A Murder on London Bridge (47 page)

‘On the contrary,’ argued Luckin. ‘It was the subject of a raid on Sunday. Fortunately, Clarendon has a tendency to shriek when agitated, and Progers overheard him – and then his staff – debating the matter. We were able to eradicate all evidence of your presence there, but it was a close thing. We spirited you away just in time.’

Chaloner was disgusted with himself. How could he have let an amateur like Progers eavesdrop on the plans he had made with Leigh? He had been tired and dispirited with the lack of cooperation from the Earl, but that was no excuse.

‘Tell me about the cached weapons,’ ordered Bristol, changing the subject. ‘What do we have?’

‘Enough to arm anyone who rallies to our call,’ replied Herring. ‘We lost the stash in St Mary Overie – I watched Clarendon’s men collect it myself – but one out of twenty is an acceptable loss.’

Twenty? Chaloner was appalled. Just how widespread was the uprising going to be?

‘Lord, it is hot in here!’ exclaimed Bristol, running his sleeve across his forehead. ‘Do we have to keep the fire so high? I know there is a lot of coal in the cellars to get rid of, but—’

‘It is almost time,’ interrupted Luckin. He grinned. ‘We have worked hard for this.’

‘It is an impressive achievement, given that you only had the idea a few weeks ago,’ agreed Bristol. ‘However, I wish the King had been more forgiving. If he had let me back into his fold after I renounced my religion, there would have been no need for . . . this.’ He waved his hand, encompassing the men at the table.

‘And Luckin would not have been sent to the Tower for failing to arrest you,’ agreed Father Stephen, apparently thinking it was time he voiced an opinion. But he spoke with such misgiving that Chaloner thought he would have been better to keep his mouth shut.

‘There
would
have been a need,’ countered Luckin, ignoring the priest and fixing his attention on Bristol. ‘It is time the government knows we are in earnest about these vile laws. And who better to lead our fight than you, My Lord? By this evening, we shall be toasting our success.’

‘I hope so,’ said Bristol uneasily. ‘Yet I cannot help but feel the whole business is rushed.’

‘Since when have you allowed that to stop you?’ asked one of the others. ‘You have always been a man for seizing the day.’

Bristol did have a reputation for impetuosity, but Chaloner thought the scheme sounded recklessly eleventh-hour, even for him. So what did they intend to do
exactly
? He willed them to say something that would tell him.

‘Is everything ready, then?’ asked Bristol, looking around at his companions. ‘All the weapons have been taken to Somerset House, waiting to be distributed to those willing to wield them?’

There were nods from around the table. ‘And over the last two weeks, I have been sending encrypted messages to anyone I think will side with us,’ said Father Stephen, trying yet again to curry favour. ‘Some have confirmed their allegiance, although others have remained silent.’

‘That is because the code you used was too complex,’ said Herring critically. ‘It took me hours to translate mine, while Blue Dick never did break his. Moreover, Thurloe managed to acquire a couple, but even he is struggling – and he can decipher virtually anything. I imagine a lot of folk will have given up and thrown them away.’

‘But I needed to be sure only the most devoted followers would understand,’ objected Stephen, stung. ‘We do not want anyone who is uncertain, because they may spread doubt and scepticism among the ranks. And that might prove fatal to us.’

‘Thurloe?’ demanded Bristol at the same time. ‘I do not like the notion that
he
might know our business. I know he opposes the Clarendon Code, but I do not trust him. Perhaps we should call the whole thing off, and give ourselves more time to—’

‘We have had more than enough time,’ snapped Luckin angrily. ‘But run back to France if you must. We can manage without you.’

Bristol sneered at him. ‘You cannot!’ He turned away from Luckin and addressed the others. ‘Where is Blue Dick? He has been monitoring Spymaster Williamson for me, and I want a report before we start.’

‘Dead,’ said Luckin coldly. ‘I gave the order for his execution when I realised he was betraying us to Williamson, rather than watching Williamson for us. Edward Penderel obliged.’

‘The powder and fuses are in place,’ said Herring in the silence that followed. He grinned suddenly. ‘The Dowager will be in for a surprise when her firework display begins.’

‘Perhaps we should reconsider,’ said Father Stephen in a small voice. ‘The carnage—’

‘The carnage is unavoidable,’ snapped Luckin impatiently. ‘And you are either with us or against us, Father. If you are against us, then tell us now.’

‘I am with you,’ squeaked the priest, when hands dropped to daggers. He addressed the group in a voice that was far from steady. ‘In a few hours, our enemies will be dead and the Clarendon Code will die with them. Let us drink to our success.’

So the powder was ready to be detonated, thought Chaloner in growing despair as he watched the conspirators raise their glasses. But where? Surely,
some
would have been found if it was on the Bridge? He ducked into the room opposite when the door opened and the plotters began to emerge.

‘Stay here,’ said Luckin to Bristol, when the nobleman started to follow. ‘It is safer for you.’

Bristol did not look convinced, but nodded acquiescence. The rest of the insurgents made for the front door, some aiming for Southwark, and others heading for the City.

Chaloner remained hidden until the house became quiet again. Would the guard assume he had left with the conspirators, or would he come looking? Either way, there was not much time. He was about to resume his search when Luckin reappeared, a number of burly warriors at his heels. Chaloner ducked into a cupboard, heart thudding as more minutes ticked away.

‘The weapons are in place,’ Luckin was saying. ‘You must be ready to act on my command in less than two hours. Do I make myself clear? And do not forget the blindfolds I gave you.’

‘Why must we wear them?’ asked one of the men. ‘I know you cut holes for our eyes, but I still cannot see properly, and it is stupid to be half-blind when you are waving a musket about.’

Luckin glared. ‘I have explained this already. Buckingham has arranged a rally of liberal-minded moderates today. Hundreds of them will converge on White Hall, and they will be wearing these blindfolds. It is a symbolic act, to express their disapproval for the Clarendon Code.’

‘But why should
we
wear them?’ pressed the man. ‘We are not liberal-minded moderates.’

‘It is what is known as a disguise,’ said Luckin, bitingly sarcastic. ‘You will look like everyone else, and no one will suspect what you intend to do. You do
know
what you are supposed to do, I take it? You paid attention when I briefed you last night?’

The soldier bristled. ‘Of course. We are to cause panic and confusion by shooting into the crowd. Those who are armed will retaliate, and there will be a fight. It is to be a diversion, although you have declined to tell us for what.’

The vicar patted him on the shoulder. ‘Go. I want you in position by nine o’clock. But do
not
act until you hear the first explosion. Then you may kill as many moderates as you please.’

Chaloner watched Luckin usher the soldiers out, then make for the basement. Keeping a safe distance, he followed the vicar to the small cellar he had searched once before. Then it had been full of coal, but now the fuel had either been piled to one side or removed completely. It explained why so many fires had been lit, and Chaloner cursed himself for not realising sooner that it was significant.

A table had been placed in the space that had been cleared, and Winter sat at it. The man called Crow, who had been in the smoky Bear tavern with Goff and Herring, stood behind him, holding a gun to his head. The floor around them was knee-deep in paper, which had a curious waxy appearance, and there was a barrel to one side. Chaloner immediately understood what was happening: Winter was dismantling fireworks to retrieve the powder.

‘How is he doing?’ Luckin asked, as Winter looked up and scowled.

Crow grimaced. ‘He is taking too long.’

‘I admire your courage in trying to delay us, Winter,’ said Luckin pleasantly. ‘But it is too late for heroics. The plot is underway, and nothing can stop it now.’

Winter glowered, moustache bristling with furious indignation. ‘Do you have any idea how long it took me to make these things? And now you order me to tear them apart! What will the Dowager say, when she sits down to enjoy a pyrotechnic spectacle, and all she gets is a fizzle?’

‘She will not be disappointed, believe me,’ said Luckin smugly. ‘Although I doubt you will be appointed as Green Man afterwards. Still, it cannot be helped.’

‘So it was you who broke into my Southwark warehouse and stole my creations?’

‘It was.’ Luckin looked smug. ‘The ones you are kindly demolishing for me are just a few of them. I have something else in mind for the rest. And I have something even better in mind for the ones I made using Phillippes’s formulae.’

‘Please do not do this,’ begged Winter, defiance crumbling abruptly. ‘It is wrong.’

‘I do not care.’ Luckin glanced at Crow. ‘How much longer?’

‘Two more Purple Fountains to go, and then we shall have enough powder to see St Paul’s Cathedral turned into rubble. And what a powerful statement
that
will be!’

‘Is that what you intend to do?’ asked Winter, appalled. ‘Destroy a church? A house of God?’

‘It is a monument to authoritarian oppression,’ declared Luckin, eyes flashing. ‘And—’

He did not finish what he was going to say, because Winter dived at him. Crow aimed his gun, but could not use it, because vicar and prisoner were too close together. Luckin shoved Winter away, and he stumbled into the table. The lamp fell off and smashed. Immediately, sparks danced across the firework papers. They began to splutter as the gunpowder impregnated in them ignited.

Crow screeched in terror, and tried to pat out the flames with his hands. More sensibly, Luckin ripped off his coat and hurled it over them, aiming to smother them before they could reach the barrel. While they were distracted, Chaloner darted into the cellar, grabbed Winter’s arm and hauled him outside. Then he slammed the door closed, and threw the bolt across it.

‘Chaloner!’ howled Luckin. He leapt up and began pounding on the door with his fists. ‘You murdering bastard! What have you done with my nephews?’

Crow was screaming at the vicar, urging him to help put out the flames before the whole place went up. Between them, they were making a lot of noise, and Chaloner heard footsteps hammer on the floor above. The guards were coming.

‘This way!’ hissed Winter, moving deeper into the cellars. ‘There is another exit. Hurry!’

Chaloner followed him along a narrow passage, to a filthy and none-too-stable ladder. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling. Winter bellowed with the effort of raising it, and for a moment, Chaloner thought it was locked from the other side. But then it flew open with a resounding crash, and daylight flooded in. Winter scrambled out, but guards were grabbing Chaloner’s feet by the time he started to climb, dragging him down.

He kicked out as hard as he could, knocking the hands away. Then he made a last, desperate scramble upwards, and was out. Winter slammed the trapdoor shut, and Chaloner secured it with a metal bar. The guards began to pound on it, but it held fast. They were safe – temporarily at least.

‘If you came for music, you picked a bad day,’ gasped Winter, slumping against the wall and rubbing his eyes with a hand that shook. He glanced at Chaloner. ‘Or are you on another mission? I should have known that a friend of Will Goff’s would be more than a talented violist.’

‘The same goes for you,’ retorted Chaloner. ‘You met him and his cronies in the Bear tavern—’

‘They invited me to join their venture,’ agreed Winter. ‘But did not say
what
I was joining . . .’

There was no time for an analysis of Winter’s ill-advised actions. ‘Did you retrieve enough powder from your fireworks to bring down the Bridge?’ asked Chaloner urgently, wondering whether it could be evacuated in time.

‘No. Well, Luckin and Crow will not survive, and it will make a mess of my house, but—’

‘Then what about St Paul’s? Is there enough to destroy that?’

Winter shook his head. ‘It may damage a small section, but that is a massive building, and the volume of powder needed to destroy it would be enormous. They will need barrels of the stuff.’

‘They might
have
barrels. Luckin has all the fireworks from your Southwark warehouse—’

‘Still nowhere near enough, not for St Paul’s. Of course, there will be plenty to demolish something smaller. Damned villains! Gunpowder is difficult to obtain, and it is ingenious to—’

‘Adapted fireworks,’ interrupted Chaloner urgently. The trapdoor shuddered as the guards struggled to batter it open. ‘Purple Fountains with ten pounds of powder. Have you made any?’

‘No!’ Winter’s expression was agonised. ‘Those would be bombs, not items of entertainment. But Luckin has manufactured some – he just told me. And I have an awful feeling that St Paul’s is not his only target – that another building will be reduced to rubble today, too.’

‘I think it is Somerset House,’ said Chaloner, recalling Herring’s words – that the Dowager was going to be in for a surprise when the display started. ‘Her ball is today, and it will be full of people. You have fireworks there, do you not?’

Winter regarded him in horror. ‘A few. I took them there when the rest were stolen, because I thought they would be safer. However, I saw Luckin driving a large cart around the back of the building the other day . . .’

Chaloner groaned. ‘It almost certainly contained the “bombs”, and the Somerset House guards will not have searched it, because Luckin is one of the Dowager’s inner circle. They would have assumed he was bringing something for her ball.’