Blood on the Strand

Chapter 10

There was something about the cool precision with which the surgeons treated the hapless Sarsfeild that disconcerted Chaloner. He had seen wounds and deaths aplenty, but it was not the same as watching a corpse methodically stripped of skin, muscles and whatever lay beneath, and he found he did not like it at all. He left abruptly, and when Reynell reminded him that he was expected at the Public Anatomy in two days’ time, Chaloner only just resisted the urge to tell him to go to Hell.

It was a long way from Chyrurgeons’ Hall to Lincoln’s Inn, and by the time he reached Thurloe’s chambers, having taken a tortuous route to ensure he was not followed, the spy was tired, hot and thirsty. There was no reason to suppose anyone was watching him, but it had been a difficult few days – he had been knocked to the ground, poisoned, attacked with swords, subjected to improper surgical procedures and shot at – and his instincts warned him to take more than his usual care. He tapped softly on Thurloe’s door, which was opened by Leybourn.

‘I was expecting Yates,’ said the surveyor, disappointed. ‘We sent for some food. Ah – here he is.’

The porter staggered along the hallway with a tray that contained an inordinate amount of bread, cheese and cold meat. Leybourn’s eyes gleamed, and Chaloner supposed he was hungry. Yates placed the victuals on the table but, before he left, insisted on sampling everything, to ensure it was poison-free. Thurloe only dismissed him when the surveyor commented unhappily on the rapidly dwindling portions.

Leybourn closed the door behind the jovial porter and turned to the table, rubbing his hands eagerly. ‘I am ravenous. Do you want anything, Tom?’

Remembering what had happened the last time he had swallowed something in the ex-Spymaster’s chamber, Chaloner declined. Thurloe claimed he had no appetite either, and for a while, the only sounds in the room were Leybourn’s knife clacking on the pewter plate, and a rhythmic hammering sound from outside. Chaloner looked questioningly at Thurloe.

‘The orchard,’ replied Thurloe quietly. ‘The felling began today.’

‘Already?’ Chaloner was stunned. ‘I thought you might delay it for a few weeks at least. You are a lawyer, after all, skilled in postponement.’

‘I did my best, but Prynne’s is a powerful voice, and he invariably has what he wants. Close the window, Thomas. I cannot bear to listen.’

Chaloner obliged, then, to take Thurloe’s mind off the destruction, began to tell him all that had happened since their last meeting. The ex-Spymaster was thoughtful.

‘Willys’s murder does not sound like a carefully laid plan to me. Someone may just have snatched the opportunity presented by the bucking horse – and the fact that you and he were left unguarded. Of course, we cannot discount the possibility that the killer might have wanted you dead, too.’

‘Why?’ asked Leybourn, appalled by the tale. ‘What could anyone gain by dispatching Tom and Willys? They do not work for the same faction. Willys was on the list naming Webb’s murderers and Tom was not. Tom has connections with the Castle Plot and Willys did not–’

‘He did,’ interrupted Chaloner. ‘He was used to hinder the delivery of a shipment of arms.’

Leybourn continued as though he had not spoken. ‘There is no reason for anyone to strike at both. And perhaps there was no intention to have Tom accused of murder – he just happened to be in the cell next door. It was an unfortunate coincidence, which May seized upon with alacrity.’

‘May,’ mused Chaloner. ‘Scot told me you and he went to a tavern together recently. Now why would a decent, law-abiding fellow like you deign to associate with someone like that?’

Leybourn looked pleased with himself. ‘He heard you had training as a law-clerk, and was asking which of the Inns you attended – he is obviously hoping to unearth some youthful scandal to use against you. However, when he declined to tell me why he wanted to know, I suggested he should to talk to Prynne.’

‘Prynne will not remember me – or my youthful scandals,’ said Chaloner, surprised. ‘And he is hardly conducive company. If May does go to see him, he will be in for a deeply unpleasant time.’

Leybourn feigned innocence. ‘Really? What a pity for him.’

‘Let us consider this murder rationally,’ said Thurloe, declining to waste time discussing pranks. ‘Who might want Willys dead? It will not be Bristol, because Willys was a devious sort of man and such fellows are useful. It will not be Temple either, because he would not deprive Bristol of an aide. What about someone loyal to Lord Clarendon? He would never order a death himself, but his supporters are more practical about such matters.’

‘Brodrick?’ suggested Leybourn. ‘I confess Clarendon’s debauched kinsman mystifies me.’

‘And I do not like the way these surgeons appear every time there is some dramatic incident, either,’ said Chaloner. ‘Especially Wiseman.’

‘Are you saying that because his splint means you cannot play your viol?’ asked Leybourn.

‘No,’ replied Chaloner shortly. ‘I am saying it because he lied about being at the Guinea Company dinner. He swore he did not attend, but Reynell let slip with the truth. Not only that, but Wiseman argued with Webb about slavery on the night of the murder – another detail he neglected to mention.’

‘Webb,’ mused Thurloe. ‘You still have not identified his killer, although you have followed the contorted travels of his corpse. And Dillon will be hanged the day after tomorrow.’

‘Dillon does not think so,’ said Chaloner.

Thurloe was unhappy. ‘I have rescued men from similar situations in the past, and I can tell you that it is unwise to leave it to the last minute. The nearer one comes to an execution, the more paperwork stands between prisoner and reprieve. His master is making a grave mistake by dawdling.’

‘I am under the impression the man does not intend to operate through official channels,’ said Leybourn. ‘Half of London is expecting an audacious rescue just as the noose tightens around Dillon’s neck. There is also a rumour that Webb’s murder and the subsequent conviction of those three men is connected to the Castle Plot. If that is true, then Dillon’s escape may herald the beginning of something dangerous.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Rebellion,’ elaborated Leybourn darkly. ‘A rerun of the one that failed in Dublin – only this time, there will be no men hired by Williamson to make it flounder. I predict violence when Dillon reaches the scaffold, and I shall close my shop and make sure the windows are barred.’

‘But who is this patron with a flair for the dramatic?’ asked Thurloe, becoming frustrated.

‘It is someone influential, or Dillon would not be so confident,’ said Leybourn. ‘It cannot be Williamson, because he arranged releases for his people within hours of their arrests. Is it Bristol?’

‘Because he is Catholic?’ asked Thurloe. ‘And Catholics feature large in Irish rebellions? If that is what you mean, then I urge you to rethink. Being a papist does not go hand in hand with sedition, although God knows we have given them cause with all this insane Bill of Uniformity.’

‘What about Clarendon, then?’ asked Leybourn.

An image of the portly Lord Chancellor hurtling forward on a prancing horse to snatch Dillon from the scaffold formed in Chaloner’s mind, and he smiled. ‘He is not a man for flamboyant gestures. Besides, he is too preoccupied with Bristol to stage last-ditch reprieves for petty villains.’

‘Buckingham?’ suggested Leybourn, running out of ideas. ‘He is a rash, ostentatious fellow. Or perhaps Lady Castlemaine intends to seduce His Majesty into signing a pardon. I have heard she is not choosy about lovers, so maybe Dillon is one of her conquests.’

‘We are looking at this the wrong way,’ said Thurloe, pursing his lips at the vulgarity. ‘We cannot identify Dillon’s master unless we know who killed Webb. Webb was murdered for a reason, and we will only unravel this mess when we know what that is. What are your theories, Tom?’

Chaloner raised his hands in a shrug. ‘Silence has emerged rather nicely from the tragedy, and so has Behn. Wiseman’s practice was destroyed by Webb’s accusations. Lisle fell foul of him, too, and so did Johnson. Meanwhile, Webb insulted Brodrick’s music, Bristol owed him money, and Temple had discovered the hard way that he was unscrupulous in business.’

‘Dillon did not quarrel with Webb, though,’ said Thurloe with satisfaction. ‘And neither did the other eight men named on the letter sent to Bristol.’

‘Actually, Dillon did,’ said Chaloner. ‘He and Fanning were seen arguing with Webb on the night of the murder. As a result, they left the Guinea Company dinner early, and Willys said he and Dillon then got drunk in a tavern together. However, the more I think about Sarsfeild, the more I think he had nothing to do with it. There was something pathetically honest about his alibi.’

‘I thought we had agreed that Beck Marshall’s testimony was inconclusive.’

‘I have reconsidered. If Sarsfeild did murder Webb, intending to use Beck to prove his innocence, he would have done something to make her remember him – left her a valuable gift, been sick in her bed, refused to pay. Yet he did nothing memorable, which makes me think he had no idea she might later be important. There must be another Sarsfeild, and this is a case of mistaken identity.’

‘Then perhaps we should try to save him, as well as Dillon,’ suggested Leybourn.

‘It is too late. He was strangled, and his body is being anatomised as we speak.’

Thurloe closed his eyes, appalled by the mounting carnage. ‘What about Fanning? Was his a case of mistaken identity, too?’

‘He was murdered before I could interview him, but he did not share Dillon’s trust of their master – he sent notes in cipher to Dillon, detailing his plans for escape.’

Thurloe was disheartened. ‘I had hoped Bristol’s letter might yield clues, but it is worthless. I took it to an expert in such matters, but he said the handwriting is too heavily disguised for any conclusions to be drawn. He did say the ink was an unusual blue – possibly foreign – but that was all.’

‘You are overlooking the obvious,’ said Leybourn. ‘It means the sender knew how to change his writing – a spy or a devious businessman, perhaps. Maybe Williamson sent it.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Thurloe. ‘It exposed his own people.’

‘And he immediately saved them,’ said Leybourn, ‘thus earning their undying gratitude. Men work better for someone they know they can trust. Perhaps it was all a trick, designed to secure greater loyalty. Or perhaps it is not the ones who were pardoned that we should be looking at, but the ones who were convicted. It is possible that Dillon, Sarsfeild and Fanning have outlived their usefulness, and this is a good way of dispatching them without too much trouble.’

‘I think May sent it,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is keen to be indispensable to Williamson, but his skills do not match his ambition. He wrote the missive to discredit rivals who are better than him. And he included his own name to allay suspicion, knowing Williamson would arrange a pardon for him – but no doubt hoping he might neglect to do the same for the others.’

‘You are allowing personal dislike to blind you,’ said Leybourn. ‘And I am not sure you are right about Sarsfeild, either. If he was just a hapless bystander, then how did he – of all the men who die daily in London’s gaols – end up as a candidate for anatomy?’

‘None of this makes sense,’ groaned Chaloner. He wondered when he had last felt so hopelessly confounded. ‘Perhaps I should go to Surinam with Scot – the courts of Holland, Portugal and France did not prepare me for the intrigue and devilry of London. My countrymen have me defeated.’

‘Your melancholy is the lingering effects of that poison,’ said Thurloe. ‘These things take their toll on a body. However, I have concocted a tonic that will–’

‘I think he should resist swallowing any more remedies for a while,’ said Leybourn briskly. ‘Have you learned who tried to poison you yet? Was it Prynne?’

‘I thought not, but Yates says his rooms contain a large number of flasks full of unidentified substances. I cannot believe he would harm me, but it seems he certainly has the means.’

When Chaloner returned home that evening, Scot was waiting, sitting on the stairs and reading Musaeum Tradescantianum by the light of a single candle. So absorbed was he that he did not hear Chaloner’s soft-footed approach and leapt violently when the spy spoke to him. It was the kind of mistake that saw men in their profession killed, and Chaloner wondered whether his friend’s sudden desire to reside in Surinam was because he was losing his touch.

‘This is the most amazing book ever written,’ Scot declared, running appreciative fingers across its pages. ‘I have just reached the part where the great gardener and traveller John Tradescan lists all the exotics he and his father collected on their travels to Virginia. Have you read that section?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘Remiss though it may seem.’

Scot smiled ruefully. ‘This new science of botanicals is so exciting that it is difficult for me to understand why everyone is not equally smitten. I cannot wait to board a ship for Surinam and dedicate my life to unveiling its arboreal mysteries.’

Chaloner unlocked the door and lit the lamp in his room. ‘You are serious about this? You really want to devote your life to plants?’

Scot’s expression was quietly earnest. ‘I have never been more sincere about anything in my life, Chaloner – not anything. The moment my brother is released, I shall take him and Alice – and you, if you will come – to a new life, where we will never again worry about the politics of dangerous men. I am weary of Roundheads and Cavaliers, of bearing the stigma of a regicide father, and of sly assassins in the night. And there was Manning.’

Chaloner had a sudden, sharp vision of the spy who had been shot because of Dillon’s betrayal. ‘What does he have to do with it?’

‘I saw him taken off into that wood, and I knew what was going to happen, but I was powerless to do anything about it. The whole horrible business hit me hard – so hard that I should have resigned, but it was a momentous decision and I kept putting it off. When it became obvious that the Commonwealth was lost, it was partly fear that prompted me to change sides – which is not something I am proud to admit.’

‘We were all afraid then,’ said Chaloner quietly.

Scot sighed. ‘Well, I shall be glad to leave spying behind, and I find myself resenting every day I am obliged to don paints and powder to work for Williamson.’

‘It cannot be for much longer. Have you heard any fresh news about your brother’s release?’

Scot nodded. ‘I have unearthed several documents that prove the Trulocke brothers sold guns to men associated with the Castle Plot, and Williamson is so pleased that he says Thomas might be free in a matter of days. I have you to thank for that – and my way of reciprocating is to take you from this life while you are still in one piece.’

‘How would I earn my keep?’

Scot handed him a bundle of scientific sketches. ‘If you can draw some of equal quality, we shall make our fortune in Surinam. Try copying a few, to catch the feel of them. You are one of the best forgers I know, and the techniques cannot be so different – an attention to detail, an eye for colour. I have a feeling you will manage very well.’

It was difficult not to become infected by Scot’s enthusiasm, so Chaloner did as he was told, and was astonished when he discovered how easy it was to reproduce a respectable copy of the diagram, even using a cheap pen and ink that clotted.

‘You do have an aptitude for this,’ said Scot with immense satisfaction as he inspected the results. ‘I knew it! You can sell your viola de gamba, invest in paints and decent brushes, and your name shall stand with mine when we send our work to the Royal Society.’

Chaloner stared at his viol, feeling some of his good humour evaporate. He seriously doubted that drawing flowers would ever replace the joy of making music. ‘I am going to see Lisle on Saturday. He has promised to remove the splint and see what damage Wiseman might have done.’

‘Then let us drink to Lisle’s success,’ said Scot, producing a flask of wine from under his coat. ‘God knows, I would like to see him score a victory over that treacherous Wiseman – a fellow I would not trust were he the last man on Earth. Why did you leave Eaffrey’s house so quickly yesterday, by the way? I know it was a grim evening, but it was unlike you to rush off without thanking your hosts.’

‘There was something I needed to do for the Webb investigation,’ Chaloner replied vaguely.

‘Webb,’ mused Scot. ‘I listened to Silence wax lyrical about her husband last night. Did you know he bought land cheaply in Ireland after the civil wars – land that had been confiscated from Royalists?’

Chaloner stared at him. ‘When the monarchy was restored, most of those estates were returned to their original owners, and the people who had bought them were ousted.’

‘Quite. So Webb had a good reason for hoping the Castle Plot would succeed. It would have meant the return of his farms.’

‘So he may have taken part, after all.’ Chaloner frowned. ‘But this makes no sense. Bristol’s letter stated that Webb had betrayed the Castle Plot, and Dillon and the others killed him for doing it. Why would Webb betray something that would have seen his lands given back to him?’

‘Perhaps Webb did nothing of the kind,’ suggested Scot. ‘Are you sure Dillon was a rebel? No, you are not. All you know is that he was in Ireland at the salient time, and that he said his name was O’Brien. Perhaps Webb did want the revolt to succeed, and Dillon killed him for a traitor. You do not know who Dillon works for, so you cannot know what side he was on in Ireland. Oh, and Eaffrey asked me to tell you that she saw Dillon go into Clarendon’s house once, at midnight.’

Chaloner was bemused. ‘Clarendon is the mysterious master who will snatch Dillon from the jaws of death? If so, then Dillon is going to be disappointed: my Earl is not a dramatic sort of man, and if he wanted Dillon pardoned, he would have done it by now. How long has Eaffrey known about this?’

‘Ever since a recent drive past Worcester House prompted a half-forgotten memory of a man in an odd hat silhouetted in an upstairs window. She planned to tell you yesterday, but there was no time.’

‘She found time to tell you, though,’ observed Chaloner.

Scot glanced sharply at him, then smiled. ‘I conclude from that ambiguous remark that you saw us together. You did not slink off the moment an escape route presented itself, but lingered, waiting for everyone else to leave. I should have known you were not far away.’

‘Have you been lovers for long?’ It was none of Chaloner’s business, but they were friends, and he was curious by nature and training.

‘More than a year. We wanted to tell you, but it is difficult to find a quiet moment these days. She is going to have my child.’

‘Behn will be surprised. I imagine he is under the impression that she wants to marry him, given the looks of simmering adoration she throws in his direction. Does she intend to have you both, then?’

Scot laughed. ‘Marriage and love are hardly the same thing. Yes, she will marry Behn, but it is not a partnership that will last. He is already unfaithful, and makes regular visits to Silence Webb, among others. We hope Eaffrey will be a wealthy woman once she offers to leave him in return for a settlement.’

‘You are encouraging her to marry Behn with the express purpose of acquiring an alimony? That is sordid!’

Scot was unrepentant. ‘The government confiscated my father’s estates after his execution, and I do not want our child to grow up poor. Do you really disapprove? I thought you disliked slavery – and the victim of our “deception” is one of its greatest proponents.’

‘Could you not just sabotage his new ship instead?’

‘God, no!’ exclaimed Scot with a shudder. ‘I shall have to travel to Surinam by boat, and I am superstitious about that kind of thing. However, Behn is a wicked villain behind that courtly veneer–’

‘What courtly veneer?’

Scot was lost in a world of his own. ‘I had a good look around his private office yesterday, when I was waiting for him to tire of Eaffrey and go to Silence. He has documents written in cipher. Now why would a merchant use cipher?’

‘To protect himself against men like you, presumably. Could you decode them?’

‘I could not – not in the time I had. I tell you, Chaloner, the man is no angel. These messages are probably reports from criminals, telling him dirty secrets about his rivals. I know for a fact that he consorts with low types, because I have seen him with them – in particular a thickset fellow with a scarred neck, who always visits after dark. Do you really object to us defrauding a man like that?’

Chaloner shrugged. ‘It is none of my affair.’

Scot regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Do you remember the letter sent anonymously to Bristol – the one that saw me placed in an awkward position and Dillon convicted of Webb’s murder? Well, it occurs to me that Behn might have sent it.’

‘Why? He has nothing to do with–’

‘He receives coded letters,’ snapped Scot. ‘So do not tell me he is innocent in the world of spying. I imagine he would love our intelligence services to be thrown into disarray, because it would allow him greater freedom to do whatever it is he does.’ He sighed impatiently. ‘You do not believe me.’

‘It is easier to cheat a man you despise than one you like – you are trying to convince yourself that he is unsavoury, not me. How can you bear him to touch Eaffrey, if she is your wife in all but name?’

Scot was surprised by the question. ‘My previous wife slept with all manner of men to provide me with the secrets necessary for my work. If you were married, your woman would do the same.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner firmly. ‘She would not.’

‘When you are my age, you may think differently.’

‘The Guinea Company feast,’ said Chaloner suddenly. ‘You left early – or “too early to know what happened” in the discussion between Temple and Webb, to quote your own words. You said it was because the lice in Terrell’s wig were bothering you. Was it really to see Eaffrey?’

Scot grinned ruefully. ‘It was a perfect opportunity. Behn is an influential member of the Guinea Company – there is a move afoot to make him Master – so we knew he would be there all night. I stayed at African House long enough to be noticed, then spent the rest of the night in Eaffrey’s arms, content in the knowledge that Behn had promised to use the other bedroom when he finally returned, so as not to wake her. Such occasions are rare, so must be seized with alacrity when they arise.’

‘I imagine his visits to Silence might provide you with a few.’

Scot’s smile widened. ‘But not as many as we would like.’

Friday dawned warm and clear. The sky was veiled with a thin gauze of cloud that soon burned away, and the sun shone on the chaos of spires and chimneys that was London. Chaloner walked to Ludgate, acutely aware that time was running out for Dillon. He cut through several alleys, emerging near the scruffy patch of land designated as the graveyard to St Bride’s Church, then picked his way along a path that ran parallel to the foetid sludge of the Fleet river. Kites and hawks pecked through the flotsam that had cast up upon its stinking banks, and rats scavenged in the deeper shadows. The stench of urine was powerful enough to sear the back of Chaloner’s throat, and it made his eyes water.

He crossed the bridge and headed for the prison, noting how it stood in the shadow of mighty St Paul’s – the racket from the shops and stalls in the cathedral’s churchyard could be heard even above the rumble of iron cartwheels on the cobbles of Ludgate Hill. He loitered in the porch of little St Martin’s, opposite the gatehouse, until he spotted the warden who had taken him to see Sarsfeild. He left his hiding place and handed the man a shilling.

‘Sarsfeild,’ mused the warden, pocketing the coin. ‘Due to be executed tomorrow, but he beat us to it. The governor is furious, because it means we lost two of the three men due to die on Saturday. Sarsfeild was found dead in his cell – hanged with the laces from his own shirt. He done it himself.’

‘I was under the impression he wanted to live,’ said Chaloner. ‘He hoped someone would save him, because he said he was innocent.’

‘They are all innocent in there,’ said the warden wearily, jerking his thumb towards the prison walls. ‘But perhaps his priest convinced him that the time for lies was over. Vicars often have that effect on condemned men: they talk about Jesus and wicked hearts break. I seen it dozens of times.’

‘What vicar?’ asked Chaloner.

‘The Rector of St Dunstan-in-the-West.’ The warden screwed up his face as he fought to remember a name. ‘Willys – George Willys.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Like a priest – shabby black coat, broad-brimmed hat, shoes with holes. He wore a sword, I remember, which is unusual for a religious cove. It was hid under his cloak but I saw the tip.’

‘Was Sarsfeild alive after this vicar had left?’

‘I expect so, or he would have said something. Priests do not like it when prisoners die in the middle of evangelical sessions. It makes them feel they have wasted their time, because dead men cannot ponder redemption and that kind of thing.’

In other words, he did not know, surmised Chaloner. ‘What time did this visit take place?’

The warden scratched his oily pate. ‘Now you are asking. It was after three o’clock, because that was when we finished giving all the inmates their dinner.’

‘George Willys was dead himself by then. The man you admitted was an impostor.’

‘Well, he looked like a vicar,’ said the warden defensively. ‘He had a Bible and everything. I thought it was odd that the Rector of St Dunstan’s should come, when Sarsfeild hailed from the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields, but it is not for me to question clerics.’

‘What happened to Sarsfeild’s body?’

‘The barber-surgeons had it. They needed one urgent, and they were lucky we had one going spare. It is not every day we have suicides. We are not Newgate.’

‘Why did they need it urgently?’

‘Apparently, a rich patron paid Mr Johnson a lot of money for a Private Anatomy, but Mr Johnson did not have a corpse, so he used one that had been set aside for another surgeon called Wiseman. Wiseman was furious, and told Mr Johnson that if he did not procure a body immediately, he would end up on the cutting table himself. So we let Mr Johnson have Sarsfeild.’

Thoughts teeming, Chaloner was about to visit Newgate, to see whether he could shake any more details from the aggravating Dillon – there was nothing like looming execution to concentrate the mind – when he met Holles. The colonel was striding purposefully along the spacious avenue called Old Bailey, and Chaloner greeted him warily, uncertain of the man and the status of their alliance.

‘May is still telling everyone that you started that fight in the Spares Gallery yesterday,’ said Holles without preamble.

‘Do you believe him?’ asked Chaloner.

Holles grimaced. ‘It is getting harder to tell friend from foe these days, and you have never liked May, so it is possible that you provoked a struggle. And then there was Wiseman – he took your side, and that is what really turned me against you. You see, not long before your spat with May, Wiseman told me a filthy lie. So, my instinct was to distrust him a second time, too.’

‘What “filthy lie” did he tell you?’

Holles looked pained. ‘I am fond of Maude from Hercules’s Pillars Alley, and Wiseman told me that Johan Behn took her to the New Exchange and bought her a brooch. It cannot be true, because Behn is courting Eaffrey Johnson. So, Wiseman was making up tales, just to upset me.’

‘Why would he do that?’ asked Chaloner, wondering whether Behn had some perverse fascination with portly, middle-aged ladies, given that he seemed to appreciate Silence’s company, too.

‘He probably cannot help it – they are all liars in the medical profession. Johnson spouts untruths each time he opens his mouth – on Monday, he told me he fought with Prince Rupert at the Battle of Naseby, when I know for a fact that he spent his war apprenticed to a barber in Paternoster Row.’

‘What about Lisle? Does he lie, too?’

‘Not as far as I know. He is the only decent one among the lot of them. Incidentally, I examined the horse that killed my man yesterday. When it escaped, all the grooms were being lectured by Brodrick on the correct way to dress a mane, so none of them can be responsible for what I found.’

‘And what was that?’ asked Chaloner, when Holles paused for dramatic effect.

‘Someone had put a nail in its saddle, which cut it and made it buck.’

Chaloner was not particularly surprised. ‘So, that means Willys’s murder was premeditated. Someone deliberately arranged a diversion, so no one would notice when he was stabbed.’

‘A murder was premeditated,’ corrected Holles. ‘You may have been the target, and the wrong man was killed. Or perhaps the killer intended to dispatch both of you, but ran out of time.’

Chaloner would have done virtually anything to avoid setting foot inside Newgate Gaol again. Unfortunately, there was no one to go in his stead. Scot was due to meet Williamson, to discuss his brother’s release, and although he offered to visit Dillon as soon as he had finished, Chaloner felt the matter could not wait. Meanwhile, Thurloe had taken Leybourn off on some errand of his own, and no one at Lincoln’s Inn knew where they had gone.

With a sigh of resignation, the spy turned his attention to the task in hand. He had no forged letter to the governor and no heavy purse, so this time he was obliged to rely on his wits. He purchased an old black coat and a ‘sugar-loaf ’ hat from a rag-picker – men who collected old clothes and sold them to the desperate – and borrowed a Bible from nearby Christchurch.

‘I am the Reverend May,’ he announced to the porter on duty at Newgate’s entrance, trying to quell the uneasy fluttering in his stomach. ‘From St Martin-in-the-Fields.’ He was not about to make the same mistake as the impostor who had killed Sarsfeild, by claiming the wrong parish. ‘I have come to speak privately to Mr Dillon.’

‘What about?’ demanded the guard.

‘His immortal soul,’ replied Chaloner loftily. He clasped his hands together, and raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘For, as it is written in the Holy Bible–’

‘All right,’ interrupted the guard. ‘I see your point. Follow me, but make it quick, because it is not right to waste too much of a man’s last day on religious claptrap, and he is trying to finish a book.’

‘He has accepted the inevitability of his death, then?’ asked Chaloner. ‘His soul will be–’

‘He thinks he is going to be saved,’ corrected the guard. ‘The reason he wants to finish the book is so he can return it to its owner before he heads to Ireland on Sunday. The governor is worried about tomorrow, and extra soldiers have been drafted in, ready to deal with any trouble from the crowd.’

‘Will the execution not take place, then?’

The guard shrugged. ‘Dillon says not, and I have told my mother not to bother going. She hates it when she waits for hours and a hanging is cancelled. Dillon is a decent gent – generous with what he gives us – so do not squander too much of his time. Let him finish his reading.’

Instead of being shown into the bleak interview room, Chaloner was conducted to Dillon’s cell, where the condemned man was not studying, but playing with a roll of silk. The chamber was larger than the rooms Chaloner rented in Fetter Lane, and the remains of the meal on the table was fit for a king. Dillon looked up as he entered, hat shading his face.

‘I am a gentleman, so entitled to be hanged with a silken rope,’ he explained with a chuckle. ‘Hemp, which is used for the common criminal, tends to stick, but silk slides easily, and I am assured it will strangle me all the sooner. The guards were kind enough to let me twist the noose myself.’

‘What about the book?’ asked the warden conversationally. ‘Finished it yet?’

‘No, but I am not in the mood for words. This vicar will make sure it goes back to the man who lent it to me, and I shall purchase my own copy before I sail for Ireland.’

‘If you are so sure of rescue, then why bother with the noose?’ asked Chaloner, when the guard had gone.

‘It gives me something to do, and I was never one for sitting idle. Fitz-Simons told me hanging is painless, because the rope pinches the nerves in the neck and deprives the victim of all feeling.’

‘It does not look painless to me.’ Chaloner disliked the spectacle afforded by public executions, but he had been unable to avoid them all. It was not a way he wanted to die himself.

‘You are trying to unnerve me, because of your friend Manning. You blame me for his death.’

‘You may learn about betrayal yourself tomorrow, when you find your salvation does not materialise, and that Fitz-Simons was mistaken when he said hanging does not hurt.’

Dillon regarded him with dislike. ‘I have nothing to say to you.’

‘Sarsfeild is dead,’ said Chaloner harshly. ‘Fanning is dead.’

Dillon grimaced. ‘I know – and both were strangled. But they were different from me.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘I have spent the last week trying to learn what really happened to Webb, but I am no further forward, despite my best efforts. And whatever you may think, I do not want to see an innocent man choke. Have you considered the possibility that your master cannot help you – that he has tried to secure your pardon but has been unsuccessful?’

‘No,’ said Dillon. ‘I trust him with my life.’

‘If it is Lord Clarendon, you will be disappointed. He would have worked through the law to release you, not promised some dramatic reprieve on a white charger. Thurloe may still be able to help, but he needs information – information only you can provide. Surely you can see it is sensible to devise a second plan to save yourself, lest the first one fails?’

Dillon regarded him impassively. ‘What makes you think I am in Clarendon’s pay?’

‘You were seen in Worcester House with him, very late one night.’

‘I visit the homes of many powerful men, but that does not mean I work for them.’

Chaloner was losing patience. Newgate made his hands shake, his heart pound and his stomach churn, and if Dillon did not want his help, then he did not see why he should subject himself to more of it. He tried one last time. ‘I need the answers to two questions if Thurloe is to earn your acquittal.’

‘Thurloe,’ said Dillon meditatively. ‘I betrayed him when I changed sides during the Commonwealth, yet he refuses to abandon me now. Why?’

‘Because he is a good man. His principles baulk at seeing someone hang for a crime he did not commit, and he cares for all his people, even the treacherous ones.’

‘Yes,’ mused Dillon softly. ‘He always was the best of us. Very well. Ask your two questions.’

‘Who killed Webb? And was his murder anything to do with the Castle Plot?’

Dillon was silent for so long that Chaloner stood to leave.

‘I did not stab Webb,’ said Dillon softly, glancing at the door to make sure he would not be overheard, ‘but I was there when it happened. I distracted him while Fanning delivered the fatal blow. I was following orders.’

Now Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. ‘Willys said you and he were roaring drunk in the Dolphin tavern on the night of the murder, and incapable of killing anyone. And Thurloe said you were a Quaker, vehemently opposed to violence. As Manning can attest.’

‘It was Willys who was drunk. He was face-down on the table when the message came. It offered me a respectable sum for sullying my hands with Webb’s blood – hence my comfort here in Newgate – but I would have dispatched the man for no payment at all.’

‘Why?’

‘You think me shallow, with no conscience, but you are wrong. I am a Quaker, although perhaps not a very good one, and I deplore slavery. It was a pleasure to play a role in murdering that monster – a man who made himself rich on the proceeds of forced labour.’

‘You were seen at the Guinea Company dinner, although you said you were not there–’

‘Fanning and I left early, because I could not bear to be in the same room as Webb. When Webb tried to stop us, I told him what I thought of his ship and its cargo, and we argued. Then I went to meet Willys at the Dolphin and the note arrived. I left Willys slumbering, sent word to Fanning to meet me, dispensed with Webb, and returned to the Dolphin to put Willys to bed.’

‘You are housed in luxury here, but Fanning was not. Why? Did your master pay him less?’

‘Our master did not pay him at all – I did. I could not kill Webb on my own, so I enlisted the help of a trusted friend. So, now you have an answer to one of your two questions.’

Chaloner did not think so. ‘You and Fanning may have been the means by which Webb was killed, but you have not told me who ordered his death.’

‘You will find out at my “hanging” tomorrow, when my master shows his hand. And in reply to your second query, the answer is no: Webb’s murder was nothing to do with the Castle Plot.’

‘Was Sarsfeild involved?’

‘You said two questions, but I feel like talking, so you are in luck. Sarsfeild had nothing to do with killing Webb – I have no idea who he was. He said he was a confectioner, so God knows how he came to be on Bristol’s list. Fanning and I killed Webb; Sarsfeild is unjustly convicted.’

‘Was Sarsfeild part of the Castle Plot?’

‘I answered that query when you came the first time; if he was, then I never met him.’

‘You had already answered my questions about Webb, too, but now you have changed your mind.’

Dillon clapped his hands in delight. ‘You do not know whether to believe me! So, I shall have to prove to you that I was instrumental in ending Webb’s miserable life. Have you seen his body? If so, you will have noticed deep grazes on his knees. They came when Fanning stabbed him and he stumbled forward. I could not know about such wounds, if I had not been there, could I?’

There had been scratches, Chaloner recalled, and Dillon was right: it was a detail only the killers would know. He glanced at the door, seeing shadows move under the crack at the bottom. Had the guard reported the presence of an unknown vicar, and he and his colleagues were massing for an arrest? He turned back to the gloating face in front of him, hurrying to finish and be gone before he ended up in some filthy hole, to be strangled like Fanning and Sarsfeild.

‘Did you kill Webb’s coachman, too, and hide his body in his own room?’

Dillon grinned in a way that made Chaloner wonder whether he was entirely sane. ‘Fanning did. We needed Webb on foot if we were to kill him on The Strand. It was all a bit of a rush, but we managed. However, Fanning’s nerves have since proved weak, and my master left him to stew a little too long – long enough that he asked May to stage a rescue with poisoned wine. I told him my master had the matter in hand, but he did not share my faith. And he was ready to bleat about what we had done. I imagine that was why he was killed.’

‘And you think the same may happen to you, if you start revealing secrets,’ surmised Chaloner. For the first time, he saw a crack in Dillon’s armour: he was afraid of the man he expected to save him. ‘Then why are you talking to me, when you need your master’s help more urgently than ever?’

‘Because I admire Thurloe’s constancy. He deserves answers.’

‘Then give me just one more: who sent you to Ireland?’

Dillon’s smile faded. Again, he glanced at the door, to ensure no one was listening, and lowered his voice. ‘No one. I went of my own volition, taking Fitz-Simons, Fanning and others with me. I do not approve of what is happening there – families deprived of land they won or bought honestly. I believed in the rebellion, but had the sense to abandon it once I saw it had been infiltrated by spies like you.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You confess to treachery? Here, of all places?’

Dillon shrugged. ‘Who heard me? You will say nothing, because your family has been victimised by greedy Royalists, too. Your heart was never in thwarting the Castle Plot – I could see it in your eyes.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped no one else had. ‘You are lucky to be alive. The other rebels were rounded up, and most are either hanged or in prison.’

Dillon laughed as he gestured around him. ‘And my situation is different how, exactly? Will you come to see the fun tomorrow morning? You will not be disappointed.’

Chaloner did not leave Newgate as quickly as he would have liked, because inmates saw his clerical garb and asked for his prayers. He obliged, because he had no choice if he wanted to maintain his disguise, but it was a distasteful deception, and when he was finally out into the fresh air, he thought he might be sick. He ripped off the dark clothes and hurled them at the first beggar he saw, ignoring the man’s startled gratitude in his desperation to be away from the prison and its environs. His legs shook horribly, so he hired a carriage to take him to Tower Street.

The Dolphin was a rambling inn, which tended to be frequented by officials of the Navy Office. Chaloner saw one called Samuel Pepys, whom he had met briefly a few months before. A spark of recognition flashed in the clerk’s eyes, but Chaloner was obviously not considered sufficiently important – or useful – to warrant an exchange of civilities, and was pointedly ignored.

The Dolphin’s landlord remembered Willys and Dillon on the night of Webb’s murder, because Willys had been a belligerent drunk who had broken a window. He also recalled Dillon receiving a note and disappearing for several hours – the incident had stuck in his mind because he had been afraid Willys would wake up and cause chaos when his companion was not there to calm him. Chaloner listened to the innkeeper and his regulars for a long time, learning a great deal not only about the night in question, but their views on the certainty of Dillon’s rescue, Lady Castlemaine’s latest pregnancy, and the Bishop of London’s distress over a lost parrot. More pieces of the mystery slotted together, and he finally began to see the answers to at least some of his questions.

‘There is one other thing,’ said the landlord, catching his arm as he was about to leave. ‘Dillon’s message was delivered by a slovenly, grubby fellow – the kind who always happens to be to hand when someone wants something shady done. Then a second man came, also wanting to speak urgently to Dillon, but Dillon had already left.’

‘What did the second man look like?’

‘Better dressed than the first, but it was busy that night, and my memory is … oh, yes, sir. Another shilling might help me remember. He was big, I know that, and he had thick fair hair. And he was a foreigner, judging by the way he spoke.’

Chaloner left as the sun was setting in a great orange ball, and travelled by water from Botolph’s Wharf to Whitefriars Stairs. At that time of day, when the streets were clogged with the carts of traders, all flooding home from their stalls, shops and markets, it was always quicker to go by boat. The sun danced across the filthy water, turning it to a sheet of shimmering gold, and it was almost peaceful, with commerce stopped and the city’s clamour quietened by approaching night. Gulls glided above his head, and the sky was full of red and purple clouds. He smiled when he disembarked and saw a familiar face in the crowd that was out enjoying the warmth of the evening. It was Temperance’s Maude, a basket of brown onions over her arm.

‘Bristol is coming tonight,’ she explained, accepting Chaloner’s offer to carry it for her.

‘That is a fine brooch you are wearing,’ he said, thinking it sat oddly with her functional workaday clothes. It would look more at home with the brothel-master’s costume she would probably don later.

She fingered it, but without pleasure. ‘Johan Behn gave it to me, but he was only after my body.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘Eaffrey and Silence are not enough for him?’

‘Eaffrey! A slip of a girl with no meat on her bones. Johan likes his women with a decent pair of hips, although I think Silence has the edge over me there. She can keep him, though.’

‘I thought you liked him.’

‘I did – when I thought he considered me something special. Then I learned he is carrying on with Silence and several others. Like all men, he is just out for what he can get, and his whispered endearments were a sham. Still, at least our affair was one where he gave me gifts, not the other way around. Silence parted with her husband’s ship as a token of her affection.’ She spat in disgust, narrowly missing the onions.

‘I am surprised he has time for all this courting. He is a busy merchant.’

‘Men can always spare an hour for their pleasure. But I have been thinking about Johan since I was made aware of his loose morals. He says he grieves for Webb, but I know for a fact that he does not. The morning after the murder, I heard him tell an associate that it was good riddance.’

‘Which associate? Temple?’

‘No, a low, villainous fellow with black hair and a strange purple birth-stain on his left arm. I would recognise him if I saw him again.’

‘Fanning,’ said Chaloner immediately. ‘He had black hair and a mark on his hand.’

‘You mean one of the men who was convicted of murdering Webb? How odd! Well, anyway, after this Fanning had left, Johan pulled his pipe from his pocket, and a bundle of letters dropped to the floor. I picked them up for him – I thought they might be love letters, as they were penned in pretty blue ink, and I wanted to catch him out if they were – but they were in a strange language.’

‘German,’ said Chaloner. ‘His native tongue.’

‘Does German use numbers for letters, then?’ asked Maude curiously. ‘I had no idea.’

‘Numbers?’ asked Chaloner sharply. He rummaged in an inner pocket for a cipher code Lord Clarendon had once given him. ‘Do you mean like this?’

She grinned. ‘Exactly like that. German, is it? Well, I never!’

When Chaloner reached home, he half expected Scot to be waiting, but the stairs were deserted. A smattering of crumbs told him someone had lingered there, though, and had fortified himself while he did so. Chaloner bent to inspect the mess. He had eaten enough cookshop wares to know three things. First, these crumbs came from a lamb pie. Secondly, lamb pies always contained a generous helping of peas. And thirdly, both Scot and Leybourn hated peas, so would never have bought one.

So, who had lurked on the stairs in the darkness, waiting for him to return? Chaloner sensed it was no one who wished him well, and spent the rest of the night wide awake, waiting for an attack that never came.

In the faint light of pre-dawn, Chaloner went to Lincoln’s Inn, where he found Thurloe standing forlornly among his felled trees – almost half gone already. Leybourn was with him, a comforting hand on his shoulder. The mighty oaks had been carted off to the shipyards, while the fruit trees lay on their sides, waiting to be chopped into logs for the winter. The garden had an oddly lopsided feel to it, and the absence of vegetation along one wall showed it to be in urgent need of repair. Prynne had evidently been unaware that not only had the ancient roots and branches concealed unsightly masonry, but they been critical in shoring up some of the more unstable sections, too.

‘Thank you for the note you sent last night, Thomas,’ said Thurloe. He looked miserable. ‘But I am afraid all your efforts to help Dillon have been in vain. I was up until the small hours, trying to think of a way to save him, but I failed. He will have to rely on his new master for salvation after all.’

Chaloner had not imagined for a moment that Thurloe would succeed in rescuing his former spy, but he admired him for trying. Prudently, Chaloner’s note had neglected to include the fact that Dillon had actually confessed to the crime – it was not the sort of thing that should be entrusted to paper. He had planned to tell Thurloe that morning, but the ex-Spymaster seemed so disconsolate about the destruction of his beloved sanctuary that Chaloner could not bring himself to do it.

‘That will be expensive to mend,’ he remarked instead, nodding towards the wall. ‘And it cannot be left as it is, because it looks as though it is in imminent danger of collapse. Prynne may find he has no money left to destroy the rest of the orchard, once funds have been diverted to make good this mess.’

Thurloe gazed at him, then turned to study the walls. Slowly, a smile lit his unhappy face. A plan was beginning to take shape. ‘Do you own any skill with gunpowder, Thomas?’

Chaloner knew exactly what he had in mind. ‘A little. Do you know where I might find some?’

‘It is not the sort of thing an ex-Spymaster keeps in his chambers, for obvious reasons. However, Prynne used some to clear the well a few days ago. I suspect he has a bit left. It will be in his room.’

Leybourn looked from one to the other uneasily. ‘You are going to blow up Lincoln’s Inn?’

‘Only enough to ensure Prynne will have to pay for some urgent repairs,’ said Thurloe. His face was uncharacteristically vengeful. ‘Then he may not have enough money left to hire men with axes.’

Chaloner and Leybourn followed him to the building – already called the Garden Court in anticipation of the splendid views it would enjoy once the trees had gone – where Prynne lived. Leybourn was appalled by their plan, and tried to make them reconsider. They would be caught, he hissed, and made to pay for the damage themselves – or worse. Thurloe informed him curtly that he had no intention of being caught.

Prynne was at dawn prayers, and the Garden Court was deserted as Thurloe led the way to his colleague’s quarters and cautiously picked the lock. Then Chaloner searched for gunpowder, while Thurloe kept guard and Leybourn prowled. The surveyor stopped at a desk covered with documents, all filled with Prynne’s tiny, crabbed writing. He snorted with disgust as he picked one up and read it.

‘I wish we could put a fuse to this inflammatory rubbish, too. I did not know men still existed who wrote about matters of which they are entirely ignorant, not in these enlightened times.’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Chaloner, opening a chest. ‘You publish government pamphlets, for God’s sake. Ah, here is the powder. We had better not take too much. There is no point in adding insult to injury by leaving evidence to show we used his own explosives to thwart him.’

While Chaloner scooped the odorous black substance into his hat – it was the only receptacle available to him – Leybourn busied himself among the flasks, decanters and bottles on Prynne’s shelves. Chaloner recalled Yates mentioning that there were an inordinate number of them, and Prynne was their prime suspect for trying to poison Thurloe. He heard the clink of glass as stoppers were removed, and sharp intakes of breath as Leybourn sniffed the contents. He concentrated on what he was doing, ladling faster when he thought he heard footsteps in the courtyard below.

Eventually, he had enough to accomplish what he needed to do, but Prynne’s supply was too obviously depleted. Swearing under his breath, he replaced what he had taken with soot from the chimney. But then he saw that the dust was a different colour from the explosive, so he was obliged to mix it in. Stirring gunpowder was not something that could be rushed, and he was acutely aware that the whole operation was taking far too long. After what felt an age, he finished, and looked up to see Leybourn in the process of drinking something dark red.

‘What are you doing?’ he exclaimed, aghast. ‘You know he keeps poisons here.’

‘None of these are poisonous,’ said Leybourn, grinning in a way that indicated he had taken his experiment rather too far. ‘They are all wine. Most labels say otherwise, but I know a decent claret when I taste it. Prynne is a secret drinker, with a palate for vintages that would impress a king.’

He upended a decanter and drained it before Chaloner could stop him. Horrified, the spy grabbed his arm and pulled him outside. Leybourn staggered, and it was not easy to drag him in the direction they needed to go. He began to warble, a tuneless, reedy tenor that reminded Chaloner why he always fabricated an excuse for not accompanying him on the viol.

‘What is wrong with him?’ asked Thurloe, as they hurried away from the Garden Court.

‘He has discovered that your colleague’s collection of liquids is nothing more dangerous than wine. Prynne is innocent of attempting to poison you, it seems.’

‘Yates told me–’ began Thurloe. He stopped, and his eyes narrowed. ‘I had a letter yesterday from my old manservant, begging me to take him back. He is under the impression that I dismissed him, while I was told he had left because he was ill. Someone is causing mischief.’

‘It must be Yates,’ said Chaloner. ‘There he is – you can ask him.’

Leybourn reeled drunkenly, and Chaloner was hard-pressed to hold him upright and keep the contents of his hat from spilling at the same time. He cursed the splint that made him clumsy, and decided the dressing would come off that day, no matter what else happened. And if Lisle could not do it, then he would borrow Thurloe’s gun and hold it to Wiseman’s head until the surgeon had removed every last shred of the damned thing.

‘Mr Thurloe,’ said Yates with an uneasy smile as the ex-Spymaster bore down on him. Thurloe’s blue eyes were hard and cold, an expression that had set more than one Royalist spy trembling in his boots during the Commonwealth. ‘Can I fetch you anything from the kitchen?’

‘Who hired you?’ demanded Thurloe. He grabbed Yates by the collar when the porter tried to make a run for it, displaying surprising speed and strength for a man who so seldom engaged in any kind of physical activity.

Yates licked dry lips, one frightened eye on Thurloe and the other one on Chaloner. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’

‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Thurloe in a low, sibilant voice that was distinctly sinister. Yates paled. ‘You have been spying on me ever since you arrived, and I know it was you who sent my servant away under false pretences. Now, are you going to be cooperative, or shall we do this another way?’

Yates struggled, but the ex-Spymaster’s grip was powerful, and it was not long before he abandoned himself to his fate. ‘I have done nothing wrong. I only did what I was told.’

‘By Temple,’ said Chaloner to Thurloe. ‘He knows you are taking more tonics than usual at the moment – I heard him tell Bristol about it. And Temple knows because Yates briefed him.’

‘There is nothing wrong in reporting that,’ bleated Yates. ‘It is hardly a state secret.’

‘No,’ agreed Thurloe in the same soft whisper. It was making Chaloner uncomfortable, so he did not like to imagine how Yates felt. ‘But that is not all you did. You doctored my tonics – it must have been you, because you are the only person who has had access to them since my own servant left. I might have died, had not the cat stolen some first. It is still poorly, and I am fond of that animal.’

‘And you almost killed Tom,’ slurred Leybourn. He began to sing again, crooning the words to a popular tavern ballad with no heed to the tune that usually went with them.

Yates shook his head vehemently. ‘That was not me! I had nothing to do with it, I swear on my mother’s grave! Temple accused me of it too, and said he wanted information, not murder. But it must have been one of your other enemies – God knows, you have enough of them.’

Chaloner almost believed him, but Thurloe did not. He summoned a pair of porters with orders to escort Yates to Temple with the message that he could have this would-be assassin back alive, but that the next one would not be so lucky. When they had gone, he turned to Chaloner.

‘You must tell Lord Clarendon immediately. If Temple and Bristol are hiring spies to watch men who are only peripherally associated with him, his close friends will be far more closely monitored – and Brodrick is apt to be indiscreet when he is drunk. And speaking of being drunk, can you not stop William from caterwauling? He is drawing attention to us.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, thinking fast. ‘Go and stand in the middle of Dial Court, where everyone can see you, and expect fireworks within a quarter of an hour. I will meet you at Tyburn at nine o’clock, for Dillon’s … I assume you will be there, to see him rescued?’

Thurloe smiled grimly, immediately understanding Chaloner’s plan to provide him with an alibi for the incident that was about to unfold. He handed him a tinderbox. ‘Yes, I will. Be careful with that powder; Prynne said the batch he bought for the well was unusually potent.’

Chaloner jogged back to the orchard, and spent several minutes enlarging holes in the walls for his charges – for the explosion to have an impact, the powder needed to be in a confined space, so it would destabilise the structure when it expanded on ignition. He fiddled until he was satisfied, then laid a thin trail of the black substance, so it could be lit from a safe distance. He did not have much left, so the ‘fuse’ was not as long as he would have liked, but he knelt and set Thurloe’s tinderbox to it before someone could come along and ask what he was doing.

‘Roundheads!’ creaked an avian voice from above his head. ‘Thousands of ’em!’

Chaloner glanced up at the parrot in alarm, and waved his arms in a desperate attempt to frighten it away. The bird stepped from side to side, but did not seem inclined to fly off. The powder began to splutter. Chaloner lobbed a handful of soil at the parrot, before turning and running as hard as he could, to take cover behind one of the remaining oaks. He reached it just as the first of his charges blew with a dull thump. Fragments of masonry shot into the air, then rained down all around him. He covered his head with his hands, smelling the powder in his hat as he did so. The second blast was smaller and deeper, but did more damage, because a huge part of the wall toppled inwards in a billow of dust. The third and final boom served to smash some of the foundation stones into pieces too small for reuse, thus ensuring the repairs would cost Prynne especially dearly.

Chaloner moved away from the tree and gazed into its branches, but there was not so much as an emerald feather to be seen. He sighed. He liked birds, and was sorry to have been the cause of one’s demise.

‘Bugger the bishops,’ came a voice from behind him. He turned to see a beady eye regaling him balefully. ‘And make way for the Catholics.’

Chaloner smiled, then clapped his hands to shoo it away. It was not a good idea to have mysterious voices chanting pro-Roman sentiments at the scenes of explosions. The bird flapped towards the chapel roof, and the spy trusted it would not come back. He stepped behind the tree again as people began to converge on the devastation he had wreaked, yelling and shouting their alarm. Prynne was among them and so was Thurloe, Leybourn clutching drunkenly to his arm. The surveyor lurched forward, and appeared to be genuinely puzzled by the wreckage. Chaloner held his breath, hoping he would not say anything incriminatory. Thurloe tried to pull him back, but Leybourn freed his hand impatiently, almost falling as he did so.

‘Lightning,’ he slurred. ‘I heard the crack as it struck the wall.’

‘Lightning?’ asked Prynne suspiciously. ‘It is not the right weather for lightning.’

‘God does not care about weather when He produces divine bolts,’ declared Leybourn, grabbing Prynne around the neck to hold himself up. ‘Did you not hear the rumble of His wrath?’

‘I heard a rumble, right enough,’ said Prynne dryly, ‘but it was an exploding rumble, not thunder.’

‘Obviously, you have not read John Spencer’s book on prodigies and prophecies,’ said Leybourn waving a finger in the lawyer’s face. ‘If you had, you would know what this means.’

‘Oh?’ asked Prynne, trying, without success, to free himself. ‘And what is that?’

‘That God does not like His trees knocked down and sold as firewood,’ said Leybourn. ‘And He will send great balls of fire to destroy the walls of those who do. Just like He did at Jericho.’

Chaloner’s regicide uncle had taught him about the combined power of superstition and rumour, and he saw a good example of it at Lincoln’s Inn that day. Thurloe stood back, arms folded in satisfaction, as servants and benchers began to agree that Leybourn might have a point. Even Prynne looked uncertain. As a fervently – some might say violently – religious man, Prynne was sensitive to what God might or might not like. It looked as though the plot had worked better than Chaloner could have hoped, because there was no suggestion from anyone that gunpowder might have been the culprit.

He left Lincoln’s Inn and went to White Hall, where he told Lord Clarendon how Temple had hired Yates to spy. The Earl was appalled, and ordered Brodrick to visit all his friends and warn them, lest they make indiscreet remarks in front of loyal servants who were nothing of the kind.

‘May has been spreading tales about you,’ said Brodrick, walking with Chaloner to the gate. ‘He says you murdered the real Vanders, and the Dutch government has offered a reward for your head. Some greedy fool will decide to have the fabulous sum he says is available, which means you are in serious danger – he knew what he was doing when he concocted such a tale.’

‘This must mean I am right about him being the author of Bristol’s letter,’ Chaloner said, more to himself than Brodrick. ‘I am close to the truth, and he is desperate to silence me before it is too late.’

‘Actually, I think he just dislikes you,’ said Brodrick. ‘If I were you, I would tackle him about it before it is too late. He is in the Spares Gallery.’

Reluctantly – he resented wasting time combating the bald spy’s spiteful antics – Chaloner walked to the hall where ‘Vanders’ had been unmasked, May and Willys had tried to run him through, and Holles had come close to shooting him. It was unusually busy that morning, because people had risen early to attend the public hangings at Tyburn. May was there, muttering to Behn.

‘Played any good tunes recently, Heyden?’ May asked, when Chaloner approached. He leaned against a wall and grinned with calculated malice. ‘If you cannot hold a dagger, then I imagine you cannot hold a viol, either, and I know how important music is to you.’

‘I would not mind buying a viol,’ said Behn, chuckling nastily. ‘I hear they make good firewood. Do you have one cluttering up your house that you want rid of?’

Chaloner smiled, unwilling to let them see how much their remarks rankled. ‘I hear you are making up stories, May, hoping to stop me from uncovering evidence that proves you wrote Bristol that letter. But why name those particular nine men? Was your intention to strip Williamson of all his best agents, so only you would be left?’

‘How many more times?’ snarled May. ‘I had nothing to do with that damned missive! But you are right about one thing: I have made it known that the Dutch government is offering a thousand pounds for Vanders’s killer. And it will be only a matter of time before someone dusts off his dag in order to lay claim to the reward. Your days are numbered.’