York regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you going to do now? I refuse to be part of any rash plan, so do not expect any heroics from me.’
‘We shall just listen and watch – and leave as soon as we have enough evidence to put an end to this mischief.’
York was deeply unhappy. ‘Very well. But if anything goes wrong, you are on your own.’
Chaloner had never doubted it.
Chaloner and York were descending the stairs to the hall when Margaret intercepted them. She was wearing a scruffy mantua – a loose nightgown – of faded pink velvet, and the inevitable pipe was clamped between her yellow teeth. A grey wig and a pair of substantial military-style boots that looked as though they belonged to a large man completed the outfit.
‘That was good tobacco you gave me earlier,’ she said to York. ‘Got any left?’
The captain fumbled for his pouch. ‘I must have left it in my room. I will fetch it for you.’
Suspecting he intended to escape, the spy put out a hand to stop him. York’s flight would warn the conspirators that something was amiss, and then Chaloner might never acquire the information he needed to convict them. York would just have to control his fear – after all, he was a sea captain, paid to defend king and country.
‘No matter,’ said Margaret, not looking as though she meant it. ‘It keeps me awake, and I am reaching the age where a bit of beauty sleep does not go amiss.’
‘It would not go amiss for me, either,’ mumbled York, when she went to straighten a painting that hung at an odd angle. It fell from the wall when she touched it, causing her to leap back smartly. ‘I would give everything I own to be at sea right now. I wish I had never brought Browne here or introduced him to the man who sold him that cargo…’ He trailed off, aware that he had said too much.
‘I see,’ said Chaloner, unimpressed. ‘You injured Browne on two counts. Your plan to include him in the glory of unmasking traitors saw him killed, and the commercial opportunity you arranged has resulted in his family losing everything. No wonder you feel guilty towards Hannah!’
‘I will give her what I can,’ cried York. He looked as though he might cry; Chaloner sincerely hoped he would not. ‘I promise! In fact, if you find me a priest, I shall swear on the Bible to make amends for my…poor judgement. Mrs Castell! Do you know any priests?’
It was an odd question to yell at someone out of the blue, but Margaret took it in her stride. ‘Parr is a priest,’ she replied, abandoning the ancestral art and coming to talk. ‘However, I would not trust him if he was the last man on Earth. He is a fanatic and will stop at nothing to get what he wants.’
‘And what does he want?’ asked Chaloner.
‘His vision of a perfect England,’ Margaret replied rather wearily. ‘A country ruled by religious maniacs, where God will be used to justify the bigotry of small, mean minds. I am a bit tired of their breed, if you want the truth. Religion and politics make for uneasy bed-fellows and should be kept apart. And men like Parr should be kept in dark cellars, where no one can hear their poison.’
York frowned at her. ‘Are you saying Preacher Parr cracked Browne’s skull with the rock, to further his dream of a Puritan government?’
Margaret was bemused in her turn. ‘No, I am not! Fool! Indeed, he is the one man who cannot have murdered Browne, because I was watching him through a window. I would have seen if he had thrown anything – and he did not. I am talking about his unpalatable godliness, which—’
But Chaloner was more interested in what she had witnessed than in her views on religion. ‘You did not mention this when we were talking about it at dinner.’
She shrugged. ‘You did not ask me, did you? You were more interested in what Hay and his silly henchmen had to say, and not once did you solicit my opinion on the matter.’
‘We offended you by not consulting you?’ asked Chaloner, a little taken aback.
She regarded him coolly. ‘Actually, you did. I live here and know far more about what happens than occasional visitors like Hay, Strutt and Parr. Yet you dismissed me as though I was nothing. Still, it is what I have come to expect from youngsters. You have no respect for the wisdom of age.’
‘Do you know who killed Browne?’ demanded York. ‘He was my friend and – as Garsfield here said earlier – we navy men do not like the notion of villains lobbing rocks at us senior officers.’
Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘“Villains”?’ she echoed sharply. ‘Not “sailors”? Can I assume from that description that you do not think Walduck was the culprit, then?’
‘Yes, you may,’ said York, before Chaloner could warn him to be wary of confiding too much. ‘I said from the start that his guilt was far from obvious, but no one took any notice of me.’
‘Will you tell us what you saw, ma’am?’ asked Chaloner, keen to encourage her to talk. If York was allowed to babble, he might inadvertently reveal that unmasking the killer was the real reason for their presence there that night.
She sniffed huffily. ‘If I must. Hay, Strutt and the other plotters were too far away or in the wrong place to have lobbed missiles hard enough to have killed Browne. There were only three people who could have done that: the two sailors and Preacher Parr.’
‘But you just said Parr was innocent,’ said York. ‘I do not understand what you are telling us.’
Margaret tutted irritably. ‘Yes, I did say Parr could not have thrown the fatal stone. So what does that tell you?’ She clicked her tongue again when York did nothing but stare. ‘Think, man! It means one of the sailors is the culprit. It is a matter of simple logic.’
‘But Tivill was struggling with Browne’s horse, and Walduck would have used his sword,’ objected York. ‘And neither was drunk.’
Margaret looked superior. ‘Are you going to hear my opinion or regale me with your own theories? I thought you would have learned by now that I am worth listening to.’
‘Go on, then,’ said York with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Tell us what you think, woman.’
Margaret inclined her head, though Chaloner would have told York to go to the devil had he been in her shoes. It was hardly a gracious request. ‘I suspect Walduck claimed he was drunk, because he thought it might see him acquitted. Not responsible for his actions. I would have done.’
York sneered his disdain. ‘He was not that dim. He would have known inebriation was no defence, although…’ He paused, and some of the irritable arrogance faded.
‘Although what?’ demanded Chaloner.
‘Although, as a non-drinker himself, he despised men who let ale control them,’ continued York thoughtfully. He turned to Chaloner, speaking in a low voice and rudely trying to exclude the old lady. She promptly stepped forward, head cocked. ‘But it was the one thing Browne was lax about at sea – he was usually forgiving of men who transgressed while intoxicated, perhaps because he liked a drink himself and was no hypocrite. Perhaps Walduck did assume that his crime would be overlooked if he put it down to beer.’
‘Well, there you are, then,’ said Margaret with satisfaction. Her hearing was better than York had supposed. ‘I was right: his experience aboard Rosebush told him he might be exonerated if he blamed ale. The ruse failed, but I imagine he was desperate, and desperate men resort to desperate measures.’
Chaloner watched her walk away. ‘Her testimony tells us the killer was either Walduck or Tivill,’ he said to York. ‘No one else was close enough. We know Tivill had his hands full with weapons and horse, because several people have said so. That leaves Walduck. You said he bore Browne a grudge over prize money, and we know he was violent. It takes a lot of force and a deadly aim to hurl a stone with enough power to kill – something that has struck me as odd from the first. Ergo, I suspect no one threw anything.’
‘But Browne was hit by a rock,’ objected York. ‘I saw the fatal wound myself.’
‘Yes, he was hit,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But by someone bringing it down hard across his head, not by a lucky toss. That means he was killed by
someone physically close to him. Walduck.’
‘Walduck would have used his sword,’ said York stubbornly. ‘I know he would.’
But Chaloner understood why the cooper had not bloodied his blade. ‘Strutt said a piece of masonry dropped from the roof not long before Browne was killed. It seems to me that Walduck saw it, too, and it gave him what he thought was a clever idea – blaming Browne’s death on an accident.’
York gazed at him. ‘Walduck was dull-witted, but he did possess an innate cunning; such a notion might well have jumped into his mind. That would explain why he did not run away – he thought no one would be able to prove anything. He virtually said as much when I questioned him later.’
Chaloner felt weary. ‘So the case is solved. The right man was hanged after all.’
A crafty look came into York’s eye. ‘Then we should go and tell Hannah—’
Chaloner grabbed his arm as he started to head for the door. ‘Browne’s murder pales into insignificance when compared with what Hay and his cronies are doing. There is gunpowder in a cellar, and you told me yourself that muskets have been shipped to London. We cannot go anywhere until we have learned what they intend to do.’
‘Then you can tell your friends at White Hall tomorrow. This is work for a militia, not us.’
‘Hay will deny our accusations, and he is a wealthy merchant with powerful friends. We need proof of his treason, and we are not leaving until we have it. So far, all we have is what you claim to have heard at his gatherings.’ Chaloner did not add that no spymaster was going to take the word of a captain with a penchant for wine over that of an influential merchant.
York looked as though he was going to argue further, but his mouth snapped shut when footsteps sounded from along the hall. Chaloner grimaced in exasperation when York immediately ducked into an alcove. Such antics were unnecessary, because they were supposed – expected – to be heading for the gathering. He was about to order York out, when Strutt approached. The purser seemed even more ill at ease and agitated than York, and Chaloner wondered yet again whether he was as comfortable with rebellion as he let Hay believe.
‘There you are, Garsfield,’ Strutt said in a voice that shook. ‘I shall show you the way to our meeting place, as this is your first time. You go first. I will follow.’
Chaloner knew instantly that something was amiss. He pretended to acquiesce, then spun around without warning. Strutt leaped in alarm at the sudden movement, and the dagger that had been poised to strike clattered to the floor. Strutt began to back away, moving unknowingly towards the place where York hid. The purser took a breath to shout for help, but York reacted with startling speed. Strutt’s yell turned into a peculiar gasping sound, and when he sank to his knees York’s knife was protruding from his back.
‘That was unnecessary,’ hissed Chaloner angrily. ‘Now what are we going to do? If anyone finds the body before the meeting, they will know exactly who killed him.’
York glared. ‘He was going to stab you! Besides, I am not sorry for ridding the world of that vermin. He caused Browne and the crew of Rosebush all manner of hardship with his dishonesty, and then he accused Browne of being a liar when he objected to the thievery. Strutt was a snake!’
Chaloner opened the door to the nearest secret passage and hauled the purser’s body inside, hoping the corridor was not one Hay and his accomplices would use – at least not until Chaloner had made his report to Spymaster Williamson. With York still voicing his reservations, Chaloner walked quickly down the stairs towards the hall. Then he saw a shadow near the pantry and stopped abruptly, motioning York to be silent.
‘Garsfield will not be coming to the gathering tonight,’ Hay was saying in a low voice to Parr. ‘Strutt is taking care of him and will join us when the matter is resolved.’
The preacher was uneasy. ‘You should have asked me to do it. Strutt is weak and does not listen to the voice of God inside him, telling him what to do.’
‘Garsfield is not expecting a blade between the ribs,’ said Hay wryly. ‘Even Strutt should be able to manage that – regardless of whether God does or does not think it a good idea.’
Parr grimaced at the comment but apparently knew better than to argue. ‘He told me today that you killed Tivill. Did you?’
‘No!’ cried Hay, startled. ‘I dispatched a pair of merchants who threatened to expose us, but that is the extent of my dabbling in such dark affairs. Besides, I would never use a stone. It would make a mess, and wigs as handsome as this one are expensive.’
‘Well, someone made an end of Tivill,’ said Parr. ‘And it was not me, either. It is the traitor in our midst.’
‘Can it be York?’ asked Hay. ‘He was the one who brought Garsfield into our fold, and – as I told you earlier – my source at the Admiralty tells me there is no captain called Garsfield in the navy.’
‘My instincts tell me York is not sufficiently courageous to take us on,’ said the preacher thoughtfully. ‘It must be someone else – someone who used York to bring Garsfield into our midst. Well, it will not work, because God walks at my side, and He will see this villain dance on the point of my dagger before the night is out.’
‘Good,’ said Hay fiercely. ‘So we are agreed, then? Tonight we will tell our associates that one of them is a traitor to our cause? They will not like it.’
‘We have no choice. It is the only way to flush the vermin out.’
Chaloner and a reluctant York joined the procession of cloaked men who walked silently to the east wing of Bermondsey House and down the steep steps to the cellar. Some of the conspirators carried torches, and it occurred to Chaloner that the hooded figures with the loose garments swinging about their ankles bore an uncanny resemblance to the monks whose foundation had been dissolved more than a century before. They had been processing to their prayers; Bermondsey House’s guests were going to plot the end of His Majesty’s government.
‘You are a fool,’ muttered York in Chaloner’s ear as he navigated the treacherous steps. ‘You heard Hay – he has killed before, and admits it freely. He thinks I am harmless, but you are doomed if he or the preacher see you now.’
Chaloner ignored him, not wanting to discuss the matter where they might be overheard. He took a place near the back of the crypt, York at his side, and watched other men sit on the benches in front of them. Hoods meant it was impossible to see faces, and no one spoke once they were seated. The cellar cast an instant and unsettling chill over the gathering, and York was not the only one trembling.
Hay closed the door when everyone was inside, and Chaloner watched uneasily as he sealed it with a bar. He was taking no chances of anyone coming un-announced and uninvited to the gathering – or of anyone escaping. He was the only one who did not bother with a hooded cloak.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, going to stand at the front of the assembly, near the wall where the encoded letter had been left. ‘You know why we are here, so I shall not waste your time with preliminaries. Does anyone have anything to report?’
‘There is going to be a new tax on wool,’ called a man from the front row. When he raised his head to speak, Chaloner glimpsed a long nose. ‘And there is talk of it being extended to cloth – to reimburse the navy’s unpaid sailors, allegedly.’
‘The navy will see none of it,’ sneered Preacher Parr. ‘It will go towards funding the government’s vice. God will strike them down for their wickedness – with a little help from us, His faithful servants.’
‘I suppose we might be seen as agents of justice,’ mused Long Nose thoughtfully. ‘By devising ways to avoid these iniquitous taxes, we are saving dissipated ministers from themselves.’
‘John White hanged himself on Sunday,’ said a man who sat directly in front of Chaloner. He leaned forward as he spoke, and the spy saw fingers that were marred with small burns. He had seen such scars before, on the hands of silversmiths. ‘He was taxed to death – literally.’
‘We are all being bled dry by the government,’ said Hay
sorrowfully. ‘It is very wrong.’
‘What is wrong is our government’s love affair with sin,’ countered Parr, using the same stentorian tones he might employ when addressing a congregation. He raised his hands, so his hood fell back and revealed his face. No one seemed surprised, and Chaloner was under the impression it had happened before. ‘God is on our side, and we are right to oppose this evil regime. Long live the Commonwealth!’
There was a smattering of applause, but not nearly as much as Chaloner would have expected.
‘The Commonwealth taxed us too,’ remarked Hay. ‘But not nearly as much as the king’s men. Long live free trade and a government that does not grow fat on the toil of honest merchants.’
This time the support was considerably more enthusiastic.
‘And long may we continue to move money between accounts,’ called Long Nose. ‘It has already saved us a fortune in revenue – by keeping it out of the government’s sticky hands.’
The cellar rang with whistles, stamps and approving yells, and slowly it dawned on Chaloner that the conspirators were not aiming to overthrow the king and usher in a new Commonwealth – their main objective was devising ways to avoid paying their taxes. He almost laughed aloud, but his amusement faded when he realized that greed was a powerful compulsion, and the fact that the rebellion’s aim was vaguely ridiculous did not render its instigators any less dangerous.
‘And now I have something to report,’ said Hay. ‘There is evidence that we have been betrayed.’
‘You mean the Archer brothers?’ asked the silversmith. ‘We knew they wanted to tell Spymaster Williamson about the way we manage our accounts, but you said they had thought better of it and had gone to Jamaica instead. How can they still be a problem?’
‘It is not them,’ replied Hay smoothly. ‘They are beyond hurting us now. It is someone else.’
House of Shadows Page 34
