Blood on the Strand (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Why would Bristol write it himself ?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You did,’ said Chaloner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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