A Murder on London Bridge (41 page)

‘Stop what?’ demanded Leigh irritably. ‘You have no evidence that anything is going to happen, just a lot of rumour, conjecture and disconnected facts. Have you considered the possibility that it is all a ruse? That Somerset House
wants
us to think some diabolical plot is in the offing, to make sure the Earl does not enjoy his dinner tomorrow?’

‘I wish that were true,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I
know
Luckin is behind something deadly. Will you search the theatre in Drury Lane, while I—’

‘No,’ interrupted Leigh firmly. ‘I have neither the time nor the men. Where are you going?’

‘The Bear tavern,’ called Chaloner over his shoulder. ‘If you will not explore the theatre, then will you tell Hannah you have seen me?’

‘I certainly will,’ muttered Leigh. ‘Because perhaps
she
can talk some sense into you.’

The Bear at the Bridge Foot was full of smoke from a blocked chimney, and the resulting fug was unpleasant enough that its patrons were leaving in droves. Chaloner sat at the back, settling on a bench and pulling his hat over his eyes. He sat so still, and the room was so hazy, that he was soon invisible in the murk. Not that it mattered, because the smoke had ensured the place was empty, except for two men who sat together in a booth with high-backed benches.

On the stroke of noon, Winter burst in, flapping his hand in front of his face.

‘God’s saints!’ he declared, coughing and gagging. ‘The air in here is more poisonous than the glue-works around the Fleet River. I can barely breathe.’

‘We know,’ said one of the men in the booth. Chaloner recognised his voice as that of the man who had ambushed him when he had been following Herring. ‘It is our way of ensuring we have the place to ourselves. Check it for lingerers, will you, Crow, and oust them? And then tell the landlord to wait outside. He has already been paid.’

It was not difficult to elude Crow, because the fellow was so certain the ploy with the smoking chimney had worked that his search was cursory to say the least. When he had finished, he returned to the booth, joining Winter and the man who had issued the order. Undetected, Chaloner edged closer.

‘My fireworks have been stolen!’ Winter was saying angrily. ‘Can you credit it? They were in my Southwark warehouse, but I arrived yesterday to discover thieves have been. They left me nothing but five Red Dragons, and I cannot imagine the Dowager being impressed with
those
when I promised her a spectacle. Damn the villains! If I ever catch them, I shall see them hanged.’

Crow murmured something too low for Chaloner to hear.

‘Never mind that,’ Winter went on furiously. ‘What am I going to tell the Dowager? She—’

‘We are sorry for you,’ said Crow, speaking more loudly in an effort to stem the tirade. ‘But we are not here to discuss your misfortunes.’

‘Then why
are
we here?’ demanded Winter. ‘Why summon me with ciphered messages? What was wrong with coming to my house like civilised men? I wish you had, because then we could have had some music, and I—’

‘That would have been rash,’ interrupted Crow shortly. ‘But let us get down to business. You are Catholic, and you have been heard expressing your dissatisfaction with the Clarendon Code. Are you willing to act on your principles and see these laws overturned?’

‘I am not sure,’ said Winter. His voice was much lower now, and he sounded confused and uncertain. ‘I
am
unhappy with the Code in its current form, but—’

‘No buts,’ snapped Crow. ‘You either stand up for religious freedom, or you skulk like a dog and let others do it for you. Which will it be?’

‘I am no rebel—’

‘It is not rebellion. It is asking for what the King promised before we let him have his throne back. So, can we count on you?’

‘All right,’ said Winter, although he did not sound very convincing. ‘But I want your assurance that there will be no violence—’

‘We will contact you when you are needed,’ said Crow. ‘Goodbye, for now.’

Moustache quivering with indignation at the curt dismissal, Winter stood, bowed stiffly, and left. Chaloner was equally bemused. Such a question could have been asked anywhere, and it seemed unnecessarily circumspect to send coded notes. He was about to ease into a position where he might see the men’s faces, when the back door opened and a heavily cloaked man shouldered his way towards the booth. He was someone Chaloner
did
know.

‘Well?’ Herring demanded. ‘What did he say? Is he with us?’

‘It was a mistake approaching him,’ said Crow. ‘He may know about gunpowder, but his heart is not with us. Thank God we held back today, and did not tell him our real intentions.’

‘Thank God, indeed,’ said the last of the trio.

‘Nothing is going according to plan,’ said Crow bitterly. ‘And to top it all, the Lord Chancellor has wind of it. His spy would have caught us at Great Queen Street, had we not been warned.’

‘It is Father Stephen’s fault,’ said Herring, exasperated. ‘He is so nervous all the time that people are beginning to regard him with suspicion. His jittery behaviour will see us all hanged, and I vote we deal with him before he damages—’

‘You mean kill him?’ demanded the third man uneasily. ‘No. I shall never agree to that.’

‘But his escalating anxiety represents a danger to us all,’ argued Herring. ‘Moreover, he may be your brother, but I do not trust him.’

So the third member of the trio was Will Goff, thought Chaloner, although he had already surmised as much – the ‘Goff’ Winter had been summoned to meet was not the priest, so it stood to reason that it was his regicide brother. He eased to one side, to gain a glimpse of the man.

Goff had changed little since he had been in Buckinghamshire all those years before – greyer and leaner perhaps, but still tall, strong, arrogant and harsh. Chaloner’s stomach churned at the notion that the plot was serious enough to warrant a convicted king-killer sneaking back into London. He ducked out of sight again.

‘I agree with Herring,’ Crow was saying. ‘And anyway, I am not sure of Father Stephen’s loyalty to his fellow Catholics – I think he may be blabbing information to the Anglicans.’

‘Do not be ridiculous!’ declared Goff contemptuously. ‘There
is
a traitor in our midst, who passes secrets to the enemy, but it is not Stephen. He does not have the mettle.’

He spoke with considerable force, and Crow hastily changed the subject. ‘Do we know yet who killed Blue Dick?’ he asked. ‘He was useful to us, and it vexes me that he is gone.’

‘It was Edward Penderel,’ replied Goff. ‘Thurloe told me – and he had it from the Earl’s spy, so it is likely to be true. But we should not stay here. I have the uncomfortable feeling that we are being watched. I know I say that every time we meet, but you cannot blame me for being cautious – if I am caught, I will be hanged, drawn and quartered, like so many of our old friends.’

The three men fastened coats and adjusted hats in readiness for leaving. Crow went first, heading for the Bridge and Southwark. Chaloner did not bother with him, feeling he was a comparatively lowly cog in the wheel. Meanwhile, Herring and Goff went towards Thames Street, where they climbed into a carriage. Goff was limping, perhaps from when Chaloner had stabbed him in the leg during the ambush in the dark lanes by Charing Cross.

Chaloner hired another hackney to follow the rebels’ coach. The driver was delighted, claiming he had always wanted to be involved in a chase, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to keep him from making the pursuit obvious. They rattled across the Fleet Bridge, then turned right into Chancery Lane. Chaloner indicated his driver was to pull into an alley, and watched, stomach churning, as a heavily disguised – but to his mind still recognisable – figure stepped out of the shadows to join them. It was Thurloe.

Chaloner felt physically sick. He had known Thurloe was embroiled in something dangerous, but it was still a shock to see him in company with iconoclasts and regicides. He leaned against the side of the coach, and closed his eyes.

‘Well?’ demanded his driver. ‘Do we follow them again?’

Numbly, Chaloner nodded, knowing he needed to see the thing through, no matter where it took him. The driver had learned fast, and kept a respectable distance between him and his quarry, so Chaloner was sure Thurloe and his confederates would have no idea they were being tailed as they turned left along Holborn, past the Church of St Giles-in-the-Fields, and towards Tyburn Gibbet.

There was apparently going to be a hanging that day, because the heath on which the scaffold stood was full of people. Both carriages were obliged to slow, and Chaloner heard snippets of conversation through his window. Apparently, two robbers and a witch were going to be executed. People did not care about the robbers – these were dispatched on a regular basis – but the witch was unusual. Eventually, Chaloner’s carriage rolled to a standstill.

‘There,’ said the driver, pointing to where Thurloe, Herring and Goff were alighting.

Chaloner paid him, although his inclination was to stay in the vehicle and ask to be taken home. He had no desire to witness hangings, and was astonished that Thurloe should attend one – the ex-Spymaster had always claimed to find them distasteful.

He could see Thurloe some distance ahead, walking between the regicide and the iconoclast, smaller than both. Goff moved like a panther, all coiled energy and power, while Herring was like a bull. The trio were heading towards a series of cartwheels, semi-permanent fixtures placed to give anyone who could afford them a good view of the entertainment. Thurloe paid a fee, and a cartwheel was his. He and Herring stepped behind it, positioning themselves so they would not be seen by passers-by, while Goff pulled his hat lower over his face and slipped away into the crowd.

So now what? Chaloner could not eavesdrop, because Thurloe had chosen a wheel that would be impossible to approach without being spotted. But Chaloner had had enough of subterfuge, anyway. He desperately needed to know what was going on, and the only way to find out was by asking direct questions of men with answers. He walked boldly towards them.

Thurloe spun around at the sound of his footsteps, and Herring drew his sword. A flicker of horror crossed Thurloe’s face, but was quickly suppressed and replaced by impassivity.

‘I know him,’ came a voice from behind. Chaloner knew it was Will Goff, and also knew exhaustion and confusion had led him to lower his guard, because he had not heard him approach. He felt the cold muzzle of a gun press against his neck for the second time in as many days.

‘I doubt it,’ said Thurloe. His voice was casual, but there was alarm in his eyes. ‘He is just someone of no consequence from Lincoln’s Inn. Do not cause a scene, Will. Let him go.’

‘But he looks familiar,’ insisted Goff. ‘I never forget a face.’

Chaloner could only suppose he remembered the boy with the viol, because they had never met otherwise, except during the fracas near Charing Cross, when it had been too dark to see.

‘
He
may never forget a face, either,’ said Herring, stepping forward grimly. ‘And I do not want him remembering ours. I shall run him through – no one will see me, hidden behind this wheel. No, do not shoot him, Goff! A gunshot here would see us all in the Tower for certain.’

Suddenly, there was a dagger in Thurloe’s hand. Chaloner was so startled, he could not move fast enough to avoid the blow that came slicing towards him. He felt the knife cut through his jerkin and stumbled forward. Thurloe held him for a moment, then let him drop to the ground.

‘He is not related to Tom Chaloner, is he?’ came Goff’s voice. ‘My dear old fellow regicide?’

‘No,’ replied Thurloe shortly, sheathing his blade. ‘But we cannot stay here now. Mingle with the crowd, Herring, to see whether it really is Edward Penderel who is being hanged today. Will and I shall leave, and you can catch up with us later.’

The wheel creaked as Herring stepped on to it. ‘There is no need for mingling. It
is
Edward. He is trying to make a speech, protesting the verdict, but no one is listening.’

There was a sudden cheer from the mob. ‘I take it he has been tipped from the ladder,’ said Thurloe bleakly. ‘I cannot look. I detest these spectacles.’

‘We should go,’ said Herring, climbing down. ‘We do not want to be caught with a body.’

When Chaloner was sure Thurloe, Herring and Goff had gone, he opened his eyes, and eased up on one elbow. Thurloe had taught him ‘fake killings’ years before, when he had been in training – a blow that looked deadly, but that actually passed harmlessly under the arm. The manoeuvre had not gone entirely to plan, because Thurloe had not been strong enough to pull him into the proper position, and had scored a scratch across his ribs. He winced as he scrambled to his feet.

Thurloe had certainly saved his life, probably at considerable risk to himself. However, the company he was keeping did not bode well for a happy ending – Goff and Herring had barely raised an eyebrow when a man had been ‘murdered’ in front of them, suggesting they regarded violence as an acceptable means to whatever end they were working towards.

And what end was that? To see the Clarendon Code abolished and religious freedom in its place? Or to overthrow the government that had devised it, and replace it with a Puritan regime? Were they working with Luckin? Chaloner sincerely hoped they were – the notion of two uprisings, headed by such dangerous and determined men, was too dreadful to contemplate.

Now the hangings were over, people were beginning to disperse, and he joined the stream of folk aiming for the gates. He glanced up at the gibbet as he passed, and saw one of the dead men was indeed Edward Penderel.

‘What did he do?’ he asked the executioner.

‘Burglary,’ the hangman replied. ‘He was caught red-handed by Spymaster Williamson, just as he was coming out of Chapel House, all loaded down with gold.’