner, who saw it was primed and ready to fire. Meanwhile, Leigh was lying on his back with a sword at his throat. ‘And back away. I shall not miss the next time.’

The cold, angry gleam in his eyes said he meant it. Reluctantly, Chaloner did as he was told, and the leader indicated with a flick of his head that his cronies were to leave the church. They obeyed immediately.

‘I will be waiting outside for the next few minutes,’ the leader said, before turning to follow them. ‘If you come after us, I will shoot you.’

Chaloner waited until he was out of sight, then hared after them. He wrenched open the door, then jerked backwards when there was a sharp report. It was closely followed by a second crack, and the wood near his head flew into splinters.

‘Three shots fired so far,’ whispered Leigh, coming to stand behind Chaloner. ‘Three guns. Do they have a fourth, do you think? Shall we risk it, and run out?’

Chaloner shook his head. The last shot had come closer than was comfortable, and the chase was not worth their lives. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, wishing Leigh had not blundered in so soon, because he had heard nothing that would allow him to identify the killer and his companions.

‘Lord!’ breathed Leigh, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘What they lacked in skill they certainly made up for with mettle. I do not think I have ever met such resolute opponents.’

‘I have,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘In the civil wars – men who believed God was on their side.’

‘You mean fanatics?’ asked Leigh uneasily. ‘I wonder which particular brand these are: Catholics, old Roundheads, Fifth Monarchists, general rebels. How shall we go about finding out?’

‘
We
shall not,’ said Chaloner, deciding the time had come to dispense with Leigh’s annoying company. ‘
You
are going to report to the Earl, while I stay here and ask a few questions.’

Chaloner rarely ventured south of the river, which meant he did not know Southwark very well. When he had first visited it, he had assumed it would be an extension of the City, but was soon disavowed of that notion. Southwark was a place like no other, with its curious combination of stately homes and hovels, its discreetly gardened brothels and lice-infested whorehouses, and its sprawling taverns and bear-baiting arenas. It was always crowded, and many of its lanes were so narrow that there was no room for carriages. It did not stop drivers from trying to use them anyway, and the result was some wicked congestion and very frayed tempers.

He headed for the main street, trying to decide which way the killer and his cronies might have gone. He was immediately mobbed – scruffy children tried to sell him cheap trinkets, prostitutes flaunted their wares, and vagrants whined for alms. His hand dropped to his sword, which led some to melt away, but not all. He supposed they were used to threats.

As there was no sign of his quarry, and enquiries among the clamouring throng yielded nothing in the way of sensible answers, Chaloner headed for the area known as St George’s Fields, where there was an inn-cum-brothel named the Dog and Duck. He had been there a few weeks before, and while he did not imagine its bawds would know the men he was looking for, they might be able to provide him with a list of potential haunts – the kind of taverns known to look the other way when masked men gathered.

He reached the Dog and Duck, still pursued by one man determined to sell him a pair of used gloves, and stepped inside. His eyes smarted. It was noon, and the time when dinner was eaten – the place was full, and every patron was puffing a pipe; he could not see the opposite side of the room through the fug. He was barely through the door when a woman came to take possession of him.

‘What will it be?’ she asked, all business. ‘Food first, and then me? Or just me?’

‘Alice?’ asked Chaloner, trying to see past the paints and pastes slathered on her face. She was not attractive when washed and wearing her Sunday best, but the vivid mask and sluttish clothes made her look vaguely unearthly, like the wax grave-models in Westminster Abbey. ‘Is that you?’

‘Tom!’ she exclaimed in pleasure. ‘I did not recognise you. Where have you been? We all assumed you had left the city. After all, there must be some reason why you have not been to visit.’

Chaloner could have told her that he had been in the nearby village of Wimbledon, monitoring Lord Bristol’s country estate – the Earl had acquired a number of enemies through the years, but Bristol was by far one of the most dangerous. The sly nobleman had tried to topple the Earl from power the previous summer, but the plot had backfired and a warrant had been issued for his own arrest instead. Wisely, Bristol had fled the country, but there had been rumours of late that he was back. Alarmed, the Earl had demanded an investigation. However, Chaloner had watched Bristol’s house for the best part of six weeks, and had seen nothing to indicate the gossip was true.

‘I have been away,’ he replied vaguely.

Fortunately, Alice was not interested in his travels, which was just as well, because Chaloner had been trained never to talk about himself. He believed that intelligence officers – he disliked the term ‘spy’, although it was how the Earl described him – should collect information rather than dispense it, and although he was no longer operating in enemy territory, it was a difficult habit to break.

‘Meg died of the French pox last week,’ Alice was saying. ‘And Sally fell down the—’

‘Meg?’ interrupted Chaloner, dismayed. ‘She seemed well enough in December.’

‘She hid it well.’ Alice grinned spitefully. ‘We do not know who gave her the sickness, but she shared the gift with as many men as she could before she went. That will show them!’

‘It might show you, too,’ said Chaloner. He shrugged when she regarded him blankly, and explained further. ‘If she infected them, they might infect you in turn.’

Alice’s grin turned bitter. ‘They already have. Why do you think I am covered in plaster, like an old wall? Give me a shilling, Tom. I need it for medicine.’

Chaloner passed her the coin, grateful he had declined her services when they had been offered. French pox was incurable, and the notion of explaining to his lover how he had come by it was too awful to contemplate. Hannah was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and the wild debauchery of the Court made her something of a free thinker – it was one of the things he liked about her – but a beau with a sexually transmitted disease would tax even her liberal principles.

‘I am looking for seven men who disguise themselves and lurk in St Mary Overie,’ he said, after more pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘Can you think of anywhere such men might meet?’

Alice thought hard. ‘There are places in Paris Garden that turn a blind eye to squalid dealings.’

‘Paris Garden?’ Chaloner had never heard of it.

She closed her eyes. ‘It used to be a lovely park, used for bowling and gambling, but it has a bad reputation these days. Try the Beggar’s Bush tavern first. But mind yourself.’

With Alice’s warning ringing in his ears, Chaloner left the Dog and Duck and turned west, walking parallel to the river. The road was lined by houses that were five or six storeys high. They leaned towards each other like drunks, and in places met overhead. It made the street dark, and there were several sections that would never be touched by natural sunlight.

Children were everywhere, clamouring for money or playing games with balls and hoops. Few wore shoes, and their feet and legs were covered in sores. There were a large number of dogs, too. Some were tethered outside houses and snarled at anyone who went too close; others roamed free, hunting for food among the huge piles of rubbish that lay in festering heaps at every corner.

The stench of rotting vegetables, the glistening piles of entrails outside a butcher’s emporium and the reek from a nearby glueworks, not to mention the all-pervading aroma of sewage, were enough to make Chaloner light-headed. He had not thought of himself as delicate, and wondered whether life at Court, spying on treacherous noblemen for his Earl, was turning him soft.

The beggar who had followed him from St Mary Overie to the Dog and Duck, latched on to him again, waving the second-hand gloves in his face and assuring him they were the finest quality. Chaloner ignored him, then realised the fellow did not see this as a deterrent; he was used to it.

‘What is your name?’ he asked, turning suddenly.

The man took a step away, unnerved by the abrupt attention. ‘Nat,’ he replied warily.

‘Do you live here?’

Nat’s clothes hung loosely on his skinny frame, and he was missing most of his teeth. His skin was grey with dirt, and his hair far too oily to allow a determination of colour. All this meant it was impossible to gauge his age – he might have been twenty or fifty. He nodded back the way they had come.

‘Near St Mary Overie. But look at these lovely gloves, sir. They can be yours for three pennies.’

‘I will give you three pennies for some information.’

Nat’s eyes gleamed, and he bared his gums in a grin. ‘What do you want to know? I can tell you anything. No one knows Southwark like me.’

‘Seven masked men met in St Mary Overie today. You live near there, so did you see them?’

Nat nodded eagerly. ‘The masks are scarves, to protect them against smells and cold weather.’

‘Who are they? And I want the truth,’ warned Chaloner, predicting from Nat’s sly look that he was about to be regaled with some fiction. ‘I will know if you lie.’

‘But I don’t know their names!’ cried Nat. His expression was one of acute disappointment: three pennies was a lot to lose. ‘They just arrive from time to time. They look fierce, so no one bothers them. Southwark folk don’t go looking for trouble, and those men—’

‘How often do they come?’

Nat screwed up his face in thought. ‘Maybe seven or eight times since Christmas. Of course, they take care to keep to themselves, so they
may
have come a few times without me noticing . . .’

‘I do not suppose you know their business?’ Chaloner was not hopeful of an answer he could trust, but there was no harm in asking.

‘I tried to sell one a ring once, but he said he got no use for cheap baubles.’ Nat sounded indignant. ‘So, I drew me own conclusions. They are boring religious types, like the folk who stopped us from having fun when the Old Tyrant was pretending to be king.’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. He had no use for cheap baubles, either, but that did not make him a Puritan. And Blue Dick
had
been a Puritan, with his penchant for smashing churches, so surely it was unlikely that the masked men were Puritans, too? Why kill one of their own?

‘But they are nothing,’ said Nat with a dismissive wave of his hand when Chaloner made no reply. ‘There are far more important visitors to these parts than them.’