The Medieval Murderers - House of Shadows

‘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.