Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘It would have made no difference,’ said Manning, laying a kindly hand on the courtier’s shoulder. His fingers were fat, dimpled and not very clean. ‘Not if it was ordained.’

  ‘That is not what Ferine believed,’ sobbed Duncombe. ‘He calculated horoscopes so that people could avoid trouble – he always said that nothing was inevitable. But he thought his own bad luck would be minor. A stumble, perhaps, or a loss of money. Neither of us imagined…’

  ‘So who killed him?’ asked Chaloner baldly.

  ‘Some beastly robber who wanted his purse,’ wept Duncombe. ‘There are a lot of strange people in London at the moment. They flock here from the provinces, for Lady Day.’

  ‘Ferine made a horoscope for me,’ put in Manning. ‘It cost me a pretty penny.’

  ‘Money well spent,’ sniffed Duncombe. ‘Lambe is good, but Ferine was better.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ said Manning. ‘He told me that a certain business venture I intend to pursue will be successful, and I have invested everything I own on his advice.’

  Chaloner would have liked to question Duncombe further, but the man chose that moment to pass out. With the assistance of Temperance and Hill, he manoeuvred the courtier into his coach, and by the time they had finished, the club was empty. With a weary sigh, Temperance indicated that Chaloner was to accompany her to the kitchen, where she had assembled the staff.

  ‘Interview the girls first,’ she directed. ‘Then they can go to bed. I do not want them yawning and heavy-eyed when they start work tonight.’

  Chaloner obliged, although the prostitutes were young, fit and vivacious, and he doubted they would be troubled by the loss of an hour’s sleep. They were all shapes and sizes, so as to accommodate any particular preference among the guests, and were in a state of careless undress, which made it difficult for Chaloner to concentrate on his questions.

  ‘We saw nothing unusual,’ said one named Belle, taking the role of spokeswoman. ‘It was busy but it always is on Sundays. Our gentlemen are forced to spend hours in church, you see, so they cannot wait to come here and make up for all the tedium.’

  ‘Especially the clergymen,’ interposed Snowflake.

  ‘Did any of them do anything unusual?’ asked Chaloner.

  ‘We cannot reveal that,’ declared Belle indignantly. ‘It would be a betrayal of trust.’

  ‘I meant when they were in the parlour,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Other than the woodlice incident, did anyone pay Ferine particular attention? Did he say or do anything to annoy someone? Was there a disagreement or a squabble? Perhaps over Snowflake – I know she is popular.’

  ‘I am,’ agreed Snowflake proudly. ‘But no. Our guests behaved exactly as they always do – with relief to be away from the strictures of high society.’

  ‘All the men I allowed upstairs were clients who had been here many times before,’ added Maude. ‘None would have hurt Ferine.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Some of them fought in the wars, which means they are no strangers to violence. And all are wealthy enough to hire assassins.’

  ‘Oh, fie!’ cried Belle. ‘You read too many salacious broadsheets! Our patrons are gentle, peaceable men, and there is not a malicious bone among them.’

  Chaloner struggled not to gape, given that their members included such feisty individuals as Buckingham, Rupert and Lawson, two of whom had drawn their swords that very night.

  ‘It is true,’ insisted Snowflake. ‘We see a different side of them. Take Rupert, for example. One of his favourite places is Hackney Marsh, which is where I am from, and he loves to chat about the ducks on the River Lea. He has even met my father.’

  Chaloner seriously doubted that Rupert had done any such thing, and strongly suspected that the Prince had lied in order to make her more willing to do what he wanted in bed.

  ‘Perhaps you would tell me where you all were at the time of the murder,’ he said.

  There was some consternation at this request, as most had been with clients and Temperance had forbidden them to mention names, but he eventually managed to establish that they all had alibis for the salient time. Except Snowflake.

  ‘Well, I did not kill him,’ she said crossly. ‘He was one of my favourites – especially when he gave me presents.’

  ‘Like dried toads,’ recalled Chaloner.

  Snowflake nodded. ‘And wood from a gibbet to protect me from agues. He also gave me something valuable, something he said that a lot of people will want in time, so I am to keep it safe. Show him, Maude.’

  Maude unlocked the heavy chest where Temperance stored her money, and produced two metal cylinders about the length of her hand. One fitted inside the other, and they looked ancient.

  ‘What are they?’ asked Chaloner, regarding them blankly.

  ‘I do not know,’ confessed Snowflake. ‘But he said they will make me rich one day.’

  There was no more to be learned, and Snowflake seemed an unlikely killer, so he nodded to say he had finished, and watched the girls troop off to bed. Then he questioned the cooks and the servants who cleaned the rooms, but none had anything of substance to add.

  Next, he explored the house. There was a storage room on the first floor, which overlooked the back yard and was easily accessible by climbing the ivy outside. There were scratches on the sill, a muddy footprint on the floor, and the latch had been forced.

  ‘I was in here on Sunday afternoon, looking for a mousetrap,’ said Maude. ‘The latch was not broken then, and there was no mark on the rug. And Ferine was murdered a few hours later…’

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed Temperance. ‘Hill was right: the culprit is an intruder.’

  ‘I do not see that as cause for relief,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘Your guests will not feel very safe in a place that can be readily accessed by murderers.’

  ‘We can remedy that with new windows and additional guards,’ said Temperance, giving the first genuine smile he had seen since he had been summoned to inspect Ferine’s body. ‘Our guests will flock back now we can assert that none of them is under suspicion.’

  Chaloner doubted it would be that simple.

  Chapter 3

  Holborn was a long, wide thoroughfare, dipping down to the grubby Fleet River in the east and narrowing to pass St Giles’s Fields in the west. It was the usual combination of elegant houses and tenements of shocking dilapidation. Several Inns of Chancery were there, too – preparatory schools for those wishing to be called to the Bar.

  About halfway along was a line of cottages called Middle Row, which had been built smack in its centre, where they and two sturdy gates combined to cause a considerable impediment to the flow of traffic. The road to the west was known as ‘High’ Holborn, and Muscut’s Coffee House stood just off it, on a narrow lane that afforded so little light that lamps were needed even on the brightest of days. Its windows were filmed with greasy soot from the roasting beans, and its floor was so thickly coated with filth that it was impossible to tell if it was made of wood or stone.

  Chaloner did not particularly like coffee, although he suspected that he might find it more palatable if he added sugar, which he avoided as a silent and largely futile objection to slave-operated plantations. Still, it was an improvement on tea, with its complex rituals for preparation and pouring, and infinitely better than chocolate, which was an oily, bitter brew generally only taken as a tonic by those who wanted to feel they were doing something healthy.

  The owner arrived with the traditional long-spouted jug, and poured his new customer a dish of coffee. While Chaloner sipped it, he studied the other patrons, trying to determine who looked like the kind of man to accept the traitor’s shilling. He had just settled on a dour, shifty rogue near the back, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword. Standing next to him was a youngish man with a wide grin and a Cavalier moustache. The fellow’s clothes were showy rather than fine, and there was something about his eager amiability and
wide-set eyes that suggested he was not the sharpest sword in the armoury.

  ‘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 t
ime 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.’