Page 40 of A Murder on London Bridge
CHAPTER 21
THE SWAN AT MIDNIGHT
London at midnight was never silent. Even within Whitehall’s walls, I had come to expect mutters and stirrings, the cough of guardsmen, the restless whinny of horses in the mews. But once Hollingsworth and I left the palace precincts, the city’s pulse grew louder, harsher. Alehouse songs staggered through shuttered windows. A cart rumbled down an alley too narrow for it, its wheels scraping stone. Somewhere a woman’s laughter rose and snapped like cloth torn in half.
It had taken no small effort to persuade Hollingsworth to let me accompany him as he was certain we’d be discovered. While he seemed perfectly content to gamble with his own neck, he balked at risking mine. Only when I informed him that it was the Queen’s express wish I join him that he gave way. But even then, he did it as though every step beside me were a personal trial.
I kept my cloak close, more to conceal the pounding of my heart than to ward off the night air. Hollingsworth walked half a pace ahead, his stride precise, assured, as though the city itselfadmitted his right to pass unchallenged. He did not speak until we turned into a lane no wider than my arms’ span, where the Thames’ air thickened with tar and smoke.
“The Swan,” he said simply, pointing straight ahead of us. “That’s where they plan to meet.”
The tavern loomed at the lane’s end, its timber frame leaning toward the river as if conspiring with the tide. A crooked lantern swung above the door, its flame guttering against the damp breeze. Men pressed in and out without ceremony—sailors with their sea-stained coats, apprentices with caps askew, gentlemen cloaked too well for such a place but hungry for what could be bought in the shadows.
We did not enter by that press. Hollingsworth had arranged otherwise. A word to the ostler, a coin slipped neatly into the man’s palm, and we were guided to a side stair half lost in darkness. It groaned under our tread, its bannister tacky with old ale. My nerves stung, every creak loud as thunder in my ears, but Hollingsworth’s hand brushed mine briefly, steadying.
“Up,” he murmured, and we climbed to the gallery.
From above, the Swan revealed itself as a hive of smoke and heat. The common room stretched wide, beams blackened by years of soot. Tallow candles guttered in their sconces, casting more shadow than light. Men crowded at tables, shoulders hunched, voices low, each gathering its own knot of secrecy. The air was thick with pipe smoke, roasted meat gone greasy, and the reek of unwashed bodies.
Hollingsworth leaned close, his breath warm at my ear. “Watch. See who commands, who listens.”
I tried. My eyes skimmed faces I did not know—ruddy seamen, powdered courtiers, ink-stained clerks. For a moment, I thought myself a fool for daring.
“That one,” Hollingsworth murmured, so close his breath stirred the loose hair at my temple.
I followed his gaze.
“Gabriel Parquier,” Hollingsworth whispered.
He’d entered without ceremony. His shoulders broad beneath a dark coat, his head lifted high, eyes sharp as steel under the lantern light. He took his place at a table where others drew near as if compelled.
“Denham,” Hollingsworth whispered. “Montagu. Coventry. Jermyn.” He pointed to each as he named them. “All bending toward him.”
“Where is Asquith? I asked. “He should be here.”
Hollingsworth’s shrug was his only comment.
As I gazed back to the group of men, Anne’s litany returned to me. They were wolves in human trim. And here they were, not whispering among themselves but gathering around Parquier, as if he were a sun they dared not turn from.
But suns do not remain in common rooms for long. After a scant exchange of papers and nods, Parquier rose. A boy hurried ahead with a candle, and the knot of men followed, vanishing up a set of narrow stairs at the back.
“Come,” Hollingsworth murmured. His hand found mine, quick and sure, and drew me along the gallery. We passed through a passage no wider than a coffin lid, its beams sticky with age and smoke, until he shouldered open a smaller door. A broom closet, I thought, until he drew me against the far wall.
“Here.” His finger pointed to a ragged hole, no larger than a shilling, through which a pale shaft of lamplight spilled. I pressed closer and found myself peering into a private chamber where the wolves had gathered.
Parquier spoke, his voice low but certain enough to carry. “This will do for our purpose. We do not wish for prying ears.”
A chorus of male voices agreed, but a man near the hearth enquired, “Where’s Asquith? He should be here.” The very same question I had asked.
Parquier’s gaze cut across the table, sharp as a blade. “He will not be joining us. He became a liability the moment he allowed Lady Margaret a glimpse of his ledger. A fool’s mistake. He has been … dealt with.”
For a beat, no one spoke. Then Denham gave a short nod, satisfaction in the set of his mouth. Montagu let out a low chuckle, but it faltered halfway. Coventry shifted in his chair, eyes dropping to the floorboards as if measuring the distance to the door. Jermyn smoothed his sleeve with deliberate care, the gesture of a man reminding himself to appear unruffled.
The message was plain enough—if a gentleman of Asquith’s standing could be struck from their number, so might any of them.
Footsteps creaked along the gallery behind us—light, practiced. They passed steadily enough until, just outside the closet, they faltered. Silence pooled there, heavy as breath held too long.
My skin prickled. Whoever it was had stopped. Listening. Knowing.
