Murder on High Holborn (43 page)

‘I thought he was dead,’ breathed one. ‘He certainly looks it.’

‘The villains came at me out of the blue,’ whispered the Admiral, when he saw it was Chaloner who crouched next to him. ‘But I gave a good account of myself. God was with me – He always is when I smite His enemies.’

‘Help is coming,’ said Chaloner, hearing Rupert issue orders for a surgeon to be fetched.

Lawson waved an impatient hand. ‘So go – thwart the villains at the Pope’s Head. But do not expect help from Williamson. I was attacked before I could warn him.’

‘Prince Rupert is with me.’

Lawson pulled a disagreeable face. ‘He is better than nothing, I suppose. Go – hurry. Midnight is almost on us, and I want the bastards who sank my flagship to swing.’

Chaloner ran back to the coach and climbed in. Rupert rapped on the roof, and they were off again. They made good time, hurtling through the empty streets as if the devil himself were on their tail. As they lurched along, the Prince began a vicious diatribe about rogues who invited a man to their homes with the sole intention of embarrassing him with slyly concealed buckets.

‘Better that than what was planned for Lawson,’ said Chaloner tartly.

‘Nonsense! I would have been a laughing stock for the rest of my life – a slow death, compared to the Admiral’s brisk end. But Buckingham did himself a grave disservice with his foul pails today – no one will ever invite him anywhere ever again.’

Chaloner was far from certain of that, given what he had heard Lady Muskerry and others murmur as they had left. The Court was ever eager for novel entertainment.

‘Doubtless Lambe ordered Eliza to stab Snowflake, too,’ the Prince went on. He smiled nastily. ‘Buckingham let a vicious brute into his household, and I shall never let him forget it.’

But Chaloner knew that Eliza had not murdered Snowflake. He shot the Prince a sidelong glance: Snowflake had died because she had guessed the secret of the gun factory at Temple Mills, and her killer was still at large.

They reached the Pope’s Head, but all was in darkness. Chaloner was about to embark on a cautious and discreet surveillance when Rupert marched up to the front door and hammered imperiously. Chaloner winced: the man was going to get them both killed.

‘No one is here.’ Rupert turned to him accusingly. ‘How will you have answers from an empty tavern?’

‘The landlord has been evicted, but Jones said it was … Where are you going?’

‘To tell Williamson that it is high time he did what he is being paid for,’ snapped Rupert. ‘I want that list of Fifth Monarchists, and I want it
now
. He has had plenty of time to compile it, and if he cannot oblige me, he can start looking for a new appointment.’

Chaloner watched him go with a sense of helplessness. While he had not wanted the Prince’s company, it was still unnerving to be left alone to tackle what might transpire to be a very deadly plot. Perhaps he should just go home. After all, it was Rupert’s fault that there was a secret to steal, and Williamson’s fault that the Sanhedrin were not under lock and key already. But then he thought about Snowflake and HMS
London
, and his resolve returned. He would
see justice done for her and Captain Dare’s three hundred sailors.

He studied the tavern. It did not look as though it was about to be used for a meeting of rebels. He found a window with a loose shutter, and was through it in a trice. Once inside, he lit a candle. Most of the furniture was gone, although a few chairs and the odd table remained, too battered or ancient to warrant the effort of moving. A number of jugs lay on the floor, broken, dented or stained, which added to the feeling of recent abandonment. A bellman on Fleet Street called that it was midnight.

Perhaps Jones had sent him to the empty tavern to keep him out of the way while part of the plot swung into action. Or maybe Thurloe was right, and ambushers were lying in wait in the seemingly deserted building. As he considered the various possibilities, Chaloner became aware that there was a light in one of the rooms in the back. He drew his dagger and crept towards it.

A fire glowed in the hearth and a lantern hung from the ceiling. There was only one occupant: Sherwin was slumped on a bench, his chin on his chest. There was a half-finished jug of ale in front of him, and a bottle of claret on the mantelpiece, presumably for later.

Chaloner listened carefully, but there was nothing to say that anyone else was in the building. Determined to have answers once and for all, Chaloner grabbed Sherwin’s shoulder and shook it, but Sherwin slipped to one side, and he saw the man would never answer questions again.

He was dead.

Moving quickly, Chaloner searched the body and discovered two letters. Both offered vast rewards for Sherwin’s expertise. One bore a seal that Chaloner recognised from his spying days: Georges Pellissary of the French navy. The other was unsigned, but had quirks of grammar that told him it had been written by a Dutchman. If he had not been so tense, Chaloner might have laughed at the knowledge that Sherwin had gone behind Scott and Manning’s backs.

‘What have you done!’

Chaloner whipped around to see Scott and Manning standing in the doorway, both holding guns – he had been so engrossed in Sherwin’s letters that he had not heard them approach. He swore under his breath. He did not have time for complex explanations.

‘He was dead when I arrived.’ It sounded lame even to his ears.

Manning glared accusingly at Scott. ‘You said Sherwin would be safe here, with a bottle and no one to bother him.’

‘I thought he would,’ said Scott tightly. He nodded towards Chaloner. ‘Search him.’

Sensing that Scott would not scruple to shoot, Chaloner stood still while Manning removed every last item from his personal arsenal. They, along with the contents of his pockets, were tossed on the table next to Sherwin’s belongings.

‘How did you kill poor Sherwin?’ asked Scott coldly. ‘Poison?’

‘It must have been,’ said Manning, opening the packet containing the stockings that Ursula had made for Chaloner, and whistling his appreciation at their quality. Then he sat on the bench, pulled off his own hose and donned the new ones. ‘Lovely! They will make a big difference to my chilblains.’

‘I did not kill him,’ said Chaloner. ‘But I cannot stay to debate it. There is a plot afoot to—’

‘You are not going anywhere,’ snapped Scott. ‘You have deprived me …
us
of a fortune by dispatching Sherwin, and I aim to make you pay.’

‘Too right,’ growled Manning. ‘Ouch! There are still pins in these things!’

Chaloner appealed to Scott. ‘You will not be Cartographer Royal if Jones succeeds on Sunday, and—’

‘Shut up,’ snarled Scott. ‘I need to think.’

He leaned against the doorframe, scowling. Manning picked up Sherwin’s ale, sniffed it cautiously and put it down again, wiping his hands on his breeches as he muttered about toxins. Then his eye lit on the bottle on the mantelpiece.

‘If you think Sherwin was poisoned, should you be drinking that?’ asked Chaloner, watching him take a long, deep swallow.

‘The bottle was sealed.’ Manning took another swig in churlish defiance. ‘Besides, I imagine you put the poison in his ale. It was his favourite, after all.’

Chaloner turned back to Scott. ‘You know we share a master, so let me go. I must warn him that an atrocity is in the making.’

‘It is very hot in here,’ muttered Manning, wiping his forehead. ‘Don’t you think?’

Ignoring Chaloner’s appeal, Scott came to a decision. ‘We shall visit your home, and see what you have in the way of valuables. The place is closed up, there are no servants to challenge us.’

‘I do not feel well,’ said Manning, sudden alarm in his voice. ‘My innards…’

‘It is your imagination,’ said Scott dismissively. He returned to the subject that interested him more. ‘We can still sell Sherwin’s secret, of course. I know most of the particulars died with him, but we can always make them up.’

‘Neither the French nor the Dutch are easily deceived,’ warned Chaloner.

‘I own no Dutch connections,’ said Scott. ‘However, I have very good ones in France, while Williamson is putty in my hands. Two interested parties should drive up the price nicely.’

‘I feel sick.’ Manning sat heavily on the bench. ‘Really, I do.’

‘The club,’ said Chaloner, as something became clear about Scott. ‘When I went once, you were playing cards with Lawson, Rupert and Lambe. Lambe was irrelevant, but you and the other two were playing a curious game – and not lanterloo either.’

Scott smirked. ‘Then what was it?’

‘Lawson was watching Rupert, hoping to learn something about his iron artillery; Rupert was watching you, because he does not trust you; and you were watching Lawson, to ensure he did not tell Rupert that you had shared with him the location of the gun factory.’

‘Rupert would have killed me had Lawson blathered,’ said Scott with a shrug. ‘I tried very hard not to fleece him at cards, lest he spoke up out of spite, but he was more interested in monitoring the Prince, and I could not help myself.’

‘You are in trouble,’ said Chaloner. The New Englander was not the only one who could lie, and it was high time Scott had a taste of his own medicine. ‘You bribed Commissioner Pett to delay HMS
London
until she could be blown up. Williamson wants answers, and so do the others I told about it.’

Scott’s composure slipped. ‘Who?’ he demanded.

‘More people than you can silence. And Pett will not protect you. He gave you up almost eagerly. Why did you do it? For money?’

Scott shrugged again. ‘A bag of gold in exchange for having a word with Pett. How could I refuse?’

‘A bag of gold from whom?’

‘Someone who will kill me if I betray him, so I decline to say. Open the cellar, Manning.’

One hand to his stomach, Manning staggered to the middle of the floor, where he kicked aside a rug to reveal a trapdoor with a metal ring. He tugged it open, and Chaloner’s heart sank when he saw what had been exposed: it looked like a dungeon.

He braced himself to resist when Scott came towards him, but Scott had his own way of subduing awkward customers. He drew a knife and stabbed at Chaloner, jumping back with an angry curse when blood spurted across his fine white stockings.

Chaloner was as startled as Scott when blood gushed through his coat and sprayed in a wide and impressive arc: he had pressed too hard on the bladder he had taken from Wallingford House, and learned too late that there was a skill to using them that he had not appreciated.

‘Damn!’ cried Scott, gazing down at his ruined hose. His expression hardened as he levelled the gun. Step by step, he forced Chaloner backwards until they were at the edge of the hole, then made a darting move. It was a feint, but it caught Chaloner off balance just long enough for Manning to give him the shove that sent him tumbling down into the cellar.

He lay stunned, dimly aware of an argument taking place above his head, after which something landed heavily beside him. There was a pause, then another thud followed by a crack. He forced himself to open his eyes. The cellar was pitch black, and he realised the last sound had been the trapdoor slamming closed. He experienced a moment of panic, but forced it down. There was no time for it. He struggled to his knees.

‘I am dying,’ came a soft whisper. ‘I should not have touched that claret.’

It was Manning, breathing in a shallow, unhealthy way. Chaloner clambered to his feet and made his way towards the voice, but tripped over another body en route.

‘Sherwin – Scott threw him in here after me.’ Manning laughed bitterly. ‘You will keep company with the corpses of your victims until you die yourself.’

‘We shall shout for help,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘Someone will hear.’

‘Not so. The taverner is evicted, and a legal wrangle will keep this place empty for weeks. There will be no rescue for you.’

‘Then I will climb out and—’

‘How? The trapdoor is impossible to open from the inside.’

It was not what Chaloner wanted to hear, and he set about exploring their prison to prove Manning wrong. The chamber was roughly ten feet square, and empty except for a barrel. He rolled it under the faint rectangle of light that was just visible above, clambered on top of it, and heaved with all his might. The trapdoor did not budge.

‘Jones warned that Scott would turn against me,’ came Manning’s voice again. ‘But I thought I could control him, fool that I am. Oh, Lord! I cannot move my legs!’

‘Maybe Jones killed Sherwin,’ said Chaloner, more to himself than Manning. ‘To ensure he passes his secret to no one else.’

‘Jones was never here. He had forgotten the place was closing today, and when I reminded him, he changed his meeting to the Talbot.’

Panic was gnawing at Chaloner. Being locked in an underground cell was bad enough, but the prospect was far worse with corpses. ‘Tell me about Sherwin,’ he ordered, to take his mind off it. ‘I know he worked in Rupert’s gun factory and was dismissed for drunkenness.’

‘I was going to sell him to Jones…’

‘Sell
him
?’

‘Have you ever made a clay pot? The principle is simple, but it takes years of practice to produce a good one. It is the same with guns. You could follow a set of instructions to the letter, but your cannon would never work, because you need
know-how
. And Sherwin had it. Not only could he turn and anneal to perfection, but he was skilled at creating exactly the right balance of metals.’

‘No wonder he was so sure of his worth.’

‘Oh, yes! But there is a secret that Rupert is even more keen to keep quiet: namely that his guns are very expensive to manufacture.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘I thought the main appeal was that they are cheaper than brass.’

Manning laughed hollowly. ‘Everyone does, but they take months to construct and need all manner of pricey equipment. According to Sherwin, they cost three times more than their brass equivalents. But Rupert thinks they are marvellous, which has convinced people that they must be worth having. It is a lie.’

‘Why did you choose to deal with Jones?’ Chaloner was not sure what to think.