He was on the verge of joining the party, simply to divert attention away from them, when Scott began to speak. Chaloner could not hear everything, but he caught enough to know that it was a résumé of Sherwin’s work with the cannon. Manning’s face was dark and angry as he listened – Scott was revealing details that had not been shared with him first.
When Scott had finished, others stood to make their reports. Chaloner cringed when he saw Leving surreptitiously making notes under the table and Atkinson frowning in his effort to memorise as much as possible. And none of the news was worth the risks they were taking – one man said a printer had offered to publish Jones’s pamphlets free of charge if the Last Millennium did dawn on Sunday, while a tailor named Glasse had bought a quantity of red velvet, lest the stuff in White Hall should transpire to be below par.
‘I wish Strange could see it,’ he concluded softly. ‘He would have been impressed.’
‘His killer will not escape unpunished,’ said Jones in a low yet harsh voice. ‘I shall see to that.’
‘You need not trouble yourself,’ said the one-armed soldier named Tucker. ‘King Jesus will take care of that sort of thing on Sunday.’
‘Of course,’ said Jones shortly, making it obvious that he intended to exact his own revenge anyway. The remark made Chaloner wonder yet again about the strength of Jones’s commitment to the Fifth Monarchists and their beliefs.
Scott patted Jones’s shoulder sympathetically, and Jones stood abruptly, although whether because he feared he might weep or to escape Scott’s unwelcome touch was difficult to say. He raised his right hand, and the conspirators chanted their oath, after which he began to collect the empty goblets. The meeting was over, and it was the sign for his guests to leave.
Ursula and Atkinson were first out, and Chaloner trailed them to Thames Street, glad the rest of the conspirators were lingering to chat outside Jones’s house, thus giving him the opportunity to waylay the couple unseen by the others.
‘We have spent the last two days lurching from one morass to another,’ said Atkinson, his voice hoarse with tiredness. ‘What a waste of time! And now Scott and Manning report that they do have special artillery to use on Sunday – you were right. What should we do about it?’
‘Tell Williamson,’ replied Chaloner promptly.
‘We asked how the guns were to be used, but Jones would only say that there will be fireworks,’ said Ursula unhappily. ‘And he asked where you were, because he will need your expertise soon.’
Chaloner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was difficult to move heavy weapons without being noticed, and while the odd gun might have been slipped into London unseen, it would take a whole battery to defeat the Tower, take over White Hall and set the city afire. Moreover, Jones would need more than one gunpowder expert to realise his plans. Try as he might, Chaloner could make no sense of it all.
‘It was Scarface Roberts who destroyed the ship London,’ he said, deciding to be open with them. ‘On the orders of Jones and Strange. The evidence is indisputable. Tell Williamson that, too.’
‘Oh, God!’ groaned Atkinson. ‘And now Jones wants you to blow up something else! But what? Not White Hall, because King Jesus will want to live there. St Paul’s, perhaps?’
‘No,’ said Ursula. ‘I imagine God would like that preserved, too. It must be the Tower. Jones did say he was going to seize it.’
Chaloner made a decision. ‘It is time Jones shared his ideas with his gunpowder expert. Now – today. I am tired of being fobbed off with promises of future revelations. If he wants my services, then he is going to have to confide in me. The threat of walking out should work, because I doubt he will find a replacement at this late stage.’
‘Then be careful,’ warned Atkinson. ‘It occurs to me that he might have murdered Strange and Quelch. I have no idea why he would slaughter his own followers, but there is much I do not understand about this business.’
‘Strange was more than a follower – they were friends.’ Ursula sounded shocked. ‘They lived together.’
‘Even friends can disagree,’ said Atkinson. ‘And to argue with Jones might well be fatal.’
Chaloner hurried back towards Garlick Hill, ducking into an alley as a gaggle of the Sanhedrin passed. They were braying about the Last Millennium and what they planned to do when they were invested with unlimited power. Chaloner recalled what Thurloe had called them: spiritually arrogant, humourless, vociferous fanatics. The ex-Spymaster had coined them perfectly.
Behind them, Manning and Scott were engrossed in another conversation. When Manning stopped walking and leaned against a wall to ease the pain of his chilblains, Chaloner crept behind a stationary hackney carriage so he could listen to what was being said. Scott paced impatiently while he waited for Manning to recover.
‘…will cheat us,’ he was hissing. ‘We cannot trust them.’
‘I agree,’ said Manning. ‘And I have decided that I do not like the sound of their Glorious Design. To hell with gainful employment and equal distribution of wealth! I want lots of money for myself, so I can live in indolent luxury for the rest of my life.’
‘Then put your trust in me,’ urged Scott. ‘I have contacts.’
‘Like Georges Pellissary of the French navy?’ asked Manning archly. ‘I found a letter from him in your rooms, which read as though you have started negotiations with him. You should not have done, not without my consent. And for God’s sake do not approach the Dutch, or we will both swing at Tyburn.’
‘I have negotiated with no one,’ said Scott smoothly. ‘Just made a few enquiries about prices. You know I would never do anything without consulting you. We are partners.’
Manning started to walk again, but Chaloner decided there was no harm in letting the pair know that their discussion had been overheard. ‘It is treason to sell weapons to foreign governments,’ he said, stepping out in front of them. ‘French or Dutch.’
‘As if we would,’ said Scott, recovering quickly and filling his voice with hurt reproach. ‘We are patriotic men, and I am Cartographer Royal.’
Manning was less adept at hiding his terror. ‘I paid Ferine a fortune to predict whether I should persist with this venture,’ he gulped. ‘He should have warned me that it might turn deadly.’
‘It has done nothing of the kind,’ said Scott firmly. ‘Now go and make sure Sherwin is still safely in the Pope’s Head. I will join you there shortly.’
‘Why?’ asked Manning, all suspicious alarm. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Have a word with Chaloner here, to ensure that he knows it is unwise to cross us,’ replied Scott. ‘Then I shall investigate other buyers – ones who will pay us what we deserve.’
Chaloner would not have believed him for an instant, but Manning promptly scurried away, openly relieved to be away from a conversation that carried threats of treason. Or perhaps it was the prospect of more money that had convinced him.
‘Williamson will not protect you if you sell Rupert’s secret,’ warned Chaloner. ‘Be it to overseas powers or home-grown lunatics.’
‘What a low opinion you have of me,’ chided Scott. ‘I thought we were friends.’
‘No friend of mine would bribe Commissioner Pett to delay HMS London’s sailing, thus allowing Strange and Jones to murder three hundred British sailors.’
For the first time, Scott’s composure slipped. ‘I did nothing of the kind! Besides, Pett is an infamous liar, and no one will believe a word he says.’
‘Regardless, I would not like to be in your shoes when Williamson—’
‘Williamson trusts me,’ snapped Scott. ‘And you would do well to remember it.’
‘So are you saying that you were not in Chatham when London sailed? If Williamson sends his agents to ask questions, they will find no one who saw you there?’
‘I did not say I was not there,’ hedged Scott. His eyes were cold and hard, but there was a sheen of sweat on his brow. ‘I said Pett is a liar. Doubtless he delayed London
for reasons of his own. Everyone knows he is corrupt, and will do anything for money.’
He had a point: Pett had virtually admitted as much himself. Yet Chaloner had believed Pett, and he did not believe Scott.
‘You have sold inaccurate maps to the navy, you have conspired to destroy one of His Majesty’s warships, and you are attempting to sell military secrets to hostile foreign powers,’ he said harshly. ‘Even Williamson will not be able to save you from—’
‘You are treading a dangerous path, Chaloner,’ hissed Scott. ‘You understand nothing, and you would be wise to stay away from this business if you want to live.’
He turned on his heel and stalked away. Chaloner could have stopped him, but he decided it was not worth the bother. He was about to resume his walk to Jones’s house when he spotted Leving, who was sauntering along humming to himself. The turncoat beamed merrily when Chaloner intercepted him, and laughed when he was hauled out of sight behind the hackney carriage.
‘Lord, Chaloner, you do enjoy the dramatic! Where have you been these last few days? I was beginning to think the Oldenberg Conspirators had murdered you for infiltrating them.’
‘Who?’ asked Chaloner in confusion.
Leving looked blank for a moment, then chuckled. ‘I mean the Fifth Monarchists. I am monitoring so many rebellious factions that it is difficult to keep track of them all. But you and I are working together to foil Jones, Quelch and Strange. I remember now.’
‘Quelch and Strange are dead,’ said Chaloner, recalling that Wiseman had declared Leving insane. He was becoming increasingly convinced that the surgeon was right.
‘I know,’ declared Leving, a little defensively. ‘I saw them in the charnel house at Chelsey.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Tell me what you have learned since Monday.’
‘Well, the government is refusing to lift the coal tax, the Pope’s nephew has a nasty cold, and the Dutch fleet is travelling to—’
‘About the Fifth Monarchists,’ interrupted Chaloner impatiently.
Leving frowned, tapping his lips with a forefinger as he considered. ‘My list of conspirators now comprises almost seventy people – schoolmasters, housewives, haberdashers, tailors and cooks. A very deadly horde. Some of them even invited me into their homes and gave me bread, cheese and ale when I went to check their addresses. Fanatics, you see.’
‘They are not fanatics,’ snapped Chaloner. ‘And you had better be sure of their guilt before you pass that list to Williamson. If they hang because of it, their blood will be on your hands.’
‘Better than my blood on theirs,’ quipped Leving airily. ‘But why do you defend them? Have you joined them in their lunatic opinions? Shall I include your name on my register?’
‘You must have learned more than names in all this time?’ pressed Chaloner. ‘Surely some of these folk discussed their plans with you?’
‘Of course,’ replied Leving happily. ‘They aim to kill the King, seize the Tower, burn the city, establish a republic and redistribute property. I thought you were there when Jones made the announcement.’
‘Go to Williamson,’ ordered Chaloner curtly. ‘Do not give him your list, but tell him all that you have learned. I am sure he will be grateful.’
And if the Spymaster was worth his salt, he would see that Leving had lost what little reason he had left, and would incarcerate him before he did any harm.
Sure that tackling Jones directly would not work, Chaloner set about following him, hoping he would learn something from where the rebel went and whom he met. Carefully locking his house behind him, Jones visited the grubby Stillyard Coffee House on Thames Street, where he read the newsbooks, sipping the heady brew with every appearance of relish. Then he went to St Paul’s Cathedral, where he sat for a long time with his head bowed. At first, Chaloner thought he was asleep, but then he saw his lips moving: Jones was praying. Or talking to himself.
After an age, during which Chaloner fretted about the passing time, Jones rose and sauntered west. He ambled along Fleet Street, stopping to watch a juggler, although he was the only one who did not toss the man a coin, and then turned north, towards the market in Covent Garden, which had opened early to accommodate the increased business from Lady Day visitors.
When Jones pulled what appeared to be a list of groceries from his pocket, Chaloner decided he had had enough – he was not about to trail after the man while he did his shopping. He marched up to Jones, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him behind one of the stalls, so they could talk undisturbed.
‘Oh,’ said Jones, pulling away from him and brushing himself down. ‘It is you. I was wondering when you would deign to put in an appearance. Where have you been?’
‘Away,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘But it is Friday, and if you want me to be ready for Easter morning, you had better let me know what is expected. I do not like to be rushed.’
‘And I do not like to be manhandled.’ Jones’s eyes were gimlet hard. ‘Yet you are right: it is time you knew what was happening. Come to the Pope’s Head at midnight, and all will be revealed.’
‘I would rather know now.’
‘Then I am sorry,’ said Jones, trying to push past him. ‘The Cause is more important than its component parts, and you will just have to wait.’
‘I want answers to some questions, or you can find yourself another gunpowder expert,’ snapped Chaloner, moving to block his way. ‘Which will not be easy at this late hour.’
Jones gave an irritable sigh. ‘Very well, ask. However, I warn you now, if your questions jeopardise the Glorious Design, I shall decline to reply.’
‘Who killed Strange and Quelch?’
Jones folded his arms. ‘I should like to know that myself. I was fond of Strange in particular, and nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see the culprit dead – if not by my hand, then by another’s.’
Chaloner had no idea whether to believe him – or even whether this was a subtle way of inviting Chaloner to dispatch the culprit himself – but he could see that Jones would not be persuaded to say more. He moved to another matter.
‘What was in the letters you gave Leving for Manning last Tuesday?’
Jones frowned. ‘You mean the coded missives that I asked you to deliver to the White Hind, along with that box of powder? I tried to follow you, to ensure you did as you were told, but you slunk into the Fleet Rookery and I lost you.’
‘No, earlier than that,’ said Chaloner. ‘Before we met.’
Jones’s scowl deepened. ‘I gave Leving no letters for Manning. Why would I? Leving is barely sane, and I have more reliable messengers at my disposal.’
Chaloner regarded him sceptically.
‘I can prove it,’ said Jones testily. ‘Either you can ask Manning and he will tell you the truth, or you can think about the writing on the package that Leving allegedly delivered. Here is mine. It is quite distinctive, as any of my friends will tell you.’
He waved his grocery list to reveal an ugly, spiky scrawl that Chaloner recognised at once from the scrap of paper he had retrieved from the makeshift battery in Prittlewell. It was as different as it was possible to be from the documents that Leving had passed to Manning, which had been in an elegant cursive with ornate capital letters. He was about to ask more when there was a sound behind him. He turned to see three members of the Sanhedrin, all armed with guns.
‘No, Glasse,’ said Jones quietly, putting out his hand when the tailor took aim. ‘We need him for our fireworks. Let him go.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Glasse suspiciously.
Jones nodded and favoured Chaloner with one of his cold smiles. ‘Do not forget – midnight tonight at the Pope’s Head.’
Chapter 13
Chaloner left Covent Garden even more convinced that blood would be spilled in two days. Even if the farmers and housewives saw sense, the Sanhedrin was poised to cause trouble, and he hated the notion of Rupert’s cannon in their hands. He dashed off a note to Williamson, wa
rning him that the High Holborn Plot might involve artillery – it was true that Atkinson was doing the same, but there was no harm in telling him twice – but he had a bad feeling that the Spymaster and Rupert would be more interested in protecting the secret than in preventing an atrocity. Worried and unhappy, he went to the one place where he knew he could rely on sound, reliable counsel.
He arrived at Chamber XIII to find the ex-Spymaster surrounded by paper, charts and coded messages. Thurloe looked tired, but stood to take Chaloner’s arm and draw him towards the fire. Chaloner disengaged himself and picked up one of the maps. It was of the Dutch coast.
Thurloe took it from him and placed it face down on the table. ‘You are one of few men I allow in here while I am working, but only because I trust your discretion. Please do not make me question it.’
‘I hope you are not placing too much faith in that chart,’ said Chaloner tartly. ‘It contains significant errors, and on no account should it be used for military or tactical purposes.’
Thurloe frowned. ‘You are mistaken. I am told the source is very reliable.’
‘Only if you consider Scott reliable. I discussed the United Provinces with him a few days ago, and he said he had never been there. I imagine he was telling the truth for once, which means he cannot possibly have taken those coastal soundings. He probably made them up.’
‘How do you know that map is from Scott?’ asked Thurloe uneasily.
‘Because he drew one for Sherwin in the Pope’s Head, and I recognise his style. His work is pretty and contains a wealth of information, but you will never know which parts are accurate and which are imagination.’
Thurloe was aghast. ‘But these have been passed to our navy! Why would Scott do such a terrible thing? To wound us in the war? As a quick way to make money?’
‘Both, probably.’
‘Heaven help our poor sailors!’ Thurloe indicated the documents on his table. ‘All this came from a single source, and it is so extensive and complex that Williamson asked me to evaluate it for him – he should hire a professional really, but he cannot afford one, and my services are free. Are you saying that the lot must be treated with caution?’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 30
