Murder on High Holborn (3 page)

‘Yet I cannot imagine how it will be funded,’ she sighed. ‘Not with taxes – there is already a ridiculously high duty on coal, which means the poor cannot heat their homes or cook. The government would not dare introduce another levy – not unless they want more civil wars.’ But her expression was distant, and before he could comment, she burst out with, ‘Who would want Ferine dead? He had his detractors, but who does not?’

‘What detractors?’

Her expression was unhappy. ‘Those who hated the fact that he had stopped being a Christian and put his faith in superstition instead. He took his horoscopes and omens very seriously.’

Chaloner was about to ask more but the door opened and Richard Wiseman walked in. The surgeon was a large man in many senses of the word. He was tall, broad and added to his bulk by lifting heavy stones each morning. He wore no colour except red, which served to make him even more imposing, and his character was arrogant, haughty and proud. He was not someone Chaloner would normally have chosen as a friend, but circumstances had thrown them together, and the spy was slowly beginning to appreciate Wiseman’s few but significant virtues – loyalty to those he liked, an ability to keep a secret and a strong sense of justice.

‘I understand you have a corpse for me,’ he boomed cheerfully. ‘Good! Lead me to it.’

Upstairs again, Chaloner sat on a chair that would have cost him a month’s pay, and watched Wiseman examine Ferine. The sounds of dissipated rumpus still emanated from the parlour below, while girlish shrieks and manly guffaws from the bedrooms indicated that business was continuing as usual upstairs as well – so far, at least.

‘Well?’ he asked, when Wiseman had finished. ‘I assume his heart gave out?’

‘Then you would assume wrong. He has been smothered.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘I saw no evidence of—’

‘Of course not –
you
are not a surgeon. However, he inhaled two feathers from the pillow that was pressed over his face, there is a cut on the inside of his lip, and his eyes are bloodshot. Ferine was definitely murdered.’

Chaloner’s duty was clear: he had to send word to Spymaster Williamson, then distance himself from the entire affair. Ferine’s death was not his concern, and the Earl would be aghast if he ever learned that his spy had visited a brothel, regardless of the fact that he had done so to help a friend and not to avail himself of its delights. But years in espionage had imbued Chaloner with a keen sense of curiosity, and his interest was piqued.

‘I know the wine flows very freely here, but surely the lady who was with Ferine would have noticed someone shoving a cushion over his face?’

‘Snowflake,’ said Wiseman, naming one of Temperance’s more popular employees, a small, vivacious blonde with a sensuous body and world-weary eyes. ‘Shall I fetch her?’

He returned a few moments later with both the lady in question and Temperance. The two women entered the bedchamber reluctantly, and Snowflake would only explain what had happened after Chaloner had covered Ferine’s body with a sheet.

‘He always liked to frolic in nothing but his hat and boots.’ She shrugged at Chaloner’s raised eyebrows. ‘Such antics are not unusual, and we aim to please. Afterwards, I slipped out for a moment, and when I returned, he was lying on the bed … I thought he was asleep.’

‘They do nod off on occasion,’ put in Temperance. Her voice was hoarse – she took no pleasure in hearing her suspicions confirmed. ‘Running the nation, managing dioceses or directing large commercial ventures is very tiring, and our guests are often weary.’

Chaloner thought it best not to comment. ‘Did you see anyone in the hall outside when you left?’ he asked of Snowflake.

She considered the question carefully, pulling a silken shift more tightly around her slender shoulders. ‘No, it was empty.’ She turned apologetically to Temperance. ‘I was only gone for a minute – just long enough to run down to the kitchens for a jug of wine.’

Temperance frowned. ‘Wine? But that is why we hire Ann – to fill the decanters between clients. You should not have had to fetch it yourself.’

‘Bring Ann up here,’ suggested Wiseman. ‘Then we can ask why she forgot.’

‘She is usually very reliable,’ said Snowflake when Temperance had gone. She shuddered. ‘I cannot believe this is happening! Men do die here, of course – we make them feel like youths, and their hearts sometimes cannot take it – but no one has never been murdered before.’

‘How did Ferine behave this evening?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Was he nervous? Fearful?’

‘Drunk,’ replied Snowflake. ‘Although he did mention the unfavourable horoscope for the thirteenth. After he had finished here, he planned to go home and not stir all day, in the hope that the bad fortune could be averted. He meant to leave before midnight, but we lost track of time. I imagine he did not expect disaster to strike quite so soon.’

‘Clearly,’ said Wiseman drily.

‘Yet I do not believe he thought he would
die
,’ Snowflake went on. ‘I think he envisaged losing some money or tripping over a rug.’ She looked sadly at the sheeted body. ‘He was a lovely man, and generous, too. He gave me a dried toad only last week, and said that licking it three times before going to church would bring me good luck.’

Chaloner winced. ‘And has it?’

‘No, not yet – my stepfather’s perfume business still founders, and I have not won at cards.’

‘Did you notice anyone watching him with undue interest tonight?’

‘Well, he made a dreadful fuss about losing his woodlice. That attracted the “undue interest” of the whole club – guests and staff.’

‘His woodlice?’ queried Chaloner warily.

‘He liked to keep three of them in a box around his neck, as they are thought to bestow good health on the wearer. The box fell off, and he had us all in an uproar until he found it.’

The object in question was on the bedside table. Chaloner liberated the creatures through the window, at the same time checking to see whether a killer had entered that way. The catch was so stiff that he was certain it had not been opened in weeks.

‘Prince Rupert was not very nice about the commotion,’ Snowflake was saying. ‘He refused to join the hunt, and sat looking sour the whole time.’

‘If he let me drill a hole in his skull, these wicked moods would be a thing of the past,’ said Wiseman. ‘And if any man is in need of such a procedure, it is him. The rest of the Privy Council would love me to do it, especially Buckingham. They are all weary of his nasty temper.’

While he and Snowflake discussed whether Rupert should submit himself to such a drastic procedure for the convenience of others, Chaloner examined the hallway. There were plenty of alcoves, and the windows had been fitted with heavy curtains to ensure that no one in the street outside should be able to see in. Scuff marks on the floor suggested that the killer had hidden behind one, waiting until Ferine was alone. Chaloner inspected the area closely, but there were no clues that he could see.

Eventually, Temperance arrived with a tearful white-haired woman in tow. Ann’s clothes were cheap but clean, and it was clear from her nervous demeanour that she was terrified of losing her job. ‘I
did
fill the flagon!’ she declared before anyone could speak. ‘I know I did.’

Temperance began to remonstrate with her, but Chaloner opened an ornate chest and was not surprised to discover a lot of claret-soaked blankets.

‘The culprit dumped it here after Ann had been,’ he explained, to the woman’s obviously profound relief. ‘Then he concealed himself behind the curtains in the hall until Snowflake left to fetch more.’

‘How did he know that Ferine would want some?’ Wiseman asked doubtfully.

‘They all do,’ replied Temperance, pale at the notion that such a determined and resourceful villain should have been in her house. ‘Being with a lady is thirsty work.’

‘A fact of which the killer was obviously aware,’ surmised Chaloner, ‘which suggests he is familiar with the club and its ways.’

‘My guests are not murderers,’ said Temperance firmly, although her eyes were fearful. Her patrons were powerful men, who would not take kindly to accusations that might be used to ruin them.

‘A member of staff then,’ suggested Chaloner. Temperance opened her mouth to disagree, so he hastened to explain. ‘Your club has two doors: the front one, which is guarded by the porter; and the kitchen one, which means passing the cook and his assistants. The only people who can enter this building without exciting attention are patrons and staff.’

‘My people are beyond reproach,’ stated Temperance. ‘I chose them myself.’

‘The staff would never kill anyone,’ agreed Snowflake, while Ann nodded at her side. ‘We all make a good living here, and no one is stupid enough to risk it.’

Chaloner was tempted to point out that if the staff were innocent then the culprit
had
to be a guest, but he did not want to argue. Feeling he had indulged his curiosity quite long enough, and that it was time to put the matter into official hands, he told Temperance to contact the Spymaster.

Once a note to Williamson had been sent off with a fleet-footed servant, Chaloner settled down to wait. He would rather have gone home, but he did not want to annoy a dangerously powerful spymaster by leaving the scene of the crime without permission. Unfortunately, it was not Williamson who appeared an hour or so later, but one of his agents, a slow, ponderous man named Doines, who was better at intimidation and coercion than conducting politically sensitive investigations. He refused to hear the statements of witnesses, preferring instead to drink wine and leer at the girls, which he claimed was background research.

It was nearing dawn before Doines finally deigned to speak to Chaloner and Wiseman, but his note-taking was perfunctory, and they were soon dismissed. Chaloner was glad to be away. He had to be at Clarendon House at eight, and his Earl was unlikely to be impressed if he arrived late with the excuse of being interrogated about a murder in a brothel. However, he had not taken many steps along the hallway before he heard a sudden exclamation.

‘Tom Chaloner! Good God! I thought you would be dead by now.’

It took a moment for Chaloner to place the speaker, a handsome fellow with shiny black hair, bright brown eyes and a confident swagger. The voice carried a colonial drawl.

‘John Scott,’ he said, as the face clicked into place in his mind. They had met some years ago in New Amsterdam, where he had been tracking a dangerous spy and Scott had been paid to help him. They had shared a number of adventures, and he had never met anyone, before or since, who could lie with such effortless ease.

‘The very same,’ grinned Scott. ‘From Scott Hall in Kent.’

Chaloner nodded politely, although the family who lived there vigorously denied all knowledge of this particular ‘kinsman’. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘You once told me that you could never return to England, because you had been convicted of insurgency.’

Scott’s dismissive wave told Chaloner that the ‘confession’ had been one of his stories, an invention designed to make himself sound more interesting. ‘I came to tell our King that the time was ripe to snatch New Amsterdam from the Dutch. It is because of
me
that it is no longer ruled by Hollanders, but is now the British-owned Province of New York.’

The Dutch
had
recently been ousted from their American territories, but Chaloner doubted Scott had had anything to do with it – the man was spinning him yarns already. He recalled conversations they had had in the past, and repeated them rather wickedly. ‘You often said that you admire Holland more than any other country in the world. Have you visited it yet?’

‘You remember falsely.’ Scott cast a furtive glance around him, to ensure no one had heard. ‘I have never been there and I never will.’

He turned abruptly, leaving Chaloner to note his stylishly expensive clothes as he flashed a wide but insincere smile at the women who were waiting to escort him out. This was a courtesy rarely extended to other guests, and meant he had charmed them, no mean feat with Temperance’s prematurely cynical lasses.

Chaloner reached the door where the porter, Preacher Hill, was alert and bristling with anger that murder should have been committed in the building he was paid to protect. Hill did not like Chaloner, because the spy made no effort to disguise the fact that he considered him a hypocrite of the first order – Hill was a nonconformist fanatic, whose night work at the club left him free to spout sermons about the perils of sin during the day; he genuinely failed to see that earning his bread in a bordello sat poorly with his moralising.

‘The Kingdom of Christ will be here soon,’ he said tightly. ‘I shall stand at Jesus’s side, naturally, but the rogue who killed Mr Ferine will be cast into hell.’

Chaloner was not surprised to hear Hill expounding millenarian views. A small but vocal minority had been predicting the end of the world for as long as he could remember, its beliefs fuelled by the upheaval of the civil wars and the execution of King Charles I. Before he could reply, Hill was addressing the patron behind him.

‘Mr Jones! How did
you
get in? You know you are not welcome here.’

Jones was a small, dark-featured man with pale, unblinking eyes. He did not look like the kind of fellow who belonged in the club – his clothes were too plain, and a lack of aristocratic swagger suggested he was not rich enough to pay its exorbitant prices.

‘I should not have bothered,’ said Jones coolly. ‘I was bored. You do not even provide newsbooks to help visitors while away the time.’

‘If you want to read, go to a coffee house.’ Hill glowered as Jones walked away without responding, then turned back to Chaloner. ‘One of the girls must have sneaked him in. She should not have done, because we do not want his type in here. The same might be said for your Mr Scott. I did not take to him, but that is not surprising – not if he is
your
friend.’

‘What do you know about Scott?’ asked Chaloner, electing to ignore the insult.

‘Nothing,’ replied Hill sullenly. ‘Other than that he is the new Cartographer Royal. Good evening, Admiral Lawson. Shall I summon your coach? Where did you leave it?’