A Murder on London Bridge (6 page)

Chaloner rushed at him, bowling him from his feet before turning to race back along the corridor. His companion had fast reactions, though, because Chaloner could hear him hot on his heels, howling in French as he went. Meanwhile, Buckingham was bawling for reinforcements, Progers was calling for guns, and the Dowager’s lapdog was yapping frantically. Chaloner scrambled through his window and tore towards the river, aiming to hide in the shrubs at the end of the garden. It was cold outside, and he did not anticipate the hunt would last long.

But he was wrong. The notion of a spy in her house had enraged the Dowager, and she was shrieking that no one was to be allowed back inside until they had laid hold of him. Every servant was rousted out to help, even the scullery maids, and there was soon an army of people beating the bushes in search of the invader. With a grimace, Chaloner saw he was going to have to revise his plans.

He broke cover, aiming for the gate that led to the river, hoping there would be a boat he could use. He found his way barred by the two French soldiers. He felled one with a punch, but the other’s sword was at the ready, and he and Chaloner exchanged a series of brief but brutal ripostes.

Meanwhile, Buckingham had seen what was happening, and was running to their assistance. Resorting to gutter tactics, Chaloner hurled a handful of dirt into his opponent’s face, blinding him, then bolted through the gate.

He found himself on a slippery pier that reeked of seaweed. A skiff was tethered, and he jumped into it, landing so hard that it almost capsized. Then he seized the oars and pulled away. It was difficult to see much in the velvety blackness of night, but he was aware of the pier filling with people. They bombarded him with missiles – stones, knives, pieces of wood, and even an uprooted plant – but he rowed steadily, and it was not many moments before he was invisible on the dark waters of the Thames.

The Palace of White Hall was a sprawling affair that boasted more than two thousand rooms. It was the London residence of the King, his Queen and a number of high-ranking nobles, and comprised manicured gardens, sumptuous apartments, bakeries, laundries, steam rooms, cellars, breweries, butteries, pantries and galleries. It had been built piecemeal over the centuries, as and when money had been available, and the result was a chaotic jumble of buildings connected by irrationally winding corridors, oddly shaped yards and narrow alleys. It had taken Chaloner weeks to find his way around, and even now there were pockets with which he was still unfamiliar.

He was very familiar with the suite of first-floor offices overlooking the Privy Gardens, though, because it was here that the Earl of Clarendon, currently Lord Chancellor of England and the man who employed him, did business.

Just after dawn the following morning, Chaloner climbed the marble staircase that led to the Earl’s office. He did so slowly, not looking forward to the impending interview, because he was going to be in trouble on three counts: for failing to prevent the murder of Blue Dick Culmer, for neglecting to lay hold of the killer, and for coming so close to capture at Somerset House the previous night. The last crime was likely to be regarded as especially heinous, because his arrest would have been embarrassing for the Earl.

At the top of the stairs was a tiny, cupboard-like chamber, which was the domain of the Earl’s secretary. John Bulteel was a slight, nervous man whose clothes always fitted him poorly, no matter how much he spent on tailors. He was unpopular among his colleagues, because he was socially inept, and when he revealed his decayed teeth in a smile, it was the sort of expression that made most men want to secure their purses, despite his reputation for honesty. He liked to bake in his spare time, and often shared his cakes with Chaloner – and as espionage was not an occupation conducive to making friends, this was appreciated more than Bulteel would ever know.

‘I was worried about you,’ said Bulteel, when Chaloner poked his head around the door. ‘Leigh told me about your desperate battle in St Mary Overie yesterday, during which firearms were discharged. Then he said you went off alone to search for the culprits. That was reckless.’

‘It was like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ said Chaloner gloomily, declining to comment on Leigh’s penchant for exaggeration. ‘I have no idea who those men were, or how I might find them again. All I know is that they have met in that church before.’

Bulteel jerked his head towards the Earl’s office. ‘You had better not keep him waiting. He is in a foul mood today.’

‘Gout?’ The Earl was a martyr to the condition, which sometimes kept him in bed for weeks.

‘No. He is furious because the Dowager has booked all the best musicians for Shrove Tuesday. This morning we heard that she intends to host a ball on the same day that the Earl has invited all the bishops to dine with him, and she has wasted no time in recruiting entertainers. The King’s Private Musick sent a note saying they were sorry to cancel, but the Dowager offered them more money.’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘There are other performers in London. She cannot have hired them all.’

‘Actually, she has – or all the best ones, at least. Personally, I suspect she does not need so many, and only wants to be sure there are none left for him. You know how she hates him. And she hates his Anglican prelates even more.’

‘Yes, but . . .’ Chaloner trailed off. Bulteel was right: stealing all the top musicians was the kind of petty tactic the Dowager might employ to spite the Earl.

‘She is having fireworks, too,’ Bulteel went on grimly. ‘Lots of them. She promises a spectacular show, but I hate fireworks – all gaudy colours, nasty smells and loud bangs. Did we not have enough explosions during the wars?’

Chaloner certainly had: it had been an exploding cannon that had given him his lame leg. ‘I imagine any display commissioned by the Dowager will be properly controlled,’ he said, hoping it was true. ‘Professional men will light them, and—’

‘The professional man is dead,’ interrupted Bulteel. ‘He was murdered last Bonfire Night, when he was walking home late. The Court has not yet appointed a replacement Green Man.’

The royal firework master was called the Green Man, possibly because he covered himself with green leaves – partly to protect himself from sparks, but mostly to make sure spectators did not see him lighting his fuses.

‘Why is the post left empty? Does no one want to take it?’ asked Chaloner.

‘One man is desperate for the honour. Sir John Winter knows more about gunpowder than any man alive, and he is a long-serving, deeply loyal Royalist. But he will never be appointed.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he is Catholic, and the government does not want one of those in charge of large quantities of gunpowder. Why do you think they encourage people to celebrate Guy Fawkes Night? To remind us all of what might happen should papists get hold of explosives.’

Chaloner laughed, thinking he was joking, but Bulteel’s expression remained grave. ‘But the plot to blow up parliament was more than fifty years ago!’ he objected, shocked by his friend’s bigotry.

‘So what?’ argued Bulteel. ‘There is nothing to say they will not try it again, and I can tell you now that Winter will never be trusted with that post.’

‘That is ridiculous,’ declared Chaloner, although he could see he was wasting his time by trying to reason with Bulteel – the secretary had an unfortunate and irrational tendency to believe the government could do no wrong. He changed the subject before they could argue; he did not want to lose one of his few friends to a petty quarrel, and Bulteel was a very good cook. ‘Is this all that has annoyed the Earl this morning? The Dowager poaching the King’s Private Musick?’

‘No. He is also vexed with you for letting that iconoclast die. The body has been taken to the Westminster charnel house, by the way. I doubt it will yield much in the way of clues, but you had better inspect it, anyway. Surgeon Wiseman has been instructed to do the same.’

Chaloner did not think that was necessary. ‘I saw Culmer stabbed. An examination is unlikely to yield anything useful, so tell Wiseman not to waste his—’

‘I shall do no such thing! Besides, he will do as the Earl asks, because he is obedient. I advise you to be the same – work started on the Earl’s fine new mansion over in Piccadilly last week, and it is transpiring to be more expensive than he anticipated.’

‘So?’ asked Chaloner, failing to see the connection.

‘So he will be looking to make cuts among his staff to finance it. And he will pay above the odds for Clarendon House to be finished as soon as possible, because he hates his current residence with a passion. And who can blame him? It does stand next door to the Dowager’s lair.’

‘Clarendon House!’ spat Chaloner in disgust. ‘It is too grand, and will make him unpopular. And so will his rigid stance on any form of religion that is not devised by Anglican bishops—’

‘Hush!’ hissed Bulteel, looking around in alarm. ‘He will hear you.’

‘I wish he would: it might save him from disaster. Incidentally, do you know a man named Phillippes? He is designing some sort of scientific instrument – a tide-ring – for the Earl.’

Bulteel nodded. ‘He is what is known as a dial-maker, although I cannot say I took to him. Or to his associate, Casper Kaltoff. They came here to discuss measurements and prices, and I suspect they are overcharging the Earl because he does not really understand what a tide-ring does.’

‘Then why does he want one?’ asked Chaloner, baffled.

‘Because the King has commissioned one, and that means they will soon become fashionable.’

Chaloner supposed he should not be surprised: appearances were important in Restoration London. ‘What can you tell me about Phillippes and Kaltoff?’

‘Not much,’ said Bulteel apologetically. ‘Both are Catholic, and eager to join the Royal Society. Mr Williamson had them investigated when the King began to invite them to his private quarters for scientific chats, but there was no suggestion of anything untoward.’

Williamson was currently Spymaster General, a sly, aloof man who ran the country’s intelligence network. In an ideal world, Williamson would have recruited Chaloner, and would have been delighted to secure the services of a man who had more than a decade’s experience in espionage. But the reality was that Williamson hated Chaloner, partly because Chaloner had spent most of his adult life employed by Oliver Cromwell’s regime, and partly because he blamed him – unfairly – for the death of a friend.

‘How do you know what Williamson’s investigations found?’ Chaloner asked curiously.

Bulteel shrugged. ‘He told me over dinner last night.’

‘You had dinner with Williamson?’ Chaloner was appalled. He could not imagine why a decent, honest man like Bulteel should elect to keep such unsavoury company.

Bulteel nodded happily. ‘He often talks to me about his work. He talks about you, too.’

‘He does?’ Chaloner was acutely uneasy. What game was the Spymaster playing? ‘What does he tell you? His dreams of having me assassinated? We both know he wants me dead.’

Bulteel looked horrified. ‘No! He would never resort to that sort of thing. At least, not to you.’

Chaloner regarded him suspiciously. ‘You seem very sure.’

‘I
am
sure. You are aware that he makes me provide him with information about the Earl – you once said it is his job to recruit spies in White Hall, and that I do the Earl no disservice by reporting details of his business, just as long as I reveal nothing harmful. Well, he often asks about you, and I know for a fact that he wants you alive. He says you might be useful one day.’

‘He wants me for his intelligence service?’ Chaloner was filled with a sudden hope that he might be forgiven at last. He spoke several languages, had a good grasp of Dutch politics, and there was nothing he would like more than to be posted back to The Hague. Spying on hostile foreign governments was what he was good at – far more so than hunting killers and absconded barons.

‘No, he does not trust you enough for that. But he says one can never be sure of what one might need in the future, and you may prove to be a useful asset one day.’

Chaloner supposed it was better than hearing that the Spymaster still wanted his blood. But not by much.

With a sense of foreboding, Chaloner tapped on the door and entered his employer’s office. It was sumptuous, with thick rugs on the floors, paintings by Great Masters on the walls and lavishly upholstered furniture. The Earl of Clarendon was sitting behind his desk, surrounded by paper. He was short, fat and prim, with a penchant for fancy clothes and large wigs. He also liked ridiculously narrow shoes that could not possibly be good for his gout, although no one had the nerve to tell him so, not even Surgeon Wiseman, who was notorious for his bold opinions and blunt tongue.

Chaloner’s feelings towards the Earl were ambiguous. On the one hand, his master possessed moral courage and was comparatively honest – at least, by White Hall standards. On the other, he was bad-tempered, secretive and unpredictable. Meanwhile, the Earl’s attitude towards his spy was equally ambivalent. He was abusive, contemptuous and critical, yet only a few weeks before, he had put himself in danger to save Chaloner’s life. Chaloner did not understand him or their relationship, but suspected the Earl’s lingering mistrust was because of his past.

After finishing his studies at Cambridge – interrupted when his regicide uncle had dragged him away to fight for Cromwell in the civil wars – Chaloner had gone to Lincoln’s Inn to study law. There he had met a man named John Thurloe, who had later become Cromwell’s Secretary of State and Spymaster General. Thurloe had recruited Chaloner as an intelligencer, sending him off to spy in France, Spain and Holland. But then Cromwell had died, Thurloe had been dismissed, and a second Charles had been invited to take the throne. Chaloner had expected to continue his work – the new King needed accurate reports on unfriendly foreign regimes just as urgently as Cromwell had – but Spymaster Williamson had made it perfectly clear that no ex-Parliamentarians were going to be employed in
his
intelligence service.