Murder on High Holborn (21 page)

‘That can be arranged. He is my patient, and it is time he was bled again. I am busy, as I said, but not too busy to help with the matter of Snowflake. We shall visit him together now.’ Wiseman shot Chaloner a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think
he
killed her?’

‘Not really, but he might have information to tell me who did. And if that does not work, I will go to Temple Mills.’

‘Good. Her father is called Grisley Pate.’ Wiseman saw Chaloner’s eyebrows go up. ‘It is his real name, I assure you. And you had better not refer to her as Snowflake. She was christened Constance, although she was known to her family as Consti.’

‘Consti Pate?’ mused Chaloner. ‘No wonder she changed it to Snowflake.’

He climbed into the Barber-Surgeons’ carriage, and they travelled in silence to Duck Lane, where the Admiral lived in a smart brick house. A servant answered the door, and escorted them to a neat parlour where Lawson was entertaining. He had perhaps a dozen guests, none quite comfortable in their fashionable clothes; Chaloner surmised that they were family from the north, making an effort to adapt to strange new London ways.

‘Bleed me?’ asked Lawson in surprise, when the surgeon announced his intention. ‘But you did that last week.’ He regarded Chaloner warily. ‘And why is he here?’

‘The loss of your ship
London
was a nasty shock,’ explained Wiseman, ignoring the second question. ‘Bleeding will prevent any illness arising from it. After all, we cannot afford to lose you on the brink of war.’

But Lawson was still staring at Chaloner. ‘Temperance North’s whore-house,’ he said, snapping his fingers as memories surfaced. ‘I have seen you there twice now.’

Chaloner was perturbed to learn that he had been noticed. Lawson was obviously an observant man, suggesting there was more to the coarse-tongued, cantankerous sailor than met the eye.

‘The
club
is an excellent place,’ said Wiseman, loyally using the term Temperance preferred. ‘You should treat your guests to an evening there.’

‘Too expensive,’ growled Lawson. ‘And they are only family – they do not warrant that sort of outlay. Yet they have been out of sorts since
London
went down. They were aboard her, you see, so I should probably do something to set their humours right. Will you bleed them, too?’

Wiseman’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of a larger fee, and Lawson set about jostling his hapless kin into a queue. Naturally enough, they began talking about the disaster.

‘It was awful,’ said a man who looked enough like Lawson to be a brother. His expression was bleak. ‘We would have died, too, had we not been able to swim.’

‘And we were on the
right
side of the ship,’ added a cousin. ‘The explosion was on the left, so we missed the worst of it. Even so, I was blown overboard.’

‘We were all fortunate,’ said a small, pale woman. ‘I was being sick at the time, and it was leaning over the rail that saved me.’

‘Did you notice anything odd?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did anyone go below decks shortly before the blast? Or did you see someone who should not have been aboard?’

There was a general chorus of denials, while Lawson growled that the King’s navy did not allow just anyone to saunter about on its vessels. Crews knew their mates, and strangers were discovered long before they could do any harm.

‘People think it is suspicious that we survived when so many sailors did not,’ said the cousin. ‘But we owe our lives to where we were standing and our ability to float.’

Chaloner nodded, but he thought it odd, too. Had they set the explosion, then retreated to a place where they knew they would be safe? If so, had they acted with or without Lawson’s connivance? And why had Lawson not been on
London
himself?

‘I was busy,’ said Lawson, when Chaloner put the question. ‘Not that it is any of your affair.’

‘What do
you
think happened?’

Lawson shrugged, but his eyes were sly. ‘Some daft bugger was playing with naked flames in the powder hold, although Captain Dare assures me that it was locked. We shall find out when she is weighed next Wednesday.’

While Wiseman poked at the Admiral’s veins with a blade that was already stained with gore from previous victims, Chaloner took advantage of Lawson’s enforced immobility.

‘I understand you are a Fifth Monarchist,’ he began.

Lawson regarded him narrowly. ‘So what? Or are you one of those rogues who dislikes the notion of being ruled by King Jesus? Personally, I relish the thought. Why do you think I have spent so many years smiting His enemies?’

Chaloner’s next question was as aggressive as Lawson’s last answer. ‘What did Jones and Quelch want with you at the club on the night that Ferine was murdered?’

Lawson glared at him. ‘Mind your own damn business!’

‘Did you know Snowflake?’

‘Not in the Biblical sense. She is too skinny, and I like a woman with proper hips, not ones like a cabin boy’s. Have you finished, Wiseman? Good. Here is your fee. Good day.’

Chaloner did not like being ousted before he had learned what he needed to know, but he could not force the Admiral to talk to him – at least, not with a dozen kinsmen ready to surge to the rescue if he resorted to rougher methods. Reluctantly, he followed the surgeon outside.

‘There are other lines of enquiry to pursue first,’ he said, even more determined to learn whether Lawson was connected to Snowflake’s death, the Fifth Monarchists’ machinations
and
the tragic fate of
London
. ‘But if they do not work, I will go to Temple Mills.’

Snowflake’s murder had left Chaloner in low spirits and he did not feel like going home, so he began to walk to Chancery Lane. It was raining again, and the mud was more treacherous than ever. He pressed himself against the wall of a house when a dung-wagon lumbered past, flinging up filth as it went.

The Pope’s Head was busy because its landlord was selling his ale cheaply so there would not be any left when the lease expired. Sherwin had made the most of the situation, and was slumped in a semi-conscious haze, surrounded by empty pots. Scott and Manning were with him, arguing so fiercely that they did not notice Chaloner until he had been listening for some time.

‘…a great deal of money,’ Manning was whispering. ‘You should appreciate that.’

‘Oh, I do,’ hissed Scott. ‘But that is my point. We have a fabulous resource, and we should exploit it to the full. Pellissary will pay far more than the rebels – who I do not trust, anyway.’

‘I suppose they are the kind of men to claim that ushering in the Last Millennium should be reward enough,’ conceded Manning, his rueful tone telling Chaloner that his devotion to the Cause was rather less powerful than his devotion to lucre. ‘However, I gave them my word…’

‘Well, I did not give them mine,’ said Scott. ‘And the scheme belongs to me, too. You would not have come this far were it not for me, so I have a say in what happens. Look at how I dealt with John Browne. And I suggest we hear what Pellissary has to offer. He—’

He stopped speaking abruptly when he became aware of Chaloner. Anger flashed in his eyes; fear flared in Manning’s.

Chaloner’s mind spun with questions. Prynne had mentioned overhearing Scott talking about John Browne, and here was the name again. Chaloner had a feeling that Browne might transpire to be very important – perhaps even the key to understanding what was going on. However, there was a more pressing matter to be pursued first.

‘Do you refer to Georges Pellissary, treasurer of the French navy?’ he asked mildly. ‘You intend to sell your secret to him, instead of my associates at the Talbot?’

Manning gulped, but Scott only smiled. ‘We were debating options, like any entrepreneurs worth their salt.’

‘I would have thought that your post as Cartographer Royal would preclude you from favouring foreign countries over your own,’ said Chaloner.

‘France is not an enemy state,’ Scott pointed out.

‘No, but it is not entirely friendly, either,’ countered Chaloner. ‘And I have a feeling that you might even deal with the Dutch if the price was right.’

Manning was horrified. ‘Of course we would not!’

‘You are a fool, Scott,’ said Chaloner in disgust when the New Englander made no attempt to deny it. ‘You will end up hanged at Tyburn.’

‘Not me,’ said Scott smugly. ‘I have powerful protectors who appreciate my worth.’

‘Williamson will not defend you if you treat with Holland,’ warned Chaloner.

‘Williamson?’ squeaked Manning, regarding Scott in alarm. ‘The Spymaster? Why should he defend you? Surely you do not know him?’

‘I have him in my pocket,’ bragged Scott. ‘Why do you think our little scheme has been allowed to run? Because he has been promised a percentage – which is another reason why we must secure ourselves the best possible deal. We cannot have
him
disappointed.’

Manning looked as though he might be sick, while Chaloner’s heart sank. Williamson did accept bribes, and if Scott was telling the truth – unlikely given his penchant for lies, but still a possibility – the case would be even more difficult to solve.

‘I strongly recommend you forget about us, Chaloner,’ said Scott, smug in his unassailability. ‘Ours is just a small money-making venture, not worth your attention.’

Manning nodded vigorously. ‘We are peddling furniture. Good bureaux are almost impossible to come by these days, especially in walnut. Sherwin has devised a way to—’

‘It is time he was in bed,’ said Scott, bringing a sudden and decisive end to the conversation. He stood, took the slumbering drunk’s arm, and hauled him away.

Chaloner stopped Manning before he could follow. ‘You are swimming in dangerous waters, and your only chance to avoid the noose is to tell me what is going on. Who is Sherwin? What secret does he hold? And who is Browne?’

But Manning pulled away from him angrily. ‘Do not try to browbeat me. Scott said you were not to be trusted, and he was right – there was something wrong with the box of gunpowder you returned to me yesterday – it would not burn and it reeked of rotten eggs. You tampered with it.’

Chaloner was about to put his questions more forcefully when the landlord appeared, six burly patrons at his heels.

‘Is anything wrong, Manning?’ he asked. ‘I do not like to see my regulars harassed, and you appear to be anxious.’

‘I am anxious,’ said Manning in relief. ‘Show this man the door, if you please.’

Chaloner backed away with his hands in the air before they could oblige. The room was too small to allow him to wield his sword effectively, and he doubted he could best them without it. He left frustrated that he still had more questions than answers.

He visited the Swan afterwards, listening outside its door just long enough to hear its customers discussing the witch who had been hanged at Tyburn. They were indignant and bitter, and he was under the impression that some of them had known and admired her. However, there was no sign of Eliza, and when he went in and asked where she was, he was greeted with instant suspicion and a good deal of hostility. He left quickly, deciding to press his luck no further.

His next stop was the Talbot. Strange and Quelch were there with several members of the Sanhedrin, so he insinuated himself into their company, and learned that it was a gathering to honour the three executed men from Taunton.

‘I wish
I
had been there,’ said a man Chaloner thought was named Tucker – an old sailor with ruddy cheeks and one arm. ‘To cheer their first step towards paradise.’

‘It was a humbling sight,’ declared Quelch piously. ‘They died calling on God to avenge them by establishing his Kingdom at Easter. The Last Millennium will certainly come in ten days now.’

‘It will, because God hath sent us a sign,’ added Strange. ‘At Tyburn Field, the skies turned black and Jesus appeared in the clouds. He is impatient for His throne.’

‘I heard those clouds were summoned by the witch,’ said Tucker doubtfully. ‘And that it was the devil who rode across the sky.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Quelch shortly. ‘It was a scene akin to the Crucifixion, and would have awed you all. But let us drink to our success. To the Fifth Monarchy!’

‘How can we drink when we do not know what is intended?’ asked Tucker, not raising his cup. Neither did a number of others. ‘We are the Sanhedrin, yet we are told nothing.’

‘What do you need to know, other than that the Kingdom of Christ is imminent?’ asked Quelch archly. ‘And that He will acknowledge you when he is on His throne in White Hall?’

‘But first, thou shalt be awed by mighty explosions.’ Strange indicated Chaloner with a nod of his head. ‘Our new gunpowder expert will light the heavens with glory.’

‘Using silver cannon,’ elaborated Chaloner, watching for a reaction as he quoted from the condemned men’s speeches. ‘And the streets will run red with the blood of unbelievers.’

‘
Black
with the blood of unbelievers,’ corrected Quelch, regarding Chaloner with an expression the spy could not begin to read. ‘
Our
blood is red; theirs is black.’

‘Speaking of unbelievers, who is this John Browne I keep hearing about?’ asked Tucker, bringing hard, challenging eyes to bear on Strange and Quelch. ‘Scott says he is no one who can influence our plans, but Manning claims he is a dangerous foe.’

‘Scott is right – Browne is not important,’ replied Strange, with a feeble attempt at airy. ‘Thou needst not worry.’

‘But I
am
worried,’ pressed Tucker. ‘And while we are on the subject of causes for concern, I do not like Atkinson. He thinks too much. But more importantly, the stockings he made for me to wear on Judgement Day shrank in the wash.’

Chaloner almost choked over his ale. He had never heard that given as a reason to distrust a fellow rebel before – and he had heard many odd claims during his years in espionage.

‘Perhaps the water was too hot,’ suggested Quelch helpfully. ‘I lost a lovely pair of drawers to excessive heat last year, and I have learned that hand-temperature yields the best results for wool.’

‘Rubbish,’ declared Strange. ‘
Cold
water is best. Anything else maketh the colours run.’