Murder on High Holborn (22 page)

‘What do you know of fabrics?’ snapped Quelch, nettled by the contradiction. ‘You are a mere Baptist pastor, with no practical skills.’

And then an argument was under way, leaving Chaloner thinking that if the Sanhedrin could not agree on how to do their laundry, then how did they expect to run the New Kingdom? However, he could see he was going to learn nothing useful by prolonging his visit, and Quelch, still the best Fifth Monarchist to drag somewhere quiet and interrogate, was clearly going nowhere soon. With a grimace, he supposed he would have to tackle the watchmaker another day. He made his excuses to the plotters, and walked outside.

He stopped at Middle Row on his way along High Holborn, and peered through Ursula’s window. She was sitting by a fire with a cat on her lap, knitting. He knocked, and was rewarded with a beaming smile as she opened the door. The delicious scent of baking wafted out.

‘What a pleasant surprise!’ she exclaimed. ‘And you are just in time. I have just taken a Double Tart from the oven, and I wager it will be the best thing you have ever tasted.’

‘Are you limping?’ Chaloner followed her inside, ignoring the voice in his head that told him he should be going home to Hannah.

‘I slipped over on my way home from John—from Mr Atkinson’s shop. I was helping him make stockings, you see. I have never known such foul mud, and my cat refuses to go out in it.’

‘His sister is dead,’ said Chaloner bluntly.

Ursula nodded sadly. ‘I was in his shop when the message came – not with him, but out at the back preparing more silk thread. I heard the commotion and hurried in, but he and Maude had gone. I decided to come home, as Old Ned can finish the stocking order alone now, and I have no wish to intrude on John—Mr Atkinson’s private grief.’

They sat in contemplative silence for a while, then Ursula went to fetch the tart from the kitchen. It was a stunning creation – an open case containing apples and a custard of cream, sugar and spices – and Chaloner ate three generous slices while she chatted about the Sanhedrin.

‘Mr Jones is prone to chills, so I am knitting him a scarf. And Mr Quelch said his backache eased greatly with the woollen drawers I made.’

Chaloner wondered whether it was the pair that had suffered from exposure to hot water. She burbled on, and he learned that Strange was fond of cats, while Jones was only ever happy if he was writing pamphlets. Then she spoke of her sister’s dream for a fairer society, where the law would be applied equally to rich and poor, where unjust tithes and taxes would be abolished, and where all debts would be wiped clean.

‘My wife would like that,’ sighed Chaloner. ‘She has amassed quite a few.’

‘So has my sister,’ said Ursula. ‘It is expensive to publish these days, especially tracts that the government does not want people to read.’

Chaloner regarded her curiously. ‘Why are you a Fifth Monarchist? Because of her? Or was your husband a millenarian?’

Ursula smiled. ‘He has been in his grave these last ten years, and was more interested in fishing than religion. My sister has devoted her life to the Cause, though, and while I do not have her passion, I
can
ensure that our warriors have a decent meal inside them as they fight the good fight.’

Chaloner might have laughed, but the remark had a curious pathos about it. ‘What are they planning for Easter Sunday?’ he asked, although not with much expectation that she would know. ‘I am their gunpowder expert, but I have no idea what they want me to do.’

‘Mr Jones will tell us when the time is right,’ replied Ursula serenely. ‘He learned from the Northern Plot that the more people who know details, the more likely we are to be betrayed. The only person he trusts is Mr Strange.’

‘Not Atkinson or Quelch?’

She smiled fondly. ‘John is a dreamer, not practical at all, while Quelch is opinionated and rather common.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Between you and me, I cannot help but wonder whether Quelch is all he claims. There is something unsavoury about him, and it would not surprise me to learn that he has done nasty things in the past.’

Chaloner wondered whether she would ask for the drawers back if she ever learned that Quelch was a thief. ‘What you are doing is dangerous,’ he warned. ‘If you are caught…’

‘I know. But this is a miserable subject, Mr Chaloner, so let us talk of nicer things. Tell me about your wife. I imagine she is a lovely lady, even if she does have debts.’

Chaloner nodded, but could not think of anything else to add.

‘Do you have children?’ Ursula finished one row of knitting and began another.

He shook his head, never willing to talk about the baby he had lost to plague in Holland.

‘A dog, then?’ she asked, a little desperately. ‘Or a cat?’

‘I like birds,’ said Chaloner, then felt a little foolish for the admission, feeling he should have professed an admiration for something more manly instead. ‘And horses, of course.’

‘I find horses rather frightening,’ said Ursula, obviously relieved to have squeezed something out of him to take the conversation forward. ‘They are so big and unpredictable. And I do not like the way they smell when they are wet. Speaking of wet things, would you like me to sponge that mud from your coat? It will stain if it is left to dry.’

‘No, thank you.’ Chaloner stood reluctantly. ‘I must go home, or my wife will think I am avoiding her pickled ling pie.’

‘Pickled ling pie,’ mused Ursula. ‘There is a dish one does not encounter very often.’

It was encountered far too frequently as far as Chaloner was concerned.

As he was tired, Chaloner took a hackney to Tothill Street, arriving just as a bellman chanted in a gloomy wail that it was ten of the clock and all was well. All was not well in Chaloner’s house, however, because instead of darkened windows and silence, it blazed with lights and all the servants were in the grip of frenzied activity.

‘Tom! Where have you been?’ cried Hannah. She was wearing a close-fitting blue bodice with matching skirts, carefully opened at the front to display the extravagant lace on her petticoat, an outfit he had not seen before. She started to embrace him, but had second thoughts when she saw his filthy coat.

‘What is going on?’ he asked in alarm.

‘We are having a soirée,’ she announced gaily. ‘I have invited all manner of wealthy and influential people, so be sure to impress them. One may offer you a job.’

‘Now?’ He gaped at her. ‘But it is after ten o’clock!’

‘I tried to make them come earlier by offering food cooked with my own hands, but they all said they were busy until after dinner. Jacob? Cut the remains of my ling pie into small pieces and set them on the table. Our guests may still be peckish.’

Chaloner heard Jacob snigger and silenced him with a glare. Inedible though Hannah’s baking might be, it was not for servants to mock it.

Hannah was cheerfully oblivious to the interchange. ‘I hope you find work soon, Tom, because the vintner is insisting on being paid tomorrow. What a nuisance!’

‘He has every right to ask for what he is owed,’ said Chaloner curtly. ‘And until we are clear of our debts, you should not spend any more money.’

She had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Very well, although I organised this evening for your benefit, in the hope that someone will employ you. Will you change before anyone comes? Do not look so sour! I have invited people you like – Will Chiffinch and the Duke.’

Chaloner most certainly did not like those particular men, but the invitations had been sent, so there was nothing he could do except stamp upstairs and grit his teeth while Jacob told him which clothes he should wear. Feeling hot and uncomfortable in heavily beribboned breeches and a shirt with enough lace to supply a small country, he descended in time to greet the first wave of guests.

It was led by Buckingham, who immediately turned the atmosphere raucous. Chaloner was not particularly pleased when Rupert arrived either. The Prince looked around in distaste, as if he considered the house beneath his dignity. When Chaloner asked Hannah in a testy whisper why she had asked him to come, she replied that she had not – Rupert was an interloper. Wondering why the Prince had foisted himself on the gathering when it was obvious that he would rather be elsewhere, Chaloner followed him into the drawing room, aiming to find out. Then he stopped in surprise – Scott was there.

‘Your wife invited a whole roomful of people,’ Scott explained. ‘And I happened to be in it at the time, so I was included. I like visiting the homes of old friends – it tells me so much about them. I imagine an event like this will cost a pretty penny, because the wine is French and there are more candles here than in St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘What of it?’

‘You are heavily in debt, so perhaps you will accept a small gift to help you over your current financial difficulties. I shall not ask much in return – just a warning if you hear of Manning trying to cheat me. I should be grateful, and so will Williamson.’

‘I do not accept bribes.’

‘No?’ Scott’s expression hardened. ‘Then how about threats? If you do anything to damage me or my business, you will annoy a lot of powerful men. And remember that I know where you live, while your pretty wife is—’

‘You would not risk anything so dangerous,’ interrupted Chaloner, his expression so dark and angry that Scott bowed quickly and beat a hasty retreat.

‘I heard him mention candles,’ came a voice at his side, and Chaloner turned to see that Rupert had been listening. ‘You had better explain.’

Chaloner was puzzled by the instruction, but then remembered the conversation in the Privy Gallery, about Rupert inventing ones that did not explode. He was about to see what he could learn from a discussion on the matter when Buckingham jostled into them, spilling wine all over Rupert’s exquisite velveteen breeches.

‘I am sorry,’ said the Duke, surveying the mess with open glee. ‘You had better go home and change, because you look as though you have had the kind of mishap that often afflicts men of mature years.’

Rupert scowled, but then saw Scott in the hallway taking his leave of Hannah. He hurried out, pausing only to hiss at Chaloner, ‘We shall resume our conversation tomorrow.’

‘You have annoyed him!’ cried Buckingham in delight. ‘Good for you! What did you say?’

‘I am not sure,’ replied Chaloner, baffled by the Prince’s antics.

‘Well, if you remember, tell me, because baiting him affords me a good deal of pleasure. He is a dreadful bore at Privy Council meetings – almost as bad as your pompous old Earl.’

‘My Earl no longer,’ Chaloner reminded him.

Buckingham inclined his head. ‘Of course: it slipped my mind.’ He smiled a little slyly. ‘As you have been gracious enough to invite me here tonight, allow me to include you in a little event I am holding next Friday. It will be an Astrological Soirée.’

‘What is an Astrological Soirée?’

‘A party where Lambe will show off his unique skills. Incidentally, Hannah tells me that you were asking about Ferine the other day. Why you are interested in him?’

‘I am not,’ lied Chaloner, wishing Hannah would not talk about his business, especially to the likes of Buckingham. ‘Well, no more than anyone else who is intrigued as to why a courtier should be murdered in a brothel.’

‘Gossip,’ said Buckingham softly. ‘You want to be wary of that. It could prove perilous.’

The following morning dawned wet and grey, and Chaloner stared out of the bedroom window as he gathered his thoughts. He was going to be busy that day, as he had a number of leads to follow and questions to ask. And if they proved unfruitful, he would travel to Hackney Marsh, to ask what Grisley Pate had told his daughter. He wondered how long such a journey would take – it was only a few miles, but the bad weather would slow him down.

First, though, he needed to corner Quelch, and make him talk about the Fifth Monarchists’ plans. He would start with a generous supply of ale, and if that did not work, move to less friendly methods of persuasion. Next, he would concentrate on ascertaining the identity of John Browne, after which he would go to the club and try to learn more about Ferine and Snowdrop.

Plying Quelch with drink would require money, so Chaloner went to the store of coins he had secreted behind the skirting-board. He prised it off, then stared in horror when he saw the recess behind was empty. He swallowed hard, dismayed not so much for himself as for the creditors he had intended to pay.

He sat back on his heels. Who had taken it? Hannah, because she knew him better than he thought? One of the servants, who had found it while cleaning? He considered waking Hannah to ask, but then recalled how much she had had to drink at the soirée the previous night. Her morning temper was likely to be toxic if exacerbated by a hangover, and a quarrel would not be productive.

Downstairs, the hall and drawing room were in chaos. The curtains were askew, lumps of ling pie lurked under every piece of furniture, and there was a sour smell of spilled wine and old tobacco. The servants were struggling to put all to rights, and shot him resentful glances as he passed, evidently holding him responsible for the mess.

Absently, he picked up a copy of the latest
Newes
from the floor, but a brief flip through its international summary told him nothing other than that the Pope’s nephew was ill. Domestic news revolved around the disease known as the King’s Evil – it was generally believed that this condition could be cured by the touch of a monarch, and regular sessions were held in White Hall, so that victims could avail themselves of their King’s services. His Majesty, however, had decided to take a break from these arduous duties, so sufferers were warned not to be disappointed if they arrived for an audience and were turned away.

Chaloner was about to put it down when a notice caught his eye. It was near the back, in the section where people advertised wares and services, or offered rewards for the return of stolen property. On occasion, the government used it to circulate descriptions of particularly dangerous felons. The notice was sandwiched between an advertisement for
The Discoverie of Witchcraft
(in sixteen volumes) and a paragraph claiming that Mr Wilcocks of Durham Yard could ‘infallibly cure all sorts of gout by Outward Application’.