Murder on High Holborn (8 page)

‘Thomas Chaloner?’ he asked brightly, louder than the spy would have liked. ‘I am Will Leving. Come outside with me. I know it is raining, but we shall not be disturbed in the garden, and we need to talk.’

Warily, Chaloner followed him into a tiny yard, a dismal, unkempt place so dank that nothing grew except patches of slime. It reeked of urine and rotting coffee grounds.

‘As we have never met, I shall tell you the story of my life,’ Leving announced with a smile that was unnervingly vacant. ‘We should know a bit about each other if we are to work together.’

Chaloner nodded cautiously, his heart sinking lower with every word the man spoke. His first assessment had been right: Leving was a dimwit, and no intelligencer liked working with those.

‘I fought for Parliament during the wars,’ Leving began, ‘and I did well when Cromwell was in power. But he died, and along came the King, so I decided to leave London and head north, where false friends encouraged me to join a bit of an uprising…’

‘The Northern Plot,’ recalled Chaloner, ‘which was more than a “bit of an uprising”. It had the makings of a full-blown rebellion.’

Leving shrugged carelessly. ‘Well, I was caught and sentenced to hang, even though my heart was never really in it. It was grossly unjust, actually.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, wondering if there was a way to dump Leving and investigate the Fifth Monarchists by himself.

‘But I convinced Spymaster Williamson that I would be of more use alive. He let me “escape” to come here, where I shall help him snare those insurgents who evaded his clutches in York.’

Chaloner was confused. ‘Your remit is to track down Northern Plot rebels? I thought we were supposed to be chasing Fifth Monarchists.’

‘We shall do both,’ declared Leving, all childish delight. ‘Because two of the Northern Plot’s leaders are also Fifth Monarchists. This was news to Williamson, and he was very grateful to me for pointing it out. He has not said so, but I know he considers me his most valuable asset.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘Their names are Jones and Strange,’ Leving chattered on. ‘Both very desperate villains.’

‘Jones?’ asked Chaloner, recalling the man outside Temperance’s club. Yet it was a common name and he imagined there must be dozens of them in London alone.

‘Roger Jones,’ elaborated Leving. ‘And Nat Strange.’

Chaloner had never met Nat Strange or Roger Jones, but he had certainly heard of them, because they had rebelled against Cromwell, too. Like most fanatics, they did not know what they wanted from a government, only what they did
not
want, which meant no regime could ever win their approval and they were doomed to perpetual discontent.

‘I could have bested them by myself,’ Leving went on when Chaloner made no reply. ‘But Williamson insisted on appointing you to help me. For the glory, I imagine – he wants an excuse to claim some of the credit when they are caught.’

Or to ensure they were actually thwarted, thought Chaloner acidly, which was unlikely if Leving was left to his own devices.

‘Strange and Jones are dangerous,’ he said. ‘Why does Williamson not arrest them at once?’

‘He wants to know what they are planning first. Besides, they have so many minions that apprehending them now will not stop what has been set in motion. I call it the High Holborn Plot, because most meetings take place up here. It runs off the tongue much more readily than “the Scheme that Involves Fifth Monarchy Men Making a Nuisance of Themselves in London”.’

Chaloner listened with growing alarm, thinking Williamson must be short-handed indeed to have recruited Leving, because it was folly to set someone like him against seasoned dissidents like Strange and Jones. ‘Do you know the names of these minions?’

‘Yes, I have learned seven so far. Williamson wants me to compile a complete list, although it will not be easy when there are so many.’ Leving recited the ones he had, but none meant anything to Chaloner.

‘Have you attended their meetings?’ When Leving nodded, Chaloner asked, ‘So what are they proposing to do?’

‘Put King Jesus on the throne instead of King Charles.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, striving for patience. ‘That is the stated aim of all Fifth Monarchists. But how will they do it?’

‘I have no idea, but it will involve explosions, because their gunpowder man blew himself up recently, and they have been desperate to find another. They will be delighted when I arrive with you in tow – an old Parliamentarian soldier with a regicide uncle.’ Leving winked conspiratorially. ‘Williamson told me all about you.’

‘Did he?’ Chaloner was unimpressed; it was hardly professional.

‘He did, and I think you will be
much
better than old Scarface Roberts.’ Leving chuckled. ‘He earned that nickname by discovering the hard way that explosives are unpredictable. He should have taken heed of the mishap and learned another trade – then he would still be alive. But time is passing and we have work to do. Are you ready?’

‘Ready for what?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.

‘Jones gave me some documents to deliver to a fellow named Edward Manning at the Fleece tavern.’ Leving pulled a package from his coat. ‘You can come with me.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Manning? Is he a fat, grave man with chilblains?’

Leving started. ‘Yes, why? Do you know him?’

‘Our paths crossed earlier today.’ Chaloner was unwilling to tell the gabbling Leving that it had been in Temperance’s club. ‘Is he a Fifth Monarchist?’

Leving nodded. ‘Yes – a very unsavoury one.’

‘Most rebels are unsavoury,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Present company
not
excepted.’

Beaming in a way that made Chaloner sure he should be in Bedlam, Leving led the way out on to High Holborn. But Chaloner still had questions to ask, and grabbed his arm rather roughly, preventing the man from skipping off down the road.

‘What is in these documents?’ he demanded.

‘Jones did not tell me. He just said to meet Manning in the Fleece, and pass them to him.’

‘But you have opened them, naturally,’ pressed Chaloner.

‘Open letters addressed to someone else? No, of course not! It would be ungentlemanly.’

Chaloner assumed he was joking until he saw the earnest expression. He regarded Leving in disbelief. ‘You are in possession of messages from one conspirator to another, and you have not analysed them? What kind of spy are you?’

‘No kind at all,’ declared Leving indignantly. ‘I am a patriot, using my unique position to foil a misguided attempt to cause trouble for the government. Spies are low, treacherous creatures with no scruples. I am not one of those. My calling is a
noble
one.’

Chaloner was tempted to point out that there was nothing noble about befriending people and betraying their secrets to the Spymaster, but he did not want a debate on the matter.

‘Your remit is to foil the High Holborn Plot,’ he pointed out shortly, ‘not to deliver messages that will help it succeed. So give them to me. I will open them.’

‘You will not!’ cried Leving, clutching them to his chest
.
‘Manning will notice and tell Jones. And I would rather not cross
him
if it can be avoided. He has a bit of a temper, you see.’

‘Manning will not suspect a thing. I promise.’

‘It is too risky,’ said Leving firmly. ‘Everything depends on me being friends with these men, and it would be a pity if I am ousted, just because you want to pry into letters not intended for your eyes. Now follow me before Manning begins to wonder whether we are coming.’

He was off before Chaloner could argue, capering down High Holborn like a carefree boy. It was not far to the Fleece, and he had opened the door before Chaloner had caught up with him. Resignedly, the spy followed him inside. The Fleece was a pleasant tavern, which smelled of woodsmoke, sweet ale and roasted meat. As it was the time when most people ate dinner, it was crowded, and its atmosphere one of noisy jollity. Many folk were dressed in the comfortable smocks and woollen cloaks of the country, indicating that they were Lady Day visitors.

Leving led the way to a cosy chamber at the back where a number of farmers discussed how war might affect the price of wheat. Tucked into a corner behind them was Manning, along with a man whose red nose and purple cheeks suggested he was a habitual drinker – an unprepossessing individual with oily hair, dirty clothes and thick red hands that were covered in old burn scars; he was fast asleep.

Manning frowned when he saw Chaloner. ‘You were in the club this morning – you helped Temperance stuff poor Duncombe into his coach.’

‘He is Thomas Chaloner,’ supplied Leving. ‘Nephew of the regicide, and recently dismissed from his post at Court. He is no lover of the current regime, so you can trust him.’

Manning regarded Chaloner suspiciously, clearly thinking he would make up his own mind about that, while Chaloner winced. Leving’s voice had been loud, and London was full of Royalists eager to vent their spleen on anyone even remotely connected to the old king’s execution. With a flourish, Leving handed over the letters, although not before Chaloner had seen that they had been addressed in an elegant cursive with a distinctive flourish to each capital letter.

‘He thinks we should have opened them,’ Leving said, indicating Chaloner with a smile that made the spy wonder afresh whether he was sane. ‘But I refused. However, perhaps you will repay my honesty by reading them aloud now. I confess I am curious as to their content.’

Manning’s eyebrows shot up into his sparse hair. ‘Then I am afraid you will have to stay curious, because they are none of your affair.’

‘Is this Sherwin?’ Unperturbed by the snub, Leving turned his attention to the dozing man. ‘He does not look up to much. Are you sure he—’

‘You are not seeing him at his best,’ interrupted Manning. ‘But he knows his business, I assure you. Lord, my chilblains hurt! It is this wet weather: my feet are never dry, and these shoes pinch something cruel. That ointment you sold me was useless.’

‘Well, well,’ came a voice from behind them. It was noisy in the tavern and Chaloner had not heard the approach of John Scott. Chaloner frowned: his old associate was appearing in some unexpected places. ‘This is an interesting gathering – Manning, Sherwin, Chaloner and Leving.’

‘You had my note, then,’ said Manning with a patently false smile. ‘Telling you to meet me here? You were supposed to arrive before Leving, so that I could explain certain developments.’

‘Funnily enough, it never arrived,’ said Scott flatly. ‘However, I saw you and Sherwin on High Holborn, so I decided to follow. And what do I find? Negotiations under way without me.’

‘Nonsense!’ cried Manning, rather too vehemently. ‘Nothing would have been discussed without you, as you know perfectly well.’

‘Do I?’ Scott turned to Chaloner, who was wondering what was going on. ‘I am surprised to see you here. I thought you had secured yourself a nice post with the Earl of Clarendon – one that pays enough to let you enjoy Temperance North’s costly brothel.’

‘He was dismissed,’ said Leving before Chaloner could answer for himself. ‘And he has other interests now. Such as protecting me from danger.’

This was news to Chaloner, although Scott did look dangerous at that particular moment, and he could see why Leving and Manning were nervous of him.

‘A bodyguard?’ Scott regarded Chaloner with rank disdain. ‘Well, I suppose a man must eke a living where he can.’

Before Chaloner could ask questions that might tell him what was happening, Sherwin woke with a noisy snort.

‘Ale,’ he slurred. ‘I need ale.’

‘I had better take you home,’ said Scott. ‘And it might be wise not to venture out again unless I am with you. As I have told you before, Manning is unequal to protecting you, should you fall foul of
certain people
.’

‘Home to the Pope’s Head?’ asked Sherwin brightening. ‘Good! They have ale there.’

‘He
is
safe with me,’ objected Manning, stung. ‘I have a sword and I know how to use it.’

‘With your chilblains?’ asked Scott archly. ‘You can barely walk, let alone fence.’

They were still squabbling as they bundled Sherwin outside, neither casting so much as a glance at the two men they were leaving behind. When they had gone, Chaloner turned to Leving.

‘I think you had better explain what that was about.’

‘I wish I could,’ said Leving ruefully. ‘But I have no idea.’

He might have done, if he had read the letters, thought Chaloner sourly. ‘Then tell me who they are. And do not say Fifth Monarchists, because Scott is no religious fanatic.’

‘All I know is that Sherwin has some valuable information – information that Jones is keen to acquire and that Scott and Manning are keen to sell him.’ Leving lowered his voice. ‘But a few of the Fifth Monarchy leaders are due to meet in a private house in a few moments. Shall we join them? I can introduce you as our new gunpowder expert, and you can ask them these questions.’

As Leving led the way back on to High Holborn, Chaloner was tempted to drag him down an alley and interrogate him vigorously. Unfortunately, he suspected it would be a waste of time – that Leving had nothing much to tell. Indeed, he could not help but wonder whether Williamson had been duped, and that while Leving had no doubt leapt at the chance to save himself from the noose, he had exaggerated his importance in the rebels’ fraternity.

Suddenly, Leving turned to face him, his expression serious. ‘Do not mention the letters at this meeting, by the way. Jones told me to deliver them secretly, and I suspect his cronies know nothing about them.’

‘You mean there are rifts within the leadership?’

‘Oh, yes! The Fifth Monarchists are a very argumentative crowd: Atkinson is a romantic dreamer with his head in the clouds, while Strange and Quelch have
their
heads in the sewers. No one disagrees with Jones, though. You will understand why when you meet him.’

He began walking again, and approached the curious island of cottages called Middle Row. He aimed for the largest, an attractive brick-built affair with unusually clean paintwork, polished windows and decorative pots in the porch. It looked like the home of a respectable maiden aunt, and was certainly not the kind of place Chaloner would have associated with rebels.