‘The Dutch, then? They are the ones who will benefit.’
‘Perhaps. I have been quizzing the survivors, but I have learned nothing as yet.’
‘Maybe you will have answers on Wednesday, when she is weighed.’ Chaloner thought about Dr Lambe’s prediction. ‘Unless the attempt fails, of course.’
‘It will fail, and I cannot imagine why Lawson, who is the driving force behind the scheme, wants to try. Jeffrey Dare had command of her when she sank, and I hope he never finds out what is planned. He is devastated by what happened, and if he ever learns that they aim to disturb the tomb that London has become…’
‘How did he survive when so many of his crew did not?’
‘Because he was at the top of the foremast when the explosion occurred, although he does not consider himself fortunate. No captain likes to live while his ship and crew go down, as I told you when we had our own disaster in the ice recently.’
Night had fallen by the time Chaloner left the Folly. He was walking along the Strand towards home, wondering if Hannah’s pickled ling pie would be waiting for him, when a carriage splashed to a halt at his side. It was an unusually fine one, with the crest of the Barber-Surgeons emblazoned on the door.
‘You are very elusive,’ said Wiseman crossly. ‘I have been looking for you all day. Snowflake has something to tell you, and you are to visit the club to hear it. Are you free now?’
‘I was about to go home.’
‘This will not take long, and Snowflake said it was urgent. Do you like this carriage, by the way? A private conveyance is one of the perks of being Master.’
Wiseman talked the entire way to Hercules’ Pillars Alley, mostly about a sudden demand for his services at White Hall. He was pleased and annoyed in equal measure.
‘I like the additional work, as it means more money. However, most people want me to prescribe preventatives for various ailments: boils, toothache, canker, plague. But I am a surgeon – I prefer it when they actually have those things.’
‘You wish ill health on your customers?’ asked Chaloner in distaste.
‘Of course! A healthy body is of no use to me, and averting trouble means less work in the future, so I am faced with a quandary. Shall I do as they ask, knowing it is cutting my own throat financially, or refuse and risk them taking their custom to another medicus?’
‘A difficult choice indeed,’ murmured Chaloner.
The club looked warm and welcoming with its lamps shining through the gloom of the wet winter evening, but inside the atmosphere was strained – Temperance was putting far too much effort into pretending that all was well when it was clearly not. None of her favourite guests were there, and the few clients who had deigned to appear did not know how to create the air of joyous frivolity for which the place was famous. She came to talk to him, Belle at her heels.
‘I was wrong when I said our clients would flock back once you had proved that none of them killed Ferine,’ Temperance whispered. She was pale, and some of the brightness had gone from her eyes. ‘They still keep their distance.’
‘It is as dead as a tomb,’ added Belle unhappily. ‘Snowflake’s stepbrother wrote, asking her to help him sew new stockings, and when she declined to leave in case you came, Maude went instead – something that would have been impossible on a normal night.’
‘Where is Snowflake?’ asked Chaloner.
‘In the stable,’ replied Temperance. ‘She has a way with horses, and always goes there when she is troubled. You see, her father told her something when he stopped by for a chat earlier, but she refuses to share what he said with anyone but you. She says it is important.’
‘Her father did not come to see her,’ said Belle in disgust. ‘He came for a free meal and the chance to hold forth. And he asked for money.’
‘He is a perfumer, who lives at Temple Mills in Hackney Marsh,’ explained Temperance. ‘It is not a very suitable place for that sort of trade, and he is always on the verge of ruin. Are you close to exposing the culprit, Tom? I do not think I can bear many more evenings like this.’
‘I have made some progress,’ said Chaloner, following her into the yard. ‘For example, there are connections linking Ferine to Dr Lambe, who was here that night.’
‘He was,’ agreed Temperance. ‘But he is not the killer, thank God – the Duke would never forgive me if we deprived him of his sorcerer! Fortunately, Dr Lambe has an alibi in me: he was telling my fortune when Ferine died.’
‘Are you sure?’ Chaloner was disappointed. It would have been an easy solution, and the Earl would have been delighted to learn that his arch-enemy Buckingham had recruited a murderer to his household.
‘Quite sure. He did not leave the parlour all evening, and any number of girls will confirm it. He was having too much fun showing off his witchy skills to an admiring audience.’ She opened the stable door and unclipped the lamp from the sconce. ‘Snowflake? Tom is here at last.’
There was no answer, so Chaloner took the lantern and began to hunt for her in the stalls, wondering if she had grown tired of waiting and had slipped off to do a little moonlighting in a tavern. He was wrong. Snowflake was lying on the floor, her eyes open but unseeing, and it was clear that she had been dead for some time.
Sobbing brokenly, Temperance hurried away to fetch Wiseman, but when Chaloner turned the body over, he did not need a surgeon to tell him that Snowflake had been stabbed. He sat back on his heels and considered what might have happened. Anyone could walk into the yard from the lane, so it would have been easy for an assailant to reach her. Splatters of blood told him where she had been standing when she was attacked – near a large bay gelding, bought solely to impress the club’s customers. It was agitated, so he soothed it with gentle words, rubbing its velvety nose.
‘If you crooned as lovingly to Hannah, your marriage would be more of a success,’ remarked Wiseman, arriving in a flurry of swirling red cloak. His grin faded when he knelt next to Snowflake. ‘Damn! She was only a child. Curse the villain who did this vile thing!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Chaloner soberly.
Wiseman began his examination. ‘She was killed with something long and sharp – not a knife, but some other implement. A single blow, expertly delivered. Death would have been all but instant.’
Chaloner searched the stable, but there was nothing in it that matched the description of the murder weapon.
‘I should have bought her a horoscope,’ wept Temperance. ‘Lambe – or better yet, Ferine – would have predicted what was going to happen, and we could have avoided it.’
‘I am not sure that is how horoscopes work,’ said Chaloner, but Belle was already leading her away to be comforted in the kitchen.
‘Lambe would disagree,’ said Wiseman. ‘He claims that future misfortunes can be averted if appropriate precautions are taken – which is why so many courtiers have been after me for prophylactics of late.’
Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘In other words, he forecasts things that never come to pass?’
‘Not entirely, because two people failed to follow his advice and have lived to regret it: Hubbert was punched in an altercation with a servant, while Odowde fell down the Banqueting House stairs and hurt his arm. He screamed most piteously, although there was barely a bruise.’
‘Was Lambe nearby when it happened?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of sly elbows.
‘No, he was with the King, discussing comets. Why?’
‘Odowde just fell? No one pushed him?’
Wiseman’s expression hardened. ‘He was acting the goat, imitating Clarendon’s waddle while the Court cackled its amusement. No one was near him – he simply stumbled and fell. I was there and I saw it all.’
Chaloner was perplexed. Did Lambe possess an ability to see the future, or had it just been a lucky guess? If Odowde was in the habit of fooling around, then perhaps he had fallen over before, and Lambe’s ‘prediction’ was based on probability. Wiseman cut across his thoughts.
‘What a
re you going to do about Snowflake? Clearly, her murder is connected to Ferine’s – someone does not want it solved, and killed her lest she remembered something to help you.’
‘Ferine died days ago, and she would have been dispatched long before now if that were the case. She must have been stabbed to prevent her from revealing whatever she had learned from her father – the information she refused to share with anyone but me. However, I doubt a perfumer living in Hackney Marsh knows anything about Ferine.’
Wiseman stared at him. ‘Are you suggesting that she knew about a second matter that warranted her being stabbed? That does not sound very likely!’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘Are you sure she did not confide in anyone else?’
‘Positive.’ Wiseman shrugged. ‘You will have to visit Temple Mills and speak to her sire. You can take this wicked bay horse and exercise it at the same time.’
‘I cannot leave London. I have investigations that—’
‘Yes, and one of them is Snowflake,’ interrupted Wiseman shortly. ‘I would offer to go with you, but the sudden demand for my services at Court means I am too busy.’
Before Chaloner could say that he was too busy as well, there was a commotion and Atkinson entered the stable at a run. Maude was gasping at his heels, indicating with an apologetic shrug that she had been unable to stop him. Atkinson faltered when he saw his stepsister’s body.
‘When Temperance’s note arrived, I thought it was a horrible joke. I did not believe … But who could have done such a terrible thing?’
‘Chaloner will find out,’ promised Wiseman; Chaloner shot him a pained glance. ‘Her murder will not go unpunished.’
‘I sat sewing stockings all day,’ gulped Atkinson unsteadily, ‘while she was stalked by a fiend! How can I live with myself now? She needed me and I failed her.’
‘You were not to know,’ said Maude kindly, patting his arm. ‘Neither was I, or I would not have sat sewing stockings with you. But Tom will catch her killer, never fear.’
Chaloner muttered a few awkward words of sympathy and slipped away, glad to leave the grieving stockinger in Maude’s matronly hands. It was cowardly, but his skills lay in other areas, and he decided he would do whatever was necessary to bring Snowflake’s killer to justice, hopefully without travelling to Hackney Marsh. He had liked Snowflake, and was sorry she was dead.
He considered where best to start. The obvious way forward was to continue monitoring the Fifth Monarchists, given that Snowflake had been one of them. Perhaps she had been eliminated because someone did not want a prostitute on the books when the New Kingdom dawned. He was reluctant to approach the Sanhedrin directly, knowing they would deny all knowledge of the crime, and that would be that. He wondered who else he could ask. Then he remembered Admiral Lawson, who was counted among their number. A discussion with him would not go amiss, regardless. He said as much to Wiseman, who had followed him out into Hercules’ Pillars Alley.
‘That can be arranged. He is my patient, and it is time he was bled again. I am busy, as I said, but not too busy to help with the matter of Snowflake. We shall visit him together now.’ Wiseman shot Chaloner a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think he killed her?’
‘Not really, but he might have information to tell me who did. And if that does not work, I will go to Temple Mills.’
‘Good. Her father is called Grisley Pate.’ Wiseman saw Chaloner’s eyebrows go up. ‘It is his real name, I assure you. And you had better not refer to her as Snowflake. She was christened Constance, although she was known to her family as Consti.’
‘Consti Pate?’ mused Chaloner. ‘No wonder she changed it to Snowflake.’
He climbed into the Barber-Surgeons’ carriage, and they travelled in silence to Duck Lane, where the Admiral lived in a smart brick house. A servant answered the door, and escorted them to a neat parlour where Lawson was entertaining. He had perhaps a dozen guests, none quite comfortable in their fashionable clothes; Chaloner surmised that they were family from the north, making an effort to adapt to strange new London ways.
‘Bleed me?’ asked Lawson in surprise, when the surgeon announced his intention. ‘But you did that last week.’ He regarded Chaloner warily. ‘And why is he here?’
‘The loss of your ship London was a nasty shock,’ explained Wiseman, ignoring the second question. ‘Bleeding will prevent any illness arising from it. After all, we cannot afford to lose you on the brink of war.’
But Lawson was still staring at Chaloner. ‘Temperance North’s whore-house,’ he said, snapping his fingers as memories surfaced. ‘I have seen you there twice now.’
Chaloner was perturbed to learn that he had been noticed. Lawson was obviously an observant man, suggesting there was more to the coarse-tongued, cantankerous sailor than met the eye.
‘The club is an excellent place,’ said Wiseman, loyally using the term Temperance preferred. ‘You should treat your guests to an evening there.’
‘Too expensive,’ growled Lawson. ‘And they are only family – they do not warrant that sort of outlay. Yet they have been out of sorts since London went down. They were aboard her, you see, so I should probably do something to set their humours right. Will you bleed them, too?’
Wiseman’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of a larger fee, and Lawson set about jostling his hapless kin into a queue. Naturally enough, they began talking about the disaster.
‘It was awful,’ said a man who looked enough like Lawson to be a brother. His expression was bleak. ‘We would have died, too, had we not been able to swim.’
‘And we were on the right side of the ship,’ added a cousin. ‘The explosion was on the left, so we missed the worst of it. Even so, I was blown overboard.’
‘We were all fortunate,’ said a small, pale woman. ‘I was being sick at the time, and it was leaning over the rail that saved me.’
‘Did you notice anything odd?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Did anyone go below decks shortly before the blast? Or did you see someone who should not have been aboard?’
There was a general chorus of denials, while Lawson growled that the King’s navy did not allow just anyone to saunter about on its vessels. Crews knew their mates, and strangers were discovered long before they could do any harm.
‘People think it is suspicious that we survived when so many sailors did not,’ said the cousin. ‘But we owe our lives to where we were standing and our ability to float.’
Chaloner nodded, but he thought it odd, too. Had they set the explosion, then retreated to a place where they knew they would be safe? If so, had they acted with or without Lawson’s connivance? And why had Lawson not been on London himself?
‘I was busy,’ said Lawson, when Chaloner put the question. ‘Not that it is any of your affair.’
‘What do you think happened?’
Lawson shrugged, but his eyes were sly. ‘Some daft bugger was playing with naked flames in the powder hold, although Captain Dare assures me that it was locked. We shall find out when she is weighed next Wednesday.’
While Wiseman poked at the Admiral’s veins with a blade that was already stained with gore from previous victims, Chaloner took advantage of Lawson’s enforced immobility.
‘I understand you are a Fifth Monarchist,’ he began.
Lawson regarded him narrowly. ‘So what? Or are you one of those rogues who dislikes the notion of being ruled by King Jesus? Personally, I relish the thought. Why do you think I have spent so many years smiting His enemies?’
Chaloner’s next question was as aggressive as Lawson’s last answer. ‘What did Jones and Quelch want with you at the club on the night that Ferine was murdered?’
Lawson glared at him. ‘Mind your own damn business!’
‘Did you know Snowflake?’
‘Not in the Biblical sense. She is too skinny, and I like a woman with proper hips, not ones like a cabin boy’s. Have you finished, Wiseman? Good. Here is your fee. Good day.’
Chaloner did not like being ousted before h
e had learned what he needed to know, but he could not force the Admiral to talk to him – at least, not with a dozen kinsmen ready to surge to the rescue if he resorted to rougher methods. Reluctantly, he followed the surgeon outside.
‘There are other lines of enquiry to pursue first,’ he said, even more determined to learn whether Lawson was connected to Snowflake’s death, the Fifth Monarchists’ machinations and the tragic fate of London. ‘But if they do not work, I will go to Temple Mills.’
Snowflake’s murder had left Chaloner in low spirits and he did not feel like going home, so he began to walk to Chancery Lane. It was raining again, and the mud was more treacherous than ever. He pressed himself against the wall of a house when a dung-wagon lumbered past, flinging up filth as it went.
The Pope’s Head was busy because its landlord was selling his ale cheaply so there would not be any left when the lease expired. Sherwin had made the most of the situation, and was slumped in a semi-conscious haze, surrounded by empty pots. Scott and Manning were with him, arguing so fiercely that they did not notice Chaloner until he had been listening for some time.
‘…a great deal of money,’ Manning was whispering. ‘You should appreciate that.’
‘Oh, I do,’ hissed Scott. ‘But that is my point. We have a fabulous resource, and we should exploit it to the full. Pellissary will pay far more than the rebels – who I do not trust, anyway.’
‘I suppose they are the kind of men to claim that ushering in the Last Millennium should be reward enough,’ conceded Manning, his rueful tone telling Chaloner that his devotion to the Cause was rather less powerful than his devotion to lucre. ‘However, I gave them my word…’
‘Well, I did not give them mine,’ said Scott. ‘And the scheme belongs to me, too. You would not have come this far were it not for me, so I have a say in what happens. Look at how I dealt with John Browne. And I suggest we hear what Pellissary has to offer. He—’
He stopped speaking abruptly when he became aware of Chaloner. Anger flashed in his eyes; fear flared in Manning’s.
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 16
