Blood on the Strand

Chapter 8

At the western end of the great expanse that was St Paul’s churchyard was a coffee house with a sign above it that identified it as the Turk’s Head. There were several places of refreshment in the city with that name, but the one in St Paul’s was famous because it was used by local booksellers to strike deals with their customers. Besides coffee, the Turk’s Head offered sherbets flavoured with roses or lemons, chocolate – a dark, bitter beverage endured only by truly dedicated followers of fashion – and stationery. For six shillings, a pound of East India ‘berries’ could be purchased, along with free instructions on how to produce the perfect dish of coffee. Thurloe bought some when he learned the East India type was said to be good for ‘griping pains in divers regions’.

‘Are you sure you do not want any sugar?’ asked the ex-Spymaster, as they took seats in a room so warm that its patrons’ clothes – wet from the morning’s drizzle – steamed furiously. ‘Coffee does not taste very nice without it. It does not taste very nice with it, either, but at least it is an improvement.’

‘Sarsfeild bought sugar from Webb,’ said Chaloner, thinking about what he had learned. ‘And they lived close to each other, although I imagine Sarsfeild’s home is rather less grand than Webb Hall. These two connections may have been enough to see him accused of a crime he did not commit. Alternatively, they may mean he had a motive to stab Webb, since most people seem to have been seized with the desire to stick a rapier in the fellow once they had made his acquaintance.’

‘Which do you think is true?’ asked Thurloe, sipping his coffee and wincing at the flavour.

‘I have no idea. The disparity between the two convicted men is puzzling. Dillon has everything he wants, and is convinced he will be saved in a dramatic gesture by his patron. Sarsfeild has no money to pay for his keep, and is certain he is going to die.’ Chaloner rubbed his head. He still felt sick, and the unsweetened coffee was not helping. ‘They do not seem like the kind of men to work together.’

‘So, you think the letter might have meant to accuse “Garsfield” after all?’

‘No – I only used that alias once, and that was in Dublin. Most of the rebels I met are either dead or in prison, and my fellow spies either know me as Heyden or by my real name.’

‘Let us review this logically. How many agents were involved in thwarting this rebellion?’

‘About two dozen that I know of. Some are still in Ireland, some have been sent to new assignments overseas, and the only ones currently in London are May, Eaffrey and Scot.’

‘But these three know you by more familiar names, so would not have used Garsfield anyway. What about Thomas Scot? Was he aware of your real identity?’

‘We have known each other since we were children, so yes, he knew.’

‘You were part of a covert operation that resulted in his imprisonment, the failure of his revolt, and the death or incarceration of his co-conspirators. Perhaps he wants revenge on you, and used your Garsfield identity to ensure the letter was not traced back to him.’

‘But his brother’s alias is in the letter, too,’ argued Chaloner. ‘And Thomas would never hurt his family. They have grown closer since their father’s execution, and he would never put Scot at risk.’

Thurloe was quiet for a long time, making patterns in the sludge at the bottom of his bowl with a pewter spoon. ‘I think you are right,’ he said eventually. ‘This letter did not refer to you. That leaves two possibilities. First, Sarsfeild’s name was included for spite – perhaps his confectionery made someone’s teeth fall out–’

‘Temple!’ exclaimed Chaloner.

Thurloe inclined his head. ‘And secondly, Sarsfeild is guilty of the murder, but is ready to say or do anything to escape the inevitable.’

They continued to discuss the letter, but found they could not agree on its meaning. Thurloe thought it proved that Webb had been part of the Castle Plot – had betrayed his co-conspirators and been killed for it – but refused to believe that Dillon had struck the fatal blow. Chaloner was unwilling to dismiss the possibility that linking Webb to the Castle Plot might just be someone’s way of trying to make sure the letter was taken seriously.

‘I should do as Sarsfeild suggested,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject when they started to go around in circles. ‘Speak to the actress Beck Marshall of Drury Lane, to see if he has a credible alibi.’

‘I could go with you,’ said Thurloe reluctantly, ‘although it is distasteful. I dislike the theatre and all it has come to represent: immorality, hedonism and vice.’

‘Prynne would be pleased to hear you say that. It is what he thinks.’

Thurloe smiled bleakly. ‘Yes, but, unlike him, I do not itch to burn them all to the ground with players and audience still inside.’

Beck Marshall was in bed when they knocked on the door of the house she shared with her sister. A servant went to rouse her, but it was a long time before she sauntered, semi-naked, into her front parlour. Her face bore the ravages of a wild evening, and her fashionable patches were sadly smudged, giving her a striped appearance. She reeked of wine, and Chaloner wondered whether he had looked as dissipated when he had arrived at Thurloe’s rooms that morning.

‘Sarsfeild,’ Beck mused. ‘Yes, I entertained him on the night The Humorous Lieutenant opened, because he brought me a box of sugared almonds. I still have some left. Would you like one?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Did Sarsfeild leave you at all that night, or did he stay with you the whole time?’

She shot him a leering smile that made him recoil in revulsion. ‘I cannot remember one man from another, to be frank, although you might prove to be the exception. Shall we find out?’

‘We shall not, madam,’ said Thurloe icily. ‘Now, please try to remember Sarsfeild, because his life may depend on it.’

‘Why is everything so desperately important these days?’ Beck asked in a bored voice. ‘I thought we were done with all that when the King ousted those miserable Puritans. All I want is some fun–’

‘Sarsfeild,’ prompted Thurloe curtly. ‘Did he stay all night with you?’

Beck pouted. ‘He probably did, because he will have wanted his money’s worth for the almonds, but I cannot recall for certain. Do you have any sweetmeats on offer, Mr Heyden? You look like a man who knows how to enjoy himself, even if your prudish friend–’

‘No, he does not,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘And you should wash your face, girl. You look like a tiger.’

Chaloner was laughing as they took their leave of Beck Marshall. Thurloe’s reaction to her had taken his mind of his roiling stomach, for which he was grateful, because he was beginning to feel better. The ex-Spymaster glared at him.

‘You were tempted by her,’ he said accusingly. ‘I could see you were seriously considering providing her with a gift in exchange for an hour of her company.’

Chaloner regarded him in amusement. ‘I have never paid a prostitute in my life.’

Thurloe was unimpressed. ‘That is an ambiguous answer, because it suggests you inveigle their services free of charge. But discussing your sinful past will take us nowhere. What did you think of Sarsfeild’s alibi? Can we believe he spent the night with that flighty child or not?’

‘Her testimony is inconclusive. Miss Marshall would say anything for the right price, but she honestly does not remember how long Sarsfeild stayed with her. Also, we cannot discount the possibility that she might have passed out from wine at some point, and awoke to find him next to her in the morning. Unfortunately for Sarsfeild, he chose the wrong woman to speak for him.’

‘I imagine he will be more careful next time.’

‘If there is a next time,’ said Chaloner soberly.

Thurloe insisted on taking Chaloner to White Hall in his carriage after they had left Drury Lane, even though it was in the opposite direction from Lincoln’s Inn.

‘Take my coat again,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Bristol might be there, and although you say he did not see your face, he certainly saw your clothes and that purple is distinctive. I am sure you have a spare cap. You usually do. And wipe that powder from your face. It makes you look like a Court debauchee – although perhaps it is not the chalk that is responsible. Even Brodrick would have been shocked by your rakish appearance this morning.’

‘Perhaps, but at least he would not have given me poison to drink,’ retorted Chaloner.

Thurloe winced. ‘I have said I am sorry – several times. Are you sure you are feeling better? Your temper does not seem to have improved. Perhaps you should go home.’

‘I would like to, but you told me to warn Lord Clarendon about Lady Castlemaine and the King’s new rooms, because you fear Brodrick cannot be trusted.’

‘Well, that is what he is paying you for,’ remarked Thurloe, a little acidly. ‘Meanwhile, I shall take Bristol’s letter to a handwriting expert I know, and see what he can tell me about it.’

Chaloner made his way towards White Hall’s main gate, stopping to state his business in the guard room, where he was immediately hauled into a private chamber by Colonel Holles.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed the soldier, peering into Chaloner’s face. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I drank something that disagreed with me. I am sure I would feel better if I could remove this damned splint, though. You would not believe how much it itches. Wiseman is a quack.’

Holles kicked his foot and looked oddly furtive. ‘He is not a quack,’ he said in a loud, artificial voice. ‘He is a good, honest fellow. A veritable Hypocrites.’

Chaloner snorted his disdain. ‘Lisle does not think so. I have tried at least three times to hack this thing off, but it has set like a rock. Wiseman must have used too much glue.’

‘The amount of glue I used was precisely what that was needed,’ came Wiseman’s haughty voice from the adjoining chamber, where he had been binding a soldier’s bruised ankle. He looked larger than ever that day, because the room was small and his bulk took up more than his share of it. Holles gave him an embarrassed grin before shooting out on the pretext of interviewing a band of acrobats.

‘Then why is it so hard?’ demanded Chaloner, not intimidated by the surgeon’s vast red presence.

‘Because I made it hard,’ replied Wiseman. ‘What has Lisle been saying about me?’

Chaloner was sure Wiseman would not approve of his colleague’s intentions for Saturday, and was not going to risk a confrontation between the two surgeons that would result in neither removing the splint. He procrastinated. ‘He said you have a reputation for innovation.’

Wiseman knew he was being fobbed off with an answer that meant nothing. He grabbed Chaloner’s hand and his jaw dropped when he inspected his handiwork. ‘God in heaven! What have you been doing? Climbing trees?’

Chaloner hoped the surgeon would not associate him with the ‘thief ’ who had escaped Chyrurgeons’ Hall by scaling its protective walls. ‘Nothing I would not normally have done,’ he replied coolly.

‘Well, what you “normally do” does not seem to suit your humours,’ said Wiseman caustically. ‘Have you been drinking?’

Chaloner objected to the man’s accusatory tone. ‘Yes – a tonic containing Venice Treacle.’

Wiseman frowned. ‘Venice Treacle should not have harmed you. However, I know the lingering effects of wine when I see them. My advice to you is to drink plenty of watered ale, to wash them out.’

‘I would feel better without this splint. It is hot and it rubs. It is time you removed it, and–’

Wiseman sighed impatiently. ‘It is not time. Look, I know what I am doing, Heyden, because I am the best surgeon in London. In fact,’ he said as he walked away, ‘I am a genius.’

Chaloner was tempted to see whether he would feel quite so full of hubris with a splint cracked across his pate. He was not usually given to violent urges, but it had not been a good morning, and although he felt better than when he had been burgling Bristol’s home, the combined effects of too much wine and whatever Thurloe had fed him lingered on. He was stalking across the Pebble Court when someone tried to collide with him. Even preoccupied with the state of his health, his instincts did not let him down. He jigged automatically to one side, and May staggered into thin air.

‘Watch where you are going!’ May snarled, trying to regain his balance. His latest hairpiece – a pale-ginger periwig – slipped to one side, then tumbled to the ground, revealing his shiny head.

‘I was,’ retorted Chaloner tartly. ‘Fortunately for you.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded May, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

‘Threatening you with what?’ asked Chaloner, all the frustrations of the morning suddenly boiling up in a spurt of hot temper. The dagger dropped from his sleeve into the palm of his hand. ‘Ridicule, for losing the body of the man you shot?’

May glowered at him. ‘If I find out you were responsible for that, I will kill you.’

‘You can try,’ said Chaloner contemptuously. ‘Of course, mislaying corpses is not the only stupid thing you have done recently. The letter you sent Bristol, which might see innocent men hanged, will be investigated and I shall see its culprit brought to justice.’

May gazed at him, anger forgotten in the face of his astonishment. ‘You think I wrote that? But my alias – Burne – was among the accused. If I had been the author, I would have left it off.’

‘You included yourself deliberately, to allay suspicion.’

May stepped back. ‘You are clearly unwell or you would not be making such wild accusations. I do not fight sick men, and you look terrible.’

‘Then talk to me instead.’ As quickly as it had flared, Chaloner’s rage subsided, and he knew he was lucky May had declined to react to his inflammatory remarks. The King had forbidden brawling among courtiers, and while a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber might escape with a reprimand, matters would be a lot more serious for an ex-Cromwellian spy. He replaced the knife surreptitiously, masking what he was doing by leaning down to retrieve May’s wig. ‘Who sent the note?’

‘I have no idea. It saw me accused of murder, too, but I spent no more than an hour in Newgate before my pardon arrived. Williamson does not allow his best men to rot in prisons.’ When May reached out to snatch the hairpiece away from Chaloner, his fingers brushed the splint, and he grabbed it before the spy could stop him. ‘I knew there was something wrong with you. What happened?’

Chaloner chose not to answer. ‘I do not suppose it was you who was going to rescue Fanning by sending his Newgate guards a barrel of poisoned wine, was it?’ He had no reason for asking, other than that it had been an idiotic notion and May was an idiotic man.

May’s expression was haughty. ‘Hardly “poisoned” – just treated with a soporific. How do you know? Fanning swore he would tell no one but Dillon – to ask whether he wanted saving, too.’

‘And did he?’

May shook his head as he replaced his wig. ‘He said he preferred to wait for his patron to do it. Still, my efforts were not needed in the end, because Fanning died of gaol-fever before I could act.’

‘Why were you willing to help him escape? Was he one of Williamson’s men?’

May’s expression was disdainful. ‘Your wits are slow today, Heyden. Of course he was not one of Williamson’s men – if he had been, he would have been pardoned with the rest of us. However, he once helped me in an embarrassing matter pertaining to a lady, and I wanted to pay a debt due.’

Chaloner wondered whether Fanning might still be alive, were it not for May’s ill-conceived and not-very-secret rescue. ‘Apparently, guards have not been fooled by drugged wine for centuries.’

‘So they say, but it has never failed me yet, and the best tricks are always the old ones. Remember that, Heyden. It may save your life some day – if you live that long. Incidentally, I heard your earl hid his whore’s petticoats under his pillow the other day, then tried to burn the evidence.’

Chaloner laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Anyone with even the smallest smattering of intelligence will know that he would never betray his marriage vows. You will have to do better than that, if you want to drag him into the mire with you.’

May regarded him with dislike. ‘I shall see that as a challenge issued.’

The Stone Gallery was a long chamber with portraits of venerable old Royalists lining one wall, and windows that flooded them with light on the other. Nobles and government ministers gathered there, and it was said that more state decisions were made in the Stone Gallery than in meetings of the privy council. The Lord Chancellor grabbed Chaloner’s arm and led the way to his offices; the hallway was also a place for eavesdropping and gossip, and not somewhere to receive briefings from spies.

He was bemused when Chaloner told him about Bristol’s plan to see him in trouble with Lady Castlemaine, because Brodrick had already given him the details, and they had discussed the matter at length. Lord Clarendon had then raised the matter with the King, who was highly entertained by the situation, but promised to inform ‘the Lady’ that the idea to move apartments had been his own idea, and nothing to do with his Lord Chancellor. The crisis had already been averted.

The Earl was so absolutely certain of Brodrick’s loyalty that Chaloner wondered whether Thurloe was right to question him, especially when the man in question arrived with yet more information about Bristol’s schemes, and had obviously spent the morning working on his kinsman’s behalf. He had learned that the remnants of the incinerated petticoats had been interpreted as firm evidence that Clarendon kept a mistress, and rumours were already rife as to her identity.

‘But it is all false!’ cried the Earl, appalled. ‘How could Bristol say such things about me? I much prefer the company of dogs to loose women.’

Brodrick struggled not to smirk. ‘You had better not tell him that, cousin, or he will be telling everyone to lock up their spaniels as well as their daughters.’ He cocked his head at a knock on the door. ‘That will be Lisle. I asked him to come and see me about a Private Anatomy, which are all the rage these days. I am tempted to ask my consort to play a little chamber music to accompany the dissection. What do you think, Heyden?’

‘The sound of saws ripping through entrails might drown out the quieter movements,’ said Chaloner, thinking such a perverted notion could only have come from a man with too much time on his hands and too great a devotion to increasingly bizarre forms of recreation. He started to withdraw, intending to go home and drink watered ale, but was stopped by Lisle, who peered at him in concern.

‘You look unwell,’ he said. ‘It must be the toxic compounds percolating through the skin of your arm from Wiseman’s glue.’

‘An excess of wine can make a man feel seedy, too,’ said Brodrick wryly, clearly speaking from experience.

‘Actually, it was poison,’ said Chaloner, declining to admit to drunkenness in front of the Lord Chancellor. ‘It was intended for someone else and I took it by mistake.’

‘Poison?’ echoed Clarendon, horrified. ‘It was not meant for me, was it?’

‘What kind of poison?’ asked Lisle. ‘I hope it was nothing containing Goddard’s Drops. They are the latest tonic of choice among the fashionable, but Wiseman has learned that you only have to double the recommended dose for them to be fatal.’

‘How did he discover that?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He has patients,’ said Lisle darkly. ‘Did this potion taste of silk? Volatile oil of silk is just one of the dangerous ingredients included in Goddard’s Drops. I wish he had made his fortune by marketing a more benign compound, personally.’

‘Bristol is next to that statue of Mars with a bucket of paint,’ said Brodrick, bored with the discussion, so looking out of the window into the garden below. He started to laugh. ‘He is giving him a blond wig like … ah.’ He stopped sniggering and looked uncomfortably at his cousin’s fair curls.

Clarendon shot from the room, Brodrick at his heels, so Chaloner and Lisle left the Lord Chancellor’s offices, and began to walk across the Palace Court towards the gate. It was busy, because the King was showing off one of his new chronometers; Chaloner noticed Surgeon Wiseman among the throng that had gathered to make polite comments about it.

‘You must come to see me on Saturday,’ said Lisle urgently, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear. ‘I could not mention it in front of your earl, because he and Wiseman are friends, and I do not want trouble. In fact, I would appreciate it if you said nothing to anyone about our appointment – keep it between the two of us.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Because it would be seen as “patient poaching”, which could see me expelled from my Company. However, I dislike seeing people suffer, which is why I work among the poor each Friday. Wiseman has made a terrible mistake with his splint, and I feel duty-bound to rectify it.’

‘Then take it off now,’ said Chaloner. ‘There must be suitable tools somewhere in White Hall.’

Lisle smiled kindly. ‘It is a little more complicated than plying a saw, and I have already told you it needs time to degrade before we can tamper. Do not be too hopeful about the outcome, though – and be warned that you may have to take up something that requires less manual dexterity than the viol. Singing, perhaps. Damn! Wiseman is coming to talk to us, so we shall say no more about our private arrangement. Agreed?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ground snails with a minced earthworm is something I always recommend for fevers,’ said Lisle as Wiseman approached, speaking as though they were in the middle of an in-depth conversation. ‘It is quite palatable when sweetened with sugar.’

‘I decline to recommend sugar to my patients,’ said Wiseman immediately, making Chaloner itch to point out that invading other people’s discussions without invitation was unmannerly. ‘It is the commodity that makes slavery a necessity, and slavery is an abomination in the eyes of God.’

‘Webb made his fortune transporting sugar from the slave plantations,’ said Chaloner innocently.

Wiseman’s expression was cold. ‘Exactly. He had his just deserts when he was cut down in the gutters of The Strand like an animal. Crime begets crime, and his was unforgivable.’

‘How long had you known him?’ asked Chaloner guilelessly.

Wiseman looked mystified. ‘Why?’

‘Because you puzzled a friend of mine. He heard you arguing with Webb in a coffee house around Christmas time, but when you joined his group of learned companions in a tavern last month – a few hours before the Guinea Company dinner – you denied knowing the man.’

Wiseman sighed, aware that Lisle was regarding him with an expression of dismay. ‘All right, I admit I may have been less than honest. But Robert Hooke was among that particular gathering, and he is vehemently opposed to slavery. As I would like to be elected to the Royal Society, and Hooke is its Curator, I decided to disclaim any prior dealing with Webb. Webb damaged me enough with his spiteful allegations, and I did not want him ruining my chances of joining the Royal Society, too.’

‘Did you go to the dinner, Wiseman?’ asked Lisle. ‘I know we were all invited, but I cannot recall who said he was going. No, wait! I saw you dressed in your best scarlet robes before I left Chyrurgeons’ Hall – I offered you a ride in my carriage, if you recall.’

‘And I declined, because I had business at the hospital to attend,’ replied Wiseman smoothly. ‘It transpired to be more complex than I thought, and I was obliged to miss the feast. I believe I told you as much the following day.’

‘So you did,’ said Lisle. ‘Meanwhile, I had no more reached the doors of African House before I was called away to tend the Lord Chancellor’s gout. We were both prevented from enjoying ourselves.’

However, Chaloner knew that at least one surgeon had been present, because an expert had tended Temple’s broken pate. He believed Lisle, because he had told the same story before, but there was something about Wiseman’s reply that set alarm bells ringing. The man had lied about knowing Webb, so what was to say he was telling the truth about missing the Guinea Company dinner? Had he objected so strongly to Webb’s slave investments that he had been driven to dispatch the man? The rapier had entered Webb’s heart, after all, and an anatomist might well strike with such neat precision.

Or had it been Johnson who had physicked Temple? Chaloner might have assumed so, were it not for the incident with the surgeon’s parrot-savaged finger. Johnson had odd ideas about healing, and Chaloner could not shake the conviction that if he had done the honours, then he would have devised a treatment so bizarre that it would have been gossiped about afterwards. Of course, there was always the possibility that he was wrong, and that Johnson had been in an orthodox frame of mind that night.

‘Webb was unpopular with everyone,’ elaborated Lisle hastily, seeming to sense that Wiseman’s answers were leading Chaloner to consider him a suspect for foul play. ‘He accused me of overcharging for a phlebotomy, then he bribed the courts to secure himself a favourable verdict. And he was threatening to sue the Company for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’

‘You were at White Hall when Webb was murdered, Master Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, eager to eliminate at least one man from his lengthy list of potential culprits. ‘You came here to tend the Earl?’

Lisle shook his head. ‘I was at Worcester House – his home. I arrived at six o’clock, and remained with him most of the night. He slept eventually, but I did not want to leave until I was sure the attack had passed. Gout is very painful.’

Chaloner nodded, disappointed. If the Earl had been asleep, then it meant he could not vouch for his surgeon, and Worcester House was next door to the place where Webb had been killed. Thus none of Chaloner’s suspects from Chyrurgeons’ Hall could be eliminated. However, some of their names could be underscored. After all, why would anyone lie, unless to mask guilt?

On his way home, Chaloner stopped off at the Golden Lion, and swallowed as much watered ale as he could manage. He was tired after two nights of poor sleep, and when he reached his rooms, he lay on his bed with the intention of dozing for ten minutes before returning to White Hall in a new disguise. He woke only when the bells were chiming six o’clock.

He felt better than he had done in days, and supposed Wiseman had known what he was talking about with regard to the poison. He was just shaving with his sharpest dagger when a messenger arrived with an invitation to dine with Eaffrey and Behn in an hour. It was an odd time to eat – most people did it in the middle of the day – but Eaffrey had never allowed herself to be constrained by convention. He was tempted to decline, because an evening with the belligerent Brandenburger held scant appeal, but he supposed it was Eaffrey’s way of making peace after their quarrel, and he did not want to reject the hand of friendship. He donned his best clothes and set out for Behn’s home.

Leather Lane, part of the rapidly expanding area known as Hatton Garden, lay near the edge of the sprawling metropolis, north of Holborn. It was a pleasantly affluent part of the city, with spacious houses and well-tended gardens, and was named after Hatton House, a rambling Elizabethan ruin that was fighting a losing battle with nettles and ground elder. The Fleet river lay not far away, but the wind was from the west, so blew away the fumes from the slaughterhouses, tanneries and sundry other reeking industries that plied their trades along its foetid banks.

Chaloner knocked at Behn’s door, and was admitted by a liveried servant. When he was shown into the dining room, the merchant greeted him coolly, suggesting the invitation had not been his idea. Chaloner was bracing himself for a trying evening when a Frenchman wearing an outrageous outfit of orange silk burst in, all fluttering fans and heavily accented English. It took a moment for Chaloner to recognise Scot’s pale eyes under all the make-up, but he was pleased: the gathering would not be tedious at all if Scot was in one of his flamboyant moods.

The table was set for nine people: Eaffrey and Behn sat at either end, and between were their guests. In the seat of honour was Brodrick. Next to him was a pair of giggling adolescent girls. Chaloner had been listening to Scot furtively whispering his latest discovery – that Fanning was suspected of smuggling guns to the Irish rebels – and had missed Eaffrey’s introduction, but it did not matter, since neither child said a word to him all evening, and each time he tried to talk to them, their response was to dissolve into paroxysms of helpless laughter.

‘Is there something wrong with them?’ he asked Scot in an undertone.

‘They were invited so Eaffrey would not be surrounded by too many men. Personally, I think she is being overly prudish. She should dispense with the wool-heads and invite a couple of fellows from the Royal Society instead. They know how to entertain a man after dinner.’

‘Who are the last two guests?’ Just then, the door opened and they were ushered in. ‘Oh, no!’

It was Alice, clinging proprietarily to the arm of Richard Temple. She wore the yellow skirts she had donned for the ball, and he was resplendent in a suit of blue satin, complemented by a highly laced pink shirt. Alice’s expression darkened when she spotted Chaloner.

‘Lord!’ groaned Scot. ‘Eaffrey should have warned me. Now you two will squabble all night, and when I am not trying to keep the peace, I shall be forced to smile and nod at the snake who wants my sister for her money. Eaffrey will be cross if I spoil her party by being rude to the fellow.’

‘I would not have accepted this invitation had I known you were going to be here,’ said Alice, coming to speak to Chaloner when Temple and Brodrick began a barbed conversation in which there was no room for anyone else – the spy and Scot’s prickly sister were not the only ones at the party who disliked each other.

‘Please, Alice,’ said Scot quietly. ‘He is my friend.’

‘William!’ cried Alice in delight when she recognised her brother. She coloured furiously at the careless slip and lowered her voice. ‘Your disguise certainly fooled me! Who are you meant to be?’

‘A Parisian perfume-maker. It is a ruse to insinuate myself into Brodrick’s company – he has the ears of powerful men, and I want to talk to him about Thomas’s release. That is mostly why Eaffrey arranged this little gathering, along with the fact that she wants to give Chaloner another chance to befriend Behn. I suppose Behn must have insisted on asking Temple – to prove he has friends, too.’

‘Richard plans to nominate him as the next Master of the Guinea Company,’ explained Alice. ‘They are becoming firm allies, and will probably discuss business all night. Lord! I hope that does not leave me talking to Chaloner.’

‘Please do not argue this evening,’ begged Scot of them both. ‘I cannot work on Brodrick if he is more interested in listening to you two snipe at each other. And I would be grateful if you did not betray Chaloner, either, Alice. No one here knows his real name, and I want it to stay that way.’

‘Why?’ demanded Alice. ‘Is he ashamed of his Parliamentarian connections, then?’

‘Because he is going to ask Lord Clarendon to help Thomas,’ replied Scot, knowing her weak spot. ‘If you expose him, you deprive our brother of a possible means of escape.’

‘I suppose it is only for a few hours,’ said Alice begrudgingly. ‘And he did tell you about the Trulocke guns.’

Scot nodded. ‘Williamson now knows Thomas is innocent of buying illegal firearms, and if he is convinced, he will persuade others, too. Thomas’s situation is looking decidedly more promising.’

‘What are you three muttering about?’ asked Temple. Eaffrey had provided sweetmeats to hone the appetite before the meal, and they contained nuts, which Temple’s gums could not accommodate. He spat them politely into his handkerchief, then shook the linen out so they pattered to the floor.

‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed Scot, fluttering his fan. He flicked Temple’s collar with it. ‘I see you have trouble with the laundry, too. They will wash the red with the white, and we shall all wear pink if they cannot be taught otherwise.’

Temple’s eyes narrowed. ‘It is supposed to be this colour. It is the fashion.’

Scot winked at him. ‘Of course, monsieur. That is what I shall say, too. We shall not allow these laundresses to defeat us, n’est-ce pas? I hear you are kin to Sir John Temple of the privy council. You are honoured to have such a man in your family. I have long admired his horses.’

Temple nodded keenly, insults forgotten. ‘I like horses myself. If you come to Hyde Park tomorrow, I shall introduce you to John, and you shall see the best of his collection.’

‘Good,’ murmured Alice in Scot’s ear. ‘John Temple is a powerful voice on the privy council, and may be able to help secure our brother’s release. I should have thought of it myself.’

‘Yes, you should,’ Scot muttered back, a little unpleasantly.

Temple was ready to embark on a detailed discussion about horses, but Brodrick had picked up a candelabra, and was casually admiring it. Instinctively, Temple’s hand went to the pate that had been dented when Clarendon’s cousin had last laid hold of such an implement.

‘I understand you were obliged to call on the services of a surgeon at the Guinea Company dinner, Temple,’ said Chaloner, immediately seeing a way to further his investigation.

Brodrick laughed derisively. ‘He remembers nothing about it – although the wine was responsible for that, not the candlestick. A surgeon was summoned, although none of us recall which one.’

Temple glared. ‘And if the fellow was as drunk as you were that night, then I am lucky he did not saw off my head.’

The company was about to sit down to eat when the door opened yet again, and everyone was startled when Silence Webb glided in. She was clad in a black gown to which had been attached a chaos of white ostrich feathers; Chaloner’s immediate thought was that they made her look like an oversized magpie. Her plump fingers were encrusted with rings, and there were so many necklaces under her chins that she glittered as she breathed.

‘Mrs Webb,’ stammered Behn. ‘We were not expecting you.’

‘I heard you were planning a soirée,’ said Silence with a leer. ‘And when you came to console me for the death of my Matthew, you were kind enough to say that I could visit you at any time. I am sure you have room for a little one at your dinner table.’

‘Of course you must join us,’ said Eaffrey graciously, moving forward to take Silence’s arm. It took a lot more than an uninvited guest to disconcert her. ‘Please come and sit down. We shall make space for you between this handsome French perfumer and–’

‘No, thank you!’ said Silence, regarding Scot with deep suspicion. ‘I do not like the look of him at all. I shall sit between Mr Behn and Lord Clarendon’s aide. Mr Heyden and I are old friends. I knew his kinsman, old Thomas Chaloner, you see.’

‘Chaloner?’ pounced Behn. ‘You mean the regicide? Heyden is kin to him?’

‘He is not,’ said Eaffrey firmly. ‘Although Silence is not the first to notice the uncanny resemblance. Mr Heyden is a mercantile clerk from Manchester, in London to make his fortune by working in White Hall.’

Silence sighed, disappointed. ‘Pity. Old Chaloner was such an amusing man. He was always playing jokes and could put away more wine than my Matthew, which is saying something! But I shall still sit next to Mr Heyden, anyway. He will welcome the opportunity to get to know me better.’

‘Will he?’ asked Eaffrey, while Chaloner tried, by covert signals and desperate glances, to tell her he would not. ‘Then I shall arrange for your place to be set at his side.’

‘Well, come on, then,’ said Silence, plumping herself down and producing a large spoon from the front of her robe. ‘Grab a seat and let us be at the food before it gets cold. I could eat a horse.’

‘I am sure she could,’ murmured Scot to Chaloner, as they took their designated seats. ‘So make sure she does not eat you, too.’

Silence’s rearrangements meant Chaloner was sandwiched between her and Alice, and he resigned himself to a long evening. In proper London fashion, the meal was served in two courses. The first consisted of roasted beef, boiled carp, venison and a dish of sweet potatoes that no one ate. The second comprised pork, tench served with lemons, steamed chicken and two fruit pies. Following the French way, knives and two-pronged forks were provided, although a finger-bowl was required for Silence, who had not been taught how to manipulate a fork, and so was obliged to use her hands.

She rested a hot, heavy palm on Chaloner’s knee, which attracted a scowl from Behn, who sat on her other side. ‘Has Lord Clarendon said anything else about my husband’s murder?’ she asked.

‘I am afraid not, ma’am,’ said Chaloner, moving his chair away from her. He bumped into Alice, who pushed him back more forcefully than was necessary or polite. He glanced at Scot, expecting him to say something, but the older man was talking to Brodrick, clearly intent on making his brother’s case before the courtier became too inebriated for sensible conversation.

‘Mr Behn tells me Dillon is certainly the man who struck the fatal blow,’ Silence continued in a whisper. ‘Him and the other two – except that one has escaped justice by dying of fever. I still believe they were under orders from someone else, although I shall enjoy seeing them die anyway. Will you attend the hangings, Mr Heyden?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner shortly, trying to make himself as small as possible, so he could maintain his distance from Silence without invading the space claimed by Alice.

‘I enjoy hangings, as long as the weather is fine,’ Silence went on. ‘Will you accompany me on Saturday? I would appreciate an escort, and you cannot refuse a recent widow.’

‘I will accompany you,’ said Behn, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. Chaloner glanced at Eaffrey, but her attention was occupied by the chortling teenagers. ‘I am always ready to be of service.’

Silence shot the merchant a smouldering look. ‘You are a true gentleman, sir.’

‘I am not surprised you want to make sure the villains are hanged, Behn,’ said Temple conversationally. ‘You did a lot of business with their victim, I understand.’

‘Yes, Webb was a dear friend,’ agreed Behn.

‘Oh, silly!’ said Silence, thumping him playfully. ‘You know he was not! In fact, he would not approve of me sitting here with you at all, but he is dead, and so not in a position to do much about it.’

Behn looked decidedly shifty. ‘We were close companions, Sil– Mrs Webb. You know we were. We occasionally pretended to be enemies, but that was just to flush out common foes.’

‘You challenged him to a duel,’ countered Silence. Her expression became disconcertingly simpering. ‘I believe it was over me, because he thought you entertained a fancy for his little Silence. Of course, he made sure he was out of London on the relevant morning, and sent you a letter–’

Behn laughed uneasily. ‘A joke, Mrs Webb. Just two merchants amusing themselves.’

Chaloner regarded him thoughtfully, recalling the discussion Temperance had overheard: Behn and Webb had quarrelled, and Behn had left the Guinea Company dinner early. Was Behn the killer? He watched with interest as, desperate to deflect attention from himself, Behn turned on the startled Temple.

‘You were not Webb’s friend, though – you signed a deed at the Guinea Company dinner that would have ruined you. I heard him tell you so after you had put pen to paper – when it was too late to withdraw from the agreement.’

‘I am not a novice in business,’ objected Temple indignantly. ‘I knew what I was doing, and he was mistaken about the outcome of that particular arrangement. It would have made me wealthy, and I was deeply sorry that his death rendered our contract null and void.’

‘Well, there you are, Chaloner,’ murmured Scot a little later, when people were taking the opportunity to stretch their legs by walking around the table. ‘Two more suspects for Webb’s murder: Behn, whose “friendship” may not have been all he declared, and Temple, who had been beguiled into signing something that might have seen him destitute.’

‘You were at that Guinea Company dinner, William,’ said Eaffrey, pausing for a moment with a sniggering girl on either side of her. ‘Did you see Temple almost sign away his fortune? I thought he had more sense than to put his name to deeds without considering their repercussions, and you must ask yourself whether you want him managing Alice’s money.’

‘I did see Webb and Temple together, but I slipped away too early to see how their discussion concluded. Webb must have produced these writs later, when Temple was befuddled with wine.’

‘You left early?’ asked Chaloner, when Eaffrey had gone. ‘I thought you said you spent the evening holding forth about plants.’

‘I did not say I left early – I said I slipped away too early to know what happened,’ corrected Scot pedantically.‘I was enjoying my botanical debate, but even trees could not distract me from the lice in Terrell’s hair-piece, and after a while, I simply had to go. I should have returned it to the wig-maker, but Williamson wanted me in place quickly and there was no time. I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to throwing this whole business to the wind and never adopting a disguise again.’

‘Not even when Peter Terrell presents his botanical researches to the Royal Society?’

Scot smiled. ‘I will be in Surinam. Someone will read my dissertations to the learned gathering.’

‘I visited your husband’s tomb in St Paul’s,’ said Chaloner to Silence, when everyone had reclaimed his seat, and the footmen were concluding the meal by serving a syllabub – a dish popular at Court, because the King claimed it refreshed the mouth after riding and love-making. ‘Clarendon sent me.’

‘How kind,’ said Silence, leaning across him to claim more dessert. ‘They could not fit him in the crypt, so they slipped him in with a bishop instead. He would not have minded; he liked bishops.’

‘He did not,’ stated Brodrick, overhearing and so preventing Chaloner from probing Silence to see if she was aware that Webb was not interred at all. ‘He detested the lot of them. I can see why: they are worse than Puritans for prim morals.’

‘I like a little fun myself,’ said Temple amiably, taking more wine. ‘And the latest fashionable way to do it is to purchase a Private Anatomy from the barber-surgeons. Has anyone– Ouch!’

He gaped at Alice, who had apparently kicked him under the table. Then gradually, it dawned on him that the one he had commissioned had involved the husband of the woman who sat opposite him. He had the grace to look disconcerted, although Silence did not appear to notice what was going on.

‘I have never attended such an event,’ she said. ‘Matthew tried to buy one, but the barber-surgeons fobbed him off with some tale about a leaking roof. Can you specify which corpse you want? I would be very interested in seeing inside a Dutchman, because their innards are made of cheese.’

‘We shall be at war with Holland soon,’ remarked Eaffrey, trying to raise the discussion to a more intelligent level. ‘Especially if the Guinea Company tries to poach its slaving monopoly.’

‘Good,’ said Temple, rubbing his hands. ‘We shall show the cheese-eaters a thing or two,’

‘War with the Dutch should be avoided at all costs,’ argued Chaloner. ‘They have bigger and better ships, a navy in which its sailors are paid, and their weaponry is superior to ours. We would be foolish to take them on in open battle.’

‘That is an unpatriotic statement,’ declared Alice. ‘Are you a traitor, then, who believes England is inferior to other nations?’

‘In some respects we are,’ said Chaloner, aware of Scot glaring at her across the table. ‘And to claim otherwise would be to do Britain a disservice. We cannot win against the Dutch at sea.’

‘Speaking of Dutch matters, did you hear that upholsterer is mortally ill?’ asked Temple. ‘If he dies, Bristol says it will be murder, because Clarendon struck the old fellow when he was defenceless.’

Brodrick made a disgusted sound. ‘Vanders is not dying. I saw him today, in perfect health.’

‘Pity,’ said Temple. ‘I would like to see Clarendon swing for murder. He is a tedious bore, and–’

‘He is my kinsman, sir,’ interrupted Brodrick icily. ‘And I suffer no man to insult him.’

‘I am sure no harm was meant,’ said Eaffrey quickly. ‘And we should not let the quarrel between Bristol and Clarendon spoil our evening. Let us talk about something more pleasant.’

Behn accepted the challenge. ‘Would you like to invest in my new ship, Temple? It will carry some very valuable cargoes, and you look like a man who is not afraid to be bold in the mercantile world.’

‘New ship?’ asked Chaloner.

‘It was Matthew’s,’ explained Silence. ‘It was doing no one any good sitting in a harbour with its holds empty, so Mr Behn and I made an agreement.’

‘And what will this vessel carry?’ asked Chaloner coldly. ‘Sugar again?’

‘Slaves,’ replied Behn, startling the spy with his bald honesty. ‘That is why anyone who invests with me will be rich. There is a good market for slaves in Barbados and Jamaica, and there is plenty of money for those willing to take a few risks. Do you have any spare income you want to invest?’

‘Not for that purpose,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘And nor does any decent man.’

‘This is not suitable dinner conversation, either, messieurs,’ said Scot, seeing Eaffrey look stricken. ‘Have I told you about Bristol’s oignon gardens? He has acres devoted to the plants, and walks among them, savouring their scent.’

‘That is a lie – one put about by Clarendon,’ said Temple immediately. He cut across Brodrick’s indignant response and addressed the Brandenburger. ‘You can put me down for a few hundred, Behn. I never let a good business opportunity slip past.’

‘Blood money,’ said Chaloner, disgusted. He saw the hurt expression on Eaffrey’s face and saw he should keep quiet if he did not want to spoil her party.

‘Brodrick?’ asked Behn, fetching ink, pen and paper from a nearby cabinet. ‘How about you? Do you have womanish principles, or are you a man?’

‘I am not sure–’ began Brodrick uneasily. It was common knowledge that he had no money of his own, which was why he clung so firmly to his cousin’s coattails.

‘I shall invest with you, Mr Behn,’ said Alice, shooting Chaloner a spiteful glance. ‘I am not afraid to speculate in the world of commerce, and my Richard tells me it pays to be bold.’

The evening wore on. Silence held forth about music in a way that told Chaloner she was entirely ignorant on the subject, and he found the best thing to do was nod and smile but not listen. He caught Scot’s eye and the bleak expression on his old friend’s face told him he was not having much success with furthering brother Thomas’s cause, either. The meal came to a merciful end when Silence went face-down in her finger bowl. Chaloner rescued her from an ignominious death, although Brodrick suggested leaving her to drown. The spy struggled to lift her enormous weight, but Behn was the only one who bothered to help him.

‘Is her carriage outside?’ Chaloner asked, adding without enthusiasm, ‘I will escort her home.’

‘So you can seduce her, I imagine,’ said Alice unpleasantly.

‘Yes, I doubt I will be able to resist,’ he replied acidly. ‘So you had better take her instead.’

Her expression was murderous when she saw she had been outmanoeuvred, and she continued to glare as Chaloner and Behn levered Silence into her coach. Temple declined to accompany them on the basis that it would be improper for him to witness a woman’s indignity, and Brodrick was on his horse and out of Behn’s stable with a haste that was only just decent. Chaloner stepped into the shadows with a sigh of relief, grateful the evening was over, and determined to stay out of sight until everyone had gone – when he would emerge and lie to Eaffrey about how pleasant it had been.

While he waited for the teenagers – drowsy with the lateness of the hour and the wine they had consumed – to be packed into a cart and dispatched home, he breathed in deeply of the blossom-scented air. The stars were very bright, and, as he gazed up at them, he was reminded of the velvety darkness of a summer night at his family’s manor in Buckinghamshire. He experienced a sharp desire to see his brothers and sisters again, to walk in their woods and meadows, and supposed tiredness was making him maudlin.

Scot, Eaffrey and Behn lingered in the yard after the girls had gone, also enjoying the freshness of the evening. When Scot bowed to his hosts and took his leave, Chaloner decided it might be better to write his thanks to Eaffrey the following day, instead of waiting to give them in person. He did not want another encounter with Behn. Then Eaffrey kissed her lover’s cheek, whispering something that made him laugh. Behn tugged her hand in a way that suggested he was ready for bed, but she pulled away, indicating she wanted more time to clear her head. Before Chaloner could emerge from the shadows to speak to her alone, someone else approached. It was Scot.

‘What happened to Chaloner?’ he asked, peering into the house to make sure the Brandenburger had gone. ‘It is unlike him to leave without saying goodbye.’

‘I do not blame him. Sitting between Alice and Silence all night cannot have been pleasant. I know she is your sister, William, but even you must admit that Alice is not an easy lady. I wish he had not disappeared quite so soon, though. There is something I need to tell him about Webb.’ Eaffrey chuckled. ‘Silence has such gall that I am filled with admiration for her. Even I would have baulked at inflicting myself on such a gathering – and I am paid to do that kind of thing.’

‘Your company would never be a burden, though,’ said Scot tenderly. ‘Unlike hers.’

Chaloner was half out of his hiding place, to share their amusement about the evening and its ups and very considerable downs – and to find out what she had to tell him about Webb – when Eaffrey and Scot flew together for a very passionate kiss.

The bells of St Andrew’s Holborn were chiming eleven o’clock as Chaloner left Leather Lane, but he did not feel like going home. He had just consigned himself to sitting alone in a tavern, when he recalled Temperance’s club. He walked briskly down Fetter Lane, hand on the hilt of his sword, because few men had honest business at such an hour and anyone he met was unlikely to be friendly, crossed Fleet Street and aimed for Hercules’s Pillars Alley. The tavern of that name was doing a roaring trade, and noisy patrons spilled out on to the street. The air nearby stank of spilled beer, pipe smoke, vomit and urine. By contrast, only the faintest tinkle of music could be heard from Temperance’s house. Chaloner slipped past Preacher Hill, who was saying goodnight to one of the city’s most prominent judges, and padded along the hall to the kitchen. It was not many moments before Temperance arrived, come to fetch nuts for the Earl of Sandwich.

‘Thomas!’ she cried in delight. ‘Will you join the revels in the main parlour? The Duke of Buckingham has brought Lady Castlemaine again, and there is a lot of laughter and japes.’

Chaloner was not in the mood for foolery. He saw he had made a mistake in coming and stood to leave, loath to keep her from the fun. ‘I do not know why I am here. Your company, I suppose.’

Temperance waved him back down, handing the nuts to one of her girls before sitting opposite him. ‘There is no need to sound begrudging about it. There are occasions when only friends will do, and I am glad you felt you could come here. I am also relieved, because there is something you should know – Maude told me today that Dillon will be the subject of a dramatic rescue, just as the noose is put around his neck. All London is expecting some fine entertainment.’

‘So is Dillon himself.’

‘She also heard that Dillon is innocent of murder, and is going to the gallows because he is an Irish rebel – fabricating charges of murder is the government’s way of ridding itself of such people.’

‘That is false. Why do you think most countries have a secret service? It is so knives can be slipped into the backs of awkward subjects without the need for public trials and executions.’

Temperance regarded him with distaste. ‘Is that what you do?’

‘There is nearly always another solution.’

She was silent for a while. ‘I asked a few of my guests about your surgeons – Wiseman, Lisle and Johnson. Lisle is a good man who spends one day a week working for the poor, and is well liked. Wiseman is unpopular, because he is condescending to his patients, and no one likes being treated like a fool. And Johnson is a fool, but knows enough of his trade to be a menace.’

‘So Johnson and Wiseman are bad; Lisle is good?’

‘In essence. I also heard that you accused Adrian May of sending the letter that saw Dillon and the others arrested. Did you?’

He regarded her askance. ‘Christ, Temperance! Does anything happen in that damned palace that is not immediately brayed around the whole city?’

‘This is not general knowledge; Colonel Holles told me. He came to see me this morning, to apologise for manhandling Modesty the other night – although she does not remember what it is he is supposed to have done. While he was here, he asked me to warn you against antagonising May.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Perhaps he likes you, Tom. There are not many left who are faithful to Lord Clarendon, after all. Did May did send that letter?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The more I think about it, the more it seems likely. He is jealous of his influence over Williamson, and that missive allowed him to be rid of the main competition. He included his own name, so it would not be conspicuous by its absence.’

‘Does that mean he was involved in the killing of Webb, too? He committed the murder himself, and let Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild take the blame?’

Chaloner rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I do not have the faintest idea.’