A Murder on London Bridge by Susanna Gregory Page B

number. Perhaps it was something to do with how much they could be taxed – the Court’s expensive tastes had to be financed somehow.
    The Earl eyed him balefully when he made no reply. ‘You owe me a number of explanations. Let us start with Blue Dick. Why was he killed when you were supposed to be watching him?’
    Chaloner was tempted to say he might have had some answers to give if Leigh had not charged into the situation like a wild bull, but it went against the grain to tell tales. ‘It happened very fast,’ he said instead. He gave a terse account of Blue Dick’s death and the subsequent battle in St Mary Overie, finishing, ‘and no one told us his life was in danger. If they had, we might have been able to save it.’
    The Earl gaped at him. ‘Is this your way of blaming me ? You think I withheld information?’
    ‘Do you know anything that might allow the killer to be identified?’ Once the question was out, Chaloner realised it implied that he did believe the Earl had been less than honest with him. He braced himself for a tantrum, but the Earl only glowered.
    ‘One day, you will push me too far, Chaloner. But the answer to your question is no. I heard – from a source I decline to divulge – that Blue Dick was in the city, and I was keen to know why. I cannot say I am sorry he is dead, given what he did to Canterbury Cathedral.’
    ‘Do you have any idea who might want to kill him?’
    The Earl nodded vigorously. ‘Just about any right-thinking man and woman in the country. He despoiled priceless works of art, not to mention urinating on the shrine of St Thomas Becket.’
    ‘I thought Becket’s shrine – and its contents – was destroyed during the Reformation.’
    ‘It was rebuilt, sans bones. But that is beside the point, which is that Blue Dick was a loathsome specimen. I do not know who killed him, but I suppose we had better look into the matter. We cannot have private citizens murdered all over the place. Where would it end?’
    ‘Very well, sir.’ Chaloner knew, with every fibre of his being, that he was not being told the whole truth. He also knew there was nothing he could do about it, and it was at times like these that he wished he still worked for Thurloe. Thurloe had been a professional in every sense of the word, and would never have sent his people into dangerous situations with only half a story. Moreover, he was a friend, something the Earl would never be.
    ‘Now let us turn to another matter,’ said the Earl. ‘Namely the complaint I received pertaining to an intruder in Somerset House. The Dowager has accused me of sending a spy last night. Is it true?’
    Chaloner was not sure what he was expected to say. Surely, the Earl remembered telling him to watch Somerset House as often as possible? Or was he distancing himself from the instruction, so he could claim the idea had been Chaloner’s own?
    ‘You did not order me there last night specifically  . . .’ he began.
    ‘You know what I am asking,’ snapped the Earl. ‘Did you climb through a window, eavesdrop on a conversation in the Great Chamber, and then escape by stealing a boat?’
    ‘I did not steal it,’ objected Chaloner. He might be many things, but a thief was not one of them. ‘It can be collected from the Milford Stairs, just a short distance from—’
    ‘You really are a reckless scoundrel,’ said the Earl, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Do you not understand what would have happened to you, had you been caught? I could not have helped – it would have been tantamount to admitting that I sent you there.’
    ‘Then it is fortunate that I escaped,’ said Chaloner coolly.
    ‘Fortunate for both of us,’ agreed the Earl blithely. ‘So what did you learn during this perilous escapade? I hope you have something useful to report after taking such a risk.’
    ‘They are planning something for Shrove Tuesday—’
    ‘I am already aware of that. The Dowager will host a ball designed to disrupt my