Blood on the Strand

Epilogue

A robin sang in Lincoln’s Inn, perched high in the ancient elm that threw cool shadows across the path. Thurloe looked up at it, and gave a rare smile of genuine pleasure, ‘We have won the war. There were casualties, but we won eventually, which just goes to show that God’s justice does prevail on occasion.’

Leybourn breathed deeply of the rain-scented garden, strolling contentedly on Thurloe’s left, while Chaloner walked on the right. ‘The spat between Clarendon and Bristol does seem to have abated.’

‘I am talking about my trees,’ said Thurloe. ‘I lost some to Prynne’s axes, but a timely lightning strike – plus an oddly croaking voice that warned him of thousands of Roundheads – caused him to revise his plans. They will form part of the display now, instead of being removed to make way for grass. When all matures, Lincoln’s Inn garden may even be better than it was before.’

‘Did anyone else hear this “oddly croaking voice”?’ asked Leybourn, bemused.

‘Of course not,’ said Thurloe. There was a hint of laughter in his eyes that made Chaloner wonder whether he was telling the truth.

‘What will happen to Bristol and Clarendon now?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Will they call a truce?’

‘Never,’ said Thurloe. ‘Bristol is insane with frustrated ambition, and Clarendon will not enjoy a long political career, more is the pity. England needs men with scruples, and that will not be found among the likes of Bristol, Buckingham and Temple.’

‘You had better secure yourself another master, then,’ said Leybourn to Chaloner. ‘What about Williamson? Surely he must see you are the kind of man his intelligence service needs, especially as he is now deprived of May, Eaffrey and Scot.’

‘He will never hire me,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘He thinks I killed May. Worse yet, he found some documents when he cleared May’s room.’

‘What sort of documents?’ asked Leybourn.

‘Ones that imply I stole Dillon’s body, and was planning to sell it to the barber-surgeons. May paid Lisle and Johnson to write letters offering to buy the thing from me – they were discussing it in the Anatomical Theatre, although I did not understand what they were talking about at the time.’

‘Surely Williamson cannot believe such a monstrous tale?’ demanded Leybourn, indignant on his behalf.

Chaloner explained further. ‘Someone – Johnson, probably – brought Dillon’s corpse to Lincoln’s Inn after the hanging, which explains its disappearance. He hid it near that wall we blew up, along with the clothes similar to the ones I wore when I was disguised as an upholsterer.’

Thurloe took up the tale. ‘May had a written statement from a “witness” who said he saw the suspicious interring of a body here. His crude little plan was for him and Williamson to unearth Dillon together, and for May to point out the significance of the clothes – to prove Thomas’s guilt. In the event, however, Williamson was obliged to excavate Dillon alone, and the upholsterer connection was overlooked – fortunately for Thomas.’

‘So Williamson is not sure what to believe,’ said Chaloner ruefully. ‘He would like me to be guilty, but without solid evidence, he is erring on the side of caution, and has declared the matter closed.’

Leybourn paled suddenly. ‘Oh, Lord! I helped May! When we went to that tavern together, he asked which Inn you had attended. Like a fool I told him, because I wanted him to fall foul of Prynne. I thought I was being clever! I should have known there was something more to his questions.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Thurloe. ‘You should. The man was a spy, after all.’

Leybourn looked suitably chastened. ‘I owe you an apology for declining to visit gaols when you asked, too, Tom. Thurloe tells me you have a better reason than most for wanting to avoid them.’

‘Why did you refuse?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Rats,’ replied Leybourn in a low voice. He shuddered. ‘I cannot abide them, and the ones in Newgate are notoriously bold.’

Chaloner went back to his analysis. ‘I did not kill May, though, no matter what Williamson thinks. I hoped to resolve our differences without bloodshed.’

‘That would have been impossible,’ said Thurloe. ‘May’s hatred of you was fanatical, as attested by this ridiculous business with stolen corpses.’

‘Why did Scot kill him?’ asked Leybourn. ‘I still do not understand. Was it to save you?’

‘No – I had already disarmed him when Scot fired his dag. May had to die because he had just threatened to expose Scot and Eaffrey’s plans to defraud Behn.’

‘How did he know what they intended to do?’ asked Leybourn doubtfully. ‘He was a dismal spy, and could never have learned such a closely guarded secret.’

‘I cannot prove it, but I believe the man with the scarred neck – who was one of Williamson’s officers – found out by chance,’ said Chaloner. ‘Like Eaffrey, he had also been charged to monitor Behn’s activities by worming his way into his confidences, and he must have overheard a conversation between Scot and Eaffrey in Behn’s house. He told May about it, so Scot killed them both.’

Leybourn blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘Tell me again what happened in Chyrurgeons’ Hall last week. I should not have tested so many of Prynne’s strong wines that day, because I still do not understand how the murder of Webb was connected to what those surgeons were doing.’

‘It was not connected,’ said Chaloner. ‘Or not significantly so. It all started when Silence Webb insulted Bristol at the Guinea Company dinner. Bristol immediately decided to avenge himself. He baulked at harming a woman, but her unpleasant husband was fair game, so he ordered Dillon and Fanning to oblige. He wrote a note, spitefully signing it with Clarendon’s name.’

‘Then he had second thoughts, and sent Scot to stop them,’ said Thurloe, who had not been drunk when Chaloner had arrived to tell them how the case had been resolved. ‘But Scot decided to enact a little vengeance of his own – on Williamson for keeping his brother in the Tower.’

‘Scot witnessed Webb’s murder,’ continued Chaloner. ‘And then he wrote Bristol a letter, naming not only Dillon and Fanning as the culprits, but exposing several of Williamson’s best agents.’

‘Why did Scot pick your Garsfield alias for his letter?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Why not Heyden?’

‘He was being clever,’ said Chaloner. ‘Or thought he was. He chose that name – which I have only ever used in Ireland – to strengthen the apparent links between Webb’s death and the Castle Plot. That was probably why he included Fitz-Simons, too – like Dillon, he was a rebel. He had stressed the Irish connection in his letter, but it was suppressed – too politically sensitive, I suppose. Fortunately for me, Eaffrey intervened.’

‘Why did she do that?’ asked Leybourn.

Chaloner looked away, and it was Thurloe who answered. ‘Because she was fond of Thomas, and was determined that nothing bad should happen to him.’

‘She was complicit in trying to have him accused of murdering Willys,’ Leybourn pointed out. ‘That is not keeping him out of harm’s way.’

‘That came later, when Thomas’s enquiries were coming too close for comfort. But even then, I do not think she would have left him to stew for long. She was a true friend and would have organised some kind of rescue or release.’

‘And Scot?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Was he a true friend, too?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner softly. ‘I misjudged him badly. I think he might well have shot me, had Eaffrey not grabbed the gun. Killing came easily to him, after all.’

‘Who did he kill?’ asked Leybourn. ‘Other than May and the scarred spy?’

‘Fitz-Simons, for a start,’ replied Thurloe. ‘Because he recognised Scot’s distinctive blue ink. The ink was a stupid mistake on Scot’s part, and shows he was losing his touch.’

‘No wonder he was keen to resign from the intelligence services,’ said Leybourn. ‘The release of his brother was probably a factor, but self-preservation played a role, too.’

‘Sarsfeild was another of his victims,’ continued Thurloe. ‘He dressed as a priest and killed him in Ludgate when he learned Thomas and I were investigating his alibi. He knew we would discover that Sarsfeild’s arrest was a case of mistaken identity, which would raise awkward questions about the rest of the letter. He strangled Sarsfeild in the hope that it would bring an end to our investigation.’

‘And the deaths of Fanning and Sarsfeild in their cells – for reasons unrelated to Webb – made Dillon think his master was tying loose ends,’ said Chaloner. ‘The reality was quite different, but it served to make Dillon more confident of his master’s power. He was deceived.’

‘He was deceived by the name of his master, too,’ said Leybourn, recalling one fact that was not lost in the drunken haze. ‘He thought it was Lord Clarendon, but it was actually Bristol.’

‘Then Scot killed Willys,’ said Thurloe. ‘He had discovered that Willys had sold guns to Irish rebels, but Willys tried to blackmail him by threatening to say Thomas was involved – a mistake of monumental proportion.’

‘Did he kill Holles, too?’ asked Leybourn.

‘That was Eaffrey,’ replied Thurloe. ‘In a ridiculous and pathetic misunderstanding, each was trying to probe the loyalty of the other. Eaffrey wanted to know whether Holles was going to be a danger to Thomas in the future – to find out whether he really had defected to Bristol. And Holles wanted to know whether Scot and Eaffrey would try to harm Clarendon by depriving him of a valued servant.’

‘It all happened so fast,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘Guns were out, and they both jumped to the wrong conclusions without giving themselves time to think. I keep running through the scene in my mind, trying to see if there was a way I could have averted the slaughter.’

‘There was nothing you could have done,’ said Thurloe gently. ‘Do not dwell on it.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said Leybourn, after a few minutes of silence, ‘all the barber-surgeons are guilty of is making themselves rich from conducting these Private Anatomies.’

‘Hardly!’ said Thurloe with a shudder of distaste. ‘Not only did they murder people for their corpses, but they were willing to accept any cadaver in good condition with no questions asked.’

‘Behn and Temple are innocent of everything, though,’ said Leybourn.

‘They promote slavery,’ said Chaloner. ‘Plus there is the fact that Behn is a foreign spy. He sends dispatches to his government every Tuesday, which he writes in cipher. Furthermore, he gave money to the Irish rebels, to help the Castle Plot succeed.’

Thurloe glanced sharply at him. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because, despite what Eaffrey believed, it was obvious that there was something suspect about the man. Maude saw him with Fanning once, and Fanning – like Dillon – was a committed insurgent. I intercepted and decoded one batch of messages and passed the information to Williamson.’

‘Behn is arrested for spying?’ asked Leybourn.

‘Unfortunately, he somehow learned the game was up, and escaped. Williamson is furious.’

‘I have a confession to make,’ said Thurloe sheepishly, when the Inn’s cat approached and wound around his legs. Chaloner was pleased to see it recovered. ‘It involves a certain tonic.’

‘I already know,’ said Chaloner. ‘It was you who poisoned me.’

Leybourn gaped, while Thurloe looked reproachful. ‘I would not have put it quite like that. It makes it sound deliberate, and I assure you it was not. How did you guess?’

‘First, we suspected Prynne, but Will disproved that by drinking his wine. Then it seemed obvious that Yates had done it, but his remit was to spy, not to kill. You, however, are very interested in cures and strong medicines, and you are always willing to try new ones. I suspect your manservant stops you from doing yourself too much harm, but Yates had sent him away. You added a new cure-all called Goddard’s Drops to one experiment, but those contain volatile oil of silk among other powerful ingredients. Wiseman says they are toxic in any quantity.’

Thurloe nodded unhappily. ‘He was appalled when he knew what I had done. Still, I have learned my lesson and shall mix no more potions. I hope you bear me no grudge.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner. He sighed and looked up at the leafy branches swaying over his head. ‘I am not sure I want to work for Lord Clarendon any more. I cannot help him in his spat with Bristol, and it is only a matter of time before their followers start killing each other.’

‘He is still a powerful man, so do not abandon him just yet,’ advised Thurloe. ‘However, the Queen has noticed you at White Hall, and she has a spot of bother she wants investigated. Clarendon happened to mention that you know Portuguese, and she would like you to visit her tomorrow.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘I hope she does not ask me to spy on the King’s mistress. Lady Castlemaine is more dangerous than Williamson, May, Scot, Behn, Temple and Bristol put together.’

A few miles away, a ship was sailing down the Thames on the Early tide. It was bound for Surinam, and carried a number of passengers, as well as a cargo of wool for the new colony. Eaffrey Johnson stood at the rail, arm-in-arm with Johan Behn. Behn was wearing warm clothes against the stiff breeze, and he looked bigger and bulkier than ever. He sighed his contentment.

‘We are finally on our way. These last few weeks have been tiresome, and I dislike being in a position where I do not know whom to trust. I did not approve of your friend from Holland, either. I think he might still be in love with you.’

‘I think I have successfully destroyed any lingering affection he might have held for me now,’ said Eaffrey, leaning against him. The wind was sharp, and made her eyes water. ‘When shall we marry?’

‘When we touch land in France. I am sure we will make each other happy.’

Eaffrey nodded, although her eyes still watered furiously. ‘And you will forsake the Silences and the Maudes, and stay faithful to me? You have not forgotten the agreement you signed, which will see our marriage annulled to my advantage if you stray?’

Behn waved an expansive hand. ‘They are nothing, a diversion. Did I tell you I paid that impecunious Wiseman five pounds to say you were dead when Holles shot at you? I had managed to spike one of the colonel’s dags, but I could not lay my hands on the second.’

‘Yes, you did mention it,’ said Eaffrey patiently. ‘Several times. You are very clever.’

Behn preened at the praise. ‘I was terrified Heyden would catch on and tell everyone. He is too curious for his own good, and insisted on examining your “corpse”, even though I did my best to stop him. Still, you fooled him, because he has no idea you are still alive.’

‘Actually, Johan, he felt my neck for a pulse – and he has seen enough death to be aware that cadavers do not have one. He knows I am alive.’

‘No!’ whispered Behn, gloating triumph evaporating like a puff of steam. ‘What shall we do? Hire an assassin in France to deal with him? We cannot let him live, not if you want to be safe.’

‘Tom will not betray me,’ said Eaffrey softly.

‘How can you be sure?’ asked Behn worriedly.

‘Because I know him,’ replied Eaffrey. She turned slightly, and glanced at the elderly man who sat huddled in an old-fashioned woollen cloak nearby. It hid his bandaged shoulder. He shot her a brief smile, and then turned his pale eyes to the book he was reading: Musaeum Tradescantianum.