Murder on High Holborn (45 page)

But there was no time for speculation, because he could hear footsteps on the stairs, even over the noisy gusto of fanatics enjoying their food. He closed and rewrapped the box, and was just fastening his jerkin when Jones walked in. The rebel regarded him oddly, and Chaloner knew he suspected that something was amiss.

‘Are you ready?’ was all Jones said. ‘It is time.’

Chaloner was in a turmoil of confusion as the coach carrying him, Ursula, Jones and three of the Sanhedrin rattled towards White Hall. The rest of the gathering were in hackney carriages bound for other destinations.

‘Where is Atkinson?’ he asked.

‘In position,’ replied Jones shortly. ‘How familiar are you with the Privy Garden?’

‘Not very,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Why?’

Jones smiled humourlessly. ‘Come, now, there is no need for false modesty. Clarendon’s offices overlook it, so you must have seen it hundreds of times.’

Cornered, Chaloner shrugged. ‘
Seen
it, yes, but retainers are not encouraged to stroll there. All I know is that it is a large open space with rose beds, hedges and a fountain in the middle.’

‘And what of its borders?’

As it was relatively easy to gain access to the palace, Chaloner suspected that Jones already knew what it looked like, and that he would betray no secrets if he described it. ‘High walls on two sides, and buildings along the others.’

‘Do you know the gardeners’ quarters?’

Chaloner wondered where the conversation was going. ‘A single room in the south-west corner that is used for storing their tools.’

Jones smiled. ‘Atkinson is waiting for us there.’

‘Surely, we should seize the Tower first,’ said Chaloner, stomach churning. The Fifth Monarchists were better prepared than he had expected – that particular part of White Hall was generally overlooked by the palace guards, and it would be simple for the rebels to take up station there. And once they had a foothold…

‘Not before we have dealt with the King,’ replied Jones, eyes glittering. ‘Lord! Look at these crowds! Anyone would think the Last Millennium was at hand.’

With that enigmatic remark, he fell silent. Chaloner tried to make him talk, but Ursula indicated that he should desist with an urgent shake of her head, and he knew she was right. He could not afford to rouse Jones’s suspicions with a welter of questions now, especially with three of the Sanhedrin watching him with cold faces – and two of them had handguns.

Agitated, he pondered the significance of the Privy Garden. The weather was fine, so the King would almost certainly enjoy an open-air event of some sort there that day, and the firework display was scheduled for the evening. Did Jones intend to turn the silver cannon on His Majesty and his courtiers? If so, it would plunge the country into anarchy for certain.

It had to be stopped, but how? The Sanhedrin alone numbered thirty determined individuals, and there had been another twenty disciples in Ursula’s house – not to mention the ten thousand who were waiting for the call to arms. How was Chaloner to defeat them when his only allies were an idealistic stockinger and a frightened widow? His sole hope was that Rupert had spurred Williamson into action. But the Prince was more interested in protecting his cannon, and the chances were that his report would be skewed to that end alone. With a sinking heart, Chaloner realised that there would be no help from the Spymaster’s troops.

As the coach rattled closer to White Hall, he began to formulate wild plans. He had a sword and three knives. Could he kill or maim Jones in the hope that the rebellion would falter without its leader? But the other three members of the Sanhedrin watched him unblinkingly, and fingers tightened on triggers when he moved his hand from the armrest to his lap. They would kill him before he could draw a weapon, and then nothing would stand between Jones and his objective.

Then could he jump out of the coach and dash to Williamson? Outside, the press of Lady Day visitors was so great that the driver had to rein in or risk trampling them. Casually, Chaloner rested his fingers on the window, preparing to undo the catch, but Jones leaned forward and knocked them down.

‘Did your mother never teach you to keep your hands inside moving vehicles? We cannot afford an accident now. How would you perform your duties?’

They arrived at White Hall, where Chaloner was appalled to learn that security had been thrown to the wind because it was a holiday – the palace guards were evidently of the opinion that assassins and rebels would not be so ungentlemanly as to strike at such a time. Chaloner’s uniform ensured that he and Jones’s party strolled through the Great Court without a second glance from the soldiers on duty. He tried to signal that all was not well, but their attention was on a woman who was asking directions, and none noticed his urgent gesture.

The palace thronged with people, some handsomely dressed, but many in rough clothes that indicated they were servants or tradesmen. Or Fifth Monarchists, thought Chaloner, looking at the unfamiliar faces and desperately trying to determine whether they were fanatics. He was too agitated for rational judgement, and found himself suspecting everyone.

‘You will not identify them,’ whispered Ursula, reading him rather too well. ‘They all look perfectly normal. Like you and me.’

She was right, and Chaloner’s despair deepened.

Jones led the way across the Great Court and through the short corridor that led to the Privy Garden. A party was in progress there, and the entire expanse teemed with courtiers and high-ranking officials. Musicians played, and servants moved through the knots of people with cups of wine on silver platters. Some guests had already had too much to drink, and the atmosphere was raucous. Chaloner regarded them in dismay. With half of them intoxicated, any atrocity was likely to result in even greater carnage, because they would not be able to move fast enough to escape.

Jones aimed unerringly for the gardeners’ room. He looked around quickly, then opened a door and ushered his followers inside. It was a dark, low-ceilinged, dusty chamber full of tools, plant pots and neatly stacked pieces of wood. There was a faint smell that was instantly recognisable to Chaloner. It was gunpowder.

He glanced around quickly, but could see no cannon or anything that might be used as one. There was, however, a large number of small, squat barrels, of the kind that were used to transport explosives. So was that their plan, to blow up this room in the expectation that the King and his ministers would perish in the blast? But the Privy Garden was a huge open space, and explosions worked better in confined ones. Was it possible that the rebels were so badly informed that they did not know this?

‘There you are,’ came a voice from the gloom, and Atkinson emerged holding a hoe. He lowered it sheepishly. ‘Where have you been? You are late, and I have been worried.’

Jones beckoned, and everyone followed him through the room to a door at the far end, which also led to the garden. It was ajar, and through it Chaloner saw the trench that Kipps had complained about so bitterly some days before. It had been empty then; now it was full of packages, all covered in tarpaulin and with fuses trailing from them.

‘Light them, Chaloner,’ ordered Jones. He gave an odd salute. ‘You will almost certainly be caught or killed, so we shall not meet again. Wait five minutes for the rest of us to reach our designated posts and then begin. God be with you.’

‘Wait,’ snapped Chaloner, as the conspirators started to move away. ‘How can I light them when I do not know the size or the precise location of all the charges?’

Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘You are a gunpowder expert – that should not be a problem.’

‘But—’

‘Think about the Cause,’ said Jones smoothly, ‘and how pleased the Supreme Authority will be with your role in it.’

‘He will not be pleased with murder,’ argued Chaloner.

‘Murder?’ echoed Jones, eyebrows raised archly. ‘These are fireworks, not bombs.’

Chaloner frowned in confusion. ‘Fireworks?’

Jones pointed to the trench. ‘Surely you can tell the difference?’

Chaloner could not, but was reluctant to say so. ‘I do not understand,’ he said helplessly.

Jones’s smile was bland. ‘White Hall plans to celebrate Lady Day with fireworks, as you have no doubt heard. Igniting them is a skilled business – any amateur attempting it is likely to blow himself up. However, Leving assured us that it is well within your capabilities. So off you go.’

Chaloner looked at the packages again, and saw that names were visible on some: White Candles, Catherine Wheels, Red Rockets. Then he stole a glance at the little barrels. The lids were off a few, and he could see they were empty – it had been the fireworks that had been transported in them, not gunpowder.

‘But why light them now?’ he asked, more baffled than ever. ‘It is daytime and no one will see them properly.’

‘No,’ agreed Jones. ‘Which is the point: it will emphasise the wastefulness of Court. Fireworks are obscenely expensive, and people will object to such a shocking squandering of money if the things are set off at a point when they cannot be appreciated. Folk will be filled with righteous anger, and will cry out against this decadent regime.’

Chaloner shook his head in incomprehension. ‘You said you were going to kill the King.’

‘The
people
will kill the King when they witness his profligacy,’ said Jones, eyes glittering. ‘After all, it is Lady Day, and London is full of visitors from all over the country. It is the perfect opportunity to expose His Majesty as a greedy spendthrift who cares nothing for his subjects.’

‘Does this mean you are
not
going to seize the Tower, set the city on fire and establish a republic?’ asked Chaloner, bewildered. ‘Your supporters will be disappointed. So will Jesus.’

‘That is not your concern.’ Jones reached into his pocket and withdrew a pamphlet, obviously aiming to read from it. As he did so, several silver discs fell out. Chaloner stared at them as they tinkled on the floor, thinking about what he had found in Ursula’s house, plus what snippets he had learned about the new gunmetal that Rupert had devised.

‘I understand now,’ he said. ‘This is not about rebellion, it is about making money. Literally.’

There was silence in the room after Chaloner made his announcement. Ursula and Atkinson gaped their disbelief, while the three members of the Sanhedrin stood silent and impassive – the revelation was no surprise to them. Then a chorus of laughter wafted from the garden, along with the strains of a melody by Lawes. It was one of Chaloner’s favourites, but he did not hear it. All his attention was fixed on Jones.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Ursula eventually. ‘Making money?’

‘Jones is no Fifth Monarchist,’ said Chaloner, recalling all the times that he had questioned the man’s dedication to the Cause. ‘He is just a common criminal.’

‘How dare you!’ cried Jones angrily. ‘Now light the—’

‘There will be no rebellion,’ said Chaloner. ‘Jones was lying about seizing the Tower and all the rest of it – a fabrication on the spur of the moment when people demanded to know his plans. He never intended to revolt. How could he, when no one has bought arms or horses?’

‘Are you sure?’ whispered Atkinson, stunned.

‘Yes. Three men from Taunton stole money to fund such purchases, but it was almost certainly spent on learning about Rupert’s cannon. Jones sent Strange and Quelch to watch their executions, to ensure nothing incriminating was said in their final speeches.’

Jones heaved an irritable sigh, but did not seem unduly alarmed by Chaloner’s revelations. ‘So what? The truth does not matter now.’

Atkinson gazed at him. ‘You do not deny it?’

Jones shrugged. ‘As I said, it does not matter now. Light the fireworks, Chaloner, so we can all be about our business. Refuse, and these two die.’

He nodded to his cronies. One was the tailor, Glasse, who shoved Atkinson and Ursula against the wall. He had a pair of handguns in his belt, and so did one of the others, although neither drew them. Chaloner knew why: discharging firearms in a palace was not recommended, as it would attract unwanted attention. He wondered how he could turn their caution to his advantage.

‘You will kill them anyway,’ he said, declining to budge. ‘You cannot let them live, knowing they will tell Williamson what you—’

‘On the contrary, they can tell him what they like,’ interrupted Jones. ‘I do not care what he, the King or the Court know about me and my plans. The point is that the
people
will see fireworks set off in daylight, and they will take exception to the waste – especially when they read the pamphlet I have written on the matter.’ He waved it.

Ursula found her voice at last. ‘But what about the Last Millennium?’

‘It will come,’ replied Jones. ‘Just not tomorrow.’

‘I do not understand,’ she whispered. ‘You made speeches, wrote tracts … although not ones that have been published, of course.’

‘But they will be,’ declared Jones, and suddenly his eyes were blazing. ‘And
that
is when this revolution will come to pass. It will be because of
my
writing and
my
ideas.’

‘And my sister’s,’ interposed Ursula. ‘She is—’

‘No!’ stated Jones vehemently. ‘She is a dangerous lunatic, like all Fifth Monarchists, and there will be no room for those in
my
republic.’ He turned to Chaloner. ‘I assume the spies sent to infiltrate the movement have a complete list of its members now?’

‘What spies?’ gulped Ursula, shooting an uneasy glance at her lover.

Jones sneered. ‘You thought you were so clever, but I knew exactly what you were doing. The same with Scott and Chaloner, although I admit that Leving’s treachery came as a surprise.’

‘What makes you think that I—’ began Chaloner.

‘Because of the purse you donated to the Cause. It was not yours to give. It was
mine
– money
I
paid Manning for the formula of Rupert’s gunmetal. The fee included a ruby ring, which I recognised at once. The fact that you parted with a small fortune so readily told me that you are in the pay of someone powerful and generous – namely Williamson.’