Blood on the Strand

Chapter 12

The advertised Public Anatomy on the body of William Dillon, felon, was well attended, and Chaloner was astonished by how many people the Company of Barber-Surgeons had managed to cram into its theatre. He was even more surprised by how many he recognised, thinking it was not long ago that he did not know a soul in London.

Temple and Brodrick were among the first to arrive, talking and laughing to each other in a way that made them appear to be good friends. Chaloner was uneasy, wondering why Clarendon’s cousin should so suddenly seek out the company of a man who was so open in his disdain for the Earl – especially as it had only been a month since one had hit the other with a candlestick, and only three days since they had sniped and bickered at Eaffrey’s dinner party. Perhaps Thurloe was right after all, and Brodrick was not the loyal kinsman he claimed to be. Holles was with them, cautious and watchful. He spotted Chaloner and raised an eyebrow, although the spy could not tell whether the ‘greeting’ was friendly or otherwise. Chaloner nodded back, trying to decide why Holles should choose to attend such an exhibition; the colonel had openly admitted to being squeamish.

Williamson was also there, May at his side. May’s gaze fell on Chaloner, and he muttered something that made the Spymaster laugh. Scot, clothing and manners adjusted to Peter Terrell, flitted here and there, exchanging bows with people he thought might speed his brother’s release. When Eaffrey arrived with Alice and Behn, he went immediately to kiss her hand, and Chaloner saw her mutter a prayer of relief that he was safe. Without thinking, Alice ran to hug her brother, to show Eaffrey was not the only one who had been worried about him. ‘Terrell’ hastened to pass off the gesture as a joke, but Chaloner saw that Temple was suspicious. Realising with horror that she had almost given Scot away, Alice tried to pretend it was a case of mistaken identity. Her garbled ‘explanations’ were making matters worse, so Chaloner went to intervene.

‘Did you enjoy yourself this morning?’ he asked, saying the first thing that came into his head. It was meant to be an innocuous enquiry that would divert attention away from Scot, but he had forgotten she had missed the hanging because her clothes were caught in the seat.

She glared at him. ‘Not as much as I would have done, had the condemned man been you.’

He winced. ‘You have a savage tongue, Alice.’

‘She is a tad sharp,’ agreed Temple. Chaloner grimaced a second time; he had not meant his comment to be overheard. Temple turned to Brodrick, laughing. ‘Did I ever tell you that her brother sent me a letter offering a vast sum of money if I agreed to leave her? I shall not take him up on his invitation, because it is common knowledge that Alice is the only Scot with any cash, and were I to accept his “generous” settlement, he would almost certainly default on payment.’

Alice gaped at him, while Terrell was suddenly nowhere to be seen. ‘William was going to pay you to abandon me?’ she demanded, aghast. ‘Why did you not mention this before?’

Temple shrugged. ‘It gave me cause to laugh for an hour, and then I forgot about it. He is irrelevant, anyway. I like you well enough, and your money will allow me to buy that plantation I want. What more can a man ask? Bristol spoke to the King on my behalf yesterday, and His Majesty said I can have you, should I feel so inclined.’

Alice’s hearing became highly selective; she smiled broadly. ‘You intend to marry me?’

Temple shrugged again. ‘Why not? We each have something the other desires – you will acquire a handsome husband with a glittering future in British politics; I will get a woman with plenty of ready cash. Well, what do you think? Shall we do it?’

‘Yes!’ she cried, eyes shining. ‘I accept!’

‘You old romantic,’ said Brodrick to Temple. ‘There is a silver tongue on you, no doubt about it.’

Temple inclined his head graciously, then sauntered away with his new friend, leaving his bride-to-be gazing after him in delight.

‘I wish you much happiness, Alice,’ said Chaloner, feeling he should say something nice to mark the occasion. He wondered what Scot would say when he learned his sister was lost.

‘And I shall have it, too,’ she replied, sounding as though there would be trouble if she did not. ‘What are you doing here? Did you come because you heard us talking about Webb’s dissection at Eaffrey’s party, and you wanted to see one for yourself?’

‘How did the surgeons acquire Webb’s body?’ asked Chaloner, curious to know how such an odd occurrence had been explained to the spectators. ‘It was supposed to have been buried in St Paul’s.’

Alice watched Temple take his seat. ‘My Richard made a joke to Surgeon Johnson, remarking on the irony of him commissioning a Private Anatomy, when a man who had tried to cheat him was newly dead. He asked whether it was possible to combine the two, and we were both rather startled when Johnson replied – quite seriously – that he would see what he could do.’

‘Then what?’

‘A few days later, he said he had devised a way to acquire Webb’s corpse, but that it would cost extra. He said merchants’ entrails are oilier than those of normal men, so more money is needed to clean up afterwards. I agreed to pay the difference, because Richard was so eager to see inside Webb. You look disapproving. Why? It was all perfectly ethical.’

‘Was it?’

‘Of course. Webb’s body was lent to the surgeons after his funeral, and what is left of him will go back inside his cathedral tomb. That is what Johnson told us. He asked us not to mention it to Silence, though, because she was not invited to the cutting, and he did not want her to take offence. And now you must excuse me, or I will lose my place next to Richard.’

She slipped away, leaving Chaloner full of questions. He was watching Samuel Pepys and a host of navy commissioners ushered into seats of honour, when Wiseman approached and spoke quietly.

‘Do not think too badly of our Company, just because of Lisle and Johnson. It is full of good men. Lisle is vocal about the amount of time he spends with the poor, but many others do an equal or greater amount of charitable work – they just do not brag about it.’

‘We shall probably never know how many people Johnson killed,’ said Chaloner, not of a mind to be forgiving about such heinous activities.

‘No, probably not,’ admitted the surgeon. He sighed. ‘But the audience is growing restless, so I had better begin my demonstration before there is a riot. People are always impatient to see me at work. Are you going to stay? My invitation to you still stands.’

‘I have seen more than enough surgery and anatomy for one day, thank you.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘I did what I thought was right, Heyden, and I would do the same again. Thanks to me, men can rest easy in their coffins tonight, knowing they will stay there.’

He went to stand next to the dissecting table, to make sure all was in order. Willys had arrived, and lay with a cloth bag tied firmly around his head. The barber-surgeons were taking no chances of it slipping off and revealing his identity. Then the lecture began, and Chaloner became interested, despite himself. After a while, he saw Eaffrey slip away from Behn, and indicate with a discreet flicker of her eyes that she wanted to speak privately. He waited a few minutes, so they would not be seen leaving together, then followed.

Outside, the air was clean and fresh, a pleasant change from the stuffy atmosphere in the Anatomical Theatre, where every man and some women puffed away on pipes, and the odour of overheated bodies, unwashed clothes and the corpse mingled unpleasantly. In the sunshine, Chaloner could smell newly scythed grass and warm earth.

‘Thank you for finding William,’ said Eaffrey, when he joined her in the Great Parlour’s cool, cloister-like undercroft. ‘I knew you would not let me down. I cannot tell you how worried I have been. What happened?’

‘He fell into the hands of men who wanted to make an exhibition of him,’ replied Chaloner vaguely. His sleepless night was taking its toll, and he was too tired to embark on complex explanations. Scot could decide how much he wanted her to know about his escapade himself.

‘Did you find your killer? The man who murdered Webb?’

‘Dillon and Fanning did it, but on someone else’s orders. I am inclined to suspect May, but Scot believes it is Behn.’

Eaffrey swallowed hard, but did not leap to Behn’s defence. ‘Your Irish alias was on Bristol’s letter, Tom,’ she said after a moment, raising her hand when Chaloner tried to speak. ‘I visited Thurloe this morning, and he showed me the original note. He has a special glass that magnifies writing, and I saw quite clearly how the name had been changed from Garsfield to Sarsfeild. You obviously have a friend – someone who knows no powerful patron would step forward and provide you with a King’s pardon or let you “disappear”.’

‘Why would anyone help me? Other than Thurloe?’

‘Perhaps someone owes an obligation to the Chaloner clan. Perhaps you saved a life once, and that person found himself in a position to reciprocate. Perhaps someone did not want Lord Clarendon to lose his best spy. There are all kinds of possibilities.’

Chaloner tried to make sense of it. ‘May wrote the letter, so the name must have been changed after he sent it to Bristol. But I doubt Thurloe was ever in a position to tamper with it – if he had been, he would not have asked me to steal it, because he would already have known what it said. And nor would he have let innocent Sarsfeild be incarcerated in Newgate on my behalf.’

‘Lord Clarendon, then. At a time when half the Court is baying for his blood, trustworthy allies are important. However, your mysterious friend obviously wants to remain anonymous, or he would have made himself known to you, so my advice is to forget about him. You say Dillon and Fanning murdered Webb, and they are dead, so let that mark the end of the matter. We shall see Dillon dissected today, and then the whole affair can be buried with him.’

‘It is Willys being dissected, not Dillon. Did you notice how the cloth is tied around the corpse’s head, instead of being laid across its face? Many influential courtiers are here, and they might make a fuss if they learn Bristol’s aide has been providing their afternoon’s amusement.’

Eaffrey made a moue of distaste.

‘Are you sure it is him?’

‘As sure as I can be about anything on this case. I have answers to some questions, but not all. Who killed Willys? Who dressed as a vicar and strangled Sarsfeild? Why did May send that letter to Bristol, when the ruse could have misfired and seen him dismissed?’

‘Actually,’ came a voice far too close behind him, ‘you are quite wrong about May.’

Chaloner spun around to see a tall figure wearing a cloak and a hat that shaded his eyes and the top half on his face. The rest was dominated by a sardonic grin.

There was a sword in Dillon’s hand, and he held it in a way that suggested he was about to use it. Eaffrey gasped in horror, and Chaloner reached for his own weapon. It was not there, and he realised with a shock that he had neglected to retrieve it after Johnson had disarmed him. He backed away, looking for something with which to defend himself, but the undercroft was just an open-sided vault with pillars and a flagstone floor. And because it had been swept for the Public Anatomy, there was not so much as a twig or a pebble that could be lobbed.

‘I saw you hanged!’ breathed Eaffrey, aghast. ‘Are you some fiend, to evade death?’

Dillon ignored her. ‘I have questions, Heyden,’ he whispered. ‘My master wants to know–’

‘That is a dismal attempt at deception,’ said Chaloner contemptuously, stepping behind one of the pillars when he recognised the man’s true identity – Dillon had no reason to harm him, but someone else did. ‘You are too tall to be Dillon, your voice is too deep and the hat is at the wrong angle.’

May ripped the offending item from his bald head. ‘It was worth a try.’

‘What do you want?’ demanded Chaloner, pulling Eaffrey behind him.

‘I want an end to the trouble you have caused me,’ snapped May. ‘I want you dead.’

Chaloner balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to jump one way or the other when May attacked. ‘What trouble? Perhaps we should go to see Williamson and–’

May snorted. ‘I do not think so! You will try to usurp my position – to have yourself hired and me dismissed, because you think you are a better spy than me.’

‘He is a better spy than you,’ said Eaffrey, eyeing May in distaste. ‘But he has no desire to work for Williamson or steal your post as chief toady. Why would he, when he is content with Clarendon?’

May sneered. ‘Every decent spy wants to be in the government’s employ, so why should he be any different? He has done nothing but tell lies about me ever since we returned from Ireland. But I shall have my revenge. First, I shall kill him, and then I shall sit back and watch his reputation destroyed. I have taken the liberty of hiding one or two documents in pertinent places, and when they come to light, they will ensure his name will always be associated with ignominy.’

‘That is an ungentlemanly thing to do,’ said Eaffrey angrily.

‘Ours is an ungentlemanly profession. And do not think you will avenge his death, madam, because I know about you – your real lover is Scot, and you intend to wed Behn for his money. If you attempt to harm me, I shall tell Behn, and you will be poor for the rest of your life.’

‘You are a pig!’ spat Eaffrey in disgust. Chaloner glanced at her and wondered whether the threat was enough to buy her silence. She did not want her child born into poverty, and Scot would have no money once his sister – and her fortune – married the despicable Temple.

‘What lies have I told about you?’ he asked of May.

‘About that letter to Bristol. I did not write it, and I resent the implication that I would expose the identities of my fellow agents. Your accusations have made my colleagues suspicious and wary of me. No doubt it is all part of your plan to usurp my place in Williamson’s confidence.’

‘It is nothing of the kind,’ said Chaloner impatiently, tensing when May made a practice sweep with his blade, making it whistle through the air. ‘And what do you propose to do here? Kill me with half the Court within shouting distance?’

May smiled grimly. ‘We both know no one will hear anything through those thick walls, not with Wiseman babbling about guts and bladders. You can holler all you like, but I will still skewer you.’

‘Fetch Williamson, Eaffrey,’ ordered Chaloner. He glanced around to see she had gone.

‘She is a practical lady – and an ambitious one,’ said May gloatingly. ‘So do not expect help from that quarter. She will not risk a comfortable future just to save your miserable life.’

Before Chaloner could reply, May advanced with a series of well-executed sweeps. Chaloner ducked one way, then the other around the pillar, and May missed him by no more than the width of a finger.

‘I should have dispatched you in White Hall’, hissed the bald spy. ‘I would have done, had Holles not stopped me. You had better draw, or this will be a very short fight.’

‘I cannot draw,’ said Chaloner, deeply unimpressed by the man’s powers of observation. ‘You can see I have no sword.’

May swished his blade triumphantly. ‘Then you should have come better prepared. Are you going to duck and weave all day, or will you stand and die like a man?’

He darted forward, feinting at the last moment. Chaloner jigged away, but May’s sword caught in the lace on his cuff. He knocked it free, then ran to another, thicker pier, hoping it would afford him greater protection.

‘I waited outside your room last night,’ said May, lunging hard and striking sparks from the pillar when his blade scored down the stone. ‘But you have taken to sleeping elsewhere, and I wasted hours lurking in the darkness.’

‘You ate a pie,’ said Chaloner, remembering how a lack of peas had allowed him to conclude that it had not been Scot or Leybourn. ‘You dropped crumbs all over the stairs. What did you want?’

‘To kill you before you told anyone else about that letter.’

‘Of course. Stealthy murder is no stranger to you, is it? You killed Willys and tried to have me blamed. You pretended to be a priest and strangled Sarsfeild in his cell. And it was you who ordered Fanning and Dillon to murder Webb.’

‘There you go again,’ snapped May, renewing his attack. He was furious, but although his blows were powerful, they were also wild, so Chaloner had no trouble evading them. ‘Making accusations with no proof. I did not kill Webb, Sarsfeild, Willys or anyone else.’

‘Then why did you shoot Fitz-Simons?’ demanded Chaloner. He took a chance on an explanation. ‘Because you wanted to stop him from telling Williamson what he knew – that you wrote the letter.’

‘I did not even kill Fitz-Simons,’ shouted May, exasperated. He grimaced and lowered his voice. ‘I aimed and pulled the trigger, but the gun flashed in the pan. It was another man’s ball that hit him.’

Chaloner did not know whether to believe him, and was puzzled enough that he was slow moving out of the way. May’s sword caught him a stinging slash on the leg, although the sides of the weapon were too blunt to draw blood. He began to limp. ‘You claimed credit at the time.’

‘I did not claim it – it was given to me.’ May grinned mirthlessly when he saw his blow had slowed his opponent down. He renewed his attack with greater purpose. ‘One moment I was trying to work out why my gun had misfired, and the next I was being hailed as the hero who shot the King’s would-be assassin. It happened so fast that I had no time to think. On reflection, I see I should have been honest, but it is easy to judge with hindsight and it is too late to do anything about it now.’

Chaloner remained sceptical, although his convictions were beginning to waver. He recalled the sizeable hole in Fitz-Simon’s chest and his fleeting concern that it had been too large a wound to have been caused by May’s handgun. ‘If you did not kill Fitz-Simons, then who did?’

‘I have no idea. At first, I assumed it was you, and was pleased when people started to give me the credit that should have been yours. Then Colonel Holles pointed out how the dag you had confiscated from Fitz-Simons was too filthy to work, and I knew you could not have been responsible. He witnessed the whole incident from the cathedral, you know.’ May’s voice was bitter. ‘He knows I did not fire the fatal shot.’

Chaloner’s convictions wavered even more, mostly because he could not imagine May concocting a confession that showed him in such poor light. ‘Then why has he not said anything about it?’

‘I imagine because he intends to blackmail me. When I saw the body and recognised it as belonging one of Williamson’s “occasional informers” I was appalled! I was obliged to hide its face with a bag to prevent anyone else from seeing. And then it disappeared, and I have been waiting on tenterhooks for the prankster – you – to bring it back in a way that will humiliate me even further. I have been living a nightmare this last week, and it is all your doing. But now you will pay.’

Chaloner jerked away from the flailing blade. ‘You brought it on yourself by being dishonest. Put up your sword, May, and I will help you resolve this mess. We can talk to Holles, and–’

‘You had your chance to do all that,’ snarled May, ‘but instead, you have concentrated on making accusations that harm me. Say your prayers, Heyden. The game is over for you.’

He changed the grip on his sword and his expression became fiercely determined. Chaloner made as if to run to the next pillar, but altered course at the last moment, and powered towards May instead. He saw the surprise in the man’s eyes just as he reached him and snatched the weapon from his hand. It was absurdly easy, like taking honey-bread from a baby. May gaped in horror. Then there was a sharp crack and he crumpled to the ground. Chaloner spun around to see Scot standing there with a smoking gun, Eaffrey behind him.

‘You cannot manage five minutes without me, Chaloner,’ said Scot irritably. ‘I warned you to be wary of the man, and what do you do? Allow him to entice you into a duel!’

Chaloner knelt to feel for a lifebeat in May’s neck, but was not surprised to find there was none; Scot was a deadly shot. ‘I was in no danger – I had just relieved him of his sword.’

‘You sent me for help,’ Eaffrey pointed out. ‘So you were obviously worried about the outcome.’

‘I sent you to fetch Williamson,’ corrected Chaloner tiredly. ‘I have no wish to see May dead.’

‘The feeling was not reciprocated,’ said Eaffrey tartly. ‘He was going to kill you, and you had nothing with which to defend yourself. You seem sorry he is gone, but I am not. He was going to murder you and blackmail me to keep quiet about it.’

‘I think I have done him a terrible injustice,’ said Chaloner, sitting back on his heels. ‘I am beginning to believe he was telling the truth when he said he did not send Bristol that letter.’

‘Well, who did, then?’ demanded Eaffrey. ‘And why?’

‘It was written in blue ink,’ said Chaloner, rubbing his eyes. Fatigue was beginning to sap his energy and make him sluggish. ‘Maude saw Behn in possession of missives scribed in distinctive blue ink.’

‘So, I was right after all,’ said Scot in satisfaction. ‘I said days ago that the culprit was Behn.’

‘What does this do to our plans?’ asked Eaffrey, rather plaintively. ‘Shall we devise another way to see our child raised in the manner of a gentleman?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Chaloner, climbing slowly to his feet. ‘The correspondence Maude saw was received by Behn, not penned by him – only very odd people write letters to themselves. So, the blue ink means he was sent notes from the same person who wrote to Bristol, not that he scribed them himself.’

Scot was becoming exasperated. ‘Well, if it was not May or Behn, then who is left?’

‘I have no idea. And nor do I know who shot Fitz-Simons. May was telling the truth about that, too, because I was surprised at the time that such a large wound could have been made by his dag.’

‘But Holles saw May shoot him,’ said Scot. He passed Chaloner his gun to hold, while he knelt to inspect the body himself. ‘So May must have lying, although I cannot imagine why.’

‘Put your hands in the air, Heyden,’ ordered an imperious voice that made them all turn around. It was Spymaster Williamson. Holles and several members of the palace guard stood at his side, muskets at the ready, and Wiseman loomed behind them, his lecture notes folded into a bundle under his arm. ‘Or I will give the order to shoot. Drop your weapons now!’

Chaloner did as he was told, letting May’s sword clatter from his left hand and Scot’s gun drop from his right. The Spymaster had chosen elite marksmen to accompany him, and Chaloner knew they would not hesitate to open fire. With weary resignation, he saw Williamson’s gaze move from May, lying in a pool of his own gore, to the dag on the ground at his feet, and reach the obvious conclusion.

‘May started it,’ said Scot, also seeing the line Williamson’s thoughts had taken. ‘Ask Eaffrey.’

Williamson regarded Chaloner coldly. ‘So, you decided to rid yourself of an old enemy once and for all, did you? Could you not have reasoned with him? Talked to him?’

‘May was beyond reason,’ said Scot, standing next to Chaloner, to indicate where his loyalties lay. ‘You know what he is like once his temper is roused. He was insane enough to think he could disguise himself as Dillon – you can see that from his clothes – but he badly over-estimated his talents. And I shot him, anyway.’

Chaloner could tell from the contemptuous expression on the Spymaster’s face that he thought Scot was protecting a friend with a false confession. He tried not to sag in defeat, suspecting Williamson would read resignation as guilt.

‘Is Dillon dead?’ asked Wiseman. ‘Only I thought I saw him in the audience during my dissection. It gave me rather a shock, to be frank, and put me right off my stride.’

‘That would have been May,’ said Scot. ‘Probably.’

Williamson continued to glare at Chaloner. ‘Did May show you that letter before you gunned him down? Keep your hands in the air, or I will order Holles to open fire.’

‘What letter?’ asked Chaloner, hastening to comply. Williamson nodded that Scot was to search May’s body. Scot obliged, eventually locating a pocket sewn into the coat lining. He withdrew a piece of paper that was soiled and soft, as though it had been handled a lot. He scanned it quickly, then held it for Chaloner to read – the spy was not about to give Williamson an excuse to kill him by lowering his hands to take it. It was a brief note that said:

‘It was among Dillon’s possessions at Newgate,’ said Williamson.

‘Were there other letters, too?’ asked Chaloner. ‘In cipher?’

Williamson nodded. ‘My clerks decoded them, but they all pertain to Fanning’s attempt to leave Newgate via a barrel of poisoned ale. I cannot imagine why Dillon kept them.’

‘Because he thought Fanning was wrong to escape,’ explained Chaloner. ‘Fanning offered to include him in the rescue, but Dillon declined, because he was utterly convinced that his employer would save him. He planned to show Fanning’s letters to his patron later, to prove who had remained steadfast and who had not.’

Williamson was not very interested in Fanning’s floundering trust. ‘The important document is the one Scot holds, because it proves that Dillon and Fanning murdered Webb on Clarendon’s orders. Dillon obviously kept the note to remind himself that salvation would be supplied – you can tell from the state of it that he read it again and again, seeking reassurance. So, now we know why he killed Webb, and why he thought he would suffer no punishment for it.’

‘That is not Clarendon’s signature, sir,’ said Chaloner, disappointed in him; he had expected more from a man of Williamson’s reputation. ‘It is a forgery, and anyone can see it.’

Williamson raised an eyebrow. ‘It looks authentic to me, and I see his mark with some regularity.’

‘It is shaky and hesitant, because it was copied,’ stated Chaloner firmly. ‘His usual signature is free-flowing and confident. And that is not all. This note asks for someone to be murdered. Clarendon is not a fool, and would never append his own name to such an order.’

‘That is true,’ acknowledged Williamson. ‘However, when I showed it to May, he pointed out that a man only exercises caution when there is a danger of his being apprehended. His observation is a valid one; Lord Clarendon must have assumed he would not be caught.’

‘I repeat: he is not a fool,’ said Chaloner, thinking the same could not be said about May – or about Williamson for listening to him. ‘He would never put his name to something like this, no matter how small the chances of discovery. And nor does he order a man murdered because he took offence at comments made by his wife.’

‘It does seem out of character – he is not a violent person,’ said Wiseman. His eyes widened in alarm when Chaloner shifted his position and six muskets rattled simultaneously as aim was adjusted. ‘And I abhor unnecessary bloodshed, too. Will you put those things down before someone is hurt?’

‘Not yet,’ snapped the Spymaster as Holles started to comply. ‘Not until Heyden has confessed to what he knows. And then we shall decide whether we shoot him here or he goes to the Tower. I would not stand in front of him, if I were you, Scot. Or you, Eaffrey. You both resigned today, so you are of no further use to me, and I do not care if I am obliged to shoot through you to reach him.’

‘Move away,’ murmured Chaloner to his friends. ‘He means what he says. No wonder it is taking you so long to arrange Thomas’s freedom, Scot. The man is ruthless.’

‘I accept your reasoning, Heyden,’ said Williamson, once Scot and Eaffrey had retreated to a safe distance. His face was cold and hard. ‘Clarendon did not order Dillon to kill Webb. However, that means we are back to the beginning again, because we still do not know the identity of Dillon’s master. So, you will provide me with the answer. If I am satisfied with it, I may let you live.’

‘Me?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘But I do not know–’

Williamson gave a nasty little smile, which put Chaloner in mind of a lizard. ‘Then you had better start doing some hard thinking. And if I am obliged to tell you again to keep your hands above your head, I shall order Holles to shoot them off.’

Chaloner knew he would carry out his threat, just to avenge May. He fought to shake off the weariness that was making his wits sluggish, struggling for an answer that would save his life.

‘May,’ blurted Scot. ‘The master was May. He told Dillon–’

Williamson turned his reptilian glare on his ex-spy. ‘May had invested a fortune with Webb, and Webb’s death meant he lost most of it. He would never have killed the man. Try again.’

‘I expect it was Behn,’ said Wiseman with his customary confidence. Chaloner was grateful, because their suggestions were giving him time to assess his own conclusions and test them for flaws. ‘Once Webb was dead, Behn persuaded Silence to make him a gift of Webb’s ship. And Behn and Webb argued violently on the night of the murder – I saw them myself.’

‘I think the killer is Silence,’ countered Eaffrey, seeing what Wiseman and Scot were doing and eager to play her part. ‘She is suddenly free and a wealthy woman.’

Williamson’s smile was malicious. ‘Not as rich as she believes, though. I saw Webb’s last testament, and most of his fortune will go to the Guinea Company.’

‘Company members, then,’ said Scot, ‘because they knew the terms of the will, and decided they wanted the windfall sooner rather than later. Further, Temple is without a serious business rival now Webb has gone, and–’

‘Stop,’ snapped Williamson. ‘You are wasting my time with your guesses. Well, Heyden? Let us hear whether your wits will save your life.’

Chaloner gestured to the letter, raising his hands again when Williamson’s eyes narrowed. ‘The note mentions an insult, and I think we can conclude that whatever Silence said to offend the writer was spoken at the Guinea Company dinner. We know it was busy that night, and that there were spats between a number of parties. However, Clarendon was not one of them, because he was not there. In addition, Silence likes the Earl, so would never have offended him. However, she did rail at someone by criticising his clothes and the way he smells.’

‘You mean Bristol?’ asked Williamson. ‘Yes, I heard Silence gave him a piece of her mind about his old-fashioned costume and the odour of onions. He had made some jibe about women wearing an excessive number of face patches, and she responded in kind. Yet a powerful noble does not order someone murdered over such a trifling matter.’

‘Silence brayed her comments to the entire Guinea Company,’ said Chaloner. ‘It would not have seemed trifling to Bristol. Besides, it was a good opportunity to have his arch-rival blamed for a crime, as attested by that ridiculous note. Can I put my hands down now, sir? They are–’

‘No, you cannot. So, you think Bristol is Dillon’s master?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Yes, but I do not think Dillon knew it. He told me he accepted commissions from a number of wealthy men after he betrayed Thurloe. Bristol was one, Clarendon was another–’

‘Yes!’ exclaimed Eaffrey. ‘I saw Dillon’s distinctive profile silhouetted in one of the Lord Chancellor’s windows very late one night. I asked William to tell you about it.’

Chaloner continued. ‘So, I think Dillon took the note at face value, and was anticipating that Clarendon would rescue him – the Earl is a powerful man, so Dillon had no reason to doubt his influence. Unfortunately for Dillon, Clarendon did not know what was being expected of him, because he was not the author of the letter. And Bristol – who did write it – could hardly show his hand by intervening.’

‘Because that would lay him open to accusations of conspiracy to murder himself,’ mused Williamson.

‘There is a wine stain on the paper,’ added Chaloner, pointing to it. ‘I doubt it came from Dillon, who kept it safe, so it must have come from its writer. Bristol wrote it when he was drunk, without thinking through the consequences of his actions. It would not be the first time – he told Johnson and Willys to break into Clarendon’s offices when he was drunk, too – and they went off and did it, as you know.’

It was some time before Williamson spoke. ‘I shall compare this letter to Bristol’s handwriting, and I imagine you might well be proven correct – this is a stupid note written by a man in wine-fuelled anger. I am sure he regretted it the following morning, when he realised Dillon had actually gone and done as he was ordered.’

‘I expect he regrets it still,’ said Scot wryly. ‘The note promises the recipient twenty pounds, which is a colossal sum for an impecunious noble.’

‘And it was definitely paid,’ said Chaloner. ‘Dillon was spending it on luxuries in Newgate.’

‘So Thomas has solved your mystery,’ said Eaffrey, making as if to leave and starting to pull Chaloner with her. ‘And we have a lot to do if we are to sail to Surinam next week. We need to–’

‘His insight does not make up for the fact that my best spy lies dead at his feet.’

‘It was not–’ began Chaloner, but what could he say? That the fatal shot had not come from him? Williamson had not believed Scot, and there was even less reason for him to believe Chaloner.

‘I doubt Heyden killed May, sir,’ said Holles. ‘He is a poor warrior – I saw his incompetence myself, when May had him cornered in the Spares Gallery. One of the barber-surgeons’ apprentices must have fired off a random ball, and then ran away when he saw what he had done.’

Williamson tapped his chin for a moment, thinking. ‘I am about to turn a blind eye to the fact that Lord Bristol commissioned a murder. Meanwhile, Lord Clarendon will not want it put about that his spies go around shooting Grooms of the Privy Chamber. So, there is my solution: I shall spare Heyden’s life in return for Clarendon’s acquiescence about Bristol’s antics.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped the Lord Chancellor would agree to the arrangement. The chance to strike a massive blow against his worst enemy was sure to be tempting.

‘That is a fair decision,’ said Holles, lowering his gun in relief.

‘I suppose I shall get used to this kind of thing eventually,’ said Williamson, ‘although it goes against the grain to let a friend’s killer go free in the interests of political expediency. Do not cross me again, Heyden. I swear I shall not be so generous the next time.’

Scot watched him stride away, the soldiers at his heels. ‘That was close! You will have to come to Surinam with me now, Chaloner. You will not be safe here.’

Chaloner waited until Williamson was out of sight before making his move. He stalked towards Holles, ripped the man’s dagger from his belt and held it to his throat. Holles’s eyes widened in horror, and he looked around for his men. But they had followed Williamson, and he was alone.

‘I spoke up for you,’ he cried. ‘I lied even – I happen to know you are very good with weapons. And I would never have obeyed his order to shoot you. What more do you want?’

‘The truth about Fitz-Simons,’ said Chaloner, not relinquishing his grip. Holles might have aimed elsewhere if the Spymaster had demanded an execution, but his men would not have done. ‘You did not see May shoot him, did you?’

‘I never said I did,’ objected Holles, trying to free himself. He stopped struggling when the blade dug into his skin. ‘I saw May take aim, but I could have told anyone that the fatal shot did not come from his dag – the angles were all wrong. But no one asked for my opinion, and Lord Clarendon told me to keep quiet about anything that might annoy May.’

‘I do not think he meant you to keep me in the dark, too,’ said Chaloner, exasperated with the soldier’s literal interpretation of the order. ‘You should have said something.’

‘I did what I was told,’ said Holles stubbornly. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

Chaloner was not so sure. ‘Why are you here today? It is not to learn about anatomy, because I know you have an aversion to such things.’

‘Brodrick is in the process of befriending Temple, to flatter him into confiding the details of Bristol’s next attack on Lord Clarendon. I am here to protect Brodrick, because this feud has suddenly grown deadly.’

Chaloner released him. ‘Then go and protect him.’

‘He is a buffoon,’ said Scot, watching the colonel stride away with his dignity in tatters. ‘We should never have supported the Commonwealth all those years, Chaloner. It put soldiers in control of our country, and these military types are too stupid to make good leaders.’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner bitterly. ‘We are better with men like Williamson. He is an ethical fellow.’

The barber-surgeons’ guests were milling about in the yard, waiting for the dinner bell to sound. Unhappy and flustered, Eaffrey went to join them, although Chaloner noticed that she avoided Behn and went to talk to the navy clerk – Pepys – and his friends instead. Then a bell rang, and the guests moved quickly towards the Great Parlour, eager to be at the food. It was not many minutes before the grounds were deserted again, and he and Scot were alone.

‘Temple has asked Alice to marry him,’ said Chaloner. He rubbed a hand across his face, now so tired he felt light-headed. ‘She has accepted.’

‘Damn!’ muttered Scot, exasperated. ‘She always was blind when it came to men, but Temple is by far the most unsuitable candidate to date. What should I do? Needle him into insulting me, so I can challenge him to a duel? Let her make her mistake and live a life of misery?’

‘Arrange for some of her fortune to disappear,’ suggested Chaloner, not pointing out that Temple was likely to live a far more miserable life than his new wife. ‘He will not take her if she is poor.’

Scot slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Of course! I should have done it weeks ago. You always were good at devising non-violent solutions to problems. It is a virtue that will prove useful in Surinam.’

‘I doubt it. From what I have read, Surinam is an unstable place, full of guns and knives.’

Scot took his arm, and guided him towards the now-deserted Anatomical Theatre, where Willys lay with his entrails neatly coiled on the side of the dissecting table. ‘You should collect your sword and daggers before you meet someone else you want to fight.’

Chaloner had no wish to confront anyone else that day, although he knew his business was not yet done – he still did not know who had murdered Willys, Sarsfeild and now Fitz-Simons. He saw Behn lurking near the gate, and wondered why he had not gone for dinner with the other guests; Behn did not seem like the kind of man who would willingly forgo a sumptuous feast. Chaloner was simply too tired to think about it, though, and it was with leaden legs that he followed Scot down into the grim dungeon. He looked around for his weapons, but they were not there.

‘Holles,’ said Scot irritably. ‘I saw his soldiers poking around after Lisle and Johnson were taken away. They must have stolen them.’

‘Did Wiseman succeed in convincing everyone that Willys’s body was Dillon’s?’ asked Chaloner. He leaned against a wall, and wondered when he had last felt so drained.

‘Yes, he did. He even had an answer for when Alice demanded to know why there were no ligature marks on the neck. He spun some yarn about skin not bruising under certain chemical conditions. Can you bring yourself to answer a few questions? I see now that the wicked mastermind behind Webb’s murder was Bristol–’

‘Not a wicked mastermind,’ said Chaloner. ‘A drunken fool who did something on the spur of the moment, and then declined to admit to what he had done. Poor Sarsfeild is the real victim in all this – Dillon and Fanning were killers, but the confectioner was not.’

‘Quite so,’ said Scot. He smiled kindly. ‘But you are exhausted, and I can see you do not want to indulge my idle curiosity today, so we shall talk tomorrow, when you are feeling more alert. What will you do now? Join the barber-surgeons’ dinner?’

‘I am going home – to play my viol,’ replied Chaloner, flexing his fingers. ‘And then sleep.’

‘You can play it all you like in Surinam. We will need something to entertain us in the evenings, because I understand there is not much to do once the sun goes down.’

‘I cannot go to Surinam,’ said Chaloner, not liking the notion of bowing solos for the rest of his life. ‘London and its politics are bearable with music, and Surinam is humid – my viol will rot.’

‘That is a pity. It is a chance for a new life.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘And it will also ensure that I never tell anyone it was you who wrote that letter to Bristol – the one with the nine names.’

A gale of laughter billowed from the Great Parlour, followed by a cheer. The barber-surgeons were showing their guests a good time, and a distant part of Chaloner’s mind recalled someone saying that watching dissections always gave men a good appetite. He regarded Scot with a mixture of disappointment and hurt, as the final pieces of the puzzle came together.

‘You said you left African House early the night Webb died – you wanted to make the best of Behn’s absence and be with Eaffrey. But Behn had quarrelled with Webb and stalked off in a sulk, leaving the dinner sooner than anyone had anticipated. So, you could not have been with Eaffrey, because he would have been there before you. You lied about that, and so did she.’

Scot gazed at him reproachfully. ‘Why would we make up stories about such a thing?’

‘Because almost immediately, I suspect Bristol regretted what he had asked Dillon to do, and sent someone to stop him: you. The landlord of the Dolphin recalled a second messenger asking for Dillon after the first note had been delivered. He said the man had a foreign accent, which put me in mind of Behn. However, you are skilled at disguises, and would never have gone on such a mission without donning one.’

Scot regarded him pityingly. ‘Go home, Chaloner, before you say something you will regret. You are tired, and do not know what you are talking about.’

‘And that is why you left the dinner early: to deliver Bristol’s second note. But Dillon had already gone, so you went to Webb’s home instead. Perhaps you were too late to stop the murder, or perhaps you decided it was in your better interests to let Webb die. Either way, you saw Dillon and Fanning kill him. Then you wrote that letter to Bristol.’

Scot sighed impatiently. ‘Why would I do that? My name was on the list, too.’

‘That is what May said when I accused him of sending it, and my answer to you is the same as the one I gave him: because it would have looked odd for it to be missing. And it was not your name, anyway. It was Peter Terrell’s, a man who can disappear today, if necessary, and be replaced by someone else. You risked nothing by including him.’

‘This is rubbish,’ said Scot warningly.

‘You used blue ink,’ Chaloner went on. ‘The same kind you used to send letters to Behn – Maude saw them. You were doubtless working for him in another of your guises, making sure his money-making ventures came to fruition. After all, there is no point in defrauding a poor man, is there?’

‘None of this is true. The messenger who went to the Dolphin was said to be a yellow-headed fellow. You can look among my collection of wigs – you will not find one like it.’

Chaloner was sorry. ‘I told no one the landlord’s description of the courier – and he swears I am the only one who has asked – so there is only one way for you to know about the fair hairpiece.’

Scot regarded him coldly. ‘Why would I write that letter to Bristol? What would be in it for me?’

‘Revenge for Williamson’s failure to release your brother. You encouraged Thomas to turn traitor and give evidence against his co-conspirators, expecting him to be freed at once. Yet Williamson declines to keep his side of the bargain, and Thomas is still in the Tower.’

Scot scrubbed at his cheeks, making the pastes on them blur and mingle. ‘All right,’ he said softly. ‘I did send Bristol the letter to avenge myself on Williamson.’

‘Why Bristol?’

‘Because he was the one who set a murder in motion, and it appealed to my sense of justice that he should be the instrument of its resolution. I made sure he received the note when he was with the King, so he would have no choice but to share its contents. But so what? Dillon and Fanning did kill Webb, and they have received their just deserts.’

‘What about Sarsfeild?’

Scot shrugged. ‘A casualty of war. Why did you meddle? You made life very difficult for me.’

‘And you reciprocated at every turn. You encouraged me to think Webb’s murder was something to do with the Castle Plot, when it was nothing of the kind. You told me several times that I should not trust Wiseman, in an attempt to make me waste time by investigating him as the killer. And then there was Fitz-Simons. I thought from the start that he had been killed to prevent him from talking to Williamson, and I was right. You shot him.’

Scot shrugged again. ‘Another casualty of war.’

‘When Fitz-Simons murmured that Terrell “is not what he says”, he meant more than I realised. Somehow, he had learned that you wrote Bristol’s letter. Perhaps he saw you deliver it, or perhaps he recognised the ink. Regardless, you could not have Williamson knowing what you had done.’

‘Blue ink,’ murmured Scot ruefully. ‘Using it was a stupid and unforgivable mistake on my part. I was obliged to send Fitz-Simons a few notes in his capacity as government informer. He attended Dillon’s trial – dismally disguised as a milkmaid – and I knew that as soon as the law-court started to make an issue of the ink’s unusual colour, he would associate it with me. I hunted him for days, and then he appeared at Westminster Abbey. I shot him.’

‘Everyone – including Eaffrey – seems to think you included me in your list of names. Why?’

‘Because I thought it would allay suspicion against me if I included an old friend. I care nothing for May, Willys and the others, though. All I wanted was to deliver a stunning blow to Williamson’s little empire. Do not look disgusted, Chaloner. You were never in danger from my “accusation”. You were in Ireland when Webb was murdered, and could have proved it to any law-court’s satisfaction.’

Chaloner stared at the ceiling. Scot was wrong: a judge would have treated his alibi with the same contempt with which he had treated Sarsfeild’s. ‘You must have been surprised when Garsfield’s name was changed to Sarsfeild. Do you know who did that? Eaffrey.’

Scot closed his eyes. ‘I know. She does not share my confidence in English justice, and altered it before I had it delivered. She confessed to what she had done a few days ago – defiantly and unrepentantly, of course. She has always looked out for you. How did you guess it was her?’

‘Because she demonstrated to Thurloe how the changes had been made – changes so minuscule they were all but invisible. But she identified them with suspicious ease.’

Scot grimaced. ‘Another foolish mistake on our part.’

Solutions were coming so fast to Chaloner that it was difficult to analyse them all. Meanwhile, the enormity of Scot’s betrayal threatened to overwhelm him, and he had to force himself to speak. ‘It was you who disguised himself as a priest and killed Sarsfeild in Ludgate. You knew Thurloe and I had been investigating his alibi, and you wanted us to stop making efforts on his behalf, because we would have learned that he was innocent of everything except an unfortunate name and an unlucky address.’

Scot sighed. ‘You are right – I knew that once you believed someone had changed the letter to protect you, the game would be up. You do not have many friends in London, and it was obvious that you would have looked to us. Eaffrey had no idea the trouble her tiny alterations would cause.’

‘She virtually told me,’ said Chaloner tiredly. ‘Today, at Dillon’s execution. She said someone had done it to benefit me. I should have made the connection then.’

‘So, what happens now? Will you tell Williamson? I doubt if he will believe you. Or will you forget about our misunderstandings and come to Surinam?’

‘I doubt I would survive the voyage – you have tried to be rid of me several times already.’

‘That is not true,’ objected Scot indignantly.

‘The first time was at Bristol’s house. You were ready to hand me over – a perfect opportunity to be shot of the nuisance I was becoming – but Alice arrived, and you did not want your beloved sister to see you betraying an old friend, even one she does not like. Then, after we left the garden, you wanted to turn right when it was obvious that if we did, we would run directly into Bristol’s men.’

Scot’s expression was harsh. ‘You have a fertile imagination.’

‘The last time was here, in the Anatomical Theatre. You said you came to investigate Lisle, but you knew he was no real threat to an experienced spy like me. You were here to kill me and leave me for the dissectors, but Johnson got the better of you.’

‘That is an unpleasant thing to say.’

‘But true. Johnson has already told me that the barber-surgeons accept corpses with no questions asked. That is how you disposed of the man with the scarred throat – the man you killed in Behn’s office. You brought him here and they obligingly chopped him up for you.’

‘You cannot prove that.’

‘I probably can – by asking Williamson whether any of his spies had a damaged neck. He is almost certain to say yes. What did the poor man do, Scot? Stumble across your plan to trick Behn into marrying Eaffrey for the alimony you are determined to wring from him?’

‘Eaffrey,’ said Scot, turning when he heard footsteps. ‘Chaloner is making up all manner of tales.’

‘I have been listening,’ said Eaffrey. Chaloner was shocked by the dead, flat expression on her face. ‘It is a pity, because we were almost through this hellish time: your brother’s release is imminent, Webb’s murderers are dead, and we had plucked up the courage to tell Williamson that we no longer wish to work for him. And he did not even ask us about his missing spy, so we are clear of that nasty business, too.’

Chaloner looked hard at her. ‘And Willys is dead. You arranged the diversion with the horse, while Scot stabbed him in the back. Why was that necessary?’

Neither denied the accusation. ‘He was threatening to fabricate evidence that would see my brother executed,’ said Scot. ‘And do you know why? Because of you.’

‘Me?’ Chaloner did not see how he could be held responsible for anything Willys had done.

‘You suggested I investigate the Trulocke brothers, but it transpired that the man who oversaw the supply of weapons to the Irish rebels was none other than Willys.’

Chaloner frowned. ‘But he said he prevented a shipment of arms from reaching the conspirators.’

‘He was lying. Subsequent probing has shown he was a close ally of Dillon’s; they were drinking together on the night of Webb’s murder. Dillon was a rebel, and he encouraged his friends – Willys, Fanning, Fitz-Simons and others to join him in Ireland. When I tackled him, Willys said that if I did not overlook the matter, he would tell Williamson that Thomas sold them the weapons. Unfortunately for Willys, he chose the wrong man to threaten.’

‘And England is now minus a traitor,’ added Eaffrey, a little defiantly.

‘You made the mistake of stabbing him with your left hand,’ said Chaloner. ‘You did it, because you knew May would make an issue of the fact that I can fight with both, but you forgot about the splint. It was a clever idea, but you did not think it through properly.’

Scot sighed impatiently. ‘Yes, I killed Willys and yes, we wanted you accused, so you would stop your investigation and leave us alone. But nothing would have happened to you – your master is Lord Chancellor of England, and he would have stepped in to save you.’

‘And if not, we would have arranged your escape,’ added Eaffrey. ‘You were never in any danger. Damn it, Thomas! Why could you not leave this alone? Now what are we going to do? You have landed us all in a terrible mess.’

‘I should say,’ came a voice from the stairs. All three jumped in surprise, and turned to see Holles standing there, a cocked pistol in each hand. ‘A terrible mess is a good description of what you have made of our lives, Heyden. Search him for daggers, Scot.’

‘He is unarmed,’ said Scot. ‘I hid all his weapons before we came down here.’

Chaloner looked from one to the other in confusion, then shook his head in disgust as Holles trained both dags on him. ‘Wiseman said you could not be trusted, and he was right.’

Eaffrey spoke in a low voice. ‘You have always been loyal to a single master, Tom – first Thurloe, and now Clarendon. The rest of us are rather more practical. Bristol is generous, and Holles, William and I have all accepted commissions from him – to see him victorious over the man whose bigotry against Catholics has deprived him of the right to hold public office.’

Chaloner was numb. ‘Now what? Do we all go to Surinam together?’

Slowly, Scot took a gun from his belt, and aimed it at Chaloner’s chest. ‘I think it is too late for that.’

‘Would you like me to turn around?’ asked Chaloner softly. ‘So you can shoot me in the back?’

Eaffrey stepped forward and snatched the weapon from Scot’s hand. ‘Let me.’

She took aim, and Chaloner saw the fierce gleam in her eye. Then, at the last moment, she swung around and fired at Holles. But the colonel was already bringing his own gun to bear on her, and he shot first. The two almost-simultaneous reports were deafening in the confined space, and Chaloner dived for the floor. Eaffrey stumbled against Scot, and both crashed to the ground, but it was not Eaffrey who lay still. Holles’s aim had gone wide, and Chaloner saw a spreading stain of red under Scot. Eaffrey gazed at him and began a low, keening wail of distress.

Meanwhile, Eaffrey’s ball had hit Holles, who lay on his side, gasping. He fumbled for his second dag. Chaloner scrambled towards him, but was too far away to prevent him from using it. A third shot rang out, and Eaffrey’s cries stopped abruptly. Chaloner reached Holles and searched him, but there were no more weapons. The soldier was dying, and blood bubbled between his lips.

‘I was testing them, to see if they really would kill you,’ he whispered, trying to grab Chaloner’s hand. ‘I was going to shoot them before they could do it, and all that posturing was to make them show their true colours.’

Chaloner glanced to where Eaffrey and Scot lay in a motionless embrace. ‘I do not understand. Eaffrey just said–’

‘Of course I am not working for Bristol! He is a rake and nothing would induce me to spy for him, not even the fifty pounds he offered me. I have only ever served Lord Clarendon, but now you must take my place.’

‘You have killed my friends,’ said Chaloner, unable to keep the catch from his voice.

‘They were no friends of yours.’

There came the sound of footsteps and people started to converge on the basement, alerted by the sound of the gunfire. Wiseman knelt next to Eaffrey and Scot, and shook his head at the clamour of questions. They were already dead, and there was nothing he could do to help them.