‘She always could wrap me around her little finger,’ he whispered ruefully to Chaloner. ‘No wonder I could not persuade her to settle for the staid life of a stockinger. I am far too dull!’
‘You are not dull,’ whispered Ursula warmly. ‘Unlike this meeting. I fear that rather too many people have been promised an opportunity to rant.’
She was right: at least a dozen men were pulling notes from their pockets, ready to treat the gathering to their religious and political reflections. Strange was first, stepping forward to aver that Easter Day would see heavenly hosts marching down High Holborn and seraphim taking over the Banqueting House; Quelch interrupted to say it would be the other way around. It was tedious stuff, and by the sixth speaker, Chaloner had had enough. So had most of the audience, which began to shuffle and fuss.
The speeches finished eventually, and Jones asked if anyone had questions. There was a tense silence, lest someone did, thus causing the pontificating to start again. After a closing prayer and a piece of cake, the rebels drifted away, sidling past the curious lawyers who still milled outside the door. Chaloner lingered, watching the people he knew – Strange and Quelch, quarrelling as usual; Ursula pressing extra cake on hungry apprentices; Atkinson laughing with Snowflake; and Leving, who had taken out pen and paper and was brazenly making notes for Williamson. Then he became aware of someone standing at his side. It was Jones.
‘Leving has been different since the Northern Plot,’ he said. ‘If it were anyone else, I would suspect he had been turned, but not even Williamson would stoop to using such a low creature.’
‘If you think there is a spy in your midst, you will have to manage without me,’ said Chaloner quickly, lest the remark was a test. ‘There are plenty of other ways to avenge myself on Clarendon – ones that will not see me on a scaffold.’
Jones’s reptilian eyes glittered. ‘Leving knows nothing. Even if he is a traitor – and I cannot see him having the courage or the wits, to be frank – he cannot harm us.’
He indicated that Chaloner was to accompany him to the front of the hall, where the thirty dour men still sat around the table. Atkinson joined them there after bidding an affectionate farewell to Snowflake.
‘We are the Sanhedrin,’ Atkinson explained. ‘The leaders of the Fifth Monarchy movement.’
‘We named ourselves after the courts of ancient Israel,’ added Jones. ‘We are men of choicest light and spirit, imbued with judgement, righteousness and understanding – men of truth and integrity, fearing God and hating covetousness, being filled with the fruits of righteousness, full of mercy and good works, without partiality or hypocrisy.’
‘Oh,’ said Chaloner, thinking they did not look like paragons of virtue to him, and that the Last Millennium would be in trouble if they were allowed to run it. He glanced at Jones, and thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in the cold eyes, which again made him wonder whether the man was as committed to the Cause as he would have everyone believe.
‘I made enquiries about thee, Chaloner,’ said Strange. ‘About thy service in the wars and in Holland. And I have decided that thou wouldst make an excellent gunpowder man.’
‘No,’ snapped Quelch immediately. ‘I do not trust him.’
‘I care nothing for what thou thinkest – thou art a fool.’ Strange turned back to Chaloner and gave one of his wild grins. ‘Welcome. Thou art now our brother.’
‘Thank you,’ said Chaloner before Quelch could argue. ‘However, I shall need time to prepare, so advance notice of the target will—’
‘No,’ snapped Quelch. ‘We will tell you when it suits us.’
‘Welcome to the fold, Chaloner,’ said Atkinson with a friendly smile. ‘But do not be too hopeful of supplying us with a blast. If all goes well, there will be no need for explosions.’
‘Oh, yes, there will,’ countered Jones. ‘You cannot have a revolt without a bang or two.’
‘We can and will,’ countered Atkinson. ‘I do not want a needless effusion of blood, and neither do most others. There has been too much of it already.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Quelch. ‘A gentle revolution is the thing. We are all weary of civil war.’
‘I am not,’ declared Strange. ‘The Bible sayeth: “out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword; with it he shall smite the nation, and he shall rule them with a rod of iron”. That is what I intend to do.’
The Sanhedrin launched into a debate on the matter, and it was some time before Jones was able to regain control. When he did, he addressed Chaloner.
‘Manning did not appear today, and I need something delivered.’ He handed over three letters and a box the size of a large book. ‘Take these to him at the White Hind in Cripplegate.’
‘Let me do it,’ cried Quelch in alarm. ‘Or another of the Sanhedrin. You cannot trust—’
‘A stranger is better,’ interrupted Jones. ‘One not known to Williamson’s spies.’
Chaloner opened the box to discover it full of grey powder. He made a show of inspecting it, picking some up between his fingers. The entire Sanhedrin flinched backwards when he rubbed it between them. It was like the softest sand, more akin to talc than explosives.
‘My fingers are not metal,’ he explained. ‘They will not produce the spark needed to ignite it.’
‘Do not be so sure,’ said Jones, easing further away. ‘This particular compound is the most volatile substance that has ever been created, and its manufacturers tell us that even the merest hint of abrasion will set it off. It is deadly stuff, and not to be poked.’
‘If you were any good at your trade, you would have known that,’ said Quelch accusingly.
Chaloner met his eyes. ‘I could rub this all day and nothing would happen. And even if it did ignite, it would not explode – it would burn. You need a confined space for an explosion.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Jones, clearly a long way from being convinced. ‘But run along now. It was only a loan, and Manning wants it back.’
‘What—’ began Chaloner.
‘No questions. You have been told all you need to know. For now.’
Frustrated, Chaloner took his leave, and found himself walking along High Holborn with Atkinson and Ursula. She was heading for the market at Leadenhall, hoping to catch some bargains before it closed, and Atkinson had offered to accompany her.
‘I make delicious soup for needy parishioners,’ she explained as they went. ‘I buy leftover provisions most evenings.’
‘I would not mind tasting your soup,’ sighed Atkinson, ‘if it is anything like your cakes.’
It was a clumsy compliment, but Ursula accepted it as her due. ‘The coal tax is hard on the poor, but it will not be a problem much longer, not with the New Kingdom at hand.’
Atkinson frowned. ‘I accept that there might have to be a little bloodshed to win our equitable society, but I hope there will not be too much. I argued against hiring Scarface Roberts, and I argued against replacing him when he died. I am sorry if I offend, Chaloner, but I speak as I find.’
‘Mr Chaloner is not the kind of man to blow things up unnecessarily,’ said Ursula, with more confidence than Chaloner felt was warranted given that they barely knew each other. It told him again that she, like Atkinson, was foolishly naive and hopelessly out of her depth.
‘I shall do my best to ensure that his expertise is not needed,’ vowed the stockinger.
‘Good,’ said Ursula. ‘I saw some bodies from the ship that exploded last week – London – dragged from the river a few days ago, and I should hate to think that we might be responsible for something similar.’
She shuddered, so Atkinson changed the subject, talking about a service he had attended at St Paul’s Cathedral, where the choir had sung like angels. As he spoke, Chaloner wondered why the stockinger had embroiled himself with hotheads like the Fifth Monarchists. Was it just because he was enamoured of Ursula? If so, it might transpire to be a costly courtship.
Chaloner had no intention of giving anything to Manning
without examining it first – he, unlike Leving, had no compunction about opening other people’s letters – but he had known from the moment he had left the Talbot that he was being followed. He ducked into the Fleet Rookery, a dangerous, crime-ridden area of filthy tenements, seedy ale-houses and close-packed slums, and threaded through a complex maze of alleys before hiding in a doorway.
His tail was Jones, who swore under his breath when he saw that his quarry had disappeared. He stopped a gang of slouching villains to ask whether they had seen a man wearing a grey long-coat, but the answer he received made him back away quickly and aim for the safety of Holborn. Chaloner went in the opposite direction, emerging on Fleet Street and then running as hard as he could to Lincoln’s Inn, where he bounded up the stairs to Chamber XIII.
‘Quickly,’ he said, flinging the three letters on to the table. ‘Help me read these. I have to deliver them to a tavern in Cripplegate, and I cannot take too long or Jones will be suspicious.’
As Spymaster, Thurloe had opened thousands of missives without their senders’ or recipients’ knowledge, and it did not take him long to slit the seals in such a way that they could be closed again without revealing what had happened.
‘They are in cipher,’ he said, scanning them quickly. ‘We shall make copies and translate them at our leisure. Read them aloud while I write.’
His pen was soon flying across the paper, while Chaloner struggled to interpret a spidery hand that was not always very clear. Fortunately, none of the documents was very long, and they soon finished. Thurloe resealed them expertly.
‘What do you make of this?’ asked Chaloner, passing him the box of powder.
‘Nothing,’ replied Thurloe, after a brief inspection. ‘Other than that it seems to be unusually fine. You know far more about such matters than me.’
Chaloner emptied it into the coal-scuttle and replaced it with soot from the chimney. Smiling enigmatically, Thurloe added something from his medicine chest – some of his remedies verged on the toxic, so Chaloner did not like to imagine what he was about to pass to Manning.
‘Have you heard of an explosives expert named Scarface Roberts?’ he asked.
Thurloe nodded. ‘I used him during the Commonwealth – a very skilled man. Why?’
‘He blew himself up, which made me assume he was not very competent. However, if you say he was, perhaps he died experimenting with this stuff.’
Thurloe regarded it uneasily. ‘I had better dispose of it carefully then. I do not want to be responsible for the destruction of Lincoln’s Inn.’
Chaloner left at a run, and soon reached the White Hind, a ramshackle tavern that sent the enticing aroma of roasted meat into the cold night air. It was busy, being popular with Lady Day visitors as well as locals. Manning was sitting on his own so Chaloner took the seat opposite.
‘Oh, it is you,’ said Manning with an unfriendly scowl. ‘What do you want this time?’
‘Jones asked me to come,’ replied Chaloner.
Manning’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why? Where is Leving? He is the one who usually brings me messages from the Sanhedrin.’
Chaloner shrugged. ‘I am just following orders. Why did you miss the meeting today? Are you not interested in our plans for the future?’
‘I could not face the walk with my chilblains.’
‘What about Sherwin? Where is he?’
‘Safe,’ replied Manning. ‘Not that he is any of your business. And speaking of business, what do you have for me?’
Chaloner handed over the letters. Manning peered at the seals and Chaloner held his breath, hoping Thurloe’s skills were up to scratch, but Manning soon nodded his satisfaction and slipped them inside his coat. As he did, Chaloner became aware that they were being watched.
‘Well, well,’ said Scott, sauntering up to them. ‘What are you two doing? Did I just see documents changing hands?’
‘No, you did not,’ said Manning furtively. He nodded to the box. ‘He came to return that.’
Scott made a grab for it, which encouraged Manning to do the same, and there followed an unseemly tussle. Not surprisingly, the lid came off, scattering the contents over them both. Scott leapt up and brushed himself down frantically, although Manning only smirked.
‘You had better watch how you light your pipe from now on. I, of course, do not smoke.’
Chaloner lingered at the White Hind, drinking ale with the ill-matched duo, and trying every ploy he knew to learn what was afoot. Unfortunately, Scott was too clever to be caught out, and was adept at preventing Manning from making incriminating remarks, too. Eventually, seeing he was wasting his time, Chaloner made his farewells and left.
It was bitterly cold, and the rain had turned to sleet. He turned up his collar, and was about to begin the long trudge to Tothill Street when he heard someone behind him. He turned quickly to see that Scott had followed him.
‘I strongly advise you not to deal with Manning,’ Scott said. ‘He is a liar.’
‘And you are not?’ asked Chaloner archly.
Scott looked pained. ‘I was a different man when you knew me in New Amsterdam. Now I am a pillar of respectability – Cartographer Royal, and one of His Majesty’s chief advisers.’
Suddenly, Chaloner had had enough of tiptoeing around for answers, and decided it was time for a more direct approach. He moved fast, and had Scott pinned against the wall with a knife at his throat before the man knew what was happening.
‘Who is Sherwin? And do not say a cabinet maker, because we both know he is not.’
Scott began to struggle, but stopped when Chaloner poked his neck with the blade. ‘I know nothing about him,’ he replied sullenly. ‘My orders are just to make sure that Manning does not spirit him out of the city.’
‘Who issued these orders?’
‘Spymaster Williamson,’ came the unexpected response. ‘Manning is a dangerous dissident – a Fifth Monarchist, no less – and my remit is to protect Sherwin from him at all costs. More than that I do not know.’
Chaloner did not believe him. ‘Why is Sherwin so important?’
‘I did not ask.’ Scott became haughty. ‘My goal is simply to serve my country.’
Chaloner did not believe that either. ‘What do you know about the gunpowder?’
‘Only that it is unusually fine, and that Manning has masses of it stashed away somewhere. He refuses to tell me where.’
‘If Williamson is so concerned about Sherwin, why does he not place him in protective custody? Or arrest Manning to put an end to his machinations?’
‘You will have to ask him. And when you do, you will learn that I am telling the truth.’
It was a claim that could be verified, so perhaps he was being honest for a change. Yet Scott was such a slippery character that Chaloner remained wary and suspicious. However, he could see there was no point in pressing the man further. He stepped back and indicated that he could leave. Scott slithered away, turning to speak only when he thought he was at a safe distance.
‘Manhandle me again and Williamson will hear of it,’ he snapped. ‘Then you will be sorry.’ He held Chaloner’s gaze for a moment, then spun around and stamped away.
Chaloner headed for home, thinking gloomily that it had not been a good day for either of his enquiries. He was just walking past Chyrurgeons’ Hall when he remembered that Surgeon Wiseman had recently moved there, to take up his new appointment. He knocked on the gate and was conducted to the Masters’ Lodgings, where Wiseman received him with pleasure, delighted with an opportunity to show off his new domain.
‘It is only mine for a year,’ he said, ‘but I mean to enjoy it. I have already brought my anatomical specimens from Fleet Street. Would you like to see how they look on the shelves?’
Chaloner flailed around for an excuse to avoid it. ‘Hannah wants me home early tonight – she is making pickled ling pie.’
Wiseman shot him a sympathetic look. ‘That is something no man should have to endure, and you were right to come to m
e for help. We shall give her my professional medical opinion: that you cannot consume such a foul creation so soon after your arduous experiences in Russia.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Chaloner, horrified that the surgeon should think he would beg such a favour. ‘She will never forgive us if we tell her that.’
Wiseman nodded slowly. ‘True. Then we shall send an apprentice to say that your humours are awry, and that you are under my care for the evening. She cannot argue with a surgeon.’
Chaloner was sure she could. However, even viewing Wiseman’s collection of grisly objects was preferable to the pie, so he nodded assent. Thrilled to have company, the surgeon showed him around. Chaloner averted his eyes when Wiseman took down one of his jars, but not before he had seen that it contained severed noses.
‘I really should go,’ he said, as Wiseman began to explain why its contents were of such great scientific value. ‘I have work to do.’
‘Stay,’ urged Wiseman. ‘I feel like entertaining, and I cannot think of anyone else to invite. All my colleagues are scoundrels and Temperance is working.’
Wiseman’s arrogance and abrasive manners meant he was loathed by his fellow medici and feared by his patients, and it was common knowledge that he had no friends. Chaloner feigned dizziness when Wiseman resumed his ghoulish narrative, although the ploy backfired when the surgeon made him swallow a foul-tasting potion to restore his wits.
Afterwards, they sat by the fire in the parlour, listening to rain tapping against the windows. Wiseman embarked on a rambling monologue that ranged from the falling numbers at the club, to Prince Rupert’s unpopularity at Court. As he listened, it occurred to Chaloner that the surgeon was well placed to listen to gossip, given that he was often at White Hall.
‘Yes, people talk about Ferine,’ Wiseman said. ‘He knew some very dubious people, apparently. His friend Duncombe denied it when I mentioned it to him, but he was lying. Have you interviewed him yet?’
Chaloner nodded. ‘But I will speak to him again if you think he is hiding something.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 11
