A Murder on London Bridge by Susanna Gregory Page B

Wimbledon, while trailing unhappily after them was Father Stephen. When they had all clambered into the carriage, Doucett and Martin jumped on to the footplates at the back, and the vehicle began to move away. It was followed by a hail of missiles, most derived from animal dung. One hit Martin, staining his fine coat, and for one awful moment, Chaloner thought he was going to discharge his firearm into the crowd, but Doucett said something that stopped him. Hussey breathed a sigh of relief when the coach was out of sight, and turned to his junior.
    ‘I wish she would not do that. It is damned inconsiderate.’
    ‘Write to her,’ suggested Scarlet. His voice was flat, as if he was speaking automatically and the matter did not have his full attention. ‘Tell her not to do it again.’
    Hussey released a sharp bark of laughter, which was eerily echoed by the four fat children. ‘You do not issue orders to the Dowager, Scarlet! It would be more than your job is worth.’
    ‘I do not like this post anyway,’ said Scarlet. ‘I should never have accepted it.’
    ‘Now, then, lad,’ said Hussey briskly. ‘There is no need for that sort of talk. Come home with me to Bridge House, where we shall fortify your spirits with a glass of wine. And perhaps we shall have cake, too, if my children have not eaten it all.’
    They set off towards the Southwark end of the Bridge, the four fat boys waddling behind them, although the lads’ oily cheeks and the crumbs on their coats made Chaloner suspect Scarlet was likely to go hungry. Meanwhile, the haberdasher, whose name was Armitage, had joined Chaloner at the window, and had also been watching the scene unfold.
    ‘The Dowager has taken an interest in Chapel House,’ he confided, polishing a smear from one of his panes with the sleeve of his coat. ‘It is not the first time she has visited.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. The building in question did not look any different from its neighbours – four storeys high, plus a cellar, the latter of which was built into the stone of the starling below. It was shabby and old, and he would have said there was nothing about it to excite interest.
    ‘I have no idea,’ replied Armitage. ‘And I am not alone in thinking it is strange, either.’
    Chaloner considered the place’s name. ‘Chapel House. Does that mean there is an oratory inside it?’ He supposed the deeply religious Dowager might be interested in one of those.
    ‘No, it is called that because a church once stood there,’ explained Armitage. ‘Dedicated to St Thomas Becket, apparently. But it was demolished when the last King Henry broke with Rome, and was rebuilt as a private lodging. It has been secular for hundreds of years.’
    ‘I see,’ said Chaloner, declining to point out that the monarch in question had only been dead for a little more than a century.
    ‘The Dowager has taken to visiting Winchester Palace, too,’ Armitage went on, clearly in the mood to gossip. ‘Do you know it? It is where the Bishop of Winchester stays when he visits London, and is in Southwark, not far from the end of the Bridge. But she only goes there when he is out. It is damned suspicious, if you ask me.’
    ‘Perhaps she likes the view across the river,’ suggested Chaloner, thinking of what Nat had said.
    ‘Have you heard about the ball she is planning for Shrove Tuesday?’ asked Armitage, getting into his stride. ‘It will be attended by Catholics and rakes. Someone should take the opportunity to blow them all up, because England will be a better country without the likes of them running it.’
    Chaloner headed for the door. He did not want to be having such a conversation, because to disagree might lead to a fight, while to concur might see him arrested – Spymaster Williamson was notorious for ordering his agents to encourage seditious discussions.
    ‘Personally, I wish the old hag would go back to France,’ Armitage called after him. ‘And take her brat and her Capuchins