A Murder on London Bridge (5 page)

He turned to leave, but Phillippes had other ideas, and beckoned to the waiting louts. Chaloner knew their kind: dirty, slovenly men who hung around on street corners, and who would do anything for a few coins. It would not be a fair fight, and he did not like the odds of his winning.

When Phillippes barked the order to attack, Chaloner charged across the lane to a gate in the opposite wall – he had noticed it ajar when he had taken refuge in his doorway. Sincerely hoping it would not lead somewhere from which there would be no escape, he shot through it, and slammed it behind him. He heard a roar of startled outrage from Phillippes, followed immediately by a thud as someone smashed into it with his shoulder. It shuddered, and although Chaloner jammed a log against it, he knew it would not keep anyone out for long.

He looked around him, aware that someone was already beginning to scale the wall – he could hear the scrape of shoes against bricks. He was in a small yard, and there was a door at the far end. He dashed towards it, then lost valuable seconds picking the lock. By the time he had it open, Kaltoff and two of his men were over the wall and dropping down into the yard.

Chaloner knew the house in which he found himself belonged to a tailor, because it was full of cloth and half-finished clothes. Pins rolled under his feet as he darted across the flagstone floor, aiming for a second door, which he hoped would open into the main road. But it was also locked, and he knew he would not be able to pick it before he was caught. He drew his sword, supposing it was time to fight. The odds were unfavourable, but there was no other alternative that he could see.

Kaltoff saw the sword and reached for his knife, but at that moment, there was the scrape of a key in a lock, and the door behind Chaloner opened. The house’s owner was home.

Chaloner jigged around him and raced into the street. Behind, he heard a furious commotion as the tailor attempted to do battle with the remaining intruders. By the time Kaltoff had fought his way past the fellow, Chaloner had taken refuge in a passing hay cart and was hidden from sight. Breathing hard and clearly disgusted when he saw his quarry gone, Kaltoff gave up the chase and began to slouch away.

Prudently, Chaloner remained in the cart until it had crossed the Bridge, and he was sure he had not been followed. As it rumbled along, he considered what had happened. Were the instrument-makers responsible for stabbing Blue Dick? Or was it some other mischief that warranted them hiring louts to attack men they did not like the look of? He supposed he would have to return to Southwark later, and make enquiries. He decided he would go that night, but not until after ten o’clock, when ale had had time to lubricate tongues.

He jumped off the cart when it reached Thames Street. The short winter day was almost over, and the streets were full of people, all going home from work. But Chaloner was too unsettled to go home – two rented rooms in Fetter Lane – and nor did he wish to inflict his agitation on Hannah, whom he knew would be tired. Hannah’s mistress, Queen Katherine, took her religion seriously, and that Friday was the feast-day of one of her favourite saints. Hannah did not mind the additional duties she had been allocated for the occasion, having converted to Catholicism herself, but he did not think she would thank him for arriving full of restless energy, even so.

Feeling he should do something to make up for the fact that his enquiries into Blue Dick’s murder had been rather less than successful, he decided to do a little spying on his Earl’s behalf.

Somerset House, where the King’s dowager mother lived, had recently become a meeting place for anyone who hated the Earl. By listening at doors and windows, and once by breaking in, Chaloner had managed to foil three attempts to besmirch his master’s reputation alone in the week since he had returned from Wimbledon. All had been spiteful little schemes that would have seen the Earl accused of dishonesty. Alarmed by his enemies’ sly determination to harm him, the Earl had ordered Chaloner to monitor the place as often as his other duties allowed.

So Chaloner went to Somerset House, which was a vast Tudor palace with stately grounds and a splendid façade overlooking the Thames. It was protected by high walls, but these were no object to a spy of his skills and experience: he had identified several places with convenient hand- and footholds, the easiest route being through the gardens of neighbouring Worcester House. And as his Earl lived in Worcester House, gaining access to the enemy’s stronghold was simplicity itself.

He scaled the wall and dropped over the other side, rolling as he landed, to lessen the impact on the leg that had been damaged during the Battle of Naseby some nineteen years before, and that still troubled him on occasion. Then he stood, brushed himself down, and jogged towards the house, noting that it was ablaze with lights. The Dowager was entertaining.

As he approached, a haunting melody wafted across the garden, and he smiled when he recognised the distinctive tones of the King’s Private Musick. They were playing Matthew Locke, one of his favourite composers. He listened for a moment, eyes closed, but then opened them abruptly when he became aware that the exquisite harmonies were pulling him into a world of their own. He could not afford to be distracted when he was prowling around a building crammed to the gills with his employer’s most bitter opponents.

The Dowager’s guests had gathered in the room called the Great Chamber, a cavernous, high-ceilinged hall on the ground floor. It was graced by six massive windows, and liberally decorated with gold leaf and gilt mirrors. The curtains had been drawn in an attempt to keep out the cold, but the servants had been careless, and a sizeable chink allowed Chaloner to see directly inside.

The musicians were playing at one end of the room, and the Dowager and her visitors – all folk who hated the Earl – milled about at the other. As usual, the flamboyant Duke of Buckingham was the centre of attention. Tall, handsome and exquisitely attired in the very latest fashion, he stood in the midst of an admiring throng. The throng included Edward Progers, whose chief talent was said to lie in supplying prostitutes for the King. He was an exceptionally ugly man, who attempted to conceal his ill looks by wearing extra lace and an especially frilly coat.

The Duke’s cousin, Lady Castlemaine, was there, too, revelling in her role as King’s Mistress. She was surrounded by lesser courtiers, all of whom vied for her attention like smitten schoolboys. Her dress was cut so low that she was forced to make adjustments each time she moved, to avoid embarrassing spillages. Chaloner supposed it was the prospect of such an accident that kept the sycophantic hordes buzzing around her, because it would not be for pleasant conversation. He had only met her once, but considered her sharp tongued, devious, selfish and shallow.

The Dowager sat in a chair near the fire with a rather hideous lapdog in her arms. She watched her frivolous guests with an expression that was difficult to read, and Chaloner supposed her dislike of the Earl must be great indeed to force her into such company – she was religious, humourless and dour, and he doubted she approved of the courtiers who cavorted around her. He studied her carefully, taking in her arrogant, haughty features and elegant black finery. She had never forgiven England for beheading her husband, and the black clothes were to remind everyone of it.

She was surrounded by Capuchin friars, grey-robed clerics who were an offshoot of the Franciscan Order. As easily identifiable Catholics, they were hated by the general populace, and Chaloner suspected the Dowager kept them near her as an act of defiance – to show Londoners that she did as she pleased and cared nothing for their opinions. This put the poor Capuchins in an invidious position, and they looked acutely uncomfortable in the presence of such ostentatious luxury, too – the three knots on their rope belts represented poverty, chastity and obedience, none of which were in any great evidence at Somerset House that evening.

Four men stood near them, raising goblets in sloppy toasts and laughing as they did so. They bore enough of a resemblance to each other to suggest they were close kin, and had the lean, hungry look of fortune-seekers. Chaloner had seen the Penderel brothers before; they rented a house on Tothill Street, where Hannah lived. The Southwark beggar had mentioned them, too – they were the men rumoured to think themselves worthy candidates for the Dowager’s hand in marriage.

After a while, the Dowager clapped her hands. Immediately, the music stopped, and the players trooped out of the room; the entertainment was over, and it was time for business. The lesser courtiers were politely but firmly herded into another chamber, and the Dowager was left with her inner circle. This included Buckingham, Progers, Lady Castlemaine and the Penderels.

The Capuchins also withdrew, although a dark-haired, slender man wearing the robes of a Catholic priest remained. He looked uneasy, even when a bulky fellow with an enormous moustache came to grip his shoulder reassuringly. Unfortunately, Chaloner could not hear what was being said, and knew he had to get inside if he wanted to learn anything useful.

Stealthily, Chaloner made his way to the back of Somerset House, and fiddled with the shutter on a window until it came loose, exactly as it had done the last time he had broken in. Then he climbed inside, and crept along a service corridor until he reached the Great Chamber.

There were two ways into the room. One was through the grand entrance used by the nobility; the other was via a servants’ door that was set behind a sheet of brocade, an arrangement designed to ensure the great and the good would not be distracted by the comings and goings of minions. Chaloner opened the servants’ door carefully and stepped through it, taking care to remain hidden behind the curtain.

‘—will be coming,’ Buckingham was saying. ‘Soon.’

‘How soon?’ demanded Lady Castlemaine. ‘I
hate
the notion of that vile Earl sitting next door, enjoying his ill-gotten powers. Incidentally, did you hear he has invited every bishop in the country to dine with him on Shrove Tuesday? He wants to stuff them full of fine food before all the fasting and self-denial of Lent.’

‘Of course,’ replied the Dowager. She spoke French, a language Chaloner knew from time spent spying there. ‘That is why I have decided to throw a soiree of my own the same day – one that will outshine his in every respect.’

Lady Castlemaine clapped her hands in spiteful delight. ‘Will there be fireworks? We could cause a good deal of irritation with those! And there is nothing he will be able to do about it!’

The Dowager nodded, eyes glittering with malice. ‘That has already occurred to me, I assure you. However, Shrove Tuesday is almost two weeks away. It is a long time to wait.’

‘You must be patient, ma’am,’ said Buckingham soothingly. ‘We must not—’

‘I
have
been patient,’ the Dowager snapped, rounding on him. ‘However, I have decided that Shrove Tuesday is my limit. And if we do not have results by then, there will be trouble.’

‘But that may not be practical,’ objected Progers uneasily. ‘And we do not want to risk—’

‘Do not talk to me of risk,’ snarled the Dowager. ‘You know nothing of risk. And do not fob me off with talk of time and patience, either, because I am tired of it. I
shall
have what I want.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Buckingham soothingly. ‘And Lord Bristol will help. But he cannot show his face yet, because the King will have him arrested and thrown into prison.’

‘Is he at Wimbledon?’ asked the priest. His voice trembled when he spoke, and his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, apparently to prevent them from shaking. ‘Only I heard rumours—’

‘Of course he is not at Wimbledon,’ said Buckingham irritably, causing the priest to step back in alarm. ‘He is reckless, but not a complete fool.’

Lady Castlemaine rested her hand on the priest’s arm. It was intended to be a comforting gesture, but he shrank away from it as though it held poison. The Lady’s eyes narrowed at the rebuff, and she immediately set about draping one elegant, smooth-skinned arm around his shoulders in a spitefully transparent attempt to fluster. She grinned her triumph when the hapless cleric flushed such a deep red that Chaloner wondered whether he might have a seizure.

‘Father Stephen only repeats what is being said at Court,’ she crooned, pulling her horrified victim closer towards her. Her bodice threatened to release its contents into his unwilling hands.

‘I have heard those tales, too,’ said the man with the moustache, reaching out to pull the priest away from her. She scowled, but let her victim go. ‘Apparently, Thomas Luckin, Wimbledon’s vicar, has been arrested for giving Bristol holy communion.’

‘But Bristol is Catholic,’ said Progers, sounding puzzled. ‘And Luckin is Anglican. Why would Bristol deign to receive holy communion from such a man?’

‘To ingratiate himself with the King,’ explained Buckingham impatiently. ‘By renouncing the Pope and asking Luckin to accept him back into the Anglican Church, he hopes His Majesty’s heart will soften, and the arrest warrant will be revoked. However, while Luckin may well have obliged with a communion ceremony, the business certainly did not take place in Wimbledon.’

Chaloner tensed suddenly when he heard a sound behind him. Someone was coming! He was going to be caught, trapped between whoever was approaching and the Dowager’s gathering. He ducked farther behind the curtain, desperately hoping the servant would be so engrossed in his duties that he would not look in the shadows to his right.

‘Here come Doucett and Martin at last,’ said Buckingham, cocking his head when he also heard the briskly tapping footsteps. ‘Perhaps they have news to report.’

The first of two rough, soldierly men strode past Chaloner without noticing him, but he caused a draught as he went, and the curtain moved.

‘
Gêneur
!’ shouted the second furiously, immediately reaching for his sword. ‘
Larron
!’