House of Shadows

I

April 1663

Bermondsey House was a jagged black mass against the night sky when Captain John Browne arrived for his clandestine meeting with the conspirators. It had rained all day, though the deluge had petered out after dusk, and the air was rich with the scent of damp earth and wet blossom. The house, built on the site of a once-powerful monastery, had fallen on hard times. Its stocky Tudor chimneys listed at odd angles, its roof sagged, and boards replaced the glass in many of its windows. Its grounds were in an equally sorry state. What had been a stately avenue of oaks was now a dismal tunnel of dead wood and ivy; the fish ponds had decayed into treacherous bogs, and the ornamental gardens were a chaotic sea of nettles, brambles and weeds.

Browne shuddered as he rode along the driveway. He was not an impressionable or a sensitive man – the long-suffering crew on his ship Rosebush could attest to that – but there was something eerie and forlorn about the house. When the wind whispered through the trees, Browne thought he could hear voices, and that they were those of long-dead medieval monks, hissing accusations and recriminations. He took a deep breath, pushing such fanciful notions from his mind, and turned his thoughts to the night’s business. What he was about to do was wildly dangerous, but he trusted his friend and fellow sea captain Dick York – and if York said it was important for him to meet the powerful shipping magnate William Hay, then that was good enough for Browne.

He jumped in alarm when an owl hooted nearby, and wished a more respectable time had been chosen for the assignation. Then he grinned at his own foolishness. That was impossible, given the subject that was to be aired – the hours of darkness were the only time for such treacherous transactions. The location was perfect too – this desolate, lonely, half-forgotten place that looked as though it was already full of brooding secrets. Browne considered what he had managed to find out about Bermondsey House before agreeing to the meeting.

William Hay did not own it – that honour went to some wealthy nobleman, who lived elsewhere and who never bothered to visit. Instead, it was rented to the Castell family, members of whom had been tenants for decades. Old Will Castell had been a talented shipwright, and he had originally leased the mansion as a statement of his commercial success. After his death, his fortune passed to his grandson, who promptly lost everything to his penchant for gambling. Creditors now snapped at the younger Castell’s heels, and Bermondsey House was falling into decay for want of basic maintenance. To make ends meet, Castell hired out his home to men like Hay, who paid handsomely for the privilege of conducting devious business away from prying eyes.

And if anyone did ask questions about what went on inside Bermondsey House, then there were always the ghosts to blame. Browne had been told tales involving ancient coroners, ex-Templar Knights, Oxford scholars and even the poet Chaucer, who had delved into dark matters involving murder, theft and deception. People were superstitious about the site and perfectly willing to attribute odd happenings to the shadowy world of spirits and demons.

Yet even so, Browne was uneasy. He had never met Hay or Castell and did not know if they could be trusted, so he had brought two sailors from Rosebush to protect him, should matters turn nasty. He did not trust them, either, if the truth be told. The navy had not been paid since the Restoration of the monarchy three years before, and the only men left in it were those incapable of getting decent work elsewhere. Browne glanced at the two men who jogged along beside his horse. He had chosen his cooper, Ned Walduck, and a big, stupid sailor called Tivill, both surly villains who knew how to fight. He was under no illusions regarding their loyalty to him, though – they had agreed to come only because he had promised them two shillings apiece. Browne had never bothered to make himself a popular captain – he believed that winning the affections of his men was a waste of time – and it was the money that would induce Walduck and Tivill to defend him, should the need arise that night.

He dismounted, tossing his reins to Tivill, and was about to knock on the front door when it was hauled open. The man who stood there was probably in his thirties, but a life of debauchery made him look older. He reeled drunkenly, a mass of courtly ruffles, collars and lace, as he slurred a welcome. Castell, thought Browne in distaste, the man who had squandered his inheritance on vices and pleasure. Behind Castell was an elderly, shabbily dressed crone who was smoking a pipe. At first he assumed she was a servant, but when she shoved her lantern into Castell’s hands and barked an order, Browne realized she must be Margaret, wife of the old shipwright and grandmother of the dissipated creature who tottered and grinned on the doorstep like a halfwit. Browne’s misgivings intensified. Could such folk be trusted? After all, treason was a capital offence. He looked around for evidence that York had arrived, but it was too dark to tell.

‘Come in, come in,’ hiccuped Castell. ‘I would offer you wine, but I have just finished it.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ muttered Browne, making no move to enter. His horse, sensing his unease, began to prance. Tivill struggled hopelessly to control it, while Walduck sniggered at his shipmate’s ineptitude. Then Browne heard footsteps hurrying towards them, coming from the direction of the darkened grounds.

‘Walduck,’ snapped Browne, furious when the cooper made no effort to defend his captain but continued to laugh at Tivill. ‘Your two shillings is set to become nothing, unless you tend to your duties. Draw your sword, man, and be ready to fight.’

‘There is no need for that,’ said Castell soothingly, while Walduck glowered resentfully at the reprimand. ‘We are all friends here – you do not need men to protect you.’

‘I shall make up my own mind about that, thank you,’ snarled Browne. He squinted into the darkness, hand on the hilt of his sword, as he tried to see what kind of person was approaching. The figure came closer, revealing itself to be short, plump and obsequious. It wore a tight-fitting long-coat that was absurdly out of date and a wide-brimmed hat with a feather stuck in it, as if the man imagined himself to be a youthful Cavalier. Browne felt his jaw drop in astonishment as he recognized the fellow. ‘Jesus wept! Is that Thomas Strutt?’

Walduck was equally shocked, chagrin forgotten. ‘It is! Our old purser, God rot his thieving soul!’

‘Shall I run him through?’ asked Tivill, abandoning the horse to draw his sword with one hand and a dagger with the other. His eyes gleamed at the prospect of violence. ‘He supplied Rosebush with rancid meat and stale biscuits last year, and we had no choice but to eat them.’

Walduck shuddered at the memory. ‘And he cheated us over gunpowder. He said we had thirty barrels, but there were only ten – and the lie almost saw us killed when we met them Dutch pirates.’

They were right, and Browne’s misgivings about the night’s venture intensified. Hay probably did need all the men he could get to help him remove the king and his government from power, but surely he knew better than to recruit a dishonest, unreliable fellow like Strutt? Rosebush’s old purser would sell his own mother for a cup of wine, so would think nothing of betraying would-be conspirators. Abruptly, Browne decided he wanted no more to do with Bermondsey House and its secrets.

‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ he said to Castell. He turned towards his horse. ‘I should not have come here tonight – I would not, had I known villains like Strutt were involved.’

Strutt started to object to the insult, but someone emerged from the shadows near the door, where he had been listening unseen. William Hay, owner of the Hay’s Wharf Company, was a small, neat man, who wore a massive yellow wig – a headpiece almost large enough to verge on the ridiculous. His clothes were made of dark red satin, cut tight to the waist to show off his figure and then flaring out into a froth of lace and frills around his knees. His shoes were small, buckled and elegant, and as far from Browne’s practical riding boots as it was possible to be.

‘You should hear what I have to say before you leave, captain,’ he said softly. ‘It will be worth your while, I promise. Come, the others are waiting.’

Against his better judgement, Browne followed Hay along a weed-infested path that skirted the house’s east wing. The two sailors were at his heels, and Strutt trailed behind them; it was too dark to see whether Castell or his grandmother had joined the procession. Tivill was again trying to soothe the agitated horse, although with scant success, because he was attempting to do it without sheathing either of his weapons. Walduck was scowling, because the purser’s unexpected appearance had put him in a black and dangerous mood.

At a point where the shadows were thickest, Hay opened a door to reveal a flight of steep, slime-coated stairs. Browne balked. He disliked enclosed spaces, and a cellar was not his idea of a suitable place for a meeting, seditious or otherwise. Anger began to replace nervousness. He was damned if he was going to be enticed underground in company with the likes of Thomas Strutt. He glanced behind him and saw other figures beginning to converge on the door, too, all cloaked and hooded. Evidently, other conspirators were beginning to assemble.

‘I have had enough,’ he snapped, his nerve – and temper – finally breaking as he backed away. ‘Good night, Hay. Do not contact me again.’

Suddenly there was a sharp crack, and he felt himself stumble, although there was no pain. He was aware of falling to the ground and of blurred, indistinguishable voices echoing around his head. He tried to open his eyes, but all he could see was blackness. Then the voices faded, and he knew nothing at all.

II

Late June 1663

Thomas Chaloner, spy for the Lord Chancellor of England, was pleased when Captain Browne’s widow provided him with an excuse to leave London for a few days. The weather was unseasonably hot, and the city’s sewage-splattered streets baked and sizzled under an unrelenting sun. Streams and brooks ran dry, tar melted on the ships moored along the Thames, and Chaloner’s attic rooms in Chancery Lane were like tiny furnaces. The Lord Chancellor was preoccupied with weighty affairs of state and barely looked up from his paper-strewn desk when Chaloner asked if he might spend a few days across the river on business of his own. He waved a chubby, lace-fringed hand, and said Chaloner could do what he liked, just as long as it did not involve another interruption.

So Chaloner packed a bag and left the sweltering metropolis for the cooler pastures to the south. Or so he thought. He soon learned that Bermondsey was every bit as torrid as the city, and because its inhabitants also used their streets as sewers and rubbish dumps there was no improvement on the stench, either. Furthermore, the reek of urine-soaked hides from Bermondsey’s tanneries was pungent enough to make his eyes water and mingled unpleasantly with the more earthy aroma of heat-spoiled beer from the riverside breweries.

While he walked, Chaloner thought about Hannah Browne. They had met when Hannah had accompanied her husband on one of his voyages, and Chaloner had been a passenger, en route to one of his overseas assignments. Ships demanded a lot of time from their captains, so Hannah was bored and had often sought out Chaloner’s company. To pass the time, he had taught her to play the flageolet, though she had never been very good at it. Browne had been delighted with her new skill, though, and had encouraged her to play for him almost every night. It had revealed a softer, more attractive side to that cruel and uncompromising man.

Hannah Browne’s letter had asked Chaloner to meet her at Jamaica House, a large, rambling inn with its own bowling green. He pushed open the door, then waited for his eyes to adjust from bright sunlight to the dimness of the room within. Although the window shutters had been thrown open in the vain hope of catching a cooling breeze, the tavern remained dark and gloomy. It smelled of spilled ale, smoke from its patrons’ pipes, and sweaty, unwashed bodies.

Chaloner spotted Hannah immediately. She was sitting near the empty hearth, fanning herself with one of the newsbooks that had been left on the tables for customers to read. It warned loyal citizens about the threat of a new Parliamentarian uprising, although no one in Jamaica House seemed overly concerned about the notion of rebellion. Chaloner could not help but notice that the government’s official publications had been variously used as beer mats, wedges to combat wobbly tables, and even as a plate for the large pig that obligingly disposed of any leftover food.

Hannah was staring at the ashes in the grate, grief and worry etched into her face. She was an attractive lady in her forties, with brown hair and pale blue eyes. Her flowing skirts and bodice – black, to indicate mourning – were patched and darned, albeit neatly, which was unusual for the wife of a successful and prosperous sea captain. Chaloner wondered why she was willing to be seen in garments that would normally have been passed on to the servants. Did she think she had donned some sort of disguise? If so, then the ruse had failed, because she held herself in a way that would tell anyone that she hailed from a wealthy home. She did not notice Chaloner until he was next to her.

‘Thomas!’ she exclaimed, resting a hand over her heart to indicate he had made her jump. ‘I thought working in England, instead of hostile foreign countries, might have cured you of your penchant for stealth.’

Although stealth was a talent Chaloner had honed during his decade employed as a spy, he had certainly not practised it on Hannah that day. He had approached her table openly, and it had been her own preoccupation that had led to her being startled. He was sorry she still mourned Browne so deeply, but not surprised. She had been devoted to her husband, despite his many shortcomings – the spy thought Browne gruff, impatient and opinionated, and he had not liked him at all.

‘Your letter sounded urgent,’ he said as he sat next to her. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You were John’s friend,’ she replied quietly. ‘He told me many tales that involved him ferrying you to enemy countries and landing you under cover of darkness for the purpose of spying.’

‘Did he?’ Chaloner was unimpressed. The close relationship between the captain and his lady should not have included him sharing information about government affairs – information that even now might be dangerous for Chaloner and the other intelligence officers who had used Rosebush for their work. And Chaloner would not have called Browne a friend, either, though their adventures together had made him a colleague of sorts. It was that fact which had prompted Chaloner to respond to Hannah’s summons – espionage was dangerous, and there was an unspoken agreement among spies that they would look after each other’s families in the event of a mishap.

‘John saved your life once,’ Hannah went on. ‘You were charged to steal some valuable documents in Lisbon, and he lingered offshore longer than was safe, waiting for you to return. He was obliged to use his cannons to help you escape in the end.’

Chaloner refrained from pointing out that Browne had been paid handsomely for the risks he had taken. ‘You do not need to remind me of his courage to make me help you,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I would have done it anyway – assuming it is within my power.’

Hannah looked sheepish. ‘I apologize, but I am at my wits’ end, and you are my last hope. You see, John was murdered by someone who hurled a stone at him. He lay insensible for two days, and then he died without ever waking.’

‘I heard,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘It must have been hard for you.’

Hannah regarded him oddly. ‘What did you hear exactly?’

Chaloner tried, unsuccessfully, to determine what she wanted to know. ‘Just what you said – that a drunken seaman threw a rock and knocked him out of his senses.’ He did not add that he had been sceptical of the story, because he knew from experience that it was difficult to lob such missiles with sufficient force and accuracy to kill.

‘The man alleged to be responsible was Rosebush’s cooper, Walduck. The jury was told that he killed John when in his cups, so did not know what he was doing. At the trial it emerged that John was not a popular captain and his crew disliked him.’

‘He was a strict master,’ acknowledged Chaloner carefully. This was an understatement – Browne had been a martinet who had terrorized his people, and the spy was not surprised that one had decided to exact revenge in a moment of ale-fuelled madness. Then he frowned, puzzled. ‘I have met Walduck. He is a violent lout and might well strike a superior. However, I also recall that he – unusually for a seaman – never touches strong drink. Are you sure they have the right culprit?’

Hannah slapped her hands on the table, hard. ‘At last! Someone who questions what is being passed off as the truth! No, I am not sure they have the right culprit. In fact, I am certain they have the wrong one. Walduck was hanged the same day that he was found guilty, and, as far as the authorities are concerned, that marked the end of the matter.’

‘The same day?’ echoed Chaloner, startled. It was very fast, even for London.

‘With what I considered unseemly haste. And there is a second inconsistency in what the jury was told – namely that John was murdered here, at Jamaica House. However, I know for a fact that he was going to meet a man called William Hay at Bermondsey House that fateful night.’

Chaloner found this evidence less compelling. ‘Perhaps Hay changed the venue at the last minute, and your husband never had the chance to tell you.’

‘Not so. The taverner is certain John was not here that night. He is an observant man, and I trust his memory. However, when he offered to testify at Walduck’s trial, he was told it was unnecessary.’

Chaloner was beginning to be unsettled. ‘Do you think your husband’s death had something to do with his involvement in intelligence work? Someone wanted his silence about a voyage he made, and murder was the best way to ensure it?’

But Hannah shook her head firmly. ‘I think it relates to his assignation with Hay. Hay does not live in Bermondsey House – it is the home of a destitute gambler called Castell. I asked around and learned that Castell will do anything for money. He often lends out his mansion for shady purposes.’

‘Your husband was meeting Hay for shady purposes?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Like many Londoners, Hay objects to the way in which the government squanders money on itself while the country is neglected. Did you know the navy has not been paid in three years? Hay thinks England would be better served by a different government.’

Chaloner regarded her in alarm, appalled that she should be confiding such matters in a crowded tavern. ‘Lower your voice! If your husband did meet Hay with the intention of joining some treasonous plot, you would be wise to pretend you knew nothing about it. The government is terrified of rebellion, and you may find yourself stripped of everything you own in retaliation-’

Hannah interrupted him with a brittle bark of laughter. ‘If only there was something for them to seize! John invested our entire fortune in a cargo he was going to transport to Jamaica, and his untimely death means we have lost everything.’

Chaloner supposed that explained her shabby clothes. ‘You think his murder is connected to this investment? Someone killed him to prevent him from profiting from it? Do you suspect Hay?’

‘Hay had nothing to do with our cargo. And before you ask, John was no rebel, either. He swore an oath of allegiance to king and country when he joined the navy, and he was a loyal servant. He went to Hay’s meeting to expose the traitors, not to join their ranks.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe her. ‘I see.’

‘It should have been easy – attend a gathering, learn the names of the malcontents and turn the whole lot over to the government. But John was killed before he could act.’

‘He was murdered because someone suspected his motives? One of the plotters?’

‘It seems likely: Hay is a rebel, so perhaps he killed John when he realized John was not of a like mind – and Walduck was made a scapegoat for the crime so no awkward questions would be asked.’

Chaloner considered her theory. It was only five years since Cromwell had died, and Hay would not be the only man yearning for a return of the Commonwealth. The government was its own worst enemy in that respect, because there was little in that debauched, quarrelsome, ambitious rabble that inspired confidence, and rumours of wild drinking, gambling and womanizing were rife. London objected to subsidizing its vices with taxes, and Hay might well have decided to take matters into his own hands. Dispatching suspected infiltrators would be an obvious precaution to take, because Hay and his co-conspirators would face certain execution if their plot was exposed.

‘Will you look into the matter?’ asked Hannah when Chaloner did not reply. ‘Please?’

Chaloner thought about it. Any threat to the government was a threat to its Lord Chancellor, so he, as the Lord Chancellor’s spy, was duty-bound to investigate. Unfortunately, he suspected that Browne’s intentions had not been as honourable as his wife believed. He knew for a fact that Browne had harboured anti-government sympathies, because he had confided them once during a drunken dinner at sea. Hence Browne might have been murdered because he was a rebel, not because he was attempting to unmask traitors, and if Chaloner did investigate, he might expose that fact. He was sure Hannah would not appreciate having that aspect of her husband’s character revealed and made public.

‘You owe John a favour,’ pressed Hannah when he still remained silent. ‘A debt of honour. I am asking you to repay that debt and find out who really killed him. I appreciate it is likely to be dangerous, given that you will be probing into the affairs of would-be dissidents and they will do all they can to keep their necks from the noose, but you must try.’

‘Why did you wait so long before writing to me?’ asked Chaloner, keeping his concerns about Browne to himself. ‘Your husband died in April, and it is now June. Trails will have gone cold, witnesses been bribed or silenced, and evidence destroyed. It would have been easier to explore the matter immediately.’

‘Because I had suspicions but no proof,’ explained Hannah. ‘But all that changed yesterday. John’s meeting with Hay was arranged by his friend Captain York – another man eager to expose treachery. York went to sea within days of John’s death, but he is home now. He does not think Walduck is the killer, either, and he has questions about the speed of Walduck’s trial and execution.’

‘I will need to talk to him.’

Hannah smiled for the first time. ‘You will help me, then? Thank you! York is waiting nearby, in the grounds of Bermondsey House.’

Hannah led the way through the crowded streets, travelling south. Behind them the noonday sun glinted on the river, which was sluggish and depleted by the drought upstream. Some of the houses they passed had gardens, but most were ramshackle affairs that arched across the narrow streets above their heads, so only a narrow ribbon of blue sky was visible between them. Prostitutes made lewd offers in loud, brash voices, and sailors roamed in drunken bands. Chaloner wondered whether any were from Rosebush, which was still waiting for a replacement captain to be appointed. Rumour had it that no one wanted the post – her crew was notoriously mutinous, and it was common knowledge that only hard, bullying men like Browne would be able to master them.

In a surprisingly short period of time, Hannah and Chaloner had left the houses behind and were walking along a hedge-fringed lane that boasted rolling fields to either side. The air was sweet and clean, and a soft breeze whispered through the ripening crops.

‘Bermondsey House,’ said Hannah, stopping outside a dilapidated metal gate. Her voice trembled slightly. ‘The place where John was attacked.’

At the end of an unkempt drive was a Tudor mansion that Chaloner knew had once been visited by monarchs. It was an elegant array of stocky chimneys, patterned brickwork and tiny gables, but it screamed of neglect and decay. Saplings sprouted from its roof, ivy climbed its walls and the whole edifice exuded the impression that it might give up the ghost and collapse at any moment.

Hannah opened the gate and led the way along the path that led to the main door. Halfway up it, she glanced around carefully, then ducked into a thicket of holly bushes, pulling Chaloner behind her. She followed a winding track until she emerged in a woodland glade. A man stepped out of the trees to greet her. He was portly, florid of face, and wore the kind of hard-wearing coat and breeches often favoured by sea captains. Chaloner had met him before, when York had been serving under Browne on Rosebush. The two sailors had been good friends, and the spy recalled thinking uncharitably that the fondness had probably arisen from the fact that no one else had wanted anything to do with a pair of such opinionated, arrogant tyrants. York nodded a curt greeting at him, then turned to Hannah.

‘Well? Will he do it?’ The captain’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, and Chaloner was under the impression that he might try to use it if the answer Hannah gave was not to his liking.

‘Thomas has agreed to help us,’ replied Hannah. ‘You can trust him. He is loyal to the government, and – like my poor John – eager to expose these vile traitors.’

York regarded her unhappily. ‘I sincerely hope so, because what you have told him may see me cracked over the head with a rock too.’

Hannah’s expression was not entirely friendly. ‘It is a pity you did not have the same consideration for John when you embroiled him in this nasty affair.’

The expression on York’s face was one of deep guilt. ‘I have already explained that. I would never have involved him if I thought he might be harmed. I assumed it was a case of taking names and leaving the rest to the government – in essence, I thought we could both be heroes, but without risk to ourselves. My intention was for him to share my glory in unmasking this plot, and I am appalled that he is dead when I thought I was doing him a favour.’

Hannah turned abruptly and walked away. Tears glittered, and Chaloner saw that she was torn between wanting nothing to do with the man and needing his help. York watched her for a moment, then indicated that Chaloner was to sit next to him on a fallen tree trunk.

‘She does not believe Walduck murdered her husband, and neither do I.’

‘Based on the fact that Walduck was unlikely to have been drunk at the time?’

York nodded. ‘He never took anything stronger than water. The lawyers at the trial kept harping on the fact that Browne was an unpopular captain and that most of his crew – including Walduck – would have relished the opportunity to dash out his brains. Hannah does not believe it, but it is true. You sailed with Browne, so you know I am right: he was a hard taskmaster.’

‘Then perhaps Walduck killed Browne when he was sober but hoped that saying he was drunk would save him from the hangman’s noose.’

‘Walduck was not that stupid – he would have known drunkenness was no defence.’

‘Why was he accused in the first place?’

‘Because he had the misfortune to be there when the murder took place. Browne had hired him and another sailor called Tivill as bodyguards. However, both seamen were carrying swords and knives, so why would Walduck have used a stone to kill Browne when he had far more familiar weapons to hand? Besides, Walduck was a greedy man and would never have harmed Browne before he had been given the two shillings he had been promised. If Browne had been killed on Rosebush that night, I would have said Walduck was as good a suspect as any. But here, before he had been paid? Never!’

‘How did the meeting with Hay come about in the first place?’

York sighed. ‘Last winter, Hay chartered my ship to transport a consignment of lead pipes from Ireland. It struck me as an odd commission, so I looked inside some of the crates. They contained muskets. Obviously, no one brings guns to London for innocent purposes, so I decided I had better find out what was going on. I thought such initiative might see me given a decent command, instead of the lumbering barges the navy foists on me these days.’

‘And?’ asked Chaloner when York paused.

‘And I asked Hay to dinner, then made one or two treasonous remarks under the pretext of being drunk. The next day I was invited here, to Bermondsey House, to meet others who dislike the current government. Unfortunately, I was unable to learn their identities. I was about to give up when Hay suggested I bring other like-minded seamen into his fold.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘So I could prove my commitment to his cause, I suppose. And because captains with ships are a valuable commodity in the world of rebellion. Most naval vessels are fitted with cannon, after all.’

‘So you confided in Browne?’

York nodded. ‘He is – was – one of few men I trust. He was going to help me discover the names of the men involved, then we were going to pass the information to Spymaster Williamson – the man in the government responsible for dealing with sedition.’

‘Are you sure Browne thought foiling Hay’s antics was a good idea?’

York stared at him. ‘Of course I am sure! Browne was no traitor! Do you think I would have asked him here if he were? He railed against the government’s incompetence, of course, but who does not?’

Chaloner rubbed his chin. Was that all Browne’s drunken confidences aboard Rosebush had been – an indignant objection to an inept ruling body? Was Browne loyal to the king after all?

‘But he was killed before he could help you,’ he said. ‘Were you there when it happened?’

‘My horse went lame, and I was late for the meeting. By the time I arrived, Browne was dying and most of the conspirators had left.’ York looked deeply unhappy. ‘This is too dirty a business for me. I have done my duty now – I have told a government intelligencer about the plot, and that is all that can be expected of me. I shall return to my ship and-’

‘You will stay and work with Thomas,’ countered Hannah sharply as she rejoined them. She had composed herself, although she was pale. ‘You will introduce him to Hay as a man interested in joining his rebellion, and you will remain with him until he has enough evidence to hang them all. That is what John was going to do – at your instigation – and that is what you will do now.’

York mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. ‘I thought Hay and his cronies were just a group of men with more money than sense – that it would be easy to infiltrate them and put an end to their plotting. I wish to God I had never embarked on the matter.’

‘Well, you did, and now it is time to put it right,’ said Hannah harshly. ‘Tell Thomas what you have arranged.’

York’s expression was haggard, and Chaloner was impressed that Hannah was able to bully the man – York was no weakling, to be intimidated by just anyone. ‘I told Hay that I might bring a Captain Garsfield to meet him today – Garsfield is one of the names you used when you sailed with Browne. Hay wanted to know why you were willing to see the government overthrown, so I told him your sister had been despoiled by the Duke of Buckingham. It was the first thing that came into my head.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. As a spy, he was used to assuming false identities, but he preferred to invent them himself. He did not know enough about ships to be able to answer detailed questions about the sea, and he would be caught out unless he was careful. However, using Buckingham as an excuse for resentment was clever – the lecherous duke was unable to walk past a pretty woman without attempting to seduce her, and complaints from outraged brothers and fathers were myriad.

‘Hay is expecting us this afternoon,’ said York when Chaloner nodded cautious agreement to the plan. ‘And there is to be a gathering of traitors at midnight.’

Chaloner left the glade only when he was certain that Hannah and York had no more to tell him. Both had theories about the identity of Browne’s killer, and it was not easy to distinguish between fact and supposition. Eventually he managed to deduce that there were six possible suspects for the murder. First, there was Hay, the rebel leader. He had two deputies named Strutt and Parr. Strutt had once been purser aboard Rosebush; apparently he had proved to be dishonest, and he and Browne had ended up hating each other. Meanwhile, Parr had also crossed swords with Browne in the past, although Hannah and York did not know how or why. Both had been at Bermondsey House the night Browne had died, although only Strutt had exchanged words with him. Then there was Castell, who lent his home to anyone willing to pay – and Chaloner knew from gossip at White Hall that he was an unscrupulous rogue. And lastly there were the two sailors, Walduck and Tivill, one of whom had already been hanged.

‘This is sheer madness,’ said York when Hannah had gone and he and Chaloner were heading for Bermondsey House’s main door. ‘Browne was murdered, so why should I put my head in the lion’s mouth too? You are a skilled intelligencer. Can you not listen at a few doors for the answers Hannah wants? I will wait in the nearest alehouse, and we will report to her together tomorrow.’

‘Listening may not be enough. We shall need to ask questions too.’

‘You ask them, then,’ said York firmly. ‘I intend to distance myself from you, lest there is trouble. After all, one of us should be alive to tell Hannah that her demands were unreasonable.’

Chaloner was not surprised to learn that he could not count on help from York, but he was still disappointed in the man. However, York kept fiddling with the elegant lace on his bib-like collar, a gesture that revealed increasing agitation, and Chaloner suspected that he would not make for a reliable ally anyway. As usual, it was better to work alone.

While he walked along the overgrown path, he thought about what he had learned. Had Browne really been killed because Hay or one of his followers realized he was there under false pretences? Or had Browne embraced the cause rather too eagerly, which had been regarded as equally suspect by the conspirators? He glanced at the man at his side, wondering whether he should be regarded as a suspect too. Was York loyal to the government, as he claimed, or had he killed Browne when he realized his friend intended to run to the spymaster with his tale of treason?

They reached the door, and their knock was answered by an elderly woman who was smoking a pipe. York murmured to Chaloner that she was Margaret Castell, grandmother to the current tenant. She wore a threadbare wig, the heel of one boot was tied on with twine, and she looked as dilapidated and disreputable as the house in which she lived.

‘Have you brought it?’ she demanded without preamble. ‘The gunpowder you promised me?’

‘Gunpowder?’ echoed York with a nervous gulp. ‘I promised you no gunpowder.’

‘You said you have a ship,’ snapped Margaret impatiently. ‘And ships have cannon. When I said I was in need of a few barrels of powder, I thought it was obvious that I was giving you a hint.’

‘Well, I did not understand your hint, madam,’ said York, alarmed. ‘I am a plain-talking man and not one for sly innuendoes. But we have business with your grandson. Where is he?’

‘Out gambling, I imagine,’ said Margaret coolly. ‘Or drinking with his sottish friends.’

Chaloner sincerely doubted it. It was common knowledge that Castell did not have two pennies to rub together and that anyone drinking with him would be obliged to settle the bill themselves. Further, no one would accept him at a gambling table, because he was incapable of paying the debts he already had, let alone any he might incur in the future.

‘Why do you want gunpowder, ma’am?’ asked Chaloner curiously. Surely, she could not be part of the rebellion? If so, then Hay’s plot was more of a joke than a genuine threat.

‘The stable is falling down, which means it is useless, so I thought I might as well use the bricks for repairing the kitchen. It is cheaper to blow up a building than to hire labourers to demolish it, and we need to be careful with the finances these days. Speaking of money, you owe me a shilling for your usual chamber, York. Payable in advance, of course.’

She held out her hand, and York dropped the coin into it. He hastily added another when sharp black eyes expressed their disapproval at his meanness.

‘It is hot today,’ he said, sidling past her into the relative cool of the hall. ‘So I shall go to my quarters to freshen up. I am sure you will not mind showing Captain Garsfield to his room.’

‘Wine,’ said Margaret, watching him stride away. ‘He cannot last an hour without consulting his flask. I do not suppose you have any spare powder on your boat, do you, Garsfield? I cannot pay in coins, but there are other ways of compensating a man.’

Chaloner regarded her askance, not sure what she was offering. ‘I shall make some enquiries,’ he replied noncommittally.

‘Good – it is damned useful stuff to have around. Are you one of Hay’s crowd? He told me to expect a multitude – and at a shilling per head I am delighted to hear it, although it means I shall have to loiter until everyone arrives. I cannot have my grandson answering the door and getting the money.’

Chaloner followed her into a hall that was paved with cracked tiles. Its wooden panelling had warped from years of damp, and any polish had long since been leached off. Several paintings hung on the walls, but dust and dirt had obliterated all detail except the occasional pink, self-satisfied ancestral face. The place stank of mildew and burned cabbage.

‘I understand this was once a monastery,’ said Chaloner, intending to lead the conversation around to the death of Browne gradually. The crone might become suspicious if he launched into questions too abruptly, and he did not want her to warn Hay.

‘Then you understand wrong,’ she said, heading towards the stairs. The pipe was still in her mouth, making her difficult to understand. ‘It stands on the site of a monastery. The cellar is monastery, though – we call it the monastery crypt, because it reminds me of a tomb. I used to tell my grandson it was where they buried monks who drank and gambled – the law-abiding ones went in the cemetery. Unfortunately, he never believed me.’

‘Are there graves in this crypt, then?’

‘Probably, although I do not go down there much, because it is haunted. You will see it for yourself later, because Hay likes to conduct his business there. I have offered him the hall, but he says there are too many broken windows and he is worried about eavesdroppers.’

Chaloner was not surprised, given the nature of the discussions. ‘Do you attend these meetings?’

‘Lord, no! I suspect they are plotting to overthrow the king, but that will never happen. People were always promising to dispatch Cromwell, too, but that never came to pass, either. Assassination is more difficult than you might think, and I have no time for such nonsense anyway. I prefer more genteel pursuits, such as cock-fighting, smoking and wrestling.’

‘You are not worried that you may be held accountable for what takes place in your home?’

‘Not as long as members of the government come here to plot the deaths of old Cromwellians too.’ Margaret grinned, rather diabolically, and tapped him on the chest with the stem of her pipe. ‘I am well known for being neutral in politics, and conspirators have to meet somewhere, do they not?’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows, startled by the blunt confession. ‘Then I assume you are careful not to lend them your house on the same day? Two cabals of opposing fanatics will not make for easy bed-fellows.’

‘I am very careful,’ said Margaret, opening the door to a bedchamber that reeked of cats. ‘After all, dead men cannot buy my hospitality, can they? The meeting is at midnight, and most plotters go hooded. They probably know each other anyway, but a disguise makes the fools feel safer. If you did not bring one with you, you will find a spare on the back of the door.’

Chaloner spent the next couple of hours exploring Bermondsey House. Most of it had been allowed to slide too far into neglect for rescue, and another two decades would see it either demolished or collapsing of its own accord. It was riddled with secret corridors, spyholes and rooms that were too small to serve any obvious purpose. In one cupboard he discovered several barrels, and an inspection told him they contained gunpowder. Did they belong to Margaret or the conspirators? There was no way to tell, and he left them with the uneasy sense that the rebels might be further along with their preparations than he had imagined.

He had not been back in his room for long when he heard voices in the hall outside. Margaret was showing more plotters to their quarters, and York was greeting them. The captain’s face was more florid than ever, and he had attempted – unsuccessfully – to conceal the wine on his breath by chewing garlic. The three new arrivals were keeping their distance. One, a short, elegantly dressed fellow with an enormous yellow wig, held a scented handkerchief to his nose, while the other two – a tall, lean Puritan, and an overweight clerk – pulled faces that revealed their distaste. Margaret did not seem bothered, though; tobacco smoke billowed around her, and Chaloner wondered whether she was capable of smelling anything at all.

‘Garsfield,’ breathed York. He sounded relieved. ‘Where have you been? We knocked twice on your door, but there was no reply. I was beginning to think you might have gone home.’

Chaloner gestured to a window, where sunlight was blazing through the vestiges of some medieval stained glass. ‘Sleeping – this heat is exhausting.’

‘There you have it, Hay,’ said York, turning to Yellow Wig. ‘He was asleep, as I told you.’

Hay gave a tight smile that suggested the answer was not one he believed. He had small, bright eyes, and Chaloner immediately sensed sharp wits. ‘You did not go exploring?’

‘It is far too hot for that,’ replied Chaloner, affecting nonchalance, though an uneasy feeling made him wonder whether he had been seen.

‘So you were here the whole time?’ pressed the shipping magnate.

Chaloner pointed at his door. ‘It can only be locked from the inside, and it has been secured ever since I arrived, as anyone who tried it will certainly know.’

Fortunately, it did not occur to Hay or his companions that jamming a door – from outside or inside a room – was child’s play to a professional spy, and proved nothing about his whereabouts. However, the hairs Chaloner had placed across the latch had been disturbed when he had returned, so he knew someone had given it a good shake in an attempt to enter.

‘You must forgive our wariness,’ said Hay with another smile that did not touch his eyes. ‘Our beliefs mean we are suspicious of everyone – an attitude that has kept us alive during these uncertain times.’ He gestured to the two men at his side. ‘But where are my manners? These are my associates, my deputies, Mr Strutt and Mr Parr.’

Chaloner studied the pair with interest. Parr was a clergyman, whose thin, dour face and drab Puritan dress indicated a fanatic – and thus a man prepared to go to any lengths to do what he felt was right. Strutt wore clothes that were too small for him – an old-fashioned doublet and loose knee-length breeches that did nothing to flatter his portly frame. His plump face was surrounded by sweaty jowls, and his oily smile was impossible to read. Chaloner distrusted both men instinctively.

‘Preacher Parr is Rector of Bermondsey,’ elaborated York. ‘His sermons are…’ He flailed an expressive hand, trying to find the right word.

‘Colourful,’ supplied Margaret helpfully. She began to back away. ‘Not that I attend church, you understand. Waste of time in my opinion. But I shall leave you gentlemen to gossip. Your friends will be arriving soon, and I do not want to lose their shillings by letting my grandson answer the door.’

York grinned nervously at Hay when she had gone. ‘Garsfield is master of a brig that conveys gunpowder to Jamaica. Quite often the supplies clerks make mistakes on their inventories.’

‘I often end up with unwanted powder,’ added Chaloner, taking the cue. ‘And I never know how to dispose of it. However, York says you might be able to give me some ideas.’

‘Well, he should not have done,’ said Hay, casting York an admonishing glare, while Parr and Strutt exchanged uncomfortable glances. ‘Not until we know you better.’

‘You can trust him,’ said York. Unease was making him gabble. ‘He hates the government, because the Duke of Buckingham despoiled his favourite sister.’

‘Apparently you have vowed to run him through for the outrage,’ said Preacher Parr to Chaloner. ‘Is it true?’

‘I dislike the government because I fought for Cromwell during the wars,’ York went on before Chaloner could reply. ‘And I am still a Parliamentarian, despite the fact that I serve in the new Royalist navy. But Hay’s grievance is financial. He owns most of the wharves along the river in Bermondsey, and he objects to the high taxes that the government imposes on him.’

‘A vast quantity of imported goods passes through my hands,’ conceded Hay cagily. Then a note of pride crept into his voice. ‘More, in fact, than any other merchant in the capital.’

‘The location of his wharves – on the south bank – means he is obliged to pay an additional tariff for sending goods to the north,’ York continued. ‘Two taxes – one to unload at Bermondsey, and a second to ferry these goods across the river to the city.’

‘That seems unfair,’ said Chaloner. ‘The government is ever greedy for its subjects’ money.’

Hay’s stiff manner yielded slightly at this remark. ‘That is certainly true.’

‘York says you have two cannon on your ship, Garsfield,’ said Preacher Parr rather eagerly. ‘And the current trouble with Holland means you keep them loaded.’

‘Not always,’ said Chaloner, suspecting it would be illegal or impractical in certain situations. Was Parr trying to catch him out? ‘It depends.’

‘How much powder can you lay your hands on at any given time?’ asked Strutt.

‘Strutt was a navy purser until an argument with his captain drove him to other business,’ said Hay to Chaloner, to explain the man’s question. ‘He works for me now. He and Parr both know a lot about ships and armaments.’

Thus warned, Chaloner was reluctant to embark on specifics lest he make a mistake that would arouse their suspicions. ‘Is it safe to talk here?’ he asked pointedly. ‘Only Margaret said you normally use a cellar, because of the danger of eavesdroppers.’

‘True,’ said Strutt, glancing around quickly. The gesture was fast and furtive, and made him look like a ferret. ‘This is no place for a discussion of fire-power. We should wait until later, when our trusted colleagues will be with us.’

‘There are about thirty of us – all like-minded men,’ said Preacher Parr to Chaloner, lowering his voice conspiratorially. ‘When we gather in the cellar, we wear hoods to maintain our anonymity. It is a simple system – you will not recognize anyone, but neither will anyone recognize you.’

‘As you wish,’ said Chaloner, wondering how he was going to learn the names – or even obtain descriptions – of the conspirators under such circumstances. ‘But I have nothing to hide.’

‘Everyone has something to hide,’ said Strutt. ‘No one is perfect.’

‘You certainly are not,’ said York unpleasantly. ‘Browne could never prove you stole the provisions that were supposed to go on his ship, but it was obvious that you were guilty.’

Strutt’s greasy obsequiousness turned into something harder and more nasty. ‘The Navy Board would not agree – they reviewed my case and deemed me innocent, although I resigned from Rosebush anyway. Browne was a brute, little better than the louts who served under him, and I am glad I am no longer obliged to deal with him.’

‘He was my friend,’ said York coldly.

Strutt shot him an ambiguous look. ‘I know.’

Hay and his deputies had arranged a light supper of bread and pies before the meeting, and they invited York and Chaloner to share it with them. Chaloner hesitated, suspecting he would be quizzed about his mythical ship and knowing it would be only a matter of time before he was tripped up in a maritime inconsistency. However, he had already used the excuse of fatigue, and felt he had no choice but to join them in the dilapidated chamber that passed as Bermondsey House’s main hall. Margaret also graced them with her presence, reluctantly setting aside her pipe in order to eat. Halfway through the meal, a foppish man slouched into the room and flung himself on a bench.

‘This weather!’ he drawled, reaching for the wine jug. ‘You could fry an egg on me, I am so hot!’

‘My grandson,’ said Margaret, eyeing him with disapproval. ‘You can thank him for your being here today, because I would never have sunk this low if he had not gambled away our fortune.’

‘You spent a fair bit of it yourself,’ retorted Castell, draining his cup and filling it again. ‘You had an eye for fine clothes, handsome beaux and gay balls, so do not blame it all on me.’

Margaret cackled. ‘Well, it was good while it lasted. Who has some tobacco? I am out again.’

‘Tobacco is an agent of the devil,’ declared Rector Parr grimly. His black clothes hung loosely on his skeletal frame, adding to the overall impression of dour self-denial and austerity. Chaloner noted that even his friends seemed to find his unsmiling piety a bit of a trial, and concluded that Parr was not a man who would be invited to many parties. ‘And those who partake of it risk their immortal souls.’

‘The devil had my immortal soul years ago,’ retorted Margaret. ‘And good luck to him.’

‘He will need it,’ murmured York, passing her a pouch. Although he had shown restraint with the wine over his dinner, he was still far from sober, and Chaloner sincerely hoped he would not lose control of himself and say or do something to give them away.

‘I saw Widow Browne today,’ said Strutt. He shot York a spiteful glance, to ensure the captain knew he was about to be baited. ‘Her husband must have left her badly off, because she would never have donned such tatty clothes when he was alive. You should have seen the state of her gorget!’

‘I heard his death came at an unfortunate time,’ said Hay, speaking before York could reply. ‘Apparently he had invested everything in a special cargo he was to transport on Rosebush and his demise meant his family lost everything.’

‘Shame,’ said Strutt with a gleeful smile. ‘However, Browne damaged me with his false accusations, so I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for him.’

‘God does not approve of grudges,’ announced Preacher Parr. ‘Not unless they are just.’

‘Who decides what is just?’ asked Chaloner provocatively.

‘God’s faithful servants,’ replied the clergyman loftily. ‘Men like me. It was my misfortune to run foul of Browne when I tried to preach the good word to his crew – he had me thrown into the river. He was a violent brute, and God gave him a violent end.’

Chaloner recalled that Hannah and York had mentioned some past disagreement between Browne and the preacher, which had led them to put Parr on their list of suspects. The incident did not sound very serious, and Chaloner imagined Browne would barely have given it a second thought, but he could imagine how it might have gnawed at Parr’s fanatical heart. He would see it as an insult to his crusade for God and might well have decided to avenge himself with a convenient rock.

‘It was a pity one of his sailors decided to brain him,’ said Hay, his expression unreadable. ‘Personally, I thought him a decent fellow, though we only exchanged a few words before he died.’

‘Were you present when he was murdered, then?’ asked Chaloner innocently. ‘I thought he was killed in Jamaica House.’

‘No, he was attacked here,’ said Margaret, almost invisible in a cloud of smoke. ‘But Hay arranged for the law courts to be told it was Jamaica House, which was nice of him. I do not want my lovely home associated with sordid doings like murder, after all.’

There was a short, awkward pause, during which everyone thought, but did not say, that most people would consider treason and sedition just as sordid as an unlawful killing. Meanwhile, Hay grimaced, annoyed that she should expose his meddling with justice quite so readily.

Chaloner smiled pleasantly at the shipping magnate. ‘What did you and Browne exchange a “few words” about?’ he asked.

Hay was wary. ‘I cannot recall now. The incident was weeks ago, in April. Why do you ask?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘Because I dislike the notion of seamen lobbing rocks at us senior officers. What led Walduck to strike Browne dead?’

Hay was thoughtful. ‘Well, Walduck did not draw his sword to protect Browne the moment he heard footsteps approaching, and Browne reprimanded him for it. That annoyed him – I could tell.’

‘Enough to want to kill him?’ asked Chaloner. It did not sound a very powerful motive.

‘Criminals do not behave in the same way as normal men,’ said Hay sagely. ‘After the spat, I led Browne to the cellar where we hold our meetings, but he must have lagged behind, because when I reached the bottom of the steps I looked back to find him gone. I assumed he was with Strutt.’

‘He was not,’ said Strutt, a little too quickly. ‘I disliked him and did not want to be in his company. I kept my distance. His men were with him – I was not.’

It was a very vehement denial, and Chaloner regarded the purser curiously. Just how angry had he been about Browne’s accusations regarding his honesty? Strutt was bitter and spiteful, just the kind of man to throw a stone at an enemy rather than confront him with a sword.

‘I was some way away when the commotion started,’ added the preacher helpfully. ‘But I saw Walduck throw the rock.’

‘How?’ asked Chaloner sceptically. ‘If you were some distance off, then how could you have seen what happened? Further, I understand this meeting was late at night, so it would have been dark.’

The rector grimaced. ‘Well, perhaps I did not actually see the missile in flight, but it was obvious what Walduck had done. He made no attempt to deny the charge when I accused him of it.’

‘He just stood there,’ agreed Strutt, ‘and refused to answer questions. All he said – kept repeating – was that masonry from the house had dropped on Browne.’

‘Wicked lies,’ said Castell, reaching for more wine. Margaret nodded fervent agreement. ‘Our masonry has never hit anyone before.’

Hay continued his tale. ‘When I went to see what had happened, Browne was lying on the ground. His two sailors were leaning over him, and – as Parr just said – it was obvious that one had taken the opportunity to commit murder.’

‘Did they run away when you came?’ asked Chaloner.

‘No. They said they had been walking along behind him when he had just collapsed. Walduck was astonished when we later arrested him. He told us we would never be able to prove it.’

‘You should have seen his face at the trial,’ crowed Strutt. ‘He could not believe the jury’s verdict and kept insisting that masonry was to blame. A lump did fall, as it happened, but it was too far away to have hit Browne.’

‘Walduck was a drunken fool!’ declared Hay irritably. ‘And the attention that accrued from Browne’s death was something we all could have done without.’

‘So Hay had words with his friends in the law courts,’ finished Margaret. ‘To protect us all from scandal. He had the matter expedited too – Walduck tried and executed at top speed, so he could be buried and forgotten.’

Hay regarded her sharply, as if he detected recrimination in the comment. Margaret merely blew a smoke ring and beamed benignly at him.

‘How did you know Walduck was the culprit?’ Chaloner asked curiously, looking at each person in turn. ‘It could have been the other sailor – Tivill.’

‘Because Tivill had a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other, and he was struggling with Browne’s frisky horse,’ replied the preacher promptly. ‘He had no spare hands to lob rocks with. Besides, why use a stone, when weapons of steel were available?’

‘The same could be said about Walduck,’ Chaloner pointed out.

Parr sighed. ‘Yes, but Walduck was a killer – you could see it in his eyes.’

Chaloner was acutely aware that all their accounts were based on supposition and prejudice, and he was not sure he believed any of them. His questions were clarifying nothing about the night of the murder, or about the roles played by his various suspects.

‘I heard a thump,’ said Strutt. He smiled, as if the memory afforded him pleasure. ‘It was almost certainly Walduck’s stone cracking Browne’s skull.’

‘Had any of your associates arrived at Bermondsey House when all this happened?’ Chaloner asked, looking around at them. ‘Or were you and the two sailors the only ones there?’

The preacher shrugged his thin shoulders. ‘Others were gathering for the meeting, but it was dark, as you have pointed out, and impossible to see much. Some came to see what had happened, but they usually wear hoods, so I could not tell who indulged his curiosity and who left before there was a fuss.’

‘Did anyone ask Tivill what he saw?’ asked Chaloner. ‘He must have been the closest-’

‘He saw nothing, because he was trying to control the horse,’ replied Strutt, rather quickly. ‘It was prancing about, and as he was holding a weapon in either hand he was trying to control the beast by gripping the reins in his teeth. The fellow is an imbecile!’

Chaloner recalled Tivill from Rosebush and concurred that he was not the kind of man who would know how to cope with a situation that required three hands. He had been a liability on the ship, and only escaped hanging himself among the lines and cables because his shipmates watched out for him. His only virtue, as far as Chaloner could tell, was his willingness to fight. He was perfectly happy to lead charges against an enemy, even when they appeared to be suicidal, and Browne had used him accordingly.

‘I find this discussion distasteful,’ said Preacher Parr with a fastidious shudder. ‘Let us talk about our business instead. How many guns on your ship, Garsfield?’

‘Two,’ replied Chaloner. During one voyage, he had made a study of Rosebush’s cannon, for want of anything better to do, and knew a little about them. He spouted a few vague technical details that had the rebels leaning forward with interest.

‘Do they fire best on the up-roll or the down-roll?’ asked Strutt.

Chaloner did not have the faintest idea, although he realized the angle of the muzzle would make a difference to its efficiency. He glanced at York for help, but the captain was pouring himself wine and seemed oblivious to Chaloner’s predicament. Strutt’s eyes narrowed, and Chaloner knew he was about to be exposed as someone who did not know what he was talking about.

‘I prefer the up-roll myself,’ said Margaret, reaching out to take the jug from York. She glared at him when she found it empty. ‘It gives you greater range, and there is less chance of damage to your vessel. I manned my share of the things during the wars, you know.’

There were some startled glances, and Chaloner stood to take his leave before anyone could question him further. Hay followed suit, saying he had work to do before the meeting, while Castell announced that he had booked a prostitute at a nearby tavern. His grandmother did not seem surprised, and only commented that she was tired and that it was time to sleep. She began removing garments before she was out of the hall; loath to be subjected to anything too horrible, no one lingered. Strutt disappeared to his chamber, and Chaloner said he had a book he wanted to read.

‘The Bible?’ asked Parr, giving the impression that anything else would be anathema.

‘Tide tables,’ replied Chaloner. ‘The mariner’s Bible.’

York laughed rather wildly, then said he had letters he wanted to write. Chaloner watched him leave and hoped he would drink himself insensible before the meeting. It would be safer for everyone – especially Chaloner himself.

The meeting was not due to start for at least three hours, so Chaloner jammed the door to his room again and set off to reconnoitre the cellar in which the gathering was supposed to take place. First, though, he entered a secret passage he had discovered earlier, which had spyholes cut into its wooden walls. These allowed the occupants of various rooms to be studied without the watcher being detected.

As he groped his way through the darkness, Chaloner thought about what the conspirators had told him regarding Browne’s death. The testimony of each was questionable, and he found himself unable to determine who – if anyone – had lied. However, he had learned that no one had actually witnessed the incident, so why had Walduck been hanged? Surely, any jury would have seen there was reasonable doubt about his guilt? It was true that Walduck and Tivill had disliked their captain, but would Walduck really have brained him, then loitered around, waiting to be arrested? It made no sense. Chaloner also did not like the notion that Hay had managed to secure an early trial and a hasty execution, or the fact that the law courts seemed to have accepted a number of falsehoods – such as where the murder had been committed – without demur.

When Chaloner reached Hay’s chamber, he peered through the spyhole to find it empty. Whatever ‘work’ the yellow-wigged shipping magnate had been going to do did not involve sitting at a desk. Hay was top of Chaloner’s list of suspects, mostly because he had so much to lose from being exposed. Not only would he face a traitor’s death, but he was wealthy and respectable, so his family, friends and associates would share his disgrace.

The next room was occupied by Strutt, who sat at a table, writing furiously. Was he doing something for Hay or – and Chaloner was deeply suspicious of the speed at which the quill was flying across the paper – was he making a record of what had transpired at dinner? If the latter, then why? Was Strutt also uncomfortable with rebellion, and was he planning to make a report to the authorities when he had sufficient evidence? Or was he penning some innocent missive that had nothing to do with revolt? Chaloner watched him for a while, thinking that if Hay was top of the list of suspects for Browne’s murder, then Strutt was a very close second. No one could hate as fiercely as Strutt without being tempted to lob sly stones when the opportunity presented itself.

Parr occupied the quarters next door. The preacher was on his knees, hands clasped before him. His face was dark and savage, and Chaloner was certain the prayers would not be ones any decent God would want to hear. Parr remained indignant that Browne had declined to allow him to spout religion at Rosebush’s crew, and Chaloner knew casual murder would be seen as divine justice by the likes of the fanatical Rector of Bermondsey.

The next room was York’s; the captain had a cup in his hand and was pacing back and forth in agitation. Had he recruited Browne to help him expose the dissidents, only to discover that Browne actually thought revolt was a very good idea? The two men had been close, it was true, but how much value did York place on friendship – especially when his own life and safety were at stake?

The corridor ended, and Chaloner was treated to a view of Castell and his grandmother in a hallway; she was counting the money she had collected, and he was watching with jealous eyes. If Browne had exposed the treacherous happenings at Bermondsey House, then they would have been in serious trouble. Trials for treason were notoriously unjust, and the Castells would have been punished for providing Hay with a venue for his activities, regardless of what they thought about his plans. Either one was capable of lobbing a piece of the masonry that littered the ground outside their home, although Chaloner wondered whether Castell would ever be sober enough to hit what he aimed at.

The spy visited more hidden passages before he headed for the cellar. He saw more men in other rooms but knew none of them. They were all wealthy, judging by their clothes. Some were alone, while others were in pairs, and he estimated there were roughly thirty of them. It was not many for a rebellion, but if they all poured money into the cause they could buy a lot more support. Such a movement was certainly something the government would want to suppress.

York had said the cellar used by the rebels was accessed via a flight of steps located not far from the main door, so Chaloner walked around the outside of the house until he found the stairs, tucked away among some ancient ruinous walls and all but invisible to the casual observer. He regarded them thoughtfully, then went back inside the mansion and made his way to the rooms that were built directly above the vault. Bermondsey House was riddled with so many secret spaces that he was sure there would be more than one entrance to the undercroft. He soon found what he was looking for – a low, slime-coated tunnel that sloped sharply downwards. It was concealed behind a fireplace in a pantry, and he had detected it because the chamber’s dimensions were not quite right – as a spy, he had a good sense for such things.

He lit a candle and descended slowly, swearing under his breath when he slipped and fell a few feet. The passageway went further down than he had anticipated, and he was beginning to think it might actually go underneath the crypt rather than into it, when he finally reached the bottom. He shivered. It was icy cold – eerily so – and he was dressed for the warmth outside. His way was barred by a small trap door, but it did not take him many moments to pick the feeble lock that held it in place, and he pushed it open to reveal a lowceilinged chamber.

He emerged cautiously, becoming warier still when he saw a torch burning in a brazier on a wall at the far end – the end where the steps were located – placed in readiness for the midnight gathering. He listened intently but could hear nothing except the steady drip of water on stone. The cellar looked monastic, like a crypt, with sturdy vaulting, and there were holes cut into its walls. They were roughly man-sized, curtained by cobwebs, and he supposed they had once held the bones of monks. Some were oddly deep, stretching so far into the wall that he could not see the back of them. The floor had been flagged in places, but mostly it was beaten earth, which had become packed as hard as stone over the years.

He touched a wall, marvelling at the quality of the work that had gone into its making, because although the stones were stained with the filth of ages, their edges were sharp and clear. As soon as his fingers brushed against the stone, a chill enveloped him, deeper and colder than the temperature of the chamber, and he was unable to prevent a shudder. There was something dark and sinister about the cellar, as though it had witnessed more than its share of evil deeds.

He shook himself impatiently – he did not have time for ghosts – and began a systematic search. Old barrels indicated that the undercroft had been used as a wine store at some point, while several desiccated rats suggested that grain or food had probably been kept there too. Marks in the walls and along the ceiling showed where partitions had once stood, dividing the chamber into smaller segments. Now, though, the cellar was just one large vault, full of shadows and eerie pockets where the light of his candle did not penetrate. He began to think of ghosts again, and the tales Hannah had related about old bones and murder. He took a deep breath and pushed such notions from his mind a second time.

He ventured further into the vault. Benches had been placed in the middle of the chamber, where another torch was burning. He was about to leave by way of the main steps when echoing footsteps told him someone was coming – fast. There was just enough time for him to snuff out his candle and dive into the shadows before the man arrived. Chaloner held his breath, certain he was going to be caught and not sure what excuse he could give to explain his presence there.

But the newcomer did not so much as glance in Chaloner’s direction. Wearing a hooded cloak, so nothing could be seen of his face, he hurried to the tunnel end of the chamber and began scratching at the top of the wall. It was not long before a piece of masonry came out in his hands. Chaloner watched him insert something in the resulting gap, replace the brick, and leave as quickly as he had arrived.

When he had gone, Chaloner padded forward to inspect the wall. It was different from the rest of the crypt – it bulged outwards, indicating that the work had been carried out hastily, without the care that had been lavished on the rest of the cellar. Its crumbling mortar said it was ancient, even so. Chaloner removed the stone and retrieved what had been placed there.

It was a letter addressed to Joseph Williamson. Chaloner gazed at it in surprise. Williamson was spymaster-general – the man in charge of the government’s intelligence services. The message was in cipher, which Chaloner could certainly have broken given time, but not in a matter of moments. He considered keeping it, but was afraid its absence might warn someone that something was amiss. Reluctantly, he put it back.

He was about to leave when he heard voices. More people were coming, although they were approaching at a more leisurely pace than the hooded man. Chaloner doubted he would go unnoticed a second time and did not want to be caught snooping quite so early in the game. He assessed his options. He could not leave through the tunnel or by the steps, because he would almost certainly be seen, while the only furniture to hide behind were benches – useless for the purpose. He glanced at the coffin-shaped niches. It was distasteful, but it was better than being caught.

Careful not to disturb the cobwebs that would help to conceal him, he crawled into one of the holes. He was hard pressed to keep himself from exclaiming his shock when he discovered someone else already there – and that the person was dead.

There was not much Chaloner could do, except shove the corpse deeper into the niche and lie hard up against it. He held his breath when the odour of decay wafted around him, concluding that the fellow had been dead for some time.

Three men entered the crypt – yellow-wigged Hay, Preacher Parr and Strutt the purser. The shipping magnate went straight to the wall and removed the loose stone. He shoved the document in his pocket and deftly replaced the brick. He did not so much as glance at what he had retrieved, indicating he had expected to find something there. Chaloner was confused. Had Hay taken the message because he intended to pass it to Spymaster Williamson? Or was he claiming it before the author could expose him? Of course, that assumed the document pertained to the brewing rebellion, and it was possible that it did nothing of the kind.

‘Are you sure we are doing the right thing?’ asked Strutt, clearly unhappy. ‘It feels dangerous, and you know what they do to traitors these days.’

‘We are not traitors,’ said Hay firmly. ‘We are men who want justice and equity – especially in matters relating to commerce. What is wrong with that?’

‘I doubt the law courts will see it in those terms,’ said Strutt miserably. ‘But I am in no position to argue. I was destitute after Browne forced me to resign from the navy and would have been hanged or be in debtors’ prison if you two had not offered me work.’

‘God provided for you,’ said Parr righteously. ‘Not men. And He will help us fight His holy war against corruption, greed and the devil. And by the devil I mean the government.’

‘Do not include greed in your list of vices,’ said Hay with a wry grin. ‘I want to make a greater profit from my wharves, and some would call that greed, so watch what you condemn.’

‘I am a soldier of God,’ announced the preacher in a way that should have told Hay not to try jesting with him. ‘I shall combat sin wherever I find it – and sinners too.’

‘What is in the letter this time, Hay?’ asked Strutt, hastily changing the subject. Only men with plenty of time on their hands embarked on religious debates with zealots like Parr. ‘Can you read it?’

‘It will be encoded. They always are – and they take me hours to decipher.’

‘We should move that body before the others arrive,’ said Strutt practically. ‘It is beginning to smell – and York’s friend asked too many questions earlier. I do not trust him, and we do not want a peculiar odour encouraging him to pry more deeply into our affairs.’

‘I am sure he did wander off earlier,’ said the preacher, reluctantly dragging his thoughts away from his personal crusade against evil. ‘I cannot prove it – indeed, he did lock himself in from the inside, as he claimed – but I knocked very hard. No one sleeps that soundly.’

‘He is a sea captain,’ explained Hay. Parr regarded him uncomprehendingly, so he elaborated with an impatient sigh. ‘Ships’ cannon destroy a man’s ears if he hears them too often, as happened to Walduck. York is stupid not to have guessed that was why Walduck failed to object to our accusations – he did not hear them until after he was arrested.’

‘And by then it was too late,’ said Strutt rather gleefully.

Chaloner was horrified. Not only had an innocent man been hanged, but one who had been injured in the service of his country. The injustice of it made him all the more determined to learn the truth.

‘Garsfield did not seem hard of hearing to me,’ said Parr doubtfully. Then he shrugged, and a fervent gleam lit his eyes. ‘But I am not really worried about him, because God will ensure all is well. I petitioned Him earlier, and He is unlikely to refuse the demands of one of His most ardent servants. Shall we move the body now? We may not be alone for long, because our members are impatient for news of our achievements and may arrive early.’

Chaloner stiffened as their footsteps tapped towards him. Now what? He doubted he could invent a reason for being there that would be believed, and discovery would mean the end of his plan to unmask the traitors. It occurred to him that he could climb across the body and hide on its other side, but the hole would be too shallow, and he would be seen anyway. Or would he? Earlier, he had noticed that some of the niches were very deep, built to hold sizeable sarcophagi. Perhaps there was a chance that it might be large enough to conceal him.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, he clambered across the corpse, aiming for the darkness on the other side. Strutt was right about the smell. It was not a pleasant thing to be doing, and Chaloner started to sweat, despite the chill of the vault. He was half-tempted to give up and opt for concocting some story instead, because there was a limit to what a man should be expected to do for his country, and climbing around on corpses was well past it. But then he was across the body, and into the space on its far side. It took only a moment for him to realize he was in luck: the shelf was an especially deep one, and he supposed it had been built to hold more than one coffin.

He slithered to the very back of the recess not a moment too soon, because there was a flash of light and Hay approached with a lamp. Parr pushed aside the cobwebs, and he and Strutt tugged the corpse from its hiding place. Chaloner braced himself for discovery, but the three men were hurrying, eager to finish the distasteful business, and did not bother to inspect the back of the niche once the body was out. Hay produced a blanket, and Parr and Strutt wrapped the corpse in it. As they began to haul their burden out of the crypt, the sheet fell open and Hay’s lantern illuminated the dead man’s face. It was the sailor, Tivill.

His mind teeming with questions, Chaloner followed the three men, wanting to see what they would do with the body. He was grateful that he had not taken the letter from the wall, given that Hay had been expecting to find it – the conspirators were already suspicious of ‘Captain Garsfield’, and Chaloner did not want to give them further cause for alarm. Strutt and Parr carried Tivill up the main stairs and towards the nearest trees, while Hay kept watch. Fortunately for Chaloner, Hay was more concerned about being seen from the windows of Bermondsey House than being followed from the vault, because he did not once glance in the spy’s direction. Thus, even though the moon shone in a cloudless sky, it was absurdly easy for Chaloner to trail the bobbing lamp to the wood and then edge through the trees until he could see and hear what was happening.

But he could have spared himself the effort, because he learned nothing new. Strutt dug a hasty grave, Parr intoned some insincere prayers, and Hay kept watch. Then all three left without another word. When they had gone, Chaloner scraped the loose soil from Tivill’s face. He was not good at determining time of death, but he was sure Tivill had not died in April, when Browne had been murdered and Walduck hanged. Tivill was dead days rather than weeks. So how and when had the sailor met his end? And, more important, why?

A quick inspection revealed a soggy dent at the back of Tivill’s head, consistent with a blow from something heavy, perhaps a stone. So, Chaloner thought, Tivill had been killed in the same way as his captain. But what would Tivill have been doing at Bermondsey House in the first place? Had he come to wreak revenge on the men who had seen his shipmate wrongfully executed? Chaloner immediately discounted the notion of Tivill as an avenging angel – he had not been that sort of man and would not have cared what happened to Walduck. It was more likely that he had come to demand money for his silence – and had been killed when Hay and his associates had been disinclined to oblige.

Chaloner wondered what he should do next. His first inclination was to go straight to White Hall and tell Spymaster Williamson what was happening. Williamson would muster troops and catch the rebels in the very act of fermenting their plot as they gathered in the crypt. Unfortunately, it was a long way from Bermondsey to White Hall, and London Bridge would be closed for the night. By the time he had bribed his way across, located Williamson, convinced the spymaster that Hay’s cabal was worth the expense and effort of raising a militia, the meeting would be over and the plotters dispersed. So Chaloner decided to stay, attend the meeting and see what more he could learn.

He judged he still had about an hour until midnight, so he elected to spend the time constructively. He returned to the cupboard where the gunpowder was stored and helped himself to a barrel. He tugged it down the tunnel to the crypt and placed it in the niche that had held Tivill. Carefully, he broke the seal and scattered a few handfuls in front of the cask, then added a layer of kindling he had filched from the pantry. He hoped his precautions would not be necessary and that he would be able to eavesdrop on the gathering without the need for fireworks. But he had not survived so many years in an occupation fraught with danger by being careless. Satisfied that he had done all he could to even the odds, he made his way back to his room.

Once there, he donned the hooded cloak Margaret had left on the back of the door, ensured there were no telltale cobwebs on his clothes and went to collect York. Unfortunately, the captain had not imbibed nearly enough to be insensible, as Chaloner had hoped. Like many habitual drinkers, that took time – far more time than York had been allotted that night.

‘They are suspicious of us,’ the captain snarled, hauling Chaloner inside his chamber. ‘They know you are not who you say, especially after that business with the up-roll. Thank God Margaret piped up with a brag! We should leave while we can, or Browne will not be the only one with a dented skull.’

‘Did you know that cannon fire had rendered Walduck hard of hearing?’ asked Chaloner, declining to tell him about Tivill’s fate.

York gazed at him. ‘Did it? He never said so. Perhaps that was why he never heard the stone strike Browne. Strutt says he did, and he was further away, so there must have been a very loud crack.’

‘Is there anything else you might have overlooked?’ asked Chaloner a little caustically. York was a navy man and should have known about the effects of persistent gunfire on a sailor’s ears.

York nodded. ‘I did not want to say anything when Hannah was listening, but Walduck hated Browne more than she knows. There was a question about the allocation of some prize money, and Walduck thought he had been cheated. He had not, of course. Browne was not a dishonest man.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner, recalling that scrupulousness with money had been one of Browne’s few redeeming qualities. ‘Do you think Walduck’s hatred was enough to lead him to murder?’

York nodded again. ‘But he would have plied his sword, not a stone. And do not forget the two shillings he was promised – that is a lot of money to a man who has not been paid for three years. Even if Walduck did have murder in mind, he would have waited until the coins were in his pocket.’

‘What did Tivill do when Walduck was arrested?’

York stared at him, trying to understand the implications of the question. He failed, so gave up with a shrug. ‘Nothing. Hay took Walduck to the Marshalsea prison, but Walduck later told me he thought they were going to make a report to the coroner and was shocked when he learned he was accused of murder.’

‘So he went willingly to the gaol?’

‘Yes – he made a fuss only when he realized what was really happening, at which point he killed a warden. Meanwhile, Tivill also went to the prison, but Hay said he made himself scarce when the soldiers laid hold of Walduck. I have not seen him since, and he did not give evidence at the trial, although an order was issued for him to appear as a witness. He is probably at sea.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Chaloner, supposing that a voyage would explain why Tivill, like York himself, had only recently returned to the place of Browne’s death. He had secured a berth that took him safely away from London and accusations of helping Walduck commit his crime. Then later, when his fear had abated, he had slipped back to Bermondsey House in the hope of securing some blackmail money.

York regarded him uneasily. ‘What are you going to do now? I refuse to be part of any rash plan, so do not expect any heroics from me.’

‘We shall just listen and watch – and leave as soon as we have enough evidence to put an end to this mischief.’

York was deeply unhappy. ‘Very well. But if anything goes wrong, you are on your own.’

Chaloner had never doubted it.

Chaloner and York were descending the stairs to the hall when Margaret intercepted them. She was wearing a scruffy mantua – a loose nightgown – of faded pink velvet, and the inevitable pipe was clamped between her yellow teeth. A grey wig and a pair of substantial military-style boots that looked as though they belonged to a large man completed the outfit.

‘That was good tobacco you gave me earlier,’ she said to York. ‘Got any left?’

The captain fumbled for his pouch. ‘I must have left it in my room. I will fetch it for you.’

Suspecting he intended to escape, the spy put out a hand to stop him. York’s flight would warn the conspirators that something was amiss, and then Chaloner might never acquire the information he needed to convict them. York would just have to control his fear – after all, he was a sea captain, paid to defend king and country.

‘No matter,’ said Margaret, not looking as though she meant it. ‘It keeps me awake, and I am reaching the age where a bit of beauty sleep does not go amiss.’

‘It would not go amiss for me, either,’ mumbled York, when she went to straighten a painting that hung at an odd angle. It fell from the wall when she touched it, causing her to leap back smartly. ‘I would give everything I own to be at sea right now. I wish I had never brought Browne here or introduced him to the man who sold him that cargo…’ He trailed off, aware that he had said too much.

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, unimpressed. ‘You injured Browne on two counts. Your plan to include him in the glory of unmasking traitors saw him killed, and the commercial opportunity you arranged has resulted in his family losing everything. No wonder you feel guilty towards Hannah!’

‘I will give her what I can,’ cried York. He looked as though he might cry; Chaloner sincerely hoped he would not. ‘I promise! In fact, if you find me a priest, I shall swear on the Bible to make amends for my…poor judgement. Mrs Castell! Do you know any priests?’

It was an odd question to yell at someone out of the blue, but Margaret took it in her stride. ‘Parr is a priest,’ she replied, abandoning the ancestral art and coming to talk. ‘However, I would not trust him if he was the last man on Earth. He is a fanatic and will stop at nothing to get what he wants.’

‘And what does he want?’ asked Chaloner.

‘His vision of a perfect England,’ Margaret replied rather wearily. ‘A country ruled by religious maniacs, where God will be used to justify the bigotry of small, mean minds. I am a bit tired of their breed, if you want the truth. Religion and politics make for uneasy bed-fellows and should be kept apart. And men like Parr should be kept in dark cellars, where no one can hear their poison.’

York frowned at her. ‘Are you saying Preacher Parr cracked Browne’s skull with the rock, to further his dream of a Puritan government?’

Margaret was bemused in her turn. ‘No, I am not! Fool! Indeed, he is the one man who cannot have murdered Browne, because I was watching him through a window. I would have seen if he had thrown anything – and he did not. I am talking about his unpalatable godliness, which-’

But Chaloner was more interested in what she had witnessed than in her views on religion. ‘You did not mention this when we were talking about it at dinner.’

She shrugged. ‘You did not ask me, did you? You were more interested in what Hay and his silly henchmen had to say, and not once did you solicit my opinion on the matter.’

‘We offended you by not consulting you?’ asked Chaloner, a little taken aback.

She regarded him coolly. ‘Actually, you did. I live here and know far more about what happens than occasional visitors like Hay, Strutt and Parr. Yet you dismissed me as though I was nothing. Still, it is what I have come to expect from youngsters. You have no respect for the wisdom of age.’

‘Do you know who killed Browne?’ demanded York. ‘He was my friend and – as Garsfield here said earlier – we navy men do not like the notion of villains lobbing rocks at us senior officers.’

Margaret’s eyes narrowed. ‘“Villains”?’ she echoed sharply. ‘Not “sailors”? Can I assume from that description that you do not think Walduck was the culprit, then?’

‘Yes, you may,’ said York, before Chaloner could warn him to be wary of confiding too much. ‘I said from the start that his guilt was far from obvious, but no one took any notice of me.’

‘Will you tell us what you saw, ma’am?’ asked Chaloner, keen to encourage her to talk. If York was allowed to babble, he might inadvertently reveal that unmasking the killer was the real reason for their presence there that night.

She sniffed huffily. ‘If I must. Hay, Strutt and the other plotters were too far away or in the wrong place to have lobbed missiles hard enough to have killed Browne. There were only three people who could have done that: the two sailors and Preacher Parr.’

‘But you just said Parr was innocent,’ said York. ‘I do not understand what you are telling us.’

Margaret tutted irritably. ‘Yes, I did say Parr could not have thrown the fatal stone. So what does that tell you?’ She clicked her tongue again when York did nothing but stare. ‘Think, man! It means one of the sailors is the culprit. It is a matter of simple logic.’

‘But Tivill was struggling with Browne’s horse, and Walduck would have used his sword,’ objected York. ‘And neither was drunk.’

Margaret looked superior. ‘Are you going to hear my opinion or regale me with your own theories? I thought you would have learned by now that I am worth listening to.’

‘Go on, then,’ said York with a long-suffering sigh. ‘Tell us what you think, woman.’

Margaret inclined her head, though Chaloner would have told York to go to the devil had he been in her shoes. It was hardly a gracious request. ‘I suspect Walduck claimed he was drunk, because he thought it might see him acquitted. Not responsible for his actions. I would have done.’

York sneered his disdain. ‘He was not that dim. He would have known inebriation was no defence, although…’ He paused, and some of the irritable arrogance faded.

‘Although what?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘Although, as a non-drinker himself, he despised men who let ale control them,’ continued York thoughtfully. He turned to Chaloner, speaking in a low voice and rudely trying to exclude the old lady. She promptly stepped forward, head cocked. ‘But it was the one thing Browne was lax about at sea – he was usually forgiving of men who transgressed while intoxicated, perhaps because he liked a drink himself and was no hypocrite. Perhaps Walduck did assume that his crime would be overlooked if he put it down to beer.’

‘Well, there you are, then,’ said Margaret with satisfaction. Her hearing was better than York had supposed. ‘I was right: his experience aboard Rosebush told him he might be exonerated if he blamed ale. The ruse failed, but I imagine he was desperate, and desperate men resort to desperate measures.’

Chaloner watched her walk away. ‘Her testimony tells us the killer was either Walduck or Tivill,’ he said to York. ‘No one else was close enough. We know Tivill had his hands full with weapons and horse, because several people have said so. That leaves Walduck. You said he bore Browne a grudge over prize money, and we know he was violent. It takes a lot of force and a deadly aim to hurl a stone with enough power to kill – something that has struck me as odd from the first. Ergo, I suspect no one threw anything.’

‘But Browne was hit by a rock,’ objected York. ‘I saw the fatal wound myself.’

‘Yes, he was hit,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘But by someone bringing it down hard across his head, not by a lucky toss. That means he was killed by someone physically close to him. Walduck.’

‘Walduck would have used his sword,’ said York stubbornly. ‘I know he would.’

But Chaloner understood why the cooper had not bloodied his blade. ‘Strutt said a piece of masonry dropped from the roof not long before Browne was killed. It seems to me that Walduck saw it, too, and it gave him what he thought was a clever idea – blaming Browne’s death on an accident.’

York gazed at him. ‘Walduck was dull-witted, but he did possess an innate cunning; such a notion might well have jumped into his mind. That would explain why he did not run away – he thought no one would be able to prove anything. He virtually said as much when I questioned him later.’

Chaloner felt weary. ‘So the case is solved. The right man was hanged after all.’

A crafty look came into York’s eye. ‘Then we should go and tell Hannah-’

Chaloner grabbed his arm as he started to head for the door. ‘Browne’s murder pales into insignificance when compared with what Hay and his cronies are doing. There is gunpowder in a cellar, and you told me yourself that muskets have been shipped to London. We cannot go anywhere until we have learned what they intend to do.’

‘Then you can tell your friends at White Hall tomorrow. This is work for a militia, not us.’

‘Hay will deny our accusations, and he is a wealthy merchant with powerful friends. We need proof of his treason, and we are not leaving until we have it. So far, all we have is what you claim to have heard at his gatherings.’ Chaloner did not add that no spymaster was going to take the word of a captain with a penchant for wine over that of an influential merchant.

York looked as though he was going to argue further, but his mouth snapped shut when footsteps sounded from along the hall. Chaloner grimaced in exasperation when York immediately ducked into an alcove. Such antics were unnecessary, because they were supposed – expected – to be heading for the gathering. He was about to order York out, when Strutt approached. The purser seemed even more ill at ease and agitated than York, and Chaloner wondered yet again whether he was as comfortable with rebellion as he let Hay believe.

‘There you are, Garsfield,’ Strutt said in a voice that shook. ‘I shall show you the way to our meeting place, as this is your first time. You go first. I will follow.’

Chaloner knew instantly that something was amiss. He pretended to acquiesce, then spun around without warning. Strutt leaped in alarm at the sudden movement, and the dagger that had been poised to strike clattered to the floor. Strutt began to back away, moving unknowingly towards the place where York hid. The purser took a breath to shout for help, but York reacted with startling speed. Strutt’s yell turned into a peculiar gasping sound, and when he sank to his knees York’s knife was protruding from his back.

‘That was unnecessary,’ hissed Chaloner angrily. ‘Now what are we going to do? If anyone finds the body before the meeting, they will know exactly who killed him.’

York glared. ‘He was going to stab you! Besides, I am not sorry for ridding the world of that vermin. He caused Browne and the crew of Rosebush all manner of hardship with his dishonesty, and then he accused Browne of being a liar when he objected to the thievery. Strutt was a snake!’

Chaloner opened the door to the nearest secret passage and hauled the purser’s body inside, hoping the corridor was not one Hay and his accomplices would use – at least not until Chaloner had made his report to Spymaster Williamson. With York still voicing his reservations, Chaloner walked quickly down the stairs towards the hall. Then he saw a shadow near the pantry and stopped abruptly, motioning York to be silent.

‘Garsfield will not be coming to the gathering tonight,’ Hay was saying in a low voice to Parr. ‘Strutt is taking care of him and will join us when the matter is resolved.’

The preacher was uneasy. ‘You should have asked me to do it. Strutt is weak and does not listen to the voice of God inside him, telling him what to do.’

‘Garsfield is not expecting a blade between the ribs,’ said Hay wryly. ‘Even Strutt should be able to manage that – regardless of whether God does or does not think it a good idea.’

Parr grimaced at the comment but apparently knew better than to argue. ‘He told me today that you killed Tivill. Did you?’

‘No!’ cried Hay, startled. ‘I dispatched a pair of merchants who threatened to expose us, but that is the extent of my dabbling in such dark affairs. Besides, I would never use a stone. It would make a mess, and wigs as handsome as this one are expensive.’

‘Well, someone made an end of Tivill,’ said Parr. ‘And it was not me, either. It is the traitor in our midst.’

‘Can it be York?’ asked Hay. ‘He was the one who brought Garsfield into our fold, and – as I told you earlier – my source at the Admiralty tells me there is no captain called Garsfield in the navy.’

‘My instincts tell me York is not sufficiently courageous to take us on,’ said the preacher thoughtfully. ‘It must be someone else – someone who used York to bring Garsfield into our midst. Well, it will not work, because God walks at my side, and He will see this villain dance on the point of my dagger before the night is out.’

‘Good,’ said Hay fiercely. ‘So we are agreed, then? Tonight we will tell our associates that one of them is a traitor to our cause? They will not like it.’

‘We have no choice. It is the only way to flush the vermin out.’

Chaloner and a reluctant York joined the procession of cloaked men who walked silently to the east wing of Bermondsey House and down the steep steps to the cellar. Some of the conspirators carried torches, and it occurred to Chaloner that the hooded figures with the loose garments swinging about their ankles bore an uncanny resemblance to the monks whose foundation had been dissolved more than a century before. They had been processing to their prayers; Bermondsey House’s guests were going to plot the end of His Majesty’s government.

‘You are a fool,’ muttered York in Chaloner’s ear as he navigated the treacherous steps. ‘You heard Hay – he has killed before, and admits it freely. He thinks I am harmless, but you are doomed if he or the preacher see you now.’

Chaloner ignored him, not wanting to discuss the matter where they might be overheard. He took a place near the back of the crypt, York at his side, and watched other men sit on the benches in front of them. Hoods meant it was impossible to see faces, and no one spoke once they were seated. The cellar cast an instant and unsettling chill over the gathering, and York was not the only one trembling.

Hay closed the door when everyone was inside, and Chaloner watched uneasily as he sealed it with a bar. He was taking no chances of anyone coming un-announced and uninvited to the gathering – or of anyone escaping. He was the only one who did not bother with a hooded cloak.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, going to stand at the front of the assembly, near the wall where the encoded letter had been left. ‘You know why we are here, so I shall not waste your time with preliminaries. Does anyone have anything to report?’

‘There is going to be a new tax on wool,’ called a man from the front row. When he raised his head to speak, Chaloner glimpsed a long nose. ‘And there is talk of it being extended to cloth – to reimburse the navy’s unpaid sailors, allegedly.’

‘The navy will see none of it,’ sneered Preacher Parr. ‘It will go towards funding the government’s vice. God will strike them down for their wickedness – with a little help from us, His faithful servants.’

‘I suppose we might be seen as agents of justice,’ mused Long Nose thoughtfully. ‘By devising ways to avoid these iniquitous taxes, we are saving dissipated ministers from themselves.’

‘John White hanged himself on Sunday,’ said a man who sat directly in front of Chaloner. He leaned forward as he spoke, and the spy saw fingers that were marred with small burns. He had seen such scars before, on the hands of silversmiths. ‘He was taxed to death – literally.’

‘We are all being bled dry by the government,’ said Hay sorrowfully. ‘It is very wrong.’

‘What is wrong is our government’s love affair with sin,’ countered Parr, using the same stentorian tones he might employ when addressing a congregation. He raised his hands, so his hood fell back and revealed his face. No one seemed surprised, and Chaloner was under the impression it had happened before. ‘God is on our side, and we are right to oppose this evil regime. Long live the Commonwealth!’

There was a smattering of applause, but not nearly as much as Chaloner would have expected.

‘The Commonwealth taxed us too,’ remarked Hay. ‘But not nearly as much as the king’s men. Long live free trade and a government that does not grow fat on the toil of honest merchants.’

This time the support was considerably more enthusiastic.

‘And long may we continue to move money between accounts,’ called Long Nose. ‘It has already saved us a fortune in revenue – by keeping it out of the government’s sticky hands.’

The cellar rang with whistles, stamps and approving yells, and slowly it dawned on Chaloner that the conspirators were not aiming to overthrow the king and usher in a new Commonwealth – their main objective was devising ways to avoid paying their taxes. He almost laughed aloud, but his amusement faded when he realized that greed was a powerful compulsion, and the fact that the rebellion’s aim was vaguely ridiculous did not render its instigators any less dangerous.

‘And now I have something to report,’ said Hay. ‘There is evidence that we have been betrayed.’

‘You mean the Archer brothers?’ asked the silversmith. ‘We knew they wanted to tell Spymaster Williamson about the way we manage our accounts, but you said they had thought better of it and had gone to Jamaica instead. How can they still be a problem?’

‘It is not them,’ replied Hay smoothly. ‘They are beyond hurting us now. It is someone else.’

‘But we are not doing anything wrong,’ objected Long Nose, although his voice lacked conviction. ‘Well, not really. We just transfer money here and there, so the government’s auditors find it difficult to track – and what they cannot track, they cannot tax. It is not our fault the Treasury Department cannot keep up with the ways of modern commerce.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried the silversmith, apparently less bothered by the ethics of the situation. ‘Our plan is working perfectly, just as Hay envisioned when he first mooted the notion, and we are all the richer for it. And that being said, how could anyone want to put a stop to it? Everyone here benefits.’

Chaloner glanced at York, who raised his hands defensively. ‘It would have looked suspicious if I had refused to invest in their tax-free accounts,’ he whispered. ‘Besides, why should I not benefit? The government takes far too big a cut of an honest man’s income.’

Chaloner did not deign to answer and turned his attention back to Hay.

‘A sea captain came to see me this afternoon, eager to join our ranks,’ the shipping magnate was saying. ‘However, I suspect his real intention is to expose us.’

‘Then arrange for him to visit Jamaica,’ said the silversmith with a careless shrug. ‘As you did to the Archers. I do not see why a mere sailor should concern us.’

‘Garsfield is not the problem,’ said Parr. ‘The real issue is that someone gave him details about our operation, and that man is the traitor. I suspect he is sitting among us, here in this very room.’

There was immediate consternation.

‘I found this today,’ said Hay, brandishing the letter he had recovered from the wall. ‘It is in cipher, and addressed to Spymaster Williamson. And it is not the first, either. There have been four just like this in the past month alone.’

There was a collective gasp of horror, and then a clamour of voices as questions were yelled. Some men were on their feet, while others huddled deeper inside their hoods and appeared to be regarding their neighbours with wariness and distrust.

The silversmith’s voice was louder than the others. He pointed to Parr. ‘There is our traitor. He claims he is not interested in money, only in serving God. But it is unnatural, and I do not believe it.’

‘Parr would never betray us,’ said Hay, although he shot the preacher an uncomfortable glance.

The silversmith folded his arms and looked triumphant. ‘Then tell me why Strutt lies in a pool of blood in the corridor near my room – I almost fell over him on my way here. The answer is because Parr killed him! I know he is the culprit, because I saw them together just moments before.’

Hay glanced at Parr in shock. ‘They were together, but-’

‘It was not me!’ shouted Parr, outraged both by the accusation and by the fact that people seemed rather willing to believe it. ‘It must have been the real traitor-’

‘You are the real traitor,’ bellowed the silversmith.

‘No!’ yelled Parr. ‘I am innocent, a man of God, and-’

‘The traitor will be a stranger to us,’ interrupted Long Nose, breaking impatiently into the altercation. ‘We come here cloaked and hooded, but we all know each other, so let us end the pretence here and now. If everyone abandons his disguise, we shall see who we do not recognize.’

Chaloner began to ease towards the door. Here was an outcome he had not anticipated.

‘Yes!’ cried the silversmith, hauling his robe from his face. ‘Here I am. You all know me – Jonas Evans, from Southwark.’

Chaloner shot to his feet as more hoods fell back and snatched a lamp from the wall. Immediately, hands tried to grab him, but he jigged and twisted, and no one kept hold of him for long. He hurled the torch into the niche that contained the gunpowder, then turned and raced towards the door. It was blocked by the silversmith, whose face was pale with outrage. He could not defeat Chaloner in a fight – the spy was naturally experienced in such matters – but he could delay him for vital seconds until he could be overwhelmed by others. Chaloner turned and headed for the tunnel instead, but Evans dived full length and managed to drag him to the floor. Then the flames from the torch reached the scattered gunpowder, which blazed and ignited the straw. Puzzled, Hay went to see what was happening.

‘Gunpowder!’ he yelled, backing away fast. ‘With flames all over it! Run for your lives!’

In the event the fire did not last long enough to burn through the thick wood of the powder barrel, so there was no explosion. It was just as well, Chaloner thought as he punched his way free of the silversmith, given that the whole mansion might have collapsed had it gone off. The panic created by Hay’s announcement had produced the effect the spy had wanted anyway. There was an abrupt and immediate stampede – which included Hay and York – for the stairs, and no one was very interested in lingering to lay hold of traitors. All except Parr. The preacher’s face was a mask of rage, and Chaloner saw he cared little for his own safety. He did care about what he saw as his duty to God, though. He gave chase, screaming for others to help him. Evans the silversmith was the only one who obliged.

Chaloner reached the tunnel’s entrance and dragged open the trap door. It was not easy ascending the narrow, cramped slope at speed, and the faster he tried to go the more he skidded and slipped. He could hear Parr gaining on him. It felt like an age before he reached the pantry and clambered out, and when he did the preacher was almost on him. He slammed the opening shut just as Parr was stretching out to grab him. Parr released a frustrated howl and began to batter the barrier with his fists. Chaloner grinned at the foul language that peppered the curses and headed for the door and freedom. He was shocked to find his way barred by Castell, who wore a hooded cloak and carried a pair of handguns.

‘You are one of these conspirators?’ he blurted, astonished that the plotters should consider admitting such a man to their ranks. A dissipated gambler was unlikely to make for a reliable ally. ‘I thought you only wanted the money they paid you.’

‘I despise the government,’ declared Castell, staggering slightly. He was still drunk from dinner. ‘Its ministers shun me at the gaming tables, and I am sick of it. Death to the lot of them, I say. Stay where you are, or I will kill you. I am not afraid to dispense a little justice.’

He aimed the weapon with a hand that was surprisingly steady for a man in his cups, and Chaloner stopped dead in his tracks. Then there was a yell of triumph from Parr – his assault on the panel was beginning to pay off, because, like the rest of the house, it was rotten and weak. It began to splinter, and Chaloner saw he was going to be caught. He took a step towards the door, tensing when Castell’s finger tightened on the trigger. But the spy could see powder spilling from the pan; the weapon had been badly loaded and was more danger to its user than to its target. There was a flash, a sharp report and a brief silence. Then Castell started to scream.

Meanwhile, Parr began to emerge from the tunnel. Chaloner ran for the pantry door, and as he glanced back he saw Parr seize Castell’s second gun. He suspected it was no better primed than the first, but he was unwilling to bet his life on it by lingering. He hurtled through the door and slammed it behind him. He turned left, but found himself in an unfamiliar hallway that led to a dead end. He was trapped. Parr and Evans were out of the tunnel, and he could hear them thundering towards him.

‘This way,’ hissed an urgent voice from behind an opening that had been cleverly concealed in the wall panels. It was Margaret. ‘Do not stand there gaping. Hurry!’

With no other choice, Chaloner did as he was told. He found himself in a dark, musty room that had once been a library, judging from the number of shelves along its walls. Margaret hurried towards the fireplace, where she hauled on a lever. Chaloner closed the door and secured it by jamming a chair under the handle. Unfortunately, Parr seemed to know about the room, too, because he immediately started to hurl himself against the door, and the chair began to give way.

‘Come on,’ whispered Margaret, indicating with an impatient flick of her head that Chaloner was to climb through a tiny hatch she had opened. The spy baulked when he saw she held a stone in her gnarled hands. She raised it, as if readying herself to put it to good use. Suddenly something became perfectly clear.

‘You killed Tivill! Why?’

She grimaced. ‘I suspect you already know why – because he attempted blackmail.’

‘But there was nothing to blackmail anyone about – Walduck did kill Browne, as you know full well, given that it was you who provided me with the information to work it out.’

‘That did not make Tivill any less of a nuisance, though.’

Chaloner thought aloud as he leaned on the chair, trying to brace it against Parr’s furious onslaught. ‘Tivill believed Walduck’s protestations of innocence – although they were lies – and when his ship returned to London he came to see what he could find out. Instead of learning about the murder, he discovered what Hay and his associates were doing and threatened to tell. Am I right?’

‘I dispatched him with a rock to the head and was going to drop his corpse in the fish pond. But Hay found it before I could fetch a cart. He has no idea what really happened; I suspect he thinks Parr is responsible. And speaking of Parr, are you going to go through this hole or stay and face his fury?’

Chaloner jerked backwards when a sword plunged through the worm-ridden door, missing him by no more than the width of a finger. If the preacher continued his onslaught, it would not be many moments before he was inside – and Chaloner had heard Evans offer to reload the gun in a way that would not blow off its user’s hand. At such close range, Parr could not fail to hit his target, and yet the spy was loath to put himself at the mercy of the rock-wielding grandmother by climbing into what appeared to be a very small space.

‘You had better hurry,’ said Margaret, watching him hesitate. ‘As I said earlier, Parr is a fanatic and will stop at nothing to do what he believes is right. He will kill you without a second thought.’

Chaloner indicated the stone. ‘What are you going to do? Brain me and leave my body for Hay?’

The sword crashed through the door a second time, showering him with splinters. At this rate the preacher would not need to smash the whole thing – he would be able to take aim through one of the great holes he was making.

Margaret reclaimed his attention with a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Is that what you think? You could not be more wrong. My intention was to brain Parr.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he intends to bring down the government – the others are just silly men who want to evade their taxes. However, he has almost broken through that door, and I am not in the mood for dying today. So I shall escape instead.’

‘Escape?’ Chaloner watched her clamber into the hole with astonishing agility for one so old. It was clear she had done it many times before. He heard her voice echo eerily back to him.

‘Yes, escape. Either come with me or face Parr’s righteous rage. But close the panel regardless.’

When the sword jabbed through the door a third time, Chaloner abandoned it and scrambled after her, pulling shut the hatch behind him. He found himself in a narrow tunnel, so small that the only way to move forward was by crawling on his stomach. Behind him, he heard Parr’s victorious yell turn to a scream of fury when he discovered the library empty. Echoes and thumps sounded as the preacher began to hunt for the secret exit. In front, Margaret was making rapid progress, scuttling along like a crab. Chaloner marvelled at her nimbleness and concluded that she was a remarkable lady. Very remarkable.

‘You are the traitor,’ he called softly. ‘I assumed it was York, because he brought Browne and then me to Hay’s meetings. But I was forgetting the message hidden in the wall. You are sending information to Spymaster Williamson.’

Margaret laughed. ‘An elderly lady like me? What a thing to say!’

The tunnel forked, and she turned left, opening an iron gate to emerge in a dusty chamber that looked as though it had not been used in decades. She locked it behind them, then led the way through a maze of corridors until they reached a pleasant, comfortable room that was far nicer than anything else Chaloner had seen in Bermondsey House. The woodwork smelled of honeyed beeswax, the furniture was handsome and there was glass in every window. Margaret Castell was indeed a woman of many surprises, and Chaloner knew he had been foolish not to have seen through her sooner.

‘Williamson knows a decent spy when he sees one,’ he said. ‘And you have been keeping him appraised ever since your grandson first started to lend Bermondsey House to plotters and rebels.’

Flattered, Margaret’s eyes twinkled as she walked to a table and poured wine into two exquisite silver cups. ‘Well, someone had to do it.’

‘I thought Hay was a dangerous dissident, but all he is doing is cheating the Treasury.’

Margaret wagged a finger at him. ‘It is still treason, and the government is partial to money.’

‘Your grandson cannot know what you are doing. He believes in Hay’s cause.’

‘And that is what has allowed me to maintain my cover all this time. Hay assumes I will never do anything to betray the “rebels”, because my grandson is a fervent member of his cabal. However, I have an arrangement with the government, and a pardon was written long ago. After all, I cannot spy without my foolish kinsman’s “assistance”, so it is only fair that he should be spared.’

‘You said you lease your house to government ministers who want to assassinate old Cromwellians too. Do you?’

She nodded with a smile. ‘Overzealous supporters can be just as dangerous as enemies, as you doubtless know. Do not pretend you do not understand what I am talking about. I recognize a fellow spy when I see one – just as you did with me. Why do you think I rescued you from Parr?’

‘He will scour the house until he finds me, and if I am discovered here he will know you helped.’

‘I do not think we should worry about that.’ She sank in a chair with a sigh of contentment and gestured that he should sit opposite. ‘You see, a week ago Spymaster Williamson decided that Hay’s next meeting should be his last – mostly because Parr is growing too dangerous. That vile fanatic has encouraged Hay to purchase muskets and gunpowder, which takes the “rebellion” to a completely new level. I sent Williamson a message to tell him the time of the gathering, and I am expecting him and his men at any moment.’

‘Unfortunately, Hay found it. Hidden in the cellar wall.’

She laughed. ‘Credit me with some cunning, boy! I sent Williamson several notes, but the letter in the wall is actually the story of Bermondsey’s ghosts, as Hay will discover when he decodes it. It will give him something to read when he is in prison, and perhaps he will blame them for his misfortune.’

‘If Williamson is coming, then I have done you a disservice, ma’am. My actions ended the meeting sooner than expected, and some of the conspirators will have escaped before he arrives.’

Margaret grinned, rather diabolically. ‘But I am quite fond of some, and do not want them imprisoned – or worse. Williamson will catch Hay and Parr, and they are the ringleaders. I am happy at the way matters have been resolved, though Williamson will be less pleased, I imagine. Perhaps we should not tell him your role in the affair – he can be a bit vengeful when his plans are foiled, and we do not want him thinking you did it on purpose.’

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner fervently. ‘We do not.’

III

The unveiling of a wicked plot at Bermondsey House was written up with glee in the newsbooks and gossiped about in every tavern. Chaloner was startled to read that its ringleader was the Rector of Bermondsey, who had hanged himself before the spymaster’s troops could catch him. There was no mention of Hay’s involvement, though Chaloner did hear a few weeks later that the Hay’s Wharf Company had offered to finance the building of new offices for the Treasury Department – the old ones, he said, were terribly cramped for the poor auditors. Despite public interest, most of the conspirators were never named. The following year, however, several wealthy Bermondsey merchants admitted to substantial losses on their annual profits.

Chaloner met Hannah at Jamaica House and told her all he had learned about Browne’s murder. She listened carefully to his explanation, then nodded her acceptance of it. She was distressed to learn about the dislike her husband had engendered among his crew but vehemently denied that he would have cheated Walduck over prize money. Chaloner knew she was right, and he supposed Walduck had allowed hatred to blind him when he had grabbed the stone and brought it down on his captain’s head.

‘So justice was done when Walduck was hanged,’ concluded Chaloner. ‘He thought he could convince people that your husband’s death was an accident due to falling masonry, but no one believed him. And those who did believe him – you and York – misjudged him. In desperation, he claimed he was in his cups, because he thought there was a chance that drunkenness might grant him a reprieve. He was wrong.’

‘He was wrong,’ echoed Hannah softly. She took his hand in hers. ‘Thank you, Thomas. And now I have something to tell you. Captain York has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted his offer for my children’s sake – I cannot let them starve, and we have no money of our own. He says he feels guilty about what happened to John and wants to make amends.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner noncommittally, supposing that the offer of marriage did not also come with a confession of York’s role in losing the Browne family fortune.

Hannah was lost in her own thoughts. ‘He is not John, but he will suffice. Besides, he will be at sea most of the time.’

Chaloner hoped so, for both their sakes.

The following week he went to visit Margaret Castell. In recognition of her services to the king, she had been rewarded with a fine house near Winchester Palace. Further, her grandson’s debts had been paid in full, on condition that he joined the navy. He had recovered from his ‘accident’ and was serving under York aboard Rosebush, where the captain taught him the proper way to load guns. Unhappily, York’s attempts to educate his new lieutenant were wasted, because a few months later he drank too much dinner wine and fell off the back of the ship. His body was never recovered.

‘Everything worked out very well,’ said Margaret, walking with Chaloner in her new arbour. It was a fine summer day, not too hot, and the garden was pleasantly shady. ‘Spymaster Williamson was annoyed not to catch a few merchants red-handed, but they were my friends, and I am grateful to you for precipitating their escape. I could not have managed that alone.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner uneasily, hoping she had kept her word and left Williamson in ignorance about the role played by the Lord Chancellor’s spy.

She read his thoughts. ‘Do not worry – your secret will go with me to the grave. Williamson is not a man you want as an enemy – and not one I want, either, which is why I elected to accept this house and retire from intelligence work. He is too devious for his own good, and I no longer wish to work for him.’

Chaloner agreed with her assessment, but was not so rash as to denigrate one of the government’s most powerful officials to a woman he barely knew. ‘I am surprised Hay did not reveal your friends’ identities when Williamson questioned him,’ he said instead. ‘He did not seem the kind of man to sacrifice himself to protect others.’

‘He did betray them,’ said Margaret. ‘Of course he did – apparently Williamson’s clerks were hard-pressed to write fast enough once he started to bleat. But there was plenty of time for me to visit my friends first and tell them the best way to extricate themselves from their predicament.’

Chaloner regarded her askance. ‘What did you suggest they do?’

‘Offer Williamson a percentage of their back taxes,’ she replied with a grin. ‘He is as corrupt as the next man where large sums of money are concerned.’

Chaloner started to say he did not believe her, but realized he was being naive. They were talking about the government, after all, an organization in which money spoke louder than justice or truth. ‘What about Parr?’ he asked instead. ‘Did he really commit suicide?’

Margaret adopted a pious expression. ‘I happened to find documents that proved he had been cheating the Treasury for years. He said he could not bear the shame of being exposed as a regular sinner, and took the easy way out.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘Where are these documents now? No one has mentioned them before.’

Margaret’s face was cunning and rather malevolent. ‘Perhaps they never existed. But he was a wicked fellow, and I shall not lose any sleep over his demise. As I said, everything worked out very well. Very well indeed.’

HISTORICAL NOTE

Bermondsey Abbey was a victim of the Dissolution. Most of it was demolished then, although three gatehouses and sections of wall were spared, and Bermondsey House eventually rose in what was the inner courtyard. The mansion survived into the seventeenth century, although it was in a state of serious disrepair by the 1660s and its owners were unlikely to have lived in it. They would have rented it to tenants, although its shabby condition indicates they would not have been very grand ones.

John Browne, captain of Rosebush, died in April 1663, and contemporary records indicate he was killed by one of his own sailors, who lobbed a stone at him while drunk. The previous year, Browne had also quarrelled with his purser, Thomas Strutt, which had resulted in Strutt leaving Rosebush in a huff. William Hay owned the Hay’s Wharf Company, which operated on the south bank of the Thames, opposite the Tower of London. William Castell was a Bermondsey shipwright; his wife was named Margaret. Captain Richard York (died 1665) was commemorated on a tablet in Bermondsey’s old church, as was the cooper Edward Walduck. Richard Parr was Bermondsey’s rector in the mid-seventeenth century, famous for inflammatory sermons. Finally, Joseph Williamson was in charge of the government’s intelligence network from the early 1660s and was credited with suppressing a number of rebellions, some of them small and ill-conceived, like the fictional one at Bermondsey House.