Blood on the Strand (14 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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