The Coffee House Murders: A gripping 17th-century cozy historical mystery (The Samuel Pepys Mysteries Book 3) by Ellis Blackwood

Author:Ellis Blackwood [Blackwood, Ellis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vintage Mystery Press
Published: 2024-10-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter eighteen

Traitor’s Gate

Having turned in early, the inquisitors breakfasted on cold meats and were out of the house just as the neighbouring church bells chimed seven, one shortly after the other. Abby enjoyed the dissonant sense of echo it created.

“I dreamed of my father last night,” Jacob told her as he locked the front door. “He was the size of a giant, and I sat on his shoulder as he bestrode the land. Behind us, tall oak trees grew in his footsteps.”

Abby wrinkled her nose. “You hold him in high esteem.”

London was rousing from its slumber - not that the great city ever truly slept. A high wind during the night had dissipated the persistent smog, revealing a grey and watery morning sky. The sooty pall would soon return.

A pig nearly bowled Jacob over as it was herded into one of the butcher’s shops behind the towering maypole. “Foul creature,” he muttered.

“Do you think your father kept secrets from you?” Abby asked as they continued along The Strand towards the coffee houses.

Jacob stopped. “I find it inconceivable,” he said. “He was one of the King’s most trusted allies.”

She stopped too. “Was he not a republican during the time of Cromwell’s Commonwealth?”

Although it was an innocent question, Jacob rounded on her angrily. “Many good men changed their allegiance,” he snapped, “once they saw that the King’s desires for his people were right and proper. His Majesty made my father his right-hand man. He entrusted him to hunt down the ringleaders of the coup against his own father, and rewarded him well when he succeeded.

“That fine house in which I reside was once owned by Sir William Pride, who signed the death warrant of King Charles I.”

“What happened to Pride?” Abby asked.

“He rests on a spike at Traitor’s Gate.”

Outside the door to Rose’s Coffee House, Abby and Jacob were discussing their plan of action when a familiar nasal voice came from behind them.

“Only the fool speculates, Mr Standish!”

It was Clement Culpepper, crossing The Strand in the direction of St Martin’s Lane. His velvet coat was royal blue, and he swung his cane gaily, as if performing on stage.

“Sir!” said Jacob, waving for him to stop. “Concerning my father…”

Culpepper sauntered past with nary a glance in Jacob’s direction. “Busy, busy!” he called out in a sing-song voice.

Jacob glared at his receding back. “Busy drinking coffee,” he muttered.

Abby, he noticed, was tugging his sleeve. “What is it?” he asked.

“Did you hear what he said?” she hissed.

“Aye. Busy, busy’.” He tutted.

“Before that.”

Jacob shook his head.

“He said, ‘Only the fool speculates’ - that’s what I say to you, Jacob. I said it to you yesterday.”

“Aye, I recall it.”

“But he wasn’t present when I did so. Somebody related our discourse to him.”

Jacob squinted. “A spy?”

“Aye,” she replied. “I'm sure of it.”

“What if Culpepper also uses the phrase, ‘Only the fool speculates’? It is not yours to keep.”

Abby sighed, exasperated. “Those are my words, Jacob.”

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