Murder on High Holborn (35 page)

The men on the boats lapsed into inactivity again, so the courtiers began to chatter among themselves. Lambe’s eyes narrowed suddenly, and when Chaloner followed the sorcerer’s gaze, he saw it was fixed on Odowde, who was standing with a group of minor courtiers. Lambe stalked towards him and pulled him away so they could talk undisturbed. Odowde nodded hastily to whatever was said, and sighed his relief when the sorcerer strode away.

‘He is a sinister devil,’ said Chaloner, making Odowde jump by speaking close behind him. ‘You might do well to avoid his company.’

‘I might do well to avoid yours, too,’ said Odowde, putting a hand to his heart and closing his eyes. ‘You made me leap out of my skin, sneaking up on me like that. However, you are right about Lambe. He
is
a sinister devil, and I wish he had never come to Court.’

‘He predicted you would hurt your arm, but I know he did not push you, as he was with the King at the time. So what did he do? Pay you to stumble?’

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Odowde in alarm. ‘I never—’

‘I imagined you agreed to “fall” and wear a bandage,’ Chaloner forged on. ‘But Surgeon Wiseman was there, and he declared the injury insignificant. That did not suit Lambe, despite the fuss you made. He wanted something serious enough to convince his detractors.’

‘
I
am a detractor,’ gulped Odowde, but his words sounded mechanical and carried no conviction. ‘Or I was. I changed my mind when I saw his power—’

‘Wiseman may be insensitive, but he does not refer to broken bones as “barely a bruise”.’ Chaloner looked pointedly at Odowde’s blue and swollen fingers. ‘Ergo, that happened
after
your tumble down the Banqueting House steps.’

‘No!’ breathed Odowde, although his frightened eyes told the truth. ‘I never…’

‘You are Lambe’s accomplice,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Like Ferine, Hubbert and Duncombe. But why did you and Duncombe persist with the arrangement after Hubbert died? I understand you dismissing Ferine’s fate as happenstance, but you must have been suspicious when a second of your number died. And it is obvious what is going on: Lambe no longer needs you, and is eliminating the nuisance you have all become.’

‘No!’ cried Odowde, distraught. ‘Wiseman found no evidence of foul play. Hubbert passed away because Lambe said he would. Lambe is a powerful man. Powerful and evil.’

‘And ruthless,’ added Chaloner, not without sympathy. ‘Did Lambe hurt you himself, or did another of his minions oblige?’

Odowde hung his head, and what little fight he had left drained out of him. ‘He gave me a potion to numb the pain, then hit me with a cudgel. But his brew did not work, and it was agony. He said he would break the other one if I told anyone about it.’

‘Why did you agree to it? For money?’

Odowde swallowed hard. ‘Courtiers are paid a pittance, yet we are expected to spend a fortune on clothes, jewellery, suitable transport … just ask Hannah. So yes, I leapt at the chance to make some easy cash. So did Ferine, Hubbert and Duncombe, but now all three are dead…’

‘
Duncombe
is dead?’ Chaloner wondered if he had misheard.

‘He had a seizure, just like Hubbert. Lambe says I will have one, too, unless I do as I am told.’

‘Poison,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘One that is undetectable.’

Odowde was near to tears. ‘Yes, but no one will ever prove it. Perhaps he will do the same to me once I have outlived my usefulness. And Buckingham.’

‘Lambe will not harm Buckingham – the man who pays him and takes him to Court.’

‘He will not be paid and taken to Court when he fails to deliver the Philosopher’s Stone,’ flashed Odowde. ‘Which he cannot do, because it does not exist. He has already “predicted” bad luck for Friday: he is preparing to strike, and will use the Duke’s death to further his reputation as a great seer.’

‘No one will hire Lambe if he predicts premature ends for all his customers,’ Chaloner pointed out, not unreasonably.

‘Of course they will, if he also tells them how to avoid such mishaps, which he has been doing for everyone else – although the poor Duke still awaits instructions. But I can say no more and you should forget this discussion or it will be
you
suffering a fatal seizure.’

He hurried away, leaving Chaloner staring after him thoughtfully. It was a nasty business, and he decided that when everyone was back in the city, he would expose Lambe as a vicious charlatan. But he had more urgent matters to attend that day, and with a sigh, he turned his attention back to the beach.

Out on the water, the rescued cannon had been winched on to a pontoon, and there was another hiatus while it was carefully secured. For the first time, it began to occur to the spectators that nothing was going to happen in a hurry – and certainly nothing dramatic. Moreover, the King had not made good on his promise to come. Some folk were already drifting back to their carriages, and there was a general atmosphere of anticlimax.

Among those who lingered was Spymaster Williamson. He perched on the rim of a wreck, gazing across the grey water at nothing in particular. He was not alone for long: John Scott approached and sat next to him. Curious to hear what they had to say to each other, Chaloner eased forward, and was torn between disgust and satisfaction when he was able to crouch behind the hulk and listen to every word.

‘How much longer?’ Williamson was demanding irritably. ‘The Prince is beside himself with worry, and he is becoming difficult to control. Meanwhile, this uprising is scheduled for four days’ time, and we must have answers before then or—’

‘I will not let you down,’ interjected Scott smoothly. ‘You can trust me.’

‘Can I?’ asked Williamson coldly. ‘Why, when I have it on good authority that the maps you sold me at such great expense are wildly inaccurate?’

‘Then your “authority” is wrong!’ Scott sounded hurt. ‘My drawings are used by governments and military commanders all over the world, and no one has complained before. I am Cartographer Royal, you know.’

‘Do not spin your yarns to me,’ snapped Williamson angrily. ‘Preparing a few charts does not make you Cartographer Royal. And the King would certainly not appoint one who put the River Rotte in Amsterdam and The Hague ten miles inland. God only knows what other mistakes are—’

‘Those will be the copyist’s fault,’ stated Scott firmly. ‘But to show good faith, I shall correct them personally, at no extra cost.’

‘At no extra cost?’ exploded Williamson in open-mouthed disbelief. ‘I did not pay for works of fiction, and your offer to make amends is too late anyway – duplicates have been distributed to the navy. What you have done is tantamount to treason.’

‘Treason?’ cried Scott. ‘How can you say such a thing when I came to England – at great personal expense and inconvenience – to tell the King how to oust the Hollanders from New Amsterdam? You
know
I am loyal, and I resent your words extremely.’

Not for the first time, Chaloner marvelled at Scott’s talent for deception, because his offended tirade took the wind out of Williamson’s sails.

‘Make your report,’ the Spymaster said stiffly. ‘Information has been far too sparse in this business and it is time that was rectified.’

‘There have been some developments,’ obliged Scott, indignation still in his voice. ‘However, I might be persuaded to spend more of my time working on your behalf if you were a little more generous with … Ah, that will do nicely. I shall send you my testimony as soon as I can.’

‘As soon as you can?’ echoed Williamson incredulously. ‘What about the “developments” you just mentioned? And the list of names you promised?’

‘Both coming along splendidly, thank you for asking. However, names are no good alone, so I also intend to present you with details of the villains’ homes, meeting places and known associates. But these things take time.’

‘We do not have time,’ snapped Williamson.

Scott bowed jauntily. ‘Then I had better be about my business.’

Chaloner heard crunching footsteps as the New Englander sauntered away, and grinned when he also heard a medley of very colourful curses; Williamson did not often lose control, but he certainly indulged himself that morning. Chaloner was about to emerge from his hiding place when he heard someone else approaching. He ducked down again.

‘I received your report,
Trojan Horse
.’ Williamson placed sardonic emphasis on the codename. ‘Although I recommend you use black ink next time. Red is overly dramatic, and I am sure it caught Wiseman’s eye. Not that it would have told him much. You did not specify what
manner
of explosions are planned for Easter.’

‘Because I do not know,’ came a voice that Chaloner recognised, but that he had so little expected to hear that it took him a moment to place. ‘I need more time.’

‘Does no
one appreciate the urgency of the situation?’ muttered Williamson. ‘Then what about the list of rebels? How are you proceeding with that?’

‘I have roughly a third of the names,’ replied Atkinson. Peering through a hole in the wood Chaloner saw the scholarly face creased in worry. ‘I shall work on the others, but it is not easy. Everyone is suspicious of everyone else, especially after the deaths of Strange and Quelch.’

‘What of Chaloner? Have you told him you are working for me yet?’

‘No. He will be wary of such a claim, and unlikely to believe me.’

Atkinson was right: he was the last man Chaloner would have suspected of betraying his fellows. The spy was not sure whether to be relieved or angry – relieved because the gentle stockinger was not a rebel after all, but angry because Atkinson was hopelessly out of his depth and should not have been swimming in such deadly waters.

Williamson scowled. ‘You must. You will be more effective working together. I would tell him myself, but I have no idea where to find him. He seems to have closed up his house.’

‘Very well,’ said Atkinson unhappily. ‘But do not worry about Easter Day. Jones is leaving everything so late that he will almost certainly not be ready.’

‘Do not worry?’ breathed Williamson disbelievingly. ‘What a stupid thing to say!’

Eager for answers, but unwilling to tackle Atkinson where they might be seen, Chaloner trailed the stockinger to the chapel. It reeked of decay and seaweed, and not surprisingly the Court had given it a wide berth. Chaloner watched him weave through the shrouded forms to the altar, where a woman knelt. It was Ursula, who stood to favour her lover with a very passionate kiss.

‘We should go home,’ Atkinson said, when he could draw breath again. ‘I have spoken to Williamson, but he is a—Chaloner! Good God! You startled me!’

‘It is not what you think,’ said Ursula, hastily straightening her clothes. ‘We were praying together for the souls of these poor dead men. But what are you doing here?’

‘Reporting to Williamson,’ lied Chaloner. He looked hard at Atkinson. ‘The same as you.’

‘You know?’ Atkinson closed his eyes. ‘Thank God! I abhor deception, but I did not know how to tell you that I … Ursula wanted to offer her services, too, but I thought it wise to keep her out of Williamson’s clutches.’

So did Chaloner. ‘What drove you to take such a path?’

Atkinson’s expression was pained. ‘I thought we would stage a
bloodless
revolution, with dialogue in place of violence, but the Sanhedrin have made it perfectly clear that they will kill and maim without distinction. My conscience will not allow that.’

‘They have been buying arms and horses, in readiness for pitched battle,’ added Ursula.

‘But they have not,’ said Chaloner. ‘There has not been so much as a whisper about it, and it is not the sort of thing you can keep quiet.’

‘Oh.’ Atkinson frowned. ‘Then how will Jones achieve what he has promised? He cannot seize the Tower, kill the King, establish a republic and redistribute property without some show of force. People will just laugh at him.’

‘I think he intends to use a new kind of cannon against the city,’ explained Chaloner. ‘One that Manning’s friend Sherwin knows how to make.’

‘I see,’ said Atkinson grimly. ‘No wonder Jones has not seen fit to share the details of his plan with the Sanhedrin – he is afraid even they will baulk at such an outrage.’

‘So you have heard nothing about it?’ Both shook their heads, and Chaloner struggled to mask his frustration. ‘Why did you come here? Surely not just to report to Williamson?’

‘I do that by writing to his office,’ replied Atkinson. He smiled impishly. ‘In red ink, although he has just asked me to use a different colour, which will not be nearly as satisfying.’

‘And we came because we thought Jones might try to harm the King here,’ added Ursula soberly. ‘We were going to save him. But His Majesty has stayed in London, so now we must race home and hope that nothing dire has happened in our absence.’

‘Have you caught Snowflake’s killer yet?’ Atkinson looked pleadingly at Chaloner, the brief spark of mischief fading when he remembered his dead kinswoman.

Chaloner shook his head, sorry to see the stockinger’s disappointment. ‘But I have made some progress.’

‘Then travel home in our carriage and tell us about it,’ invited Ursula. ‘We shall have the best part of two days to chat – the roads are dreadful.’

‘I cannot spare that much time,’ said Chaloner apologetically. ‘I need to ride.’

‘Then I shall hire a horse and ride with you,’ determined Atkinson. ‘No, you cannot come, dearest. You are still lame from your tumble. You will slow us down.’

‘I will not!’ declared Ursula indignantly, although they all knew that she would be unequal to the kind of journey Chaloner had just made. Even if she had not been limping, the fashionable clothes she wore would hamper her movements.

Atkinson smiled as he rested an affectionate hand on her arm and hastened to distract her. ‘Give Chaloner his present, love. You have been carrying it around for days, and it will not be worth having if it spends much longer in your reticule.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Ursula rummaged in the little bag she carried on her wrist. ‘We made you some stockings, because yours are so shabby that we decided you needed new ones. Pay special attention to the decorations around the knees. It is John’s own design.’