House of Shadows (39 page)

‘Walduck was a drunken fool!' declared Hay irritably. ‘And the attention that accrued from Browne's death was something we all could have done without.'

‘So Hay had words with his friends in the law courts,' finished Margaret. ‘To protect us all from scandal. He had the matter expedited too – Walduck tried and executed at top speed, so he could be buried and forgotten.'

Hay regarded her sharply, as if he detected recrimination in the comment. Margaret merely blew a smoke ring and beamed benignly at him.

‘How did you know
Walduck
was the culprit?' Chaloner asked curiously, looking at each person in turn. ‘It could have been the other sailor – Tivill.'

‘Because Tivill had a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, and he was struggling with Browne's frisky horse,' replied the preacher promptly. ‘He had no spare hands to lob rocks with. Besides, why use a stone, when weapons of steel were available?'

‘The same could be said about Walduck,' Chaloner pointed out.

Parr sighed. ‘Yes, but
Walduck
was a killer – you could see it in his eyes.'

Chaloner was acutely aware that all their accounts were based on supposition and prejudice, and he was not sure he believed any of them. His questions were clarifying nothing about the night of the murder, or about the roles played by his various suspects.

‘I heard a thump,' said Strutt. He smiled, as if the memory afforded him pleasure. ‘It was almost certainly Walduck's stone cracking Browne's skull.'

‘Had any of your associates arrived at Bermondsey House when all this happened?' Chaloner asked, looking around at them. ‘Or were you and the two sailors the only ones there?'

The preacher shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Others
were gathering for the meeting, but it was dark, as you have pointed out, and impossible to see much. Some came to see what had happened, but they usually wear hoods, so I could not tell who indulged his curiosity and who left before there was a fuss.'

‘Did anyone ask Tivill what
he
saw?' asked Chaloner. ‘He must have been the closest—'

‘He saw nothing, because he was trying to control the horse,' replied Strutt, rather quickly. ‘It was prancing about, and as he was holding a weapon in either hand he was trying to control the beast by gripping the reins in his teeth. The fellow is an imbecile!'

Chaloner recalled Tivill from
Rosebush
and concurred that he was not the kind of man who would know how to cope with a situation that required three hands. He had been a liability on the ship, and only escaped hanging himself among the lines and cables because his shipmates watched out for him. His only virtue, as far as Chaloner could tell, was his willingness to fight. He was perfectly happy to lead charges against an enemy, even when they appeared to be suicidal, and Browne had used him accordingly.

‘I find this discussion distasteful,' said Preacher Parr with a fastidious shudder. ‘Let us talk about
our
business instead. How many guns on your ship, Garsfield?'

‘Two,' replied Chaloner. During one voyage, he had made a study of
Rosebush
's cannon, for want of anything better to do, and knew a little about them. He spouted a few vague technical details that had the rebels leaning forward with interest.

‘Do they fire best on the up-roll or the down-roll?' asked Strutt.

Chaloner did not have the faintest idea, although he realized the angle of the muzzle would make a difference to its efficiency. He glanced at York for help,
but the captain was pouring himself wine and seemed oblivious to Chaloner's predicament. Strutt's eyes narrowed, and Chaloner knew he was about to be exposed as someone who did not know what he was talking about.

‘I prefer the up-roll myself,' said Margaret, reaching out to take the jug from York. She glared at him when she found it empty. ‘It gives you greater range, and there is less chance of damage to your vessel. I manned my share of the things during the wars, you know.'

There were some startled glances, and Chaloner stood to take his leave before anyone could question him further. Hay followed suit, saying he had work to do before the meeting, while Castell announced that he had booked a prostitute at a nearby tavern. His grandmother did not seem surprised, and only commented that she was tired and that it was time to sleep. She began removing garments before she was out of the hall; loath to be subjected to anything too horrible, no one lingered. Strutt disappeared to his chamber, and Chaloner said he had a book he wanted to read.

‘The Bible?' asked Parr, giving the impression that anything else would be anathema.

‘Tide tables,' replied Chaloner. ‘The mariner's Bible.'

York laughed rather wildly, then said he had letters he wanted to write. Chaloner watched him leave and hoped he would drink himself insensible before the meeting. It would be safer for everyone – especially Chaloner himself.

 

The meeting was not due to start for at least three hours, so Chaloner jammed the door to his room again and set off to reconnoitre the cellar in which
the gathering was supposed to take place. First, though, he entered a secret passage he had discovered earlier, which had spyholes cut into its wooden walls. These allowed the occupants of various rooms to be studied without the watcher being detected.

As he groped his way through the darkness, Chaloner thought about what the conspirators had told him regarding Browne's death. The testimony of each was questionable, and he found himself unable to determine who – if anyone – had lied. However, he
had
learned that no one had actually witnessed the incident, so why had Walduck been hanged? Surely, any jury would have seen there was reasonable doubt about his guilt? It was true that Walduck and Tivill had disliked their captain, but would Walduck really have brained him, then loitered around, waiting to be arrested? It made no sense. Chaloner also did not like the notion that Hay had managed to secure an early trial and a hasty execution, or the fact that the law courts seemed to have accepted a number of falsehoods – such as where the murder had been committed – without demur.

When Chaloner reached Hay's chamber, he peered through the spyhole to find it empty. Whatever ‘work' the yellow-wigged shipping magnate had been going to do did not involve sitting at a desk. Hay was top of Chaloner's list of suspects, mostly because he had so much to lose from being exposed. Not only would he face a traitor's death, but he was wealthy and respectable, so his family, friends and associates would share his disgrace.

The next room was occupied by Strutt, who sat at a table, writing furiously. Was he doing something for Hay or – and Chaloner was deeply suspicious of the speed at which the quill was flying across the paper – was he making a record of what had transpired at
dinner? If the latter, then why? Was Strutt also uncomfortable with rebellion, and was he planning to make a report to the authorities when he had sufficient evidence? Or was he penning some innocent missive that had nothing to do with revolt? Chaloner watched him for a while, thinking that if Hay was top of the list of suspects for Browne's murder, then Strutt was a very close second. No one could hate as fiercely as Strutt without being tempted to lob sly stones when the opportunity presented itself.

Parr occupied the quarters next door. The preacher was on his knees, hands clasped before him. His face was dark and savage, and Chaloner was certain the prayers would not be ones any decent God would want to hear. Parr remained indignant that Browne had declined to allow him to spout religion at
Rosebush
's crew, and Chaloner knew casual murder would be seen as divine justice by the likes of the fanatical Rector of Bermondsey.

The next room was York's; the captain had a cup in his hand and was pacing back and forth in agitation. Had he recruited Browne to help him expose the dissidents, only to discover that Browne actually thought revolt was a very good idea? The two men had been close, it was true, but how much value did York place on friendship – especially when his own life and safety were at stake?

The corridor ended, and Chaloner was treated to a view of Castell and his grandmother in a hallway; she was counting the money she had collected, and he was watching with jealous eyes. If Browne
had
exposed the treacherous happenings at Bermondsey House, then they would have been in serious trouble. Trials for treason were notoriously unjust, and the Castells would have been punished for providing Hay with a venue for his activities, regardless of what they thought
about his plans. Either one was capable of lobbing a piece of the masonry that littered the ground outside their home, although Chaloner wondered whether Castell would ever be sober enough to hit what he aimed at.

The spy visited more hidden passages before he headed for the cellar. He saw more men in other rooms but knew none of them. They were all wealthy, judging by their clothes. Some were alone, while others were in pairs, and he estimated there were roughly thirty of them. It was not many for a rebellion, but if they all poured money into the cause they could buy a lot more support. Such a movement was certainly something the government would want to suppress.

York had said the cellar used by the rebels was accessed via a flight of steps located not far from the main door, so Chaloner walked around the outside of the house until he found the stairs, tucked away among some ancient ruinous walls and all but invisible to the casual observer. He regarded them thoughtfully, then went back inside the mansion and made his way to the rooms that were built directly above the vault. Bermondsey House was riddled with so many secret spaces that he was sure there would be more than one entrance to the undercroft. He soon found what he was looking for – a low, slime-coated tunnel that sloped sharply downwards. It was concealed behind a fireplace in a pantry, and he had detected it because the chamber's dimensions were not quite right – as a spy, he had a good sense for such things.

He lit a candle and descended slowly, swearing under his breath when he slipped and fell a few feet. The passageway went further down than he had anticipated, and he was beginning to think it might actually go
underneath
the crypt rather than into it, when he finally reached the bottom. He shivered. It was icy cold – eerily
so – and he was dressed for the warmth outside. His way was barred by a small trap door, but it did not take him many moments to pick the feeble lock that held it in place, and he pushed it open to reveal a lowceilinged chamber.

He emerged cautiously, becoming warier still when he saw a torch burning in a brazier on a wall at the far end – the end where the steps were located – placed in readiness for the midnight gathering. He listened intently but could hear nothing except the steady drip of water on stone. The cellar looked monastic, like a crypt, with sturdy vaulting, and there were holes cut into its walls. They were roughly man-sized, curtained by cobwebs, and he supposed they had once held the bones of monks. Some were oddly deep, stretching so far into the wall that he could not see the back of them. The floor had been flagged in places, but mostly it was beaten earth, which had become packed as hard as stone over the years.

He touched a wall, marvelling at the quality of the work that had gone into its making, because although the stones were stained with the filth of ages, their edges were sharp and clear. As soon as his fingers brushed against the stone, a chill enveloped him, deeper and colder than the temperature of the chamber, and he was unable to prevent a shudder. There was something dark and sinister about the cellar, as though it had witnessed more than its share of evil deeds.

He shook himself impatiently – he did not have time for ghosts – and began a systematic search. Old barrels indicated that the undercroft had been used as a wine store at some point, while several desiccated rats suggested that grain or food had probably been kept there too. Marks in the walls and along the ceiling showed where partitions had once stood, dividing the chamber into smaller segments. Now, though, the cellar
was just one large vault, full of shadows and eerie pockets where the light of his candle did not penetrate. He began to think of ghosts again, and the tales Hannah had related about old bones and murder. He took a deep breath and pushed such notions from his mind a second time.

He ventured further into the vault. Benches had been placed in the middle of the chamber, where another torch was burning. He was about to leave by way of the main steps when echoing footsteps told him someone was coming – fast. There was just enough time for him to snuff out his candle and dive into the shadows before the man arrived. Chaloner held his breath, certain he was going to be caught and not sure what excuse he could give to explain his presence there.

But the newcomer did not so much as glance in Chaloner's direction. Wearing a hooded cloak, so nothing could be seen of his face, he hurried to the tunnel end of the chamber and began scratching at the top of the wall. It was not long before a piece of masonry came out in his hands. Chaloner watched him insert something in the resulting gap, replace the brick, and leave as quickly as he had arrived.

When he had gone, Chaloner padded forward to inspect the wall. It was different from the rest of the crypt – it bulged outwards, indicating that the work had been carried out hastily, without the care that had been lavished on the rest of the cellar. Its crumbling mortar said it was ancient, even so. Chaloner removed the stone and retrieved what had been placed there.

It was a letter addressed to Joseph Williamson. Chaloner gazed at it in surprise. Williamson was spymaster-general – the man in charge of the government's intelligence services. The message was in cipher, which Chaloner could certainly have broken given time, but not in a matter of moments. He considered
keeping it, but was afraid its absence might warn someone that something was amiss. Reluctantly, he put it back.