A Murder on London Bridge: Chaloner's Fifth Exploit in Restoration London (Exploits of Thomas Chaloner) Read online

  ‘I dislike the Bridge,’ Leigh declared, stopping dead in his tracks to regard it in distaste. He ignored the jostles and resentful mutters of the people who were obliged to funnel around him. ‘So, I shall hire a boat and meet you on the other side. Blue Dick is less likely to spot us if we separate.’

  It was a little late to be worrying about that, thought Chaloner acidly, but he nodded agreement, relieved to be rid of the irascible little soldier. He walked on alone. The ground rose sharply, and then he was on the Bridge itself. The roar of water was louder here, and he fancied he could feel the stones reverberating under his feet, shaking with the sheer raw power of it.

  Londoners were proud of their Bridge. It spanned a river that was both wide and deep, and boasted nineteen arches, each a different shape and size, which stood on boat-shaped feet called starlings. Above the starlings were houses, some five storeys tall. As the city imposed no restriction on size or style, the result was a chaotic jumble of rooftops and chimneys. Many leaned towards each other, and structures called ‘haut-pas’ had been built between them, serving not only to shore them up, but providing additional rooms, too.

  The northern end of the Bridge was devoid of buildings though, because a fire some thirty years before had destroyed them, and they had not yet been rebuilt. Traders had set up in the open space – Londoners called it ‘the Square’ – their stalls perilously close to the great cartwheels that lumbered past. Chaloner blinked when he reached the first of the houses, and their looming shadows turned the road from broad daylight into a murky gloom.

  About halfway across, Blue Dick ducked into a building – a sign nailed to the wall outside declared it to be Chapel House. It was surrounded by scaffolding, which was a problem, because the bulky wooden struts did not leave enough room for two large vehicles to pass each other – one would need to yield, and no self-respecting London driver liked to demean himself with gratuitous courtesy. Chaloner glanced casually at it as he passed. The door was ajar, and he saw Blue Dick lurking in the shadows beyond. Feigning disinterest, he walked on.

  After a few moments, he turned and retraced his steps. He passed Chapel House again, but the door was now closed. When he reached the Square, he stopped and pretended to inspect a display of dolphin tongues, keeping the building at the periphery of his vision. It was not long before his quarry emerged and began to head back towards the Square. Chaloner tensed. Had he been spotted, despite all his care, and Blue Dick was coming to confront him?

  The iconoclast was pale and nervous, eyes darting everywhere. But they did not linger on Chaloner. Relieved, Chaloner let him pass, and was about to set off in pursuit again when the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. Something was wrong! He stayed put for a moment, and then saw it: Blue Dick was being followed by a man swathed in a dark cloak.

  As if he sensed he had company, Blue Dick stopped and peered behind him. It was then that the cloaked man made his move. A knife flashed. Horrified, Chaloner broke cover and raced towards them. But it was too late. Blue Dick was toppling forwards with an agonised expression on his face. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  There was nothing Chaloner could do for the hapless Blue Dick, so he turned to follow the killer instead. The man was moving at a rapid clip towards Southwark. Carters and carriage-drivers yelled angrily as he cut in front of them, startling their horses and making them swerve. The killer ignored them all, careful to keep his face hidden beneath his broad-brimmed hat.

  Chaloner moved more discreetly, fast enough to keep up with his new quarry, but not so quick as to draw attention to himself. The killer broke into a run, but to leave the Bridge, he had to pass through the Stone Gate, and the Stone Gate was a bottleneck – not just because it constricted the road, but because pedestrians and drivers alike enjoyed slowing down to admire its display of traitors’ heads. Chaloner did not. Most of the skulls belonged to regicides – men who had signed the old king’s death warrant – and some had been friends of his family.

  The killer was brought to a virtual standstill as the crowd filed through the narrow opening, but his agitated jostling did nothing to hasten his progress. Indeed, people stopped walking to shove him back, retarding the flow even further. But he managed to squeeze through eventually, racing ahead the moment he was free of the press. Chaloner was not far behind.

  Leigh was on the far side of the gate, brazenly scanning the faces of those who passed. Chaloner supposed it was just as well Blue Dick was beyond caring, because Leigh would have given the game away in an instant. The scrutiny made the killer uneasy, too, because he edged away, to avoid passing the little soldier too closely.

  ‘Where is Blue Dick?’ Leigh demanded, when he saw Chaloner alone. ‘Did you lose him?’

  ‘Dead.’ Chaloner indicated the killer with a nod of his head. ‘Stabbed by him.’

  Leigh’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘What? But why would—’

  ‘That is what we need to find out.’ Chaloner began to run, aware of Leigh turning to follow. He skidded to a standstill when the killer darted into a nearby church, and was almost bowled from his feet when Leigh barrelled into the back of him. He regained his balance without taking his eyes off the place. It was impressive, with a lofty central tower and elegant tracery in its Gothic windows.

  ‘That is St Mary Overie,’ mused Leigh. ‘Perhaps he is going to pray for forgiveness.’

  Chaloner recalled the purposeful way the villain had moved before striking, and knew remorse had no part in his plans. ‘I suspect he is either going to divest himself of his killing clothes, or he is going to report to an accomplice. Either way, we need to—’

  ‘All right,’ said Leigh grimly, and began to stride towards the door before any sort of strategy could be discussed. ‘No one commits murder on my watch, not even of iconoclasts.’

  Chaloner sighed, and wished the Earl employed more sensible men to serve him – or, if he did insist on populating his household with simpletons and lunatics, that he did not force him to work alongside them.

  Leigh had moved fast, and was inside the church by the time Chaloner caught up with him. There was no sign of the killer, and Chaloner grabbed Leigh’s arm to prevent him from storming up the aisle to look for him.

  ‘What?’ demanded the little soldier irritably, freeing himself with a scowl. ‘Do you want to lay hands on this scoundrel or not? If you dally, he might escape.’

  ‘But if we arrest him and he refuses to talk, what then?’ asked Chaloner with quiet reason. ‘We need to tell the Earl why Blue Dick is murdered. And the best way to do that is by seeing where the culprit goes and who he meets.’

  Leigh stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well. We shall sneak around like thieves then, if that is what you want. Follow me. I am a skilled soldier, decorated in battle. I know what I am doing.’

  Chaloner refrained from remarking that if Leigh was among the best the Royalist army had to offer, then it was small wonder they had lost the civil wars.

  ‘No, we need to separate,’ he said, struggling for patience as he seized the man’s wrist a second time. ‘Watch him from two different angles, to ensure we do not miss anything. So you take the south side, and I will take the north.’

  Leigh rolled his eyes at the need for such tactics, but obligingly strode towards the area Chaloner had indicated, booted feet slapping on the flagstones. The racket he made obviated any need for stealth, but Chaloner moved silently anyway, out of habit, as he made his way through the northern part of the church.

  St Mary Overie was an attractive place, full of yellow-grey pillars that soared up to a yellow-grey roof. It smelled of damp plaster and the decorative greenery that had been placed in the windows by parishioners. Because the day was overcast, the light filtering through the soot-coated windows was dim, and the building was full of shadows.

  The killer was in the north transept, and Chaloner reached him before Leigh. But the fellow was not alone. He was with six others, all clad in wide-brimmed hats and anonymous cloaks. Thei
r lower faces were covered by the kind of scarves designed to protect the wearer from London’s foul air, but which were also favoured as disguises by the criminal fraternity.

  Chaloner eased closer – they were talking, and he was keen to hear what was being said. He crouched behind a chest to eavesdrop, hoping Leigh would see him and have the sense to hold back.

  ‘—on the Bridge,’ the killer was whispering. There was blood on his hands; it had been an efficient attack, but not a clean one. ‘No one saw me.’

  ‘I wish you had consulted us first,’ murmured a man who was taller than his companions. He seemed to be in charge. ‘This may attract unwanted attention.’

  ‘Well, it is done now,’ said the killer, oozing defiance. ‘And I am not—’

  He whipped around at the rattle of footsteps: Leigh had arrived. The little soldier baulked when he saw the killer had company, and started to back away, but it was too late: seven swords had been hauled from seven scabbards. Chaloner was begrudgingly impressed when Leigh did not run, as most men would have done when faced with such unattractive odds, but resorted to bluster.

  ‘I want a word with you,’ he said imperiously to the killer. ‘And the rest of you may as well show your faces, too, because I do not approve of disguises. Come on, unmask yourselves. I command you, by authority of the Earl of Clarendon, Lord Chancellor of England!’

  The leader laughed his disbelief. ‘You order us? In the name of that rogue? He belongs in the Tower, and I cannot imagine why the King does not slice off his head.’

  ‘You insolent dog!’ cried Leigh. He drew his sword and prepared to do battle. ‘How dare you!’

  It occurred to Chaloner that if he stayed hidden until Leigh was killed, he might discover the identities of the men and learn why one had murdered Blue Dick – and Leigh would only have himself to blame for his predicament. But Leigh was a colleague, when all was said and done, and Chaloner supposed he owed him some support. With a sigh of resignation, he surged to his feet and had disabled two of the cloaked men before they realised that the feisty warrior was not alone.

  The fighting was unexpectedly brutal, and while Chaloner took care not to inflict fatal injuries – he had no wish to kill anyone before he understood what was going on – the same was not true of his opponents. They were not particularly skilled swordsmen, but they fought with a fierce, unwavering resolve that was unnerving. It reminded him of the savage hand-to-hand combat during the civil wars, when men were protecting the things they held dear: their families and homes.

  ‘Who are you?’ Chaloner demanded, when he had managed to corner the killer and had a blade to his throat. ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘Never!’ came the hissing reply. Eyes glittered furiously above the scarf. ‘I would sooner die.’

  Chaloner was tempted to oblige – the man was a cold-blooded murderer, after all – but a sound behind caused him to whip around, and then he was obliged to fight three men at once. He grabbed the scarf of one who came too close and pulled it hard, intending to expose the fellow’s face, but it had been tied too tightly to come off. Then there was a loud crack that echoed around the church, and set up a wild squawking of gulls outside.

  ‘Stop!’ came the commanding voice of the leader. He held a second gun, and was pointing it at Chaloner, who saw it was primed and ready to fire. Meanwhile, Leigh was lying on his back with a sword at his throat. ‘And back away. I shall not miss the next time.’

  The cold, angry gleam in his eyes said he meant it. Reluctantly, Chaloner did as he was told, and the leader indicated with a flick of his head that his cronies were to leave the church. They obeyed immediately.

  ‘I will be waiting outside for the next few minutes,’ the leader said, before turning to follow them. ‘If you come after us, I will shoot you.’

  Chaloner waited until he was out of sight, then hared after them. He wrenched open the door, then jerked backwards when there was a sharp report. It was closely followed by a second crack, and the wood near his head flew into splinters.

  ‘Three shots fired so far,’ whispered Leigh, coming to stand behind Chaloner. ‘Three guns. Do they have a fourth, do you think? Shall we risk it, and run out?’

  Chaloner shook his head. The last shot had come closer than was comfortable, and the chase was not worth their lives. He leaned against the door and closed his eyes, wishing Leigh had not blundered in so soon, because he had heard nothing that would allow him to identify the killer and his companions.

  ‘Lord!’ breathed Leigh, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘What they lacked in skill they certainly made up for with mettle. I do not think I have ever met such resolute opponents.’

  ‘I have,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘In the civil wars – men who believed God was on their side.’

  ‘You mean fanatics?’ asked Leigh uneasily. ‘I wonder which particular brand these are: Catholics, old Roundheads, Fifth Monarchists, general rebels. How shall we go about finding out?’

  ‘We shall not,’ said Chaloner, deciding the time had come to dispense with Leigh’s annoying company. ‘You are going to report to the Earl, while I stay here and ask a few questions.’

  Chaloner rarely ventured south of the river, which meant he did not know Southwark very well. When he had first visited it, he had assumed it would be an extension of the City, but was soon disavowed of that notion. Southwark was a place like no other, with its curious combination of stately homes and hovels, its discreetly gardened brothels and lice-infested whorehouses, and its sprawling taverns and bear-baiting arenas. It was always crowded, and many of its lanes were so narrow that there was no room for carriages. It did not stop drivers from trying to use them anyway, and the result was some wicked congestion and very frayed tempers.

  He headed for the main street, trying to decide which way the killer and his cronies might have gone. He was immediately mobbed – scruffy children tried to sell him cheap trinkets, prostitutes flaunted their wares, and vagrants whined for alms. His hand dropped to his sword, which led some to melt away, but not all. He supposed they were used to threats.

  As there was no sign of his quarry, and enquiries among the clamouring throng yielded nothing in the way of sensible answers, Chaloner headed for the area known as St George’s Fields, where there was an inn-cum-brothel named the Dog and Duck. He had been there a few weeks before, and while he did not imagine its bawds would know the men he was looking for, they might be able to provide him with a list of potential haunts – the kind of taverns known to look the other way when masked men gathered.

  He reached the Dog and Duck, still pursued by one man determined to sell him a pair of used gloves, and stepped inside. His eyes smarted. It was noon, and the time when dinner was eaten – the place was full, and every patron was puffing a pipe; he could not see the opposite side of the room through the fug. He was barely through the door when a woman came to take possession of him.

  ‘What will it be?’ she asked, all business. ‘Food first, and then me? Or just me?’

  ‘Alice?’ asked Chaloner, trying to see past the paints and pastes slathered on her face. She was not attractive when washed and wearing her Sunday best, but the vivid mask and sluttish clothes made her look vaguely unearthly, like the wax grave-models in Westminster Abbey. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Tom!’ she exclaimed in pleasure. ‘I did not recognise you. Where have you been? We all assumed you had left the city. After all, there must be some reason why you have not been to visit.’

  Chaloner could have told her that he had been in the nearby village of Wimbledon, monitoring Lord Bristol’s country estate – the Earl had acquired a number of enemies through the years, but Bristol was by far one of the most dangerous. The sly nobleman had tried to topple the Earl from power the previous summer, but the plot had backfired and a warrant had been issued for his own arrest instead. Wisely, Bristol had fled the country, but there had been rumours of late that he was back. Alarmed, the Earl had demanded an investigation. However, Chaloner had wa
tched Bristol’s house for the best part of six weeks, and had seen nothing to indicate the gossip was true.

  ‘I have been away,’ he replied vaguely.

  Fortunately, Alice was not interested in his travels, which was just as well, because Chaloner had been trained never to talk about himself. He believed that intelligence officers – he disliked the term ‘spy’, although it was how the Earl described him – should collect information rather than dispense it, and although he was no longer operating in enemy territory, it was a difficult habit to break.

  ‘Meg died of the French pox last week,’ Alice was saying. ‘And Sally fell down the—’

  ‘Meg?’ interrupted Chaloner, dismayed. ‘She seemed well enough in December.’

  ‘She hid it well.’ Alice grinned spitefully. ‘We do not know who gave her the sickness, but she shared the gift with as many men as she could before she went. That will show them!’

  ‘It might show you, too,’ said Chaloner. He shrugged when she regarded him blankly, and explained further. ‘If she infected them, they might infect you in turn.’

  Alice’s grin turned bitter. ‘They already have. Why do you think I am covered in plaster, like an old wall? Give me a shilling, Tom. I need it for medicine.’

  Chaloner passed her the coin, grateful he had declined her services when they had been offered. French pox was incurable, and the notion of explaining to his lover how he had come by it was too awful to contemplate. Hannah was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and the wild debauchery of the Court made her something of a free thinker – it was one of the things he liked about her – but a beau with a sexually transmitted disease would tax even her liberal principles.