Blood on the Strand

Chapter 4

Lord Clarendon and Holles beat a hasty retreat when Surgeon Wiseman began to unpack his jangling bag of implements. The Earl claimed the ball was about to begin, and there were young ladies to whom he had promised dances – although Chaloner suspected they would not be overly disappointed if more sprightly, fun-loving men stepped in to take his place – and the colonel decided he was in need of an escort. Holles’s face turned pale when Wiseman produced a short saw, making Chaloner wonder how he had coped with the gore that was an inevitability in military confrontations.

Chaloner expected the Earl to berate Wiseman for spreading rumours about his allegedly violent behaviour, but Clarendon merely muttered that he had no intention of prolonging an encounter with the surgeon, lest he be obliged to witness something unpleasant. Master Lisle was gentle and conservative with treatments, he said, but Wiseman had another reputation entirely, and no sane man wanted to watch him with his victims.

‘Send me your bill, Wiseman,’ he said as he shot through the door, Holles close on his heels. ‘And make sure you tell a servant to clean up the mess before I come back.’

Wiseman watched them leave, an amused smile stamped across his florid features. ‘Well, if I am to be paid whatever I decide to charge, then I may as well dispense some expensive therapy. We had better have a glass of claret first, though, to fortify ourselves.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘I do not think that will be necessary.’ He was about to add that nothing was wrong with him, but then there would be no reason for the man to stay and answer questions.

Wiseman poured two cups full to the brim, and handed one to his patient. ‘This is my way of demonstrating my perfectly steady hands. See how I do not spill a single drop, even though there is a meniscus over the top? Damn! Do not worry. It will come out if you soak it in cold water.’

The surgeon had flowing locks of a reddish-brown colour, which almost exactly matched his eyes, and there was arrogance in everything about him – from his flamboyant scarlet clothes to the superior gaze he directed around the Earl’s offices. His lips curled in a perpetual sneer of condescension, and he regarded Chaloner as though he considered him some half-wit from Bedlam. The spy decided there was only so far he was willing to go for this particular investigation, and he did not like the way the surgeon was laying out rows of sharp implements.

‘There is no need for–’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Wiseman irritably. ‘You are suddenly feeling better. All my patients say that when they see me prepare, and it is highly annoying. Your arm is broken and it needs my attention.’

Chaloner was astounded by the diagnosis. ‘It is not!’

Wiseman grabbed Chaloner’s wrist in a way that hurt. ‘Do not tell me it cannot be broken because you can still move your fingers: that is a layman’s myth. If I do not apply one of my special splints now, the bone will rot from within, and it would be a pity to see it cut off for want of a little surgery.’

Chaloner regarded him in disbelief; the man was deranged. ‘You are mistaken. It is only a–’

‘Are you qualified to say what will fester?’ demanded Wiseman. ‘No, you are not, so kindly allow me to decide what is best. I am proud of my Court appointment and decline to lose it just because you refuse treatment and die. However, you are lucky, because I recently devised a new dressing for this kind of injury – one that I predict will make me very wealthy. Wiseman’s Splint will do for me what Goddard’s Drops did for Jonathan Goddard. God knows, I could do with the money.’

Chaloner had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Goddard’s Drops?’

Wiseman regarded him askance. ‘Where have you been for the last year? The moon? They are his famous recipe for fainting, and have made him extremely rich. My splint will do the same for me. It is a revolutionary mixture of starch, egg whites, strong glue and chalk. But do not worry – it will only be for a month, and then we shall have it off.’

‘Have what off?’ asked Chaloner warily.

‘The splint, of course. The arm should survive, but only if you follow my orders.’

It was clear that Wiseman had not been joking when he had proposed prescribing an expensive ‘cure’ in order to charge the Earl an exorbitant fee, and although he disliked being used for such a deception, Chaloner decided not to object if it allowed him to ask questions about Fitz-Simons. Besides, none of the ingredients in the bandage sounded particularly sinister, and he would be able to pull it off as soon as he was away from White Hall. Wiseman seemed to read his thoughts, however.

‘You think you will get rid of it the moment I have gone. Well, you can try, but once it is in place, it can only be removed by a professional, such as myself. And do not think I do this for the money, either. The Court never pays its bills, and any treatment I provide will almost certainly go unrecompensed. Why do you think I am so poor? Of course, my colleagues Lisle and Johnson never seem short of funds. Indeed, of late they have both been awash with money. I cannot imagine how.’

‘But my viol,’ objected Chaloner, beginning to be unsettled. ‘I need both hands–’

‘It will be as good as new in a month,’ said Wiseman, going to a table and starting to mix powders in a bowl. A rank smell began to pervade the room. ‘Probably. You can forget about music until then, though. But we were talking about the fact that my colleagues always seem to earn more than me.’

‘Perhaps it is something to do with their nicer bedside manners,’ said Chaloner pointedly.

Wiseman snorted his disagreement. ‘There is nothing wrong with the way I deal with patients. They are nearly all fools, and so should expect to be treated as such. Did you know that Lisle reaped so much money last week that he was in a position to donate three bone chisels to St Thomas’s Hospital? Meanwhile, Johnson is moving in higher circles at Court than he was before – and socialising with such folk is an expensive business. Perhaps they are growing rich because they both support Bristol over Clarendon. Should I change allegiances, do you think?’

‘I doubt that has anything to do with it – Bristol is notoriously short of funds himself, so cannot afford to pay for friendship. And Lisle does not side with Bristol anyway. He is neutral.’

‘True,’ acknowledged Wiseman, whisking the contents of his bowl with considerable vigour. ‘And I would not demean myself by siding with Bristol, anyway. He is too debauched for my liking.’

Chaloner was keen to bring the discussion around to Fitz-Simons. ‘You are a member of the Company of Barber-Surgeons?’ he asked, watching Wiseman empty a packet of white powder into his concoction. There was a soft fizzing sound, as something reacted with something else.

‘Why?’ demanded Wiseman archly. ‘Do you doubt my credentials?’

‘I am making conversation.’

Wiseman carried the bowl to the table. His mixture looked like thick glue. Then he took Chaloner’s arm and began to bind it with strips of cloth and thin pieces of metal, pausing every so often to slather on his evil-smelling adhesive. Apart from the stench, it looked harmless enough, and Chaloner let him proceed in the interests of learning what he wanted to know. Regardless of what the surgeon said, the dressing would be off that evening.

‘I am the Company’s most celebrated member. Have you heard about our Public Anatomies – so called because we invite members of the public to watch the dissections of convicted criminals four times a year? There is one next Saturday, as it happens. Would you like to come? There is always room for a man disguised as an elderly Dutch upholsterer.’

Chaloner glanced sharply at him. ‘How did you–’

‘The skin on your arm – it no more belongs to a sixty-year-old man than mine does. I suspect you are Heyden, the Lord Chancellor’s henchman. He said you were recently back from Ireland, and it seems you have made a dramatic re-entry into Court life. Do not worry,’ Wiseman added, before Chaloner could think of a suitable lie or object to the term ‘henchman’. ‘I will not give you away, especially if you are here to oppose Bristol.’

‘Then you can help me do just that by answering some questions,’ said Chaloner, seizing the opportunity while he could. ‘Do you know a man called Richard Fitz-Simons?’

‘Why? Does he owe you money? If so, you are unlikely to be repaid. He does not own a large practice – and never will, as long as he disappears for months on end. In fact, he left a few weeks after Christmas, and only returned ten days ago. We were worried that he would miss the Public Anatomy.’

‘He will miss it,’ said Chaloner. ‘He is dead.’

Wiseman gazed at him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked eventually.

Chaloner nodded. ‘And since Colonel Holles has already told me that you inspected the body of the man I believe to be Fitz-Simons, this news cannot come as a surprise to you.’

Wiseman frowned, although more in concern than annoyance at being caught out. ‘I saw something familiar in the shape of the body that was carried across the courtyard in White Hall, and I defied May by going to look. May does not seem aware that the beggar and Fitz-Simons are one and the same, though. Will you tell him? I hope you do not.’

‘Why was Fitz-Simons in disguise in the first place?’ asked Chaloner, declining to make promises before he had the whole story.

Wiseman stirred his glue, which was beginning to set in the bowl. His expression was pained, as if he was undergoing some kind of internal debate, and it was some moments before he spoke. When he did, it was hesitantly, and some of his arrogance seemed to have left him.

‘I have not mentioned this to anyone else, but you are the Earl’s spy, and it might do me good to share my burden. Fitz-Simons often vanished, as I said. In February, he claimed he was going to visit his mother in York, but that is untrue, because I know both his parents are dead. And then Johnson saw him board a ship bound for Dublin.’

Chaloner’s thoughts began to race. ‘Why there?’

‘I do not know for certain. However, he had a friend called Dillon – Irish, as is apparent from his name – who is currently accused of murder. Now, it seems strange to me that Dillon and Fitz-Simons left for Dublin before the Castle Plot started, and returned after it failed.’

Chaloner gaped at him. ‘You think Fitz-Simons went to join the rebellion?’

‘I would have said no – except for one thing.’ Absently, Wiseman, smeared more of his glue on the dressing. ‘There was a plan of Dublin Castle in his room – I saw it when I went to borrow some ink. It was a detailed diagram, and I have not been able to put it from my mind. Treason is a terrible crime of which to accuse a colleague … ’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Had Fitz-Simons taken part in the uprising? Was that why he had bought a gun from Trulocke – and why Trulocke claimed Fitz-Simons kept company with ‘dangerous men’? And was Dillon a rebel, too? If he had worked for Thurloe during the Commonwealth, then it was quite possible that he still hankered after the ‘Good Old Cause’. And if that were true, then Thurloe might be accused of treachery himself if he openly tried to secure Dillon’s release.

‘The plan of the castle was probably Dillon’s,’ Wiseman went on. ‘I saw him myself, walking about with large pieces of paper rolled under his arm. He is distinctive, with the hat that always covers his face.’

‘Do you think Dillon was accused of murder because he took part in the Castle Plot, then?’

‘It is possible,’ replied Wiseman. His relief at having shared his ‘burden’ was palpable, and his hauteur was returning fast. ‘What was Fitz-Simons thinking, to become embroiled in such dark affairs? I hope it does not bring the Company into disrepute.’

‘Did you know the man Dillon is said to have killed?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Webb?’

Wiseman nodded. ‘Although it is not an acquaintance of which I am proud. Webb was a vile fellow, who saw nothing wrong in a business that involves the selling of human lives. He owned a ship that transported sugar purchased from slave-driven plantations, you know.’

‘So, someone might have killed Webb because he was unscrupulous,’ mused Chaloner, thinking aloud. ‘And if so, then his death may have nothing to do with the Castle Plot. I am told he was stabbed on the way home from a Guinea Company dinner. I did not suppose you were there, were you? I know it is common practice for the city companies to invite auspicious guests to these occasions.’

‘Being auspicious, I have attended such feasts in the past,’ replied Wiseman without the flicker of a smile. ‘But I was not at that one.’

‘Did Fitz-Simons know the others who were sentenced with Dillon – Sarsfeild and Fanning?’

‘Not as far as I know, although it is possible. Hah! I have finished. What do you think?’

Chaloner’s forearm was encased in a rigid shell that carried the odour of boiled horse bones. ‘It is not very pretty.’

‘Surgery seldom is. Your limb is completely immobilised, which will facilitate clean healing. Come to Chyrurgeons’ Hall tomorrow, and I shall check it. You will not be able to remove it, so do not try – I added a secret compound that renders the material resilient to tampering by amateurs. As I said, only a qualified medicus – with special compounds and equipment – can do that.’

The moment the door closed behind Wiseman, Chaloner attacked the splint with a knife. He was horrified to discover that it was already rock hard, and all he did was blunt his blade. He tried smashing it on the Earl’s marble fireplace, but that hurt him more than the dressing, and he realised he would have to borrow one of his landlord’s saws when he went home. Abandoning his efforts, he began to review what he had learned about Dillon and Fitz-Simons instead.

Both men had been in Ireland at the time of the Castle Plot, and now one was dead and the other awaiting execution. May had killed Fitz-Simons as he had tried to tell Williamson that Dillon was innocent. What did that say about May? Or was the incident just how it had appeared: May had shot a man wielding a knife? And what about the anonymous letter received by the Earl of Bristol, which had incriminated Dillon? Was that someone’s way of making sure a rebel was hanged? And if so, then did it mean the two men condemned to die with him – Fanning and Sarsfeild – were also rebels?

Chaloner went to sit in the window, to consider the matter further. Because the Earl’s offices were located on the first floor, he found himself with an excellent view of the ball, which was centred around the spacious galleries fringing the Privy Garden below. He realised it was a unique opportunity to observe which courtiers sought out Bristol’s company and who preferred Clarendon’s. He prised the casement open, too, so he could also catch snippets of conversation as people passed underneath him.

The King’s musicians were playing in the Stone Gallery, a long ground-floor corridor that formed the eastern edge of the courtyard, and their sweet sounds wafted upwards. One had a bass viol, and Chaloner gazed at his hand, hoping he would be able to join Brodrick’s consort that night. He did not want to lose his place to the status-seeking Greeting, who would never relinquish the opportunity to perform in such lofty company once he was established. The players were bowing a piece by Henry Lawes, which reminded Chaloner of Silence Webb’s ill-considered comments at the composer’s funeral.

The Webb murder was odd. Nine men had been accused – a suspiciously large number for a crime that tended to be committed by a single perpetrator – but only three had been convicted. Had Williamson arranged the four pardons, as Holles contended? And what had happened to the two men who had ‘disappeared’? Chaloner did not like the notion that someone could write an anonymous letter, and it would result in men sentenced to death. As Thurloe had said, it was easy to plant a bloody rapier in a man’s home.

His mind drifted as the courtiers and their hangers-on began to assemble in small groups. He saw Holles, resplendent in his ceremonial uniform, gazing lasciviously at a trio of pretty ladies-in-waiting. Then Lady Castlemaine appeared, and the colonel’s moist eyes remained fixed on her provocatively swinging hips until they turned the corner and were out of sight. When Eaffrey sauntered into view, the bulging orbs swivelled around to leer at her. Chaloner wondered what was wrong with the man, and thought he would do well to find himself a wife, a mistress or both before his indiscriminate ogling landed him in trouble.

Behn was with Eaffrey, and she was listening to what he was saying as though it was the most interesting thing she had ever heard. Chaloner was disgusted, because he had imagined that she had owned more taste – and more self-respect than to throw herself quite so completely at the feet of such a man. She sensed she was being watched, because she suddenly looked up at Chaloner’s window. She murmured something in Behn’s ear; he bowed, then strode away in the opposite direction. Moments later, the door to Clarendon’s office opened, and Eaffrey slipped inside. Scot was with her, still disguised as the Irish scholar. Eaffrey’s eyes opened wide with astonishment when she saw Chaloner’s bandaged arm, and Scot frowned in concern.

‘So, the rumours are true?’ asked Scot. ‘I thought Wiseman was just trying to unnerve Bristol with his tales of the Lord Chancellor’s sudden penchant for savagery.’

‘Or was it Johan, and not the Earl, who harmed you?’ asked Eaffrey. Chaloner tried to decide whether she admired or disapproved of her lover’s display of manly aggression, but he could not tell. ‘He flew to Clarendon’s aid like a rampaging bull.’

‘This splint is just Wiseman’s way of letting the Earl know he is getting his money’s worth for my treatment,’ said Chaloner, loath to admit that Behn had bested him. He might try it again, and Chaloner did not want to hurt the man Eaffrey intended to marry. ‘There is nothing wrong with me, but I cannot get the damned thing off.’

Scot sat next to him, and a dagger appeared in his hand, as if by magic. He began to hack at the dressing. ‘I was worried when I heard Wiseman was sequestered in here with you. Had you not emerged by three o’clock, I was going to fabricate an excuse to come to your rescue.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Do you know something that suggests he might be dangerous?’

Scot was sawing furiously. ‘Not really – I just have an uncomfortable feeling about him. His Court appointment means he must be good at his trade, or he would be dismissed. Yet he has very few patients outside White Hall, and even less money. It is oddly inexplicable, and I do not like it. Also, I know for a fact that he is a liar. An example is the Guinea Company dinner. Did I tell you I went there to spy on Temple? Well, I did not go exactly – my “scholar”, Peter Terrell, did.’

‘And Wiseman tried to mislead you in some way?’ asked Chaloner.

Scot paused to wipe sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Yes. A few hours before it was due to start, he and I were in a tavern with a group of fellows from the Royal Society, talking about the plantations in Barbados. I am more interested in the botanical aspects of the business, but Wiseman was rattling on about the slaves. Someone mentioned that Webb – who I have since learned was the man stabbed on his way home from the dinner – owned a ship that transports sugar from Barbados to London, and Wiseman pretended to be surprised.’

‘How do you know he was pretending?’ asked Chaloner.

‘Because I heard him and Webb having a violent set-to about it in the Turk’s Head Coffee House around Christmas time. So, Wiseman knows perfectly well how Webb made his fortune, and it was odd that he denied doing so later. Personally, I think Wiseman is fighting a losing battle as far as his objection to slave-produced sugar is concerned. England wants cheap sugar, and the only way to get it is by using forced labour. It is an economic necessity.’

Chaloner disagreed. ‘Merchants are resourceful – they will find another way to make their ventures profitable. We live in enlightened age, and owning fellow humans is barbaric.’

Scot regarded him askance. ‘You sound like a Quaker, man! And the use of slaves in Barbados is a fact. If you disapprove, then make a stand by refusing to consume sugar. I wager your lofty principles will not last long, because coffee is unpalatable without it.’

Chaloner felt himself growing angry. He accepted the challenge. ‘Very well. Any business that involves slavery is objectionable, and I want no part of it.’

‘I agree,’ said Eaffrey. She eyed Scot defiantly. ‘And so would any decent man.’

Scot raised his hands defensively. ‘It is the way of the future. I deplore it, too, but there is nothing we can do to stop it. A man who harvests slaves today will be wealthy tomorrow. Ask anyone in the Guinea Company – including Johan Behn. He uses slave labour on his plantations, Eaffrey.’

‘He is in the process of changing that,’ said Eaffrey stiffly. ‘He promised.’

Scot made no reply, although it was clear that he doubted Behn would do any such thing. He renewed his assault on the splint.

‘Did Wiseman attend the Guinea Company dinner after this altercation in the tavern?’ asked Chaloner, also keen to talk about something else. ‘He told me he did not.’

Scot shrugged. ‘I am afraid I cannot prove him a liar on that count, because the hall was very crowded and my attention was divided between talking about plants and watching Temple – my would-be brother-in-law. I have no idea whether Wiseman was there or not. I remember Webb, though – or rather, I remember Silence. She told Bristol he stank of onions.’

‘Well, he does,’ said Eaffrey. ‘I thought I might pass out when he spoke to me just now.’

‘There was certainly one medical man at the dinner, though,’ Scot went on thoughtfully. ‘Clarendon’s debauched cousin – Brodrick – “accidentally” cracked Temple over the head with a candlestick at one point, and I heard someone say that a Court surgeon had tended the wound. I cannot tell you which of the three – Lisle, Wiseman or Johnson – did the honours, because I was busy discussing orchids at the time.’

‘Someone sent Bristol a letter listing nine men who are supposed to have murdered Webb,’ said Chaloner. ‘Have you heard any rumours about who might have penned it – and why to Bristol?’

‘Yes, actually,’ said Scot, nodding keenly. ‘Ever since Eaffrey and I tumbled to the fact that the Dillon mentioned by your beggar is none other than the Dillon convicted of murdering the Guinea Company man, we have been asking questions on your behalf, gathering information. The letter that saw Dillon indicted has given rise to all manner of speculation in the city, but although there are rumours galore – including one that says Bristol wrote it himself – no one knows for certain who penned it.’

‘Why would Bristol write it himself?’

‘He would not,’ replied Scot, stabbing the dressing as hard as he could in an effort to crack it. ‘It is malicious slander, which originated with Brodrick.’

‘And I heard that Adrian May was the author,’ said Eaffrey, ‘because the grammar and spelling were poor, and everyone knows he is an uneducated ignoramus.’

There was a sudden snapping sound, and Scot hissed in exasperation. ‘I cannot get this damn thing off, and now I have ruined my best dagger. What did Wiseman use to make it? Stone?’

‘Let me,’ said Eaffrey, elbowing him out of the way. She inspected the bandage and regarded him in astonishment. ‘All that huffing and puffing, and you have barely made a dent!’

Scot glared at the broken tip of his knife. ‘It was not for want of trying.’

Chaloner took the weapon from him, appalled that Wiseman’s splint should be capable of damaging such good-quality steel. ‘I am sorry. Take mine.’

Scot shook his head. ‘You may need it. I hear Eaffrey’s future husband has taken against you.’

‘Johan does not go around attacking people,’ protested Eaffrey, bending over Chaloner’s arm. ‘May might, though, while Bristol would not pass up a chance to remove his rival’s spy, either. You have more enemies in White Hall than William and I put together, Tom, which is impressive – you have not been home a week.’

Chaloner sighed, thinking he had never been so unpopular in Holland – and that was an enemy state. He thought about Scot’s brother. ‘Have you heard a date for Thomas’s release yet?’

Scot’s expression was troubled. ‘They keep coming up with legal reasons for the delay, and I do not know enough law to tell whether they are real, or just excuses.’

Chaloner gave him Leybourn’s address. ‘He sells legal books. Ask him to look it up for you.’

Eaffrey threw up her hands in disgust. ‘I cannot break this splint, either. Wiseman is famous for his experiments, and I think he might have just performed one on you. I suspect you are stuck with this thing until he agrees to remove it himself – which may cost a lot, given that he claims he is short of money at the moment. How are your current finances?’

‘Not good,’ replied Chaloner ruefully. ‘Clarendon keeps forgetting to pay me.’

‘We have broken into houses, fortresses, offices and halls, and escaped from all kinds of prisons,’ said Scot, emptying his purse on the table. He did not seem much better off than Chaloner. He shoved the coins towards his friend, but Chaloner pushed them back, not liking to borrow money when he did not know when he would be able to repay it. ‘Yet we are defeated by Wiseman’s glue.’

‘There is Johan,’ said Eaffrey, gazing to where Behn was looking around with two cups of wine in his meaty hands. ‘I should go, or he will think I dispensed him on an errand to be rid of him.’

‘You did,’ said Chaloner.

She pouted prettily. ‘Yes, but there is no reason for him to know it.’

Chaloner followed Scot and Eaffrey out of the Lord Chancellor’s office, but when he reached the garden, he found his way barred by Behn in one direction and May in another. He did not feel inclined to speak to either, so he retraced his steps and returned to the window seat. This time, he made sure he was concealed by the curtains as he stared down into the grounds.

The casement was still ajar, so he listened to snatches of conversation as people passed below. He saw Brodrick congratulating the musicians, one of which was Greeting, and heard them laughing together. Meanwhile, Temple was also strolling towards the consort, unwittingly following a path that would lead him straight to Brodrick. Chaloner recalled Scot’s tale about how Clarendon’s cousin had hit Temple with a candlestick, and did not imagine they could have much to say to each other – at least, nothing genteel. Sure enough, the toothless Temple baulked when he saw where his amble would take him, and started to change direction. Unfortunately, the lady accompanying him – an older woman, who wore yellow skirts and a fashionable mask that concealed the top half of her face – was determined to speak to the musicians. She resisted his tug on her arm, and then it was too late.

‘Good afternoon, Brodrick,’ said Temple stiffly. He raised one hand to his pate and rubbed it, although Chaloner could not be sure whether the gesture was intended to be a deliberate reminder of the incident at the Guinea Company dinner. ‘I trust you are well?’

Brodrick forced a smile. ‘Yes, thank you. I understand you gave my cousin a parrot. How kind.’

‘A green one,’ Temple’s expression darkened. ‘Unfortunately, Lady Castlemaine persuaded him to part with it before it could … ’

‘Could give him a fatal ague?’ finished Brodrick sweetly when Temple faltered. ‘The Lady told me some men are susceptible to them. However, I am sure that is not what you intended.’

‘No!’ cried Temple, genuinely shocked. ‘I had no idea birds could be dangerous, and I sincerely hope Lord Clarendon does not think I harbour murderous intentions towards him. Nothing was further from my mind.’

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Brodrick, beginning to move away. ‘Good day to you.’

But Temple grabbed his arm. ‘Since you are here and we are alone, there is a small matter I would like to discuss. As treasurer of the Guinea Company, it is my duty to collect subscriptions, and yours is outstanding. Perhaps you might … ’

‘You mention this at a Court ball?” asked Brodrick in distaste. ‘That is hardly gentlemanly, sir.’

Temple flushed. ‘You are a difficult man to track down at other times, and I cannot waste hours of my valuable time hunting you out. Will you oblige me with thirty pounds now?’

Brodrick bowed curtly. ‘Stay where you are and I shall fetch it. Do not move.’

He turned and hurried away, and Chaloner was amazed when Temple did as he was told. Personally, he would no more have expected Brodrick to return loaded with money than see the sun turn blue and drop from the sky. The politician and his lady had been loitering just long enough to know they had been tricked when they were joined by Bristol, who was clad in clothes so outdated that he looked like an actor from a theatre. They exchanged meaningless pleasantries, and a waft of onions drifted upwards. Chaloner wondered what the man did to make them hang so powerfully around him.

Eventually, Chaloner tired of watching courtiers – a complex social dance in which he understood too few of the steps – and decided to fetch his viol in readiness for Brodrick’s consort. He was about to leave, when the door opened and the Earl bustled in. He was flustered and unhappy, and waved Chaloner back down when he started to stand.

‘Do not disturb yourself, Heyden. Wiseman has been telling everyone how you narrowly escaped death at my hands. I hope you do not die – Thurloe will never forgive me.’

Chaloner made room for him on the seat. ‘Wiseman is a loyal friend, sir. He thinks he is helping you fight Bristol with these tales.’

‘Well, I wish he would not. I do not want a reputation for being a bully-boy. I–’

The Earl broke off when the door opened a second time. Outraged that someone should dare enter without his permission, he was about to surge to his feet and say so, when Chaloner silenced him with a warning hand on his shoulder. The Lord Chancellor’s room was about to be burgled, and the spy was keen to know by whom.

As the uninvited guests set about closing the door and discussing who should do what, Chaloner drew the curtain in a way that concealed the window seat completely. When he was sure the Earl was not going to give them away with an indignant challenge, he moved until he could see what was happening through a moth-hole in the material.

Two men had invaded Clarendon’s domain. The first was tall, with an unfashionably bushy beard and a puce coat that was stretched unattractively tight across his ample paunch. The second was an angular courtier, who wore tight yellow breeches and matching hose, which made his long, thin legs look like those of a heron. While the bearded man stood at the door and kept watch, Yellow Legs rifled through the desk. The Earl was outraged by the presumption, and started to stand again. Chaloner stopped him.

‘We need to see what they are doing.’

‘We can see what they are doing,’ hissed the Earl, his voice loud enough to make Chaloner glance through the moth-hole in alarm. Fortunately, it coincided with the start of some music in the garden below, and the burglars did not hear. ‘That fellow is George Willys, one of Bristol’s creatures, and he has his filthy hands in my private correspondence.’

Chaloner was grateful the chamber piece wafting through the window was being played with such gusto. ‘We should see what they want specifically.’

‘But Willys will mean me harm – he is Bristol’s man to the core. That bearded fellow is Surgeon Johnson, who also supports Bristol. He–’

Chaloner stopped him. The burglars were talking, and he wanted to hear what they said.

‘Hurry up,’ snapped Johnson. ‘We do not have all day. I am not sure Bristol was right when he said Clarendon had gone home early – he may come back to do some work.’

‘He will be exhausted after trouncing that Dutchman,’ said Willys. ‘However, I am afraid there is nothing in his desk, except papers referring to affairs of state.’

‘Those are no good,’ said Johnson impatiently. ‘Bristol wants us to find something that shows he embezzles public money. We need bills or letters from shady merchants – Matthew Webb, for example. He is the greatest villain in London, and no upright man should ever have dealings with him.’

‘Webb is dead,’ said Willys.

A crafty expression crossed Johnson’s face. ‘Then he is not in a position to say what letters he received, is he? We shall send him something from Clarendon. That should satisfy Bristol.’

‘Actually, it will not,’ came another voice. Chaloner experienced a sickening lurch of shock when he recognised Scot, still dressed as his Irish scholar.

It was Johnson who recovered his wits first. ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded. ‘Of course Bristol will be happy with evidence that implicates his rival in something sordid.’

‘I am sure that is true,’ said Scot. ‘However, he will not be pleased when the “evidence” is exposed as a forgery, and he is blamed. Now, I suggest you stop whatever it is you are doing and leave. This kind of behaviour is beneath professional men, and you should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘Who are you to lecture us?’ demanded Johnson. ‘An Irish squire, only interested in flowers!’

‘His name is Terrell,’ whispered the Earl to Chaloner. ‘He is only pretending to be a scholar, and is actually one of Williamson’s spies, but I cannot recall his real name. Perhaps I was never told. It was an unfortunate name to choose, though, because there is a dishonest fishmonger called Peter Terrell.’

‘Spymaster Williamson sent me here,’ said Scot coldly to the two burglars. ‘He heard men who should know better were in the process of breaking into the office of a government official, and he ordered me to stop them before they did anything rash. If you do not leave immediately, he will have you charged with treason.’

Johnson did not like the word treason, and neither did Willys. Both were out of the door in a flash. Scot closed the door behind them, and for one awful moment, Chaloner thought he intended to resume the search himself, but he merely closed the drawers Willys had opened, and set all to rights. When he was ready to leave, Chaloner motioned for the Earl to stay where he was and emerged from behind the curtain. Scot jumped in alarm, then grinned his relief.

‘You startled me! Did you leave this office open deliberately, to entice that pair to break the law? You certainly succeeded in springing your trap – they were in like moths at a flame.’

‘They came of their own volition.’

‘Then why are you still here? Are you hoping to prevent Eaffrey from seeing Behn? I would not meddle, if I were you. You will not succeed in parting them, and she will resent the interference.’

‘Why did you let Willys and Johnson go? You caught them red-handed.’

Scot nodded. ‘Thanks to Wiseman – he told the Spymaster what was afoot. Apparently, he overheard them planning the escapade in a public room, which goes to underline how incompetent they are. However, there is no point in prosecuting them – they will deny all, and Williamson thinks Bristol might use the incident to make similar accusations against Clarendon.’

‘They would not be true.’

‘I know, but dirt will stick, as it always does. Williamson says it will be better for Clarendon if this distasteful farce is quietly forgotten, and he is almost certainly right.’

‘What would you have done if they had found something? They were considering fabricating documents, as you must have heard.’

Scot nodded. ‘Then I would have marched them to Williamson and let him deal with the mess. God help us, Chaloner! All I want is for my brother to be released so I can take the next ship to Surinam. I am weary of petty politics and incompetents like Johnson and Willys.’

As soon as Scot left, the Earl emerged from behind the curtain. He was deeply unsettled by what he had witnessed, but relieved to know that Williamson and his spies were capable of being objective. He told Brodrick, who had come looking for him, to summon a locksmith first thing in the morning, and wanted a guard posted at his door day and night.

Brodrick had a viol. ‘Greeting’s,’ he explained, when he saw Chaloner looking at it. ‘Play me a scale.’

Chaloner took the instrument, running appreciative fingers over the silken wood. He grasped the bow but found, to his horror, that the splint limited the movement of his left hand, and he could not produce the right notes, no matter how hard he tried.

‘Wiseman said you would be unable to perform,’ said Brodrick, regarding him unhappily. ‘Greeting will be pleased, although I shall be sorry to lose you.’

‘This thing will be off within the hour,’ Chaloner said hastily. ‘My landlord will have some tool that will work. He has implements for everything.’

‘Wiseman claims amateur removal is impossible,’ said Brodrick. ‘It needs some special chemical to dissolve it, apparently, and he says he will not apply it for at least a month – for your own good. I am sorry, Heyden but I need everyone at his best tonight, because the Queen will be listening.’

‘Greeting will be difficult to dislodge once he has a foot in the door, cousin,’ said the Earl reproachfully. ‘Heyden will lose his place permanently if he does not play tonight.’

Brodrick shrugged. ‘It cannot be helped. Locke gave the bass viol some important solo work, and Greeting is the only available musician capable of mastering it at short notice. Like most courtiers, I am short of funds, and commissions to play in the houses of wealthy courtiers are fast becoming imperative. I cannot afford to be kind to Heyden, not when the Queen might recommend me to her entourage.’

Disgusted and dismayed, Chaloner watched him stride away. He was suddenly sick of White Hall, and longed for the peace of his own chambers. Unwilling for ‘Vanders’ to be the centre of any more attention, he washed the paint and false beard from his face, and borrowed a cap and coat from Holles. He plodded along a series of little-used corridors, then cut across the expanse of cobbles known as the Great Court. Like the Privy Garden, it was full of revellers, but there were also servants going about their business, so no one looked twice at him as he walked away from the celebrations. Except one person.

‘Thomas Chaloner,’ said a masked woman in yellow, speaking in a voice that was far too loud. It was the lady who had been with Temple. Chaloner regarded her in alarm, not liking his real name bawled in such a place. ‘What are the palace guards thinking, to let you in here?’

‘Alice Scot,’ said Chaloner, when she removed her mask. It had only been five years since they had last met, but time had not been kind to her. Bitter lines encircled her mouth and eyes, and even a liberal slathering of beauty pastes could not conceal the discontent that was etched into her small, pinched features. She did not return his tentative smile of greeting, and he supposed he was still not forgiven for exposing her first husband as a man with dubious morals. ‘I did not know you were in London.’

‘I am here because my brother is in the Tower, being drained of secrets regarding the Castle Plot. I intend to rescue him and take him home to Buckinghamshire, where he will be safe.’

‘Rescue him how?’ asked Chaloner uneasily, hoping she was not planning to embark on some wild scheme that would see her entire family in trouble.

‘By offering a large sum of money to anyone who will set him free. I am rich, and can afford it – I just need to find out who to bribe. William thinks he can do it by pestering people, but money speaks louder than words, so we shall see who is right. Was it you who suggested Thomas should hand himself over in exchange for a pardon? If so, it was bad advice.’

He was tempted to tell her the truth – that it had been Scot’s idea – but friendship stilled his tongue. ‘He surrendered willingly when he learned it would save him from hanging. Besides, he knew by then that the rebellion was a foolish venture to have supported, and he was eager to make amends.’

‘So, now my poor brother is an idiot, is he?’ she asked angrily.

‘I understand you want to marry,’ he said, to change the subject. As soon as the words were out, he wished he could take them back. Given that he had fought a duel with her last spouse, matrimony was a topic best avoided.

‘Richard Temple,’ she said, surprising him with a sudden smile. ‘I cannot recall ever enjoying a man’s company as much as I do his. William refuses to give me his blessing, but what would he know about love? Like most men, he is only interested in whores.’

Chaloner considered the pairing of Alice and Temple, and decided that she probably had the better end of the bargain. Temple was physically unattractive and his association with the slave trade made him loathsome, but he was almost certainly better company than Alice.

‘May I escort you somewhere?’ he forced himself to ask. It was growing dark in a part of the palace that was not particularly secure, and she was Scot’s sister, after all.

‘Not when you are dressed so shabbily, thank you. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were still in Ireland. Or have you forsaken espionage to follow a more respectable profession?’

‘Your father and brothers were spies,’ he pointed out.

‘And look where it has led them. My father hanged, drawn and quartered for regicide, Thomas in the Tower, and William itching to begin a self-imposed exile in Surinam. In his last letter, William told me he had discovered a fancy for flowers. I wrote back and recommended that he consult a physician.’

‘That was unkind. Would you deny him a chance to find contentment?’

‘I will acknowledge his new-found love of plants when he accepts my liking for Richard.’

‘What is it about Richard Temple that you admire?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

She smiled again. ‘His ambition and financial acumen, mostly. When we marry, he will use my money to buy a sugar plantation in Barbados. He says it will make us both richer than ever.’

‘I have heard that particular venture is on the brink of collapse,’ lied Chaloner. ‘Due to bad harvests and falling prices. Anyone who invests is likely to lose everything.’

‘Richard says otherwise, and I trust his opinion more than yours,’ she said. ‘And now you must excuse me. Supper is about to be served, and I have been asked to sit next to the Earl of Bristol.’

It was late by the time Chaloner reached home, and his ears rang with the sound of loud music and the yells of people who had drunk too much wine. His landlord was still awake, and they spent a long time plying every tool in his arsenal against the splint, but were forced to concede defeat when all they did was warp it into a shape that was uncomfortable. He retired to bed, but his leg ached from his tumble, and he tossed and turned for hours before he was able to sleep. Then he woke as the bells were chiming five o’clock, feeling as though he had only just dropped off. He forced himself up, knowing he should not waste any of the day.

The first thing he did was to go to his viol, which stood near the shelf where he kept his music. He sat, placed it between his knees, and took the bow in his right hand. But the previous night’s tampering had made the splint shift down his arm, so it was impossible to reach the frets, and the tune he produced had his landlord banging on the door to make him stop. He set down the bow with a sigh.

He dressed in some of his better clothes for Chyrurgeons’ Hall – there was no point in going as Vanders, since Wiseman had already seen through that disguise. He wore a dark-blue long-coat with front buttons, knee-breeches and a ‘vest’ – or waistcoat – that was as plain as it could be without being brazenly outmoded. Meanwhile, Temperance’s friend Maude had been true to her word, and one of his shirts – now adorned with so much lace that it was four or five times its original weight – had arrived. His hat was a wide-brimmed one, which matched the sash that held his sword; no gentleman ever went out without a sword.

Thurloe always rose early, and was already in Lincoln’s Inn garden when Chaloner arrived, strolling among the ancient boles in the grey, misty light of dawn. Here, the sweet scent of wet grass and dew-soaked soil was stronger than the ever-present reek of sewage and coal smoke that pervaded the rest of the city. The only times Chaloner noticed London’s noxious stench was when it was not there, when he became aware that there were places where clean air prevailed, although the rapid development of houses in the suburbs meant this happened with decreasing frequency. When he approached Thurloe, the ex-Spymaster had stopped next to a gnarled apple tree, and was touching its bark with outstretched fingers, oblivious to the soft rain that fell soundlessly around him.

‘I do not think I shall stay in London after Prynne has destroyed my sanctuary,’ he said quietly. ‘I shall not find peace in his desert, and the loss of these old companions is too sharp a wound to bear.’

Chaloner regarded him in dismay, thinking what a chasm the departure of his mentor would leave in his own life. ‘I could ask the Earl to intervene,’ he offered.

‘That would mean him trying to circumvent a direct order from the King, and I can imagine what Bristol would make of that. I am afraid I shall have to hope for a small victory in Yates’s flower seeds.’ Thurloe turned to face him, and his eyes immediately lit on the splint. ‘Lord! What happened to you? You must come inside and allow me to prepare you a tonic.’

Chaloner shook his head, having tasted some of Thurloe’s tonics on previous occasions. ‘Did you see Dillon in Newgate yesterday?’

‘We were only granted five minutes, but he assures me he is innocent. He also says he is not worried by his situation, because he expects to be rescued by the man who hires him. However, he declined to tell me the identity of his master, or how the fellow plans to snatch him from the jaws of death.’

‘There is a lot that is odd about Webb’s murder, so Dillon is probably telling the truth about his innocence. He is a pawn in some larger game, perhaps one designed to damage this secret employer of his.’

Thurloe looked unhappy. ‘You are almost certainly right. What have you learned about the affair?’

Chaloner began to recite facts in random order. ‘No one knows who sent the anonymous letter to Bristol – the rumours that say it was May or Bristol himself have nothing to support them. The men sentenced to hang with Dillon are called Sarsfeild and Fanning. No one seemed to like Webb very much. The man May shot was a surgeon named Fitz-Simons – I shall visit Chyrurgeons’ Hall later, and ask his colleagues about him.’

Thurloe nodded appreciatively. ‘You have been busy. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes. Please do not communicate with Dillon again: there is some suggestion that he might have been involved in the Castle Plot.’

Thurloe rubbed his eyes. ‘I suppose it is possible. He is an Irish Parliamentarian, and his family suffered badly when the Royalists confiscated their lands after the Restoration.’

‘Your enemies may use any renewed association with him to harm you. I do not want you arrested on trumped-up charges of treason, so it would be best if you had no more to do with him.’

‘I cannot leave a former employee to hang, Tom,’ said Thurloe reproachfully. ‘All my spies risked their lives when they worked for me, and I owe them my loyalty in return.’

‘Is Dillon worthy of it?’ asked Chaloner, sure he was not. ‘He caused Manning’s death, and you were obliged to dismiss him. He does not sound like the sort of man to lose your freedom for.’

‘It is not for me to judge him,’ said Thurloe stubbornly. ‘I leave that to God.’

Chaloner knew there was no point in arguing with Thurloe once God was involved. However, while he admired Thurloe’s dogged devotion to his people, he thought it misplaced in Dillon’s case. He tried one last time. ‘It does not sound as though he needs your help, sir. His new master–’

‘We all need help on occasion, Thomas. But I shall refrain from visiting him if you agree to go in my stead. I am not sure his faith in this patron is justified, and I would like to know more about the fellow and what Dillon himself understands about the crime for which he was convicted.’

Chaloner hated prisons with a passion, and tried to think of an excuse to avoid the commission. ‘I doubt the guards will let me in,’ was the best he could do on the spur of the moment.

Thurloe raised an eyebrow. ‘I do not recommend knocking on the door and asking to be admitted. It will be better to show the wardens a permit from their governor.’

Chaloner regarded him uneasily. ‘And how do I obtain one of those?’

Thurloe gave one of his enigmatic smiles. ‘I prepared – forged, perhaps I should say – a letter last night. The governor will be away until Monday afternoon, so you will have to go before then. Early tomorrow would be best, because that is when supplies are delivered and all is chaos. Do you mind?’

Chaloner knew Thurloe would do it for him, if their roles were reversed. ‘No,’ he lied, hoping he did not sound as unhappy as he felt. ‘Not at all.’

Monkwell Street not only boasted the eclectic collection of buildings associated with the Company of Barber-Surgeons, but it was also where Chaloner’s friend Will Leybourn lived. It was a narrow road, dominated by Chyrurgeons’ Hall to its west, and St Giles without Cripplegate to the north. Leybourn’s shop stood on the eastern side, and comprised a chamber full of crooked shelves and chaotically arranged tomes, with a printing-binding room and kitchen behind. The upper floors boasted bedchambers and the tiny garret Leybourn used for writing his own erudite works on mathematics and surveying. Suspecting Leybourn was still asleep, Chaloner picked the lock and let himself in. He was warming ale and toasting bread over the fire when the surveyor crept down the stairs with a poker in his hand.

‘I wish you would not do that,’ Leybourn grumbled irritably. ‘What is wrong with knocking?’

‘You need a better lock,’ said Chaloner. He did not add that the best ones in London were unlikely to keep him out – it was rare to find a building he could not enter, once he put his mind to it.

Leybourn regarded him in concern. ‘What happened to you? It was nothing to do with this Dillon business, was it?’

Chaloner shook his head, declining to admit, even to Leybourn, that he had been tackled by the boyfriend of an ex-lover while attempting to hang on to his wig. ‘You are good at alchemy. Can you concoct something to dissolve this dressing?’

Leybourn inspected it carefully. ‘That is Wiseman’s work. I heard he had invented a new method for immobilising damaged limbs, and that he intends to make his fortune from it. I would not tamper, if I were you. Chemical substances often react unpredictably, and we might do real harm if we meddle. It might explode or release poisonous gases.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. ‘What sort of surgeon is he?’

‘A talented one, by all accounts. Ask him to remove it. It will be safer for all of us.’

‘Later today, then,’ said Chaloner, determined to be rid of it. It was beginning to chafe, and he was sure it – not anything Behn had done – was the reason his wrist ached. He drank some warmed ale and stared at the fire. ‘I am doing something I swore I would never do again: working for two different people.’

‘Thurloe and Clarendon,’ said Leybourn. ‘But at least it is on the same case: Dillon.’

‘Yes, but Thurloe is determined to save Dillon, and since it looks as though Dillon was involved in the Castle Plot, they are probably hoping for different outcomes.’

Leybourn was full of questions, so Chaloner told him all he had learned, finding it helpful to voice his thoughts aloud and listen to Leybourn’s observations. They discussed Dillon, Webb and the Castle Plot until a jangle of bells told them St Giles’s was ready for Sunday service. Chaloner glanced out of the window to see people flocking towards its doors. New laws and a vicious backlash against non-Anglicans meant those who did not attend were regarded as either nonconformists or Catholic, and thus objects of suspicion. Folk stayed away at their peril.

St Giles’s was a large church with a tall, thin tower and chimneys tacked on to its aisles, to keep its congregation warm in winter. The medieval glass had fallen victim to Puritan fanatics who thought bright colours might distract the faithful from God, but most of the memorials had survived their depredations. Tablets still clung to ancient walls and elderly merchants continued to rest in marble eternity under its steeply pitched roof. Some had broken noses and fingers, where the iconoclasts’ hammers had tried to cleanse the world of unnecessary art, but the majority of them had outlasted the frenzy.

‘The main advantage of St Giles’s is that the sermons are short,’ said Leybourn, as they entered the nave. ‘If we had gone to St Mary Staining, we would be there until noon, and there is a book I want to finish. It is about Martin Frobisher, a man I admire. Did you know he is buried in this very church?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘Who was he? A politician?’

Leybourn pursed his lips. ‘I doubt I will ever admire a politician, Tom! Frobisher was an explorer, who searched for a Northwest Passage to the Orient. I am reading about his first voyage, though, which was to Guinea. It is enlightening, because Webb had business interests in that part of Africa – and it was at a Guinea Company dinner that he was murdered.’

‘I thought he was murdered on his way home – after the feast.’

‘His carriage failed to arrive, apparently, and suddenly everyone was too busy to offer him a ride home. He was obliged to walk, and was attacked outside his mansion. It is a long way from African House to The Strand, so his killers had plenty of time to organise themselves.’

‘That means it was a premeditated attack – not just robbers who saw a rich man alone at night.’

‘Yes, it does, and I am sure that is the case. I recall from the trial that Webb’s purse, rings and expensive clothes were still on his corpse the next day. No robber would have abandoned such easy pickings.’

‘The killer might have been disturbed before he could strip the body.’

‘True, but then the alarm would have been raised sooner. Robbery was not the motive.’

‘Do you know why Webb was elected a member of the Guinea Company in the first place?’ asked Chaloner curiously. ‘He was not a man who would have brought them credit. He owned a ship that brought slave-produced sugar to England, and the city guilds are sensitive to negative public opinion, because they do not want their halls targeted for looting when the next riot occurs.’

‘Unfortunately, the current outcry against slavery will not last. Soon, Englishmen will visit the coasts of Africa to gather slaves, and our government is keen for them to try, because it means wresting lucrative resources away from the Dutch – and we all know war is brewing with Holland. So, men like Webb will soon be the norm, not a despised minority – and the more progressive members of the Company know it.’

Chaloner sincerely hoped he was wrong. He resumed his analysis. ‘So Webb attended a feast, where he was tolerated in the hope that he might make other members wealthy. Then his carriage failed to arrive and he was killed as he walked home. Have you discovered anything else about him?’

‘He was born in the gutters, but made a fast fortune, which always attracts dislike – from those who are jealous of his success and from those who resent him joining their rank in society. However, in Webb’s case, I think the dislike was deserved: no one seems to have a good word to say about him.’

‘Clarendon said his wife made offensive remarks at Henry Lawes’s funeral,’ said Chaloner, as they squeezed into a pew that already contained a baker and his large brood. The church was packed, and a clerk was busily recording names in a ledger.

Leybourn chuckled. ‘She complained about the smell, which was crass: corpses do reek, but decent folk pretend not to notice, out of respect for the next of kin. And she took exception to the music the King had chosen. She was lucky everyone was too startled by her opinions to arrest her. Did you say there is some suggestion that Webb’s killer – Dillon – was involved in the Castle Plot?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘He and Fitz-Simons had charts of Dublin Castle, and they left London on an Ireland-bound ship before the rebellion began. The government knew about the revolt long before it happened, which must mean someone betrayed it.’

‘Someone?’ echoed Leybourn quizzically. ‘You mean a someone like Fitz-Simons or Dillon?’

‘It is possible. Or perhaps Webb was the traitor, and that is why Dillon killed him.’

‘I thought Dillon was innocent. Thurloe says so, and he is not usually wrong about such things.’

Chaloner sighed. ‘True.’

Leybourn was thoughtful. ‘Webb knew a lot of people, not all of them salubrious. Perhaps he did catch wind of a plot involving Londoners, and tried to curry favour by passing the information to official quarters. You will have to find out if you want to get to the bottom of his murder. So, you have a choice of motives: rebellion or slavery. Neither will be comfortable to explore.’

‘Murder is seldom comfortable,’ said Chaloner. He did not add that neither was anything else Thurloe and Clarendon asked him to investigate.