Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner)

by Gregory, Susanna

  ‘I suspect “candle” is a euphemism for something else. But how do I find out what?’

  ‘If it is a euphemism, then it is probably a weapon. Rupert has certainly devised or improved those in the past. Did you know he is a member of the Royal Society?’

  Chaloner nodded. ‘Brodrick said he had created some sort of exploding bead.’

  ‘They are called “Prince Rupert’s Drops” – an amusing diversion with no real purpose. More seriously, though, he has put his mind to developing better firing mechanisms for heavy artillery, and more potent forms of gunpowder.’

  Chaloner glanced at the now-empty coal scuttle. ‘Do you think a sample of that was what Jones ordered me to take to Manning?’

  ‘If so, it would explain Rupert’s interest in the Fifth Monarchists. And why Williamson does not swoop in and arrest them at once – he and the Prince will want the name of every conspirator involved, to make sure that no one escapes with sensitive military secrets.’

  ‘Or one that is worth a lot of money,’ mused Chaloner. ‘I heard Williamson tell Rupert that something was more “financial than tactical”, although Rupert claimed it might “turn the tide of the war”. I think I see a glimmer of sense at last! How can we find out more?’

  ‘Carefully,’ advised Thurloe wryly. ‘If Rupert and Williamson suspect you know what they have refused to tell, they may take steps to silence you.’

  Chaloner mulled over what they had reasoned, gazing idly at the shelf above the hearth. He snapped out of his reverie when he saw two cylindrical objects displayed there.

  ‘What are those?’

  ‘Coining dies,’ replied Thurloe. ‘The bottom part is called a “pile”, while the “trussel” fits over it like a hood. They were once used to make money, but we have special machines to do that now.’

  ‘Ferine gave a set to Snowflake.’

  Thurloe shrugged. ‘The Lieutenant of the Tower recently found a crate of them in a cellar, and auctioned them off to raise money for the war. Wallis bought me a set as a gift. They are quite worthless, except as an intriguing relic of the past.’

  ‘Ferine told Snowdrop that hers will be make her rich one day.’

  ‘Then he was spinning her a yarn.’

  ‘Perhaps he thought she could set up her own mint.’

  ‘Hardly! The coins produced would be very inferior to the ones milled on a screw-press, and no one would accept them as currency. Shall I show you how the contraption works?’

  He set the pile on the table and put a bone button on its top, to represent the silver blank that would once have been used. Then he placed the trussel over it.

  ‘And you hit it with a hammer.’ He did not have one, so he used a poker instead. When he pulled the dies apart, the button had been reduced to fragments.

  ‘I see,’ said Chaloner drolly. ‘Very useful.’

  ‘It would have worked with a metal blank,’ said Thurloe, a little defensively. ‘And then I would have had a coin “minted” in the reign of the last King Henry.’

  ‘So Ferine lied to Snowflake – these would not have made her wealthy. His other gift was a dried toad, which failed to bring her the luck he promised. Perhaps he was not in his right wits. Indeed, he would have to be unhinged to deal with Eliza Hatton – or Alice Fanshaw, as Wiseman believes she is called – because there is something very unsettling about her. The same is true of Lambe, whom I have seen near her twice now.’

  ‘My informants tell me that he is highly regarded at Court, although mostly because he is Buckingham’s protégé and so has access to the right circles. His presence there is deeply harmful, though – Londoners do not like the thought of the King and his ministers paying heed to a sorcerer. But never mind this. Who do you think killed Quelch?’

  ‘Strange is the obvious candidate,’ replied Chaloner. ‘They disliked each other, and quarrelled constantly. Or perhaps Jones did it, to eliminate a source of discord.’

  ‘Jones is certainly ruthless enough to kill for his Cause. What about Atkinson?’

  ‘He has an alibi in Maude, Ursula and Old Ned. I checked it myself.’

  Thurloe grimaced. ‘Stockingers, farmers, labourers, housewives. I do not blame them for wanting a gentler, fairer society, yet I wager none of them understand what they are doing.’

  Chaloner agreed. ‘Rupert and Williamson want a list of everyone involved, but they will not have it from me. And they will not have one from Leving either, if I can help it.’

  ‘You will have to give them something, or you will end up in the Tower yourself.’

  ‘I will face that problem when it comes. Has Wallis decoded those papers yet? The ones we copied before I delivered them to Manning?’

  ‘He is busy deciphering missives pertaining to the war, which must take precedence. He will tackle them when he can. The same goes for me – I will work on them when I have a moment.’

  Chaloner regarded him curiously. ‘What is keeping you so busy?’

  ‘Lincoln’s Inn business. There is a complex legal wrangle pertaining to the Pope’s Head that is likely to keep its owner – us – tied up for weeks. We are also considering whether to sell some of our land to developers. I have been charged to handle both matters.’

  Chaloner frowned, instinct telling him that Thurloe was not being entirely honest. He regarded him in concern, hoping he was not embroiled in something dangerous.

  ‘Property law is complex,’ said Thurloe irritably, seeing the look and understanding exactly what his friend was thinking. ‘Look at the papers on my desk if you do not believe me.’

  The table was indeed piled high with plans and documents, but Chaloner was not so graceless as to take him up on the offer.

  ‘I hope you reject the developers’ suggestions,’ was all he said. ‘If they have their way, we shall have houses from Kensington to Wapping, and from Southwark to Shoreditch.’

  ‘You exaggerate, Tom. The city will never grow larger than it is now. How could it? We are bursting at the seams already.’

  Chapter 8

  The Tothill Street house was empty when Chaloner arrived home, and there was a scribbled message from Hannah saying she would be home late and that the servants had been given the evening off. Chaloner was not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that their discussion about the missing hoard would have to wait – relieved because it seemed a waste of his energy to embark on a confontation about so distateful a matter as money, and disappointed because he was angry with her and wanted answers.

  He went to the pantry for food, but rejected the exotic treats that were displayed there – stewed peacock, churned cream, orange-peel comfits – stubbornly declining to have anything to do with Hannah’s extravagance. He settled for barley-bread and dripping. He carried them to the drawing room, not lighting a fire to save the cost of the fuel, and when he had eaten, took his second-best viol from the cupboard under the stairs and began to play. He only stopped when a door slamming at the back of the house told him that Joan was home.

  Hannah returned much later, making sure he woke by putting cold feet on him. He mumbled an objection and eased away, and was just falling back to sleep when a pair of icy hands began to rove across his chest.

  ‘You are very warm,’ she murmured.

  He retorted that he would not stay that way for long if she insisted on mauling him, and was just dozing off again when she heaved herself close. The chilly fingers came to rest on his stomach, and he could smell wine on her breath.

  ‘I have been to a party,’ she whispered. ‘To celebrate the twenty-second anniversary of Prince Rupert arriving in England to offer his services to the old king. It was a glittering occasion, and everyone was there. Are you asleep, Tom? We can talk in the morning if so.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ he mumbled, trying to escape her frigid touch.

  ‘Dr Lambe was there,’ she chattered on. With a sigh, he rolled over to face her, suspecting it was nearing dawn anyway. ‘He is an eerie fellow, although the Duke admires his
skills. He predicted that the devil would appear at Tyburn, you know.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Chaloner was thoughtful. He was fairly sure Eliza Hatton had issued the screech that had frightened the spectators into a stampede. Were she and Lambe working together – he making the prediction, and she planting the notion in susceptible minds? And if nature had not contrived to help with rainclouds, would she have found another way to ‘prove’ him right? Chaloner decided he would have a word with Lambe as soon as he could corner the man alone. And with Eliza, too, if he could catch her.

  ‘He announced it at Court on Thursday morning,’ Hannah went on. ‘And it came to pass that very afternoon. The Queen says that such people are anathema and should be banished, but it is only a bit of harmless fun.’

  ‘Ferine predicted the future, too,’ said Chaloner.

  ‘Yes – he was very good at it. He did a reading for me, and he was right: you did come home from Russia before the week was out. Of course, Lambe does more than tell the future – the Duke hired him to help him find the Philosopher’s Stone. Rupert scoffs at his talents, though.’

  ‘Why?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘The Prince is not a very nice man. He is even rude to the Duke! He has invited us to a party tomorrow, by the way. The Duke, I mean. I would not attend a soirée given by Rupert, not if you paid me.’

  Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘But you did attend a soirée he gave, Hannah – the one you went to tonight, to celebrate the anniversary of his—’

  ‘That was work,’ interrupted Hannah. ‘The Queen was invited, so I had to go, too.’

  ‘Then it is being paid to—’

  ‘Do not quibble. And do not try to change the subject either. I want you there tomorrow, because one of the other guests may offer you a post. All the best people are going.’

  ‘Lambe?’ asked Chaloner, thinking it might be a good opportunity to talk to the man.

  ‘Of course. And Rupert, unfortunately. The Duke does not want to invite him – they cannot abide each other – but Rupert is the King’s cousin, so he has no choice.’

  ‘Privy Council meetings must be a trial,’ mused Chaloner, not liking to imagine the trouble that would accrue when two such arrogantly opinionated individuals were thrust together. It would be even worse when the pompously prim Earl of Clarendon was thrown into the mix, too.

  ‘Admiral Lawson is also going,’ Hannah continued, ‘although the Duke cannot abide him either. Apparently, Lawson heard it was happening, and told the Duke to expect him at twelve – or a little later if no hackney is available. Huh! The fellow does not even keep a private coach!’

  ‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly, sensing what was coming next. ‘We cannot afford—’

  ‘We could if you had a job,’ Hannah pouted. ‘But never mind that now. Meet me in the palace at noon, and we shall walk to Wallingford House together. Please do not be late.’

  Chaloner sat up, supposing it was as good an opportunity as any to discuss her profligacy. ‘These debts,’ he began sternly. ‘You must curtail your spending before you ruin us.’

  ‘But we are obliged to maintain standards,’ protested Hannah. ‘And it is hardly my fault that the Dutch war has resulted in heavier taxes.’

  ‘You cannot blame the war!’ Chaloner was astounded by the excuse. ‘And speaking of money, I left some behind the skirting board, but it has disappeared.’

  ‘I took it,’ said Hannah, with a sheepish smile. ‘I happened across it one day when I was looking for a dropped button. I needed a new gown, and I knew you would not mind. Lord, I am exhausted! You have kept me talking all night.’

  She closed her eyes, and began the deep, measured breathing that told him she was asleep. Chaloner stared down at her, torn between anger and affection. The conversation had left him wide awake, so he rose, dressed and went downstairs. Joan was there.

  ‘The vintner came again yesterday,’ she said accusingly. ‘And unless you pay his bill within the next week, he is going to alert the bailiffs.’

  Chaloner felt the two heavy purses in his pocket, and wondered how many creditors he could satisfy with their contents.

  With a heavy step, he went to White Hall, where a few diehard revellers were still enjoying the remains of the wine from Rupert’s party. He waylaid several, and asked questions about Ferine, HMS London, Lawson, Browne, Lambe and Fifth Monarchists, but they were either too drunk to make sense or they knew nothing of import. When the Earl arrived and began to waddle up the stairs to his offices, Chaloner followed. Clarendon, however, was too busy to talk to him.

  ‘The Dutch ambassador is visiting today,’ he said, full of urgent agitation. ‘I still hope to negotiate a peace treaty, even if everyone else has given up. And you know what you must do, anyway: thwart the Fifth Monarchists and find Ferine’s killer. You do not need further instructions from me, and I do not have time to listen to a report.’

  Seeing it was not an auspicious time to ask to be reinstated on the pay-roll before he was arrested for debt, Chaloner went to High Holborn, where he spent an unprofitable morning trying to learn more about the Fifth Monarchists. He met Ursula, who gave him a piece of gingerbread, then accompanied her and Atkinson to Snowflake’s funeral in St Dunstan-in-the-West. He shook his head when Temperance raised hopeful eyebrows, asking whether he had solved the murders, and felt guilty when he saw the disappointment in her eyes.

  ‘Please, Tom,’ she whispered, clinging to his arm as they stood in the rainswept graveyard together. ‘Snowflake needs justice. And the club dies a little more every night. You are my only hope.’

  It was noon before the dismal ceremony had finished, so Chaloner took a hackney back to White Hall, where he ran across the Great Court to the Spares Gallery, a chamber so named because unwanted or duplicate pieces of art hung there. It was used as an unofficial common room by minor courtiers, and Hannah was waiting for him when he arrived.

  ‘The Queen is going to Richmond tomorrow,’ she said, as they walked towards the gate. ‘She wants me to go with her, but I told her I would rather stay here – you have only been home a few days, and it is unfair to expect me to leave you so soon. Besides, the Duke’s Astrological Soirée is next week, and I should hate to miss that.’

  ‘I will manage,’ said Chaloner, aware that the opportunity to spend money would be considerably reduced in Richmond. He struggled to think of something that would convince her to go. ‘The weather will be better there. Drier.’

  Hannah ignored that unlikely notion, and continued to talk about Buckingham’s unusual party. ‘Apparently, Lambe is going to read the future using a bowl of blood and a human femur. I have never seen such a thing, and I confess I am curious.’

  The remark gave Chaloner his solution. ‘The Catholic Church maintains that all forms of divination are heresy, and the Queen will dismiss you if she finds out.’

  ‘She would not! It is all perfectly innocent.’

  ‘It is witchcraft, Hannah. Besides, if you do not go with her to Richmond, you will condemn her to the company of someone who likes her less.’

  It was a sly blow: Hannah loved the Queen, and hated the thought of her being miserable.

  ‘But I want to go to the Duke’s soirée,’ she objected, then added as an afterthought, ‘and to stay with you. We have barely spent five minutes together in months.’

  ‘I know, but if word seeps out that Buckingham is meddling with the occult, there will be all manner of trouble. You would lose your post, because the Queen will not condone that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, she will not,’ sighed Hannah. ‘Damn! It would have been such fun. But you are right: I had better go to Richmond. Are you sure you do not mind being by yourself?’

  Chaloner smiled. ‘I would rather you were safely away when Lambe starts playing with his bones and blood.’

  Hannah smiled back, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. ‘Nothing bad will happen, but the Queen would disapprove, and her good opinion is important to me. You can compensate me for the disappointme
nt of missing the Duke’s party when I come home by buying me something pretty.’ Her expression turned rueful. ‘Or perhaps we should just settle for a nice walk together. Then you will not fret about the cost.’

  Wallingford House was a gloriously ostentatious mansion that abutted the northern edge of White Hall, a convenient arrangement for a duke who liked to be near the centre of power but not so close that his every move could be monitored by rivals. Hannah marched up to the front door with the confident ease of someone who was a frequent visitor, and addressed the servants by name. They made a fuss of her, and Chaloner wondered waspishly whether it was because she was known for dispensing generous tips.

  The Duke was married, but his wife rarely visited London. Consequently, Wallingford House was a manly place, full of heavy statues, paintings of slaughtered animals, and robust furniture. In addition to the usual array of cavernous reception rooms, there was a laboratory and an observatory, both of which were open to visitors that day. When Hannah disappeared to talk to people she knew, Chaloner prowled, looking for someone to question about his investigations, and it was not long before he found himself in the laboratory.

  It was a large room with shelves to accommodate the various ingredients needed for the Duke’s experiments. The walls were stained and pockmarked, showing that trials did not always go according to plan, and the rank smell attested to the toxic and potent ingredients that were used. He was in luck, because Admiral Lawson and Prince Rupert were there, part of a small group that was listening to Buckingham hold forth about alchemy. Chaloner doubted many understood him – for all his frivolity the Duke was intelligent and his explanations were complex.

  ‘And that is how I shall discover the Philosopher’s Stone,’ he concluded.

  ‘Give me lead any day,’ declared Lawson argumentatively. ‘It makes excellent ammunition, whereas gold turns rational men into drooling fools.’