Murder on High Holborn (44 page)

‘I knew him through the Fifth Monarchists, and I am not exactly awash with contacts who want to purchase artillery.’ Manning’s voice turned bitter. ‘I only joined for Ursula’s cakes. And Jones lost interest once I sold him the recipe for gunmetal, almost as if he had what he really wanted. Maybe that is why he started sending Leving to deal with me, instead of coming himself.’

‘You must have sold him a cannon as well,’ said Chaloner, thinking of HMS
London’s
sorry fate.

‘He borrowed the one that Sherwin stole from Temple Mills – said he wanted to test it. He brought it back very dirty.’

‘With sand and marsh mud, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ said Manning in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

Time passed slowly. Chaloner slumped in a corner, listening to Manning’s laboured breathing and the distant chants of bellmen, who ambled along Fleet Street calling the time. He clenched his fists in an agony of frustration, wishing he was anywhere but trapped uselessly underground. Then the bellmen’s voices were replaced by the rumble of traffic as the day began – heavier than usual, because it was Lady Day and carts, carriages and horses were pouring into the city at a tremendous rate. He sat up sharply when he heard footsteps on the floor above.

With nothing to lose, he yelled at the top of his voice, and was rewarded moments later by the sound of the trapdoor being unbolted. Light flooded into the cellar, making him squint. Leving peered down at him.

‘Where are Jones and the Sanhedrin?’ Chaloner demanded, hearing Leving draw breath to ask what was likely to be the first of many questions. He did not have time for them.

‘Well, they held a meeting at the Talbot last night, but it was just more empty promises and hot air. Then they all went home. Why?’

Chaloner climbed on the barrel and gripped the edge of the hole. ‘We must find them.’

Leving prised his fingers off the rim, ‘Not so fast. I do not want to be on Williamson’s side if the Divine Authority
does
appear tomorrow, so I intend to wait and see what happens. And that means I would rather you stayed down there.’

Chaloner glared at him. ‘What will happen is that Williamson will kill you. He is not very gentle with those who offer to work for him and then renege.’

When he tried a second time to haul himself out, Leving trod on his hands. ‘But he will not know, will he? You are hardly in a position to tell him. And I have to think of myself.’

The selfish admission made something click clear in Chaloner’s mind. ‘Jones claimed he never gave you letters for Manning. He was telling the truth – you have been dealing with Manning behind his back. No wonder you refused to let me open them! You pretended to be shocked by the notion, but the reality was that you did not want me to know they were from you.’

‘I have to make ends meet,’ shrugged Leving. ‘Williamson does not pay me very well.’

‘
I
will pay you,’ offered Manning in a hoarse whisper. ‘Help me, and I will give you Rupert’s secret. I do not care that you deceived me by pretending to be Jones…’

Leving considered for a moment, then grabbed the empty claret bottle and lobbed it into the cellar. Chaloner ducked, and whether by design or accident, it struck Manning’s head. Leving giggled in a way that suggested Wiseman’s diagnosis was right: he was unhinged.

‘Now all I have to do is kill Scott, and Sherwin will be mine,’ said Leving in an oddly sing-song voice. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

Chaloner knew he would never escape if Leving learned that Sherwin was dead. ‘Let me out, and I will take you to him.’

‘No. Tell me where he is, or I will shoot you.’

He pulled a gun from his pocket, and as he did so, a piece of paper fluttered out. Instinctively, Chaloner caught it. It was only a note reminding Leving to visit his tailor later that afternoon, but the spy stared at it in horror.

‘Is this your writing?’

‘Yes,’ acknowledged Leving cautiously. ‘Why?’

‘You pen distinctive capital letters, and I have seen them twice now: once on the packet you delivered to Manning the day we met, but more tellingly in a note sent to Wallingford House, which said you had much to report and begged for more money. Williamson is not your only master: you are in Buckingham’s pay, too!’

Leving scowled. ‘That is none of your concern. Now where is Sherwin?’

‘I should have guessed in the Talbot,’ Chaloner went on, ‘when I noticed that your purse was embroidered with a crest – Buckingham’s crest.
He
hired you to learn Sherwin’s secret.’

Leving waggled the gun in a way that made Chaloner flinch. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he and Rupert hate each other, and he probably wants the venture to fail.’

Leving grinned suddenly. ‘You are quite right, of course. But I
much
prefer Buckingham to Williamson. He is more generous and does not threaten me with execution every time we meet.’

‘You really are insane,’ said Chaloner wonderingly. ‘You spy on Fifth Monarchists, meddle in spats between powerful barons, and deceive a dangerous spymaster.’

Yes,’ chuckled Leving. ‘And no one has suspected a thing. I have also infiltrated five other sets of rebels. I am invincible! You, however, are not.’

He took aim with the gun, and Chaloner gazed up at him steadily, unwilling to demean himself by looking away.

‘Well, well, well,’ came a soft voice that made Leving jump. The dag went off, showering Chaloner with splinters from the wooden edge of the hatch. ‘So you are the rogue who has been betraying us.’

Chaloner saw Leving’s eyes go wide with astonishment as Jones stalked towards him, while his own heart sank. How would he defeat the Fifth Monarchists now? Jones nodded an order, and two of his Sanhedrin hurried forward to seize Leving’s arms. Then he leaned down and offered Chaloner his hand. Warily, Chaloner took it, and was hauled upwards.

‘You misunderstood whatever you heard,’ declared Leving, as Chaloner scrambled clear of the hole and backed away from everyone. ‘I am no traitor.’

‘We followed you here,’ hissed Jones, softly sibilant. ‘We heard almost everything you said. And we arrived just in time. You murdered Manning, but we managed to save our gunpowder expert.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Leving. ‘I only dropped in to see whether the landlord had left anything worth salvaging. I had no idea Chaloner and Manning were here until I heard them yelling.’

‘I wondered why Chaloner did not attend our meeting last night,’ Jones went on coolly. ‘You not only failed to inform him of the change of venue, but you imprisoned him in that cellar—’

‘Guilty as charged,’ flashed Leving. ‘And do you know why? Because
he
is the traitor. I did the Cause a considerable favour by shutting him away.’

Jones eyed him with rank disdain. ‘I should have known that you were too stupid to escape from gaol after the Northern Plot collapsed. You had help – Williamson’s help.’

‘No,’ shouted Leving. ‘I have never met the Spymaster. Chaloner, on the other hand, plays the viol for him three times a week. They are close friends.’

‘Your lying tongue betrays you,’ said Jones in distaste. ‘Williamson hates music and he does not have friends.’

‘Perhaps that bit was untrue,’ admitted Leving. ‘But Chaloner
is
a traitor. He never lost the Tsar’s jewels, and he is still in Clarendon’s employ. I agreed to work for Williamson just to expose him for you. And look! He is covered in blood – it must be Sherwin’s.’

‘There is no reason to think any harm has befallen Sherwin,’ said Jones. ‘But Chaloner is limping, so I hope you have not hurt him. We shall need his expertise today.’

‘What for?’ asked Chaloner, trying to disguise his alarm.

‘To prepare for the Last Millennium,’ replied Jones calmly. It sounded like a threat.

‘Listen to me,’ said Leving, more annoyed than alarmed by his situation. ‘Buckingham has more money than sense, and I can get you on his payroll. He will shell out handsomely for information, and you can tell him whatever you like. It is what I have been doing – feeding him lies. I am on
your
side.’

Jones listened with an icy contempt that would have silenced any normal man, although Leving gabbled on. Chaloner collected his weapons from the table. He was as taut as a bowstring, expecting to be attacked at any moment, but no one took any notice as he buckled his sword around his waist and slid his daggers into their various sheaths.

‘I wondered from the start whether you were the traitor,’ said Jones, finally cutting through Leving’s self-serving tirade. ‘But I could not believe that any spymaster would stoop to using such a dimwit.’

‘There is no need to be rude,’ said Leving stiffly. ‘And if you suspect me, then you must also suspect the gunpowder expert that
I
introduced to your fold.’

‘I might, but in an act of ineptitude typical of you, you actually managed to recruit one who is perfect for our needs. But enough chatter.’ Jones turned to his cronies. ‘Toss him in the cellar and let us be about more important business.’

Leving struggled hard, but his captors were strong, and it was not long before he disappeared into the hole.

‘Wait!’ he shrieked, as Jones started to close the trapdoor. ‘Sherwin is down here. Chaloner is a killer, and you are not safe with him. Look! I can show you the corpse.’

His vindictive howls went from shrill to muffled as the panel dropped into place. Jones rubbed his hands together and turned to his followers, his reptile-eyes bright. Something akin to excitement lit his dark face.

‘Our time draws nigh. Are you ready, Chaloner?’

‘Ready for what?’ asked Chaloner, full of apprehension.

‘Why, for the fireworks, of course.’

Chaloner was hopelessly confused as he followed Jones and the Sanhedrin out on to Chancery Lane, and was horrified to see it was nearing noon – he had lost hours in the cellar. The streets were full of revellers: farmers, labourers, housewives, tradesmen, widows and shopkeepers. Were they Fifth Monarchists, pouring into the city to bring about the Last Millennium, or visitors come to pay their Lady Day dues?

For the first time in an age, the sun was shining and it promised to be a fine day. The change in weather affected everyone, and the atmosphere was relaxed and gay. Even the grim fanatics of the Sanhedrin seemed happy, and Chaloner heard one mutter that it was a favourable omen from God, a sign that their venture would succeed.

‘Wear this,’ said Jones, removing his cloak and handing it to Chaloner. ‘You cannot wander around London drenched in blood. People will think you are an insurgent.’

He gave a low, creaking chortle, although Chaloner did not think there was much to laugh about. They reached High Holborn, and Jones led the way to Ursula’s house. She was expecting them, because she opened the door before Jones had finished knocking and ushered him inside. She smiled wanly at Chaloner, then stood back as the others filed past her.

The rest of the Sanhedrin, plus a large number of folk who had attended meetings in the Talbot – the more serious ones, who had gone to foment unrest rather than to chat to friends and eat free cakes – were already there, and the little house was bursting at the seams. As usual, it was fragrant with the scent of baking, and the newcomers immediately began to shoulder their way through the throng towards a table that was loaded with biscuits.

‘Please do not drop crumbs on the floor,’ called Ursula after them, for once failing to inform them that her wares were the best they would ever taste. ‘Use plates.’

Chaloner was stunned by the banality of it all – rebels being cautioned not to make a mess before they loosed their madness on London. It was like being in the depths of some bizarre nightmare, and he was not sure that anyone would believe him if he were ever in a position to relate the tale later. He unfastened the cloak – Ursula had fires going, and the press of people was making him uncomfortably hot.

‘Blood!’ cried Ursula, regarding the red blots in horror. ‘Do you need a surgeon?’

‘It is not his own,’ explained Jones. ‘It is not Leving’s either, more is the pity.’

‘Leving’s?’ echoed Ursula, but then evidently decided that she did not want to know, because she fixed her attention on Chaloner’s clothes. ‘Give them to me before they stain permanently.’

‘You need to change anyway,’ said Jones, passing Chaloner brown breeches and a buff jerkin with striped sleeves. It was the uniform of the palace guard. ‘This is what you must wear today.’

Chaloner did not want to remove his clothes while Fifth Monarchists were packed so tightly around him, feeling it would put him at a distinct disadvantage. He indicated the stairs. ‘May I?’

‘Surely you are not shy?’ smirked Jones.

‘My wife would not appreciate me undressing in front of other ladies,’ said Chaloner. It was lame, but he could hardly tell the truth.

Amusement flashed in Jones’s eyes. ‘Do not be long then. We move in a few moments.’

Chaloner ran up the steps and went to the window, aiming to climb through it and dash directly to Williamson, but it had not been opened in years and was stuck fast. He would have to find another way to escape the rebels’ clutches. He threw off his stained clothes, pulled on the uniform, and was about to leave when he saw a bundle on the bed, wrapped in a lacy apron.

‘Chaloner!’ shouted Jones impatiently. ‘Hurry up!’

Chaloner unravelled the apron to reveal a stout wooden box. There was no time to pick the lock, so he broke it with the hilt of his dagger. He flipped open the lid, and saw a number of objects inside, all wrapped in cloth pouches. He unfastened one, and stared in mystification.

It was a coining die, and he had seen two just like it recently – Ferine had given Snowflake one, while the other had been on Thurloe’s mantelpiece. The ex-Spymaster had said they were an amusing curiosity, items sold from the Tower to raise money for the war. He had smashed a perfectly serviceable button demonstrating its use.

Puzzled, Chaloner grabbed another bag. It was full of silver discs, akin to the buttons that Grisley Pate had given him in Temple Mills. He retrieved them from the pocket of his abandoned coat and compared them. As far as he could tell they were identical.