Page 41 of A Murder on London Bridge
The pause stretched a moment too long. A low murmur followed—words I could not catch, directed not at us but at the door itself, as if the very timbers had betrayed our presence.
Hollingsworth shifted, quick as a blade drawn from its sheath. He cracked the door, head angled out into the smoke-thick air, and in one motion laid a coin down on the unseen tray. A finger to his lips. Quiet.
The tread belonged to a serving boy carrying a tray of tankards. He hesitated, his gaze darting from Hollingsworth’s face to mine, before lowering his eyes and moving on. Whether it was silence bought or merely delayed discovery, I could not tell.
I exhaled at last, my heart clattering like dice in a shaken cup.
On the other side of the peephole, Denham asked in a low voice, “Has the flame been set?”
My stomach plummeted. Flame? A figure of speech, or something more literal, more hideous. Dear God! Had they arranged for London to go up in flames? The Great London Fire had started September 2. Was today that day?
I dared not look at Hollingsworth, for fear my eyes would give me away. His hand, steady on the rail beside mine, brushed against my fingers—an anchor.
Parquier’s lips thinned. “Set and struck. Pudding Lane’s bakehouse flared but a half an hour past. Sparks are already jumping from roof to roof. The tenements are lighting up like torches.” A slow, evil grin rolled across his lips. “By dawn, the city will be gossip and ash.”
A man cleared his throat. “So the pamphlets were only noise to cover this?”
Parquier’s smile was small and patient, as one explains arithmetic to a man who prefers numbers to conscience. “Pamphlets were the chorus. They stoked opinion, set the words to be picked up in market and alehouse alike. They were meant to take the people against the Queen. While they argued on paper, other things moved.”
“What do you intend to do about the Queen?”
“The Queen and her entourage will flee Whitehall to where comfort promises protection,” Parquier said. “Her jewels, her papers, her people—her passage will be as natural as any flight from flame. They will take to the Thames to flee from the fire. Men have been placed at the exits to Whitehall. They will be misdirected to obscure passages and guided to boats of men who owe us favors. Once aboard, they will sail down the river, where the boat will sink with all aboard. In the chaos, no one will wonder at it. And we will finally have rid ourselves of a troublesome Queen.”
Good heavens! They intended to murder the Queen and use the fire as their weapon.
A murmur of approval crept round the table. These men took pleasure in the neatness of consequences.
A voice—Jermyn’s—cut through the hush. “The King knows of Asquith’s ledger. Lady Halloran told him. Once Her Majesty falls, he will move heaven and earth to recover it.”
“The ledger is gone, along with Asquith. It will never be found,” Parquier replied, his tone blunt as a knife.
A lie. That very manuscript had survived the centuries—until Merton laid hands upon it.
“That is not our only concern, Parquier,” Jermyn pressed. “Others have marked our whispers. Some hold the King’s ear. Hollingsworth among them. He could easily point the finger at us.”
“Then we shall discredit him,” Parquier said coldly. “He is not as spotless as the King imagines. A skeleton here, a whisper there. Soon he will be undone.”
I glanced at Hollingsworth. He gave the slightest shake of his head. I may not know him as well as I wished, but I would sooner trust him than the traitors gathered in the room.
“Would the King believe it?” someone ventured, as if policy might be polite in the mouth of a monarch.
“We will make our accusations loud and obvious,” Parquier said. “Loud enough that the King will be counseled to remove Hollingsworth, not to demand proof. A throne can be shorn by rumor as swiftly as by sword—if the scissors move quickly.”
Hollingsworth’s grip on my sleeve tightened until his knuckles whitened. I felt the anger in him at the casualness of his plotted ruin, but there was no comfort to be had. I needed to know the rest. Pressing my face to the rough plaster—the mortar tasting of dust and damp—I listened.
“How certain are you of your plans?” Coventry asked, skepticism threading his voice. “How sure are you that your men won’t turn on us?”
“They’ve been paid well,” Parquier replied, voice flat as stone. “They will not betray us. Should they try, they will pay for it with their lives.”
“And if the King doesn’t believe our accusations? What then?” Denham whispered.
Clearly, Denham was more concerned with saving his own skin than the plot against the Queen.
“Then some shall be sacrificed,” Parquier said, his voice even. “A messenger who lied. A boatman who drank too much and told tales. A servant whose loyalty can be bought. A fallible chain always has a weak link.” He shrugged as if he were merely discussing the weather.
My breath caught. Hollingsworth’s jaw moved once, twice, but he said nothing. He did not need to. The plan, in all its ugly clarity, made speech unnecessary.
“We have heard enough,” Hollingsworth breathed at last. His voice was a blade folded away. “Let us go.”
