Blood on the Strand

Chapter 5

Chyrurgeons’ Hall had started modestly, with a simple house raised in the fifteenth century. It had expanded since, and now the Company of Barber-Surgeons owned several buildings. These included the impressive Great Parlour, which boasted a first-floor refectory with an open undercroft beneath it. This was attached to the equally handsome Anatomical Theatre – by means of a cloister at ground level, and a covered corridor above. In addition, there was the Court Room, in which the Company held its meetings, bounded by a number of semi-permanent sheds, a granary and several cottages. The complex was accessed by a gate from Monkwell Street, which was manned by a watchful guard – the Company was wealthy, and often attracted thieves and burglars. The guard told Chaloner that Wiseman was still at church, but that the Company Clerk, Richard Reynell, was willing to entertain his visitor until he returned.

Reynell was a middle-aged man with a foxy face and small, intelligent eyes. His clothes were surprisingly stylish for one whose salary could not have been huge, although the oily hair that hung in lank tendrils down his back detracted from the overall impression of elegance. Surgeon Johnson – the bushy-bearded fellow who had attempted to burgle the Lord Chancellor’s office – was with him, dressed in the same puce-coloured, paunch-hugging coat he had worn the previous day. A multitude of stains suggested its owner had enjoyed a good night at the palace. Around his right forefinger was a bandage, and he held the afflicted member high above his head, as if testing the direction of the wind.

‘I am draining out poisoned blood,’ he explained, seeing Chaloner looking at it. ‘It was bitten by a green parrot, you see, and it is well known among the more educated men of my trade that they are the most dangerous kind. No man wants to be savaged by a green parrot.’

‘If you drain the bad blood by holding your finger aloft, then surely the toxins will flood into your arm,’ said Chaloner, puzzled. ‘And then into the rest of your body.’

‘Yes, but that is what livers are for,’ declared Johnson. Even Reynell frowned his surprise at this particular piece of information. ‘They attract dirty blood and convert it to pellets that are then expelled in vomit. I shall take a purge later and will be cured tomorrow.’

Chaloner was glad it had not been Johnson who had answered the summons to tend him the day before. ‘How did you come to be pecked in the first place?’ he asked.

‘I was attending a lady, who was racked by a fit of violent sneezing. I immediately ascertained that this was being caused by a crucifix on her wall. As I was removing the offending object, the bird landed on my hat, and I was injured in the ensuing struggle.’

‘Do you physic many White Hall courtiers?’ Chaloner asked politely, feeling some sort of response was required, but declining to address Johnson’s bizarre diagnosis.

‘Dozens,’ bragged Johnson. ‘I am far more popular than that scoundrel Wiseman, because I do not regard patients as subjects for wild experiments.’

‘I can see why that would have an appeal,’ agreed Chaloner.

‘Some people even prefer me to Lisle,’ Johnson went on. ‘Despite the fact that he is much loved in London. The problem with Lisle is that he is a bit too free with the truth. Who wants to know he is going to die? It is better to tell a man he is going to get better. Also, patients tend to be more generous with the fees when you give them good news, so there is always that to consider, too.’

‘The Earl of Clarendon,’ said Chaloner innocently. ‘Have you ever tended him? In his offices?’

Johnson’s eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not! He has set himself against poor Bristol, you know. I like Bristol, because he got me my Court post. He and I are going to invent a revolutionary new chewing machine for men with no teeth. It will make us a good deal of money.’

The clerk looked concerned. ‘We are already rich, so should not draw attention to ourselves with odd inventions – we do not want a reputation like Wiseman’s. It is better to maintain a low profile.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner, bemused.

Reynell’s expression was unreadable. ‘Once people know you, they start to pry into matters that are none of their concern. Fame is not a desirable condition.’

‘Piffle,’ countered Johnson. He turned to the spy. ‘We were talking about me and my battle with the Devil’s familiar.’

‘Clarendon?’

‘The parrot,’ said Johnson impatiently. Chaloner regarded him coolly. He liked birds, but he had not taken to Johnson; if the surgeon had done anything unsporting, he was ready to extract revenge on the creature’s behalf. ‘After our tussle, it flew out of the window. The last I heard was that it has made friends with the Bishop of London, and refuses to leave his shoulder. Since it raced to save that crucifix, I can only conclude that the bishop is also of the Roman persuasion, and that the parrot has recognised one of its own – an agent of Satan.’

‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner, wondering what it was about religion that turned men into drooling fanatics. He addressed Reynell, keen to change the subject. ‘Have you worked here long?’

‘Long enough,’ replied Reynell cagily. ‘Why do you want to know?’

Chaloner did not want to know; he was just making conversation. He tried again, ‘I have never been here before, but I understand your Anatomical Theatre was designed by Inigo Jones.’

‘Jones was an architect,’ announced Johnson, as if he imagined Chaloner was a half-wit. ‘He threw up the Banqueting House, and … and a few other places, too. We asked him to do us a new Anatomical Theatre because the public kept looking through the windows of the old one, wanting to know what we were up to. So, Jones built us one with windows that are unreachable by nosy ghouls.’

‘Would you like to see it?’ asked Reynell.

Chaloner was not seized with any particular desire to inspect a place where corpses were dismembered, but he had raised the subject and felt he had no choice but to accept. He followed them towards an oval building, inside of which were four tiers of cedar-wood seats, placed so every spectator would have an unimpeded view of the large dissecting table in the centre of the room. The walls were graced with statues of the Seven Liberal Sciences, and for some inexplicable reason, the signs of the zodiac were painted above them. Dominating all was a painting by Hans Holbein, depicting King Henry VIII handing the barbers and the surgeons the warrant that made them an official city guild.

The spy was disconcerted to see the table occupied by a cadaver, because Wiseman had told him Public Anatomies only took place four times a year. The body was covered by a sheet, but a pair of yellow feet protruded from the bottom. There was a faint pink stain over the area of the heart, and Chaloner was not sure why, but he was suddenly seized by the absolute conviction that the corpse belonged to Fitz-Simons, shot in the chest by May. He moved closer, wanting to know for certain.

‘My speciality is pumping wax into a corpse’s veins,’ announced Johnson, flicking up the sheet to reveal two plump, greyish legs. The major blood vessels in the groin had been exposed, and one partially removed, so it could be attached to a bowl by means of a pipe. Chaloner also noticed grazes on the corpse’s knees, as if the man had fallen as he had died. ‘For the demonstration of the venous system. It is a skilled business, and you will not be surprised to learn that I am extremely good at it.’

Chaloner nodded. He was not particularly squeamish, but there was something about the cold, dispassionate treatment of the body in Chyrurgeons’ Hall that unsettled him. Surreptitiously, he edged towards the sheet, intending to tweak it off ‘by accident’, then take his leave as soon as he had his answer.

‘Stand back,’ ordered Johnson. ‘Bodies are delicate, not to be pawed by non-members.’

‘I will not touch it, I assure you,’ said Chaloner fervently, wondering what sort of ‘pawing’ was enjoyed by the elite who were members.

Johnson raised a cynical eyebrow, apparently of the belief that onlookers would be unable to help themselves.

‘Laymen can be very salacious,’ explained Reynell. He started to sniff. ‘Does this room smell? I have been among the odours of the trade for so long that I can no longer tell.’

Chaloner nodded. The corpse stank and, since he assumed it was being prepared for the Public Anatomy the following Saturday, he was glad he would not be around when the demonstration started; by then, it would be overpowering to the point of noxious. He was surprised Fitz-Simons had grown rank so quickly, and wondered if he had been left in a warm place. ‘I doubt surgeons will mind,’ he said. ‘They must be used to it.’

‘We are not concerned about surgeons,’ said Johnson. ‘This particular anatomy is to be private.’

Chaloner regarded him blankly, but Johnson did not seem to think the statement required further clarification, and turned back to his charge, covering the legs with the sheet and patting it tight around the edges in a macabre parody of tucking someone into bed. It was Reynell who explained.

‘We perform two types of anatomy: private and public. The latter are major events, and Company members are permitted to invite guests. Afterwards, because it is a well-known medical fact that watching dissections makes men hungry, we have dinner together with plenty of wine. It is always very jolly.’

‘Jolly?’ Chaloner was not sure he would feel ‘jolly’ after enduring such a spectacle.

Reynell nodded keenly. ‘There are four Public Anatomies a year, and we are assigned executed felons for that express purpose. Of course, it is not always easy to lay claim to them, because sometimes the families get there first. Or the spectators at the scaffold.’

‘Witches try to steal the fingers,’ elaborated Johnson. ‘And the ears, and sometimes the–’

‘We also perform Private Anatomies,’ Reynell went on. ‘Often, a surgeon may want to demonstrate some aspect of physiology to students, or perhaps test a novel theory. In addition, we conduct Private Anatomies for interested amateurs, because the founding of the Royal Society has precipitated an insatiable demand for scientific learning. This body is for a Private Anatomy, which will be this afternoon.’

‘On a Sunday?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Is that allowed?’

‘We have special dispensation, on the grounds that sometimes corpses cannot wait,’ said Reynell darkly. ‘However, all these new religious laws may mean a curtailing of our activities in the future. We shall go the way of the Puritans, and all Sabbath-day pleasure will be banned.’

‘Dissections come under the definition of “pleasure” do they?’ asked Chaloner, amused.

Reynell nodded fervently. ‘People enjoy them very much. You should tell Wiseman to invite you next Saturday. You will not believe the fabulous time you will have. And, as for the dinner afterwards … well, suffice to say there are already three bullocks hanging in the kitchens.’

Chaloner thought it astonishing that people would want to eat after seeing entrails brandished about. Surgeons he could understand, but he was not sure he would be ready to devour red meat after watching some hapless villain ruthlessly sliced to pieces.

‘Did Surgeon Fitz-Simons ever hold Private Anatomies?’ he asked.

A furtive look was exchanged. ‘Why do you ask about him?’ demanded Johnson curtly.

Chaloner shrugged, and pretended not to notice the hostility. ‘I met him once, that is all.’

Johnson ushered him towards the door in a way that was only just polite. ‘I have work to do.’

Chaloner was relieved to be outside, despite the fact that he had failed to confirm whether the corpse was Fitz-Simons. He took a deep breath of relatively untainted air, thinking wistfully of the sweet scent of Thurloe’s garden. Meanwhile, Johnson and Reynell were engaged in a low-voiced debate, but when Chaloner took a few steps towards them, the clerk grabbed the surgeon’s arm and pulled him away. Chaloner was puzzled: Reynell had not been odd before the question about Fitz-Simons.

He was not left alone for long before a familiar figure approached. It was Lisle, his brown, wrinkled face creased into a smile. ‘Mr Heyden,’ he said pleasantly. ‘The Earl of Clarendon’s friend.’

Chaloner gestured to Johnson. ‘I may not be welcome here if you tell him that.’

Lisle laughed. ‘Johnson is a man who sees life in extremes – you are either in Bristol’s camp or you are an agent of the Devil. Wiseman is much the same in his defence of Clarendon. Personally, I prefer not to become involved in squabbles that are none of my business.’

‘Where is African House?’ asked Chaloner, deciding to learn whether Lisle was the surgeon Scot said had attended the Guinea Company dinner. ‘I have been ordered to represent Lord Clarendon at a function there, but I am a stranger to London, and have no idea how to find it.’

‘Behind Throgmorton Street,’ replied Lisle promptly. ‘As Master of the barber-surgeons, I am often invited to the dinners of other guilds, and those held by the Guinea Company are among the best. They are good men.’

‘I was under the impression that some condone slavery. That does not make them “good men”.’

‘The government would disagree – it has issued charters for the exploration of Africa with a view to expanding trade; this will ultimately include slaves. Wiseman is furious about it, and spends a lot of time lobbying politicians and merchants in an effort to stop it from happening. Personally, I think it is a lost cause, and prefer to donate a day of each week to treating London’s poor, because they are people I can help.’

‘I heard there was an argument at the last Guinea Company dinner, between those who object to slavery and a merchant called Webb.’

‘The dear departed Webb,’ said Lisle with distaste. ‘It is difficult to condemn anyone for arguing with him. I seldom meet a man in whom I can see no redeeming qualities, but Webb was one.’

‘Did he pick a quarrel with you, too?’

Lisle grimaced. ‘He once accused me of overcharging for a treatment. It was untrue, of course.’

‘Of course. Were you at the Guinea Company dinner?’

‘You mean did I see anyone there who was so offended by Webb’s vile presence that they stuck a rapier into his black heart?’ asked Lisle with a wry smile. ‘I imagine there were plenty, but I was not among them. I was invited to the dinner, but the moment my carriage arrived at African House, I received an urgent summons from a patient. I never got inside.’

‘What about your colleagues?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Johnson or Wiseman. Or Fitz-Simons?’

‘Invitations were issued to all, but I cannot tell you who accepted and who declined.’ Lisle’s gaze strayed to the splint on Chaloner’s arm, and his eyes narrowed in sudden anger. ‘Damn it! Wiseman has been practising with different glues again – and after I forbade him, too! You will be lucky to regain the use of your hand once this comes off. He has been experimenting with some exceptionally resilient substances recently, ones I feel endanger a patient’s life.’

‘I thought a blacksmith might–’

‘No!’ cried Lisle. ‘His splints set extremely hard, and you may find yourself seriously maimed if you let an amateur at it. It is a task only a surgeon can perform.’

His vehemence was making Chaloner uneasy. ‘Wiseman intends to leave it in place for a month, but I shall need two good hands long before that.’

Lisle patted his shoulder. ‘I can help you there, but not yet. I have learned from experience that Wiseman’s glues begin to dissolve after a few days, which makes them easier for the professional man to remove. Next Saturday would be a good time. Come to me then, but do not tell Wiseman – he will certainly object to me “poaching” a patient.’

‘Next Saturday?’ asked Chaloner, aghast. ‘I cannot wait until then!’

‘It is the best I can do, now the adhesive has been applied. Do not be too distressed. Miracles happen every day, and perhaps your hand will recover in time.’

‘But there is nothing wrong with it,’ cried Chaloner, deciding it was the last time he would ever let a surgeon loose on him, just for an opportunity to ask questions.

‘Wiseman misdiagnosed?’ Lisle was thoughtful. ‘Yes, he might have done. He believes himself infallible, which is a sure way to make mistakes. But we shall put all to rights next week, so do not fret. And in the future, you will know to be more selective about your surgeons. We are not all the same.’

Chaloner was tempted to leave Chyrurgeons’ Hall while he was still in one piece, but he was angry, and disliked the notion that Wiseman had conducted an unlicensed experiment on him. He decided to stay and confront him about the matter.

‘Lord!’ groaned Lisle suddenly, looking towards the Great Parlour. ‘Wiseman and Johnson have just started one of their spats. I do wish they would not squabble in public – and that it did not fall to me, as Master, to keep the peace between them.’

He hurried away, and Chaloner watched as he inserted himself between the two men. His intervention was not a moment too soon, because Johnson looked as though he was girding himself up to swing a punch. Lisle spoke softly, trying to calm troubled waters, but his colleagues did not seem inclined to be soothed. Their voices carried, and Chaloner heard it was something to do with the dissection that day: Wiseman disapproved, and Johnson was telling him that was too bad. Eventually, Johnson threw up his hands and stalked towards the Anatomical Theatre. The spy eased forward until he reached a doorway, where he could hear what Lisle was saying to Wiseman, but could not be seen.

‘I refuse to have anything to do with it,’ Wiseman was snarling. ‘It is wrong.’

‘But Temple will expect you – our most celebrated theorist – to do the cutting this afternoon,’ said Lisle gently. ‘If you insult him by refusing, he may not make a donation towards our new library, and our colleagues will call for your dismissal. Think very carefully before you follow this course of action.’

‘I am a surgeon, not a performing monkey,’ raged Wiseman, although he looked very simian that morning, his hulking frame towering over his Master. ‘I do not approve of so many Private Anatomies. Dissections should be for education and research, not for the entertainment of wealthy courtiers.’

‘We live in turbulent times,’ said Lisle reasonably, ‘so we do not have the luxury of such choices. You can decline to cater to your Company’s requests, but it may see you banned from practising surgery. How else will you make a living?’

‘With my splint,’ argued Wiseman. ‘It will make me so rich that I will not be obliged to practise. And Johnson can go to the Devil, because I shall never bow to his demands.’

Lisle sighed. ‘I suppose I will have to make an excuse for your absence – say you have been summoned to White Hall, or some such thing. You will see matters differently tomorrow when your temper has cooled, and you are almost certain to wish you had acted more prudently.’

He walked away, and Chaloner stepped out of his hiding place to intercept Wiseman before he could disappear. The surgeon peered at him.

‘You look thirty years younger without paint and grey hair. Did you hear any of my discussion with Lisle? He is obliged to fabricate tales to cover Johnson’s appalling lack of judgement. Johnson is a serious liability for the Company, and he should be dismissed.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, supposing the large surgeon had chosen to interpret the incident in a way that suited his inflated opinion of himself. ‘How has Johnson misjudged, exactly?’

‘Because he has scheduled yet another Private Anatomy in our theatre. He organises far too many of them, and we are reaching the point where science is taking second place to entertainment.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘I mean people pay to attend these sessions, and Johnson and Lisle have a long list of rich folk who are eager to commission one. It is not right, and it goes against all I believe. Dissections should be about furthering knowledge, not amusement.’

‘It is an odd idea of amusement.’

‘The fellow who commissioned this afternoon’s spectacle is Sir Richard Temple, and I suspect he will bring a horde of friends with him – a pleasant diversion for a wet Sunday. It will turn public opinion against us eventually. The common man has strong ideas about anatomy.’

‘Temple,’ mused Chaloner. The toothless politician seemed to be cropping up at every turn, but only two days ago Chaloner had never heard of him.

‘He is not a man with whom honourable folk should associate,’ declared Wiseman viciously. ‘He is planning to purchase a sugar plantation that will be fuelled by slaves. It is disgusting!’

‘Who is going to be dissected today?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Fitz-Simons?’

Wiseman had been about to continue his rant, but Chaloner’s question stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘Of course not! Whatever gave you that idea? We do not dissect people we know.’

‘Who do you dissect, then?’

‘Criminals, mostly – hanged felons.’

‘That accounts for the four Public Anatomies, but what about the private ones?’

‘The same. People die in gaol and no one claims their corpses; beggars and vagrants keel over on the street; and then there is the river. We have the pick of them all. In a city this size, there is no shortage of material, and I assure you, we would never slice up another surgeon.’

Chaloner was unconvinced. The legs that had protruded from under the sheet in the Anatomical Theatre had been those of a plump man, and he doubted they belonged to a felon or a vagrant. Someone at the Company of Barber-Surgeons was not telling him the truth.

Wiseman declined to examine Chaloner’s arm in the open, so led him to the old hall, where a number of elegant offices were located. Wiseman’s had books lining one wall, and a large map on a table that showed the discovered parts of the Americas. It was held down by what appeared to be human long-bones. Adjoining the room was a smaller chamber, which had a heavy oak bench in the middle, and shelves containing an enormous number of bottles and phials. There was a window, but it had been boarded over in a way that suggested the breakage had been due to some kind of explosion. It reeked, and Chaloner detected the distinctive odour of sulphur.

‘Experiments,’ explained Wiseman. ‘I intend to bring surgery into the seventeenth century. It is time we stopped hiding behind our medieval heritage and embraced new ideas and inventions. Take your splint, for example. Broken bones need to be immobilised for at least four weeks to allow them to knit, but all we do is wrap them in a few bandages and hope for the best. My dressing will keep your arm stiff and unmoving for as long as it remains in place.’

‘I could not play my viol today, and–’

Wiseman looked pleased. ‘Good! It is working – protecting patients from themselves. Has anyone else examined you? Lisle for example? If he has, and has offered you treatment, I want to know.’

Chaloner would no more have revealed Lisle’s offer than he would have allowed Wiseman to splint his other arm. ‘Why?’

‘Because, despite the fact that he is the Company’s Master, he is not a good surgeon – he tells too many people they will die, and I am sure some just give up the struggle because of his brutal honesty.’ Wiseman’s eyes narrowed angrily when he inspected the dressing. ‘Someone has been hacking this with saws and knives. Was it Lisle? God help you, if it was. Still, no real damage has been done.’

‘Not to the splint, perhaps,’ muttered Chaloner.

‘After a month, the glue will decay, and then it can be dissolved with a special compound I have invented. Until then, any attempt to remove it will be futile.’

Chaloner thought about what Lisle had said, and wondered which man he should trust. Each seemed confident of his own skills – and worryingly scathing of the other’s. ‘I have already lost my place in Brodrick’s consort because of this damned thing, and I object to being used–’

‘Viols are outmoded,’ interrupted Wiseman. ‘And will soon be abandoned in favour of the more versatile violin. You should take this opportunity to learn something else – the trumpet, perhaps.’

Chaloner gaped at him. ‘That is like me telling you to become a grocer, if Johnson succeeds in revoking your licence to practise surgery.’

‘Rubbish. What I do is important. You cannot blame me for what happened, anyway. It is your injury that put you in this position, not the medicus who is trying to heal you.’

‘How much will it cost to remove the thing now?’ asked Chaloner, recalling what Eaffrey had said about Wiseman: that he would charge a princely sum to dismantle his handiwork. He realised he was willing to go to considerable lengths to raise whatever was demanded.

Wiseman was affronted. ‘Unlike some I could mention, my professional integrity is not for sale. The splint stays for a month, and not a day less. And if anyone says otherwise, then I demand that you tell me about it immediately. Now, is there anything else, or can I get on with the business of transforming the art of surgery into a reputable science?’

Chaloner considered holding a knife to the man’s throat and putting his request a second time, but decided he would be safer waiting for Lisle. He stood.

‘I asked last night if you wanted to attend Saturday’s Public Anatomy,’ said Wiseman, sitting back in his chair. ‘Have you decided yet?’

Chaloner was startled – he had not imagined the offer to be a serious one. However, watching some poor felon’s corpse being anatomised was low on his list of pleasures for a free spring afternoon. ‘I am washing my hair on Saturday.’

Wiseman grimaced. ‘Do not be flippant, Heyden. These are auspicious occasions, followed by meals fit for a king, and invitations are very difficult to come by – my offer is a great privilege, and you should be flattered. And, since I am performing the dissection, and not some blithering imbecile like Johnson, you are sure to learn a great deal.’

‘I am flattered,’ said Chaloner, trying to be gracious. ‘But surely you know someone more worthy of this honour?’

‘Actually, no. All the other surgeons are awash with guests, but I cannot think of anyone they have not asked already. And I do not want them to think I do not have any friends.’

Chaloner thought that if he was the best Wiseman could muster, then the colleagues might have a point. ‘I hear your subject will be a hanged felon. I do not suppose his name is Dillon, is it? He is due to be executed on Saturday.’

Wiseman nodded. ‘But we keep their faces covered, so if you know him, you need have no fear. He will not be looking at you.’

It did not make the prospect any more appealing.

Still holding forth about what he promised would be a memorable experience, Wiseman escorted Chaloner to the gate and saw him off the premises. The spy walked along Monkwell Street until he reached a small, unnamed alley that bordered the northern extent of the barber-surgeons’ estate, and gazed up at the wall they had built to keep out intruders.

Normally, he could have climbed it with ease, but the splint interfered with his grip, and he was obliged to pick the lock on a neighbouring house instead. Hoping the closed door meant its owners were out, he made his way through the building and into the garden, at the end of which stood the surgeons’ fifteenth-century hall. Here the protective wall was lower, although scaling it was still an awkward struggle. Eventually he managed, and walked towards the Anatomical Theatre, taking care not to be seen. Ever cautious, he turned his coat inside out and wore it in the manner of a cape, then changed his hat for a simple black cap, tucking his hair underneath it, so he would look like an impoverished clerk to anyone who happened to spot him.

Johnson was poring over the corpse, doing something unspeakable with red wax, tubes and a pair of bellows, so Chaloner tossed a stone up at one of the windows and waited until the surgeon came out to investigate. While Johnson scratched his head in puzzlement, the spy darted inside and yanked the sheet away from the cadaver. He was startled when the face that gazed at him through half-closed eyes was not Fitz-Simons’s, but that of an older man.

The stain on the sheet came from an oddly shaped wound in the chest, which Chaloner recognised as being caused by a rapier – fluid had leaked from the hole during a recent washing. Pale circles around fat fingers suggested rings had been worn, and the well-fed body indicated it had been a man of wealth. Chaloner was almost certain – especially as he could now see the fellow had been dead for weeks rather than days – that he was looking at Webb. He gazed at the corpse in confusion, and wondered whether Temple knew he was about to be treated to the dicing up of a Guinea Company colleague.

There was no more to be learned by staring, and the theatre was no place to linger, so he left. Outside, Johnson was gesticulating at a cracked window, informing Reynell that a bird was responsible. Wryly, the clerk pointed out that it must have been a singularly heavy one. Chaloner could not leave the barber-surgeons’ grounds the way he had entered, because Lisle was now standing near the old hall, talking to Wiseman. He decided to leave through the main gate instead, knowing that as long as he moved confidently, no one was likely to stop him – guards tended to monitor who came in, not who went out. However, he was out of luck that day, because Johnson spotted him.

‘Hey!’ he bawled. ‘I do not know you. Come here at once, and give an account of yourself.’

Chaloner considered brazening it out, but it would be difficult to explain why he had changed his hat and cloak – and why he had returned in the first place. Plus there was the fact that the sheet that had covered Webb was now lying on the floor, and Johnson would want to know what he had been doing. All told, it was better to escape without being obliged to answer questions. He looked around, quickly reviewing his options. The guard on the gate had been alerted to the presence of an intruder by Johnson’s yell, so he could not go that way, and Lisle and Wiseman had abandoned their discussion and were moving towards him – one was sure to grab him if he tried to run past. So he headed south, to where Chyrurgeons’ Hall abutted on to grounds owned by the Company of Silversmiths.

Immediately, Johnson broke into a run. He was fast for someone with so large a paunch, and began to gain on his quarry. Chaloner scrambled over the wall to find himself in a yard full of sheds. An indignant shout told him that the silversmiths’ apprentices, who were playing dice around a brazier, did not appreciate trespassers on their property either. They came to their feet as one when he scaled a second wall, and he heard a furious commotion behind him when they laid hold of the pursuing Johnson instead. The surgeon’s garbled explanation earned Chaloner vital seconds, allowing him to vault across a third barrier, which led to yet another garden. The only way out was across a fourth fence, which he hoped would see him in the churchyard of St Olave’s Silver Street.

But another garden followed, and another partition, and he felt himself begin to tire. Each barrier was becoming more difficult to climb with his useless arm, and it occurred to him to give up. He changed his mind when he glanced back and saw the expression on Johnson’s face. The man would not be taking prisoners; he intended to exact justice on the ‘thief ’ with his fists and boots.

At last, Chaloner reached the graveyard and crawled into a tangle of undergrowth at the back of the church, breathing hard. Within moments, the first of the apprentices arrived and, as Chaloner had hoped, hared towards the gate that led to the street. Others followed, and the spy’s gamble that they would expect him either to claim sanctuary in the chapel or head for the nearest exit seemed to be paying off. Through the foliage, he saw Johnson heave himself over the wall, but instead of following the boys, the surgeon trotted to a shed at the bottom of the cemetery and produced a key. He opened the door, peered inside, then locked it again and waited for the apprentices to return.

‘Is he in the charnel house?’ asked one of the lads, arriving hot and gasping a few minutes later. He stepped past Johnson and put his shoulder to the door with the obvious intention of breaking it down, but the surgeon shoved him away.

‘No, he is not there. I have just checked.’

‘Who was he?’ asked the youth, hammering on the wood anyway. ‘One of your students?’

‘A burglar,’ said Johnson angrily. ‘I imagine he wanted to steal the Grace Cup.’

‘You mean that big silver bucket with the bells on?’ asked the lad keenly. ‘The one you shake when you want it filled with wine? It rings, and the servants come rushing to your aid?’

Johnson nodded. ‘We always get it out for the meals we enjoy after our dissections, and there is to be such an event this afternoon. That rogue must have heard about it, so came to try his luck.’

‘Did you get a look at his face?’

Johnson gestured to his eyes. ‘I do not see well. He had a brown cloak, though. Did you see him?’

‘He always kept his back to me. Do you want us to scout around for men with brown cloaks? It will cost you a shilling for every hour we are out.’

‘Here is sixpence,’ said Johnson. ‘And a crown is available if you bring him to me – quietly, though. I do not want to bother my colleagues with this.’

The lad tapped his nose, then went to tell his fellows of their good fortune. It was some time before Chaloner felt it was safe to leave his hiding place – and he turned his coat the right way out before he did so. He emerged carefully, then went to the shed and picked the lock, closing the door behind him in case anyone came back. The charnel house, used to store bodies until they were buried, had only one occupant, and Fitz-Simons’s name was written in chalk on a piece of slate at the end of a crude table. Chaloner pulled off the sheet, and was confronted with a face that was unfamiliar.

He gazed down at the purple features thoughtfully. Fitz-Simons had disguised himself as a beggar, and the dead man in front of him certainly looked as though he had been a vagrant. Could there be two dead men with the same name? Chaloner supposed it was possible. Then he recalled Holles saying that vergers had been summoned from St Martin’s Church – not St Olave’s – to collect Fitz-Simons’s body. Had Surgeon Fitz-Simons been buried already, and Beggar Fitz-Simons was completely unrelated to him? Or had someone taken the opportunity to exchange corpses? Chaloner stared for some time before accepting that these were questions he could not answer.

The chase had exhausted Chaloner, and he did not feel like walking all the way home, so he visited Leybourn instead. The surveyor said nothing when he flopped in a chair next to the fire, although his eyes lingered on the grazed hands and the torn, soiled clothes. He poured himself some wine and went back to his reading, commenting occasionally on a particularly interesting passage. Frobisher’s descriptions of Guinea made it sound like paradise, and Chaloner wondered how its people survived being torn from their homes and transported to the plantations. He found a copy of Musaeum Tradescantianum, and learned a lot about edible plants before Leybourn announced he was going to bed. Chaloner took advantage of the spare room, and did not stir until the clocks chimed six o’clock the next morning.

‘Are you in a better mood today?’ asked Leybourn, looking up from where he was scraping mould from a piece of bread. ‘You were sullen company last night.’

‘I cannot play my viol, Will,’ said Chaloner in a low voice. The loss of music had been uppermost in his mind when he had woken up, and meant he would probably be ‘sullen company’ at breakfast, too. ‘I tried yesterday, but it was like using someone else’s hand.’

Leybourn was sympathetic. ‘Your skills will return once a surgeon removes the … ’ He pointed.

‘It is a new invention that will revolutionise surgery, according to Wiseman. Or a dangerous experiment that will maim its victims, according to Lisle.’

‘Wiseman is the best surgeon in London, and I doubt either he or Lisle made a mistake over something as basic as a broken arm. I am sure they both know what they are doing.’

‘They cannot both know,’ said Chaloner irritably. ‘Their diagnoses are contradictory.’

Leybourn handed him some ale. It was stronger than the brews Chaloner usually drank first thing in the morning, and would make him drunk if he had too much of it, which would not be a good way to interview Dillon. He set it aside and ate some of the mouldy bread instead, then left for Newgate Gaol, hoping Thurloe was right when he claimed the governor would not arrive until later.

Newgate was one of London’s most notorious prisons. It was a robust structure that exuded a sense of despair and hopelessness, and even its recent refacing did little to render it less forbidding. It was stone-built with a massive front gate and virtually no windows, which Chaloner supposed was not surprising for a house of confinement. He hated such places intensely, having spent time in several when spying missions had not gone according to plan, and did not find it easy to step up to the door and present Thurloe’s letter to the guard. When the man spent a long time reading it, he considered abandoning the escapade altogether. Arrest would be inevitable if the document was recognised as a forgery, and the prospect of another spell in a dark, dripping underground pit brought him out in a cold sweat.

‘All right,’ the soldier said eventually. ‘We are expecting the governor a bit earlier than usual today, so with luck, you will see him before you leave. I will tell him you are here.’

It was too late for second thoughts, and Chaloner had no choice but to follow him through a series of dank, echoing corridors that led deep inside the maze of cells. A rank stench enveloped him. It was of sewage, old bedding, inedible food, and unwashed bodies. He put his sleeve across his face, thinking that even the decaying reek in the Anatomical Theatre was preferable to a prison’s odour.

Newgate was a noisy place, too. People shouted and moaned as he passed, women as well as men. They clattered chains against the walls, and there always seemed to be a door slamming. A few prisoners had pewter cups or plates, and they clanged them against the bars of their windows – if they were lucky enough to occupy a chamber with real light. Others were crammed into dismal dungeons, their feet squelching in rotten straw as they paced back and forth.

‘The governor is stopping off at Smithfield Market for a bucket of bull’s blood on his way in,’ said Chaloner’s guide conversationally as they went. ‘His wife makes these puddings, see. I am sure he will not be long, though, and he likes it when friends come to see him.’

‘Oh,’ said Chaloner weakly, feeling his trepidation mount.

The guide escorted him to an ‘interviewing room’ and told him to wait. It was a nasty chamber, with a dirty lamp hanging from the ceiling and no furniture but a table and two chairs. The floor had been swept, but there was an ominous stain on one of the flagstones. Chaloner sat and rested his head in his hands, wondering whether he would be able to learn what he needed from Dillon and escape before the governor exposed him as an impostor.

‘Now there is a pose visitors should be encouraged to avoid,’ came a mocking voice from the doorway. Chaloner leapt to his feet, supposing the governor had arrived sooner than expected. ‘It is bad for the morale of the inmates.’

‘This is Mr Dillon, sir,’ said the guide, bowing as he backed out of the room. Chaloner shuddered when he heard a key turn in the door on the other side.

‘Why the gloom?’ asked Dillon. ‘I am supposed to be the one in despair – you are free.’

Chaloner only hoped he would remain so. Dillon wore a large hat that shielded the upper half of his face, although it was more affectation than disguise. He was extraordinarily well dressed, and was wiping greasy fingers on a clean piece of linen – Chaloner’s arrival had evidently interrupted his morning meal. He looked around the cell in distaste, flicking the chair with his cloth before deigning to lower his elegantly clad rump on to it. Dillon, it seemed, was no ordinary prisoner, but one who was afforded a considerable degree of comfort.

Meanwhile, Chaloner tried to push from his mind the fact that it had been Dillon’s refusal to kill an enemy that had brought about his old colleague Manning’s death, and he half wished Thurloe had not told him. It was difficult to sit in the same room as a man whose actions had resulted in the execution of a friend. Dillon removed his hat, revealing his face for the first time.

‘You!’ Chaloner exclaimed in astonishment.

Dillon raised his eyebrows, and spoke in the same laconic drawl Chaloner remembered from Ireland. ‘I might be forgiven for saying the same. What are you doing here, Garsfield? The guard said you are a friend of the governor, but I doubt you are anything of the kind.’

‘I did not know your name was Dillon,’ said Chaloner. ‘I thought it was O’Brien, and that you were one of the Dublin rebels who escaped when we rounded up the culprits.’

Dillon glanced towards the door and lowered his voice. ‘Not everything is as it seems. People called you Thomas Garsfield in Ireland, but I suspect you are actually Tom Heyden, Thurloe’s man. He said he might send you to see me if he could not come himself. However, from our brief acquaintance in Dublin, I was under the impression that you worked for the Earl of Clarendon.’

‘Not everything is as it seems,’ repeated Chaloner. ‘How do you come to be in this mess?’

‘I am accused of murdering a merchant called Webb, but I assure you I did not. The charge is a ruse, to be rid of me.’

‘Because you were involved in the Castle Plot?’

‘Very possibly, since one of my companions from that particular incident – Richard Fanning – was sentenced with me. I do not know Sarsfeild, though. However, I suppose he might have played a role unknown to me. It was a large revolt, involving hundreds of people, after all.’

‘What about the others? I understand nine of you were accused.’

‘Nine! As if it would take nine men to dispatch one. What nonsense!’

Chaloner struggled not to jump in alarm when there was a sudden thump on the door. The dagger slipped into his hand, and he wondered whether it would be better to fight his way out or bluff when the governor arrived. But it was only the guide sweeping the floor outside.

‘Do you know the others?’ he pressed, keen to ask his questions and leave. ‘Other than Fanning?’

Dillon shot him an unreadable smile. ‘I really cannot recall. Prison has a numbing effect on a man’s mind, and I do not blame Fanning for taking matters into his own hands.’

‘What do you mean?’

Dillon leaned close to Chaloner and lowered his voice again. ‘He will not be in Newgate this time tomorrow, because his friends are going to pull a trick with poisoned wine. He says such a rescue is safer than waiting for our master to help us, although I disagree.’

‘How do you know what Fanning intends?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Are you in adjoining cells?’

‘Lord, no!’ exclaimed Dillon with a fastidious shudder. ‘I am a man of means, and do not fester in the kind of pit Fanning can afford. My guards are kind enough to let us exchange missives – for a price – so I am aware of his plans. I told him he is making a mistake: he should wait for our patron to act.’ He touched his coat absently, and Chaloner saw a bundle of papers in an inner pocket, at least one of them much fingered.

‘Does your master write to you in here?’ he asked, looking at it.

Dillon’s fingers dropped away from the letters, a movement that looked furtive. ‘No. He will not let me down, though, not a man of his eminence. He told me I would come to no harm, and I believe him.’

‘Thurloe says you have an aversion to killing,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject abruptly.

‘I am a Quaker.’ Dillon’s expression was unreadable again. ‘Did you know Manning? Is that why you are hostile now you know my real identity? His death was not my fault, you know; I had already abandoned Thurloe to work for the Royalists when he ordered me to eliminate that double-agent. But I could hardly kill one of my new colleagues, could I?’

‘You have a curious history,’ said Chaloner, declining to comment. ‘First, you work for Thurloe, then you become a Royalist, and now you travel to Ireland to ferment revolt. I saw you with Thomas Scot before he surrendered himself. You were lucky you were not taken with the men he betrayed.’

‘That was not luck.’ Dillon shot him a nasty grin. ‘You are not the only one capable of infiltrating a hopelessly amateur rebellion by pretending to be part of it.’

Chaloner was not sure whether to believe him. He stood and began to pace, aiming to put himself behind Dillon and grab the papers from his pocket. ‘Who sent you there?’

Dillon looked smug. ‘I am not at liberty to say, although not everyone wanted the revolt to fail, just as not everyone wanted it to succeed. The politics of our time are very complex.’

‘They are when you become involved,’ muttered Chaloner. He saw he would have no straight answers about the Castle Plot, so moved back to the murder of Webb. ‘Two of the eight accused with you were Fanning and Sarsfeild–’

‘Both here, in Newgate,’ interjected Dillon. ‘Meanwhile, four had the King’s pardon and two have disappeared completely – all of which is very revealing.’

‘Not to me. Perhaps you would care to explain.’

Dillon sighed. ‘The anonymous letter that listed us was a flagrant piece of spite – some cowardly rat attempting to avenge himself on all his enemies in one fell swoop. However, he picked on men who have powerful friends. Four were influential enough to be released the moment their names were known – Willys, Clarke, Fitz-Gerrard and Burne.’

‘Burne?’ echoed Chaloner, startled. He certainly knew that alias.

‘Gregory Burne, more usually known as Adrian May. It is no secret that he is Williamson’s spy and proud of it. A dangerous devil, with all his pride and arrogance. Have you met him?’ Dillon did not wait for an answer. ‘I doubt he had anything to do with Webb’s death, because he is too slow and stupid for stealthy murder. The two who vanished were Fitz-Simons and Terrell. I know you have come across Fitz-Simons, because Thurloe told me.’

Chaloner kept his face impassive, but his stomach churned. It was not the mention of Fitz-Simons that unsettled him, but that of Terrell: his friend William Scot.

There was another thump on the door, and his time Chaloner failed to disguise his agitation. Dillon give his lopsided grin, amused by his visitor’s growing unease. Chaloner struggled to pull himself together, resenting the notion that he was a source of entertainment to the leering man opposite. He rubbed his head as he paced back and forth, trying to make some sense of the gloating revelations.

First, there was Terrell. Had Scot’s name been included in the letter because someone did not like him, as Dillon believed? All spies had enemies – sometimes very dangerous ones – so it was not impossible that Scot had incurred someone’s wrath. And recently, he had been crucial in undermining the Irish rebellion – it might well have succeeded, had Scot not come up with the idea of using his brother to yield vital information. Or was it not Scot’s alias that was included in the letter, but the ‘dishonest fishmonger’ of the same name, whom both Scot himself and Clarendon had mentioned?

Secondly, there was ‘Burne’. May had also been in Ireland, and was the kind of man to accrue enemies – and not only from spying. As Dillon had said, May was dangerous and arrogant, and Chaloner was not the only one who disliked him.

Thirdly, there was Willys. A man called Willys had tried to burgle the Earl’s offices with Johnson. Of course, it was a common name, and Chaloner knew coincidences were not impossible.

And finally, there was Fitz-Simons, who had disguised himself as a vagrant in a desperate attempt to talk to Williamson. Did that mean he was Williamson’s spy, too? His last words had been about three other men accused of killing Webb – Terrell, Burne and Dillon – so he clearly knew something about the case. Chaloner frowned as he considered the shooting. He had assumed May’s shot was fatal, but perhaps he was wrong, and Fitz-Simons was not dead at all – that the ‘death’ had been a ruse to allow him to disappear for ever. It would explain why May had opened fire unnecessarily – he had been following orders to help the man. And the body in St Olave’s charnel house was certainly not the same person Chaloner had seen killed. There had been plenty of blood and a ‘hole’ in Fitz-Simons, but these could be fabricated with paints, and Chaloner had not bothered to feel for a pulse. Furthermore, May had almost immediately covered the ‘beggar’s’ head with a bag, thus preventing anyone from seeing his face.

Dillon was trying, unsuccessfully, to read his thoughts. ‘Fitz-Simons was shot at Westminster last Friday. Thurloe told me you were with him, and that he had asked you to make sure I was safe.’

Chaloner nodded. ‘You and Fitz-Simons were friends. You visited him at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, where you studied plans of Dublin Castle together. And the two of you boarded a ship for Ireland in February.’

Dillon’s smile was condescending. ‘You have been busy! We were not friends, though – we just worked together. Perhaps he killed Webb, and left me to take the blame.’

But Fitz-Simons had not seemed sufficiently competent for murder – and he had obviously felt some affection towards his colleague, even if it was not reciprocated, because he had insisted twice that Dillon should be saved. ‘You say you had nothing to do with Webb’s stabbing?’

‘The murder weapon was found in my house, but it was not mine. I had never seen it before.’

‘Who hates you enough to want you hanged?’

‘Presumably, the man who really did kill Webb.’

Chaloner stifled his impatience. It was difficult enough to be civil to the man who had been responsible for what had happened to Manning, and Dillon’s half-answers were not helping. ‘And who might that be?’

‘I have no idea.’ Dillon leaned back in his chair. ‘I see you are eager to apprehend the villain on my behalf, but you need not trouble yourself. My master will do all that is necessary.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Thurloe?’

Dillon’s expression was disdainful. ‘I have far more influential patrons than a deposed Secretary of State, but please do not press me on this particular question. I shall not reveal his identity, and you will be wasting your time if you ask.’

Chaloner supposed he referred to Williamson, and wondered whether his confidence was justified. Then he thought about Fitz-Simons’s ‘death’, and supposed the same powers might swing into action to secure Dillon’s release. He jumped violently as a door slammed nearby. There were voices in the corridor and he braced himself for the governor. Then they faded away, and all was quiet again. But time was passing, and Chaloner was tiring of Dillon. He made a sudden lunge, and had the papers out of the man’s pocket before Dillon realised what was happening. Dillon was furious, and tried to snatch them back, but Chaloner ducked away from him.

He found himself holding a bundle of notes, all in cipher, which he would be able to decode given time, but that certainly made no sense to him as they were. And there was an older, soiled letter, but Dillon ripped it from his hands before he could open it.

‘How dare you!’

‘You are a fool to keep Fanning’s messages,’ said Chaloner, making a wild guess at what the notes contained. He relinquished them with some disgust when Dillon did not contradict him. ‘That could see his escape plans exposed and his accomplices hanged with him.’

‘That is hardly my problem,’ snarled Dillon. He brandished the missives. ‘When I am out, I shall show these to our master, to prove who trusted him and who did not. I shall be rewarded for my faith, while Fanning can find himself another employer.’

‘Have you told anyone else what Fanning intends to do?’

‘Only you, so we shall know who to blame, if he is caught.’ Dillon was silent for a moment, then spoke in a whisper. ‘I do not care who murdered Webb, but I should like to know who sent Bristol that letter. How are your powers of investigation?’

‘They depend on honest answers. Do you have any suspicions to share?’

‘Not really – and I have thought of little else since I have been in here.’

‘Then perhaps the best way to expose him is by finding out who really did kill Webb. Can you tell me anything about his death?’

‘I am a member of the Guinea Company, although I was not at the feast that fateful night – I was out drinking with a friend. However, I knew Webb, and I can tell you that almost everyone at African House detested the fellow. He regularly argued with Surgeon Wiseman about slavery. He poached Temple’s customers from under his nose. He told Sir Alan Brodrick that his chamber music belonged in a tavern.’

‘Webb was not cultured, then? Brodrick’s playing is always excellent.’

‘Webb was a lout. Meanwhile, Bristol owed him money, and he accused Johan Behn of making a pass at his wife – which you will know is ludicrous, if you have ever met Silence. And surgeons Johnson and Lisle were supposed to perform a Private Anatomy for him, but were unable to comply because the theatre roof was leaking; Webb threatened to sue them for false promises.’

‘He certainly has one now,’ muttered Chaloner, ‘although I doubt it is quite what he had in mind.’

Dillon ignored him. ‘He called Lady Castlemaine a whore to her face. Clarendon despises Webb’s wife for her crass comments at Henry Lawes’s funeral. Even spies found Webb abhorrent, and they tend to be more tolerant than most, because they meet so many low people.’

‘Which spies?’

Dillon was enjoying himself. ‘Let me see. Adrian May quarrelled with him over an unpaid bet. Eaffrey Johnson was pawed by him. John Thurloe took against him for backing the use of slaves. In fact, you will be hard-pressed to find a Londoner with no motive to kill him.’

The list went on, naming people Chaloner did not know, and eventually, he stood to leave. He was wasting time on a man he disliked and distrusted. If Dillon believed rescue was going to come from another quarter, then so be it. He only hoped, for Dillon’s sake, that his faith was not misplaced.

‘I am sure we shall come across each other once I am free,’ said Dillon, stretching languorously. ‘Perhaps I shall buy you an ale, and we shall drink to Manning’s memory.’

‘Has the governor arrived yet?’ Chaloner asked, as he and the guide walked along an unlit hall with glistening green walls and a floor that was soft with decomposing straw and maggot-infested sewage.

The guide shook his head and spoke in a whisper. ‘Not yet. For a shilling, I will let you see Fanning, too, but you will have to make it quick. I got other duties today.’

Against his better judgement, which screamed at him to leave Newgate before he was caught, Chaloner handed over the coin and was conducted through a series of vault-like chambers set deep in the bowels of the earth, to emerge in a small, filthy yard. Two women were emptying slops into a drain, although their aim was careless and the ground was splattered with excrement. Another was skinning something that appeared to be a donkey. Flies buzzed, and Chaloner flapped them away from his face as his guide led him down a flight of steps to a cellar that stank so badly it made his eyes water.

‘Fanning,’ said the guide, gesturing to one of several corpses that lay in an untidy line on the sticky floor. ‘He died of gaol-fever last night.’

Chaloner was tempted to ask for his shilling back. Looking at a body was not how he had interpreted the invitation to ‘see’ Fanning, but that would take time, and he had lingered too long already. He stepped forward to inspect Fanning’s face, and recognised it: he had been one of the sullen, slovenly fellows who had accompanied Dillon to meetings and secret assignations in Ireland, and was identifiable not only by his very black hair, but by a purple birth-stain on his left hand.

‘Do not touch him,’ warned the guard. ‘Not unless you want to catch a sickness.’

But Chaloner knew perfectly well that strangling was not contagious, and it was no fever that had killed the man. He crouched down to examine the lines around the throat more closely, wondering who was sufficiently audacious to kill a man in prison. Was it one of Fanning’s friends, who had decided it was easier to dispatch him than supply guards with doctored wine? Was it the mysterious master, who objected to Fanning commissioning his own rescue? Or perhaps it was Dillon, because he did not want Fanning’s escape to anger their patron into washing his hands of both of them.

‘When was he found?’ he asked, as the guide escorted him out of the vile yard.

‘At dawn, when we took him his breakfast. He was not as wealthy as Mr Dillon, so we only looked in on him twice a day – Mr Dillon can have us visit him every time he rings his little bell. Poor Fanning. Gaol-fever gets a lot of them in here.’

‘Can you explain how he came by those marks on his neck?’

‘It happens when the ague stops their breath,’ said the guide in a way that suggested he believed it. ‘The governor will be sorry to lose him early – the public hate it when hangings are cancelled.’

‘I do not suppose Fanning confided in you, did he?’ asked Chaloner, clutching at straws. ‘Told you about the crime he was supposed to have committed?’

‘He never said nothing,’ said the guide, opening a door that led to the main entranceway. Chaloner heaved a sigh of relief. Safety and freedom were almost within his grasp. ‘He was a sour, angry cove, with a foul tongue. He was a ship’s chandler, though, so no common villain.’

‘Can I see Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner, while every fibre of his being urged him to walk out of the gate and never return. ‘He was convicted of the same crime as the other two.’

The guide looked annoyed. ‘I wish you could, because it would cost you another shilling, but he was transferred to Ludgate as soon as we heard Fanning was dead. Hah! Here is the governor at last. Come with me, so I can tell him you are here. He likes it when friends visit.’

The heavy front door had been opened to admit a fat gentleman in a tight red coat. Chaloner’s guide started to move towards him with a greasy smile, but another guard got there first and started to talk about a consignment of tallow. A porter leaned hard on the massive gate, to begin the process of closing it. Chaloner took a step towards it, then broke into a run. His guide yelled, and Chaloner turned sideways to shoot through the gap, stumbling when his shirt caught on the rough wood. He tore it free. The door started to open again, and Chaloner saw guards massing behind, ready to pour out. He raced towards the nearby market, where he was soon lost among the chaotic jumble of stalls.