Murder on High Holborn (7 page)

‘That bastard!’ spat Lawson. ‘Do you know what he said to my crew? That
London
was an unlucky ship. What sort of blackguard does that on the eve of a war?’

‘But she
was
an unlucky ship,’ Lambe pointed out. ‘Three hundred corpses prove it.’

Lawson opened his mouth to argue, but could apparently think of nothing to say, so he closed it again. Contempt in his every move, Rupert sheathed his sword, collected his cloak and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.

‘No wonder he lost the Battle of Naseby,’ said Lawson sullenly. ‘What soldier would obey orders from a coxcomb like him?’

‘He should learn from you, Admiral,’ said Scott fawningly. His purse was so heavy that it threatened to tear off his belt. ‘I imagine your men would follow you anywhere.’

‘Into hell itself,’ agreed Lawson. ‘Not that
I
shall ever see such a place, of course, being favoured by God. Did I tell you that He likes me to smite His enemies?’

‘Once or twice,’ replied Scott. ‘But I am not averse to boastful remarks where they are justified. I also like to—’

‘I do not boast; I speak the truth.’ Lawson jabbed a thick forefinger at the door, scowling as he did so. ‘Seafaring men will never fight under that foreign peacock, and if
he
is put in charge of a fleet, we may as well start learning Dutch. He is not fit to command a barge.’

‘That will not stop the Privy Council from appointing him, though,’ said Lambe softly. ‘It is as inevitable as Clarendon’s new mansion being renamed Dunkirk House by the masses.’

‘The sale of Dunkirk
was
a wicked affair,’ said one patron sourly. ‘We should have been able to get double the price paid by those thieving French, and it is obvious that some corrupt hand was at work. And Clarendon was in charge of the negotiations…’

The port of Dunkirk had been British ever since Cromwell had bought it during the Commonwealth, but the Restoration government had hawked it in order to raise some quick cash. Unfortunately, Clarendon had agreed on a price that was far too low, giving rise to rumours that the French had bribed him. The sale had been unpopular at the time, but now people were livid – it could have been a haven for British warships, but instead the Dutch were using it as a base.

‘Dunkirk House,’ intoned Lambe. ‘Clarendon’s home will soon be known by no other name. I predict it, and my prophecies are never wrong.’

Chaloner rolled his eyes. People had been using ‘Dunkirk House’ for months, and if it did pass into common usage, it would be because the likes of Lambe kept harping on it. Others were impressed by the sorcerer’s declaration, however.

‘Lord!’ breathed Scott. ‘What else do you know about the future? Can you predict the outcome of the war?’

‘Of course,’ replied Lambe sibilantly. ‘Yet the matter is complex and—’

‘Nonsense,’ spat Lawson. ‘No one can. And anyone who claims otherwise is a liar.’

Lambe’s eyes narrowed to angry slits. ‘My Lord Buckingham says—’

‘Another idle bugger,’ interrupted Lawson scornfully. ‘I do not care to hear his opinions. Now get out of my way. I am going home.’

‘Would you like a ride in my coach?’ asked Scott pleasantly. ‘I know you do not have one of your own. Neither do I actually, despite being Cartographer Royal, so I decided to hire one for a few days in the hope that the King will see my sad predicament and arrange for me to have one at government expense.’

‘God gave me two feet,’ said Lawson, shoving past him. ‘I do not need wheels.’

Scott scurried after him, his persistence in the face of such rank discourtesy giving the impression that he was loath to let the Admiral go while there was still money in his pockets. As Lambe was alone, Chaloner took the opportunity to corner him.

‘Temperance says you are kin to the Dr Lambe who served Buckingham’s father,’ he began, aiming to see what he could learn about a man who clearly meant Clarendon harm.

Lambe smiled serenely. ‘Yes, my sire served his sire, and now I serve the son.’ He made a sudden gesture with his hand and for one shocking instant Chaloner thought he saw sparks on Lambe’s fingertips. ‘But dawn approaches, and I am a creature of the night. I must be away.’

He spun around so abruptly that his coat billowed behind him, accentuating his height and commanding mien. Chaloner stared after him for a moment, then followed, aiming to finish the discussion, but when he reached the door, the courtyard and the lane beyond were empty. He turned to see Hill lounging nearby, smoking a pipe.

‘Did Lambe just come out?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied the preacher. ‘Only Admiral Lawson and John Scott. Why?’

Supposing the sorcerer must possess a very stealthy tread if he could slip past Hill, Chaloner returned to the parlour, where Temperance was waiting for him.

‘Lambe is a sinister fellow,’ she whispered. ‘Especially given that so many of his predictions come true. However, I hope he is right about Dunkirk House. It will serve that fat old villain right for taking bribes from the French.’

Chaloner knew there was no point in telling her that Clarendon was innocent, and they stood in silence until she nodded towards a bald, bony, middle-aged man who was enjoying a final paw at the ladies.

‘That is John Duncombe, Ferine’s particular friend. You can question him if you like. He will not remember any impertinences later, because he is too drunk.’

Chaloner recalled Hannah’s remark about Ferine and Duncombe’s friendship. ‘Who is the man with him?’ he asked. ‘The fat, grave fellow.’

‘Edward Manning, who says it is his chilblains that make him limp so badly. I hope he is telling the truth – that he does not have some nasty disease he will pass to my girls.’

Chaloner blinked. ‘Why on Earth would you think that? And why let him stay if you fear—’

‘Because we had so few guests tonight that I told Hill to admit anyone, just to make the place look less empty. Not that it worked. But you can see why I dislike Manning. He is a sly, slovenly creature, not the kind of person who should keep company with admirals and princes.’

From what Chaloner had seen of Lawson and Rupert, he suspected it was Manning who had lowered his standards. He took her at her word and went to sit with Duncombe.

‘You knew Ferine,’ he said, taking one look at the courtier and deciding that the man was far too inebriated for a subtler approach.

Duncombe promptly burst into tears. ‘He was the best friend who ever lived! He said something vile would happen to him on the thirteenth, but neither of us imagined it would be his murder. If only he had watched the time!’

‘It would have made no difference,’ said Manning, laying a kindly hand on the courtier’s shoulder. His fingers were fat, dimpled and not very clean. ‘Not if it was ordained.’

‘That is not what Ferine believed,’ sobbed Duncombe. ‘He calculated horoscopes so that people could
avoid
trouble – he always said that nothing was inevitable. But he thought his own bad luck would be minor. A stumble, perhaps, or a loss of money. Neither of us imagined…’

‘So who killed him?’ asked Chaloner baldly.

‘Some beastly robber who wanted his purse,’ wept Duncombe. ‘There are a lot of strange people in London at the moment. They flock here from the provinces, for Lady Day.’

‘Ferine made a horoscope for me,’ put in Manning. ‘It cost me a pretty penny.’

‘Money well spent,’ sniffed Duncombe. ‘Lambe is good, but Ferine was better.’

‘I hope you are right,’ said Manning. ‘He told me that a certain business venture I intend to pursue will be successful, and I have invested everything I own on his advice.’

Chaloner would have liked to question Duncombe further, but the man chose that moment to pass out. With the assistance of Temperance and Hill, he manoeuvred the courtier into his coach, and by the time they had finished, the club was empty. With a weary sigh, Temperance indicated that Chaloner was to accompany her to the kitchen, where she had assembled the staff.

‘Interview the girls first,’ she directed. ‘Then they can go to bed. I do not want them yawning and heavy-eyed when they start work tonight.’

Chaloner obliged, although the prostitutes were young, fit and vivacious, and he doubted they would be troubled by the loss of an hour’s sleep. They were all shapes and sizes, so as to accommodate any particular preference among the guests, and were in a state of careless undress, which made it difficult for Chaloner to concentrate on his questions.

‘We saw nothing unusual,’ said one named Belle, taking the role of spokeswoman. ‘It was busy but it always is on Sundays. Our gentlemen are forced to spend hours in church, you see, so they cannot wait to come here and make up for all the tedium.’

‘Especially the clergymen,’ interposed Snowflake.

‘Did any of them do anything unusual?’ asked Chaloner.

‘We cannot reveal that,’ declared Belle indignantly. ‘It would be a betrayal of trust.’

‘I meant when they were in the parlour,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Other than the woodlice incident, did anyone pay Ferine particular attention? Did he say or do anything to annoy someone? Was there a disagreement or a squabble? Perhaps over Snowflake – I know she is popular.’

‘I am,’ agreed Snowflake proudly. ‘But no. Our guests behaved exactly as they always do – with relief to be away from the strictures of high society.’

‘All the men I allowed upstairs were clients who had been here many times before,’ added Maude. ‘None would have hurt Ferine.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Some of them fought in the wars, which means they are no strangers to violence. And all are wealthy enough to hire assassins.’

‘Oh, fie!’ cried Belle. ‘You read too many salacious broadsheets! Our patrons are gentle, peaceable men, and there is not a malicious bone among them.’

Chaloner struggled not to gape, given that their members included such feisty individuals as Buckingham, Rupert and Lawson, two of whom had drawn their swords that very night.

‘It is true,’ insisted Snowflake. ‘We see a different side of them. Take Rupert, for example. One of his favourite places is Hackney Marsh, which is where I am from, and he loves to chat about the ducks on the River Lea. He has even met my father.’

Chaloner seriously doubted that Rupert had done any such thing, and strongly suspected that the Prince had lied in order to make her more willing to do what he wanted in bed.

‘Perhaps you would tell me where you all were at the time of the murder,’ he said.

There was some consternation at this request, as most had been with clients and Temperance had forbidden them to mention names, but he eventually managed to establish that they all had alibis for the salient time. Except Snowflake.

‘Well,
I
did not kill him,’ she said crossly. ‘He was one of my favourites – especially when he gave me presents.’

‘Like dried toads,’ recalled Chaloner.

Snowflake nodded. ‘And wood from a gibbet to protect me from agues. He also gave me something valuable, something he said that a lot of people will want in time, so I am to keep it safe. Show him, Maude.’

Maude unlocked the heavy chest where Temperance stored her money, and produced two metal cylinders about the length of her hand. One fitted inside the other, and they looked ancient.

‘What are they?’ asked Chaloner, regarding them blankly.

‘I do not know,’ confessed Snowflake. ‘But he said they will make me rich one day.’

There was no more to be learned, and Snowflake seemed an unlikely killer, so he nodded to say he had finished, and watched the girls troop off to bed. Then he questioned the cooks and the servants who cleaned the rooms, but none had anything of substance to add.

Next, he explored the house. There was a storage room on the first floor, which overlooked the back yard and was easily accessible by climbing the ivy outside. There were scratches on the sill, a muddy footprint on the floor, and the latch had been forced.

‘I was in here on Sunday afternoon, looking for a mousetrap,’ said Maude. ‘The latch was not broken then, and there was no mark on the rug. And Ferine was murdered a few hours later…’

‘Thank God!’ breathed Temperance. ‘Hill was right: the culprit
is
an intruder.’

‘I do not see that as cause for relief,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘Your guests will not feel very safe in a place that can be readily accessed by murderers.’

‘We can remedy that with new windows and additional guards,’ said Temperance, giving the first genuine smile he had seen since he had been summoned to inspect Ferine’s body. ‘Our guests will
flock
back now we can assert that none of them is under suspicion.’

Chaloner doubted it would be that simple.

Holborn was a long, wide thoroughfare, dipping down to the grubby Fleet River in the east and narrowing to pass St Giles’s Fields in the west. It was the usual combination of elegant houses and tenements of shocking dilapidation. Several Inns of Chancery were there, too – preparatory schools for those wishing to be called to the Bar.

About halfway along was a line of cottages called Middle Row, which had been built smack in its centre, where they and two sturdy gates combined to cause a considerable impediment to the flow of traffic. The road to the west was known as ‘High’ Holborn, and Muscut’s Coffee House stood just off it, on a narrow lane that afforded so little light that lamps were needed even on the brightest of days. Its windows were filmed with greasy soot from the roasting beans, and its floor was so thickly coated with filth that it was impossible to tell if it was made of wood or stone.

Chaloner did not particularly like coffee, although he suspected that he might find it more palatable if he added sugar, which he avoided as a silent and largely futile objection to slave-operated plantations. Still, it was an improvement on tea, with its complex rituals for preparation and pouring, and infinitely better than chocolate, which was an oily, bitter brew generally only taken as a tonic by those who wanted to feel they were doing something healthy.

The owner arrived with the traditional long-spouted jug, and poured his new customer a dish of coffee. While Chaloner sipped it, he studied the other patrons, trying to determine who looked like the kind of man to accept the traitor’s shilling. He had just settled on a dour, shifty rogue near the back, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword. Standing next to him was a youngish man with a wide grin and a Cavalier moustache. The fellow’s clothes were showy rather than fine, and there was something about his eager amiability and wide-set eyes that suggested he was not the sharpest sword in the armoury.