Murder on High Holborn (31 page)

Chaloner slept poorly that night, starting awake at every creak and groan. In the end, he gave up, and sat staring out of the window. It was roughly two hours before dawn and the day was Monday, which meant he had less than a week to learn what Jones was plotting and stop it. He began to make plans.

Rupert’s question about Temple Mills told him that he needed to travel there immediately, not only to speak to Snowflake’s father, but also to determine why the Prince had forbidden him to go, although he thought he already knew the answer to that.

He shaved quickly, then donned clothes that were respectable enough for visiting bereaved parents and suitable for riding – a doublet with flared skirts for warmth, a laced shirt and breeches for elegance, sturdy boots, and an oiled overcoat with a felted hat. He slipped out the house via the window, but his wits were sluggish from lack of sleep and he felt the need for a dose of Farr’s medicinal coffee. He walked briskly to Fleet Street, arriving so early that Farr was still in his nightclothes, yawning and snuffling as he stoked up the fire and set water to boil.

‘There is a message for you,’ Farr said, handing over a scrap of paper that had been ripped from the bottom of a newsbook. ‘A nice naval gentleman left it.’

It was from Captain Lester, and urged Chaloner to visit his lodgings by White Friars’ Stairs as soon as possible, no matter what the hour. Chaloner set off at a run, coffee forgotten. He arrived to find lights blazing and the house thronged with people. Lester was in the parlour, dressed in sea-going clothes and surrounded by a seething horde of sailors, victuallers and port officials.

‘Tom!’ Lester gestured that everyone was to leave the room, and it was testament to his natural authority that they went quickly and quietly. ‘Your house was closed up, so I was reduced to leaving a note at the Rainbow.
Swiftsure
sails with the tide, so I am frantically busy, but there is someone I want you to meet before I go.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Jeffrey Dare, who had command of
London
when she went down. He rents the rooms on the top floor. Did you know that the ghouls at Court will start travelling east today, to watch her being weighed? They hope to see corpses, no doubt.’

Chaloner followed him upstairs, where a bandage-swathed man lay in a bed, his eyes full of haunted horror. Lester laid a hand in quiet sympathy on his shoulder as he addressed the spy.

‘The tale about candles igniting old cartridge papers is a nonsense. Something else happened on
London
, and we want you to discover what.’

‘I was in the crosstrees.’ Dare began speaking before Chaloner could point out that he had no authority to investigate shipwrecks. ‘Do you know where they are?’

Chaloner had spent enough time travelling by sea to know they were near the top of a mast, and their purpose was to stop it swaying too far from side to side. ‘Yes, but—’

Dare cut across him. ‘I was watching for shoals – the Thames Estuary is famous for them and I did not want to run her aground. Then there was a loud crack from starboard, followed by an explosion. We were going to take on more powder at Queenhithe, so the starboard hold was empty – it was the
larboard
magazine that ignited.’

‘You see?’ said Lester. ‘I told you it was sabotage, and Dare’s testimony proves it.’

Chaloner thought it proved nothing of the kind. ‘You were looking ahead when the blast occurred,’ he said gently to Dare. ‘Not to starboard
or
larboard. And everything must have happened very fast…’

‘It did,’ admitted the captain. ‘
London
sank in minutes. But I know what I heard, and we heeled so violently to starboard that our mainmast sprung.’

‘Let me explain it in lubberly terms,’ said Lester, when Chaloner looked blank. ‘Dare heard a crash on the
right
side of the ship before the explosion, but the powder was stored on the
left
. And the ship heeled to the
right
after the blast.’

‘I understood that much,’ said Chaloner. ‘But what does it mean?’

‘Obviously, that whatever set off the blast had nothing to do with the magazine,’ said Lester impatiently. ‘Which was locked anyway, so no one could have been in there.’

‘Then perhaps a cannon exploded,’ suggested Chaloner, still not quite sure what their ‘evidence’ showed. ‘I understand there were eighty of them.’

‘They were housed,’ said Dare. ‘And the crew were either manning the sails or on deck. No one was with the guns.’

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Chaloner. ‘There were more than three hundred people onboard, and you cannot verify the whereabouts of them all.’

‘Three hundred and twenty-seven,’ supplied Dare promptly. ‘And I
can
, actually. I sailed with that particular crew for more than a decade, and I knew them. None would have been meddling with a gun when we were sailing up the estuary. That leaves the visitors – the Admiral’s kin. And they were all on the quarterdeck.’

‘We cannot have civilians roaming unsupervised around warships,’ explained Lester. ‘They were all where they could be seen, with the chaplain minding them.’

‘The chaplain survived, too,’ said Dare with a bleak smile. ‘He visited me yesterday, and said he could account for all his charges. Ergo, there was no sabotage by crew
or
visitors.’

‘Then what?’ asked Chaloner. ‘A device rigged to explode with a fuse?’

‘Impossible,’ said Lester. ‘It would have been noticed – fuses stink. And our sailors
know
guns and ammunition anyway – anything suspicious would have been reported immediately.’

‘Then what
do
you think happened?’ asked Chaloner, becoming exasperated.

‘If we knew, we would not be asking you to find out,’ said Lester shortly. He turned to Dare. ‘Tell him what happened, Jeffrey. Start at the beginning.’

Dare nodded feebly. ‘We had been in the Royal Dockyard at Chatham for a refit, and should have left on the dawn tide, but there was a delay – some papers were not in order, and it took an age to resolve. I was champing at the bit all morning.’

Lester jabbed Chaloner in the ribs, prompting him to ask questions. Chaloner obliged only out of compassion for the man who lay picking miserably at the bedcovers. ‘What happened during that time? Were there any unexpected visitors or last-minute deliveries?’

Dare shook his head. ‘We were closed to everyone and everything except two chests for the Admiral. Commissioner Pett, who runs the shipyard, told me they contained Lawson’s viols.’

‘I doubt Lawson plays the viol,’ said Chaloner, unable to imagine any musical instrument in the hands of such a crude, unsophisticated man. Except perhaps a drum.

‘They were massively heavy,’ Dare went on. ‘The viols were metal, you see, so they would not lose their tone in the damp sea air.’

‘There is no such thing as a metal viol,’ said Chaloner, adding ‘thank God’ in his mind.

‘I imagine it was wine,’ said Lester. ‘Sailors like a drink, and Lawson is no exception.’

‘Have you asked him about it?’ asked Chaloner of Dare.

‘God, no!’ exclaimed the captain. ‘I would not presume! He would demand my resignation, and I like being in the navy.’

‘Then is it possible that the explosion originated in one of these chests?’

Dare frowned. ‘I suppose so, but they were locked. As was the spirit store, where we put them.’

‘Where was the spirit store?’

‘Amidships. As I said, sailors like a drink, and will do anything to get one, so that room is guarded day and night – I ordered the chests stored there to prevent some nosy tar from poking around in the Admiral’s personal property.’ Dare’s expression turned troubled. ‘But I cannot get it out of my head that Lawson has some odd friends. Fifth Monarchists…’

‘I suppose they might have been to blame,’ acknowledged Lester. ‘However,
he
will have had nothing to do with it. He would never harm his crew.’

Chaloner hoped Lester’s faith was not misplaced, and that the ‘fireworks’ predicted for Easter Day would not entail the Admiral turning the Channel Fleet against the city.

‘Will you look into it, Tom?’ asked Lester. ‘I would do it myself, but I sail in a few minutes, and I may not return. It would give me great peace of mind if you were to oblige.’

Put like that, Chaloner could hardly refuse.

Chaloner accompanied Lester to the quay, where
Swiftsure
was already casting off her moorings. There was no sign of Lawson, and enquiries revealed that the Admiral had decided to hoist his flag on
James
instead. Chaloner was relieved beyond measure. He watched
Swiftsure
ease away from the quay, angry that a good man like Lester was about to risk his life because the selfish hedonists on the Privy Council wanted to steal Dutch trading routes.

He walked to Temperance’s club, to borrow a horse for the journey to Temple Mills. It was still before dawn, a time when the place was usually in full swing, but it was silent that morning. Temperance and Maude were in the parlour drinking coffee, neither able to adjust to the earlier opportunity to sleep. Chaloner shook his head when they offered him some: it was so thick that the sugar they added sat on the surface, unable to sink or dissolve.

‘Is it too strong for you?’ Maude always teased him about his aversion to her brews.

‘No, I am afraid for my teeth,’ he said, then wished he had kept quiet when she and Temperance smiled and he saw that both had fewer fangs than he remembered.

‘There are not many men who can take it,’ said Maude comfortably, as though she had achieved something worthwhile. ‘My first husband had one sip and died on the spot.’

‘Then Tom cannot have any,’ said Temperance soberly. ‘We need him alive to solve these murders, because business will not return to normal until he does.’ She came to fasten the top button on his coat, and began to lecture him. ‘Remember: Snowflake’s father is Grisley Pate and he is a perfumer. And do not forget that he knew her as Consti.’

‘Have you learned anything useful since we last met?’ asked Chaloner hopefully. ‘About Ferine or Snowflake? You must have been asking questions and listening to rumours.’

‘How can we, when no one comes?’ asked Temperance bitterly. Then her expression softened. ‘Although Buckingham has promised to bring a few friends soon.’

‘And his sorcerer,’ added Maude. ‘He thinks Dr Lambe’s presence might attract a few more customers – people like having their fortunes told.’

‘Be careful,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Such activities are—’

‘Dear Tom,’ said Temperance fondly. ‘Always so respectable. However, I doubt Lambe’s antics will come close to competing with some of the entertainment we have staged here in the past.’

Chaloner was intrigued. ‘Why? What have you—’

Maude interrupted him. ‘Speaking of wild entertainments, the King is going to watch the ship
London
being raised. He made the announcement yesterday, so most of the Court has decided to go as well. Many will leave today, as the wet weather will make travelling difficult, and Prittlewell is a journey of some forty miles.’

‘Then you had better go now, Tom,’ said Temperance briskly. ‘You do not want to get stuck behind all those lumbering coaches.’

‘You must ride Lady,’ said Maude, before Chaloner could explain that they would be taking different roads. ‘Our new bay horse. She will be the fastest. Here is some money for your expenses. No, do not refuse, or we shall be vexed.’

Chaloner was glad of the funds, given that his own reserves were spent. He saddled Lady, sorry the animal had owners who did not know enough about horses to tell that ‘she’ was a gelding. He was just leading him into the yard when he saw Wiseman sneaking in through the back gate. The surgeon was wearing a black cloak over his scarlet robes, holding part of it over his face like the arch-villain of children’s stories.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Visiting Temperance incognito,’ explained Wiseman in a hoarse whisper. ‘I am obliged to be more discreet now that I am Master of the Company of Barber-Surgeons.’

‘I would have thought your post as Surgeon to the King would demand discretion, yet you have never felt obliged to practise it before.’

‘His Majesty is very liberal; my medical colleagues are not. Incidentally, I saw a letter on Williamson’s desk an hour ago.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You read the private correspondence of spymasters?’

‘Not as a rule, but this one caught my eye because it looked to have been written in blood, although a closer inspection revealed that it was only red ink. It was from someone who has infiltrated the Fifth Monarchists and signs himself as Trojan Horse – hardly original. I did not recognise the writing, although it was not yours and not Will Leving’s.’

‘How do you know Leving?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the man’s status as ‘turned’ was not common knowledge.

‘Williamson thinks he is insane and asked me to examine him. Some of the tests I performed necessitated writing. He has a very distinctive hand.’

‘And is Leving insane?’ asked Chaloner, supposing he should have guessed that Williamson would have a third agent in place. Obviously, a madman and a former Parliamentarian spy would not be deemed sufficient for so important a matter.

‘Oh, yes, quite unhinged. Anyway, this letter said that Easter Day may be marked with some major explosions, and I thought you should know. And while I am blabbing secrets, I should also mention that there has been another death connected to Ferine.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Hubbert. I heard. I do not suppose you examined him, did you?’

‘I did, but there was no evidence of foul play. However, his demise was predicted, and not even my superior skills can detect every poison.’

‘What are you saying? That he was fed a toxin?’

‘I have no grounds for making such a claim. I merely point out that Lambe foretold that Hubbert would die, and die Hubbert did – which is damned convenient for Lambe. I do not like him, even if he is the Court’s current darling.’

Chaloner recalled the conversation he had had with Lambe, when the sorcerer had smugly declared that he would welcome a surgeon investigating Hubbert. Was it because Wiseman was not the only one who knew that some poisons were undetectable?