Murder on High Holborn (33 page)

It had been built with very thick wood, presumably to mute some of the racket produced by the machinery, and its only door – large enough to accommodate a sizeable wagon – was secured from the inside by a bar. He put his eye to a crack, but although he could see a number of men labouring there, he could not tell what they were doing.

He stepped back and considered. He could probably jiggle the bar out of the door from where he stood, but then he would be seen by the workmen – and it was clearly not a place that welcomed visitors. Then he saw that someone had been considerate enough to site the building next to a large oak with spreading boughs, presumably to shield some of the structure from sight.

He climbed quickly, then crawled along a branch until he was over the roof. He let himself drop, and immediately began to slide – rain had rendered it slick and it was steeply pitched. But he regained his footing and scrambled towards a flue, hoping the noise of the mill’s machinery would mask the din he felt he was making.

Working fast, he prised off the vent’s slats with his dagger, but unfortunately, when he had finished, all he could see were ceiling beams. He swore under his breath when he realised he was going to have to climb inside.

It was a tight squeeze, but he managed eventually, and was rewarded with a clear view of the interior. It was brightly lit, both by lamps and by the furnace that was going full blast. About a dozen men were labouring, some dealing with the oven, and others manhandling moulds with thick levers. He nodded to himself. It was what he had expected: here was Prince Rupert’s gun-making factory, sited deep in the marshes to keep it from prying eyes. Except, of course, that the secret was out, as the reports in Jones’s harpsichord attested.

There was an enormous wheel at the far end, and it did not take him long to understand what was meant by ‘turning’ a gun, while the furnace allowed them to be ‘annealed’. And
that
was the connection Snowflake had made: she had linked her father’s remarks with things Rupert must have said when they had discussed the Hackney Marsh together. It had nothing to do with Ferine – it was a young girl realising that something serious was afoot and deciding to confide in a man whom she knew worked for a member of the government.

Of course, Rupert had every reason to want the venture kept quiet. Building the mill and purchasing raw materials would represent a major financial outlay, and the fewer people who knew about the operation, the more secure his investment would be. And Williamson? Chaloner imagined he was eager to keep the weapon from hostile hands of any description, but especially Dutch ones.

So was this why Snowflake had been killed? To prevent Chaloner from making the connection between Rupert, Temple Mills and the ‘silver cannon’ that the Fifth Monarchists might use to usher in the Last Millennium? If so, it had failed, and Chaloner determined to do all he could to ensure that her killer faced justice, no matter who he transpired to be.

He focused his attention on the activity below. The men worked with practised, efficient movements, and spoke rarely, although one was clearly in charge. He was a large, thickset fellow with a single eyebrow in a dark slash across his face. His demeanour was one of unsmiling competence.

‘Hey, Browne,’ called one of the workmen to him. ‘This one is ready.’

More answers snapped clear in Chaloner’s mind. Here was the mysterious John Browne, whom Sherwin had called a ‘desperate villain, dishonest, sly and vicious’; whose name Prynne had overheard mentioned in discussions between high-ranking people; whom Williamson had castigated to Rupert for being careless; and whom Scott claimed to have ‘managed’.

He watched Browne walk towards the man who had hailed him, light-footed for a fellow his size, and begin to slather a barrel with grease. As he worked, Browne revealed hands and forearms that were marred by a mass of small burns, some old and some fresh. They were identical to the ones Chaloner had seen on Sherwin.

And then Chaloner understood exactly why Sherwin was so confident of his worth – he had worked in the mill and knew how to make iron cannon. He was a drunk, so Browne had dismissed him, after which he had fallen into Manning’s greedy hands. Then along had come Scott, who had conned Manning into a partnership. Scott had taken Sherwin to the club in an effort to impress him, where Snowflake had heard him mutter about something being ‘turned’. Chaloner had assumed he had meant a person, but Sherwin had been talking about guns.

But why had Sherwin been allowed to walk away from the foundry to hawk the secret? Chaloner could only suppose that he had disappeared before Rupert could stop him. Then why had he not been arrested when he had arrived in London? The answer to that was obvious, too: Williamson’s spies – including Scott, if he was telling the truth – had found him too long after his escape, and now it was a case of learning to whom he might have talked, so that they could be silenced as well.

Questions and answers whirling in his mind in equal measure, Chaloner was about to leave when there was a clatter of hoofs outside. He could not see the horse from his position on the beam, but within moments, its rider was standing almost directly beneath him.

It was Admiral Lawson.

Chaloner was exasperated. He thought he had had the makings of a solution at last, but the Admiral’s appearance threw him into confusion again. Why was Lawson there when he had made his disdain for iron cannon abundantly clear? Yet Browne did not seem surprised to see him, and Chaloner could tell by the Admiral’s easy familiarity with the place and its employees that it was not his first visit. He and Browne began to talk, but the background noise meant Chaloner could only hear snatches of their discussion.

‘…been generous,’ Lawson was saying. ‘You promised to hurry.’

‘I will,’ snapped Browne. ‘Gun and powder will be ready in…’

‘Time is of the essence,’ Lawson snapped back. ‘There is not…’

They moved away at that point, and Chaloner heard no more. Moving with infinite caution, he climbed back through the vent and across the roof. He scrambled down the tree, and because he was near and the door was open, he took a moment to inspect one of the sheds.

A number of guns were there, standing in neat rows. Their muzzles were enormous – presumably the turning and annealing allowed for a much bigger bore. He was impressed. If they worked, they were certainly something that should be kept from the enemy – he hated to think of such monsters in the hands of a capable Dutch gun crew.

There were several casks nearby, and one had been broached. Chaloner raised the lid to see it was full of the same fine powder that he had delivered to Manning and that Jones kept on his mantelpiece. Clearly, the new guns preferred a different kind of ammunition.

A yell broke into his thoughts, and he turned to see someone running towards him, stabbing an accusing finger. Immediately, workmen poured from the mill, and so did Lawson. Chaloner pulled his hat low against recognition and began to sprint towards the fence. But it was too far, and he knew he would not make it, especially when the guards appeared. Their dogs worried him most: they were straining at their leashes, snarling and barking. He changed direction, zigzagging until the workmen were between him and the hounds. Then he resumed his dash for the palisade.

The guards released their animals but, as Chaloner had hoped with his manoeuvre, the beasts were confused, and sprang for the workmen instead. There were screams, a yelp and a lot of panicky swearing. Chaloner gained the wall, and scaled it quickly, landing clumsily on the other side. But the chase was not over. As he ran, urgent shouts and the eager baying of dogs told him that he was being tracked. He stumbled towards the river, knowing that water was his only chance of losing them.

The howling grew closer: the dogs had picked up his scent. A quick glance behind saw the first of the animals hurtling towards him. Gritting his teeth against the cold, he waded into the icy flow, while the hound raced down the bank, yipping its triumph. His pursuers homed in on the sound, and so did Lawson. One guard held a lamp, and he raised it, pointing at the same time.

‘There he is!’

Lawson had a handgun. He took aim and fired, and Chaloner heard the bullet zip into the water at his side. Furious at missing, the Admiral pulled a second weapon from his belt. Chaloner had only one option: he took a deep breath and plunged beneath the surface.

The River Lea was normally a gentle, meandering stream, favoured by herons and dabbling ducks, but that night it was a treacherous torrent fed by the recent rains. Chaloner was swept along at a furious rate, which allowed him to escape Lawson’s pistols, but that made him wonder whether he might drown instead. It took all his strength just to keep his head above the surface, and trying to swim for the shore was impossible.

Just when he thought he could fight it no longer, the current lessened: he had been cast up in a pool. He paddled to the edge and struggled up the bank, which was not easy when his limbs ached with cold and exhaustion, but he managed eventually and lay gasping at the top, listening for sounds of pursuit. All he could hear was the hiss and gurgle of fast-flowing water.

When he had recovered enough to stand, he staggered away from the river, moving blindly in the pitch dark. He tripped over furrows and ruts with no notion of direction or how much distance he had travelled. Then he saw the mill lights in the distance.

It was enough to give him his bearings, and he was relieved beyond measure to learn that he was on the right side of the river for going home – he would not have enjoyed a trek to the nearest bridge, which might be miles away, while swimming across the torrent would have been impossible. He shivered violently as he went, and his misery intensified when it started to rain. It could not make him wetter, drenched as he was, but it sucked away any warmth he had managed to generate by trotting. He pressed on, aiming to collect Lady and start back to London immediately, but he was just passing Pate’s house when the perfumer himself stepped out. Chaloner braced himself as Pate peered at him. He did not want to knock the man senseless, but he would if the alternative was being exposed.

Pate started to chuckle. ‘We should have warned you that the latrine is a long way from the house. And now it is pouring with rain, and you are soaked!’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner tightly. ‘I am.’

‘You had better come and sit by the fire then,’ said Pate, still chortling. ‘And you shall have a cup of hot brandywine, too. It is expensive, but you have provided us with such an unending stream of amusement that we should repay you somehow.’

Chaloner knew he should leave Temple Mills, but the thought of a fire and a warming drink drew him after Pate into the house. Telling himself that he could always skewer the perfumer and escape through a window if there was trouble, he followed him into the kitchen.

Three of Pate’s sons, solid, steady, grey-haired fellows in their forties, helped him wring out his clothes and set them to dry on a rack, tittering at the notion of their guest’s sodden foray to the public conveniences. Pate poured generous slugs of what he claimed was brandywine, but that tasted foul and was almost certainly illegal. It gradually restored the warmth to Chaloner’s body, though, and eased his temper, too, so he was even able to smile when Pate said ‘latrine’ and all four men dissolved into more paroxysms of laughter.

‘James here thinks we should build one in the garden,’ said Pate, once he had his mirth under control. ‘But I am not sure it would have enough use to warrant the cost.’

‘How many people live here?’ asked Chaloner, suspecting it would never be empty.

Pate began to list them, but Chaloner lost count at thirty. When Pate started to hold forth about latrines he had known, Chaloner steered the conversation around to Rupert.

‘Yes, I did meet him once,’ replied the perfumer. ‘He was riding a white mare with black socks, and I asked whether he would like to buy some scent. He was bundled up in his cloak and hat, but Consti had talked about his horse so often that I recognised it at once.’

‘Why did he come?’ asked Chaloner, wondering what lie the Prince had told to explain his presence in such a bleak part of the world.

‘He wanted to buy some buttons for his mistress. Then he purchased my biggest and most expensive bottle of lavender oil in exchange for me keeping his mission quiet. I have kept my end of the bargain, but it was weeks ago, so I doubt the surprise will be ruined by me chatting to you now.’

‘Do many people visit the mill?’

‘No one does, except the fellows who deliver the raw materials. Their wagons are great lumbering things, and if Mr Browne had not shown me the buttons, I would have assumed they were making something else entirely. He gave me some. Look.’

Chaloner was presented with a handful of shiny metal discs, which Pate said he could keep, as he himself had no truck with fancy devices. Absently, Chaloner put them in his pocket.

‘Did a man named Edward Sherwin work here?’

‘Yes – a sot, who kept escaping to drink in the tavern. Browne got rid of him in the end. I heard them arguing, and Sherwin was so angry that he could barely form the words to curse.’

‘How are the finished goods exported? You mention raw materials delivered…’

‘They put them on barges and send them down the Lea to the Thames. They can go anywhere from there.’

They could, thought Chaloner, including the great dockyards at Chatham or Wapping, ready to be installed on the navy’s warships. Or were the finished guns intended for another destination entirely – France, perhaps, or the United Provinces of the Netherlands?

‘Speaking of the Thames, did you hear about
London
, the ship that exploded near Prittlewell?’ Pate chatted on. ‘Well, James was there when it happened. He was collecting ambergris from the coast. We use ambergris as a fixative in perfume making, you see, and—’

‘What did you see, James?’ interrupted Chaloner.

‘It is not what he
saw
that was significant, but what he
heard
,’ said Pate, before his son could reply for himself. ‘He was in a local tavern the night before the blast, where some men were talking. It was not an accident with a candle, as has been put about – it was done deliberately.’