A Murder on London Bridge Read Online Free PDF Page A

she was unpopular.
    ‘ She comes here, too, you know,’ Nat went on, when Chaloner still did not answer.
    Chaloner raised his eyebrows, amused by the notion. The Dowager was one of his Earl’s many enemies, and he had often been sent to spy on her. Although he had never met her in person, he had watched and listened to her often enough to know she was a prim, impatient snob, who would deplore the poverty and roughness of Southwark. She would never deign to set foot in such a place.
    Nat became indignant when he saw he was not believed. ‘She does! Not to a tavern, obviously, but to Winchester Palace, where the Bishop of Winchester stays while he is in London.’
    ‘She visits Bishop Morley?’ Chaloner did not think that was very likely, either. The fiercely Catholic Dowager would have little to say to a high-ranking Anglican cleric.
    ‘No, she goes there when he’s out,’ replied Nat.
    Chaloner regarded him sceptically. ‘Why would she do that?’
    Nat looked furtive – he did not know. ‘Perhaps she likes the view across the river.’
    Chaloner supposed she must have taken a fancy to some piece of art in the Bishop’s collection. Nobles were an acquisitive crowd, especially the ones who had suffered privation under Cromwell, and it was not unusual for them to covet someone else’s property. And they often got it, too, because objections by the injured party tended to be met with indignant accusations of treason.
    ‘I heard Lord Bristol was with her once,’ Nat gabbled on. ‘And he’s a wanted man! The King ordered him arrested, but Bristol thinks he can flout the law by slinking back into our country.’
    ‘You only heard?’ asked Chaloner keenly. ‘You did not actually see him?’
    ‘No, but it is true. The Dowager will hide him in her own mansion – Somerset House. He will be safe there, because not even the King orders a raid on his mother’s home.’
    But Chaloner knew the Dowager would never do anything to put her son in such an invidious position. Moreover, he did not believe the rumours that said Bristol was back in England. There had been dozens of reported sightings, but when he had investigated, not one had been true. If it had, Chaloner would have hunted the man down, and Bristol would be in the Tower. Where the Earl wanted him.
    Alice was right: Paris Gardens had once been a fine park. But now it was all bedraggled shrubs, muddy paths and overgrown copses that looked as though they would be dangerous to explore. It was populated by slovenly men, children with pinched, hard little faces, and greasy-headed slatterns. Shanty houses surrounded it – the kind that were thrown up overnight, and that seemed to be expanding at an alarming rate as folk flocked from the countryside in search of work.
    The Beggar’s Bush tavern overlooked an arena where bear-baiting, cock-fighting and rat-racing took place. It was an enormous place, and boasted accommodations fit for visiting aristocrats, as well as for the lower kind of customer. There were rooms for playing cards and drinking tea, there were bedchambers that could be hired by the hour, and there were nooks where men could sit quietly and drink Southwark’s famous ale. It even served food, although that day’s menu was limited to a choice of braised calves’ brains or pickled sweetbreads.
    Chaloner entered the largest of the public rooms, and found a bench in the shadows near the back. The reek of tobacco vied with that of unwashed, sweaty bodies, and the place was busy with patrons of all ages, from all walks of life. Well-dressed lawyers sat at one table, while the next was full of rowdy apprentices, all laughing about a tale from St Paul’s Cathedral, where a gargoyle had dropped off the roof and killed a pigeon. Chaloner winced – he liked birds.
    He looked around him, weighing up the clientele. A huddle of heavily armed men sat near a back door; they spoke in whispers, and he was under the distinct impression that they were planning a