Blood on the Strand

Chapter 6

The stench of prison clung to Chaloner as he left Newgate market. He was due to meet Leybourn at a nearby coffee house in an hour – where they would fortify themselves before going to visit Silence Webb – and he considered going home to change first. Temperance’s house was closer, though, and he thought a spell in the yeasty warmth of her kitchen might dispel some of the reek that hung about him. He hesitated when he recalled she had gone from Puritan maid to brothel-master in the course of the last three months, but he did not have many friends in London, and was reluctant to lose one because he disapproved of her new occupation. He tapped on her door, and was conducted to the kitchen by a woman whose hair was a mass of purple ringlets. Temperance was sitting at the table, poring over a ledger. She was pleased to see him, but immediately wrinkled her nose.

‘That bad?’ he asked apologetically.

She nodded. ‘What have you done to your arm? Come and sit by the fire while you tell me, and Maude will make us some of her famous coffee.’

Chaloner rarely discussed his work with ‘civilians’. Leybourn was different, because he undertook the occasional mission for Thurloe, but Temperance was another matter entirely. He deflected her questions with a combination of abbreviated truths and subject changes, as he had done with acquaintances all his adult life. Temperance was not so easily misled, however, and refused to accept the explanation that he had simply fallen over.

‘Colonel Holles claimed you were viciously attacked at the Court ball.’

Chaloner recalled Holles mentioning Temperance’s establishment, and saw he would have to be careful, if the soldier was the kind of fellow to gossip. ‘He is wrong – it was just an accident.’

Temperance nodded in a way that said she did not believe him. ‘And Will Leybourn told me you are investigating the vagrant May shot. He said there are connections between that death, the murder of Webb and the Castle Plot, and asked me to listen for any idle chatter among my guests.’

Chaloner was startled and angry. ‘Then he should not have done. It may not be safe.’

‘There is no danger in listening, then relaying snippets to trusted friends,’ objected Temperance. She grinned suddenly. ‘I will be like the Bishop of London’s new parrot. He is teaching it prayers, and it is rewarded with a nut each time it masters a new one. How will you reward me?’

She was underestimating the risk, and Chaloner did not care what the Bishop of London did with his bird. ‘Please do not do this, Temperance. I have lost too many friends to spying already.’

Temperance’s smile was mischievous. ‘Perhaps you have, but did they enjoy the favour of powerful courtiers like Bristol and Lady Castlemaine? I provide a unique service, and no one will risk the Court’s anger by meddling with me. You worry too much.’

‘Here you are,’ said Maude, placing a dish of dark sludge in front of him. It looked as if it might relieve him of teeth if he attempted to swallow any. ‘It has extra sugar, on account of your bad arm.’

‘I have forsworn sugar,’ he said, relieved to have an excuse, ‘because of the slave trade.’

‘Have you?’ asked Maude, puzzled. ‘I am not sure my coffee is drinkable without it.’

Chaloner doubted it was drinkable with. ‘Pity.’

‘Mr Terrell, the Irish scholar, was here last night, asking for you,’ said Maude, downing the brew herself and smacking her lips to show he was missing something good.

‘Adrian May and Johan Behn were with him,’ added Temperance disapprovingly. ‘I do not think much of May at all. He leers at my girls and he has an ugly temper. I do not like Behn, either.’

‘I do,’ said Maude. Her expression became dreamy and, to his utter astonishment, Chaloner saw she was smitten with the bulky Brandenburger. She was old enough to be his mother, so it was not an attraction he would have anticipated. ‘I heard that Eaffrey Johnson wants to marry him, but if she does not make an honest man of him soon, then I shall do it for her. Johan will make a perfect husband for any red-blooded woman – rich, handsome, charming and clever.’

‘Behn?’ asked Chaloner in disbelief, wondering if they were talking about the same fellow. The familiar use of the merchant’s first name did not escape his notice, either, and he had the sudden suspicion that Maude might know Behn rather better than was decent for a man with an adoring fiancée.

‘He may look pretty, but he has the feel of a bully about him,’ said Temperance, cutting across Maude’s indignant reply. ‘And there is something about him I do not trust. If I were Eaffrey, I would look elsewhere for my perfect husband.’

Maude sniffed huffily. ‘You do not know what you are talking about, and if you cannot see Johan’s charms, then there must be something wrong with you. And he is not a bully, either – at least, not with ladies.’

‘He bullies men, then?’ pounced Chaloner. ‘Who, exactly?’

Maude poured herself more coffee. ‘He quarrelled with Webb once or twice – I heard some of the Guinea Company men talking about it. Webb had accused Johan of seducing his wife, you see, although obviously a comely fellow like Johan would never set his sights on a woman like Silence.’ She fluffed up her hair in a way that suggested she considered herself a far better catch.

‘Do not forget what else the Guinea Company men told you, Maude,’ said Temperance coolly. She disapproved of her friend’s hankering for the merchant. ‘They also said Behn left the most recent dinner early and in a foul temper because of a quarrel with Webb. And it was after that that Webb was murdered.’

‘You said Terrell was asking for me,’ said Chaloner, after several minutes of listening to Maude’s spirited defence of the man who had captured her fancy. There was no point in arguing with her – her case was based on supposition and the kind of wishful thinking that was immune to reason – so neither he nor Temperance tried. ‘Did he say why?’

‘He had been waiting at your house all evening, and was worried when you did not return,’ explained Temperance. ‘He said he had something urgent to tell you and he was afraid Wiseman’s surgery might have had some adverse effects. I told him you were adept at looking after yourself, but my assurances did nothing to ease his concern.’

Maude finished her coffee, and to show there were no hard feelings about their difference of opinion regarding Behn, said, ‘I heard Temple hatching a plot against your earl, Thomas. Would you like me to tell you about it?’

‘No,’ replied Chaloner gently. ‘Sometimes, information is leaked to a particular person to test whether he or she can be trusted. You may put yourself in danger if you talk to the wrong people.’

‘No one will trace this to me, because I happened to be under a bed at the time. Temple was telling Bristol that the best way to attack Clarendon was to damage his reputation for “moral rectitude”.’

‘I see,’ said Chaloner, more interested in why the bulky matron should have been under a bed containing Temple and Bristol than in learning about the toothless politician’s latest hare-brained scheme. Unfortunately for his burning curiosity, it was hardly something he felt he could ask.

‘Temple has hired an actress called Rosa Lodge,’ elaborated Maude. ‘And the plan is for her to accuse him of rape. Petticoats will be left in Clarendon’s chamber to support her allegation.’

‘That is ridiculous! He is not that kind of man, and no one will believe this Rosa Lodge.’

‘That is not the point,’ said Maude. ‘An accusation does not have to be true for it to cause trouble.’

Chaloner regarded her unhappily, aware that she was right. Temple would fan the flames of rumour and suspicion, and the Earl would be deemed guilty by default.

‘That bandage makes you very visible and you once told me a spy should conceal distinguishing features,’ said Temperance, when he made no reply. She stood, and fetched a handsome purple coat from a cupboard in the hall. ‘This will hide it far better, because it has longer sleeves.’

‘The man who owned it has gone to Rome,’ added Maude, guessing the reason for his reluctance to accept it. ‘So do not worry about it being recognised. Besides, you cannot go about your business smelling like that – you will have half the dogs in London following you. Take your clothes off, and I will air them in the garden.’

‘I am not undressing in front of you,’ objected Chaloner, the spectre of Temperance’s prim mother looming large in his mind.

‘You think this is a brothel, and that we intend to seduce you,’ said Maude, eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I assure you it is not. It is a gentleman’s club.’

‘I cannot imagine what your parents would think, Temperance,’ said Chaloner. This was not true – he could imagine exactly what the prudish Puritans would have said about their only daughter’s enterprise, and it would not have been pleasant.

Temperance’s grimace told him she knew, too. ‘I have never criticised the life you lead, Thomas, and you should return the courtesy. At least I do not visit you stinking of corpses.’

Dressed in the purple coat, a clean shirt and breeches that smelled sweetly of lavender, Chaloner felt more human. He walked along The Strand to Covent Garden, where his favourite coffee house was located. Will’s was a comfortable, manly place, full of tobacco smoke and the sharp aroma of roasting beans. Coffee houses were the exclusive domain of men, where they went to discuss politics, religion, literature, the increasing trouble with Holland, and any other contentious subject they felt like airing. The government wanted to suppress them before they became centres of sedition, but Spymaster Williamson had argued that it was better to leave them as they were, so he could plant informers to listen to what was being said and who said it. He even operated one or two shops of his own, and hired to run them men with a talent for encouraging dangerous talk.

That day, Will’s was quiet, because it was past the time when men gathered for their midday meals. After Newgate, Chaloner did not feel much like eating, but Leybourn had brought a tray of pastries with him, and devoured the lot while talking non-stop about the Arctic travels of Martin Frobisher.

‘You were supposed to be reading about Guinea,’ said Chaloner, when he managed to interject a comment into the continuous stream of information. ‘To help us solve Webb’s murder.’

Leybourn waved a dismissive hand. ‘Guinea is boring, but the search for a Northwest Passage is an adventure fit to stir the heart of any Englishman. Are you unwell? You are very quiet.’

‘I wish you had not recruited Temperance and Maude to eavesdrop on their customers. You should know better.’

Leybourn grimaced. ‘I did not “recruit” anyone. I asked, casually, whether they had heard anything about Webb, the Castle Plot or what Bristol plans to do to your earl, and they leapt at the chance to help us. You seem angry. Why? Surely you cultivated sources like these in the past.’

‘Not among my friends.’

Leybourn regarded him coolly. ‘You regularly ask me for information. Am I not a friend, then?’

‘That is different. You undertake assignments for Thurloe all the time.’

‘Not all the time,’ said Leybourn huffily. ‘In fact, I am only ever obliged to do it when you appear and start meddling in perilous situations. However, if you are afraid for Temperance, I suppose I can ask her to desist, although it will not be easy. She was looking forward to the challenge.’

Chaloner suspected he was right, and that she would eavesdrop with or without their blessing. He said nothing, and watched Leybourn reduce a pie to a pile of crumbs and discarded peas – Leybourn did not like peas and always picked them out. It was an aversion he shared with Scot, and Chaloner found himself thinking about the letter that had seen Dillon sentenced to death. Was Scot’s current alias one of the nine names on the list? If so, then why had he not mentioned it when they had discussed Webb’s murder at the Court ball on Saturday? Or did the letter refer to the disreputable fishmonger of the same name? What had Scot wanted with him the previous night, and why had he been with May and Behn? Chaloner found himself becoming uneasy with all the questions that rattled around in his mind, and began to wish he was back in Ireland, where everything had been so much more simple.

Leybourn made an effort to overcome his sulks and forced a smile. ‘So, you visited Temperance’s bawdy house again, did you?’

‘It is a gentleman’s club, apparently. I hope it does not land her in trouble. People are fickle, and what is popular today might be the target of hatred tomorrow. I had no idea she would reveal a hitherto unknown talent for brothel-keeping. She does not seem the type.’

‘You know enough madams to judge, do you? Come on, Tom – do not be Puritan about this. We had more than enough of that under Cromwell, and I, for one, like a bordello.’

‘You do?’ asked Chaloner, startled. He had not thought the surveyor a bordello kind of man.

‘I have no wife,’ said Leybourn, a little soulfully. ‘But I would like to be married, and it is not easy to meet ladies in the bookselling business. Bordellos offer a unique opportunity to enjoy female company, and I am ever hopeful of finding the perfect spouse in one.’

‘You may find yourself looking a long time,’ warned Chaloner.

‘I hope not,’ said Leybourn wistfully. ‘Have you finished the coffee? We had better tackle Silence Webb before our courage fails. I confess I am not looking forward to this. I know Thurloe told me to explore worthy widows with a view to marriage, but I would rather remain single than take Silence.’

As they walked to The Strand, where the grandly named ‘Webb Hall’ was located, Chaloner told Leybourn what Temperance and Maude had overheard, and summarised his interview with Dillon. Leybourn stopped him once or twice, to make the point that being given such sensitive information might place him in danger, just as it might Temperance, but he had a naturally curious mind, and his pique was soon forgotten as he put his own questions and observations.

‘I have no idea whether anything Dillon said was true,’ concluded Chaloner eventually. ‘The only thing I know for certain is that he was part of the Castle Plot, because I saw him there – he said his name was O’Brien. And I know he expects rescue. Six of the nine accused are already free.’

‘Yes, but Fitz-Simons’s “disappearance” means he was shot.’

‘But perhaps not fatally – it was not his body in the charnel house, remember?’

‘That means nothing. I know it is an odd coincidence that a beggarly corpse called Fitz-Simons appears just as Surgeon Fitz-Simons is killed, but it may be just that – coincidence. Besides, May arranged for Surgeon Fitz-Simons’s body to be buried in St Martin’s Church, if you recall.’

Chaloner inclined his head. ‘True. Perhaps Beggar Fitz-Simons is irrelevant. However, the way Johnson opened the door to the charnel house was furtive, to say the least.’

Leybourn shrugged. ‘I imagine the anatomising of corpses is a clandestine sort of business, so you probably should not read too much into the actions of a man who does it for a living. You say Fitz-Simons whispered two other names before he “died” – Terrell and Burne. Perhaps you should ask Scot and May why they think their aliases should have been singled out for mention.’

‘If Scot is that particular Terrell – there is a fishmonger of the same name, do not forget.’ Chaloner saw Leybourn look doubtful. ‘Scot is a good man, Will. He has saved me from trouble more times than I can remember, and there are few men I trust more. I can quite honestly say that I would not be alive today if it were not for him.’

Leybourn rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was not suggesting there is anything untoward about Scot. However, he is a spy, and so are the others Fitz-Simons mentioned – Dillon and May. It seems unlikely that Fitz-Simons would cite two spies and a fishmonger. But regardless, the whole case is becoming ever more curious. Dillon is probably right when he said whoever wrote Bristol that letter may just have listed men who had crossed him in some way.’

Chaloner watched the chaos surrounding an overturned fruit barrow near an ornately turreted Tudor mansion called Bedford House. Apples bounced everywhere, and were eagerly pounced on by children, beggars, horses and even a pig, despite the fact that they were wizened and soft from having been stored too long. The barrow-boy screeched his dismay and wielded a stick, but he might have well as railed against the tide, because his entire stock had been spirited away in a matter of moments.

‘I thought from the start that it was odd nine men should be needed to kill one,’ said Chaloner. ‘And if they were named from malice, then it means Dillon is wrongly convicted. I hope he is right to put his trust in his patron, though, given what has happened to Fanning.’

‘Will you visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate? He might tell you this great man’s name.’

Chaloner was not enthused by the prospect. ‘I hate prisons. Will you go instead? The guards move about between gaols and I am afraid my escape from Newgate attracted too much attention.’

‘I would rather not,’ said Leybourn. ‘I dislike the smell. Do you think Sarsfeild asked to be transferred when he heard Fanning was murdered?’

‘He was transferred because the prison authorities want to make sure he does not die before his execution,’ said Chaloner, surprised by the refusal. He had never asked Leybourn for a favour before, and wondered whether their friendship was as solid as he thought. ‘Dillon is in decent lodgings, but Fanning was not, and probably neither was Sarsfeild. The public dislike being cheated of their due, and the governor needs the last two alive.’

‘Sometimes I am ashamed to be a Londoner,’ said Leybourn. He stopped just past the New Exchange, poking the ground with his foot. ‘Webb died here. His body was found by tradesmen the following day – honest ones, or his corpse would have been stripped.’

Chaloner looked around him. The New Exchange – no longer so new, given that it was more than fifty years old – boasted a splendid stone façade in the style of a Gothic cathedral, and inside were two tiers of galleries containing exclusive little shops and stalls. Goods of all descriptions could be bought, although only by the very rich, and it was the place to be seen by gentlemen and ladies of fashion. A short distance to the west was Clarendon’s city residence, Worcester House. Tucked between it and the New Exchange was a smaller building.

‘This is Webb’s home?’ asked Chaloner, peering through the iron gates. The grounds contained far too many pieces of sculpture for the available space; they rubbed shoulders with fountains and gazebos, as if their owner could not decide what he wanted, so had purchased everything available.

Leybourn nodded. ‘Tasteful, is it not?’

Webb Hall had once boasted perfect classical proportions and some of the best Tuscan cornices on The Strand. Unfortunately, someone with more money than taste had lavished entirely the wrong kind of attention on the building, changing its windows, adding chimneys that spoiled its symmetry, and refacing it with cheap bricks. The door had been enlarged and a garish porch tacked on to the outside, complete with window hangings of scarlet lace.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Chaloner, regarding it askance.

‘Oh, dear, indeed,’ agreed Leybourn, walking up the path and knocking at the door. ‘Now this looks like a brothel. I am surprised Temperance is not losing customers to it.’

‘Perhaps she is,’ said Chaloner, glimpsing a furtive movement at the side of the house. It was a man, hurrying to be away from them. ‘Is that Johan Behn?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Leybourn. ‘Or he would not be climbing over the wall like a felon.’

The door was opened by a servant who wore a livery of green and orange stripes. He conducted them along a hallway that glittered with gold leaf and opened the door to a drawing room that faced the river. A massive Turkish carpet covered the floor, anchored down by four Grecian urns. Dark Dutch landscapes shared the walls with the paler hues of the Venetian schools, and small tables had been placed in inconvenient places to display unique works of art. Through the window, Chaloner saw a bulky figure with fair hair aiming for the private jetty that would allow him to take a boat.

‘There is a word for this,’ whispered Leybourn in Chaloner’s ear, too overwhelmed by the interior décor to consider looking outside.

‘Vulgar?’

‘No,’ murmured Leybourn. ‘That is the word for her.’

A large lady reclined on an exquisite French-made couch, eating sugared almonds. She wore a loose black gown, to indicate she was in mourning, and her hair was in elegant disarray. She also sported at least a dozen ‘face patches’, which Chaloner found disconcerting, because it reminded him of a case of ‘black pox’ he had once seen in the Dutch Antilles. He stepped forward to bow, noting that Leybourn remained by the door, as if anticipating that a quick escape might be required.

‘Forgive the intrusion, ma’am. My name is Thomas Heyden. The Lord Chancellor asked me to convey his personal condolences for your loss.’

Silence’s small eyes gleamed with pleasure. ‘That is nice – he lives next door, you know.’

She adjusted her ample bosom, winked at Chaloner and patted the seat beside her, wanting him to sit closer than was seemly. He pretended not to notice and took a chair in the window.

Silence sighed irritably. ‘Do not perch where I cannot see you. I insist you come over here – but bring me a glass of wine before you come. No, not half a measure – fill it, man! You youngsters do not know the meaning of a “glass” of wine. Do you like my necklace? It is made of real emeralds.’

‘It is very pretty,’ said Chaloner, inspecting it politely. When he tried to move away, she grabbed his wrist and hauled him down next to her. From across the room, he heard Leybourn snigger.

‘Good, now we can talk properly,’ she said, resting her hand on his knee. He started to stand, but she gripped his coat in a way that would have made escape undignified. ‘You look familiar. Are you kin to that rascal Thomas Chaloner, the regicide? My Matthew used to clean his ditches in the old days, and he was always very generous with the ale afterwards.’

‘Your husband cleared ditches?’ asked Chaloner, deftly avoiding the question. ‘I thought he was a merchant.’

‘He found a purse of gold in one sewer, and wise investments set him on the road to wealth. Eventually, he was able to buy a ship, and his fortunes blossomed ever after. Poor Matthew. I am devastated by his death. What is Lord Clarendon going to do about it?’

‘The culprits have already been apprehended,’ said Leybourn. ‘And three men sentenced to hang.’

‘Three out of the nine who were named,’ she said with a pout. ‘Four were pardoned and two disappeared, never to be seen again. I believe they did kill Matthew – he was a strong man, and it would have taken nine felons to subdue him – but I also believe they did it on the orders of someone else. And that same someone then stepped forward and got six of them off.’

‘Who?’ asked Chaloner.

She sniffed and ate an almond. ‘Many men were jealous of my husband. Take Sir Richard Temple, for example. He pretended to be our friend, but he bitterly resented Matthew stealing his customers. Perhaps Matthew did poach them, but competition is the nature of mercantile business, is it not?’

Chaloner was thoughtful. Temple had been on Dillon’s list of suspects, too. Was the toothless politician involved in something untoward? ‘Who else?’

‘I do not like to say it, since Lord Clarendon has been kind enough to send me his personal condolences, but his cousin Brodrick took offence at my husband’s dislike of music. Then there is the Earl of Bristol – he owed Matthew money, and no man likes being in debt.’

‘How much money?’ asked Leybourn.

Silence addressed Chaloner. ‘Only common people talk about money. The Bishop of London told me so, when I asked him how much he earns. Suffice to say Bristol owed us a thousand pounds.’

‘Let’s not talk about money, though,’ murmured Leybourn. Chaloner fought the urge to laugh.

‘But Bristol needed more,’ Silence continued. ‘Matthew promised him – well, promised his broker, since an earl does not ask himself – another three hundred, which would have been paid today. Unfortunately for him, the lawyers have frozen Matthew’s accounts until the will is settled. Still, it will all be mine, so I am not worried.’

‘Webb was willing to lend him more?’ asked Chaloner, startled. ‘Even though Bristol already owed him a small fortune?’

‘Bristol’s broker said he was willing to pay a higher rate of interest for a further advance. However, all this was arranged before we were introduced to him at the Guinea Company dinner, and I learned what kind of man he is.’

‘Webb did not actually know Bristol?’ asked Leybourn, confused. ‘Yet he lent–’

‘All loans are arranged through brokers,’ interrupted Silence, still addressing Chaloner. ‘At least, that is how it works with us sophisticated types. Matthew had never met Bristol, and was looking forward to making his acquaintance at that dinner – he wanted to lend him more money, to secure his long-term friendship. But before they could talk, Bristol made a rude remark about my face patches. I was angry, I can tell you! I was going to tell Matthew to do no more business with him, but Matthew was brutally slain before I could speak to him about it.’

‘Are Temple, Brodrick and Bristol your only suspects?’ asked Chaloner encouragingly.

‘No. There is also Surgeon Wiseman. He took against Matthew for supporting the use of slaves in the production of sugar. He could have plunged a rapier into Matthew’s breast. He is a medical man, after all, and would know where to strike – and he does own a sword.’

‘Every gentleman owns a sword,’ said Chaloner.

Silence ran her fingers down his scabbard. ‘I know gentlemen do. Do you know how to use it?’

‘It is for display,’ said Chaloner, not wanting her to demand a demonstration. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Matthew took a dislike to poor Johan Behn, although Johan would never hurt anyone, so he will not be guilty. Then there is that sluttish Lady Castlemaine, who objected to Matthew calling her a whore – despite the fact that she is one. And he quarrelled with others, too, because he spoke the truth. I cannot name them all, because there are so many.’

‘Will you tell us what happened the night your husband died? I understand you went home early.’

‘I was tired of drunken men pawing me with their hot hands.’ Chaloner heard Leybourn snort his disbelief. ‘So I summoned the carriage, and Matthew said he would follow later. We have our own transport, you see, like all people of worth. The driver saw me inside the door, and he said he would go back for Matthew at midnight, when the dinner was due to finish.’

‘The following day, when you realised Matthew was dead, did you ask the driver whether he had done as he had promised?’

‘No. It was obvious he had not, or Matthew would not have been walking. I sent him a note – I wrote it myself – and put it on the table in his quarters to tell him he was dismissed. I have not seen him since, and good riddance. His laziness gave wicked men an opportunity to kill my Matthew.’

‘When was the funeral?’

‘Last Thursday. I do not approve of delays where corpses are concerned – not after smelling Henry Lawes – but three weeks was the quickest we could manage. I wanted it done properly, you see, with invitations issued to all the right people – people of quality.’

‘Did they come?’ asked Leybourn, a little maliciously.

She glared at him. ‘Most had prior engagements – I obviously chose a bad day. Matthew is in St Paul’s Cathedral now, with all those saints and bishops. We bought space in the vault when we first got rich, although we did not expect him to be in it quite so soon.’

They talked a while longer, but it was clear she knew nothing of relevance. She was bitter enough to make Chaloner wonder whether she had written the message to Bristol containing the nine names, but then he realised her list would have been a good deal longer. He left when her hand began to move up his thigh and Leybourn’s amusement became more difficult to control. Before they escaped from the house, he asked a servant where the driver had lived, and was directed to a room above the stable in the yard.

‘You heard what Silence said.’ Leybourn was puzzled by the diversion. ‘He will be long gone – frightened someone will accuse him of deliberately neglecting to fetch Webb so others could kill him.’

Chaloner opened the door and saw Silence’s note, unopened on the table. The room reeked, badly enough to make Leybourn back out with his hand over his mouth. There was a cupboard in the thickness of one wall, used for storage. Chaloner broke the lock, stepping back quickly when something large and heavy toppled towards him.

‘Stabbed,’ he said, kneeling to inspect the corpse. It still wore its orange and green uniform. ‘He has probably been dead since Webb’s murder. Someone wanted Webb to walk home alone, which means his death was no casual robbery, but a planned assassination.’

‘Does this mean Dillon is exonerated?’

‘It does not exonerate anyone – including Silence herself.’

‘She would not kill Webb. He was her husband.’

‘And now she is a very wealthy widow.’

Although Chaloner disliked the notion of asking Scot whether it was his name on the list sent to Bristol – however he phrased the question, it would sound like an accusation, and he did not have so many friends that he could afford to lose them over misunderstandings – he knew he had no choice. He walked to the Chequer, a large coaching inn at Charing Cross, where Scot always stayed when he was in London. But Scot’s room was empty, and the landlord said he had not seen him since noon. Because it might be hours before Scot returned, and he was loath to waste time waiting, Chaloner went to White Hall, to update the Earl on his progress.

The clouds had thinned since the morning’s drizzle, and a glimmering of sunshine raised London’s spirits. Traders yelled brazen lies about their wares, masons sang as they repaired a building that had collapsed during recent heavy rains, horses whinnied, wheels rattled, and everywhere was clamour. A blacksmith was making horseshoes, a knife-sharpener keened blades against his whet-stone, children yelped and screeched over a hoop, and street preachers were out in full force, warning against the dangers of sin. Two men ran an illicit cock-fight in an alley, accompanied by frenzied cheers, barking dogs and the angry screeches of the birds.

As usual, White Hall thronged with clerks, servants, soldiers and courtiers. In addition, labourers had been drafted in to clean the gardens, which were still a mess of litter, trampled flowers and discarded food after the ball two nights before. Further confusion came from the fact that Lady Castlemaine was moving from the west side of the Privy Garden to more sumptuous accommodation on the east, which put her considerably closer to the King. Her possessions – along with innumerable items looted from people too frightened to stop her – were being transferred to her new domain, while she stood in the midst of the chaos and snapped impractical orders. She swore viciously at one servant for putting a bowl in the wrong place, and kicked another for dropping a box of wigs.

‘She is not very patient,’ Chaloner remarked to Holles, who had come to walk with him.

‘Good body, though,’ remarked the colonel, leering appreciatively as they passed. ‘Did you see her in her shift the other day? What a treat for sore eyes! She is even better than the whores at Hercules’s Pillars Alley – and that is saying something. Do you not agree?’

‘Have you heard any rumours about Webb?’ asked Chaloner, changing the subject. Temperance’s girls had made no impression on him one way or the other. He supposed his lack of interest stemmed from the fact that the woman he had hoped would become his wife had died the previous year, and he had not felt much like looking at anyone else since.

‘No, but there have been plenty about your fictional upholsterer. The most common is that he lies at death’s door and that it is Lord Clarendon’s fault.’

Chaloner gazed across the garden as Lady Castlemaine howled abuse at a groom, battering him about the head and shoulders with a fan. The implement was made of thin wood and paper, but she wielded it with sufficient force to draw blood nonetheless. ‘Is her beauty really enough to compel His Majesty to condone that sort of behaviour? It is hardly dignified.’

Holles laughed, drawing the attention of several retainers. Some wore Buckingham’s livery while Chaloner had seen the others serving Bristol at the ball. ‘She is in a good mood today, because she is getting what she wants – the most desirable lodgings in White Hall.’

‘Holles!’ shouted one of Bristol’s men. ‘Who is he, and where are you taking him?’

Chaloner recognised Willys, the thin, yellow-legged fellow who had searched Clarendon’s office. He also recalled that a ‘Willys’ had been on the letter Bristol had been sent. It was a common name, but he wanted to ask the man about it even so – although preferably not when he was surrounded by armed cronies.

‘We are on Lord Clarendon’s business,’ responded Holles tartly. ‘And it is none of yours.’

‘You are not allowed to bring just anyone into White Hall,’ said Willys nastily. ‘There are too many villains around these days. You are lucky May was alert over that beggar business, or you would have been blamed for the King’s murder. His Majesty was under your protection and you failed him.’

‘Piffle,’ said Holles. ‘Go and find someone else to bleat your stupid accusations at. I am busy.’

Willys’s sword started to come out of its scabbard and his companions prepared themselves for a skirmish, but Holles was too experienced a campaigner to be provoked into a fight where he would be so heavily outnumbered. He sneered his disdain at Willys and strode away, leaving the man spluttering in frustrated indignation.

‘Willys is Bristol’s aide,’ said Holles to Chaloner when they were out of earshot. ‘Loyal to his master, but deeply stupid. He has been trying to goad me to do battle with him for days now – he probably thinks it will please Bristol to see Clarendon with one fewer supporter.’

‘He is right. Clarendon will be less safe without you watching out for him.’

Holles cleared his throat. ‘I am sorry I could not protect you from that Brandenburg ape on Saturday. He flew at you like a madman, and you were down before I could draw my pistol. I had no idea such a lumbering brute could move so fast.’

‘Neither had I,’ said Chaloner with a sigh.

Chaloner took a circuitous route to the Lord Chancellor’s chambers, hoping to see Scot on the way, but he was out of luck. He met Brodrick, though, who told him ‘Peter Terrell’ had been invited to speak to the Royal Society on his botanical theories, and that the lecture and meal that followed were likely to take most of the day. He smiled ruefully at the spy.

‘I am afraid Greeting played well last night, especially the Locke, and the Queen professed herself enchanted. She has asked us to perform for the Portuguese ambassador tomorrow, and Greeting has agreed to join us. It is unfortunate, because I prefer your company to his – all he wants is a chance to hobnob with high-ranking courtiers – but it cannot be helped.’

‘It is only temporary,’ said Chaloner, dismayed. ‘The splint will be off on Saturday.’

‘Perhaps so, but Lisle told me these dressings often cause permanent damage. However, you may be lucky. When you are well again, I shall talk to some friends and see if they have any vacancies. Musical consorts are all the rage these days, so it should not be too difficult to find you something … suited to your reduced abilities.’

Chaloner watched him walk away, shocked. He flexed his fingers. Surely, Lisle was wrong? He could not imagine life without his viol – and a trumpet would not be the same at all. Feeling somewhat low in spirits, he accessed Clarendon’s suite via a servant’s corridor, and tapped softly on a door that was concealed behind a statue. The Lord Chancellor opened it cautiously, and Chaloner saw it had been fitted with bolts and a bar since his last visit.

‘I came to tell you what I have learned about the man May shot, sir,’ he said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. The truth was that any investigation paled into insignificance when compared to what the loss of music would mean for his quality of life.

‘What man?’ The Earl seemed agitated, and Chaloner supposed he was not the only one who had been unsettled by bad news that day. ‘Do you mean that beggar? Forget him, and concentrate on Bristol. He is plotting something serious – I can sense it.’

Chaloner recalled what Temperance and Maude had told him. ‘Yes – there is a plan afoot to bring your “moral rectitude” into question. Have you met a woman called Rosa Lodge? She is an actress.’

‘Certainly not! Such persons are invariably ladies of ill repute, and I am a happily married man. I leave that sort of thing to Bristol. And, unfortunately, to the King.’

‘Have you found any petticoats among your belongings? Ones that do not belong to your wife?’

The Earl’s voice dropped to a prudish whisper. ‘There was some feminine apparel – an item of an intimate nature – under my pillow last night. I assumed Holles had put it there, to cheer me after an unhappy session with the King. However, I do not approve of lewdness, so I threw it on the fire.’

‘Temple hired this Rosa Lodge to accuse you of immoral acts. If any ladies request private interviews, you should refuse them.’

‘That will not be a problem. I have turned away three today already – I sent them to Colonel Holles. He has a kind heart, and will help them if he can.’

Chaloner was sure he would. ‘Some of these actresses are very good, though. And Temple seems very determined.’

‘So am I, Heyden – good and determined.’

Dusk had fallen by the time Chaloner had finished talking to the Earl, so he joined Holles in escorting him home to Worcester House. Because Clarendon disliked his crumbling Tudor lodgings, he had purchased land on the north side of Piccadilly with a view to building himself something rather better. Chaloner had seen the projected designs, and was astounded by the display of lavish opulence. It would be the finest edifice in the city, far grander than anything owned by the King, and was certain to cause jealousy and resentment. Tentatively, he had advised scaling down the plans, but the Earl had tartly informed him that he did not know what he was talking about.

As he and Holles left Worcester House, Chaloner happened to glance over at the candlelit windows of Webb Hall next door, and saw the unmistakably hulking profile of Johan Behn framed in an upper chamber. He frowned, trying to think of a good reason why the merchant should visit Silence after dark. Did he intend to take up where her husband had left off, and buy a ship to ferry sugar from the plantations? Chaloner wondered whether Eaffrey knew what her lover was doing.

Holles announced a desire to visit Temperance, so Chaloner went with him, curious to know why her establishment was so popular with powerful nobles. It did not take him long to appreciate the difference between a ‘gentleman’s club’ and a bawdy house. Professional musicians played the latest compositions in an ante-chamber – he was startled to see Greeting sawing away – and skilled cooks had been hired to provide guests with good food and fine wines. The girls were pretty and in possession of all their teeth, and Preacher Hill stood outside to prevent undesirables from entering. He would have repelled Chaloner, too, but Temperance intervened.

‘Thomas will always be welcome,’ she said, laying a hand on Hill’s arm. The preacher – doorman smiled, although the grin turned to a glower as soon as her back was turned.

‘Just behave,’ he snarled, as Chaloner passed. ‘If there is any trouble from you, I will … ’

‘Will what?’ asked Chaloner mildly.

Hill bristled. ‘Just behave,’ he repeated, before turning to vet the next customers.

While Holles made a nuisance of himself with a sadly misnamed lady called Modesty, Chaloner listened to the quartet, thinking with satisfaction that Greeting’s bowing was well below par. He stared at his bandaged arm, and hoped with all his heart that Lisle would be able to help him on Saturday. Before he became too consumed with self-pity, he went to sit near Maude, who was holding forth about the latest play at the King’s House in Drury Lane, and then listened to a portly gentleman describing plans for a new pheasant garden in Hyde Park. It was well past midnight before he left, slipping away quietly when Holles went moustache-down on the table and began to snore.

He lay on his bed in Fetter Lane, watching the stars through the window and thinking about his viol as he listened to the periodic cries of the bellmen. At five o’clock, he rose and spent an hour practising his bowing, muting the strings with his immobile left hand, so the noise would not disturb his landlord. Then he washed, dressed and set off for White Hall to spy on Bristol. He wore his best clothes and a wig of real hair, so he would be able to mingle with the upper echelons of British high society and not look out of place.

The King liked to ride in St James’s Park of a morning, and most high-ranking, early-rising members of the Court went with him. They took their retainers, and the palace’s many hangers-on went, too, so the monarch’s peaceful gallop was often carried out in the presence of hundreds of people. Unfortunately for Chaloner, it meant most courtiers were either riding with His Majesty or still in bed, and he could hardly eavesdrop in an empty palace.

Annoyed with himself for forgetting that there was little point in visiting White Hall before ten o’clock, he turned his attention to the other leads that needed to be explored. First, he wanted to visit St Martin’s Church, to ask whether the vergers really had collected a body – Fitz-Simons’s – from May. Secondly, he had to talk to Scot. And thirdly, he needed to go to St Paul’s Cathedral and ascertain why Webb was not in his vault, but in the Anatomical Theatre at Chyrurgeons’ Hall. He recalled Wiseman saying the faces of the dead were kept covered during the operation, and hoped it was true. He could not imagine Temple being very pleased to discover a fellow member of the Guinea Company was being chopped into pieces before his eyes.

St Martin-in-the-Fields was a sturdy building with a strong tower and lofty sixteenth-century windows, although it had been a long time since it had stood in any meadows. He found a verger, who informed him that he and a colleague had indeed been summoned to White Hall to collect a corpse, but when they had arrived, the body was nowhere to be found.

‘Someone stole it, probably as a practical joke,’ opined the verger. ‘And we had a wasted journey. May refused to recompense us for our time, though. Bastard!’

Chaloner took his leave, full of thoughts. Had Fitz-Simons staged a permanent disappearance by only pretending to die at May’s hands? Had he killed a vagrant to take his place in the charnel house? If so, then Johnson was complicit in the plan, because he held the keys to the shed where the impostor’s body was being stored. Did that mean Johnson would deny access to any surgeon who wished to pay his last respects and view the corpse? Or was the entire Company aware of what was happening, but was rallying to defend one of its own? The city companies were fiercely loyal to their members, and might well try to help Fitz-Simons out of trouble.

Scot was still not in his room at the Chequer, so Chaloner went to St Paul’s. It was a long walk from St Martin’s Lane to London’s mighty cathedral, and he was tired from his late night, so he took a carriage. The driver, keen to deposit him and collect another fare as soon as possible, flew along Fleet Street at a pace that was dangerous. Chaloner gripped the window frame as he was hurled from side to side, certain all four wheels were never on the ground at the same time. All the while, the hackney-man cursed and swore – at his pony, at other coachmen, at people on foot, at men on horses, at stray dogs and at the world in general. Everyone was a fool, he informed Chaloner cheerfully at the end of the journey, and he himself was the only man fit to take a cart along a road.

St Paul’s was in a sorry state. A hundred years earlier, lightning had deprived it of its steeple, and the architect Inigo Jones had been invited to remodel its exterior. He had obliged with a façade that looked nothing like the rest of the church, and a classical portico that stood out like a sore thumb. During the Commonwealth, the chancel had been used by a huge congregation of Independents, who could not have cared less about the welfare of the building and only wanted a place large enough to rant in; the nave had been designated as a barracks for cavalry. Soldiers and iconoclasts had smashed its statues, melted down its plate, and punched out its medieval stained glass. Then they had turned their attention to the lead on the roof and in the windows, so that holes now allowed birds, bats and rain inside. Pigeons nested in the ceiling, adding their own mess to the ordure on the once-fine flagstones, and sparrows twittered shrilly above.

When the King had returned from exile, he had been shocked by the sorry state of his capital’s cathedral, and invited the nation’s most innovative architects to submit plans for its rebuilding. The leading contender was Christopher Wren, who had in mind a central dome with chunky square aisles. The King was keen to see the work begin as soon as possible, and tiles, marble and wood had already been purchased. However, while His Majesty might have been satisfied with Wren’s design, it was not received with equal enthusiasm by the Church, and the project was bogged down in an endless cycle of arguments and opposition. While they wrangled, the old building slid ever deeper into decay.

Chaloner prowled the nave, hunting for a verger who might be willing to let him see the register of burials, to ascertain whether Webb had made it as far as his pre-paid vault. He was in luck. The first man he asked was named John Allen, once a gardener at Lincoln’s Inn. A bad back had forced him to retire, and Thurloe had helped him to secure work at the cathedral. Allen was more than happy to help one of Thurloe’s friends; he fetched the register from an office, and scanned the list of entries.

‘Webb,’ he said, jabbing with his finger. There were several names beneath Webb’s, suggesting that funerals in St Paul’s were distressingly frequent. ‘He was supposed to go in the chancel crypt, but that is full at the moment. His wife – a fat, fierce woman – said she paid for an inside spot, and insisted we keep our end of the bargain, so we put him in with Bishop Stratford, whose top is loose.’

‘I am not sure what you mean,’ said Chaloner uneasily. ‘Whose top?’

‘The lid of Stratford’s sarcophagus.’ Allen led the way to one of the transepts. Against the wall was a medieval tomb, all stone pillars and canopies. Prayerful angels had once watched over the dead prelate, although the Puritans had ensured that they now did so without their heads. Allen grabbed the lid of the tomb with both hands, to show how easily it could be moved.

‘Webb is in there?’

‘Well, we had to dispense with his coffin.’ Allen lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘You are a man of the world – you know that a good, second-hand casket fetches a decent price, if you have the right contacts. For a shilling, I will show you his corpse.’

Chaloner handed over the coin, expecting to have it back when it was revealed that Webb’s final resting place was not where everyone assumed. To prove he was getting his money’s worth, Allen made a great show of puffing and groaning as he hefted the slab to one side, eventually revealing that Webb was not the only one to enjoy the bishop’s company. It was crowded in the sarcophagus, and Chaloner backed away with his sleeve over his mouth.

‘That is Cromwell’s hat-maker,’ said Allen helpfully, pointing to the oldest resident. The prelate’s mortal remains were, presumably, the dust at the very bottom. ‘He has been here for about five years. Then there were two sisters – they came about eighteen months ago, although they are reaching the point where we can squash them down to make room for someone else. The fellow on top is Webb.’

‘This is what burial in St Paul’s entails?’ asked Chaloner, appalled. ‘After a few weeks, the remains are shoved to one side so the next corpse can be rammed in?’

‘We leave it a bit longer than that,’ said Allen indignantly. ‘And space is tight in here, although we have lots of room in the graveyard.’

‘That is not Webb,’ said Chaloner, pointing to the most recent addition.

Allen regarded him askance. ‘It most certainly is! I put him in here myself.’

‘Webb was a wealthy merchant – well fed and healthy enough to walk from African House to The Strand – but this fellow is severely emaciated. Also, Webb was stabbed, but this man died because his skull has been smashed. It cannot be the same person. Did Silence see the body removed from the coffin?’

‘Of course not! We do not let the next-of-kin see that sort of thing. What kind of men do you think we are? We open the caskets and perform the interment after everyone has gone home. But if you are right, then where is Webb? And more to the point, who do we have here?’

‘I have no idea, but I recommend you close the tomb and do not open it for anyone else. There is something very odd going on, and you would be wise to have nothing to do with it.’

Allen regarded him soberly. ‘If it is that odd, then it will be dangerous, too. So, I give you the same advice – have nothing to do with it.’

Chaloner was beginning to wish he could.

The monarch and his Court were still exercising in St James’s Park by the time Chaloner returned to White Hall, so he walked to the trees that stood along the wall separating the Privy Garden from King Street beyond, and found a venerable yew with thick, leafy branches. He insinuated himself inside its thick canopy, well hidden from anyone who might glance in his direction, and prepared to wait. He was not particularly interested in watching Lady Castlemaine’s possessions being carted this way and that, but there was nothing else to do, and a certain degree of entertainment was to be had from the confusion. She was becoming exasperated, and swore in a way that Chaloner had not heard outside the army – and even then she could have taught his rough old comrades a few choice expressions.

After a while Bristol appeared, wearing a long gown and a soft linen hat that suggested he had only just prised himself from his bed. He stretched, yawned and began to stroll around the garden, but the best place to be was near the trees, where he was safely distant from clumsy servants with heavy pieces of furniture. The spot also put him well away from Lady Castlemaine’s sharp tongue, and allowed him to ignore any appeals for help.

He lit a pipe, and the scent of tobacco wafted upwards, almost masking the odour of onions. He was not left alone for long, because Adrian May approached with a letter in his hand. That morning, the spy’s bald pate was covered with a dashing red hat that sported the largest feather Chaloner had ever seen – he could not imagine what sort of bird might once have owned it, and only knew he would not like to meet one. With May was the obsequious Temple, exposing his toothless gums in a grin of greeting. Temple wore a gold-brown periwig with curls that flowed so far down his back they covered his rump. Chaloner suspected it had been designed for someone considerably taller.

‘Good morning, My Lord,’ gushed Temple. ‘I bring interesting news from Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘Is it about the garden?’ asked Bristol. ‘I already know that twisted old lawyer – Prynne – intends to take a rather pleasant wilderness and spoil it with some nasty design of his own.’

‘Oh,’ said Temple, crestfallen. He thrust his fingers under his wig and scratched. ‘Have you heard about Thurloe, too? How he is so dismayed by the proposed changes that he swallows all manner of tonics to calm himself?’

Bristol shrugged. ‘So what? How is such information supposed to benefit me? I know Thurloe has taken Clarendon’s side in our dispute, but no one cares what he does any more. His day is past.’

Temple’s eyes gleamed. ‘But think about it, My Lord. Thurloe is upset by what Prynne is doing, and Prynne has the King’s ear. If we can encourage Clarendon to intervene on Thurloe’s behalf, it will pit him directly against His Majesty, who will be irked.’

Bristol rubbed his chin, then smiled. ‘I like it, Temple. It will deepen the growing rift between the King and his Lord Chancellor without any risk to ourselves. I shall make sure Clarendon hears about Thurloe’s distress, and recommend he acts before the poor man pines away from sorrow.’

May stepped forward and handed over the missive he carried. ‘This is from Surgeon Johnson, sir. It has just arrived, so I decided to bring it to you at once. I thought it might be important.’

Bristol broke the seal. ‘It is about the Private Anatomy he offered to arrange for me – I am obliged to wait a few days, it seems. Johnson! The man is a buffoon. Do you know what he did on Saturday? I made some idle quip – drunken quip, if you want the truth – about breaking into Clarendon’s office to look for evidence that he had been embezzling public funds, and would you believe he actually went off and did it? I was appalled – supposing he had been caught, and everyone assumed I had put him up to it! How would that have looked?’

‘Not good,’ agreed Temple. ‘Did he find anything?’

‘Nothing – except a letter from Thurloe recommending Goddard’s Drops as a cure for fainting.’

‘Goddard’s Drops,’ mused Temple, scratching again. ‘It might be code – Thurloe was a Spymaster, after all. We may be able to … can you smell onions?’ He looked round him.

‘Not really,’ said Bristol, sniffing the air. ‘And I like onions.’

‘I think the Court surgeons might have had a hand in the disappearance of that beggar’s body,’ said May. He shoved a fingernail under his hat and wiggled it back and forth. ‘My sources tell me that a number of people bribed the guards to see the corpse, and that Wiseman was among them.’

‘I was among them, too,’ said Temple. ‘Cost me a shilling, which was a waste, because someone had tied a bag around its head, so I could not see the face. I did not make off with the corpse, though, and I imagine Wiseman is far too wrapped up in himself to play pranks on others.’

‘Temple is right, May,’ agreed Bristol. ‘I imagine Clarendon stole your dead beggar – you have taken my side against him, so he probably wants to discredit you. You did look like a complete ass when Spymaster Williamson came to view the thing, and you were forced to admit that you had lost it.’

May’s expression was dangerous. ‘Heyden probably did it, then, on Clarendon’s orders. I swear on my mother’s grave that I will see that man hanged! So, since they have attacked me, I shall attack them back: I will raid Clarendon’s offices for you, My Lord, and I will find all the evidence you need to bring them both down. I am a spy, after all, and experienced in such matters.’

Bristol shook his head. ‘No – Williamson might find out, and I need you in his camp. You provide me with a good deal of very useful information, and I cannot jeopardise that without good cause.’

‘Then I have another suggestion.’ May was disappointed with the decision, and Chaloner wondered why he had elected to throw in his lot with Bristol when his master, Williamson, struggled to remain neutral. ‘The King will not keep his current bedchamber for long – there are plans afoot to place him in new apartments overlooking the river, which means Lady Castlemaine’s chambers will not be as close to him as she imagines. Her move will have been for nothing and when she finds out she will be livid.’

Temple removed his wig and used both hands to rake his scalp. ‘Really? Are you saying the King’s relocation is Clarendon’s idea?’

‘Actually, it is the King’s,’ replied May, rubbing his own head. ‘He wants to use the old rooms as a laboratory. However, there is no reason why Lady Castlemaine should know that. You should tell her this is Clarendon’s latest attempt to keep her away from her royal lover.’

‘That is an excellent idea!’ exclaimed Bristol, fingernails clawing under his night-cap. ‘Lord, will it put the cat among the pigeons!’

‘And quite a cat, too,’ said Temple approvingly.

‘I shall ask Buckingham to tell her,’ said Bristol, taking off his cap and scratching vigorously at the sparse hair underneath. In his tree, Chaloner began to feel itchy, but resisted the urge to move lest he gave himself away. ‘She believes anything he says. I had better catch him before he gets at the wine, though. I need him at least half sober when I confide, or he will forget what he is supposed to do.’

All three moved away, scratching in unison. Chaloner waited a while longer, then abandoned his hiding place when he saw Eaffrey and Behn, who had come to see if they could help Lady Castlemaine with her furniture. He was pleased to see Eaffrey looking happy, although less pleased to note that Behn seemed to be the cause. Behn greeted him cautiously when she introduced him as Heyden – and Chaloner was relieved when Behn did not appear to associate him with the elderly upholsterer.

‘I understand you are a member of the Guinea Company,’ said Chaloner affably, determined to be more courteous to the surly Brandenburger than he had been in his last disguise, out of respect for Eaffrey. ‘And you knew the subscriber who was murdered last month.’

‘Matthew Webb,’ said Behn, nodding. ‘He was a very dear friend.’

‘Really?’ asked Chaloner, his good intentions slipping a little. ‘I heard you quarrelled, and that you left the gathering early because of it.’

Eaffrey glared at him, but Behn waved a powerful hand to indicate that he had taken no offence. ‘Webb and I were going to let people believe we argued, but it was actually a ruse – to weaken our rivals. It was Webb’s idea. He was a clever man, and I miss his company.’

Chaloner stared into the bright-blue eyes and had no idea whether to believe him. ‘Is that why you spend so much time with his wife?’ Eaffrey glanced sharply at him. ‘You miss his company?’

‘The grieving widow,’ said Behn, with an expression that was unreadable. ‘I have made it my duty to visit and offer condolences. It was a vicious attack, and I shall delight in watching the killers hang.’

When Behn was distracted by a screech of rage from Lady Castlemaine, who objected to a servant informing her that her new chambers were now too full to hold any more looted furniture, Eaffrey glowered at Chaloner. She had been irritated by his remark about Silence Webb, and the accusation of infidelity that was implicit in it. ‘Let us talk about something else,’ she said shortly.

‘Very well,’ said Behn, turning back to Chaloner. ‘Eaffrey has told me about the adventures she shared with friends – such as you – in Holland. However, it is wrong to put women in danger.’

‘It was my choice to go,’ said Eaffrey, before Chaloner could respond. ‘It was nothing to do with Thomas. He would never presume to tell me what to do.’

‘I shall, though,’ said Behn coolly. ‘It will be my right, once we are wed.’

Eaffrey stared at him. ‘That is an archaic attitude to take, Johan. As far as I am concerned, marriage is a partnership in which both sides are free to do as they please.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Behn, raising his eyebrows. ‘It is an unusual interpretation of matrimony.’

‘Eaffrey is an unusual lady,’ said Chaloner.

Behn opened his mouth to say something else, but just then Temple approached, all smiles as he raked his fingernails across his scalp, hard enough to leave red marks.

‘Ah, Behn,’ he said. ‘I intend to nominate you as the next Master of the Guinea Company. I like your progressive attitude to trade, and wish more of our members were like you.’

Behn inclined his head. ‘Of course you do, but we can oust the squeamish ones once I am elected. Together, we shall lead your country to untold wealth and mercantile power.’

‘In Africa,’ agreed Temple, nodding vigorously. ‘And in Barbados.’

‘You mean by promoting slavery?’ said Chaloner. ‘That will make our country great, will it?’

‘Of course,’ said Behn. ‘And anyone who does not see it is a fool.’

‘You promised you would have no more to do with that sort of venture, Johan,’ said Eaffrey quietly. ‘I told you I disapproved, and you–’

‘I said I would consider your request,’ said Behn, testily. ‘However, you are a woman, so you cannot possibly understand the complexity of the finances involved. Please excuse me now.’

He took Temple by the arm, leading him away for a private discussion. Almost immediately, he began to scratch his head.

Eaffrey’s face fell at the curt dismissal. She turned to Chaloner with tears in her eyes. ‘Johan and I have been growing closer for weeks now, and within moments, you manage to initiate two topics of conversation that see us voicing opposing and irreconcilable views.’

‘He is not worthy of you,’ said Chaloner simply.

‘That is for me to decide. You had better stay away from both of us in the future. You seem incapable of being civil, and I do not want to lose him over some petty quarrel instigated by you.’

She turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Chaloner startled and unhappy.