Murder on High Holborn Read Online Free PDF

the only senior member of the Guild who had not had a stab at the post. The truth was that his colleagues were dreading what he might do during his incumbency.
    ‘I shall make changes that will make them sit up,’ he vowed, a determined gleam in his eye. ‘I am tired of surgeons being a poor second to physicians, and I intend to put matters right. By this time next year we shall be as respected as any other medical profession.’
    Chaloner eyed the tattered, bloodstained bag of implements that sat at Wiseman’s side, and thought his friend would have his work cut out for him.
    It was not far from Hercules’ Pillars Alley to Clarendon House, but Chaloner took a hackney anyway. It was drizzling, and London was never pleasant in the wet. Its major streets were said to be cobbled, although he had never seen evidence of it, overlain as they were by a thick carpet of filth. Moreover, it had been raining for days, and the roads had degenerated into refuse-laden rivers of mud and liquid manure.
    Despite the darkness and the early hour, the city was busy. It was a Monday, so businesses were opening after the enforced break – theoretically, at least. In reality, Sunday was much like any other day, with shops open and traders doing business. It was a bone of contention with the fanatics, who thought the Sabbath should be as it had been under Cromwell’s Puritans, where even wearing lace, singing or playing musical instruments was deemed anathema.
    Along the Strand, the wheels of carts and carriages sprayed up thick deluges of reeking mud, horses skidded, and pedestrians swore as they tried to keep their balance in the gloom. Alehouses and taverns were open for pre-work tipples, and many were already full. Bakeries and cook-shops were doing a brisk trade, and the streets rang with the calls of vendors hawking lily-white vinegar, pale-hearted cabbages and fresh asses’ milk.
    The city was also packed with visitors, because it was less than two weeks until Lady Day – one of four dates in the year when taxes and tithes were settled. People poured into London to pay or be paid, and many took the opportunity to conduct other business or buy supplies while they were there. Every bed in every inn was taken; lawyers and clerks were working to capacity; and farmers and tenants from the provinces explored the capital with open mouths, putting themselves and others in danger with their reckless disregard for London’s traffic.
    Chaloner’s carriage rolled to a halt when it reached the New Exchange – the stately but soot-stained building that housed dozens of expensive shops – and he leaned out of the window to see that a coach had overturned not far ahead. It was a large one with six horses, and he could tell that the resulting ‘stop’ would take an age to clear, especially when the driver began a series of violent arguments with other road users. Loath to be late for his appointment with the Earl, Chaloner paid his hackneyman and continued on foot.
    He almost fell as he traversed the open space of Charing Cross, when one foot sank into mud so deep that he staggered trying to pull it free. Street cleaners were doing their best to create paths for pedestrians by laying down bundles of straw, but their efforts were hampered by horsemen and carters, who careened across them with selfish disregard.
    The Earl’s mansion stood on the semi-rural lane known as Piccadilly, and Chaloner was relieved to leave the noisy chaos of London behind as he splashed along it. The track was just as deeply rutted with mud, but it was good to be away from the worst of the traffic. He inhaled air that smelled of wet earth and soggy leaves, and the rumble of wheels and hoofs gradually gave way to the chirrup of sparrows and the caw of crows.
    Clarendon House was a sprawling, showy monstrosity that had only been finished in the last few weeks. Chaloner hated it, feeling its glittering ostentation would do his Earl no favours. Unfortunately, the Earl did