Murder on High Holborn (16 page)

‘Good gracious, is that the time?’ interrupted Thurloe, shooting Chaloner an irritable glance for effectively inviting Prynne to hold forth. ‘I must take my daily tonic at once.’

‘Invest in a horoscope instead,’ advised Prynne. ‘It is all the rage at Court, and will save you a mint in medicine. After all, no remedy will work if one’s stars are unfavourable.’

‘I do not hold with fortune-telling,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘It is an insult to God.’

Prynne sensed he was on dangerous ground and hastened to justify his remark. ‘I was only telling you what is popular. There are a lot of superstitious folk at White Hall.’

‘Like Paul Ferine?’ fished Chaloner.

Prynne nodded. ‘And his friends Odowde and Hubbert. They have been telling tales about the city’s haunted places – a certain room in the Antelope tavern, the ruins of Hatton House…’

‘Hatton House is not haunted,’ stated Thurloe firmly. ‘The wailing sound one hears is only wind whistling through its broken windows.’

‘You are doubtless right,’ said Prynne, unwilling to take issue with a man whose good opinion was important to him. He changed the subject hastily. ‘Have either of you heard of a man named John Browne? I keep hearing him discussed, and I am curious. He has been mentioned by Prince Rupert, John Scott—’

‘You should not eavesdrop,’ interrupted Thurloe sternly, while Chaloner recalled that Sherwin had mentioned a ‘sanctimonious fool’ named John Browne, who held opinions on drunkenness. Could it be the same man? ‘It is unbecoming.’

‘You did it,’ said Prynne flashed back, nettled at last. ‘It kept Cromwell in power for years.’

‘But you are not a spymaster,’ retorted Thurloe tartly. ‘Nor a secretary of state. There is a world of difference between official intelligencing and repeating gossip.’

Chaloner almost laughed, knowing Thurloe would never have made such a foolish remark had Prynne been less annoying. ‘What did these folk say about John Browne?’ he asked the old man.

‘Nothing that made sense,’ admitted Prynne. ‘It just sounded as though he was important.’

Chaloner ignored Thurloe’s irritable gesture telling him to walk away. ‘You referred to Hatton House a moment ago. Do you know Eliza Hatton?’

Prynne’s vindictive face hardened. ‘I
did
. She seduced the Spanish ambassador, who was then accused of her murder. Of course, that was forty years ago now…’

‘So she
was
killed? It is not some ghoulish tale?’

‘It is a fable,’ said Thurloe shortly, before Prynne could speak. ‘Put about to explain how Bleeding-Heart Yard came by its name. But the reality is that there was a church dedicated to St Mary nearby, and in it was a statue of her being pierced by swords.’

‘Popery,’ spat Prynne. ‘I might have known.’

‘I wish you would not encourage him, Thomas,’ said Thurloe crossly, once Prynne had been persuaded that London was eager for his views on courtly fashions and had gone to put poisonous pen to paper. ‘Never,
never
ask him questions. Especially when it forces me to hear his answers.’

‘I am sorry. I thought he might know something useful.’

‘He might, but you would never separate it from his loathsome opinions.’

They walked in silence for a while, then Chaloner furnished the ex-Spymaster with an account of his discoveries the previous day.

‘Easter is ten days hence,’ he concluded glumly. ‘And the Earl may not rehire me if I do not thwart whatever the Fifth Monarchists are planning.’

Thurloe was dismissive. ‘A few hundred fools baying their lunatic beliefs around London will make people laugh, not race to join them. Nothing will happen on Easter Day.’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Chaloner worriedly. ‘They want equal justice for rich and poor, an abolition of unfair taxes, and gainful employment for all. These are attractive notions.’

‘Fifth Monarchists are worms who believe they can thresh mountains,’ said Thurloe, voicing what he had claimed before. ‘No sane person can believe that Jesus intends to take up residence in White Hall. Or that He will share power with a Sanhedrin that comprises a lot of spiritually arrogant, humourless, vociferous fanatics.’

‘Leving heard Jones say that they have ten thousand supporters,’ argued Chaloner.

‘Then Jones was exaggerating. This so-called uprising is more nuisance than threat, and Williamson is a fool to waste your time on it. He should use you to spy on the Dutch.’

‘But Admiral Lawson may share their convictions, and he commands the Channel Fleet,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘You should not underestimate them.’

‘Lawson has more sense than to throw in his lot with lunatics,’ said Thurloe firmly, and the note of finality in his voice told Chaloner that the subject was closed.

Usually, Chaloner trusted his friend’s views on such matters, sometimes more than his own, but this time he was sure Thurloe was wrong. He said no more, though, and Thurloe was also silent, so the only sound was the squelching of soggy leaves underfoot.

‘So have you been accepted into the Fifth Monarchists’ cabal?’ asked Thurloe eventually.

Chaloner nodded. ‘Theoretically, at least. However, Quelch is suspicious, and the others must be, too, no matter what they say to my face. Meanwhile, I do not trust Leving, and I am not sure what is going on with Manning and Scott…’

‘Scott’s arrival does bode ill,’ Thurloe agreed. ‘And this business with “Eliza” is curious.’

‘She is definitely involved in something peculiar, given that she feels the need to disappear all the time. It is almost as if she is a ghost…’

Thurloe shot him a weary glance and declined to acknowledge the remark. ‘I have asked my contacts to listen for rumours about Ferine, but they have reported nothing yet. And I sent the letters we copied yesterday to Wallis the mathematician. If he cannot decode them, no one can. I wish I could do more, but I am busy with my own work at the moment.’

Chaloner hoped Wallis would not take long.

White Hall was the King’s main London residence, a sprawling palace said to contain more than two thousand rooms, ranging from the elegant apartments occupied by His Majesty, his family and his ministers, to the squalid, cramped quarters allocated to the army of cooks, cleaners, scullions, grooms and porters needed to keep the place running. Chaloner walked through the Great Gate and aimed for the Earl’s offices, hunched into his coat against the sheeting rain. He saw the Earl’s Seal Bearer in the Privy Garden, and changed direction to intercept him.

‘
I
do not believe that you made no effort to save the Tsar’s jewels when your ship went down, no matter what the scandal-mongers say,’ declared Kipps, speaking without preamble. ‘And nor do I believe that you are bankrupt. Hannah’s debts cannot be that serious.’

Chaloner was horrified that his personal finances should be the subject of gossip, but Kipps blustered on before he could reply.

‘Have you come here to look for another post? If so, loiter in the Privy Gallery. It is next to the Great Hall, as you know, which has just been converted to a permanent theatre. Its first performance is due to start at noon, but there are not many seats, so folk will hover in the Privy Gallery, ready to make a dash for them when the doors open.’

As the residents of White Hall had a penchant for lewd dramas, Chaloner suspected that the construction of a place where they could be viewed more frequently would do nothing to enhance the Court’s reputation among the people. Sourly he thought it no wonder that the radical sects who denounced them, like the Fifth Monarchists, attracted popular support.

‘
The Parson’s Dream
,’ continued Kipps, tight lipped. ‘I am no prude, but that goes well beyond my limits. Anyway, the King intends to see it, so every courtier and hanger-on in London will be there. One of them will want a good intelligencer, so do not worry.’

Chaloner changed the subject by gesturing to the garden, where several servants were toiling among the winter-brown shrubs. ‘What are they doing?’

‘Preparing for the Lady Day fireworks,’ replied Kipps disapprovingly. ‘Come and look at what they have done. It is all very, very wrong.’

The labourers had dug a long, waist-deep trench at the far end of the grounds, their workings carefully concealed behind a knee-high hedge of privet. Chaloner regarded it, then Kipps, blankly, not sure why this should have earned his disapprobation.

‘It is dangerous,’ the Seal Bearer explained crossly. ‘I fell in on my way home last night, and ended up covered in mud.’

‘Why do fireworks need a ditch?’

‘So that they and the fellow who ignites them – the so-called “Green Man” – can remain invisible to spectators. All we shall see is rockets blasting into the sky.’

‘Who is the Green Man this year?’ asked Chaloner conversationally.

‘The Master of Ordnance,’ replied Kipps. ‘It is a good choice, as it takes considerable skill if the event is to pass off without incident. The last fellow who did it managed to set himself alight, while the one before him killed two servants and one of the King’s dogs.’

‘I would have thought the Master of Ordnance had more important matters to consider – like organising armaments for the Dutch war.’

Kipps nodded. ‘The fireworks are an unnecessary expense, especially when the poor clamour for us to reduce taxes. Indeed, the whole thing is wicked – Lady Day is the Saturday before Easter this year, and it is inappropriate to celebrate with such extravagance while we are still in Lent.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. Kipps had never struck him as religious before.

The Seal Bearer shrugged. ‘Call me superstitious if you will, but it is asking for bad luck. There have been more than the usual number of omens of late,
and
ghosts along High Holborn.’

That reminded Chaloner of his investigations. ‘I have been asked to look into the murder of Paul Ferine. Did you know him?’

‘Yes. It is a pity he got himself murdered in Temperance’s club, because no man likes to take his ease in a house where assassins might lurk. Worse, the attention has divested it of its anonymity, and wives are paying attention…’

‘Was Ferine married?’

‘He was, but she died a few months ago in their house on High Holborn. Wild with grief, Ferine ordered the doors locked and the windows shuttered. No one has set foot in it since.’

‘How did she die?’ asked Chaloner, his mind racing.

‘Fell down the stairs and broke her neck. Personally, I think it was the shock of losing Grace that turned Ferine superstitious. Afterwards, he started to find comfort in odd rituals, such as not starting journeys on a Friday, and spitting whenever he saw a white horse.’

The house Eliza had visited
had
to be Ferine’s, thought Chaloner. High Holborn was a desirable location, and there could not be many buildings on it that were closed up. Moreover, the steps were definitely a tripping hazard, because he had stumbled on them himself.

‘The rector of St Dunstan’s told me that Ferine was a widower,’ he said. ‘But no one has mentioned Grace’s curious death. Not even Duncombe, Ferine’s particular friend.’

‘That is not surprising – Grace was Catholic, so Ferine tended to keep her quiet. Moreover, Duncombe has been drunk ever since the murder, and no one can get any sense from him. I only know about Grace because one of Ferine’s servants was the sister of one of mine.’

‘What else do you know about him?’

‘He was superb at horoscopes.’ Kipps’s expression was troubled. ‘He did one for me, and predicted a grave mishap. Sure enough, the next day I was “uninvited” from Lady Castlemaine’s Shrove Tuesday party, which I had been looking forward to for weeks.’

As Lady Castlemaine – the King’s mistress – was one of the Earl’s most bitter enemies, Chaloner thought Kipps had no business attending her soirées anyway, but there was no point in saying so: Kipps was a great admirer of her thighs, and thought the rest of her could do no wrong.

‘Perhaps Ferine knew beforehand that she had revised her guest list,’ he suggested.

‘No – her decision was prompted by the King telling her that he was cutting back on her allowance, which happened
after
Ferine and I spoke.’ Kipps sighed. ‘That prediction was accurate, so I hastened to comply when he later suggested that I purchase a human skull to keep witches at bay. It is on the mantelpiece in my bedroom, next to my spare teeth.’

‘
Spare
teeth?’

‘Lest I lose any of my own. There are rumours that the Last Millennium is nigh, and I should not like to face eternity bereft of fangs. How would I manage at heavenly feasts?’

As Lord Chancellor, the Earl of Clarendon was entitled to rooms in White Hall, and had secured himself a pleasant suite overlooking the Privy Garden. Chaloner hid behind an oversized ornamental vase in the lobby until he was sure his master was alone, then opened the door and slipped inside. The Earl was at his desk, while an inferno roared in the hearth. The fire was so loud that Chaloner approached unheard, and was obliged to cough to attract attention.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ snapped the Earl, one plump hand to his chest. ‘And you should not be here anyway. No one will believe we have fallen out if you visit me.’

‘I was careful, sir.’

The Earl regarded him with pursed lips. ‘I met your wife the night before last, at a ceremony to commemorate HMS
London
’s dead. And I am afraid to report that she was intoxicated.’

Chaloner’s heart sank. ‘Was she?’

‘I could not understand a word she said, although she was clearly trying to convey something of import. Perhaps you would ask her to visit me here, so she can try again when she is sober.’

Chaloner did not think that would be a very good idea. ‘She was very distressed about
London
, sir. I am sure that was all she was trying to say.’

The Earl frowned. ‘She sounded more angry than sad to me. But no matter. Why did you come here today? Do you have something to tell me?’

‘I thought you might like to know what I have learned about the Fifth Monarchists. They are led by a Sanhedrin, and two of them – Jones and Strange – were involved in the Northern Plot. The uprising is scheduled for Easter Day.’