Blood on the Strand

Chapter 3

Thurloe was unsettled by the notion that one of his former spies was in prison, and decided to visit Dillon in Newgate Gaol immediately; Leybourn went with him. Meanwhile, the day was now sufficiently advanced for Chaloner to head for St Martin’s Lane, where the Trulocke brothers had their business, and ask about the beggar’s gun. It was drizzling heavily, a sullen, drenching spray that soaked through clothes and turned the streets into rivers of mud. Water splattered from the eaves of houses, black with soot from the smoking, grinding industries that huddled along the banks of the Fleet river.

The streets were a marked contrast to the previous day, and were teeming with life, especially around the elegant piazza known as Covent Garden. In it, an army of beggars appealed for alms, or offered songs or recitations of religious verses in exchange for pennies, and ragged children sold fruit that was almost certainly stolen. They clamoured at passers-by, their voices almost inaudible above the cacophony of hoofs, wheels and feet on stone cobbles. Gulls and kites perched on the chimneys above the square’s curiously arcaded houses and on the roof of St Paul’s Church, waiting to swoop down on any discarded food, while pigeons waddled and pecked among the filth.

The recently established fruit and vegetable market was in full swing, operating from a collection of ramshackle huts that were supposed to be temporary, but that were beginning to take on an air of permanence – some had elegant awnings, and others displayed the names of their owners in large, gaudily painted letters. The air was ripe with the stench of garlic and stagnant water, and rain had turned the ground into a foetid quagmire of mud, animal dung, human urine and the rotten remains of whatever had been dumped in the past. Splashes of colour were provided by the home-woven baskets that displayed early-cropping apples from Kent, or oranges and lemons from southern France. Traders bellowed about their wares, and a furious altercation was erupting between a barrow-boy and the driver of a carriage, which had collided outside the church. The resulting mess of rolling cabbages, splintered wood and bucking mule was blocking the road, and it was not long before others added their voices to the quarrel and fists started to fly.

Chaloner threaded his way through the melee, leaving the din of traffic behind briefly when he walked down a little-used alley, but emerging into it again when he reached St Martin’s Lane. The west side of the street was full of grand mansions, each with its own coach-house, while opposite were shops. Carts rattled and creaked as they went about their business, and there was a tremendous racket from a wagon bearing a cage that was full of stray dogs. The occupants howled, yipped and snarled their distress, and several heartless boys ran behind them, throwing stones to enrage them further. The driver was slumped in his seat with his head on his chest, suggesting he was either asleep, drunk or dead, and his ancient nag plodded along with its ears drooping miserably.

The Trulocke premises stood on the east side of the street, in the shadow of the ornate sixteenth-century Church of St Martin. It was a small, narrow building, with thick shutters and a seedy appearance. A dripping board above the door declared that Edmund, George and William Trulocke, brothers of Westminster, were licensed by the Gunmaker’s Company to sell small-arms and muskets. The notice was weather-beaten and its words barely distinguishable, which added to the shop’s general aura of neglect and decrepitude.

Chaloner had never had occasion to buy a firearm. When he needed one for his work, he usually resorted to theft, while during the wars, muskets had been provided free of charge to soldiers of the New Model Army. Therefore, he looked around with interest as he made his first foray into a gunsmith’s emporium, noting immediately the sharp scent of powder and the more powerful reek of heated metal and hot oil. Displayed on the walls were various types of musket, but Chaloner was surprised to note several handguns, too. Because governments were nervous of handguns – which could be hidden under a cloak, and aimed and fired with one hand, making them ideal for assassins – their sale tended to be restricted, and it was unusual to see so many in one place.

A small but pugnacious dog was tethered just inside the door, and Chaloner was obliged to move smartly to avoid its snapping teeth. A shaven-headed giant with a single yellow tooth jutting from his lower jaw came to see why the animal was barking, and Chaloner could see two more hulking brutes in the workshop behind. He was immediately unsettled: they were not the kind of men he liked to see in charge of weapons stores – it did not take a genius to see they would have them out on the streets at the first sign of civil unrest.

‘George Trulocke,’ said the man, jabbing a thumb at his own chest. ‘You want a pistol, grandfather? To protect you against street felons? We can make you one, but there is a waiting list and you cannot have it for at least a month.’

‘Business is good, then?’ asked Chaloner, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the dog. The knot on the leash slipped, allowing its dripping fangs to come within a hair of his ankle.

‘He will not hurt you,’ said Trulocke, sniggering when the spy jumped away.

‘No,’ agreed Chaloner coolly. ‘He will not.’

The man chortled again, and Chaloner realised his Vanders disguise meant people would be inclined to underestimate him. The dog knew better, though, and its barks subsided into a bass growl that saw saliva pooling on the floor.

‘Well?’ said Trulocke, when he had his mirth under control. ‘What do you want? We make a nice wheel-lock dag that would suit a gent your age, but if you want it quicker than a month, it will cost you. However, we might come to an arrangement if you consider ordering several.’

Chaloner masked his surprise at the offer. Handguns were hideously expensive – far more so than muskets – and there could not be many people with the means to purchase ‘several’. There was also no need for anyone to want more than a couple – at least, not for legitimate reasons. He recalled that in Ireland, the rebels had been equipped with a unexpectedly large number of them, something he and his fellow spies had discussed at length. Could the insurgents have made an arrangement with an obliging gunsmith like Trulocke? He supposed he should investigate, but for now, he needed to concentrate on the beggar.

‘Have you sold a snaphaunce recently?’ he asked, referring to the type of firing mechanism he had noted on the vagrant’s weapon.

‘Why should I tell you that?’ asked Trulocke warily.

Chaloner smiled pleasantly. ‘Because the Lord Chancellor wants to know.’

Trulocke’s wariness increased. ‘And you expect me to believe that he asked you to find out?’

The dagger from Chaloner’s sleeve had been in the palm of his hand ever since he had entered the shop. He took a step back and threw it into the wall behind Trulocke’s head. It passed so close to the gunsmith’s ear that he raised his hand instinctively, to see if it was still attached. Deftly, Chaloner produced a second blade and held it in a way that made Trulocke know he was ready to use it.

‘Are you going to answer, or would you rather we conversed in the Tower?’

Trulocke swallowed, and his eyes slid towards the workshop, where his colleagues were labouring over something that produced a lot of orange sparks. However, he had second thoughts about calling for help when he glanced back at the spy and saw the dangerous expression on his face. The tone of his voice quickly went from belligerent to wheedling. ‘Me and my brothers sell snaphaunces all the time. We are gunsmiths, so what do you expect?’

‘I expect you to sell mostly muskets,’ replied Chaloner, gesturing to the long-barrelled weapons displayed on the walls. ‘Shall I be more specific about this particular dag? It has an iron grip, carved with a ornate pattern of winding leaves. And your name is set into the barrel.’

‘Fitz-Simons,’ said Trulocke with considerable reluctance. ‘Richard Fitz-Simons. He bought a snaphaunce from us three months ago, along with a dozen muskets, but we never–’

‘Where does Fitz-Simons live?’

Trulocke licked his lips. ‘He never told me and I never asked. And I never spoke to you, neither. He knows some brutal men, and I am a peaceful sort of fellow who deplores violence.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. ‘You own a gun shop. That is hardly the activity of a pacifist.’

‘I sell firearms for shooting pigeons.’

‘You offered me one to use on felons,’ Chaloner pointed out. Trulocke opened his mouth to make excuses, then closed it again when nothing plausible came to mind, so Chaloner continued. ‘What does Fitz-Simons look like?’

The gunsmith rubbed his bristly chin with an unsteady hand. ‘Fat, with a scar in his eyebrow, which is old – probably from the wars. I think he might be a surgeon. Why do you want to know? Is he in trouble? If so, it has nothing to do with us. We run a legal business here.’

‘Why do you think he might be a surgeon?’

‘Because he owns a bag full of metal implements. I saw them when he opened it to put the dag inside. I broke my leg last year, see, and the barber-surgeon who set it owned equipment like that.’

‘Is there anything else? My Lord Chancellor will not like it if I am obliged to come back because you have not been honest. And neither will I.’

Trulocke flinched when Chaloner reached past him to retrieve his dagger. ‘No, I swear! However, if I wanted to find Fitz-Simons, I would ask for him in Chyrurgeons’ Hall on Monkwell Street.’

It was nearing ten o’clock by the time Chaloner reached White Hall, where he learned there was to be a grand ball with music and dancing that day, all part of the festivities commemorating the coronation. He wondered whether His Majesty was aware that only the Court was celebrating, and that outside in busy King Street, people muttered rebelliously as cartload after cartload of food, ale and wine trundled through the palace gates.

Reluctant to use the main entrance when it was being watched by so many hostile eyes, Chaloner headed for a small door that led to Scotland Yard, once a handsome palace for Scottish kings, but now a huddle of sag-roofed apartments for minor Court officials. He knocked at the porters’ lodge, murmured a password to the soldier on duty, and waited in an anteroom for Colonel Holles to come and admit him.

‘Heyden?’ Holles asked in an undertone when he arrived, looking around to make sure no one could hear him. ‘Your disguises never cease to amaze me. Who are you this time?’

Philip Holles was a professional gentleman – soldier devoted to Lord Clarendon. He had often spirited Chaloner to the Earl’s chambers for secret meetings, and sometimes gave him licence to lurk in parts of the palace that were supposed to be off-limits to all except members of the Royal Household. He was a useful ally, and Chaloner had grown to like him. He was tall and burly, with the kind of moustaches no one had worn for years, and everything about him bespoke his military past.

‘Kristiaan Vanders from Holland,’ replied Chaloner. ‘Here to upholster Clarendon’s furniture. He thinks Bristol will poach me to decorate his house instead, which will allow me to spy on him.’

‘Good,’ said Holles fervently. ‘Someone needs to, because Bristol has been encouraging all manner of unpleasant types to join his side this week – folk such as Lady Castlemaine, Adrian May and Sir Richard Temple. Our poor earl will be destroyed if we do not take steps to protect him.’

‘The dispute does seem to be a bitter one,’ acknowledged Chaloner.

Holles blew out his cheeks in a sigh. ‘That is an under-statement – they hate each other! Of course, it was Bristol who started this current quarrel. He went around bragging about being a papist, thus forcing Lord Clarendon to remove him from his official posts. He asked for what happened to him.’

Knowing Holles would be appalled and bemused by his moderate views on religion, Chaloner declined to comment. He changed the subject slightly. ‘Did you say May now supports Bristol, too?’

‘Yes, damn him to Hell! I hope this does not mean Spymaster Williamson is about to follow suit. He has remained neutral so far, and it would be a bitter blow if he were to declare for Bristol.’

‘It is a sorry state of affairs – and petty, too. They should put their energies into something more useful – such as avoiding a war with the Dutch or running the country in a more efficient manner.’

Holles nodded agreement. ‘I doubt May will be much of a bonus to Bristol’s faction, though. He is a good swordsman by all accounts, but not overly endowed with wits.’

‘He is a decent shot,’ said Chaloner ruefully. ‘He picked off that beggar easily enough.’

Holles grimaced. ‘Did the Earl mention that I saw what happened yesterday? I wanted to tell Williamson that the man’s death was not your fault, but Clarendon told me to keep my mouth shut.’

‘I do not suppose you know a surgeon called Fitz-Simons, do you?’ asked Chaloner, wishing the Earl had kept his mouth shut. A few words from a respected soldier like Holles would have counter-balanced the poisonous report May was sure to have made.

‘Yes, of course – a portly chap with a scar over one eye. He is one of four barber-surgeons who hold royal appointments, so they are often here at Court. Fitz-Simons is conspicuous by his absence today, though, and Surgeon Lisle told me an hour ago that he is worried about him. Why do you ask?’

So, that explained why Lord Clarendon had claimed there was something familiar about the beggar, thought Chaloner, and why Fitz-Simons had inside knowledge about White Hall. ‘Did you inspect that beggar’s body yesterday?’ he asked, ignoring the question.

‘No, because May whisked it away too quickly. He brought it here with its head wrapped in a sack, set guards over it, and summoned vergers to cart it off to St Martin’s for immediate burial. The Earl demanded to see its face, though, and that Irish scholar – Terrell – contrived to have a quick peek when the guards were looking the other way. Oh, and Surgeon Wiseman marched up and inspected it at length. May threatened to shoot him if he did not leave, and Wiseman pretended not to hear, which was amusing. But May kept everyone else away – including me.’

‘What excuse did he give for that?’

‘He said putting a corpse on display would be gratuitously ghoulish, although it has never bothered anyone at White Hall before. Do you think he is hiding something?’

Chaloner was surprised he should need to ask. ‘You say Surgeon Lisle is worried about–’

Holles suddenly understood the line of questioning. ‘You think the beggar and Fitz-Simons are one and the same? It is possible, I suppose – both were plump, although I never saw the dead man’s face because of the bag over his head. However, it certainly explains why May was so eager to be rid of the corpse before anyone could identify it.’

‘It does?’

Holles nodded. ‘He will not want everyone to know he shot a Court surgeon, will he?’

‘I imagine that depends on what the Court surgeon was doing. Fitz-Simons was in disguise with a gun, and I wager his motive had nothing to do with medicine.’ Chaloner thought aloud. ‘But if Fitz-Simons had access to White Hall through his royal appointment, then why would he turn himself into a beggar to pass information to Williamson? Why not just waylay him here?’

‘He was only surgeon to the servants,’ explained Holles. ‘He is not like the other three – Lisle, Wiseman and Johnson – who tend monarchs, dukes and earls. Fitz-Simons is not allowed to frequent the parts of the palace that Williamson inhabits.’

‘I have met Lisle,’ said Chaloner, recalling the brown, smiling face of the man who had mixed the potion for the Earl’s gout. ‘Clarendon told me he is friends with another leech called Johnson.’

‘Lisle is a good soul. He volunteers his services at St Thomas’s Hospital, because he believes the poor have a right to surgery as well as the rich, and he helps my men when they sustain injuries during training, even though he is not paid for it. He is trying to remain neutral in the Clarendon–Bristol dispute, because he is Master of his Company, and he does not want to annoy half his membership by declaring a preference.’

‘And Johnson?’

Holles’s moustache dipped in disapproval. ‘Bristol helped him get his Court appointment, so he is Bristol’s man to the core.’

‘What about the last surgeon – Wiseman? Who does he support?’

Holles pointed through the window, to where a man clad in a glorious red robe strutted proudly across the yard. He was unusually large, and cut an impressive figure as he moved, enough to make other people give him the right of way.

‘He likes Lord Clarendon. Unfortunately, the fellow has a tongue like a rapier and, because he is on our side, we are obliged to put up with it.’

‘Had Fitz-Simons chosen any particular earl to support?’

Holles shrugged. ‘He might have done, but he was too lowly for his opinion to matter – as I said, he worked among servants, not courtiers. What do you think he was doing with that gun?’

‘What do you know about the Company of Barber-Surgeons?’ asked Chaloner, again ignoring the question.

‘Just that they have a hall with a dissecting room on Monkwell Street, where they slice up the corpses of hanged felons and give public lectures about them. It all sounds revolting to me, and I would not be seen dead there.’ He winced at his choice of words. ‘I would rather be in a brothel.’

‘I imagine most men feel the same,’ said Chaloner, sure the general populace would not be queuing up to witness such a spectacle.

‘Then you would be wrong. Dissections are very popular at Court, and you are considered unfashionable if you have not attended one. I just thank God I am a soldier, and so not a slave to such trends – I detest the sight of innards and gore.’ Holles shuddered and changed the subject. ‘I have discovered a rather splendid bawdy house in Hercules’s Pillars Alley. Have you been? If not, I can arrange an introduction. It is very selective about its members, but the lady of the house likes me.’

‘She does?’ asked Chaloner, somewhat coolly. ‘And why is that?’

Holles twirled his moustaches. ‘She says I remind her of a soldier in Shakespeare’s Henry the Fourth, which I am sure is a great compliment. I always tip her girls very handsomely, you see.’

Chaloner suspected it was the tips that made him welcome, and assumed Holles had never seen the play, or he would not have been flattered when Temperance compared him to Falstaff.

The colonel escorted Chaloner inside White Hall, then left him to his own devices. The first person Chaloner saw was Eaffrey, who was far too experienced a spy to ignore the elderly stranger, who indicated that he wanted to speak to her. She slipped away from Lady Castlemaine and her simpering entourage, and went to stand near a fountain in the middle of the cobbled Great Court. The fountain had once spouted clean, bubbling water, but it had not worked since the wars, and what filled its marbled troughs was green, sludge-like and malodorous. Eaffrey tossed a pebble at it, and the stone seemed to hesitate on the surface before sinking out of sight.

‘That is an impressive disguise, Tom,’ she muttered, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You will soon be better than William.’

Chaloner sat on a low wall, and pretended to fiddle with the buckle on his shoe. As he did so, he automatically scanned the people who scurried past. ‘That large man with the yellow hair seems to be watching you rather closely. Do you know him?’

‘That is Johan, my Brandenburg merchant,’ said Eaffrey, waving in a way that was distinctly coquettish. The fellow acknowledged with a salute, although he did not return her smile, and Chaloner wondered whether there was something in his disguise that had aroused suspicion. Behn was tall and broad, with a mane of thick blond hair, and his fine clothes indicated he was a man of wealth. ‘Is he not handsome?’

‘He is all right,’ said Chaloner, taking an instant dislike to the bulky Adonis. The physical attraction he had developed for Eaffrey during their passionate interlude in Holland had never completely left him, and he was disgusted when it occurred to him that he might be jealous. Then he recalled what Thurloe had told him – that Behn owned a sugar plantation that used slaves – and felt that alone was reason enough for the man to be the recipient of his antipathy.

She grimaced at his lack of enthusiasm, but did not press the matter. ‘Have you come to gather intelligence at the Court ball? If so, then you have badly miscalculated, because you will not be allowed in looking like that. You are far too shabby for such an august occasion.’

‘I am supposed to be Kristiaan Vanders, here to spy on Bristol.’

‘Vanders died three years ago, of syphilis.’ Chaloner started to laugh – he had not known the cause of the old man’s demise – but Eaffrey did not join in. ‘It is not funny, Tom! You do not need me to tell you that this sort of reckless prank might see you killed. And I doubt you know enough about upholstery to fool all but the totally ignorant.’

‘There is nothing I can do about it – Clarendon issued a direct order.’

She gritted her teeth, furious on his behalf. ‘That arrogant old fool! Do you need help? I can pass you a little gossip I heard today. A politician called Sir Richard Temple – not the brightest star in the sky, but someone who has declared an allegiance to Bristol – is going to give Clarendon a parrot as a peacemaking gesture. Parrots talk, and the hope is that the bird will repeat something incriminating.’

Chaloner laughed again. ‘Truly? Or are you jesting with me?’

‘I am perfectly serious: the feathered spy will be presented this afternoon. I heard Temple telling Johan all about it just a few minutes ago. Did I tell you I intend to marry Johan, by the way?’

Chaloner regarded the burly merchant doubtfully, wondering what it was about Behn that had captured her heart. ‘Are you sure about this, Eaffrey? I heard he owns a plantation that uses slaves.’

‘Yes, but he has promised to do away with it, because he knows how much I disapprove. I would like you two to be friends. Let me introduce you.’

‘Wait, I–’

But it was too late to point out that he would be wise to maintain a low profile until he was sure no one at Court had ever met Vanders, because she was already summoning the fair beau idéal with a crooked finger. ‘Johan, I would like you to meet Mr Vanders, from Holland. He is an upholsterer.’

Chaloner would have had to be blind not to notice the adoring expression on her face when she addressed the merchant, and he supposed she really was in love with the fellow.

‘Kristiaan Vanders?’ asked Behn suspiciously. ‘I thought he was dead.’

‘There was a rumour to that effect,’ replied Eaffrey smoothly. ‘But it was premature, and he recovered from his French pox, as you can see. Some men do, if they are touched by God.’

‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Behn in German, a language Chaloner understood, but spoke only poorly. He wondered if Behn knew Vanders was fluent, and was testing him. ‘Although I confess I have never been very impressed by your turkeywork sofas – too ornate by half.’

‘Each to his own,’ replied Chaloner in English. ‘We should not use German here, though – people might think we are spies.’ Behn opened his mouth to pursue the matter, so Chaloner changed the subject, saying the first thing that came into his head. ‘Have you ever had syphilis, Mr Behn?’

Eaffrey shot him an irritable look, and he supposed it was not the sort of conversation she had envisioned for his first meeting with the man of her dreams.

‘No,’ said Behn, sufficiently startled by the bald query to abandon his interrogation.

‘Good,’ said Chaloner, before he could resume. ‘It is an extremely uncomfortable condition.’

‘That was rude,’ hissed Eaffrey, when Behn’s attention was caught by a flurry of trumpets that heralded the arrival of the Duke of Buckingham. ‘Johan is important to me – and you should know how I feel, because you have been in love yourself. With Metje,’ she added, lest he needed reminding of the woman he had once intended to marry, but who was now dead.

Chaloner relented, and tried to make himself more amenable when Behn turned to face him again. ‘I hear you own a sugar plantation,’ he said, determined, however, that the conversation would not be in German or about sofas, either. ‘How interesting.’

‘There is money to be had in sugar,’ said Behn. ‘Especially if you use slaves to work your fields.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, taken aback by the blunt admission. Eaffrey seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation of fireworks, but Chaloner could not afford to draw attention to himself with a quarrel. He swallowed his growing dislike for the merchant and smiled in what he hoped was a benign manner.

‘Of course, there are those who disapprove,’ Behn went on, ‘but they usually concede my point when I challenge them to settle the matter with swords. I am no weakling, afraid to shed a bit of blood for what I believe – especially if it is someone else’s.’ He fingered the hilt of his blade meaningfully.

‘Johan is a member of the Guinea Company,’ gabbled Eaffrey, desperately scrabbling about for a non-contentious topic. ‘He expects to be elected Master soon.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped that an august body like the Company of Royal Adventurers Trading to Africa – the Guinea Company, for short – would have more decency than to vote for someone who held such reprehensible convictions. ‘They must think very highly of you,’ was all he said, although Behn seemed to sense his distaste, even so.

‘They do.’ The merchant scowled at Chaloner, who supposed the disdain he felt was being reciprocated in full. ‘However, their feasts can be dangerous. A member called Webb was stabbed on his way home from one just three weeks ago. Have you noticed how many unnatural deaths there are in London, Vanders?’ Behn drew his dagger and inspected it, testing the blade with his thumb.

Chaloner shook his head artlessly, although his thoughts were racing. Eaffrey had mentioned a merchant stabbed after a Guinea Company dinner, although he had not realised then that the victim was Webb – the man Dillon was accused of killing. Scot said he had been there, spying on the man who wanted to marry his sister, and Chaloner was suddenly hopeful that a good and reliable witness might help him unravel what had happened. Meanwhile, Behn was glowering, underlining his threat by wielding his knife in a way that was distinctly provocative.

‘I heard three felons are awaiting execution for that crime,’ said Chaloner, patting his arm paternally, just hard enough to make him fumble the blade and drop it. Eaffrey shot him an anguished look, which he felt was unjustified – after all, he was not the one brandishing weapons. ‘So, I doubt there will be any more murders of men walking home from dinner. You need not be frightened.’

Furious, Behn retrieved his dagger. ‘It is not my safety I am concerned about. I am young and fit, and know how to look after myself. It is the elderly who should be worried.’

‘Did you see Webb the night he was killed?’ asked Chaloner, treating the threats with the contempt they deserved by pretending he did not understand them. He glanced at Eaffrey and saw her regarding Behn unhappily. It occurred to him that she was seeing her lover in a new and unattractive light, and sincerely hoped she would think very carefully about a future with him.

‘That is an odd question,’ snapped Behn. ‘It sounds as if you think I might have killed him.’

‘Why would I do that?’ asked Chaloner, who had thought nothing of the kind – although Behn’s overly defensive comment certainly made him consider the possibility. ‘I was just wondering whether he had argued with anyone at this Guinea Company dinner, and the wrong men sit in Newgate Gaol.’

Behn’s eyes flicked towards Eaffrey in a way that made it obvious he was hiding something. ‘I cannot discuss Company business with outsiders,’ he declared. ‘The subject is closed.’

‘You opened it,’ Chaloner pointed out.

‘I think Lady Castlemaine wants us, Johan,’ said Eaffrey, hastily cutting across the indignant response Behn would have made. ‘Look, she is waving.’

‘She obviously means to ask you where she left her clothes,’ said Chaloner. ‘Because she does not appear to be wearing them.’

Behn swivelled around quickly, and his mouth fell open. The lady in question strutted towards the Duke of Buckingham in what appeared to be a shift. The material was outrageously thin, and every detail of her elegant figure could be seen through it. Chaloner glanced around, and saw that at least thirty men were watching her, ranging from the Bishop of London, whose small eyes were transfixed in glittering admiration, to the King, who frowned in a way that suggested he objected to sharing.

‘Gott in Himmel!’ breathed Behn, transfixed. ‘What a magnificent pair of onions!’

‘Speaking of onions, here is Bristol,’ said Eaffrey, placing herself between Behn and the glorious apparition as a black carriage with a scarlet trim rattled into the courtyard. ‘I can smell him from here.’

‘And I can smell Lady Castlemaine’s perfume,’ said Behn, ducking around her to resume his ogling. ‘It makes a man heady with delight.’

Chaloner had wasted enough time on Behn, and was keen to get on with his investigation into the death of Fitz-Simons. ‘Can you introduce me to any surgeons, Eaffrey? I understand the Court has several.’

‘Suffering from a recurrence of your French pox, are you?’ asked Behn with mock sympathy, only turning towards him when Lady Castlemaine had disappeared inside Bristol’s carriage.

‘Stiff knee,’ replied Chaloner, leaning down to rub his left leg. A twinge told him he would have a real one if he was obliged to spend too long hobbling around as the arthritic Dutchman.

‘Sore joints are a symptom of syphilis,’ said Behn in his native tongue. ‘The disease fills the bones with pus, which eventually addles the brain. Perhaps that is why you have forgotten your German.’

‘Or perhaps I just do not choose to speak it with oafs,’ retorted Chaloner, nettled at last. Surely Eaffrey could not expect him to endure insult after insult without making some defence?

‘There is Lord Clarendon,’ said Eaffrey tiredly. ‘You had better go and introduce yourself, Mr Vanders, since you said he is expecting you.’

Chaloner bowed and abandoned the happy couple. He heard Eaffrey asking, in a somewhat strained voice, whether Lady Castlemaine’s onions were really all that special, but did not catch the merchant’s response. He put Eaffrey out of his mind as he made his way to where Clarendon, clad in a glorious coat of deep pink, was talking to a pale, thin fellow with broken blood vessels in his nose and a shabby, dissipated air. The man was Clarendon’s favourite cousin, Sir Alan Brodrick.

Everyone knew Clarendon had great ambitions for Brodrick, but most people also knew the hopes were unlikely to be realised, because of Brodrick himself. He drank too much, attended too many wild soirées and, although he was intelligent enough to hold high office, he was also lazy and careless. The Earl was the only person who thought he owned any virtues, and dismissed the tales of his kinsman’s debauchery as spiteful rumour. Chaloner would have despised Brodrick with the rest, were it not for the fact that the man was an accomplished violist. They had enjoyed several evenings of duets and chamber music together – and Chaloner was willing to forgive a great deal where music was concerned.

‘My Lord Chancellor,’ said Chaloner, effecting the kind of bow favoured by the Dutch. ‘I am–’

‘Assassins!’ screeched the Earl, when he turned to see the squalid fellow bobbing at his side.

Chaloner stood his ground. ‘It is me, sir,’ he whispered, aware that soldiers were responding to the alarm and hurrying towards him, weapons drawn. Behn was among them. ‘Heyden.’

But the Earl was not listening, and flung out a chubby arm to protect himself. Chaloner ducked to avoid being slapped, and was off balance when Behn made a flying tackle that saw them both crash to the ground. In a desperate attempt to preserve his disguise, Chaloner clutched his wig, not wanting his brown hair to spill from underneath it. It meant he landed awkwardly with the full weight of the Brandenburger on top of him, and he felt something twist in his left arm.

‘I have him,’ yelled Behn, gripping Chaloner by the scruff of his neck and hauling him to his feet. Chaloner’s hand was numb and he could not feel whether his dagger had dropped from his sleeve into his palm – although it would have done him scant good if it had, since he could hardly stab Behn in the middle of White Hall. ‘I knew there was something odd about him. Shall I slit his throat?’

‘No!’ cried Brodrick, catching on to the situation far more quickly than his bemused kinsman and stepping forward to prevent Behn from following through with his kind offer. ‘This is Mr Vanders the upholsterer. Unhand him immediately, sir.’

‘Oh,’ said Clarendon sheepishly, finally realising what had happened. ‘That Vanders.’

‘It was your own fault,’ said the Earl accusingly, as he sat with Chaloner and Holles in his White Hall office. ‘You should have warned me. And the incident has done neither of us any good, because now people think I bully old men – and I can imagine what Bristol will make of that.’

Chaloner drank more of the wine Holles had poured him, and made no reply. He was more angry with himself than with Clarendon, disgusted that he had allowed Behn, of all people, to knock him to the ground. He comforted himself with the knowledge that at least his disguise was still intact. The wig had remained in place, and Behn had not managed to smudge any of his carefully crafted wrinkles.

‘Do not worry,’ said Holles kindly. ‘The surgeon will be here soon, and he will put all to rights.’

Chaloner did not need the services of a medicus, but it was too good an opportunity to miss by saying so. He was not sure which of the bone-setters – Lisle, Wiseman or Johnson – would answer the summons, but he intended to make full use of whoever arrived by asking whether they knew why their colleague Fitz-Simons had been so desperate to speak to Spymaster Williamson. His wrist was sore, but it was nothing that would not be better by morning, and he was actually in more discomfort from jarring his lame leg, although he was not going to admit that particular weakness to anyone in White Hall.

The door opened to admit Brodrick, who had offered to fetch the surgical help. He was alone, and Chaloner assumed he had allowed himself to become side-tracked by the copious bowls of wine that had been placed in every public corridor. These were to ensure the ball got off to a good start.

‘The rumours have started, cousin,’ said Brodrick to the Earl, trying to keep the amusement from his voice as he leaned against the wall, goblet in one hand and smoking pipe in the other. ‘Everyone is talking about how you felled an insolent Dutchman with a vicious punch to the nose.’

‘I did nothing of the kind!’ cried Clarendon, appalled. ‘I flung out an arm, but no contact was made. It was Behn who bowled Heyden from his feet. Is it Bristol who is telling these lies?’

Brodrick grinned as he sipped his claret. ‘He is certainly making sure they are common knowledge, but the tale actually originated with Surgeon Wiseman. He says he saw it happen.’

‘Then he is mistaken!’ wailed the Earl. ‘I thought Wiseman was on my side. Has he migrated to Bristol’s camp, then?’

‘Absolutely not,’ replied Brodrick. ‘And what he has done is rather clever: he has let it be known that you have teeth, and that you are prepared to use them. He has done you a great favour.’

Holles nodded agreement. ‘It is true, My Lord. Bristol will be obliged to revise his opinion of you now, and that cannot be a bad thing – it is always good to have one’s enemies off balance. He will think twice about insulting you again, lest you wallop him, too.’

Brodrick laughed. It was the kind of scenario that suited his sense of the ridiculous. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I am off to spin a few tales of my own. I shall say the Dutch upholsterer lies at death’s door, and that those who meddle with the Lord Chancellor do so at their peril.’

‘Yes!’ said Holles, eyes gleaming. ‘And I shall add to the speculation by ordering a coffin.’

‘No!’ shouted the Earl, horrified. ‘I do not want to be considered a ruffian! I shall tell anyone I meet the truth: that the Brandenburg merchant was the one who harmed Heyden … I mean Vanders.’

Brodrick winked conspiratorially at Chaloner, to let him know that he thought this would only add fuel to the fire. It would be seen as a case of ‘he doth protest too much’, and would ‘prove’ Lord Clarendon had indeed indulged in a brief spurt of violence.

‘I hope this injury will not affect your playing, Heyden,’ said Brodrick, hastily changing the subject when he saw his cousin begin to lose his temper for real. He removed a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Here is the new piece I commissioned from Locke, and you will see that the bass viol has some challenging solo work. I shall have to invite Greeting if you are unavailable, and he will not be easy to dislodge once he is installed. Can you come tonight?’

‘Yes,’ said Chaloner firmly, taking one look at the music and deciding wild horses would not prevent him from taking part.

‘Good. I tried to summon Lisle to tend you – he is the gentlest of the Court surgeons, and to my mind the best – but a carriage has overturned in King Street and he was the only medicus willing to help the victims without waiting to hear whether they have the resources to pay him. So he is unavailable. However, I met your friend Eaffrey, and she is scouring the palace for Wiseman or Johnson.’

‘Let us hope it is Wiseman, then,’ said Holles, when Brodrick had gone. ‘I would not let Johnson near my worst enemy. But I did not know you were a friend of the lovely Eaffrey, Heyden.’

Chaloner glanced sharply at him, and saw from the colonel’s glistening eyes that his interest in brothels probably extended to the ladies at Court, too.

‘Eaffrey,’ said the Earl, his voice dripping disapproval. ‘Williamson told me that he sends her to “bestow her charms” on men, which means she offers her body in exchange for their innermost secrets. He says she is very good at it. I hope you do not enjoy that sort of relationship with her, Heyden. I would not like my innermost secrets blurted across a silken pillow.’

‘If she “bestowed her charms” on me, I would let her have her wicked way, then fob her off with rot,’ said Holles, saving Chaloner from informing the Earl that he was perfectly capable of enjoying a woman without discussing his work, and it was no one’s business who he slept with anyway. And he was about to tell Holles that Eaffrey was used to men thinking like him, and that the colonel would be putty in her hands regardless, when a servant knocked on the door. He announced that Sir Richard Temple was waiting to present a peace-offering, in the fervent hope that relations between him and the Lord Chancellor might be more friendly in the future.

‘You see?’ said Clarendon miserably. ‘Temple is so terrified by my newly violent reputation that he feels obliged to bribe me, to make sure I do not savage him with my fists for siding with Bristol. Hide behind the curtains, if you please, Heyden. I do not want him to see you damaged.’

‘He is here to provide you with a parrot, sir,’ said Chaloner, remembering what Eaffrey had told him. ‘It has been trained to repeat conversations, apparently. You should accept it, then teach it some rubbish – to trick him.’

‘I most certainly shall not,’ said Clarendon haughtily. ‘I am Lord Chancellor of England, and such deceptions are beneath my dignity. I shall accept his gift graciously, and demonstrate my moral superiority by rising above sly pranks.’

Chaloner felt like retorting that he would not remain in office long if he refused to meet his enemies on their own ground, but supposed it was the spy in him talking. Perhaps the Earl was right to remain aloof from petty behaviour, and an ethical stance would see him victorious in the end. Obediently, he went to stand behind the heavy drapes in the window.

Temple was not alone when he sidled into the Lord Chancellor’s domain, and Chaloner saw the Earl’s expression harden when Lady Castlemaine swept in behind him, still wearing her skimpy shift. In deference to the Earl’s sensibilities, however, she had thrown a cloak around her shoulders, although the appreciative Holles was still treated to the sight of a pair of shapely calves emerging from under it. Pointedly, Clarendon kept his own eyes fixed on her companion.

Temple was not an attractive man. His complexion was swarthy, and he had more warts than Oliver Cromwell. Although not yet thirty, he had no teeth whatsoever, and when he flashed an insincere smile of greeting at the Earl, he revealed a disconcertingly large array of gums. Studying him through a hole in the curtain, Chaloner could see no earthly reason why Alice Scot should have selected him as a potential husband, and thought there was no accounting for taste. In his hand, Temple carried a cage covered with a dark cloth, which he set carefully on the table.

The Earl sneezed. ‘What can I do for you, Temple?’

Lady Castlemaine’s catlike eyes narrowed when he declined to acknowledge her presence, and Chaloner thought him unwise to goad such a dangerous enemy for no good reason – even a simple nod would have been enough to satisfy her.

Carefully, Temple removed the cloth to reveal a bright-green bird. Parrots had been unknown in England a century before, but with more of the Americas being discovered every year, they were becoming an increasingly common sight in the menageries of the wealthy. The parrot eyed Clarendon malevolently and flapped its brilliant wings.

‘Roundheads!’ it squawked piercingly. ‘Thousands of ’em.’

Clarendon regarded it balefully. ‘Is that for me?’

‘I thought you might like it,’ said Temple with a smile so obsequious that Chaloner winced. ‘I know my association with Bristol means that we have been at loggerheads of late, but I am weary of strife. I would like to be your friend.’

Clarendon regarded him with raised eyebrows. ‘Would you indeed? And what does Bristol have to say about this, pray?’

‘Bristol!’ said Temple, feigning disgust. ‘He is a man with no official Court post, whereas you are Lord Chancellor of England. But please do me the honour of accepting this bird as a token of my esteem. I assume you do not have one already?’

‘If you do, I am more than happy take this little fellow off your hands,’ crooned Lady Castlemaine, closing the distance between her and the Earl like a hungry panther. She placed a slender hand on his arm, and he recoiled, as though he had been burned. A small, mischievous smile crossed her face as she reached out to straighten his wig.

‘Desist, madam!’ Clarendon cried, backing away in alarm; Holles looked on enviously, clearly wishing she would assist him with his hair. The Earl reversed frantically until he reached his desk, and when she followed, he scrabbled about until his groping fingers encountered a quill. He brandished it like a sword, and Chaloner struggled not to laugh aloud.

‘Lock the doors,’ announced the bird. ‘And give us a kiss.’

The Lady giggled, obviously taken with the creature, and Chaloner saw an acquisitive light in her eyes that told him she intended to have it, no matter what she had to do. Temple grimaced at her antics.

Clarendon sneezed a second time, transparently relieved when she turned her predatory attentions to the bird. ‘It is very kind of you, Temple,’ he said weakly. ‘Green is my favourite colour.’

‘I know,’ gushed Temple. ‘It is why I chose it.’

‘It is mine, too,’ said Lady Castlemaine, turning abruptly back to the Earl. He cringed when she walked her fingers up his sleeve towards his shoulder, and shot Holles a look that begged for help. But the soldier was gazing on with a silly smile that said there would be no assistance from that quarter.

‘You cannot have it, My Lady,’ snapped Temple, becoming angry with her. ‘I told you – it is for Lord Clarendon. And why did you come with me anyway? I thought Bristol asked you to stay with him while I completed my business here.’

‘I do what I like,’ she hissed, a little dangerously. She shrugged out of her cloak, letting the garment fall to the floor. Holles made a strangled sound at the back of his throat, and the Earl squeezed his eyes tightly shut. ‘You keep your rooms very well heated, My Lord.’

‘Bugger the bishops,’ announced the bird casually, performing some intriguing acrobatics on the branch that served as its perch. ‘And make way for the Catholics.’

The Earl sneezed a third and a fourth time in quick succession. ‘It has very controversial opinions,’ he said, opening his eyes, but keeping them on Temple.

‘I did not teach it that,’ said Temple uneasily. Lady Castlemaine looked smug.

‘I heard there is a miasma around foreign birds that can prove dangerous to some men,’ she said, brushing imaginary dust from Clarendon’s collar. ‘They start by sneezing, but finish not being able to breathe. It can be fatal, so I am told.’

The Earl jerked away from her, and ink shot from his quill in a long, dark arc across the pale satin of her shift. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said hoarsely.

Lady Castlemaine shrugged, to show she did not care. ‘The King will buy me another. But you are full of surprises today, My Lord. First you punch an elderly Hollander, and now you hurl filth at His Majesty’s favourite companion. Bristol will be intrigued to hear about this particular incident, I am sure. Of course, I shall say nothing, if a parrot comes my way.’

‘Take the bird, woman,’ said Clarendon, scrambling away from her. He turned to Temple, who was regarding him in dismay. ‘The gesture of friendship is deeply appreciated, sir. I shall let it be known what you have done, and perhaps it will help to close this rift between our factions.’

They were obviously dismissed, so Lady Castlemaine grabbed the cage before he could change his mind. Temple trailed after her, his toothless mouth working helplessly as he tried to think of a way to salvage his plan. When the door had closed behind them, Chaloner heard him berating her in a furious whisper. There was a short silence, then a guffaw of genuine mirth when she saw how she had inadvertently foiled his ‘cunning’ attempt to undermine the Earl. The parrot joined in, and their joint cackles echoed away down the corridor.

Clarendon dabbed at his nose and sniffed. ‘I think she may have been right about that miasma. With any luck, it may adversely affect ladies, too.’

Time was passing, but there was still no sign of a surgeon. Chaloner glanced out of the window, and saw Eaffrey strolling arm-in-arm with Behn on the opposite side of the courtyard. He supposed she had not considered Brodrick’s request pressing, and was grateful his was not a genuine emergency.

‘Did you hear about the murder of a man called Webb?’ he asked emerging from his hiding place and going to join Holles and Clarendon at the table. Both had poured themselves large cups of wine after the encounter with Lady Castlemaine, although for completely different reasons.

‘I did,’ said Holles. He went to retrieve her cloak from the floor, and pressed it to his face like a lovesick youth. Almost immediately, he hurled it away from him. ‘Ugh! Onions!’

‘What did you hear?’ asked Chaloner.

‘It is a bad business when a man cannot walk home from his Company dinner without having a rapier plunged into his breast,’ said Holles, sitting down again. ‘Damned shameful.’

The Earl frowned. ‘Are you talking about Matthew Webb? The Guinea merchant?’

Holles nodded. ‘He was stabbed three weeks ago. You knew him, of course, My Lord. He owned the house next to yours on The Strand, and he invited you to dinner once. You declined when you learned his wife was going to be there, too.’

‘The dreadful Silence,’ mused Clarendon. ‘A more misnamed person does not exist. Have you met her, Heyden? She is a pickle-seller’s daughter, and an exceptionally large lady – fatter than me and taller than you – but insists on wearing dresses suitable only for the very slender. And her voice … ’ He trailed off, waving a plump hand, as words failed him.

‘Loud and vulgar,’ elaborated Holles. ‘And she has no sense of occasion. It was her who made that awful faux pas last year at the funeral of Henry Lawes the composer. Everyone talked about it for weeks. Do you remember, Heyden?’

‘No,’ said Chaloner patiently. ‘I was in Holland last year.’

‘So you were,’ said Holles. ‘Well, it was warm for October, and you cannot organise a decent funeral in Westminster Abbey outside a month, so Lawes was … well, suffice to say Silence brayed about the stench all through the service. And then she complained about the choice of anthems.’

‘Unfortunately for her, the music had been specially selected by the King himself,’ said Clarendon. ‘And His Majesty was none too pleased to hear from a pickle-seller that his artistic tastes were lacking. Why are you interested in this, Heyden?’

‘A man called Dillon has been convicted of Webb’s murder,’ explained Chaloner. ‘And I think Dillon might know the beggar who was shot yesterday.’

He could have told the Earl then that the ‘vagrant’ was a surgeon called Fitz-Simons, but he wanted more time to explore the connection before sharing his findings with anyone at White Hall – what the Lord Chancellor did not know, he could not inadvertently reveal to the wrong people.

‘Dillon will hang next Saturday, I believe,’ said Holles. ‘He and two others were sentenced to death, although there were actually nine names on the anonymous letter of accusation that was sent to Bristol.’

‘Bristol!’ spat the Earl, unable to help himself. ‘He probably devised a list of men he does not like and sent it to himself. Why else would he be the recipient of such a missive?’

‘It seems to me that the real question is not who received it,’ said Chaloner, ‘but who sent it.’

‘No one knows who sent it,’ said Holles. ‘And its authorship was discussed at length at the trial, because Dillon argued – not unreasonably – that he should not be convicted on the word of a man unwilling to reveal himself.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this,’ said Clarendon. ‘It sounds as though you were there.’

‘I was there. A pretty maid-in-waiting wanted to go, and asked me to accompany her, to protect her from rakes and vagabonds. I remember the three guilty men – Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild, all from the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields – but I forget the names of the other six. Four of them produced King’s pardons, though, and I heard the order for their release came from a High Authority.’ He pursed his lips.

‘Who?’ asked Clarendon curiously. ‘The King?’

‘No,’ said Holles, a little impatiently. ‘It is how we soldiers refer to matters of intelligence and state security. I mean Spymaster Williamson, My Lord,’ he added in a low hiss, when the Earl continued to look blank.

Chaloner groaned. Williamson was unlikely to be pleased with anyone who began poking about in a case in which a politically expedient verdict had been secured. Unfortunately, though, Chaloner had offered to look into the matter for Thurloe, as well as for the Earl, and was committed to obtaining at least some answers. He had no choice but to continue.

‘That is a sound I like to hear,’ said a massive, red-robed figure from the door. ‘It means my services are needed. Groans are music to any surgeon’s ears.’