Free Murder on High Holborn by Susanna Gregory Page A

be
much
better than old Scarface Roberts.’ Leving chuckled. ‘He earned that nickname by discovering the hard way that explosives are unpredictable. He should have taken heed of the mishap and learned another trade – then he would still be alive. But time is passing and we have work to do. Are you ready?’
    ‘Ready for what?’ asked Chaloner suspiciously.
    ‘Jones gave me some documents to deliver to a fellow named Edward Manning at the Fleece tavern.’ Leving pulled a package from his coat. ‘You can come with me.’
    Chaloner frowned. ‘Manning? Is he a fat, grave man with chilblains?’
    Leving started. ‘Yes, why? Do you know him?’
    ‘Our paths crossed earlier today.’ Chaloner was unwilling to tell the gabbling Leving that it had been in Temperance’s club. ‘Is he a Fifth Monarchist?’
    Leving nodded. ‘Yes – a very unsavoury one.’
    ‘Most rebels are unsavoury,’ muttered Chaloner. ‘Present company
not
excepted.’
    Beaming in a way that made Chaloner sure he should be in Bedlam, Leving led the way out on to High Holborn. But Chaloner still had questions to ask, and grabbed his arm rather roughly, preventing the man from skipping off down the road.
    ‘What is in these documents?’ he demanded.
    ‘Jones did not tell me. He just said to meet Manning in the Fleece, and pass them to him.’
    ‘But you have opened them, naturally,’ pressed Chaloner.
    ‘Open letters addressed to someone else? No, of course not! It would be ungentlemanly.’
    Chaloner assumed he was joking until he saw the earnest expression. He regarded Leving in disbelief. ‘You are in possession of messages from one conspirator to another, and you have not analysed them? What kind of spy are you?’
    ‘No kind at all,’ declared Leving indignantly. ‘I am a patriot, using my unique position to foil a misguided attempt to cause trouble for the government. Spies are low, treacherous creatures with no scruples. I am not one of those. My calling is a
noble
one.’
    Chaloner was tempted to point out that there was nothing noble about befriending people and betraying their secrets to the Spymaster, but he did not want a debate on the matter.
    ‘Your remit is to foil the High Holborn Plot,’ he pointed out shortly, ‘not to deliver messages that will help it succeed. So give them to me. I will open them.’
    ‘You will not!’ cried Leving, clutching them to his chest
.
‘Manning will notice and tell Jones. And I would rather not cross
him
if it can be avoided. He has a bit of a temper, you see.’
    ‘Manning will not suspect a thing. I promise.’
    ‘It is too risky,’ said Leving firmly. ‘Everything depends on me being friends with these men, and it would be a pity if I am ousted, just because you want to pry into letters not intended for your eyes. Now follow me before Manning begins to wonder whether we are coming.’
    He was off before Chaloner could argue, capering down High Holborn like a carefree boy. It was not far to the Fleece, and he had opened the door before Chaloner had caught up with him. Resignedly, the spy followed him inside. The Fleece was a pleasant tavern, which smelled of woodsmoke, sweet ale and roasted meat. As it was the time when most people ate dinner, it was crowded, and its atmosphere one of noisy jollity. Many folk were dressed in the comfortable smocks and woollen cloaks of the country, indicating that they were Lady Day visitors.
    Leving led the way to a cosy chamber at the back where a number of farmers discussed how war might affect the price of wheat. Tucked into a corner behind them was Manning, along with a man whose red nose and purple cheeks suggested he was a habitual drinker – an unprepossessing individual with oily hair, dirty clothes and thick red hands that were covered in old burn scars; he was fast asleep.
    Manning frowned when he saw Chaloner. ‘You were in the club this morning – you helped Temperance stuff poor Duncombe into his coach.’
    ‘He is Thomas