Murder on High Holborn (41 page)

‘I am going to Williamson right now,’ determined Lawson, coldly angry when Chaloner had finished. ‘And I will be at the Pope’s Head at midnight – with reinforcements. Those bastards will pay for what they did to my sailors. Pay with their damned lives!’

Chaloner wanted to go with him, but dared not leave Wallingford House as long as Buckingham was in danger. Cursing the Duke for his foolish obstinacy, he returned to the observatory, where Lambe was in the process of muttering incantations and flinging around compounds that created great billows of coloured smoke and foul smells. When Lady Muskerry coughed, he fixed her with such a baleful glare that she went purple trying not to do it again.

As the sorcerer worked, he seemed to grow taller, broader and more imposing. His voice took on a low, sinister timbre, and Chaloner was sure he had attached some device to his throat, because the sounds that emerged were barely human. For the first time, Chaloner noticed that Odowde was in the audience, pale and shaking.

‘When will you produce the Philosopher’s Stone?’ asked Buckingham, becoming tired of the pyrotechnic display and hinting that it was time to move on.

‘Soon,’ promised Lambe. ‘But it comes with a price.’

Chaloner was sure it did, although the eager, almost manic expression on Buckingham’s face said it was one he would be willing to pay.

‘A life,’ Lambe went on. ‘A sacrifice, as it were.’

‘No!’ wailed Odowde, so shrilly that everyone jumped. His eyes flicked towards Lambe, seeking approval, and Chaloner was disgusted that the courtier had persisted with the association after his confession at Prittlewell. The guests started a second time when the door slammed and seemed to lock of its own accord. Several ran towards it and began to haul on the handle.

‘You asked the Dark Master to come this evening,’ Lambe boomed in a sepulchral voice. ‘And he is waiting. You must all stand in a circle around me. Anyone outside the ring will die.’

There was a concerted rush to comply, although Chaloner held back. He had seen a servant lurking at the top of the stairs, and knew perfectly well who had manipulated the door. Buckingham’s smirk said he was also in on the deception, and was thoroughly enjoying his cronies’ discomfiture. Then there was the biggest puff of smoke yet, and someone appeared to be rising through the floor. It was cleverly done, as the small recess in which the figure had been crouching was so cunningly disguised as to be all but invisible.

A bright flicker of light made everyone blink, and the person used the opportunity to stand up, so that by the time the audience’s vision had cleared, she was standing tall and ethereal. Her face was white even by her standards, and her sapphire eyes glowed like blue flames.

‘It is Eliza Hatton’s ghost!’ shrieked another servant whom Chaloner suspected had been well paid for his performance. ‘I have seen her tomb in St Andrew’s church, and there have been rumours that she has risen from the grave.’

Eliza made a gesture with her hand, and there was a dull thump followed by a brilliant flash. Judging from her briefly startled expression, it was rather in excess of what she had expected, and the courtiers at the front of the circle fell back with cries of shock.

‘I cannot see,’ wept Lady Muskerry in distress. ‘That wretched sprite has blinded me.’

‘The Dark Master did it,’ declared Lambe quickly. ‘You summoned him, and you must bear the consequences. No one can control what he does, not even a great wizard like me.’

‘Now just a moment,’ said Buckingham, uneasy for the first time. ‘You said nothing about blinding my guests or summoning
actual
dark masters…’

‘You want the Philosopher’s Stone.’ Lambe’s hand went to his neck and his voice became funereal again. ‘And you shall have it. But the Dark Master wants a sacrifice.’

‘A sacrifice,’ echoed Eliza, speaking for the first time, her voice every bit as deep and sinister as the sorcerer’s. Unsettled by it, some courtiers eased towards the door again.

‘Be still,’ Lambe ordered sharply. ‘Or you will be torn to pieces by demonic claws. I predicted that someone would die tonight, and someone will. The Dark Master expects it.’

‘This is nonsense,’ declared Rupert irritably. He addressed Buckingham. ‘I have had enough of this unchristian prattle. Let me out. I am leaving.’

‘Will it be you, then?’ asked Lambe, pointing at him with a long, inky finger. ‘Shall we exchange
your
life for the Philosopher’s Stone?’

‘Not unless you want to hang for treason,’ Rupert’s eyes flashed haughtily. ‘I am the King’s cousin.’

Lambe gave him a look that could only be described as malignant before turning to Buckingham. ‘Choose another, My Lord. The Dark Master awaits with ready talons.’

‘Lawson,’ replied Buckingham, although the grin he gave was sickly, and Chaloner saw he was unnerved by the intensity of Lambe’s performance. ‘Unfortunately, he seems to have left, so we shall forget about the sacrifice, and move on to—’

‘Someone else then,’ pressed Lambe. ‘There
will
be a death tonight. I have predicted it.’

The guests began to murmur fearfully, while Chaloner watched the servants, identifying those he thought were in on the act. It was not difficult, because they were overplaying their role, squealing too loudly and rolling their eyes in a manner that would have been amusing had he not had the distinct sense that something very nasty was about to happen.

‘Him,’ said Lambe, pointing at Chaloner. ‘The Dark Master will take
him
.’

Chaloner was not surprised to be singled out, given that there had been no luck with Rupert and Lawson. Buckingham started to object, evidently realising for the first time that his sorcerer was not in jest, but Eliza fixed him with an icy gaze and the words died in his throat.

‘But the Dark Master wants a servant first, to whet his appetite,’ Lambe went on. He pointed at a small man with sly eyes and oily hair. ‘He will suffice.’

Chaloner decided the charade had gone on quite long enough. He stepped forward and addressed Lambe in a calm, reasonable voice, aiming to soothe the frightened spectators. ‘Now why choose him? Would it be because you know him from the Swan with Two Necks? I imagine he is new to the Duke’s staff, perhaps even hired just for tonight.’

‘He arrived this evening,’ blurted George the footman shakily. ‘How did you know?’

‘Because his uniform does not fit, and the odd bulges you see under his coat are almost certainly bags of animal blood,’ explained Chaloner. ‘They are used in the theatre, and when he is “sacrificed” he will doubtless put on a splendid display of gore.’

Alarmed, the ‘servant’ began to back away, but Chaloner grabbed him by the collar and shook him hard. Several fat pouches dropped to the floor, and there were cries of revulsion when Chaloner stamped on one, causing it to burst in a crimson gout. While the audience muttered its indignation at the deception, Chaloner shoved one in his pocket, to be presented as evidence later should the others happen to disappear.

‘He is nothing to do with us,’ declared Lambe, swirling his cloak and deepening his voice again to regain control. ‘The Dark Master has no need for tawdry tricks, and he grows impatient for his sacrifice.’ He started to point at Chaloner, but evidently decided the spy might prove too problematical, so his finger swivelled to Odowde instead. ‘Him.’

Odowde backed away, white with genuine terror as Eliza glided towards him. Chaloner stepped between them, and her eyes glittered with rage when she realised he was going to spoil her performance. She swung around to address the Duke’s guests.

‘The Dark Master grows restless and angry with these foolish delays. Bring these two men to me, and the rest of you will be spared the consequences of his wrath.’

Chaloner drew his sword when several spectators looked as though they might take her up on the offer. When they faltered, Eliza began to sway, and as she did, mist seeped from her clothes. It was another trick, but in the dimly lit observatory, it was decidedly unsettling. She began to moan.

‘Stop it,’ ordered Rupert irritably. ‘Open the door, Buckingham. I am going home.’

‘You may leave when we have finished,’ growled Lambe. He turned to Buckingham, his voice softly coaxing. ‘Do you want the Philosopher’s Stone, My Lord? It will be yours if you let me do my work. You are so close to victory. Do not allow the sceptics to spoil it.’

He knew how to manipulate his master, because Buckingham nodded eagerly. ‘You are right – I have invested a good deal of time, money and energy in these experiments, and no one here will begrudge me a few more minutes. Put up your sword, Chaloner. No one will hurt you – this Dark Master can have someone else instead.’

Afraid they might be chosen, more of his guests edged towards the door, and Lambe and Eliza exchanged a silent signal. She began to writhe, drawing attention away from Lambe while he reached inside his cloak and drew something out. It was a small glass ball, which he lobbed, doing so in such a way as to make it seem as though he had conjured it from thin air.

The ball hit the floor near Chaloner, where it exploded to release a lot of pungent yellow smoke. Lambe threw another, forcing the spy to scramble away or risk being set alight. Then Eliza appeared to levitate, and there was a loud roaring, uncannily like thunder. Courtiers screamed, and only Buckingham stood fast, hands clenched together as if willing Lambe to continue. Chaloner fought his way through the chaos towards Rupert.

‘These are just tricks,’ he shouted. ‘Their helpmeets are outside, hammering on sheets of metal, and I am sure you will find that Eliza Hatton is connected to the ceiling by a wire. If you help me regain control of this mêlée, I will prove it.’

Rupert did not need to be told twice. He whipped out a pistol and shot Lambe dead.

The gunfire was louder than any sound the hoaxers had made, and the observatory suddenly went quiet. Guests and servants stopped babbling, Odowde stopped whimpering and Eliza stopped chanting. The silence was absolute.

‘That is not quite what I had in mind,’ said Chaloner, the first to find his voice.

‘Damn you, Rupert!’ cried Buckingham, pale and stunned. ‘The Philosopher’s Stone!’

‘Well, he did say his Dark Master wanted a sacrifice,’ said Rupert, unrepentant. He drew a second weapon and glowered at Eliza. ‘And do not think
you
will go unpunished for your role in this unsavoury affair, madam. You will rot in Newgate, and so will your damned accomplices.’

Eliza’s face turned slowly from shock to fury. She gave a nod, and her helpmeets, unwilling to surrender after Rupert’s threat, darted towards a chest. Pulling scarves over their mouths and noses, they began to lob more glass balls, so that the observatory filled with a dense, multicoloured smoke that was difficult to breathe. The guests started to choke and gag.

‘The rogues must have raided the Lady Day firework display,’ coughed Rupert, eyes streaming. ‘Damn these fumes! I cannot see who to shoot.’

He raised his gun anyway, and Chaloner batted it down, aware that it was pointing in Buckingham’s direction, although whether by design or accident was difficult to tell. At that point, Eliza used the powerful voice she had employed at Tyburn to chant curses. The guests were more interested in breathing, however, and when she saw she was being ignored, she pulled a crucifix from her robes and did something to make it burst into flames. Unfortunately for her, it quickly became too hot to hold, and she hurled it away with a yelp of pain.

‘Madam, desist!’ rasped the Duke, racing to douse it before it set his books alight. ‘There is no point in persisting now Lambe is dead. It is over.’

‘Nothing is over,’ howled Eliza. She lifted her hand to her throat, and her voice slid down an octave. ‘The Dark Master is angry about the death of Lambe. He wants revenge in—’

‘Stop!’ ordered Buckingham. ‘Tonight was meant to be a bit of harmless fun, culminating in me getting the Philosopher’s Stone. No one was supposed to die. Now cease that ghastly cursing before I lose patience.’

There was a moment when Chaloner thought she would comply, but a glance at Rupert’s vengeful face seemed to strengthen her resolve to trick her way out of the predicament. She nodded to her assistants, and the barrage of missiles intensified, as did the violence of her incantations. The courtiers nearest her backed away in alarm, gasping for air. Then she began to rise towards the ceiling again, hands outstretched as she called for the Dark Master. Chaloner dived at her, and when Rupert did likewise, the wire snapped and all three fell to the floor.

Eliza spat, hissed and scratched, and it was not easy to subdue her, especially when her friends raced to her rescue. Rupert’s rapier made short work of several, flailing with such brutal efficiency that Chaloner was sickened.

Even then she did not give up. She frothed at the mouth, screaming that the devil would take anyone who touched her. Rupert eyed her dispassionately for a moment, then slapped her. She gaped at him in astonishment. Before he could do it again, Chaloner shoved her in a chair, where he quickly bound her hands and feet. Her shock at being so roughly treated did not last long. She opened her mouth to howl again, so he gagged her. As he worked, he called to the footman.

‘Open the windows to disperse the fumes. And turn up the lamps so we can see.’

George hastened to obey, and the flood of light revealed Buckingham’s observatory to be sadly stained and singed. The panic eased once the audience could breathe again, and there were even some sheepish grins. Lady Muskerry was still unsettled, though.

‘Let me out!’ she sobbed. ‘I do not want to stay in here.’

‘I cannot – I do not have the key.’ Buckingham looked at his servants, who were lining the surviving imposters up against a wall, but they shook their heads, so he knelt and jabbed at the lock with a knife. He did so with more vigour than competence, and Chaloner felt a surge of tension. He had no idea of the time, but he could not miss his meeting in the Pope’s Head. Yet he could hardly demonstrate his skill with locks in front of so many of the Earl’s enemies. To take his mind off his agitation, he turned to Odowde, who was slumped on a stool, his face ashen.