The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘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.’