A Murder on London Bridge (45 page)

Kaltoff smiled, but sadly. ‘They have been in the vault all these years, just where you told Doucett and Martin they would be, although I suspect that was a lucky guess on your part. I shall present them to the Dowager tomorrow. She has already promised the finder a fabulous reward.’

‘Is that what all this is about?’ asked Chaloner in disgust. ‘Money?’

Kaltoff shook his head. ‘No, it is about what money can buy. Namely membership to the Royal Society. Phillippes has made it perfectly clear that he intends to take all the credit for the tide-ring himself, and I will never be elected on its account. And that is a great injustice.’

‘So is murdering innocent people,’ argued Chaloner. ‘It is not—’

But Kaltoff was intelligent enough to know his resolve would fail if the discussion was prolonged. He turned to Doucett and Martin. ‘You know what to do. Please make it quick.’

Moving fast, he strode across the room and pressed the barrel of his gun against Wiseman’s temple, leaving Doucett and Martin free to deal with Chaloner. The Frenchmen immediately began to circle the spy, stabbing at him with their swords. They ignored the Scarlets, dismissing them as of no consequence.

The situation might have seemed hopeless, but Chaloner had a knife in his hand. In one swift movement, he sent it flying towards Doucett, where it embedded itself in his thigh. The man howled in pain, and fell to the floor. Chaloner took advantage of Martin’s momentary surprise to retrieve his sword, so they were more evenly matched. Kaltoff was horrified.

‘Finish him,’ he shouted in alarm. ‘We have already lingered here too long.’

‘You are the one who has been doing all the dallying,’ muttered Martin resentfully. ‘We wanted to kill them straight away, and it was
you
who wanted to listen to their deductions.’

‘Because we needed to know whether they had told anyone else,’ explained Kaltoff impatiently. ‘For the Dowager’s sake. And for St Thomas’s, bless his sainted soul. Neither can be tainted by this bloody business.’

As long as Martin was arguing with Kaltoff, he was not concentrating on the fight, and Chaloner used his inattention to launch an attack that sent him staggering backwards. Wiseman stepped forward to help, but Kaltoff struck him with the gun, and he dropped to his knees, dazed. Too late to be useful, Chaloner saw Kaltoff was reluctant to discharge the dag, presumably because there was a tavern full of nosy intellectuals next door. He wished he had realised it sooner.

But there were more immediate problems to concern him. Martin was advancing with murder in his eyes, and Kaltoff, now that the surgeon was incapacitated, drew his own blade and joined him.

Kaltoff was a surprisingly competent swordsman, and it was difficult to repel him with Martin jabbing away from the opposite side. Chaloner could hear Scarlet sobbing, while Jane’s face was corpse-white.

‘Run!’ he shouted, hoping he could keep their attackers busy long enough to let the Scarlets escape. But the couple were beyond helping themselves, and could only watch the skirmish with horrified eyes.

Kaltoff came at Chaloner again, and as they fought, Chaloner was vaguely aware that Wiseman had recovered, and was involved in a violent tussle with Doucett – the surgeon had grabbed the dagger in the Frenchman’s leg, and was trying to pull it out; Doucett was trying equally hard to prevent it. Martin was distracted by the howls of agony, so Chaloner stabbed him, just above the collar bone. Martin screamed and reeled away.

Sensing defeat, Kaltoff began to fight harder. Chaloner avoided the hacking blow that would have disembowelled him, but Kaltoff followed it with a left-handed punch that caught him on the side of the head. It was a heavy clout, and Chaloner dropped to his knees. He tried to keep hold of his sword, but the room tipped and swayed, and he could not stop Kaltoff from kicking it out of his hand. And then the dial-maker moved in to finish him off.

Chaloner’s vision was still blurred when Kaltoff came to loom over him. He tried to twist away, but the dial-maker pressed the tip of his sword into his chest and began to push down. There was no escape, and Chaloner saw he was going to die.

Suddenly, the door crashed open and something flew through the air. Kaltoff released a short bark of agony, then pitched forward. Chaloner fought his way free of the heavy body, struggling to understand what had just happened. There was a dagger protruding from Kaltoff’s back, and he knew from its angle and depth that the wound was a fatal one.

He tore his gaze away from it and looked towards the door. Phillippes was standing there, surveying the scene with distaste. Meanwhile, Wiseman had gained control of the knife he had pulled from Doucett’s leg, and for a moment, the only sounds were Kaltoff’s laboured breathing and Doucett’s whimpers. Chaloner grabbed his sword and staggered to his feet.

‘Why?’ Kaltoff gasped. His eyes were fixed on Phillippes. ‘We are . . . friends.’

‘Are we?’ asked Phillippes coldly. ‘Then why did you betray me?’

‘I was going to tell you . . .’ gurgled Kaltoff, ‘that I found . . .’

‘When?’ demanded Phillippes. ‘You did not mention it when we met yesterday. And the note you wrote to the Dowager – the one I happened to intercept – informed her that
you
, not
we
, had found the Blessed Becket’s body. On Friday. You were going to keep the Dowager’s reward for yourself, you wretched little worm.’

Kaltoff tried to say more, but no words came. Phillippes shook his head, then deliberately turned his back on the dying man. He bowed formally to Jane and Scarlet.

‘I am sorry for your suffering,’ he said stiffly. ‘Had I known it was Doucett and Martin who assaulted you in so monstrous a manner, I would have run them through myself.’

‘Doucett will not be bothering anyone else,’ said Wiseman grimly. ‘He seems to have exsanguinated. And I see my services are not required for Martin, either.’

Chaloner glanced at the other Frenchman, and saw Martin had been rash enough to lurch towards the Scarlets. The Junior Warden had not moved, but Jane was standing, blankets cascading around her. She held a poker, and the back of her tormentor’s head had been caved in. She was pale, but the blank helplessness had gone from her eyes, to be replaced by another emotion entirely. It was rage. Chaloner suspected she would now recover a lot more quickly than her husband.

‘You are safe now, madam,’ said Phillippes. ‘Go upstairs and rest. We will clean up this mess.’

Obediently, Scarlet escorted Jane away, although he was the one who needed support. Meanwhile, Chaloner watched Phillippes warily, not sure what to make of his timely appearance.

Wiseman was less shy about satisfying his curiosity. ‘We are delighted to see you, Phillippes, believe me. But why are you here?’

Phillippes held up a piece of paper, and his expression was bitter. ‘Because I intercepted my so-called friend’s letter to the Dowager. I have been hunting him all day, to give him a piece of my mind. Then Brother Pascal told me he had seen him lingering near this house, but I did not for a moment imagine he might be involved in . . .’ He waved his hand, to encompass all around him.

‘I did not have him marked down as that sort of fellow, either,’ admitted Wiseman. He went to crouch next to Kaltoff, resting a hand on his neck and shaking his head when he could detect no life-beat there. ‘Although in his defence, he did not seem entirely comfortable with the course of action he had embarked upon.’

‘I did not associate the attack on Jane with our hunt for relics in Chapel House,’ said Phillippes. ‘And I am appalled that I have been dragged into such murky waters by association.’

‘Very murky,’ agreed Chaloner, not sure what to believe. ‘Will you answer some questions?’

Phillippes inclined his head. ‘I shall try.’

Chaloner scarcely knew where to begin. ‘Why did the Dowager choose you to look for the bones? Why not her faithful Frenchmen? Or some of her other cronies?’

‘That is easy! Because Kaltoff and I are men of science – painstaking, methodical and thorough. Moreover, we have access to certain tools – large ones for hacking, and more delicate ones for excavating. In short, there is no one in London better qualified for the task. She promised us money if we were successful. I was going to use my share to design a more accurate tide-ring.’

‘Winter,’ said Chaloner moving to a more urgent subject. ‘You were seen conferring with him. Why? Was it anything to do with fireworks?’

Phillippes nodded, then looked sheepish. ‘I thought I had devised a way to make bigger, more spectacular displays by using larger amounts of gunpowder, but all I did was design what is effectively a bomb. Winter told me my formulae would not work, and I should have listened to him. He is an expert on the matter, after all.’

‘You mentioned these fireworks to Clarendon,’ said Chaloner, recalling how his master had then ordered Father Stephen to go a-spying.

Phillippes nodded again. ‘Just in passing. I thought it might make him smile. I cannot say I admire his persecution of non-Anglicans, but even bigots deserve to laugh occasionally.’

‘What happens now?’ asked Wiseman, looking from one to the other when Chaloner struggled to think of what else needed to be asked. ‘Will you tell the Dowager all we have learned?’

Phillippes winced. ‘She will be horrified. But first, we had better locate these bones before they disappear for another hundred years. Will you come to the Bridge, and help me look for them?’

‘Me?’ asked Wiseman, startled.

‘Actually, I meant Chaloner. But you should come, too. The Scarlets do not need you, and you are said to be good with corpses. If we find them, you can tell us whether they really do belong to Becket, or whether Kaltoff was on the verge of perpetrating some monstrous hoax.’

He would not be the only one, thought Chaloner, thinking of his Earl’s anonymous letter. ‘Becket is not on the Bridge,’ he said tiredly. ‘He is in Warden Hussey’s cellar.’

Phillippes stared at him. ‘Kaltoff hid his find with the Senior Warden? How do you know?’

Chaloner did
not
know for certain, so he only smiled enigmatically and declined to elaborate.

Phillippes had hired a few Southwark louts when he had gone hunting Kaltoff. He ordered them to clear up the carnage in the Wych Street house, and when they went to work without demur, Chaloner could only suppose they were being very well paid.

‘I do not understand any of this, Chaloner,’ said Wiseman in a low voice. ‘But are you
sure
it is wise for us to jaunt off with this man? There is something about him that I do not trust at all.’

‘No, I am not sure,’ replied Chaloner. ‘But what else can we do? I need answers about what is going to happen tomorrow, and this may provide some.’

Wiseman did not look convinced, but said no more. He nodded his satisfaction when the Southwark men had righted the furniture, concealed spilled blood with rugs, and carried the bodies to the nearest church. Then he, Phillippes and Chaloner walked to the end of Wych Street, where a line of hackney carriages was waiting.

Chaloner was as taut as a bow as they rode through the darkness, bracing himself for mischief, but the dial-maker sat with his hands folded in his lap, and seemed perfectly at ease. Given that he had just killed his friend, Chaloner thought the calm rather unnerving.

The Bridge was all but deserted when their carriage rattled across it. Even so, Chaloner saw Williamson’s men knocking on doors. The Spymaster had been as good as his word regarding the searches. Of course, they were not being discreet, and any self-respecting saboteur would have had his deadly cache whisked away hours before. Was it deliberate, Chaloner wondered, because the Spymaster felt empathy towards the plotters, or was it simple incompetence?

‘The last time I was here, Hussey accused me of burglary,’ he said, when the hackney drew up outside Bridge House. For the first time, it occurred to him that returning there was not a good idea.

Both Phillippes and Wiseman shot him curious looks, but neither asked for an explanation. Phillippes knocked on the door, which was eventually answered by the Senior Warden himself, resplendent in nightcap and bed-gown. His portly brats were ranged behind him, similarly attired. Chaloner retreated behind Phillippes when he saw Hussey’s gun.

‘Put that away,’ Phillippes ordered haughtily. ‘We are here on official business.’

‘Are you indeed?’ asked Hussey coolly. ‘What manner of business?’ He glanced up at the black sky, and added pointedly, ‘In the middle of the night.’

‘You have a box of bones in your cellar,’ Phillippes replied. ‘We want to inspect them.’

Hussey frowned his surprise. ‘Well, yes, I do. I found them when I was preparing Chapel House for its renovation, and brought them here for safekeeping – I did not want workmen to tip them into the river, because that would have been disrespectful. But it is odd you should be asking after them, because you are the second. I happened to mention them to Mr Kaltoff on Friday, and—’

‘So
you
found them?’ interrupted Phillippes, rather dangerously. ‘Kaltoff did not? And this was on Friday?’

‘Yes,’ said Hussey warily. ‘He told me not to tell anyone else, but I cannot imagine he will mind
you
knowing, as you are friends. Can this not wait until morning? It is an odd hour to be looking—’

‘It cannot wait,’ said Phillippes firmly. ‘I carry the Dowager’s authority, as you know from our previous encounters.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Hussey hurriedly. ‘You do not need to remind me of the perils of crossing the Dowager. You had better come in.’

They trooped inside the house, where Hussey showed no sign of recognising his ‘burglar’. When the door was closed behind them, he turned to his children.

‘I am disinclined to wander about dark basements at this hour of the night, so which one of you will show them the way to the box?’

There was an eager clamour of voices and a forest of raised hands. Chaloner pointed to the Robert who had helped him escape. The boy grinned his delight as he grabbed his father’s lamp and danced towards the cellar door. Phillippes was next, with the rest of the children. Chaloner started to follow, but when he saw the dark stairs, he faltered. Wiseman prodded him impatiently, so he forced himself to take a step. And then another, and eventually he reached the cell in which he had spent so many hours.