Blood on the Strand (27 page)

‘Bristol has a spy called Willys, though,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘And Willys is one of the men cited in the letter.’

Thurloe shrugged. ‘Perhaps the writer did not know that – perhaps he thinks Willys is a servant and no more. What do you think
of the Earl’s cousin, Brodrick –
other
than his musical abilities?’

Chaloner was taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. ‘Other than those, not much. He does not
do
anything, except attend parties. I do not know why Clarendon places such faith in his abilities, when he never sees them
used.’

‘That is probably what people say about you, but all the while you are working very hard at gathering intelligence and listening
to idle chatter.’

Chaloner tried to understand what he was saying. ‘You think Brodrick is a spy?’

‘It is possible. Have you shared any sensitive information with him?’

‘I told him about a plan to have Clarendon blamed for the location of the King’s new bedchamber.’

‘Then you must question Clarendon immediately. If Brodrick
has
shared this information with him, then perhaps he is loyal. If he has not, then you might want to ask yourself why.’ Thurloe
turned to the letter again. ‘Now we have yet another motive for Webb’s murder; this claims he was involved in the Castle Plot,
but betrayed it to the government.’

‘Well, someone did,’ said Chaloner. ‘We had weeks to infiltrate the rebels and foil their plans.’

A second visit to Newgate could be postponed no longer, even though all Chaloner wanted to do was to lie down until his stomach
stopped pitching. He did not think he had felt so unwell since he had been injured by an exploding cannon at the Battle of
Naseby – and then he had been expected to die.

‘You have not forged another pass for me, have you?’ he asked weakly.

‘There are many ways to gain access to prisons, and counterfeit letters is just one of them,’ replied Thurloe evenly. He handed
Chaloner a very heavy purse. ‘Another is bribery.’

Leaving Thurloe outside, Chaloner used the ex-Spymaster’s money to secure an interview, although even the princely sums on
offer bought him no more than five minutes in the condemned man’s company. He had borrowed Thurloe’s hat and coat, and smothered
his face with a chalky powder the ex-Spymaster had thought to bring with him. A black eye-patch completed the disguise,
which was crude by Chaloner’s standards, but hopefully good enough to ensure none of the guards would associate him with
the man who had deceived them two days before.

‘You again,’ said Dillon, as Chaloner entered the visitors’ room. The prisoner sported his trademark hat, so his eyes and
upper face were hidden. He looked sleek and contented, and his clothes were different to the ones he had worn last time. ‘Nice
patch. Is it a disguise, or have you been fighting?’

‘Do you know Thomas Sarsfeild?’ asked Chaloner.

‘I have already told you no,’ said Dillon. He stood. ‘Is that all? I am reading John Spencer’s book on the end of the world
in the year sixty-six, and I want to how what to avoid when the time comes.’

‘Thurloe said you refused to tell him anything that might allow him to save you,’ said Chaloner, thinking Dillon was very
certain about his longevity. He was not sure
he
would have been so complacent, had he been in the condemned man’s situation.

‘His interference is unnecessary and unwelcome. My master will save me when the time is right.’

‘Four men named in Bristol’s letter have already been pardoned and two allowed to disappear. If you were going to join their
ranks, surely something would have happened by now?’

‘Why should you care what happens to me?’

‘I don’t,’ said Chaloner, thinking of Manning. ‘But Thurloe does, and I have agreed to help him. Who wrote this?’ He handed
Dillon the letter he had stolen. ‘Do you recognise the writing?’

‘Ah – the famous accusation! I saw it at my trial, although I cannot imagine how you come to have it.
However, I
still
do not know who wrote it, and I
still
do not recognise the writing. Next question.’

‘Was Webb involved in the Castle Plot? Did you kill him because he betrayed you, and so was the cause of the rebellion’s failure?
I know you argued with him the day he died.’

Dillon raised his eyebrows. ‘You have been assiduous in your researches! Next question.’

‘You have not answered the ones I have already asked.’

‘And nor shall I. Leave this business alone, Heyden. I will not hang. My master has a sense of the dramatic, and I do not
anticipate that the crowds at my execution will be disappointed.’

‘You expect to be rescued at the scaffold?’ asked Chaloner doubtfully.

Dillon winked, then demanded to be returned to his cell. Chaloner did not linger once he had gone, eager to be away from the
reeking gaol. He climbed wearily into Thurloe’s carriage, feeling his heartbeat slow to a more normal level – the guard had
taken rather too long to open the last gate.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Thurloe in alarm. ‘Is Dillon unwell? Dead, like Fanning?’

‘He is perfectly happy. I just hate prisons.’

‘Because of that business in France four years ago? Perhaps
I
should visit Sarsfeild in Ludgate.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, although he was tempted. ‘It is too dangerous for you. I will do it.’

Ludgate was one of the portals that had once formed part of the city’s defensive walls. It had been rebuilt eighty years before,
and its upper chambers had always been used as a prison for petty criminals and debtors. It was a long, functional building
that lacked the formidable security associated
with Newgate, and Chaloner was relieved to note it lacked Newgate’s stench, too. Inside, a second purse disappeared into
the pockets of guards as Chaloner bought his way towards a convicted felon.

‘Newgate’s governor did not want to lose a second convict to gaol-fever before he can be strung up,’ chattered one particularly
helpful – and impecunious warden – as they walked to Sarsfeild’s cell together. ‘The event has already been advertised, see,
and folk are disappointed when they do not get what they are promised. Dillon is different, because he has money to buy a
clean, safe cell, but Sarsfeild is poor and was at risk from infection.’

‘Have you heard any rumours about Fanning’s death?’

The warden held out his hand for another of Thurloe’s coins. ‘One guard said there was a cord around his neck when the body
was found, but he is given to strong drink, and no one believed him. Unfortunately, he died the following night, so you cannot
ask him yourself.’

‘He died?’ asked Chaloner uneasily. ‘How?’

‘Hit by a cart when he left his favourite tavern. Strong drink, see. Never touch it myself. There was a whisper that Fanning
was going to escape by plying us guards with poisoned wine, but we have not been fooled by that sort of thing since the Middle
Ages. We
are
professionals, after all.’

Chaloner was conducted down a narrow corridor, which smelled of boiled cabbage, to a cell at the far end. It was a dismal
hole, but at least it had a window that allowed relatively fresh air to blow in. Sarsfeild was a small man whose clothes had
once been respectable. Now he was filthy, unshaven and frightened. When he came towards Chaloner, his face was streaked, as
though he had been crying.

‘I will tell you anything,’ he said, tears flowing. ‘I will
say
anything, only please let me go. I did not kill Matthew Webb, or even know him. I am a confectioner – I deal in sugar and
sweetmeats. I have no reason to stab anyone. There has been a terrible mistake.’

‘Sugar?’ asked Chaloner. ‘Where does it come from?’

‘Barbados, I believe.’

‘I mean which merchant sells you the raw materials for your trade?’

Sarsfeild’s face was a mask of despair. ‘All right, I admit I met Webb once or twice, because he sold the cheapest sugar,
but I did not murder—’

‘Where do you live?’

‘The Strand; I have a shop in the New Exchange. I know how this looks – I bought sugar from Webb, and we are almost neighbours
– but that is where our association ends. I did
not
kill him!’

Chaloner thought about Scot’s theory, reiterated by Thurloe: that a mistake had been made, and that the letter’s author had
intended Chaloner’s name to be on the list. And so ‘Garsfield’, who had been active in thwarting the Castle Plot, was overlooked
in favour of Sarsfeild the confectioner, because the man was an associate of Webb’s and lived nearby. Could it be true? The
man in Ludgate had none of Dillon’s dash and swagger, and certainly was not expecting rescue.

‘The King himself has tasted my wares,’ Sarsfeild continued, when Chaloner made no comment. ‘If you tell His Majesty about
my predicament, and ask for a royal pardon, I will keep you in sweetmeats for the rest of your life.’

‘I do not have that sort of authority, I am afraid. Where were you the night Webb was murdered?’

Sarsfeild looked relieved. ‘I keep telling people, but no one will listen: I went to see a play called
The Humorous Lieutenant
, then I went home with an actress called Beck Marshall who lives in Drury Lane. Please go to see her. She will tell you I
was with her all night, so cannot have murdered Webb.’

‘I will do what I can. Did you hear what happened to Fanning?’

Sarsfeild gave a bitter smile. ‘Gaol-fever – it was why I was moved. The governor does not want the public to be cheated of
their entertainment on Saturday.’

At the western end of the great expanse that was St Paul’s churchyard was a coffee house with a sign above it that identified
it as the Turk’s Head. There were several places of refreshment in the city with that name, but the one in St Paul’s was famous
because it was used by local booksellers to strike deals with their customers. Besides coffee, the Turk’s Head offered sherbets
flavoured with roses or lemons, chocolate – a dark, bitter beverage endured only by truly dedicated followers of fashion –
and stationery. For six shillings, a pound of East India ‘berries’ could be purchased, along with free instructions on how
to produce the perfect dish of coffee. Thurloe bought some when he learned the East India type was said to be good for ‘griping
pains in divers regions’.

‘Are you sure you do not want any sugar?’ asked the ex-Spymaster, as they took seats in a room so warm that its patrons’ clothes
– wet from the morning’s drizzle – steamed furiously. ‘Coffee does not taste very nice without it. It does not taste very
nice
with
it, either, but at least it is an improvement.’

‘Sarsfeild bought sugar from Webb,’ said Chaloner,
thinking about what he had learned. ‘And they lived close to each other, although I imagine Sarsfeild’s home is rather less
grand than Webb Hall. These two connections may have been enough to see him accused of a crime he did not commit. Alternatively,
they may mean he had a motive to stab Webb, since most people seem to have been seized with the desire to stick a rapier in
the fellow once they had made his acquaintance.’

‘Which do you think is true?’ asked Thurloe, sipping his coffee and wincing at the flavour.

‘I have no idea. The disparity between the two convicted men is puzzling. Dillon has everything he wants, and is convinced
he will be saved in a dramatic gesture by his patron. Sarsfeild has no money to pay for his keep, and is certain he is going
to die.’ Chaloner rubbed his head. He still felt sick, and the unsweetened coffee was not helping. ‘They do not seem like
the kind of men to work together.’

‘So, you think the letter might have meant to accuse “Garsfield” after all?’

‘No – I only used that alias once, and that was in Dublin. Most of the rebels I met are either dead or in prison, and my fellow
spies either know me as Heyden or by my real name.’

‘Let us review this logically. How many agents were involved in thwarting this rebellion?’

‘About two dozen that I know of. Some are still in Ireland, some have been sent to new assignments overseas, and the only
ones currently in London are May, Eaffrey and Scot.’

‘But these three know you by more familiar names, so would not have used Garsfield anyway. What about
Thomas
Scot? Was he aware of your real identity?’

‘We have known each other since we were children, so yes, he knew.’

‘You were part of a covert operation that resulted in his imprisonment, the failure of his revolt, and the death or incarceration
of his co-conspirators. Perhaps he wants revenge on you, and used your Garsfield identity to ensure the letter was not traced
back to him.’

‘But his brother’s alias is in the letter, too,’ argued Chaloner. ‘And Thomas would never hurt his family. They have grown
closer since their father’s execution, and he would never put Scot at risk.’

Thurloe was quiet for a long time, making patterns in the sludge at the bottom of his bowl with a pewter spoon. ‘I think you
are right,’ he said eventually. ‘This letter did not refer to you. That leaves two possibilities. First, Sarsfeild’s name
was included for spite – perhaps his confectionery made someone’s teeth fall out—’

‘Temple!’ exclaimed Chaloner.

Thurloe inclined his head. ‘And secondly, Sarsfeild
is
guilty of the murder, but is ready to say or do anything to escape the inevitable.’

They continued to discuss the letter, but found they could not agree on its meaning. Thurloe thought it proved that Webb had
been part of the Castle Plot – had betrayed his co-conspirators and been killed for it – but refused to believe that Dillon
had struck the fatal blow. Chaloner was unwilling to dismiss the possibility that linking Webb to the Castle Plot might just
be someone’s way of trying to make sure the letter was taken seriously.

‘I should do as Sarsfeild suggested,’ said Chaloner, changing the subject when they started to go around in circles. ‘Speak
to the actress Beck Marshall of Drury Lane, to see if he has a credible alibi.’

‘I could go with you,’ said Thurloe reluctantly, ‘although it is distasteful. I dislike the theatre and all it has come to
represent: immorality, hedonism and vice.’

‘Prynne would be pleased to hear you say that. It is what he thinks.’

Thurloe smiled bleakly. ‘Yes, but, unlike him, I do not itch to burn them all to the ground with players and audience still
inside.’

Beck Marshall was in bed when they knocked on the door of the house she shared with her sister. A servant went to rouse her,
but it was a long time before she sauntered, semi-naked, into her front parlour. Her face bore the ravages of a wild evening,
and her fashionable patches were sadly smudged, giving her a striped appearance. She reeked of wine, and Chaloner wondered
whether
he
had looked as dissipated when he had arrived at Thurloe’s rooms that morning.

‘Sarsfeild,’ Beck mused. ‘Yes, I entertained him on the night
The Humorous Lieutenant
opened, because he brought me a box of sugared almonds. I still have some left. Would you like one?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Thurloe coolly. ‘Did Sarsfeild leave you at all that night, or did he stay with you the whole time?’

She shot him a leering smile that made him recoil in revulsion. ‘I cannot remember one man from another, to be frank, although
you might prove to be the exception. Shall we find out?’

‘We shall not, madam,’ said Thurloe icily. ‘Now, please try to remember Sarsfeild, because his life may depend on it.’

‘Why is everything so
desperately
important these days?’ Beck asked in a bored voice. ‘I thought we were done
with all that when the King ousted those miserable Puritans. All I want is some fun—’

‘Sarsfeild,’ prompted Thurloe curtly. ‘Did he stay all night with you?’

Beck pouted. ‘He probably did, because he will have wanted his money’s worth for the almonds, but I cannot recall for certain.
Do you have any sweetmeats on offer, Mr Heyden? You look like a man who knows how to enjoy himself, even if your prudish friend—’

‘No, he does not,’ snapped Thurloe. ‘And you should wash your face, girl. You look like a tiger.’

Chaloner was laughing as they took their leave of Beck Marshall. Thurloe’s reaction to her had taken his mind of his roiling
stomach, for which he was grateful, because he was beginning to feel better. The ex-Spymaster glared at him.

‘You were tempted by her,’ he said accusingly. ‘I could see you were seriously considering providing her with a gift in exchange
for an hour of her company.’

Chaloner regarded him in amusement. ‘I have never paid a prostitute in my life.’

Thurloe was unimpressed. ‘That is an ambiguous answer, because it suggests you inveigle their services free of charge. But
discussing your sinful past will take us nowhere. What did you think of Sarsfeild’s alibi? Can we believe he spent the night
with that flighty child or not?’

‘Her testimony is inconclusive. Miss Marshall would say anything for the right price, but she honestly does not remember how
long Sarsfeild stayed with her. Also, we cannot discount the possibility that she might have passed out from wine at some
point, and awoke to find him next to her in the morning. Unfortunately for Sarsfeild, he chose the wrong woman to speak for
him.’

‘I imagine he will be more careful next time.’

‘If there is a next time,’ said Chaloner soberly.

Thurloe insisted on taking Chaloner to White Hall in his carriage after they had left Drury Lane, even though it was in the
opposite direction from Lincoln’s Inn.

‘Take my coat again,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Bristol might be there, and although you say he did not see your face, he
certainly saw your clothes and that purple is distinctive. I am sure you have a spare cap. You usually do. And wipe that powder
from your face. It makes you look like a Court debauchee – although perhaps it is not the chalk that is responsible. Even
Brodrick would have been shocked by your rakish appearance this morning.’

‘Perhaps, but at least
he
would not have given me poison to drink,’ retorted Chaloner.

Thurloe winced. ‘I have said I am sorry – several times. Are you sure you are feeling better? Your temper does not seem to
have improved. Perhaps you should go home.’

‘I would like to, but you told me to warn Lord Clarendon about Lady Castlemaine and the King’s new rooms, because you fear
Brodrick cannot be trusted.’

‘Well, that is what he is paying you for,’ remarked Thurloe, a little acidly. ‘Meanwhile, I shall take Bristol’s letter to
a handwriting expert I know, and see what he can tell me about it.’

Chaloner made his way towards White Hall’s main gate, stopping to state his business in the guard room, where he was immediately
hauled into a private chamber by Colonel Holles.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed the soldier, peering into Chaloner’s face. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I drank something that disagreed with me. I am sure
I would feel better if I could remove this damned splint, though. You would not believe how much it itches. Wiseman is a
quack.’

Holles kicked his foot and looked oddly furtive. ‘He is not a quack,’ he said in a loud, artificial voice. ‘He is a good,
honest fellow. A veritable Hypocrites.’

Chaloner snorted his disdain. ‘Lisle does not think so. I have tried at least three times to hack this thing off, but it has
set like a rock. Wiseman must have used too much glue.’

‘The amount of glue I used was precisely what that was needed,’ came Wiseman’s haughty voice from the adjoining chamber, where
he had been binding a soldier’s bruised ankle. He looked larger than ever that day, because the room was small and his bulk
took up more than his share of it. Holles gave him an embarrassed grin before shooting out on the pretext of interviewing
a band of acrobats.

‘Then why is it so hard?’ demanded Chaloner, not intimidated by the surgeon’s vast red presence.

‘Because I
made
it hard,’ replied Wiseman. ‘What has Lisle been saying about me?’

Chaloner was sure Wiseman would not approve of his colleague’s intentions for Saturday, and was not going to risk a confrontation
between the two surgeons that would result in neither removing the splint. He procrastinated. ‘He said you have a reputation
for innovation.’

Wiseman knew he was being fobbed off with an answer that meant nothing. He grabbed Chaloner’s hand and his jaw dropped when
he inspected his handiwork. ‘God in heaven! What have you been doing? Climbing trees?’

Chaloner hoped the surgeon would not associate him with the ‘thief ’ who had escaped Chyrurgeons’ Hall by
scaling its protective walls. ‘Nothing I would not normally have done,’ he replied coolly.

‘Well, what you “normally do” does not seem to suit your humours,’ said Wiseman caustically. ‘Have you been drinking?’

Chaloner objected to the man’s accusatory tone. ‘Yes – a tonic containing Venice Treacle.’

Wiseman frowned. ‘Venice Treacle should not have harmed you. However, I know the lingering effects of wine when I see them.
My advice to you is to drink plenty of watered ale, to wash them out.’

‘I would feel better without this splint. It is hot and it rubs. It is time you removed it, and—’

Wiseman sighed impatiently. ‘It is
not
time. Look, I know what I am doing, Heyden, because I am the best surgeon in London. In fact,’ he said as he walked away,
‘
I
am a genius.’

Chaloner was tempted to see whether he would feel quite so full of hubris with a splint cracked across his pate. He was not
usually given to violent urges, but it had not been a good morning, and although he felt better than when he had been burgling
Bristol’s home, the combined effects of too much wine and whatever Thurloe had fed him lingered on. He was stalking across
the Pebble Court when someone tried to collide with him. Even preoccupied with the state of his health, his instincts did
not let him down. He jigged automatically to one side, and May staggered into thin air.

‘Watch where you are going!’ May snarled, trying to regain his balance. His latest hairpiece – a pale-ginger periwig – slipped
to one side, then tumbled to the ground, revealing his shiny head.

‘I was,’ retorted Chaloner tartly. ‘Fortunately for you.’

‘Are you threatening me?’ demanded May, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

‘Threatening you with what?’ asked Chaloner, all the frustrations of the morning suddenly boiling up in a spurt of hot temper.
The dagger dropped from his sleeve into the palm of his hand. ‘Ridicule, for losing the body of the man you shot?’

May glowered at him. ‘If I find out you were responsible for that, I
will
kill you.’

‘You can try,’ said Chaloner contemptuously. ‘Of course, mislaying corpses is not the only stupid thing you have done recently.
The letter you sent Bristol, which might see innocent men hanged,
will
be investigated and I shall see its culprit brought to justice.’

May gazed at him, anger forgotten in the face of his astonishment. ‘You think
I
wrote that? But my alias – Burne – was among the accused. If I had been the author, I would have left it off.’

‘You included yourself deliberately, to allay suspicion.’

May stepped back. ‘You are clearly unwell or you would not be making such wild accusations. I do not fight sick men, and you
look terrible.’

‘Then
talk
to me instead.’ As quickly as it had flared, Chaloner’s rage subsided, and he knew he was lucky May had declined to react
to his inflammatory remarks. The King had forbidden brawling among courtiers, and while a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber
might escape with a reprimand, matters would be a lot more serious for an ex-Cromwellian spy. He replaced the knife surreptitiously,
masking what he was doing by leaning down to retrieve May’s wig. ‘Who sent the note?’