Blood on the Strand

Chapter 11

The bells were chiming eight o’clock by the time Chaloner left White Hall, and he supposed it was time to make his way to Tyburn. He took a carriage, which travelled up St Martin’s Lane to St Giles-in-the-Fields, a large, handsome church that was only forty years old. Unfortunately, it had attracted the attention of Puritan iconoclasts, and there was not a single statue that owned a head, hands or feet, and the once-fine chancel screen had been wrecked by axes. The ‘fields’ around St Giles were long gone, too, although there was a rural echo in its leafy churchyard.

Past St Giles’s, the driver turned along the Oxford road, where people sat or stood, waiting for the cart carrying the condemned men to pass – the governor had decided that Fanning and Sarsfeild should be replaced, to ensure the crowd had its money’s worth, so Dillon’s final journey would be made in company with a robber and a mother who had smothered her baby. Some spectators had brought food and ale, and shared it with others as they lounged in the sun. The atmosphere was festive, accompanied by an air of eager anticipation, and Chaloner saw that people were looking forward to witnessing Dillon’s fate, whatever it might be. Among the spectators were soldiers, pale and uneasy, and Chaloner was under the impression that they might decide to make themselves scarce if a well-orchestrated plot to release the prisoner did swing into action.

Thousands had gathered in the area of desolate scrub known as Tyburn. To accommodate their needs, traders sold ale, oranges, tobacco, pies and gingerbread from carts and barrows. Wooden stools could be rented for a penny, to ease legs that did not want to stand for hours; cushions cost extra. Pickpockets roamed, looking for victims, and prostitutes offered their services for now – bales of hay and a hedge were available – or later. Already, people were drunk. Some sprawled snoring in the grass, while others reeled and weaved, knocking into the sober and yelling songs or insults.

The first person Chaloner recognised was Wiseman, who was striding away from Tyburn and back towards the city. The surgeon wore his distinctive scarlet robes, and when one undersized fellow sidled up to him and tried to grab his purse, he responded with a careless flick of his wrist that saw the would-be thief cartwheel into an apple-seller. Wiseman stopped when he saw Chaloner.

‘You are interested in these events, Heyden? I expected better of you.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘I came to ensure Lisle has help for when he claims the corpse. He is a gentle soul, and might be overwhelmed by the mob – there are those who would snatch the body that is ours by rights, and sell parts of it for quack cures. Did you know some folk still believe that placing the hand of a hanged man on the neck will cure scrofula? It is ridiculous, when we all know the only sure remedy for that is the touch of the King. The common man is very gullible, and has no idea what is best for him.’

‘Like wearing your splints, I suppose,’ said Chaloner caustically.

Wiseman inclined his head. ‘Yes, just like that. People are fools, and they are lucky there are men like me to save them from themselves.’

‘So, are you not staying to help Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, declining to argue with him. It was not worth the aggravation.

‘Johnson, Reynell and a dozen apprentices are with him, so my services are not required. I am glad. There are more profitable ways to spend a morning than witnessing this sort of thing.’

‘You lied to me about the Guinea Company dinner,’ said Chaloner, seizing the opportunity to question the man. ‘You said you were not there the night Webb died, but that was false.’

Wiseman sighed irritably. ‘I suppose you wormed the truth out of Reynell, did you? How tiresome. I should have anticipated that would happen, and told him to keep his mouth shut. Very well, I admit I was at the dinner. And I also admit that Webb and I quarrelled when I told him what I think of men who condone slavery. So, what are you going to do about it? Reprimand me?’

‘Ask why you felt it was necessary to prevaricate.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘All right. Since you are being gentlemanly about the matter, I shall confide. I lied because I did not want my enemies at the Company of Barber-Surgeons – Johnson, in essence – to make an issue of the spat. He will do anything to harm Lord Clarendon, and linking me – the Earl’s most prestigious supporter – to a murder was an opportunity he would have seized with delight. However, although Webb and I argued, I did not kill the fellow.’

‘Was it you who tended Temple’s head, after the incident with the candlestick?’

‘Yes – it was the only remotely interesting thing that happened all evening, although Temple was too drunk to appreciate my skills.’ He glared at someone who jostled him, and brandished a meaty fist. ‘It is becoming too rough here for me. Good morning to you.’

He strode away up Tyburn Lane, scattering people before him like a hot knife through butter. He shouted for a sedan chair to take him to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, but the chair-bearers hastily made themselves scarce. His bulk would not make for an easy fare, and they preferred to wait for a lighter customer. When he had gone, Chaloner turned towards the field of execution.

At the centre was the triangular gallows, built so nine felons could be dispatched simultaneously. There was an ancient oak on a slight hill to the west of the gibbet, and Chaloner knew he would find Thurloe there. He eased his way through the hordes, pausing to watch a small bear dance to the laboured notes of a cracked flute; the animal was an odd shape, and he suspected a boy or an undersized man was inside its skin.

Prostitutes clawed at him as he walked, offering treats for a penny, and street preachers were using the opportunity to proselytise. Temperance’s doorman Hill was among them, and Chaloner saw spittle fly from the man’s mouth as he spouted his poison. He had an audience of avid admirers, who were quite happy to believe that God did not like Catholics, taverns, Dutchmen, dancing or large windows, and that ‘decent Christians’ would be perfectly justified in going out and attacking a few in His name.

Eventually, Chaloner reached the rise and looked around for Thurloe. The ex-Spymaster was standing in the shade, his silent servant lurking protectively at his shoulder. The fellow smiled shyly when he saw Chaloner, and Thurloe said he had appeared after the ‘lightning strike’ that morning.

Thurloe was not so rash as to go to a public place without a disguise, partly because he still had enemies who wanted him dead, but also because crowds had a habit of turning into mobs, and once-powerful Parliamentarian spymasters made for tempting targets. He wore the drab uniform of a chancery clerk, and his face was half hidden by the kind of bandage worn by those who had toothache. A wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes meant very little of him could be seen.

‘How is Will?’ asked Chaloner, hoping the surveyor had been left in a safe place.

‘Prynne and I carried him to my quarters after the explosion. He is currently sound asleep.’

‘You will not try to cure him with one of your remedies, will you?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. Leybourn might awake too befuddled to refuse, and he did not want him made worse. He saw Thurloe was offended that he was perceived as a menace to helpless drunks so added, ‘Who knows what Yates might have done to them?’

‘The first thing my servant did when he returned was pour them all down the drain. Temple will be disappointed if he thinks his creature might still succeed in harming me.’

‘Does Prynne believe the destruction of his wall was due to heavenly fury?’ Chaloner asked to change the subject. He hoped he had not done so much damage that the old lawyer was suspicious.

‘He says he cannot be sure, but the other benchers say they know a Divine Sign when they see one, and they are more willing to oppose him – and the King – now they think God is on their side.’

‘Will it save your trees?’

Thurloe smiled. ‘I believe it might. We cannot leave a gaping hole in our defences, and Prynne has already been forced to hire masons to begin repairs. He is dismayed by the additional expense, and I think he can be persuaded to work the remaining trees into his grand design. I have lost a portion of my orchard, and he will have a reduced expanse of grass, but we can both live with that.’

‘I dislike these occasions,’ said Chaloner, reacting sharply when he felt a hand slip into his pocket. The thief reeled away clutching a bleeding arm, and Chaloner returned the dagger to his sleeve. ‘There must be ten thousand spectators here, enough for a riot of enormous proportion.’

‘I would sooner be at home, too, but I want to know the identity of Dillon’s master, and I do not trust anyone but myself to deduce the right answer from what occurs. Come with me. I have hired a cartwheel for us to stand on – we will not see a thing otherwise. There are simply too many people.’

A great cheer went up from the distant city, and Chaloner supposed the cart carrying the convicts had started its journey from Newgate. He followed Thurloe to a place where a number of semi-permanent structures had been rented to spectators over the years. There were several large wheels, all with spokes arranged like ladders, along with a stand of crudely stepped planks, where people could sit but still be high enough to enjoy the view. These cost a good deal of money, so only the wealthy could afford them – especially for an occasion like the execution of a man who thought he was going to be rescued. Chaloner was not surprised to see Temple perched on the highest tier, his mouth almost disappearing under his nose as he devoured something with his toothless jaws. And nor was he surprised to see Alice, thinking uncharitably that a hanging was exactly the kind of entertainment that would appeal to her bitter soul.

He was surprised to see Eaffrey however, because he thought she had more taste. She was with Behn, who looked as though he was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had bought oranges from a fruit-seller, and was sharing them with Temple and Alice. Eaffrey declined, and Chaloner thought she looked pale. He waited until the seat-vendor was looking the other way, then slipped past him to join the chattering party on the top rung. Behn grimaced in annoyance when Chaloner insinuated himself between him and Eaffrey, and Alice pointedly looked the other way.

‘I expected Silence Webb to invite me to join her party,’ said Temple, as if to explain why he had not secured himself a better place. ‘She has been allocated a spot at the front, because Dillon is the rogue who killed her husband. Unfortunately, the surgeons got there first. Damned vultures! You can see them with her now – but only because they want to make sure they get the body.’

Chaloner looked towards the gallows, and saw a number of barber-surgeons forming a solicitous circle around Silence. Lisle had a fatherly hand on her shoulder, although she did not seem particularly distressed by the occasion. On the contrary, she was revelling in the attention; her eyes sparkled, and so did the jewels at her throat. Johnson and Reynell stood next to a coffin. Both carried unsheathed swords, and Reynell appeared to be terrified. With them was a gaggle of apprentices, blades flashing as they kept the crowd at bay. Chaloner could hear Johnson’s braying voice informing anyone who happened to be listening that oranges rotted the bladder, because they were caustic.

‘Silence may have neglected you, but she invited me,’ said Behn to Temple. Then he shot Eaffrey a false and wholly unconvincing smile. ‘I declined, because I prefer to be with my sweet lady.’

‘Johan and I have quarrelled,’ said Eaffrey in a low, sad voice to Chaloner, when Behn and Temple began to discuss the pros and cons of standing too near the scaffold when a man was hanged. ‘He thinks you and I are lovers, and he finds himself jealous.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘It might make him appreciate you more, and forgo the pleasures offered by Silence and Maude.’

‘And Adrian May’s mother,’ added Eaffrey with a rueful smile. ‘Johan seems to like crones, so perhaps he will leave me alone once we are married. I will not complain. He is a bit of an ape.’

‘An ape with deep pockets.’

She smiled wanly. ‘I sincerely hope so. I understand William told you our plan? Do not be too harsh on us, Tom. It is not as if Johan is kind or decent.’

Suddenly, Behn lurched violently to one side, rocking the structure hard with the obvious intention of making Chaloner lose his balance and fall. Unfortunately for him, it was not the spy who took a tumble off the back, but Temple. Alice gave a shriek of horror and tried to clamber towards her beau, but her skirts snagged in the rough wood, and the more she struggled, the more firmly she became ensnared. Behn’s fumbling attempts to free her made matters worse, and so did Temple’s increasingly agitated demands for help; he had landed in a morass of rotten fruit peelings left from previous executions, and the midden was too slippery for an escape under his own power.

‘Have you seen William, Tom?’ asked Eaffrey, studiously ignoring the melee. ‘He was supposed to visit last night, but he failed to arrive. It is unlike him to miss an assignation without sending word, and I have looked everywhere for him. I even visited Thurloe, and since relations between those two have been strained since William changed sides during the collapse of the Commonwealth, you can tell how desperate I am.’

‘I have not seen him since Thursday – two days ago – but he knows how to look after himself.’

‘I found a body yesterday,’ she whispered. Chaloner glanced at her in shock, and saw the deep unhappiness in her eyes. ‘In Johan’s office. I think he killed the man.’

Chaloner was alarmed. ‘Then you cannot go home with Behn today, and if Scot was here, he would say the same thing. Stay with me – or I will take you to Scot’s rooms in the Chequer.’

She smiled wanly. ‘No, I shall foist myself on Alice. William told her that he and I are close, so she will not refuse me sanctuary. Johan might try to kill you or Scot for taking me away from him, but he would never harm her, because she is a woman.’

‘Whose body did you find?’ asked Chaloner, hoping her assessment was right. He disliked Alice, but she was Scot’s sister, and he did not want to see her in danger.

‘A man who has visited him before – an ugly, squat fellow with a scar on his neck. He was knifed in the back, probably early in the evening, when I was out at White Hall. The corpse was gone by this morning.’

‘Gone where?’

She shook her head. ‘Perhaps Johan dropped it in the river under cover of darkness.’ She fought back tears. ‘I want William, Tom! And I want him now!’

‘I will look for him this afternoon,’ he said soothingly, wishing he could take her in his arms and give her the comfort of a hug. ‘Do not worry – he will not have gone far.’

‘I love him,’ she whispered. ‘And I cannot imagine life without him. I know you considered him as a suspect for Webb’s murder, because he left the Guinea Company dinner early and declined to explain himself. But you know why now: he came to see me.’

He smiled at the notion. ‘He was never a suspect! I was bemused by the inconsistencies in his story, but he is not the kind of man to kill and let others hang for the crime. I do not understand why he declined to confide in me, though. We have shared far more sensitive secrets in the past.’

‘He did not understand it, either, which has made him worry all the more about the way our occupation has begun to warp his judgement. He trusts you with his life, but lied instinctively when you asked questions. It taught him something about himself that he did not like.’

‘It will not be for much longer,’ said Chaloner. ‘The Lord Chancellor told me today that Thomas will be released in a few days. This time next week, you will all be on a ship sailing for Surinam. A big, happy family – you and Scot, Behn, Alice and Thomas. And perhaps even Temple, too.’

Eaffrey lowered her voice further, choosing to ignore the mockery in his voice. ‘William was going to tell Alice he was taking her to Surinam last night – without Temple. She is a strong lady, and I am afraid she might have … ’

‘Alice would never harm him. It is a fiercely close family, no matter who wants to marry whom.’

‘Temple, then. He will not want to lose his wealthy widow. And then there is Johan, who courts his fat ladies, but hates the thought of me seeing anyone else.’

‘I assume you are having second thoughts about marrying him now?’

‘William is, but I do not know how else we can secure a future for our child. However, the more I come to know Johan, the less I understand him. I am used to clandestine dealings – for obvious reasons – but he has far more than a merchant should. He writes letters in a complicated cipher that I cannot break, and there is an air of controlled violence about him. He would never hurt a woman, but I fear for the men who cross him, including you. And I am afraid that he might have done something to William.’

‘Behn is a lumbering brute,’ said Chaloner confidently. ‘He could never best Scot.’

Eaffrey’s face was a mask of unhappiness. ‘Spymaster Williamson asked me yesterday whether I thought Johan might have murdered Webb – or hired louts to do it for him.’

‘Williamson is interested in Behn? That is enlightening.’

‘Johan is not a spy, Tom,’ said Eaffrey, seeing the road his thoughts had taken. ‘That is what I was charged to learn. How else do you think we met?’

Chaloner had guessed the relationship had owed its origins to Eaffrey’s work for the intelligence services. ‘So, when did you decide to relieve Behn of his fortune by marrying him? Before or after Williamson charged you to seduce him for his secrets?’

‘After – when I learned how rich he is.’

‘How can you be sure he is not a spy for Brandenburg?’

‘Lord, Tom! You are like the inquisition today! Because all the evidence points to ugly mercantile dealings, not treachery. Believe me, I investigated this very carefully before I decided to marry him. Given my own occupation, I can hardly wed an enemy intelligencer, can I?’ She winced when a great cheer went up from the crowd. ‘Dillon has arrived.’

Chaloner left Eaffrey when Behn abandoned his attempts to extricate Alice from the splinters and devoted his attention to the condemned man instead. He was one of those who liked to play an active role in public executions, and began to howl abuse at Dillon. Such behaviour was common among apprentices or drunken labourers, but merchants, on the whole, tended to be more genteel. Alice screeched at him to come back and help her, but Behn was oblivious to all except the scaffold. Eaffrey winced at his coarse manners, and went to assist Alice. Chaloner was about to do the same for Temple, but a pair of thickset louts beat him to it. They hauled the politician to his feet, then relieved him of his purse while they were dusting him down.

The spy returned to Thurloe, and climbed two of the wheel’s rungs, enough to see Dillon’s head and shoulders among the mass of people by the gibbet. Dillon wore his distinctive hat, which he doffed to the crowd, earning himself cheers of admiration. The robber and the baby-killer had already been turned off their ladders, and their bodies twisted and turned as they swung in the breeze.

‘I hope to God they were guilty,’ said Thurloe. ‘Not innocent, like Dillon.’

It was time to reveal what had been omitted from the letter written the previous night. Chaloner took a deep breath and began, sorry for the pain he knew he was about to cause his friend. ‘Dillon described yesterday how he distracted Webb while Fanning stabbed him. He claimed he acted on his master’s orders, but that he would willingly have helped to kill Webb anyway, because he despises slavery. His master sent him a note, which he received in the Dolphin tavern after he had left the Guinea Company dinner. He had abandoned the event early, because he had quarrelled with Webb.’

Thurloe regarded him with a stunned expression, then shook his head. ‘He was not telling the truth. Perhaps this so-called confession is part of this complex game he is playing – he and his master.’

‘Not so, sir,’ said Chaloner gently. ‘I went to the Dolphin tavern afterwards, where I found a pot-boy who admitted to following Dillon to The Strand on the evening of the murder. The lad is a thief, and I imagine he intended to rob Dillon, which is why he has kept his story to himself until now.’

‘Yet he told you?’ asked Thurloe sceptically. ‘After all these weeks?’

‘I had a dagger at his throat, and he was far too terrified to tell me anything but the truth. He said he saw Dillon reach Webb’s house and hide in the shadows. Eventually, Dillon was joined by a second man whose description matches Fanning’s. At that point, the boy became uneasy and ran away.’

Thurloe shook his head stubbornly. ‘This unsavoury lad’s tale does not mean–’

‘Dillon told me Webb fell to his knees when he died, injuring them. I saw Webb’s body, and there were grazes on his legs. Only his killers would know such a detail.’

Thurloe gazed at him, shocked and hurt. ‘So, the conviction was sound? I have been working to free a guilty man? The bloody rapier was not planted by spiteful hands, but was his – or Fanning’s?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘It would seem so.’

‘Then it explains why Dillon is so certain he will be saved today,’ said Thurloe tiredly. ‘He did his master’s bidding, and he has a right to expect his master’s protection. So, whoever wrote Bristol’s letter was telling the truth. Does this mean the other seven men were guilty, too?’

‘Dillon said it was just him and Fanning. I wonder how May – the author of the letter – came to know Dillon and Fanning were the culprits. I suppose I shall have to ask him.’

‘I will tell my expert to compare May’s handwriting with that on Bristol’s note. It may prove conclusive. Did I tell you Eaffrey came to see me after you left this morning? She is worried, because Scot is missing, and she thought I might know his whereabouts. I showed her Bristol’s letter and, after studying it with my enlarging glass, she demonstrated how Garsfield had been changed to Sarsfeild.’

Chaloner was dismissive. ‘I do not think–’

‘She made a convincing case. I could not see it until she copied the letters in a larger hand and showed me what had happened. I believe she is right: the writer changed his mind after writing your alias, and altered the letters to spell a slightly different name.’

‘Why would May do that? He would rather have me accused than all the others put together.’

‘Perhaps it was because you were in Ireland when Webb was murdered – like the spies Clarke and Fitz-Gerrard – and he knew that if there were too many who could not possibly have committed the crime, it would lead to the whole letter being brought into question.’

Chaloner did not believe him, so Thurloe handed him the note and the glass. ‘I can see the ink is blurred in places,’ he said after several minutes of careful study, ‘but the changes are barely visible.’

‘You have ruined your eyes by studying music at night, and I have spoiled mine with too much reading. But I am sure Eaffrey is right. When she realised you might be in danger, she begged me to send you on an errand out of London, to keep you safe. She is a good friend to you, Thomas.’

The crowd went quiet when Dillon began to hold forth, using the condemned man’s prerogative to say whatever he liked during his last moments on Earth. He sounded smug and confident, an attitude that was appreciated by the people, who cheered at the jests he made. Next to him, the executioner showed signs of impatience. Dillon ignored him, but after an hour the mob became restless, too; they liked a speech, but they liked a hanging more. At the front, someone yelled that he had a business to run. Would Dillon mind hurrying up? The horde laughed and Dillon’s smile slipped a little.

Chaloner jumped down from the wheel, not wanting to see what happened next. Dillon continued to orate, giving his rescuers every opportunity to come, but eventually he fell silent. There was a smattering of applause as the ladder on which he stood was turned, and he was left kicking in the air.

‘Is anyone coming to save him?’ asked Chaloner.

‘No,’ said Thurloe, looking away.

When the hangman announced in a ringing voice that Dillon was dead, the crowd surged forward, following an ancient superstition that touching a hanged man would work all manner of charms, ranging from curing warts to ending an unwanted pregnancy. Chaloner imagined the surgeons would be struggling to prevent sly knives from making off with parts of the body, and thought he could hear Johnson bawling threats.

‘His last expression was one of utter bewilderment,’ said Thurloe bleakly. ‘He really did believe he was going to be reprieved, and was astonished to learn his faith was misplaced.’

‘Perhaps there were too many people,’ suggested Chaloner. ‘And his rescuers could not find a way through them. The press is very tight around the scaffold itself.’

‘Shame!’ hollered Temple. He was standing on his seat, waving his fist in the air. His clothes were covered in slimy smears from his tumble, and he was besieged by interested flies. ‘What happened to the rescue?’

‘I prefer a hanging,’ countered Behn, equally loud. ‘That is why we came, and I would have been disappointed had the occasion not ended with a death. Dillon murdered a Guinea Company colleague, and it is only right that his neck has been stretched.’

‘That is boring,’ argued Temple. ‘You can see executions any time. I wanted a rescue.’

Chaloner regarded them thoughtfully, noting how most people sided with Temple. There was a growing rumble of resentment that they had been cheated of what they had been promised, and someone yelled that it was Dillon’s fault. Immediately, the mob pressed forward a second time, and the barber-surgeons’ weapons flailed as they used steel to keep the horde away from their cadaver.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Thurloe, when Chaloner started to walk away. The spy had had enough of the day’s ‘entertainment’, and did not want to linger when the situation looked set to turn violent. Leybourn had been right: Dillon’s hanging might well precipitate something dangerous.

‘Monkwell Street. Lisle is going to remove my splint, thank God. And you should not linger here, either. People feel defrauded, and who knows where they may direct their disappointment.’

Escape was easier said than done, however. Afraid that Dillon’s master might attempt to snatch the corpse – perhaps in the hope of reviving it – soldiers prevented anyone from leaving until the surgeons and their prize had fought their way free of the chaos and were in a cart heading towards the city. Then there was a fierce bottleneck, and Chaloner and Thurloe held back, trying to avoid the scuffles that broke out as people pushed and shoved in a futile attempt to hurry it along. The sun beat down on bare heads, and the ale that was needed to cool parched throats was doing nothing to calm the situation.

Eventually, the soldiers managed to assert control, and captains on horseback used their mounts to drive the multitude in the direction they wanted it to go. Chaloner saw Thurloe safely into a sedan chair, with his manservant running at his side, and set off towards Chyrurgeons’ Hall, hoping Lisle would be able to find the time to help him.

It was a long way from Tyburn to the barber-surgeons’ domain, but there were no hackneys available, because there had been a scramble for them when the hanging was over. Then Chaloner saw Temple and Alice climbing into the politician’s personal carriage. Both looked worse for wear: Alice’s skirts were torn, while Temple’s beautiful silk coat would never be the same again. Eaffrey was with them, white-faced and unhappy, but there was no sign of Behn.

Chaloner knew Temple lived near Moorgate, and would pass Monkwell Street on his way home, so he waited until the driver flicked his whip at the horses, then jumped on the back, standing on the platform designed for a footman. The driver did not notice, Eaffrey, Temple and Alice could not see him, and it was a lot faster than walking. He leapt off when they reached Wood Street, almost taking a tumble when his foot skidded in fresh manure. A group of leatherworkers cheered his acrobatics, causing Alice to glance out of her window. Her face hardened when she saw Chaloner, and he bowed insolently. He shot up the nearest lane when she screeched at the coachman to stop, unwilling to miss his appointment with Lisle by letting himself become embroiled in an altercation.

When he knocked on the door to Chyrurgeons’ Hall, he found everyone engaged in fevered preparations for the Public Anatomy. Apprentices were sweeping paths and scrubbing windows with long-handled brooms, and an army of servants scurried around the kitchen block, obeying the frenzied shrieks of the French chef. Delicious smells wafted across the yard, making Chaloner think that he might attend the exhibition after all, even if only to avail himself of the feast afterwards. Reynell spotted him and offered to conduct him to the Anatomical Theatre, where Lisle was waiting.

‘He is going to remove my bandage in that dissecting room?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘In the basement,’ explained Reynell. ‘He is desperately busy, mixing coloured waxes and making sure all his implements are in order, and does not have time to traipse back to his rooms to deal with patients. It makes no difference: a hacksaw can be wielded anywhere, and he said you would not mind where he performed the operation, just as long as Wiseman’s splint comes off.’

‘Did you manage to secure Dillon’s corpse? I saw you leave Tyburn with a coffin, but it was impossible to tell what was in it.’

‘There were some problems.’ Reynell did not elaborate, and Chaloner did not really want to be regaled with a grisly story, so they walked to the theatre in silence. Reynell glanced around a little furtively as they reached the stairs, as if he did not want to be seen.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Chaloner, immediately wary.

‘We cannot let Wiseman know what we are doing. This is not the first time Lisle has been obliged to rectify his mistakes, and he is apt to be nasty about it. Lisle cannot afford a confrontation – not today, of all days – but no one is looking, so we are all right.’

Chaloner followed him down the stairs to the gloomy vault. This time, only four bodies were present. One did not have a sheet, and Chaloner recognised the thin, wan features of Sarsfeild. Shirt laces still bit into the confectioner’s throat, because Wiseman’s dissection had focused on the abdomen, and the head and neck had so far been left alone.

‘There you are, Heyden,’ said Lisle, smiling genially. ‘Come in, come in. I hope you do not mind me tending you in here, but I am terribly busy today, and this will save time.’

Chaloner was about to sit in the chair Lisle indicated, when the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and all his instincts warned him that he was being watched. He hesitated, and the covert glance passed between Lisle and his clerk confirmed that something was amiss. He began to back away, aiming for the door. He did not get far before Reynell produced the gun he had kept hidden under his coat, pointing it at Chaloner with a hand that was far from steady. Then came the sound of the door being closed, and Chaloner glanced around to see Johnson. He carried a sword, and the fact that its blade was stained red with blood suggested it was not the first time he had used it that day.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Lisle unhappily. ‘I was hoping there would be no need for histrionics. Please sit down, Heyden. We will make this as fast and painless as possible.’

Johnson gripped his rapier in both hands, muttering something about the unruly mob he had been obliged to fend off at Tyburn. Meanwhile, Lisle held an implement that might have had a surgical application, but that he brandished like a cudgel, and Reynell cocked his weapon; it trembled in a way that was dangerous. Deftly, Lisle removed the sword and daggers from Chaloner’s belt. He found the one in his sleeve, too, while the one from his boot had been confiscated at White Hall. Chaloner was weaponless, although not, he hoped, defenceless.

‘There is no point in yelling for help,’ said Lisle, smiling again. ‘No one will hear you. The theatre will not be occupied for at least another two hours, and the walls to this basement are very thick. They were built that way to keep it cool for specimens, but they also serve to dampen sounds.’

Chaloner had no intention of wasting energy with howls for assistance. He assessed his chances of dodging around Johnson and reaching the door, and decided they were fair; the man did not look agile, although he was probably strong. The problem lay with Reynell and his shaking dag.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, speaking to give himself time to consider his options.

‘You,’ said Lisle simply. ‘We want you.’

Chaloner was mystified, but then he understood. ‘For your Private Anatomies?’

Lisle nodded, and suddenly his grin did not seem so genial. ‘There is a great demand for them these days. The prisons cannot supply our needs, because we require decent corpses, not ones that are emaciated and covered in scabs. So, we are obliged to go elsewhere for material. You will be perfect.’

‘And we shall have the reward from the Dutch,’ added Johnson. ‘You murdered an upholsterer, and the Netherlanders have offered a thousand pounds for your head.’

‘Is this why you wanted me to come today and not earlier?’ asked Chaloner. ‘You need me fresh?’

‘Yes,’ replied Lisle. ‘I hope you did as I asked, and told no one else about our appointment.’

‘I mentioned it to several friends,’ countered Chaloner immediately. ‘Men who are used to unravelling mysteries. They will certainly learn what you have done.’

Lisle shrugged. ‘You would say that, but it is immaterial anyway. Johnson and Reynell will support me in saying that you went home after I removed the splint. I have also taken the precaution of giving you reason to despair – by telling everyone that your hand will never mend and that your viol-playing days are over. I will swear you left in low spirits, and you will not be the first to hurl yourself in the river, never to be seen again.’

Johnson addressed Lisle. ‘You do realise that my friend will not be very pleased about his death? It will spoil his plans, and Reynell and I went to some trouble with … well, you know.’

‘With what?’ demanded Chaloner.

Lisle ignored him. ‘What he wants is irrelevant. He asked for the favour to which you have just alluded, and he wanted documents signed and sealed. We have done all that, so our obligations to him are complete.’

‘True, but he is in an excellent position to procure us corpses,’ argued Johnson. ‘I do not want to incur his displeasure when he might prove useful to us in the future. I dislike being forced to kill people, just because we are short of a good body, and he might provide us with an alternative source of material.’

Chaloner regarded him in distaste. ‘You just go out and pick someone when you need a corpse?’

‘We have no choice,’ snapped Johnson. ‘We tried using those of our patients who died from natural causes, but their families kept declining to let us have them, even when we offered to pay. We cannot disappoint powerful courtiers, so we have no alternative but to hasten the end of a few nobodies.’

Lisle rolled his eyes. ‘We can hardly oblige your friend by letting Heyden live now you have told him all that, Johnson! Hurry up and make an end of this – there is a lot to do before the dissection this afternoon, and we cannot afford to waste time.’

Chaloner’s mind was working fast. ‘Did you arrange for Fitz-Simons to be killed, because you wanted his body?’

‘Of course not!’ cried Reynell, shocked. ‘What do you think we are? He was a friend – a barber-surgeon.’

‘Then why is there a different body in your charnel house, marked with his name?’

‘We have already told you,’ replied Reynell impatiently. ‘Wiseman realised Fitz-Simons was the so-called “assassin” shot by May, and we could not allow his misguided actions to bring our Company into disrepute, so we were obliged to snatch him from White Hall before anyone could identify him.’

‘I put another corpse in the charnel house, to deflect any awkward enquiries,’ added Johnson, pleased with himself for considering all eventualities. ‘But my precautions were unnecessary, because no one has come. And, before you ask, he really did bequeath us his corpse, to be used for the edification of our apprentices.’

‘And what about Webb? Was he murdered to provide you with a specimen?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Johnson indignantly. ‘I have just told you we only take nobodies.’

‘You exchanged his fat body for a waif from the prisons, though,’ surmised Chaloner, not sure whether to believe him. ‘I imagine you made the swap in St Paul’s, while Webb was waiting to be jammed into the tiny space allotted to him.’

‘The vergers we bribed were relieved when we offered a solution to their predicament,’ gloated Johnson. ‘Little Martin Webster slipped into Bishop Stratford’s tomb a lot more easily than the portly Webb would have done. Everyone was a winner in that bargain.’

‘Except Webb. Does Silence know?’

‘Goodness me, no!’ exclaimed Lisle. ‘She would be furious – and might even demand a share of our profits. You will die today, Heyden, so you may as well go quietly. Come and sit down, and let Johnson bring an end to this unsavoury business. He is a surgeon and knows how to do it quickly. There will be very little pain, I promise.’

Chaloner made a sudden lunge for Reynell’s gun. The clerk shrieked in alarm, and the weapon discharged, making everyone duck. Chaloner emerged the victor, but the dag had been fired, so was useless until it could be reloaded. He lobbed it hard at Lisle, but the man flinched away, and it cracked harmlessly into the wall behind him. Johnson advanced with his sword, but Reynell, desperate to arm himself, got in his way as he dived towards Lisle’s tray of surgical implements. Their momentary tangle allowed Chaloner to grab a broom.

Lisle sighed. ‘There is no point bucking against the inevitable, so just let us do our business. You will not be missed. You have no family in the city, and when you disappear, your colleagues will assume you could not bear the thought of a life without music. So be reasonable, Heyden. Do not make this harder for all of us.’

‘How many people have you killed?’ asked Chaloner, backing away quickly when Reynell laid hold of a long knife. He managed to reach the tables on which the bodies lay, using them as a barrier between him and the relentless advance of his three assailants.

‘Do not tell him,’ advised Reynell, feeling his knife’s blade and wincing when he cut himself. ‘It is none of his business, and he is only trying to distract us.’

But Johnson was of a mind to be garrulous, presumably because it was not often that he had the opportunity to brag about his achievements. ‘I cannot recall, precisely. It has been about six months since we started, but we avoid slaughter when we can. I have put it about that we receive corpses with no questions asked, and people have been very obliging.’

‘We anatomise them, then give them a decent burial in St Olave’s Church,’ elaborated Lisle. ‘It is only right that the subject gets something out of the arrangement.’

‘Very noble,’ said Chaloner. ‘Then tell me how many people you have killed this week, if you cannot recall all the poor souls you have dispatched over the last half year.’

‘You will be our fourth,’ said Johnson. He glanced up at the ceiling, counting on his fingers. ‘Yes, just three others this week.’

‘Fanning and Sarsfeild,’ said Chaloner in disgust. ‘Men in prison, unable to defend themselves.’

‘Fanning, yes, Sarsfeild no,’ said Johnson. ‘May let slip that he was going to help Fanning escape from Newgate, you see. We could not afford to lose such a good, strong specimen, so I bribed a warden to let me at him first. Then I bribed him a second time to record a verdict of gaol-fever.’

‘Was it the same warden who later had an “accident”? He was hit by a cart?’

Johnson was defensive. ‘He took our money, then started telling everyone that Fanning had a cord around his neck. He could not be trusted, so I dispatched him. We would have added him to our collection, too, but he was too badly mangled.’

‘So, Fanning and the warden are two,’ said Chaloner. ‘Who is your third victim?’

‘We plan to dissect him this afternoon,’ said Lisle comfortably. ‘For the Public Anatomy.’

‘I thought Dillon was–’

‘Dillon is too fresh, and will bleed,’ said Lisle impatiently. ‘Our guests do not want to see that sort of thing, so we procured another fellow yesterday.’

Chaloner ripped the sheet from one of the cadavers, evading a wild blow from Johnson’s sword at the same time. A squat man lay there, with an old scar on his neck. Blood had pooled on the table beneath him; the fatal injury had been to his back. Chaloner’s thoughts tumbled in confusion. He matched the description of the man Scot had seen visiting Behn after dark, and whose corpse Eaffrey had discovered in Behn’s office. Now Chaloner knew what had happened to it. The surgeons had evidently been pleased to get it, because the limbs had already been detached, probably for students.

Chaloner jerked away from Johnson’s blade a second time, and tore the cover from the next subject. Willys’s waxen face stared at him. ‘How did you get–?’

‘Holles was kind enough to ask me to deliver him to his own parish,’ said Johnson, pleased with himself. ‘A scrofulous beggar is now in Willys’s grave, and we have a fine, disease-free subject to dissect for Brodrick, although we shall have to keep his face covered, as they knew each other.’

Chaloner dragged the sheet away from the last body, expecting to see Dillon, but what he saw made his stomach lurch in horror. William Scot lay there, peaceful and relaxed in death. Chaloner felt the walls closing in around him, and for a moment was aware of nothing but the pounding of his own heart.

‘Dear God, no!’ he whispered.

‘It is the scientific gentleman from Ireland,’ explained Lisle. ‘Peter Terrell. For some inexplicable reason, he came here last night, so Johnson dispatched him with a blow to the head. It is a good way to kill, because it does not damage anything we need for our dissections.’

Shock had allowed Chaloner’s guard to slip, and Johnson managed to grab his arm before he came to his senses and repelled him with a punch to the jaw. The surgeon reeled away, while Chaloner’s numbed mind worked feverishly to analyse the information. He had told Scot that Lisle planned to remove his splint, and somehow Scot had learned Lisle was not the kindly healer he appeared to be and had come to investigate. They had killed him, and intended to use him for their grotesque dissection that afternoon. Chaloner gazed at his friend’s still face, and made up his mind that it would not happen, no matter what the cost.

‘Is your entire Company complicit in this monstrous plot?’ he demanded, stepping briskly around the table to avoid Reynell’s knife. His wits were suddenly sharp and clear, as they always were in desperate situations. He removed his hat – the one he had used to steal Prynne’s gunpowder – and hurled it, ostensibly at Lisle, but it landed on the lamp. Flames licked towards it. ‘Or just you three?’

‘The “entire Company” does not bear the responsibility of securing its future,’ replied Lisle tartly. ‘Arrogant fellows like Wiseman sit back and enjoy the benefits of belonging to a licensed guild, but it does not run on air. It is my duty, as Master, to ensure we are solvent. These Private Anatomies are an excellent way to achieve our aim, and I salute Reynell’s ingenuity in devising such a plan.’

‘You keep some of the profit for yourselves, though,’ said Chaloner. ‘Wiseman has noticed your sudden upturns in fortune – your generosity in donating implements to the hospitals, Johnson moving in expensive Court circles, and Reynell’s suspiciously fine clothes.’

Reynell was becoming unsettled by the amount of time that was passing. ‘We should hurry. I keep thinking Wiseman might come, wanting to know whether this afternoon’s corpse is ready.’

‘He will not stop us,’ said Lisle. ‘He is poor, because Webb’s scurrilous lies have destroyed his medical practice – his silence can be bought.’

‘And if he proves awkward, then there are always uses for a large cadaver like this,’ added Johnson, a little longingly.

‘Where is Dillon?’ asked Chaloner. Smoke was curling from his hat. ‘Did he escape after all?’

‘Do not answer – just dispatch him,’ begged Reynell. ‘People will start to arrive for the Public Anatomy soon – they always come early, to get good seats – and it would be awkward if someone came down here by mistake and saw us chatting to a future subject.’

‘We shall dissect you for Lady Castlemaine,’ said Lisle with his pleasant smile. ‘It will be the first time a woman has requisitioned a performance, and you are sure to please her.’

‘Then she is going to be disappointed,’ said Chaloner, launching himself forward and bowling Reynell from his feet. When the clerk tried to stand, Chaloner hit him under the chin with his knee, forcing his head back against a wooden table with a dull thump.

Johnson clutched his sword in both hands and came at Chaloner with a howl of fury, so the spy was obliged to jump hastily behind the table. At that moment, the flame reached the remnants of the gunpowder in his hat, and it puffed like a firework. It was not much of a display, but it made Johnson spin around in alarm, allowing Chaloner to throw the broom at him while he was distracted. It struck his jaw hard, and he stumbled into Scot’s body, snatching at it desperately in a effort maintain his balance. Then he and the corpse crashed to the floor together, and the surgeon gave a yelp of disgust as he tried to free himself from the cold, flopping limbs.

Meanwhile, Lisle raced towards Chaloner, brandishing his surgical cudgel. He swung it with all his might. Chaloner raised his hand to protect his head, and there was a sharp crack as the splint broke. Lisle lunged again, while Reynell moved groggily to grab Chaloner’s foot, making him fall. The spy became aware of gagging sounds behind him, and wondered what was wrong with Johnson. He glanced around, and Lisle used his momentary inattention to strike again. The dressing took another monstrous blow that sent waves of shock up Chaloner’s arm.

‘That is enough!’ came an authoritative voice. It was Wiseman. ‘Desist immediately.’

‘Thank heavens you are here,’ said Lisle, lowering his weapon in apparent relief. ‘We were preparing the subject for this afternoon, when Heyden arrived and began to run amok. You can see Reynell and Johnson covered in blood from his attack. Seize him quickly, while he is down.’

Chaloner sagged. There was no point in protesting his innocence, or in telling Wiseman what he had learned. It was so outlandish that he would be wasting his breath.

‘Actually, I heard enough to know exactly what is going on,’ said Wiseman haughtily. ‘I have suspected for some time that the handsome specimens you use in your Private Anatomies are not from prisons, and I resolved to discover how you came by them. I set a trap, using Heyden as bait.’

Chaloner scrambled to his feet. ‘What?’

The surgeon stepped into the vault, and continued to address Lisle. ‘I told the porter to let me know when Heyden arrived to see you. I knew you would be unable to resist him – a man with transient friends and no London family. I applied an especially robust splint, knowing he would be desperate to be rid of it, and you would be equally willing to oblige him.’

Lisle glared at him. ‘You abused a patient to entrap me?’

‘To catch you in the act,’ corrected Wiseman. ‘And I have done it, too.’

‘No one will believe you,’ said Lisle, although there was an uneasy expression on his face. ‘Most of our Company find you arrogant, disagreeable and rude, so no one will take your word over mine.’

Wiseman’s smile was unpleasant. ‘I do not care what my colleagues think, because I have him.’ He gestured over his shoulder, and Chaloner saw Williamson framed in the doorway.

‘I heard enough to hang you,’ said the Spymaster coolly. He turned to the soldiers who were ranged behind him. ‘Arrest them all.’

‘And if Mr Williamson is not a powerful enough witness, there is always him,’ said Wiseman, pointing to the floor, where Johnson was gasping for breath. Scot’s corpse was on top of him, and Chaloner saw with a start that its hands were fixed firmly around the surgeon’s throat. Scot was alive, and busily throttling the man who had tried to kill him.

‘You should not have stopped me,’ said Scot resentfully, sitting in Wiseman’s chambers a short while later. He was pale, and there was a sizeable lump where Johnson had struck him, but he was quickly regaining his customary composure. ‘The fate they had in mind for me was horrible, and I do not trust the law-courts to hand down a suitable sentence.’

Wiseman did not agree. ‘They may not hang at Tyburn, but there are other means of dispensing with people, especially if you are Williamson. You should be aware of this – you work for the man.’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Chaloner, immediately wary. Scot was ruthlessly careful, and did not confide in just anyone. Wiseman would be one of the last people to earn his trust, especially as Scot had said on several occasions that he was wary of the man.

Wiseman sighed impatiently. ‘Because government intelligencers live dangerously, and I am a surgeon with a Court appointment. Williamson often summons me to help his people, and so does Lord Clarendon. I ask no questions, because it is safer that way, but I know what you two do.’

Chaloner glanced at Scot. ‘Is it true?’

‘He has been the unofficial “surgeon to spies” since the Restoration, and I am surprised you have never had recourse to call on his services.’ Scot turned to the smug medic. ‘What will happen to the Public Anatomy? Will you cancel it now Lisle and Johnson are unavailable?’

‘There is no need for that,’ replied Wiseman comfortably. ‘Not when I – the Company’s most accomplished practitioner – am ready to save the day. The demonstration will go ahead as planned.’

‘On Willys?’ asked Chaloner in distaste. ‘You intend to use him, even though his corpse was snatched from its grave?’

Wiseman rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘Lisle was right about one thing. Dillon will bleed if we use him – his lengthy scaffold speeches mean he has not been dead long enough for the bodily fluids to settle. Meanwhile, the other corpses in the basement have been partially dissected already. Willys is our only choice.’

‘You cannot use Dillon, anyway,’ Scot pointed out. ‘No one seems to know where he is.’

‘Johnson does,’ said Chaloner, ‘but he is refusing to say.’

Wiseman was unhappy. ‘I hope Williamson finds him soon. It will be bad for the Company if his corpse appears somewhere public. People will think we are careless with them.’

‘And that would never do,’ said Chaloner acidly. He was torn between anger at having been used as a tethered goat to entrap Lisle, and relief that Scot had risen from the dead.

Wiseman grinned. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology, although, as Clarendon’s man, you must be pleased with the outcome – you have successfully eliminated Johnson, one of your master’s nastiest enemies. Perhaps I should have taken you into my confidence, and asked whether you minded lending a hand – literally, in this case – but I thought my plan would work better if you were kept in the dark. Besides, I mentioned several times that Lisle and Johnson had recently become inexplicably wealthy, but you did not take the hint and offer to investigate.’

‘I did not know it was a hint,’ objected Chaloner. ‘I thought you were just talking.’

‘I never just talk,’ declared Wiseman. ‘Everything I say is worth listening to – and acting upon.’

‘Lord Clarendon will be delighted to learn Johnson is so spectacularly disgraced,’ said Scot, when Chaloner snorted his disbelief. ‘Especially if some of the mess can be made to stick to Bristol.’

‘Perhaps so, but there was still no need to maim me. I would have helped to expose Johnson and his gruesome dealings, and performing bad surgery was both unnecessary and unethical.’

Wiseman grimaced at the reprimand. ‘Well, it is done now, and to make amends, I shall remove the splint. You will play your viol this evening as though nothing has happened.’

‘Good,’ said Chaloner coldly. ‘Because if I find I cannot, I shall return and brain you with it.’

‘Do not be bitter,’ said the surgeon with his irritating unflappability. ‘We have just apprehended three very dangerous criminals and you saved your colleague into the bargain. If you had not arrived when you did, he would be down in the basement now, having his veins waxed.’

When he went to fetch what he needed for his operation, Chaloner turned to Scot. ‘I thought you said he could not be trusted, but now it transpires that he works for Williamson, too.’

Scot shrugged. ‘I do not trust anyone at White Hall, no matter what his credentials, and there is something sinister about the man. I was right anyway – normal people do not use patients to trap their errant colleagues, after all.’

Wiseman returned with a huge pair of shears. ‘Tell us again what happened, Scot,’ he ordered as he sat in front of Chaloner. ‘How did Johnson come to wallop you on the head with his bone chisel?’

Scot touched the lump and winced. ‘It is very simple. Chaloner told me Lisle was planning to “help” him today, because you had bungled the original treatment. However, I knew you were unlikely to make the kind of mistakes Lisle had accused you of, so I decided to spy on the man and his domain. I was exploring the Anatomical Theatre when Johnson jumped me – to my eternal shame. I was in and out of awareness for hours, and only came to properly when he dragged me to the floor.’

Chaloner scowled at Wiseman. ‘If you had not encouraged Lisle to want my corpse, I would not have agreed to keep an appointment with him, and Scot would not have come to save me. Your plan put us both in danger.’

Wiseman waved a hand to show he thought it did not matter, and began to ply his shears. ‘Lisle did something right at least – this splint will be easier to remove now it is cracked. And it saved your arm without a doubt. I would have been amputating by now, had Lisle’s blows done what he intended.’

Scot watched him. ‘I thought you had invented some mysterious compound to dissolve your glue. Why are cutters necessary?’

‘I lied,’ said Wiseman. ‘There is no compound on Earth that can dissolve a Wiseman Splint.’

‘I do not understand much of this,’ said Chaloner, talking to take his mind off the fact that a man he did not like was labouring over his arm with a very sharp implement. He was sure he could work everything out for himself, but he did not want to sit in silence. ‘Can we go over it again? Webb was stabbed by Dillon and Fanning on the orders of their master. Who is he? Behn?’

Scot nodded slowly. ‘I certainly think so, but we shall never know for certain, given that both assassins are dead and Behn is unlikely to confess without their testimony. Meanwhile, someone must have witnessed the murder, and wrote to Bristol about it. Fanning and Dillon were guilty, but the other seven names were included for spite.’

‘Because someone does not like spies,’ agreed Wiseman, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘This fellow struck Williamson hard by exposing his people.’

Scot nodded. ‘And I know you disagree, Chaloner, but I am sure the writer did mean Garsfield, not Sarsfeild. The confectioner was very unlucky.’

Chaloner was beginning to think it might be true, mostly because his favourite suspect for composing the note was May, and May would never pass up an opportunity to harm him.

Scot read his mind. ‘May is not sufficiently clever. I think it is Behn again. There is something very odd about that man – just ask Eaffrey. She will not like it, but I do not want them together again. You know what I mean, Chaloner. I would rather be poor than see her in danger.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Wiseman cheerfully. He was panting heavily. ‘But do not enlighten me – I am almost certainly safer not knowing. Lord! I did a magnificent job with this splint. It is as hard as a rock, and the secret ingredient I added worked better than I could have hoped. I shall be a wealthy man once I perfect it. Everyone with broken limbs will want one.’

Chaloner flinched when the blades gazed his arm, and hastily resumed his analysis. ‘Behn is dangerous. Eaffrey said he killed some sort of accomplice in his office, and that man is now in the basement with his limbs cut off, ready to be anatomised.’

Scot’s face was pale. ‘You mean the fellow with the scarred throat? He is dead? Christ!’

Chaloner turned his thoughts to Webb again. ‘All three men who were convicted of Webb’s murder are now dead – although Fanning did not have gaol-fever and Sarsfeild did not kill himself. Dillon was hanged, though.’

‘Was he?’ asked Scot. He touched the back of his head again, and winced. ‘I was not there, if you recall. Did you see the body? Feel for a lifebeat? Put a glass against his lips to test for breath?’

‘I did not,’ said Wiseman, exchanging shears for a saw and working furiously. The room began to smell of burning glue, and Chaloner hoped the dressing would not ignite. ‘That was Lisle and Johnson’s responsibility.’

‘You let Lisle and Johnson pronounce life extinct?’ echoed Scot incredulously. ‘Then perhaps there is a good reason for Dillon’s disappearance – such as he was cut down before he was dead and is now with his mysterious master. It is probably not the rescue he had in mind, but if it worked … ’

‘It is possible, I suppose,’ admitted Wiseman, changing the angle of the saw. ‘But let us return to our summary. Johnson admitted to killing Fanning, but denied touching Sarsfeild. I believe him. Why confess to one murder, but not another? We should have asked whether he dispatched Willys, too.’

‘Then who did kill Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Someone went to his cell disguised as a vicar and murdered him. If it was not Johnson, then who was it? Behn? May?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Wiseman, mopping his brow. His customary composure had begun to slip, and he looked sheepish as he gestured to the splint. ‘I am afraid I was so determined to trap Lisle that I made my glue a touch too hard, and you have compounded the problem by climbing walls, brawling and trying to play the fiddle. It is no way to treat these inventions.’

‘What are you saying?’ demanded Chaloner.

‘That is stuck. I cannot get it off.’

‘It is not stuck,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘Believe me, you do not want it to be stuck.’

Wiseman bent to the task again. The soft menace in Chaloner’s words seemed to have had an effect, because he renewed his efforts until he was red-faced and breathless. Then there was a loud crack. While Wiseman gripped the splint with both hands, Chaloner hauled with all his might in the opposite direction, and eventually managed to wriggle, pull and twist himself free. It cost most of the hair on his forearm and the skin on his knuckles, but these were small prices to pay for freedom.

‘It is a good thing his bones were not really broken,’ said Scot, as he watched. ‘If they had been, the violent removal of the dressing would have snapped them again.’

‘True,’ mused Wiseman unhappily. ‘My splint will hold a damaged limb immobile for as long as it remains in place, the only disadvantage being that it might have to remain in place for life.’

‘I think you had better devise another way to make your fortune,’ said Scot, laughing. ‘You are liable to be sued by unhappy patients with this invention.’

‘How does it feel, Heyden?’ asked Wiseman, reaching out to examine him.

Chaloner pulled away. ‘Like it no longer requires a surgeon.’