Blood on the Strand

Chapter 7

It was some time before the King and his entourage returned from St James’s Park, but when they did, all White Hall knew they were back. Dogs burst yapping into the Palace Yard, with horses clattering behind them. Armies of grooms, kennel-men and stable-boys surged forward to reclaim the animals, while courtiers milled around in a colourful, noisy gaggle. Scot was among the throng, deep in conversation with Brodrick and two lords Chaloner did not recognise.

The brightest and loudest of the throng was Buckingham, and Chaloner watched Bristol sidle up to him and indicate that he wanted to talk. Buckingham waved him away with an impatient flick of his hand, then slipped his arm around the waist of one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She was a pretty young woman, who was unashamedly delighted by the attention. The Queen watched with unhappy eyes, then turned to walk inside the Great Hall. She passed close to where Chaloner was waiting to waylay Scot, and gave him a brief smile as she went.

Scot broke off his conversation the moment he spotted his friend. Brodrick followed him, although the two nobles hurried to join the clot of drooling men who hung around Lady Castlemaine. She was giving her opinion about her new living quarters, delivering the verdict while wearing a gown so low-cut that nothing was left to the imagination.

‘We had some dashed good music last night, Heyden,’ said Clarendon’s cousin. His face was pale and puffy, and there was a curiously chemical scent on his breath that suggested he had not long stopped drinking. The whites of his eyes were yellow, and he rubbed his stomach as if it hurt. ‘I am tempted to offer my consort’s services to the Guinea Company, for their feast of Corpus Christi later this month. At the annual dinner, the playing was dismal, because the entertainment was arranged by Webb, who preferred tavern jigs to chamber music.’

‘Did you know Webb well?’ asked Chaloner, thinking that perhaps it was just as well he had lost his place to Greeting. He played for personal enjoyment, not to entertain audiences and, as a spy, he tried to avoid doing anything that would thrust him into a position where he would be noticed.

Brodrick shuddered. ‘God, no! Our paths crossed at the Guinea Company, but that was all – he hated music, you see. And not only was he vulgar, but he was argumentative, too. On the evening he died, I personally saw him squabbling with Temple, Buckingham, Lord Lauderdale, the Bishop of London, that yellow-legged creature of Bristol’s … ’

‘Willys?’ suggested Scot.

Brodrick snapped his fingers. ‘Willys! That is the fellow! Webb was a loathsome specimen. Do you not agree, Terrell? He was not someone you would have wanted in your Royal Society, eh?’

‘Indeed not,’ agreed Scot. He did not look at Chaloner. ‘After my lecture on grasses yesterday, I spent the evening with the scientist Robert Hooke, and he told me that Webb had also quarrelled with two of the men accused of stabbing him. He said it happened before everyone sat down to eat.’

‘Yes, their names were Fanning and Dillon,’ said Brodrick. ‘They were later arrested and convicted of the crime. Dillon is a Company member, and he brought Fanning as his guest – our current Master lets anyone join these days. Thank God he is due to step down, and we can appoint someone else. I shall vote for Johan Behn, I think – it is time we had a leader who is young and vigorous.’

‘Did either of you actually see Webb arguing with Dillon and Fanning?’ asked Chaloner.

Scot shook his head. ‘As I told you before, I was engrossed in a botanical discussion. I did not see Webb at all – quarrelling with Dillon, Fanning or anyone else. I am only repeating what Hooke said.’

‘I saw them at the festivities, but did not witness the row,’ said Brodrick. ‘I do not think Dillon and his guest stayed long – I remember them at the beginning of the evening, but not at the end. Perhaps they sneaked off to lie in wait for him. Or perhaps they went to a tavern in an attempt to blot the row with Webb from their minds. Who knows?’

Chaloner recalled that Dillon had denied being at the dinner, and was not sure what to think. Why had he lied? Was it because admitting to fighting with Webb that fateful night would have been incriminating? Or were there people at African House who were spreading tales about Dillon because they wanted him to be seen as guilty, perhaps to shield the real killer?

‘Do you know an actress called Rosa Lodge?’ he asked, turning his thoughts to his other duties – protecting Lord Clarendon from scandal.

Brodrick pointed at the woman the Duke was mauling. ‘Temple inveigled her an appointment to the Queen’s bedchamber. However, if you are hoping for a private performance, you will be waiting a long time – Buckingham is there first, and he is unlikely to relinquish her until she is all used up. What is so funny, Heyden?’

‘Bristol. Can you see his face?’

‘It is as black as thunder. Do you know why?’

‘Rosa Lodge was hired to seduce your cousin, and Buckingham has unwittingly ruined the plan – if she accuses Clarendon of raping her now, no one will believe her, because everyone can see she is wanton. Bristol will have to move on to his next plot, which entails telling Lady Castlemaine that it is Clarendon’s idea to move the King’s bedchamber away from her new quarters.’

‘Lord!’ exclaimed Brodrick, appalled. ‘Now that is potentially dangerous. I must warn him immediately. The Lady will be furious, and he needs to be prepared.’

When Brodrick had gone, Scot gripped Chaloner’s shoulder and hauled him into a small room that was used to store harnesses for the royal carriage. He slammed the door shut, and Chaloner was astonished to see the anger in his face.

‘Where have you been these last two days? You have not been home, and I was assailed with a terrible fear that May or Behn had dispatched you. I consigned myself to a dreadful evening in their company, desperately trying to catch one of them out in some inadvertent admission.’

Chaloner was startled to learn Scot should have been concerned, especially over something as ephemeral as a bad feeling. ‘I looked for you, too, at the Chequer Inn.’

‘The landlord did not mention it.’ Scot sounded tired. ‘Well, I am relieved to see you safe. The faces of friends lost to spying keep haunting me, and I was afraid yours was about to join them.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Scot scrubbed at his eyes, hard enough to disturb his disguise. It was unlike him to be careless, and Chaloner saw he was deeply unsettled. ‘Because White Hall is a dangerous place and you have chosen the wrong side – Clarendon’s overbearing pomposity makes him deeply unpopular, whereas Bristol is generally liked. And I was horrified when Behn bested you in that tussle. If you cannot defend yourself against him, then how will you fare against May?’

Chaloner thought he was overreacting. ‘Behn did not “best” me, I lost my balance.’

Scot glared out of the window, then forced a smile. ‘I am fussing like I did when you were a green youth on his first assignment. You must forgive me.’

‘Is something wrong? Has something happened to make you more than usually uneasy?’

‘Temperance and Maude, for a start. They are both worthy ladies, I am sure, but Maude is apt to be indiscreet. Has she repeated her clients’ chatter to you? Yes? Then how do you know she is not repeating yours to someone else? I am not saying there is malice in her, but betrayal is betrayal, nonetheless. Then there is your friend Leybourn. Did you know he and May were acquainted well enough to enjoy a drink in a tavern together?’

Chaloner shook his head uneasily. ‘But he owns a bookshop – he deals with a lot of people.’

‘Yes, you are no doubt right.’ Scot sounded relieved – it was never easy to warn colleagues that those they considered friends might be nothing of the kind, and it was clear he was glad it was over without an awkward confrontation. ‘Bear it in mind for the future, though.’

‘I will. Thank you.’

‘I heard you were you looking for me on Sunday night.’ Chaloner had his own questions to ask about the truthfulness of friends. ‘I do not suppose it had anything to do with the name Peter Terrell being on a list of men accused of murdering Webb, did it?’

Scot’s smile turned wry. ‘That was one subject I wanted to air, yes. I am afraid I misled you. My alias was on Bristol’s letter, and I neglected to tell you so when you raised the subject at the ball.’

Chaloner was taken aback by the blunt admission. ‘Why?’

‘It is second nature for men like us to keep secrets, so when you started to talk about the letter, I followed my instincts to procrastinate without conscious thought. Barely an hour had passed before I realised there was no need to be furtive with you – and that withholding information might even put you in danger – so I rushed to your rooms to make amends. But you are never there; you do not even sleep there, it seems. I waited for hours – on Saturday night and Sunday.’

‘What were you going to tell me, exactly?’

‘That my alias was on that poisonous document, but that although I knew of Webb, I had never spoken to the man – I was astonished when soldiers came and demanded that I accompany them to Newgate for questioning about his death. Fortunately, I was able to escape, and Eaffrey sent word to Williamson, who made my name “disappear” from the legal proceedings.’

‘Not very effectively – a number of people know about you.’

‘Yes and no. Williamson fabricated another Peter Terrell, and most people think a dishonest fishmonger is involved in the Webb case, not my Irish scholar. It means I am stuck with this disguise for a while, though, because to vanish now will arouse suspicion.’

‘What about the four who were pardoned – Clarke, Fitz-Gerrard, Burne, Willys? Do you know them?’

‘Yes – they are all intelligence agents. Clarke and Fitz-Gerrard were not even in England when Webb was murdered, so God alone knows why their names were picked for this wretched list. You know Burne, because that is May’s alias. And Willys is Bristol’s creature.’

‘Was Fitz-Simons a spy, too? He and you were the two who “disappeared”.’

‘He is what we call an “occasional informer”, which means he is basically Williamson’s eyes and ears at the Company of Barber-Surgeons. He happened to be out when the soldiers called at his house, and he went on the run. I have no idea where he is now.’

‘Dead – he is the beggar May killed at Westminster Abbey.’

Scot stared at him in horror. ‘Are you sure? May had a bag wrapped around the head when I tried to inspect the corpse. Now I see why! That damned lunatic did not want anyone to see he had shot one of his colleagues. Does Williamson know?’

‘I have no idea. Did you ever meet Fitz-Simons in Ireland? He was seen boarding a Dublin-bound ship in February, and he had detailed plans of the castle.’

‘No, and I would be surprised if Williamson had used him there – he was an informer, not a spy, and he lacked the requisite skills for deep-cover work. However, that said, the Castle Plot was a serious attempt to destabilise the government, so perhaps Williamson did employ every resource at his fingertips to ensure it failed, even men at the very bottom of his command.’

‘Do you think Fitz-Simons’s shooting had anything to do with the Castle Plot?’ asked Chaloner, deciding not to mention his suspicions about the surgeon’s ‘demise’ until he was more certain.

‘Of course it might, if you say he was in Ireland! Poor Fitz-Simons was sadly inept, so perhaps inexperience led him to reveal himself to the wrong person when he was at his Dublin duties.’

‘His name was on Bristol’s list, so someone thought he was worth exposing, incompetent or not.’

‘True. However, do not overlook the possibility that one of his colleagues objected to him reporting Company secrets to the government. It might have been a barber-surgeon who added his name to the letter.’

‘Which one? Wiseman? Johnson? Master Lisle?’

‘I do not trust Wiseman,’ said Scot. ‘It would not surprise me at all to learn he has a murderous streak in him. But to return to the letter, five of the nine named were Williamson’s men, and one was Bristol’s. The selection was odd, though; we six did not work together, and no one should have been able to link us. I can only assume it was an attempt to undermine the entire intelligence network.’

‘How?’

‘Because applying for pardons made these men visible. Now it will be difficult for them to become anonymous again, which will reduce their value.’

‘What about the remaining three – Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild?’

‘Williamson says they are nothing to do with him, but there is no way to know for certain. I have certainly never met any of them.’

‘You have – Dillon is the man we called O’Brien, from Dublin.’

Scot gaped at him. ‘Really? Then he is a spy, but I have no idea whose.’

‘Someone he trusts – he thinks he will be rescued from the scaffold. It is too late for Fanning, though, because he has been strangled, although the official cause of death is gaol-fever. It happened on the eve of a planned escape, which may or may not be significant. That leaves Sarsfeild.’

‘Sarsfeild,’ mused Scot. ‘It is similar to the name you used in Ireland: Garsfield.’

Chaloner regarded him askance. ‘I am not sufficiently important to be included in any plot, and few people in London know me anyway. Besides, Sarsfeild has been caught and sits in Ludgate.’

‘Or perhaps a slip of the pen means that entirely the wrong man is locked in a prison cell. Do not look dismissive, Chaloner – Bristol and his minions will do anything to harm Lord Clarendon, including striking at his people. But why was the letter sent to Bristol, do you think? And why did he pass it to the legal authorities, when his own henchman – Willys – might have been hanged?’

‘Perhaps he thought it was a secret test of his integrity, and was too frightened to do anything else. Have you given any more thought to who might have written it?’

‘Far too much, and it is beginning to interfere with my other duties – not that my thinking is doing me much good. I am still none the wiser, which bothers me; I dislike not knowing my enemies. Do you have any suspects?’

‘Adrian May,’ said Chaloner, voicing something that had been in his mind ever since he had heard the bald spy urging his services on Bristol.

Scot was thoughtful. ‘Eaffrey would agree with you – she heard a rumour to that effect. However, the man most inconvenienced by the missive was May’s master: Williamson. His best spies have been exposed, including May himself.’

‘Cover,’ replied Chaloner immediately. ‘It would have looked suspicious for an agent of May’s prominence to be omitted from the list, and he is not entirely stupid.’

‘Perhaps. The master of Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild, whoever he is, has been incapacitated by this letter, too. I suppose, we shall know him when he steps forward to rescue them from the gallows.’

‘If he bothers. Fanning is already dead, and Dillon may be counting his chickens before they are hatched. I wish you had told me all this sooner.’

Scot grimaced. ‘So do I – although, in my defence, I have spent hours looking for you over the last three days. If you were not so damned elusive, you would have known everything ages ago.’

Chaloner sighed and rubbed his head. ‘Even with your information, I still do not understand what is going on – not with Webb, Fitz-Simons, Bristol’s letter or their links to the Castle Plot. I am better at spying on the Dutch than on my fellow countrymen. I understand foreigners better, I think.’

‘Then come to Surinam with me. That is overrun with Hollanders, and we can do a lot for England there. I shall leave as soon as my brother is free. Of course, that assumes I can get him released – his interrogators want to know about weapons now, but Thomas has no idea where the rebels got them.’

Chaloner had his suspicions. ‘Try asking the Trulocke brothers, gunsmiths on St Martin’s Lane.’

Scot gazed at him, hope burning in his pale eyes. ‘You have good reason to suggest this?’

‘Good enough to recommend you investigate them.’

Scot took his hand, and Chaloner saw a sparkle of tears. ‘This may be enough to see Thomas out.’

‘Your sister thinks she is going to take him home to Buckinghamshire when he is released. She will be surprised when she learns you have other plans for him.’

‘Not as surprised as when she hears she is coming, too. I cannot leave her here – prey for money-seeking scoundrels like Temple. We shall all go to Surinam, although I shall tell her so only at the very last minute. She might marry Temple in an attempt to stay here with him otherwise.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, appalled. ‘Please tell me well in advance when you intend to abduct her, so I can make sure I am as far away as possible. She will be furious.’

‘Better furious than married to Temple.’

Chaloner was unsettled by the knowledge that the likes of Temple were prepared to employ increasingly shabby tactics to harm Lord Clarendon, and supposed he would have to increase his efforts to monitor them. He was not overly concerned for his own safety, because he had been in far more dangerous situations in the past, and did not feel particularly at risk. He also thought Scot was wrong to think his name had been on Bristol’s list, because he was simply not important enough to warrant such attention.

He spent the rest of the day in White Hall, moving silently among courtiers and servants, asking the occasional question, but mostly just listening. The palace was not known for its discretion, but even so, he was astonished at how readily people yielded their secrets. No one was safe from wagging tongues, and he was startled to learn that even his fictitious Dutch upholsterer – Vanders – was said to be enjoying a rambunctious affair with one of Lady Castlemaine’s maiden aunts.

Tucked in a corner of the spacious Great Court was an awkwardly shaped chamber with a sagging roof known jokingly as the Spares Gallery. It was chiefly a repository for any paintings the King did not like, and included portraits of a few historical black sheep, as well as artwork by famous artists that was not quite up to par. It had been taken over by high-ranking retainers, who used it as a common room. When Chaloner ran out of people to quiz, he repaired to the Spares Gallery, where there was always ale warming over a fire, and usually bread and cheese set out on a table, too.

The hall was crowded, which suited him – it was easier to be invisible in a full room than in one that was half empty. He drank a cup of ale, then spotted Willys slouching morosely in a window seat. He went to sit next to the aide, ready to leave if there was any residual antagonism from the altercation with Holles earlier. Willys, however, seemed to have forgotten the incident, and Chaloner’s sympathetic manner soon had him confiding all manner of intimate details about Bristol.

It did not take long for Chaloner to realise Willys was not very bright. Even the dimmest of retainers knew never to chatter about his master’s sleeping habits, dietary preferences – most of which involved onions – and mistresses. Willys, however, was flattered by the fact that someone was ready to listen to him, and once he started, he was difficult to stop. Chaloner tried several times to steer the discussion around to the fact that the aide’s name was on an incriminating letter, but Willys declined to be diverted. By the end of an hour, Chaloner’s head was spinning, and he knew far more about Bristol’s private life than he ever would about his own earl’s.

It was not easy to escape from the garrulous aide, and it was dusk by the time Chaloner managed it. Because he felt he had lost his way among the jumble of information he had accumulated, he decided to visit Thurloe – to tell him all he had learned in the hope that the ex-Spymaster might see some order in it. When he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn, Thurloe was pacing in agitation.

‘I hoped you would come,’ said the ex-Spymaster without preamble. ‘I went to see Dillon–’

Chaloner was dismayed. ‘You promised you would not visit Newgate again.’

Thurloe grimaced. ‘I donned a disguise, Thomas; credit me with some intelligence, please. Dillon’s execution will be on Saturday, but I have exhausted all I can do to help him. You are his only hope now.’

‘That is not true. He is in the pay of a more powerful master than you, and expects to be reprieved.’

Thurloe frowned. ‘I know you do not like him because of what happened to Manning – he said you were hostile when you visited – but I am sure you will not allow your personal feelings to interfere with your sense of justice. He says he did not kill Webb, and I believe he is telling the truth.’

‘You are probably right. Of the nine names in Bristol’s letter, five are government intelligencers and one is Bristol’s aide – his spy, in essence. Scot thinks someone cited them as an act of spite – or perhaps revenge – against the secret services. And of the remaining three, Dillon and Fanning are also spies; I saw them in Ireland myself, although I have no idea whose side they were on.’

‘It is possible that they were sent by the government, too – unbeknown to the rest of you. However, as I have said, Dillon is Irish, and his family lost lands in the Royalists’ reorganisation, so it is equally possible that he was part of the revolt. I asked him about it, but his answers were slyly vague. The only thing I know for certain is that he thinks his master is more powerful than Williamson. What about the last man – Sarsfeild? Is he in the pay of this mysterious patron?’

‘Dillon says not, but who knows? Sarsfeild was transferred to Ludgate after Fanning was murdered, so perhaps his patron arranged for him to be in a safer place until he can arrange a release.’

‘You must speak to Dillon again. The governor knows the letter you used last time was a forgery, so you will have to devise another way to gain access. And then you must go to Ludgate and interview Sarsfeild. Perhaps he will be more forthcoming.’

‘Why are you so determined to save Dillon? He betrayed you, and Manning paid the price.’ Chaloner thought, but did not say, that Dillon did not want Thurloe’s assistance, and that the ex-Spymaster was wasting his time and energy by attempting to interfere.

Thurloe sighed. ‘Because injustice troubles me, Thomas. It always has. I know you are busy trying to save Clarendon from Bristol, but I am sure you can spare a few moments to prevent an innocent man from hanging – because that is what will happen on Saturday, no matter what Dillon thinks.’

‘I am not sure visiting him is the best way to a solution.’ Chaloner was ready to go to extreme lengths to avoid spending more time inside Newgate. ‘It would be better to find Webb’s real killer.’

‘How? Do you have any clues?’

‘Some. Silence took the family carriage when she left the Guinea Company dinner, and the coachman was stabbed to prevent him from returning to collect Webb. Webb was forced to walk home from African House, and the killer or killers dispatched him with a single wound to the chest. It was premeditated murder, not a chance killing. The weapon was later placed in Dillon’s room to implicate him.’ Chaloner was thoughtful. ‘Why Dillon? Why not May, Fitz-Simons or one of the others? Is it a blow aimed at Dillon’s patron, to make him reveal himself as a man who hires spies?’

‘Or as a man who has dealings with Irish rebels,’ suggested Thurloe.

‘It seems to me that the answers to some of these questions lie in Bristol’s letter. If we learn who wrote it, we may better understand what is happening.’

‘How do you propose we do that?’

‘By looking at the original. We have only been told about these names – we have not seen the document itself. It is possible that it contains more information, or even clues that may identify its sender. Do you know anyone in Bristol’s entourage who may be able to tell you where it is now?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘And then you can read it in situ. Do not steal it – we do not want anyone to know what we are doing.’

‘All right,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘As long as it does not involve climbing any walls.’

It was too late for visiting prisons that night, although Thurloe immediately set off to question his contacts about the whereabouts of Bristol’s letter. Chaloner was tired after his restlessness the night before, so went home, stopping at a cookshop on the way to purchase a meat pie, wine and boiled fruit. When he arrived, Scot was waiting, hiding in the cupboard outside his door. Chaloner supposed they had been spies for so long that they resorted to cloak-and-dagger tactics even when visiting friends. He mentioned it and Scot laughed, seeing humour in the way they had been conditioned. They shared the food – after Scot had ascertained it was free of peas – then discussed their futures.

‘I shall resign from the intelligence services the moment I secure my brother’s release,’ said Scot through a mouthful of pie. ‘And my whole family will be in Surinam four months later.’

‘You will be back within a year, complaining that life on the edge of the world is dull.’

Scot shook his head. ‘I am serious about this. I will give up spying. Encroaching age has taught me that I am not immortal, and there are things I would like to do before I die.’

‘Such as what?’

Scot’s expression was shy, as if he was afraid of being ridiculed. ‘I really do intend to devote my life to botanicals. There are trees and plants in Surinam that have never been seen, let alone described in the scientific literature. I cannot imagine anything more pleasant than a day in the jungle, surrounded by foliage, writing learned dispatches for the Royal Society.’

Chaloner saw he was sincere. ‘Then I wish you success of it.’

‘You feel the same about music,’ persisted Scot, not sure he was truly understood. He tapped Chaloner’s splinted arm. ‘These things heal, you will regain your skill.’

‘That is not what Lisle says. I was sure there was nothing wrong with me, but he is beginning to make me wonder whether I was mistaken.’

‘Surgeons are irredeemably gloomy. They do it to frighten their patients into paying them more than they should. Your leg healed well enough, did it not? You barely limp these days.’

‘I do if I am obliged to run hard. If my arm becomes like my leg, then I will go to Surinam with you, because I will be useless for anything else. Will you have another go at hacking off the splint?’

Scot did his best, and ruined Chaloner’s favourite dagger and a metal rasp in the process, but it was to no avail. Chaloner was both disgusted and disheartened.

Scot poured more wine. ‘Are you still a creditable forger?’

‘Why?’ Chaloner was beginning to feel drunk, because although there was plenty of wine, there had not been much food once it had been divided in half and his stomach was still empty.

‘Because you may be able to translate your talent for reproducing documents to drawing my specimens. Decent scientific illustrators are worth their weight in gold, and if you are any good at it, you will make a fortune. In fact, you might find yourself in demand for many reasons in Surinam – women like a man with artistic talents, too.’

‘They do not flock to my door when they hear my viol.’

‘Then perhaps you are not as good a player as you think you are.’

‘I do not want Eaffrey to wed Behn,’ said Chaloner. His voice was slurred, and he was aware that he was drinking far too much. He poured himself another cup. ‘He will crush her spirit.’

‘She is more likely to crush his. Do not underestimate her – she knows what she is doing.’

‘He is wooing Silence Webb. Secretly.’

Scot stared at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Really, Chaloner! I know you do not like the man, but there is no need to malign him quite so badly. No fellow in his right senses would carry on with her.’

‘I saw him,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘Twice.’

‘How?’ Scot raised his hand. ‘No, do not tell me. I would rather not know. However, you should remember that Behn did business with Webb, and it is possible that he is paying court to Silence to make sure she does not sign his interests away to another party.’

‘What about Alice?’ asked Chaloner, seeing Scot would not be convinced, so changing the subject in the random way of the intoxicated. ‘Have you devised a way to abduct her before she marries the odious Temple? You should not leave it too long, because she really does love him.’

‘Perhaps I should kill him,’ said Scot. ‘No, that will not work, because she will know it was me, and I do not want her in one of her tempers. Your duel with her first husband was years ago, but she still bears you a grudge. I could not bear her treating me so coldly – not my own sister.’

‘Plants,’ suggested Chaloner drunkenly. ‘You must have read about plants that reduce people to a state of torpor in your Musaeum Tradescantianum. Feed her some of those.’

Scot looked shocked. ‘I want to save her, not kill her! Besides, Thomas might be stuck in the Tower for weeks, and I cannot drug her indefinitely. The best solution would be if you married her. I would not mind you as a brother-in-law.’

‘She would have her sharpest dagger in my heart on our wedding night.’

Scot guffawed, and refilled their cups. ‘Alice could do a good deal worse, and it is a great pity you do not like each other. Perhaps you will fall in love en route to Surinam.’

Chaloner had no idea how late he and Scot stayed up, but he woke to find himself slumped uncomfortably across the table with his head on his arms, while Scot snored on the bed. It was still dark outside, but dawn was not far off, and he supposed it was the rumble of the day’s first cart that had disturbed his sleep. He lurched to the window and opened it for some fresh air. Scot did not stir, not even when Chaloner tripped over an upturned chair, suggesting the older man had imbibed even more than he had. His head pounded viciously as he washed his face and changed clothes that were stiff with spilled claret. Before he left, he placed a blanket over the slumbering Scot.

‘You reek of strong drink,’ said Thurloe accusingly when he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn. ‘And you look as though you have been up all night, carousing – red eyes, pale face, wincing because you think my voice is loud. Anyone would think you were a courtier.’

Chaloner flopped into Thurloe’s fireside chair. ‘I expected you to be walking in the garden.’

‘I could not bring myself to go. Prynne showed me the plans for his dovecote yesterday – the only feature in this barren wilderness he dares to call an arbour. It is ugly in the extreme, and I cannot see any self-respecting bird deigning to take up residence in it.’

‘Cave fanaticum,’ murmured Chaloner, trying to remember how much wine he and Scot had actually swallowed the previous night. He suspected it was the best part of a gallon jug.

‘Beware the fanatic,’ translated Thurloe. ‘I am surprised you remember any Latin, given the state you are in. Speaking of Latin, did I tell you Prynne gave me a copy of his Histriomastix in an attempt to ingratiate himself? I have never read such vitriol! Even my deeply held Puritan convictions do not lead me to rant against bay windows, holly bushes and New Year gifts.’

‘Bay windows?’ echoed Chaloner, wondering why religion led people to rage against such peculiar things.

‘I am ashamed to call him a fellow bencher. And his diatribes against Jews defy decency, logic and sanity.’ Thurloe turned when there was a tap at the door. ‘Yates? Is that my morning bread?’

The wall-eyed porter bustled in with a tray, the Inn’s tabby cat stalking at his heels. Yates kept one eye on the cat and the other on Thurloe, as he began to inform the ex-Spymaster, in unnecessary detail, about the state of his usual servant, who had gone to his sister to recover from a bout of the bloody flux. Chaloner wondered how Yates had prised such intimate details from a man who, as far as everyone knew, was mute. He tried to tune out the chatter, which was far too graphic to be heard so early in the morning. Eventually, Yates finished his gruesome monologue and left. Thurloe sat at the table and selected a sliver of barley bread, while the cat jumped into his lap.

‘You should try this. It is said to be good for the digestive health.’

Chaloner felt his gorge rise at the prospect of food, as it always did the morning after too much wine. ‘I came to ask whether you had discovered the whereabouts of Bristol’s letter.’

‘It is in his house on Great Queen Street. We are almost neighbours – I can see his roof from here.’

‘I thought he lodged at White Hall.’ Chaloner recalled him wandering around the Privy Gardens in his night-clothes the previous morning.

‘Only when he is too drunk to go home. There is a rear-facing office on the upper floor of his mansion, in which there is a large China-painted chest. The letter will be in that.’

‘Do you know anything about the lock?’

‘Three separate keys are required to open it. I took the liberty of acquiring two – do not ask how; suffice to say I need them back as soon as possible – but you will have to pick the last. However, I do not recommend going now. It is too near dawn and Bristol might be awake.’

‘He sleeps late, so now will be the perfect time,’ countered Chaloner, thinking about what Willys had told him. Bristol seldom rose before nine o’clock, no matter where he slept, which his married mistresses found inconvenient.

‘If you will not eat anything, then drink this.’ Thurloe handed Chaloner one of his infamous potions. ‘I made it myself, and it contains Venice Treacle among other things, which is an excellent remedy for overindulgence. You cannot burgle a house while you are still half drunk.’

Chaloner swallowed what was in the cup without thinking. Then, for the next few minutes, he fought a violent urge to be sick, and sat with his hands pressed hard against his face. Eventually the nausea receded, and he opened his eyes to see Thurloe looking pleased.

‘The most efficacious medicines are always the most unpleasant, and judging from your reaction, I suspect this one has done you much good. The barber-surgeons say Venice Treacle is a quack remedy, but I beg to differ. They are clever fellows, but they do not know everything about health.’

‘Do you know a medic called Wiseman?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘He deplores the Court’s excesses, and supports your earl’s efforts to curb them.’

‘What do you think of him as a man?’

‘Arrogant and cynical – but if I were obliged to rummage in people’s innards, I might be arrogant and cynical, too. He is probably decent, at heart. You are lucky to have him as your surgeon.’

Chaloner was not so sure, preferring to take his chances with Lisle. He pulled uncomfortably at the splint, looking forward to Saturday, when it would come off. ‘What about Lisle and Johnson?’

‘Wiseman thinks they are mediocre practitioners, but both have royal appointments, so he is almost certainly wrong. I like Lisle, who provides his services free of charge to the poor. Why do you ask?’

‘Dillon listed all three as possible culprits for killing Webb.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘Wiseman did despise Webb, mostly because of his involvement with the slave plantations, but there was also an incident just after the Restoration in which Webb accused Wiseman of revealing personal secrets. I do not know if it was true, but it damaged Wiseman’s practice – no one wants a medicus who gossips about embarrassing symptoms.’

‘So, he has a powerful reason for wanting Webb dead?’

‘He is not the only one. Lisle had a dispute with Webb, too – Webb claimed he overcharged for a phlebotomy, and the matter went to the law-courts. Webb won, but there was evidence that money changed hands to secure the verdict he wanted. Then Webb commissioned a Private Anatomy at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, but Lisle and Johnson were obliged to cancel at the last minute – something about a leaking roof – and Webb threatened to sue again.’

‘Dillon also included Temple and Brodrick among his suspects.’

Thurloe considered the accusation, nodding slowly. ‘Temple lost customers to Webb, and Webb insulted Brodrick’s music – something very dear to him.’

‘And then there is Silence. If Webb was as awful as everyone says, then perhaps she is better off without him. She is not very grief-stricken. She did not bury him in the place he bought for himself, either, but let him be shoved in someone else’s tomb – not that the corpse was his, anyway.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Thurloe uneasily. ‘I hope you have not been opening graves.’

‘I wanted to know whether the surgeons will deposit him in his own vault when they have finished with him. Perhaps they intend to, but have not yet had the chance – he was only dissected on Sunday, after all. But then what happens to the body already there – the emaciated fellow?’

‘I do not see how this is relevant to Dillon, and time is passing,’ said Thurloe. He frowned as he pushed the cat from his lap. ‘I still believe this is no time to burgle Bristol. Perhaps I should come with you. I may be out of practice, but I have not forgotten all the skills I once taught you.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner hastily. He would hang for certain if he was caught burgling Bristol in company with Cromwell’s old Spymaster. He stood, feeling his stomach pitch at the movement, and heartily wished he had declined the tonic.

Dawn was beginning to paint the eastern sky, although the streets were still in deep shadow. Chaloner walked briskly, hoping exercise might make him feel better, taking deep breaths of comparatively fresh air as he went. Great Queen Street lay to the west of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and had a rural feel about it. Trees whispered in the breeze, birds sang and the wind blew from the west, so brought with it the sweet scent of new crops. He found the lane that ran around the back of the houses and located Bristol’s garden, which was almost entirely laid down to onions. A maid was in it, hanging washing on a clothes line. He waited until she had gone, then slipped quietly through the gate, moving through the burgeoning crops to reach a paved yard fringed by sculleries and pantries.

Apart from the maid, there was no activity, and he supposed the staff had adapted themselves to their master’s erratic hours – Bristol probably disliked being woken early by clattering pots, but demanded attention late at night. Chaloner let himself in through the rear door and slunk stealthily up a silent corridor to the main rooms at the front. He could hear someone snoring, and opened a door to a handsome parlour to see Bristol himself, reclining comfortably in a cushion-filled chair. A cup dangled from one hand, while the other rested on his paunch; his head was back and he breathed wetly. Around him was the debris of a good night. Empty decanters littered a card-strewn table, and the air was still thick with tobacco smoke. Chaloner felt his stomach pitch at the powerful scent of wine, and held his breath until the feeling passed.

Voices emanated from the room opposite, so he tiptoed towards it and peered through a crack in the door. A dozen people had gathered there, picking at the bread and biscuits that had been laid out under cloths on a sideboard. Chaloner recognised three of them. Temple worked his toothless jaws, as if sleep had rendered them stiff. Alice Scot looked bright and alert, and was chattering gaily about Lady Castlemaine’s new diamond ring. And the whites of Surgeon Johnson’s eyes were deep red, to match the wine that had spilled down his coat during the revelries of the night before.

‘I like Lady Castlemaine,’ Johnson announced, loudly enough to make several of his companions – and Chaloner – wince. He lowered his voice, putting a hand to his own head. ‘I am told she is probably a papist, but I am ready to ignore that, because she has such fine thighs.’

‘A good reason for tolerance,’ said Alice facetiously. ‘And what about Lord Bristol, who is also Roman Catholic? Will you forgive him, too, on the basis of his fine thighs?’

‘I doubt his rival Lady Castlemaine’s,’ said Johnson, evidently unequal to irony at such an early hour. ‘He puts on a good card game, though, so I am willing to overlook the matter of his religion.’

‘Most noble,’ growled a man Chaloner thought was a bishop. ‘His God must have been watching over him last night, though, because he carried all before him. What do you say to a game tonight, Johnson?’

‘I am afraid not. I have another Private Anatomy to perform.’

‘Another?’ asked Temple with sudden eagerness. He took Alice’s hand. ‘Can we come? We enjoyed the last one you arranged. It was highly entertaining.’

‘I had no idea Webb contained so many entrails,’ agreed Alice. ‘Of course, he was a very slippery fellow, so I suppose it should come as no surprise that he owned more than most.’

Chaloner was startled, because Wiseman had said the face of the subject remained covered during the cutting – so Alice and Temple should not have known whose innards they were being shown.

‘He had three times as many as the average man,’ declared Johnson authoritatively. ‘And they were twice as oily. But I am afraid you cannot come to the dissection this evening, because it is a very private affair. However, I can arrange another, if you found the last one edifying. It will cost, but … ’

‘It will not be Webb, though,’ said Temple with deep regret.

Chaloner gaped at him. Was this the motive for Webb’s murder? He was killed to provide Temple’s entertainment? Or had the surgeons merely taken advantage of an opportunity presented?

Johnson grinned, and raised his cup. ‘No, but I promise you will not be disappointed, even so.’

Servants were beginning to stir, aware that while Bristol might still be sleeping, his guests nevertheless required attention. Chaloner did not have much time – and certainly should not be spending it pondering the question of how Webb had ended up at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. He climbed the stairs, thinking about what Thurloe had told him about the location of Bristol’s letter. He saw a ‘China-painted’ chest in the second room he explored, and moved quickly towards it, first closing the door behind him. Thurloe’s two keys worked perfectly, although it took him longer than he expected to undo the last lock. It was old and worn, which made it difficult to pick, and the smell of tobacco and old wine had turned his stomach to the point where he was feeling sick again. He took a deep breath and tried to force away the nausea. He did not have time for it.

Cheery greetings suggested Bristol was awake and had joined his visitors. The clatter of plates and cups followed, and then the scent of cooking meat wafted up the stairs. Chaloner put his hand over his nose so as not to inhale it. The last lock finally snapped open and he wrenched up the lid with more force than he had intended, so it cracked sharply against the wall. The voices downstairs immediately went silent. Chaloner began to rummage through the haphazard papers within, then stopped when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone was coming.

He rifled more urgently, hearing a second set of feet join the first. Bristol’s voice drifted upwards, asking a servant whether he had left a window open. Stopping, the servant declared he had not, because everyone knew that night air was poisonous to sleeping men. The footsteps continued up the stairs and started along the corridor. Now there were more than two sets, and Chaloner supposed other retainers had joined their master. He knew that if he was caught, there would be no excuse for what he was doing and he would be hanged, especially when Bristol learned he was in Clarendon’s pay. There came the sounds of doors being opened.

Then he found what he was looking for. There was no time to read the letter and replace it, as Thurloe had recommended, so he shoved it in his pocket and ran to the window. He tried to unlatch it, but it was painted shut. He raced to another one, aware that Bristol was in the next room. He wrenched desperately at the catch, and it opened with a screech. The ground was a long way below, and a scullion was right beneath him, sitting on a stool as he enjoyed an early-morning pipe. Then the office door was flung open, and he heard Bristol give a furious yell as the intruder was spotted.

Chaloner did not look around, because he did not want Bristol to see his face. Taking a deep breath, he scrambled on to the sill, then launched himself into the ivy that covered the wall, aiming to climb down it. It was not as strong as it looked, and began to tear away from its moorings. With a tremendous hissing and scraping, the entire mass peeled away, bearing him with it. He braced himself, expecting to land hard – probably hard enough to damage his lame leg and prevent him from escaping. But the plant was reluctant to yield its hold on the wall, and did so slowly, so he was carried down at a perfectly comfortable pace to land gently on both feet without the slightest jar. The pipe-smoking scullion fared less happily, and disappeared under the billowing foliage with a cry of alarm.

Chaloner fought his way free of the leaves and started to run through the garden, but a sudden, gripping wave of dizziness made it difficult for him to see where he was going. Bristol leaned through the window and yelled orders at his servants, and soon several were in pursuit. Temple, abandoning his breakfast, panted along behind them. Chaloner reached the end of the garden and wrenched open the gate. Then, instead of haring through it into the lane, he ducked back inside and hid behind a rack that was used for drying onions. He knew he could not outrun fleet-footed pursuers while he was sick and reeling, and that concealing himself was his only hope of escape. He leaned against a wall and took a deep, shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he did so. The servants and Temple thundered past, followed by Bristol, who was yelling at the top of his voice. Alice Scot walked sedately after them.

Alice hailed from a family of spies, and knew perfectly well that tearing blindly after an invisible target was a waste of time. She studied the ground as she went, then stopped to inspect a broken twig. Chaloner watched in horror as she looked directly towards his onion rack. She stepped off the path and bent to touch the soil. She had surmised that the culprit had not fled into the lane, but was still in the garden. He swallowed hard, thinking how delighted she would be when she discovered the identity of the thief. He tried to push himself upright, but his knees would not support him.

‘Alice,’ came a familiar voice, just as Chaloner was bracing himself for capture – even a woman would have no trouble securing him when he could barely stand. ‘What on Earth are you doing?’

‘William!’ she cried in delight. ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

Scot did not return her friendly greeting. ‘Obviously not.’

Her face fell when she saw what he was thinking. ‘It is nothing untoward, brother – just a card game that lasted until dawn.’

‘I assume Temple was there, too.’ Scot’s voice was cold.

Alice sighed. ‘Yes, although we were sitting at different tables for most of the night. And you? Are you on an assignment for Williamson? Is that why you appear so unexpectedly in the Earl of Bristol’s vegetable garden in the hour after dawn?’

Scot rubbed his eyes, and Chaloner saw he did not feel particularly healthy, either. ‘I am sure our father was never obliged to do this sort of thing. Espionage is not what it used to be, Alice.’

‘Then why do it? You promised to finish with spying after Dublin. You said it was too dangerous.’

‘Believe me, I shall – the moment Thomas is free.’

‘Have you had any luck? I still have not found the right man to bribe, but I am working on it.’

‘Keep your money, because Thomas’s situation took a great leap forward yesterday – Chaloner told me about a crooked gunsmith, which allowed me to expose some illegal arms dealing. Williamson is delighted, and I sense it will not be long before he persuades his masters to let Thomas go.’

Alice smiled. ‘At last.’

Scot pointed back towards the open office window, and showed her a goblet. ‘Williamson asked me to acquire a gold cup that holds a certain significance for His Majesty – something to do with a mistress. Obviously, I must have made too much noise, because I was almost caught. Will you help me escape? Go back inside, and when he returns, tell Bristol that you saw a large, red-headed thief jump over the wall into the garden next door. Hurry, though! I can hear them coming back already.’

She kissed his cheek and strode away. Moments later, Scot joined Chaloner behind the onions. ‘That was close,’ he said with a grin. ‘She almost had you.’

Scot put his finger to his lips as Bristol and Temple stamped back through the garden, muttering venomously that the felon was too fast for them, and declaring that the servants had better have more luck or there would be trouble. Eventually, they went inside and Scot helped Chaloner to his feet.

‘How did you know I was here?’ asked Chaloner, feeling his stomach roll as he stood.

‘You had gone when I woke, and there is only one man you visit at such an ungodly hour.’ Scot held Chaloner’s ornamental ‘town’ sword in his hand. ‘I set out after you when I thought you might have forgotten this – no sane spy goes unarmed these days.’

Chaloner indicated the military-style weapon he carried at his side. ‘I prefer something a little more robust when I burgle the houses of powerful courtiers. You taught me that. Did you see Thurloe?’

Scot nodded. ‘For the first time since I became a Royalist. He is not a man to bear grudges, but I was uneasy nonetheless. I have never been able to read him, to know what he is really thinking.’

Chaloner was not surprised that Thurloe declined to be open with a man who had defected at a critical moment in the Commonwealth’s painful collapse. ‘He is not an easy man to understand.’

‘As it happened, my apprehension was unnecessary. When I arrived, I found him preoccupied with another matter. His cat had swallowed some of his morning tonic, and had immediately become ill. He suspects poison, and is beside himself with worry, because he said you had taken some, too.’

‘Prynne,’ said Chaloner, holding his stomach. ‘Because Thurloe opposes his garden plans.’

Scot shook his head wonderingly. ‘Hell hath no fury like a lawyer crossed. Anyway, it would have been sheer folly for Thurloe to rescue you himself – I imagine he is horribly out of practice – so I persuaded him to let me do it instead. He is waiting nearby, in a carriage.’

‘His damned tonics!’ muttered Chaloner venomously. ‘My wits were too befuddled from last night’s wine to refuse it.’

Scot brandished the cup. ‘Fortunately, mine were not. I took this to cover up whatever you were doing in there – now they will assume it was a simple theft when they look to see what is missing. We should not talk here, though. Put your arm around my shoulder. We shall pretend we are drunk, as we did in France when you saved me from that vengeful cardinal. We both reek of wine, so our ploy–’

He stepped smartly out of the way when the mention of wine was more than Chaloner’s stomach could bear. The spy felt far better once the tonic had been added to the onions, and he wondered whether they would die as a result. Leaning heavily on Scot, he staggered out of the garden.

‘Turn right,’ ordered Scot, closing the gate behind them.

‘We will run into Bristol’s servants if we go that way.’

‘I know what I am doing,’ said Scot impatiently. ‘And you are not well enough to–’

Chaloner did not feel like arguing. He took his own route, and was proven right, because moments later, a pack of retainers converged on the gate. They were hot, cross and disappointed, and would certainly have challenged two ‘drunks’ so close to their master’s home.

Scot shot him an apologetic grin. ‘It seems the apprentice has surpassed the master – either that, or I am losing my touch. Christ, my head aches! That will teach me to drink with a man who cannot afford a decent vintage.’

Thurloe was waiting in a carriage, which was cunningly concealed behind some trees in the expanse of open land known as Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The ex-Spymaster closed his eyes in relief when he saw Chaloner. Scot turned to leave, claiming he had pressing business, although Chaloner knew he was discreetly allowing him to report to Thurloe alone. He caught his friend’s arm.

‘You took a risk in coming to my aid.’

Scot was dismissive. ‘Hardly! And it was nothing compared to your rescue of me in Holland last year.’ He brandished the cup he had stolen. ‘Do you want this, or shall I toss it in the river?’

‘Send it anonymously to Lady Castlemaine. That should confuse everyone.’

Scot laughed, liking the notion of causing mischief. Then he saluted Thurloe and walked back towards the city.

‘I am sorry, Tom,’ said Thurloe, opening the door to the carriage and helping Chaloner inside. He peered anxiously into his face. ‘I would have come to save you myself, but Scot said he would be better at it – and he was right, of course. He is his father’s son for daring escapades.’

‘Who tried to poison you?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Prynne?’

‘Prynne?’ Thurloe was shocked. ‘He is a bigot, not a killer! I thought my elixirs were safe from meddlers, as I keep them locked in the pantry upstairs, but the tonic is definitely the culprit, because it is the only thing the cat managed to steal. The poor thing is terribly ill. Shall I take you to a surgeon?’

‘No, thank you!’ said Chaloner hastily. He handed over the letter he had retrieved from Bristol’s chest. It was written on the kind of cheap paper that was available to everyone, although the ink was an unusual shade of blue.

‘Look at the way he wrote Sarsfeild,’ said Thurloe thoughtfully. ‘His S may be a G, which would make it Thomas Garsfield – the alias you used in Ireland. I hope this was not aimed at you.’

Chaloner did not think so for a moment. ‘I am not sufficiently important.’

‘You hail from an old and distinguished family, and your forebears were eminent politicians and intellectuals. You are not as invisible as you seem to believe. Perhaps Sarsfeild had nothing to do with Webb’s murder, and an innocent man sits in Ludgate Gaol.’

‘We could ask him – check his alibi for the time of the murder, if he has one.’ Chaloner did not feel like making an assault on a prison that morning, but it would have to be done soon, because it was already Wednesday, and the executions were scheduled for three days’ time.

Thurloe tapped the letter with his forefinger. ‘Still, at least we know why Bristol was chosen as the recipient, and not Williamson. The writer dislikes spies – and Williamson hires them.’

‘Bristol has a spy called Willys, though,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘And Willys is one of the men cited in the letter.’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Perhaps the writer did not know that – perhaps he thinks Willys is a servant and no more. What do you think of the Earl’s cousin, Brodrick – other than his musical abilities?’

Chaloner was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘Other than those, not much. He does not do anything, except attend parties. I do not know why Clarendon places such faith in his abilities, when he never sees them used.’

‘That is probably what people say about you, but all the while you are working very hard at gathering intelligence and listening to idle chatter.’

Chaloner tried to understand what he was saying. ‘You think Brodrick is a spy?’

‘It is possible. Have you shared any sensitive information with him?’

‘I told him about a plan to have Clarendon blamed for the location of the King’s new bedchamber.’

‘Then you must question Clarendon immediately. If Brodrick has shared this information with him, then perhaps he is loyal. If he has not, then you might want to ask yourself why.’ Thurloe turned to the letter again. ‘Now we have yet another motive for Webb’s murder; this claims he was involved in the Castle Plot, but betrayed it to the government.’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Chaloner. ‘We had weeks to infiltrate the rebels and foil their plans.’

A second visit to Newgate could be postponed no longer, even though all Chaloner wanted to do was to lie down until his stomach stopped pitching. He did not think he had felt so unwell since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of Naseby – and then he had been expected to die.

‘You have not forged another pass for me, have you?’ he asked weakly.

‘There are many ways to gain access to prisons, and counterfeit letters is just one of them,’ replied Thurloe evenly. He handed Chaloner a very heavy purse. ‘Another is bribery.’

Leaving Thurloe outside, Chaloner used the ex-Spymaster’s money to secure an interview, although even the princely sums on offer bought him no more than five minutes in the condemned man’s company. He had borrowed Thurloe’s hat and coat, and smothered his face with a chalky powder the ex-Spymaster had thought to bring with him. A black eye-patch completed the disguise, which was crude by Chaloner’s standards, but hopefully good enough to ensure none of the guards would associate him with the man who had deceived them two days before.

‘You again,’ said Dillon, as Chaloner entered the visitors’ room. The prisoner sported his trademark hat, so his eyes and upper face were hidden. He looked sleek and contented, and his clothes were different to the ones he had worn last time. ‘Nice patch. Is it a disguise, or have you been fighting?’

‘Do you know Thomas Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I have already told you no,’ said Dillon. He stood. ‘Is that all? I am reading John Spencer’s book on the end of the world in the year sixty-six, and I want to know what to avoid when the time comes.’

‘Thurloe said you refused to tell him anything that might allow him to save you,’ said Chaloner, thinking Dillon was very certain about his longevity. He was not sure he would have been so complacent, had he been in the condemned man’s situation.

‘His interference is unnecessary and unwelcome. My master will save me when the time is right.’

‘Four men named in Bristol’s letter have already been pardoned and two allowed to disappear. If you were going to join their ranks, surely something would have happened by now?’

‘Why should you care what happens to me?’

‘I don’t,’ said Chaloner, thinking of Manning. ‘But Thurloe does, and I have agreed to help him. Who wrote this?’ He handed Dillon the letter he had stolen. ‘Do you recognise the writing?’

‘Ah – the famous accusation! I saw it at my trial, although I cannot imagine how you come to have it. However, I still do not know who wrote it, and I still do not recognise the writing. Next question.’

‘Was Webb involved in the Castle Plot? Did you kill him because he betrayed you, and so was the cause of the rebellion’s failure? I know you argued with him the day he died.’

Dillon raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been assiduous in your researches! Next question.’

‘You have not answered the ones I have already asked.’

‘And nor shall I. Leave this business alone, Heyden. I will not hang. My master has a sense of the dramatic, and I do not anticipate that the crowds at my execution will be disappointed.’

‘You expect to be rescued at the scaffold?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

Dillon winked, then demanded to be returned to his cell. Chaloner did not linger once he had gone, eager to be away from the reeking gaol. He climbed wearily into Thurloe’s carriage, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal level – the guard had taken rather too long to open the last gate.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Thurloe in alarm. ‘Is Dillon unwell? Dead, like Fanning?’

‘He is perfectly happy. I just hate prisons.’

‘Because of that business in France four years ago? Perhaps I should visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, although he was tempted. ‘It is too dangerous for you. I will do it.’

Ludgate was one of the portals that had once formed part of the city’s defensive walls. It had been rebuilt eighty years before, and its upper chambers had always been used as a prison for petty criminals and debtors. It was a long, functional building that lacked the formidable security associated with Newgate, and Chaloner was relieved to note it lacked Newgate’s stench, too. Inside, a second purse disappeared into the pockets of guards as Chaloner bought his way towards a convicted felon.

‘Newgate’s governor did not want to lose a second convict to gaol-fever before he can be strung up,’ chattered one particularly helpful – and impecunious warden – as they walked to Sarsfeild’s cell together. ‘The event has already been advertised, see, and folk are disappointed when they do not get what they are promised. Dillon is different, because he has money to buy a clean, safe cell, but Sarsfeild is poor and was at risk from infection.’

‘Have you heard any rumours about Fanning’s death?’

The warden held out his hand for another of Thurloe’s coins. ‘One guard said there was a cord around his neck when the body was found, but he is given to strong drink, and no one believed him. Unfortunately, he died the following night, so you cannot ask him yourself.’

‘He died?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘How?’

‘Hit by a cart when he left his favourite tavern. Strong drink, see. Never touch it myself. There was a whisper that Fanning was going to escape by plying us guards with poisoned wine, but we have not been fooled by that sort of thing since the Middle Ages. We are professionals, after all.’

Chaloner was conducted down a narrow corridor, which smelled of boiled cabbage, to a cell at the far end. It was a dismal hole, but at least it had a window that allowed relatively fresh air to blow in. Sarsfeild was a small man whose clothes had once been respectable. Now he was filthy, unshaven and frightened. When he came towards Chaloner, his face was streaked, as though he had been crying.

‘I will tell you anything,’ he said, tears flowing. ‘I will say anything, only please let me go. I did not kill Matthew Webb, or even know him. I am a confectioner – I deal in sugar and sweetmeats. I have no reason to stab anyone. There has been a terrible mistake.’

‘Sugar?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Where does it come from?’

‘Barbados, I believe.’

‘I mean which merchant sells you the raw materials for your trade?’

Sarsfeild’s face was a mask of despair. ‘All right, I admit I met Webb once or twice, because he sold the cheapest sugar, but I did not murder–’

‘Where do you live?’

‘The Strand; I have a shop in the New Exchange. I know how this looks – I bought sugar from Webb, and we are almost neighbours – but that is where our association ends. I did not kill him!’

Chaloner thought about Scot’s theory, reiterated by Thurloe: that a mistake had been made, and that the letter’s author had intended Chaloner’s name to be on the list. And so ‘Garsfield’, who had been active in thwarting the Castle Plot, was overlooked in favour of Sarsfeild the confectioner, because the man was an associate of Webb’s and lived nearby. Could it be true? The man in Ludgate had none of Dillon’s dash and swagger, and certainly was not expecting rescue.

‘The King himself has tasted my wares,’ Sarsfeild continued, when Chaloner made no comment. ‘If you tell His Majesty about my predicament, and ask for a royal pardon, I will keep you in sweetmeats for the rest of your life.’

‘I do not have that sort of authority, I am afraid. Where were you the night Webb was murdered?’

Sarsfeild looked relieved. ‘I keep telling people, but no one will listen: I went to see a play called The Humorous Lieutenant, then I went home with an actress called Beck Marshall who lives in Drury Lane. Please go to see her. She will tell you I was with her all night, so cannot have murdered Webb.’

‘I will do what I can. Did you hear what happened to Fanning?’

Sarsfeild gave a bitter smile. ‘Gaol-fever – it was why I was moved. The governor does not want the public to be cheated of their entertainment on Saturday.’