Murder on High Holborn (25 page)

In the evening, restless and dissatisfied, but reluctant to go home and confront Hannah about the missing money, he walked to the Swan, where he lurked in the darkness outside, waiting to see who came and went. His patience paid off eventually: after an hour Eliza arrived. He moved so he could see her through the window, and quickly became aware that he was not the only one watching. So was the man sitting at a table near the door, whose hat and cloak covered all but the tip of his nose. Then the fellow reached out to pick up a newsbook, and Chaloner saw symbols inked on his fingers.

Lambe glanced around furtively, slid a piece of paper inside
The Newes
, and walked out. The moment he had gone, Chaloner grabbed the front door and slammed it twice in quick succession. While the patrons clustered excitedly around it, whispering about angry spirits, Chaloner ran to the back door and grabbed the newsbook. He tweaked out the paper, and was back in his hiding place long before the patrons had returned to their seats. He examined what he had stolen in the dim light from the window. It was blank, and smelled of onions. Writing in onion juice was an old spy trick – the letters were invisible until held near a flame, at which point they went brown. Chaloner slipped it in his pocket to read later.

After a while, Eliza collected a lamp from the landlord, and Chaloner was disconcerted when she left the tavern to glide straight towards him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck as he stared into her ice-blue eyes, and she held the lantern in such a way that it cast eerie shadows on her corpse-white face. It was a disturbing visage, although he cursed himself as a fool for being unsettled by it.

‘Do you have the information you promised to bring?’ she asked. There was a mocking glint in her eyes, as if she knew he had not.

He forced a smile. ‘Tomorrow. May I escort you home? It is late, and Holborn can be dangerous at night.’

‘Not for me.’

With that enigmatic remark, she floated away, leaving Chaloner with the uncomfortable sense that something was wrong. The hair on his neck continued to prickle, and he felt that while
she
might be safe, he was not. He forced his unease to the back of his mind and set off after her, intending to follow her home and see what a search of her lair might provide in the way of clues.

Suddenly, a figure emerged from one side, and slammed into him with such force that he stumbled. Hands reached out to steady him, and he slapped away one that fastened around the purses in his pocket. He did not, however, feel the fingers that removed the onion-juice message, and only noticed it was missing when he was halfway home. He cursed under his breath. A clue had been in his possession, and he had lost it! What sort of intelligencer allowed that to happen?

All sensible spies kept boltholes for those times when they needed a refuge, and Chaloner’s was in Long Acre, but it was an expense he could no longer justify. With considerable regret he informed the landlord that he would not be renewing the lease. He arranged for the few belongings he kept there – most importantly his best viol – to be sent to Tothill Street, then sat in the chilly garret wishing he had married someone else. It was not just the loss of a sanctuary he resented, but the fact that he would have nowhere for music. Hannah disliked him practising at home, and ignoring her and doing it anyway would negate any enjoyment he might have derived from the exercise.

Suspecting he would thoroughly depress himself if he reflected too long on his lot, he stood, took one last look around and left. He walked to Atkinson’s shop, where he waited until the stockinger went to the pantry for ale, then questioned Old Ned and Ursula, who was still helping with the work. Both confirmed that Atkinson had been with one or other of them from the meeting in the Talbot until Temperance’s note had arrived informing him about Snowflake’s death. The stockinger could certainly be eliminated as a suspect for dispatching Quelch. To be absolutely sure, Chaloner went to Hercules’ Pillars Alley to speak to Maude, who was able to say with certainty that Atkinson had been with her and Old Ned in the shop, or with Ursula hunting out more silk in the chamber at the back, for the entire evening.

Afterwards, Chaloner wandered aimlessly along High Holborn, thinking about the plot that was brewing there. Then it started to rain heavily, so he went to Lincoln’s Inn, where he sat by the fire in Chamber XIII, grateful both for its warmth and for Thurloe’s quiet friendship.

‘I hope you are being careful,’ said the ex-Spymaster, after Chaloner had furnished him with an account of all that had happened since they had last met. ‘Do not squander your life on this Fifth Monarchy nonsense. It is not worth it.’

‘Rupert and Williamson would disagree – they think it is
very
important. And there
is
more to it than rebellion, so why will they not tell me? The Prince is an ass, but Williamson should know that I would operate more efficiently with a clear picture of what is going on.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘I am concerned by your suggestion that Rupert might have put some kind of exploding candle on
London
. She was Lawson’s ship, and they have never seen eye to eye – the Prince despises Lawson’s lowly roots and crude manners, while Lawson views Rupert as an arrogant dandy. But to destroy a battleship on the eve of war over a petty quarrel…’

‘I suspect “candle” is a euphemism for something else. But how do I find out what?’

‘If it is a euphemism, then it is probably a weapon. Rupert has certainly devised or improved those in the past. Did you know he is a member of the Royal Society?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Brodrick said he had created some sort of exploding bead.’

‘They are called “Prince Rupert’s Drops” – an amusing diversion with no real purpose. More seriously, though, he has put his mind to developing better firing mechanisms for heavy artillery, and more potent forms of gunpowder.’

Chaloner glanced at the now-empty coal scuttle. ‘Do you think a sample of that was what Jones ordered me to take to Manning?’

‘If so, it would explain Rupert’s interest in the Fifth Monarchists. And why Williamson does not swoop in and arrest them at once – he and the Prince will want the name of every conspirator involved, to make sure that no one escapes with sensitive military secrets.’

‘Or one that is worth a lot of money,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I heard Williamson tell Rupert that something was more “financial than tactical”, although Rupert claimed it might “turn the tide of the war”. I think I see a glimmer of sense at last! How can we find out more?’

‘Carefully,’ advised Thurloe wryly. ‘If Rupert and Williamson suspect you know what they have refused to tell, they may take steps to silence you.’

Chaloner mulled over what they had reasoned, gazing idly at the shelf above the hearth. He snapped out of his reverie when he saw two cylindrical objects displayed there.

‘What are those?’

‘Coining dies,’ replied Thurloe. ‘The bottom part is called a “pile”, while the “trussel” fits over it like a hood. They were once used to make money, but we have special machines to do that now.’

‘Ferine gave a set to Snowflake.’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘The Lieutenant of the Tower recently found a crate of them in a cellar, and auctioned them off to raise money for the war. Wallis bought me a set as a gift. They are quite worthless, except as an intriguing relic of the past.’

‘Ferine told Snowdrop that hers will be make her rich one day.’

‘Then he was spinning her a yarn.’

‘Perhaps he thought she could set up her own mint.’

‘Hardly! The coins produced would be very inferior to the ones milled on a screw-press, and no one would accept them as currency. Shall I show you how the contraption works?’

He set the pile on the table and put a bone button on its top, to represent the silver blank that would once have been used. Then he placed the trussel over it.

‘And you hit it with a hammer.’ He did not have one, so he used a poker instead. When he pulled the dies apart, the button had been reduced to fragments.

‘I see,’ said Chaloner drolly. ‘Very useful.’

‘It would have worked with a
metal
blank,’ said Thurloe, a little defensively. ‘And then I would have had a coin “minted” in the reign of the last King Henry.’

‘So Ferine lied to Snowflake – these would not have made her wealthy. His other gift was a dried toad, which failed to bring her the luck he promised. Perhaps he was not in his right wits. Indeed, he would have to be unhinged to deal with Eliza Hatton – or Alice Fanshaw, as Wiseman believes she is called – because there is something very unsettling about her. The same is true of Lambe, whom I have seen near her twice now.’

‘My informants tell me that he is highly regarded at Court, although mostly because he is Buckingham’s protégé and so has access to the right circles. His presence there is deeply harmful, though – Londoners do not like the thought of the King and his ministers paying heed to a sorcerer. But never mind this. Who do you think killed Quelch?’

‘Strange is the obvious candidate,’ replied Chaloner. ‘They disliked each other, and quarrelled constantly. Or perhaps Jones did it, to eliminate a source of discord.’

‘Jones is certainly ruthless enough to kill for his Cause. What about Atkinson?’

‘He has an alibi in Maude, Ursula and Old Ned. I checked it myself.’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘Stockingers, farmers, labourers, housewives. I do not blame them for wanting a gentler, fairer society, yet I wager none of them understand what they are doing.’

Chaloner agreed. ‘Rupert and Williamson want a list of everyone involved, but they will not have it from me. And they will not have one from Leving either, if I can help it.’

‘You will have to give them something, or you will end up in the Tower yourself.’

‘I will face that problem when it comes. Has Wallis decoded those papers yet? The ones we copied before I delivered them to Manning?’

‘He is busy deciphering missives pertaining to the war, which must take precedence. He will tackle them when he can. The same goes for me – I will work on them when I have a moment.’

Chaloner regarded him curiously. ‘What is keeping you so busy?’

‘Lincoln’s Inn business. There is a complex legal wrangle pertaining to the Pope’s Head that is likely to keep its owner – us – tied up for weeks. We are also considering whether to sell some of our land to developers. I have been charged to handle both matters.’

Chaloner frowned, instinct telling him that Thurloe was not being entirely honest. He regarded him in concern, hoping he was not embroiled in something dangerous.

‘Property law is complex,’ said Thurloe irritably, seeing the look and understanding exactly what his friend was thinking. ‘Look at the papers on my desk if you do not believe me.’

The table was indeed piled high with plans and documents, but Chaloner was not so graceless as to take him up on the offer.

‘I hope you reject the developers’ suggestions,’ was all he said. ‘If they have their way, we shall have houses from Kensington to Wapping, and from Southwark to Shoreditch.’

‘You exaggerate, Tom. The city will never grow larger than it is now. How could it? We are bursting at the seams already.’

The Tothill Street house was empty when Chaloner arrived home, and there was a scribbled message from Hannah saying she would be home late and that the servants had been given the evening off. Chaloner was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that their discussion about the missing hoard would have to wait – relieved because it seemed a waste of his energy to embark on a confontation about so distateful a matter as money, and disappointed because he was angry with her and wanted answers.

He went to the pantry for food, but rejected the exotic treats that were displayed there – stewed peacock, churned cream, orange-peel comfits – stubbornly declining to have anything to do with Hannah’s extravagance. He settled for barley-bread and dripping. He carried them to the drawing room, not lighting a fire to save the cost of the fuel, and when he had eaten, took his second-best viol from the cupboard under the stairs and began to play. He only stopped when a door slamming at the back of the house told him that Joan was home.

Hannah returned much later, making sure he woke by putting cold feet on him. He mumbled an objection and eased away, and was just falling back to sleep when a pair of icy hands began to rove across his chest.

‘You are very warm,’ she murmured.

He retorted that he would not stay that way for long if she insisted on mauling him, and was just dozing off again when she heaved herself close. The chilly fingers came to rest on his stomach, and he could smell wine on her breath.

‘I have been to a party,’ she whispered. ‘To celebrate the twenty-second anniversary of Prince Rupert arriving in England to offer his services to the old king. It was a glittering occasion, and
everyone
was there. Are you asleep, Tom? We can talk in the morning if so.’

‘Yes, please,’ he mumbled, trying to escape her frigid touch.

‘Dr Lambe was there,’ she chattered on. With a sigh, he rolled over to face her, suspecting it was nearing dawn anyway. ‘He is an eerie fellow, although the Duke admires his skills. He predicted that the devil would appear at Tyburn, you know.’

‘Is that so?’ Chaloner was thoughtful. He was fairly sure Eliza Hatton had issued the screech that had frightened the spectators into a stampede. Were she and Lambe working together – he making the prediction, and she planting the notion in susceptible minds? And if nature had not contrived to help with rainclouds, would she have found another way to ‘prove’ him right? Chaloner decided he would have a word with Lambe as soon as he could corner the man alone. And with Eliza, too, if he could catch her.

‘He announced it at Court on Thursday morning,’ Hannah went on. ‘And it came to pass that very afternoon. The Queen says that such people are anathema and should be banished, but it is only a bit of harmless fun.’

‘Ferine predicted the future, too,’ said Chaloner.

‘Yes – he was very good at it. He did a reading for me, and he was right: you
did
come home from Russia before the week was out. Of course, Lambe does more than tell the future – the Duke hired him to help him find the Philosopher’s Stone. Rupert scoffs at his talents, though.’