Blood on the Strand (11 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What did you hear?’ asked Chaloner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘There is no need for—’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Have what off ?’ asked Chaloner warily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I am making conversation.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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