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

  ‘I am looking for seven men who disguise themselves and lurk in St Mary Overie,’ he said, after more pleasantries had been exchanged. ‘Can you think of anywhere such men might meet?’

  Alice thought hard. ‘There are places in Paris Garden that turn a blind eye to squalid dealings.’

  ‘Paris Garden?’ Chaloner had never heard of it.

  She closed her eyes. ‘It used to be a lovely park, used for bowling and gambling, but it has a bad reputation these days. Try the Beggar’s Bush tavern first. But mind yourself.’

  With Alice’s warning ringing in his ears, Chaloner left the Dog and Duck and turned west, walking parallel to the river. The road was lined by houses that were five or six storeys high. They leaned towards each other like drunks, and in places met overhead. It made the street dark, and there were several sections that would never be touched by natural sunlight.

  Children were everywhere, clamouring for money or playing games with balls and hoops. Few wore shoes, and their feet and legs were covered in sores. There were a large number of dogs, too. Some were tethered outside houses and snarled at anyone who went too close; others roamed free, hunting for food among the huge piles of rubbish that lay in festering heaps at every corner.

  The stench of rotting vegetables, the glistening piles of entrails outside a butcher’s emporium and the reek from a nearby glueworks, not to mention the all-pervading aroma of sewage, were enough to make Chaloner light-headed. He had not thought of himself as delicate, and wondered whether life at Court, spying on treacherous noblemen for his Earl, was turning him soft.

  The beggar who had followed him from St Mary Overie to the Dog and Duck, latched on to him again, waving the second-hand gloves in his face and assuring him they were the finest quality. Chaloner ignored him, then realised the fellow did not see this as a deterrent; he was used to it.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked, turning suddenly.

  The man took a step away, unnerved by the abrupt attention. ‘Nat,’ he replied warily.

  ‘Do you live here?’

  Nat’s clothes hung loosely on his skinny frame, and he was missing most of his teeth. His skin was grey with dirt, and his hair far too oily to allow a determination of colour. All this meant it was impossible to gauge his age – he might have been twenty or fifty. He nodded back the way they had come.

  ‘Near St Mary Overie. But look at these lovely gloves, sir. They can be yours for three pennies.’

  ‘I will give you three pennies for some information.’

  Nat’s eyes gleamed, and he bared his gums in a grin. ‘What do you want to know? I can tell you anything. No one knows Southwark like me.’

  ‘Seven masked men met in St Mary Overie today. You live near there, so did you see them?’

  Nat nodded eagerly. ‘The masks are scarves, to protect them against smells and cold weather.’

  ‘Who are they? And I want the truth,’ warned Chaloner, predicting from Nat’s sly look that he was about to be regaled with some fiction. ‘I will know if you lie.’

  ‘But I don’t know their names!’ cried Nat. His expression was one of acute disappointment: three pennies was a lot to lose. ‘They just arrive from time to time. They look fierce, so no one bothers them. Southwark folk don’t go looking for trouble, and those men—’

  ‘How often do they come?’

  Nat screwed up his face in thought. ‘Maybe seven or eight times since Christmas. Of course, they take care to keep to themselves, so they may have come a few times without me noticing . . .’

  ‘I do not suppose you know their business?’ Chaloner was not hopeful of an answer he could trust, but there was no harm in asking.

  ‘I tried to sell one a ring once, but he said he got no use for cheap baubles.’ Nat sounded indignant. ‘So, I drew me own conclusions. They are boring religious types, like the folk who stopped us from having fun when the Old Tyrant was pretending to be king.’

  Chaloner rubbed his chin. He had no use for cheap baubles, either, but that did not make him a Puritan. And Blue Dick had been a Puritan, with his penchant for smashing churches, so surely it was unlikely that the masked men were Puritans, too? Why kill one of their own?

  ‘But they are nothing,’ said Nat with a dismissive wave of his hand when Chaloner made no reply. ‘There are far more important visitors to these parts than them.’

  Chaloner imagined there were, because the prostitutes of Southwark were famous for their variety, and whoring was a popular pastime among certain members of Court.

  Nat began to name them. ‘The Duke of Buckingham comes regular, and so does Mr Progers, who hires women to take to the King. And the Penderel brothers, who are that horrible Dowager’s latest favourites. Everyone knows she’s thinking about getting herself a nice young husband, and they came to London in the hope that she will pick one of them.’

  Chaloner had also heard it said that the King’s mother was on the prowl for a youthful spouse, but doubted it was true. The old queen was far too fond of being a widow. And there was always spiteful gossip about her, because her prickly character and arrogance meant she was unpopular.

  ‘She comes here, too, you know,’ Nat went on, when Chaloner still did not answer.

  Chaloner raised his eyebrows, amused by the notion. The Dowager was one of his Earl’s many enemies, and he had often been sent to spy on her. Although he had never met her in person, he had watched and listened to her often enough to know she was a prim, impatient snob, who would deplore the poverty and roughness of Southwark. She would never deign to set foot in such a place.

  Nat became indignant when he saw he was not believed. ‘She does! Not to a tavern, obviously, but to Winchester Palace, where the Bishop of Winchester stays while he is in London.’

  ‘She visits Bishop Morley?’ Chaloner did not think that was very likely, either. The fiercely Catholic Dowager would have little to say to a high-ranking Anglican cleric.

  ‘No, she goes there when he’s out,’ replied Nat.

  Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘Why would she do that?’

  Nat looked furtive – he did not know. ‘Perhaps she likes the view across the river.’

  Chaloner supposed she must have taken a fancy to some piece of art in the Bishop’s collection. Nobles were an acquisitive crowd, especially the ones who had suffered privation under Cromwell, and it was not unusual for them to covet someone else’s property. And they often got it, too, because objections by the injured party tended to be met with indignant accusations of treason.

  ‘I heard Lord Bristol was with her once,’ Nat gabbled on. ‘And he’s a wanted man! The King ordered him arrested, but Bristol thinks he can flout the law by slinking back into our country.’

  ‘You only heard?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘You did not actually see him?’

  ‘No, but it is true. The Dowager will hide him in her own mansion – Somerset House. He will be safe there, because not even the King orders a raid on his mother’s home.’

  But Chaloner knew the Dowager would never do anything to put her son in such an invidious position. Moreover, he did not believe the rumours that said Bristol was back in England. There had been dozens of reported sightings, but when he had investigated, not one had been true. If it had, Chaloner would have hunted the man down, and Bristol would be in the Tower. Where the Earl wanted him.

  Alice was right: Paris Gardens had once been a fine park. But now it was all bedraggled shrubs, muddy paths and overgrown copses that looked as though they would be dangerous to explore. It was populated by slovenly men, children with pinched, hard little faces, and greasy-headed slatterns. Shanty houses surrounded it – the kind that were thrown up overnight, and that seemed to be expanding at an alarming rate as folk flocked from the countryside in search of work.

  The Beggar’s Bush tavern overlooked an arena where bear-baiting, cock-fighting and rat-racing took place. It was an enormous place, and boasted accommodations fit for visiting aristocrats, as well as for the lower kind of
customer. There were rooms for playing cards and drinking tea, there were bedchambers that could be hired by the hour, and there were nooks where men could sit quietly and drink Southwark’s famous ale. It even served food, although that day’s menu was limited to a choice of braised calves’ brains or pickled sweetbreads.

  Chaloner entered the largest of the public rooms, and found a bench in the shadows near the back. The reek of tobacco vied with that of unwashed, sweaty bodies, and the place was busy with patrons of all ages, from all walks of life. Well-dressed lawyers sat at one table, while the next was full of rowdy apprentices, all laughing about a tale from St Paul’s Cathedral, where a gargoyle had dropped off the roof and killed a pigeon. Chaloner winced – he liked birds.

  He looked around him, weighing up the clientele. A huddle of heavily armed men sat near a back door; they spoke in whispers, and he was under the distinct impression that they were planning a crime. Others sat alone, smoking and staring into space. It did not look like the kind of place that would yield its secrets easily, so he decided to sit for a while, to assess which patrons might be more inclined to talk – either for money, or because he was holding a knife to their throats.

  He was still observing an hour later, when the door opened and two men walked in. The first wore his fashionable clothes with an elegant rakishness, and exuded the sense that he thought very highly of himself. His companion was also finely attired, but his muscular build and pronounced stoop meant he would never achieve his companion’s careless élan.

  The landlord regarded them warily, and as his other patrons were hardly choirboys, Chaloner’s interest was piqued. The duo took a table near him, so he pretended to be asleep, in the hope that they would speak more freely than if they thought he was awake and listening.

  ‘Mr Phillippes,’ said the landlord, addressing the shorter of the two, and then turning to his friend. ‘And Mr Kaltoff. I am surprised you dare show your faces here.’

  Phillippes made a moue of annoyance. ‘Oh, come now, sir! Can we not let bygones be bygones? We have, after all, been faithful customers for many years.’

  ‘I suppose you have,’ said the landlord begrudgingly. ‘Will it be the usual, then? Rhenish wine?’

  Phillippes inclined his head. ‘You are most kind.’

  ‘I heard the ghost of the old king was seen again last night,’ said Kaltoff conversationally, as the landlord set about serving them. ‘And did you know that the learned men in Gresham’s College are planning an experiment to weigh air tomorrow?’

  The landlord regarded him in mystification. ‘Why would anyone want to weigh air?’

  Phillippes bristled. ‘I will have you know that the weighing of air is a vital scientific objective. I have written a scholarly paper on the matter, and plan to read it to the Royal Society.’

  ‘You have been elected at last, then?’ asked the landlord. He did not sound very interested.

  Phillippes continued to glare. ‘Not yet, no,’ he said stiffly. ‘But it is only a matter of time before they welcome me into their fold. I am the inventor of the Phillippes Tide-Ring, after all.’

  ‘And I built it,’ added Kaltoff proudly. ‘I turned theory into reality.’

  Chaloner supposed they did look like instrument-makers – men who earned a respectable wage and who were a cut above the average merchant in terms of education and social status.

  ‘What is a tide-ring?’ asked the landlord. The distrustful expression on his face suggested he thought it might be something diabolical.

  Phillippes looked pained. ‘It is a device that calculates the ebb and flow of tides. The King has asked me to design one for him, because it will let him predict when the Palace of White Hall will flood. So has the Earl of Clarendon. Their patronage is a great honour.’

  ‘Phillippes will do the designing, and I shall construct them,’ elaborated Kaltoff. ‘The work of both of us will grace royal eyes.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said the landlord flatly. ‘Then all I can say is that you cannot test them here. You almost demolished my tavern when you tried out your last invention, and I am not having it again.’

  Phillippes winced. ‘How many more times must we apologise? The experiment should have worked, and neither of us understands why it failed.’

  Kaltoff grinned suddenly. ‘But look on the bright side: no one was badly hurt, and you have made a fortune from all the people who drink your ale as they listen to you describe what happened. Besides, we told you not to stand too close.’

  The landlord sniffed, indicating Kaltoff was right. ‘I still have dreams, you know. You have no idea what it was like. There I was, watching you light your special fireworks one moment, then the next, I was blown clean off my feet, while my hat ended up on the roof. My nerves will never recover.’

  ‘It should have produced a magnificent display,’ said Phillippes. He shook his head in bafflement. ‘It should have lifted off and filled the sky with a blossom of falling purple lights. I still do not understand why it did not work. It was a good theory.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said the landlord flatly. ‘But you can find somewhere else to test the next one.’

  He stamped away, leaving Kaltoff to embark upon a long and tediously detailed report about some obscure aspect of the King’s new tide-dial. Phillippes listened, but looked bored, and his gaze roved aimlessly over the tavern’s other occupants. It settled on Chaloner, who was still pretending to be asleep. Phillippes stiffened, studied the intelligencer intently for a moment, then jabbed Kaltoff with his elbow and whispered something in his ear.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Kaltoff asked, his voice much lower than when he had been holding forth about his work. Fortunately, Chaloner had excellent hearing.

  Phillippes nodded. ‘I am good with faces – he has not been here before. Moreover, I do not like the look of him. Why does he choose to nap here?’

  ‘Perhaps he is tired,’ suggested Kaltoff.

  Phillippes glared at him. ‘How can you be so blasé? You know what is at stake, and what we stand to lose, should we be found out. He is a spy, sent to watch us. I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘But we have been careful,’ objected Kaltoff, while Chaloner braced himself for trouble. ‘No one knows our plan. You are worrying over nothing.’

  ‘Worrying is wise, given what we have agreed to do,’ retorted Phillippes firmly. ‘So I recommend we follow him when he leaves, and ask him a few questions.’

  ‘But that will tell him there is something to be interested in,’ Kaltoff pointed out uneasily.

  Phillippes’s lips set in a grim line. ‘Then we shall have show him that curiosity is dangerous.’

  Chaloner had no intention of being trailed home by Phillippes and Kaltoff when he left the Beggar’s Bush, and nor was he inclined to spend the rest of the day pretending to be asleep in the hope that they would decide he really was just a man who had nodded off over his beer. Moreover, he wanted to know whether their enigmatic remarks pertained to the murder of Blue Dick – both looked agile and strong enough to have been the killer – but it was clear he was not going to find out by eavesdropping. Keeping his face hidden by his hat, he pretended to come awake, then stood, stretched and made for the door.

  He walked briskly, and although he was occasionally aware of Kaltoff and Phillippes behind him, they were adept at keeping out of sight. He was impressed, and realised that here were no rank amateurs, but men who had some idea of what they were doing. He was loath to waste time with games, though, and had his own questions to ask. He cut down a narrow, shadowy lane to his right, and ducked into the first available doorway, so as to be hidden when they turned the corner.

  But they did not appear. He frowned. Were they less able than he had surmised, and the tactic had flummoxed them? Or had they guessed his intentions, and had their own ideas about how the situation was going to evolve? If the latter, then he would have to be careful, because he did not want them knowing where he lived.

  He was about to abandon the doorway and ta
ke a tortuous route that would foil even the most experienced of trackers, when he heard footsteps coming from his right. It was not the direction from which Phillippes or Kaltoff should be approaching, and the clatter indicated that several men, not two, were on their way. A second rattle told him that people were approaching from the left, too, and a quick glance into the lane showed eight men converging on him. Phillippes led one group, and Kaltoff the other. Disgusted, Chaloner saw he had allowed himself to be outmanoeuvred.

  ‘I know you are in here,’ Phillippes called softly. ‘So you may as well come out. My friends here will be vexed if you put them to more trouble than is necessary.’

  Seeing there was no choice, Chaloner stepped out. His hat was still pulled low over his eyes, and he kept it that way, determined that his captors should not see his face.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked coolly. ‘Or is every new patron at the Beggar’s Bush provided with this sort of reception?’

  Phillippes regarded him arrogantly. ‘You were spying on us. We want to know why.’

  ‘Spying on you?’ asked Chaloner, feigning astonishment. ‘Why would I do that?’

  Phillippes shrugged. ‘Perhaps you heard something about us.’

  Chaloner spread his hands. ‘What could I have heard? I am a stranger here.’

  ‘Enough of these games,’ said Kaltoff abruptly. ‘It seems to me that you know something about our business, and that is unacceptable. Who sent you?’

  ‘No one,’ replied Chaloner truthfully. ‘But perhaps we can help each other. You look like men who may know the answers to a few harmless questions.’

  Kaltoff started to refuse, but Phillippes held up an imperious hand. Then he indicated with a jerk of his head that their men were to back away, out of earshot. ‘What sort of questions?’

  Chaloner decided to use a combination of honesty and lies. ‘I am looking for seven men who meet in St Mary Overie. I may have work for them – work that pays well.’

  Phillippes’s expression was unreadable. ‘We know of no such men.’