‘Was the explosion a deliberate act aimed against Livesay, or an accident?’
Ingoldsby effected an attitude of studied carelessness. ‘I have no idea – I was not there.’
Every fibre in Chaloner’s being knew he was lying. ‘Very well,’ he said, picking up his hat. ‘If you are unwilling to cooperate here, then the Lord Chancellor can talk to you in the Tower instead.’
Ingoldsby was appalled, and reached out to stop him from leaving. ‘Wait! All right. I will tell you what I know, but you must explain to Clarendon that my role was innocent.’
‘Someone seized your hand and signed your name?’ asked Chaloner insolently, freeing his wrist.
Ingoldsby glowered at him. ‘I was to have travelled on that boat, too, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I am a poor sailor and the forecast was stormy. I saw the ship leave the harbour, and I heard the blast. Livesay did not stand a chance.’
Only if Livesay was on the vessel, Chaloner thought. Perhaps he was a poor sailor, too. Or perhaps he had seen a warning in Ingoldsby’s abrupt disembarkation, and it had saved his life. Or did it mean Ingoldsby had killed his ‘brother’ and fellow regicide, by putting gunpowder on his ship?
‘I understand you belong to a certain Brotherhood,’ he began. ‘I have–’
‘I know of no Brotherhood,’ snapped Ingoldsby. He was beginning to look dangerous. ‘And if you accuse me of belonging to secret sects, I shall complain to the King, and not even Clarendon will be able to protect you. So take that message to your Lord Chancellor!’
Chapter 9
After he had been ejected by Ingoldsby, Chaloner went to Lee’s house, and watched two constables strip it of anything saleable, then carry Lee’s body to the parish church. When they had gone, he knocked at the door of the next building, which was answered by a man with a French accent. The fellow refused to answer questions until Chaloner addressed him in his own tongue, after which the flood of information was difficult to stem.
‘Oh, there were odd happenings, all right. Several days ago – perhaps the night Lee died, since the corpse was not fresh when it was found – he entertained a couple. I assumed they were a colleague and his wife from the Treasury. Lee welcomed them like they were the King and Queen of France.’
‘Did either carry a crossbow?’
‘No,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I would have noticed that. Poor Lee. He had a young lady, too, and was destined for better things in life, so it is a shame he was murdered.’
‘Do you know her name?’
The Frenchman shook his head. ‘But she lived on Mincing Lane.’
‘Fanny Robinson,’ mused Chaloner to himself. ‘The Lord Mayor’s daughter. Her home is in Mincing Lane, and she said her beau was called Robert and that he was a Treasury clerk. No wonder Robinson did not object to the match: Lee was kin to Ingoldsby, a fellow brother.’
He wanted time to consider what he had learned, so he walked to St Paul’s Cathedral, intending to sit at the base of one of its ancient pillars and analyse the confusion of facts that ricocheted around his mind. He had just reached the churchyard, where a lively market had established itself among its lichen-stained tombstones, when he saw Leybourn. The bookseller was with his brother and the hulking Wade, and Chaloner watched them enter Don Pedro’s Spanish Eating House together.
Don Pedro’s was a place where the respectable classes could buy an affordable meal and eat it in decent company. Unlike the male-dominated coffee houses, women were welcome, which meant the air was not quite so thick with smoke, and the decor was less masculine. Located in Panier Alley, it was owned by Donald Peters, who was no more Spanish than Chaloner, but who liked to maintain the illusion of overseas exoticism by affecting a foreign accent – when he remembered – interspersed with phrases once learned from an Iberian papal legate. ‘Don Pedro’, as he styled himself, was a source of gossip and information, and Chaloner suspected that a few hours spent listening to him would go a long way towards providing him with the knowledge every other Londoner seemed to take for granted.
The rich scent of baking spilled across the street, enticing customers to sample Señora Nell’s pies, infamous for powerful spices and robust pastry. However, it was not a place for men with no money, so Chaloner picked up a pebble and tossed it at a window, not sufficiently hard to break it, but firmly enough to make a sharp crack that had everyone turning towards the sound. When all eyes were looking in the opposite direction, Chaloner slipped through the door and headed for the table next to Leybourn’s. The bookseller had just been served a beaker of wine and, as he passed, Chaloner stole it in a sleight of hand that would have impressed the most skilful of pickpockets.
‘It was stone from the wheel of a carriage,’ announced Pedro in his peculiar London-Spanish. ‘Mama Mia! It happens all the time.’
‘Don Pedro,’ called Leybourn, when the fuss had died down. ‘What does a man have to do to order a drink? Eat one of your pies?’
‘Nell’s empanadas are the best in London,’ declared Pedro, offended. ‘My wife, she make them fresh, just like she did in España. Besides, I already brought you wine – as soon as you come in.’
Leybourn gestured to the empty table. ‘Did it have wings, then?’
‘Señor Heyden,’ said Pedro, obligingly bringing Leybourn a replacement and recognising another patron at the same time. ‘When did you arrive? I never seen you come, but we been busy today, so if I served you without saying buenos dias, I apologise. Where is your hair? Are you having it made into a peluca? It is a good idea, because us hombres never know when it might fall out or turn grey.’
He bustled away, and Leybourn turned around, as Chaloner knew he would. ‘Heyden,’ he said cautiously, no doubt recalling his curt dismissal when they had met in the grocer’s shop. ‘May I introduce my friend, Thomas Wade? My brother Robert I am sure you recall.’
Chaloner stood to return the large man’s bow. ‘Mr Wade.’
Wade read something in Chaloner’s bland greeting that was not there. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and began to gabble. ‘I see my name is familiar to you. Perhaps you heard it in connection with a small misunderstanding over a consignment of fur. I did not realise she meant me to kill the poor beast, and she was angry when I sent only combings.’
‘An understandable error,’ said Chaloner, wondering what he was talking about.
‘For the masque,’ elaborated Wade. ‘My responsibilities at the Tower include overseeing the royal menagerie. A collection of creatures has resided there since it was built, as I am sure you are aware.’
‘I have certainly seen the lion.’
‘She has seen it, too,’ said Wade resentfully. ‘And she demanded its fur. I sent her two sacks of hairs, thinking she wanted to stuff cushions for His Majesty or some such thing, but it transpires that she wanted the skin for her disguise at the masque. She expected me to destroy Sonya!’
‘God forbid,’ said Chaloner. ‘Not Sonya?’
‘He means Lady Castlemaine,’ explained Leybourn, reading his bemusement. ‘Sonya is a lion, and Lady Castlemaine wanted its fur – a “castle mane”, if you see her contorted pun.’
‘I thought only males had manes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Why would Sonya be at risk?’
‘There was a mistake when he was born,’ replied Wade dolefully. ‘You will appreciate it is difficult to get near lion cubs when their mother is present.’