‘He prophesised something about Buckingham, too,’ Chaloner overheard the silly Lady Muskerry tell Mrs Chiffinch as their coach jolted along. ‘That he will suffer a misfortune on Friday.’
‘Good Friday,’ murmured Mrs Chiffinch. ‘The day of the Duke’s Astrological Soirée. I am not surprised – it is an evil, godless business, and only fools will attend.’
‘I am going,’ said Lady Muskerry brightly.
‘You do surprise me, dear,’ replied Mrs Chiffinch blandly.
There was other gossip, too. Ferine’s killer was still at large; Rupert’s unpredictable temper was earning him much dislike; Williamson had asked the Privy Council for more money to spend on spies, but his request was unlikely to be granted; Lady Day was transpiring to be a nuisance because of an usually large influx of visitors; and everyone was looking forward to the firework display, although there was some concern that the current Green Man might prove unequal to the task of setting them off – the Master of Ordnance might be the best qualified man available, but that did not mean he would actually be any good at it.
There were, however, no rumours about the Fifth Monarchy rebellion that was to be staged in four days’ time, which Chaloner thought remarkable given the number of people involved. Was the oath they swore responsible for the blanket of secrecy? Regardless, he found himself sorry that their expectations for a more decent society were unlikely to be realised, and that Sunday night would almost certainly see the King still debauching himself in White Hall.
South-End was not much of a place – a few rows of fishing cottages and three rough inns. There was also a chapel, currently used to house HMS London’s dead, which continued to wash up each day. Chaloner imagined it was usually a sleepy hamlet with nothing to disturb it but the occasional storm. That day there was a merry bustle, not just with visitors, but from canny locals who aimed to capitalise on the arrival of a lot of bulging purses.
Stalls had been set up outside almost every house, selling freshly baked bread, pies, griddled fish and cakes. Others had broached barrels of ale, while small boys darted everywhere, fetching refreshments and selling their older sisters to anyone who wanted a different form of entertainment. A surprisingly large number of courtiers did.
Chaloner made for the biggest tavern, as those fishermen who were not engaged in the brisk commerce outside were there, telling eager listeners what had happened when they had gathered on the beach to watch London sail past. He left Lady with a gaggle of enterprising youths who were operating a horse-minding service, and walked inside.
‘She blew up! Bang!’ one halfwit was braying. He was a huge, moon-faced creature with massive hands and the guileless grin of a child. ‘Boom!’
‘Now, Peter,’ said a fisherman whose pipe was so firmly clamped between his teeth that it looked as if it would only be removed by surgery. ‘Go and feed the chickens, there’s a good lad.’
Beaming merrily, Peter went to do as he was told, while the courtiers turned back to the story-tellers. Chaloner eased forward, recognising a number of people in the audience, including Rupert, Buckingham and Lambe. The fishermen resumed their tale, ending with the firm prediction that the engineers would not succeed in weighing London.
‘That is not what this sorcerer says,’ interjected Rupert, gesturing to Lambe in a way that was not entirely pleasant. ‘He did a number of nasty things with skulls, snails and tobacco leaves last night, and calculated that HMS London would be afloat by mid-morning.’
‘But only if the engineers follow my precise instructions,’ cautioned Lambe immediately. ‘If they vary in a single detail, the endeavour will fail.’
‘Speaking of precautions, when will you tell me how to avoid the calamity that will befall me on Good Friday?’ asked Buckingham. ‘I should not like to be a spectacle at my own soirée.’
‘If you do, it will be God’s vengeance on you for coming here,’ declared Rupert haughtily. ‘The Almighty does not like ghouls.’
‘No?’ asked Buckingham archly. ‘And you are different how, exactly?’
‘I am here in the spirit of scientific enquiry, as a member of the Royal Society,’ replied Rupert loftily. ‘I did not come because I yearn to see bloated bodies bobbing about.’
‘I am a member of the Royal Society, too,’ Buckingham reminded him. ‘Invited to join for my experiments with the Philosopher’s Stone.’
‘Invited because you offered to pay a higher subscription,’ countered Rupert nastily. ‘You are not in the same league as me.’
‘No, you are in a league of your own,’ said Buckingham ambiguously, and promptly turned back to the head fisherman. ‘I missed the beginning of your tale. Start again.’
‘You are right to listen to Mr Westcliff,’ said the taverner approvingly. ‘You can’t tell him nothing about these waters and ships. His opinion is worth having.’ He shot Lambe a look that indicated he thought the same could not be said of everyone.
Westcliff obliged. ‘I recognised the ship London immediately, so I called everyone outside, and we all stood along the beach to cheer her on her way. Then there was a crack followed by a great billow of smoke, and she listed to one side. A moment later, we heard the blast.’
‘Caused by fools trying to wrap new powder in old cartridge papers,’ scoffed Rupert. ‘The navy could learn a lot from the army regarding ordnance.’
‘Bilge,’ spat Westcliff, not at all awed by the lofty company around him, and so unafraid to speak his mind. He either did not see or did not care about Rupert’s shock at being so bluntly contradicted. ‘London’s crew would not have been doing that in the estuary.’
‘It was gas,’ stated Buckingham with considerable authority. ‘From when the sailors used the lower decks as a latrine while she was in dry dock. We all know what happens when latrine fumes ignite. A sailor went below with a lamp, and…’ He spread his hands.
‘We shall miss the fun if we loiter in here,’ said Rupert, dismissing the Duke’s theory by ignoring it. He finished his drink and stood. ‘Who is coming with me?’
No one volunteered, so he left on his own, although the tavern emptied moments later when Buckingham posed the same question. Chaloner spent a few moments pressing Westcliff for additional information, then walked to the beach himself, aware that the halfwit was trailing him.
‘A cannon in a boat,’ Peter chanted, performing a series of clumsy skips. ‘And a boat in a cannon. Bang! Boom!’
The shore was a gently sloping shelf of sandy mud, kissed by ripples from the estuary. It was littered with flotsam, mostly wood that Chaloner assumed had comprised the stricken ship, along with a smattering of the kind of debris that cluttered any beach downstream of a major city: rags, coal, bones and unidentifiable sludge, all mixed with mounds of seaweed and broken fishing nets. Gulls wheeled overhead, and there was a sharp tang of salt in the air.
A number of boats had been hauled up, and opportunistic villagers were selling seats in their lee, so that visitors could sit out of the wind. Most had been snapped up, as the weather had turned dull and cloudy with a brisk wind, and not much was happening with HMS London. A flotilla of small craft bobbed a little way offshore, cables and ropes forming a complex net between them, but the men operating them were sitting down. Chaloner looked at the spectators on the beach.
First and most colourful were the courtiers, who flitted here and there in their finery, concentrating on being seen by the right people. Next were the eccentrically clad gentlemen of the Royal Society, who huddled together deep in debate. Third were engineers from the Navy Board, who were directing the operation. And last were the industrious locals, bustling busily as they homed in on the opportunity to profit from the occasion.
Suddenly, there was movement on one of the boats, and winches began to wind. There was a murmur of excited anticipation onshore as something broke the surface, and everyone strained forward to see. Lambe’s expression turned smug. The object hung a foot above the water, spinning slowly and trailing seaweed. It was one of L
ondon’s cannon.
‘They have to retrieve those first,’ explained Rupert importantly. ‘Because otherwise their weight will make it impossible to lift the rest of the ship. It was I who realised this, and the engineers are acting on my advice.’
Chaloner imagined the Navy Board knew perfectly well how to weigh a ship, and did not need Rupert to tell them. Buckingham did a very accurate impression of the Prince’s strutting walk behind his back, which had his cronies spluttering with malicious laughter. When Rupert whipped around to see what was happening, Buckingham was looking innocently at the sky.
‘I hope the engineers remembered not to point at the moon last night,’ said Lambe. ‘That always brings bad luck. However, I saw seven jackdaws this morning, which is a good omen.’
Daylight did the sorcerer no favours. It lent the designs on his neck and hands a tawdry, homemade appearance, while his patterned coat appeared shabby. Even his height worked against him, making him look lanky rather than imposing. Chaloner regarded him in distaste, thinking he was definitely a man who benefited from the shadows.
The men on the boats lapsed into inactivity again, so the courtiers began to chatter among themselves. Lambe’s eyes narrowed suddenly, and when Chaloner followed the sorcerer’s gaze, he saw it was fixed on Odowde, who was standing with a group of minor courtiers. Lambe stalked towards him and pulled him away so they could talk undisturbed. Odowde nodded hastily to whatever was said, and sighed his relief when the sorcerer strode away.
‘He is a sinister devil,’ said Chaloner, making Odowde jump by speaking close behind him. ‘You might do well to avoid his company.’
‘I might do well to avoid yours, too,’ said Odowde, putting a hand to his heart and closing his eyes. ‘You made me leap out of my skin, sneaking up on me like that. However, you are right about Lambe. He is a sinister devil, and I wish he had never come to Court.’
‘He predicted you would hurt your arm, but I know he did not push you, as he was with the King at the time. So what did he do? Pay you to stumble?’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Odowde in alarm. ‘I never—’
‘I imagined you agreed to “fall” and wear a bandage,’ Chaloner forged on. ‘But Surgeon Wiseman was there, and he declared the injury insignificant. That did not suit Lambe, despite the fuss you made. He wanted something serious enough to convince his detractors.’
‘I am a detractor,’ gulped Odowde, but his words sounded mechanical and carried no conviction. ‘Or I was. I changed my mind when I saw his power—’
‘Wiseman may be insensitive, but he does not refer to broken bones as “barely a bruise”.’ Chaloner looked pointedly at Odowde’s blue and swollen fingers. ‘Ergo, that happened after your tumble down the Banqueting House steps.’
‘No!’ breathed Odowde, although his frightened eyes told the truth. ‘I never…’
‘You are Lambe’s accomplice,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘Like Ferine, Hubbert and Duncombe. But why did you and Duncombe persist with the arrangement after Hubbert died? I understand you dismissing Ferine’s fate as happenstance, but you must have been suspicious when a second of your number died. And it is obvious what is going on: Lambe no longer needs you, and is eliminating the nuisance you have all become.’
‘No!’ cried Odowde, distraught. ‘Wiseman found no evidence of foul play. Hubbert passed away because Lambe said he would. Lambe is a powerful man. Powerful and evil.’
‘And ruthless,’ added Chaloner, not without sympathy. ‘Did Lambe hurt you himself, or did another of his minions oblige?’
Odowde hung his head, and what little fight he had left drained out of him. ‘He gave me a potion to numb the pain, then hit me with a cudgel. But his brew did not work, and it was agony. He said he would break the other one if I told anyone about it.’
‘Why did you agree to it? For money?’
Odowde swallowed hard. ‘Courtiers are paid a pittance, yet we are expected to spend a fortune on clothes, jewellery, suitable transport … just ask Hannah. So yes, I leapt at the chance to make some easy cash. So did Ferine, Hubbert and Duncombe, but now all three are dead…’
‘Duncombe is dead?’ Chaloner wondered if he had misheard.
‘He had a seizure, just like Hubbert. Lambe says I will have one, too, unless I do as I am told.’
‘Poison,’ surmised Chaloner. ‘One that is undetectable.’
Odowde was near to tears. ‘Yes, but no one will ever prove it. Perhaps he will do the same to me once I have outlived my usefulness. And Buckingham.’
‘Lambe will not harm Buckingham – the man who pays him and takes him to Court.’
‘He will not be paid and taken to Court when he fails to deliver the Philosopher’s Stone,’ flashed Odowde. ‘Which he cannot do, because it does not exist. He has already “predicted” bad luck for Friday: he is preparing to strike, and will use the Duke’s death to further his reputation as a great seer.’
‘No one will hire Lambe if he predicts premature ends for all his customers,’ Chaloner pointed out, not unreasonably.
‘Of course they will, if he also tells them how to avoid such mishaps, which he has been doing for everyone else – although the poor Duke still awaits instructions. But I can say no more and you should forget this discussion or it will be you suffering a fatal seizure.’
He hurried away, leaving Chaloner staring after him thoughtfully. It was a nasty business, and he decided that when everyone was back in the city, he would expose Lambe as a vicious charlatan. But he had more urgent matters to attend that day, and with a sigh, he turned his attention back to the beach.
Out on the water, the rescued cannon had been winched on to a pontoon, and there was another hiatus while it was carefully secured. For the first time, it began to occur to the spectators that nothing was going to happen in a hurry – and certainly nothing dramatic. Moreover, the King had not made good on his promise to come. Some folk were already drifting back to their carriages, and there was a general atmosphere of anticlimax.
Among those who lingered was Spymaster Williamson. He perched on the rim of a wreck, gazing across the grey water at nothing in particular. He was not alone for long: John Scott approached and sat next to him. Curious to hear what they had to say to each other, Chaloner eased forward, and was torn between disgust and satisfaction when he was able to crouch behind the hulk and listen to every word.
‘How much longer?’ Williamson was demanding irritably. ‘The Prince is beside himself with worry, and he is becoming difficult to control. Meanwhile, this uprising is scheduled for four days’ time, and we must have answers before then or—’
‘I will not let you down,’ interjected Scott smoothly. ‘You can trust me.’
‘Can I?’ asked Williamson coldly. ‘Why, when I have it on good authority that the maps you sold me at such great expense are wildly inaccurate?’
‘Then your “authority” is wrong!’ Scott sounded hurt. ‘My drawings are used by governments and military commanders all over the world, and no one has complained before. I am Cartographer Royal, you know.’
‘Do not spin your yarns to me,’ snapped Williamson angrily. ‘Preparing a few charts does not make you Cartographer Royal. And the King would certainly not appoint one who put the River Rotte in Amsterdam and The Hague ten miles inland. God only knows what other mistakes are—’
‘Those will be the copyist’s fault,’ stated Scott firmly. ‘But to show good faith, I shall correct them personally, at no extra cost.’
‘At no extra cost?’ exploded Williamson in open-mouthed disbelief. ‘I did not pay for works of fiction, and your offer to make amends is too late anyway – duplicates have been distributed to the navy. What you have done is tantamount to treason.’
‘Treason?’ cried Scott. ‘How can you say such a thing when I came to England – at great personal expense and inconvenience – to tell the King how to oust the Hollanders from New Amsterdam? You know I am loyal, and I resent your words extremely.’
/> Not for the first time, Chaloner marvelled at Scott’s talent for deception, because his offended tirade took the wind out of Williamson’s sails.
‘Make your report,’ the Spymaster said stiffly. ‘Information has been far too sparse in this business and it is time that was rectified.’
‘There have been some developments,’ obliged Scott, indignation still in his voice. ‘However, I might be persuaded to spend more of my time working on your behalf if you were a little more generous with … Ah, that will do nicely. I shall send you my testimony as soon as I can.’
‘As soon as you can?’ echoed Williamson incredulously. ‘What about the “developments” you just mentioned? And the list of names you promised?’
‘Both coming along splendidly, thank you for asking. However, names are no good alone, so I also intend to present you with details of the villains’ homes, meeting places and known associates. But these things take time.’
‘We do not have time,’ snapped Williamson.
Scott bowed jauntily. ‘Then I had better be about my business.’
Chaloner heard crunching footsteps as the New Englander sauntered away, and grinned when he also heard a medley of very colourful curses; Williamson did not often lose control, but he certainly indulged himself that morning. Chaloner was about to emerge from his hiding place when he heard someone else approaching. He ducked down again.
‘I received your report, Trojan Horse.’ Williamson placed sardonic emphasis on the codename. ‘Although I recommend you use black ink next time. Red is overly dramatic, and I am sure it caught Wiseman’s eye. Not that it would have told him much. You did not specify what manner of explosions are planned for Easter.’
‘Because I do not know,’ came a voice that Chaloner recognised, but that he had so little expected to hear that it took him a moment to place. ‘I need more time.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 27
