Blood on the Strand (28 page)

‘I have no idea. It saw me accused of murder, too, but I spent no more than an hour in Newgate before my
pardon arrived. Williamson does not allow his best men to rot in prisons.’ When May reached out to snatch the hairpiece away
from Chaloner, his fingers brushed the splint, and he grabbed it before the spy could stop him. ‘I
knew
there was something wrong with you. What happened?’

Chaloner chose not to answer. ‘I do not suppose it was you who was going to rescue Fanning by sending his Newgate guards a
barrel of poisoned wine, was it?’ He had no reason for asking, other than that it had been an idiotic notion and May was an
idiotic man.

May’s expression was haughty. ‘Hardly “poisoned” – just treated with a soporific. How do you know? Fanning swore he would
tell no one but Dillon – to ask whether he wanted saving, too.’

‘And did he?’

May shook his head as he replaced his wig. ‘He said he preferred to wait for his patron to do it. Still, my efforts were not
needed in the end, because Fanning died of gaol-fever before I could act.’

‘Why were you willing to help him escape? Was he one of Williamson’s men?’

May’s expression was disdainful. ‘Your wits
are
slow today, Heyden. Of course he was not one of Williamson’s men – if he had been, he would have been pardoned with the rest
of us. However, he once helped me in an embarrassing matter pertaining to a lady, and I wanted to pay a debt due.’

Chaloner wondered whether Fanning might still be alive, were it not for May’s ill-conceived and not-very-secret rescue. ‘Apparently,
guards have not been fooled by drugged wine for centuries.’

‘So they say, but it has never failed me yet, and the
best tricks are always the old ones. Remember that, Heyden. It may save your life some day – if you live that long. Incidentally,
I heard your earl hid his whore’s petticoats under his pillow the other day, then tried to burn the evidence.’

Chaloner laughed, genuinely amused. ‘Anyone with even the smallest smattering of intelligence will know that he would never
betray his marriage vows. You will have to do better than that, if you want to drag him into the mire with you.’

May regarded him with dislike. ‘I shall see that as a challenge issued.’

The Stone Gallery was a long chamber with portraits of venerable old Royalists lining one wall, and windows that flooded them
with light on the other. Nobles and government ministers gathered there, and it was said that more state decisions were made
in the Stone Gallery than in meetings of the privy council. The Lord Chancellor grabbed Chaloner’s arm and led the way to
his offices; the hallway was also a place for eavesdropping and gossip, and not somewhere to receive briefings from spies.

He was bemused when Chaloner told him about Bristol’s plan to see him in trouble with Lady Castlemaine, because Brodrick had
already given him the details, and they had discussed the matter at length. Lord Clarendon had then raised the matter with
the King, who was highly entertained by the situation, but promised to inform ‘the Lady’ that the idea to move apartments
had been his own idea, and nothing to do with his Lord Chancellor. The crisis had already been averted.

The Earl was so absolutely certain of Brodrick’s loyalty
that Chaloner wondered whether Thurloe was right to question him, especially when the man in question arrived with yet more
information about Bristol’s schemes, and had obviously spent the morning working on his kinsman’s behalf. He had learned that
the remnants of the incinerated petticoats had been interpreted as firm evidence that Clarendon kept a mistress, and rumours
were already rife as to her identity.

‘But it is all false!’ cried the Earl, appalled. ‘How could Bristol say such things about me? I much prefer the company of
dogs to loose women.’

Brodrick struggled not to smirk. ‘You had better not tell him that, cousin, or he will be telling everyone to lock up their
spaniels as well as their daughters.’ He cocked his head at a knock on the door. ‘That will be Lisle. I asked him to come
and see me about a Private Anatomy, which are all the rage these days. I am tempted to ask my consort to play a little chamber
music to accompany the dissection. What do you think, Heyden?’

‘The sound of saws ripping through entrails might drown out the quieter movements,’ said Chaloner, thinking such a perverted
notion could only have come from a man with too much time on his hands and too great a devotion to increasingly bizarre forms
of recreation. He started to withdraw, intending to go home and drink watered ale, but was stopped by Lisle, who peered at
him in concern.

‘You look unwell,’ he said. ‘It must be the toxic compounds percolating through the skin of your arm from Wiseman’s glue.’

‘An excess of wine can make a man feel seedy, too,’ said Brodrick wryly, clearly speaking from experience.

‘Actually, it was poison,’ said Chaloner, declining to
admit to drunkenness in front of the Lord Chancellor. ‘It was intended for someone else and I took it by mistake.’

‘Poison?’ echoed Clarendon, horrified. ‘It was not meant for me, was it?’

‘What kind of poison?’ asked Lisle. ‘I hope it was nothing containing Goddard’s Drops. They are the latest tonic of choice
among the fashionable, but Wiseman has learned that you only have to double the recommended dose for them to be fatal.’

‘How did he discover that?’ asked Chaloner uneasily.

‘He has patients,’ said Lisle darkly. ‘Did this potion taste of silk? Volatile oil of silk is just one of the dangerous ingredients
included in Goddard’s Drops. I wish he had made his fortune by marketing a more benign compound, personally.’

‘Bristol is next to that statue of Mars with a bucket of paint,’ said Brodrick, bored with the discussion, so looking out
of the window into the garden below. He started to laugh. ‘He is giving him a blond wig like … ah.’ He stopped sniggering
and looked uncomfortably at his cousin’s fair curls.

Clarendon shot from the room, Brodrick at his heels, so Chaloner and Lisle left the Lord Chancellor’s offices, and began to
walk across the Palace Court towards the gate. It was busy, because the King was showing off one of his new chronometers;
Chaloner noticed Surgeon Wiseman among the throng that had gathered to make polite comments about it.

‘You
must
come to see me on Saturday,’ said Lisle urgently, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear. ‘I could not mention
it in front of your earl, because he and Wiseman are friends, and I do not want trouble. In fact, I would appreciate it if
you said nothing to
anyone about our appointment – keep it between the two of us.’

‘Why?’ asked Chaloner curiously.

‘Because it would be seen as “patient poaching”, which could see me expelled from my Company. However, I dislike seeing people
suffer, which is why I work among the poor each Friday. Wiseman has made a terrible mistake with his splint, and I feel duty-bound
to rectify it.’

‘Then take it off now,’ said Chaloner. ‘There must be suitable tools somewhere in White Hall.’

Lisle smiled kindly. ‘It is a little more complicated than plying a saw, and I have already told you it needs time to degrade
before we can tamper. Do not be too hopeful about the outcome, though – and be warned that you may have to take up something
that requires less manual dexterity than the viol. Singing, perhaps. Damn! Wiseman is coming to talk to us, so we shall say
no more about our private arrangement. Agreed?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Ground snails with a minced earthworm is something I always recommend for fevers,’ said Lisle as Wiseman approached, speaking
as though they were in the middle of an in-depth conversation. ‘It is quite palatable when sweetened with sugar.’

‘I decline to recommend sugar to
my
patients,’ said Wiseman immediately, making Chaloner itch to point out that invading other people’s discussions without invitation
was unmannerly. ‘It is the commodity that makes slavery a necessity, and slavery is an abomination in the eyes of God.’

‘Webb made his fortune transporting sugar from the slave plantations,’ said Chaloner innocently.

Wiseman’s expression was cold. ‘Exactly. He had his
just deserts when he was cut down in the gutters of The Strand like an animal. Crime begets crime, and his was unforgivable.’

‘How long had you known him?’ asked Chaloner guile-lessly.

Wiseman looked mystified. ‘Why?’

‘Because you puzzled a friend of mine. He heard you arguing with Webb in a coffee house around Christmas time, but when you
joined his group of learned companions in a tavern last month – a few hours before the Guinea Company dinner – you denied
knowing the man.’

Wiseman sighed, aware that Lisle was regarding him with an expression of dismay. ‘All right, I admit I may have been less
than honest. But Robert Hooke was among that particular gathering, and he is vehemently opposed to slavery. As I would like
to be elected to the Royal Society, and Hooke is its Curator, I decided to disclaim any prior dealing with Webb. Webb damaged
me enough with his spiteful allegations, and I did not want him ruining my chances of joining the Royal Society, too.’

‘Did you go to the dinner, Wiseman?’ asked Lisle. ‘I know we were all invited, but I cannot recall who said he was going.
No, wait! I saw you dressed in your best scarlet robes before I left Chyrurgeons’ Hall – I offered you a ride in my carriage,
if you recall.’

‘And I declined, because I had business at the hospital to attend,’ replied Wiseman smoothly. ‘It transpired to be more complex
than I thought, and I was obliged to miss the feast. I believe I told you as much the following day.’

‘So you did,’ said Lisle. ‘Meanwhile, I had no more reached the doors of African House before I was called away to tend the
Lord Chancellor’s gout. We were both prevented from enjoying ourselves.’

However, Chaloner knew that at least one surgeon had been present, because an expert had tended Temple’s broken pate. He believed
Lisle, because he had told the same story before, but there was something about Wiseman’s reply that set alarm bells ringing.
The man had lied about knowing Webb, so what was to say he was telling the truth about missing the Guinea Company dinner?
Had he objected so strongly to Webb’s slave investments that he had been driven to dispatch the man? The rapier
had
entered Webb’s heart, after all, and an anatomist might well strike with such neat precision.

Or had it been Johnson who had physicked Temple? Chaloner might have assumed so, were it not for the incident with the surgeon’s
parrot-savaged finger. Johnson had odd ideas about healing, and Chaloner could not shake the conviction that if
he
had done the honours, then he would have devised a treatment so bizarre that it would have been gossiped about afterwards.
Of course, there was always the possibility that he was wrong, and that Johnson had been in an orthodox frame of mind that
night.

‘Webb was unpopular with everyone,’ elaborated Lisle hastily, seeming to sense that Wiseman’s answers were leading Chaloner
to consider him a suspect for foul play. ‘He accused me of overcharging for a phlebotomy, then he bribed the courts to secure
himself a favourable verdict.
And
he was threatening to sue the Company for postponing the Private Anatomy he had commissioned.’

‘You were at White Hall when Webb was murdered, Master Lisle?’ asked Chaloner, eager to eliminate at least one man from his
lengthy list of potential culprits. ‘You came here to tend the Earl?’

Lisle shook his head. ‘I was at Worcester House – his
home. I arrived at six o’clock, and remained with him most of the night. He slept eventually, but I did not want to leave
until I was sure the attack had passed. Gout is very painful.’

Chaloner nodded, disappointed. If the Earl had been asleep, then it meant he could not vouch for his surgeon, and Worcester
House was next door to the place where Webb had been killed. Thus none of Chaloner’s suspects from Chyrurgeons’ Hall could
be eliminated. However, some of their names could be underscored. After all, why would anyone lie, unless to mask guilt?

On his way home, Chaloner stopped off at the Golden Lion, and swallowed as much watered ale as he could manage. He was tired
after two nights of poor sleep, and when he reached his rooms, he lay on his bed with the intention of dozing for ten minutes
before returning to White Hall in a new disguise. He woke only when the bells were chiming six o’clock.

He felt better than he had done in days, and supposed Wiseman had known what he was talking about with regard to the poison.
He was just shaving with his sharpest dagger when a messenger arrived with an invitation to dine with Eaffrey and Behn in
an hour. It was an odd time to eat – most people did it in the middle of the day – but Eaffrey had never allowed herself to
be constrained by convention. He was tempted to decline, because an evening with the belligerent Brandenburger held scant
appeal, but he supposed it was Eaffrey’s way of making peace after their quarrel, and he did not want to reject the hand of
friendship. He donned his best clothes and set out for Behn’s home.

Leather Lane, part of the rapidly expanding area
known as Hatton Garden, lay near the edge of the sprawling metropolis, north of Holborn. It was a pleasantly affluent part
of the city, with spacious houses and well-tended gardens, and was named after Hatton House, a rambling Elizabethan ruin that
was fighting a losing battle with nettles and ground-alder. The Fleet river lay not far away, but the wind was from the west,
so blew away the fumes from the slaughterhouses, tanneries and sundry other reeking industries that plied their trades along
its foetid banks.

Chaloner knocked at Behn’s door, and was admitted by a liveried servant. When he was shown into the dining room, the merchant
greeted him coolly, suggesting the invitation had not been his idea. Chaloner was bracing himself for a trying evening when
a Frenchman wearing an outrageous outfit of orange silk burst in, all fluttering fans and heavily accented English. It took
a moment for Chaloner to recognise Scot’s pale eyes under all the make-up, but he was pleased: the gathering would not be
tedious at all if Scot was in one of his flamboyant moods.