A Murder on London Bridge (31 page)

Chaloner sheathed his weapon. ‘May I come with you? I should like to speak to Jane.’

‘You may escort me,’ consented Wiseman pompously. ‘But you cannot see Jane, because she is not yet well enough. You can talk to Scarlet, though: it is high time that someone took this vile attack seriously. Incidentally, I understand Temperance and I are to dine with you next week. The invitation arrived today.’

Hannah must have sent it, thought Chaloner, and wished she had not. ‘I have just discovered a hoard of old religious carvings,’ he said, to avoid the subject of the dinner party. He knew it was not sensible to discuss his investigations with a man he neither liked nor trusted, but he was tired enough to feel reckless. ‘Can you imagine why anyone should keep such things?’

Wiseman considered the question carefully, gratified to be asked for an opinion. ‘For their artistic merit,’ he suggested. ‘Or maybe because they are held to be sacred. Or perhaps they have been gathered together for safekeeping.’

Chaloner thought of the gargoyle that had come close to flattening him. Had the crated statues come from the cathedral, to prevent them from falling down and killing anyone? But why store them in Chapel House? It had not been a place of worship for more than a century, and there were dozens of real churches in London that would make far more suitable repositories. Or were they going to be used for Chapel House’s refurbishment? Perhaps the Scarlets had an affinity for religious décor. Or, more likely, the Dowager did.

Receiving no comment on his suggestions, Wiseman began talking about the recent irregularity in London’s tides instead, and Chaloner settled back to listen as the carriage rocked along. He was surprised when they stopped outside a house on Wych Street, tucked between a lawyers’ foundation called Lyons Inn, and a tavern with a reputation for literary talk named the Shakespeare’s Head. He regarded Wiseman with raised eyebrows.

‘Jane was not recovering in Turnstile, so I brought her and Scarlet here,’ explained the surgeon. ‘It belongs to a colleague, who is away at the moment.’

He opened the door, and Chaloner followed him into a spacious parlour. Scarlet stood there, wringing his hands. He was pale, and dark rings under his eyes told of the torment he was suffering.

‘She is in pain,’ he whispered. ‘It is unfair to summon you in middle of the night, but . . .’

Wiseman patted his shoulder, awkwardly compassionate. ‘You may call me any time you please. Now, sit down and talk to Tom Chaloner here, while I see to her. He may look like a scoundrel, but he works for the Earl of Clarendon, and has offered to hunt down your attackers.’

Obediently, Scarlet sank on to a bench like a man in a dream. There was a jug of wine on a table, so Chaloner poured him a cup. Scarlet’s hands were shaking so badly that he could not hold it, and Chaloner was obliged to help him drink. After a few mouthfuls, colour drifted back into his cheeks.

‘It is all my fault!’ he said wretchedly. ‘Jane did not want me to be a Warden of the Bridge, but I was flattered when Hussey asked me. Had I refused the honour, she would not have been hurt.’

‘Are you saying she was assaulted because you are Junior Warden?’

Scarlet nodded miserably. ‘It thrust us into too prominent a position. I was a successful merchant, and I should have been content with that. But no! I had to be vain and greedy, and accept an important public office, too. It is all my fault.’ He began to cry again.

‘It is not,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘And feeling sorry for yourself will not help Jane.’

Scarlet sniffed, and summoned a feeble smile. ‘That is what Wiseman said. It is obvious that you two are friends, because you are so alike.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped that was not true – and Wiseman was one of the last men in London he would consider a friend. ‘I appreciate you must be tired of answering questions, but—’

‘It was awful,’ interrupted Scarlet unsteadily. ‘They were only two men, but they came in so fast that I could do nothing to stop them. They tied me up, and forced me to watch while Jane . . . I will never sleep easy in my bed again. That Earl has a lot to answer for, the horrible old tyrant!’

‘Which Earl?’

‘
Your
Earl,’ gulped Scarlet. ‘Clarendon. I am sorry if I offend, but it is true. He is openly supporting those rigid laws against anyone who is not Anglican, and we are . . .’

‘Catholic,’ finished Chaloner, recalling the crucifix in the Turnstile home. He waved away Scarlet’s alarm, not wanting to tell how he knew. ‘My lady is Catholic,’ he added, to soothe him.

‘Is she? Then you had better hope Clarendon does not find out, or he will dismiss you.’

‘Tell me about the attack. How did they get in?’

‘They just appeared in our bedchamber,’ replied Scarlet, shuddering at the memory. ‘We are conscientious about locking doors, so they must have forced a window. There were two of them, and they wore veils over their faces, to prevent us from seeing who they were. One had dark hair, and the other wore a wig. I cannot remember more.’

Chaloner changed the subject to one that was less painful. ‘Before you left Chapel House, did you notice anyone taking an unusual interest in the place? Or in its cellar?’

‘Well, there was the Dowager. She visited one day, and told us our home needed to be renovated. We declined, but she is a forceful lady, and overrode us. Her cronies – do not ask which ones, because they all look the same to me – went into the cellar, but she kept us talking in the parlour, so I do not know what they did down there.’

‘What is it used for?’ asked Chaloner, thinking about the statues. ‘Storage?’

‘We keep some lead-sealed barrels of salted fish, but it is too damp for anything else.’

‘Then has anyone sent you coded messages that—’

‘No!’ cried Scarlet appalled. ‘I am a simple man. I do not dabble in such matters.’

He began to sob. Wiseman, returning a few moments later, grimaced when he saw the Junior Warden in floods of tears and Chaloner kneeling in front of him.

‘Jane is asleep now,’ the surgeon said. ‘But she will recover a lot more quickly if she is not worried about you. In other words, you
must
pull yourself together. Can you manage that? For her?’

Scarlet nodded, but the tears continued to slide down his cheeks.

After witnessing Scarlet’s distress, Chaloner did not feel like going to his lonely garret, so when Wiseman said he was off to visit Temperance, he decided to go with him. The gentlemen’s club was a good source of gossip, and he was willing to take information from wherever he could find it. Wiseman was delighted.

‘Temperance will be pleased to see you,’ he declared, traversing the short distance between Wych Street and Hercules’ Pillars Alley at an impressive lick. Chaloner was hard-pressed to keep up with him, and realised yet again that the surgeon was a very fit and powerful man.

‘I doubt it. But she will be pleased to see
you
. She says you are a dear friend.’

‘Does she?’ Wiseman stopped dead in his tracks, his haughtiness replaced by a sudden and uncharacteristic insecurity. ‘Do you think she might consider me . . . Do you think she might . . .’

‘Might what?’ asked Chaloner, enjoying the man’s disquiet. It was usually Wiseman disconcerting him, and it felt good for the boot to be on the other foot. ‘Agree to become your patient? It is possible, although she is rarely ill.’

‘I was thinking of a more intimate arrangement. One in which the relationship between
medicus
and patient would be transcendent. Do you think she would consent to become my . . .’

‘Wife?’ asked Chaloner, finally taking pity on him.

‘Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of mistress. I already have a wife.’

Chaloner gaped at him. He had known Wiseman for more than a year, and not once during that time had he ever mentioned a spouse. He had assumed Wiseman was one of those men doomed to perpetual bachelorhood, because no woman in her right mind would take him.

‘I doubt it,’ he managed to say eventually. ‘She has her principles.’

‘Does she? Damn!’

‘Where is your wife? Why does she not live in London?’

‘She
does
live in London. In the Hospital of St Mary Bethlehem, to be precise.’

Chaloner gaped again. ‘You mean
Bedlam
? She is insane?’

‘She was not mad when I married her,’ replied Wiseman stiffly. ‘It was only later that she started to chew carpets and tell people she was a parrot. When she tried to fly out of the window with one of my apprentices under her arm, I felt compelled to move her to a place of safety. Do you think I should confide all this to Temperance, or will she think less of me for it?’

‘I really have no idea.’ Chaloner was struggling to come to terms with the tale himself.

‘I do not suppose you would ask her for me, would you? Tell her I have admired her from the first time I saw her, and would like to bed her.’

‘Absolutely not,’ declared Chaloner with finality, as they turned into Hercules’ Pillars Alley and headed for the house that was full of lights. It was late, but Temperance’s club was rocking. ‘I am no Progers, organising other men’s amours.’

Wiseman looked crushed, but made no further attempt to persuade. Inside, the music was loud, and the air so full of pipe smoke that it was poisonous. It made Chaloner’s eyes smart, and he almost turned around and walked out again. It was no place for a man who was tired.

‘Would you like a pie, Tom?’ asked Temperance’s help-meet, a large, comfortable matron named Maude. She sat at a table at the bottom of the stairs, ready to prevent patrons from storming up them and getting in among the women. In Temperance’s club, a man put in a request for a lady, and was only conducted to a bedroom when she had finished with her previous client and was ready to receive him with the proper decorum. ‘I made them myself.’

Chaloner accepted gratefully. It looked delicious, with golden-brown pastry and oozing juices. He bit into it. And then only just managed to stop himself from spitting it out.

‘Christ!’ he muttered when he could speak again. He wiped tears from his eyes with his sleeve. ‘What in God’s name did you put in it?’

‘Spices,’ replied Maude vaguely, taking one herself and chewing without the slightest hint that there was a volcano in her mouth. Too late, Chaloner recalled that she was famous for drinking coffee so powerful that it was rumoured to have killed one of her husbands, and that she liked her pipe tobacco as strong and tarry as it was possible to buy. She was immune to toxic flavours.

‘Perhaps you should use them in moderation next time,’ said Wiseman, watching. ‘Spices in that sort of quantity might give a man a seizure.’

Without further ado, he sailed into the main parlour, crimson robes flowing behind him like some character from the Bible. Temperance’s face lit up when she saw him. He bent to whisper something in her ear, and she immediately looked in Chaloner’s direction. She nodded, then indicated the cards she was holding. The message was clear: Chaloner could wait until her game was over. Wiseman sauntered off to sit with one of the other women, a jaded whore named Snowflake, who also beamed a friendly greeting at him.

‘He seems at home here,’ remarked Chaloner to Maude.

Maude nodded. ‘We all like Richard. Have you heard the latest news, by the way? The old king’s ghost was seen on Cheapside last night. It means something terrible is going to happen.’

‘What kind of something?’ asked Chaloner, hopeful for some solid intelligence. ‘A rebellion?’

‘Perhaps. Or maybe a war or a plague. Or even a fire. It is enough to drive a decent woman to church. I have been three times this year alone.’

‘Have you heard rumours of any pending unrest? Or plots against the government?’

‘No more than usual, although your Earl is unpopular in many quarters, because of his nasty laws against non-Anglicans. And I have heard tell that Lord Bristol is in the country.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘No. But here is Temperance, so I shall leave you to talk. Be nice to her, Tom. You two are always fighting these days, and she does not have so many friends that she can afford to lose them.’

Chaloner gestured around him. ‘She has lots of friends.’

‘These are clients,’ corrected Maude. ‘Her friends are me, you and Richard. She may not appreciate that yet, but she is young. Do not despair of her – she is worth your patience.’

Chaloner regarded Temperance unhappily as she approached, and thought that if Maude were truly her friend, she would have advised her to wear a different dress. And she had donned the wig he so hated, too, giving her the appearance of a portly Medusa.

‘Richard said you have something to say to me,’ she said without preamble. ‘What is it?’

It was a sly tactic on Wiseman’s part, but Chaloner was not going to be pressured. ‘I think he is sorry we are no longer as close as we once were,’ he said instead.

Temperance looked disappointed. ‘Oh. I thought it was going to be something interesting.’

‘He thinks I do not pay you proper attention,’ Chaloner went on. ‘Do not visit enough.’

‘I do not care whether you come or not,’ said Temperance carelessly. He could not tell if she meant it. ‘I have plenty of other people to keep me amused. Especially Richard. Do you happen to know if he is married?’

‘That is something you should ask him yourself,’ said Chaloner uncomfortably.

‘I would like to, but he might think I am prying.’ She took Chaloner’s arm and hauled him roughly to one side. Her expression was fiercely intense, and her grip was hard enough to be painful. ‘Has he said anything about me? This is important, Tom.
Really
important.’

‘He is fond of you,’ he said, glancing at the door and wondering whether he could bolt through it before she stopped him. He was acutely uneasy with the discussion.

Her face lit up. ‘You are not saying that to please me?’