‘Like the Thames,’ mused Kipps, pausing in his scrubbing. ‘It froze clean over this winter. Indeed, I have never known a more bitter few months.’
They chatted on, neither giving Chaloner the opportunity to answer the questions they asked, which bothered him not a jot. Eventually, damp from Kipps’ ministrations, he escaped and made his way to the cavernous vestibule known as My Lord’s Lobby, where the Earl conducted business when not at White Hall. He was glad to discover that Williamson had gone – he had no wish to encounter the Spymaster a second time that day. He opened the door and entered.
The Earl of Clarendon had lived in some dismal places when he had followed the King into exile during the Commonwealth, and was busily making up for his years of privation by stuffing his home to the gills with works of art. Personally, Chaloner thought such extravagance was vulgar, and wrinkled his nose in distaste when he saw four Rembrandts and three Brueghels crammed together without regard to subject or size.
The Earl, short, fat and fussy, was sitting at a massive Venetian desk with his gouty foot propped on a stool in front of him. He was wearing a casual gown called a mantua, which was so richly embroidered that it was twice as thick as anyone else’s, further accentuating his princely girth. His wig rested on a specially made stand nearby, ready for donning, but in the meantime a quilted nightcap protected his shaven pate from the chill of the great marble room.
‘There you are, Chaloner,’ he said crossly. ‘I thought I told you to be here at eight.’
Chaloner glanced towards the window, to gauge the hour. There was no point in relying on the many clocks that graced the room, as they had been purchased for their fine cases, not their mechanics, and none were good at telling the time. Even so, he was fairly sure the hour had not yet officially struck, and that he was early rather than late.
‘I asked you to come because I have a task for you,’ the Earl went on. ‘There will be another rebellion in the next two weeks, so you must infiltrate the plotters’ inner circle and thwart it.’
Not everyone had been pleased to see King Charles II restored to his throne four years earlier, and there had been a number of uprisings since. A few had been serious, but most comprised small bands of badly organised fanatics who were more nuisance than menace. Chaloner was not surprised to hear there was yet another in the offing. However, he would not foil it by following the Earl’s instructions, and started to explain why.
‘If these insurgents are within days of their objective, they are unlikely to trust anyone new now, sir. It would be better to—’
The Earl cut across him. ‘Luckily for us, their gunpowder expert blew himself up, and they are in urgent need of another. I am sure you know enough about the subject to pass muster.’
Chaloner knew as much as anyone else who had operated artillery during the civil wars, but was a long way from being an authority on it. The Earl read the doubt in his face.
‘Do not worry about setting explosions. If you do your job properly, there will not be any – the villains will be under lock and key.’
‘I will try, sir,’ said Chaloner, wishing the Earl would let him decide how best to go about such matters. Unfortunately, he knew from experience that suggesting a wiser plan would not be well received, and that he would have to do what he was told. ‘Who are they this time?’
‘Fifth Monarchists. A very dangerous sect.’
Chaloner was taken aback. ‘I thought they had been disbanded after their leaders were executed three years ago.’
The Earl pursed his lips. ‘It will take more than a few beheadings to silence that gaggle of fanatics. They are very much alive and represent a serious threat.’
‘Do they?’ Chaloner sincerely doubted it. ‘I cannot imagine there are many of them – the notion of a “Fifth Monarchy” is very peculiar.’
‘That Christ will reign on Earth after the rise and fall of four kingdoms,’ mused the Earl. ‘Babylonia, Persia, Macedonia and Rome. They expected Him after the last king’s execution, and pestered Cromwell relentlessly about getting ready. They see the current regime as a hindrance to their designs, and Williamson says they aim to rebel against us in the very near future.’
‘Then why does he not send one of his own men to infiltrate them?’
‘All his spies are busy with the war,’ explained the Earl. ‘Besides, it will be easy for you – you can use your uncle’s name to ensure that you are accepted into their bosom.’
Chaloner winced. His father’s brother had signed the old king’s death warrant, and fanatics and republicans of all denominations tended to revere his memory.
‘That will not work, sir. Too many people know I am employed by you.’
‘Then I shall dismiss you, and you can say you have been ill-used with a clear conscience. Do not look alarmed – you will be reinstated when you have put an end to their uprising. I shall say I ousted you because you lost the jewels and dispatches intended for the Tsar of Russia.’
Chaloner was dismayed. ‘But I explained that, sir! They were locked in the forward hold, which was the first part of the ship to flood when she struck ice and sank. I did my best to rescue them, but it was impossible.’
‘Yes,’ said the Earl with exaggerated patience. ‘Your account has been verified in all its details by her captain. But we need some excuse to fall out, and this fits the bill perfectly. So do not mention to anyone else your herculean efforts to recover my property, or people will think me unreasonable.’
‘And we cannot have that,’ muttered Chaloner.
‘It will only be for a few days,’ said the Earl, cocking his head as he tried to hear what his intelligencer was mumbling. ‘After which we shall say there was a misunderstanding, and your reputation will be restored. And you will not have to fight these villains by yourself – you will have help from William Leving.’
‘Who is he?’ Chaloner was becoming increasingly alarmed. He liked working alone, and did not want assistance from someone he had never met.
‘A rebel who has seen the error of his ways. You see, a few months ago, a band of insurgents hatched what became known as the Northern Plot – a major uprising in Yorkshire and Cumberland. Leving was among them, and was captured when the venture failed. He was sentenced to hang, but Williamson “turned” him. Have you come across the expression?’
Chaloner regarded him askance, wondering how the Earl could ask such a question of a man who had spent his entire adult life in intelligence. ‘It means he was allowed to “escape” and return to his old ways. In return for his life, he will betray his fellow conspirators.’
‘Precisely. But Williamson does not trust him, which is why he wants you involved. Leving will introduce you to the Fifth Monarchists as a man who knows gunpowder. You are to meet him tomorrow at noon in Muscut’s Coffee House on High Holborn.’
It was a reckless plan, and Chaloner heartily wished he had been at their meeting to suggest some sensible alternatives. ‘Williamson told me to investigate the murder of a courtier, too,’ he said, in the hope that the Earl would be annoyed by the presumption and would withdraw the offer of help in tackling the Fifth Monarchists. His heart sank when Clarendon nodded.
‘Yes, he did mention it. I told him you would be delighted to oblige.’
Chaloner tried again. ‘It seems unfair that you will be paying me while he reaps the benefit.’
‘But I will not be paying you,’ said the Earl with a seraphic smile. ‘You are dismissed, remember? There will be no salary until the matter is resolved – we must be convincing, as your life may depend on it.’
Chaloner shot him a sour look, not such a fool as to believe that the decision derived from concern for his welfare: the Earl was notoriously mean. ‘Very well. But if I am no longer in your employ, how am I to visit White Hall, to ask questions about this murder?’
The Earl’s smile turned rueful. ‘You will be far more popular as my enemy than as my retainer – most of the Court will welcome you with open arms. But Williamson ne
glected to tell me who has been killed. Was it anyone I know?’
‘Paul Ferine.’
‘Well, well! In that case you certainly must probe the matter. I did not like Ferine. I invited him to dine not long ago, and he made a terrible fuss because three candles were lit – he said it was a bad omen, and that someone in the room would die. It unsettled my other guests, I can tell you! However, he was a royal favourite, so we must have a culprit.’
‘It may transpire that he was killed by another courtier,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Are you sure you want me to investigate, sir?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied the Earl airily. ‘None of my friends are murderers, so the killer will be among my enemies. How can I refuse an opportunity to strike a blow at one of them?’
A muted roar woke Chaloner that night. He started up in alarm, but it was only rain drumming on the roof. He lay back down again and forced himself to relax. It was pitch dark, but an innate sense of time told him it was nearer dawn than dusk, and that he should get up and begin his enquiries. Yet he was loath to leave his warm bed for the foul weather outside, so he decided to reflect on what he had been charged to do instead.
He was not surprised to hear that there was another rebellion in the making, because the King had not endeared himself to his subjects during his four-year reign, thanks to his dissipated lifestyle and wanton companions. Folk who had been happy to see him return were having second thoughts, while those who had opposed him were defiantly open in their dissatisfaction.
Chaloner winced when he thought about the Earl’s plan. The Fifth Monarchists were unlikely to welcome a conveniently available ‘gunpowder expert’ into their midst, and any effort to win their trust on such terms would almost certainly fail. But then he brightened: he had spent the last decade and more prising information from those who did not want to part with it, so even if the rebels did reject his offer to blow things up, there were other ways to learn their intentions. He would look on it as a challenge to his talents.
He turned his mind to Ferine. He had passed the previous afternoon loitering in White Hall, listening to gossip about the dead courtier, most of which revolved around Ferine’s ability to produce uncannily accurate horoscopes. Chaloner decided to visit the man’s parish priest later, to find out whether Ferine had been a real heathen, or just a man whose life was ruled by superstition.
The Earl had been right about the Court’s reaction to his ‘dismissal’: he had lost count of the number of people who had congratulated him on his escape. Yet he wished Clarendon had devised a different tale. Several high-ranking barons had offered to buy the dispatches he had ‘lost’ and were openly incredulous when he told them the documents really were under fifty fathoms of water; while every dubious character in the palace had advice about how to dispose of hot jewels.
In the evening, he had visited Ferine’s lodgings on High Holborn, which transpired to be two rooms so cheerless that he could only assume the courtier had spent very little time in them. A few books on the occult were lined up on the windowsill, and both chambers were liberally scattered with smelly pouches that he supposed were charms against evil, but there was nothing else of a personal nature, and he had learned little about Ferine as a man.
He turned over, feeling Hannah warm and soft at his side, and a range of emotions surged through him, none of which he understood. They had married before they had really known each other, learning too late that each had habits the other deplored. She loved the company of the Court debauchees she met in the course of her duties as lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and was prone to appalling morning tempers; he was taciturn and solitary, and his chief passion was playing the bass viol, a pastime she decried as dull in the extreme.
On his return from Russia, he had discovered another aspect of her character that was cause for concern: extravagance. He was used to her hiring too many servants and renting a house that was larger than they needed, but in his absence she had discovered the joys of lavish entertaining. He had arrived home to a mountain of unpaid bills.
He lit a candle and studied her in its flickering light. Not even her best friends would call her pretty, yet there was a pleasing determination to the jut of her jaw. She made him laugh, too, and her humour was rarely cruel. He wondered how she would react to the news of his ‘dismissal’ – whether she would be angrier about the indignity of it or the economies that would have to be made until he was reinstated. It did not occur to him to confide that it was a ruse.
When he heard the bellman call five o’clock, he decided to visit the club – it seldom closed before dawn – to see what its patrons could tell him about Ferine. He had tried cornering a few at White Hall the previous day, but they had been guarded and wary, and he knew he needed to catch them when they were drunk and more inclined to chatter.
Reluctantly, he forced himself from under the covers. The bedroom was bitterly cold, and the rain that battered the windows sounded as though it was well laced with ice. He dressed in a smart grey long-coat, new black breeches, thick boots and a hat that was still new enough to repel water, clothes that were suitable both for visiting the club and for meeting Fifth Monarchists in coffee houses later. He buckled a sword around his waist, tucked a dagger in his waistband, another in his boot, and a third, much smaller one, in his sleeve.
‘Where is your periwig?’ came a sleepy but admonishing voice as he aimed for the door. ‘Surely you are not going out without it?’
When the King had started to go grey, he had elected to conceal the fact with a wig, and most courtiers and a growing number of Londoners had promptly followed suit. Chaloner baulked, though. He had a perfectly serviceable head of thick brown hair, while wigs were expensive, uncomfortable to wear and prone to lice. However, it was only a matter of time before he would have to bow to the trend, or he would stand out as unusual, something no spy liked to do.
‘It is raining,’ he explained tersely. ‘I do not want to ruin the thing.’
‘Then why go out?’ she demanded peevishly. ‘It is the middle of the night.’
He knew better than to remark that five in the morning was hardly ‘the middle of the night’. ‘Close your eyes,’ he whispered. ‘I am sorry I woke you.’
‘I suppose you are sneaking off on an errand for Old Misery Guts.’ The Earl was fond of Hannah, but his affection was not reciprocated. ‘You should leave him and find employment elsewhere.’
‘I am glad you think so,’ said Chaloner, supposing he should break the news before she heard it from someone else. ‘Because he has dismissed me.’
Hannah gaped at him, then struggled to sit up. ‘What? But why?’
‘Because I lost the Tsar’s jewels.’
Hannah was fully awake now. ‘The wretched, mean, spiteful old goat! You did not mislay them on purpose and he knows it. I shall have words when I see him today. How dare he!’
‘Please do not,’ begged Chaloner, afraid she might say something that would prompt the Earl not to reinstate him. Yet there was a silver lining to the situation. ‘I am afraid we shall have to curtail our spending until I get another post.’
‘Lord! We had better find you something fast then. Perhaps the Duke will hire you.’
She referred to Buckingham, for whom she had formed a rather unfathomable attachment. Chaloner deplored the association, but there was not much he could do about it, except let her discover for herself what a scheming, treacherous, unsteady fellow the Duke could be.
‘I doubt he will want me,’ he said wryly.
‘Someone else, then. We cannot have you thrown in debtors’ gaol.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, who had harboured a pathological hatred of prisons ever since he had been incarcerated in one for spying in France. He could not help shuddering at the notion.
‘But perhaps we worry unduly,’ Hannah went on thoughtfully. ‘There is plague in Holland. Maybe it will come here, and our creditors will die.’
Chaloner had lost his first wife and child to plague, and was disincline
d to view it as a convenient way to cheat tradesmen. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he said curtly. ‘I will see you tonight.’
‘Very well, but do not be late. I plan to bake a pickled ling pie.’
Chaloner struggled not to gulp. Hannah was an awful cook, and pickled ling pie was one of her more deadly creations – a case of rock-hard pastry filled with vinegary fish that she declined to debone or behead. He had forced down one or two to win her good graces while they had been courting, but now he wished he had been honest from the outset.
‘I doubt I will be back in time,’ he said rather desperately. ‘Give it to the servants.’
‘Oh, they shall certainly have some,’ she vowed grimly. It sounded like a threat. ‘But I shall set your half aside. Incidentally, there was talk at Court yesterday that Paul Ferine was murdered in Temperance’s club. Is it true?’
One of Hannah’s virtues was that she was liberal-minded, and did not object to her husband’s friendship with a brothel-owner. She would never visit the place herself – at least, not to partake in the revelries – but she liked Temperance, and had always treated her with friendly respect.
Chaloner nodded. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Yes. I caught him bowing to a new moon once, bobbing up and down like a demented pigeon. For luck, apparently. And he knew some very unpleasant people.’
‘Courtiers?’ asked Chaloner, when she paused.
She shot him a disagreeable glance. ‘Courtiers are not unpleasant, Thomas. I refer to dubious types from High Holborn. But ask Ferine’s particular friend Duncombe about them. I expect he will be at White Hall today.’
Chaloner went to the kitchen for something to eat before he left, and found it in the grip of frenzied activity, as if there were a houseful of demanding residents to tend, rather than two people who would be out for most of the day. One servant cleaned shoes, two sliced carrots, one washed pots and a fifth tended the fire. All worked under the beadily malevolent eye of Housekeeper Joan, who had served Hannah’s family for years, and was smug in the knowledge that her position in her mistress’s household was unassailable. She and Chaloner had been at loggerheads ever since their first encounter.
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 4
