Blood on the Strand (30 page)

‘How kind,’ said Silence, leaning across him to claim more dessert. ‘They could not fit him in the crypt, so they slipped
him in with a bishop instead. He would not have minded; he liked bishops.’

‘He did not,’ stated Brodrick, overhearing and so preventing Chaloner from probing Silence to see if she was aware that Webb
was not interred at all. ‘He detested the lot of them. I can see why: they are worse than Puritans for prim morals.’

‘I like a little fun myself,’ said Temple amiably, taking more wine. ‘And the latest fashionable way to do it is to purchase
a Private Anatomy from the barber-surgeons. Has anyone— Ouch!’

He gaped at Alice, who had apparently kicked him under the table. Then gradually, it dawned on him that the one
he
had commissioned had involved the husband of the woman who sat opposite him. He had the grace to look disconcerted, although
Silence did not appear to notice what was going on.

‘I have never attended such an event,’ she said. ‘Matthew tried to buy one, but the barber-surgeons fobbed him off with some
tale about a leaking roof. Can you specify which corpse you want? I would be very interested in seeing inside a Dutchman,
because their innards are made of cheese.’

‘We shall be at war with Holland soon,’ remarked Eaffrey, trying to raise the discussion to a more intelligent level. ‘Especially
if the Guinea Company tries to poach its slaving monopoly.’

‘Good,’ said Temple, rubbing his hands. ‘We shall show the cheese-eaters a thing or two,’

‘War with the Dutch should be avoided at all costs,’ argued Chaloner. ‘They have bigger and better ships, a navy in which
its sailors are paid, and their weaponry is superior to ours. We would be foolish to take them on in open battle.’

‘That is an unpatriotic statement,’ declared Alice. ‘Are you a traitor, then, who believes England is inferior to other nations?’

‘In some respects we are,’ said Chaloner, aware of Scot glaring at her across the table. ‘And to claim otherwise would be
to do Britain a disservice. We cannot win against the Dutch at sea.’

‘Speaking of Dutch matters, did you hear that upholsterer is mortally ill?’ asked Temple. ‘If he dies, Bristol says it will
be murder, because Clarendon struck the old fellow when he was defenceless.’

Brodrick made a disgusted sound. ‘Vanders is not dying. I saw him today, in perfect health.’

‘Pity,’ said Temple. ‘I would like to see Clarendon swing for murder. He is a tedious bore, and—’

‘He is my kinsman, sir,’ interrupted Brodrick icily. ‘And I suffer no man to insult him.’

‘I am sure no harm was meant,’ said Eaffrey quickly. ‘And we should not let the quarrel between Bristol and Clarendon spoil
our evening. Let us talk about something more pleasant.’

Behn accepted the challenge. ‘Would you like to invest
in my new ship, Temple? It will carry some very valuable cargoes, and you look like a man who is not afraid to be bold in
the mercantile world.’

‘New ship?’ asked Chaloner.

‘It was Matthew’s,’ explained Silence. ‘It was doing no one any good sitting in a harbour with its holds empty, so Mr Behn
and I made an agreement.’

‘And what will this vessel carry?’ asked Chaloner coldly. ‘Sugar again?’

‘Slaves,’ replied Behn, startling the spy with his bald honesty. ‘That is why anyone who invests with me will be rich. There
is a good market for slaves in Barbados and Jamaica, and there is plenty of money for those willing to take a few risks. Do
you
have any spare income you want to invest?’

‘Not for that purpose,’ said Chaloner quietly. ‘And nor does any decent man.’

‘This is not suitable dinner conversation, either,
messieurs
,’ said Scot, seeing Eaffrey look stricken. ‘Have I told you about Bristol’s
oignon
gardens? He has acres devoted to the plants, and walks among them, savouring their scent.’

‘That is a lie – one put about by Clarendon,’ said Temple immediately. He cut across Brodrick’s indignant response and addressed
the Brandenburger. ‘You can put me down for a few hundred, Behn. I never let a good business opportunity slip past.’

‘Blood money,’ said Chaloner, disgusted. He saw the hurt expression on Eaffrey’s face and saw he should keep quiet if he did
not want to spoil her party.

‘Brodrick?’ asked Behn, fetching ink, pen and paper from a nearby cabinet. ‘How about you? Do you have womanish principles,
or are you a man?’

‘I am not sure—’ began Brodrick uneasily. It was common knowledge that he had no money of his own, which was why he clung
so firmly to his cousin’s coattails.

‘
I
shall invest with you, Mr Behn,’ said Alice, shooting Chaloner a spiteful glance. ‘I am not afraid to speculate in the world
of commerce, and my Richard tells me it pays to be bold.’

The evening wore on. Silence held forth about music in a way that told Chaloner she was entirely ignorant on the subject,
and he found the best thing to do was nod and smile but not listen. He caught Scot’s eye and the bleak expression on his old
friend’s face told him he was not having much success with furthering brother Thomas’s cause, either. The meal came to a merciful
end when Silence went face-down in her finger bowl. Chaloner rescued her from an ignominious death, although Brodrick suggested
leaving her to drown. The spy struggled to lift her enormous weight, but Behn was the only one who bothered to help him.

‘Is her carriage outside?’ Chaloner asked, adding without enthusiasm, ‘I will escort her home.’

‘So you can seduce her, I imagine,’ said Alice unpleasantly.

‘Yes, I doubt I will be able to resist,’ he replied acidly. ‘So
you
had better take her instead.’

Her expression was murderous when she saw she had been outmanoeuvred, and she continued to glare as Chaloner and Behn levered
Silence into her coach. Temple declined to accompany them on the basis that it would be improper for him to witness a woman’s
indignity, and Brodrick was on his horse and out of Behn’s stable with a haste that was only just decent. Chaloner
stepped into the shadows with a sigh of relief, grateful the evening was over, and determined to stay out of sight until
everyone had gone – when he would emerge and lie to Eaffrey about how pleasant it had been.

While he waited for the teenagers – drowsy with the lateness of the hour and the wine they had consumed – to be packed into
a cart and dispatched home, he breathed in deeply of the blossom-scented air. The stars were very bright, and, as he gazed
up at them, he was reminded of the velvety darkness of a summer night at his family’s manor in Buckinghamshire. He experienced
a sharp desire to see his brothers and sisters again, to walk in their woods and meadows, and supposed tiredness was making
him maudlin.

Scot, Eaffrey and Behn lingered in the yard after the girls had gone, also enjoying the freshness of the evening. When Scot
bowed to his hosts and took his leave, Chaloner decided it might be better to write his thanks to Eaffrey the following day,
instead of waiting to give them in person. He did not want another encounter with Behn. Then Eaffrey kissed her lover’s cheek,
whispering something that made him laugh. Behn tugged her hand in a way that suggested he was ready for bed, but she pulled
away, indicating she wanted more time to clear her head. Before Chaloner could emerge from the shadows to speak to her alone,
someone else approached. It was Scot.

‘What happened to Chaloner?’ he asked, peering into the house to make sure the Brandenburger had gone. ‘It is unlike him to
leave without saying goodbye.’

‘I do not blame him. Sitting between Alice and Silence all night cannot have been pleasant. I know she is your sister, William,
but even you must admit that Alice is not
an easy lady. I wish he had not disappeared quite so soon, though. There is something I need to tell him about Webb.’ Eaffrey
chuckled. ‘Silence has such gall that I am filled with admiration for her. Even
I
would have baulked at inflicting myself on such a gathering – and I am paid to do that kind of thing.’

‘Your company would never be a burden, though,’ said Scot tenderly. ‘Unlike hers.’

Chaloner was half out of his hiding place, to share their amusement about the evening and its ups and very considerable downs
– and to find out what she had to tell him about Webb – when Eaffrey and Scot flew together for a very passionate kiss.

The bells of St Andrew’s Holborn were chiming eleven o’clock as Chaloner left Leather Lane, but he did not feel like going
home. He had just consigned himself to sitting alone in a tavern, when he recalled Temperance’s club. He walked briskly down
Fetter Lane, hand on the hilt of his sword, because few men had honest business at such an hour and anyone he met was unlikely
to be friendly, crossed Fleet Street and aimed for Hercules’s Pillars Alley. The tavern of that name was doing a roaring trade,
and noisy patrons spilled out on to the street. The air nearby stank of spilled beer, pipe smoke, vomit and urine. By contrast,
only the faintest tinkle of music could be heard from Temperance’s house. Chaloner slipped past Preacher Hill, who was saying
goodnight to one of the city’s most prominent judges, and padded along the hall to the kitchen. It was not many moments before
Temperance arrived, come to fetch nuts for the Earl of Sandwich.

‘Thomas!’ she cried in delight. ‘Will you join the revels
in the main parlour? The Duke of Buckingham has brought Lady Castlemaine again, and there is a lot of laughter and japes.’

Chaloner was not in the mood for foolery. He saw he had made a mistake in coming and stood to leave, loath to keep her from
the fun. ‘I do not know why I am here. Your company, I suppose.’

Temperance waved him back down, handing the nuts to one of her girls before sitting opposite him. ‘There is no need to sound
begrudging about it. There are occasions when only friends will do, and I am glad you felt you could come here. I am also
relieved, because there is something you should know – Maude told me today that Dillon will be the subject of a dramatic rescue,
just as the noose is put around his neck. All London is expecting some fine entertainment.’

‘So is Dillon himself.’

‘She also heard that Dillon is innocent of murder, and is going to the gallows because he is an Irish rebel – fabricating
charges of murder is the government’s way of ridding itself of such people.’

‘That is false. Why do you think most countries have a secret service? It is so knives can be slipped into the backs of awkward
subjects without the need for public trials and executions.’

Temperance regarded him with distaste. ‘Is that what you do?’

‘There is nearly always another solution.’

She was silent for a while. ‘I asked a few of my guests about your surgeons – Wiseman, Lisle and Johnson. Lisle is a good
man who spends one day a week working for the poor, and is well liked. Wiseman is unpopular, because he is condescending to
his patients, and no one likes
being treated like a fool. And Johnson
is
a fool, but knows enough of his trade to be a menace.’

‘So Johnson and Wiseman are bad; Lisle is good?’

‘In essence. I also heard that you accused Adrian May of sending the letter that saw Dillon and the others arrested. Did you?’

He regarded her askance. ‘Christ, Temperance! Does
anything
happen in that damned palace that is not immediately brayed around the whole city?’

‘This is
not
general knowledge; Colonel Holles told me. He came to see me this morning, to apologise for manhandling Modesty the other
night – although she does not remember what it is he is supposed to have done. While he was here, he asked me to warn you
against antagonising May.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Perhaps he likes you, Tom. There are not many left who are faithful to Lord Clarendon, after all.
Did
May did send that letter?’

Chaloner nodded. ‘The more I think about it, the more it seems likely. He is jealous of his influence over Williamson, and
that missive allowed him to be rid of the main competition. He included his own name, so it would not be conspicuous by its
absence.’

‘Does that mean
he
was involved in the killing of Webb, too? He committed the murder himself, and let Dillon, Fanning and Sarsfeild take the
blame?’

Chaloner rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I do not have the faintest idea.’

Chaloner woke early the following day, and sat in his window, making use of the gathering daylight to compose letters to Thurloe,
Clarendon and Eaffrey. He used cipher without conscious thought, a different code for each recipient. Thurloe would read his
immediately, without resorting to a crib. Clarendon would ask one of his clerks to translate, so Chaloner seldom confided
too much in his written messages to his employer. Eaffrey’s was one they had used for years, and could be broken by anyone
who knew them. He thanked her for her hospitality and wrote some polite observations about her silver forks, tactfully saying
nothing about the company or the level of conversation.

In the Earl’s note, he announced his intention of resurrecting the Dutch upholsterer, in the hope that ‘Vanders’ might provide
new opportunities for spying on Bristol. He would not normally have revealed such plans in advance, but he had learned his
lesson about surprising Clarendon with disguises, and did not want a recurrence of what had happened the last time. His message
to Thurloe contained the information he had gathered about Webb the previous evening.

When he had finished, he went to the Golden Lion – a tavern that never closed, so the landlord had no trouble locating a boy
to deliver the notes. Then he found a quiet spot near a fire, and ordered ale and bread. He rubbed his eyes as he waited for
them to arrive, wondering how long Eaffrey and Scot had been lovers. Did that mean she still intended to wed Behn, and their
marriage would be based on deceit? Or had she lied about her love for the merchant? Chaloner could tell from the way she and
Scot had fallen into each other’s arms that it was not the first time it had happened. Of course, Behn was enjoying an illicit
affair with Silence, and perhaps Eaffrey knew it. Or was Behn’s dalliance just a calculated attempt to get his hands on Webb’s
idle ship? If so, then it appeared to have worked.

All told, Chaloner was happier to think of Eaffrey with Scot than with the Brandenburger. Scot lived a dangerous life, like
Chaloner himself, and might not be there to protect her when she needed him, but he was a good man who would not suffocate
her in a restrictive marriage. And nor would he oblige her to live on riches earned from sugar and slaves. Chaloner hoped
she knew what she was doing, and that Behn would not find out and avenge himself on Scot. Chaloner knew from personal experience
that the merchant had a strong arm.

At six o’clock, he returned to his room and found the clothes he needed to become Vanders again. He was even more meticulous
with his disguise than he had been the previous Saturday, knowing people would pay him greater attention if rumours had been
spread about his poor health, and he took special care to conceal the splint with his lacy cuffs. The last time he had played
Vanders, he had dispensed with his sword in the interests of authenticity, but White Hall no longer felt safe to him, and
he
had no intention of going without the means to defend himself. It was an hour before he was satisfied with his appearance,
during which time he hoped his note to Clarendon would have been delivered, and the Earl would be ready to play his part in
the charade.

He reached White Hall without incident, although he felt eyes on him as he began his hunt for Clarendon. It did not take him
long to identify them: it was Bristol’s man, Willys. He had exchanged his yellow stockings for black ones, which hung loose
on his long, thin legs and made them look more spindly than ever. Willys watched Chaloner for a moment, then hurried away.
The spy eventually located the Earl outside the Stone Gallery, waiting for a carriage to take him to the site of his new Piccadilly
mansion. Clarendon narrowed his eyes and regarded ‘Vanders’ intently.

‘It
is
you, Heyden,’ he muttered. ‘You never know when someone might be an assassin these days, and I am ever wary. I had your letter
half an hour ago. I am glad you decided to try the upholsterer business again, because now people will see the rumours about
me hitting you are unfounded. And the vultures are gathering already, because here is Bristol and his entourage, come to inspect
you. Do not forget what you promised to do – infiltrate his household with a view to spying for me.’

Chaloner did not dignify the reminder with a response. Why else did the Earl imagine he was dressed up in such a ridiculous
fashion?

‘Vanders?’ asked Bristol. His clothes were rumpled, he stank of old wine, and he looked as though he had yet to retire to
bed. ‘I am told you excel at turkeywork sofas, and I am in the market for such an object. Do you have any for sale?’

‘I might,’ said Chaloner cagily, hoping he would not want details. He was not entirely sure what ‘turkeywork’ meant, and it
would not take many minutes before he was exposed as a fraud.

‘I shall leave you to discuss it, then,’ said the Earl, a little too readily. ‘Here is my carriage, come to take me to Piccadilly.
Clarendon House will be the talk of all London once it is built, and I have already secured some excellent black marble for
its stairs. The King will want to visit me there, away from the shallow vices – and people – of Court.’

‘It would not be the black marble intended for the repair of St Paul’s Cathedral, would it?’ pounced Bristol. ‘That is a House
of God, and your immortal soul will be stained if you take that for yourself.’

‘Papist claptrap,’ muttered Clarendon, waddling away on his short, fat legs.

The dark expression on Bristol’s face told Chaloner that the Earl had made a serious tactical error by attacking his rival’s
religion. Bristol had sacrificed the chance to hold lucrative public office by professing his Catholicism, proving that his
beliefs were important to him; mocking them was unwise. Then Lady Castlemaine arrived in a flurry of yapping dogs and jabbering
voices. Bristol immediately turned to join her, but he grabbed Willys’s arm and whispered something first. Willys nodded,
and approached Chaloner.

‘There is a private hall where senior retainers often gather of a morning, Mr Vanders,’ Willys said politely. ‘Will you take
a cup of ale there with me?’

Chaloner accepted the invitation, thinking it might be a good opportunity to quiz him about his name being included in Bristol’s
letter. He followed the aide to the
Spares Gallery, recalling with wry amusement that it had been Willys who had kept him company the last time he was there.

Because it was early, the Spares Gallery was relatively empty. Three musicians were restringing a violin at the far end, Wiseman’s
massive bulk was crammed into a chair near the fire, and an elderly equerry in a blue coat dozed in the sunshine that flooded
through the windows. Wiseman raised a hand in greeting, but was more interested in reading his book than in talking; he did
not wait for Willys to wave back before his attention was riveted on the pages again.

‘You see that surgeon?’ whispered Willys, as they took seats at a table. ‘He was summoned at two o’clock this morning, because
the King complained of a blockage. His Majesty went to bed at four – still constipated – and is unlikely to rise before noon,
but Wiseman is obliged to wait until he does, lest another royal summons is issued. It serves him right for taking against
Bristol! I caught him searching our carriage last night, although he claims he was only looking for a bat that flew into it.
Well, there was a bat, as it happened, but I think it just provided him with an excuse to rummage.’

‘Rummage for what?’

‘Evidence that my master was involved in the Castle Plot, probably. That took place in Ireland, which is full of Catholics.
And since Bristol is Catholic, Lord Clarendon might say
he
instigated it.’

‘Did he?’ asked Chaloner.

Willys regarded him as though he was insane. ‘Of course not! He sent
me
to Dublin to help thwart it – and I was instrumental in seizing a vital shipment of rebel guns. Just because a man is a papist,
does not mean he is desperate to overthrow a monarchy. But let us talk of other business.
I have been authorised to make you an offer: My Lord Bristol wants
his
furniture upholstered, and says he will pay twice what Clarendon has offered you.’

‘That is very generous,’ said Chaloner, smothering a smile. Everyone knew Bristol had no money, and could never afford to
double an asking price. The spy could only assume the impecunious noble intended to default on payment, just as he probably
did with his other creditors.

‘Yes, it is. However, there is something he would like you to do in the meantime: while you work in Clarendon’s domain, keep
your eyes and ears open, and report any unusual happenings to me.’

‘You mean spy?’ asked Chaloner, managing to inject considerable distaste into the word.

Willys nodded, oblivious to the disapproval. ‘I do it myself, all the time. In fact, I had a look in Clarendon’s rooms on
the day of the ball, although I did not find anything useful. Do not worry about being caught, though. If that happens, powerful
men will … make arrangements.’

‘How can I be sure of that?’

‘Because I was in an awkward position myself recently, and I was saved the very same day.’

‘Really?’ Chaloner pretended to be impressed. ‘How?’

Willys leaned closer, and his voice dropped to a confidential whisper. ‘My name was included in a letter that accused me of
murder. I was innocent, of course, as were the eight men listed with me, and we have all been pardoned or allowed to disappear.
As I said, great men look after their own.’

‘I heard about that case, but I was told three of the nine have been sentenced to death.’

‘True, but they have not been hanged yet. There is
still plenty of time for rescue – although one of them has died of gaol-fever, which is unfortunate for him.’

‘I should say! How do you know none of those three are guilty?’

‘Because Dillon is a Quaker, and they abhor violence. Besides, I was with him in the Dolphin tavern – the one over by the
Tower – the night Webb died. That is a long way from The Strand, where the crime took place. Dillon had been at the Guinea
Company dinner with a friend called Fanning, but he escaped early because he said it was dull, and we both got roaring drunk
together.’

‘Dillon was with you
all
that night?’ Chaloner recalled Dillon claiming he was drinking with a friend when Webb was killed. However, he also recalled
Dillon claiming that he had been nowhere near the Guinea Company dinner, and Willys was now the third person – after Scot
and Brodrick – to say that was not the case. Why had Dillon lied about the dinner? Because he did not want anything made of
the fact? And why had he not mentioned his ‘alibi’ to the judge who had tried him? Chaloner could only suppose it was because
Willys was also on the list of the accused. Or was Willys just trying to protect a comrade by spinning yarns now?

‘I passed out at some point,’ Willys admitted sheepishly. ‘Yet I will swear on my mother’s grave that Dillon was in no state
to dash across the city, stab a man and be with me when I woke a couple of hours later.’

‘What about Fanning? Did he stay at the dinner after Dillon had left?’

‘I have no idea. All I can say is that he was not with Dillon and me in the Dolphin. Ah! Here is May, come to find out whether
you have agreed to spy on Clarendon for My Lord Bristol.’

Chaloner stood to leave as May swaggered towards them. His disguise was good, but there was no point in taking risks by conversing
with men who knew him well. May was dressed for riding that day, with leather boots, a cloak and spurs. His shaven head was
covered by a functional grey wig that fitted him like a cap. A sturdy fighting sword was at his waist, and thrust into his
belt was a snaphaunce gun that looked suspiciously similar to the one owned by Fitz-Simons. Chaloner mumbled something about
buying curtain hooks from Covent Garden, but May grabbed his arm to stop him from leaving. It was not a hostile gesture, but
as soon as May’s fingers closed around the splint, the game was up.

‘Heyden!’ he yelled, hauling out his dag. It discharged with an ear-splitting bang, and Chaloner was astonished that he should
have missed at such close range. May was furious. He hurled the firearm away and drew his sword. ‘Now I have you!’

‘This is Vanders,’ said Willys, looking from one to the other in bewilderment. ‘I have just recruited him to work for Bristol.’

‘Fool,’ snarled May, as Chaloner backed away. ‘He is Clarendon’s creature.’

Chaloner was trapped, and there was nothing he could do or say to extricate himself from his predicament, so he made no effort
to try. ‘Put up your sword, May,’ he said quietly. ‘I do not want to fight you – not in White Hall. Brawling is forbidden
here, and we will both be arrested.’

‘
I
will not be brawling,’ said May, advancing with his weapon held in a way that showed he meant business. ‘
I
have just unmasked a traitor. Are you going to defend yourself, or do I just kill you?’

* * *

‘You would stab me here?’ asked Chaloner softly, while Willys gaped, appalled at how he had been duped. ‘In front of witnesses?
My Earl will not stand by when his people are killed in cold blood, and Spymaster Williamson will not want a murderer on his
staff.’

May lunged, and the tip of his sword went through Chaloner’s sleeve – and would have pierced his arm had the splint not been
there. Reluctantly, the spy drew his own weapon to parry the next blow, but still made no move to attack. The elderly equerry
and Wiseman clamoured at them to sheath their blades before the palace guard arrived, and Chaloner saw the musicians had
already dashed off to fetch them. He did not feel himself to be in any particular danger, because he had seen May fight in
Ireland and knew he was no swordsman. All he needed to do was stay out of blade-range until May either came to his senses
or someone disarmed him. However, he revised his strategy smartly when Willys drew a wicked-looking rapier with a furious
expression on his face. Two opponents were an entirely different matter.