The corridor ended, and Chaloner was treated to a view of Castell and his grandmother in a hallway; she was counting the money she had collected, and he was watching with jealous eyes. If Browne had exposed the treacherous happenings at Bermondsey House, then they would have been in serious trouble. Trials for treason were notoriously unjust, and the Castells would have been punished for providing Hay with a venue for his activities, regardless of what they thought about his plans. Either one was capable of lobbing a piece of the masonry that littered the ground outside their home, although Chaloner wondered whether Castell would ever be sober enough to hit what he aimed at.
The spy visited more hidden passages before he headed for the cellar. He saw more men in other rooms but knew none of them. They were all wealthy, judging by their clothes. Some were alone, while others were in pairs, and he estimated there were roughly thirty of them. It was not many for a rebellion, but if they all poured money into the cause they could buy a lot more support. Such a movement was certainly something the government would want to suppress.
York had said the cellar used by the rebels was accessed via a flight of steps located not far from the main door, so Chaloner walked around the outside of the house until he found the stairs, tucked away among some ancient ruinous walls and all but invisible to the casual observer. He regarded them thoughtfully, then went back inside the mansion and made his way to the rooms that were built directly above the vault. Bermondsey House was riddled with so many secret spaces that he was sure there would be more than one entrance to the undercroft. He soon found what he was looking for – a low, slime-coated tunnel that sloped sharply downwards. It was concealed behind a fireplace in a pantry, and he had detected it because the chamber’s dimensions were not quite right – as a spy, he had a good sense for such things.
He lit a candle and descended slowly, swearing under his breath when he slipped and fell a few feet. The passageway went further down than he had anticipated, and he was beginning to think it might actually go underneath the crypt rather than into it, when he finally reached the bottom. He shivered. It was icy cold – eerily so – and he was dressed for the warmth outside. His way was barred by a small trap door, but it did not take him many moments to pick the feeble lock that held it in place, and he pushed it open to reveal a lowceilinged chamber.
He emerged cautiously, becoming warier still when he saw a torch burning in a brazier on a wall at the far end – the end where the steps were located – placed in readiness for the midnight gathering. He listened intently but could hear nothing except the steady drip of water on stone. The cellar looked monastic, like a crypt, with sturdy vaulting, and there were holes cut into its walls. They were roughly man-sized, curtained by cobwebs, and he supposed they had once held the bones of monks. Some were oddly deep, stretching so far into the wall that he could not see the back of them. The floor had been flagged in places, but mostly it was beaten earth, which had become packed as hard as stone over the years.
He touched a wall, marvelling at the quality of the work that had gone into its making, because although the stones were stained with the filth of ages, their edges were sharp and clear. As soon as his fingers brushed against the stone, a chill enveloped him, deeper and colder than the temperature of the chamber, and he was unable to prevent a shudder. There was something dark and sinister about the cellar, as though it had witnessed more than its share of evil deeds.
He shook himself impatiently – he did not have time for ghosts – and began a systematic search. Old barrels indicated that the undercroft had been used as a wine store at some point, while several desiccated rats suggested that grain or food had probably been kept there too. Marks in the walls and along the ceiling showed where partitions had once stood, dividing the chamber into smaller segments. Now, though, the cellar was just one large vault, full of shadows and eerie pockets where the light of his candle did not penetrate. He began to think of ghosts again, and the tales Hannah had related about old bones and murder. He took a deep breath and pushed such notions from his mind a second time.
He ventured further into the vault. Benches had been placed in the middle of the chamber, where another torch was burning. He was about to leave by way of the main steps when echoing footsteps told him someone was coming – fast. There was just enough time for him to snuff out his candle and dive into the shadows before the man arrived. Chaloner held his breath, certain he was going to be caught and not sure what excuse he could give to explain his presence there.
But the newcomer did not so much as glance in Chaloner’s direction. Wearing a hooded cloak, so nothing could be seen of his face, he hurried to the tunnel end of the chamber and began scratching at the top of the wall. It was not long before a piece of masonry came out in his hands. Chaloner watched him insert something in the resulting gap, replace the brick, and leave as quickly as he had arrived.
When he had gone, Chaloner padded forward to inspect the wall. It was different from the rest of the crypt – it bulged outwards, indicating that the work had been carried out hastily, without the care that had been lavished on the rest of the cellar. Its crumbling mortar said it was ancient, even so. Chaloner removed the stone and retrieved what had been placed there.
It was a letter addressed to Joseph Williamson. Chaloner gazed at it in surprise. Williamson was spymaster-general – the man in charge of the government’s intelligence services. The message was in cipher, which Chaloner could certainly have broken given time, but not in a matter of moments. He considered keeping it, but was afraid its absence might warn someone that something was amiss. Reluctantly, he put it back.
He was about to leave when he heard voices. More people were coming, although they were approaching at a more leisurely pace than the hooded man. Chaloner doubted he would go unnoticed a second time and did not want to be caught snooping quite so early in the game. He assessed his options. He could not leave through the tunnel or by the steps, because he would almost certainly be seen, while the only furniture to hide behind were benches – useless for the purpose. He glanced at the coffin-shaped niches. It was distasteful, but it was better than being caught.
Careful not to disturb the cobwebs that would help to conceal him, he crawled into one of the holes. He was hard pressed to keep himself from exclaiming his shock when he discovered someone else already there – and that the person was dead.
There was not much Chaloner could do, except shove the corpse deeper into the niche and lie hard up against it. He held his breath when the odour of decay wafted around him, concluding that the fellow had been dead for some time.
Three men entered the crypt – yellow-wigged Hay, Preacher Parr and Strutt the purser. The shipping magnate went straight to the wall and removed the loose stone. He shoved the document in his pocket and deftly replaced the brick. He did not so much as glance at what he had retrieved, indicating he had expected to find something there. Chaloner was confused. Had Hay taken the message because he intended to pass it to Spymaster Williamson? Or was he claiming it before the author could expose him? Of course, that assumed the document pertained to the brewing rebellion, and it was possible that it did nothing of the kind.
‘Are you sure we are doing the right thing?’ asked Strutt, clearly unhappy. ‘It feels dangerous, and you know what they do to traitors these days.’
‘We are not traitors,’ said Hay firmly. ‘We are men who want justice and equity – especially in matters relating to commerce. What is wrong with that?’
‘I doubt the law courts will see it in those terms,’ said Strutt miserably. ‘But I am in no position to argue. I was destitute after Browne forced me to resign from the navy and would have been hanged or be in debtors’ prison if you two had not offered me work.’
‘God provided for you,’ said Parr righteously. ‘Not men. And He will help us fight His holy war against corruption, greed and the devil. And by the devil I mean the government.’
‘Do not include greed in your list of vices,’ said Hay with
a wry grin. ‘I want to make a greater profit from my wharves, and some would call that greed, so watch what you condemn.’
‘I am a soldier of God,’ announced the preacher in a way that should have told Hay not to try jesting with him. ‘I shall combat sin wherever I find it – and sinners too.’
‘What is in the letter this time, Hay?’ asked Strutt, hastily changing the subject. Only men with plenty of time on their hands embarked on religious debates with zealots like Parr. ‘Can you read it?’
‘It will be encoded. They always are – and they take me hours to decipher.’
‘We should move that body before the others arrive,’ said Strutt practically. ‘It is beginning to smell – and York’s friend asked too many questions earlier. I do not trust him, and we do not want a peculiar odour encouraging him to pry more deeply into our affairs.’
‘I am sure he did wander off earlier,’ said the preacher, reluctantly dragging his thoughts away from his personal crusade against evil. ‘I cannot prove it – indeed, he did lock himself in from the inside, as he claimed – but I knocked very hard. No one sleeps that soundly.’
‘He is a sea captain,’ explained Hay. Parr regarded him uncomprehendingly, so he elaborated with an impatient sigh. ‘Ships’ cannon destroy a man’s ears if he hears them too often, as happened to Walduck. York is stupid not to have guessed that was why Walduck failed to object to our accusations – he did not hear them until after he was arrested.’
‘And by then it was too late,’ said Strutt rather gleefully.
Chaloner was horrified. Not only had an innocent man been hanged, but one who had been injured in the service of his country. The injustice of it made him all the more determined to learn the truth.
‘Garsfield did not seem hard of hearing to me,’ said Parr doubtfully. Then he shrugged, and a fervent gleam lit his eyes. ‘But I am not really worried about him, because God will ensure all is well. I petitioned Him earlier, and He is unlikely to refuse the demands of one of His most ardent servants. Shall we move the body now? We may not be alone for long, because our members are impatient for news of our achievements and may arrive early.’
Chaloner stiffened as their footsteps tapped towards him. Now what? He doubted he could invent a reason for being there that would be believed, and discovery would mean the end of his plan to unmask the traitors. It occurred to him that he could climb across the body and hide on its other side, but the hole would be too shallow, and he would be seen anyway. Or would he? Earlier, he had noticed that some of the niches were very deep, built to hold sizeable sarcophagi. Perhaps there was a chance that it might be large enough to conceal him.
Trying to make as little noise as possible, he clambered across the corpse, aiming for the darkness on the other side. Strutt was right about the smell. It was not a pleasant thing to be doing, and Chaloner started to sweat, despite the chill of the vault. He was half-tempted to give up and opt for concocting some story instead, because there was a limit to what a man should be expected to do for his country, and climbing around on corpses was well past it. But then he was across the body, and into the space on its far side. It took only a moment for him to realize he was in luck: the shelf was an especially deep one, and he supposed it had been built to hold more than one coffin.
He slithered to the very back of the recess not a moment too soon, because there was a flash of light and Hay approached with a lamp. Parr pushed aside the cobwebs, and he and Strutt tugged the corpse from its hiding place. Chaloner braced himself for discovery, but the three men were hurrying, eager to finish the distasteful business, and did not bother to inspect the back of the niche once the body was out. Hay produced a blanket, and Parr and Strutt wrapped the corpse in it. As they began to haul their burden out of the crypt, the sheet fell open and Hay’s lantern illuminated the dead man’s face. It was the sailor, Tivill.
His mind teeming with questions, Chaloner followed the three men, wanting to see what they would do with the body. He was grateful that he had not taken the letter from the wall, given that Hay had been expecting to find it – the conspirators were already suspicious of ‘Captain Garsfield’, and Chaloner did not want to give them further cause for alarm. Strutt and Parr carried Tivill up the main stairs and towards the nearest trees, while Hay kept watch. Fortunately for Chaloner, Hay was more concerned about being seen from the windows of Bermondsey House than being followed from the vault, because he did not once glance in the spy’s direction. Thus, even though the moon shone in a cloudless sky, it was absurdly easy for Chaloner to trail the bobbing lamp to the wood and then edge through the trees until he could see and hear what was happening.
But he could have spared himself the effort, because he learned nothing new. Strutt dug a hasty grave, Parr intoned some insincere prayers, and Hay kept watch. Then all three left without another word. When they had gone, Chaloner scraped the loose soil from Tivill’s face. He was not good at determining time of death, but he was sure Tivill had not died in April, when Browne had been murdered and Walduck hanged. Tivill was dead days rather than weeks. So how and when had the sailor met his end? And, more important, why?
A quick inspection revealed a soggy dent at the back of Tivill’s head, consistent with a blow from something heavy, perhaps a stone. So, Chaloner thought, Tivill had been killed in the same way as his captain. But what would Tivill have been doing at Bermondsey House in the first place? Had he come to wreak revenge on the men who had seen his shipmate wrongfully executed? Chaloner immediately discounted the notion of Tivill as an avenging angel – he had not been that sort of man and would not have cared what happened to Walduck. It was more likely that he had come to demand money for his silence – and had been killed when Hay and his associates had been disinclined to oblige.
Chaloner wondered what he should do next. His first inclination was to go straight to White Hall and tell Spymaster Williamson what was happening. Williamson would muster troops and catch the rebels in the very act of fermenting their plot as they gathered in the crypt. Unfortunately, it was a long way from Bermondsey to White Hall, and London Bridge would be closed for the night. By the time he had bribed his way across, located Williamson, convinced the spymaster that Hay’s cabal was worth the expense and effort of raising a militia, the meeting would be over and the plotters dispersed. So Chaloner decided to stay, attend the meeting and see what more he could learn.
He judged he still had about an hour until midnight, so he elected to spend the time constructively. He returned to the cupboard where the gunpowder was stored and helped himself to a barrel. He tugged it down the tunnel to the crypt and placed it in the niche that had held Tivill. Carefully, he broke the seal and scattered a few handfuls in front of the cask, then added a layer of kindling he had filched from the pantry. He hoped his precautions would not be necessary and that he would be able to eavesdrop on the gathering without the need for fireworks. But he had not survived so many years in an occupation fraught with danger by being careless. Satisfied that he had done all he could to even the odds, he made his way back to his room.
Once there, he donned the hooded cloak Margaret had left on the back of the door, ensured there were no telltale cobwebs on his clothes and went to collect York. Unfortunately, the captain had not imbibed nearly enough to be insensible, as Chaloner had hoped. Like many habitual drinkers, that took time – far more time than York had been allotted that night.
‘They are suspicious of us,’ the captain snarled, hauling Chaloner inside his chamber. ‘They know you are not who you say, especially after that business with the up-roll. Thank God Margaret piped up with a brag! We should leave while we can, or Browne will not be the only one with a dented skull.’
‘Did you know that cannon fire had rendered Walduck hard of hearing?’ asked Chaloner, declining to tell him about Tivill’s fate.
York gazed at him. ‘Did it? He never said so. Perhaps that was why he never heard the stone strike Browne. Strutt says he did, and he was further away, so there m
ust have been a very loud crack.’
‘Is there anything else you might have overlooked?’ asked Chaloner a little caustically. York was a navy man and should have known about the effects of persistent gunfire on a sailor’s ears.
York nodded. ‘I did not want to say anything when Hannah was listening, but Walduck hated Browne more than she knows. There was a question about the allocation of some prize money, and Walduck thought he had been cheated. He had not, of course. Browne was not a dishonest man.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, recalling that scrupulousness with money had been one of Browne’s few redeeming qualities. ‘Do you think Walduck’s hatred was enough to lead him to murder?’
York nodded again. ‘But he would have plied his sword, not a stone. And do not forget the two shillings he was promised – that is a lot of money to a man who has not been paid for three years. Even if Walduck did have murder in mind, he would have waited until the coins were in his pocket.’
‘What did Tivill do when Walduck was arrested?’
York stared at him, trying to understand the implications of the question. He failed, so gave up with a shrug. ‘Nothing. Hay took Walduck to the Marshalsea prison, but Walduck later told me he thought they were going to make a report to the coroner and was shocked when he learned he was accused of murder.’
‘So he went willingly to the gaol?’
‘Yes – he made a fuss only when he realized what was really happening, at which point he killed a warden. Meanwhile, Tivill also went to the prison, but Hay said he made himself scarce when the soldiers laid hold of Walduck. I have not seen him since, and he did not give evidence at the trial, although an order was issued for him to appear as a witness. He is probably at sea.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Chaloner, supposing that a voyage would explain why Tivill, like York himself, had only recently returned to the place of Browne’s death. He had secured a berth that took him safely away from London and accusations of helping Walduck commit his crime. Then later, when his fear had abated, he had slipped back to Bermondsey House in the hope of securing some blackmail money.
House of Shadows Page 33
