‘To prepare for the Last Millennium,’ replied Jones calmly. It sounded like a threat.
‘Listen to me,’ said Leving, more annoyed than alarmed by his situation. ‘Buckingham has more money than sense, and I can get you on his payroll. He will shell out handsomely for information, and you can tell him whatever you like. It is what I have been doing – feeding him lies. I am on your side.’
Jones listened with an icy contempt that would have silenced any normal man, although Leving gabbled on. Chaloner collected his weapons from the table. He was as taut as a bowstring, expecting to be attacked at any moment, but no one took any notice as he buckled his sword around his waist and slid his daggers into their various sheaths.
‘I wondered from the start whether you were the traitor,’ said Jones, finally cutting through Leving’s self-serving tirade. ‘But I could not believe that any spymaster would stoop to using such a dimwit.’
‘There is no need to be rude,’ said Leving stiffly. ‘And if you suspect me, then you must also suspect the gunpowder expert that I introduced to your fold.’
‘I might, but in an act of ineptitude typical of you, you actually managed to recruit one who is perfect for our needs. But enough chatter.’ Jones turned to his cronies. ‘Toss him in the cellar and let us be about more important business.’
Leving struggled hard, but his captors were strong, and it was not long before he disappeared into the hole.
‘Wait!’ he shrieked, as Jones started to close the trapdoor. ‘Sherwin is down here. Chaloner is a killer, and you are not safe with him. Look! I can show you the corpse.’
His vindictive howls went from shrill to muffled as the panel dropped into place. Jones rubbed his hands together and turned to his followers, his reptile-eyes bright. Something akin to excitement lit his dark face.
‘Our time draws nigh. Are you ready, Chaloner?’
‘Ready for what?’ asked Chaloner, full of apprehension.
‘Why, for the fireworks, of course.’
Chaloner was hopelessly confused as he followed Jones and the Sanhedrin out on to Chancery Lane, and was horrified to see it was nearing noon – he had lost hours in the cellar. The streets were full of revellers: farmers, labourers, housewives, tradesmen, widows and shopkeepers. Were they Fifth Monarchists, pouring into the city to bring about the Last Millennium, or visitors come to pay their Lady Day dues?
For the first time in an age, the sun was shining and it promised to be a fine day. The change in weather affected everyone, and the atmosphere was relaxed and gay. Even the grim fanatics of the Sanhedrin seemed happy, and Chaloner heard one mutter that it was a favourable omen from God, a sign that their venture would succeed.
‘Wear this,’ said Jones, removing his cloak and handing it to Chaloner. ‘You cannot wander around London drenched in blood. People will think you are an insurgent.’
He gave a low, creaking chortle, although Chaloner did not think there was much to laugh about. They reached High Holborn, and Jones led the way to Ursula’s house. She was expecting them, because she opened the door before Jones had finished knocking and ushered him inside. She smiled wanly at Chaloner, then stood back as the others filed past her.
The rest of the Sanhedrin, plus a large number of folk who had attended meetings in the Talbot – the more serious ones, who had gone to foment unrest rather than to chat to friends and eat free cakes – were already there, and the little house was bursting at the seams. As usual, it was fragrant with the scent of baking, and the newcomers immediately began to shoulder their way through the throng towards a table that was loaded with biscuits.
‘Please do not drop crumbs on the floor,’ called Ursula after them, for once failing to inform them that her wares were the best they would ever taste. ‘Use plates.’
Chaloner was stunned by the banality of it all – rebels being cautioned not to make a mess before they loosed their madness on London. It was like being in the depths of some bizarre nightmare, and he was not sure that anyone would believe him if he were ever in a position to relate the tale later. He unfastened the cloak – Ursula had fires going, and the press of people was making him uncomfortably hot.
‘Blood!’ cried Ursula, regarding the red blots in horror. ‘Do you need a surgeon?’
‘It is not his own,’ explained Jones. ‘It is not Leving’s either, more is the pity.’
‘Leving’s?’ echoed Ursula, but then evidently decided that she did not want to know, because she fixed her attention on Chaloner’s clothes. ‘Give them to me before they stain permanently.’
‘You need to change anyway,’ said Jones, passing Chaloner brown breeches and a buff jerkin with striped sleeves. It was the uniform of the palace guard. ‘This is what you must wear today.’
Chaloner did not want to remove his clothes while Fifth Monarchists were packed so tightly around him, feeling it would put him at a distinct disadvantage. He indicated the stairs. ‘May I?’
‘Surely you are not shy?’ smirked Jones.
‘My wife would not appreciate me undressing in front of other ladies,’ said Chaloner. It was lame, but he could hardly tell the truth.
Amusement flashed in Jones’s eyes. ‘Do not be long then. We move in a few moments.’
Chaloner ran up the steps and went to the window, aiming to climb through it and dash directly to Williamson, but it had not been opened in years and was stuck fast. He would have to find another way to escape the rebels’ clutches. He threw off his stained clothes, pulled on the uniform, and was about to leave when he saw a bundle on the bed, wrapped in a lacy apron.
‘Chaloner!’ shouted Jones impatiently. ‘Hurry up!’
Chaloner unravelled the apron to reveal a stout wooden box. There was no time to pick the lock, so he broke it with the hilt of his dagger. He flipped open the lid, and saw a number of objects inside, all wrapped in cloth pouches. He unfastened one, and stared in mystification.
It was a coining die, and he had seen two just like it recently – Ferine had given Snowflake one, while the other had been on Thurloe’s mantelpiece. The ex-Spymaster had said they were an amusing curiosity, items sold from the Tower to raise money for the war. He had smashed a perfectly serviceable button demonstrating its use.
Puzzled, Chaloner grabbed another bag. It was full of silver discs, akin to the buttons that Grisley Pate had given him in Temple Mills. He retrieved them from the pocket of his abandoned coat and compared them. As far as he could tell they were identical.
But there was no time for speculation, because he could hear footsteps on the stairs, even over the noisy gusto of fanatics enjoying their food. He closed and rewrapped the box, and was just fastening his jerkin when Jones walked in. The rebel regarded him oddly, and Chaloner knew he suspected that something was amiss.
‘Are you ready?’ was all Jones said. ‘It is time.’
Chaloner was in a turmoil of confusion as the coach carrying him, Ursula, Jones and three of the Sanhedrin rattled towards White Hall. The rest of the gathering were in hackney carriages bound for other destinations.
‘Where is Atkinson?’ he asked.
‘In position,’ replied Jones shortly. ‘How familiar are you with the Privy Garden?’
‘Not very,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Why?’
Jones smiled humourlessly. ‘Come, now, there is no need for false modesty. Clarendon’s offices overlook it, so you must have seen it hundreds of times.’
Cornered, Chaloner shrugged. ‘Seen it, yes, but retainers are not encouraged to stroll there. All I know is that it is a large open space with rose beds, hedges and a fountain in the middle.’
‘And what of its borders?’
As it was relatively easy to gain access to the palace, Chaloner suspected that Jones already knew what it looked like, and that he would betray no secrets if he described it. ‘High walls on two sides, and buildings along the others.’
‘Do you know the gardeners’ quarters?’
Chaloner wondered where the conversation w
as going. ‘A single room in the south-west corner that is used for storing their tools.’
Jones smiled. ‘Atkinson is waiting for us there.’
‘Surely, we should seize the Tower first,’ said Chaloner, stomach churning. The Fifth Monarchists were better prepared than he had expected – that particular part of White Hall was generally overlooked by the palace guards, and it would be simple for the rebels to take up station there. And once they had a foothold…
‘Not before we have dealt with the King,’ replied Jones, eyes glittering. ‘Lord! Look at these crowds! Anyone would think the Last Millennium was at hand.’
With that enigmatic remark, he fell silent. Chaloner tried to make him talk, but Ursula indicated that he should desist with an urgent shake of her head, and he knew she was right. He could not afford to rouse Jones’s suspicions with a welter of questions now, especially with three of the Sanhedrin watching him with cold faces – and two of them had handguns.
Agitated, he pondered the significance of the Privy Garden. The weather was fine, so the King would almost certainly enjoy an open-air event of some sort there that day, and the firework display was scheduled for the evening. Did Jones intend to turn the silver cannon on His Majesty and his courtiers? If so, it would plunge the country into anarchy for certain.
It had to be stopped, but how? The Sanhedrin alone numbered thirty determined individuals, and there had been another twenty disciples in Ursula’s house – not to mention the ten thousand who were waiting for the call to arms. How was Chaloner to defeat them when his only allies were an idealistic stockinger and a frightened widow? His sole hope was that Rupert had spurred Williamson into action. But the Prince was more interested in protecting his cannon, and the chances were that his report would be skewed to that end alone. With a sinking heart, Chaloner realised that there would be no help from the Spymaster’s troops.
As the coach rattled closer to White Hall, he began to formulate wild plans. He had a sword and three knives. Could he kill or maim Jones in the hope that the rebellion would falter without its leader? But the other three members of the Sanhedrin watched him unblinkingly, and fingers tightened on triggers when he moved his hand from the armrest to his lap. They would kill him before he could draw a weapon, and then nothing would stand between Jones and his objective.
Then could he jump out of the coach and dash to Williamson? Outside, the press of Lady Day visitors was so great that the driver had to rein in or risk trampling them. Casually, Chaloner rested his fingers on the window, preparing to undo the catch, but Jones leaned forward and knocked them down.
‘Did your mother never teach you to keep your hands inside moving vehicles? We cannot afford an accident now. How would you perform your duties?’
They arrived at White Hall, where Chaloner was appalled to learn that security had been thrown to the wind because it was a holiday – the palace guards were evidently of the opinion that assassins and rebels would not be so ungentlemanly as to strike at such a time. Chaloner’s uniform ensured that he and Jones’s party strolled through the Great Court without a second glance from the soldiers on duty. He tried to signal that all was not well, but their attention was on a woman who was asking directions, and none noticed his urgent gesture.
The palace thronged with people, some handsomely dressed, but many in rough clothes that indicated they were servants or tradesmen. Or Fifth Monarchists, thought Chaloner, looking at the unfamiliar faces and desperately trying to determine whether they were fanatics. He was too agitated for rational judgement, and found himself suspecting everyone.
‘You will not identify them,’ whispered Ursula, reading him rather too well. ‘They all look perfectly normal. Like you and me.’
She was right, and Chaloner’s despair deepened.
Jones led the way across the Great Court and through the short corridor that led to the Privy Garden. A party was in progress there, and the entire expanse teemed with courtiers and high-ranking officials. Musicians played, and servants moved through the knots of people with cups of wine on silver platters. Some guests had already had too much to drink, and the atmosphere was raucous. Chaloner regarded them in dismay. With half of them intoxicated, any atrocity was likely to result in even greater carnage, because they would not be able to move fast enough to escape.
Jones aimed unerringly for the gardeners’ room. He looked around quickly, then opened a door and ushered his followers inside. It was a dark, low-ceilinged, dusty chamber full of tools, plant pots and neatly stacked pieces of wood. There was a faint smell that was instantly recognisable to Chaloner. It was gunpowder.
He glanced around quickly, but could see no cannon or anything that might be used as one. There was, however, a large number of small, squat barrels, of the kind that were used to transport explosives. So was that their plan, to blow up this room in the expectation that the King and his ministers would perish in the blast? But the Privy Garden was a huge open space, and explosions worked better in confined ones. Was it possible that the rebels were so badly informed that they did not know this?
‘There you are,’ came a voice from the gloom, and Atkinson emerged holding a hoe. He lowered it sheepishly. ‘Where have you been? You are late, and I have been worried.’
Jones beckoned, and everyone followed him through the room to a door at the far end, which also led to the garden. It was ajar, and through it Chaloner saw the trench that Kipps had complained about so bitterly some days before. It had been empty then; now it was full of packages, all covered in tarpaulin and with fuses trailing from them.
‘Light them, Chaloner,’ ordered Jones. He gave an odd salute. ‘You will almost certainly be caught or killed, so we shall not meet again. Wait five minutes for the rest of us to reach our designated posts and then begin. God be with you.’
‘Wait,’ snapped Chaloner, as the conspirators started to move away. ‘How can I light them when I do not know the size or the precise location of all the charges?’
Jones raised his eyebrows. ‘You are a gunpowder expert – that should not be a problem.’
‘But—’
‘Think about the Cause,’ said Jones smoothly, ‘and how pleased the Supreme Authority will be with your role in it.’
‘He will not be pleased with murder,’ argued Chaloner.
‘Murder?’ echoed Jones, eyebrows raised archly. ‘These are fireworks, not bombs.’
Chaloner frowned in confusion. ‘Fireworks?’
Jones pointed to the trench. ‘Surely you can tell the difference?’
Chaloner could not, but was reluctant to say so. ‘I do not understand,’ he said helplessly.
Jones’s smile was bland. ‘White Hall plans to celebrate Lady Day with fireworks, as you have no doubt heard. Igniting them is a skilled business – any amateur attempting it is likely to blow himself up. However, Leving assured us that it is well within your capabilities. So off you go.’
Chaloner looked at the packages again, and saw that names were visible on some: White Candles, Catherine Wheels, Red Rockets. Then he stole a glance at the little barrels. The lids were off a few, and he could see they were empty – it had been the fireworks that had been transported in them, not gunpowder.
‘But why light them now?’ he asked, more baffled than ever. ‘It is daytime and no one will see them properly.’
‘No,’ agreed Jones. ‘Which is the point: it will emphasise the wastefulness of Court. Fireworks are obscenely expensive, and people will object to such a shocking squandering of money if the things are set off at a point when they cannot be appreciated. Folk will be filled with righteous anger, and will cry out against this decadent regime.’
Chaloner shook his head in incomprehension. ‘You said you were going to kill the King.’
‘The people will kill the King when they witness his profligacy,’ said Jones, eyes glittering. ‘After all, it is Lady Day, and London is full of visitors from all over the country. It is the perfect opportunity to expose His Majesty as a gree
dy spendthrift who cares nothing for his subjects.’
‘Does this mean you are not going to seize the Tower, set the city on fire and establish a republic?’ asked Chaloner, bewildered. ‘Your supporters will be disappointed. So will Jesus.’
‘That is not your concern.’ Jones reached into his pocket and withdrew a pamphlet, obviously aiming to read from it. As he did so, several silver discs fell out. Chaloner stared at them as they tinkled on the floor, thinking about what he had found in Ursula’s house, plus what snippets he had learned about the new gunmetal that Rupert had devised.
‘I understand now,’ he said. ‘This is not about rebellion, it is about making money. Literally.’
Chapter 16
There was silence in the room after Chaloner made his announcement. Ursula and Atkinson gaped their disbelief, while the three members of the Sanhedrin stood silent and impassive – the revelation was no surprise to them. Then a chorus of laughter wafted from the garden, along with the strains of a melody by Lawes. It was one of Chaloner’s favourites, but he did not hear it. All his attention was fixed on Jones.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Ursula eventually. ‘Making money?’
‘Jones is no Fifth Monarchist,’ said Chaloner, recalling all the times that he had questioned the man’s dedication to the Cause. ‘He is just a common criminal.’
‘How dare you!’ cried Jones angrily. ‘Now light the—’
‘There will be no rebellion,’ said Chaloner. ‘Jones was lying about seizing the Tower and all the rest of it – a fabrication on the spur of the moment when people demanded to know his plans. He never intended to revolt. How could he, when no one has bought arms or horses?’
‘Are you sure?’ whispered Atkinson, stunned.
‘Yes. Three men from Taunton stole money to fund such purchases, but it was almost certainly spent on learning about Rupert’s cannon. Jones sent Strange and Quelch to watch their executions, to ensure nothing incriminating was said in their final speeches.’
Jones heaved an irritable sigh, but did not seem unduly alarmed by Chaloner’s revelations. ‘So what? The truth does not matter now.’
Murder on High Holborn (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Page 35
