A Murder on London Bridge (34 page)

It was clear they knew nothing more, and Chaloner despised Luckin for entangling them in his dark business. He sheathed his sword and nodded towards the shattered door.

‘Go home to Dover, and do not come back. And do not attempt to contact your uncle, either.’

John bolted for freedom before the offer was retracted, but Edwin hesitated. ‘Uncle said we should be ready to die for the cause,’ he said. ‘But he will not tell us what the cause is. He said we are too young.’

‘Too young to know, but not too young to die?’ Chaloner was disgusted. ‘Go home, Edwin. You do not belong here.’

It was not many moments before Edwin and John emerged from the hovel’s yard on horseback. They galloped off down the south-bound road, and Chaloner saw they were relieved to be away, not just from sword-toting maniacs who burst in asking questions, but from dangerous politics they did not understand. He spent a few minutes exploring the hovel, but found nothing of interest.

He crossed the road, and peered through Winchester Palace’s iron gates, wondering why the Dowager only visited when its owner was out. Feeling the answer might hold a key to at least some of his mysteries, he walked to the side of the mansion, climbed over a wall and dropped lightly into the garden. As he landed, he saw a fountain, which he assumed to be the one in which Edward had rinsed Blue Dick’s blood from his hands, watched by the Earl.

The palace grounds were pleasant, full of herb beds and carefully sculpted trees. Chaloner started to move through them, towards the house, but spun around in alarm when he heard the distinct click of a gun being wound. The weapon was being held by a slight, dark-haired man wearing the robes of a high-ranking cleric, and it was pointed right at him.

He recognised George Morley, the Bishop of Winchester, immediately, because Morley was a friend of the Earl’s. He raised his hands quickly, not liking the way the dag trembled in the churchman’s inexperienced grasp. Morley frowned, then let the firearm drop to his side.

‘Chaloner? What are you doing here?’

‘The Dowager has been visiting your house while you are away, sir,’ explained Chaloner. There was no reason not to tell the truth. ‘I came to find out why.’

‘Then why not go to the front door and ask to speak to me? Why enter my domain like a thief?’

Chaloner had no good answer. ‘I was intent on Clarendon’s business, and did not think . . .’

Morley pulled a disapproving face. ‘You mean you are so used to breaking into buildings on his behalf that you just did what comes naturally to you?’

Chaloner supposed it was exactly what he meant, although it sounded sordid when put like that. ‘Not exactly,’ he hedged. ‘It was—’

‘Clarendon is a good man, and I am proud to count him among my friends. You must never hesitate to ask for my help on his account. But please do not sneak in through the garden next time, because I might have blasted you into oblivion.’

‘Do you often shoot intruders, then?’ asked Chaloner, a little coolly.

‘Not often.’ Morley smothered a smile, and Chaloner recalled that the Earl often extolled his friend’s sense of humour. Combined with his mild manners and moderate opinions, it made the bishop popular among clergy and laymen alike. ‘But Southwark is not very safe, and my walls are easily scaled, as you have so ably demonstrated. I rarely walk around these grounds unarmed.’

‘Does your caution have anything to do with the Dowager’s visits?’

Morley laughed. ‘No! And I doubt the King would be amused if I shot his mother! Of course, he may turn a blind eye if I dispatched some of her companions – Progers, Luckin or the Penderels.’

‘Do you know why she comes here when you are out?’ persisted Chaloner.

‘Of course. Follow me, and I shall show you.’

When they reached the house, Morley tossed the gun carelessly on to a table, and started to chat about the Earl’s upcoming dinner as he led the way along a corridor. He was looking forward to it, not only for the company of his fellow prelates, but for the fine fare that was going to be provided. Shyly, he asked whether Chaloner would be so kind as to ensure that the feast included a pickled ling pie, for which he had a particular fondness.

‘I will do my best,’ promised Chaloner. Pickled ling pie? Was the man mad?

Morley beamed. ‘The Bishops’ Dinner is the highlight of the year for us. No one else is invited, so we do not need to worry about appearing gluttonous or drunk, because there is no one to witness it. And we can say what we like, too – we do not have to weigh every remark for its political implications. It is a wonderful opportunity for learning what my colleagues
really
think.’

‘About matters like the Clarendon Code?’ asked Chaloner, sincerely hoping the prelates would not be encouraged by each other’s bigotry and emerge more radical than ever.

Morley nodded. ‘Naturally.’

‘What about iconoclasm?’

Morley stopped walking and regarded him in surprise. ‘Why should we discuss that? Statue-smashing has not been an issue since the wars.’

‘You have not heard of anyone gathering statues recently, perhaps to keep them safe?’

Morley frowned. ‘No. Why? If you know of some plot to harm churches, then I beg you to tell me. It would be a wicked shame to lose any more of our medieval heritage.’

‘It would,’ agreed Chaloner evasively. ‘Is this what you wanted to show me?’

Morley had opened the door to a tiny room that was bare, except for a prie-dieu in one corner. It had ancient wooden panels on the walls, and the floor was stone and very worn.

‘This is said to be the chamber in which Archbishop Becket stayed before he made his fateful journey to Canterbury,’ Morley explained. ‘He was murdered not long after, in his own cathedral, for challenging a tyrant king.’

‘St Thomas Becket was here?’ asked Chaloner, his mind spinning.

The chapel on the Bridge had been dedicated to Becket, while the Queen claimed she had heard the Dowager discussing his bones. Could a long-dead saint be the reason for the Dowager’s interest in Chapel House and Winchester Palace?

‘So the story goes,’ nodded Morley. ‘I have no idea if it is true.’

‘Becket’s body,’ began Chaloner, trying to make sense of it all. ‘Could some of it have been taken to the old chapel on the Bridge?’

‘No.’ Morley shook his head. ‘Canterbury was proud of its shrine, and would not have parted with a single hair from the tomb. But it was all destroyed by Henry the Eighth, anyway. Becket’s relics no longer exist.’

Chaloner looked around the room. ‘What does the Dowager do here?’

‘She says her prayers, but only when I am out. Apparently, the presence of an Anglican minister disturbs her Catholic sensibilities.’

‘Is that why Luckin leaves his nephews on guard? So she can pray without risk of disturbance?’

Morley nodded. ‘Especially this week, when I am in London for the Bishops’ Dinner. She is itching for me to return to my See, so she can have the place to herself again.’

‘Is she really so devout?’

‘I have rarely met a woman more concerned for her soul, although she will be in for a shock when it is weighed. She will learn too late that God is unlikely to approve of her malicious efforts to harm poor Clarendon.’

‘Perhaps she would not dislike poor Clarendon so much if he moderated his opinions about her religion.’

Morley raised his eyebrows at the remark. ‘He is wary of Catholics in England because they have a nasty tendency to favour each other and form powerful cliques. He does not want that sort of thing to damage the Anglican Church.
That
is why he supports the Clarendon Code.’

‘There is a big difference between controlling nepotism, and religious suppression.’

‘He does not think so.’

‘No,’ acknowledged Chaloner unhappily. ‘And therein lies the problem.’

Chapter 9

Chaloner left Bishop Morley with his mind full of questions. He now understood the basis of the Dowager’s interest in Winchester Palace, and perhaps Chapel House, too, but why had Phillippes and Kaltoff been digging up the vault? And, despite the assurances of Brother Pascal and Father Stephen that nothing foul was planned for Shrove Tuesday, Chaloner knew in his bones that they were wrong, and that Luckin and the masked men at St Mary Overie were at the heart of it.

Feeling it was time for another crack at the feisty vicar of Wimbledon, using more inventive means to make him talk, Chaloner began the long walk to Somerset House. But when he arrived, the place was in darkness, and he was told by a lone and rather resentful guard that the Dowager and her entourage had been invited to spend the evening with the King in White Hall. Chaloner met Leigh when he arrived there, and confided his suspicions about Luckin.

‘Perhaps that is why his nephews were abducted,’ said the little soldier thoughtfully. ‘Although obviously, it has nothing to do with us, and he is wrong to be so free with his accusations.’

Chaloner gazed at him. ‘What?’

‘They are missing, but he says they cannot have left London of their own free will, because their belongings are still in his house. He has been rampaging around White Hall, telling all and sundry that
we
are responsible for their disappearance. His is fond of them, apparently.’

‘Is that so?’ muttered Chaloner, thinking that hauling boys from their home and embroiling them in dark politics was not the way
he
would show affection for young kin.

‘But his blaming of the Earl is revealing,’ Leigh went on. ‘Because it means he
is
involved in something vile – something
he
believes warrants kidnap. He has a guilty conscience, in other words.’

‘I am sure of it. Is he still here?’

Leigh shook his head. ‘He jumped into a carriage and rode off. I asked around, but no one knows where he went. Incidentally, the Earl was livid when I reported there was no gold in Chapel House, so I recommend you stay out of his way for a day or two, until his temper cools.’

Chaloner thanked him for the advice, and they parted company outside White Hall’s main gate. He was exasperated that Luckin was unavailable, but there was no point rushing after the man when he might have gone anywhere. Irritably, it occurred to him that he had never worked on a case that was quite so maddeningly frustrating. Moreover, time was ticking past – it was already Friday, which meant he had less than four days to thwart whatever Luckin was plotting.

It was too early to go to Great Queen Street – it would be best to search Bristol’s house when its occupants were asleep – so he decided to call on Hannah first. But when he arrived in Tothill Street, it was to discover her entertaining again; he could hear Buckingham’s distinctive laugh within. Chaloner’s heart sank, and he realised how much he had been looking forward to seeing Hannah, to telling her what he had learned, and perhaps even to confide his distress over what had happened to Nat. Assuming he could find the words to describe such intimate feelings, of course.

He was about to leave when the door opened and Buckingham emerged. A servant with horses hurried forward, and the Duke swung himself into the saddle, waving at Hannah before wheeling around and galloping off. Chaloner watched him go, then knocked on the door.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Hannah, reaching out to grab his hand and haul him inside. ‘Thank God you are here! I was beginning to think I would have to go out to find you, because I have news.’

‘It would not be from Buckingham, would it?’ asked Chaloner rather coolly. He was not sure he liked her entertaining the Duke without a chaperone. The man was not noted for his restraint, and it was clear he considered Hannah an attractive woman.

‘Actually, it is,’ said Hannah, seemingly oblivious to his ill humour as she closed the door and led him into her cosy parlour. A fire had been lit, sending a warm amber light around the room. ‘I know you speak French, Dutch and Portuguese, but what about Latin?’

‘Of course.’ It was the language of learning, and everyone who had attended a university or an inn of court had to have a working knowledge of it. ‘Why?’

With a flourish, Hannah presented him with a book. The title was embossed in gold on the spine.

‘
Acta pontificum Cantuariensis ecclesie
,’ read Chaloner, mystified. ‘It is Gervase of Canterbury’s account of his cathedral’s early archbishops. If I recall correctly, it includes a section about St Thomas Becket’s martyrdom, which he claims to have witnessed.’

‘Does it?’ asked Hannah. She seemed neither interested nor impressed that he should be familiar with such a scholarly tract. ‘Look at the inscription in the inside cover. What does
that
say?’

Chaloner opened the book, and scanned what had been written there. ‘It says this is a gift from the Dowager to Luckin, and is essentially a plea for him to forsake his sinful Anglican ways and become a Catholic. I suspect Father Stephen wrote it for her, because the grammar is perfect.’

‘Oh!’ cried Hannah, disappointed. ‘Is that all? I thought it was something important. You see, I saw her slip it to him – secretly – earlier today, and then I watched him read the message and grin. I thought it might be a clue about whatever is going to happen on Shrove Tuesday.’

‘How did you get it?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

Hannah had the grace to blush. ‘He left it unattended on a chair. But I need not have bothered! The Dowager is always trying to convert people, so no wonder he smirked when he read her note. Damn! I was
so
pleased with myself, too! I do not suppose you have learned anything, have you?’

‘Just that Luckin is one of the St Mary Overie men, and I suspect he will use the others in his Shrove Tuesday plans. I will hunt him down tomorrow, and force him to answer questions.’

Hannah looked unhappy. ‘You can try, but I doubt you will succeed. He was arrested and taken to the Tower, if you recall, which tends to loosen most men’s tongues. But all he did was complain about the food and the view from the window. He is not easily intimidated.’ She brightened suddenly. ‘But I have
some
news for you. There is going to be a demonstration.’