Chaloner nodded. ‘Scott has been negotiating to sell the French a new kind of gun, and may well have been doing the same with the Dutch. He cannot be trusted.’
Thurloe gestured impatiently for him to elaborate, so Chaloner outlined all he had learned about Rupert’s cannon, Temple Mills, HMS London, Ferine, Scott, Sherwin, Manning and the Fifth Monarchists. When he had finished, Thurloe gazed at the papers on his table.
‘Scott’s misinformation will hamper our fleet considerably. Do you think he was paid to provide our government with bad intelligence?’
‘Perhaps. Is there anything there about the Fifth Monarchists and their plans for Easter Day?’
‘Not a word. And my informants have heard nothing either, which means an uprising is very unlikely. Williamson is a fool to waste your time with it.’
‘I disagree. Jones is planning something serious for Sunday. He says he will seize the Tower, kill the King, burn London, establish the Kingdom of Christ and redistribute property.’
Thurloe regarded him lugubriously. ‘All in a day?’
‘His followers certainly think so. I tried to ask him how, but some of his Sanhedrin arrived to cut the conversation short – after I had wasted hours watching him drink coffee, read newsbooks, marvel at the antics of a juggler and stroll to Covent Garden.’
‘Then I suggest there is no rebellion,’ said Thurloe promptly. ‘If there were, he would be busy making late-minute preparations.’
‘Not if everything is already in place.’
‘And how likely is that? Moreover, there have been no mass movements of troops, horses or weapons or I would have heard about it. Nothing will happen, so you might as well arrest this foolish little cabal before they make a nuisance of themselves.’
‘They sank London and have the secret of Rupert’s iron cannon – with special powder to fire them,’ argued Chaloner. ‘They are more than a nuisance.’
‘Even if Rupert has found a way to substitute iron for brass, the weapon will require extensive testing before it is safe to use. It poses no immediate danger. And the sinking of London was a despicable act that should be punished accordingly. My advice is to clap Jones and his Sanhedrin in the Tower as quickly as you can.’
‘I will suggest it to Williamson, although Rupert seems to be in charge, and he wants to delay until he can be sure of snaring everyone who might have the slightest inkling of his secret. All the troops and most of the Sanhedrin have no idea that these weapons are available, of course, but Rupert does not believe me.’
‘Rupert was never a very good strategist,’ said Thurloe disdainfully. ‘As you should know from Naseby – it was thanks to him that the Royalists lost. I hope you do not intend to go to the Pope’s Head tonight, by the way – I imagine Jones intends to kill you there. It will be empty, because the taverner’s lease runs out today.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Chaloner. ‘I had forgotten.’
Thurloe glanced at the clock on the windowsill. ‘I would talk longer, but I have to go to Wapping on Lincoln’s Inn business, and I really should write to warn Williamson about this flawed intelligence before I leave. However, I have something to give you first.’
He went to the desk and removed a letter from a hidden compartment. ‘From Wallis,’ he explained. ‘He has deciphered the papers that you took from Jones’s harpsichord.’
Chaloner read the translations quickly. The first document was a draft agreement between Quelch and Manning about purchasing the secret of Rupert’s guns; there was no mention of Scott – Manning had cut him out. The second was a list of questions about the metal used to make them. And the third contained advice about how Manning might spirit Sherwin out of the country after Easter, recommending the United Provinces as a suitable refuge. Wallis had returned the originals as well, and Chaloner immediately recognised the spiky hand of the last two messages.
‘Hah! Jones does not believe the New Kingdom will dawn on Sunday, or he would not be telling Manning to make for the coast the day after. And this list of questions is odd. Why does he seem more interested in the iron than in the process to “turn and anneal”?’
‘I suggest you ask him when he is in custody,’ said Thurloe briskly. ‘And now if there is nothing else, I really must be about my own business. Listen! The clocks are striking three already.’
‘Buckingham’s Astrological Soirée will start soon,’ said Chaloner absently, still thinking about the documents. ‘I am glad Hannah will not be there, especially if the Duke is to die today.’
Thurloe stared at him. ‘What?’
‘Lambe predicted it,’ Chaloner explained. ‘Partly to enhance his standing at Court when it comes true, and partly so he will not have to produce the Philosopher’s Stone – which he has been paid to do.’
Thurloe was horrified. ‘Then you must thwart this vile deed!’
‘Clarendon will not thank me for that. The Duke is his fiercest opponent, and I imagine he will be delighted to be rid of him.’
Thurloe fixed him with a steely glare. ‘I do not like Buckingham either, but I cannot condone his murder. You must prevent it.’
Chaloner disagreed. ‘Hannah told me that Lambe aims to use bowls of blood and a human femur to divine the future. I cannot attend that sort of occasion – the Earl would never rehire me if he thought I dabbled in witchery. Besides, I do not have time. I must thwart Jones and the—’
‘There will be no rebellion,’ said Thurloe irritably. ‘How many more times must I say it?’
‘They have Rupert’s cannon. For all we know, they may be the most deadly weapons ever invented, and Jones is about to point them at the city.’
‘Then convince Williamson to act. Regardless, you must save Buckingham.’
‘Send him a letter,’ suggested Chaloner.
‘And if it goes astray, or he does not read it? Here is a new wig and a respectable coat. We cannot have you refused admission for looking shabby.’
Chaloner was disgusted with what he had been charged to do when he felt the matter of Jones was far more pressing. Yet as he sat in a hackney carriage bound for Wallingford House he supposed he might turn the situation to his advantage. He knew enough to confront Lambe with his crimes, and Buckingham might have invited other suspects he could interrogate, too.
The light was fading as he alighted, but the building was unusually dark because all the window shutters had been closed to prevent anyone from seeing what was happening within. There was also an unpleasant smell.
‘Burning potions, sir,’ explained the footman who answered the door; Chaloner recalled that his name was George. ‘The kind that witches like. Dr Lambe says they are always used at gatherings of this nature.’
‘Have you heard the rumour that your master will … suffer a mishap tonight?’
George nodded unhappily. ‘But Dr Lambe hopes to avert the calamity with powerful spells. However, he says that someone will perish today, and that is a certainty.’
‘Will he be using human bones and bowls of blood for these spells?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.
George shuddered. ‘Very possibly, although I have seen him meddle with far worse. Do you know the way to the observatory, sir? That is where tonight’s party is being held.’
Chaloner climbed the stairs to the top of the house, where he discovered that Lambe had been at the walls again, because there was barely an inch that had not been daubed with symbols. Some were in chalk, but the sorcerer had clearly decided that this was not sufficiently dramatic, so the rest had been painted in blood. Chaloner sincerely hoped it had come from a butcher.
He tried to decipher what had been written, but could make no sense of it – the Latin and Greek were garbled, while the mathematical symbols were meaningless as far as he could tell. Several words were Dutch, but they meant nothing either, and he suspected Lambe had just scribbled down whatever rubbish had entered his head.
A number of wealthy and influential courtiers stood around in excited anticipation, although not as many as Chal
oner would have expected, and he could only suppose that some were still stuck on the Prittlewell road. All were close friends of the Duke, which meant they were the Earl’s sworn enemies, and Chaloner felt acutely uncomfortable as he moved among them. Fortunately, his ‘dismissal’ meant he was now tolerated, and although he would never be part of their circle, at least no one was overtly hostile.
‘You should be hunting Fifth Monarchists,’ hissed an angry voice. ‘And where have you been these last few days? Clarendon says you have not reported to him in an age.’
Chaloner was startled to see Rupert there, given the antagonism between him and the host. And the Prince was not the only surprise guest: Admiral Lawson had been invited, too, and was already flushed with drink.
‘I have some answers,’ replied Chaloner carefully. ‘But—’
Rupert stretched out an imperious hand. ‘Good. Now give me the register of members you were charged to compile. And tell me their precise plans so I can catch them red-handed.’
‘Midnight,’ said Chaloner, declining to reveal that he had not prepared a list and was not going to. ‘I will know their precise plans at midnight.’
Rupert scowled. ‘Then I shall expect you to come and tell me immediately.’
He turned on his heel and stalked away. Chaloner watched him go, thinking it was no surprise that the Prince was unpopular, even among courtiers, who were generally an unpleasant crowd. Turning, he saw Buckingham talking to the silly Lady Muskerry near the window, and supposed it was as good a time as any to warn him of the threat to his life.
‘You are in danger,’ he said bluntly, but as the Duke was unlikely to believe that Lambe was the culprit, he settled for, ‘Unscrupulous fraudsters are predicting the deaths of certain people, and killing them to “prove” it. You will be their next victim.’
Buckingham regarded him with dislike. ‘You think I will fall prey to swindlers? That I am so stupid I cannot see through such schemes?’
‘It does not matter what I think.’ Chaloner struggled for patience: he had better things to do than argue with Buckingham. ‘But it does matter that you might be hurt. Hannah would never forgive me if I did not warn you.’
Buckingham smiled smugly. ‘I can look after myself, thank you.’
Lady Muskerry simpered adoringly at him. ‘So bold! So brave!’
‘Lambe has explained how to avoid the misfortune he prophesised, and I have followed his advice to the letter,’ Buckingham went on. ‘I am quite safe. However, you will not be if you spoil my party with foolish alarms.’
He strutted away, all imperious disdain, and Chaloner was tempted to leave him to his fate, feeling the country would be well shot of him, but he had spoken the truth when he had said that Hannah would never forgive him if something happened that could have been prevented. More importantly, neither would Thurloe.
He stood in the shadows by a window, and listened to anyone who spoke within earshot. Most talk revolved around the fact that the journey to Prittlewell had been a waste of good carousing time, but there was also a lot of laughter about the fact that everyone now called Clarendon’s mansion Dunkirk House – Lambe’s ‘prediction’ had come true. A few people worried about the city’s resentment over the coal tax, but far more were interested in the possibility that Buckingham might unveil the Philosopher’s Stone that evening.
‘The Philosopher’s Stone!’ sneered Lawson. ‘It is a lot of nonsense if you ask me.’
‘But no one has asked you,’ said Buckingham. His eyes gleamed with spiteful triumph, and Chaloner was suddenly suspicious. Why had Lawson and Rupert – and Chaloner himself for that matter – been invited to the soirée when the host so obviously detested them? He determined to stay alert for trouble and keep well away from any experiments. He eased farther into the shadows, lest Lawson tried to shoot him again.
‘Why did you grace us with your presence tonight?’ asked Rupert, regarding the Admiral with aloof disdain. ‘Do you not have common sailors to gossip with?’
Lawson eyed him with equal contempt. ‘There is a rumour that Buckingham will die today, and I should hate to miss that.’
He and Buckingham began a sniping argument, peppered with caustic asides from Rupert that did nothing to soothe ragged tempers, and the longer Chaloner watched, the more he was certain that something sly had indeed been arranged. The Duke was taut with barely suppressed excitement, and Chaloner became increasingly convinced that if someone did meet an unfortunate end that night, it would not be Buckingham, but one of his guests.
For a long time, the soirée was just like any other that Chaloner had attended over the years. There was plenty of wine, too few snacks, and the conversation was spiteful and shallow. Eventually, there was a low, eerie moan that caused an instant hush. It was followed by a clash of cymbals that made everyone jump, and Buckingham smirked when Lawson spilled claret over himself. Suddenly, there was a puff of red smoke, and Lambe appeared, wearing a garish gown covered in crescent moons. It was cheap and theatrical, and the spectators were unimpressed.
‘I have seen better from penny actors on High Holborn,’ brayed Lawson.
‘We would not know,’ drawled Buckingham. ‘We do not frequent such places.’
Lambe ignored them both, and began to perform a series of old but clever tricks. Astutely, he involved his audience, and soon won them around with a combination of sleight of hand and sharp humour. Chaloner declined to be seduced, though, and so did Lawson. The Admiral yawned artificially to convey his boredom, then left the observatory and walked down the stairs to an antechamber, where more drinks had been set out. Chaloner followed.
‘You again!’ exclaimed Lawson, reaching for the dag in his belt.
Chaloner showed him the knife he held. ‘It will be in your heart long before you can draw,’ he said softly. ‘I strongly advise you not to try.’
Lawson glowered, but let his hand drop to his side. They were alone, because the servants had abandoned their stations to watch Lambe, and were in a spellbound semicircle around the door at the top of the stairs. No one could see what was happening below.
‘You would not be threatening me if my pistol had behaved yesterday,’ Lawson growled. Slowly and with deliberate contempt, he turned away and poured himself a cup of wine.
‘No,’ acknowledged Chaloner. ‘Why did you react so violently to such a simple question?’
‘None of your damn business. And you may as well sheath your blade, because we both know you will not kill God’s beloved, especially in front of witnesses.’
‘What witnesses? No one is looking this way, and a knife is silent. Unlike you, I have more sense than to blast at my victims with firearms.’
‘It is not a mistake I shall make again,’ vowed Lawson. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘The truth about your visit to Rupert’s gun factory on Tuesday night. I know you bribed Browne to sell you powder and cannon. What will you do? Sell them to the Dutch?’
Lawson whipped around to gape at him, astonishment taking the place of angry defiance. ‘Sell them to the Dutch? What do you take me for?’
‘A man whose flagship was blown up after two heavy chests were taken aboard,’ replied Chaloner coldly. ‘Chests containing “metal viols”. However, we both know they held nothing of the kind, and that your hapless crew paid the price.’
The blood drained from Lawson’s face. ‘Christ God! Is that what you think? That I would harm my own men? I do not know what happened to my ship, but I swear on my soul that when I find out who was responsible, I will rip the bastard to pieces with my bare hands.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Chaloner, although the Admiral’s conviction made him wonder whether the conclusions he had drawn were correct. ‘Yet it is curious that your family survived while—’
‘They survived because of where they were standing and because they could swim,’ snarled Lawson. ‘We have already been through this. Who are you, anyway?’
‘Someone who has quite a tale to report to Willi
amson,’ replied Chaloner tartly.
Relief flooded the Admiral’s blunt face. ‘You are one of his agents? Thank God! I thought you were another bloody fanatic. Or worse, one of those conniving courtiers. By all means report our discussion to the Spymaster. It is time he knew what is happening on his watch.’
‘By “what is happening” do you refer to the Last Millennium, which is apparently scheduled for Sunday? You Fifth Monarchists think nothing will matter after that, and you doubtless believe that your three hundred mariners will rise from their graves to stand with—’
‘Stuff and nonsense! And I am not a Fifth Monarchist. An officer of mine – who joined the sect after losing an arm at the Battle of Marston Moor – said they would tell me about Rupert’s guns if I pledged myself to their Cause. And as Rupert refused to oblige, I had no choice. There will be a Last Millennium, of course, but I doubt it will be on Sunday.’
‘Not Henry Tucker?’ asked Chaloner, thinking of the one-handed sailor on the Sanhedrin.
Lawson nodded. ‘A decent fellow who wants a society bound by God’s laws, not ones invented by the bloody fools on the Privy Council. A noble dream, if an impractical one. He introduced me to Jones and Quelch. Do you know them?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘They procrastinated for so long that I thought I was going to have to find another way to get the secret, but then they appeared at Temperance’s club one evening and offered to open negotiations.’
‘The night Ferine was killed?’ asked Chaloner pointedly.
‘No, no – a month before that. On the night of the murder, they came to ask if I was interested in helping them install the Kingdom of Christ. I told them I was too busy.’
‘So you paid them for Rupert’s secret?’
‘Do you think me witless? Of course not! I strung the bastards along until I learned that they intended to purchase it from a pair of villains named Manning and Scott, thus making a profit for themselves. So I cut out the middlemen and applied directly to the masters.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 31
