Blood on the Strand

Chapter 9

Chaloner woke early the following day, and sat in his window, making use of the gathering daylight to compose letters to Thurloe, Clarendon and Eaffrey. He used cipher without conscious thought, a different code for each recipient. Thurloe would read his immediately, without resorting to a crib. Clarendon would ask one of his clerks to translate, so Chaloner seldom confided too much in his written messages to his employer. Eaffrey’s was one they had used for years, and could be broken by anyone who knew them. He thanked her for her hospitality and wrote some polite observations about her silver forks, tactfully saying nothing about the company or the level of conversation.

In the Earl’s note, he announced his intention of resurrecting the Dutch upholsterer, in the hope that ‘Vanders’ might provide new opportunities for spying on Bristol. He would not normally have revealed such plans in advance, but he had learned his lesson about surprising Clarendon with disguises, and did not want a recurrence of what had happened the last time. His message to Thurloe contained the information he had gathered about Webb the previous evening.

When he had finished, he went to the Golden Lion – a tavern that never closed, so the landlord had no trouble locating a boy to deliver the notes. Then he found a quiet spot near a fire, and ordered ale and bread. He rubbed his eyes as he waited for them to arrive, wondering how long Eaffrey and Scot had been lovers. Did that mean she still intended to wed Behn, and their marriage would be based on deceit? Or had she lied about her love for the merchant? Chaloner could tell from the way she and Scot had fallen into each other’s arms that it was not the first time it had happened. Of course, Behn was enjoying an illicit affair with Silence, and perhaps Eaffrey knew it. Or was Behn’s dalliance just a calculated attempt to get his hands on Webb’s idle ship? If so, then it appeared to have worked.

All told, Chaloner was happier to think of Eaffrey with Scot than with the Brandenburger. Scot lived a dangerous life, like Chaloner himself, and might not be there to protect her when she needed him, but he was a good man who would not suffocate her in a restrictive marriage. And nor would he oblige her to live on riches earned from sugar and slaves. Chaloner hoped she knew what she was doing, and that Behn would not find out and avenge himself on Scot. Chaloner knew from personal experience that the merchant had a strong arm.

At six o’clock, he returned to his room and found the clothes he needed to become Vanders again. He was even more meticulous with his disguise than he had been the previous Saturday, knowing people would pay him greater attention if rumours had been spread about his poor health, and he took special care to conceal the splint with his lacy cuffs. The last time he had played Vanders, he had dispensed with his sword in the interests of authenticity, but White Hall no longer felt safe to him, and he had no intention of going without the means to defend himself. It was an hour before he was satisfied with his appearance, during which time he hoped his note to Clarendon would have been delivered, and the Earl would be ready to play his part in the charade.

He reached White Hall without incident, although he felt eyes on him as he began his hunt for Clarendon. It did not take him long to identify them: it was Bristol’s man, Willys. He had exchanged his yellow stockings for black ones, which hung loose on his long, thin legs and made them look more spindly than ever. Willys watched Chaloner for a moment, then hurried away. The spy eventually located the Earl outside the Stone Gallery, waiting for a carriage to take him to the site of his new Piccadilly mansion. Clarendon narrowed his eyes and regarded ‘Vanders’ intently.

‘It is you, Heyden,’ he muttered. ‘You never know when someone might be an assassin these days, and I am ever wary. I had your letter half an hour ago. I am glad you decided to try the upholsterer business again, because now people will see the rumours about me hitting you are unfounded. And the vultures are gathering already, because here is Bristol and his entourage, come to inspect you. Do not forget what you promised to do – infiltrate his household with a view to spying for me.’

Chaloner did not dignify the reminder with a response. Why else did the Earl imagine he was dressed up in such a ridiculous fashion?

‘Vanders?’ asked Bristol. His clothes were rumpled, he stank of old wine, and he looked as though he had yet to retire to bed. ‘I am told you excel at turkeywork sofas, and I am in the market for such an object. Do you have any for sale?’

‘I might,’ said Chaloner cagily, hoping he would not want details. He was not entirely sure what ‘turkeywork’ meant, and it would not take many minutes before he was exposed as a fraud.

‘I shall leave you to discuss it, then,’ said the Earl, a little too readily. ‘Here is my carriage, come to take me to Piccadilly. Clarendon House will be the talk of all London once it is built, and I have already secured some excellent black marble for its stairs. The King will want to visit me there, away from the shallow vices – and people – of Court.’

‘It would not be the black marble intended for the repair of St Paul’s Cathedral, would it?’ pounced Bristol. ‘That is a House of God, and your immortal soul will be stained if you take that for yourself.’

‘Papist claptrap,’ muttered Clarendon, waddling away on his short, fat legs.

The dark expression on Bristol’s face told Chaloner that the Earl had made a serious tactical error by attacking his rival’s religion. Bristol had sacrificed the chance to hold lucrative public office by professing his Catholicism, proving that his beliefs were important to him; mocking them was unwise. Then Lady Castlemaine arrived in a flurry of yapping dogs and jabbering voices. Bristol immediately turned to join her, but he grabbed Willys’s arm and whispered something first. Willys nodded, and approached Chaloner.

‘There is a private hall where senior retainers often gather of a morning, Mr Vanders,’ Willys said politely. ‘Will you take a cup of ale there with me?’

Chaloner accepted the invitation, thinking it might be a good opportunity to quiz him about his name being included in Bristol’s letter. He followed the aide to the Spares Gallery, recalling with wry amusement that it had been Willys who had kept him company the last time he was there.

Because it was early, the Spares Gallery was relatively empty. Three musicians were restringing a violin at the far end, Wiseman’s massive bulk was crammed into a chair near the fire, and an elderly equerry in a blue coat dozed in the sunshine that flooded through the windows. Wiseman raised a hand in greeting, but was more interested in reading his book than in talking; he did not wait for Willys to wave back before his attention was riveted on the pages again.

‘You see that surgeon?’ whispered Willys, as they took seats at a table. ‘He was summoned at two o’clock this morning, because the King complained of a blockage. His Majesty went to bed at four – still constipated – and is unlikely to rise before noon, but Wiseman is obliged to wait until he does, lest another royal summons is issued. It serves him right for taking against Bristol! I caught him searching our carriage last night, although he claims he was only looking for a bat that flew into it. Well, there was a bat, as it happened, but I think it just provided him with an excuse to rummage.’

‘Rummage for what?’

‘Evidence that my master was involved in the Castle Plot, probably. That took place in Ireland, which is full of Catholics. And since Bristol is Catholic, Lord Clarendon might say he instigated it.’

‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner.

Willys regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course not! He sent me to Dublin to help thwart it – and I was instrumental in seizing a vital shipment of rebel guns. Just because a man is a papist, does not mean he is desperate to overthrow a monarchy. But let us talk of other business. I have been authorised to make you an offer: My Lord Bristol wants his furniture upholstered, and says he will pay twice what Clarendon has offered you.’

‘That is very generous,’ said Chaloner, smothering a smile. Everyone knew Bristol had no money, and could never afford to double an asking price. The spy could only assume the impecunious noble intended to default on payment, just as he probably did with his other creditors.

‘Yes, it is. However, there is something he would like you to do in the meantime: while you work in Clarendon’s domain, keep your eyes and ears open, and report any unusual happenings to me.’

‘You mean spy?’ asked Chaloner, managing to inject considerable distaste into the word.

Willys nodded, oblivious to the disapproval. ‘I do it myself, all the time. In fact, I had a look in Clarendon’s rooms on the day of the ball, although I did not find anything useful. Do not worry about being caught, though. If that happens, powerful men will … make arrangements.’

‘How can I be sure of that?’

‘Because I was in an awkward position myself recently, and I was saved the very same day.’

‘Really?’ Chaloner pretended to be impressed. ‘How?’

Willys leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. ‘My name was included in a letter that accused me of murder. I was innocent, of course, as were the eight men listed with me, and we have all been pardoned or allowed to disappear. As I said, great men look after their own.’

‘I heard about that case, but I was told three of the nine have been sentenced to death.’

‘True, but they have not been hanged yet. There is still plenty of time for rescue – although one of them has died of gaol-fever, which is unfortunate for him.’

‘I should say! How do you know none of those three are guilty?’

‘Because Dillon is a Quaker, and they abhor violence. Besides, I was with him in the Dolphin tavern – the one over by the Tower – the night Webb died. That is a long way from The Strand, where the crime took place. Dillon had been at the Guinea Company dinner with a friend called Fanning, but he escaped early because he said it was dull, and we both got roaring drunk together.’

‘Dillon was with you all that night?’ Chaloner recalled Dillon claiming he was drinking with a friend when Webb was killed. However, he also recalled Dillon claiming that he had been nowhere near the Guinea Company dinner, and Willys was now the third person – after Scot and Brodrick – to say that was not the case. Why had Dillon lied about the dinner? Because he did not want anything made of the fact? And why had he not mentioned his ‘alibi’ to the judge who had tried him? Chaloner could only suppose it was because Willys was also on the list of the accused. Or was Willys just trying to protect a comrade by spinning yarns now?

‘I passed out at some point,’ Willys admitted sheepishly. ‘Yet I will swear on my mother’s grave that Dillon was in no state to dash across the city, stab a man and be with me when I woke a couple of hours later.’

‘What about Fanning? Did he stay at the dinner after Dillon had left?’

‘I have no idea. All I can say is that he was not with Dillon and me in the Dolphin. Ah! Here is May, come to find out whether you have agreed to spy on Clarendon for My Lord Bristol.’

Chaloner stood to leave as May swaggered towards them. His disguise was good, but there was no point in taking risks by conversing with men who knew him well. May was dressed for riding that day, with leather boots, a cloak and spurs. His shaven head was covered by a functional grey wig that fitted him like a cap. A sturdy fighting sword was at his waist, and thrust into his belt was a snaphaunce gun that looked suspiciously similar to the one owned by Fitz-Simons. Chaloner mumbled something about buying curtain hooks from Covent Garden, but May grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving. It was not a hostile gesture, but as soon as May’s fingers closed around the splint, the game was up.

‘Heyden!’ he yelled, hauling out his dag. It discharged with an ear-splitting bang, and Chaloner was astonished that he should have missed at such close range. May was furious. He hurled the firearm away and drew his sword. ‘Now I have you!’

‘This is Vanders,’ said Willys, looking from one to the other in bewilderment. ‘I have just recruited him to work for Bristol.’

‘Fool,’ snarled May, as Chaloner backed away. ‘He is Clarendon’s creature.’

Chaloner was trapped, and there was nothing he could do or say to extricate himself from his predicament, so he made no effort to try. ‘Put up your sword, May,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not want to fight you – not in White Hall. Brawling is forbidden here, and we will both be arrested.’

‘I will not be brawling,’ said May, advancing with his weapon held in a way that showed he meant business. ‘I have just unmasked a traitor. Are you going to defend yourself, or do I just kill you?’

‘You would stab me here?’ asked Chaloner softly, while Willys gaped, appalled at how he had been duped. ‘In front of witnesses? My Earl will not stand by when his people are killed in cold blood, and Spymaster Williamson will not want a murderer on his staff.’

May lunged, and the tip of his sword went through Chaloner’s sleeve – and would have pierced his arm had the splint not been there. Reluctantly, the spy drew his own weapon to parry the next blow, but still made no move to attack. The elderly equerry and Wiseman clamoured at them to sheath their blades before the palace guard arrived, and Chaloner saw the musicians had already dashed off to fetch them. He did not feel himself to be in any particular danger, because he had seen May fight in Ireland and knew he was no swordsman. All he needed to do was stay out of blade-range until May either came to his senses or someone disarmed him. However, he revised his strategy smartly when Willys drew a wicked-looking rapier with a furious expression on his face. Two opponents were an entirely different matter.

‘May cannot kill you, because you are mine to skewer,’ Willys declared, becoming angrier by the moment as the enormity of what had happened dawned on him. He was not a clever man, but even he could see his ‘recruitment’ had given Clarendon some powerful ammunition against his master.

Chaloner blocked another blow from May, then struggled to protect himself as Willys advanced with a series of determined swipes. May started to move behind him, dividing his attention, and he saw it would only be a matter of time before one of them scored a lucky hit.

‘Stop this at once,’ barked Wiseman, although he was careful to stay well away from the flashing steel. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘You are behaving like Dutchmen,’ added the equerry in disgust. Recklessly, he tried to lay hold of May’s flailing weapon; Chaloner ran forward to deflect the impatient swipe that would have seen the old man injured. ‘Desist immediately, you silly young goats.’

‘Stay away, grandfather,’ warned Willys, lunging while Chaloner was preoccupied with May. Chaloner twisted to avoid the blow and stumbled over a bench. His leg gave a protesting twinge, and he only just managed to jerk away from Willys’s next swipe. ‘Or there will be an accident.’

‘There will be no accidents,’ came a voice from the door. It was Holles and the palace guard, all carrying cocked handguns. ‘You know this is illegal. Put up your swords before I shoot you.’

Seething, May did as he was told, glowering as a soldier hurried forward to snatch the weapon from his hand. But Willys was too enraged to see reason, and advanced on Chaloner with murder in his eyes. Chaloner raised his sword to deflect the first blow, then ducked in surprise when a ball smacked into the wall near his head.

‘Next time, I will do more than make a hole in the plaster,’ snarled Holles. ‘This is your last chance – both of you.’

Since he looked as though he meant it, Chaloner let his sword clatter to the floor. Immediately, Willys raced forward. Chaloner leapt away, and felt the man’s blade pass so close to his face that it sliced through the brim of his hat. Willys staggered from the force of his attack, so Chaloner shoved him hard enough to make him stumble to his knees. The weapon flew from his hand, and three soldiers hastened to secure him while he was down. Meanwhile, Holles grabbed Chaloner, searching him for more weapons. The colonel removed the knives from his belt and sleeve, but did not find the one in his boot.

‘I shall charge the lot of you with unbecoming conduct,’ he snapped, furious with them. ‘And it will be up to your respective masters how they will deal with you.’

Willys tried to free himself, but the guards held him too tightly, so he settled for sneering instead. ‘When Bristol hears how you deceived me, he will dispatch you himself, Heyden.’

‘It is Heyden,’ said one of the soldiers, hauling off the wig that hid the spy’s brown hair. ‘Look!’

Holles regarded Chaloner with unfriendly eyes. ‘I did not imagine you were the type to brawl in the King’s palace. I thought you knew how to behave.’

‘It was not his fault,’ objected the equerry, while Wiseman nodded earnest agreement. ‘He ordered May and Willys to desist, and drew his weapon only to protect himself.’

‘It takes two sides to make a quarrel,’ replied Holles coldly. He turned to his prisoners. ‘You will be taken to the guardhouse, where you will remain until your masters come to claim you. And my dag is reloaded, so do not try my patience by persisting with this spat.’

Chaloner did not think he had ever seen the colonel so angry. He said nothing as he was escorted to the palace gaol, where he and the others were given separate cells in which to wait. The doors were not locked, but there was no point in trying to escape, even so.

Spymaster Williamson arrived almost immediately, but neither he nor May spoke until they were well away. Through the bars in his window, Chaloner watched the two men stride across the yard, May speaking and Williamson nodding. Then all was quiet, because either Clarendon and Bristol could not be found, or they declined to release their recalcitrant retainers until a more convenient time.

A while later, there was a furious commotion in the yard outside, as a horse, saddled and ready for riding, bucked and cavorted like a wild thing. Soldiers rushed towards it, making it even more agitated, and there were shouts of horror when a flailing hoof caught one man on the temple with a sickening thud. In the next room, Chaloner heard Willys snigger at the spectacle, although the laughter stopped abruptly when Wiseman hurried to help the fallen man, then stepped back shaking his head. Blood began to pool on the cobbles, and Chaloner went to sit on the bench again, not wanting to see more.

Not long after, he heard murmuring in Willys’s room and supposed Bristol had arrived. There was a thump, followed by footsteps moving across floorboards that creaked like a rusty hinge, then peace again. Eventually, there were more voices as a crowd of people clattered into the prison. They burst into Willys’s room, and there was a short silence, followed by an ear-splitting howl of outrage. Then the door to Chaloner’s room was hurled open and Bristol stood there, quaking in fury.

‘You killed him!’ he yelled. ‘You murdered Willys!’

Chaloner regarded Bristol in astonishment, wondering whether the man had been drinking. Behind him, other courtiers were pushing their way forward, and among them was May. The odour of sweat, onions, horse and French perfume wafted into the small chamber as more and more people crammed themselves inside, eager to miss nothing of the brewing confrontation.

‘Willys is dead,’ said May, fingering the dagger he carried in his belt. ‘Stabbed. You and he were alone in this part of the building, so you had better start explaining yourself.’

‘Someone came to release him,’ said Chaloner, keeping his voice steady so as not to reveal his growing alarm. ‘I heard them talking together.’

But he had also heard a thump and retreating footsteps, and if it had not been Bristol coming to retrieve his aide, then it had been Willys’s murderer. But why would anyone want to kill Willys? With a sinking feeling, Chaloner saw the man with the obvious motive was himself – he and Willys had quarrelled publicly, and then they had been left alone in adjoining rooms while the horse had distracted the guards. To the dispassionate observer, it would look as though Chaloner had seized an opportunity to dispatch his enemy.

‘Liar!’ fumed Bristol. He drew his sword and began to advance. ‘You slipped into his room when he was watching the escapade with the nag, and you stabbed him in the back.’

‘Wait, My Lord!’ cried Holles, stepping between Chaloner and the enraged noble. ‘If Heyden has committed a crime, we shall go through the proper procedures. We do not dispense justice ourselves.’

‘Why not?’ demanded May. ‘Heyden is the only one who could have killed Willys, and his guilt is obvious. Besides, you were willing to shoot him earlier.’

‘That was when he was armed,’ argued Holles. ‘He is not armed now, and we do not want folk thinking we go around skewering people whenever we feel like it. Put up your sword, My Lord. It is for the best.’

May was disgusted. ‘I am just grateful Williamson rescued me straight away, or Heyden would have slaughtered me, too. The horse’s antics were just what he needed – they lured the guards outside, and let him get Willys alone.’

‘My men did go to help with the horse,’ admitted Holles, regarding Chaloner uneasily. An expression of relief crossed his face as something occurred to him. ‘But Heyden cannot be the killer. We disarmed him – we disarmed all of you. He had nothing to use on Willys.’

‘In Ireland, he carried additional weapons in his sleeve and boot,’ said May. He grinned in triumph when Holles’s second search revealed the knife he had missed the first time, and turned to Bristol. ‘You should kill him while you can, My Lord, or Clarendon will find a way to inveigle him a pardon.’

Bristol stared at Chaloner for a long time before sheathing his sword. May gaped at him in dismay.

‘No,’ said Bristol quietly, his temper now under control. ‘I do not want the Lord Chancellor complaining that we killed his henchman in cold blood. It is better to drag Heyden through the public courts – and Clarendon will be mired with him.’

‘I have just inspected Willys, My Lord,’ announced Wiseman, pushing his way through the assembled courtiers like a stately galleon through a flotilla of barges. ‘As a surgeon, I have seen more cadavers than you could dream about. Come, and I shall show you something important.’

Bristol baulked at being issued an order, but his curiosity and Wiseman’s brash confidence prompted him to do as he was told. Willys was lying near the window, blood seeping from a wound in his back. When everyone, including Chaloner, had entered the cell, the medic began to hold forth.

‘The fact that Willys received a blade between his shoulders means he knew his killer,’ he declared, speaking as though his conclusions were fact, not opinion. ‘And he trusted him. Willys was not a complete imbecile, and would never have turned his back on Heyden, given what had happened earlier today. Ergo, Heyden is not the killer.’

‘Rubbish!’ shouted May, appalled to see Chaloner exonerated with such ease. ‘He sneaked in when Willys was preoccupied with watching the horse, and took him unawares.’

‘I had not finished what I was going to say,’ said Wiseman haughtily. ‘However, I shall interrupt my erudite analysis to refute your asinine theory, if that is what you want. These floorboards creak, as you can see for yourself, and Willys would have heard Heyden coming – even above the racket emanating from the yard. So, your assertion, Mr May, is both erroneous and foolish.’

‘How dare you–’ began May, but Bristol held up his hand and nodded for Wiseman to continue.

‘My next conclusion pertains to the wound.’ The surgeon pulled the clothes away from the injury and took from Holles the dagger that had been in Chaloner’s boot. ‘Even the most ignorant of us’ – here he looked pointedly at May – ‘will see that this broad-bladed weapon cannot possibly have made this tiny round hole.’

‘Heyden is a skilled intelligence officer,’ said May tightly. ‘Of course he knows how to jab a blade into his victims with the minimum of damage.’

‘Then show me the blood,’ ordered Wiseman, handing him the knife. ‘If that is the murder weapon, it will be stained with gore, as will the killer himself. Can you see even the smallest speck of red on it – or on him?’

‘He cleaned it,’ argued May, not ready to concede defeat. ‘He had plenty of time.’

‘Cleaned it with what?’ pressed Wiseman. ‘There is no water here, and you cannot wipe blood off clothes anyway. It leaves indelible marks – and believe me, I know.’

May was sullen. ‘Your “evidence” is circumstantial. It proves nothing.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Wiseman. ‘It makes a powerful case for Heyden’s innocence. And there is more. If he did kill Willys, then why did he return to his own cell – to sit and wait for the alarm to be raised? Why did he not take the opportunity to escape? The guards had gone, so there was no one to stop him.’

‘He wanted to confuse us,’ claimed May. ‘He–’

‘Oh, you are certainly confused,’ agreed Wiseman, drawing an amused titter from the watching courtiers. He looked away, as if he could not be bothered to waste time on the likes of May. ‘Finally, there is the angle at which the blade penetrated Willys.’

There were exclamations of revulsion as he inserted a thin piece of metal into the hole, to demonstrate the path the murder weapon had taken through the body. It ran from left to right, and was obvious enough that Chaloner wondered whether someone had made sure it had looked that way on purpose. He glanced at May and saw satisfaction stamped on his face, as if he had hoped someone would notice.

Bristol knelt by the corpse to assess the evidence for himself. He stood, and regarded the surgeon thoughtfully. ‘This means Willys was struck by a man who held a dagger in his left hand.’

‘Precisely,’ drawled Wiseman.

‘Heyden can use his left arm as well as his right,’ said May immediately. ‘I saw him in France once, fighting double-handed to fend off traitors.’

‘But he cannot do it at the moment,’ said Wiseman. He took Chaloner’s hand and demonstrated how the splint prevented him from holding the knife. ‘It is physically impossible for him to grip a blade with sufficient strength to deliver a killing blow, so he would have resorted to his right. Lord Bristol has already established the killer was left-handed, so Heyden cannot be the culprit.’

It was Bristol who asked the question that was uppermost in Chaloner’s mind. ‘Then who is?’

It was not every day the Court was treated to the spectacle of a murder and a man who knew how to interpret clues, and the guardhouse was quickly packed with people, all clamouring questions. Chaloner saw several familiar faces among the many he did not know. At the very back of the crowd were Johnson and Lisle. Lisle was beaming, delighted by his colleague’s clever performance, while Johnson glared sulkily, jealous of the adulation that was being heaped on his rival.

Next to the surgeons, Brodrick and Temple stood in a way that suggested they had arrived together. Chaloner wondered why, when they clearly detested each other, and hoped they had not been plotting. Lady Castlemaine stood near the front, but when she learned Bristol was not going to run anyone through, she pulled a face that registered disappointment, and shouldered her way outside again.

Eaffrey and Behn were there, too. Behn asked, in a loud voice intended to carry, whether Heyden could have hired a left-handed killer. Before Eaffrey could think of a response, the elderly equerry remarked that Behn was a silly young goat to make such a stupid statement. People started to laugh, and the question was forgotten. With a start of surprise, Chaloner recognised Scot’s pale eyes among the equerry’s maze of wrinkles, and smiled when his friend winked at him.

Meanwhile, Bristol and his party were still quizzing Wiseman about his deductions; the surgeon answered with a patronising haughtiness that was only just short of insolence. Bristol was quietly angry – not that he had been deprived of a suspect, but because he had been manoeuvred into accusing the wrong man and made to look rash and volatile. And May was livid because Chaloner had been exonerated.

Chaloner listened to people’s comments, questions and observations, carefully analysing them in the light of what he had heard and seen himself. It was clear someone had either taken advantage of the incident with the horse, or had engineered it to provide a diversion. If the latter was true, then it had worked brilliantly: all the guards had raced outside, leaving ample opportunity for the killer to do his work. Chaloner had heard voices, which told him Willys had conversed with his killer, and Wiseman’s evidence indicated that Willys clearly had not thought he was in danger, or he would not have allowed himself to have been stabbed from behind. The thump had been Willys’s body falling to the floor, and then the murderer had calmly walked away, leaving Chaloner sitting in the cell next door as the prime suspect for the crime.

So, who had knifed Willys and, perhaps more importantly, why? Was it someone who wanted Clarendon’s faction accused of murder, to bring the Earl himself into disrepute? It was certainly the kind of ill-conceived stratagem Temple liked to concoct. Then there was May, delighted with Chaloner’s predicament, and deeply disappointed when Wiseman had exculpated him. Could May have returned to the guardhouse after he had been released? And finally, there was Holles, who always claimed to be the Earl’s man, but who nevertheless had been oddly willing to believe Chaloner’s guilt. It was also Holles who had overlooked the dagger in Chaloner’s boot, which had then later been produced as evidence against him. Had the colonel intended that to happen? Chaloner had considered him an ally, but in the shifting sands of White Hall allegiances, he suddenly found he was not so sure.

Clarendon arrived at last, breathless and elbowing his way through the courtiers to reach his spy. ‘I have only just been told what has happened. Holles swears he sent a servant with a message, but it never arrived and now the fellow is nowhere to be found.’

‘Is that so,’ said Chaloner flatly.

‘You should not have challenged Willys and May to a fight,’ chided the Earl. ‘Thurloe will blame me if you die, and you were reckless to endanger yourself. Did you kill Willys, by the way? I shall not be angry if you did. He was an odious fellow, always trying to damage me.’

‘No, I did not,’ said Chaloner firmly, determined to quash any lingering doubts along those lines. ‘I did not even know he was in danger.’

‘You will have to unveil the culprit, Heyden, or May will avenge Willys by sliding a sly dagger into your ribs. Do you think you can solve the mystery?’

‘I will try,’ said Chaloner unhappily. He did not see how he would succeed – although he understood how the killer had claimed his victim, learning his identity was another matter altogether.

He washed the paint and powder from his face – there was no point in maintaining the disguise now – and left the guardhouse. Outside, folk still milled about. Alice and Temple were with Johnson, and their serious faces suggested business was being transacted. When Chaloner eased closer, to hear what they were saying, Alice hauled the two men away, but she was not quite quick enough to prevent him from learning that Johnson had placed a hundred pounds at Temple’s disposal. It was to be invested with the new owner of Webb’s ship. Chaloner looked around, and saw Behn standing nearby. The Brandenburger’s smile of satisfaction indicated that Temple was operating on his behalf, and Chaloner found himself hoping with all his heart that the ship would flounder before it could reap its grim cargo – and that they would both lose every penny they had ploughed into the filthy venture.

‘These accusations were only levelled because you are Lord Clarendon’s man,’ said Lisle, stretching out a brown hand to waylay the spy as he zig-zagged through the crowd. ‘This spat between him and Bristol is becoming increasingly bitter, and the likes of you and Willys are nothing but pawns.’

‘Then virtually everyone here is in danger, too,’ said Chaloner, gesturing around him. ‘Most have declared a preference for one side or the other.’

Lisle grimaced. ‘The follies of men never fail to amaze me. There is war brewing with the Dutch, outbreaks of a deadly plague in Venice, and distressing levels of poverty in our great capital. Yet all the Court cares about is this ridiculous squabble. I am just thankful that I have managed to resist the attempts of both sides to recruit me – there are far more productive things to occupy my time, such as my charitable work in the city’s hospitals. Do you still plan to visit me on Saturday?’

Wild horses would not have kept Chaloner from keeping the appointment. He nodded.

‘It will be a busy day for me, so come between Dillon’s hanging and the Public Anatomy – I shall be hosting Company guests after that.’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ demanded Wiseman, coming to join them. He seemed larger than ever, swelled as he was with the accolades of his success. ‘My astute detection work?’

Lisle beamed at him, to hide his own discomfort. ‘You were a credit to our Company today, and we shall make sure all our colleagues know it. Eh, Johnson?’

Johnson’s face was a mask of pure envy as he approached. ‘You need not bother, Master Lisle. I am sure he is quite capable of informing them of his cleverness himself.’

Hastily, Lisle escorted him away before there was a scene.

‘Thank you for your help,’ said Chaloner. ‘When you began your analysis, Bristol had sheathed his sword but May was still armed. I am not sure if Holles would have been able to prevent him from stabbing me if you had not intervened.’

‘Would he have tried?’ Wiseman’s expression was sombre. ‘Holles, I mean. Have you asked yourself why he left you alone with Willys? And why May was rescued so long before you?’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘Holles means me no harm. We are on the same side.’

‘Are you sure about that? I am not saying Holles did put you in a dangerous situation deliberately, only that you should not dismiss the possibility.’

‘I shall bear it in mind,’ said Chaloner tiredly, thinking Surinam was looking increasingly attractive.

‘You were lucky I was to hand, actually: I had just received news that the King’s blockage has cleared without the need for surgical intervention and was about to leave. I am performing a Private Anatomy this afternoon, you see.’

‘There seem to be rather a lot of those these days.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘Yes, but mine will show students how the bladder is connected to the kidneys, which is something they need to know for when they perform the operation you laymen call “cutting for the stone”. The one Johnson performed yesterday, however, was to amuse rich patrons.’

‘Which rich patrons?’

‘Buckingham and his entourage. Holles was there, too, incidentally. I glanced in on my way home, and saw him looking very green around the gills. Not everyone has the stomach for dissection.’

‘Who was the subject?’

Wiseman was startled by the question. ‘You mean the corpse? I have no idea. He would have been some felon, donated by the prisons, as usual. What an extraordinary thing to ask!’

‘Not so extraordinary. Do you know who was dissected for Temple’s edification? Webb, murdered while walking home from the Guinea Company dinner. He was no felon.’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Wiseman, regarding him in astonishment. Then his face resumed its customary arrogance. ‘Of course, cadavers change their appearance after death and laymen are easily confused. Johnson probably told Temple it was Webb, but it will have been a joke, although not one in particularly good taste.’

‘I have seen my share of corpses, too, and Webb was–’

Wiseman’s eyes narrowed suddenly and he snapped his fingers. ‘Hah! I understand why you think he was anatomised – it was you Johnson saw sneaking around the other day. I thought I had seen you off the premises, but you obviously came back. There was no need – if you had told me you were experiencing a desire to drool over corpses, I would have arranged a private viewing.’

‘You are too kind. But Webb was the corpse. And I also know for a fact that he is not in his tomb in St Paul’s Cathedral. So, how did he end up in your Anatomical Theatre?’

Wiseman shrugged. ‘If you are right – and I do not believe it for a moment – then there will have been a silly mistake. Gravediggers and vergers can be shockingly careless – it makes one yearn for immortality.’ He saw Chaloner’s scepticism. ‘Come with me now, and I shall show you our procedures. There is nothing untoward, I assure you.’

It was not an appealing invitation, but Chaloner accepted anyway. He had no idea whether Willys’s murder was connected to the Webb case, but it was as good a place as any to start an investigation.

The ride to Chyrurgeons’ Hall was an uncomfortable one for Chaloner. He was daunted by the prospect of unravelling the twists and turns associated with the various murders he had been charged to solve, and disturbed by his growing conviction that Holles could not be trusted. He was used to working under the assumption that everyone was an enemy, but was disappointed in the colonel nonetheless. Wiseman sang all the way, pleased with himself and his performance at the guardhouse, and Chaloner might have enjoyed his rich bass, had the surgeon not chosen to warble a ballad by the composer – lutenist John Dowland, in which a bitter man contemplated different ways to dispatch his rivals.

When they arrived, students were already beginning to flock to the Anatomical Theatre. Wiseman muttered venomously that they were an hour early, although Chaloner sensed he was flattered; their enthusiasm was testament to the veneration in which he was held. All wore the uniform gowns and hats that marked them as Company apprentices, and there was an atmosphere of scholarly anticipation as they walked in twos and threes towards the door. Wiseman stopped humming abruptly when he saw Johnson arrive in another carriage, accompanied by Lisle. The pair were immediately waylaid by Clerk Reynell, who was gesticulating in an agitated manner. Johnson’s face darkened as he listened, then he turned and made a beeline for Wiseman.

‘Reynell says you plan to use four corpses for your demonstration today,’ he shouted furiously. ‘The fresh one that came this morning, plus three old ones from last month. What are you thinking of? The stench of rotting entrails will linger in the theatre for days, and it will spoil our guests’ appetites for the dinner after the Public Anatomy on Saturday.’

‘If they cannot stomach a little odour, then they do not deserve to eat,’ retorted Wiseman. His expression was malicious – he was delighted to be causing problems. ‘I need four cadavers for comparative purposes, or our students will go away thinking all people’s innards are the same.’

Johnson regarded him with dislike. ‘Important men will be present on Saturday, ones who make donations. If you destroy our hopes in that direction, I shall invite them all to another dissection the following week: yours.’

Wiseman sneered. ‘Then I hope they will not come with the hope of learning anything – not if you are to do the honours.’

Chaloner stepped back, anticipating fireworks, but Johnson displayed admirable restraint. ‘Just try not to make too much of a mess. We do not want Reynell scrubbing all day tomorrow, when he should be polishing the ceremonial silver. Incidentally, I have invited an acquaintance to watch you this afternoon. In return, he will give us a pair of silver spoons.’

‘You have done what?’ exploded Wiseman. ‘You invited laymen to my dissection? How dare you! It is for students and colleagues only.’

Johnson pointed at Chaloner. ‘He is not a student or a colleague, but you have invited him. And our records show that he has not yet settled his account for the treatment you gave him last Saturday, so obviously he is not going to give us any silver spoons. Or did you pay him, for letting you experiment on his limbs? Lisle says he will never regain the use of his fingers.’

Lisle heard his name brayed, and hurried forward to pour oil on troubled waters. Reynell was with him, and Chaloner was again struck by the clerk’s handsome clothes. Close up, however, he saw they had been marred by some very unpleasant stains, and supposed it was impractical, if not impossible, to maintain an air of sartorial elegance while working for the barber-surgeons.

‘Gentlemen, please!’ said Lisle wearily. ‘Not in front of the apprentices.’

‘Did you say I botched Heyden’s treatment?’ demanded Wiseman dangerously. ‘And have you offered to rectify it for him?’

‘Of course not,’ said Lisle soothingly, not looking at Chaloner. ‘Although I would offer to make amends, if I thought a member of my Company was guilty of malpractice. However, this is neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. Let Johnson’s friend watch you today, Wiseman. He may learn something, and silver spoons will not go amiss. Meanwhile, perhaps Johnson would be kind enough to test the syllabub for Saturday. We all know he is an expert on such matters.’

‘True,’ agreed Wiseman contemptuously. ‘God has given every man a unique skill with which to walk the Earth. Mine is surgery and his is scoffing syllabubs.’

‘I think it needs to be stored in a cooler place,’ said Lisle, before Johnson could respond. ‘In fact, I want you to inspect it now. I shall come with you.’

‘And afterwards, you had better supervise Wiseman,’ snapped Johnson, trying unsuccessfully to resist as Lisle pulled him away. ‘The last time he performed, he could not locate the gall bladder.’

‘Because it was withered with disease,’ bellowed Wiseman after him. He lowered his voice to a more moderate level, although it was still loud enough to be heard by passing students. ‘Pompous ass! He would not know a gall bladder if it came up and introduced itself to him.’

‘You should go inside now,’ said Reynell to Chaloner. ‘The theatre is almost full already, and if you leave it too long, you will not get a seat.’

‘He is not here for that,’ said Wiseman. ‘He has convinced himself that Webb was anatomised here, so I offered to show him our procedure for collecting bodies. Then he will see for himself that such a notion is preposterous.’

The clerk regarded Chaloner in astonishment. ‘How in God’s name did you reach that conclusion? Webb hated the medical profession, and wanted nothing to do with our Company – he ruined Wiseman with slanderous accusations, he took Lisle to court over the cost of a phlebotomy, and he threatened to sue the lot of us for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’

Chaloner resisted the temptation to state the obvious – that Webb would hardly be in a position to prevent his corpse from being misused once he was dead. ‘If Webb disliked surgeons so much, then why did he want to come here and watch a dissection?’ he asked instead.

‘Because it is the current fashion at Court to do so,’ explained Wiseman disapprovingly. ‘The King expressed an interest in the workings of the human body, so now everyone is fascinated by the subject. Webb was a shallow fellow, who thought buying a performance would prove he had good taste. I, for one, am grateful he died before he could use our profession in a shabby attempt to advance himself.’

‘Lisle did want to refuse Webb,’ added Reynell, ‘but Johnson was afraid he might make trouble if we did. Webb was spiteful and vindictive, and I am sure Johnson was right.’

A clock struck the hour and Wiseman took a breath. ‘I must go and prepare for my lecture. I always read my notes before I start, lest I omit something important. Not that I make mistakes, you understand. My demonstrations are always perfect.’

‘Of course,’ said Reynell, when the surgeon paused for him to agree.

‘Then you will not mind showing Heyden how we prepare cadavers for teaching and research. It is a job for a clerk, after all, not a busy and important surgeon.’

Reynell sighed his resignation as Wiseman strode away. ‘I am afraid we shall have to be quick, Mr Heyden. I am very busy with preparations for Saturday. What do you want to know?’

‘Start from the beginning,’ suggested Chaloner, unable to think of a question that would move the discussion directly to Webb.

Reynell flapped a vague hand towards the north of the barber-surgeons’ domain. ‘The bodies arrive from the prisons by cart, and we receive them through that little door at the end of our garden. We do not use the main gate, obviously, because it might look ghoulish to passers-by.’

‘Right,’ said Chaloner, suspecting it looked worse to sneak them in through the back. He followed the clerk to the Anatomical Theatre, which had a small, discreet entrance at the side. It was locked, but Reynell opened it to reveal a flight of steps that was dark, damp and covered in ominous stains.

‘The theatre has a special basement,’ Reynell explained, lighting a lamp. ‘So, when bodies arrive, we take them down there for preparation. Watch your footing. Those spillages can be very slippery.’

Reluctantly – he did not like the look of the stairs or the sound of the vault – Chaloner descended, wrinkling his nose at the eye-watering stench of decay and mould. The cellar was a low-ceilinged chamber, lit by several hanging lanterns that sent eerie shadows around thick supporting pillars. There were no windows, and the only door was the one through which they had entered. The walls were bare brick, and the dank space was used to keep samples as well as corpses, because rows of jars contained all manner of objects. Chaloner saw a tiny human foetus in one, and looked away before he could identify anything else.

‘How many of these dissections do you perform?’ he asked. Five sheeted figures lay on crude wooden benches, and he realised it was quite an industry.

‘Four public ones annually, and a variable number of private,’ replied Reynell. His voice was defensive, as if he had detected distaste in the question. ‘We are due to receive a freshly hanged felon for the event on Saturday – we cannot use anything but a new cadaver for that, or our guests will not fancy their dinner afterwards.’

‘Who are these others?’ asked Chaloner, gesturing around.

‘The ones we have finished with – or should have finished with. By rights, they should be in their graves by now, but Wiseman wants to use them to illustrate anatomical variation in bladders. I shall have to dispose of them before Saturday, though, because Johnson will complain if their reek wafts upstairs. That is the agreement, you see – we get the corpses, and in return, we pay for their burial in St Olave’s churchyard.’

‘Can I see them?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Their faces, I mean.’

Reynell regarded him oddly. ‘What for? I assure you Webb is not here. I was told he was interred with great pomp in St Paul’s Cathedral.’

‘Then you will not mind humouring me,’ said Chaloner, indicating the nearest body.

The clerk shrugged. ‘I suppose it is all right, although it is not a very nice thing to ask.’

He lifted the cover, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to prevent himself from recoiling. The face had not been immune from the anatomists’ knives, and had been peeled away to reveal the skull underneath. The torso had been crudely stitched back together, but the single rapier hole in the skin of the chest was still identifiable, and so were the grazes on the knees. Webb was still above ground, and Reynell was wrong in declaring otherwise.

‘Do you have a name for this man?’ Chaloner asked.

Reynell consulted a ledger. ‘Martin Webster from Ludgate Gaol – brained by a fellow inmate while awaiting trial for burglary. You can check with the warden, if you do not believe me.’

Martin Webster, Matthew Webb. Chaloner supposed a clerical error might have seen the wrong man delivered to Chyrurgeons’ Hall. Webb would have been kept in his house from his death to his burial, so the hiccup must have occurred after the funeral: the vergers had allowed the mourners to leave before tipping Webb from his casket and squashing him inside the bishop’s sarcophagus. Ludgate was close to St Paul’s, so it was possible that Martin Webster had been granted a religious ceremony in the cathedral before being shipped off to the surgeons – and the bodies had been confused at that point. But surely the vergers could tell the difference between a plump merchant and an emaciated prisoner? Or had they just thought that Webster would be an easier fit in a small space, and had made a decision based on the fact that no one was ever likely to know?

Reynell covered the body. ‘You see? Just a felon.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner, keeping his conclusions to himself. He lifted the sheet from the next corpse – because Reynell did not know he had already identified Webb, he was obliged to inspect the rest for appearance’s sake – but the subject had been dissected so thoroughly that there was nothing left but bones and a mess of pale organs. The same was true of the next two, but when Chaloner moved towards the last one, the clerk turned away.

It was Fitz-Simons, complete with a hole in his chest that had been made by the ball from a gun. Chaloner glanced him over briefly, but could see no other marks, and he knew from the wars that such a large wound so near the heart would have been instantly fatal. So, Fitz-Simons had not disappeared after all, but had died when May had shot him.

‘Richard Fitz-Simons was a good friend,’ said Reynell softly. ‘And a member of the Company.’

‘How does he come to be here?’

Reynell’s face was a mask of anguish. ‘Because Wiseman managed to inspect the body of the “beggar” everyone was calling an assassin, and recognised it as Fitz-Simons’s. We were terrified that someone would identify him, and that his actions – whatever they were – would reflect badly on the whole Company. So we spirited him away without anyone knowing. Will you tell May?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘Why is he not buried? Surely it is safer to put him in the ground?’

‘Because his last will and testament specified that his cadaver was to be used for education.’ Reynell’s voice cracked; he grieved for the man. ‘We plan to hold a special dissection next week. Lisle will give a new lecture on the lungs, Wiseman will expound on the bladder, and Johnson will take the musculature. They have vowed to lay their differences aside and do justice to Fitz-Simons’s generous spirit. We shall revere his memory, and our apprentices will never forget him.’

Chaloner was sure he was right. ‘Wiseman told me surgeons do not dissect their colleagues.’

Reynell gave a humourless smile. ‘What would you expect him to say? That any dead medicus who wills us his corpse is eagerly received? We would lose our royal charter!’

It all sounded very gruesome to Chaloner. He walked back up the stairs and into the daylight with considerable relief, Reynell following. ‘Did you ever meet Webb?’

Reynell nodded. ‘Several times, all when he was threatening members of the Company with legal action. He was an odious man. Wiseman in particular despised him, and they had a blazing row on the night Webb was killed.’

‘Did they?’ asked Chaloner encouragingly. He wondered whether there was anyone in London who had not argued with the merchant that fateful night.

Reynell nodded again. ‘At the Guinea Company dinner. I was invited because my brother is a member, and Webb and Wiseman had some sort of disagreement over the morality of slavery.’

‘Wiseman was at the dinner? He told me he was not.’

Reynell became flustered. ‘Did he? Perhaps I am mistaken, then. Yes! It must have been another evening, and not the day Webb died. I am always getting confused. Please ignore what I just said, and put it down to fatigue. I have been working my fingers to the bone in readiness for Saturday. You do believe, me, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ hedged Chaloner, supposing he had better tackle Wiseman himself, although it would not be a comfortable discussion – the surgeon would not take kindly to being called a liar.

The Anatomical Theatre was almost full, and the dissection was about to begin. The body to be anatomised lay naked except for a cloth across its face, and Reynell was telling porters where to put the ones that were to be used for comparative purposes. Wiseman was already looming over a podium, while Lisle stood ready to begin cutting on his command. Chaloner loitered in the doorway, watching the surgeons and their audience. He was startled to recognise Behn in the front row, sitting next to Johnson, who looked as though he was giving the merchant a lecture on the theatre’s architecture. Behn looked bored, and handed him something from a bag, clearly as a way to stem the tide of unwanted information. It was a pair of silver spoons.

Wiseman cleared his throat, and an expectant hush fell over the gathering. ‘Today, I shall share with you the mysteries of the bladder,’ he declared. ‘Master Lisle will make the first incision, revealing the distinct layers of the abdominal cavity.’

Chaloner winced as Lisle began to wield a sharp knife, making clean, practised cuts to reveal a layer of pale-yellow fat below the white skin. A film of connective tissue proved difficult to incise, and Lisle was obliged to exert more force. As he did so, the cloth fell away from the corpse’s face and Chaloner gazed in shock when he recognised the small, pinched features of Thomas Sarsfeild the confectioner. There was a red ring around his neck. Like Fanning, he had been strangled.