‘Then perhaps Walduck killed Browne when he was sober but hoped that saying he was drunk would save him from the hangman’s noose.’
‘Walduck was not that stupid – he would have known drunkenness was no defence.’
‘Why was he accused in the first place?’
‘Because he had the misfortune to be there when the murder took place. Browne had hired him and another sailor called Tivill as bodyguards. However, both seamen were carrying swords and knives, so why would Walduck have used a stone to kill Browne when he had far more familiar weapons to hand? Besides, Walduck was a greedy man and would never have harmed Browne before he had been given the two shillings he had been promised. If Browne had been killed on Rosebush that night, I would have said Walduck was as good a suspect as any. But here, before he had been paid? Never!’
‘How did the meeting with Hay come about in the first place?’
York sighed. ‘Last winter, Hay chartered my ship to transport a consignment of lead pipes from Ireland. It struck me as an odd commission, so I looked inside some of the crates. They contained muskets. Obviously, no one brings guns to London for innocent purposes, so I decided I had better find out what was going on. I thought such initiative might see me given a decent command, instead of the lumbering barges the navy foists on me these days.’
‘And?’ asked Chaloner when York paused.
‘And I asked Hay to dinner, then made one or two treasonous remarks under the pretext of being drunk. The next day I was invited here, to Bermondsey House, to meet others who dislike the current government. Unfortunately, I was unable to learn their identities. I was about to give up when Hay suggested I bring other like-minded seamen into his fold.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘So I could prove my commitment to his cause, I suppose. And because captains with ships are a valuable commodity in the world of rebellion. Most naval vessels are fitted with cannon, after all.’
‘So you confided in Browne?’
York nodded. ‘He is – was – one of few men I trust. He was going to help me discover the names of the men involved, then we were going to pass the information to Spymaster Williamson – the man in the government responsible for dealing with sedition.’
‘Are you sure Browne thought foiling Hay’s antics was a good idea?’
York stared at him. ‘Of course I am sure! Browne was no traitor! Do you think I would have asked him here if he were? He railed against the government’s incompetence, of course, but who does not?’
Chaloner rubbed his chin. Was that all Browne’s drunken confidences aboard Rosebush had been – an indignant objection to an inept ruling body? Was Browne loyal to the king after all?
‘But he was killed before he could help you,’ he said. ‘Were you there when it happened?’
‘My horse went lame, and I was late for the meeting. By the time I arrived, Browne was dying and most of the conspirators had left.’ York looked deeply unhappy. ‘This is too dirty a business for me. I have done my duty now – I have told a government intelligencer about the plot, and that is all that can be expected of me. I shall return to my ship and—’
‘You will stay and work with Thomas,’ countered Hannah sharply as she rejoined them. She had composed herself, although she was pale. ‘You will introduce him to Hay as a man interested in joining his rebellion, and you will remain with him until he has enough evidence to hang them all. That is what John was going to do – at your instigation – and that is what you will do now.’
York mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. ‘I thought Hay and his cronies were just a group of men with more money than sense – that it would be easy to infiltrate them and put an end to their plotting. I wish to God I had never embarked on the matter.’
‘Well, you did, and now it is time to put it right,’ said Hannah harshly. ‘Tell Thomas what you have arranged.’
York’s expression was haggard, and Chaloner was impressed that Hannah was able to bully the man – York was no weakling, to be intimidated by just anyone. ‘I told Hay that I might bring a Captain Garsfield to meet him today – Garsfield is one of the names you used when you sailed with Browne. Hay wanted to know why you were willing to see the government overthrown, so I told him your sister had been despoiled by the Duke of Buckingham. It was the first thing that came into my head.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. As a spy, he was used to assuming false identities, but he preferred to invent them himself. He did not know enough about ships to be able to answer detailed questions about the sea, and he would be caught out unless he was careful. However, using Buckingham as an excuse for resentment was clever – the lecherous duke was unable to walk past a pretty woman without attempting to seduce her, and complaints from outraged brothers and fathers were myriad.
‘Hay is expecting us this afternoon,’ said York when Chaloner nodded cautious agreement to the plan. ‘And there is to be a gathering of traitors at midnight.’
Chaloner left the glade only when he was certain that Hannah and York had no more to tell him. Both had theories about the identity of Browne’s killer, and it was not easy to distinguish between fact and supposition. Eventually he managed to deduce that there were six possible suspects for the murder. First, there was Hay, the rebel leader. He had two deputies named Strutt and Parr. Strutt had once been purser aboard Rosebush; apparently he had proved to be dishonest, and he and Browne had ended up hating each other. Meanwhile, Parr had also crossed swords with Browne in the past, although Hannah and York did not know how or why. Both had been at Bermondsey House the night Browne had died, although only Strutt had exchanged words with him. Then there was Castell, who lent his home to anyone willing to pay – and Chaloner knew from gossip at White Hall that he was an unscrupulous rogue. And lastly there were the two sailors, Walduck and Tivill, one of whom had already been hanged.
‘This is sheer madness,’ said York when Hannah had gone and he and Chaloner were heading for Bermondsey House’s main door. ‘Browne was murdered, so why should I put my head in the lion’s mouth too? You are a skilled intelligencer. Can you not listen at a few doors for the answers Hannah wants? I will wait in the nearest alehouse, and we will report to her together tomorrow.’
‘Listening may not be enough. We shall need to ask questions too.’
‘You ask them, then,’ said York firmly. ‘I intend to distance myself from you, lest there is trouble. After all, one of us should be alive to tell Hannah that her demands were unreasonable.’
Chaloner was not surprised to learn that he could not count on help from York, but he was still disappointed in the man. However, York kept fiddling with the elegant lace on his bib-like collar, a gesture that revealed increasing agitation, and Chaloner suspected that he would not make for a reliable ally anyway. As usual, it was better to work alone.
While he walked along the overgrown path, he thought about what he had learned. Had Browne really been killed because Hay or one of his followers realized he was there under false pretences? Or had Browne embraced the cause rather too eagerly, which had been regarded as equally suspect by the conspirators? He glanced at the man at his side, wondering whether he should be regarded as a suspect too. Was York loyal to the government, as he claimed, or had he killed Browne when he realized his friend intended to run to the spymaster with his tale of treason?
They reached the door, and their knock was answered by an elderly woman who was smoking a pipe. York murmured to Chaloner that she was Margaret Castell, grandmother to the current tenant. She wore a threadbare wig, the heel of one boot was tied on with twine, and she looked as dilapidated and disreputable as the house in which she lived.
‘Have you brought it?’ she demanded without preamble. ‘The gunpowder you promised me?’
‘Gunpowder?’ echoed York with a nervous gulp. ‘I promised you no gunpowder.’
‘You said you have a ship,’ snapped Margaret impatiently. ‘And ships have cannon. When I said I was in need of a few barr
els of powder, I thought it was obvious that I was giving you a hint.’
‘Well, I did not understand your hint, madam,’ said York, alarmed. ‘I am a plain-talking man and not one for sly innuendoes. But we have business with your grandson. Where is he?’
‘Out gambling, I imagine,’ said Margaret coolly. ‘Or drinking with his sottish friends.’
Chaloner sincerely doubted it. It was common knowledge that Castell did not have two pennies to rub together and that anyone drinking with him would be obliged to settle the bill themselves. Further, no one would accept him at a gambling table, because he was incapable of paying the debts he already had, let alone any he might incur in the future.
‘Why do you want gunpowder, ma’am?’ asked Chaloner curiously. Surely, she could not be part of the rebellion? If so, then Hay’s plot was more of a joke than a genuine threat.
‘The stable is falling down, which means it is useless, so I thought I might as well use the bricks for repairing the kitchen. It is cheaper to blow up a building than to hire labourers to demolish it, and we need to be careful with the finances these days. Speaking of money, you owe me a shilling for your usual chamber, York. Payable in advance, of course.’
She held out her hand, and York dropped the coin into it. He hastily added another when sharp black eyes expressed their disapproval at his meanness.
‘It is hot today,’ he said, sidling past her into the relative cool of the hall. ‘So I shall go to my quarters to freshen up. I am sure you will not mind showing Captain Garsfield to his room.’
‘Wine,’ said Margaret, watching him stride away. ‘He cannot last an hour without consulting his flask. I do not suppose you have any spare powder on your boat, do you, Garsfield? I cannot pay in coins, but there are other ways of compensating a man.’
Chaloner regarded her askance, not sure what she was offering. ‘I shall make some enquiries,’ he replied noncommittally.
‘Good – it is damned useful stuff to have around. Are you one of Hay’s crowd? He told me to expect a multitude – and at a shilling per head I am delighted to hear it, although it means I shall have to loiter until everyone arrives. I cannot have my grandson answering the door and getting the money.’
Chaloner followed her into a hall that was paved with cracked tiles. Its wooden panelling had warped from years of damp, and any polish had long since been leached off. Several paintings hung on the walls, but dust and dirt had obliterated all detail except the occasional pink, self-satisfied ancestral face. The place stank of mildew and burned cabbage.
‘I understand this was once a monastery,’ said Chaloner, intending to lead the conversation around to the death of Browne gradually. The crone might become suspicious if he launched into questions too abruptly, and he did not want her to warn Hay.
‘Then you understand wrong,’ she said, heading towards the stairs. The pipe was still in her mouth, making her difficult to understand. ‘It stands on the site of a monastery. The cellar is monastery, though – we call it the monastery crypt, because it reminds me of a tomb. I used to tell my grandson it was where they buried monks who drank and gambled – the law-abiding ones went in the cemetery. Unfortunately, he never believed me.’
‘Are there graves in this crypt, then?’
‘Probably, although I do not go down there much, because it is haunted. You will see it for yourself later, because Hay likes to conduct his business there. I have offered him the hall, but he says there are too many broken windows and he is worried about eavesdroppers.’
Chaloner was not surprised, given the nature of the discussions. ‘Do you attend these meetings?’
‘Lord, no! I suspect they are plotting to overthrow the king, but that will never happen. People were always promising to dispatch Cromwell, too, but that never came to pass, either. Assassination is more difficult than you might think, and I have no time for such nonsense anyway. I prefer more genteel pursuits, such as cock-fighting, smoking and wrestling.’
‘You are not worried that you may be held accountable for what takes place in your home?’
‘Not as long as members of the government come here to plot the deaths of old Cromwellians too.’ Margaret grinned, rather diabolically, and tapped him on the chest with the stem of her pipe. ‘I am well known for being neutral in politics, and conspirators have to meet somewhere, do they not?’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows, startled by the blunt confession. ‘Then I assume you are careful not to lend them your house on the same day? Two cabals of opposing fanatics will not make for easy bed-fellows.’
‘I am very careful,’ said Margaret, opening the door to a bedchamber that reeked of cats. ‘After all, dead men cannot buy my hospitality, can they? The meeting is at midnight, and most plotters go hooded. They probably know each other anyway, but a disguise makes the fools feel safer. If you did not bring one with you, you will find a spare on the back of the door.’
Chaloner spent the next couple of hours exploring Bermondsey House. Most of it had been allowed to slide too far into neglect for rescue, and another two decades would see it either demolished or collapsing of its own accord. It was riddled with secret corridors, spyholes and rooms that were too small to serve any obvious purpose. In one cupboard he discovered several barrels, and an inspection told him they contained gunpowder. Did they belong to Margaret or the conspirators? There was no way to tell, and he left them with the uneasy sense that the rebels might be further along with their preparations than he had imagined.
He had not been back in his room for long when he heard voices in the hall outside. Margaret was showing more plotters to their quarters, and York was greeting them. The captain’s face was more florid than ever, and he had attempted – unsuccessfully – to conceal the wine on his breath by chewing garlic. The three new arrivals were keeping their distance. One, a short, elegantly dressed fellow with an enormous yellow wig, held a scented handkerchief to his nose, while the other two – a tall, lean Puritan, and an overweight clerk – pulled faces that revealed their distaste. Margaret did not seem bothered, though; tobacco smoke billowed around her, and Chaloner wondered whether she was capable of smelling anything at all.
‘Garsfield,’ breathed York. He sounded relieved. ‘Where have you been? We knocked twice on your door, but there was no reply. I was beginning to think you might have gone home.’
Chaloner gestured to a window, where sunlight was blazing through the vestiges of some medieval stained glass. ‘Sleeping – this heat is exhausting.’
‘There you have it, Hay,’ said York, turning to Yellow Wig. ‘He was asleep, as I told you.’
Hay gave a tight smile that suggested the answer was not one he believed. He had small, bright eyes, and Chaloner immediately sensed sharp wits. ‘You did not go exploring?’
‘It is far too hot for that,’ replied Chaloner, affecting nonchalance, though an uneasy feeling made him wonder whether he had been seen.
‘So you were here the whole time?’ pressed the shipping magnate.
Chaloner pointed at his door. ‘It can only be locked from the inside, and it has been secured ever since I arrived, as anyone who tried it will certainly know.’
Fortunately, it did not occur to Hay or his companions that jamming a door – from outside or inside a room – was child’s play to a professional spy, and proved nothing about his whereabouts. However, the hairs Chaloner had placed across the latch had been disturbed when he had returned, so he knew someone had given it a good shake in an attempt to enter.
‘You must forgive our wariness,’ said Hay with another smile that did not touch his eyes. ‘Our beliefs mean we are suspicious of everyone – an attitude that has kept us alive during these uncertain times.’ He gestured to the two men at his side. ‘But where are my manners? These are my associates, my deputies, Mr Strutt and Mr Parr.’
Chaloner studied the pair with interest. Parr was a clergyman, whose thin, dour face and drab Puritan dress indicated a fanatic – and thus a man prepared to go to
any lengths to do what he felt was right. Strutt wore clothes that were too small for him – an old-fashioned doublet and loose knee-length breeches that did nothing to flatter his portly frame. His plump face was surrounded by sweaty jowls, and his oily smile was impossible to read. Chaloner distrusted both men instinctively.
‘Preacher Parr is Rector of Bermondsey,’ elaborated York. ‘His sermons are…’ He flailed an expressive hand, trying to find the right word.
‘Colourful,’ supplied Margaret helpfully. She began to back away. ‘Not that I attend church, you understand. Waste of time in my opinion. But I shall leave you gentlemen to gossip. Your friends will be arriving soon, and I do not want to lose their shillings by letting my grandson answer the door.’
York grinned nervously at Hay when she had gone. ‘Garsfield is master of a brig that conveys gunpowder to Jamaica. Quite often the supplies clerks make mistakes on their inventories.’
‘I often end up with unwanted powder,’ added Chaloner, taking the cue. ‘And I never know how to dispose of it. However, York says you might be able to give me some ideas.’
‘Well, he should not have done,’ said Hay, casting York an admonishing glare, while Parr and Strutt exchanged uncomfortable glances. ‘Not until we know you better.’
‘You can trust him,’ said York. Unease was making him gabble. ‘He hates the government, because the Duke of Buckingham despoiled his favourite sister.’
‘Apparently you have vowed to run him through for the outrage,’ said Preacher Parr to Chaloner. ‘Is it true?’
‘I dislike the government because I fought for Cromwell during the wars,’ York went on before Chaloner could reply. ‘And I am still a Parliamentarian, despite the fact that I serve in the new Royalist navy. But Hay’s grievance is financial. He owns most of the wharves along the river in Bermondsey, and he objects to the high taxes that the government imposes on him.’
House of Shadows Page 31
