Blood on the Strand (21 page)

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.