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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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cleaned the rooms, but none had anything of substance to add.
Next, he explored the house. There was a storage room on the first floor, which overlooked the back yard and was easily accessible by climbing the ivy outside. There were scratches on the sill, a muddy footprint on the floor, and the latch had been forced.
‘I was in here on Sunday afternoon, looking for a mousetrap,’ said Maude. ‘The latch was not broken then, and there was no mark on the rug. And Ferine was murdered a few hours later…’
‘Thank God!’ breathed Temperance. ‘Hill was right: the culprit
is
an intruder.’
‘I do not see that as cause for relief,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘Your guests will not feel very safe in a place that can be readily accessed by murderers.’
‘We can remedy that with new windows and additional guards,’ said Temperance, giving the first genuine smile he had seen since he had been summoned to inspect Ferine’s body. ‘Our guests will
flock
back now we can assert that none of them is under suspicion.’
Chaloner doubted it would be that simple.
Chapter 3
Holborn was a long, wide thoroughfare, dipping down to the grubby Fleet River in the east and narrowing to pass St Giles’s Fields in the west. It was the usual combination of elegant houses and tenements of shocking dilapidation. Several Inns of Chancery were there, too – preparatory schools for those wishing to be called to the Bar.
About halfway along was a line of cottages called Middle Row, which had been built smack in its centre, where they and two sturdy gates combined to cause a considerable impediment to the flow of traffic. The road to the west was known as ‘High’ Holborn, and Muscut’s Coffee House stood just off it, on a narrow lane that afforded so little light that lamps were needed even on the brightest of days. Its windows were filmed with greasy soot from the roasting beans, and its floor was so thickly coated with filth that it was impossible to tell if it was made of wood or stone.
Chaloner did not particularly like coffee, although he suspected that he might find it more palatable if he added sugar, which he avoided as a silent and largely futile objection to slave-operated plantations. Still, it was an improvement on tea, with its complex rituals for preparation and pouring, and infinitely better than chocolate, which was an oily, bitter brew generally only taken as a tonic by those who wanted to feel they were doing something healthy.
The owner arrived with the traditional long-spouted jug, and poured his new customer a dish of coffee. While Chaloner sipped it, he studied the other patrons, trying to determine who looked like the kind of man to accept the traitor’s shilling. He had just settled on a dour, shifty rogue near the back, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword. Standing next to him was a youngish man with a wide grin and a Cavalier moustache. The fellow’s clothes were showy rather than fine, and there was something about his eager amiability and wide-set eyes that suggested he was not the sharpest sword in the armoury.
‘Thomas Chaloner?’ he asked brightly, louder than the spy would have liked. ‘I am Will Leving. Come outside with me. I know it is raining, but we shall not be disturbed in the garden, and we need to talk.’
Warily, Chaloner followed him into a tiny yard, a dismal, unkempt place so dank that nothing grew except patches of slime. It reeked of urine and rotting coffee grounds.
‘As we have never met, I shall tell you the story of my life,’ Leving announced with a smile that was unnervingly vacant. ‘We should know a bit about each other if we are to work together.’
Chaloner nodded cautiously, his heart sinking lower with every word the man spoke. His first assessment had been right: Leving was a dimwit, and no intelligencer liked working with those.
‘I fought for Parliament during the wars,’ Leving began, ‘and I did well
Next, he explored the house. There was a storage room on the first floor, which overlooked the back yard and was easily accessible by climbing the ivy outside. There were scratches on the sill, a muddy footprint on the floor, and the latch had been forced.
‘I was in here on Sunday afternoon, looking for a mousetrap,’ said Maude. ‘The latch was not broken then, and there was no mark on the rug. And Ferine was murdered a few hours later…’
‘Thank God!’ breathed Temperance. ‘Hill was right: the culprit
is
an intruder.’
‘I do not see that as cause for relief,’ remarked Chaloner. ‘Your guests will not feel very safe in a place that can be readily accessed by murderers.’
‘We can remedy that with new windows and additional guards,’ said Temperance, giving the first genuine smile he had seen since he had been summoned to inspect Ferine’s body. ‘Our guests will
flock
back now we can assert that none of them is under suspicion.’
Chaloner doubted it would be that simple.
Chapter 3
Holborn was a long, wide thoroughfare, dipping down to the grubby Fleet River in the east and narrowing to pass St Giles’s Fields in the west. It was the usual combination of elegant houses and tenements of shocking dilapidation. Several Inns of Chancery were there, too – preparatory schools for those wishing to be called to the Bar.
About halfway along was a line of cottages called Middle Row, which had been built smack in its centre, where they and two sturdy gates combined to cause a considerable impediment to the flow of traffic. The road to the west was known as ‘High’ Holborn, and Muscut’s Coffee House stood just off it, on a narrow lane that afforded so little light that lamps were needed even on the brightest of days. Its windows were filmed with greasy soot from the roasting beans, and its floor was so thickly coated with filth that it was impossible to tell if it was made of wood or stone.
Chaloner did not particularly like coffee, although he suspected that he might find it more palatable if he added sugar, which he avoided as a silent and largely futile objection to slave-operated plantations. Still, it was an improvement on tea, with its complex rituals for preparation and pouring, and infinitely better than chocolate, which was an oily, bitter brew generally only taken as a tonic by those who wanted to feel they were doing something healthy.
The owner arrived with the traditional long-spouted jug, and poured his new customer a dish of coffee. While Chaloner sipped it, he studied the other patrons, trying to determine who looked like the kind of man to accept the traitor’s shilling. He had just settled on a dour, shifty rogue near the back, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned quickly, hand on the hilt of his sword. Standing next to him was a youngish man with a wide grin and a Cavalier moustache. The fellow’s clothes were showy rather than fine, and there was something about his eager amiability and wide-set eyes that suggested he was not the sharpest sword in the armoury.
‘Thomas Chaloner?’ he asked brightly, louder than the spy would have liked. ‘I am Will Leving. Come outside with me. I know it is raining, but we shall not be disturbed in the garden, and we need to talk.’
Warily, Chaloner followed him into a tiny yard, a dismal, unkempt place so dank that nothing grew except patches of slime. It reeked of urine and rotting coffee grounds.
‘As we have never met, I shall tell you the story of my life,’ Leving announced with a smile that was unnervingly vacant. ‘We should know a bit about each other if we are to work together.’
Chaloner nodded cautiously, his heart sinking lower with every word the man spoke. His first assessment had been right: Leving was a dimwit, and no intelligencer liked working with those.
‘I fought for Parliament during the wars,’ Leving began, ‘and I did well
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