Blood on the Strand (25 page)

Scot stared at him, then burst out laughing. ‘Really, Chaloner! I know you do not like the man, but there is no need to malign
him quite so badly. No fellow in his right senses would carry on with
her
.’

‘I saw him,’ persisted Chaloner. ‘Twice.’

‘How?’ Scot raised his hand. ‘No, do not tell me. I would rather not know. However, you should remember that Behn did business
with Webb, and it is possible that he is paying court to Silence to make sure she does not sign his interests away to another
party.’

‘What about Alice?’ asked Chaloner, seeing Scot would not be convinced, so changing the subject in the random way of the intoxicated.
‘Have you devised a way to abduct her before she marries the odious Temple? You should not leave it too long, because she
really does love him.’

‘Perhaps I should kill him,’ said Scot. ‘No, that will
not work, because she will know it was me, and I do not want her in one of her tempers. Your duel with her first husband
was years ago, but she still bears you a grudge. I could not bear her treating
me
so coldly – not my own sister.’

‘Plants,’ suggested Chaloner drunkenly. ‘You must have read about plants that reduce people to a state of torpor in your
Musaeum Tradescantianum
. Feed her some of those.’

Scot looked shocked. ‘I want to save her, not kill her! Besides, Thomas might be stuck in the Tower for weeks, and I cannot
drug her indefinitely. The best solution would be if
you
married her. I would not mind you as a brother-in-law.’

‘She would have her sharpest dagger in my heart on our wedding night.’

Scot guffawed, and refilled their cups. ‘Alice could do a good deal worse, and it is a great pity you do not like each other.
Perhaps you will fall in love en route to Surinam.’

Chaloner had no idea how late he and Scot stayed up, but he woke to find himself slumped uncomfortably across the table with
his head on his arms, while Scot snored on the bed. It was still dark outside, but dawn was not far off, and he supposed it
was the rumble of the day’s first cart that had disturbed his sleep. He lurched to the window and opened it for some fresh
air. Scot did not stir, not even when Chaloner tripped over an upturned chair, suggesting the older man had imbibed even more
than he had. His head pounded viciously as he washed his face and changed clothes that were stiff with spilled claret. Before
he left, he placed a blanket over the slumbering Scot.

‘You reek of strong drink,’ said Thurloe accusingly
when he arrived at Lincoln’s Inn. ‘And you look as though you have been up all night, carousing – red eyes, pale face, wincing
because you think my voice is loud. Anyone would think you were a courtier.’

Chaloner flopped into Thurloe’s fireside chair. ‘I expected you to be walking in the garden.’

‘I could not bring myself to go. Prynne showed me the plans for his dovecote yesterday – the only feature in this barren wilderness
he dares to call an arbour. It is ugly in the extreme, and I cannot see any self-respecting bird deigning to take up residence
in it.’

‘
Cave fanaticum
,’ murmured Chaloner, trying to remember how much wine he and Scot had actually swallowed the previous night. He suspected
it was the best part of a gallon jug.

‘Beware the fanatic,’ translated Thurloe. ‘I am surprised you remember any Latin, given the state you are in. Speaking of
Latin, did I tell you Prynne gave me a copy of his
Histriomastix
in an attempt to ingratiate himself ? I have never read such vitriol! Even
my
deeply held Puritan convictions do not lead me to rant against bay windows, holly bushes and New Year gifts.’

‘Bay windows?’ echoed Chaloner, wondering why religion led people to rage against such peculiar things.

‘I am ashamed to call him a fellow bencher. And his diatribes against Jews defy decency, logic and sanity.’ Thurloe turned
when there was a tap at the door. ‘Yates? Is that my morning bread?’

The wall-eyed porter bustled in with a tray, the Inn’s tabby cat stalking at his heels. Yates kept one eye on the cat and
the other on Thurloe, as he began to inform the ex-Spymaster, in unnecessary detail, about the state of his usual servant,
who had gone to his sister to recover
from a bout of the bloody flux. Chaloner wondered how Yates had prised such intimate details from a man who, as far as everyone
knew, was mute. He tried to tune out the chatter, which was far too graphic to be heard so early in the morning. Eventually,
Yates finished his gruesome monologue and left. Thurloe sat at the table and selected a sliver of barley bread, while the
cat jumped into his lap.

‘You should try this. It is said to be good for the digestive health.’

Chaloner felt his gorge rise at the prospect of food, as it always did the morning after too much wine. ‘I came to ask whether
you had discovered the whereabouts of Bristol’s letter.’

‘It is in his house on Great Queen Street. We are almost neighbours – I can see his roof from here.’

‘I thought he lodged at White Hall.’ Chaloner recalled him wandering around the Privy Gardens in his night-clothes the previous
morning.

‘Only when he is too drunk to go home. There is a rear-facing office on the upper floor of his mansion, in which there is
a large China-painted chest. The letter will be in that.’

‘Do you know anything about the lock?’

‘Three separate keys are required to open it. I took the liberty of acquiring two – do not ask how; suffice to say I need
them back as soon as possible – but you will have to pick the last. However, I do not recommend going now. It is too near
dawn and Bristol might be awake.’

‘He sleeps late, so now will be the perfect time,’ countered Chaloner, thinking about what Willys had told him. Bristol seldom
rose before nine o’clock, no matter
where he slept, which his married mistresses found inconvenient.

‘If you will not eat anything, then drink this.’ Thurloe handed Chaloner one of his infamous potions. ‘I made it myself, and
it contains Venice Treacle among other things, which is an excellent remedy for overindulgence. You cannot burgle a house
while you are still half drunk.’

Chaloner swallowed what was in the cup without thinking. Then, for the next few minutes, he fought a violent urge to be sick,
and sat with his hands pressed hard against his face. Eventually the nausea receded, and he opened his eyes to see Thurloe
looking pleased.

‘The most efficacious medicines are always the most unpleasant, and judging from your reaction, I suspect this one has done
you much good. The barber-surgeons say Venice Treacle is a quack remedy, but I beg to differ. They are clever fellows, but
they do not know everything about health.’

‘Do you know a medic called Wiseman?’

Thurloe nodded. ‘He deplores the Court’s excesses, and supports your earl’s efforts to curb them.’

‘What do you think of him as a man?’

‘Arrogant and cynical – but if I were obliged to rummage in people’s innards, I might be arrogant and cynical, too. He is
probably decent, at heart. You are lucky to have him as your surgeon.’

Chaloner was not so sure, preferring to take his chances with Lisle. He pulled uncomfortably at the splint, looking forward
to Saturday, when it would come off. ‘What about Lisle and Johnson?’

‘Wiseman thinks they are mediocre practitioners, but both have royal appointments, so he is almost certainly
wrong. I like Lisle, who provides his services free of charge to the poor. Why do you ask?’

‘Dillon listed all three as possible culprits for killing Webb.’

Thurloe was thoughtful. ‘Wiseman
did
despise Webb, mostly because of his involvement with the slave plantations, but there was also an incident just after the
Restoration in which Webb accused Wiseman of revealing personal secrets. I do not know if it was true, but it damaged Wiseman’s
practice – no one wants a
medicus
who gossips about embarrassing symptoms.’

‘So, he has a powerful reason for wanting Webb dead?’

‘He is not the only one. Lisle had a dispute with Webb, too – Webb claimed he overcharged for a phlebotomy, and the matter
went to the law-courts. Webb won, but there was evidence that money changed hands to secure the verdict he wanted. Then Webb
commissioned a Private Anatomy at Chyrurgeons’ Hall, but Lisle and Johnson were obliged to cancel at the last minute – something
about a leaking roof – and Webb threatened to sue again.’

‘Dillon also included Temple and Brodrick among his suspects.’

Thurloe considered the accusation, nodding slowly. ‘Temple lost customers to Webb, and Webb insulted Brodrick’s music – something
very dear to him.’

‘And then there is Silence. If Webb was as awful as everyone says, then perhaps she is better off without him. She is not
very grief-stricken. She did not bury him in the place he bought for himself, either, but let him be shoved him in someone
else’s tomb – not that the corpse was his, anyway.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Thurloe uneasily. ‘I hope you have not been opening graves.’

‘I wanted to know whether the surgeons will deposit him in his own vault when they have finished with him. Perhaps they intend
to, but have not yet had the chance – he was only dissected on Sunday, after all. But then what happens to the body already
there – the emaciated fellow?’

‘I do not see how this is relevant to Dillon, and time is passing,’ said Thurloe. He frowned as he pushed the cat from his
lap. ‘I still believe this is no time to burgle Bristol. Perhaps I should come with you. I may be out of practice, but I have
not forgotten all the skills I once taught you.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner hastily. He would hang for certain if he was caught burgling Bristol in company with Cromwell’s old Spymaster.
He stood, feeling his stomach pitch at the movement, and heartily wished he had declined the tonic.

Dawn was beginning to paint the eastern sky, although the streets were still in deep shadow. Chaloner walked briskly, hoping
exercise might make him feel better, taking deep breaths of comparatively fresh air as he went. Great Queen Street lay to
the west of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and had a rural feel about it. Trees whispered in the breeze, birds sang and the wind blew
from the west, so brought with it the sweet scent of new crops. He found the lane that ran around the back of the houses and
located Bristol’s garden, which was almost entirely laid down to onions. A maid was in it, hanging washing on a clothes line.
He waited until she had gone, then slipped quietly through the gate, moving through the burgeoning crops to reach a paved
yard fringed by sculleries and pantries.

Apart from the maid, there was no activity, and he
supposed the staff had adapted themselves to their master’s erratic hours – Bristol probably disliked being woken early by
clattering pots, but demanded attention late at night. Chaloner let himself in through the rear door and slunk stealthily
up a silent corridor to the main rooms at the front. He could hear someone snoring, and opened a door to a handsome parlour
to see Bristol himself, reclining comfortably in a cushion-filled chair. A cup dangled from one hand, while the other rested
on his paunch; his head was back and he breathed wetly. Around him was the debris of a good night. Empty decanters littered
a card-strewn table, and the air was still thick with tobacco smoke. Chaloner felt his stomach pitch at the powerful scent
of wine, and held his breath until the feeling passed.

Voices emanated from the room opposite, so he tiptoed towards it and peered through a crack in the door. A dozen people had
gathered there, picking at the bread and biscuits that had been laid out under cloths on a sideboard. Chaloner recognised
three of them. Temple worked his toothless jaws, as if sleep had rendered them stiff. Alice Scot looked bright and alert,
and was chattering gaily about Lady Castlemaine’s new diamond ring. And the whites of Surgeon Johnson’s eyes were deep red,
to match the wine that had spilled down his coat during the revelries of the night before.

‘I like Lady Castlemaine,’ Johnson announced, loudly enough to make several of his companions – and Chaloner – wince. He lowered
his voice, putting a hand to his own head. ‘I am told she is probably a papist, but I am ready to ignore that, because she
has such fine thighs.’

‘A good reason for tolerance,’ said Alice facetiously.
‘And what about Lord Bristol, who is also Roman Catholic? Will you forgive him, too, on the basis of his fine thighs?’

‘I doubt his rival Lady Castlemaine’s,’ said Johnson, evidently unequal to irony at such an early hour. ‘He puts on a good
card game, though, so I am willing to overlook the matter of his religion.’

‘Most noble,’ growled a man Chaloner thought was a bishop. ‘His God must have been watching over him last night, though, because
he carried all before him. What do you say to a game tonight, Johnson?’

‘I am afraid not. I have another Private Anatomy to perform.’

‘Another?’ asked Temple with sudden eagerness. He took Alice’s hand. ‘Can we come? We enjoyed the last one you arranged. It
was highly entertaining.’

‘I had no idea Webb contained so many entrails,’ agreed Alice. ‘Of course, he was a very slippery fellow, so I suppose it
should come as no surprise that he owned more than most.’

Chaloner was startled, because Wiseman had said the face of the subject remained covered during the cutting – so Alice and
Temple should not have known whose innards they were being shown.

‘He had three times as many as the average man,’ declared Johnson authoritatively. ‘And they were twice as oily. But I am
afraid you cannot come to the dissection this evening, because it is a
very
private affair. However, I can arrange another, if you found the last one edifying. It will cost, but … ’

‘It will not be Webb, though,’ said Temple with deep regret.

Chaloner gaped at him. Was this the motive for Webb’s
murder? He was killed to provide Temple’s entertainment? Or had the surgeons merely taken advantage of an opportunity presented?